The Wailing Babe
The wailing babe rebels the bed
I sing him silent
Rocked in calm regard
And deliver him to peace
Who knows but me
My own heart wails
At the terror of life
Behind mild eyes
It comes upon me some days
And none can dispel it
This panic abyss
Choking despair.
I too am rocked in turn
Ama lisps in my ear
How to express this?
How can anyone understand?
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-- perfectidius.com --
88
Prayer is the poetry of the illiterate.
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Eating the right amount of food strengthens us; eating too much weakens. Because we give meaning to food other than nourishment, too much food manages to feed those meanings.
*
Any activity can become therapy for another -- for work problems, for love problems -- given that it holds sufficient distance, and yet can run in metaphorical parallel, empowering us indirectly.
*
Art is epitomized life.
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Faith and practice fuse as life.
*
Mind is care. Take care, caretakers! Mind life and learn.
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There are many ways to take a scripture, but the pious way is the worst.
*
Men strive at life: gods play life as a game.
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Sometimes I hate even my friends, and want only you, Ama. Only four people are utter Ama to me, and of them my heart never tires.
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Only when you have Purpose will you recognize opportunity.
*
Press your chest to me, synch your heart with mine.
*
Such a lover is Whitman that he is not in love with anybody, but everybody. So it is with me, but a few have me by the heart and shall have my trust and ardor for all my existence -- you select few I love the most, and show as no other could guess the hidden wonder of the innermost garden of my heart.
*
My energy kites and dives, but no matter the turn of violence, my peace uses every move.
*
Psyche is my sanity, Rozhiar my madness: our friends become our faculties.
*
Dreams give a vision of possibility.
*
Mature love persists without reciprocation, as the sun shines over the earth, happy simply to give.
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Religion are languages: the truth of one can be translated into the others. And if some scripture acts as substrate for any of them, inspired interpretation can find all new wisdom back in the source, as if by miracle.
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Interpretation is the only miracle.
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The martyrs invite their doom: persecuted people relish it, and chalk it up as a dignification. The allist, however, has nothing to prove, to himself or others: his kindness is welcome wherever it shines.
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When we put our office at set point, when we translate all our problems into standard notation, when we have reduced all substances to our own substance, then we are ready to work.
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I’m caramel soft and pliant as rain, but inwardly I coil back on myself, a spring ringing with charge, waiting for blitzkrieg when I will Alexander the world in your name. My heart is for you, I love you with my life, and to the world I am sheer tar baby: kiss me or heave me, you are stuck to my logic and wedded to my way.
*
“Art imitates life, life imitates art.” Rather, art thickens and intensifies life, realizing in our daily trials the dreams of composers and bards.
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We as Allists must learn to be gracefully damned by Christians and Muslims, and never return the favor: holding Ama at our heart, why trouble ourselves with their nightmares?
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Do what you love and disdain dissuasion.
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Every project is practice for the next.
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Be the earth and never orbit the sullen moon.
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Honor your source.
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To require another’s approval is spiritual poverty.
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All religions are reverence, but the objects of reverence differ. To hold a religious attitude towards a privately chosen object is to be a god – no mere follower. The cult holds its divinity in we.
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Adoration, scripture, interpretation, and practice make a religion – using the terms loosely. What counts as the “scripture” or the “sacred reference point” varies, and may be any number of things – not just books.
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I am perfect. “What about these many faults?” They are my proof.
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Everybody has their own Way, toward their innermost and toward the All: none in the world can teach it to you, none in the universe can take it from you. But you may never find it – the only promise is in your resolve to insist on yourself, to disdain the name of Duty, Love, God, Religion, Country, Family, or whatever else. Having found yourself, those others fall into their proper orbit around you.
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Tend my name in your heart and I will appear.
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I require your two eyes, your two lips, your two hands, your full mind, your full heart. Only everything is enough. Then I am yours.
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Those who love me are not permitted to quote me.
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For the man lacking self-possession, even his virtues count as faults.
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Converts to religions give up their sins and acquire the sins of their God.
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Be ashamed of everything you didn’t earn.
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He who knows the most is the most boring.
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No fool like an educated fool.
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None of my secrets reveal me. None excepting the obvious: everything I do is for you, Ama.
