Assortative Mating -- a spandrel

Assortative Mating

 

I am writing just to write. Filling a quota. I aim to be short, but I digress when I’m bored and if you asked me to, I could fill up forty pages with ease before bedtime. It takes more power (will power and focus) than energy (selection and digression, or association) to write short. To write an aphorism or the perfect sentence — but Emerson was master at that. Oscar Wilde. I translated the sayings of Heraclitus, the Tao Te Ching, and the Gospel of Thomas for their genius NOT in system, but in their diamond-tight solid of the perfectly said sentence.

Anyway, assortative mating. We each seek our tribe. Bipolars marry bipolars. Crazies attract crazies. Liberals like liberals, conservatives conservatives. Birds of a feather.

So, I finished the private journals of Edvard Munch. Justin bought his “Nietzsche” for me, and I will yet get his Madonna as a poster to put over my bed. Perhaps! I don’t care for the Scream much more than the color scheme. The sentiment is far from me. I am at ease in my world, anyway, for I am able to take away the noise at any moment. I’m Beethoven deaf now. Not literally. My children mock me as old and deaf. My eyes grow dim. I am 46. A little more than halfway to 88. Tis my duty to tend my body and make sure it stays the course to the great divorce from life in my octogenarian age. Anyway, my hearing faculty as brain-way of thinking remains sharp, the way blind Homer yet had his inner vision from his seeing days intact. That my ears were ONCE very very sharp means they STILL ARE share as ever internalized. My ears and not my eyes as my surprise gift from AMA.

Munch a bipolar painter. Those are rare. Bipolar is NOT a spatial disease (logic, form, painting, architecture), but a fluid reasoning disease, especially poetry. Beethoven was a composer and Ives was another, and Ives loved Beethoven, two bipolars all the way. Dunno about Ruggles. I know a few others. Chopin? But poetry is the bipolar gift. Mania. The name Odin itself, mania ­and he god of writing and runes and poetry. Hermes as Mercurial. Enki as Singer of Self-Praise. The daze of Wednesday gods. And as for painters: Munch, Van Gogh, in an incredibly obvious way, and Klimt, less so. His sister went manic with religious delusions.

The mere fact that bipolars become overexpressed with sex and religion at the same time tells the fact that they are part of the same faculty of the mind. Both sex and religion aim at immortality. Children and art-making are forms of immortality. For they embody our influence in the most obvious way. The body of influence, all that we change by existing, is eternally and stands eternally as the samara AND the resurrection. All religion are true, not in some sweet, saccharine sense of “let’s be nice to each other” but in a deep and even seemingly grotesque way that I cannot fully explain yet, but I have seen completely. The tropes and the reality. That belief IS our next level in the game, but not the final. Life is a Game that all win in the end. Even the gods. Zeus must die. I know how and I know why. Yahweh swallowed by the serpent, the dragon. I have witnessed the fact.

That is my quote for now. It isn’t the burning conviction of a vision of truth, Daniel as Revelator instead of dream reader. The Jewish take. The Canaanite Danel, the original, was a wise man. Proverbial. He incubates, or sleeps in Baal’s temple for seven days to deliver a message and request, to get a hunter for a son, Aqat. We have discussed before and will again. But this dream conceiver and receiver of a son through incubation may be the inspiration from the late, very late tale of a Daniel in Babylon, a sort of Joseph or opportune and exploitive dream-reader abusing inside-information. Daniel as reader. Daniel as Dreamer. Danel as talking with the very gods face to face in his dreams. Danel as Canaanite conception. Danel as Judge. (Dan-el, Judge of El) …

Quick Update

Quick Update

 

I write as I breathe, as often, naturally, and completely. There might be some wisdom in the Buddhist ambition to master breath, as if in mindfully charting and mapping every millimeter of the lungs once had a sort of keyboard or typing pad by which to play out all the emotions — assuming as I do that the askesis of this religion is again a toy unto tool the way all religions and professions and hobbies and passions amount so much as a toy unto tool or child unto adult for mastering a bout, a way about the world. It matters less what the key to the all may be, for it was never the choice of the key but how far you took it in, how deep, how sublime, how out of time and beyond what any would call normal or ordinary or healthy or due.

