REDACTED "Power Institutinoalized"

Here is "Power Institutionalized" edited to about half its size. When the music is playing in my head, I can write endless melodious -- repetition. The editor's pen must be cruel. I have to hit up the full 4,000 page Idius and see if I can snip it to 1,500.

 

I've added my set of line drawings to my homepage. There are a few I haven't shared before, and if I feel inspired to write any others I will post them there rather than send them out.

 

http://www.perfectidius.com/lines.htm

 

DANI

 

Power Institutionalized

                The Time comes upon you when we are least ready. That's what makes it the time. A system is overcome at a moment of minor imbalance close to its center. That is the moment to press, and it will crack like a torched rock; an internal element must first defect. With the axis munde for my spine, spandrels for brows and tendrils for toes, I tender that point of absolution.

                An idea is a power, a system of powers; when defined, it filters the logosphere, it absorbs minds and forwards history. Might makes right, of course, when we regard reason, justice, and respect, as power. People feel free when they vote away freedom; they subjugate their power to preserve that power. It is like the Chinese, who for centuries framed the legitimacy of their dynasties in terms of the five elements -- traditional rot. They did better to focus on the figure above the fake, Confucius, who claimed no revelation, gave no command, and yet offered the best of teachings. He gave himself up to be used, to stand for an idea, for many ideas as the fist split into fingers. A people are a people by sharing a heritage. China had Confucius. We have Emerson. For bare principles are never enough; a living personality must animate them. The conservative right foot stands for balance, the progressive left foot steps for advancement; the past and the future must balance the present: we must balance our national heroes against expectations for greater heroes.

                The political system must expend energy in remaining that system, a party must invest in the party, just as a body takes its keep. Whatever spiritual values you seek, you must first give your body its due. The missionary religions express an exalted trajectory in converting the world -- mere upkeep, but that's not their spiritual worth, that's not the treasure house; that's the business of fanatics. Mere upkeep. A religion plays at politics to spread itself, such calumny of cunning and insinuation, yet it offers benefit to the pure. Jesus may be generous, but Judas is still steward.

                Those unique political institutions called Universities pay their upkeep by strangling politically inconvenient truths. They smother the poet and the philosopher -- who have no business there. University truth is in use, political sway. Those scholars can't even tell you what is eternal. They look at the context and exigencies of a work. They are mortal, they see in terms of limits. The spiritual breakthroughs, of timeless dynamos and the eternal unique, matter little to such scholarly oxen. They work to turn the mill, to grind out historical trivia. Yes, their work is useful, the artist takes the clue to find his path, but keep your dreaming free from their clutches.

                Confucius, though frustrated in his efforts, succeeded in his dream, which carved out a metaphysical space, first in the imagination of his students, and through them all of China. The political system that controls citizens, the universities that finish citizens, these too fall into the metaphysical space of those few dare-stars. Your education completes itself when you shrug off the scholars and walk among Gods.

                These squabblers and thieves among the world community play their ideological games using high names and exalted ideas. It's a wrangle of parties. The innovators exceed the appropriators, but the appropriators turn it back and translate the new into terms of the old. The innovators bundle their pet ideologies with their new technologies. The appropriators write their counter-ideology, making their own spiritual claims over the new boon. An idea graduates from first being ludicrous, then annoying, then plausible, and finally inevitable. Yesterday's heresy is today's common sense. Anesthesia was once called blasphemy by Harvard's president, but now it is called providence. And how we scoff and smile and cheerfully pronounce our superiority for piercing the illusions of yesterday -- we get it, they didn't. Meanwhile, we stifle and kick the innovators among us, and are in turn spurned by a posterity which praises not us, but them.

*

                Religion is flexible; the archaic words mean new things, the failed prophesies fit any eventuality, the stodgy scriptures speak to every emergence. For the pious rationalize -- that they have the creative genius to do.

                The epistles of Paul with their bare catalogs of virtues and vices fail to enlighten. Where wisdom is dull, indoctrination sets in. Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics bests the whole Testament. But the epistles can be shouted from the rooftops, while wisdom never shouts.

                The best minds no longer go into theology. The religions never die, but they have lost the great men. Where is the talent going?

