I have noticed that the ads on my space are primary adverts for alcohol abuse. I wish to fix this matter. I wish to create a single blog which will influence the advertisements forever associated with my blogger blogging page thing.
So, how to start.
How to write? How to write it well?....
Lets begin with travel. Travelling. Ancient Greece. The home of the fathers of gods. Metabolism of religion. Torah. Kaballah. Koran. The Kyballion, the ritual of Abremelin and the Rubaiyat of Omar Kyahham.
Let's find a place somewhere in the melting pot of immigrant new york harbor circa 250 A.D. when the gospels were just barely being written. Let's speak of Iessua, of the Heptaparaparsinok, of bermuda triangle and radioshack.
The the histories reveal that Ishmaeel was in love with repunzel, that half priced books lie! That time cannot be concealed by Fossil. If you want to lose weight, walk the Appalacian Path into Turkestan, over the untrodden bare bones of sephiroth and mnemosine's children. Let beauty decide for herself the fate of the living soul. Our metropolis is destined for comic failure. Our truth is destined for fossilization. We walk a whicker steppe up over styx and feminine hygiene. We uncover not only herpes, vagina, Hybrids, motorcycles, tom waits and the vaselines, we also uncover the next horizon which leads us into an unexcorcised right to being. Religion fails where mysticism couldn't catch our eye. Mysticism failed where modern culture already had its tentacles wrapped around the pinneal and petuitary. Jung and Alan Parsons and Job all flung into the primordial bitches brew, cooked up, administered, flung across the cafeteria, swept up and congealed in a kiln for the poverty stricken. Heroine and Elmer's glue. The palpitating nintendo brain of the universe swallowing from each starstuck and swarming brain, swallowing the epicyclic existance outside itself, lost in the esoteric egoistic singularity. Without its predeccesor, without the cosmos, the centers, the millions of centers, are merely food for termites and bedbugs and hollow, megalomaniacal intelligencia.
(.... Cajun Recipes .....,sorry)
We have to feed ourselves on brilliance. We have to seek out light, truth, brilliance. We have to be really lost. I say really because we become lost and independant as a means to becoming slaves. But, to be really lost means to also be really informed and strong, honest, brutal, human and humanly lost. Only from that desert can we find the smell of lost pneuma, of wisdom, not mere science and data and the assumptions of post simian knaves.
So when the computer comes to analyse my blog and find an advertisement to match...
I want it to be an advertisement for a cartoon....entitled:
Gandhi and Arjuna Visit the Moon People.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Assaya est?
After a week or so...as summer reaches climax and my mercurial transmutations take to their apogee and begin to flutter, and also as I attempt to steal back my life and death from fate's futilistic despotism. i'm setting my creative endeavors lower than normal and beginning to concentrate, for the moment, on the more simplistic, the less subtle, the less...eloquent works which I had set my headstrong heartn nerves against previously. It's impossible for me not to have more than two or three projects at a time, whether with art, books im reading, interests Im parting with rod and intentions in personnal forgings and deforestings. I've been up against a heap pile because the machines have been water logged.
i t has occured to me again, like running themes or like running waters, that environment plays a though subtle nonetheless instrumental, immense part cacophony of affibility in and among the body and mind and heart strings and creative movement and montage in a humans "business". ( for definition of Business, see Ludacris (rapper)). Moving into a place similar to that of my birth, though from local opinion, far better, I have decidied that all such brilliant peoples and chinese mediciners as the essenes, gurdjieff, reich, and anthony bourdain, they are all right! the body is connected to the heart bone! The heart bone Is connected to the head bone! The head bone IS connected to the world bone!!! The world bone May be connected to the God bone!!!
( respects to kerouac for that one.)
But nonetheless, I realize that my body is going through a frustration right now. My mind is going through a stagnant pool and my heart is a frustration making a migration on a merry-go-round. We're in the land of the doldrums. But, not defeated.
But Wait.
All is not for...not....
There is a light on the horizon. There is a shining blanket edging up over the steel girders on the horizon of mirth and bane. The is a small inscription writ over the ladder of the masons deluge laying. (That they can lay a 'deluge' has been the blind eye of historians for eons and aeons). The inscription above a cafe in Blanco, over a church window in Daalas (Baalas), and beneath the thin waters of pecos near a Ginkgo tree reads:
The spirit of man
Is the Candle of the Lord.
The inscription is brazens on the throttle of the mind.
The words are carved out in bone with flint stones.
The words say....what do the words say?