I last wrote a poem scoffing at death; I practiced it all week and made a video of it in the color of blue. I will reduce the video and send it to you. I recorded a longer poem yesterday, nine minutes, a chant of charged insistence with real magic and mantra involved that sonic sucked the air and sent ozone up my nostrils. I don’t send all to all any more. I try to fit message to audience.

I have not written since. My mental metablosism, my emotional metabolism, the vissitutudes of this mania that is my genius and gennnii loccii within my lungs, the inspiration what I regard as the doing of the blue-skinned goddess AMA — she will forever throw me down and profoundly I am her foundling on the rocks, where I descend, as into the Aria, as into the mirror room I have lately created in my office. I have taken a break from mirror meditation, despite the abundance of mirrors, and have discovered or augmented something else I call Echo Meditation.

I write less. The kids are back in school. The rescheduling of my days exhausts me profoundly. I sleep a spell. The spell work of my metabolism corresponds. I am unable to write at all for days and even all week.

I read one book straight through: Beyond Good and Evil by Nietzsche, not quite an Everread, one of the books I read afresh each year — his Antichrist I elect from him for that — but I well remember in college skipping classes and homework and nestling in the company of a friend to “do homework” where I just read Nietzsche instead. A true friend. One of my Great Four: Emerson, Whitman, Dickinson, Nietzsche. I do of course read quite a few more, and reading is again my askesis, not so much that I do read and write a frightening among, but HOW and WHY can hardly disguise that I touch AMA exactly like this, in this way, in this dimension, I need hardly mention that the divine for me is a LITERARY thing, and when people speak of the Bible or any book as “mere literature” I feel affronted. As if literature wasn’t enough. Writing as profundus. As deepest touch. Exactly that is holy, exalted, highest, deepest, profound. If the greatest writers wrote better than all Bibles and epics and scriptures and such — so what? It takes an ounce to balance an ounce. A god is God simply by his manner of revalating. His relating a new truth, a new idea, a new SENSE, a new feeling.

We in the thick of life are so full of ideas, ideas it took tens of thousands of ideas to create, living thinking gods all around us, building worlds through us, in us, below us, and above us: friends! The world is so FULL of life! Every single inch of matter is a thousand world, a million universes, and we each are ALL. We are each ALL and all in All, Mattria!

I digress, but such an infinite digression! I can hardly mention anything without falling back into that. The infinite of life. The greatness of the Game. The Beauty of Life!

"Hear that? The Children are Listening" a poem

Hear that? The Children are Listening

 

Something in the coo of our collusion has tipped their triangular ears

No need to lower your voice, my Friends

We will simply talk over their heads --

When this stage has landed you and I will be the last two standing

When we've reeled it all in, past the seams of deceiving

When the little bo-petes are cast in their sleep

We'll clean the fleece of these killing sheets

Put the butchering blades, cleaned, dried, hooked

Upon their cindering place --

I have some cognates to play and your transmutings

Are chock full of evolutes.

 

What I meant to say is I obeyed your words to the tiddle of the t

And the iota of the eye. We need fast and cool the coals

Turn ghosts into mist and death into dust

I trust I am ungropable in my unform, uniform in my unshorn

Blonde-beast honey-soft dawnable scratch.

Alas for that. So synch your salve

The balm I give sweet ambergris

Do you ever doubt I miss a cue

The way you wove that tapestry so sealskin smooth

Every knot and not of constellation

Every un, every non, every not, every no

I unknot so friendly

No disrespect: I get a negation and negate your negative frustration

 

