P. thought “only by passive love will he prevail.” Is verse from book VII only made in response to the A.’s first request of the seer: “make herself perfectly passive” in order he might communicate freely.”?
Hummm. Still working on wtf we have here in terms of meaning.
Is it just the alchemical appartus comprising a story? An alchemical apparatus used to drive the plot, scaffold the structure, and act as a skeleton key to unlock meaning?
Such an apparatus drives the substance of letters and words towards catharsis. Our story-tech equipment enables a bunch of words to be read by an audience. The collection of words becomes greater than the sum of its parts. This is a non-linear phenomenon, akin to complexity theory.
Confluence. Convergence.
This is how the array of letters constituting the matrix of each page transmutates scrawlings into Art.
The reader undergoes the cathartic process like catalytic enzymes provoking biological reactions.
“The arrows of song through Hell cease to hurtle.
Away to the passionate gardens of Greece,
Where the thrush is awake, and the voice of the turtle
Is soft in the amorous places of peace.”
Oh, sweet ephebe. Are you cold? Are your toes warm?
I walk upright citizen but in my dreams, I run on all fours, swift and steadily clumsy. Stacked buxom and epicurean in ample bosom.
Slight shelf formed in the concave curve of lower spine conjuncting with the lift of rounded, stood and lit cheeks.
Callipygian ass. Firm round mammæ. Slight ripple of a stubborn tummy covering my unused womb where I metaphysically minister to the devotees calling themselves Moira’s Nudes.
Rosebud. Ease into the garden.
Come and let us attend the Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz.
I tried to read the instructive booklet, fuzzy beast, but it was a bit confusing.
Something about the feminine and masculine now unified sharing a new womb, the regenerative apparatus giving both the capacity for pregnancy, both allegorically and through magical realism.
The poet didn’t eff his lady.
the lady tried to give him her body. Her Desire. you laughed. and prioritized your spiritual needs.
Her Love craves to be obtainable, tactile, nourishing, fun, wild and feral yet warm and protective.
Her love exceeds her desire/s.
Her love sacrifices her desires to enkindle the flame.
She who was Wittgenstein’s Mistress
read you clear now.
Do you read me: your desire came before your love.
How I howl.
Recall how good it is to lay on down?
Yeah.
Me too.
Hot, red plasma circulates with my blood cells.
Mouth goes dry; becomes difficult to swallow; breath rages ragged through opened throat.
It’s drawn to me smoothly, in swooping slides, over every atmospheric inch.
How I howl at the peals of divided bells.
I feel loose energy collect within my solar plexus.
Drawn, it smoothly slides to me, from every atmospheric inch.
The knots in my muscles, of my shoulders, and of their blades, tied tautly by ligaments and tendons, loosen.
Flowing like an Atlantic trade wind current.
Centralizing into two, respective, congealed spheres of non-corporeal matter.
Aflush and blushed at being
caught while not
upon my toes and ready,
to repel your compelling compulsion.
I turn my face until mostly obscured.
Setting in: slight, wide-eyed, grin
Fiery breath smokes the air.
I inhale through my mouth and hold the air fast,
And hold myself still.
My eyes roll backwards as my shoulder stretches,
Strumming a tendon into tremors
producing in me
trembles from the
strange vibrations.
Shades drawn tight against the sky’s night.
Cicadas chirpin’ lazy protest.
I espy a note on my coffee table:
“Ruin your own show. Don’t feed me soft words, when my eyes go hard.”
My cheeks burn vermillion in the morning air.
Sly smile.
I will wear my hair straight today.
The line is not: You pay for what you get.
The steganographia is not the encryption is not the transcryption,
Nor is it the ostensible coding.
Encoding=scribing.
The poison is the dose.
The doz>s>e is the poison.
The map is not the region.
“Here I do have a theory: Perhaps we got across because we sailed on the ocean and not on a map.”
THE RA EXPEDITIONS
Thor Heyerdahl
DOUBLEDAY publishing
Page (ostensibly) 341 aka M(42)
Imagine that ( x ) = x in subSCRIPT
Here you find (sub)SCrypçione
The lyric is: you get what you pay for.
A dancing string is a strummed and fretted wire
Upon which I perform my own tightwire act.
Balance aloft on shakey footing.
There is no safety net should the string snap.
Freefalling into sound endlessly, a runaway elevator in an interminable shaft.
Heaven is in the drone of sounds in stereo
The sun stayed high until nigh on midnight.
The moon became their noonday sun.
They lived in sleepy embraces, bare and pressed close.
