Chronicon

MMXII

EpistropheIs it not full time to return, when things are arrived
at the precipice of self-oblivion, when experimental philosophy labours
for selfish aggrandizement, and self is least of all served in the attempt;
when thought wastes its eternal substance in pursuit of time;
and the idea of Truth is mangled in the reckless machinery of Error?
- Mary Anne Atwood: A Suggestive Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery, 1850.
To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.
I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly,
or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I was a man.
–Chuang Tse

Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see
The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
- John Keats

Traveling to a realm removed, beyond the disembowelled, strangled Stars & Stripes, beyond this orphanage of War. Beyond the wrathful deities of perfect peace, beyond the certain serenity of seraphim; seed fallen far, far from the bodhi tree.

No suffering. No path. No attainment. No extinction. Form is emptiness and emptiness, form.

As we navigate this backward abyss through the dark rift, our craft become chrysalis flickering in rapid eye movements of fluttered wings; obsidian butterfly wandering a vast endless library of smoking mirrors retreating into one another. Penetrating deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness cut off from comprehension; gliding phantoms traveling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving scarce testament of the exteriorized soul invoked winged into existence, passed through the transitive nightfall of diamonds out of the profane epitaph of Time and into her profound utterance beyond the grave, beyond shaman's tree, beyond the denouement of history, into the spectral portal through which consciousness must pass, beckoning to us for millions of years across space and time. These moments, no more. Only Now.

These our pages hath foretold thee how the pageantry of Fortune fades-
revel's want and knowing's need mingle in the suffering cup of sleep.
If our signature calls to us from it's inscription upon the Grail, where then, is the Grail?
Last to lay down, unscriven & whispering;
paramour alone in the cold lava bed of history.

Temple built not by hands
whose golden key was laid upon the tongue of mortals
trobar clus , langue verte, mantiq at-tair, la langue des oiseaux, medu-netjer
the ineffable secret, kept now under an eternity of silence.

Revels ended, these our pages hath foretold
spirit-melted into air, our whispered prayer;
and, as the mascot moth unravels her fabric to vision,
the crowds' unclapped powers, Aurora Borealis
our psalm and solemn temple
the great and lofty orb itself
Yea, all which it inherit, dissolve;
and, like all insubstantial fashions faded,
left not even on a rack behind.
Such stuff we were
as seamstress stitch on, and our little life
is skewered wide awake

Now it is the time of night
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide.
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate’s team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow’d house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
-Puck

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same
- Keats, ibid

Let all the nations bless the name of Guttingburg and Fowst which done it
amen
-Tom Sawyer, printer

Chronicon

Chapter 6
Lanthanein

Sigurðr kvað:
12. "Segðu mér, Fáfnir,
alls þik fróðan kveða
ok vel margt vita,
hverjar ro þær nornir,
er nauðgönglar ro
ok kjósa mæðr frá mögum."
-
Fáfnir kvað:
13. "Sundrbornar mjök
segi ek nornir vera,
eigu-t þær ætt saman;
sumar eru áskunngar,
sumar alfkunngar,
sumar dætr Dvalins."
-Fáfnismál



"sirenum Sirenes secundum fabulam tres, parte virgines fuerunt, parte volucres, Acheloi fluminis et Calliopes musae filiae. harum una voce, altera tibiis, alia lyra canebat..."
-Maurus Servius Honoratus, Commentary on the Aeneid of Vergil, 5: 864


In the dark grey dawn of ages long ago when heart and mind were
spellbound, before fate had breeched the threshold of night and clawed
its way to the summit of day, restless spirits lay fallow in the spool
of an incantation vessel; unruly filaments twined, plaited and netted,
subverting the inflexible pretzel of change.
Votaries of it's secret Temple and those who found their way to it could
join in the invocation whose refrain returns, in a beautiful psalm:
'O Lord of every Lord! Make the litany of the Light arise'.

