Radiant Emptiness

From Stars we come, to Stars we shall return;
This ancient ache of longing that's urging us to burn.
To shine on 'n on from inside out,
Where illumination is a fire without any doubt...

Mundanaities naturally

I read Castaneda throughout my in between years, in my teen years where I woke to my Na'will and dreamt that juan-carlos floated through all the mundane-bits that we do ... but he assisted me too, with death-awareness pattern-recognition; these trails left behind by Natures foxy-moves, 'til you could read its language, its omen-nomenclature, and not need to know what it meant, then take another breath while brother-death counted what was left...

artists are often autogamous, like jelly-fish, especially when they're disturbing meaning in a rhythmic pulsation, exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext'd verse; but don't mistake their stinging strophe for arrogance, that's just fierce presence, moved by waves of astonishment, cascading through their nervous and vascular system; they’re spontaneously overflowed ( sea through ) and while reaching with their iridescent tentacle, they'll simply, elegantly, fluoresce a gleam in your eyes...

On the L'il-rat-eye'd critics:

They're 'little-rat-eyes' = literati and 'ill-little-rat-eyes' = illiterate -- it's funny how ignorance can show up in an Academic and failed high-school red-neck alike -- I suppose that arrogance, hubris, is without distinction

those L'il-rat-eyes are speed-readers who're always looking for ways to fill the gap between their lips with knowledgeable sooth-sayings, 'cuz they've mimed the word meaningfully, yet without the Poets consciously cogent sounds in their head -- Poets, however, have gaps in their head where they merCuriously spout their words smoothly, mellifluously with surround-sound lips that never get stuck on having to know anything at all -- they in-wordly lip-reciprocate in an astonished why-lessness that (disturbs meaning) de-means everything into a sudden swoon that turns the whirl'd 'round -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of wildly irreverent rhythmic words that fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, while they lip-synchronate with all the meta-sensory expansions 'n contractions that constantly risk absurdity...

these ill-little-rat-eyes cannot see beyond 'what's in-it for them' and maybe if they wink and coo, they can get laid too -- otherwise it's the alliteration of the illiterate and we all know where the ill-little-rats go when they don't know, pressing against their desperation with their glowering expectations and they can't really do a cogent crit 'cuz they don't have the wit for it, so they'll shoot a Poets work down with a number crunch, a petty solution, the money'd knockout punch ...

while they're reading a write I imagine their cunning-less-ness is at the base of it; while the Poetess is wet with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up her 'lectrikly sapient spine, making us feel an infinite-in, with her words flowing outwardly sublime -- however, those L'il-rat-eye'd critics with their pre-packaged-percepts cannot really see beyond their mediocre myopic certainty...

?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿ is here --> http://goo.gl/TsxBlQ <-- comic="" literary="" my="" span="">

What is an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

When we were children curious and free, we'd learn by mimicking what we see; sometimes it was frustrating and we'd jump and scream 'til we finally figured out what it really did mean; so maybe the planet and its people too, are in a cognitive-dissonance and just don't know what to do; 'til they do, when they become heart-centred again, that'll be the day for celebration then...

ComiX are ephemeral and topical, however, what comes around, goes around -- we humans are on the brink of falling-fatal to a heartless machine, doing our 'duty' as an ordinary-drone has-been -- or we can be rising-rapture'd in an organic-mutation within a few natural generations - then we'd speak in light's language of shadow sculpting time, moving to a music which only the heart can hear, simply-sublime, risen from the slime, dancing without any fear.

So the point-of-view is the field of possibility. What would 'objective' Art look like? -- ?¿Art-officially; it seems to me that there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso's Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blending of these 'subjective-types' which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives and, to paraphrase Nietzche, all of our bad-education; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven's 5th Symphony or Mozart's 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, like wings of wonder flying through the vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality. So it is that Nature reflected in Art, seems to move us beyond our tunnel-vision, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our comfortable habits of seeing and hearing, or that they provide us a temporary diversion from our methodically-inauthentic machinations at best.

