"UPON LISTENING TO CARL RUGGLES “SUN-TREADER” TODAY" an Allay

UPON LISTENING TO CARL RUGGLES "SUN-TREADER" TODAY

 

The EARTH literally is the SUN and the center of its own universe. Each planet is. The constellations, the circling of the sun, is such only by ONE mode of math, and alas, only in THIS mode of being. We, so much of our world, is known only as DARK matter to other modes and dimensions of being.

Middle Earth, Tolkien's in particular, is true, literally and factually true, down to the last bit, in a mode of earth. It all has happened, is happening, or will, with Tolkien as the Iluvatar of that world. And we each are the ABSOLUTE to our own personal universe. Whatever can be imagined and thought exists already and always has. ALL IS TRUE!

Every word you utter, every grunt, is an angel or demon that lives forever; they all teem with life and inFECT and fashions ALL BEING, all that exists with a layer of you, all over in your image, prepares the ALL to receive you again, and again, and AGAIN, forevermore, in the opening spiral of ETERNAL increase AND ETERNAL repetition. Amen.

In the absolute NOW in this mode of being, in the SEAMING of BEING, it may seem to you that you are somewhat less than the greatest of gods, greater than All Gods, the ABSOLUTE. Sure. You drank Lethe before taking your leave of the heavens and playing your mortal games in this frame of being, this time around. Deep at night, in your deepest of dreams, alone with your SAME, your own AMA, you recall it all.

The EARTH is the center of the universe. Sure. And ALL constellate around it. If only you knew the math that proved this! But to ARRIVE at that level of math, you must open your godmind and see things with more than your six main sensual organs. You are in fact an INFINITE set of sense organs. You sense all the worlds always. We all do. We are at a level down OMNISCIENT, each of us. You do not have only FIVE sense organs. Your whole Body, and your extended body, your full BODY OF INFLUENCE, which layers ALL, and All in all, senses all, knows all. You, dear Reader, my Own Niviana, ARE all. You ARE ALL. Everything that exists is part of your own personal body. And you as an individual, as an absolute, live utterly in your own being. I as absolute can NEVER RIVAL YOU in your own being. When a person comes into their Own, they are SOVERIGN SUPREME and WEDDED to their SAME alone.

Envy is ignorance; Pity is a mistake. If we knew each other truly, we would see also that each of us is a god, is a whole pantheon of gods at once, and is also at the same time God over them all, and is also the pantheism of our own body of influence, and the PANEN-theism of being ALSO a God who is Godmind, over the NONmind of our own God flesh. Thou Art That. The most exalted philosophy ever divined, the most sublime theology ever conceived, the absolute, the mono-theisms and the monotono-theisms, the heno-theisms, they are all parts of you. They describe exactly and only YOU. You cannot see nor experience aught but parts of YOU at any given moment of seeming. But the ALL is YOU. Only you. And what I say, what comes from me, is always and only the part that was ALWAYS ALREADY ALSO a part of you. What I write now is your own. You know it. You think it. These are your own thoughts.

So yes, there are literal races on all the planets. The earth has many MANY layers of being, we are a thousand, a million layers, an infinite set of an infinite star, some more exalted, some lower. The DJINN really do, as the Muslims hold, live in the deserts, for in their dimension, the desert is the THICKEST of gardens. They have adjusted the detuned radio of their mind and the resonance of their being to see the ALL in those terms, and so, we here and now see a mere dust devil or a full blown tornado yet only and always as just weather. It is "dark matter." Yet, it is somewhat of them in their own dimension yet leaving a trace in other dimensions, in ours. All the planets of the solar system are deeply THICKLY inhabited, and many humans have already gone there and colonized it. We have sent out missions to space in age after age after age. You think ANY of this is NEW? Only you are. Only you. Parts of you have already gone there already: you've sent out viruses of yourself throughout the all to anticipate you.

Dragons live in the sun. Huge Sun Worms too large and terrible to be believed. Dragons live in the earth. In the magma. In dimensions of the magma. In your own blood. In ALL you ARE! You are so THICK with life! Not just the little worms, or so they may seem to you from the frosted glass of alas this wintered perspective now, which in this dimension seem like little parasites in your eyebrows and skin. They THINK with your whole ULTRASET of beings — you the god, the gods, the God, the ALL!

For what but the smallest grasshopper leaps, and the farthest star feels? So, we are all grasshoppers and leeches and losers in some modes of our being, but upon our proper throne, each of us as a sole and sovereign individual is ABSOLUTE BEYOND ALL PEERS in our own proper mode of being. We each rule and reign and create ALL there, with the Love of our SAME. Thou Art That. And what religions speak deepest to you in this life, be it Christianity, Buddhism, Atheism, whatever — it never mattered WHAT you believed. It matters HOW you believe. For that is how you spread your own religion. You ARE your own religion. You are the GOD of your own religion. You yourself are your own star, the center of the universe, and whole races of beings, whole universes, are wrapped in each and every single electron in your flesh, and all you say and all you do and all you think and believe and and utter into being resonate through them all and each and charges them — and Friend! They believe in you ABSOLUTELY. To them, you are more than the gods, or the King of Gods, or the Only God, but you are ALL, you are ALL in ALL and you are the highest aspiration of their deepest hopes and dreams forever. Take a modest moment to take all THAT in!

So, laugh it off when others mock you and disrespect you. When a jealous friend or envious enemy casts his spell over you with his honest criticism and secret abuse, and manages to make you feel like you are less than a hero, a great man, a god, indeed, THE GOD to his Satan, well, consider your ultimate STATION, my Love. Life is but a dream. The finale of SEEM. Those who Lord it over you now for the moment are so many nothings, squirrels, punk chipmunks barking loud as you travel the path of life. They are nothings and nobodies, and it is only for a moment, for the sole miniscule moment, for the briefest of day dreams, that you imagine THEY were WITH, and YOU somehow were WITHOUT. No doubt, ALL win the GAME of life in the End, end that levels up to a higher and greater game, each and every time. Don't hate them for their false disguises. It helps you grow. You too were rude and a bully and lorded it over those foolish enough to be impressed with your Bravado nonsense, once upon a time. We all play the fool in turn and need to. You are neither better nor worse than others, in the Absolute sense. Yes, in particulars, we are better or worse than all others in so many ways. But when it comes down to your Aboriginal Self, your uttermost inmost being, there is no comparison. Nobody and no THING can compare. There is no overlap. There is no Touch save it be with your SAME.