Contained in a kettle bound to boil, after a pace past the gremlin of time, it burst in a red shift of burning rubies, burst and set infinity to fathom the finite and foist a shell game of shadows upon the third dimension; this - our inexplicable predictament.

The shattered vessel containing divine sparks became
conduit to the infernal felly of maelstrom's ouroboros below, escaping the
the imaginal temple into movement of the crab and the rhythms of geometry,
tide and topology of escape, releasing the alchemical potency of the
Shem ha-Mephorash boustrophedon. Roly poly, roly poly, roly poly, poly
singing songs of love, rewinding the covenant till time be ceased; Aldina and
Strannik's restoration of Eiderdown's incantation bowl modified via Aldina's recitations from James Bonaventure Hepburn's manuscript, Virga Aurea was complete but for a single letter of Transitus Fluvii which Nightingale in the grey mists of morning, with obnubilate ritual, delivers unto the Cailleach.

The hieroglyph of water weeps upon its release into the antediluvian confluence of the river's illegible font, run round the circuit, ambulatory processional pathway around the central shrine;
axis of the splintered gimbal, blown windrose.
This luminous hieroglyph appears a moment later at the nombril within the chamber, with centrifugal pulsing coriolus force;
the husk of the true-rune crowned with lily-bud pirouettes, its gyre evoking the dead abandoning their prescripture of stupor.

The Cailleach phiseogach: Vanadi, Iridi and Yttri, working the alloy of their voices,
pursue time to her extinguishment; threading their Ars Transmutationis Metallicae through creation's veins in a sequence of melting slip-knots, their mingled ore bold admonitions to the sons of Dawn.

Calla lily towheads from birth, Eiderdown's triplets kept their milkweed hoarfrost as they hit the white-heat of adolescence and beyond; the intensity of their blue eyes only increasing, blue as the blossoms of echium that drew the moth to Hinba. These three refugees survived the amorous wasteland deficits of skinny tall scornful boys who look like bitter discount Buddy Hollys and the epidemic of Men-With-Shaved-Heads-On-Cell-Phones, whose brevity of attention span bore amphibolous implication to their other endowments as well.

The Cailleach sightread from skaldmaers' caul, voluspa frayed and threadbare, thin tattooed skrim testament of time and indecipherable as a fleeting whim,
their thrice great threnody entangled with mantic persuasions
outsings what lies beyond, between or within the lines we muse; the light gone dim
our magic carpet worn, our purchase grim.

Equipped with full throbbing quintephone, topshur and their Father's heirloom harmonica, a rolmonica model with built-in moebius rhapsody honeycombed into its bakelite and battered tin; Vanadi, Iridi and Yttri shod in their velvet Avery 1460's climbed Beinn Shiantaidh, slender legs threatening their already ripped fishnets. The conical quartzite holy mountain was steep-sided and 2,500 feet high to the beacon summit.
Gone to the top to sing an overdrone harmonic ululation of cranes, cantering rhythm of unicorn and breathing of bear held vibrating in the aural conservatory of their ventricular folds; an ark textured of fugue for the final deliverance.

Their trance-a-billy spectralist biosonic electrogrind, gone darkwave to the Antarabhala realm of in-between births, gone to the Antarala, the in-between or transitory state, the stretched out dream-time between movements and thoughts; the vast antechamber of nested interval between action and reaction where the elements of the four quarters dissolve contracting to a point generated from the singularity in flux.

Gone to the continuous fall of drops flowing, deeds of the Templeisen embedded between the two interpenetrating mirrors of Madimi and Kolbjorn; black volcanic glass below immersed of Darkness, tomorrow's uncharted face of the moon.
Above, the Sun's theophanic modality, the virility and fecundity of the triumphant Light forever rising through the florid door of yesteryore.

Gone, past the lapsed Hereafter.

Days following days, night swallowing the lot only to belch forth Eureka! and inside out rolls the sun.