Poetry (and I agree that ComiX are a form of Poetic representation) often reflects these 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Art as a Language can speak to us within but without any reason, and often sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a 'Myth' which is like having a 'Map!' The Artist can share these 'stories' of her 'Map Quest', her experiences, and somehow in the sharing, we the readers and perhaps the Artist herself, are renewed! Nevertheless, ?'knowing' is like these Maps, but it's really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing we're presently 'wondering' through...

In summary, tl:dr, 'we don't see things as they are, we see them as we are, and if we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change' -- and that's what these Poets of possibility arouse in their Art. It's why I read Poetry and Comix; or as Novalis averred, "We read Poetry (or ComiX) to heal the wounds that reason makes."

http://goo.gl/TsxBlQ

catabasis [kəˈtæbəsɪs]

Pluto just went direct -- Last April when Pluto went retrograde I experienced my first a-fib death cycle, during which I'm in the frequency of Spirit disconnected from ground -- and the body feels a weighted stone -- and these events reoccurred until recently, when I found a way to manage these cycles from within and also from help my Doctors and Naturopath provided -- nevertheless you can divine the rest

 Retrograde makes it an inner event -- so many of us made this trip recently, it was very far inside, where deep calls to deep... so now Pluto moves forward and ...

"What does not kill me, makes me stronger." --  Friedrich Nietzsche

I chose for the topic of my first essay Will Eisner's, "The Origin of The Spirit," The Spirit, 13 January 1946, page 2. The density of  the imagery, the bold colouring of each panel and the way in which the panels are divided up whimsically, all moving the narrative along, grabbed my eye right away. I found myself flitting between each section hungry for the action I was anticipating there. Then I became mesmerized at each panels portrayal of 'The Spirits' catabasis. His personal descent into hell for remediation and his spirited return with a dark vengeance.

That's my Thesis: "Hallelujah Anyway" -- Comics can be a cathartic catabasis [kəˈtæbəsɪs] -- it's story telling 101 -- by keeping it simple it resonates with the reader and a nontrivial empathetic inner event occurs -- the reader becomes alive to his or her own process of individuation -- or at the very least they find a voice that speaks to their personal tragedy, the wounds they suffered for their individual remediation, the withering they endured on their dark descent, and that they almost died so that they'd be stronger for it.

We see farther standing on those truly-squared shoulders of our chosen Dark Super Spirit-Sleuth ... I feel a pleasure of ebullience as I imagine myself the protagonist of this well written and boldly presented story. 

Even so, this is only one page promulgating these many reflections, and I'm allured, like Narcissus fingering his self-aware pool of consciousness, while Echo diminutively stutters in an arcane self-referential mystery, over and over again.

As the symbol of Ouroboros attests, we repeat in these things, as if all of creation stuttered out of itself toward this pure sapient frisson, which we are, which our stories reflect, and from which we emerge somehow more whole...

I've noted that our stories can be like a romance, and I'm constantly returning, rounding another catabasis, in an urge-to-merge, and I'm inclined simply to exist in that kiss -- oh to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss, mingle mystery -- oh our hearts know this, Love attracts Love is the secret of this kiss --

Back to the story: I met a dangerous man in black at Starbucks this evening

'Fuk, she's still not answering the phone,' I curse under my breath as I slip the device into my jacket pocket while opening the glass door to the coffe-shop, stepping into a room with dark roast cloying in the still air, and look into the dim light, where I have a meeting with, 'fate.' 

I’ve seen Pluto, that old black and dangerous God, at least three times. Probably more, and HE scares the shit-outta’ me every time! Every time a frisson falls up my spine, every time I feel spent, and I’m usually left traumatized and trembling from the Power I just experienced … The ferryman, I call him. He’s pitch-black, glistens with the entropy fugues of Galaxies pouring into their stuttering black holes. He was, well he surely is, but can easily exist in many alternities and Kaliterations, but way more than that, more than any human fear imaginable, he’s a dark Knight who’s a bringer of death and other blood fatal events onto our mortal horizons.

