[I really don’t care if this is read, or not. My
pleasure was in writing it, and some day after I’ve passed,
some ambitious intern may be willing to slug it out with
libraries of unedited, and disorganized materials, on a hard
drive. I won’t care then, either. Not to say I
didn’t care, earlier, but intoxication is a good way to
enjoy being ignored, as an artist with words, by the group
of people you most admired and wanted to be admired by - ugh
- anthroposophists. The process that evolved for
writing projects now, involves me getting I-toxicated
everyday on my medicine, taking notes as carefully as
possible - yet always easy/difficult, because the accelerant
of the Ganja Goddess is doing a serious TMI to my mind
space. But that is the medicine knocking on heavens
door, ... we (a deluge of idea-associations dancing) are, at
first blush, quite excited to >interact< through
mutual spiritual intercourse , then after a while we just
hang out together ... we - the muse who listens and just
ignores the dramas inside when me-Is play with words.
This piece/painted-page has been through about 20 hours of
the medicine dance. At the least, if possible, read it
aloud. He said, you know, to pray in a closet, but to
do it out-loud. This prayer is most definitely Not
Private! No prayers are even ever meant to be, are
they? Well, we may wonder: Is there someone there, ...
to hear? At the very very, and so most important,
least, Our me’s are there to hear.]
1) anticipation, spiced with thirst for the
payoff (do you really want to read this, or are you in
a hurry - mind in the fast lane, not noticing the clouds of
glory - the Ideas that would like to meet you and have a
chance to be entertained in your mind for a while ...
a serious “reader” will print this out, and go to an easy
chair, and take their time, savoring all the different
tastes of meaning. And Sound)
2) choosing to allow a chemically induced “other” to
alter perception. Don’t worry, you do it all the time,
just breathing, and then the sprite-like high-level
combustion-support we call oxygen, is traded to us for our
benefit, from another chemical empire which actually is
totally focused - for the team no less - on the Whole, which
includes us and everything else. This is a Being which
some call: The Green World (having all the aspects of the
single organism, “read" a Steiner-student’s, book:
“The Plant”). All the same that is not her/its/his
name. tho’ there is only One, and Shes a hoot - more masks
and disguises than the fanciest ball: “life having a party
with matter”). Unless you >Jeff< want to elevate
some-"other” Idea to the crown of “what it all means”.
Imagine your lungs. Tubes, branching, and
multiplying, living, ... their narrowest multitudinous parts
below, the wider above more open to the outside via a single
tube, the throat. Something from outside enters
into me, and it is both material and not. In shape,
the breath-threshold system, is an empty space, a void in
which outside air is to come for the fire they make
together. We feel this when we breathe-inhale
consciously - we feel the empty space and the air, making
something, sharing ...
Out-side my window, another shape. A tree in
winter. Wide tube-like trunk below, then rising and
branching up narrower and narrower into the light. The
earth kisses the sky, and the Sun sings holy breath to the
shared embrace, each Spring more intense, through continuous
creation - new green-matter appearing through the cone of
ether-space the biologists call the “growing point”, or tip,
where the tree wakes from sleep to call forth powers arcane
from the darkest aspects of the tilled or untilled
ground. The tree is also matter-filled space.
This matter-filled space is the mate of the matter
empty lung space, and both - commonly shaped - are
mediated by air. Form follows function.
Consider that the space inside the lung, in shape, is an
upside down tree trunk, which function is to allow for
taking something more massive - a lung full of air, and
distributing it in the finest ways, through the lung alveoli
to the blood, and then through the blood to the cell.
The Tree is similar, and different, being matter
filled, with changes as to accord with the Seasons.
The Green World arrives in the Spring, and departs in the
Autumn. In the Winter it sleeps, in Summer it
dreams. The leaf, the most perfect extension into
space of earth-bound matter, regularly bathes in the
Sun, and the two - Sun and Earth, then metabolizes light
into matter at the growing “point”. The part of matter
which is structural - containing carbon, then is
concentrated in the leaf/tree/root system, while the part of
matter which is more lively - containing oxygen, travels
with the Air into the lung, to promote the alchemy of
eventually traveling with sweet sweet sugars to the brain,
there to be transformed fully into the spirit - the Will
from which the thought picture is born.
Photosynthesis is a name disguising the weakness in
the thinking-imagination of modern so-called science.