Having examined the past, and knowing the things to come, most luminous of beings endowed with life and thought, brightest of stars, hail to thee! May the salutations and benedictions of the Aeternal be upon thee, sublime luminary, most august of the moving stars; You who are moved by the ardor of love! Most powerful vanquisher of darkness, author of day, soverign of stars! You reign with powerful force over the lights incarnated into bodies! Dispensation of light, vanquisher, brilliant one and sage, light that culminates in victory! Most magnificent of offspring from the spiritual world through your incandescent splendors! Image of grandeur, exemplification of beauty, flame of the faithful! Mover through shadow and theurgy's ardent desire for glory, form and light.

The immaterial Intelligences pray in their turn, in that form of prayer that belongs to the eternal world bereft of change and alteration, through the mystic orient triumph to the one love; most august of beings of primordial birth, light closest to the principle Intelligence of the universe!

Eternally subsisting light in every soul, of every ethereal and elementary body, simple or composed. Necessary being! Illuminate our temple with the originating splendor, with theosophic knowledge and superior powers! Account us amongst those who have that nostalgia for light, making immune to all infirmities of soul and body, bless them holy roly poly for ever and ever. Amen!

Chak Tulix lifts his stormy bio-exorcist's ruddy armpit and dips an oar, paddling in the stern for Ixchel and Kinich Ahau eloping in their canoe.

An instant hovers, quavering at the yawning precipice of a blink; stretching out in the lo-o-o-ng, languorous asana of teddy bear yoga, the drowsy fur of consciousness tingling all over; headdress of feathers erect.

"World-Honored One, after the Thus Come One has entered extinction we
will travel here and there, back and forth through the worlds in the ten
directions so as to enable living beings to copy this sutra, receive,
embrace, read and recite it, understand and preach its principles,
practice it in accordance with the Law, and properly keep it in their
thoughts."

Year: 2012
Winter solstice
As Betelgeuse achieved its midnight culmination,
Madimi closing the lid, let her round notebook lapse asleep to the snoring of a bear.
Maximum headroom forever.

"Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never."
-Franz Kafka: The Silence of the Sirens, 1917

Chronicon

Chapter 5.5
Gurges Mirabilis‏

"All our exchanges, from the northern coast of the Island of Cuba (from the southern side we have none so late,) come to us with glowing descriptions of the recent Aurora Borealis, which appears to have been as bright in the tropics as in the northern zones, and far more interesting. The sky was no more, or at least but for a moment, completely lit up from the horizon to the pole, but the light came and went, now here, now there, now in this direction, now in that, and each time varying in outline and brilliancy. During the three hours which followed it seems to have had almost every latitude and longitude possible in its field, and to have described every possible figure…"
-New Orleans Daily Picayune,September 7, 1859

…The northern sky, for an extent of some forty five degrees, was luminous with a mass of red light, from whence shot up towards the zenith the usual streaks, at times vivid and beautiful…

-New Orleans Daily Picayune, September 3, 1859

…again appeared in most resplendent brilliancy in the northern horizon last evening, being visible for a while just before and after the hour of midnight. The fainter or yellow lines of upshooting light could be clearly distinguished in the bright red illumination which extended wide around, lighting up the sky in such a manner as led the unmindful and even some of the fire companies to suppose that part of the city was about to be burnt out in a grand conflagration…

-The New Orleans Bee, September 2, 1859

'The City' Change of Weather '…Towards half past eight o'clock a singular phenomenon took place. The horizon from north to north east became of a deep crimson hue, which expanding slowly, made the sky appear as if lighted by a Bengal fire…At first it was supposed that some great conflagration had taken place on the outskirts of the city, but it was soon recognized that no natural fires could produce this particular hue…Crowds of people gathered at the street corners, admiring and commenting upon the singular spectacle. Many took it to be the sign of some great disaster or important event, siting numerous instances when such warnings have been given. Several old women were nearly frightened to death, thinking it announced the end of the world, and immediately took to saying their prayers. A fat old citizen tremblingly stated that this was the avant courier of a dreadful epidemic like cholera of 1833, whilst a French gentleman pooh-poohed, and gravely assured us that this was the well known sign of a revolution in Paris, requesting us to make a note of the date.

