Saturday, September 29, 2012

"Evil Innocence" an allay

Evil Innocence




See the Second Sun


My Sexton is obsessed with dawn

And daylight’s glowing orb

That lustful gaze invades her song

Her awe it full absorbs.


For me the dawn and setting death

Are tired old parlor tricks

Instead I seek the Poet’s rise

That fascinates her lips.


I set my time, I set my pace,

Allist that I am

I’ll never rush, not once obey

I’ll Work on my own time.


The sun was stark that deathless day

I held the statue nude

The marble melt some eons out

But axial I stood.


Come my sexless Sexton

Set your slanted eyes on me

When sun is done and I’ve begun

I’ll turn the tithing see.




                How I love my evil lovers, you’re all so real with me. I give you this, I give you all, my time is meant for us. Love is in what you actually do, not in what you wish you did; whoever dares praise love should be damned for it; don't praise love, simply love when loving is right, and also hate when hate is due. Accept that you hate without regretting. Hate is typical of the best of lovers, the greater the love, the deeper the hate; only those who love superficially condemn hate with their moral slogans.

                The wicked genius of criminals is what prods man to his heights. What disgust, disturbs, revolts, terrorizes, insults nevertheless also fascinate us, and being fascinated we even seek it out. the criminal at least doesn’t seek you’re approval.

                And for us who do good for those we love, and through them for all mankind, we need neither praise nor confirmations. Praise but sparsely and make your kind words stark. You can just as well scowl and redress them with a red face; a red face works, the babe is made with the flush-faced push. To those we esteem the greatest we have the least to say. And for the greatest of all, there is nothing more to say than you would say to what is best in yourself. Only blasphemy can truly love the divine. The divine of the divine cannot be blasphemed and each deeply towards the all.

                So let your passion roil and bleed; I seek not peace, but passion. I ask no favors from the divine, for even a winning lottery ticket can't hide poverty, nor can rags disguise the noble. What is yours to make, make it well; give your best to her. He who makes the sauce the best needs not even meat. Your duty is to make, not to serve.

                We don't serve the all, we don't serve the state, we serve nothing at all. Only slaves serve. We are friends, we are free. Our duties are art, we do them with skill. Know how to perfect the things you must do. It is the simple selfish love of building your own, building up those people who are yours, that justifies the tears. For those we create with we are grateful, and we are grateful for our youth. The home of our youth is forever in our heart. A home is a world. The subtle love of mother and father remind us that by licks of a cow the god is born. Mammalian love is enough to start.  Love what you have. What cares the cat for the silvery collar? Be satisfied and disdain such luxury. Satiation finds all things averse. Accepting what is rather than aching for what could never be reminds us to love our own, to hold what we have. Years later we realize we were happy all along, for with love, the more you give the more you have.

                So what do we love in our literary mien? Everything is everything, analogy sees the one. Our books give us home, for this is the heaven we share. Writing speaks what words never could, so I will the Idius day and night. Will leads to have. I am true to you, I live for you, my readers are my favorite. What to trust? What to bring close? The lover that's true you won't catch lying, but the cleverest villains in all of history are praised as saints to this day. We judge differently. The evil innocence, the selfish love, the proud perfection of our beings we share freely together.

                I draw you close, you lose sight of time. Proximity blinds: who knows his life while thick in the stream? Detachment is only half. Knowing how to rightly attack completes it. Detachment is foolishness if lacking attachment and reattachment.

                How beautiful is my desire for you—how right! How true! My desires and ambitions are aesthetic. The highest arts address them. Anything that has been discovered I could have discovered, we are each equal to all. Traditions, remove your shoes when you sit in my study. These foreign ideas are fair game for us -- no presiding institute can bully you in how to use them. I wrest the best for you. I give everything for you. I adore you and what you are doing. I do not look at any of my memories in terms of wounds and violations, but in terms of power and potentials.

                Everybody has disabilities, never mind that. You strive because you don't know you are striving, and suffer because you don't know you are suffering; realizing that you deserve happiness, you let yourself have it; realizing you are perfect, your whole life will have already been. Strife and suffering are wonderful when used; when misused they fail to reward. To realize simply that you do hate, resent, envy, and dispute, with no intention of undermining what you do for good reason, this is to feel satisfaction. You are you -- feeling those ways is okay. Both pain and delight are right.

