Tartarus. Classical mythology
The place of punishment in the lower world. Originally, a dark abyss as far below Hades as earth is below heaven, and later the abode where the wicked undergo eternal punishment.
This is from my F&W dic. Spooky. There are 4 further percussions of this world. If interested, do ask.
Tolle Lege is spoken to Augustine in the garden, yet it often feels like it was a former self of mine who told those words, or rather sent them through time/space/matter to his mind.
And by ‘self of mine’ I do not mean my ego but somepart of everyone, something spoken by many, many people and heard by many, many people through Augustine’s esrs.
I told my sister I live to work and she said gross.
She misunderstands. We all work all the time.
We all move from a place we could call motivation to action.
Do you know yours? If so, what it is and how does it change?
How does it make your garden grow? Does it feel glad in the rain and sun and cold or heat?
How do you balance the swinging pendulum that becomes time’s arrow’s trajectory?
How do you know when to flee the vital activa for that which is its polar opponent?
Can you tell if you’re moving with no mirror to see?
Painfully lonely, not so much.
Suspensed in waiting for manifestation. Arouses my want for love, flesh, desire.
Do not own rights, just paying mad homage.
Many have done Proud Mary but few compare to this reinterpretation.
Creole delta blues babe!
Incorrect to assume that time is one dimensional.
Let’s imagine 2D time in the pic below
Vector. Precession. Equinox.
Circadian. Cellular time.
Astronomy
*rotation of fixed stars (!) and precession of the equinoxes
, seasons on the planet, circadian rhythms of daylight and darkness, evidenced by cellular time.
Here we encounter the challenge of extrapolating between these two dimensions.
Eventually may we reconcile our eternal being with our transiency.
>the Mind bypasses its middle range, dismisses the conditioning it has been subjected to.
Eternal being : transciency?
Seed : plant?
Seeds: DNA remains constant, mutating very slowly if at all.
Plants: which unfolds the seed in an incomparably faster time sequence.
I try to imagine absorbing cosmic energy on inhale, as
–converging inward–
by repeating space inverted in a vacuum inside.
Space only has meaning for matter.
Perhaps at transcendent levels of our thinking-space is irrelevant.
A gradual transitions between extremes and expectations
Control of breath = 1st goal.
Enables a way to modulate (alchemical correspondance found in this) emotional involvement with the ambient circumstances.
A means towards organizing our mental processes.
In the hope of finally regulating one’s thinking at various levels of will. (correspondance yo hermetic tradition here found)
A concept considered makes great sense to me today whereas two months ago it did not.
Catabolic / Anabolic / Metabolic
Hibernate……? Surely not just yet.
His gal, this gal, she’d run thru the jungle for ya and ya’lls, babe, my sugarfooted mouse.
Of the woods I have no fear. For there was I raised.
Of the caves, I do not go deep. Of darkness there will be epochs to learn, so I rush not.
Of the mesa do I have resonance, having ere dauntingly danced to dodge the threat of exposure to lightening.
What I know, you know not.
What you know, I know not.
LET no assumption be made, except that Ae submit aem love. Aem written. Tolle lege. Anon, anon; and, on and on. Aem, we are, new, I do contend.
Lovesome intent is my Tao.
Let’s follow Macha’s dictum and See it Another Way.
What you think I know, i dont.
What you think has been made painfully obvious, i see not.
What you must remember, I’m just a doe eyed dummy, man.
Yet I love you still,
despite not knowing your face, name, OR voice.
You are the scepter at the feast, and the feast is mentally prepared for you alone, by myself. Through my longing for real touch and to discard this silicon love in order to know flesh and blood love, with my love. Lovesome intent.
Fawning through the forest. No end game, just the breath of a moment and hope for companionship.
This is patience, not prudence.
Come or say you won’t.
She flit and she drove them and him mad, both equal and in tirn,
Though those who would tell her herself to her face, only elicited her giggles, and quickly jumps ‘ere, with discomfort tempered in and with unconditional love.
She loved man by his his touch. Effortlessly and yet also endlessly.
His confusion at her ease and grace in such a magical endeavor, only furthered her own confusion and lovesome smitteness.
But she could wait.
She was desparately patience…for this.
Who is not guilty.
As soon as I accuse I am guilty.
Your dispassionate acknowledgement aches as much as that I aver myself to you in dispassion, presumeably.
Share and share alike says the one with no vested interest in sharing.
What are we to make of this?, says the hardworking young lady who only recently became vested.
Benevolence could unsuspectingly become malificence here.
Here in our position. Do we care?
But what would they know of us, anywazy.
They would know what we allowed and told.
Because as beautiful nobodies, we dodge gazes but come together in verbal symetry.
Equilaterally pentacling.
Miraculous
Sure it burns, but so do embers, Roman candles and other superficial pains.
Merely a skinned brain knee.
Seeking friction. Yet surprised upon finding that sought. Defamiliatization appears as though thru the lens of new prescription lenses.
What once was adequate is now questionably so.
Who is the knower and how can they confidently say so?
Evolution in five years or bust.
Pay your dues and be pedestrian.
Work to be ever working.
Work to be working at minimizing karmic footprints.
Now pitter patter, let’s get at ‘er.
Stand on your toes and take a breath of nothing less.
Tell me where play and work meet. I see no difference. But I am new.
Also, do things have to rhyme? That’s as precious as I’m smitten.
In man, the Creator has, so to speak, completed nature; yet the creative faculty is still working through humanity, and thus Art is the ultimate step in Creation.
Wait tables!
The case for horror literature
Stephen King makes his case for the
…the horror story as both literature and entertainment, a living part of twentieth-century literature…They are books and stories which seem to me to fulfill the primary duty of literature— to tell us the truth about ourselves by telling us lies about people who never existed.”
Danse Macabre, Stephen King
WrittenCasey 