Delius must have been the protector. I mean, who else would aver otherwise?
To whom do I write to here? Do I render here formal diatribes?
Oh yes I began this log as a form of self laceration-- can I get to my own indictments before these indictments come from you? I mean if I fess up before you make an indictment, then your words become a kind of joke:
One day you might come up to them, and lightly say:
"Oh, I only meant to say that we caught the lad jerking off behind the shed!"
-But he has already told us, and he made a fool out of you!
What is my own indictment? That I am some sort of a bigot? I mean, that's just about the worst thing one could say of anyone. But am I a bigot? Oh God! A question that will make me be honest. I don't like to think of myself as a bigot. Am I a bigot by association? White anglo-saxon european protestant, I mean W.T.F. cut the lad some slack! Maybe the best we can hope for is like one episode of Trailer Park Boys: "Who's the Microphone Assassin?" J-Roc gets beaten down in his whiteness, but finally the cool black rapper says to him something like "You ain't black, dude, but your shit is tight!"
OK, so my shit is tight, that's the best I could do.
I'm not saying that my shit is tight, but if my shit were tight that would be the best I could do! Jeeze!
I can't indict myself any further, but I am somehow standing trial (indicted for innane and rambling blog making).
(Unless you take the participation in blogs or blogging as a phenomenon as some sort of late capitalist bigotry. ...Unless you take some part of me that is not yet open to the suffering, that is blind, that cannot see the true suffeing in others.... and that could be... Unless there could be many parts of me, my brothers and sisters will agree, that did not choose to see the suffering of others.)
"Let me see then the suffering of others without blindness... "
Are you so certain that you want to ask for that? Its a noble thought but... bloody hell!
(my action would then be predicated on the direct wish not to create pain in others, because all pain would be fully experienced as my own...)
"Nay, I argue for peace among all men! (Nay! Neigh! Nigh!) I argue for peace among the workers and whippers! the bulkers and the biggots! (I mean what is worse than being a biggot? Is there anything worse than being a biggot?)
Let's have some peace among simple working men and among middle management alike, always saying:
"What would it avail my life were it not I among you!"
That is why I need you, my slave-men and my bigots!
(The mediocrity of evil)
Bigotry and Bigamy, always a "Bigger Man than You" provokes this attitude. With this attitude you will go far until you will reach the country of "Well-Jesus-said-my-Kingdom-is-not-of-this- kingdom." And you have got to go on looking with nothing but books in your eyes. Then you've got to see with the eyes of Tiresias,
cause aint no earthly eyes tied you.
And then you are already pretty far out on the road, far away from the profane provinces, far away from any provenance and profess: the districts and countries of men. -"But you barely stirred an inch," the old woman said! "You barely got even on your knees, let alone stood up and took a step!"
Words from the original disillusionist, they almost sound like a dirge now, the insane chanting of "Emo" children, who want to slip back into some womb:
Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn't talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony.
(More words, and always already in a context which challenges our perception of a continuous hold: there is always something spilling out or away... and what is that? -Oh do not ask "what is it?" We must go and make our visit!")
Prufrock: Yes the old men, finally old having frittered their way out in so much useless speculation, but it is the fate of the old man to have fretted and to have wittered and to have whittled down the choices of his life.
Shamus and Delius are out. A brief hunting party. A minor indiscretion. The twin gods, yes, Thomas, I visited them long ago. Shamus is the shaman, the flaming lit candle, the tooth of fire. And Delius was just an after thought! Prometheus and Epimetheus... or later the Dioscuri, Pollux and Castor. Sons of Zeus know only their earthly mothers, but question the origin of their fathers... they say "my kingdom is not of this kingdom." We have had enough of them then, these sons of Zeus, who keep speaking of being spies in their own land.
I have said that the name of the god is "Awake!" And what is wakefulness but a separation: that fateful spilling forth of context, the froth of the chalice (read scheide or "sheath")". "Kurze brief zum Langen Abschied"
Abscheid is farewell, the essence of the feminine: separation and farewell. (Ra rides upon his little cosmic vessel into the galactic beauty of the stars.)
Delius seems to mean nothing. He was a composer who lived in the Nineteenth Century-- that is all! I am abashed, and poorly funded in trying to sort out this Delius thing. What do I have in the matter of funding? A matter of going out into the world and asking "What is my value?" Delius, poor in spirit! Delius, devious, Delia Elena San Marco (The Borges story, don't you remember?). Delius and Delicious: Di-Lectum: Dilectus, beloved. (Can I stand the portion of myself that rests voluptuous in all respects? -Only in that I can stand the part of me that is homeless and upon the road!).
