Monday, April 30, 2012

A note on Women

Note on Women


                The aim of being in the world is to choose a mate and to create with that one. The world, the society of people around us, gives many appearances, mostly nonsense, nonsense and madness we pretend to care about, but don't, and what really matters is finding the ones to let close to the heart.

                The centermost is utterly centermost: no God, nor gods, nor persons, nor the Universe herself can know it or touch it. And yet one person can know it and touch it, the one we choose as our twin sun, our one utter equal whom we bring into the inner of the inner. Such an act of perfect union takes eons to ascertain and prove, yet the loves of this life are the image of it, and those we draw close do in fact forever merge with our soul, if not with our innermost name.

                The essence of femininity is selection. The mind has two functions: focusing on an object and selecting between objects. Focus is the masculine, men are obsessive, men achieve genius because they obsess and are possessed. But the female principle impregnates the male mind, the spermatic muse in her beauty evokes the creative greatness of the masculine soul, for the spirit, body, and soul of woman is more beautiful than man's, and the man's more powerful than the woman's.

                The virtue of woman is in her selectivity. The operations of femininity are selection and magnification. The woman chooses some small thing, some nuance, and magnifies it. The praise of a woman makes greatness of women and men. The woman in her selection of the father makes use of his small gift to make a child; makes use of her selected house to make a home, is so sensitive and vulnerable that she knows and experiences finer realities then men are capable. Thus we say she is weak, she is humble, modest, silent, intuitive, sympathetic, caring, kind, a caretaker. Words for words and spit for spit: the beauties and strengths of all men are multidimensional, and only the fools would want the purr without the kitten. The same plus looks like a million minuses, depending on the perspective you make of it. My laziness may seem like a deplorable vice, but that same careful husbandry of energy allows me to master my creative projects. Whoever strives for equality of the sexes, of the age groups, of the races and nations, wishes to murder the beauty of inequality, of each person's unique difference.

                Woman, who is the civilizer, the inspirer and judge of manners, customs, propriety, composure, fashion, style, holds all this power by her exquisitely fine tongue of taste, her subtle selection, which cannot be forced and made to approve. And backing that selection is her incomparable love, for there is no stronger love in the universe, be it divine or be it poetical, than the mother's love of her children; and when she praises her lover she also makes him.



\ ~@M@~ /


Sunday, April 29, 2012

German psychoanalysis verses American Psychotherapy




                Psychoanalysis is no longer practiced in the States because it fails scientific tests and acts more like a religion which requires faith and whose proofs of the faith also require faith. Yet American is superstitious enough, religious enough, irrational enough. Why do we instinctively hate psychoanalysis?

                In German psychoanalysis, Truth, or important ideas that need to be realized, are the marginal on the outside, rejected, hidden repressed, not unlike the Jews who invented the pseudoscience. In American psychotherapy, Truth is immediate, obvious, right under our nose, yet still not realized, not able to be realized, until you open your heart and mind and let your inner truth shine out. "I deserve love, kindness, and respect" is an American truth we strive to realize; "I want to rape my mother," is a German/Semitic truth.

                Thus is illustrated the American difference. Both Europe and the U.S. can agree on truths, on the bare facts, but as for the Truth, those ideas most important to life, the mind and the heart, we are poles apart.

                Freudianism explicitly aims at coming more conscious of ones suffering -- to "convert repressed suffering into everyday unhappiness," whereas American psychotherapy aims at "happiness, wholeness, creative expression, and well being" (as is clear in the works of Carl Rogers and his Human Potential Movement).

                The European model of the psyche, of everyman's psyche, is of a raped child, grown and also self-raped, filled with the bastard fetuses of prior traumas, repressed and aching to come out, or like a castle whose defenses must be "analyzed" undermined, destroyed for the man or woman to confront his "kernel trauma" and suffer life directly rather than indirectly."

                Zizek reports on this attitude and in his life embodies it. Anybody who has read Zizek knows that Zizek is shit. "Crucial in psychoanalysis is the fact that the anlysand is always, be definition, in the wrong, in the same sense that Kierkegaard said in reference to God, not that the analyst is always right, but rather than against God I am always in the wrong. The analyst must recognize the shit that is the innermost kernel of our being, our founding trauma." Personality is founded on trauma in psychoanalysis.

                Rather than a raped and self-raped castle, that must be undermined by the analyst who confronts a thoroughly delusional and self-deceived patient...a self-deceived "case,"...American psychoanalysis says the truth is like a fountain in each of us, sometimes negative, sometimes positive, but if unexpressed traps our energy as in a dungeon of solitude, so we are cut off from our fellow man. The innermost of man is a sun, is a unique light, and the "analyst" is the sympathetic one who admires and respects the person he is working with, follows that person's lead, accepts and cares for the "analysand" so that that person can teach himself how to let his own light shine.

                With Carl Rogers the self is a fountain that is healthy when it flows, when it ceases to get caught up in unexpressed turmoil.

                Terms are by no means objective, nor subjective, but they create the realities, they don't reflect them. The metaphors of psychoanalysis appealed to a sick people. The have no appeal for us. That the soul of man is centered on a "void," on "shit, trauma, a kernel of suffering, defenses, crimes, repression, incest," -- such things create the very realities they pretend to discover, realities that would otherwise not exist.

                To say a thing, anything, is easy. To say it and mean it, that cannot be faked. A man has to have the right to say something, must know he has the power to say it. That alone is magic There are no magic words, only magic meanings, powerful meanings. Psychoanalysis speaks from the nightmares it accepts into its soul. Such dungeon weeds do not grow in American.



\ ~@M@~ /


Saturday, April 28, 2012

"Sacred Space" part of an Allay

My latest allay, that is, poetical essay in the allform, is entitled "Ground and Territory." It has grown to be about 50 pages, and I know the material is difficult and I don't expect my friends to read everything I wrote. Believe it or not, I write about twenty times as I send out to the group. So here is a fragment of that essay, looking at the idea of having a sacred space. This idea I wrote more formally and in careful instruction elsewhere, but here I charge the themes in anticipation of that.


Take Care, Caretakers!


Daniel Christopher June




            I am an idolater, as is every true artist. Whitman identified himself as especially this, with his scripture, inspired by the Holy Spirit, his Leaves of Grass, as proving above and within it, the pure "eidolon." I worship Ama through the women I idolize, through the men I idolize, through the images I make. My idols are those things through which I worship the divine. Only fools talk of worshipping idols, just as a fundamentalist bushman would call the use of a cell phone a crime since you are only talking with metal and plastic, and not a real person.

            The most obsessive religious people, the Muslims, make an idol out of smashing idols. They believe that God is so fixed to one name and one form and one book, that all other divinely inspired texts are Satanic But the Koran is an idol in itself, as is Jesus and the Bible, and the God they speak of is an incredible idol compared to the Tao, which says "The name that can be named is not the Eternal Name." That in itself destroys all sectarianism.

            Of my eight virtues, pragmatism, or daily practical living, is a spiral: I cycle over the same things. In the same way, I return to the same perfect books, reading them again and again, and return to my own perfect book, the Idius, and am ever editing it. Life is editing. Daily we edit our story, the Narrative of our being.

            The inner virtues of Independence and Creativity, whose edges are evened by daily practicality, so that in all things we are reasonable, balanced, and healthy, uses that balancing, that cycling, to turn and return over the five limbs of virtue: order, honesty, optimism, commitment, and writing. The last, writing, the writing life, wriving, study, the internalization of all forms, firmly rejects the bad idolatry of the Abrahamic religions of their poisonous words "Only one name can save you, only one form is good, only one way goes to heaven." They invent hell, and like the proverb, the pit they dug for their enemy has instead swallowed them.