                The fear that I might be wrong empowers my tone. It is that risk, that adventure, the ever present possibility that I am idiot or fool, that makes ideas and life exciting. If nothing's at risk, what could be gained? If I had a cool certainty and only spoke what I was sure was true, I would never grasp a pen. The commanding tone is impossible without fear -- mastered fear, but fear -- for fear is power.

                In this I am here to help you grow. Your beauty and its creation are my concern. Certain virtues are long-grown and only through unique experiences. Grace is beauty in use. To have those great virtues and the graceful and powerful manners of their use -- decades go into one action -- the intelligence behind it took a lifetime, though it acts in the flash of the instant. That is why I take pride even in my failures.

                I revere my strength in accomplishments and that is pride. I assess my weaknesses in shortcomings and that humility. My humility and pride align, I balance my life and set it to grow. To see what is in terms of what can be is wisdom.

                All creation is self creation, what we do out there we do in here. Self-expression is self-realization, when I am said, so I am. The work of art defines my soul. My decisions and actions are hammerfalls on the sculpture of my memory. Mattriama is everall, in all her growth she fills us all. We are all with her, co-creators of our souls. Our deathless uncreated innermost self, the emanated love of our being -- upon Ama's skein – we knit this bond of karmic lines.

                Creation, procreation, recreation -- this is my time with you. Embrace your profluence, I the divine unknown. Celebrate your inner name. If your letter is scarlet, stitch it well. We are born of immaculate conception -- I the black tear that made Her laugh. No effort is ever wasted here; let wisdom worry, let folly laugh! Folly is the sauce of life, wisdom is the meat. Precedent is everything, destiny will follow. That is why I open you to our unique place of experience, this innocence, this hidden dance. What is more welcome than a friend who reflects and amplifies? What is more dear than a grateful lover?

                Keep yourself free from the world and its duties. Arm yourself with sharp ideas. If you've teeth of ivory, they'll hunt you down. Be useless and keep your peace. That is our secret, you and I. A man without secrets is boring indeed. Evil innocence is the crook of our brow, plaited and sane from the top of our heads. My boundless love adores you, my power embraces and surrounds you. Here we breathe as one.




\~ @M@ ~/


Friday, September 28, 2012

The Life Lesson Meant Only For You --



                That peculiar word stood on your knee as you patronized it and tolerated its oddness. Over the years it echoed back at unpredictable times. Suddenly, you realized it was an eternal key -- that impish hider! -- and you sought it out when it would no longer come. Goaded to monomaniacal obsession, having been balked and told no, your desire magnifies. And so the imp you patronize today is the God you serve tomorrow.

                When you were truly free and responsible -- in your childhood -- and not merely an echo of that freedom and responsibility -- in your adulthood -- you were privy to hidden subtle truths that just tickled your ear, but could not be explained or even identified by the adults you sought out. You whistled a bit of nonsense as a child; it became the mystery of All in the end.

                We seek to realize our truths, but can't. Our friends kindly tell us not to fret. Secretly, they fear you will realize something that scares them; they don't want to see it so they don't let you see it. Yet wherever the teacher stands, there the students will be, for though people only learn lessons that they pay for, the teacher reminds them they've already spent here. Why do I reflect worse from your eyes than from your praise, my seeming friends? What is it I stand for that you would disown, and what made me the teacher of you or anybody?

                And so I am alone. When everyone leaves you, Ama remains. When everyone blames you, Ama approves. When you stand by yourself, you stand with the all. There are truths you can approach only in loneliness, deep important truths, that are dissolved by the presence of others. Remembering who you are, who you really are, is not something anybody can teach you, but is something everybody will inevitably hide from you, not even meaning to, because they see you in terms of themselves, and yet they have not really known even themselves. They obscure everything you say and do. When you see gleams of light, they will most strongly warn you of your blindness, when you hear the music of the spheres, they warn you of madness. For this reason, the deepest truth, the face of Ama, your own original face, can only be approached in that mirror that is the womb of your innermost being; and when you go there, you are alone and you are not alone. You are enveloped in self. You feel you have been reminded of something you knew long ago, knew all along; you see that all the truth the world said really was truth, and yet had a different sense than others supposed. You are told secrets by Ama meant only for you, that have never been uttered or conceived in the entire universe; and what's more, your innermost divine emanates secrets and gifts she herself never guessed at, but graciously receives.