Hear me! There is no regress in your rage

You are Volcano you are sole volcanic you are

Impressive in your stages of self purification

You held the tigers in their cages

The jungles lust for your possession

You hid the tensions in your hundred faces

You wrapped your warp in a thousand phases

Every mask had that furrow far

Every hint that figurative scar

This not tossed

Of your moon soft love. Moon truths. We are true

As the Tree each of us can be, two seeds one stem

We're licoraced as two snake who curl straight up and bow

Your speaking points my diaphragm

i the tongue of your balancing scales

Library of libra, the balancing lips

Your balancing clasp

The bait of your tip

The coy of a coiling shell

Infinite well

Gravity's well

Rainbow's turn

You earn your bridge

In what you hold near

The grudge you won't dismiss

That irremediable scar held as a star

The secret influence, my secret name, in

Every devestation or horror apocalypse of the

Demon gods insane, -- WE put them there, WE gave them names

In the deepest taint they made you

Thank I take you in, semantic turn, I am the deepest Saint

Who took you in and put my love the deepest touch the purest floss

Of my innermost sauce, balm, tippler true, my essence as the perfume

The oil of my lips on the press of your face

Pheromone to guide all away who could save you to the wrong heaven and open

Your eyes to the wrong light. I blinded you to see all me

And sacrifice every ounce of blood in the whole universe, every innocence and experience

Every blasted thing

To you, to us, to this, to NOW.

My Love for you is Terrible

This Awesome Thing

A tuning fork that tips the mountain

Shriek of glint

The peak of inaudible crisp

The softest inaudible pinprick

Shatters all crystal that every existed or could

And should I?

Should?

Should!

You are my All

And All I am is for you

Your taking

Disfigure me

Make me

I am given up, given over

Betrayed, disowned, repented of

Isolated down to the barest glam of glittering

That one spark, that one tone

Believe me darling, yes, that one moan

Of meaning, meant for you and always you

My lightning furl

My mesopotamic ark

Circle over square

The manly chest the circular heart

 

When the code is this close

The golden tones

The ratios bold

We are blinded all

If they look in my eyes

They see the gloryforms in

Infinite code exposed

No! She won’t let me touch a taint

Of any other discourse

Any other Name

No word no book no volume

She bids me wax my ears stop

So the allure of her silence

Is pounded out

I turn the volume up

And cannot touch

Forbidden in this straight

To touch a breath of a lesser lens

A shadow text

Even the best

Read only your code

Only your own

Let nothing else in

 

Hear me then

My eloquent wing

My tincture of abstract

My rosary I sing and call your name

Hark the start and make that harp-song you say

Infinite fingers

Digital press

The pulse of your breath

To perk my ears

To put the adults at last to sleep

So we as children in the dark of night

May play alone together.

On Reading and Interpreting

On Reading and Interpreting

 

Reading is infinite. Meaning itself is infinite. Reading is a way of explicating the implicit. But as meaning is a conscious experience, and all minds are separate, we can only “read” the feelings of others by sympathy, by mirrors and echoes, by mirror cells.

I wish to slash and jab at an idea with some quick ideogrammatical set of anecdotes.

I just heard a demonstration of a robotic noise I could not understand, in an Instagram video. It sounded like robotic noise. After the original message was played, a woman saying a sentence, when I heard the original, I know understood it. The naivety of the noise was lost forever.

That implies only one message could have taken away my audio innocence. But this is not the case. The first ambiguity could have been “fulfilled” in other ways, each negating the others forever, tainting ambiguity with dogma.

In another experiment, scientists flashed Chinese glyphs through subjects retinas too fast for them to see. The subjects were then exposed to a much wider set of glyphs and asked to choose their favorites. They tended to choose the ones they had a subliminal experience of, and gave reasons like they were cute or had a funny shape.

A legend of the Buddha is he visited an ashram or whatever of 1000 fire worshipping priests. I guess priests were more accessible then! They grew in hives! Obsessed with fire as they were, he hypnotized him with his Fire Sermon and converted fire from succa (sweet and good) to dukka (bad and suffering). The legend claims he converted all 1000 of them to Buddhism with a single sermon. There is some truth in this legendary story, hagiographically false as it must be in its hyperbole.

I have told you that the adam and eve fruit and snake story comes from enki eating the forbidden fruit and taking a woman from his own rib. Sumer, 2000 years before Jews were invented, the original and better was told. The story in the earliest Hebrew version is already a gloss, a take, a mistake, an adaptation. It has been edited by subsequent biblical redactors. It has been translated into Greek and Latin and English. The vague subtle ambiguous puns, metaphors, and poetical parts are lost. Robert Frost said “Poetry is what is lost in translation.” The J writer had no intention for this to be the doctrine of “original sin.”