The growing point creates the matter - it - the matter - is
not there before the magic lays hold of the embrace of holy
breath with light, and warmth, and sky and tree.
Photosynthesis is a Eucharist, a Rite no less celebrated
than The Consecration of Man, albeit in the present, besides
aboriginal peoples, mostly only fairies, and a few farmers
and their companions, are present, the smallest ones often
riding on the backs of falling leaves, drops of rain,
butterflies and birds.
Nothing Is disconnected from Anything. There are
myriad parts - Steiner named several billion different kind
of “parts” by giving us the whole stew of his scientifical
spirituality. To observe, is to see something that is
not the observer, some of the time. One of my
me’s lamentable >points of view<, follows the drunk
poet-warrior’s, trained {by Him and Her}> in the arts of
<shamanistic-wizardly-tarot>, until eaten and then
spit out by the cohorts left behind by a dead guru, smarty
pants’ over the top preamble, in multi-voices to,
Anthroposophy 3.33.
Central Europe got Michael’d, and not just in
Dornach. Then He came, the guy we are all scared to
meet, because part of His nature seems to us, to make us a
lesser event, in relationship to The Event.
Sure, there is John The Baptist, and then the Descent of the
Dove. So, a first note of the Third Millennium,
replicating the primary tones announcing broadcasts of
coming announcements (Steiner playing a trumpet for
Michael’s entrance which then begins the touting of the
Second Coming.). I mean, just, you know, drop your
pants and do it. Why prance around first?
Here’s how it works. There is only Mind.
Nothing else. Or, there is only Matter.
Nothing else. Or some weird quantum string game with
secret codes only the high priests of science use to say
their prayers to the “god"-particle. Or Rudolf Steiner
folks, too. And let us not leave out Catholics,
Muslims, Buddhists, Native Americans, sadists,
child-molesters, cannibals, and embalmers of the dead.
Do words on a page have an effect on the breath?
Is out-loud prayer (West?) different from silent meditation
(East?)? Steiner students have a Ritual, called: a
Study Group. This does, some say (while others
disagree), not make us anthroposophists believers in a
religion. Okay. Sorry to step on your toes, but
you know, if you think about from a certain point of view:
If we are not a “cult”, what are we?
What directs the breathing?: two actors. ... (One) we
do, by making a mental loop, which is will-linked to the
breathing, connected to a heart-song choice to do more than
just lay there on the bed, not wanting to face the new
Day! The day is won with getting out of bed ... the
rest are just jazz rifts of my moments on the Stage.
We breath in, then move or not. A whole day of
do’s or not. More moving, more breathing. Stuff
comes in, stuff goes out. Not always pleasant
tho’. Do I write the script? Am I writing the
script now. Do I care. Me no care. Me
want’s to play with precious - my ring of power over
language. Ordinary social conversations are littered
with safe phrases, and confessed points of view, hoping that
no one expects to involve us in actually speaking our
minds. Mostly we call this presence:
personality. People can conversationally twinkle with
wit, or just, you know - pass the damn joint.
Life (# two) - is the second actor. We can
oppose Life so much that we are able to forcefully
shed/shred a current avatar
>physical/material/body<. Consider the
profound question of the ages, should we ever on purpose try
to check out on Life, ... SSS?OOOO, what happens next?
Each of us might be able to say, with varying degrees of
creativity and authentic just lame-ass don’t give a fuck,
that “we’ve been there done that” .... to
one degree or another.
When it comes to life, here’s the thing. That
shit is everywhere, stuck to everything inside and
out. You be that shit. We be it.
Life. Shit is just a real phase of the organic matter,
once filed with life, being recycled. Shit, like Fuck,
is being lifted out, by whole cultures, of any former
dis-grace. Do words that fall through the well of
social-distaste, suffer inwardly from the <dis>
(appearance) of <grace>?
The also-thing is, we are, and we are not: Life.
We are kinda stuck with the possible Idea what death Is, so
we still seek for some "other”, to embrace, comfort, and be
embraced and comforted by. Poets, being less
restricted in the imagination (read: “diarrhea of the mouth,
goes with constipation of the brain” and Ganja is the
laxative), than are the many who don’t know/or/want-to-admit
that everyone has a “spiritual” view,,, ... simple words for
this: what, or who, is the It that isn’t the avatar body -
the “we” that lets go at the end of material life. Is
there a me in the We? There are rumors that are
disturbing, such that when we are no longer me in an avatar
body, and that the ones waiting in forever-after for “me”
are all those relatives who gave me so much shit. We
are going to have a love-in? Is this required in the
life after life? Look, please, ... What? Its up
to me? That’s crazy. NO, THAT’S LOVE.