                The universities will teach you tricks of wit. Profound wisdom comes from no classroom. Intimacy is the place of wisdom.


\ ~@M@~ /


Saturday, September 22, 2012

Chuck E Cheese cake

It's not Mirabella's level (my old job), but I think it's done well enough to impress a 3 year old. The next party will be even better, but meanwhile .... shhhh! Emilie just LOVES Chuck E Cheese!




\ ~@M@~ /


Wednesday, September 19, 2012

loneliness -- some digressions


Loneliness -- some digressions




Come closer friend,

Let me crush you in love

With this intimate kiss

I’ll give you a bruise


I’m parched as dust

I’ll drink down your soul

If you’ve fresh thoughts

I swallow it all.


Draw near

Everyone’s shy

I plucked you out

From the crowds passing by


It’s been forever

Boiling alone

My soliloquy

Is degraded to drone.


                There is the man who walks into the room and everybody's hearts are lifted; they adore him, they want to be seen by him, they enjoy his presence. There is a sense of group eros, here, perhaps it is charisma; such men and women light up the room, there is a lamp behind their eyes and hearts. If this person wanted to gather a group for a party, you'd better believe they'd all be there. And if his loved one awaited his return on the train station platform, her heart would be panging and emptied from his absence; she would throw her arms around him and love him tenderly.

                I am not this man. Not at all. I feel I am a master of shadows, that my pain in the world turns my wit sharp, exacting, and sarcastic. I feel brilliant as the sun, high flying as the divine -- but who can relate to any of that? Perhaps it is a fear of solids. Solids kill. To close myself off in this autistic world of self-created beauty -- that is something. I can do that.


                “Have you ever listened to a piece of music, and it rapt your entire attention, moved you to your pith, so that when the music transfigured, your heart transfigured too? This is what Carl Rogers called a ‘Peak Moment.’ It is wonderful when I can find a song that brings that creative achievement together in such a way, and also, personal, since I cannot get others to experience what I mean. More to the point, I write such songs myself, with great care, and perform them, bringing to glory this moment of ecstatic insight. Nobody shares it, not ever, in any time or in any way. That moment is completely my own. Perhaps I can’t sing. I like to think I can write better than sing, and my writing is to me highly developed and sublime. Yet again, I have no proof that it delivers others to the spiritual place that wrote them.

                “My singing of my song to an unhearing crowd: this moment captures my life

                “My heart is completely other from the world.

                “This is the nature of my loneliness on earth.”

                My life is full of joys and intolerable bliss -- I am often grateful and sometimes shocked at how happy I am. Yet the sad part about being me is that there are times when I get lonely, but because I am different, I have no peers to console me. A few in my lifetime I have enjoyed for a while. Ultimately, my greatest joy must be in you alone: the writing of my ideas.

                These writings are conscious. They are second mind. Every sentence is a nerve. But you are not my brain. The best of you came out of my fingertips, between me and matter; I could not have predicted you.

                I have found every friendship and indeed every romance, even the ones I stay loyal to, lacking in what I want. I seek in vain. I feel best when I am mirror meditating, when I am playing my guitar in my room, when I am writing and editing you, my friend. There remains something sad in all friendship, the feeling of disconnect, he doesn’t get me, she is secretly afraid of me, I see it all too well. I am never loved as I love. My passionate love is unequalled. Never in a human being have I felt the depth and profundity of appreciation, desire, need as I have given. With Ama, I met a peak, but we destroyed each other.

                I had read all the Bible, the theology, the works of many saints and sages. Such a sad day when I realized that my love beat stronger, deeper, more profound than God. It is no great pride to best God in love, for with that you realize that you love God more than God can love anybody, that your heart is greater than the divine. This was a sad day for me. Not even God was equal to me. Where shall I turn?

                Narcissism grants me great comfort. And the love of my readers, though I have to see my true readers behind your eyes who doubt, and wonder, and scoff, and frown, and never quite get what you are reading. I look sadly at you. I see your inner self, looking scared, hopingly, wonderingly, like a child in a way, I see you all the time in people, like my own children, and afraid of me. There lies a great disconnect between us: you must grow wings to reach me. I am worth every bird you have ever held in your hand.