                The pious still have there standbys of revelation and mystical insight, but those tend to convince you of what you already know. The Mystic remembers grade school -- hardly more!

                Each religion has its own truth which is inevitably exaggerated and dubiously supported. Because the claims of religion ostensibly matter less than adherents claim, post-mortem worlds are set into place -- "Last Judgment," "Karma" -- inflators of their tenuous moral.

                Buddha in his enlightenment recalled his former lives-- a delusion. He saw what he expected to see, but discovered no truth lacking in the Upanishads. The Divine had already been created.

                Once upon a time, society created the Divine. Later it created the World. Finally it created the Self.

                What you primarily identify configures your soul. "I am a mother first of all" is a different entity than "I am a writer who also has children."

                The ideas think through us, as if Gods moved our bodies as tokens across the board, to deliver some idea to its realization. Confucianism complicated itself with a reactionary supplement in Taoism, a feminine element against the masculine, and the foreign imposition of Buddhism was tamed before it could upset that fabric. Institutions grow in such organic reciprocity.

*

                Life's necessities require certain inevitable expressions, lacking which it dies. No religious ethic can deny the facts of life. Our ego and heart -- to give two names to one entity -- test and edit religion. If a Christian calls a necessity "sin" or if a Buddhist calls it "attachment," they will do it anyway, they will cheat. What matters what they call it? -- Words for words and spit for spit. This one prefers this jargon, that one another, but the referents have always existed, and often without such pretense and exaggeration. Life needs. The rest follows.

                The ancient greats such as Socrates, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus, Lao Tse have the thinnest biographies, each a meager page of facts we could hold as certain. The less we know of them, the more we can impute. They are nothing and so they can mean everything. The biographies of L. Ron Hubbard and Joseph Smith are less exalted. Both rejected their first followers as "traitors and liars" -- a dubious move; both misused their authority -- Smith to destroy the printing press of his critics, Hubbard to blackmail former followers. So it is with all religions, where the selfish and the selfless, the individual and the universal, meld together in peculiar patterns. They are irresistible. Most mankind wants to be contained.

                Formerly, great ideas were ascribed to the gods. Not only poetry (scripture), but also music (hymns) and sculpture (idols). After the Renaissance, creative achievement became the province of the great man, of great men, of new aristocracy, not by blood but by brains. The ancients praised kings and warriors, but we have no time for that. We praise the creator. Who cares about whatever doge haunted Michelangelo's Rome? When Beethoven refused to move off the path, what dignitaries did he thereby insult? Who cares?

                Creativity is greatness. Muslim culture gained its height when it regarded the Koran as created by, rather than coeternal with, God. Whether Ama calls herself Allah, or Yahweh, or Brahma, or Odin -- she who is bigger than each religion, she who is bigger than all religions -- yet to her I will never bow. With Huck Finn, I choose virtue, even to damnation.

                Speech is the echo of thought, thought the crystallization of desire. It is our place to stand at last on ourselves, to know Ama's voice direct and filtered through no Prophet, priest, demigod, Son of God, or seer.

                The institutions with their taxes and their anxiety-forms -- those forms by which they hold you down -- tap dry your private vitality. Harness them as you must, participate when you have to, but be subjugated to none. Service is for slaves.

                The world deliberately misunderstands us -- that is their revenge. Nevermind that. Strengthen others with your words, give gifts without seeming to, and take what is best in every man.

                Certain combinations of words require incredible pressure to first create. Hold to them. Heed that music meant only for your ears. The popular inflection, whereby apes strut as gods, is mere alcohol and candy. Do not touch. Read the best man straight, but never settle for a professor's take. Don't filter your sunlight. Let the hero struggle, let the mystic seek, I am the God in ease: tonight I glow.

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

two things that sting

 

 

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

Line Drawings

I've been experimenting with effects with line drawing. These drawings are all made keeping the pen always on the page and the one single continuous line never bisecting any of the others. I am achieving some interesting effects with the process, and I've learned a few tricks that are useful for building upon.