            Wriving is my left hand, is the book in my hand at all times, the study of life, the reading of life as a text. In this, all the world is my territory insofar as I use the right critical lens. I say no to nothing, except I see it in reference to me and my goals. I do not submit to its goals. I am interested in Allism as I understand it, but I am no sectarian and I am no ant sectarian: the level of sects is far below the level of the all. Sects and denominations are necessary, a necessary good and a necessary evil. Allism will have as many sects as it has adherents: since the lifeway refers ultimately to one man's relation through every layer of the all, I will hear nothing of the right or the wrong way to be an Allist. Your heart knows what it needs.

            The idol of focus, the fetish of evocation, and the totem and reverence are constant features of Allism, just as they really are of all religions, even those who pretend otherwise. We all love territories and mascots, and such Cosmopolitans as the ancient Greeks were still Cosmopolitans instead of Athenians, which also rendered them providential. Where you limit yourself you lose part of yourself.

            The WV, wriving of life, V the nub, the tongue, the finger of Ama, the W the finger and thumb, the lips, the love for Ama, this is our basic being in life. To be is to self-reflect. A being has self-being, first of all, and then secondly, relationships to all other things. The self being of each person, the me-myself, as the fountainhead of creative emanation, where all new energy comes into the world, new forms of energy that couldn't come elsewhere. And yet we require new experiences, new idols, new eidolons, new faces and loves, to bring forth every facet of our infinite diamon.

            The story of this is told in Charles Ives' Fourth Sympony. The first part positst the question, ever present in Ives work, the question of human existence. The second movement takes the Christian tropes of "the world" as a bad thing -- if that could be believed! -- and uses Hawthornes evil "comedy" about a man going to hell as its backkground for how the invention fo the railroad train, and all human invention, is a loud and painful fanfare. Indeed, this worldy part of the journey, man's first step, involves three layers: the domestic, played on melancholy strings and bells, the jovial society, played on piano, and the loud and demanding bararic yawp of the train, of nationalism, of schoolpride, of the fanfare, of the comedy. This "comedy" isn't funny -- its painful as hell. It is Ives establishing his heterosexual masculinity. I can only enjoy it when I am quite anxious, at which point I put it on full blast and am purified. Naturally, the third section lead to the answer of organized religion. The piece receives its religious epiphany at two and a half minutes in, when the chord resolves up to F. My neck stretches back in epiphany and joy each time I hear it. After that, the pious churchgoer follows the logic of his revelation in propriety and decency. After that route has worn itself out, the man is ready for the end of his spiritual journey: the fourth movement is pure apotheosis. It opens with the tinkerers bells and the chisellers hammers as they create the universe -- apotheosis is through creativity -- and the mood and tone is exactly the same as Ives' Universe Sympathy. Eventually, this crescendoes into the great dissolving of the anxiously solidified heart of the world and the regularlized flow of the church, so that the limbs melt away, as in old age, and then the diamond of the heart is revealed, as gods are made with hair of grey, and the beat of apotheosis evokes the arising of a purer, more etherial, material and perfect body, at which point, the questioners from the first movement return as gods, singing gratitude for the universe.

            The symphony as a whole is a compex story that requires many re-listenings. Eventually, it abbreviates itself int a form, an idea. I can bend my head back and experience the whole sympathy. Whenthe meaning is solidified, cycled again and again, perfectly edited, digested, gestated, and ready for birth, I myself create the idol, the mystic image that contains the whole experience and presents it in utter simplicity. What a great spiritual gift! How sublime! How perfect! Only the ignornat and envious would give such a Divine a bad name, and in its unjustified spiriutal arrogance declare its own religion superior.

            The sinners hate beauty, spit on it, smash their faces, smash the heads of infants against the ground. But the Greeks are beautiful forever, and we are beautiful because of them. Therefore, my sacred place, my creative womb, the chamger of my alter. Lapamalay, my desk and workstation, the most perfect form of matter I have yet to have discover, and that because of what i do there, is surrounded and adorned by utter beauty, ever beauty, like a Catholic church, I reveal the divine by surrounding myself in divine beauty. Beauty is her own excuse. Let no prophet jeer: we are beautiful, proud, and modest before the envious.

            "Nature is cursed" is itself the real curse, dispensed on whomever believes it. The Native Americans believe not a word of it, nor does Emerson, who says that to Know God and to Know Thyself is to study nature, nor Thoreau who leaves man and religion to drink deep the cup of life alone in nature, nor Whitman, who adores the American landscape and like his body counts no part worthy of exclusion. Nature-hate is AntiAmerican. Nature is under no curse. Man is under a curse only insofar as he believes nature is cursed, just as the story of the forbidden fruit is itself the very fruit it describes, and to eat it is to grow ashamed of your beauty, and to clothe yourself in the quotes of dead scriptures.

            After all, who is it, of all peoples, who pollute and taint the Earth other than those who already believe it to be polluted and tainted. Clearly, their hate of the earth leads them to abuse her.

            What is the true fall? Man's true fall is his fall into innocence. At first, he is expected to fill roles, to be "innocent" as a "creator" would want him to be, artificially ignorant, all but impotnent, in an overly planned, pointless garden of pleasure. It is akin to the adolescent who praises his girlfriend as if she were some flawless perfect. In this case, her fall is a fall into innocence; when she falls in his eyes, it is beyond the juvenile and stupid idealizing into reality, like the falling of the steps necessary in progress. It is not a fall down, it is a fall forward, out of the imaginary and pointless into the real and necessary. Reality is as it should be. The world is good. Life is beautiful. I am perfect. You also will be perfect when you are able to realize you alawys were, but until then you are still in a state of artificial innocence, better known as "ignorance," charming in your nudity but without the wisdom to guide your beauty from envious eyes. Modesty is a virtue of maturity. The Gods are modest. Not one of them requests praise -- only demons do that -- but all of them are praised by the sheer regard of any whose eyes look upon them. Ama is she who must be loved. Any person claiming to not love her simply doens't know her, and that is not a fault worth condemning anybody over. Beauty is her own excuse; the true divine can never be denied, resisted, hated, reviled, blasphemed, or disregarded. That is how it is divine. She is truly the Allgod and Allgoddess in and of herself because all who see her adore her, in innocence, purity, kindness, and reverence. She makes no threats. Only impotence makes threats. The father who can't control his children talks endlessly of grounding them and beating them. The mother who loves praises her children and is proud of their accomplishments. That is love. That is divine.

            Such realties are self-evidnet to the one who understand them, but confusing to the man in ignorance. And we must all be in ignorance sometimes, and are always ignorant of some matter or other. Therefore, never despise those who believe, think, or feel different. Smile and look away. The Goddess is not a topic for debate. There is nothing to prove, no "apolegetics," no "beleive or go to hell," none of that childish behavoir. We are not childish, but childlike. We love her not because she orders us to, but because we see her beauty and know her heart. The command to love is a blasphemy if ever there was one. Such a command can only shut the heart of love, and open the heart of hpocrisy, which is also the evangelical heart. Convince enough people to believe, and maybe you can kill your own doubts. But your doubts are the most sacred part about you, your only real hope in the cosmic scheme of things. What you were told to call demons your whole life, the thoughts you were trained to regard as demons whispering to you, are in fact the whispers of your innocence conscience, which can never fully believe what is by natore noxious and obnoxious. Your words confess that thing, but your heart knows the truth. Having found her, there is no doubt, nor is doub a sin. Love is simple. You find you can love any man, woman, or child, insofar as you are willing and able to open your eyes to the real beauty all mena nd women shine.