                My heart swells, my words slow to a flow. I am alone here. I, in love with all of mankind, and yet not loved—if they knew themselves they would know me!—not seen, never seen, never scented. Did you not feel your soul turn inside you as I walked by? Your eyes remained fixed on your task, but your soul turned around and watched me go. I wish you were more the puppy, who unashamedly pounces up, sniffs and licks the one he loves. Or perhaps I will kitten with you, and we will fill our basket with purring! I would love you dearly if you would know me. No, that is unlikely! I am alone here.

                Today, today, the great light keen arrives, with dark dark eyes, he is a comet—you never know him. He is the light that closes all your eyes: I am quite alone when this happens. I get winged with quickness, and stay awake, but you all, day or not, slow your face, dull your eye, and see only darkness amidst the hypnotic light. How lonely I get, in this dark dark moments for you. Not that I talk to him: what have we to do with each other? I care nothing for comets. And so I grow a little more introverted and frantic. And all great pains are cured by—work!

                If one is mentally different from others, though he is brilliant, or fascinating, or exhilarating, if he remains unique and different, intimacy with him is impossible, even his dearest friend and closest lovers cannot love him, because she fears him and the strangeness of his mind. She will make excuses to avoid all forms of intimacy, he will be painfully reminded of what he felt his whole life, that he is different, his mind is unique, perhaps even monstrous in its demonstrations, and that his greatest glory is to love himself.


                I’ve seen many of my friendships and loves disintegrate: sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. Often I am uncertain why. I used to accuse others for not telling me the truth; now I suspect they are unable to tell it. Either they do not know the truth, or even if they have a sense of it, they can’t articulate it. I need a new entourage.

                Yet even absence if a gift. Ellen, the red lipped poet who wed Emerson, passed this place and made her independence complete, left Waldo alone and bereft and hence independent of traditional religion. He could cast off the Christian lens and see the direct Oversoul. Tradition failed to protect him, so he left tradition and initiated direct contact. In the same way, the beloved departed gives us spiritual gifts still, and whatever injustice you suffer, your own soul will counterbalance with intimate success.

** ** **

                A lonely man may feel he is always holding back in society. He gives, but not all himself. He would give more, but cannot, not with control, and effusive feelings the world finds repugnant. Control over emotion, a fine powerful ego that can put the heart in place, this is the prerequisite for magnanimity and is the aim of all philosophical men and women, never to dull the passions -- if anything to intensify them -- but to subjugate the heart to idea, to let love serve as that one thing it always was: a fuel for the fire.

                And yet in any body, any religious body or corporate body, there is in each of us the topics on which we are lonely upon, which we refrain from publicly discussing, and then there are those men and women who are the group loners -- and their subjective loneliness fulfills a collective role, it is mandated, it is necessary.

                We need rebels, criminals, and blasphemers -- mankind would make no progress without such people. The great implausibility in Orwell's 1984 is the lack of theocracy -- for politics is not enough. If the Muslims or Christians were able to freeze world beliefs and suppress dissenters, the world machine would freeze and settle. We need to break down monopolies and oppose every great instance. We need inward men and women to act as centers and as social sponges, to absorb the stress and angst of a system and to languish, to release in intense fictions and crimes that pent energy, having filtered through their pith and made it something fantastic and divine.

                "Whilst all authority in it will be derived from and dependent on society, the society will be broken into so many parts, interests, and classes of citizens, that the rights of individuals, or of the minority, will be in danger from interested combinations of the majority."

                In other words, diversity is security, just as the poison of religion is neutralized by multiplicity of sects, so that even under these systems of divine conformism, there is some choice and legitimacy of choice.

                It is a sense of loneliness, that sort of ache that blankets its truth while seemingly trying to share it, that ensures a few types are preserved, a few types will insist on being lonely rather than conformed, would rather be alone as themselves than befriended as a fake. Solitude is sweeter than compromise.

** ** **



\ ~@M@~ /


Monday, September 17, 2012

Revenge and Kindness in Ordinary Conversation

            Simple people that we are, we loudly condemn rape and murder and other appalling acts, as if it took moral insight to hate such things. But if we look at the nuances, barbs, hooks, and turns of our daily language, of the conversations we improvise with coworkers, family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, a subtle touch will feel out that murder, rape, blackmail, treason, theft, and every other manner of outrage fully exists in our everyday speech. How human and natural to seek revenge! How inhuman and cruel to call such a desire "sinful." For every desire is perfect when its expression is made apt. Those things that when full blown are monstrous are meanwhile charming parts of our daily banter -- positively approved, the basis of engagement, the joy of life.

