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Welcome to CyberFallout--Web 3.0--We are now men among ruins. |
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"Better to perish in that howling infinite"--Melville's mantra rakes my soul as I watch Prometheus fall to that very chasm before mine eyes.
the torch is luciferian, fire and sword, a corporeal mutilation of gods light. and what does it burn but the innards of leviathan
Two Poems
Luna I pray you my lamenting see,
And shining blow sweet song with thy lyred star.
Yoke and lead me to the lover of thee.
Where man’s ears no longer echo chimes of war,
And with rich Maia Endymion freely roves.
There an Argos driven Io wandered far
Among the bountiful Scythian groves
Under trees of great grace sprinkled with dew:
Hyperborea! Where the muses make Love.
Illumin’d with your rays and fair morning blue
Men dipped in honey, ambrosial rum nigh,
Discover the source of Suns: ever anew.
Homeward, anon: pursuing the Blue-Eyed cry,
Dancing with trees, search for Eternity.
When on his lips the drops of life doth taste
It is to the sea or war a young man must face.
For a soul ripen’d, no longer fit for the lee,
Must test Herself on the boundless, intrepid, Sea.
Or else groan in combat, judgement of our Sire:
As thus He ministers Justice with the all consuming Fire.
In his breast feels he this boiling surge
From which nature impels him his weakness red to purge.
True, there are those who deny this providence,
Preferring the limp warmth of a mothers bosom.
To them send your thanks, when barbarians at the door
Find themselves welcomed and fill your wombs with gore.
Reflections in Eros
Sunday: We arrived yesterday afternoon. My mind is a chalice and her wine continually overfilling. My thoughts are filled by her completely. I am glass. I look to the stars and see her eyes—I’m on the water and think of her in it. The emptiness of solitude: a vacuum filled by her. With every passing moment my desire for her burns hotter. I think of nothing else. The feeling of her; the whiteness of her porcelain skin; her need for me; to protect her…I shall cherish her as a man lost in a desert does his final drink of water. Crystalline longing. Touching that sort of gentle beauty soothes my solemn misanthropy. My imagination quivers. I’d like nothing more than to remove my rib and hold her there with me—to sin for such a woman…Cataracts of fiery love and thunderous woe.
Monday: Birch bark dreams and verdure infinities. Oh to be a squirrel atop my mountainous kingdoms of eternal oak and lightening pines. The seat of serenity is the peak of desolation. Yet: it is all Her—nothing but Her.
Chaos: The womb of nature and perhaps her grave. Her…deep memories lie smoldering. Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
Tuesday: Her again immediately upon waking. I am glass. Why must she so be the whole of my condition. My heart is made from silver tears and crystal lace—infinite longing. A vacuous hole where my being is slowly seeping out to the ancient void. How long could I withstand such death?
Twin mothers guarding the lake. Vast immutable cosmic blankets of eternal whiteness. If swans were a plant they would be ferns. I miss her even more deeply now…what but that swan could match her in whiteness? The whiteness of brightness—I see her in water, yet everything holds water.
Time cuts deepest. End of summer and the nostalgic despair of new memories—how could she love autumn so? When I speak of fall’s death I mean not the leaves, but of our lives. I desire nothing more than to hold her continually. I must leave. I wonder what she is thinking as I write these gentle words? How to first greet her again?
Scattered Thoughts
The truth is manifest only in nakedness, and nakedness is Death.
The punishment of man lies in relationship to matter, that of woman, kin.
The existence of The Tree, there, was not an act of Gods will. Even God is subservient to Fate, as the Greeks knew.
We must be in a transition—the transition periods are always dreadfully painful. Transcription provides a powerful calm. I buried myself in Poesy—in Keats—and began to feel my balance again. Such a discovery makes me wish to cry. Found that love lying in Werther as well—I shall never set them down. Robbed of my soul by none other than myself…
The life of grace is one in which every action is imbued with a solemn piety. What is mine? one of holy impiety?
My body is a vessel of the Lord, my actions the deliverance of His word. Regret not my sorrows, for now my only succor lies in God. It is now become mine own dance with my soul, ye are excused.
My emotions are no longer violent and torrential, as they once were. It seems as if they have not vanished, but matured. They now contain some sense of measure.