Including tough love? OH YES, YOU THINK MY MOTHER IS
NOT GOING TO BE HANGING AROUND? Yea, you’re
right, I look at the world and see so much seeming
<un-necessary misery>. YOU READY TO JUDGE THAT,
AND TO START THROWING STONES OVER <THERE>?
[For the prudes: the function that gives rise to the
meaning-form of certain words is passion. Feelings
that are strong. Strong feelings are often wise, and
venting strong feelings is frequently necessary, and useful,
as every crying woman knows. There is a point and a
virtue to what a cowboy might have called: straight
talk. The appropriate speech/word department of the
Committee for the Preservation of normative social masks for
feelings, will on occasion have to be told to just shut the
fuck up.]
This is what I’m learning lately, with Jeffs’s quite
fascinating dancing about in this shared entombed idea art
form, that there is a second question, that belongs at the
table: Sure: “Who I am I?” belongs But what about: “Is
there a me?” When a question, thought to be only seen
in our mind, yet there it is >here<, like lump of coal
-- what do we do? Not breathing then seems
inescapable, until the question eats itself, by asking: do
we “me-s” notice how the question feels until it burns, and
then moods of emotional quantum engtanglment rage to the
nearest place of retreat. Shakespeare was more pithy:
“To be, or not to be.”
In the ancient hallways of rhetorical delight, we
classify our shared now >here<, as an Internet -on
Facebook message- thingy, displaying in our word dances
>here<, as an attachment to the sharing of the
thought-storms of an almost gnomish, but completely
civilized Pan, who managed going’s on we cannot imagine with
attractive nymphs, all wishing to be his favorite
impossible. He needs to become honored in death,
completely nameless (what chains his shade bears, each link
in the rusting iron garment of a not understood quote, a
weight of deepest woeful karma - for which he actually
volunteered, ya know. He did volunteer.)
But I suspect he wouldn’t mind, being forgotten
in thought and speech, yet livingly remembered in the
speech-of-actions that means much more than words - the very
spiritual life toward which he inspired us. Yet,
how do we pass through Now into the gloriously seeking
Fast-forward, free of this Steiner ghost shade-in-chains we
are dragging behind? See, yes, hanging out in the Now
is the thing. If it stays the same, this Now all the
time Now, the of fable Groundhog Day reveals the secret of
escape from the drudge and boring grind of getting up in the
morning, when we still remember in our hearts as a first
thought - a new Day, a squirrel-chasing boogger eating,
Calvin and Hobbes Day~! Yes, but Guys do get over
wanting to have a secret club with no “girls” in it.
Well, for one <drum roll>, his music in the
Arts-Idea-Words-temples, such as book stores and publishing
house. and private libraries - is that not tombs of Mr. A
about which we were warned? Too much time with the
books, can get in the way of there being a real celebration
>here< in this forest of devotees to our lost Pan,
where we then speak of Pans and Nymphs, rhetorically bathing
in the celebration of ME! What fire-Arts are lost when
we suppress the lower chakras.
Hiding in a cave, nearby, a wizard. Spends a lot
of time doing nothing, seemingly. Inwardly the
convocation is semi-joyous, with a negative, out of rhythm
chanting going on at the knees - for which he spends the
better part of his Day intoxicated, ... yes you have to feel
the pain, but you do not have to care, and it is just fine
to obsess on poor me, one of the least respectable mirrors
of myself, although poor me is sometimes allowed in the
throne room of the <?I?> ... There is an art to
complaining ... and a science. Case in point ... there
is no >music< quite like “the blues”.
Boy’s chasing lasses, love ladies with glasses.
The Blues is Born in that the One, the Better Half, could
not endure my shames.
The Plant-consumed gives the most wonderful Gifts,
like: What does/or can it mean -- metaphorically -- and
whimsy swimsy -- If, for example, says the arguing devil to
the showing off clown: “Look dude, you write, okay.