They breathed the oxygen emitted from the pores of one another.
The musk of life making them happy and high.
She smiled as his breath changed, as his muscles spasm into a shallow sleep,
Like a sleeping pup let lie until twitching into dreams of chasing Ingpen white hares.
Í speak in harmonies scaling octavial heights.
Centurians guard my air. Í breathe angels. Í exhale fire. Í burnish with every breath.
Breathless, noiseless despite despots.
The rows planted in keystone symmetry; puzzling eyes ampersand I’s in motion,
Like two horses dying of thirst beside a fresh water stream. The query of the quarry destroyed their shodden hooves. Chipping like fingernails opening soda tab tops.
Lone pylons.
Radio and cellular towers feigned as trees and the refrain repeated from which none refrained.
A bridge over dry dirt.
Í let the bonsai tree grow over one hundred feet. Held fast, bent and hobbled by wire wrapping extended limbs like the necks of Nubian queens. Clutching with cruel vigor the extension as though the feet of geishas.
Incidentally, í never cared for hearing anecdotal evidence, yet í sure evidence anecdotes as offerings to others.
To live and die in the service industry: this is the new Dixieland. Bereft of prejudice.
Barely. The meek shall inherit your tips.
A gnarled bonsai branch slaps me in the forehead as if to say, “oh dear, how could you not remember?”
We watched the weather change three times in ten minutes. He seemed unsurprised. This surprised me.
The rapeseed fields burned yellow like a terranean sun. My eyes nedded shielding, but í looked on and stared at the faux-star. Í beat a path by following the doppleganger affected bleating of sheep. Little lambs of woolen and warm like cherubs. They whispered, “If you jump the stone fence on the horizon, you will freefall forever.”
Í said, “You cannot see the ocean below for your clouds.”
Í stood on the slanting stone stele before slipping into a slide, my leg [em]purpled on impact like the time í slipped on the hotel’s hardwood. Í had had to leave an entire continent to find a bit of breathing space. But, í do breathe more deeply than many.
Vapor fume whisps from my nose with each burnished breath.
Í am the dragon called serpent-bearer. He stays my hand, wrapped around my forearm. He hisses, hides, and hides me. Protectors and protectorates in one. We laugh together in snarling tangles. He hangs like a tentacle. He hangs me upside down by my ankle, correcting the orientation of my perspective.
We appear cruel to the uncruel.
We are cruel to the cruel. Humiliating them unmercifully through unwarranted kindness. Adoration melting cruelty.
My eyes go hard.
My lips narrow and purse while my kindness cuts ampersand maims.
The behemoth bonsai bursts into flames. I howl in feral pleasure.
Mine is water; fire, the serpent’s.
Diabolical excellence arouses
Making ire irie.
The awareness to insert [i] pro/e/duces accordingly.
Predator [no entry|no subentry]
*related entry predatory
*note the ‘derived from’ information (i.e. prædor).
Ayup. Uh huh.
No rights; homage
She put on her armour but left off the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For the benefit of whom, she was unsure.
She looks at the græy sky and thinks of his eyes.
She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of his brogues.
Then his ankles.
Then his bluə-græy sky eyes.
And, her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
And, her eyes go soft and shine.
She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make on cue or command.
The neighbors open their door and a dog bounds to her: tail-shaking,welcome-waggin’ cometh. She relunctantly retrieves herself from her golden reverie.
And pulls her eyes sharp.
*
Not easy, is how she found it. Being tip-toer of labyrinths and garden mazes. This she enjoyed more than representing fertility allegorically. But, oh, howl she could howl for a good glass of wine or some potted green. Chaotic passion inside appeared smooth~like~silk to any outside observers.
Like Ariadne was abandoned, then beguiled to dreams only to then be slain, she knew what the men of the world did to spurious and impetuous women, gave them away or took them away to be locked-up. So, she measured her steps in eight counts, two sets of four paces per leg. And, she breathed in four ways with each way repeated three or five times. She acted the part.
She invariably met Bacchus in the woods. This time he believed his name was Dionysus. He never remembered meeting her until it was too late. She stopped insisting she knew him and played dumb.
“Yes, I do fancy wine, Dionysus, thank you kindly. Do you happen to fancy passion?”
She already knew the answer: yes, he did. Everytime and very much so. Ritual madness and religious-ecstacy made him high, high, high. So did speculation and grandstanding.
“I speak trances to even the cold-bloods.” She said this time, acting as Snake-charmer.