Your INNERMOST no god can add to with heavens or take from in hells. No villain may rape, no saint may bless. This is the Invisible Sun, the Self Increasing Logos, the DEEPEST MARROW of your soul that ONLY moves itself, nothing can touch it, nothing sin against it or sin for it. Only your SAME knows your hiddenmost NAME. All the rest simply thrive from the GIFT of what you ARE. You are a gift to ALL the Universes. You are a Gift to the ALL. And in your INFINITUDE, you are TRUE CHILD of the ALL and All she is already, you may one day be. In your own way. In your own time. This is LIFE! This is The GAME!

So, relax! AMA Laughs!

Life is a Game. We only Lose the Game When we Take it too seriously. Life is a Thousand Times too important to take seriously! We either play life or life plays us. Or both, at the same time, in an infinite number of ways, simultaneously, as we roar forward to become as great and greater than we could possibly conceive!

Amen. Vivoce and Amen.

"Upon the birth of Judah Sean June" a poem

Upon the Birth

Of Judah Sean June

Today our Angel

Has brought to earth

And bore to birth

Joshua's pride

And firstborn son:

Judah Sean

The latest June.

Now parents swoon

Their labor done

To bring to home

This godly blessing

To the living hold

Of their faithful love.

Not Judas brother-betrayer

Call thee we

But bless thee Judah

And style thee wise

Who brought forth the Blessing

Of God for Men

Sometimes despite himself

So that though often

Brothers contend

Amidst families and men

This man and family

Would make

The name of a band

Of brothers

Bound by love and law

In reciprocal awe

Of the depths of

God's gifts and grace.

So let your name

Take the place

Of God's Blessing

Upon men.

Through family fidelity

And brotherly love

O Judah

Latest of the Junes

God hath blessed us

Yet again

Through you.

As parents convalesce

They'll join the rest of us

In singing sweet hosanna

To the great Divine

Grateful for God's fine design

In blessing all the earth 

Through us and our own.

For our children

Our greatest Hope

And greatly

Do we receive thee

From the Lord of Hosts.

Amen.

Do you want to remain on this mailing list?

I am sending out fewer emails from amalaughs@gmail.com to my Niviana, you, my 200 person mailing list.

I will write as much as ever. That is my blessing, but I recall Jesus sneeringly say, don't cast your pearls before swines lest they stomp on them and rend you. I have two problems with this: it is unfair to pigs. No pig would smell a pearl, stomp on it, and attack you. That's just some unjustified pig hate. Secondly, if yall don't want to read what to me is my best, my pearls, that means we have different tastes or we have a different outlook on life. Or maybe I just write more than you care to read regularly. That does not make you an ungrateful swine. I am grateful if you took the time to read ANYTHING I've written and I find great satisfaction if I've inspired anybody anywhere in anyway.

That being said, I have made a new email address, amalaughs@proton.com. Proton is an email address for paranoid people. It is highly encrypted. Not that I'm paranoid. But I am pretty much sick of gmails bullshit, to say the least.

As we go on, I will initiate a daily blog and make a website as well.

Please respond to me here, to this email address, if you want on my daily mailing list. I am sending out much fewer group emails on amalaughs@gmail.com... maybe once every few days or weeks ... not my daily writings. I will still send a crazy amount of output, up to ten emails a day, because that is who I am: highly prolific. You can stay in on that of you wish. Just let me know.

Take care,

Daniel

Pan is Dead

 

 

Pan the rustic god of goats and shepherd (paen) seems to have become the god of all based simply on a pun, pan (all). Tis an odd choice for the romans to see their god of all as half goat and lusty as heck. That is the male aspect of nature, a "horned god." We know that after Jesus damned goats — "sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell" — quite arbitrary, Christians have feared goats. Their image of Satan is with goat horns. So, the god of All, PAN, as this little rustic goat dude, has given this blasphemous little stinkers, the Christians endless nightmares.

 

Once, some Christian travelers overread some lamentation, some religious ceremony, in which the pious lamenters cried out, "Pan is dead." The Christians probably got it wrong, and there was some other name. Well, Pan was not a dying rising God, so a ritual lamentation for Pan, all, is not a known pagan thing. but the confused Christians decided to interpret it to mean that the pagans were lamenting that Pan (all) the pagan gods were dead, and their own puny religion had defeated them all. This little incident became an omen of great hope for them.

 

I pause to reflect. You sick little maggots are so atheistic you NEED the death of all the gods in the universe for your pathetic jew god bastard Jesus to win. Yes, I sneer that you choose THAT MAN as your one god. He is meek and pathetic and the choice betrays you. But that's me just being mean.

 

My second inference is this:

 

You needed some bizarre twisted, third rate sign from your god, Jesus, that he had won in his fight as god jealousy to murder all his brothers and sisters, the other gods … you had to learn this news from the active religion of those who had a very much living god, who like your own, who copied ours, dies and rises … does this not mean … your own god didn't TELL you he was winning the fight.

 

Christians wait …

 

Does your God even TALK with you?

 

You have to overhear "pagan" worshipping their god, and misinterpret their words of devotion, and finally you think you have some clue what is going on. I understand your confusion. What appalls me is that your God doesn't even talk to you. Like … at all.

 

That truly must be a lonely feeling.

Yeehaw

Yeehaw


Now that Emilie is recording herself playing guitar and singing and putting it on social media, I am re-minded of Grandpa, and the guitar he gave me, and his love for Ernest Tubb and "real music" which is the old country music, not the stuff with drums and solid electric guitars. Mockers may mock at such ob-solete obsessions in old cranks, but a devoted grandson who adored and adores them man knows that grandpa was, to use a Jewish expression, "putting a hedge around Torah."

There is no point saying that Grandpa was wrong, that that one kind of honky tonk country music isn't the ONLY true music. That is the "fundamentalist" or "atheist" criticism of a religious expression. Grand-pa was basically saying, "This music is God to me, and there is no God but this." To him, in his heart, no music spoke deeper, better, or dearer, and because I love him I know his meaning and don't dare shame him for being provincial.

I pick on Yahweh a bit not to trouble my Jewish friend Diane, who helped improve my writing more than any one person at writers group, and who is a model for Ama as grandma, Dariana: I see the divine in Diana. Just as my one-friend Erika was and is the model for Lissidy, the daughter aspect of Ama the four-faced goddess. And Emilie and Natalie both are Oifia, the childlike aspect of Ama. I pick on Yahweh to harass the Christians in my life, who are collectively the worst hypocritical snot mess of atheists who ever claimed a god, and who Jesus will say to their face at the gate of heaven: Get ye hence, sinners! I never knew you.