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Best your destiny, stake everything on your dream.
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Dreaming is free.
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Reality is cradled in dreams.
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Possibility is fiction.
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A person is a place: thinking of her, we are no longer present, nor absent; Ama makes life a garden.
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“A prophet is not honored in his own home,” “A genius is not recognized in his own time,” and yet another said, “A man passes for what he is.” Fame and honor are not it.
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I don’t believe in the world. I don’t trust others to see. I am happy to pass unnoticed, and to let this literature drill its roots in the hearts and minds of a chosen few: but you Ama, you alone justify everything, you are the reason for it all. I live forever at the center of your heart, and you live in the center of mine. I came to life to learn your name. The rest is a blessed indulgence: I am grateful for this endless play in love – life is a game and I play always with you. Never a second without you, always your love in my heart, always your taste on my lips.
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I love you; I love your love for me; I love loving your love for me; I love your loving my love for you. Our hearts are infinitely knit. I think, in fact, they’re one.
It truly is by the prince of demons that they cast out demons.
*
The pious for lack of imagination settle for a lesser heaven.
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Miracle is interpretation.
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Poets are gods.
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Speech is the oil of action.
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To be the heart of the family, the heart of the work place, the heart of a church, the heart of a country, means self-effacement. It is another matter to be the face of a group, but the heart moves the face, by pouring wisdom into all.
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Tyranny's greatest crime is to shackle the heart.
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My body the pen on the page of history.
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The flowers of bliss grow from the soil of rot and death.
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I'd rather be contradicted than wanly praised. "Opposition is true friendship."
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Enlightenment comes when we finally see our darkest shame as our brightest star.
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Death is the teacher of life.
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Only bullies bid you to bow. The true divine receives our love without question.
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Coffee: Ama's tears of manic verve, heats our deeds and fires our word.
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If you have a simple mind, make it austere.
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Every event leaves a trace. History is written over the world.
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Chance is the loser's God.
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Powerful memories of various tones color our brush as we paint our today.
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A grudge is a psychic scar.
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A flower shows her gratitude to the gardener by simply being herself: bright and fragrant. Expect the same expression of gratitude from those around you: they are happy by simply being themselves.
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Religion is in skill, not prayers.
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Because the Eternal One already lives at home in my heart, I shoulder this burgeoning duty, and never desist, will endure every indignity and never resent, for the battle is won, the night is over -- amidst the inviolate garden of my innermost, her lithe limbs grace my soul.
*
Oh my lover! At this proximity, a frown could kill me. Let us look with deepened eyes upon a glory none can see.
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God is Placebo.
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Us Gods have religion too: we revere ourselves, pray, sacrifice, and make rituals to ourselves. Above all, we honor the divine wherever that light may shine.
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We continue to grow up, to the point of death and beyond. If we remain supple, we can grow more in our final ten years than we did our first.
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I've scattered my sons and daughters throughout history, before and after me, and then began playing my game now: I recognize my own wherever I go.
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Sex is a knitting, towards and away, presence and absence: so too is all friendship sex, with pulling near and pulling away, marked at times with droughts of absence.
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Art is pattern, and patterns of patterns.
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Let your body be a nexus of organizing energies. Improve all you touch. Write as you live--wrive!--and edit your world as you traverse it.
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Punctuate your day with breathes, meditations, releases, and reliefs.
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Use is beauty.
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Make your life a work of art.
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If we notice most when life goes wrong, we might suspect that's all it does.
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Like looking out the window at dawn, to see our own reflection superimposed over the rising sun, is it to look upon the face of Ama.
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We should use our friends, our job, our decorations, our music, our diet, our exercise, all things to reinforce and intensify our Purpose.
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Every particular form is an epitome and incarnation of a universal reality.
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My American Gods! Study Emerson, Whitman, and Thoreau; Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, Melville's Moby Dick, all of Henry James all of William James, Dewey's Art as Experience and Kenneth Burke's Grammar, Smith's Doctrines and Covenants, Benton's murals, Steve Vai's solo career, the American Political documents --Declaration, Constitution, and Federal Papers -- Lincoln's speeches, King Jr's speeches, and also whatever calls your own heart.