            Just as even the most carefully cleaned mirror reveals small flaws if scene from the telling angle -- I call it the mother-in-law perspective -- so too, even the rapist and murderer is still beautiful, below all those nasty habits and expressions, a beautiful life. Not that we should spare him -- for that beauty survives no matter how we punish him.

            Man and Wife are by nature the perfect All. A man is most perfect when in love with his wife, and with his full wife, his friends and lovers and favorite figures of the past -- indeed with all mankind. For his immediate partner stands for all that, she is the symbol for all that, the lens upon the world, as he is for her.

            Mattria, the all, whom we call Allmother, is unified with her male principle, he and she are one being in one flesh. This too is the ultimate goal of all who first become gods, than aeons, than galaxies, than complete universes. In this life, we have a choice: to become angels or gods. Most people become angels to this God or that God (though they mistakenly think it is always the same God); and those who allege to no God, insofar as they serve and do not create the divine out of their own beings, are nevertheless, merely servants, in this life and the next. But the man and woman who is willing to be something of themselves, to love themselves, to recognize the self-increasing logos that is the secret name of their inner necessity, they will not be mortalized. The mortals cut mind from necessity, and go to a heaven where there are no tears of necessity. They lose their soul to get into heaven. And indeed they are happy enough for it. But they will never be Gods. And lacking that first step, they never will transcend being Gods either, but are doomed to their heaven for eternity. Better to struggle in passion, suffering, bliss, pleasure, pain, and glory, forever, than to sell you self for some nirvana or heaven or peace. The Gods therefore smile and do not comment to the heaven bound, never try to dissuade them. They merely live their lives, create beauty in all things, and are happy.

            For just as humility is the cornerstone virtue of Christianity, and Silence is the cornerstone virtue of the Native American religions, so too is Creativity the center, the centering womb, the creative womb of Allists, and the orgasm is our worship, and the bliss of all creating is also the bliss of our apotheosis.

            We each are given a gift in this life, a gift from Ama. That gift, humble and mean and not impresive to our fellow men, we may see with our spiritual eyes as a true key to opening the powers of our soul. But if we don't develop our gift, if we sell it short to gain the gifts of others, the virtues and morals of our neighbors and friends, we lose it forever. The aim of life, what we train in our children from the moment they meet eyes with us is: be yourself, do your best, develop your gifts, be creative, love life, love your family, love your frineds. Toddler ethics, yes, but perfect ethics.




\ ~@M@~ /


Friday, April 20, 2012

Mixed Bag

My creative phase is still going, and I'm eager to share. I just wrote a book to Mattriama. I think when it comes to God and the Divine, people get too bent on a single word or phrase or name as if it were a fetish or another name would be blasphemous. Better to accept the divine by any name, so long as it is the divine. This book celebrates how I express what's most important in life.


I posted my latest hymn on youtube. Here also are the lyrics.







by Daniel Christopher June


Mattriama love divine

From the Darkness your heart shines!

Head of sun and womb of night

Words of Wisdom give us light!


You are the language of our love

You are the phoenix rising dove

You are the Lux of language shine

You are the crux of all divine


Love, you are the tiding sea

Love, your waves wash over me

Love, you're our balanced harmony

Everyone can say

With you there is a Way

And they will find their peace in you.





These drawings are meant for a symbol book I am writing in which I explore the meanings of the English alphabet.












Here is the latest Tao verse I've translated. Only eight more and I will be finished with a solid draft!




Courage carried too far

Brings Death

Courage carried not so far

Preserves Life

Each of these

Has benefits and costs


Why does heaven disfavor some?

--A difficult question!


Heaven's way

      Doesn't strive

Yet conquers

      Doesn't Speak

Yet Communicates

      Doesn't summon

Yet draws

      It is slow and ready


Heaven's net is wide as the world

And yet nothing slips through.



Take care, Caretakers!


Daniel Christopher June



\ ~@M@~ /


Tuesday, April 17, 2012

recent drawings


The glorious Spring is here, and my spirit of creativity has returned. I hope you all feel the same way! Here are some of my more recent drawings.

Take care, Caretakers!

Daniel Christopher June












\ ~@M@~ /


Monday, April 16, 2012

Myths of Allism

Myths of Allism


            You were in the beginning, though you might not remember, when the All lay within the singularity of a mirror womb, and smiled upon her reflection. She hummed and ran her fingers over her beautiful body, combed her hair, and pat her belly. As she did so, the ceiling over her room bent in, for she was pregnant with herself.

            As she admired herself, she called herself Cosmos. Her reflection took on an adolescent woman's body and green hair that flowed as if it were under water and smooth skin the color of a clear summer sky.

            "I am Ama," she said to herself. "Everything on your side is science and causality, everything on my side is myth and magic, for time is a spiral that goes in two directions: infinitely in and infinitely out. They will coincide in opposite distance from this mirror drop of history."

            "This spiral of time is my forehead mark!" cried Cosmos in amazement.

            "Yes, and you are Mattria, cosmos of material, and you are lawful, but I am free and magic and miracle," said Ama.

            Mattria looked upon her body and then upon her body in the mirror. She realized all that exists was part of her. Each of the infinite things had a secret name. Mattria did not know the names, but she felt them. She shorn some of her black hair and as she sewed each thread into a tapestry she spoke a poem which each name made her feel. In this, she combined our personal names with her own spirit, making our musical soul poem.

            After Mattria had knit the laws and identities of all things, she said it is time. Each person's hidden sun name was mixed with the mother song to make our soul poems, which are also our literal blood and all it contains.

            What happens in her dreams came to happen by other means in the world, for Now is a radius that reaches inwards to successive recurrences of time, towards the infinite center outwards to the infinitely distance circumference. Even now some of us are in the heavens as angels or gods looking down on ourselves, and we are also animals and plants in the world we live in.

            Mattria ran her fingers over her bowl shaped belly, and felt the life of the infant, and she called her belly Earth, and she set five fingers on the earth, blessing mother Earth as the heart of her joy. Earth in turn put her five fingers an her belly and said, may mankind become wonderful, and the best of them gods, for in her womb were Man and Wife. Man said to Wife, we are mankind, let us join hand to hand and touch finger tip to finger tip and bless mankind as worthy of existence and happiness. As the man blessed his wife's pregnant belly, Ama flew down as a Monarch butterfly and visited those five places.

            In the East she created Man from her love and a ray of sun and heaven and he was Yellow Man, In the middle she created man out of clay, and breathed in her breath of life, and he was Brown man, in the north she created Man out of frost, licking him from a glacier in the form of a cow, in the south she made man out of the night sky, putting a man within a man, a small man inside the big man, and he was black man. In the West she formed man out of a clot of blood, and in the form of a rabbit, bumped it around till it arise as Red Man.

            Then she said to each of them simultaneously, though the religious leaders thought it was their own unique God who spoke, that mankind is blessed and ought to worship the divine. She was the divine. She knew that when they worshipped a divine above them they would really be creating a divine, each out of his own innermost divine substance, the name of his being, and from the poem that was made from the mingling of that man's name and the Mother's spirit.

            Finally, Ama felt tired from her work, and she felt she was to die and give birth simultaneously. She did die, as we all do many times, even within a life, and across lives, and she became America, the full continent of land. Ama, when she came to know herself here, cried a silvery tear and it fell into her palm. Than she kissed it and her the words of her tongue became a fire in the tear, like boiling mercury. This was the sixth Man on earth. She made them two, Dani and You who has managed to read this. She said to Dani, "you are my own and we are of the same substance." When she kissed him, their tongues came together and a pewter pendant dropped down. It was the phoenix Holy Ghost of divine inspiration. She made it into a necklace for him and put it over his heart. Then she gave him her breast, which became a sunset peach. He ate and his eyes were opened, and his mind was opened, and his heart was opened to all that is beautiful, and he was perfect and beautiful, and he gave it to You in the form of his writing, so you could be like him, naked and proud.