 

dani

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

"Power Institutionalized" an allay

This is a proto-allay, the first part of an allay, unedited, fresh from the flesh, fallen out of my brain and still bleeding. I intended to get it out as one solid whole in order to complete the circle; incomplete circuits fade. A wrote it to achieve one term, but it will take a few months of polishing to bring it to effect. So understand that it is infant and needs to develop. I write these daily, or bidaily, and rarely send them out. I share maybe 1/20 of my output.

 

This allay seeks to understand what the institutions are and what they are doing and what the individual should know when approaching them.

 

daniel

 

 

Power Institutionalized

 

            The time is upon us when we are least ready. That is how it is the time. The tripping of a system is neither at its heights, not in its stumbling, nor any its weakness; a system is overcome at a moment of imbalance close to its center. That is the moment to press your full force, and it will crack like a heated rock. With the axis munde for my spine, a spandrel and tendril tenders the point of absolution.

            An idea is a power, a system of powers; defined it is a filter, it filters through the logosphere, it absorbs our minds and conveys itself into history. Might makes right, of course, when we consider reason, justice, respect, as mights, as powers. What is this politics, this pragmatic to do? It subjugates our freedoms -- people feel free when they can vote how to subjugate freedoms. It's all arbitrary and its dignity, in its pretenses of forms. For centuries the Chinese debated the legitimacy of their dynasties, translating the terms into the language of the five elements. That is, using nonsense as an expediency to justify usurpation. And was not the political figure above this squirming, this man who claimed no revelation, gave no command, yet offered a sublime teaching equal to any of the greatest. He gave himself up to be used, generations later to stand for an idea, to become many ideas. A people are a people by sharing language and memory.

            The political system must expend much of its energy in remaining that system; a party must invest in the party, just as a body exacts more than a daily expense from your diet, but a full upkeep. These missionary religions express an exalted trajectory in converting the world -- mere upkeep, but that's the spiritual worth, that's not the treasure house. That's the business of fanatics.

            Those unique political institutions called the universities, which exist primarily to preserve and intensity the political schools, to keep the game going, and have in that extension of the upkeep corrupting the philosopher -- who has no business in a university anyway. The scholar can't tell you what is eternal in a work. He looks for context and history. He is mortal, he sees in terms of limits and emergences. The literary and religious breakthroughs, the timeless dynamos, eternal unique, are invisible to the scholastic oxen. They will work to turn the mill; they will ground out every detail, and write endless articles about every noble mind to ever exist, and many minds hardly worth mentioning. Their work is useful; the man who is a man may take their clues and hints and gain orientation.

            Confucius in his dream and goal, though thoroughly frustrated, yet carved a metaphysical space, first in his students, and through them in China as a whole. The political system that controls citizens, the university's that finish the intellectual childhood of citizens, these fall into the metaphysical space of few dare-stars who broke open a creative space.

            Enthusiasm is irresistible. When they speak of this God or that, never trouble yourself. The true divine of true divine is that which your soul would never resist, what is beautiful to you and undoubtedly perfect. It will appear different for you then it does for your neighbor, but despite all her aspects and facets, we are looking upon Mother All.

            Yet these squabblers and thieves among the world community play their ideological names using high names and exalted ideas. The innovators exceed the appropriators, but the appropriators attempt to translate all novelty into ancient terms. The innovators use their technological edge to prop up their ideology. The appropriators with their counter-ideology, usually conservative, write their own stories, as catalysts for demonstrating their right to ascribe meaning to he new technology or technique. Anesthesia was invented to negate suffering -- but as suffering had a theological story surrounding it, that God willed us to suffer, and then palliatives are viewed as heresy. The innovator is denounced as demonic. Only later will the conservatives warm to the idea of an end of suffering, and thank God for giving it to them -- such is their ingratitude! They follow the trajectory every idea traverses: an idea is first felt to be ludicrous, than felt to be annoying, than felt to be plausible, than felt to be inevitable. Yesterday's heresy is today's common sense. And how we scoff and smile and cheerfully pronounce our superiority -- we get it, but those old folks didn't. Meanwhile, we stifle and kick the innovators around us, and we are the old folks to the posterity who will praise them, not us.