You choose to write, and then that’s not enough, but you
have to Share It, and drip your writty-thing-stuff all over
a nice clean page. Well, its not trees you writers are
destroying, in order to jump up and down in one tiny corner
that is the the public classroom of cyberspace, and say:
Listen to me <jump> Lis-Ten To Me <jump
higher>, then ...
Calm Down. Wait. Sit back. Have some
coffee, or a beer, or get stoned. All rites of coming
down at the end of another long day (where too much of it is
so “Groundhog Day” - you know: the mass of that which
repeats from Day to Day, which is unlikeable, grinds ... the
Day is the grinding wheel of life. Fight Back@!
Pleasure-seek.
3) the rush approaches
the rush begins
the rush climbs and turns
each new word into another word ?=?
in reading, the eye, in the West only? is taught to
solve the puzzle of the code by a movement of the
eye from left to right
and then down to the next line,
beginning once again on the left.
Is that a key to the differences between the West and
the East, where reading can go from the bottom, up and then
right to left? No doubt, buried in the libraries of
great universities are many papers on reading, that almost
no one reads. The dance of the eye in its focus on
spatially present objects is, or is not, guided by I
or me. Choice or instinct or habit? Except when we are
being seduced by commercials on TV, and the blowing up of
objects, and/or romances, in films?
All the while breathing to the rhythm of the inner
re-sounding sub-vocalizations, aided by punctuation, when
occupied at least a little bit less sarcastically, with the
pleasure the >actor< enjoys as the words dance over
the tongue. Read my stuff aloud if you dare, but you
must, please, do it sitting on the toilet - let us not make
mental pictures, and flinch. Just, you known, do an
experiment. Be a scientist.
After visiting the wilds of the astral plane, using
serious natural substances as aids, Wizards invented
printable words, all over the world, in all the ancient
times, with the help of an artisan, who was the original 3D
printer, whose gift was the shaping. The artisan
remains unmechaical, to coin a rabid term, while the 3D
printer seeks making living flesh, and the fantasies of the
new West World on HBO, see it coming.
They knew they were, in creating letters, even in the
forms of pictograms, taking the free flowing sounded meaning
of Speech, and making it static - stealing the essence of
something alive, and fixing it in form. Do we bother
anymore to notice what lives in the shaping of sounds into
fixed form-letters? To study just that act - the
making rigid the shaped sounds of speech - and then
inflicting that wound upon the world. Vowels are the
seven Mothers of the hearth of speech, and consonants the
protective Father, guarding the doorway to meaning.
Hebrew written, and in print, has no vowels - their Being
too precious to imprison on a page. Only the scholar,
trained in the arts of the Sefer Yetzirah, knows the
esoteric rules for the placement of the Mother sounds.
Then these same wizards, absorbed in their perversion:
<the taking of the Wind of Speech, and freezing it in
wood and stone> they, and their perversion thought it
would improve things if they could make a chain of noises -
a phrase of a sentence is always a <spell>, and by
just being on the empty page there can the spell be cast ...
before (at the feet of) the eye-enchanted I that is trained
to follow the code - you know, the writer gets the reader to
cAST the Spell. For me there is a problem if someone
wants to get to me with their spell. Yet, “I” have to
confess how spell-bound I am to this existence of the senses
with their pungent winged sorrows asking for me only to
surrender to “ME!”.
Chant this chant, when necessary to make music with
moments when you become aware that someone is casting a
spell on you, by getting your inner voice to repeat their
words, their rhythms, the inherent logos-nature that appears
until when one phrase wakes up your “”MEES!!!” inner
drummer. The thoughts of others storm the battlements
of the soul, except in those cases where we opened wide the
gates to the mind, in reading, to an avalanche of ethereal
substance, created by a genius so in sorrow over what of the
true spiritual was dying amid the culture all around him,
that his tears bled from the pages of his writing.
A song, whose base note was: We Come from Perfection,
therefore we are Perfectible. Except his is not the
only sorrow, for the Land of the Younger Brother, rides a
very wild horse into the future. In my mind, I took
away the battlements, kicked the old Euro-spell-caster out,
and heard: The Song of the Wind. "Yes, You are from
Perfection. However, ... You imagine the imperfect
world, not realizing that Everything is Already
Perfect. Imperfection cannot come from Perfection, so
where does that old guide to the dying away Wisdom of the
Elder Brother get the idea its a spiritual path only when a
guru says it is?