And Lectus is the bloody conch or bier. (Let us not speak of the hero on his funeral pyre as the flaming tongs and teeth of flame rose higher!): He glimpsed her hand grasped around it, the bloody pink conch, sound the horn of wakefulness: Brrrrroooooaaar!
(And in comes the cat with a) "Meoowwwww!"(he has had a successful venture into cattiness.)
Thank you, Bastet! ...And now we continue:
Lectus is the elect and the illicit: choice: more precisely of the frame, given that the framer is enough of a lover and not a fighter, given that the frame is offered and not forced upon us. The framer is beautiful or beloved insofar as he makes certain beloved choices--- these choices make the genius into the beloved, the uncondemned, the rarer and more beautiful are his choices.
That is why I would say I love Werner Herzog or Thomas Beckett or maybe Addas Kiorastami... maybe Matthew Barney, but I know my friend would say he is just some young upstart (and I would say that my young upstarts are just getting started). I am a lover of these men who have made their frame so explicit. They could do no wrong, that is what they are, and that is what they are worth. Other men I will condemn for their poor choices, their lack of aesthetic acumen (aesthetic meaning not merely that which is perceptible by the senses, but also the blindness of the seer Tiresias, another great hermaphrodite). Blindness and sight: the sum of our aesthetic choices. I love the men that see visions with the eyes of Tiresias, because the other men are distracted, and become slave to a woman or to a landscape, or to some sentiment or sentimentality, which then becomes intolerable and suffocating: which is the source of every cliche.
Werner Herzog: the eye of Tiresias. The eye of a blind man who was forced into the blind, into the blackness, who offered up his sight to the void. Where no eye is round there the eye of Tiresias a metaphor based upon a ruined, crumpled organ ("my kingdom is not of this kingdom") (a dangerous, tricky thing to say). But so is it to say that the eye is not of this world and still it is not blind, still it has vision.
Shamus is light and vision and Delius is cavity in the shining tooth, a creche or a cave.
Shamus and Delius used to own a book publishing company. Out there on the edge of the wilderness, we keep pushing them out further to the Mongolian plane-- heard of only in Murakami tales of utter savagery, human skinning, out there on the Mongolian plane, where the dust collects on funny hats like colored parenthesis on human heads, the caravanseri have wandered and some have lingered, and some have been lost forever before they got to any other place.
At first we wondered it this was a children's book publishing company, but no longer have we lingered. Let the children be our children, but let them be children! Let them be not of us! Let the children make their own book publishing company, and let our book publishing company grow old and perish out here on the edges of some plane. (it was some plane we were traveling, with a crooked mark, it was some plane we were traveling when we got into some conversation, me and this other stranger, who became known as my closest male friend but still kept his alien distance.)
And what of women? What of this Deborah? I write this because, well, she is in some foreign land. Yes, I'm lost somewhere, she's in some foreign land!
Throw women into the mix, otherwise it is a stag-fest. Throw women into the fare, then you have rutting stags, each vying for one woman's attention: who is most pretty and who is most attractive?
And I am sitting home alone, I have my barrel of gin (I don't really like gin in reality but please stay with my metaphor!), the firey djinn, my spirits, ghosts, images, reflections like troubled water of spirit, like troubled glints of son on the water. That's what it's like to be alone here. Decaying Brit, yes, neither this nor that: that is my name. To sit home alone is to expose oneself to one's continual perception that one has had a bad mood. Things aren't perfect either. I wouldn't say that I am lonely. I have just turned toward the inner voluptuous that is the meaning of my woman. And for tonight this is OK. At home with my troubled spirits. Can the Anima have meaning? Meaning is the provenance of the old man, but that is the meaning of my bad mood. Meaning that the mood is my ligament, link.
Some men will write out their fiction, and will point to this or that possibility, but I will just point to my foul mood. There she sits like a dirty buzzard (buzzards are actually very clean). And what is this vulture but MAAT:
"In the medieval pack, the title card is Le Mat, adapted from the Italian Matto, madman or fool; the property of this title will be considered later. But there is another. or (one might say) a complementary, theory. If one assumes that the Tarot is of Egyptian origin, one may suppose that Mat (this card being the key card of the whole pack) really stands for Maut, the vulture goddess, who is an earlier and more sublime modification of the idea of Nuith than Isis.
"There are two legends connected with the vulture. It is supposed to have a spiral neck; this may possibly have reference to the theory (recently revived by Einstein, but mentioned by Zoroaster in his oracles) that the shape of the universe, the form of that energy which is called the universe, is spiral.