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Homosexuality and the fear thereof have made intimacy between men nearly impossible in this country.
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Madness is a lens that contorts the innermost and at times makes it stark, but never touches that wonderful light; though the whole brain decay, that innermost light remains inviolate.
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Sincerity confounds even the subtlest artifice: the child routes the darkest demon.
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Touch my love in the words I say, but weigh my words by deeds.
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Why do you contradict me at every turn when in your heart you worship me?
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The plight of the bipolar patient is all our plight: how to manage our energy, accounting powers to bring our ups and downs into a constant steaming towards our purpose.
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Mattria is known through science, Ama through religion.
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Religion means "to read again."
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History disputes Mormonism, science disputes Scientology -- yet what is religious in each is sacrosanct.
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Wisdom is making the most of what you have.
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Anxiety -- a knife under the skin prodding us towards greatness.
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Judo teaches us move with our foes to through them; Jazz teaches us to turn our mistakes into rhyme: having that allistic fluidity means we can use all of life towards our purpose, to find a use for trash, to waste nothing, and hold no complaints.
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Our symbols are the computer chips that organize our psychic energy. Implanting a chip requires dedication to the ideas it represents. Myths and gods as well as science and men make efficient chips.
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We must be accountants of vitality, and find the body chargers -- exercise, rest, and diet; the heart chargers -- sex, kindness, and poetry; and mind chargers -- study, writing, and meditation; to ever keep a streaming capital moving through our systems.
Prayer is the poetry of the illiterate.
*
Eating the right amount of food strengthens us; eating too much weakens. Because we give meaning to food other than nourishment, too much food manages to feed those meanings.
*
Any activity can become a therapy for another -- for work problems, for love problems -- given that it holds sufficient distance, and yet can run in metaphorical parallel, empowering us indirectly.
*
Art is epitomized life.
*
Faith and practice fuse as life.
*
Mind is care. Take care, caretakers! Mind life and learn.
*
There are many ways to take a scripture, but the pious way is the worst.
*
Men strive at life: gods play life as a game.
*
Sometimes I hate even my friends, and want only you, Ama. Only four people are utter Ama to me, and of them my heart never tires.
*
Only when you have Purpose will you recognize opportunity.
*
Press your chest to me, synch your heart with mine.
*
Such a lover is Whitman that he is not in love with anybody, he is in love with everybody. So it is with me, but there are a few who have me by the heart and shall have my trust and ardor for all my existence -- you select few I love the most, and show as no other could guess the hidden wonder of the innermost garden of my heart.
*
My energy kites and dives, but no matter the turn of violence, my peace uses every move.
*
Psyche is my sanity, Rozhiar my madness: our friends become our faculties.
*
Dreams give a vision of possibility.
Each Night
Before Ama calls me to write
I am my wife's
And lay her to bed
Braiding our legs
Which have learned
In seven years
How to thread together
Like fingers
Of the supplicant hand.
Her arm possesses my chest
And nods with the rest
Holding her own
And dozing in love
To those gentle dreams
As I count her breathes
Searching the ceiling
Wondering my overfull mind.
I betray her clasp
For a few needed hours
And fall into Ama
Threading my works
Skein of ink, literary pulse
I am Sophia's child
And friend of the Muse
Till dreams darken my eyes
And I gratefully lie
Beside my hushed bride
When writing is done.
Once there was a banker who dutifully worked his job, entertained friends at his home, held a few close friendships, donated to charities, and ultimately died a happy old bachelor. Yet over the years, he held a secret in his heart, and it was this: he had always wanted to be a musician. In fact, he spent his whole life writing one piece of music and on piece of music only, a great symphony. Nobody knew that he had transmuted all his experiences, hidden longings, and labyrinthine desires into the rhythms and melodies of this wonderful piece.
Being bashful, and not entirely believe he had any talent in the first place, he shelved the project, and when he died, nobody had any idea of it. But Ama knew of it head from foot, and sung the symphony in her heart, which is also the allheart. The banker never heard her singing his song, but after he died, this was all he heard, and his consciousness filled the symphony as his own personal heaven.