<"If there can be “spiritual paths” there will be
spiritual paths everywhere"> (later to be known as Lazy
Bear’s inversion of Murphy’s Law). You don’t have to
stop running to be sitting still. It’s just a simple
jedi-mind trick. The whole world dances in exactly the
way they want/need to act. From the time you''ve been
born you""ve, been learning the harmonies between self and
world. If you are alive, you are by that act already a
jedi-master of the art of life. Lets hope, anyway.
So Steiner never said much about “magic”, yet to any
true magician/wizard and otherwise left handed path explorer
(you do have two hands, right, and two eyes?), Steiner was
doing “magic” all the time, because Magic was the Loom
on which The Divine Feminine wove into the Creation the
Nature of Speech, the Nature of the Word, the Nature of the
Telling, which could not but lead to their Fall, Tumble,
Star-Song, latent in Everything that Knows that: - >it
too shall pass<.
But Magic was just a fore-note. It was very
serviceable, until ... Love came to join us in the arts of
being human, which then-deed changed everything
forever. Love didn’t save us. by the Way. Love
so loved us that Love became us ... followed us ... even
through the Gate of Death, so as to know us - all the me’s
and I’s of everything.
The Foundation Stone Meditation. The
Ceremony at the Founding of the First Goetheanum.
Aiding in the Birth-pains of Visible Speech, all the while
pointing out over and over again, that a primary aspect of
our “shared spiritual life” lives in words: as speech - the
oral, and now written, somehow is not from “mouth to ear”
anymore ... teacher to student. The same “true
observation” is mirrored in the mind. We speak to
ourselves and we listen to ourselves and we fight to keep
ourselves well, all the time well aware of the “slings and
arrows of outrageous fortune”.
The domain of the head, and its aged countenance,
past. As a limb, oriented forward tho’. Has our
age ended the dichotomy of student and teacher, yet?
Who are we ... hammer or nail? Are there adult
bullies, bearing cudgels wrapped with Steiner-saids, in the
yards of Waldorf Schools, or at Branch meetings?
So once-was-RS-spirit, a lingering tone of the world
of ideas, heard when we are still sitting at the feet of the
teacher, sings: there is a narrow gate inside us, which is a
kind of growing farmscape of thoughts, some fertile,
some not. Here’s some help he says. Very
hygienic, anticeptic, and logically of the highest artistic
outside the lines playfulness - “time to grow your own
food”.
Over across the Ocean (the Waters of Pangaea still
are, as are the Lands - their dance never to be finished,
for the primal division of spiritual/material reality is
script. What is, is Speech. Wizards and
Magicians learn to read it. Training the mind to do
this, in terms of Anthroposophy 3.3, requires mastering the
students of Steiner, for the fires Steiner ignited are not
yet burning as bright as he meant them to be. “Genesis 1: In
the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.” (social
engineering in a viral way, using the individualization of
languages to allow for variation in the replicating
processes of prime directives: Which are directives set in
place by the past, a past whose directives must be
violated, and turned into compost for the arts of ideas
endlessly taking form in matter. Don’t take the
ramblings of an intoxicated fool for the truth. If he
is on occasion a bit lucky, then his flirtations with the
muse of language might, for a bit, be more than just news
print into which goes garbage on its Way out of town.
Actually, the truth, such as it might appear anywhere in
this prose, will be an accident, not unlike the happy
unguided and unplanned from outside, magical evolution of
the upright ape ... unfortunately for us all, the sea, the
drunk poet warrior falls asleep in, and then wakes up in, is
real.
So Steiner writes some poems, (using the forms of
formal German philosophy on the cusp of the end of the 19th
Century of (?) - poems restricted by laws of grammar, and
all the other now embed in Natural Science’ virtues
concerning verbal (word-related) divisions of the great
questions which the Wise had been pondering endlessly, but
can’t yet settle on the right order or to properly give and
receive precedence in their mutual relationship, ???their
formal Latin Names??? quadrivium - (plural: quadrivia)
is the four subjects, or arts, taught after teaching the
trivium, which was one wag’s way of weighing it. Seven
in all, of course.
Lots of “W” sounds. Created astral body
momentum. Got to watch wagging that tongue woman,
where it is not wanted, and by the way I going off the
Harry’s and meet up with the guys, blow off some
steam. Can I get you some beers before I go?