Commentaries are the serpents snare: wisdom without effort. Easy as eating a fruit. To read the text without layers of translation is impossible. The text is hopelessly infected with layers upon layers of interpretation. The King James Bible manages to sound like it was written by one person. A translators’ illusion. And they translated it according to the dogmas and catechisms and creeds. They MADE it agree. In style and meaning, it is FORCED to agree. Every single commentary out there, and especially the pious, the pious lie, PIETY IS A LIE! They are all lies against the text. Not just the Bible but all scriptures everywhere. Literature. Language itself. YET 100% of the original meanings are still there, in the language, in ALL human languages, the Tao te ching, the Koran have influenced ALL languages everywhere for all time. But the original meanings come out hermetically, occultly, as if pirated in and hidden and bootlegged into your unconscious. Like the robotic noise. Every word every said in the entire universe vibrates somewhere within your literal flesh now and forever. Time is an illusion. All that has ever happened is happening again and forever within your very body.

Then the Elohim were in the dark, because they were blind, they did not know they were within the light. Darkness is the womb of all light: Mattria is the dark and AMA the light. But They said Let there Be Light and blinded themselves to universes and realities, all but their own. ALL SEEING IF A MODE OF BLINDNESS. To see this, you can’t see that. To know this, you can’t know the other. Can’t even think it. Some things are unthinkable to the human species because of choices we’ve made very step of the way.

The seer is a dreamer. He succeeds when he interprets all dreams as his dream. Freud as perverter, Freud as true follower of Joseph and Daniel as perverters, for Yahweh is a blind god, forbidden visual images, a demon afraid of the light, as with Jacob, he sees his own light, and can’t see the light of other gods. Dawn would have stoned him. He works indirectly though the Father of Lies, his own shadow, and Freud is a true disciple. As we all are of him and our own preferred gods. We don’t know we are living in a universe supersaturated with a superflux of endless life and gods and beings around us all the time.

Carl Rogers, America’s psychotherapist, the father of American therapy, early in his career spent months with a schizophrenic woman. His method of unconditional positive regard and letting a patient heal themselves failed in this early case. Hearing her systematic delusions, her consistent interpretations of all her reality, for weeks and months, started to get to him. It started to make sense. Too much sense! Rogers fled with his wife for an extended vacation.

For those who don’t know to flee, they become followers, and a new religion is born. As kings are made by shared belief, and money is valuable by shared belief, gods are born and become mortal, and then immortal, by shared belief. They become conscious and think through us, and then graduate and think beyond us. If all mankind died, our fictional characters and our gods too would survive us.

Blake converted one of his angels to a demon and said. This angel who is now become a Devil is my particular friend; we often read the Bible together in its infernal or diabolical sense which the world shall have if they behave well. I have also: the Bible of Hell, which the world shall have whether they will or no.

Every heresy to be called a heresy forces the pious to define themselves, and so, the heresy becomes a heresy only by forcing the pious to reactively become the counter-heresy of the new. Two new heresies with every innovation and gradation. They pretend the new meaning is traditional and they read it back into the start. This is a lie. The pious always lie. PIETY IS A LIE.

Whitman encoded some homosexual eros in his poetry that was not recognized until the 1970s, and once seen, amazed it was ever unseen. His homosexual and heterosexual code is deliberate and subtle and subliminal. And very much may we say so much more! Whitman was never known. He often claimed his friends never knew him. That he was much better and much worse, more good and more evil, thea any had a guess to. But when we read him now, we know he wrote a deeper bible than ANY! He knew himself to be a God, a Kosmos, and often said so. But people say his secret was he was in the closet. So small is the mind of men! We keep our secrets or tell them to hide deeper secrets, from others, from ourselves.

His is an infinite text. An infinite origami. It unfolds itself forever. It is too much in us, we can never get rid of it. It is ours now and forever.