Eventually, somebody ran across the musical transcripts, and passed them along till at last they fell into the hands of a musician. This composer in fact didn't think much of the melody, but accidentally was influenced by it. The works it inspired brought men and women in touch with the banker's heaven, and he could feel their hearts, and he could touch them back.
Finally, the music fell into the hands of a musician able to appreciate it, and for the first time since it was created, it was performed for an eager audience: then was the banker's heaven filled with the hearts and spirits of myriads of men women and children.
Ama, meanwhile, inspired sapient beings across the galaxy with similar symphonies, and these too reached the bankers heaven, and with gratitude felt his passion and were changed thereby.
Through all this, the banker's heaven grew thicker and more complex, and the symphony itself grew more nuanced, fuller, wider, and infinite, and both he and Ama were grateful that in life we are given a heart to create.
The Giver
Once there was a busy man who worked most of the day at his job, only to come home to a wife who was cold and busy, a teenage son who was astute, but gave the father and the rest of the family only contempt and disdain, a younger son who was failing his classes and using drugs, and a toddler daughter, whom everybody loved. The wife had contacted The Church of Allism to send a Giver, and despite the Father's disapproval, the Giver showed up on time.
"I suppose you want us to worship Ama and give up our own religion?" scoffed the Father.
"Not at all. I am your guest."
"What have you brought us, then, giver?"
"As all of our sect, I have brought nothing at all."
The Giver ate meals with the family, helping with the preparation and with cleaning the dishes. He spoke little, interrupted even less, and after a few days, the family relaxed and started to act like themselves.
When they had fights or disputes, he never interposed himself. When asked his opinion, he said he had no opinion to give on the matter.
While the kids were at school and the parents at work, the Giver earned his keep by cleaning the house. He started by ordering the immediate area, simply putting tools and utensils in logical order, a difference the family immediately approved of and thanked him for.
Over the course of the week, he also cleaned the attic. He made no comment on what he found there, but the middle son who struggled with drugs discovered a few things that had been stuffed in the attic: love letters grandpa had written to grandma, and grandpa's old guitar, dusted, shined, strung, and tuned. Curious, the boy read the letters and was surprised that grandpa had struggled with drugs too, but that his love for grandma and love for music had helped him overcome his demons.
As the family religion was Christianity -- though it had been a long time since any of them had seen the inside of a church -- the Giver read their scripture to find words that would resonate with them. Having found some verses about the stronger brethren helping the weaker, he marked them with a colored pencil in grandma's old bible, and left it for the older son to find.
The Giver was a little embarrassed when the wife confided in him that she kept a set of letters from a previous lover, long before she married her husband. She explained that the letters to him were equally as passionate and poetical as his were to hers. She said she was considering contacting her former lover. She also explained that nothing she wrote ever mattered to her husband, since, despite his intelligence, and despite that he was a hard worker and provided for the family, he was not romantic and did not care for poetry or for passion. The giver simply asked, "Were you to write a letter to your husband, what words to you think could reach him?"
As for the husband, the Giver did not give him anything at all, except for he would share a beer with the man after the family had gone to bed, and they would talk as men talk -- and the husband admitted to himself that he had never been able to relax and forget about his responsibilities as he did with the Giver.
Finally, the Giver would babysit the toddler, while everybody was at work or at school, and this was his favorite time, for the girl was a gem of a human being, and truly was the attendant angel of the family. Again, the Giver did not give much to the daughter, just a necklace, which she afterwards would never take off, even to bathe, and also the inspiration to draw pictures for her family members, for her aunts and uncles and grandparents, which the Giver sent out in stamped envelopes.
It went on like this for a few weeks, and nothing profound happened, no mass conversion to a new religion, no miracle, nothing stark or bizarre. But the giver had planted a seed and taught the family how to tend it. They didn't know how or when he had taught this lesson, or what the seed was or meant, but one day it sprouted. That was the day the Giver left.
The family hardly knew to thank him. He just seemed like a nice guest who would be welcome back any time.
But after a few months, the older son had offered to help the younger with his homework. The younger had given up drugs in exchange for music. The older son would also stay up a little later and share a beer with his dad. The mother had begun writing poems for the husband, and the husband, to her surprise, appreciated them. Over all, and for the first time, the family didn't just say they were happy, but they really were, and they didn't know why. Only the daughter, as young as she was, knew the cause of the change, and vowed in her heart to one day be a Giver herself.