Is this biblical? I haven't looked to see. I don't want to know if or if not. Can they be read without the religious aspect of lord and candle and spirit? Can we know the understanding of this short apperition of prose? Can we know what is meant of us, and does the meaning of this axiom invoke the remembrance of some lost sense of responcibilty? Perhaps a "human" responcibity?
Perhaps a long lost carnate resolve of soul and mnemonic body divined this script from some divine, immortal tome now lost except among the astral cliffs inside the halls of Amenti. Perhaps I drove past a stone work displaying one of the last revolutionary whispers secreting through the time of a geologic eternity from whence came man and from which was lost the myriad brave forms from which we have illustrated over millennia the picture, portrature and caricature of our gods.
The phrase, once seen from a stop light on a weekend afternoon has since been a footnote to many a pages of my life. A breath of hope when the air begins to always seem thin and unctious.
Perhaps from that I can bring back a remembrance of the living hope and childlike earnestness and truth of my youth and see past the decades of madness and myopic entropic fecklessness.
Like a lamb at the bible bairing a cancerous bit of toothrot. Pidgeonholed. A piece of meteorolgic waste, or cosmologic weight, pushed , moved, sorted. The words come out of a timeless religion lost in the mind only. Up there (in the mind only) where we try to sort it out, apart from heart stem, apart from bread worms. Where the body is an instrument, like a ladel or a whisk, and it performs its function which right now is outlasting this sweltering heatstorm, and this despotism of scenery and deprecation of soul and soundness.
The light moves here and there. Catch it when it's most hungry. Sometimes it opens up roads we never saw, where now we see walls....
i t has occured to me again, like running themes or like running waters, that environment plays a though subtle nonetheless instrumental, immense part cacophony of affibility in and among the body and mind and heart strings and creative movement and montage in a humans "business". ( for definition of Business, see Ludacris (rapper)). Moving into a place similar to that of my birth, though from local opinion, far better, I have decidied that all such brilliant peoples and chinese mediciners as the essenes, gurdjieff, reich, and anthony bourdain, they are all right! the body is connected to the heart bone! The heart bone Is connected to the head bone! The head bone IS connected to the world bone!!! The world bone May be connected to the God bone!!!
( respects to kerouac for that one.)
But nonetheless, I realize that my body is going through a frustration right now. My mind is going through a stagnant pool and my heart is a frustration making a migration on a merry-go-round. We're in the land of the doldrums. But, not defeated.
But Wait.
All is not for...not....
There is a light on the horizon. There is a shining blanket edging up over the steel girders on the horizon of mirth and bane. The is a small inscription writ over the ladder of the masons deluge laying. (That they can lay a 'deluge' has been the blind eye of historians for eons and aeons). The inscription above a cafe in Blanco, over a church window in Daalas (Baalas), and beneath the thin waters of pecos near a Ginkgo tree reads:
The spirit of man
Is the Candle of the Lord.
The inscription is brazens on the throttle of the mind.
The words are carved out in bone with flint stones.
The words say....what do the words say?
Is this biblical? I haven't looked to see. I don't want to know if or if not. Can they be read without the religious aspect of lord and candle and spirit? Can we know the understanding of this short apperition of prose? Can we know what is meant of us, and does the meaning of this axiom invoke the remembrance of some lost sense of responcibilty? Perhaps a "human" responcibity?
Perhaps a long lost carnate resolve of soul and mnemonic body divined this script from some divine, immortal tome now lost except among the astral cliffs inside the halls of Amenti. Perhaps I drove past a stone work displaying one of the last revolutionary whispers secreting through the time of a geologic eternity from whence came man and from which was lost the myriad brave forms from which we have illustrated over millennia the picture, portrature and caricature of our gods.
The phrase, once seen from a stop light on a weekend afternoon has since been a footnote to many a pages of my life. A breath of hope when the air begins to always seem thin and unctious.
Perhaps from that I can bring back a remembrance of the living hope and childlike earnestness and truth of my youth and see past the decades of madness and myopic entropic fecklessness.
Like a lamb at the bible bairing a cancerous bit of toothrot. Pidgeonholed. A piece of meteorolgic waste, or cosmologic weight, pushed , moved, sorted. The words come out of a timeless religion lost in the mind only. Up there (in the mind only) where we try to sort it out, apart from heart stem, apart from bread worms. Where the body is an instrument, like a ladel or a whisk, and it performs its function which right now is outlasting this sweltering heatstorm, and this despotism of scenery and deprecation of soul and soundness.
The light moves here and there. Catch it when it's most hungry. Sometimes it opens up roads we never saw, where now we see walls....
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