Monday, September 30, 2024

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.

Sunday, September 29, 2024

"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

Saturday, September 28, 2024

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. 

Friday, September 27, 2024

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.