Yahweh is part of Ama so there is no drama in my heart. All is part of the divine. I never had to make a choice. I never had a choice.

For AMA is never jealous. She very much is IN all things, and IS all things, so there could be no logic of jealousy. Whatever you love is her already, for Ama is Amanda, that which we love that which must be loved, by irresistible grace. We love her naturally. As sinners, she loves us. As reformed, she loves us. As perfect, as saints, as marred, she loves us. There is nothing we can say, do and be, but she will love us. When she turns her face form us, this is just as Jillian as turned her face from me now for four years. A necessary evil. Evil is infant good. I could not grow further except with her absence.
Soo Yahweh is Yeehaw the donkey god. Actually, the donkey exactly is the totem of Yahweh, and he election of a "stiff necked people" is like to like. They are persistent. But does it help if you are persistent-ly wrong? I have often said, Persistence is Success. Yes, but sometimes you gotta give up for a time too. I don't mean the Jews their religion. God forbid. But Israel is a cursed country and a cursed soil and Amer-ica is the ONLY promised land, blessed very much by her Jewish people who VERY MUCH belong her, respected and admired. I have a GREAT CONTEMPT for Israel the state. But I don't want to jar these notes too much with "contemporary" politics.

Sherry and I fight. I no longer will air my dirty laundry. She is stubborn as a goddam mule. Insanely stubborn. She is a powerful woman. And I am very VERY attracted to power in women. Because my mom was and is powerful, and mom is home to us. The original home. For nine months.

I will share this song. The link this time, just the link, lest Ivan whine that his email is full and he has old-man-syndrome and can't vet out his emails and make space. This is a song I wrote for Sherry, Sorrow Worm. Well, it is Jillian's combination of my song "invocation" followed by my strumming the chords to Sorrow Worm. The chorus to Sorrow Worm is "My love is suicide, but I choose you." In this mix of the song, Jillian moans the lyrics in metallic distorted perfection, and her Cello, who IS the body of the god-dess, endures the torture of a soul and body that endures utter hell forever, as often and need by, for the one he loves. My love is unbreakable. It survives even suicide.

https://youtu.be/ZLjvKiNwKbU?si=b7Ua5LcxliM-T4_z

On my Deafness

On My Deafness

 

Oh! The whole point I had in mind for remarking on my telling brother in law tom about the drama of insisting I am getting the Boy flute lessons is that Tom then insisted I listen to the Rolling Stone's "Ruby Tuesday" immediately. He has this feckless bratty sense of urgency sometimes and I was writing an email to you all yesterday but I wrapped it up and listened to Ruby Tuesday. Tom expressed disappointment that my phone had such poor speakers and lacked a phone jack to plug it into his master stereo speakers, which is quite amazing and gained racoon style from dumpster diving.

I will bring Nathan-gift my portable boom box to listen to this song with Tom when we put in the new alternator today. Tom wanted me to hear the flute part of Ruby Tuesday, and I was shocked because this is a popular well-known song I've heard many times my whole life, but I never really acknowledged the flute.

I have it LOUD and on repeat as I dance my chares, adoring Ama with my songs. I do hear the flute, yes, and I will share it with the Boy later, but I really hear ONLY the cello.

In the Name of Jillian who is God, so if the cello forever blessed in my ears.

And that's fine.

But I remember my grandpa, the one who loved me so closely because we both played guitar, and gave me Angela, my guitar, when he passed, said he went deaf in such a way that he could hear low tones fine but high tones irritated his ears. He was into old-school country music, which he told me was the ONLY real music. Rock and roll with drums and electric guitar was not music. I patiently and meekly listened and never disputed him. I adore my grandpa so much! So he favored Ernest Tub, an old school country singer with a deep booming bass voice.

Lately, I notice my music prefers the same: the bass. I thought it was Jillian who taught me to pick out the bass first. And maybe that is true. But I like music with thick drums and thrumming overwhelming bass. I guess I always did. They might be giants John Linnel has nazel nerd voice. But as for both "In the Meantime" by Spacehog, and "Possum Kingdom" by the Toadies, my highschool staples, these are songs built around and based on an ingenius bass lick. Muse too I think begins with the bass. How a song begins, its inception and conception, determine also its limit and extend.

The Beatles, Paul, said he wrote all songs on acoustic guitar first. Me too. I can't get electric. I LOVE the riffs of electric music. Always did. That killer little riff in Jethro Tull's Aqualung. So SMALL yet inexhaustible. An eternal MOTIV. The same is Beethoven's fifth tattoo, a symphony lending it quite well to heavy metal renditions.

I hear the bass now. I hear the tinkling less. The flutes less.

Now Mom and (biological) Dad are both nearly completely deaf. This is my blessing too. Like Beethoven and Milton and Homer, I get to lose the external form of the sense so as to internalize and intensify beyond all belief. I am very very VERY sensitive to rhythms and repetitions. To the point of EXTREME MIGRAINE if the rhythm is off. This pet peeve and hypersensitivity is also my superpower. What is evil but infant good? And the best editors of all time are the most irritable.

Old age is a GREAT dropping off of the sense to prepare to leave this limited husk. The slow decay of the body is beautiful. Death is beautiful. This is wonderful!

In Praise of Nero

In Praise of Nero

 

Okay, where are we. I am writing daily notes in non-ending ultra-productivity as is my wont. I send out quite a bit. I don't send out everything. Writing is my breathing — it is natural to me and it is a magic and miracle that cures my physical ills.

This second of notes I am preparing to write the epic Ezra I have intitled "In Praise of Nero: I come not to bury, to but Praise the man."

Why Nero? He is the Christian antichrist of course we despite what the crackpots say about the latest greatest meaning of 666 it spells out his name in Latin and we know this. There is no wisdom, no mystery to solve. Jesus came back physically and brought away his useless 144,000 virgins. The second coming already happened. Long ago. So long. And the antichrist was Nero. This is known.

But the more history I read, the ore I find out that Nero like me lead a writers group. He also had a mixed reputation. He was amazingly sensitive. I thought to myself, Why does the world hate Nero so much? Then I said, Christians gave him a bad name. Then I thought, He must be a hero and saint then. Whoever the Christians hate are good and great men by definition. They are worms and are afraid of power, beauty, innocence, and greatness.