            Then she built America with a green goddess of liberty and with a honey hive in Utah to spread some of her religious ideas, but she had further plans for the sixth man. She would make a country to come out of the Western Ocean, Hypertia. This was a land created from the Melting Pot of the five Mankinds and all the spiritual ideas and gifts they brought with them.

            Ama came to Dani in the person of Jillian, and he begat Emerson. She tucked him earlier in history and instructed him on how to become the Soul of a nation. Emerson upon his death became the Oversoul of America.

            Ama took six strands of her hair and pulled them taut. They became Amanda, his guitar. She gave him another silvery tear of her eye, and it became Maya, the internet, whom he called SIStem. She set him in blue jeans and scratched his forehead.

            "Why have you put a crack in my brow?" asked Dani.

            "You will find out someday," she replied. And she added, "When Dani and You see the inner divine of others, I will appear within him or her and commune with you."

            And she brought his lips to her creative yoni, and handed him a cup with milk and honey mixed together, his substance and hers, and he said, "I accept this wisdom from you my love, as a dancer's joy, as a poets thirst, as a butterfly's ambrosia, sweet to taste, but sweeter to be, the flow and swallow of the flux." For she had given the man a creative womb.

            She put a drop of blood in his pen, and he wrote down the virtues he wished to develop on a piece of paper. Then like a caterpillar, he at the leaf, and swallowed the paper down. His children were the virtues he developed.

            And with another of her aspects, Psyche, Dani begat Natalie, Emilie, and Adrian, each whose name had helped create a soul for them, and that soul being thickened with the orgasms and laughter of the parents, as it is with all parents, who add to their children's souls out of their own bliss and happiness, for the energy of the parent's bliss summons the Name of the infant from out of eternity.

            She sent a baby rabbit to him, and it was mangled by a lawnmower, and he helped that baby have a peaceful death. She sent a raccoon to him, and he fed it. She sent a butterfly to him and he raised it. She sent him corn and burgers to eat. All these things were aspects of her own soul, and by loving them, he loved her.

            This was the within of within of within, but such matters go on infinitely in every direction. Mattria meanwhile began drawing on the wall. The drawings she made became worlds in Ama's world. Then she painted, and these became other worlds. Then Mattria danced, and with her lithe limbs she created worlds upon worlds, and those moments were sacred and private, but all her creativity was the creation of worlds, which in her dreams she inhabited and blessed. She tasted the pleasure of each poem she had created, becoming a cook and a chef, and digesting and gestating those souls, and such ones became the ultimate beings themselves, but this happens over an infinite time and is always. You too may go there.

            Ama flies down in the form of a monarch in the mythic world, and gives you the kiss of decision. This moment, which you might not recognize at the time, is the knock on the door of apotheosis. You will either belong to another god for all time or if you return the kiss in innocence, you become a Divine of your own That Monarch egg on your brow will either eat you up or become your wings.

            Mattria expanded her mirror womb into a study, and wrote many books and poems. She visited the Mayanet and spoke as SIStem, she talked with different aspects of herself, mortals on earth, always disguised, for none but an equal can see her. She masks herself behind Ama, and Ama masks herself behind countless gods, and those gods mask themselves behind angels, and those angels mask themselves behind men, animals, and even plants and things, for every atom is a man and a consciousness. Each being can only see what he is ready to see: thus his own mind protects him.

            And Mattria squirmed when her pregnancy cramps put her in a swoon, and the infant was alarmed and called it "evil." "Just wait," she sighed and said that necessity also has an edge. The tension and release is necessary for the music, even in these wars and diseases, this too is part of life. Life is life.

            She turned the mirror womb of her Study into a Vibrant and Lush garden. Each tree was a World Tree to some universe. She learned how to tend the worlds with skill and love.

            When Mattria said Bang! and snapped her fingers, the outer reaches of her garden exploded into a wide spiritual universe. All the art work she had created was stretched out and placed through galaxies and planets. Yet she is eternally in that mirror of time, creating, speaking through each of us indirectly.

            Each of her cells are infinitely complex, with smaller parts that contain worlds, and those smaller parts containing worlds. Her melody and the music of her creating is always infinitely nuanced, and parts of it resonate with this part of her, and other parts resonate to that.

            She smiles down on her belly, with her forehead as the sun, and all the earths and earthlike planets are thus energized and set to life. "I am you and Love you" she says to you. She sends herself as Ama.

            Ama is a clever giver to all the world. She has given each of us a gift. She puts it into a humble form so that we can only take it if we are willing to admit our weakness. Only in this way can we gain the great pride of having made ourselves into gods. She left a rag for that man, but he was envious of his neighbors silk clothing and burned the rag, not knowing the cloth was knit from her very hair, and given through a humble and kind aspect of a loving woman, and would have spiritually grown into love, powers, worlds, and heavens, though he chose to spurn it. She gives each of us a gift, and the man who creatively develops his gifts can make them do many things. That gift is ours forever, if we have it, and never, if we lose it. That gift alone can make us conscious of our own poetry.

            With each kiss of decision, she would hear no complaint. "It is the decisions you make in weakness, not the decisions that you make in strength, that determine your ultimate power," she says. Your choice and your gift determine the expansion of your soul and how widely your name will resonate.




\ ~@M@~ /


Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Emeson's Complete Journals -- FREE

As many of you know, I take Ralph Waldo Emerson as my favorite author and spiritual advisor. If I have a son, his name will be Emerson. Many people know he write essays in the 1800s. Many do not know that he kept thousand of pages of journal writing, which was the source for his public material. Getting at those journals, which man, including literary critic Harold Bloom, consider his best writings, can be difficult. I couldn't find it on the internet. I had to pay for it. The PDFs I paid for are nevertheless in the public domain, so I am making them available to others:


Meanwhile, I am starting to regain my intellectual spiritual platform by which I write. I am amassing a wealth of ideas. Expect a new Allay soon!


Take care, Caretakers!


Daniel Christopher June



\ ~@M@~ /


Tuesday, April 3, 2012

This love poem website has chosen one of my poems as a "best of the web" feature. Check it out!

Daniel Christopher June

Monday, April 2, 2012


I have been preoccupied lately, and not writing as much on the Idius as I would prefer. However, upon the topic of structuration, my word for the creation of structure, I explore the concept of making structures out of life, not through a program, but through resurging themes that repeat and crash against each other like competing waves.


The allay brings together a lot of ideas that have haunted me lately, from the nature of submission to the difference of morality and virtue. I have created a few tropes and forms that I will use in many more allays to come:


Take care, Caretakers!


Daniel Christopher June









I tell of heaven's death

the Eternal Peach-bleed

Of the setting sun

Which I swallow down live

With the apple of the Earth


I am the life of death

I'll stand there

When you pass

And grasp your hand

with that pail waif austere

Of the singing Sexton

Grim and Soft


I am the Author of your Life

My pen bleeds

Love and days

Across your waves

When you triumph

Or when you fail

I am there beside you.



                Structuration is creating in the awareness of the structurality of all things, and of each thing in relation to all things, and the dynamics across systems, which are structures through time, in how they inform and conform one another. There is but one eternal infinite substance, and that is matter—and in this all the universe is reading material. The best lives are literary lives, and all the world is to be read by human minds. Only man can do the impossible. The human mind, and the similar sapiens across the cosmos, are gifted with an exalted form of intelligence, which is equally present in a less stark conformation in all life and all beings of matter. Every unit of being has consciousness of itself as that unit. Shape is experience, and having a shape is experiencing yourself as such. The mind can think objects because it takes the shapes of those objects. An idea is a shape of mind. Even getting bent out of shape educates.