He always stands there, at the edge of his marvelous imminence of missing matter, which roils and churns at his skin, making him shimmer in blackness and chaos; and we’re just an itch he may scratch, an unlikely event on his dark occurrence.

He's kind of like a Comics caricature of an unconflicted Super-Hero whose abilities are to take succour of lost souls, eat them, with a touch of the dark vengeful knight of passion and determination. Except that makes him more approachable than he really is. If you meet him, it may already be too late.

There’s no solace in these meeting places where his creative-destruction is all there is, and that meeting with ‘HIM” is of consequence to all of manifestation…

So, at a local Starbucks this evening, where I met this very dangerous man, a man who’d made an elixir, an elixir he exclaimed to be the 'Red Lion,' and went on to say that he imbibed it 973 years before in a Bohemian castle. He looks to be a healthy middle-aged man with eyes of steel-blue, wearing an Armani suit that ripples upon his animal physique, shimmers blackness; the Alchemist, I wrote in my Journal on my laptop. He collected and concocted in many fields.

He approached me through an acquaintance to request that I write about him, for what he later called, ‘a power that could change the rules of the game.’ and he continued brooding, 'a power over death.'

a laptop

illuminated letters

complete with words

black on white pixels

scattered

lines on a screen

layered

sentences vibrate cyclically;

we see them in ourselves

‘story’

until these things happen again.

-enter-

I break-up with you

-> breaks give direction <- p="">

I break-down alone

-back-space-

with i n t e n t i o n

both unknown and known -

our home, a period,

our motion, a verb,

an adjective,

shift-insert

candles burn, wax wanes,

drips down, drys up sputtering;

warm glow of screen

quote

it was devastating

for all of human kind

who conspired with the fire of war

burned at both ends

unquote

Serendipity: the happenstance of meaning -- the happy dance of gleaning

Sun            mEandering              iRonics        madE           soNics           briDge  connectIng    hodgePodge     foundlIngs           faTal      happY              w Ith           wo Nder   The  languag E           no R   The            w E're   Xpanding       nega Tive-space        lang Uage-weeps   After-words         whir L'd               o F             d Uality,   tremblin G   Upon            th E      victim S,

sometimes meaning is an arbitrary thing we do to fill in our blank looks -- nevertheless, the thing we do with words to make them wing on feathers dipped in tears and laughter, to mime the looks we give each other, and woo our reader into our serenade of serendipity with the happenstance-of-meaning gleaming from their eyes... 

the happenstance-of-meaning is gleaning that we leak in language; A-lexi–thymia: Literally meaning “no words for emotions.” -- there is Beauty in unfettered language -- like Jazz, it becomes fluid and undulates meaning within the main components of the Poem -- 

the happenstance-of-meaning, foundlings of the great or small

the friction made from rubbing the heart 'n mind together

the imagination aspires from the limits of syntactical-chains

binding us to the tunnel-visions of common sense:

this present imperfect tense 

this present imperfect tense in the happenstance of meaning -- there is Beauty in these fettered phrasings -- as the tongue carries the forms-and-rituals of the word, sounds rolling as a tidal wash upon a wild-worn shore, tumbling, reaching forwards, then, where deep calls to deep, moving back-words for some more... 

intertextual ironics <--> uber-lexical sonics -- the happenstance of meaning is the happy dance of gleaning

                                   intertextual fugues <~> sǝnƃnɟ ןɐnʇxǝʇɹǝʇuıi

Somehow, the level of meaning, intended and happenstance in a write, are co-dependent upon the level of the reader gleaning, i.e., their 'comprehension' their 'wonderment' and all of their 'bad-education.'