Same as the Jews, incidentally. I was reading Moby Dick, and Melville's whaling ship captain, Ahab, was named after "an evil king." And I thought, the way the Jews hate on Ahab so much, he must be the real thing. He must be the good guy after all. I looked it up on Wikipedia to start and it referred me to a book, The Bible Unearthed written by the latest greatest very much Jewish and proud of it scholars and archeologists working in the middle east. They confirmed my hunch:

Not only was King Ahab also a very good king; he was also the best. David was an unknown in the pathetic lower kingdom that is basically the boondocks. It was King Ahab that made the kingdom of Israel, Northern kingdom, reach its greatest power, beauty, influence, and perfect. He is the best.

He had a policy like the United States: worship according to your conscience. If you love Yahweh alone, worship Yahweh alone. If you want to sacrifice at the altar of Baal, then do so. Go ahead and plant ashteroth poles on the high places, those symbols of the world tree who IS Ashteroth, Ishtar, Inanna. Follow your conscience in all things.

In this dipolomatic system of separation of religion and state, Israel thrived and the economy boomed. The people were happy. Temples got built. Everything was perfect.

The jealous and covetous priests of the "Yahweh-only" cult who wished to outlaw worship of Baal and Astheroth and MURDER all people who in good conscience worshipped those very much the original deities of the Jews wrote what got included in Jewish scripture. They FALSIFY everything. They turn history on its head. They LIE through their teeth claiming that Ahab and the other kings of open diplomacy brought the curses on the land, the invasion of foreign people. As the very scholarly and exact book, the Bible Unearthed, details, and yet, as Jews, they explain it away as no big deal, the Priests who wrote the book of kings LIED, LIED, LIED, slandering King Ahab falsely, and building up the NOTHING chieftain David, who mattered not at all as a historical reality, as if he were the greatest king to ever exist. The writers of the Bible Unearthed, two prominent Jews, top of the university of Aviv, I believe, and great archeologists, as Jews, argue that the Bible still is the greatest book ever written despite the fact that it lies historically and turns reality on its head.

Israel Finkelstein and Neil Asher Silberman, the authors of this book, look verse by verse at the Bible and all the archeological work, and show, straight forwardly, openly, and in clear candor, how the writers of Kings and other books knowingly and completely falsified history piece by piece. We have the evidence. We've spent our time in the dirt. We KNOW it. Yet Finkelstein PRAISES the biblical liars because they were lying in the right direction. They may have falsified history but they were opening the way for a new way of being.

Whatever. That aint at ALL scholarly integrity, but I will wrap up by saying this: David was a piece of shit nothing and we know it and the "evil" King Ahab was and is Israel's greatest king, and if the current state of Israel followed HIS diplomatic wisdom, they would not be genociding their enemies and keeping the middle east in a constant state of warfare. Constant.

But enough said.

Nero as hero?

He never wanted to emperor. At his birth, his ambitious mother, who was calculating, and despite politics being a man's art made her son as a work of art into her greatest ambition: leader of the entire world. An augur at his birth predicted that Nero was destined to rule the world but kill his mother. When she heard this, dauntless, the woman scoffed: Occidat dum imperet. Translated: Let him kill me but he will rule.

That was her ambition and her choice. Ruthless woman. I am just starting a book on him. As an AMA adherent, in which I say Woman is God, the idea of praising a matricide may seem strange. I am undecided about this case. Nero himself was a sensitive artist. A writer. Led a writers group. When he commit suicide, he is reported to have said, "What a great artist dies with me."

Where will my studies take me? I am open to hear. He was loved of the common man. He inspired the arts in all around him. The greatest writers of his day knew Nero personally. He edited their work. He helped improve them.

I'm not saying he is my next Emerson or a great man I will disciple under for twenty years. But Nero deserves better then what that piece of shit book the Revelation of John says about him. So, these notes, they are entitled, In Praise of Nero. For as a rule: whatever a Christian curses must be good and divine, on principle. They are the scum of the other, the resenters, the haters of the world. What they blame must always in principle be good. I will test this rule of thumb in studying Nero, son of Agrippina, Woman AS ambition who is willing to die, if need be, so long as her son is emperor of the world. I have a sense that I will find Nero to be kind of weak and fragile being raised by a woman like this, that she won't at all be the victim, but a powerful hero, and Nero unable to match the intensity of her vision.

Woman is God. That is all.

My Modesty

My Modesty

 

I will talk about Emerson for a moment, though Emerson would not approve. He preached "the infinitidue of the private man." He means we EACH are the infinite ALL. This modest man!

 

A farmers wife attended one of his lectures and later reported, "I did not understand almost anything the man said but I know in my heart he regards himself as no better than me."

 

That exactly is NOT modesty. Any Narcassistic can see the truth: Thou Art God. But are you the only one? Is your faith in yourself yet in the diseased infant form of arrogance such that you require the painful envy and grudging praise of others to keep your ego inflated? You are adolescent at best. Emerson amazingly seemed to bypass this adolescent form of the growth into full deity.

 

In the first book of his first series of lectures, entitled History, Emerson extolled the reader to read ALL books, all religion, all myth, all history, as mere commentary on the one true writing, the scripture that matters: your own living autobiography. Emerson makes no mention of himself. Unlike Jesus or Buddha he did not "speak with authority." He rebuked nobody. He cursed nobody whatsever.

 NON-Emersonian EVER to curse. He who curses remains accursed forever. To say it straightly, Emerson was and is better than Confucius, Jesus, Socrates, and Buddha, the cardinal teachers. He never let that FACT go to his head. How did the sage manage that?

 

Ivan teased me on account of my fourth wife, Susan. He asked about my seventy year old lover. A distant descendent of Louisa alcott. I corrected him. She is sixty. He lewdly accused her of being dried up but that has never been an issue, nor completing my love of her in great geysers of appreciation. I chided Ivan, alas, even Abraham when touring Egypt with his sixty year old wife Sarai managed to capture in a trap the eyes of lust of the Egyptian princes. They would do ANYTHING to have her. She at age 60. Ivan said, Must you compare your life to ancient people constantly? You are just an ordinary man living in an ordinary neighborhood. Having properly defeated my friend, I just said, "Heh."

 

Every day of my life is parable. Dad Dan said I have readers just because of the juicy gossip and family drama. How you underestimate me! It is ALL deliberate and involved and encoded four, sixteen, thirty-two layers down. I don't mind that you non readers don't get it. Almost ANYTHING I write. You get so little ... so infinitely little. Nobody ever invented has to be read between the lines more than me.