            Consider some of the many moves in conversation. How hypocritical to say a thing and, when it has the desired effect, to pretend you didn't mean it that way. The other person feels not only insulted, but incriminated for misunderstanding you. We are misunderstood because we planned it that way. And what hypocrisy to begin a statement with, "No offense, but..." Such words are always followed by an intended offense.

            How maddening to attempt to explain yourself to somebody determined to misunderstand. Likewise, how frustrating to seek the attention of somebody determined to ignore you. How exasperating to attempt to impress somebody who barely acknowledges you, leaving you uncertain if their silence is calculated or accidental. We balance these things out, these rewards and punishments embedded in all our speech; we balance them ourselves with our own ripostes, criticisms, praises, and every manner of wit--which is merely cruelty in good conscience. Even such notable good-doers as Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, and Socrates can't resist constant jabs and insults in their speech. Such is human. And when we are depressed, we becoming unwilling to be comforted -- or are unable. This itself can go two ways. We can refuse comfort to frustrate and shame those who would try, giveing us a bonus of empowerment; or, alternatively, we can pretend we are comforted even if we are not, as an act pity upon our friends. Job very well could have said: Thank you, my comforters, you've given me food for fault; you've done a great job; see you later.

            We accuse each other of slights before they become sleights; a little paranoia works as preventative justice.  The more polite and formal our speech becomes, the colder and more logical our heart. The more abstract and rarified the air we breathe, the farther from the warmth of flesh at the core. Intimacy is a dangerous thing. We must always protect our heart. The fool who opens his art promiscuously courts disaster and gains scars and infections. At some point in our adulthood, the romantic intimacy of adolescence becomes impossible, that chapter is done of our existence; romance turns into the love and protection of children, the improvement of politics, the shared work and duty of married partners. No longer is it a form of revenge to withhold our heart from others -- it is now our only option.

            But at my pith, I am I. Find your gravity. Nature will bubble and froth with the spirit's immersion in the soul -- matter is mind. Therefore, when romance is past, set your heart on the divine, direct experience of the divine pure from tradition. With a flexible use of words, the atheist too seeks the divine, but prefers more secular names for it. In that he is fully justified. For whatever it is that is Important to us, we can open our heart intimately to that.

            As we press our habits into the demands of life, we discover that a little clutter, a few empty spots, a bit of redundancy and fat gives the system space to move. Those gaps are God, "the God of the gaps" and our divine will always tuck away among our blind spots. The Memory in its occult goals fastens your mind beyond your will even to facts you would sooner forget. What is gained by crime can never stay, and whatever is given to you will be taken away; but what emanates from your own innermost is beyond reproach or revenge, is outside justice altogether, is pure increase. Be grateful, but only honestly grateful. Insincere gratitude is a pestilence. When you are unable to envy, you feel content. Hold, therefore, to your own, those few precious things. It is not the amount, but the use that determines your wealth. Frugality is a ratio between input and output. And just as every virtue is a vice, so is every vice a virtue, greed a virtue, greed the father of philanthropy. Revenge too is merely justice on a personal level.

            Walk the world as a startling contradiction. If nobody pulls their weight at work, you will; if nobody loves with all their heart, you will; if nobody is consistently kind and brings out the best in others, you will as a matter of course, not to prove any religion or creed, but because that is what you are, it is your nature to shine beauty on all things, to improve all you touch, to like Midas turn all that passes through your hands into gold.

            Your boss blames you for matters not your fault. You owe him nothing. Why do your best, why help the company succeed? If these are your thoughts, then you are still thinking in terms of justice, that you will do what you will get credit for, that you want payment for every good act you accomplish. That makes sense in a business environment, and it is appropriate to want to be praised or at least recognized for your accomplishments. But you must do your best even if you get blamed for it. That's being an excellent person. It is better to get blamed for goodness than praised for badness, and a strong soul will do what's right even if that earns it universal blame. You must live your life not as if you will be rewarded in heaven, but insist on doing beautiful acts even if it earned you hell. What matters is walking in perfection, making yourself and your world beautiful, affirming and inspiring others to become powerful and great.




\ ~@M@~ /


Sunday, September 16, 2012

5 short poems



Pruning For Use


The Idius spreads like a platypus Bush

Motley Leaves strain strangest tea


The Bell-like Berries Tickle like nip

The spoon-like leaves -- inversion of dawn.