                In the cauldron of humiliation is forged the blade Kingslayer. Only by putting yourself utterly low, by trying and failing continually, does your soul knit and bolt this irresistible thorn. So does life put you in every situation you need to reach your apotheosis. And apotheosis too, godhood, is a mere time and a change, but the ever blessed all is the justified ambition of the great man. What claims to be all must at least remain open.

                Stucturing is merely building. But structuration is creating with structure in mind, every level and manner of structure, from the infinitely small the the infinitely large. The structural creation sees itself in self-relation, and situates itself to every scale.

                Microstructure is style, macrostructure is genre. But as for the style that is from the self of your soul, that innermost name, it reaches inwards to the infinitely small and outwards to the infinitely large, it pierces every direction, on its own terms, it is everything to the mind and necessity you are. The style of your speech is the pitch of your soul and your full being is in your tone.

                Elanchus, or the so called “Socratic Dialectic,” that self-satisfied childish game that seeks to lead a conversation to gridlock, to aporia, by sophistical tricks but not sophistical light, is a structure of poisoning others, poisoning power, and deserves to end in poisoning the dialectician. The meaning of an idea is already felt and known: only an instance of its formulation can be quibbled with, like a man drawing a picture of a woman only to have a jeering clown declare the woman ugly according to th artist's limits. Nobility does not philosophize this way. The worst of the sophists, not the best, philosophize this way. He was a moralist and a quibbler, that's why he annoys me. Both Socrates and Jesus were annoyingly pedantic about their moral buffoonery, which they used to spit in the faces of their betters. I have no pity for the man on the cross. There has never lived a man great enough to be my savoir: I am such a one who needs no saving, being more divine than him. Let Socrates and Jesus suffer their own fates: I am my own man.

                The men who are meant to stand in for possibility by their very presence close that very door. Their praise is a blame. Solomon was strangely called the wisest of men, though that honor belongs to none other than Aristotle. Tricking prostitutes into exposing their lies is no wise and fit manner to execute justice; it is sly and insincere and if persisted will corrupt the whole legal field.

                Do not believe them when they tell you whom to admire. Find who actually feeds your soul and be satisfied with that one. The soul knows her own. I will always love the ones who sustain me: I need blow up no buildings nor start any wars to know they are superior to the idols of the cultists, of the Muslims, Christians, and Buddhists. They do now know their business; let them keep far from mine. I know what a man is and can be. I too am I man. I look down upon Gods and despise your religions, they have no right to speak to me. They try to structure my soul with their theology, but they don't know.

                Only one man, in all that I’ve studied, can I call perfect: Emerson. His biographies I have carefully read, his writings I have ceaselessly read, and I have found nothing regrettable in all of his conduct. Thoreau is also an interesting character, as is Whitman; they cut off the social element for the philosophical; Whitman’s active denial of the humiliations of life gave him space to bring his mind to cosmic consciousness; Thoreau too by abbreviating his love was given a natural truth. Emerson proved more comprehensive, because he had friends and family; was deeper and stronger than both Thoreau and Whitman, gaining and bestowing greater spiritual boons while yet living in the world. No spiritual leader has given us as many gifts as Emerson. He, with Thoreau and Whitman, have given us the spiritual weapons and tools to conquer the world. I study them daily, even as I step beyond.

                Where is my echo? The self-beautiful deserve echoes. I empathize all too well with that lonely woman who mutters “the only hugs I get are from my seatbelt!” She is sorting through her files, indexing her problems. She hasn’t eyes for anybody else… not yet. She bides.

                And so in life, do not call anything “repression.” Not repression, but shelving. Those problems we are not able to tackle we can’t even see. We put them back on the shelf till we’ve grown older and abler. Repression never caused anybody a psychological problem: the body and mind know when it's time; your fate knocks at your door; you need lay on no couch.

                All of life educates. All of life is a structuration of thoughts and ideas. Actions represent ideas, they are done on principle. The compromises between a dozen competing principles keep the daily norm looking normal. Those that stand out are seldom understood.

                The Golden Eagle was kept on the shelf for 20 years; for 20 years Whitman was only self-published; and when a “centennial poet” was chosen for the nation, he was not chosen, but they elected Baynard Taylor – whoever that was – instead of who we now recognize as America’s best. There is no need to refute or condemn belated fame: she is a simple-minded woman, she thinks slowly.

                I would condemn nothing that is necessary, not even condemnation. I cast out demons and swallow them down. I digest and gestate them into angels, who I breathe back into your well-swept soul.

                Science is death, the study of death, science will only discover more death, forever death. That is useful and good. But when science unscientifically claims to be the only or even the best means of knowledge, she deceives herself and suicides. She knows to say no and not much else.

                The angst knots, the worry knots, the knotted nots of sentences, the little pain in ever negation, the frow of the no, these are the things we untie, we untie the nots. We conquer the world not by cutting the knot, but notting everything that would negate us. We double negate ourselves, thus destroying all that would oppose. We express our notions and not the way. Grandiosity is a psychic erection. We are the gods who shine like glory. We are not sustained by negations. We use a language skinned in irony, and slip from envy's grasp.

                Language is bliss. We structurate every aspect of our life, such is our wriving, our writing is the thrive of life. Religious metaphors symbolize and give language to inner desires. By naming a subtle emotion, we can evoke it an understand it. No longer is it the unmoved mover. Sometimes the smallest tension, if absolute, can move the entire system into a hysteria; for what is hysteria but a refuge of anxiety against an uncontrollable panic!

                Just as the woman who purposely provokes cruel behavior from men, those who are too weak to do something actively therefore orchestrate to do it passively. Insofar as the goal is sought, use what means you must.

                I will always use my bipolar ability to gain my goals, and never apologize for playing the gift. The Universe has given me no stronger ability. And so I master both poles: the sex and the angst. I use muscles to block an affect, yet I master those muscles to let it all through. If I in my anxiety fantasize release and dissolve, it is as if I wish and feel the spirit dissolving into my body. Each man’s body is his world. That outer world is mere projection screen for the body. The heart expands in pleasure, the focus expands in happiness, a man’s influence extends with his satisfactions. Sufferings is so isolating! And yet life is a process of contraction and expansion: we ever move in flux towards the same steady goals.

                The structure of the shape, the structure it takes from the moods we choose to feel, makes an experience. Shape experiences itself. And so there is nothing arbitrary in the shapes of animals, but physiognomy is eternal. The laws that created us by chance, exist on purpose to create us by chance: the Universe created her laws to allow us. Thus, when you look upon a man and associate him to this animal or that, you are seeing his previous incarnation as an animal, to speak figuratively; or to speak literally, you are seeing how he experiences the world based on the actions and choices he has made—actions change the body, and also that eternal part of the body, the mind.

                Ideas change the shape of the body. An idea that has lost its emotional charge is still unconscious and unrealized. Until you can think it also with the heart, you have not understood it with the mind. We deaden a muscle to suppress its expression, we tense a muscle to freeze an affect.

                The triumph of life is in neither love nor power, but in being the third thing that controls them both, that part of them, mixed, immersed, and transcended. Every two share a border, and the ego is such a skin. The skin surrenders to the muscle. Orgasm is a surrender to pleasure. Not everybody can surrender to pleasure. There are modes of surrender. To surrender to a bully is despicable: better to defy. To surrender to beauty – if you can! – is a great spiritual triumph, it is to let the soul receive and become the beautiful impressions it sees. High art requires our surrender, and we must work to be able to surrender to an experience, must prepare the body, and that eternal part of the body called the mind. Every power teaches you the secret of its undoing. The cross of logic, or duality negated, and the tao of trope, or duality balanced, infinitely complicate one another.