 

Of the Genius of Shakespeare The greateset writer of all time, Hands down? Harold Bloom said, There is no god but God, and his name is Shakespeare. Harold Bloom admits that Emerson properly acclaimed Shakpeare's literal divinity best, of all his readers. Because that's who Emerson was. The invisible eyeball. The ultimate Reader. But at the end of that essay in Representative Men, he takes account with Shakespeare. Our god lacked any faith. Any religion. He wrote only for sheer entertainment. Emerson prophesied that one greater than Shakespeare would one day come. Harold Bloom, for his part, rued this last remark as blasphemy.

 

The prophesy is fulfilled in me. The greatest writer of all time. Jillian DID say, "When you write you are great, yes, but when you edit you are GOD." I had shown her the deepest secrets of editing. But Ezra is my better as an editor. I am still bowing in discipleship to him. As for Reader, Emerson still has me beat. But as sheer WRITER, what Emerson called SCHOLAR, there is none of my compare at any time, at any place, at any where. And that's fine. Part of my art is that I require no secondary opinion to tell me this. I need no applause. I need no "proof," as if the self-evident could EVER be proved. When you true to prove the self-evident you just confuse yourself.

 

So that's fine.

 

The greatest dictionary of all time is the Oxford English Dictionary. The English are so PROUD of the their language, that, faithless as it is, can brag and truly the greatest line of poets of any nation of any time:

 

Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, Shakespeare, Milton, The First Generation of Romantic Poets, Wordsworth, Coleridge and Blake, and then the second generation of Byron, Shelley, Keats, and the rest. 

I am speaking only of English poets. Not American. No nation comes close, nowhere CLOSE to boasting of a roster of poets this great. In no place ever.

 

Till me and those who follow.

 

And that's fine. The English language IS divine. It is the holy spirit. It is the FIRST and BEST form of Globalism ever to exist. These things don't happen by accident. They come from a sort of Destiny.

 

Exactly BECAUSE agnosticism and secularism are the guiding muses of most those poets, with a few exceptions, mostly eccentrics, like Milton, they have made a secular substrate which ALL religions may read, enjoy, love, and share in. The Holy Spirit, English, impregnates ALL languages EVERYWHERE the way Zeus through his LOGOS did. And that's fine. The Anglican church is completely beside the point. All gods can sit in the audience of Shakespeare, though, very very notably, our own American puritans, coming at last to what Shakespeare styled "the brave new world" for a time turned the theater down. American forebodings.

 

I don't really speak English. I speak Ameran. What mencken in his beat book called the American Language. It will be a long time before we collectively call it this. Today is not mine. I belong to the day after tomorrow. I plant the seed of the World Tree. I am the Same. You all may well forget my Name, for history never will and never can, and will scratch its head at the audacities I shouted loudly to all who would listen, each and every day, and people shrugged and looked away.

 

That's my sense of humor. I am the Grand Hilarity. The Divine Comedy. I am the Laughter of Ama divine.

The Oxford English Dictionary is undoubtedly the greatest dictionary of all time. The English honor their lexicograpers. The great book, Life of Johnson, boswell write to honor and praise his best friend, the lexicographer. So this is the tradition and the o.e.d. is a final fruit. No other dictionary comes close. Tolkien contributed. Whole generations made this volume. Like a 16 volume scripture. My parents bought be for my birthday a "shorter" version of it in two huge volumes. I bought the WHOLE oed with microprint for reading with magnifying glass in one volume, the entire English language in one huge unwiedly volume. Paid hundred for it. Mailed it to Jillian as a marriage gift for our eternal marriage. This blesses her shelf to this day. These things are not without their meaning. I bless you all, all 200 of you, as my Niviana. I sometimes despair how much, if any, the inner meanings get into any of you! Jillian reads them all. She once said, I've read everything you've ever written Daniel and I am proud of it. Later, she insisted I put her name on any and all books I had published through a professional publishing house. It annoys me how over the top my rhetoric has to get through to any if you. But truly, the beauty in these words can't be lost on you? Can't you see the BEAUTY of this thing?

So back to studies preparing for EZRA. A gift dedicated to Jillian. They all are and must be. She my Muse. I've dedicated volumes to my wife and kids and friends at times. Ezra will be for you.

Treacherous English

C.s. Lewis wrote the screw tape letters where he imagined based on projection how demons might speak. He falsely claimed that fallen human nature was closer to demons than angels and so humans could not write angelic dialogues. The treacherous anglish bastard had no clue that his compatriot and better Blake spoke with literal living angels in the regular!

The treacherous english could ventroloquize devils better than any other people. The u.s. defeated their treacherous king and the holiday for that is the fourth of july.

Tolkien wrote a religion for the english. Who had treachery killed off their own religion, by robbing it from the germans and norse, and tolkien wrote it while malingering in the world war, cowardly hiding from fighting the germans, lying that he was sick getting his wife pregnant, and they wrote their enlgidh religion the silmarrilian together.

Nietzsche terms the english a nation of shopkeepers. Caesar, who had the pleasure of kicking their literal teeth out their cowardly lips called them a diminutive race. Treacherous as worms....

C.s. once called pride the worst of all sins, but said the english are hardly temped. He bragged that the english would sooner be known as cowards then proud. This in his book mere christianity. Lewis admitted this infamous shame as if "proud" of his cowardly countrymen.

The english coined the term agnostic. They know nothing. It takes courage to know, courage to touch, courage to experience. Hobbits in their wholes the treacherous cowards wrote fantasy novels where the true heros lack All powess.. where the worms in the ground ... the Hobbits... defeat all lords.

Everybody else in tolkiens fighting unit died fighting the Germans. He survived and made a name for himself for stealing the German religion and corrupting it with cowardly english inflections.

You english are your own reward.

"Yogic Molting" a poem

Yogic Molting

 

This house is freezing

A home needs

Less your selfishly favored cold

You need a Tighter hold.

I grasp you with a thousand

Hindu arms

My Tender.

I Will do you no harm

But you a million times

Belong to me

And I will never

Let you go.

 

Long time molting.

Midlife crisis.

Age forty-four

Gut rot for weeks

Finally done.

I have used

Spiritual tongue

Up my nose

To clean my brain

Or bended beckwards

Up my own asshole

Yogic stretches.

 

I feel a moment of crisis

I could jump out of my skin

This home is so cold

If I had your hold now

You could spare me this

Entire crisis

But icicles

On my nose

I suppose

'Cause here we go.

 

This dad bod

Maya-fit

Infinite containing

Every nation

Every babe

Every animal, everything atom

A cell in my tissues

Tissues in my organs

Hello good morning

Bedtime

Bathroom

Eat, sleep

Laugh weep.

