On Miracles

On Miracles

 

“The work of wonder is not the miracle, but the belief in it, that is the miracle,” may be a way to save a more wry version of what may be Hume’s complaint not so much that miracles are claimed to have happened, but it is a miracle anybody believes in them.

That the power of the gods (miracles) and the power of men (magic) have been claimed by all people at all times, ancient and today, is so normal, so to be expected, that even the credulous True Believers, have to disbelieve almost all of it and make a miraculous exception for their own preferred deity or miracle man.

For most people who have selected a religion, and denied all others, or they believe in a psychic, or a leader, or a miracle worker, but not his competition, it is simple: they are scoffers and doubters and blasphemers of all the world’s religions and every claim to magic, miracle, divine power, prophesy, or what have you — for these are universal, all people and all religions have them, and have “proved” them apologetically and by reason and argument, such that the real miracle, as Hume might muse, is that anybody believes in any of them at all. But the poor you will always have with you.

Knowledge is less interested in what it considers and hence less interesting than belief. Even the sciences and the patient study of what actually is, rather than what is loudly claimed by charismatic confidence men, matters more in terms of what else we COULD know. The creativity. The discovery of new truths. Always the event horizon. The horizon of a new event, a new truth, the wonder that nature has revealed another of her secrets, the true magic that is technology.

Belief is doubt. What one believes in one also doubts, every single time and by definition. If you know something, you know it. You don’t prove it. You don’t travel the world to compel others to believe it. You don’t make creeds to memorize and repeat like a little magical mantra that proves something. I mean you CAN, if you are a good boy, recite the Pythagorean theorems to a professor, or some other nonsense-sauce they make you do to get a diploma. But when it comes to a magical formula that becomes more and more powerful every time you repeat it, a mantra, in other words, or as the Catholics call them, creeds, and rosaries and prayers … the same as magical charms and incantations, I will state again that ALL religions have these, and everything the Catholics for instance do were never innovations, but the lifting of rites, rituals, creeds, and the religious language, the magics and formulas, practiced the world over for thousands of years.

**

Every movement is a dance and every word we say is a song. When we literally dance and literally sing we are merely practicing an epitome which in the deliberate conscious and conscientious way we perform it, we set a precedence and make an archetype for all else we do.

So, I am very much saying we as Allists and whatever our religion can make creeds and mantras, chants, and incantations for ourselves.

**

There is a lot of magic in dead languages the way life comes out of a corpse. The Sanskrit mantras and Latin creeds held power especially because latin was no longer the vulgate. Hieroglyphics and scribes in general had power because they could write, and they knew hidden languages. All the occult, the entire genre, relies on ancient symbols, languages, codes, arcane and unknown symbol systems. I am saying, as TROPES, as purely rhetorical modes, they can put you in the frame of mind for that. The ridiculous and stupid FAKE LATIN of harry potter shows the hocus pocus abracadabra one can fake as a mostly illiterate author of children’s stories. Bands like Dead Can Dance and Enya and Tolkein invented languages for themselves. This can be done to some effect, if a bit affected, after all.

**

People BELIEVE in miracles. That is, they doubt them and have to prove them to others to prove them to themselves. If a man just happens to have the power to pull fire from heaven or make the sun go to bed early, or whatever you want, that is just a knack, a talent, a great power a man just happens to have.

Unless he presents is as a miracle, mirari … to wonder at. Like monsters, they were portents of the gods, and so divine. A miracle worker did miracles NOT as a skill that could be taught, as if it mattered if they healed anybody or not, but as a rhetorical device: believe me BECAUSE I have astounded you. An asclepious, the god of healing whose miracles are the most attested in world history, or Jesus patterned on the same, never healed diseases as such, blindness as such, but a few reported and highly attested cases that would convince others of the importance of the persons in question. That is, the magic and miracle did absolutely zero, in terms of historical importance, compared, say, to the man who invented lenses and actually helped the blind see. The science cure actual diseases. Miracle workers built the TROPES and rhetorical subterfuge to get people to believe in them. Believe IN a person or thing is the miracle. Actually curing a disease is … science.

There is a certain crowd that slavishly believes in what it doesn’t understand and accepts as explanations whatever accompanies a spectacle that surprises them. That is “the masses,” “the herds” the “vulgar, the mob,” or to put it more democratically and in American language, “The People.”

We are of them too. We love to marvel. We love actual wonders and want to believe in them and somehow find villain in the men who debunk them. For poets like Emily Dickisnon, Thoreau, and Emerson, the childish want for santa Klaus miracles is an encumbrance. The growth of grass, the breeze, the rustle of the corn, is miracle enough — if only you KNEW! Try to see what Nature and AMA really say through you, to you, around you, through your friends, through the world, every day, and you enter a frame of mind, enchanted, yes, believing yes, but also KNOWING, and so not in a fever, like a new convert, to convert all the world with her to assuage her own doubt and disbelieve. For belief IS doubt. When we come into our own, and know what is ours to know, we no longer fever to disprove all world religions and aggrandize our own. We see the world goes rightly, and praise and adore and love those of all religions or no religion as true and eternal children of AMA herself, flesh to flesh, not adopted, not grafted in, but to real children, and also like her, an all in the making. Life is a Game everybody will win in the end!

 

Update and Quota

Update and Quota

 

I fall into my recurrent and irresistible bouts of sleep. Can’t explain it. I try to map a cause and effect or a seasonal parameter. I dunno. I just get slowed down, and then I speed up, and I can just throw my hands up and say bipolar.

I dreamt an ineffable dream. Nothing to say but I saw The One in Wonder, petaled in immaculate fingers from the hands of the four great gods, her moods— Father, Mother, Son, and Daughter — her some sort of pistils or conduit of inner organs of a flower as the petals palmed out and open, and she stood terrible and amazing. I lack the memory to hold the image in place. It blew me away. I wept. I woke aweep. Well, Love is all Eyes. Love was never blind. Like Odin and his missing eye, or like Hephaestus and his lameness, the mythic trope is to present an excess through a deficiency. Love sees the most, sees real beauties.

You know the old story. Some young lad, supercharged with libido, but perhaps too coy or innocent to know, throws his heart romantically in the most obscenely overwrought of odes at some young toad, and her family scoffs — they know her well, her stool, her fledgling baldness, lack of majesty, all that — but the upstart brat manages in his mingle to single out strands of the pheromonic glory.

Thou Art That. You are All. In troth and sooth you are child of Her. The All in all is your Mother. True Love sees that. True Love knows that. True Love, in fits and pinches, is Witness. We are AMA’s Witness, first of all, in Loving our friends, in seeing their beauty to the end of our kenning. I suppose there is some forgetting when you see so deep. AMA, I look in your eyes and I see a mile in. A thousand miles. The stars are deep in your frame, as if a person four feet away yet held glitters that are really a million miles gone. For each of us is everdeep, and our center is father from our friends than the edge of the universe.

I see friend Justin at seven. Tis half past five. I live alive and my recurrent deaths are battery recharges. Everything I do is for this outlet of ambergris; like Frey my every tear is gold. I write for you for sheer love of you and writing. When I am blocked or choked in sleep, truly, I cramp and hate those moments alone.

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!

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DCWJ