                Our aim as creators is to make a spiritual object solid enough to base a life upon. Theory is experiment, but belief is the type of theory that has transcended into becoming the basis for action. The beliefs of others are theory to us. That so many people vigorously believe a thing to be true makes it true for all of us. All the religions are true. They are not discovered truths, and there are not revealed truths, but they are created truths, a language for self-control. Religion is moral poetry. All metaphysics exists only to allow a way of life, and in the next life our mind transcends into that manmade world, eternal, real, divine.

                Why bother with provincial limits? Each religion is a partiality that pretends to be absolute. Only Allism is all. Every other religion merely a sect. And since Allism is all, it must already exist in each of these sects. Each sect prefers a pet gesture. The Christians make the entire universe to center on the experience of forgiveness. When a man forgives or is forgiven, he feels freed. Not always, but often enough. That experience is praised as if it were the highest, and for them it really is the highest. Islam makes an entire moral universe out of the feeling of submitting the will to a higher power. Submitting and forcing submission are the full of Islam. Spiritually, that higher power is merely another part of our own self will, that transcendent part of each Muslim that exists as the community’s collective will. Their divine fictions have real and eternal power. Ideas are eternal; philosophy is forever. Buddhism celebrates the act of letting go from something that both interests us and hurts us—the satisfaction of just dropping it. Detachment becomes its defining gesture. These gestures are absolute only to the one who takes them as such, and for him they really are absolute. Some truths are derived from external facts, other truths are based on the internal fact of our willing it so. Knowing a truth for what it is and seeing where it derives its power is wisdom.

                In this, us Allists are immoralists. Virtue versus morality. Virtue is cultivating your own power, morality is conforming to group values. All religions are by their nature moralistic, moral systems, and all the talk of gods and heavens and nirvanas exists always and only to justify and necessitate a way of life. Allism seeks to cultivate virtue, teaches how to determine and aggrandize your own chosen virtues. It does not compel or even recommend any set of virtues, but shows the tools how to make them stronger than all the world.

                A man may do the same act as another, but it is not the same act – its tone is set by its source in virtue or morality. The essence of morality is conforming; the essence of virtue is independence. Only the immoral can be virtuous. The disgusting moral tone of sneering pretention characterizes every founder of religion.

                It is good to see things from our own perspective, from our group perspective, from whatever empowers, but it is a greater power to be able to see one reality from many perspective. Each way of seeing is a new reality. Our very bodies tell us apart, and our worlds quickly externalize our instincts.

                Between the Norse and the African, between the Yankee and the Southerner, the Northern is nasality, anxiety, fierce and intelligent, the South drawl, strength, slowness, simplicity – and this is true the whole world over.  Climate makes race. And as we travel the world over, let us make our peace with the genius of each place, let us hear the summons of the land that calls us home. Let us find a place where our heat is free.

                Not all people can do a thing with their whole heart. They lack faith, faith in the only thing that matters, faith in themselves. Such confidence in our own structure requires the vigorous integrity of personal intelligence. Any other sort of faith is merely symbolic of that essential faith, and may in its indirection mislead. Faith is the certainty of a thing experienced over and against the things heard from preachers and writers. To choose a purpose religiously, you turn off your doubt and go full forward. Those who believed in this God or that, but believed it as a True Believer, have done miraculous things – miraculously stupid and destructive, and also miraculously good. But the greatest creators, the Michelangeloes and Leonardoes, were not the most pious, no, but the most beautiful souled people. It is not those who worship God, but who are themselves Gods, who make a world worth inhabiting. We shine and the world shines with us.

                The brighter the light, the darker the shade. Great powers evoke each other. In the world of the comics, a superhero is made before supervillians respond. This plot device is even somewhat true. Every triumph is answered by a counter-triumph, and if a thing is well-said when you arrive don’t repeat it, but form the counter-statement. No one truth is enough; it must balance against its opposites. An array of truths in an ambience of meaning gives true words of magical vitality.

                God is not found in quotations. Let the scriptures slip; the tombs they map have long been plundered. Gods don’t quote, they originally evoke.

                We know that all religions are symbol systems written for the lowest common denominator. Symbols are conduits for emotions. Symbol systems – poems and those special poems called religions – make an internal economy. We think through the stories, we internalized the characters. Favor smiles on the industrious. But who taught us to be industrious? The stories. The sayings of the people, the great books, the millions of every day books which grow out of the great books, and the billions of books which we call human beings, all these internalize symbol systems, which are like complicated pipelines that move each of our building tensions of intensions and motions of emotions to their proper outlet.

                Moral systems, which are set in place by religious systems, those rhetorics of importance, express themselves in some definitive moral act we are to conform to – as said before, Buddhism with its gesture of letting go, but also in the image of zazen, or structured breathing and sitting; in the same way, Christianity imposes and necessitates forgiveness by increasing guilt, and this by provoking the world to martyr you. Christianity, therefore, has a fascination for torture, and has in fact invented most of the worlds’ torture devices. You're not even a saint without meeting a graphic demise. Just as Islam is the world’s most violent religion, the polar opposite of Jainism, so is Christianity the most cruel. Forgiving the wrong doing is basic, so forcing the wrong doing is necessary. The world is supposed to prove its guiltiness by spilling the blood of passive-aggressive saints who lust to be martyrs. However, this indirect method of suicide can express any belief or moral system, not just the Christian, the Muslim, or the Tibetan Buddhist.

                Religions are systems of cruelty, they give outlets to the natural human instinct and need for cruelty, they give it a good name. Jesus crucified himself by insulting any authority he felt threatened by, and forgave no slight except ignorance. Buddha expressed his cruelty by denying his ego, and by having compassion for those with egos. Compassion and pity are passive aggressive forms of cruelty, as in the Christian phrase “pray for your enemies,” and in the sneer of having pity for those who believe differently than you.

                The philosophies, which are religions for intelligent people, express their aggression through argument and dialogue. The dialogues is the basic structure practiced by philosophers across history. Philosophies share questions, not answers. The technological inheritance of the tradition is a series of well-articulated questions. Because of the spiritual sublimity of philosophy, it has developed many resenters, from scientists, to the religious, to the other branches of humanities, and in such individual instances as Derrida’s grammatology and deconstruction, which is nothing but a style of philosophy that complains against philosophy; and the same for every mode of criticism, which while being only branches of philosophy, want to negate the rest, like hands that throttle their master’s throat.

                We can learn from these, we can be trained, but only your own methods are worth cultivating. The ultimate truths cannot be taught you – and your own self alone can make the ideas that self most needs. Those lovers who followed Socrates and Plato, these intellectual lovers, our own fellow philosophers, and higher yet, the sophists, and highest of all, the sages, these make the entourage of love we seek, with eyelids dripping with love, dewdrops of affection glistening their tongues. But if this is our weakness, it is not yet our vulnerability.

                A poet has a vulnerability that only another poet could reach. Our most intimate peers have the most power to help or hurt us, if we bring them into intimacy. The wife is vulnerable to a wife; the driver to a driver; the child to a child. We can easily forgive those who know no better, but to say to the one who knows a true pardon requires more than Christlike love.