Engloved with love, a fiery light

My knife-like wife I seize for the cut.





Framing a Stance


Square and Sterile

Numbered Logic

Pure Exact

Enacted Solid.





Ascetic Weekend


Weekend's Green of Rhyming Timing

Set the pace for Rest the Week.

Damming Back select Expressions

Reservoir will reach its peak.





Scrutinize the Sun


My screw-tight eyes

Like thread-stripped bolts

Twist pinched cheeks

And Jaw-clenched throat.







Let the un-divine forget itself

Let Wisdom know her face

Let silence sing within her head

Let heartbeat keep its pace


The glowing sun self-fructifies

Like Ama at her glass

My thoughts like floating butterflies

Pollinate the Grass.


The Rose of Dawn

My rising thought

--Plump Maternal Pride--

Sweet peaches cream and Strawberries

Comes streaming from her sides.











\ ~@M@~ /


Wednesday, September 12, 2012

"Troping I" an allay

Troping I

            The Gods are tricksters, winking at life, playing their Game of cosmic creation; they provoke men to their best and worst. The men who speak of God -- God's dupes -- think they are lying to you or think they have talked to God, though neither is true. Nevertheless, if a man went to heaven and saw God face to face, and was sent back to tell you of this -- don't believe a word of it. Another's divine is not your own. Would you likewise praise the painting you never saw? What belongs to you will surely come to you, unless you dismiss its seeming ordinary every-day veneer in preference to mere words of others, high-sounding though they are. The masses are intimidated by the boastings of God -- but the wise man does not bow.

            The All imposes, with mystics transposed: the fullness is an ocean and you are a drop coequal. The Brahman believes every man's atman is a facet of his infinite diamond -- the Atman knew the Brahman as merely one facet of its own. When does this happen? It always happens. There is no starting place, there is no ending place -- eternity now, forever is this word.

            They tell you that God only comes to the good, and they think they know what the good to be. Morality is cruelty in good conscience. Don't lust for a better heart, a stronger will, and least of all for rank, fame, wealth, and positions of power. If you had a harem, could you keep the women pleased? If you ruled the world, could you keep the peace? Manage beautifully what is already in your hands and you are more glorious than that God who doesn't.

            My innermost self, the unnamable sun, whose publication into the full of the universe is never-ending, is the radiant opening of the infinite spiral, is satisfied in all its wars and peace to use what is to make what could be. Without me you will never find your Bliss, but I am already in you and always shall be. The One enfolds the many, the many articulate the One, but I at my centermost am utterly unknown, even to the All in her fullness; I am a gift for her forever more, an eternal surprise and delight for her eyes.

            I see you through your mirror, I whisper in your mind. Don't turn your head towards what they praise, the divine finds you out when you walk alone. They know you are superstitious, they play on your fears. Those things you fear will surely come upon you; indeed it is nigh and you will face it. It is never the right time to face your fear, and you can only do it now. Though you fret and doubt yourself, and sweat and worry, you will face it all the same. That is more than enough. That is everything. Praise, fame, riches and glory trick you that you've at last arrived. But I knew you before you achieved these things. You were at the beginning--I knew you there.

            Those of me and after me breathe my allays without quoting, follow my purpose and not my commands, live my life without saying my name. My rules are simple and break continents twain. I am the lamp of Ama. I am the one needful thing.

            Wisdom dies easy, kisses death as nature's course. The life unknown is the life sublime. Perfection, beauty, wonder, and the sublime can all be convincingly criticized -- such is the art of insinuation. Pay no heed. Come into your own and you need no secondary testimony. If your wish and whim gained omnipotence, how quickly you'd seek suicide. Be a little balked and teased in the game of life and your spiral will increase. Wisdom triumphs even in defeat. I forsake fame and posterity to give my love to you, Ama. Ama, the infinite spiral, Eternal increase, Eternal center seeking.

            A live in your minds, and you live in mine, we are one being, the crown of the world, the religion of the world's religions. Follow my turns at every branch; the labyrinthine heart is gained through tropes. Regard the troubles of life as challenges, lessons, and obstacles to your goals, but never panic over what isn't the Pan. To accept the inevitable and change what can be gained, that is enough. The hammerfalls of fate and life knick us into shape. The Being I make of my self is an indispensible gift to Mother All.