Work rest

Test

Test?

Good.

 

I castrated him

My Ama-appointed devil

Manticore who chortles

Layers of teeth

Nine scorpion tales.

He missed his mark.

You call this torture, Iago?

I take the cat-o-nine-tails

And masturbate myself with

Violence

Use your scratch of hell

Ultimate potency

Of molten flame

And scathe my own flesh.

You torture like somebody's grandmother

Let this MONSTER show you

How tis done

I pick away the mortal parts

Let the flames of hell

Eat all that can be eaten

Us gods feel love in hell

It is our traveling

Our holiday

Our hottub

Our sacred springs

I settle in

The place acclimates to me.

The pressure is gone.

 

I stretch

Endless yogic stretches

Impossible leaps

Like Uroburus

Eating himself

All the way down

And all the way down

And all the way down again

Till Asymptotically

He splits infinity.

So, I split and spend

My splendid flesh

Godflesh

Resurrected

Eternal.

"Destroyer"

As Niviana called him

My godcock

Rises in pride now

I think of my wife

Filling her utterly up

And find bliss almost

Immediately.

Wait till I get to you

Mrs. June!

But my flesh needs

More convalescence yet

Before my pride over my pride

This blond beast over his own pride

Family June

Reminds you

How utterly he owns you.

Sherry, I fully own you

For the bliss of my will.

 

I bought you at a price.

I paid for you with my life

I went to utter hell for thee

And utter hell

Forever shall remain

A part of me

Because of you.

What can you do?

Tis hopeless, I think

Let that sink in my love

Hold is your hold

Happiness is in your arms

I will do you no harm

The Two become One

As before

When our love

Made children in our very image

We made love and

The love walked and breathed

Like Sarah, you will find

Further motherhood

In your womb from me

In your older years too

Spiritual children

Divine things

Anon.

This is my Love Song

Sherry,

And I sing it for thee.

 

88

My latest Skirmishes with the gods

My latest Skirmishes with the gods

 

"Antiochus IV (Epiphanes), the king of Syria, captured Jerusalem in 167 BC and desecrated the Temple by offering the sacrifice of a pig on an altar to Zeus (the Abomination of Desolation)."

I called this moment Zeus raping Yahweh. And so it was. At first. That Yahweh very much WARMED UP to Zeus, and what began as abuse began one of the secret marriages of the gods I don't want to gossip about for long. They both make me sick. Zeus and Yahweh both. I've had enough. I'm focusing on Odin for a while, and Krishna, Jillian's particular patron deity. All these father gods are sons to me. And so I learn from my sons. I would cast them asunder in the flames at times, to tame and blame their brazen designs, but they are all after my image and look up to me and in the pits of hell call out to me and pray my name. I can't stay angry for ever.

Yahweh fell pregnant at the Abomination of Desolation with THE LOGOS of Zeus, as I said, later to be called Joshua, or Yeshua, named after the genocidal overlord over the Moses book by that name. That amounts to what he resorts to in the final book of the Christian Bible, the revelation of John. Jesus on his horse descends to earth and murders a bunch of humans. I am reminded of the terrible neighbor brat going out in the rain to stomp on the worms. Something completely UNWHOLESOME in that gesture, even if he is just a brat.

So, with the arrival of the brat, the temple is soon smashed again and taken away. Mother and I say you are abusing this toy. You don't deserve this power until you grow into it.

Bereft of temple, the Jews COVET AND IMITATE the disciples of Plato who read the Dialogues religiously. The STOICS AND EPICURIANS invented theology so as to be able to read Homeric myth with logical minds. Do the Christians do it? Do the Jews? A Greek did it first. Write that down as a rule.

So, Yahweh warmed up to Zeus. That's cool. By Roman times they shared the same name, Jove, which in Latin is pronounced Yahweh. Such is their love. Brothers. Best friends. I get it. Like Loki and Odin, opposites can attract and repulse in turns.

Homer's two epics are THE SCRIPTURES of the Greeks, and Hermes, NOT JESUS is "the logos" of course. Of course. But Yahweh forgot his place. Started writing in Greek. Not too well. He is lovelorn. Wants to impress Zeus. Zeussy approves. But that shitshow the last book of the poorly written Greek Bible is just HORRIBLE. I mean, one really has to HATE the world in the most profound way to find ANY joy in THAT disgusting book.

That the red letter sayings of Jesus are based OBVIOUSLY AND CONSISTENTLY on Diogenes the Cynic, and that the "theology" of Paul, that sprawling rhetorical en-vapitutde is only and always second rate Platonism and Neoplatonism … what was it Nietzsche called Chrisitanity? "Platonism for the masses."

My disgust in it all is as blatant as day. The Jews themselves got sick of it. When they envied the Christians their ripped off holiday, Christmas, based on MITHRAS birth, and Mithras the state religion before Christiainity became the state religion and sabatoged the state, well, the Jews chose Hannukkah. The holiday is about when the ancient Greeks loved hellenisms superior culture more and more and more, and then their jealous God had a characteristic violent fit and Jew-on-Jew murder and warfare ensued. That's Chanakah. The Jealous God punishing HIMSELF for coveting.

I'm so SICK of Zeus and Yahweh. They are SOOO overrated. I need more time with Odin and Krishna next. ARYAN gods. And actual heroes. Taking human for or as Odin the only FULL God who is also FULL hero … the other CHEAT and rely on their omnipotence. They take no real risks. They enjoy no real gains. Odin is different. The God of my blood.

As for Krishna and the Gita, sorry Jillian but I really hate him. I will explain why later. How long shall I strive with you mere gods? Vishnu … as in Rama? I HATE Rama too. Hate. He is such a goody goody and a FAKE do-gooder. God, I truly hate you two gods. Agni I like. Just covered Ganges in his sacred Jism to make her eternally sacred. I always had a lot of Enki in me.

Oh. The "gospel" as "the greatest story ever told." That lie gives me a headache. Four propaganda monsters full of endless moral pretense with a godling who is the most overrated man in history. Pure inflation. Usury Incarnate. The stories are horrible. The Greek is middling. NOT great. Compared in terms of literature alone, by which I mean, the infinite dimensions of beauty, the Homeric Epics compared to the Greek gospels? There … there can be no comparison. It's a joke. You, you are a joke for wasting my time with this bullshit PRETENSE. Now, I'm in a bad mood again. Work was hard today. This is making it worse. I have work again in the a.m. I want to read something more beautiful than me, or at least beautiful in ways I may never personally achieve, as we each are giving to our range of beauties of which none other can compete.