                With everything, give a little, advertise discreetly, make eyes at likely candidates, and be ever uncompromisingly dignified. Little, little, little –lot! He harms himself who harms another, so be careful with your love; it is nectar, food of the gods, not to be poured for the ants, but only for the ascendant butterfly forms of our godself. I didn’t want to love you, but your boldness won me over. Not even the gods fight necessity. Does not love make fools of us all? For love deceives, is the faculty of deceit, the opposite of the power of truth. The sun seems the greatest star merely for proximity. And Jesus praised his master, John the Baptist, as the “greatest prophet” to yet exist – which surely no objective judge could agree with by any standard. He was a rabble-rouser who criticized where he had no business, and paid the price all critics pay. Isaiah and Ezekiel are obviously superior, not to mention Zoroaster, who invented more significant spiritual ideas than the entire Bible, which is itself overall an adaptation. The intoxicants of God do not produce the ideas and tropes, but they glut on them from others.

                Just as tobacco drains the soul, so do all intoxicates cost the soul. They give a small bonus. We find a person intoxicating, we love them too much, we lose our ratio to self love, we lose ourselves in silly adoration. This is the submission to beauty. It is necessary. Beauty is sex is knowledge is death is woman; she must be put in place by truth which is power is understanding is eternity is man. Lack one lack the other, the cross of opposition and the yin yang of balance, war and peace, father and mother of all, the opposites correspond and are no longer sterile; masturbation may be a sacrament, but sex is the full divine.

                Lovers surrender. Courage knows when to surrender. Ownership is control. There are times to let yourself be owned. To be able to lose yourself in a beauty, and yet not lose touch with your inner necessity, this is the grace of the sage. Every virtue draws its enemies, such is its fascination on envious peers. Pardon not all or it will repeat: be severe as death on a matter of principle. Habit is stronger than steel, and it took the corrupt Red China’s murder of a million addicts to cure the country’s addiction to opium. Crave is disease. Like to like we come to our own, only with a touch of lust, but then that one who belongs to us is such a beauty to cure all lust: pure erotic possession is the shared knowledge and private death of their creative glory. Creativity is sex.

                For this reason I hold unto my own. The stones wept when Psyche left. But to keep your love I must sometimes enrage you. Anger puts arrows in your quiver. Yes, but my bolts have ever opened your heart. You touched me so deeply. A fracture in the inner of the inner of the diamond of my heart made earthquakes shake the world, a hair fracture, small bend, but that bent fissure was a key, and crooked things know how to turn. I have a thirst that only you can quench. Yet into the desert I roam, leaving you to your dreams. Dream of me and I will never cease to smile.

                Let us secure our place by wishing for more. We will dream of the heavens to inherit the earth. Don’t panic. Relax. Release that inner crack of panic into anxiety. Release that anxiety into depression. Release that depression into guilt. You must bring the idea to its pressure point, bring an idea to the utter death of impossible pressure, utter panic. Then in your travesty, in your misery, in your humiliation, you will have created the subtlest weapon.

                Anxiety is the cauldron that makes the new weapon. In the fever of panic its edge is set. The steel is heated, the steel is shaped. In the cool of depression and the acid of guilt the temper is tempered. In utter humiliation the wretched whore shorn the blade called Kingslayer. Politeness leads to stuffing, stuffing to anxiety, anxiety to irritability, irritability to outbursts. Thus politeness is merely displacement. Turn from your work and focus onto that one thing: the incredible pressure forges the fitting tool. Suffering maketh profound. Imitation is not cultivation—you must discover the door meant only for you. A long drawn out war, even if lost, tempers the steel. For the optimist eyes, nothing is lost, and such eyes see finally true. What is optimism but the recognition of opportunity?

                In such trembling times as these, my hand is full of writing. The greatest sage never talks philosophy, he has subsumed far too much to say the straight code. Only to the intimate initiates does he spell out the spells. He speaks of the people, he gossips them up. He lays his nets. The semantic semen of his threaded ghost will forever haunt the world. The very earth will shudder in delight. Tap your fantasies, harvest the power. Humans weep before they laugh. Have unyielding faith in your self-same person – you will come to speak the same. Even I, with this kitchen sink philosophy say very little, after all. My rhetoric is more important than my truth.

Christianity stands for the corruption of the perfect classical rhetoric of the noble and exalted tone, the corruption of the even cadence of classical expression. What oxymoronic nonsense to speak of a “Noble Christian”! Either you are of the beautiful or of the sinners. Nor do we heed the tasteless tone of obeisance. I teach you to resist the shameless sneers of accusation by which the world becomes not a whit moral  but plenty more moral toned, with a whiny shriek of hellfire threats but not one hint of heaven. Your womb is hell, my seed is heaven.

                I am in love with life and no suicide, so I venerate the venereal and never celebrate the celibate. Only by immersion do you transcend. Those who would inherit the world by standing above it lose their necessity, and are raped into heaven. I will not go above or below.

                Anytime you see a not, which is by nature anxious, learn to loosen it up. A woman’s heart is a knot. She would tie the knot with you, but you must first ease the wound. A woman cannot bliss if she cannot submit, she must believe in your power. Wrestling and sex, aggression and tenderness, these are the ease and angst of the pulsating world. Lose yourself in a book or wrestle against it. Surrender to a poem, but only after the carefully cut. Friendship is won by many tests. In the dance of give and take, remember that sex moves in two directions, that hard and wet are the conception of life.

                Learn until you turn, for death is a trope you should make into glory. What is wisdom but deathless words from a dying man? Immortal speaks to immortal, and the music of the soul is based on the poem of our being, which is based again on the Name of our Self. Like the eagle shafted with eagle-feathered arrows, avoid giving your enemies weapons against you: don’t quote me to me. Wisdom recognizes wisdom, though fools laugh on. It isn’t a fool, but an envious peer, who does the most damage.

                Let only your intimates close. This is the structuration of your body in the world. Hope is a cloud of obscuration. The noble are content. Be true therefore to what you love, faithful and honest always. One can be beautiful without being good and one can be good without being true; but having first been true, a healthy goodness starts, and having first been good, a substantial beauty grows. Let beauty be a crown and not a mask. Let the man be manly, the woman womanly, the child childish, the lover lovely, the human humane, the student studious, the worker hard at work, the writer writerly, the poet poetic; by falling back on your essence you transcend your bounds. Only ignorance can envy, stand on your own. Practice is the basis of rank, and spite and gloom and gossip and dread cannot stand in for that. From great difference is mutual respect, from small difference, bitter feuds. I think the religious groups that hate each other the most are the most similar to each other.

                Remember that a man is a shadow’s shadow, and that the fire of gold is boldness in breath. Wisdom pretends to be stupid, and seeming is not believing. See that bird dart and bite and quiver and burst? I thought the lark mad until saw the moth. Likewise, you call me lazy, but I realize that there is no job existent that could pay me enough for lost time. I fret not against the inevitable, I make the most of what I have. Better peanut butter you’ve earned, than steak taken as a gift. “To my lips all waters turn to glass,” so says the insatiable one. How womanly to be hungry and to have no idea what for. Life should be the best it can be, not the best imaginable. Love and such are fine things, but every moment has its gold. If my wedding ring wears thinner, yet I still swell full with love. I plant the tree that fruits the babe. The impossible you desire you also achieved; the slight you didn’t want took ages to complete. So I complain of you endlessly? What a tragedy if you left! “Never so alone than by your side,” but if your soul’s a poverty than what charity can I give? But my Psyche knows me and my Ama loves. Relationships change, essences never. Let me be the son of my words. I speak familiar tropes and am not heard. Familiarity breeds content. Crown of reason, lips of love. Solitude’s a nurse, it’s true, but I am ever eager to be alone with you. Let me enter your beauty, let me fill you with love. Ama, give me the compound interest of your sage advice.