-New Orleans Daily Picayune, p.5

-+-

On the solar storm's induction, they rode the dawn into the last temporal vent together; Catiche, Xquiq, Madimi, Cora and Nightingale aboard the gondola, calculating to be berthed by awaiting midwifery of familiar disposition on the other side of yesterwhen.
A silence of metabolic interioritys engulfed Lafitte's airship which the Æolipylæ had re-named 'Luna', as it slipped surging through the amniotic sussurus of the quicksilvered obsidian quern.

Here, moments do not pass consecutively like attendants bearing the bier
of hindsight & forethought over their heads towards some final ossuary;
change is the constant in which they occur. Restless thought consumed in the absolute ever present
burbling current of mute configurations, too immediate to signify; awareness erupting, a gasping fish surfacing alien in an atmosphere consisting of perpetual amazement, surfing a green room's conduit to the future.

Enveloped in the wide waste of flickering silence they were thus borne, their channel penetrating a declension of lifetimes to issue forth in some very remote parturition.
Crossing the abyss through the ring-pass-knot, their secret presence alone overheard eternity's hazardous choir, for the maelstrom in which they found themselves displaced ground the marrow meal of Time in service of the nine maids of the island mill beyond the earth's last outskirt.

A colotomy of distant gamelan syllables reverberates within the dark passage, stroboscopic with diffuse lit phantom lanterns; Paracelsian star jellies drifting behind membranes throbbing with nocturnal fires.
Strong myometrial contractions propel their moth through perinatal matrixes of the cosmogenetic intrauterine passage.
Centrifugal flotsams suspend in its swirling eddies, passing so near they could almost read the whitened pages of lost old shaman bones watermarked with the transcribed sheet-music of the gods' repertoire.

The velocity of the passage's interior circumference spun smooth, moist radiance shimmering moonlight-golden veins along the black walls, far into the recesses of the chasm. Within She could all be seen, serene talisman of utter turmoil. Ahead the maelstrom's cervix yawned, beckoning.

The hydrodynamic swarm gradually increased crescendo in headlong kettledrum, sounding a terrible cyclone of buffalo locomotives. Boiling, hissing a textured howl, a weep and moan on the tempestuous winds of Her voice, mad calliope giving birth on rippling whirl and plunging ascent; vortices climaxing in an ecstatic conflict of waters heaving and gyrating, swaying in gigantic dark swell and gleaming sapphirine spray.

Her progeny borne upward, Luna's moth approached the ring of surf surrounding the vast egress, to that precipice of Her prodigal cornucopia; having brought plumb the full expanse of the abyss to occasion their pridian present.

They were drowned in an unearthly shriek, like the shriek should all the steamers left behind them on the Mississippi collectively emit their steam in unison.

The roaring caldron cast them forth. A thick mist enveloped everything, and a magnificent rainbow hung over that bridge between Time and Eternity.

Disgorged from the belly of the beast and flying through the air like old Geppetto, Nightingale found his feet planted on the deck of a skyborne airship. Turning wild-eyed to Cora he evanesced: "Blue Fairy, look- I'm a real boy!" And he danced a little jig, hamstrings twitching in a virtual palsy as if inflicted by some delinquent, invisible behind the curtain.

Cora rolled her eyes, whispering aside to Xquiq and Aldina: "he keeps himself in clouds".

"Come, my coach, by the power of song we cross it."

They cast their hawsers then to the Skomorokhi waiting on Hinba down below.

-+-

"We are but whirlpools in a river of ever-flowing water. We are not stuff that abides, but patterns that perpetuate themselves. A pattern is a message, and may be transmitted as a message".
-Norbert Weiner: The Human Use of Human Beings: Cybernetics and Society

" O great creator of being grant us one more hour to perform our art and perfect our lives
The moths & atheists are doubly divine & dying
We live, we die and death not ends it."
- James Douglas Morrison