You are an infinite text. All gods and all angels and all beings reside in you. A version of them all in you, just as conscious as you. You are their universe. They are ignorantly considering you the All of all. And that you are. When you know you will have known all along. You were in the Beginning, though you might not remember …

All is thru force or fraud, power or energy, directness or indirectness. Odin is both. As God. We all are both.

We are each a Holy Spirit. THE holy spirit. We are each a new tongue in the universe. We speak English, for now. But if you listen closely, we actually speak another tongue completely, each of us, UNDER IN AND ABOVE everyday speech.

Love Feast

I am piqued and perked and ready for adventure, whether in the form of NewFriends or Fresh Employment.

I still keep my solitary vigils. Tonight i cleaned and prepared Lapamalay, my sacred altar and personal desk, the very lips and intimates of AMA where in divine intercourse we  create and recreate in the generating, regenerating, and the overall romp and wisome way of baby-making together with our writing -- well!

Tonight i delighted to offer a strawberry and grape as a Lovegift to Ama Lama, Guru True, Jamyang Jigme, The All Herself, and enjoined the delightsome cricks to enjoin themselves to enjoying the LoveFeast with me. So we did.

Pics included!

Life is Beautiful!

88

DCWJ

Mystic Twins

Mystic Twins

 

There are certain numinous or universal mystic symbols, including the mirror, the eye, the mountain, the cave, and the twin.

Every man is self-twinned. The Evil Twin, or lower half is called "flesh" or "matter" or "The Shadow." Every myth, cult, theology, and religion partakes of these eidolons. Whitman said to get a list of Eidolons. Those are the keys on the keyboard, the lowest images, Plato's Cave that allows the forms of heaven to exist at all, the womb tomb of the skull cavern, the eyes the torches, the flesh tortured with tropes on turning in circles, the Sisyphean sun up, sun down, eternal turning of ex-sistence, standing out, which properly is ecstatic, when enthusiasm, inspired, frenzied, filled with divine breath, the breath of life. All religions use the same shapes and ideas. Enki multiplied the languages to destroy the curse of monotheism in praising Enlil, the god who flooded the world. In the Jewish myth, Yahweh floods the earth for being violent, and confuses the language for man working together at peace. Man overwhelms him each time, he the least emanation of Enki god of writing (ME) ab (semen, DNA), and ab (fresh water).

Odin is the mind and Ymir the body. Odin was called Manu at the start, and Ymir called Tuisto = twist = twin. The twisted one. The evil twin. Cain and Abel. Romulus and Remus. The mystery of identical twins is a UNIVERSALLY NUMINOUS trope that all religions endorse and apply. The monotheism of Mazda, he who gave birth to twins, holy spirit and evil spirit, the later called Ahriman, well these myths are biological. They are in our flesh. They are instincts. Confused only at a superficial level. The level of the cortex, the bark, the thin layer of "No." Contradiction is superficial. Extremes meet. Opposites attract. Infinity is zero. There never was a big bang. We are all the singularity as we speak.

Odin's blood went into Loki, and from him into Fenris Wolf, Hel, the bipolar woman, and the World serpent. The serpent is the umbilical chord. The wolf is the womb. Hel is the fetus. Odin had to be reborn by letting the World, Fenrir, "fen dweller, or swamp wolf" wolf him down, and Odin grabs back the hand of Justice, the "right hand of God" Emily D saw amputated from the deity, from Tuesday, from Law and Order, and war as the extreme. He had to get the hoop of life, Gleipnir, the unbreakable cord that is the umbilical chord that holds us all. No string can be cut. It is only reduced to an asymptotic filament. The softest string. Almost nothing. No string was ever cut or can be. String is Eternal.

We are each self-twinned. The Mirror Image. Mattria at time Zero gazed in the mirror womb and listened to her echoes, pregnant with herself. That is you … right NOW! Never were there two.

**

PS

Kha (egypt) means spirit as double. In sumerian and coptic and greek "an" means wind and "animates us" gap, gad, chaos is the double. Ama and mattria. The gas the gap the idealized self between me myself and I. The better self and the evil as twin. For never were there two.