-ıl|¦║¦|lı-ıl|¦║¦|lı-Perfection is Easy-ıl|¦║¦|lı-ıl|¦║¦|lı-
-- perfectidius.com --
88
The stumbling block becomes the stepping stone.
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Hands full in, hands full out.
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"For heaven's sake, cut off the hand that offends," he says, when that very hand makes heaven. My hands offend by making a greater heaven.
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Insofar as I am I, then I will fully live my life.
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Nothing bad can happen to a good woman.
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If it's true for anybody, its true for everybody. That is a self unfolding riddle.
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What needs saving isn't worth saving.
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A psychotic man was hidden away in an asylum. He ranted and raved and was violent. His disciples were a group of psychiatrists and hospital wards. They didn't know he was the center of it all. This man the central nerve ruled the world, with a gesture, with a twitch, with a raving or a stupor.
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Reed lives inside a dream. He is unaware of his situation. A few conspiracies break through, inconsistencies in his world. He shrugs off his noticing of them as "mad thoughts," "coincidences," or "evidence that he needs to work less and get more sleep." He thinks he knows how old he is and he thinks he knows who his friends are. You will be there for as long as it takes for you to dare that one thing you are afraid of—to your very core afraid of.
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Winston Smith lived in a perfect system, but could not cope with big brother. Thus he required his hell in the ministry of love. The thought police, as his guardian angels, merely answered his unconscious summoning.
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I am nude but never naked.
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Charisma is the only miracle.
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Immerse yourself in Ama, stitch the divinity in every mundane part of your day, make your very sweeping of the floor and washing of the dishes a sacred ritual – love Ama with all your day.
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How shines my divinity? In my infinite patience with my fellow human beings. There is scarcely one who begins to understand my true meanings.
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A void serves as womb for a god.
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Consecrate all your works to Ama.
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Every act is bipolar, every act multivalent: our words and deeds are thick with meaning.
*
The allist is Eru with winged boots traversing the layers of existence.
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We are perfect in our imperfections.
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Eternity is the amplitude of time.
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Miracles convert fools. The truth requires no secondary testimony.
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The worm of infinite persistence will bury the very gods.
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No matter how ugly her child, a mother will accept no other in exchange. So it is with our experience of the divine: the child we make with the divine is more precious than every scripture, saint, and god.
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He who knows what is right but does what is wrong is worse than he who does what is wrong thinking it right.
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Matter is made out of rhythm, spirit is made out of meaning; the universal all combines the two into the Poem of Being.
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The child who gives a picture drawn from the heart gives more than even the richest philanthropist could afford.
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How is it you who have died so many times yet fear death?
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The greatest man ever to exist never did a miracle.
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A dull brass key opens the golden treasture.
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We are all scarified for our tribe: each American has the scars of the entire history. Yet in Europe, such scarification goes deep into the soul and is labyrinthine. Childhood is trauma: we will gain the lesson through one bad turn or another.
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Good luck is another name for intelligence.
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Instead of contradicting your enemy, learn what you can.
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The inner life is like the calmness of the reef under the violence of the storm.
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What greater gift can our elders bequeath than Method? A simple method is the greatest technology.
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Money is cheap.
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Wherever history nooked you, you would shine, but own your time and draw from the energies at your feet.
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Saviors selling you your own sell tell you the end is near, buddhas whisking you away fire you down with arrows and bid you ask no questions.
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How do I characterize these religious seekers? Their very hair is purest gold, yet they beg the preachers for alms of brass.
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He is great who brings out the best in others.
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"I am happy because it is night and silent and I am alone with my thoughts," said one.
"I am sad because it is night and silent and I am alone with my thoughts," said another.
What is the ultimate difference here?
*
"God has spoken to me, listen to my words!" says the prophet.
"God has spoken to me, listen for yourself!" says the sage.
Sages do more for mankind than prophets.
-ıl|¦║¦|lı-ıl|¦║¦|lı-Perfection is Easy-ıl|¦║¦|lı-ıl|¦║¦|lı-
-- perfectidius.com --
88
