Quick Update

Quick Update

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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