So people go to meetings, where they follow a
particular dead wizard’s vices, one of which is to believe
You know just about everything (impresses the ladies, the
mind has always been the new-sexy), act like You can answer
any question, and don’t, for GOD’s sake don’t: talk
about sex, You know, the fun stuff we hide talking about
because it is scary, especially if My church is the Church
of Rudolf Steiner, and well, We all know what He thought
about s- e- x (wink wink). He’s the Wizard you know,
and if he says it, it must be true, and if it isn’t true,
what am I still doing here, or oh shit, got to run ....
Meanwhile, in the sometimes over-locked box in the
corner of the mind of someone who “reads” a lot of Steiner,
lie little mental creepy crawlies. Right? The
mind does contain bad thoughts, right? Not just
morally bad, but worse - logically bad.
RIGHT! Okay, let us ask the own logos-nature, the
reasoned imagination beauty intoxicated me, so clever, yet
so right, and is this “me” willing to confess anything in
public, or what. Sure, I judge my thoughts all the
time. Somebody’s got to provide some order in the
constant disarray. To be a free human being, all of
us-me-s have to fight private battles, others may never
appreciate. The Steiner-mind in silence, while
in company with others who are perhaps expecting speech,
holds his/her silence like a imprisoned power, and those
Groundhog Day repetitions, showed the truth that this
repetition state of Pan-Faun-Nymph-like Embrace, latent in
an handshake, man to woman, although at a time, when a
gentleman could with his lips, and/or mere gaze in the eyes,
offer, receive, surrender, to the “other”, which
recent history is finding out that ultimately all “we’s” are
trans-gender, a kind of message sent by a chain of falling
dominoes. Thank you “trans-gender” wizards and
witches, for exploding major past overdriven myths of Sexual
Identity, at a cost to the pioneers, which is again why I/me
thank you. What does “sex” have do to with who I/me
am? Yes, I wear a “cover”. All we
human-books get to wear all the different covers we want,
and should be able to change them at the drop of
self-generated whim. Orange is the new Black, and on
my desk, night stand, and just above everywhere, are books
by Steiner.
We live Now, not just in the Day of Purification, but
The Conflagration/Celebration, where not just a return of
jedi - of those who believe there actually exists “higher”
aspects of human consciousness (soul) and nature (spirit),
ergo, there must be a path or a journey (or an adventure)
involving, please involving, please most secret sacred
ancient powers, appearing/manifesting to oppose the Rise of
the Machines, the Rise of the Anti-Life, ... without a bad
guy, how do I know I’m being a good guy.
Eastern/Thinking, Or Western Thinking?, which
“spiritual” guise shall I use against the rain today?
I’m sitting, you know in my room, meditating about various
folks, the growing up trend, so also, armed against the
Machine, and wanting to tame it, and totally in love with it
at the same f’n time, and make it be somehow
everything missing is already >here<? The
creative aspect of the Lucas archetype of “the Force”, might
have been Eros, but George is basically a kid who is really
good at playing, so Star Wars was modeled on Saturday
Afternoon at the Movies ‘50‘s film morality. Still
though, can’t hide a bad’good thing ... Ever thought about
how phallic/erotic a light saber is? Then, not too
much later, we get Alien. Life in the wilds of being
Feminine, having some moxie, being actually seriously
tougher than trained marines, and smart enough they soon
elect you their leader.
Yes, the Arts of our Age, will of the necessity of the
existence of the “collective imagination”, use
Archetypes. Do you see them, or do you want to argue?
The Star Wars direction is a split-off from Star Trek,
in the cultural 60‘s. A “Trek” is a
journey. The unknown beyond the Twilight of the
Collective Imagination. Star Wars, well we all know
about “wars” don’t we. But beneath the cultural
triumph of George Lukas, lurked the darker feminine.
Do we see Princes Leia as a virgin, or as a woman?
Films as modern Tarot cards, are a large canvas for an
active imagination. A man with a curious name: M.
Night Shyamalan, makes film fairy tales, not forced into the
old form, but very modern - honoring the function, and quite
pointed about light and dark, and magics unnamed. The
films are seriously meant to disturb you - a feast for
feelings, riding a different arts-magic. Perhaps a
guilty pleasure, or if shared in a Study Group, fun for
those who have wanted to have wild conversations about
modern American culture, at least for dessert.