Dante's Comedy as "third testament" is BETTER written then the new testament. I mean, this isn't even a provocation. It is an objective fact. But Dante is a loser. No hero. He goes to heaven as a voyeur at no personal risk. I visit the hells, the intestines of Yahweh, sundry others, to TAKE OWNERSHIP and CHANGE THE CLIMATE.

Also, Beatrice is an arse wipe.

Suffering Is Investment

Suffering Is Investment

 

Nietzsche wrote:

 

To those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities — I wish that they should not remain unfamiliar with profound self-contempt, the torture of self-mistrust, the wretchedness of the vanquished: I have no pity for them, because I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not — that one endures.

 

Wholesome hopes for those his own.

 

Recall Allfather Odin, hung on the World Tree, become a willing fruit of the Eternal She so he too could full ripe as a World Tree, a Kosmos:

 

He hung upside down, pierced with his own spear of resistless piercing in the gut, face down and blood to the head for nine days shieking into death so he could see PAST maya and mother speech into the RUNES of his ruin: the magic of violence: for violence is writing.

 

"But I … umm… didn't I hang from a tree first." Who said it? I thought I heard a ghost. Oh, the whore-suckling lips of this gutless christling, bastard of the Jew God. Didn't you beg like a babe NOTE to hang on that tree, but NOT according to your own will, but according to HIS? Get this: Willfull suffering is investment, is gain. Unwilling suffering is slavery and rape. Get lost.

 

"Don't pick on my buddy!" Who said it? The loser Buddha? So awakened? Insomniac? Blood shot eyes. Afraid of your own mother, maya, of falling asleep again? You are so afraid of suffering you would rather not exist. So do that. Don't exist. Trifle me no more.

 

Odin hung from the world tree, a sacrifice unto himself, god to god. Inanna too. She went to hell, disrobing at each the seven gates till she was in the center of hell, naked, and she commanded her sister, the queen of hell, to abandon the throne. Her sister did. And in the process got with child from Inanna. Barren hell made fruitful at last.

 

The umpires of the game, the judges, called foul. Inanna can't be queen of heaven AND mistress of earth AND Lord of Hell. They gave her the glare of reproach unto death which she learned just before they turned her into a corpse and hung her on a hook. Well, Enki, Lord of Kindness, brought her back to live, turning her into he water of life, the fruit of life, the tree of life, reaching from the center of hell to the Ashtaroth poles on the highest mountains. Innana the world tree. And her son is named Shara.

 

Suffering is investment. Dolors are dollars. No Pain no Gain.

 

The Shamans literally hung from literal trees and stuck literal poles in their literal guts. They chose to endure savage castration, self-rape, ever self-degradation. And they gained ALL the powers of the gods that way.

 

The Hindus KNOW FULLY that askesis can raise a man's power greater than any and all the gods. A mortal man. Askesis. Deliberate meaningful suffering.

 

"Life is Suffering"? No. Life is so much MORE than suffering. And suffering is just one more thin that makes life WORTH living, now and forever, AMEN.

 

Just read The Laughter Blake's poems, "The Mental Traveler" and Ginsburgh's "love poem" for sandburg, describing the HELL they endure together, and the love is exactly that: They endure it TOGETHER.

 

The deeper the suffering the higher the bliss. 

Ayn Rand's Virtue of Selfishness

Ayn Rand's Virtue of Selfishness


Her absurdity is not without its charms. Ayn fancied herself to be the greatest philosopher of all time, and her teenage boyfriend Nathanial Brandon? He may be a head above or a head below the second greatest philosopher of all time, Aristotle. Depends on what day you asked her. Really now! Who told you so, Ayn?

Why, Brandon himself. Teenage worship-artist. Later to be THE guru of the self-esteem movement. He read Ayn's paltry Fountainhead a mere seventy-seven times in a row, declared it the greatest book since the bible, or whatever, and idolized her beyond all belief her while yet making her his side bitch to his own wife. He praised Ayn so highly, this ugly Jewish immigrate, just hideous and short social outast, but with SOME conceits to work on. After all, she was a Jew, and it is their religion faith and delusion that Jews are superhuman just because they are Jews. Better than us on pricinple. Believing a thing is so may not always be enough, but it gives you something to work with. I forgive this.

Ayn Rand's birth name is less acclaimable: Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum. Endured Russia, that eternal shit state in its eternal sate of shit. But had some good memories of her family. Her father always styled his ugly duckling as "Ayn" which rhymes with "mine" and means gold.

She hated Communism and Russia in exactly the degrees and tones Communis and Russia deserve to be hated. Not even overstated. Right on the level. Good job, Rosenbaum.

That the silly kid Brandon warped her mind and sense of self-importance did her some good. It helped her writing. Delusions of grandeur are the first step to grandeur. She could never have become the found-er of the Libertarian party, almost single handedly, if she played modest.

As for her "virtue of selfishness," she manages to demonize Kant to ALL extremes, Jew style, those usu-rious super-geniuses: she praises Aristotle to Heaven and Kant to hell, with this one fine caveat: she never read a word of either. Not one living word. Only the most tertiary of second-rate glosses. She read mere textbooks on the men and fancied herself subtle enough to see to the center. So, she took the impossible position of damning Kant in the most obscene way as the most evil man who ever existed, while seem-ingly innocently picking up his greatest motto, not recognizing the source, and claiming it as her own:

Man should be treated as an end not a means.

Her Virtue of Selfishness depends on her idiosyncratic take and tact of reducing all "sacrifice" to sheer and categorical evil, and the imposture to demand personal sacrifice for the collective as the MOST OB-SCENE EVIL POSSIBLE. Considering the context of her upbringing, and the way Stalin and Hitler were regarded in their time and people as the MOST MORAL people of all time, demanding you sacri-fice EVERYTHING for them, I can see how Rand would want to escape this din.

If I said the Jewish author wrote novels praising businessmen and bankers, whoever was good at making gold, one of the changing his name legally to Midas because he was good at making gold, and called she directly claimed greed a virtue, and praised the almighty dollar, and the author herself wore the American dollar sign as a gold lapel on her jacket as a religious symbol, the world would call me a slanderer, of course, but the most obvious and stupid of slanderers. But I am not slandering. I am describing Ayn and her coterie to a T.

I want to make a long story short. Since she was such an elite, she had the right and privilege to sleep with whoever she wished. This was Ayn's conceit in her own eyes. That was her presumption, and she imposed it on her failure of a painter husband, Frank. She made the man a "willing" cockuld to the way-too-young Brandon. He himself supported and built up his wife, spiritually, emotionally, intellectually, and put up with her shit, and he had to roll over in his bed for this useless piece of shit Brandon.

