tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89650389925168370102024-03-13T06:38:50.404-04:00mortlake"Knowing I loved my books, he furnished me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom."johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-79066376081967362542018-04-05T14:56:00.000-04:002018-04-05T14:56:15.966-04:00cheesecake for peeper<div style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0;">
electric scrotum bolts<br />
unzip their jonquils</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0;">
boasting morel umbrellas</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 0;">
<br />
</div>
johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-28518111793737646972018-02-15T17:50:00.001-05:002018-02-15T18:19:02.665-05:00The Testament of Adam<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Old Adam Snores</b></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Adam was saved from death & put on the stole of glory...
-Cave of Treasures 51: 20-23</i></span> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> We are, we feel
a shunted thing
homunculus of our own
unmaking
sloughed off
cradled & unAbeled
mind unsound
broken in spirit, in body bowed
ouroboric
Omega
O, Adam! Immortal!!
trembling monument to
Doom
First Father Figure
the one who
of precursors none
his curse's cant
the obituary of all my incarnations
moulting an ornithology of wings
men litter the sky
lit by untempered demons
nomadic ash, fugitive dust
of cowardice & courage
the soul campaigns
to furnace ash a finer mill
long smouldering
barely lit & sputtering
embalm this fire
Heraclitus
& call it a day</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">---------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Hevera Devera et Cetera</span>
</b> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> a temple in man
exconjuratory in ruins
rubedo gone awry
every third thought
the magic of tears
recovering sonorities of the Rapunzel Suite
summoned by her black skirted billows
the tolling of the 13th bell
vaulting the stampede of circumstance
in the still embrace
of Before and Everafter
the two arms of Eternity
Hereafter apriori
wherewhen confounds
the go-between
scampering therebefore
metronome
and there the robin dropped his worm-white sign
clock unfroze
a flock of crows
stroking the balls of
the bell
the cockledoodle
lock down
what is this moment
stripped of its crypto-currencies
implausible
fashion's tattered brocade of empty epithet
hibernating
an aeon yawns Old Adam
dimly seen in the zodiac arcade's
unseemly spooky action at a distance
what lips may moan its name
portent of doom and all looming
intrigue of terrorjoy?
before the pulse and demesne
of clockworks ratcheting
now
into hatcheries of soul
a fractured thought
unmarked deficiencies
gravestoned
deface the mask
of these aeternal goodbyes
by seasons weathered
honor these vulnerabilities
descending into dust
Madam I'm Adam
lone below
chanticleer
in the cool of the evening
--------------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I in Everyman</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I, in my broken Adam
fallen
through shattered worlds
& scattered sparks
the Tree of Life's
cradle craft & broken bough
fruit unfallen
wings for the furthermost
created a crown
but craved to crawl
there she found me
in the desolate garden paradox
where everything promised
her pilgrim soul</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">-----------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Mammograms from Eve</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> I am the jealous store-house of candle-ends
That lit your adolescent learning"
-from: Songs to Johannes- Mina Loy</i>
</span> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>"If we had worlds enough & time
this coyness, dear, would be no crime"
-Andrew Marvell</i></span>
circumscribe the libeled bride
her sugared refineries
the muse that dares
the daemon dotes
demolishing etymologies
& fable quotes
suckled on outlaw milk
& mutterkorn
the dreams of matter
lactescent squeal
blood writes in ritual
sleeps seeping
beneath intimate & unknown
veins & membranes
tissue & terrain
surge uncurl the chambered
tabernacles of the living
she told me her name
the one she had chosen for herself</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">-----------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Her Tides</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
what is this ocean
that pours from my shores?
I stand
combing dolphins from my hair
as slumber ebbs
of these powerless hours
unbound
in every grain of sand
these final forces freed
the microgram & the atom
creation destruction
whispering into the abyss
my precious antiquities
by Love bequeathed
skry a driftwood druidry
and I, dreaming
neath thy mermaids throne
hath seen
Dominions dark
Principalities, virtues
submarine
she in her
shouldered cape of isotopes
& boots of Spanish weather
her tides
& by the heavy artillery
of her soul
shelled
lusts wrapt
in the measures of surf
& seizures of thunders
from within
dabble in sunset explorations
of self
ebb, return as tears
there are no left-overs of wisdom
at the end of things
erect, then
and make of it a mast
last to vie
with the Siren's final cry</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">---------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Sister Before the World</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b> </b></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> when the first sister
bade fire her body consume
from the ashes a paradise arose
-this the hummingbird
from its office of nectars relays
whispering into the abyss:
"the butterfly is equal to the wind"
let these words an altar be
in that temple of ravishments
we fashioned there
tentative conjunctions
fervent alchemies
an eidolon unformed & void
for a descent of incense
attar
rose arising
from the bower of your ash
this slumbers affliction
urn of my heart's repose
a dithyramb's alembic
how lonely was I
for thee Muse
I could never call my own
for shame of ardor
& a thespian distress
abcessed & mute
to fetch forth the kernal & corona
lambent & lustrous
the shame of poets
plundered of dark vapors
from sibilant vaults
the pried fibre from shroud & caul
this unprofitable commerce of Shade
to pay for that emergency operation
the tracheotomy of word
to free Her
that she might live again
a breath of relief</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> ------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Tracheotomy of Word</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">fashioned in the forge of misprision
there are words at the
heart of things
that ask us to hear
it is not through memory alone
that we have heard their
voice
but through the calm bewitchments
they have lain upon us
by charm's grace hither
entice this entanglement to cohere
curdling upon the tongue
siphoning phonemes
to free these heathen partridge
singing unbearable cherubs
of despair which hover
dark lunar kernel
into parcel poured
haunts me with its
unpronounceable hounds
occulted
an accomplishment of
tarnished volts
& unbolted consonants
capacitor incapable
of current
dissembly
O little Monster
come forth from your merry shell
in triumph's talon
the star in man
will rays him
hold this charge
everready
-----------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Wild Holy Boys</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> cruisin' for a gutenburger
wild holy boys, we roared
rapt in our roaratorio's
chorus
throwback's fossilized
thesaurus
upon common battalions of stone
& wrapt fierce in thy bitumin shawl
we had coaxed these
engines of transformative delight
to sing with changes
to purge & flourish
our flowers of anticipation
their bouquet abandoned
long years hence
all poem
exquisite!
in their own subsistence
asaphoedita pearls
though I may make neither
hide nor hair, head or tail
of them
-do they admit their authors?
bad taste is in the mouth of the beholder
escape the confines of ensorcerating tongue
a tale told & story signed
an autograph all our own
so spread your bread with stutter
and honey it with word
shutter both your eyelids
& pray you never heard
breathless is best
stir me deep
O daemon sleep!</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> --------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Afterthought </b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> burrowing into the brood
daemonic incubations
living now on spiderdust & lacy
inchworm lingerie
laundering ashes
& verities honed through polished evasive gazes
smoke comes from our eyes in aimless signals
betraying origins
the stirring of leaf
& murmur of winds unseen
cures the serenity from my blood
this sibylline listening
ushers me on
loathe to commit blasphemies
to the visible wave-lengths of light
silence sews its silver thread
pulled
from Diana's quiver
to repent the urgencies of word
sprawled in chains
I shed the pwned chlamys of Hermes
now
naked with discovery
our ravelry is ended
a stitch in time bespoke
sewing wild oaths</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">--------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> Reliquary</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> echolocation in the land of the dead
domain of the impulse
my heart had a concussion
& whispered some final secret
I've forgotten
spellbindings all ravel down to the
bald palimpsest of nought
nothing up this sleeve
& the hands gone missing
why lift this lid of ashes
& stir the cruel wind of memory?
secrets out
perhaps the dead
communicate by symbols
we have yet to imagine
bird looks underwing:
-did I just fart?
abacus bonepearls undimmed
symbologies broadcast
from the Orisha Radio
correlate with us
counting the ancestor forth
in whisper's rhythm
dead & well read
geographies of my impassable land
where goeth I
vanished in abundance
and yet there lingers
a nameless
writhe & roil</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">------------------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> Arbor at the End of Day</b></span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> to harken unto daemon
or muse
is not to kneel
for what authority in
a conversations of aethers
is?
what counsel with clouds,
a pillar of fire?
a conference then
negromantia/Nigredo
dark speech of ravens adream
where I purchase my ink
anthropocene
via mirrored curtain of the
afterlife, this
"styx of quicksilver"
communes through the
looking-glass
not one wink</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">------------------------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Undervow</b> </span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> queasy greasy
wipe your chin
eager ogre chew
no marrow within the morrow
a sparrow then
to sue for your hollow sorrow
losing weight's a worry
a pound of flesh the loss
a bright & golden tongue
when once a wordsworth was
profess thyself no poet
tis for silence to attest
word secretes in shadow
to shape the lips a jest</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">----------------------------------------</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Assayer Prayers:</b> </span></span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> cold pie for breakfast
& peonies in the rain
hot coffee cupped
in cold hands grateful
children, their mother
and the cats
butterflies that listen
fireflies that dance
peepers that stamp out winter
and the songbirds' rendition
of tyrannosaurus romance</span></span></pre>
<pre class="_ad_q1"></pre>
johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-87528983825954162702018-01-16T10:17:00.004-05:002018-01-16T10:17:46.888-05:00 casket moth<br />
<br />a fluttering remark<br />of braile fettered breath<br />falters in dark<br />languish for letters<br />lit<br />but for a loss of the spark<br /><br />12/28/17<br />JM<span style="background-color: black;"><span><span style="background-color: white;"></span></span></span>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-58777523482065220432018-01-11T18:50:00.001-05:002018-01-16T10:16:25.446-05:00johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-88339072987488677322018-01-05T17:08:00.001-05:002018-01-05T17:08:30.430-05:00'Clinging to the Old Boy's Briefs<br />
- for Allen Gurevitz, Poet<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
chasing the wild geese<br />
feathers caught up in the wind<br />
grabbing at thin air<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
I'm in a dance to woo all illusion<br />
<br />
will you be the one<br />
to love mirrored in zero?<br />
twice I am your twin<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
Shiva/Shakti<br />
slow dance hold me close<br />
you don't even need to move<br />
when the oyster shouts<br />
<br />
listening to you<br />
that the secret of life is<br />
you can talk to me<br />
8/1986<br />
<br />
--------------------------<br />
<br />
I squeezed my baby so hard<br />
my button-flies blew<br />
in the back-yard<br />
now I'm 1/2 her & she's 1/2 me<br />
we're dancin' swell with our one body<br />
9/1986<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
<br />
vowell movement<br />
<br />
the lead toad of<br />
ponderance<br />
lanced the petunia's<br />
honey<br />
with its gold tongue<br />
<br />
--------------<br />
<br />
amoeba mob<br />
synechdoche of family<br />
what is me is you<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
what does the tooth faerie<br />
do with your tooth-<br />
carve petroglyphs<br />
amongst the stars<br />
in a tutu<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
3 kids & the art of war<br />
<br />
blue Farfisa in my head<br />
screaming<br />
leslies full throttle<br />
Civil Defense sirens; this was<br />
just a test<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
raccoon viscera gleaming to the sky<br />
wonderstruck<br />
no predator but<br />
just some dream thunder in transit<br />
dislocating the soul<br />
grim the riptide<br />
& victims of its whim...<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
the meadow is that<br />
which may be mown<br />
mead from the meadow made<br />
ne'r shall be<br />
tho honeydew is<br />
meadowsweet's very own<br />
this thirst remains<br />
ere thirsty<br />
<br />
---------------------<br />
<br />
wild roses explode in hand-<br />
prints bequeathing perfume<br />
amongst the gulag of thorns<br />
where dwell the spirit songs<br />
of birds<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
outside the carnival<br />
lonesome train blows<br />
raw as a cock's crow her<br />
blowtorch lipstick<br />
boiled crawdad & henna<br />
apple flames in her mouth<br />
-flaying knife laid<br />
to the ruse<br />
<br />
-----------------------------<br />
<br />
the finger of silence =<br />
the measure of chameleons<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
that sweet old thing her<br />
tambourine of dentures<br />
tosses up a mean tango<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
drunk-boxing eyelids<br />
see girl in blown<br />
pear petals<br />
waiting to cross street<br />
Spring/1996<br />
<br />
----------------------------<br />
<br />
wake up hangover!<br />
nuthatch & mate carrousing<br />
urgent<br />
in the window<br />
Spring/1996<br />
<br />
------------------------------<br />
<br />
very old man walks<br />
in wild flower spray of Spring<br />
eating ice cream cone<br />
Spring/1996<br />
<br />
------------------------------<br />
<br />
crone diploma<br />
<br />
ruby red rose has<br />
ignited<br />
in the theatre of<br />
memory, I yell<br />
Fire<br />
<br />
-------------------<br />
<br />
why bruise this flower<br />
effortlessness overworked<br />
perfume so fleeting<br />
2/10/99<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
<br />
Make Belief<br />
<br />
All I am<br />
is a wish<br />
for Everything you are<br />
and I am coming true<br />
3/4/00<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
when the crow calls out<br />
doubling over with laughter<br />
Spring's private joke flies<br />
3/25/00<br />
<br />
------------------------------<br />
<br />
Sunday morning bray<br />
motel full of righteous hooves<br />
shhh, tiptoe to God<br />
3/26/00<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
a perfidy of Haiku<br />
<br />
this donkeyskin suit<br />
gift of the Elven King's ire<br />
fits like a prayer!<br />
3/20/00<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
"prohibit sharply the rehearsed responses..."<br />
-W.H. Auden<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Dharmatot says:<br />
<br />
Perfect Insight Comes<br />
when Mind is finally still<br />
She rises on top<br />
5/26/00<br />
<br />
---------------------------<br />
<br />
for the One in Exile<br />
<br />
The Perfect Insight<br />
occurring, She eclipses!<br />
distinctions vanish!<br />
5/25/00<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
365th Lament<br />
<br />
Nest of thorns atop the ayrie<br />
cold kindling of briars<br />
upon the hearth disposed.<br />
No place to alight,<br />
<br />
-maybe later<br />
11/29/01<br />
<br />
-----------<br />
<br />
Dabbling in Babel<br />
is not the same thing as<br />
Jabirish<br />
The tree that grows these apples<br />
does not fear<br />
the worm<br />
I keep covenant with the union of wisdom<br />
& she makes believe in me;<br />
her pretend protege<br />
<br />
------------------<br />
<br />
may the crown of your achievements<br />
adorn your head<br />
triumph of horns<br />
12/14/01<br />
<br />
or<br />
<br />
may the crown of your achievements<br />
compliment the appointments of your antlers<br />
12/15/01<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
even the stoutest craft<br />
finds occasion to quench<br />
the thirst of its anchor<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
Hermes in a hot-rod<br />
blond crew-cut & mustache<br />
very polite<br />
"let's go!"<br />
-yeah.<br />
12/8/01<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
treasure fruit<br />
whose peel hath no surface<br />
whose curve delights<br />
imperfection<br />
<br />
-------------------<br />
<br />
wounded by exposure to the elements<br />
sustained by the nourishment of secrets<br />
I pass<br />
between the stars<br />
lighting small fires<br />
to make the medicine<br />
that heals the Diagnostician<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
whither which way<br />
shepherdess of sphixes<br />
lambnapped and in Arcadia<br />
knight errant of the doleful countenance<br />
lord of misrule<br />
shaft that pierced the<br />
swansong in limerick<br />
there was a madhatted hyperbole<br />
that sipped upon unzippered<br />
gerbil tea<br />
when it had it go<br />
wouldn't you know<br />
you wouldn't and so<br />
it went when it shouldn't<br />
downstreaming your neck<br />
most gracefully<br />
<br />
joust with demons of the deep<br />
millenery mills & hapless sheep<br />
I'm always on my way<br />
it's hard enough to tell a monster from a mill<br />
much less a madman from a saint<br />
therefore, if you'll excuse me<br />
I'm always on my way<br />
my religion neared extinction<br />
when your patriarchs were swaddled tots<br />
but I stumbled into Bedlam<br />
collecting up stray thoughts<br />
<br />
I burned<br />
torched sunset desert of cactus<br />
my heart<br />
crumbling needles<br />
ash in the wind<br />
<br />
------------------------<br />
<br />
Iris aura oracular<br />
with eyes on the prize<br />
observe the shifting<br />
seasons of the Graal<br />
to deserve a response<br />
one must quest for position:<br />
Almanac index<br />
pronoun of sundials<br />
<br />
-----------------------------<br />
<br />
sun tea, samores & Paracelsian sugar star jellys<br />
<br />
"cooked" or "uncooked" poetry<br />
I want the Adamica Lingua<br />
oratory & laboratory<br />
or as my hands press together<br />
Romeo samores/prayer sandwiches<br />
the kitchen as Holy Place<br />
where I may take my meals<br />
ingrediants chosen w/care<br />
seasoned with the<br />
immortal spice<br />
of Wisdom's recipe<br />
Alchemical step by step<br />
but does the work stop<br />
in the kitchen?<br />
must it not proceed<br />
room by room<br />
ineluctable fengshui<br />
from North to South<br />
to East to West<br />
cooking, shitting<br />
sleeping, rising<br />
circumnambulating<br />
the house entire<br />
room service proffered<br />
on a fine gradale;<br />
that is, the geomancers<br />
Lo Pan-<br />
banquet for the retinue<br />
of Heaven<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
<br />
There is no Distopia<br />
or Utopia<br />
Civilization is just<br />
an old beggar<br />
rattling his false teeth<br />
in an old tin cup<br />
9/22/08<br />
<br />
---------------------------<br />
<br />
protect<br />
Gepetto from these<br />
splinters of grief<br />
buoy at the bottom<br />
4/6/09<br />
<br />
--------------------------<br />
<br />
these words owe their liberation<br />
from the celibacy of my pockets<br />
-may pleasure be their ransom<br />
<br />
------------------------<br />
<br />
the heart of man is<br />
a tangled beast<br />
call for the Huntress<br />
before yousend for the<br />
priest<br />
3/24/09<br />
<br />
-----------------------<br />
<br />
Diablo Mascara<br />
King of the Hummingbirds<br />
navigating south on his<br />
birch bark canoe<br />
studies the papyrus<br />
charts intently<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
the little shits<br />
that make up rules<br />
Elelectroshock Maggots<br />
the wannabe lawyers<br />
of the world, Maldororize<br />
em all<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
<br />
Mystic sleuth &<br />
Dietician,<br />
Hear the wheeze<br />
of the Geezer as he<br />
peddles his fondue<br />
<br />
Honeycutt Markham Bodhisavaha<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Sacrifice of Father Time<br />
<br />
the old geezer's a gonner<br />
don't wait around & watch him wane<br />
need be no question about<br />
honor<br />
just gift-wrap that<br />
bullet to his brain<br />
12/17/12<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Haunted House<br />
<br />
sometimes a great notion<br />
conceived in your head<br />
jumps on the radio<br />
knicked!<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
into the blue<br />
smoke skeletons dissolving<br />
always never mind<br />
7/29/13<br />
<br />
--------------------------<br />
<br />
I gotta libate<br />
my parchment<br />
10/16/13<br />
<br />
-------------------<br />
<br />
the vaults of the<br />
interminable<br />
disclose<br />
10/17/13<br />
<br />
----------------------<br />
<br />
moment to moment<br />
monsoon<br />
through the weeping pine<br />
needles stretch<br />
the forest floor<br />
9/2/12<br />
<br />
-------------------------------<br />
<br />
parked poets of Kirkwood<br />
Ave!<br />
Evoe!<br />
forth from your office cloistered<br />
all dirty dinky & drdee<br />
to the heights!<br />
to the heights!<br />
The Magic Forest awaits<br />
3/14/14<br />
<br />
--------------------------------<br />
<br />
even dead roses<br />
may dust off the<br />
keys at midnight<br />
-88 doors to eternal<br />
daybreak-<br />
no skylark's<br />
curfew<br />
10/6/13<br />
<br />
---------------------------------<br />
<br />
Down in Bog Squalor<br />
<br />
its ruthless in the<br />
grip of God<br />
though your fists<br />
rail gainst the<br />
pillar of Mercy<br />
salvation is a<br />
long ways away-<br />
and another day,<br />
another dollar damned<br />
10/12/13<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
59 obituaries later<br />
hazard of the annual<br />
occasion<br />
orbit overdue<br />
1/10/13<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
Once, in the great outback of the Hideho Gardens,<br />
Jemima Kittlewick cooked a Rambo of BRBQ.<br />
The Drunken Boat had a wet bar, Saison D'Enfer the menu,<br />
and Illuminations provided the musical entertainment.<br />
Trolleyback lollipop oer d'euvres.<br />
Meentzy Tendertoe there with his toothpick & razorback harmonica.<br />
Jemima unbundles her brassiere with the aid of varmint's contraption.<br />
Halleluja! The amplitude of her banquet suffices.<br />
Now, retie your shoelaces & zip up your leverage-<br />
Time marches on no empty stomach.<br />
6/18/13<br />
<br />
"Ach Du Libra<br />
Quoth the Zebra"<br />
-Ken Kesey<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
black sheep<br />
vex the flock but<br />
it ain't no badge of courage<br />
still its just a fuckin' sheep<br />
2/9/13<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
those who dare<br />
win favor of the gods<br />
must first look them in the<br />
eye<br />
1/24/14<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
well, I'll be a poached<br />
flamingo<br />
fevered bowell<br />
skinny midnight<br />
marmoreal & savage<br />
mozzarella pallid<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<br />
like the werewolf<br />
I have better things to do<br />
than work at night-<br />
say, labial swashbuckling<br />
for instance<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
cigar consort<br />
escaping heavenward<br />
"Maybelline, why can't you be true?"<br />
her ecstatic lips<br />
writhe with inscrutable<br />
calligraphy,<br />
Enlighten<br />
Life's purchased smoke<br />
8/17/12<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
At the Flim-Flam<br />
masquerade<br />
the burden of sustenance<br />
overwhelms the<br />
appetite for discovery<br />
6/15/07<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<br />
been a Buddha, beaten<br />
bought and even obeyed<br />
O baby<br />
: : : : : : :<br />
"Look into the mirror<br />
of your mind<br />
which is mahamudra<br />
the mysterious home of the Dakini"<br />
-Tilopa<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------<br />
Owed to Ernest<br />
<br />
Trudy kept a booth<br />
both tooth & booty<br />
that is all ye need<br />
forever know<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
fetching babe bones<br />
& pursuit of the<br />
Doom Booty<br />
and there<br />
the Glory of Carnival Rum<br />
tumbled to a deleterious perfection<br />
all told in a singular tattoo<br />
invisible on the angel's cheek<br />
solemnly received<br />
in the one human tear<br />
fallen from that<br />
all seeing eye<br />
7/8/09<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
grafitti written on Indiana University Arboretum's bridge 3/18/2011:<br />
<br />
"Lysergic Acid<br />
what could be better in Spring?"<br />
<br />
-Evidence yet for Life on Planet Earth<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
my party animal<br />
was murdered in my<br />
sleep, however:<br />
on the endless safari<br />
to find another;<br />
the ghost of the beast<br />
still dwells within me<br />
6/13/2010<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
her marshmallow split open<br />
& all this make-up fell out<br />
-harvest of Portalet Farms<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
dappled sunlight<br />
fever in the flower<br />
thirst that filled<br />
halls of hazel hallows<br />
fear in a handful of dust<br />
hyacinth anniverary<br />
:<br />
[this abutted up against Swinburne's:<br />
<br />
"For the glass of the years<br />
is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; A littlle<br />
soul for a littlle bears up this corpse which is man"]<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Zosimos,<br />
I'm ready to return<br />
now to the Paradise & Eve<br />
my air, earth,<br />
thirst & fire ascends in<br />
the east, descends in<br />
the west; through arctic north<br />
and meridian south<br />
riven awrest from<br />
Grandmother Twilight<br />
my blood no longer pallid<br />
etching from my tale<br />
leached chromatic ichors<br />
fabulum made whole<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Poeme<br />
<br />
mingled minutiae<br />
with horae<br />
Aeonic in soliloquy<br />
A season seized<br />
A snivel sneezed<br />
Lips be still, shut squeezed<br />
Hand that writes, hold<br />
be-tremble<br />
be teased<br />
5/7/11<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Little Miss Flipper Britches<br />
immerses into the sea's<br />
secret pages<br />
savin' her scallop shells<br />
for a rainy day<br />
midst the landlubbers<br />
I really have a thing<br />
for her. I feed her<br />
cherries & ice cream (peach).<br />
Hope she keeps<br />
me around a while...<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
San Blas Haiku<br />
<br />
Garnet board<br />
Hang nail<br />
gently gives the finger to<br />
old Pain in the Ass<br />
<br />
6/16/2010<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Senseless<br />
The taste of ash, regrown<br />
callouses beneath the nails<br />
all that's left of touch<br />
climbing intangible walls<br />
echoes of exile<br />
retrace a path of<br />
Bloom & thorn-<br />
inveterate hound in the blood<br />
have you lost the<br />
scent,<br />
blind & gone to seed?<br />
11/19/11<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
On Victory:<br />
In a contest here below<br />
there are only losers<br />
because we are all<br />
daubed from a confabulist's<br />
ink.<br />
8/2011<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
when the glossary of the tongue's<br />
stopped<br />
a garden slug's slithery<br />
demise, meaning-<br />
less petroglyphs<br />
<br />
as it ventures<br />
like the suffering of a<br />
wick in the lantern<br />
we<br />
embrace this immolation<br />
for the sake of sputtering<br />
and call it light?<br />
9/2011<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
cicada tremolo<br />
jewell of the touch-me-not<br />
virgo skinnydipping<br />
2013<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
broken fingernail<br />
crumbling cupid<br />
precarious<br />
moth candelabra<br />
old moose lost<br />
in a boudoir<br />
bellow for bordello<br />
spring/2014<br />
<br />
------------------------<br />
<br />
To wake w/roses<br />
midst thickets unkempt<br />
wild!<br />
what wonders<br />
we imagine we've dreamt<br />
2/14<br />
<br />
--------------------------<br />
<br />
why deny transition's impresse<br />
her charged charm within our<br />
secret mode & hieroglyph?<br />
3/28/14<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
Poet's toothpick<br />
<br />
no mumble mouth Mr. Ed<br />
Pegasus bit<br />
these crumbs stuck<br />
tween teeth<br />
<br />
offending bit once freed<br />
then free these crumbs<br />
3/21/14<br />
<br />
--------------------------------<br />
<br />
Anima<br />
<br />
To regard the goddess<br />
each day I go<br />
traipsing<br />
my trollop lightly<br />
unencumbered<br />
<br />
reduce the arcane<br />
arm-twisting of Death<br />
to the still embrace<br />
of Before & Everafter<br />
the two arms of eternity<br />
Spring/2014<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Walpurgisnacht offerings<br />
<br />
the tears of frankincense<br />
a demitasse of mead<br />
4 honeybuttered cakes<br />
beneath the wild rose<br />
there in the dark<br />
I thought to float<br />
a votive flame in the pool<br />
of Aphrodite<br />
for the world burst forth awonder<br />
2014<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
O Sea Harem Hotty!<br />
wet dreams<br />
inner vaults, outter banks<br />
smoked!<br />
7/14<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
the golden gates<br />
of the Finch Pagoda<br />
glow in the setting sun<br />
our song ripens<br />
7/19/14<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
conquering empires of my own<br />
bewilderment<br />
this tale of moments unseized<br />
while anxiety awaits<br />
7/21/14<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
old doubtfire hisself<br />
<br />
with the jesters all gone<br />
God jokes<br />
I could rule the world!<br />
8/14/14<br />
<br />
----------------------------<br />
<br />
little ms. muppet sat on her puppet<br />
eating her cottage cheese<br />
along came the director who sought to correct her<br />
by offering her lines on his knees<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
sweet little candied raddish<br />
in the honeysuckle<br />
hummingbird undisturbed<br />
by my lavish huckleberry outhouse<br />
scrawl<br />
7/21/14<br />
<br />
-------------------------<br />
<br />
dangling lingual-berries<br />
elude the ass<br />
spellbound, sputtering<br />
clinging to the Old Boy's<br />
briefs<br />
7/2/14<br />
<br />
----------------------<br />
<br />
choice cuts<br />
<br />
no longer at the door<br />
the beast has made a place<br />
for itself at our table<br />
maintain pleasant<br />
dining conversation<br />
12/10/14<br />
<br />
----------------------------<br />
<br />
Belles-lettres<br />
<br />
auto-da-fe<br />
of grace or regret<br />
words can't say<br />
with holy fire her journals burn<br />
evidence of a wondrous & unruly era<br />
here & gone<br />
vanished like the treachery of magic<br />
itself<br />
4/15/15<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
True, 'tis but a cheap conjurer's trick<br />
ending the attentions of Posterity<br />
I gather this<br />
litter<br />
gone to the Wilderness<br />
to leave no trace<br />
4/17/15<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
walking<br />
we recite the cuckoo clock<br />
to ourselves<br />
4/17/15<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
before the rosebud<br />
rubies<br />
spill from the Hummingbird Tavern<br />
4/12/15<br />
<br />
----------------------------------<br />
<br />
This dark carnival<br />
we have dragged into Springtime<br />
-the ticket you left behind<br />
3/31/15<br />
-for Art<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
"Arturis sepulcrum nusquam visitur"<br />
<br />
Arthur's grave is nowhere seen<br />
gone to the Isle of Apples<br />
ever-green<br />
Merlin lingers<br />
in-between<br />
4/20/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
held these wounds<br />
to be self evident<br />
whimpering stylus<br />
a lifetime of inscrutable<br />
tattoos<br />
forgave it all to hear<br />
throbbin<br />
briar-rose of Springtime<br />
2/11/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------<br />
<br />
where the rose bit the bony beet<br />
in exchange for some imagined<br />
insult<br />
the bruise that blooms sucks<br />
sour watermelon candy<br />
5/13/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------<br />
<br />
Lament on the Brevity of Breaks<br />
<br />
wicked clock<br />
gobbled coffee so quick<br />
nearly torched<br />
the luscious tome too<br />
alas unfinished<br />
that might cool these<br />
heated words<br />
with jitterbug perfume<br />
5/22/15<br />
<br />
---------------------------<br />
<br />
old fool parked in piñata<br />
takes crash course in<br />
punch lines<br />
zen & chuckles<br />
7/15<br />
<br />
-------------------------------<br />
<br />
bitterbrief<br />
life is too long<br />
to be a haiku<br />
7/24/15<br />
<br />
----------------------------<br />
<br />
dangling from the<br />
alley of lost continents<br />
the monkey on your shoestring's<br />
last tango to the outer limits<br />
8/15<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------<br />
<br />
mail order bride<br />
<br />
He wasn't at all like she expected,<br />
a deficiency wrapped in dog collar, bourbon & bow tie<br />
but he played a pretty good game of miniature golf<br />
naked in the rain<br />
8/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------------<br />
<br />
which came first<br />
the forest or the tree<br />
<br />
beneath the veneer of consciousness<br />
a profound rot<br />
11/7/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<br />
walking<br />
roadside laid waste<br />
by the blind idiot god's bush-hog<br />
setting free the milkweed<br />
awaiting Monarch's wing<br />
11/3-11/7/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
The Wealthiest Poet & the Million Dollar Poem<br />
<br />
No matter what you see<br />
threading camels<br />
your words will come<br />
unstitched, gone<br />
scraping through<br />
by the skin of your teeth<br />
weeping<br />
11/13/15<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
jihad<br />
<br />
as the bow of the new moon<br />
aims at the seething light of the failing year<br />
a paradise empties<br />
mourning there may never be<br />
but a twilight of houris lingers, bereaved<br />
unable to hold those warriors lost<br />
to the endless night<br />
11/14/15<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Old Goat<br />
<br />
nuzzling nymphs<br />
on the threshold of heaven<br />
bluebirds<br />
toss the meager salad of his scalp<br />
another unrepentant Last Supper<br />
12/9/15<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-75055819517302039642015-09-25T17:14:00.001-04:002015-09-26T16:24:34.753-04:00Gargling With The Gods of the Underworld<h2>
<b>Gargling With The Gods of the Underworld</b></h2>
<h3>
The Abyss Yodels Back</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span></h3>
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Bob Braudis said..."I miss him. When shit pops up, like when Deep Throat was outed, I thought,'What would Hunter say?"</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>-William McKeen: Outlaw Journalist: The Life and Times of Hunter S. Thompson </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>"Nobody doubted that Carl and Bob had tapped a main source. Deep Throat was the tap-root, the man with the final credentials.His motives were never made clear, except in some giddy gray realm of "morality," and the rape of his personal ethics. "</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>"In the legend he is a figure like Socrates, a man of long reach and wisdom, too smart for his work and obviously Not Like The Others."</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> He works for the President, but his hero is William Burroughs and his knuckles have grown together like crushed roots... his name down at the 15th and "L" in the newsroom was "Deep Throat."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> Some people knew, but not many. Scott Armstrong* knew, along with Oscar Acosta and a senior stewardess for one of the airlines. We even kept it from Frank Mankiewicz, who knew almost everything else. It was one of those things that seemed better, at the time, not to talk about."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> April 14, 1986</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> - HunterS. Thompson: Generation of Swine; They Called Him Deep Throat</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>[*Scott Armstrong was a journalist for the Washington Post during Watergate and childhood friend of Bob Woodward.]</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> "With the Watergate thing, what we took great pride in here was that it didn't really have much to do with the President himself or the office. It was more the fact that the people, and the press, actually did run the country and that we could throw out a crooked President and there was a great amount of pride in that. ...We took great pride in that we could throw him out. You know, chase the bastards out of Washington. And somehow there was a great celebration of the power of the people after Watergate. Hell, I did it myself; I was proud of all of us. And somehow that has not carried over. There was a great celebration but it was honoured more in the spirit than the reality."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> -Hunter Thompson interview with Jack Thompson: "Studio for Men", [an Australian magazine similar to GQ.] February 1989.</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>On Karma - "It's extremely bad karma to brag about things you've gotten away with. I'm a great believer im karma in a profound sense: You will get what's coming to you."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> -Hunter Thompson Interview with Tim Mohr for Playboy, Dec. 2004</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> "Dr. Thompson, Is it true that you are the real Keyser Soze?</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>I've been accused of that, it's a good question. Say yes. ...That's a very intelligent question and I compliment the person that asked it."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> - interview with Sara Nelson for Book Report, June 1997</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>ON FATE: " I'm doomed all my life to violent actions. I'm closely associated with the gods of the underworld—not crime so much but the underworld." </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> --Hunter Thompson Interview with Tim Mohr for Playboy, Dec. 2004</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Norma Jean Thompson: "Are you afraid of death? HST: No ... No. There is no death."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>-NuCity Goes Gonzo, NuCity Press</i></span></span><br />
<h3>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">__________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></h3>
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">On February 21, 2005, the day after Hunter Thompson's death, I got a call from a guy known in certain Colorado circles as "The Mess of Snowmass." It was no casual nickname. He was a real wreck. He was the kind of guy who often bumped into Jesus Himself around dawn, so I wasn't surprised when he woke me at 4 AM with a story about having Hunter's final writings in hand. I was curious; I knew he knew Hunter and that they'd once shared a close common friend. But they also shared a penchant for wild fictions. There was reason that week to be worried about my friend's state of mind, as the death of French porn queen Karen Lancaume had thrown him into an obsession with suicide. Plus he suddenly wouldn't shut up about his weird idea that Hunter fucking Thompson was Deep Throat.</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">This was three months before Vanity Fair outed Mark Felt, but Throat had been in the news due to a rumor that he, whoever he was, was near death. At first I figured that my friend was just playing with that story; Hunter had been unwell and had spoken before about suicide as succor to the sick. But the Mess insisted that he was telling the truth. "They're going to name this Felt, but it was Hunter," he kept repeating. "He says it in the note, I'll show you."</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A friend I talked into checking on the Mess called later with news that there was indeed a "note," a food-stained photocopy of what looked like a typewritten document. She had no clue where the thing had come from; all she could say for sure was that our friend hadn't written it. He was a lovably lousy writer and remained so until his death, which, when it finally came last year, came accompanied by its own note reading simply, "Sick of this." He'd driven out to the woods and put a pistol in his mouth on the thirty-ninth anniversary of his brother's death in Vietnam.</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">What follows is the text sent to me by the Mess on February 28, typed painstakingly over days into a library computer. He was so convinced of the document's authenticity -- and of the version of events it told -- that he wouldn't even make a copy to mail. He refused to tell me where it came from, deleted the text numerous times before finally sending it, and grew increasingly concerned that just possessing it put him in peril. My friend was a great believer in the brutal appetites of power; he believed the rumor that Thompson had been working on a piece about a 9/11 conspiracy and was convinced that Hunter had been murdered by his government.</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The Mess flushed his copy of the note shortly thereafter, so I never got to see the thing myself. Years of effort have revealed nothing in the way of origin. I make no claim that what follows is Thompson's, though even the most questionable passages -- the loftiness, the purposely obvious phrases from Hunter's older work -- are oddly authentic in their way, for Hunter couldn't help but plagiarize himself in later years, and he never did get over the dream of writing like F. Scott Fitzgerald.</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The last confessions of Hunter S. Thompson have enjoyed some small attention over the years, coming and going from the weirdest corners of the conspiracy scene. Some of the evidence still exists on the Internet; postings and discussions date back to the week after Hunter's death. And though I myself shared the text online as soon as I received it, I've seen excerpts dating to before the Mess ever sent it out -- mysterious, unattributed postings in blog comments and car forums -- suggesting that my dear old friend wasn't the only recipient.</span></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I don't believe that these are Hunter's words. I don't entirely disbelieve it either. I certainly don't think that Hunter S. Thompson was Deep Throat. But it's the sort of thing I would like to believe in, like democracy and human dignity and the devils getting what's due, and for that reason I assure you that every word you are about to read is gospel.</span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Rin Kelly</span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Denver, Colorado</span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Feburary 15, 2008</span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></a><br />
<h3>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html">http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html(Intro originally written for L.A. RECORD) </a><br />______________________________________________________________________________________<br /> </span></span></h3>
<i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">"In three decades of speculation about the identity of legendary Watergate source 'Deep Throat,' few prominent members of the Nixon administration swept up in the scandal have endorsed a likely suspect. Even John Dean has hedged and offered multiple guesses. But now E&P has learned that former top Nixon aide, John Ehrlichman, who went to prison for his role in Watergate, felt strongly that he knew the identity of Deep Throat.</a></span></span></i><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>His candidate: Henry Kissinger.<br /><br />This revelation comes from Walter Anderson, the chairman and CEO of Parade magazine and a close friend of the former Nixon aide, who died in 1999. Ehrlichman, Anderson said, identified Kissinger as Deep Throat in a conversation with him more than 20 years ago.<br /><br />'He was absolutely convinced of it,' Anderson said, when asked by E&P to comment on the recent surge in speculation about the identity of Deep Throat. He added that Ehrlichman's view of Kissinger as Deep Throat has never surfaced before, as far he knows.<br /><br />'Ehrlichman argued that Kissinger was high enough in the organization to have the information, and understand it, close enough to Nixon to know all the details,' Anderson said, 'and he was virtually untarnished by the Watergate scandal, particularly in the press.'" -journalist Greg Mitchell, Editor & Publisher, February 16, 2005</i></span></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Well...shit. But it is worth noting that Kissinger, the stench trap I will smell for all eternity, doomed or no, is not the person you seek. No...Kissinger is a mere stock genius among swine and we are guaranteed to suffer these jackals again so long as vice and cruelty and their witless apostles trample and piss the Earth, and none of their stripe would (or will) ever rat nor fink on a crook like Nixon--and, I'll add, in the long haul Kissinger will look like the five-cent Satan ride before the doors to the big party came squealing open. Selah. I leave you to posterity.<br /><br />But before we get to my posterity, as it were, I'd like to say that it is a very strange feeling to be a Dead American writer in this fresh century, looking at all this gibberish of mine that seems to belong so much to the last. Even Kissinger seems to belong to that Gone Century now--the stink is foul but quaint. There is a closing world up ahead without very much glimmer of me in it, either; I had hoped at least to leave a pining green light at the end of a distant dock. Right now I am staring at a fat red light on the wing of an iced-over 747, trapped in the Denver International Airport, and when I tire of musing on this last souvenir of Life on Earth I am still Free, as it were, to take in those big white barn tits DIA calls a roof, heaving-ho into the yonder. This, I suppose, is Death...(exactly as you had imagined it).<br /><br />Before we get to Throat I will also mention that there is some kind of heavy connection between the keys on this machine and the words themselves--the high white sound is all in the speed-lashing, the banging, all things being wretched and alive, and I frankly don't give a fuck about that these days. I've grappled with these elegant mechanical beasts for the last time. I tend, more and more, to just sit back and think the words I need...so if you are reading this...then on with the gameplan...</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">And this is a grim thing to think: I feel now my words are essentially complete. They've run off without me somewhere and don't want me ghosting around the exits anymore. I know in my heart the maniacal little fixers only ever wanted to scrape me open and screw the gristle into ever more freaky shapes, all for the sake of the Work. Who can argue with a battle-plan like that? My words, after all, are Americans too--balls-out, vicious careerists to the foul bleating core. They wanted to Succeed so bad they whacked me to get us all on the cover of the New York Times (AP says Las Vegas is number 15 on Amazon.com this week and Vintage Books has a "significant" reprinting in the works...Ah, then Hallelujah! To Be an American Writer!) I suspect that Horatio Alger's words must have gotten to mine. Alger always knew how to sell and Americans can't resist a salesmen come to sell them themselves, especially when it's a babyfucker, of the Super Eagle Scout Variety. An honest thief will never do.<br /><br />Lord! I tried, O Lord, to teach them better, like Jesus says: they are not of this World, just as I am not of this World. But I'm out (once this plane takes off--they tell me we are waiting on Gidget) <i><b>[note: Sandra Dee (April 23, 1942 – February 20, 2005) played Gidget 1959]</b></i> and they're in for good, a fixed final part of the world that will never howl against it in rhythm with the newer, fouler plunders the Hearts of Evil have in store. I should have armed them somehow. I never thought it would be necessary...there was a time when it seemed rage would break like hard winter lightning over the mountains and a scouring rain would crack open the sky, to ruin the Minds of Fear, dissolve all the kin shrines of the rich and send them coursing like rivers into the flatlands...It was not hard to believe these things then, if you were young with eyes like two big fury wheels and a mind blown in all directions on the American Dream.<br /><br />"<i>France was a land, England was a people, but America, still having about it that quality of the idea, was harder to utter--it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart."</i></a><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html"> -F. Scott Fitzgerald [note: short story <i>"The Swimmers",</i> 1929]</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Indeed. And it's that Quality of the Idea that will do us all in one day, and already has... Bush needs only to cackle "Freedom" and textbooks fly open coast-to-coast inside our wicked, gutless minds, right back to the page where George Washington frees the slaves and hustles them across the Potomac in a Thanksgiving gravy boat built by B. Ross, from a cherry tree. They get you with the Idea, and the Idea (like Journalism, as Oscar Wilde once said), reigns forever and ever...and woe betide the doomed fool who dares get in its way. Nixon was a fiend, a dupe and an evil swindler, but Reagan was the Idea--even I could never hate Reagan right, because he had been a sportswriter...and for all his savage and howling buggery he gave the people what they wanted most of all--more than Life, Liberty, or the pursuit of Happiness, or whatever it was Tip O'Neill thought they wanted...no, Reagan, like Alger, knew that Americans will endorse any obscenity if it comes cloaked in a vision of themselves as they have never been. We are a nation of Gatsbys desperate to relive the past...only Gatsby actually fucked Miss Daisy a time or two, while Norman Rockwell was never anything more than a collective fever dream. No one loves Rockwell/Reagan's Shining City on a Hill more than the hate mongers and lynchers among us, those who clamor for death and weep with wonder as they suckle blood from the petrified tit of Innocent America. We are myth-mad, homesick vampires. And our heart's grown brutal from the fare.</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Bush, of course, has none of Reagan's magnetic hokum...but he has Fear, and Fear needs the Idea to live. Backed against the wall a Good American (first cousin to the "Good German") will see Glory Stars and Sobbing Eagles popping like fizgigs on the air where any normal person--a Spaniard or a Bolivian, say--would see a firing squad...and Bush knows this, lives this, feasts on it. His America is Reagan's America without the phony hope...all cowering, all cringing, all bleating madness with only the Flag to protect us from the outside, menacing world. There is something of the Beast in the way his eyes glow with a dull light, as if the man has a Greyhound terminal inside him--then, as the subject turns to War...Torture...Murder...Terror...he leans forward and the eyes shock alive into twisted, ferocious glee. Bush's Dream is a fucking slit trench of a world and it is already halfway realized. But it could not happen without the Idea, the Dream that gets to us all so early. It is no easy thing to live in a country founded on a concept; because the concept was never realized, the nation is at the mercy of anyone who can hoist aloft an effigy...and what foul dust floats in the wake of our Dream? Iraq? Syria? Iran? We are junkies. There is no crime we will not consider to get a fix.<br /><br />Cazart! I began writing all this with a point, I'm sure--something about Pat Buchanan and the Capitol Hill Hotel. But now we are ascending and I've got a plastic cup of the finest finger of Royal Salute $450 can buy. Below is Denver, dimming away, and the dark atlas of the plains, and somewhere is Lisl Auman in a cage for life for no reason but human stupidity...and who knows how many others, all the way back through history, rolling out in all directions across the dark republic in the night...<br /><br /><i>"Take one last look at the prison yard, goodbye Prison Grove Shine on all these broken lives, shine on shine the light on me."</i><br /> -<i>Warren Zevon: Prison Grove, 2003</i><br /><br /><i>"In prison, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all."</i><br /> -<i>Eldridge Cleaver: Soul On Ice, 1968</i></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">The flood is coming, I'm telling you.-Deep Throat</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">As far as I know, Nixon never learned the identity of Deep Throat: at least there is nothing about it in this fine, sleek in-flight magazine they've brought around with the cigarettes and pillows. It's an over-saturated, perfume-brittle Condé Nast affair and as queer a piece of lit as any I've seen, clocking 900 pages and reading something like a cross between Soaps in Depth and The Big Book of Mormon Genealogy. Here we have Dead Alumni cross-listed by Nation, Century, Manner of Death, Hobbies, and Career...and a Feature on Bob Hope called "Toilet Trading Beyond the Mortal Coil." The most common career, as it were, seems to be "Whore" (though Nixon, robbed again, didn't make that list). Vince Lombardi is currently said to be busy with "rough wooings by mean-minded mechanical arms on loan from General Motors," though previously he was "naked and knee-deep in angry voles." They have already inked out a place for the Pope under the heading "Vicious Polaks" and a feature-peek into his future daily doings, returned to Earth, as a box of Trojan Enz. I am cross-listed under Hobbies: Peacocks alongside American Writer Flannery O'Connor and Hobbies: Football with Richard Milhous Nixon, 37th President of the United States, a fellow fan of Grantland Rice, a Quaker, and a jabbering, pigfucking crook--Nixon currently resides at Number One Observatory Circle as the pacemaker that is keeping Dick Cheney alive.</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">What?<br /><br />Bullshit!<br /><br />What about Eternal Damnation?<br /><br />Well...what do I know about a thing like that? I have already suffered hell with that trench-faced maniac, and I am a better man for it. It was enough to see his presidency come splitting apart stitch-by-crooked stitch as he paced the beach at San Clemente, moaning and brooding on life's simultaneous screws...and yes, to have had a part in it, too. I almost killed the motherfucker in Manchester, New Hampshire, leaning over the fuel tank of his jet with a king-size Marlboro butt burning out of the side of my mouth--and who knows what manner of weird paradise might have flowered on the Earth if I had killed Richard Nixon in '68? Was Nixon merely a symptom? Would setting him off like a ten-ton water buffalo even begin to squelch the rot? We would not have experienced Watergate...and at the time, Watergate was a glorious thing to see; I believed, at one point, that Nixon would stand trial, not just for his cover-up but for his very existence as a political monster--because by that time there were no questions left to ask but how he ever became the president at all...So the real defendant of that trial would have been the American Political Machine itself, visible at last. Just as Nuremberg forced Germany to confront Volksgemeinschaft as nothing more than the obsequious smile of a corpse, the Trial of Richard M. Nixon would have exposed all the swine...sucking fat and afterings from their fingers at the devoured heart of the American Dream...<br /><br />Ho ho. So now you see why I did what I did. It was not a hot blast of Nixon-hatred that blew me to Washington, but Divine Afflatus Itself...my beat was the Death of the American Dream and seeing the whole jabbering whorehouse come down was to be a fine work of Art, far beyond Jay Gatz and his sundered longing at the edge of Long Island Sound. I can admit now, I guess, that Gatsby once gonged in my head night and day and I lashed away thousands of letters to publishers and Famous American Writers Everywhere declaring myself the fucking Coming of the New Star-Spanked Christ Child of Doomed American Prose, at the ready to write the next Gatsby...as soon as they sent me cash. Jesus! It was all some maniac fury to make the whole doomsday mess clear, and fast...so people could see, as it were, "what was on the end of every fork."<br /><br />I see that our friends at Condé Nast make no mention of this. Under my name the word "drugs" appears 14 times and we score the trifecta of "hippies," "counterculture," and "Doonesbury," all in one foul sentence. Who are these thugs? Does the Columbia Journalism Review know about this? Is that little bastard Marty Beckerman writing for the kingdom-come trades now? I was almost the Governor of Samoa! Good God! Jimmy Carter offered to drop out of the '76 presidential race for me! And again...what manner of weirdness would wander the Earth if I had run in '76 and Jimmy hadn't? Strange to think...If Reagan had won that year he likely would have smashed up against the same ugly rock as Carter, and maybe the wreckage would have befouled the Goldwater Revolution for good...</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Jesus, here's a revolting thought: am I responsible for Bush?<br /><br />Or is the whole shitrain of history just the Fates at Play?<br /><br />Baseball is great because anything can happen through the ninth inning. -Richard Nixon addressing a White House reception of the players in the 1969 Baseball All-Star Game, July 22, 1969<br /><br />Indeed...and just a week before the Watergate break-in Nixon was whistling a tune in the Oval Office, busy at work with David Eisenhower on a list of the greatest baseball players of all time...which he then had printed as a gold-embossed tract and shelved alongside his famous Enemies List (and the lesser-known List of the Ugliest Women in Key Biscayne). I had a sort of relationship with Nixon for many years, and his love of sports was as high-humping crazy as my own. I have always maintained that I enjoyed our ride together one midnight in New Hampshire in 1968; Pat Buchanan and Ray Price were sitting up front and it was just me and the Dingbat at the hindmost, talking football--it was, indeed, "probably one of the weirdest things I've ever done."...But the pilot has just announced that we're 30 miles outside of our Destination...so is time now to admit that Dick and I never spoke about football that night: we talked about whores.<br /><br />I was feeling a little paranoid and Nixon only exacerbated my gloom by waiting at least five minutes to speak. He was sweating so much I could smell the South Pacific on his collar.<br /><br />"Hookers, Thompson," he said finally.<br /><br />What? Good God! The bastard had lured me into some kind of brutal mano-a-mano McCarthy hearing! He was going to run down a list of treasons and then torch me and dump me in the woods! Terror fused my brain. I fumbled at the door handle. No! I thought. Fucking Christ!</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html"><br />"I'm under the impression you might know a little about that."<br /><br />Jesus! What? It all made sense now: they'd seen my Levis and my ski jacket and singled me out as the kind of person who could summon hookers at all hours. "You crazy son of a bitch!" I answered. "Get your own goddamn hookers!"<br /><br />Nixon laughed. "We're interested in a group of hookers connected to the DNC."<br /><br />Indeed. And this is where Watergate began: a staffer at the DNC had been arranging slam-ups between Democratic kingpins and a parlor of whores operating out of the Columbia Plaza apartments. Even in 1968 Nixon was onto it, and he asked me for whatever information I had...which was nothing until I visited the Columbia Plaza a few weeks later with Buchanan, a group of visiting friends of Plimpton's from The Paris Review, a porcelain frog full of cocaine, two bags of grass, and sixty pellets of mescaline...And late into that godawful night, after over three hours of wrestling Buchanan off the ledge and into the bathtub, one of the girls came kabooming out of her room with eyes like Atomic Fireballs--she had the Fear so bad that her dentures hit the floor and I could see all four of her candy-flossed teeth bobbing on her gums...she was wailing about a pimp with corkscrew toenails and "a beard like God," who wore Kleenex tissues on his hands...<br /><br />"And Mormons!" she shrieked. "He has Mormons! His fucking Mormons will get me with needles to kill the germs!"<br /><br />"Howard Hughes?" I asked.<br /><br />Ye Gods! Hughes was the dough behind the whole operation...and after Bobby Kennedy died Hughes snatched up one Lawrence O'Brien, gnat in the eye of Richard Nixon and future subject of a bungled burglary at the Watergate Hotel, to be his lobbyist and Grand Pimp of Columbia Plaza...meanwhile Hughes was busy greasing the other side, kiting mastodon-sized checks off to Nixon's sidecar Bebe Rebozo in Florida...and in return Nixon offered a monopoly on Las Vegas casinos to Hughes, scoffing off any whispers of "antitrust"...but Nixon was so crooked he narced even on himself, and for security he sent Plumbers out to fix O'Brien's phones (or as H.R. Haldeman said: "On matters pertaining to Hughes, Nixon sometimes seemed to lose touch with reality. His indirect association with this mystery man may have caused him, in his view, to lose two elections.")...Hughes was both funding the DNC and funding the slush CREEP used to weasel it...meanwhile pimp Phillip Bailley, of the Columbia Plaza Bailleys, was arrested for sexual pandering...and John Dean called the special prosecutor up for a debriefing and a look at Bailley's address books...</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">And who is in the address books? Besides the hookers?</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Why, Mo Biner--John Dean's dearly betrothed.</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Ah...but we will be landing soon...Do the details really matter? They were all thieves and evil swine. And I'm having a hard time remembering the specifics...they seem to be blearing and whipping away from me now. Outside the light on the wing is green and smearing out like weird honey on the bunching clouds that tremble and sing below, and I can just make out bright bits of Earth bathed in batches by the green...this is where my words are headed now at the speed of death, back to my crippled country...</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">And before I go I must say that it is no small thing to have a king like Muhammad Ali alive and hungry on the Earth in your lifetime. I have been thinking, these last few days, of Ali most of all...I don't know the exact mechanics by which a smash-up with a bullet fucks up your memory, but when I try now to see America I first see Ali. He was a souvenir of some other world, of This Nation Before the Fall...there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life...and they wanted to fucking lock him up in the name of America.</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">America! Lord! I won't miss it for what it was: a fucking snakehouse where the crooks snatched up all the Beauty and garotted its aching joyful Throat before the song ever began. But I think I will miss what it was meant to be...</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">I tried to make it so. Watergate was my try. They will tell you it was Mark Felt, but they've never been anything but a pack of shiv-fisted liars anyway. I was Deep Throat, and Watergate was my Great Work. It is a testament to the pains and exactitude of Art that I only told Woodward the believable parts...Buchanan barely knew the extent of the thing, because Pat is fine and straight and the straight never know what's really happening. Not in Washington...Not in America. It takes a madman to burrow all the way down into its seedy heart.</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. -Muhammad Ali</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">-Hunter the Headless Thompson Gunner (HST #3)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">posted: Johnny St. Clair</a><br />
<a href="http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html">Saturday, March 05, 2005"we're gonna be using aliases on this one..." http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the blog posting Tuesday, October 21, 2008: The Last Testament of Someone Apparently Named Hunter S. Thompson, beneath the excerpt of journalist Greg Mitchell, February 16, 2005 is the actual "Mess of Snowmass" document purportedly by HST. It is missing two identifying phrases contained in the two remaining online sources of the main document here:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">http://www.pressurepressure.blogspot.com/2005/03/good-lord.html</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">http://bbs.clutchfans.net/archive/index.php/t-91780.html</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> -in the 4th paragraph: (AP says Las Vegas is number 15 on Amazon.com this week and Vintage Books has a "significant" reprinting in the works...Ah, then Hallelujah! To Be an American Writer!)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">-5th paragraph: (once this plane takes off--they tell me we are waiting on Gidget)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">[my note: Sandra Dee (April 23, 1942 – February 20, 2005) played Gidget, 1959]</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">These insertions in the two other blogs are here dated 3/2/05 & 3/5/05 respectively.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Together they demonstrate they were possibly written consequent to HST's demise whereas the document presented here: Tuesday, October 21, 2008</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The Last Testament of Someone Apparently Named Hunter S. Thompson</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Intro originally written for L.A. RECORD)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">http://www.rinkelly.com/2008/10/last-testament-of-someone-apparently.html</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">does not by it's internal contents preclude the possibility of being written prior to his demise.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Rin Kelly did not answer my email for further information.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">further notes:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">* see:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">http://xdell.blogspot.com/2008/04/other-watergate-scandal-almighty-heidi.html</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">and:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">http://crankynotions.com/2012/08/22/forty-years-on-and-watergate-still-doesnt-make-sense/</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">hst=deep throat:</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">http://vgmainstreet.com/2005/02/24/the-day-i-knew-who-deep-throat-was/</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Indeed, the mysteries surrounding the estate of HST, the endless delays in publishing his finished unpublished works, the silent pursed lips of those in a position to know merely add to the Extended Enigma of that force reckoned as Hunter S. Thompson. And of course, speculations bordering on the eldritch...</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>"The poets are wrong of course […] But then poets are almost always wrong about facts. That's because they are not really interested in facts: only in truth: which is why the truth they speak is so true that even those who hate poets by simple and natural instinct are exalted and terrified by it." </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> -William Faulkner: The Town, 195</i></span><i>7 </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"> "So vast, so limitless in capacity is man's imagination to disperse and burn away the rubble-dross of fact and probability, leaving only truth and dream."<br /> -William Faulkner: Requiem for a Nun, 1950</span></i></span></span>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-55848443723427378412015-05-05T12:40:00.006-04:002015-05-05T12:43:39.785-04:00<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Congratulations on the wedding of Ayla Meador & Chris Dollar</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>day after Beltane and day before Wesak full moon</b></span><br />
<br />
"Why do we think that Love is a magician?<br />
Because all the power of magic consists in love.<br />
An act of magic is the attraction of one thing by another<br />
in accordance with a certain natural kinship.<br />
The parts of this world,members of one living being,<br />
all originating from the same maker, are joined<br />
together in the communion of one another,<br />
assist each other to some extent,<br />
and suffer together when any one of them suffers. . . . <br />
In just this way the organs of this enormous living being- <br />
all the bodies of the world joined together in like manner, borrow <br />
and lend each other‘s natures. Common love grows out of common<br />
kinship and common attraction is born of love.<br />
This is true magic.<br />
Acts of magic, therefore, are acts of nature and art is her handmaid. <br />
Out of natural love all nature gets the name "magician.“<br />
-Marsilio Ficino: <i>de Amore</i> <i>VI, 10 </i> 1469- Commentary on Plato's Symposium; 15th C.<br />
Italian philosopher<br />
<br />
"In the conjunction of the two sexes, or, to speak more truly, <br />
that fusion of them into one, which may be rightly named Eros, or Aphrodite, <br />
or I both at once, there is a deeper meaning <br />
than man can comprehend. It is a truth to be accepted as sure and evident <br />
above all other truths, that by God, the Master of all generative power, <br />
has been devised and bestowed upon all creatures this sacrament <br />
of eternal reproduction,with all the affection, all the joy and gladness, <br />
all the yearning and the heavenly love that are inherent in its being.<br />
- Hermes Trismegistos, <i>Asclepius III -21 </i><br />
(Greek text written prior to the end of the third century AD) <br />
<br />
“Passionate love is not peculiar to the human species,<br />
for it penetrates through all existing things — celestial, elemental, <br />
vegetable, and mineral.”<br />
- Avicenna, 11th C. Persian philosopher<br />
<br />
The secret of our Art is the union of man and woman.<br />
- <i>The Book of Alze</i>, a 16th C. German alchemical text<br />
<br />
“The whole world is a marketplace for Love,<br />
For naught that is, from Love remains remote.<br />
The Eternal Wisdom made all things in Love.<br />
On Love they all depend, to Love all turn.<br />
The earth, the heavens, the sun, the moon, the stars<br />
The center of their orbit find in Love.<br />
By Love are all bewildered, stupefied,<br />
Intoxicated by the Wine of Love.<br />
<br />
From each, Love demands a mystic silence.<br />
What do all seek so earnestly? ‘Tis Love.<br />
Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts,<br />
In Love no longer “Thou” and “I” exist,<br />
For self has passed away in the Beloved.<br />
Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,<br />
And in the temple of mine inmost soul<br />
Behold the Friend, Incomparable Love.<br />
He who would know the secret of both worlds<br />
Will find that the secret of them both is Love.”<br />
<br />
~ Farid Ud Din Attar, 12th C Persian Poet: <i>Jawar al-Dhat, Kulliyat </i><br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-7783311960343964312015-03-17T12:35:00.000-04:002015-03-17T12:41:07.807-04:00<span style="font-size: x-small;">"...to hear the thunder that rumbles in molecules, the mingling of prime & ultimate </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">substances..."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> -Italo Calvino: <i>The Castle of Crossed Destinies, </i>1973<i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">" The initiated adept, who had successfully passed through all the trials, was attached, not </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">nailed, but simply tied on a couch in the form of a tau (in Egypt) ... plunged in a deep sleep </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(the "Sleep of Siloam" it is called to this day among the Initiates in Asia Minor, in Syria, and </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">even higher Egypt). He was allowed to remain in this state for three days and three nights, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">during which time his Spiritual Ego was said to confabulate with the "gods," descend into </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hades, Amenti, or Patala, (according to the country), and do works of charity to the </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">invisible beings, whether souls of men or Elemental Spirits; his body remaining all the time in </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">a temple crypt or subterranean cave. "</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> - <i>The Secret Doctrine</i> by H. P. Blavatsky [[Vol. 2, Page]] 558</span><br />
<br />
<i>in memoriam</i><br />
Daevid Allen <br />
January 13, 1938 – March 13, 2015<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>The Sleep of Siloam</b></span></h4>
<br />
What temple is this? what home?<br />
a wounded healer dreams<br />
a house wherein once dwelled<br />
a sleeper of Siloam<br />
<br />
there<br />
laid out on some board<br />
sloping see\saw<br />
precariously balanced<br />
between this and<br />
that<br />
tipped teetering <br />
Totter<br />
upended, appended<br />
head-down<br />
no defamatory deposition this<br />
vice versa!<br />
this the curse overturned<br />
Mr. Topsy Turvy<br />
dancing mutatis mutandis<br />
up the gangplank<br />
that the soul ascend<br />
to the undying star<br />
where celestial barque sails<br />
<br />
moonlit shaman<br />
by silence trance-fixed<br />
at your side satisfied<br />
lays the longbow<br />
sacrificed to fly<br />
vision's arrow etched testament<br />
buried|bourne in your breast<br />
your hand grips now<br />
to reveal<br />
apprentice angling upward<br />
his cry<br />
this view from the quill<br />
<br />
-J.M.<br />
2/28/15-3/20/15johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-4584784380047203242015-01-28T09:51:00.001-05:002015-01-28T09:51:08.829-05:00Jackpot"So what is the the waste Land? is the land where the myth is patterned
by authority, not emergent of life; where there is no poet's eye to
see, no adventure to be lived, where all is set for all and forever:
Utopia! Again, it is the land where poets languish and priestly spirits
thrive, whose task it is only to repeat, enforce, and elucidate
clichés." <br />--p.373<br /><br />"The Waste Land, let us say then, is any
world in which (to state the problem pedagogically) force and not love,
indoctrination, not education, authority, not experience, prevail in the
ordering of lives, and where the myths and rites enforced and received
are consequently unrelated to the actual inward realizations, needs, and
potentialities of those upon whom they are impressed."<br /> -Joseph Campbell, Creative Mythology (Vol. IV of The Masks of God), p.388 <br />
<br />
"We are giving people a new identity and erasing the collective memory.
We are rewriting the history books. Nothing was more important to our
president than bringing peace to this war-torn country... peace, a
lasting peace, that can only be achieved through strength, so in my
first act as the new president, as the leader of this new government, of
this new regime, we will begin immediately to deploy troops in the
southern region. We will resume bombing in the jungle. There will be no
more violence from the organized media. Real actual violence will take
the place of manufactured violence. [FAST BUSY DIAL TONE] We will empty
the prisons and we will build the football stadiums, and the evildoers
from the prisons will be trampled by wild elephants, mauled by uncaged
bears, and pecked to death by screaming eagles. [AIR RAID SIRENS
BLARING] Furthermore, we will alert the rebel leaders that the
negotiation's finished. There will be no more compromises, no more
concessions, just complete and utter unequivocal surrender. We have
learned a valuable lesson-- great nations do not fight small wars. There
will be no more stupidity, no more mistakes. It's a new day. God help
you all."<br />
<br />
-from the film: Masked & Anonymous ,2003 by Larry Charles & Bob Dylan johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-79805393815577623782014-11-05T16:16:00.000-05:002014-11-05T16:16:01.349-05:00I see you've already forgotten...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.luminarium.org/encyclopedia/guy-fawkes-signature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.luminarium.org/encyclopedia/guy-fawkes-signature.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-10902701132194480252014-04-30T13:30:00.000-04:002014-05-02T14:10:11.674-04:00<span style="font-size: x-small;">"... he showed me a copper door in the pavement, saying, "Here, if you
please, we may go further down." We descended the steps, where it was
exceeding dark, but the Page immediately opened a little chest in which
stood a small ever-burning taper, wherefrom he kindled one of the many
torches that lay by. I was mightily terrified ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">...Herewith I
espied a rich bed ready made, hung about with curious curtains, one of
which he drew, and I saw the Lady Venus stark naked...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">... "Now,
behold," said the Page, "when the tree shall be quite melted down, then
shall Lady Venus awake and be the mother of a King."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> -<i>The Hermetic Romance: or The Chymical Wedding. Written in High Dutch by Christian Rosencreutz. Translated by E. Foxcroft</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"No
sooner than she had thus given me her blessing by sprinkling and
annointing me with sea-dew than I immediately found my mind clarified
and my intelligence returning."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> -<i>Francesco Colonna: Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, translated by Joscelyn Godwin</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"Love rules the world, and typical of man's intensest, holiest love, I, Etidorhpa, stand the Soul of Love Supreme." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>-John Uri Lloyd: Etidorhpa</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"Everything comes from you; you have yoked the world and you control all three realms.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">You give birth to all, to everything in heaven, upon fruitful earth,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And in the depths of the sea..."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i> - from Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite, translation by Apostolos N. Athanassakis</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"'Tis thine the world with harmony to join, for all things spring from thee, O pow'r divine."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i> - - from Orphic Hymn to Aphrodite, translation by Thomas Taylor</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"The highest wisdom is to know nothing."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> -<i>Brother Christian Rosenkreutz, Knight of the Golden Stone A.D. 1459.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>To Aphrodite</b></span><br />
<br />
<h3>
I.</h3>
<h3>
Sublime Disquiet</h3>
<br />
O, that the shade of life should slip<br />
flower fall, rainbow rip<br />
that tide should turn from shore the ship<br />
Beauty's ebb from truth<br />
destiny erased from youth, and afterall<br />
the all in all, aloof<br />
<br />
far from certain, the sure revertin'<br />
garbed behind a curtain<br />
confounded by barbaric emblems and<br />
bardic symbol, bounded<br />
was it but a curse cast on current everturnings<br />
whose high sign She sought<br />
in the Library of Anthropological Yearnings?<br />
<br />
entropy itself but ebb<br />
eludes securing final debt<br />
this<br />
unlettr'd headstone on deluge swept<br />
alone<br />
for Her teargas lingerie I wept<br />
<br />
<h3>
II</h3>
<h3>
Undermind</h3>
<br />
Which of the muses would admit a claim?<br />
fool's gold/false unicorn<br />
priz'd from torpid ores<br />
this silence unsought. <br />
Amateur. Pallbearer.<br />
Let these lines be<br />
undermined<br />
<br />
Daughter of the skyfallen father<br />
sire scythed<br />
the Celestial Ocean's <br />
Cytherean meerschaum<br />
unmanned & holy<br />
imbue the bone in water<br />
the ardour'd sustenance of your star<br />
<br />
To cavort with Her verses<br />
I've fallen<br />
coffin clothed<br />
sewn Her oats <br />
into my apron<br />
and drawn the rapture in Her sinews<br />
through odes not mine alone to moan<br />
<br />
Mount me, She demanded<br />
untapped veins<br />
shaft unshook<br />
sleeping slopes<br />
never reaching the peak/peek<br />
<br />
intervene<br />
sure & supple star froth'd lips<br />
rhyme w/in the chalice grips<br />
while wave on waving furrow laps<br />
here may all recollection lapse<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
III</h3>
<h3>
Ourania</h3>
<br />
there's a tremor in the blood<br />
a seismic etching<br />
whispering portents<br />
a calligraphy of subtleties<br />
to thirst after finer things<br />
<br />
Thee unguttered cup!<br />
Your April'd slipper of lilac dew infused<br />
old undone dandelion sun<br />
rejuvenate! resume pellucid overview<br />
<br />
willow-the-whips<br />
that I should violate my rhyme<br />
with useless cant<br />
wont to work my will & why not<br />
swoon neath<br />
my apostrophe<br />
<br />
the trope of Love's apostle<br />
no swollen apostate<br />
proctored!<br />
gibbous Thee gland<br />
of delight<br />
illume<br />
<br />
-John Meador, Beltane 2014johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-5346350381201120032013-07-29T11:02:00.000-04:002014-05-02T14:15:33.716-04:00This Haunted Land"When the last red man has become a myth among the white men, when your childrens' children think themselves alone in the field, upon the highway or in the silence paths of the woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities are silent, and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land."<br />
-Chief Seattle, 1786-1866 <br />
<br />
<h4>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><b>The Ghost of Sheremetyevo</b></a></h4>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">"By Natalia Gevorkyan , Translated By John Amor</a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">July 15, 2013Gazeta - Russia - Original Article (Russian)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">Russian spy Anna Chapman: After a Chapman imposter tweeted a marriage proposal to Snowden last week, the global media found it worthy of headlines. But would the real Chapman turn down a starring role in 'The Ghost of Sheremetyevo'? As of today, we have had 53 days of Snowden. Boy, would Sydney Pollock be excited if he still lived. The script of a thriller is there to be had, and I'm sure it is already being written. We haven’t seen bugging like this since the war criminal Nazis. Isn't that so? I can’t remember another worldwide manhunt on this scale. If you try telling me the guy brought this on himself, I won’t put up much of an argument. But following this to its logical conclusion, I’m not sure where I stand toward him personally, less so toward what he has done.</a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"> On May 20, he flies from Hawaii to Hong Kong; on June 23, to Moscow. Moscow of all places. It’s pure cinema: The Ghost of Sheremetyevo.One minute it’s the transit zone, the next it’s a capsule hotel, then ABC’s latest "secret location." Anna Chapman, heroically prepared to marry the guy, provides the obligatory touch of eroticism. Obviously this should be set at transit zone E, the newest and therefore best suited to filming, right there on the floor, no hotels or beds, just pure hardcore. His passport is revoked, Cuba is tense, and a couple of countries south of Cuba are deep in meditation. A number of brooding presidents demand a plane flying over Europe be brought down when they think he's on it. Western journalists are provided Cuban visas and take every flight from Moscow to Havana - just on the off-chance. Their colleagues monitor the paths of these flights, which suddenly deviate from the north so as to avoid U.S.-controlled airspace.</a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">Meanwhile, Snowden remains on the neutral territory of Sheremtyevo, escorts Brad Pitt and meets Johnny Depp, and is now himself a star. Either of them, incidentally, could play him in the upcoming film. Our compassionate Russian gals feed the former foreign agent in the business class lounge, where there are showers and free Internet all night long. Russian leaders gives the former foreign agent an opportunity to meet and explain himself to Russia’s present-day foreign agents, whom it is now fashionable to call human rights activists. The latter, in their turn, demand that rather than creating competition in this already-crowded field, the former should be sent home, to a court, to prison. Snowden immediately seeks political asylum in five countries, and meanwhile, to the displeasure of many, is prepared to live in Russia, with or without Chapman. </a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">Here, documentation is prepared for his future life in Venezuela, where he will likely have to be transported on the president’s aircraft (one of them, at least), via an indirect, hard to track route.The intelligence services of a world struck dumb by Snowden, starting with Russia's, promptly uncover their dust-covered typewriters and go unequivocally offline, back to record keeping on paper. No more virtual toys, no more gadgets, and no more Internet-enabled phones, either. Just dependable, tried and true old stuff. Terrorists recruit the well-connected: dedicated, preferably dumb, and most importantly with no experience working with computers. There is no more e-mail, no more social or any other online networks, or Skype. The world changes before our eyes.</a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">Snowden begins to enjoy buckwheat porridge and piroshki with cabbage. Bouts of epilepsy give way to attacks of panic. But he’s at his computer the whole time all the same. He keeps going, although he takes up smoking on the sly. He spends long Moscow nights dreaming of his native home in Maryland, hacking school, cherry blossoms, Hawaiian women, and a car ambling slowly behind him, and he knows what will happen next: A press conference in Washington D.C., and (for reasons that remain unclear) unencrypted files, which he transfers over and over again. Close by, behind a wall, on their own home turf, Russian intelligence officers sit reading information again and again extracted long ago from his computer. Far off in China, countless hours are spent at the same work by Chinese intelligence officers. And from time to time, they gently whisper in their own language: "what the fuck!</a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">"Meanwhile, France has unearthed its own Big Brother with which it outright illegally monitors, if not the content of conversations, at least the details of conversations.Aaron Sorkin hurriedly writes and films one more episode for the new season of Newsroom, which starts literally the day after tomorrow, because he simply must delve into the Snowden affair. Barack Obama in his heart of hearts is just glad people have temporarily forgotten about Guantanamo.Vladimir Putin, with mixed joy and disgust, flies to his Sochi dacha, taking with him a package of pre-translated transcripts. He loathes traitors, but he adores top secret material. </a><br />
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.worldmeets.us/gazetaru000038.shtml">Robert Redford for the first time laments that age has taken its toll. Snowden’s lonesome girl shoots sandy landscapes, drinks cocktails with umbrellas and sends encoded SMS messages (as opposed to files). Microsoft justifies itself thus: yes, we gave away information, but only in accordance with court orders. Google and the rest quickly dismiss agents planted at the NSA who it knows by name. Life carries on, but will never be the same.</a><br />
<br />
<h4>
<b>The Ghost of Hunter S. Thompson </b></h4>
<a href="http://earthfirstnews.wordpress.com/2013/06/07/wolves-obama-and-the-hunter-s-thompsonian-apocalypse-you-smelled-coming/">There is nothing weird or wrong with doom. In fact, in a country of used car salesman, steered by bankers and drone pilots, doom is the only answer. Without doom we are truly lost as a nation. Doom is the final wake up from that awfully wonderful American Dream. And there is plenty of doom to go around for now, but if we aren’t careful, one day we’ll find that even doom isn’t free anymore. You don’t want to find yourself alone in a sweating basement, bashed by monster weather, burning your furniture for warmth and paying out the ass for doom, so take it while it’s still hanging from trees and full of seeds. You’ll thank yourself for making it too late before it becomes too late. “Another doom is possible”, and “Collectivize Doom” must not only the watchwords screamed from the mouths of Maoist hipsters, anarchists, rednecks and wackos of all breeds, but also from their extended families and their psychiatrists.</a>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-45591382775800286852013-03-29T12:04:00.001-04:002014-05-02T14:16:29.733-04:00<div align="right">
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>'<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">poscere fata 45</span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /><i>tempus' ait; 'deus ecce deus!' </i><br /><i>‘Are you slow with your</i></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>vows
and prayers, Aeneas of Troy, are you slow?’</i></span></span></h3>
<h3 align="right" class="ecxMsoFooter">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /><i>'cessas in uota precesque,</i><br /><i>Tros' ait 'Aenea? cessas? neque enim ante dehiscent</i><br /><i>attonitae magna ora domus.' </i><br /><i>‘The great lips of the House of Inspiration<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>will
not open without.’ </i></span></span></h3>
</div>
<div align="right">
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b> -Virgil : The Aeneid Book VI</b></i></span></span></h3>
</div>
<b>El Jaleo</b><br />
<i>for Ozma</i><br />
<br />
Sibyl of the fortress fallen<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br />
to gain the light I sought<br />
dark ran the dream<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span>duende<br />
in whose footsteps she was caught<br />
<br />
shadow-flame omega's mate<br />
flowers forth from grief<br />
not golden bough nor pearly gate<br />
the bower of Love's belief<br />
<br />
swept away our dance so brief<br />
I thought it was a smile she gave<br />
but it was the rose between her teeth<br />
<br />
-J.M.<br />
<br />
3/27/13johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-44060285279851519952012-08-17T19:34:00.000-04:002012-08-17T19:34:00.186-04:00Keisaku<br />
<br />
shorepound! hit the humerus cartwheel brakes, sensei!<br /><br />chasing the wild<br />licketysplickt<br />apprentice to the butterfly<br />we sip absinthe champagne <br />between the sunflowers supine<br />neath the overheated hummingbird giggles<br />and the happy-hour yawns of morning glories;<br />nasturtiums waving their florid hankies at our camp-meeting revival<br />Halleujah Sister, Halleleujah!<br />Leggys, Sacha and Prince D'Artagnan<br />observe their sermon in fur<br /><br />somehow in the long garden grass of late summer<br />we caught ourselves on a bodhisattva picnic<br />lean back into the gentle<br />cricket breeze <br />satori<br />& let this moment of God come forth<br />escaped from Seasons' hoarde<br /><br />-8/15/12<br />j.m.johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-44537421002414518812012-06-17T18:09:00.001-04:002014-05-02T14:17:45.014-04:00Aurora<span style="font-size: small;"><b></b> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> 6/17/12 for the Solstice </span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Most passing fair</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She as dark whens shook</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Love's summer spun</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">til leaf in curl of child locks caught</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">a glimpse thru paned rime overwrought</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">dropped we windows wide enough</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">to pawn the night</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">and encapsulated double-aught </span><br />
- well after all, how much<i> is</i> a lot<b>?</b><br />
taste the question mark again<br />
Enough! tho for naught<br />
closed these eyes to splendor<br />
for I yearn Her raptures even yet<br />
lest auld acquaintance be forgotjohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-17778979338949430632012-05-04T10:21:00.001-04:002014-05-02T14:17:15.792-04:00C’est le bon Pan, le grand pasteur (....) Le temps<br />
concorde avec cette interprétation qui est la mienne, car ce Pan très bon,<br />
très grand, notre unique sauveur, mourut près de Jérusalem, sous le règne<br />
de Tibère César à Rome.<br />
-Rabelais, 1532: Gargantua & Pantagruel; Quart Livre<br />
<br />
For Pan himselfe was their inheritaunce, <br />
And little them served for their mayntenaunce. <br />
The shepheards God so wel them guided, <br />
That of nought they were unprovided, <br />
Butter enough, honye, milke, and whay, <br />
And their flockes fleeces, them to araye.<br />
[Great Pan is Christ, the very God of all shepheards, which calleth himselfe the greate and good shepherd. The name is most rightly (me thinkes) applyed to him, for Pan signifieth all, or omnipotent, which is onely the Lord Jesus.]<br />
-Edmund Spenser 1579: The Shepheardes Calender; ÆGLOGA QUINTA Maye<br />
<br />
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn<br />
It was the crest ere you were born:<br />
Thy father’s father wore it,<br />
And thy father bore it:<br />
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn<br />
‘Tis not a thing to laugh to scorn.<br />
-Shakespeare, 1599: As You Like It: Act 4, Scene 2<br />
<br />
Pan's Rhyton<br />
(for A.G.)<br />
<br />
Cherub smoke surrounding<br />
lips put to the pipe<br />
wanton shade, charged air<br />
stag breath, beechnut<br />
honeycombing hair<br />
where horn would curl unfashioned<br />
rampant with newborn needs<br />
wandering neath willow<br />
willful for the reeds<br />
<br />
Dreadful festive frantic power<br />
force, pheromone & fur<br />
revel in the fingering of figures<br />
& kiss of embouchure<br />
<br />
Syrinx serene<br />
ninny haunched old urgings lean<br />
molesting unforgotten Dream<br />
tripping tongues of dogma<br />
to stutter sermons in the stream<br />
By the ambrosial beard of brine & honey mingled!<br />
sweet release & escapade!<br />
shivering cape of sparrows<br />
share prayers & passion's played<br />
<br />
Whistling past the Rune<br />
whose veins would poet trace<br />
nymph-sweat alphabet<br />
beneath the shadow of the thrill<br />
the threat<br />
prance cross palimpsest<br />
Echo's thine<br />
O, Thrice Blest!<br />
<br />
Wild, the refuge<br />
of rough read Pan's<br />
hours & season's endless dance<br />
stamping hoof at the edge of Dawn<br />
Now's At Last!<br />
All woe, be gone!<br />
5/1/12johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-46572616861722355962011-07-22T11:33:00.001-04:002011-07-22T11:53:49.619-04:00Rhodopis Rheomode-For A.G.<br /><br /><br />Once the scales of misery were simple in demand:<br />sell your daughters' dimples for the hungry in the land<br />now blessed are the foolish, for they can roll no bones<br /> & foolish are the blessed for they're bowling on their own<br />bashful is the gasper that's mastered in surprise<br /> the miracle stealing up so slowly with a stealth of spies<br /><br />slippery goes her step glass, whose pumpkin takes a stroll<br />while belly-up to ballyhoo & crawling in the coal<br />sweet brawlin' belle's old hoodoo warns:<br />'don't listen to no lemming murmer in your soul'<br /><br />Why, that carriage lost a fortune; misdemeanor in the load<br />coachman went all feral but before he scampered down the road<br />first he shrugged, shook his head & shouted<br />'sonnyjim, there's jest a world of dif'rence in what is thought & what is knowed'<br /><br />give 'em a lily, jack & send 'em to their maker<br />signed, sealed and eyelids peeled<br />scoured in sour mash & sweet potater<br /><br />sure, her crinoline & crumpets felt a little overbold-<br />casting ballast overboard, best to bet on buoyance undersold<br />the punch was lean & lithesome<br />belladonna in the bowl<br />midnight came too early, eager on parole<br />it was announced in fact no prints would leave undefeated<br />-they was tickled to be told<br /> such that they godfathered every phantom toadstool misunderstood<br />see em waltz & fumble just munchin' on their wood.<br /><br />give 'em a lily, jack & send 'em to their maker<br />signed, sealed and eyelids peeled<br />scoured in sour mash & sweet potater<br /><br />sought she some script direction in that scribbled mystery<br />hence queried up her showbiz dr<br />whose sagacious arching eyebrow snarled:<br />'its sufficient unto thee'.<br /><br />well, the moral of the story, the destiny of the goal:<br />I won't kill no squirrels on friday nor whine about my hole<br />tho it fills me with confusion since its empty and completely out of my controljohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-6408115210842403102011-03-19T11:35:00.004-04:002014-05-02T14:19:43.781-04:00Chronicon<div align="center">
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<b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 130%;">MMXII </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Epistrophe</span></span></b></span><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 85%;"><i>Is it not full time to return, when things are arrived<br />at the precipice of self-oblivion, when experimental philosophy labours<br />for selfish aggrandizement, and self is least of all served in the attempt;<br />when thought wastes its eternal substance in pursuit of time;<br />and the idea of Truth is mangled in the reckless machinery of Error?<br />- Mary Anne Atwood: A Suggestive Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery, 1850.<br /></i><span style="color: white; font-size: 100%;">To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.<br /></span><i>I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly,<br />or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I was a man.<br />–Chuang Tse<br /><br />Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see<br />The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes?<br />- John Keats<br /><br /></i></span>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. </div>
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<br />
No suffering. No path. No attainment. No extinction. Form is emptiness and emptiness, form.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
These our pages hath foretold thee how the pageantry of Fortune fades-<br />
revel's want and knowing's need mingle in the suffering cup of sleep.<br />
If our signature calls to us from it's inscription upon the Grail, where then, is the Grail?<br />
Last to lay down, unscriven & whispering;<br />
paramour alone in the cold lava bed of history.<br />
<br />
Temple built not by hands<br />
whose golden key was laid upon the tongue of mortals<br />
trobar clus , langue verte, mantiq at-tair, la langue des oiseaux, medu-netjer<br />
the ineffable secret, kept now under an eternity of silence.<br />
<br />
Revels ended, these our pages hath foretold<br />
spirit-melted into air, our whispered prayer;<br />
and, as the mascot moth unravels her fabric to vision,<br />
the crowds' unclapped powers, Aurora Borealis<br />
our psalm and solemn temple<br />
the great and lofty orb itself<br />
Yea, all which it inherit, dissolve;<br />
and, like all insubstantial fashions faded,<br />
left not even on a rack behind.<br />
Such stuff we were<br />
as seamstress stitch on, and our little life<br />
is skewered wide awake<br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 85%;">Now it is the time of night<br />That the graves all gaping wide,<br />Every one lets forth his sprite,<br />In the churchway paths to glide.<br />And we fairies, that do run<br />By the triple Hecate’s team,<br />From the presence of the sun,<br />Following darkness like a dream,<br />Now are frolic; not a mouse<br />Shall disturb this hallow’d house:<br />I am sent with broom before,<br />To sweep the dust behind the door.<br />-Puck<br /><br />Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane<br />In some untrodden region of my mind,<br />Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,<br />Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:<br /><br />A rosy sanctuary will I dress<br />With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,<br />With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,<br />With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,<br />Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same<br />- Keats, ibid<br /><br />Let all the nations bless the name of Guttingburg and Fowst which done it<br />amen<br />-Tom Sawyer, printer</span></i></div>
johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-39470077666867619422011-03-15T13:03:00.004-04:002011-03-15T13:10:19.523-04:00Chronicon<div style="text-align: center;"> <span style=";font-family:