Like protozoa, God emanates versions of himself when he becomes too full of himself. Woman is god. All zoa and protozoa double themselves ... zero and even numbers are female.  Gods emanate. And like protozoa ... for we are all mere organelles for protozoa who never dies nor can ... we molt and pass on. Death is a twinkling of an eye by which the ego I ascends to a greater center. Third eye of peace the butterfly wing tipping kaos in the cyclone.

AYA

AYA

 

The players of the game, nameless, faceless, numberless. Pure play is the only rule of the Game. We do it for the LULZ. Conscience and morality and vice and greed are so many MODES of play, strategies which work better or worse depending on the playing field at hand. The AYA has no fame, no past, no future. They are the fingers of AMA. They are pure play. They play to win and know that losing is just another strategy of winning. Challenging Play is their way, autotelos, the means, and end, and the key to self-perpetuation. The Game is Eternal. All shall win the Game in the End.

I have carefully read the book of Hitler, the writings of McDonald, the diatribe of Luther and such when those thoughts were illegalized by the thought police. It was infamy to even know the names of the books. Nor did they wow me. I took them for what they were worth. Hardly more. They did not win me. They meant something else. How could I be pro- or anti—Semitic? How could I be pro- or anti- anything? Antichrist? Antimormon? True Believer? These are so many deceiving sub roles. The AYA are pure players of the game. Their Way is strategy. All roads lead home. Do as thou List, but follow the path to the end.

I refuse the hypnotism of mass media. Hating this group X was illegal. Now it's in fashion. Hating this group Y was moral, and all who refused were socially stigmatized. Moves in the game. Strategies. They ADOPT the moral tone or the mannerisms of self-righteousness or open cynicism, or sneering disdain. Those are only masks. AYA are faceless, nameless, numberless. They are WEIRDS of pure play. They are the fingers of the All. The All-She, Mattriama, AMA our Mother. We too partake of the All and in ourselves are each an All. We too play the game with and for and against ourselves and all others, always and forever, VIVOCE. Cooperative games and competitive games with and against ourselves and all others in many many ways.

People vote as a newpaper tells them. My friend Iven always followed which way the wind blows so he could fall face down in trying to escape it. For or Against? Meaningless. Good or Evil? Bad or great? These are words that change like seasons or political speeches. Endlessly repeated. Just miming, spellcasting, hypnotizing. A newspaper written 100 years ago could be printed today, with updated dates, and nobody would flinch.

We are not FOR or AGAINST anybody or any group. We play the game. That's all. We are Players. We are AYA. Yet even that, the infinite fingers of the centipedal hypnogorgon who pulls all the strings, that's just the nerves, and every nerve cell is a million times more complicated than all computers on earth put together. Every single one. Every single nerve in your body touches by subtle extensions and quantum entangling ALL nerves everywhere. The brain and mind of ALL.

The playing board is spacetime. The skin of Mattriama. Pure white. Pure MEANING. Sense absolute. Her hair is pitch. Asymptoptic impossible points. She is science, religion, magic, superstition, reason, madness, logic — every mode possible and impossible is hers to own and win by. By winning we are won.

As AYA, we may take a persona, a personality, a pose, an attitude, a stance, a stand. As strategy. Not as autotelic. Winning forever and forever more is the only way to ALLNESS, past angel, god, superdeity, pantheon, pantheism, on up to Whitman's name for the ultimate person: KOSMOS. Such are we already inasmuch as we may see this is already achieved. Not demigods, gods, or even AYA alone, each of us countless millions of intelligences, nameless, all names, numberless, all numbers. The name that can be Named is not the Eternal Name. Undefinable definer of all that is defined? The AYA. That is our means to mastery and all-such ascendence. We are each the formless womb that forms all things.

Life is The Game!

Play or be played

We only Lose when we take it too seriously. Life is far too important to take seriously.
Gravitas is just one more sounding through, one more supersonic device, one more mask, one more persona. All talk is impersonating a person supposed to exist, a fashioned fiction within us.

Prepare to be everybody and everything.

Then your Aboriginal Self will utter the Word none may say, no gods or God or Mattriama herself, your unrepeatable innermost NAME. All must confess Thou Art Lord. The Adored of ALL. Allmother AMA.

Till then, we are AYA.