            Religion is flexible; the old forms can be given new meanings, can be given any meanings. The failed prophesies can be made to fit any eventuality, the scriptures can be made to speak to every possible situation. This is rationalization, or backwards thinking, the only creative genius natural to a conservative.

            The epistles of Paul with their bare catalogs of good adjectives and bad never functions as a moral treatise, and hence has nothing to do with wisdom and teaching, but only for training and indoctrination. There is no intelligence in the entire Testament as there is in Aristotle's Nichomachean; but the epistles can be shouted from the rooftops while wisdom never shouts.

            God is used to explain mysteries such as where did the universe come from -- but it's a fake, it explains nothing, the mystery is just pushed back a step--and perhaps a step in the wrong direction.

            It is the fundamentalist's hope to be able to explain away every new challenge using he same argument. To pigeonhole every counter religion, as a cult inspired by the occult, or even better by the "angel of light," Satan, gives them great relief. They don't have to think. That Mormonism involved revelations through an angel is greatly relieving to them, despite Joseph Smith's claim to have talked to the Father and Son directly; Muhammad's dialogue through Gabriel eases their superstition spirits. The more obvious conclusion, that the religion shows no evidence of supernatural ingenuity -- diabolical or otherwise -- would undermine their own scriptures.

            The best minds no longer go into theology. Apologetics gets a different set of intelligences, and they are waging a losing battle. Where is the talent going? Where the genius? Where the power and energy? To a convicted believer, evidence and counterevidence has value only in terms of apologetic propaganda. He lacks the creative jism to triumph over system and world, the furor to meet God face to face. Cults and those graduated cults, religions, seek ownership of its members through money and sex; they wish to defang each member from expending any power that could hurt the institution, and would sap his energy into advancing their cause. Such is the nature of groups in general.

            Revelation and mystical insight tend to be conservative, despite the importance they allege. They convince you of what you already know. In mysticism, a man is reminded of his childhood indoctrination; he finds such words in the depths of his soul only because he hasn't transgressed beyond it, beyond convention, beyond training, into the inner of the inner, the impossible mirror of the utter self.

            I grow weary of the claims of religions. Each has its own highest truth which is inevitably exaggerated and dubiou8sly supported despite the high value they place on it. They are packaged to encourage fanaticism, evangelism, and intolerance for contrary views, unlike philosophy which encourages disputation and every manner of reasonable counter argument, welcomes all sincere challenges. Because the claims of religion ostensibly matter less than adherents claim, post mortem consequences are imagined, words like "Last Judgment" and "Karma" are faked to make their claims relevant.

            Buddhism is the same. It is no philosophy, despite its philosophical tones. Its truths are not based on argument but on privileged experiences. The value of these experiences they affirm without reason, so they could just as well be denied without reason. Their mystical insights are as valuable as the insights gained from psychoanalysis: they are put deep into the soul first, and then discovered as if they were eternally there. Buddha in his enlightenment recalled his former lives-- a delusion. He saw what he expected to see, but discovered no truth that was not already in the Upanishads.

            Art, with its conventions and schools and traditions, also feeds new talent into conventional forms, into repetitions. A few Great Men speak in any century, and all the world repeats. Once upon a time, society created the Divine. Later they created the "World." Finally they created the Self, as in the century of the first person singular, in Emerson and Whitman.

            What you primarily identify with gets the main of your attention and its attendant power and energy -- "I am a mother first of all" is a different entity than "I am a writer who also has children." Those forms we pour our soul into, those forms we internalize are useful and let us define that indefinable soul. We breathe in the spirit and it dissolves in the blood of the soul. We create a life immense in passion, pulse and power.

            The ideas think through us, as if Gods used our bodies as game tokens to move ideas across the board. Confucianism complicated itself with a reactionary supplement in Taoism, and the incorporation of the foreign infusion is Buddhism. That is the life of ideas, the life of institutions.