Brittle tranquility of winters first frost.
If one could put the whole of a poem into the essence of a seed, what might be grown?
Rapt with Poesy; wrapped in Poesy; He laughs at natures wry smiles and cunning guiles.
Rocky spirits from the hoary deep, Rippling sing and lull me to sleep.
A good thought is like a spring: beginning deep underground, unseen, unheard, unnoticed. Filling some deep cavern. Til it slowly begins bubbling up through the rocks, crystalline and clear. Saturating what’s nearest--a puddle, soon more than what is there can absorb and it begins moving. Now but a small brook finding its way through every crack and crevice. Now a flowing creek having to address every snag it comes across, being fed by each new rain as opposed to washed away. Birthing the smallest life, barely detectable to the human eye. This is the time of incubation, of gestation, aions of pregnancy and the most delicate milieu giving rise to an infant river. Now deeper, faster, moving the very earth beneath it--digging itself deeper by the second. No longer moving around obstacles, but taking them with it. No longer feeding others but being fed by them. Its perfect clarity now gone: replaced with depth. Flowing unstoppably to that infinite ocean where all rivers meet again.
I went nowhere in search of everything, everywhere in search of nothing, and came up short of anything.
End of the road gladness, end of the road sadness, end of the road madness...If we were 'beat' then, what are we now? Psychology and space.
I find my mind is like a pressure cooker, with thoughts as food. Often becomes so full of steam that action is required to release pressure. If opened too early food is under cooked and bad, if left in too long it becomes too hot, overcooked, spoiled.
I care naught for your supposed apprehension of Truth, ye know nothing of Beauty. You and your bare bodkin of sterile fact lists and figures. Truth and Beauty are forever connected--all that is Beautiful is True and all Truths Beautiful.
I have no desire to create a place for me to reach, but rather to engage in the continual becoming of who I am.
To know responsibility towards none other but the fulfillment of my entire being--that is the goal.
We must dip our feet into the current of eternity if we wish to once again drink at its youthful fount and transcend our physicality.
I look to the waters and to the trees in search of the chimeric reflections of thy rippling breath.
It is connected below, very deep. It is as if I'm standing on that very connection.
I feel as a bottomless orb drifting through the vacuous black by whims of winds I wish existed.
Lo! how greatly you need this...though I shan't show you; you would only spoil it. If ever it is your time, it shall find you!
Not to devalue these ideas as merely tools for your use. Grant them their own sovereignty. Something is lost when they're merely a resource to be exploited rather than beings to be contended with. Disrespectful to base its significance on your use of it. Shallow.
The same word will never mean the same thing coming from different mouths. The closest we may get to communication is agreement over shared experience--words are invocations, incantations. Art is the attempt to transfer a crystallized experience; pure communication.
To save something is to set it free into the entirety of its essence. 'Safe' comes from Latin solidus(solid) from Greek holos(whole), Sanskrit sarva(entire).
Perhaps we cannot know...but we can be.
He with a broken heart never dies. He merely lies still long enough for the tendril grass to wrap round him completely and the mushrooms to make home of his skin. The space of missing love can never leave, and as that's now the entirety of his essence he shall never die.
Danger the instinct will understand itself too early. Strength measured in how long one lasts. Men who now out of the inferno must climb that mountain; very few hold the stamina to reach the top--those without will find a comfortable ledge to rest upon and claim all those who pass them have begun down the other side.
What fine line divides the poet from the saint from the philosopher? Where? I cannot seem to find it.
Our genius dwells in the underworld, helmed by the whip of Mater Larum.
The beautiful surrounds us, but requires a medium of expression for which it chooses the poets crystal soul: like a prism'd kaleidoscope its penetrated by the rays of unwavering existence--birthing its beautiful melodies for all the world to pleasure in--consumed by its fires he is left ruined, wrecked...scythed down by unflinching death.
A reader understands a work, a scholar understands what others think of a work--a poet communicates directly with the author.
The artist dies an early death because he lives in constant anxiety, a sort of continual nervousness as a result of hyper-sensitivity.
Art allows us the momentary experience of an ideal, and therefore unattainable, state of being.