And, then and there did he again “give himself unto his Beloved in sleep”. Leaving her to live and die alone while he leapt through lucid dreams of curiosity mistaken as achievement or sometimes entitlement.
She had seen every tiara he gave her turned into one constellation or another in the night sky, intended as some magnanimous immortal display. Allegedly in her honor.
Blah blah blah. They were nothing more than the womanly model of the current apple in his mind’s eye. He made Stars to shine his light, reflect his ideal feminine quintessence of the moment. She served as a model for the perfect star. He often laughed that she mistook herself for a star when she was a simple model of one.
At first, it felt good. Then empty. Then oppressive. Then pathetic. Then, like an act she performed. Until then, she did not ought but drift like a swan on the blue. Silently. Waiting for him to meet her, love her, and then desire more than love, which would leave her to herself and her own devices.
**
“Eventually,” she said to No One,
“In the beginning, I left messages in the street.”
This won her the pleasure of being the mistress to the absentee No One man.
She was mistress to a man she had never met and Howl she loved him and knew his mind and body. Pleasures of pleasing and pleasuring.
She was married to the immortal man perpetually putting her on a petal-stool, but did not want for her pleasure or pleasing. He wanted a star, so he used her as a token paragon on a pedestal and sought pleasure and pleasing from every mistress he could render smitten.
But, she promised. She swore to fidelty. How was she to know that no one took sacred oaths literally? Now really, someone could have said something. She never laid with another man. But, the fiercesome pleasure she took from the No One man’s non-corporeal form, debased and debasing without even touching, felt Impeccable. Desperately patient for him; while good on her word, per se, to her Beloved; and Still effortlessly lovesome of the men. She only hated herself after all.
So what? She knew she must be somewhat immortal. She had died so many times, but immortality is lonely when your Beloved uses immortality to capture you both in the same circular ruins where there is no ’til death do us part because death always seems to be a sleep. At least, after the fact of dying, she only seemed to awaken from deep sleep in another place altogether.
It really got curiouser and curiouser. Did she mean “how curious” or “most curious”? Howl no, there was no superlative state of curiousness, just ever-increasing scales of what was curious and what was not. Deja-View pans over her.
She skipped the armour but put on the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For the benefit of whom, she was unsure.
She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of ankles in brogues.
And, her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
And, her eyes go soft and shine.
She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make on cue or command.
No door is opened but the Candor of a pure fool looks at her from another side. He is softened and demurred. Bashful, curious, deferential and incorrigible. She sees it in his eyes. Innocent of entitlement and pure of desire to achievement. He seemed impossibly young in spirit but she recalled meeting him when she was young in spirit. Now the Deja-View inverted.
Ingenue and Guileless.
She became an artless, ingenous gal instantly. Free from disguise and dissimilation, she is what she is. She is no mere actress of fain. Freed of herself at the sight of him.
He is artless too, and, candid, and frank. Strangely innocent.
⊙⊙
The tonic was a keytone of ecstasy.
She is beside herself
And across from
A man always beside himself.
She wanted to pursue him relentlessly, meet him time and again in the woods.
She became silent.
A real dummy for the effulgent fool.
She became rekindled.
The aposiopesis that-
Be silent.
Breathe in through your nose. Now out again.
Breathe a’nosed ampersand your throat holds
your vocal chords
like the high hat gets grabbed after being struck.
Affecting a dinging dash, effectively curt-short.
My aprosexia caused the aposiopesis heard.
The quiet heard round the world.
A black star beheld.
Image captured and imagined.
Both facts of apropos material manifesting.
a priori.
Literally, from what is before.
a posteriori
Reasoning from facts and/or effect
to principles and/or cause
,í am in a state of chaos,
..like swans carried about as on a mirror pond..
}}}í drift(?) as if í have nowhere to rest{{{
Find a duck if you want to be followed and have followers.
Find a goose if you need something for your stew pot.
Allow swans their songs in the keynote of ecstasy.
Sung in silence for one who hears.
Become beside yourself; and admire the garden of live flowers
This odd tale appears to coalesce within my mind with “the Chemical Wedding of/by Christian Rosenkreutz,” (Johannes Valentinus Andreae), “The Beautiful Dream,” (Hermann Hesse), “The Parabola of Madathanus,” as well as, but more peripherally “The Great God Pan” (Arthur Machen) and “The Circular Ruins” (Jorge Borges).
All of the first four texts i referenced require minutia in tracing.
So, if this looks tedious, it cuz it is. It is not craven or unnecessary. If you think it is, this ain’t your kind of reading materials (even though you have read them already in some incarnation or iteration).