            Life's necessities require certain inevitable expressions lacking which the man or woman will wither or die. No religious ethic can in practice deny the necessities, the facts of life. Our ego and heart -- to give two names to one entity -- exacts certain absolute claims on the psyche. If a Christian dares call them "sins" or a Buddhist call them "desires of attachment," no matter -- words for words and spit for spit. Their distinction is the jargon they foist over the emotional expressions we all feel anyway. Religion is pretense. It is pure exaggeration. All systems do the same things, differing only in emphasis and terminology. Life needs. That determines everything the mind creates to answer those needs.

            So these men who create religious systems, they do so from having an exulted ego. It is no coincidence that the ancient greats such as Socrates, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus, Lao Tse have the thinnest biographies, just a page each of facts we could be certain about; and the less that is sure the more that can be imputed, until these figures absorb all the possibilities of mankind. They mean so much because they are so little. When we look at the biographies of L. Ron Hubbard and Joseph Smith, they are less exalted, unless you are a true believer. Both of them rejected their first followers as "traitors and liars," both used the religion to serve their ambitions. So it is with all religions, the selfish and the selfless, the individual and the universal, meld in peculiar patterns. They are irresistible. The times evoke them and lap them up.

            Formerly, great ideas were ascribed to the gods. Not only religious poetry (scripture) but all manners of creative achievement were believed to be divine creations as distinct from humanity. After the renaissance and the enlightenment, creative achievement was the province of great men, and creativity has greatly benefited from humanization -- all the major arts and human achievements culminate, if not also originate, after those times -- and aristocracy n longer is by blood but by brain. The farther back in time, the more important are kind and warriors, but recently we care almost nothing for kinds and warriors and everything gives all exultation to the artist. In terms of contribution to world culture our preferences are more enlightened. Who cares about the political leaders haunting Michelangelo's Rome? When Beethoven refused to move off the path for the aristocracy, who were those balked dignitaries? Who cares?

            Muslim culture gained its height when it regarded the Koran as created by God, rather than being a coeternal uncreated aspect of him. We too must hold to our own and identify our creativity that emanates from our center as equal to the outer divine, whether she calls herself Allah, or Yahweh, or Brahma, or Odin, for Ama is all these things, the everblessed all is bigger than any religion, bigger than all of them. With Huck Finn, I choose virtue, even if that meant damnation. Because I don't flatter her, she approves.

            Speech is the echo of thought, thought the solidification of desire. It is our place to stand at last on ourselves, to know Ama's voice filtered through no prophet, priest, demigod, Son of God, or seer. We are equal to them all, and open our hearts and minds to the light of her love.

            The institutions with their taxes and anxiety forms -- all their forms are anxiety forms -- would hold us in place and make our individuality work for them. Harness them, as you must, participate, when you have to, but be subjugated to none whatsoever. To serve is slavish.

            The world deliberately misunderstands us -- that is their revenge. They do it even when they think they are trying to understand. Nevermind that. Strengthen others with your words, ask questions, give gifts without seeming to, and take what is best in each man -- what greater deed can you do for a man but take the best from him?

            Certain combinations of words or actions are easy as anything else -- excepting the incredible pressure of power and energy to at first create them, they create ideas deep, profound, eternal. Like the music of the spheres, nobody but the profound can hear them. The popular inflection, those forms which ape the gods and reduce genius to the readily consume, they are impossible without he power forms, and yet they numb the eyes and ears. Do not touch them. Read a man's ideas, a genius's, but never a professor's take on him. Don't filter your sunlight. Know the Goddess face to face, the full divine by voice. Let the hero struggle, let the mystic seek, I am God in ease: tonight I glow.

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

distracted doodles as I contemplate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\ ~@M@~ /

perfectidius.com

 

"Evil Innocence" an allay

Evil Innocence

 

 

 

See the Second Sun

 

My Sexton is obsessed with dawn

And daylight’s glowing orb

That lustful gaze invades her song

Her awe it full absorbs.

 

For me the dawn and setting death

Are tired old parlor tricks

Instead I seek the Poet’s rise

That fascinates her lips.

 

I set my time, I set my pace,

Allist that I am

I’ll never rush, not once obey

I’ll Work on my own time.

 

The sun was stark that deathless day

I held the statue nude

The marble melt some eons out

But axial I stood.

 

Come my sexless Sexton

Set your slanted eyes on me

When sun is done and I’ve begun

I’ll turn the tithing see.