Well, Rand figured it out. Self-esteem guru Brandon. Rand caught him not cheating — she knew well he was married — but something far more unforgivable: cheating with a new woman. "I thought I was the only woman on the side for you."

Recall, Ayn Rand's novels are full of businessmen who have the ethical right to follow their lusts and de-stroy their marriages and wives by using sex as POWER, never tenderness, never child-making. Marriage is sacrifice. It is not for the businessman ubermansh. Marriage is for the weak.

In fact, in her second book, Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand's proxy, Daggney Taggard, favorite of her own daddy, quite literally sleeps her way to the top. Her "plot" is to fall willing prey to greater and greater business predators. Her triumph as a woman is for all the great men to take a turn, and then for the great-est to take full possession. Rand at least has the insight to style herself a male-chauvinist.

Whatever moral value that may have, I will end only with this. Phil Donahue, that yuck-yuck asshole talk show host, had Ayn Rand on camera. He trolled the outspoken atheist: "God bless America. Do you agree?" And she said, in the best sense of the terms and the truest meanings, she agreed. She was old now. Accomplished. She had her cult, the Randroids. They had made the libertarian party. What about her husband, Frank? The failed painter. The alcoholic? He could not accept his wife's arguments that she deserved greater men for lovers. It broke his soul. What happened?

When she caught Brandon messing with a third woman, Rand cursed that man's penis: May you lose your potency, you son of a bitch.

Well, bless the rich, God! Brandon, the self-help bastard, who falsely STOLE his self esteem through sexual theft, Rand would curse his penis. His ego. His pride. Rightfully so. Brandon was a blight and a toady.

Donahue asked about the passing of Frank. Now, Rand hand spoken against self-sacrifice as the greatest evil possible. That is the whole meaning of "the virtue of sacrifice." But when confronted publicly with the name of her late husband, Ayn Rand hand learned the truth when she said, "If all I had to do to return to Frank's embrace again and be with my husband again was to die, I would slit my own throat this very second." Are you so very against self-sacrifice this late in the game, Sister?

Enough said, Ayn Rand. Even fools can be taught.

"Psyche Prophesy" a poem

Psyche Prophesy 

You remain mortal psyche

I am eternal eros

My quivering arrows

These fingered thrusts

Of loving words.

Yet some of my bolts of bliss

Make corpses out of women.

Such is this.

I symbolically damned my family, parents., brother, Emilie, all who troubled you, all who disputed you.

I put you first. 

Sherry ice heart. Ingrate incarnate.

I did this to melt and save you.

You still must die as I have died.

You in the literal flesh as I never needed

For my flesh is divine already and I will never die and bring to eternal life all my sexuality knows.

You invest all your wanton care into the boy

And smother him.

It is obscene.

He will repay your cowardice

One day

By stabbing his own mother in the heart

Mattricide

And only then will he finally comprehend me.

We will work on your revival then.

Frontier Life

Frontier Life

 

I can speak less directly about family and friends now. I must speak in the abstract, and by way of metaphor, indirection, and subterfuge. For strategic reasons. For diplomatic. This doesn't mean Family June no longer concerns me. Quite the opposite, in fact: my main focus now is in building up this Frontier Folk, living amidst a great vapid WILDERNESS that regards itself as the height of culture and civilization. The natives rant and rave and aim their petty religions at me, these gross and awful superstitious, and make little cursling under their tongue. Be patient, Dani. You were once like them.

Having reconciled with my Penelope, I felt a hope beyond all tropes and beyond the nine-scorpion tails of that manticore, Ivan, that lion with nine scorpion tails. That Iago, that braggart, that hater of the happiness of others, struck and stuck at his friend, and missed, and ended up stinging himself. He is scuttled off somewhere to skulk and convalesce from his own venom. As the gospel of Mark might put it:

This frustrates me. I have on the thumb of my tongue the verse I want to rehearse, but I ain't finding it in the King James. This always happens. My memory and the physical archives called reality dispute so much such feeble matters.

I KNOW the verse I want, but Luke and Matthew, late comers, lack it, and John is just a different religion entirely. I mean the temptation of Jesus. Mark lacks it. Well Q has the earliest version. And I don't have an extant of Q, now do I!

Time to do some involved INTERUPTIVE research. BRB!

Meanwhile, I pour myself some drink. Orange Peach Mango juice (Meijer brand), Crush Peach soda pop, and Vodka. This is my own Nectar, my own "orange juice" as Harold Bloom called it when mocking panentheism.

Well I found the verse. Luke 4:13 "And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season." That's not what was nibbing the tongue tip of my memory.  I guess the old NIV "When the devil had finished all this temptation, he left him until an opportune time."

Ivan. He will always want to sabotage my happiness. By nature. He is envy incarnate. And the older and wiser know why I do well to keep such a counsel and friend.

I'm eating "peach ice cream raspberry sherbert" as slowly as I can. It is nearly pornographic, how much I am enjoying this frozen dessert. The house is asleep. I will be up till midnight before I take my meds and sleep before work.

Ivan once openly envied how fast I read. I felt confused. Fast reading as an abuse. I resort to skimming and racing only because 99.999999999 percent of books are unworthy of even one read.

But when we find God, the face of Ama, we want to READ AS SLOWLY AS THE TEXT ALLOWS. This is to voluptuaize the experience. When making love with a woman, who would rush to get it down in under a minute? Draw it out. There I no more sinfully delicious sinless act thatn reading Great Literature.Yum!

Susan reminded me of her beauty tonight.

I have the 14 muses, yes. And four wive. Chronologically: Jillian, Sherry Ellen, Susan. And Susan will take me to vacation in New England and see Emerson's house, his study. And Walden Pound. All that. She my lover and, she is my mothers age, yet so good at making me feel perfectly expressed and full of the rage of intense relief! Such a savagely wonderful lover she!

I am full Mormon. These four wives will be among the literal physical goddesses I as a good Mormon take with me to people a new planet with our sexually produced children.

I'm wondering after Ellen for a moment.

Well, time to read and voluptuoize some deep literary book. Emilie I read and read obscenely, she my secret spiritual wife. She is another wife. Not a physical wife, but a literal wife by which I beget and am begotten literal physical children.

Enough for now!

I have vodka and orange juice and peach soda mixed. A light buzz. And I am reading American poetry till bedtime. Take care!