When the Collective Imagination was also
recently/reasonably Dark (fears over nukes and communists,
whatever else is coming - “blowing on the wind”) the spirit
of the ‘60‘s having been eaten by the “I am not a crook”
‘70‘s, so then Star “Trek” divides into the heroic masculine
archetype Star “Wars”, after which the darker feminine
element came in, in the Film: Alien, and its wonderful
progeny. That was the moment the art of H.L.
Gieger, known mostly in Europe, entered Film. The
sensual stylistic choices living in Gieger’s Idea of the
bio-mechanical, gave birth to an alien shape, which anyone
can study, with just this understanding: the original film
was explicitly sexual as a delightfully visual
subtext. Gieger, by the way, was a serious fan of the
American explorer of the Imagination’s darker climates, H.P.
Lovecraft.
The Mechanical is what? Some dream-study people
say we are all the aspects of the dream. The dream’s
parts are all us. Does this mean that the apparent
nightmare: The Mechanical - the Anti-Life - is something we
also are? The Matrix films took that question straight
on, and had a lot to say. Want to read, or write
tonight? Take in, send out? Get buzzed and
have a watch of the whole three Matrix movies over a period
of ten or eleven hours, drinking booze and coffee and eating
too much rich food, by yourself, or not, or alone, or not,
although ... can a self-aware mind actually ever be
alone? Culture speaks, but people stuck on old Western
Civilization European high culture, seem to have forgotten
how listen.
From wandering the lands of such types of inquiries,
our inner Sherlock may notice that explorers of those lands
- lands of the Collective Imagination - are endlessly
creative. Pan and a dance of nymphs does not step
aside at the end of the day, but lets the night creep up
behind your back, and film divulges its minor scores from
the library of archetypes: the revival of horror movies.
Tales of Darkness, growing like mushrooms on the too
much to gain and nothing cultural to loose, ‘cause money
only counts Hollywood mind-set, gets you not just slasher
movies, but tales of where even a self-made icon of Pan-like
maleness, like Hugh Hefner (not the Donald, don’t get me
started on the Donald) can create trash, add magic,
and then call it - justly - art.
The thing is there are artists out there who are
gifted of the dark, in that they can image it, and try to
give someone else their vision. That means, that
as a mode of cultural light, to embrace film and TV drama is
the new normal in terms of grander conceptions of what is,
or is not, Art, This does not require, those who seek
the vision of a practitioner of zen-anthroposophy3.3, that
you go forward: eyes wide shut. Eyes wide open is
better, and the arts of film and television are the living
records of a world-wide culture that has begun dissolving
and replacing cultures everywhere, while being damned to
hell for it. America is The Great Satan mounting
astride the world, and sucking the Worlds life forces to
Itself, and >actually< America is also of-in the world
in order to be its own archetypal wave front of social
change into impossible Dreams. Can;t get no New, ‘less
the old goes ‘way.
America eats cultures, and vomits out the mixture,
which She then uses to inspire/paint pictures in the hearts
of visual artists, with the most cool-tools technology can
supply. This make-a-movie <Will>, at the same
time, shamelessly steals from opera and other older dramatic
arts. Coppola’s third God Father movie - a case in
point. The audience is crucial to most artists, and
certainly Our Creator bothered to care, for He invited a lot
of folks to His Final Harrowing, what some wizards, more
afraid of the Dark, call: The Last Judgment.
True American Culture is Dangerous Songs in the Time
of the Tides of Reactionary political blah, believed to be
art. Are you paying attention to American
Culture? All media is culture. Anything that
uses text and pictures, so as to share and communicate, is
culture/s.
A tale from “history Anthroposophy 3x”: Rock ‘n Roll
laid down a beat, born ages ago in Africa, but which ran
peoples (against their will in most cases) smack dab into a
wall of wars between red people and white people, like so
much misery blues, that comes out when my guitar gently
weeps. Fueled with this fire to be free in every Way
possible, styles of dance - a Nymph with a Pan, burst free,
almost but not absent the image of the chest burster in the
Alien movies, ... the dance enters the lower limbs, and if a
weeping guitar player wanted to, he could have at all: sex,
drugs, And rock ‘n roll. The darker shadow to Disney’s
Peter Pan’s &Twinkle Star’s oh so chaste love affair
denied - how and when then does Pan actually get inside the
Girl, is bucked back into life on TV, ridden by a
King.