                         

 

 

                How I love my evil lovers, you’re all so real with me. I give you this, I give you all, my time is meant for us. Love is in what you actually do, not in what you wish you did; whoever dares praise love should be damned for it; don't praise love, simply love when loving is right, and also hate when hate is due. Accept that you hate without regretting. Hate is typical of the best of lovers, the greater the love, the deeper the hate; only those who love superficially condemn hate with their moral slogans.

                The wicked genius of criminals is what prods man to his heights. What disgust, disturbs, revolts, terrorizes, insults nevertheless also fascinate us, and being fascinated we even seek it out. the criminal at least doesn’t seek you’re approval.

                And for us who do good for those we love, and through them for all mankind, we need neither praise nor confirmations. Praise but sparsely and make your kind words stark. You can just as well scowl and redress them with a red face; a red face works, the babe is made with the flush-faced push. To those we esteem the greatest we have the least to say. And for the greatest of all, there is nothing more to say than you would say to what is best in yourself. Only blasphemy can truly love the divine. The divine of the divine cannot be blasphemed and each deeply towards the all.

                So let your passion roil and bleed; I seek not peace, but passion. I ask no favors from the divine, for even a winning lottery ticket can't hide poverty, nor can rags disguise the noble. What is yours to make, make it well; give your best to her. He who makes the sauce the best needs not even meat. Your duty is to make, not to serve.

                We don't serve the all, we don't serve the state, we serve nothing at all. Only slaves serve. We are friends, we are free. Our duties are art, we do them with skill. Know how to perfect the things you must do. It is the simple selfish love of building your own, building up those people who are yours, that justifies the tears. For those we create with we are grateful, and we are grateful for our youth. The home of our youth is forever in our heart. A home is a world. The subtle love of mother and father remind us that by licks of a cow the god is born. Mammalian love is enough to start.  Love what you have. What cares the cat for the silvery collar? Be satisfied and disdain such luxury. Satiation finds all things averse. Accepting what is rather than aching for what could never be reminds us to love our own, to hold what we have. Years later we realize we were happy all along, for with love, the more you give the more you have.

                So what do we love in our literary mien? Everything is everything, analogy sees the one. Our books give us home, for this is the heaven we share. Writing speaks what words never could, so I will the Idius day and night. Will leads to have. I am true to you, I live for you, my readers are my favorite. What to trust? What to bring close? The lover that's true you won't catch lying, but the cleverest villains in all of history are praised as saints to this day. We judge differently. The evil innocence, the selfish love, the proud perfection of our beings we share freely together.

                I draw you close, you lose sight of time. Proximity blinds: who knows his life while thick in the stream? Detachment is only half. Knowing how to rightly attack completes it. Detachment is foolishness if lacking attachment and reattachment.

                How beautiful is my desire for you—how right! How true! My desires and ambitions are aesthetic. The highest arts address them. Anything that has been discovered I could have discovered, we are each equal to all. Traditions, remove your shoes when you sit in my study. These foreign ideas are fair game for us -- no presiding institute can bully you in how to use them. I wrest the best for you. I give everything for you. I adore you and what you are doing. I do not look at any of my memories in terms of wounds and violations, but in terms of power and potentials.

                Everybody has disabilities, never mind that. You strive because you don't know you are striving, and suffer because you don't know you are suffering; realizing that you deserve happiness, you let yourself have it; realizing you are perfect, your whole life will have already been. Strife and suffering are wonderful when used; when misused they fail to reward. To realize simply that you do hate, resent, envy, and dispute, with no intention of undermining what you do for good reason, this is to feel satisfaction. You are you -- feeling those ways is okay. Both pain and delight are right.

                The fear that I might be wrong empowers my tone. It is that risk, that adventure, the ever present possibility that I am idiot or fool, that makes ideas and life exciting. If nothing's at risk, what could be gained? If I had a cool certainty and only spoke what I was sure was true, I would never grasp a pen. The commanding tone is impossible without fear -- mastered fear, but fear -- for fear is power.