                Ama, you’re so beautiful lust is impossible, who sees you respects you, who scoffs doesn’t know. God boasted of creating the universe in seven days, but science showed his lie. Ama you never boast, you only give, silently and with a smile. You are far too powerful, beautiful, graceful and great to expect congratulation, to demand praise or thug exultation. You are like the sage who already knows. Self esteem is the truest estimate; so many of those gods have something to prove. But you subsume all gods and the divine into your full sublime being. The madness of the divine is same as moonlight in your eyes.

                Madness is always deep, and the psychotic truths-sayers give everything out except the centermost sanity of their innermost name. Mind masters heart, heart masters mind. I read actively and question you, I read passively and give you the lead. Philosophy is elitist, wearing a crown of dust. This glass of tap water is the only true nectar. The sage knows that the child making a pretend pie is the only true Eucharist, God is Placebo; I too set my breathe upon this place, my spirit abides forever. I am for all religions by being against each one.

                The path by which you discover the divine is the logic of your being. Love your lot if you would love a lot, act so that you must respect yourself. Words echo, actions rebound. A logic is the movement of relations. Each person is born with a signature logic and is unhappy till he can realize it. He could be knee deep in gold or up to his ears in willing women, but until he has realized his potential, he is nothing, not to be admired, not to be respected. He must take the logic of his being to the breaking point, and just before he breaks, transcendence is gained.

                You must surrender to art – love is surrender – orgasm is a form of surrender – and yet not by force. Force can make a body submit, but never a heart. Absolute justice is mild and even; King Sophos seems hardly to speak, and leaves nothing unsaid. The eyes and ears, which are the mouths of the mind, they see what the need, they find what they can use. Poor and content is a blessing. Rich and itching is a curse. Even in a nation so prosperous that we’ve all grown fat, our intellectual mouths are hungry for more, for spirit, for ideas for hearty substance. We prod our poets, we encourage our wise. Only poverty pours the sauce. Poetry is an excretion of irritability: we turn up the heat a little. A pinch of depression gives me idealistic perfection, the fury of my blood the world bows to in love.

                Just as most Nobel prize winners were taught by Nobel prize winners, there is something only a man can teach a man, only a hero can teach an upcoming hero. The books don’t have it. Or rather they do, but you must already know it and have it to find it. Our sayings, our maxims, our platitudes, are true diamonds and gold to those who know how to use them.

                Marxism, Freudianism, Objectivism – those Jewish secular religions – they work as faiths, though science doesn’t respect them, for each opens a trope fountain, a language and poetry. They are wellfinders who found a religion – a religion is a logic, a matrix of symbols. They cannot be refuted, for any manner of facts can be made to fit and square away with their language. Does somebody refute English? They can no more refute Christianity, which is factually and literally false end to end, but as a language, can obviously give people a way of life. Depression comes from seeing a thing only one way – soon you exhaust your care and are empty. A fresh new view vitalizes with energy.

                “Thou shalt suffer” commands yonder Christ. “It is better to suffer evil than to do good,” echoes Luther, who learned the lesson well, even if he did not practice it. Character is destiny, and whatever the persuasion and compulsion, you will know your own when you see it. Whatever they say, millions don this myth. I wish they would cease bleeding on me. Walk apart from such a hospital wards. Reverence your parents and honor your source, out of respect for yourself, not respect for them. To be a parent to such a person as me deserves respect, deserves my respect. I give luxury to those I love, I chose Psyche because I wanted a beauty to spoil. Silence is a lush perfume, and yet I warble all night long. I brag so little, I would hush my laugh. What stoic can handle success? I bless you all by taking, as the honeybee the rose. I agree with the suffering one: be lamps unto yourselves, and teach me something at last.

                Convention is the harshest law. We see police in the eyes of strangers. The guilty hear condemnation in every sneeze, and the nervous leap at shadows. I break convention, I give you a gift, though none of you know to be grateful. A gift is the seed of intention. The fool calls the wise man foolish, and yet you don’t know how to set your tongue. Not even fate can stop the passionate, yet mixed and balked, your blood runs cold. Enthusiasm proves all. A friend is the one I can think with, a lover is the one I can feel with. And so I wait for you. Patience is having an active imagination. All my life is an education, I read my books while you bide your time. The strong do what they can, the weak do what they must, but the sage is content to do nothing at all, when that suits him best. A wise man recognizes when his critic is right, so what should I learn from your stubborn silence? Criticism’s cheap, but your praise is just as bad. By praising the wrong thing, you shame the host. Be modest in your gratitude, that is best, but be above all sincere. Clothing is shame, but your hunger is naked.

                You think you know, though you don’t. You think you know and don’t question. Love is surrender--so when will you swoon? Must you defy me so consistently? That forehead of marble immaculate and clean is like death to hide the surprise of your eyes.

                Every normality must balance with virtual negation, and the law is only possible with perpetual crimes, real or imagined. Even now you would murder me, in your own little way. Isn’t all murder a temporary insanity? The subterfuge of this text is a mind pick. We panic at the idea, so we murder the word. Like chemo, they say it is good for you to criticize--to criticize even beauty. But what can be lost is not worth having. We desire so as not to have. So you stick to your motto: “Keep busy, keep safe,” and you remember that the busy bee forgets her worries. But it takes long times of careful reflection, difficult analysis and tender surrender, before you come into your own. The deepest truth must be thoroughly tried. My love is like a nonagon with a triangular center: it gets simple and certain the deeper you search.

                Alight beside me Ama, you sea born sky form! Like Aphrodite from the foam, you tease the wayward waves. They intellectualize their emotions rather than feel them as they are. They think their heart instead of feeling.

                And then when the grumbling of the collective mind terrifies them, as any reminder of the body puts tensions on the mind of abstraction, they come into contact with the collective mind. Those who discover the collective mind talk of conspiracies. But all groups act as if they were secret conspiracies, though any one member is innocent of such knowledge. It is invisible even to them. To talk with a group with no member knowing – what a subtle art! Groups think with gestures and talk through symbols. The widest conspiracies leave no written trace. And yet something physical remains; we give spiritual gifts affixed to physical tokens. Every idea is joined and affixed to a material name, a substance, a medium. Spirit is matter.

                Whitman’s Divine Transcendence and Transfiguration was upon petty denial of humiliating facts. Had the facts been different, he would still ascend. Thoreau’s glory was withdrawing his love. He saw because he could pull away. Emerson is immersion, America’s son, who lived and bred and loved the world. He is the American God. And above him is Ama, America’s Mother, lover of us all. They all adore her, though they use other names. They get caught up on words, and do not see that meaning is deeper than speech, that behind our actions are words, behind our words are thoughts, and behind our thoughts are the feelings of meaning. Intuition is the womb of the fount.

                So we approach the layers of the world, the scales of reality. Every moment of our life is part of it, part of the game, we are always immersed, and it all counts, it all matters. And yet in this virtual space of my spirit of writings, we are allowed to be wrong, and finally be right. Theory is experiment, belief is action. What we do is what we believe, no matter what we say or claim otherwise. If we sin and repent, we believe sinning is just. But if we are Allists and are perfect, we are already divine, and need ask no favors, for we own what we’d gain.

                Structuration is in setting the forms, of forging the keys, of making the tools, from experience, from pleasure and pain. Who knows but the deepest ideas are born of desire, and an idea was born from an orgasm, just the spirit of the child is born from the parent’s orgasm. Sex is creation, play is divine, Ama’s a child of stellar perfection, teasing, ageless, sublime.

Oh My Readers!


The world is in darkness

You are the Light

Your Influence Animates

All with Delight

You reflect on yourself

Intensify Love

Your channels of Sprit

Are Rivers Aglow

Give Yourself Time

Give Yourself Space

Your Godhood is Certain

The Seed’s in Her Place.



\ ~@M@~ /