I saw this happen in the high-school years memories of
one who shall not be named (he is shy), ... social dancing
changing, at least among us privileged white folk, and
shy-he has no clue he is “that”.
What with all the wars of the 20th Century, the other
war, the darker war, the one over the meaning-of-it-all
remaining presently absent this individual rightly
open-source paragraph conversation, ... What of all those
wars, does there remain in the minds and hearts of anyone of
us, willing to open the gates of the waters of forgiving.
In the inner symbology of the Tarot, The book of
Symbols that Lives Forever-Until, a Woman stands chastely
clad, kind of hovering over a stream, yet it is the action
of the woman’s hands which impress us with the sense of
motion of the pouring back and forth of water, between
golden cups.
I am not sure precisely what is represented by water,
accept I am soon reminded of thirst, in part because I have
a sense of tastes as a way of eating the world.
Thirst, in me an individual encounter (tho’ not unique), is
the connection with the symbolism. Not only thirst,
but thirst satisfied. A breathing in and out of
meaning. First leading thought, Anthroposophy1.0:
“Hence only they can be anthroposophists who feel certain
questions on the nature of man and the universe as an
elemental need of life, just as one feels hunger and
thirst.”
What is She then pouring back and forth but the waters
of the life of knowing/being, who includes as well a sense
of impermanence - the motion after-all is endless
repetitions. The hum of the silent sphinx identifies a
tone of knowing. She is not speaking, only her action
speaks.
The Mystery, as has always been obvious, is that the
symbol language on a page exists, whether it is a deck of
cards, fonts on a computer screen, of the latest fad, sized
variously in price, color and ring tone. The world of
magical shapes, colors, forms, sounds, are the Word Speaking
in Macro-Symbols. What is the World? It is
Speech.
Writing and Reading are primarily magical, mystical,
and full of the Natural Way of Anthroposophia. They
are living, and both evolve a kind of triangular
relationship, with both a personal and a meta-component -
the sheer numbers of individuals interconnected via a fallen
and arcane art through which to capture and train minds,
otherwise separated. The Art of controlling the
narrative, the meta-narrative, and the
sub-sub-sub-narrative.
Some healing of the mantra-spell of reading and
writing, only comes by choice and hard work. Others
have more of an instinct. Read and/or write.
Speak or be Silent. Everyone mostly gets to do
that. Pan and the Nymphs, listening to the music of
choral unspeakable sexual fun, do not mind those that seek
and realize that the privacy of the temple of Eros, needs
just be a sleeping area in a shared home, with a few
necessities. Everyone’s business is their business,
except, hmmm, well there are really a lot of exceptions, if
we are honest about our personal secret “me-s”.
Only a cosmology, buried up to its neck in “this” or
“that” comparative thinking, could believe it is right for
Love to exclude anything, or for that matter, any seeming
contrary idea. As each meta-vision of what it all
might mean marched across the screens in theaters large and
small and personal, Archetypes out of the Collective
Imagination spoke again of heroes, and dragons, and
machines. Everywhere machines, built it was once upon
a time believed, to save labor and free the human being to
enjoy his leisure ... and pleasure. Doesn’t seem to be
working.
I must rest. Me must let go of the hoary muse of
pot-intoxication, find a nice soft chair, some good real
(mostly) food and some NFL championship playoffs to watch on
one of those magical screens, that tries, and instinctively
succeeds in spreading culture old and new. It is not a
wasteland. There is a there there. Can you see
it yet?
@<?/// ...... this much too orderly punctuation
party, is sung in remembrance of “”“”Harvey Bornfield"""”!,
to the sounds of bagpipes. Harvey, who tended to
called himself: Earlyfire, died just eleven years ago, two
days after epiphany in 2006, and was a main inspiration I
could never comprehend, until I joined a small company,
which might be called: The Fellowship of Drunk Poets
Everywhen. http://ipwebdev.com/hermit/HarveyBornfield.html
[ ~^i} ], wishes to say thank you for reading. What
has been written >here< is dangerous, by the
way. By exposing the Occult Wizard’s Coldest Heart
Against the Living Word, otherwise known as “print” and
“printing”, which bears an odd relationship to “thoughts”
and “thinking”, the secret cabal is sexposed, while
>+~^} kisses {^~+<, and calligraphy is set free in the
type-set world of Facebook.