Art as tautological good derives primarily from (i)decadent civilization and (ii)psychological malaise--two seeming negatives. Thus returning 'why hast thou forsaken me?' with a brutal 'Beauty'.
A deep strain of literary and artistic history is genuinely talented men becoming embittered at the fact that what they could say has been said, then resorting to bland iconoclasm and debauchery for the sake of notoriety.
An ugly vessel for beautiful words is inherently disrespectful.
Dionysos: consumption in excess--rebirth in consumption.
Blakean ecstasy and Promethean despair, he finds repose in the bosom of his love and rests there so long as she allows.
Prometheus is more noble than Lucifer. That resentful teardrop hanging in his eye betrays the lingering dependence upon God; Prometheus is self-existent.
The whole of Christianity is contained within the faint innocence of an infants eyes.
Eve as the rib of Adam is woman as the one spot exposing the vitals of man. The chink in our armor.
The mother subjecting herself to life is the noble art of saving yourself not for who you are but for who you could be. Pieta. As Heraclitus said, "...they leave children behind to become their moroi."
Evola is Nietzsche with a metaphysic.
The Vanity of Dolouz ends not with Kerouacs characteristic frantic and desperate grasping, but with the determinate period of a finished man.
Homer: The harsh beauty of the young hero and the source of said beauty being their immanent mortality. So hard to see the youth cut down--the Grecian future bleeding onto the plain. Yet the glory of such a death is sufficient to invoke even the envy of the gods. A cleaving juxtaposition. An indifferent machine that chews up prime young men, but spits out a severe beauty--Weil was incomplete.
The tension of antipodes takes one off the ground, but it is their movement which gives wings.
Active evil is more noble than passive good.
Morality is as alterable as reality.
Man is incapable of seeing his shadow and light simultaneously.
Watch a man eat and see the vulgar barbarian still lying within.
One should discriminate with glee, for greatness is not born of the multitudes!
Every act is an instantiation of Love or of Death.
An aesthetic justification for existence--the true antidote to nihilism--is the ultimate rebellion against the cosmic devouring force of entropy.
You are an ancestral dream coming to fruition.
Look to trajectory rather than condition.
Seek consolation in the pregnancy of our age.
Untimely men have untimely company. Find reprieve from your poetic solitude in the fraternity of ancient souls.
All that remains is personality.
Winning a game another man owns is a loss.
The majority of issues reduce to temperament or an error decision.
Your puny morality claims me as Evil--more honest would be disobedient: Non Servium.
If you're smart they'll use you for authority when they agree and call you crazy or 'forget' your intelligence when they disagree.
For those with eyes, their rainbow flags reveal themselves as gray.
The midwit praises the cause and hates the effect. The very word may well be defined as one who enjoys stepping on shovels.
To be deemed mentally ill is to not fit into a broken society--ie not be broken yourself, or at least not in that particular way.
No woman who is sexually fulfilled feels the need to imitate and envy men.
Every neo-aristocrat I've met assumed himself the highest caste.
The religious fervor with which determinism is enforced is modern mans reaction to evil.
Asymmetrical individual phenomena are unaccounted for in statistical systems [>QM].
Separating the experimental system and external system provides an insufficient basis for ontology.
Symmetry between completeness and consistency in mathematical systems and in perceptual systems, where right-hemisphere would correspond to completeness and left-hemisphere to consistency. I have an intuition all is downstream from a mystical math of the cosmos, a numerology of the gods, not the calculation of experiments.
Were I Russian my soul would be forever wed to Dostoevsky's; German, Nietzsche's; but seeing as I'm American, it is Melville I take as first mate on this journey into the night.
With no war or adequate sea to try my young heart against, I am unfortunately forced to turn within and wage war against my self. A much more dangerous battle, for there would be no glory in this death.
I like to try and force my soul into identification with Goethe and Keats but am resigned to the knowledge that it truly lies with Nietzsche and Cioran.
What I believe I don't believe I believe, and what I don't believe I don't believe I don't believe.
The Lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither reveals nor conceals, but gives a sign. If you must explain the entirety of a thought to somebody, to cram it down their throat with all your might, then you might as well attempt to make a lion understand what it is to be a rock.
The waters fill with the bones of man until they flood the lee--Leviathan is one to lay in the deep and through consuming continue the wheels of history.
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