it has become evident to me, that the 'meaning' envisioned by the Author will probably have been revisioned by the Reader. Hence the subjective like/dislike quality to the tale told. Engrams or HieroGlyphs branded in the brain via synaptic structures are inter-looped: there where you can gather more dendrites by adding new memories to old thus creating a modular set of precepts in the garnering of meaning. Musing further, to use Socrates validation, 'seeming is often master of the reality' and we therefore need to agree to terms for an agreed meaning to be garnered. To deter the 'revisionist' and march like 'soldier lemmings' off an agreed upon ledge, to 'meanings' fatal fall, to reasons fatal flaw ... that it is co-dependent upon Language=Syntax (agreements of form) for connecting, while Poetry is the flow and rhythm of words, sound-scapes which create meaning from word-movement; reflecting is optional!! and yet we 'disturb' meaning by recreating Language in our own image according to these HieroGlyphic-synaptic modules we've garnered. Subjective intertextual ironics made of objective (echoing Nature) uber-lexical sonics become the happy dance of gleaning meaning.

Language is a bridge, connecting, but the bridge has a syntax you gotta' pay to getta'cross what you wanna' say; Poetry is the stream below, murmuring, reflecting many Suns; meandering modulated-sounds for each 'n everyone!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

Caput inter nubila condit.

She hides her head among the clouds. 

intertextual fugues 

The happenstance of meaning,

in a hodgepodge of words.

with inherent seeming allured. 

One is Joy, 

another addiction.

Like me, 

like my 

inflated sense

of word.

Flags waving,

look at me,

and my words

we are WRITEoUS!

We are what we

Write.

Write flowers

and streams

and

windy chimes.

Face facts,

Words escape

meaning

with cowardly

defenses like

paragraphs

and

syntactical

alliances.

Prepositions 

pasteurize,

so that whimsy

and

freedom are

battered,

suffering

split infinitives.

Similes with

spiritual

accents

and

distinctive

adaptations of

cunning.

Read liberated, inebriated;

fight the

oppressor, as

the maker of

meaning

is

you! 

    you        

           hear infinity in the conch of your ears hissing there 

                        while liquid last eyes 

                        see the numinous that's moving-us

into an ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,

illuminating the limits of the fatal skin you're-in -- 
let's be

dumb and        

stare at forever!

      let's be  this grinning 

                  empty, drooling,

                        free of meaning, ghost-hunter of the eye...

nevermind worrying in soft murmurs, 

let's linger astutely,  
then hardly at-all,

                then, nonetheless

           when it's all but over,

         wrap it up

            in many Mansions

                    for LotusBlossomslaughter. 

'til it's 

Xpanding negative-space

...from the eye

of a howling-pen,

language-weeps

language-weeps

after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;

seeps from the wound of omission,

seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,

seeps from the whirl'd of tunneling-fear,

seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,

the wound that is an imperfect rorriM:MirrorRorrim

where they're trembling from the loss,

from their lessons upon the alter, from getting stoned, over and over again,

in the wailing rhythm of suffering;

innocent victims, like you and me,

lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy,"

there, you know, just there where the stretchered edges in longings go,

where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,

and falter lessor still, yes, there where we whimper in the clinging,

instead of weeping for the longing Dream, 

there where were bursting at the seams

of what it all means...

                                             pop

                              there 

where it's dark and deep.

Al'giber

Abu Mūsā Jābir ibn Hayyān (al-Barigi / al-Azdi / al-Kufi / al-Tusi / al-Sufi), often known simply as Geber, (Arabic: جابر بن حیان‎) (Persian: جابرحیان) (c.721–c.815) hence and cognate the etymology of gibberish, in which arcane mixtures, these 'darkly grace mixtures," which were known to have transmuting properties, which he then oh-oh obfuscated in his Poetic fugues, simply as a precaution; the door-between-worlds, or wormhole in space-time, this frequency-rift, could result in catastrophic consequences for one or both of these instances in alternity -- thus when his Zykir sonics rose in ebullience, in the rhythms that were known to open a portal, his visage would glimmer between worlds ...