                In this I am here to help you grow. Your beauty and its creation are my concern. Certain virtues are long-grown and only through unique experiences. Grace is beauty in use. To have those great virtues and the graceful and powerful manners of their use -- decades go into one action -- the intelligence behind it took a lifetime, though it acts in the flash of the instant. That is why I take pride even in my failures.

                I revere my strength in accomplishments and that is pride. I assess my weaknesses in shortcomings and that humility. My humility and pride align, I balance my life and set it to grow. To see what is in terms of what can be is wisdom.

                All creation is self creation, what we do out there we do in here. Self-expression is self-realization, when I am said, so I am. The work of art defines my soul. My decisions and actions are hammerfalls on the sculpture of my memory. Mattriama is everall, in all her growth she fills us all. We are all with her, co-creators of our souls. Our deathless uncreated innermost self, the emanated love of our being -- upon Ama's skein – we knit this bond of karmic lines.

                Creation, procreation, recreation -- this is my time with you. Embrace your profluence, I the divine unknown. Celebrate your inner name. If your letter is scarlet, stitch it well. We are born of immaculate conception -- I the black tear that made Her laugh. No effort is ever wasted here; let wisdom worry, let folly laugh! Folly is the sauce of life, wisdom is the meat. Precedent is everything, destiny will follow. That is why I open you to our unique place of experience, this innocence, this hidden dance. What is more welcome than a friend who reflects and amplifies? What is more dear than a grateful lover?

                Keep yourself free from the world and its duties. Arm yourself with sharp ideas. If you've teeth of ivory, they'll hunt you down. Be useless and keep your peace. That is our secret, you and I. A man without secrets is boring indeed. Evil innocence is the crook of our brow, plaited and sane from the top of our heads. My boundless love adores you, my power embraces and surrounds you. Here we breathe as one.

 

 

 

\~ @M@ ~/

perfectidius.com

 

The Life Lesson Meant Only For You --

 

 

                That peculiar word stood on your knee as you patronized it and tolerated its oddness. Over the years it echoed back at unpredictable times. Suddenly, you realized it was an eternal key -- that impish hider! -- and you sought it out when it would no longer come. Goaded to monomaniacal obsession, having been balked and told no, your desire magnifies. And so the imp you patronize today is the God you serve tomorrow.

                When you were truly free and responsible -- in your childhood -- and not merely an echo of that freedom and responsibility -- in your adulthood -- you were privy to hidden subtle truths that just tickled your ear, but could not be explained or even identified by the adults you sought out. You whistled a bit of nonsense as a child; it became the mystery of All in the end.

                We seek to realize our truths, but can't. Our friends kindly tell us not to fret. Secretly, they fear you will realize something that scares them; they don't want to see it so they don't let you see it. Yet wherever the teacher stands, there the students will be, for though people only learn lessons that they pay for, the teacher reminds them they've already spent here. Why do I reflect worse from your eyes than from your praise, my seeming friends? What is it I stand for that you would disown, and what made me the teacher of you or anybody?

                And so I am alone. When everyone leaves you, Ama remains. When everyone blames you, Ama approves. When you stand by yourself, you stand with the all. There are truths you can approach only in loneliness, deep important truths, that are dissolved by the presence of others. Remembering who you are, who you really are, is not something anybody can teach you, but is something everybody will inevitably hide from you, not even meaning to, because they see you in terms of themselves, and yet they have not really known even themselves. They obscure everything you say and do. When you see gleams of light, they will most strongly warn you of your blindness, when you hear the music of the spheres, they warn you of madness. For this reason, the deepest truth, the face of Ama, your own original face, can only be approached in that mirror that is the womb of your innermost being; and when you go there, you are alone and you are not alone. You are enveloped in self. You feel you have been reminded of something you knew long ago, knew all along; you see that all the truth the world said really was truth, and yet had a different sense than others supposed. You are told secrets by Ama meant only for you, that have never been uttered or conceived in the entire universe; and what's more, your innermost divine emanates secrets and gifts she herself never guessed at, but graciously receives.

                The universities will teach you tricks of wit. Profound wisdom comes from no classroom. Intimacy is the place of wisdom.

 

\ ~@M@~ /

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