"The other legend is that the vulture was supposed to reproduce her species by the intervention of the wind; in other words, the element of air is considered as the father of all manifested experience. There is a parallel in Anaxamenes' school of Greek philosophy." (Crowley, A. The Book of Thoth; Equinox vol. III, no.v. p.53)
What is startling is this Air-Originariness. It is startling and unsettling, for the latter Christian interpretation was that this was the Church of the Air: the dream of the false god or Demi-ourge. And the Demi-ourge is not the vision in the eyes of Tyresias. The Church of the Air comes up only round the Mormon radio programs, and while the Church of the LDS is extremely weird in places, I do not think it constellates that much Satanic crap: Satan breeds from hate and fear and intolerance. Mormons can have a lot of hang-ups and devices, but I do not think that they prefer their fears of others to their rejoicing in song... (and what was it about the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in Cremaster 2: a chorus of hate? The most startling and horrid of all nightmares, The Executioner's tale. But this is clearly not the wind .) I don't think it really matters-- this church-of-the-air-diabolic-stuff is just rubbish. Look, I believe the Mormons are good and beautiful people, and aside from the times that they look down upon me (or anyone) because I (or anyone) choose(s) not to be Mormon they are, in this moment, at least for me, angels of divinity, compassion and truth. I really like that they will redeem me after I am dead (at least that is my hope) --- after I have had a life to struggle and to contend that in some manner I have my own path of religious development--- my own visions--- they will redeem some part of my ghost that loves the truth--- even if it is only their vision of the truth. I love truth...
But air is not exactly Aether either. Air is still an aesthetic element, but it does not belong either to the imaginal realm of Tiresias, or to the emptiness which must in some manner pre-exist the unfolding of all elements. Pneuma, Prana, Spiritus, Ruach all this is fine to breathe across the void, but it is not the space itself. It is not the Apeiron and it is not Ain Soph Aur. But extension itself-- perceptible quality of empty extendedness... well this rapidly becomes uninteresting! What about saying that "the emptiness is endless"? (That's a little better.) All this is nothing more than just casting about for words without the astounding force of Prana behind them.
I keep thinking of "Fake Sparkle or Golden Dust" (the Peter Murphy song). This comes much closer-- I think that has that rather amazing issuance of "breath" in it.
These are not intellectual things-- the intellect just fails when it tries to analyze them, or it gives up: Was soll das Alles? This is the guardianship of language, and never does it go beyond its own feeble joking quality. But to make Prana into some kind of struggle for force of discourse or power becomes rapidly absurd and somehow belicose and turgid, like trying to read Ayn Rand for any length of time, the weakened animus becomes inflated, rather than containing any real strength, which would require ...soul. (Soul: the one who sits and is judged, and whose measure is the gathering of all of the images --- and the turning of images--- their transformations---of their life.)
Air is elementally akin to intellect, but only in its denigrated form. But what is offered here is the tracing of currents, lines in a dust-storm. Perhaps out of this unquiet dust storm this unsettling darkness, in modest homes glows a little oil lamp light. The darkness is vast: as the shadow cast by Jung holding a candle in the Alps (and from then on the entirety of the work of the unconscious would carry in the shadow, since conscious life had already become fascinated with the archetypal, realm of symbols...).
And what is the point of all nightmares but to wake us? Waking, separation, and abscheid, here we go into the rhythm again.
Deeper than the buffets of the winds of fate, and deeper than the pulverizing force of our own prana... deeper still is emptiness.... "my kingdom is not of this kingdom."
I have seen others who wrote long and complex-ly like this. I asked for 13 Haiku, so here goes:
1. Haiku follows us
Blackbirds are winging away
Will I make heart break?
2. Chord progression tease
One octave a pretty flirt
The other heart sob.
3. Shamus Delius
Two twins in a bad play
After Fish and Chips
4. Poem Upstart Wind
Column, twister likes Culture
In end burries us.
5. Samples are undone
I never was example
Wind will carry us.
6. Stiff, stirring, on-edge
The verdant Chinese garden
Plunder and murder
7. The end, no secrets
I blow the horn and witness
Sweetest Heart awake!
8. Sweetheart Deborah
I have ate all the peaches.
For you I am true.
9. Absurd spectacle
Sexual fidelity
Gladly my heart breaks
10. But not my promise
To be alone for you and
Be alone for us.
11. Lone Ontology
Meditate the galaxy
Not like Captain Kirk
12. Friend, are you lonely?
The friend to the lonely
Hg-Tristmegistus
13. This last poem smile
In dying we clear the way
Waving of the reed
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