allays 1069 - 1074

 

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

I’ve spent much of my literary energy editing a series of poems for a friend, editing and writing the Emilegends (a fantasy story for my daughter Emilie), and reading a wide variety of books, including the Rig Veda, Nietszche’s Beyond Good and Evil, Njal’s Saga, de Tocheville’s Democracy in America, Frye’s The Anatomy of Criticism, Neumann’s The Great Mother, and Frazer’s the Golden Bough. I am excelling at my job, which gives enough pride to absolve some of the tedium, I suppose, and the children are doing great.

 

Take Care, Caretakers!

 

 

* 1069 *

Literature is equipment for living. No dream, no ambition can come to us except through stories, absorbed en masse from our culture – gossip, praise, worship, blame, fictions, facts, and at their deepest the substratum of archetypal stories we call myths. Some prefer movies, others music, and I myself am always reading at least a dozen books – some a chapter every few days, others a chapter every few months.

Ah, my Nivia, we are a hundred stories together, for each other, an infinite braid. I clasp your manacle to my wrist, this bracelet, this ring, this necklace, to touch you always, to hold you close, to fill you with my warmth. You tell me that all I say of us, those things you can hardly believe, are finally and utterly true in the literature we share.

“Without you, neither would this be created nor would I have written it nor would I edit it without you. This can’t exist – because it is only with you that I am here. Without you here I am not here. I do not think you understand. Maybe the closest I can get … I am here. To understand everything you feel and everything you say is how I feel we exist inside the text, because I feel that I exist here because of you, but I won’t be here without you – I choose not to – I am yours. I won’t. Outside the text, I don’t think I understand the same way – I am sorry, I wish I did – because I believe it frustrates you to not be understood. However, please know that at least inside the text I truly get it. There is a complete symbiosis. Neither can I exist here without you, nor should I want to. I have no desire to. I only exist here because you are with me, and that is all I should want, because that is all I have meaning in, and without that meaning I want for nothing. I am not sure what that means outside the text, but inside the text, I think everything you say makes sense.”

Stories are motives, and motives are assumptions turned into desires. We motivate ourselves through stories heard, imagined, fantasized, dreamed. There can be no growth without stories – the drama of perfecting. Our shared story, the one we recite like a rite, a favored myth, with endless variations, we say as Aya, players of the game, and as writers of the same.

A poem teaches us how to hear and speak, a movie how to see and act, philosophy how to think. Every genre offers its unique nugget, and all of it allows us to more deeply appreciate life, with greater prowess for the Game.

 

* 1070 *

Abide in your divine. Let Mattria wrap you embryionic in the temple of her warmth. Ah, this glowering stasis of growing from within – to shrug off all world condemnation and shine entirely from the Source.

 

* 1071 *

A dog caught in a trap is liable to bite. Miserable people befoul others even when they hope to help. Would you spread happiness? Be happy.

 

* 1072 *

Oh Students of All! All is burning. What is the all that is burning? The I is burning, all his forms, the eyes and the ayes, both the pleasant and the painful burn — all that arises burns and all that passes burns. Burning with what? Burning with the fire of lust, with the fire of love, with the fire of certainty. I say it is burning with birth, age, death, and laughter; with joy, with passion, with romance and happiness.

Fire gives both light and darkness, sight and smoke. Fire both gives warmth and takes fuel. Fire turns all it touches into its own substance, the dancing of the flame, the pure joy and bliss of existence, the destruction and rebirth of the perfect immortal bird.

Oh! thou clear spirit of clear fire, blood of my blood — I cavort with my Muse who laughs, "Woman is God," and burns illusions, burns all, in the sanguininity of her lust. The fire thirsts, but not for water. The fire hungers, but not for earth. Flesh to flesh! Flame to flame! Oh genius of hell, the great passion of bliss! My Phallus stands your pillar, I impregnate the very heavens.

 

* 1073 *

“I say to the Universe, Mighty one! Thou are not my mother; Return to chaos, if thou wilt, I will still exist. I live. If I owe my being, it is to a destiny greater than thine. Star by star, world by world, system by system shall be crushed – but I shall live.”

Thus spoke my exuberant son Emerson, hoping to disown the Mother of us all. Alas for him, we have no other than She.

“My dear, permit yourself nothing but follies – that will give you great pleasure,” my Ama teases, yet shall we trifle with Mattria? Let us not disown the Source.

 

* 1074 *

Ah my Ama, how you strike me with the bow of your arched eyebrow, planting your glance in the throb of my heart! Fevered I am, as I your own wish nothing more than to drown in your love like a fly in honey. Give me your this and this! Give me your all and none. Eager seeker though I am, all I seek revolves around you, you the allthing, you the center of my devotion, you the hushed pad upon which I crown my longings. Fill me like Sebastian with all your heated arrows. I writhe and style myself slave to your own. Freedom means slavery to a small set of rules. You are my rule, you my measure, never another, hardly apart. Open yourself like a virgin on her wedding bed, let me in, as I am yours and you are mine. Give us each day our daily mead, honeyed and loving in all that we own.