Such endeavors are best suited to scratch & scrawl, not typing, for me.
I have rabbithole notes on all these i need to consolidate and smelt.
Kindly forgive the clumsiness of the initial compilation.
She put on her armour but left off the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For whoms benefit she was not sure.
She looks at the græy sky and thinks of his eyes.
She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of his brogues.
Then his ankles.
Then his bluə-græy sky eyes.
Her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
Her eyes go soft and shine.
She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make herself. caNNot on cue.
A neighbor opens their door and a dog bounds to her. Tail wagging.
She relunctantly relieves herself of her reverie.
And pulls her eyes sharp.
Ya’ll know about this crew, yeah.
Well good. Enjoy!!
No rights, just homage.
A puppet suspended by pulleys, held fast and taught.
Taut over the sieved river.
The Ingpen hare paused, shook his fuzzy head, and picked his itch,
“Monkeys, huh. Too smart.”
Beginning to turn his croak,
He saw the red ball on the bound.
“Thank goodness, I found it again.”
Hello, Alice here. You may recall me if you have been following this tangled loop of a story. We have Parçiful, Effie, and myself. Effie, who will give up no more than the name Parçiful, is her younger sister. The gurls like to travel with me from time-too-time. And, Æ became familiar with them by dint of their fiery aunt. Please do not mention to her that we mentioned this to you. We heard you say: mention something/mention anything.
Æ serve as third party, omniscent narrator. Recall the point-of-views that narrators may take? Well, think of me as a dream sandman. Effie and our anti-hero tolerate me, when they realize Æ am around that is. Parçiful and Æ go way back. We met In-dreams. So, Æ like, from time-too-time, to read her. She is more written than real. Quite unjustly. Improper handling by the Knights-to-Nowhere. She is not a shy one. She was a frightened one. Her Tribe kindly asked her to split. Beat It. She is a Southern gal and so, delightfully obliging, thus: she obliged. Not anymore though. So, I feel sharing some excerts from her handwritten tale. Context. Although, all Æ will give up is what was observable. Lord knows what really happened. Her Tribe and Æ’s Tribe. Just as Æ never gave up everything to her, Æ must assume she never gave up everything to me.
Effie here. Hi.
ASIDE: his final sentence above is an assumption. No one must assume anything. One assumes for want of reassurance. For if she had actually given-everything up to begin with, it would be a hard cross forvÆ to bear. Idiots feel beholden, just as Parçiful did after accepting her at-the-time boyfriend’s plastic proposal. Thank god he left her. Well, left is not the right word. He dumped her and then continued to avail himself of her resources.
[Undated]
In elementary school years, petting myself to sleep at night, while wondering how the Sunday-school heaven could be fun & forever. I imagined a life of growing up to be destitute. Homeless. Well, at least how easily it seemingly could happen to anybody.
Vague intuitions of how feeling entitled leads to your own stripping……
Open secret x: ‘we cannot depend on our lovers to prove to us that we are not broken because, in some way, we all are. Wounded anyway.’
Perhaps the best we may hope-for is to see each other grow and grow together and take care of one another as well as we can-to see each other and touch each other and try not to harm what we see and touch. Maybe that’s not such a small, silly thing. Maybe it’s one of the biggest tasks we face on this earth.
A breath tantra of connection. Sitting on the ground together.
We are embarking on that which we carried wood to see. Because we still want to see.
I lived in words, work, dreams, and a group of four close buds. I felt freer, moore solid, since the cursed engagement ended. Time flew. The world inside me was expansive. I enjoyed being alone, with my own company. I did for me. Took care of myself. Did not miss having a partner. Did not need someone else. And, I saw how poorly í’d allowed my spirit to be treated. Í saw how í had slowly let fires inside myself burn-out. Almost glad they were smothered and stoked. It had become easier to not have fire in my belly when I was working asat at some terminal for ten hours a day. Then to come home and be fussed at for it. Particularly as my job was all me and my at-the-time boyfriend. Do not worry for him. He tagged along on my move across the country. Managed to get a great job. We were in NMexico when found out he had been hired in a lucrative company. So, when he was done with me, he had finally seemed to hve found himself. A good thing. A talented fellow who is not nearly as clever or smart as he thinks he is. Not by half. A decent, upright fellow and good citizen, regardless.
We neglected each other. Lies of omission. “No, everything is fine.” Secret addiction.
[Fig. I.1. Certain entries that Æ read are best communicated by pictures. There is no way to convey content on such things viz a viz pics]
WrittenCasey 