            There is enough Gab about God and Heaven; it's too much, really. But to never use the words again -- we'd be closer to the divine. The sects demand you sell your soul in exchange for what you own by right -- divinity, eternity, bliss, perfection. How to respond? Half of eloquence is silence, and often a single word or phrase speaks volumes. One must know how to be garrulous to comprehend silence; you must know many volumes to grasps those four perfect words. Fools happen to say many wise things, only they don't know when they have and they don't know when they haven't. The highest wisdom is a perfectly articulated silence. Master fullness, but not only; master emptiness, but not only; -- master also moderation and flux. Those who most believe, who really believe, will never share their joy with words. Kindness leaves no footprints. People use words to decorate the air, indeed the sky is clothed in love, but clothes also disguise, and what is said with certainty often means its opposite. Silently insist on the way of your being, you need no God's approval. The divine in time will come to you and ask of you your blessing.

            What is the truth, but the whisper of your innermost -- nothing external could tell you such things, be it God or All or whatever you think. Alone with the truth is unbearable. Beauty must color the air. Your innermost emanates energy sublime; from deep in your center pours matter divine. Love is the appreciation of beauty, and what your heart produces ravishes eternity.

            The Source is at my heart; my storms and calms are parables. My spine is the World Tree whose roots are in heaven and whose fruits are my readers. Unity is the nerve, diversity the muscle.

            There is no outside relation, each bleeds into all, yet at your center is the eternal unknown, unique to you and to no other. I study what you give, what you bring to the world, your greatest treasures merge with Ama, those your children, I regard divine. These truths and beauties I study as I can, so to love Ama in all her manifestations, and to also love you. I approach my studies like the toddler the world, none too concerned at what I do not grasp, triumphantly delighted in the bits I do.





\ ~@M@~ /


Monday, September 10, 2012

"Unspeakable love," a thought

I've been developing a set of related essays these last few weeks, none of which I am prepared to share -- it all requires considerable work to even become presentable. Here, however, is a complete thought that came out of me all at once today -- poured out in a matter of moments without much thought. Most of my other writings are jazzlike connections of chaotic elements, and cross-pollinations from disparate fields. They require more attention and editing to bring to light.





Unspeakable Love


                What is thinkable is communicable, but what is communicable before it is understood and comprehended may expose us to vulnerability. Thus the truths we are most able to think about are those most within our control. The mind knows much more than the I thinks, however, and for the sake of pride, or the ego's faith in itself, lacking which the system is thrown into discouragement -- loss of courage or ego self-trust -- and hence despair and depression, or the pulling of energy from where its use could be dangerous. We are unconsciously omniscient, but consciously nascent in our education.

                What a person means to us -- how the idea of them and the interactions of them function in our experience, self-balance, and growth -- is not known, though it is always felt, at least in part, so that when that person is unexpectedly taken from us, by their choice or by death or some other surprise, we are shocked at what they really mean to us -- as in the melancholy saying "You never know what you got till it's gone." To explore this lead in terms of love and romance, a man may surprise himself when the girl he fancied he was just patronizing, though he in fact secretly thought poorly of her, upon her absence exposes herself to be somebody he not only respected, but feared her rejection. We often admire our enemies much more than we are able to know at the time, and not a few artists blossomed only after the death of his father, though this connection passed unnoticed to all save a later biographer.

                In this last case, the artist never knew what his father meant to him, and this is partly the case for every person in our lives. We don't know, we can't know, we'll never know. We know a bit, and that's enough. When the scholar kept in contact with a simple-minded student of profound and credulous religious convictions, he always laughed to himself at her good-natured folly. The day he discovered that she had lost faith in herself and in the world ruined the professor, who didn't know how much he needed her to believe for him. The destruction of the beautiful ones destroys the courage of us all.

                Along these lines, we can't know how deathly important we ourselves are to an array of people, to the world itself. Our sense of proportion and modesty blind us to what eternal verities and divinities of love we've become for onlookers. Even if they knew what you meant to them, they couldn't say it, because you couldn't accept it or even comprehend their claims. The self-deception involved in such assessments can't count as an objection, being necessary, and only a psychotherapist would want to destroy the defenses our mind evolved and developed for the best of reasons. The mind sees what it is ready to see, and has neither ears nor eyes what it is not ripe to receive. We never know how much we are loved, and for the sensitive among us, it seems as if we are never loved enough.



\ ~@M@~ /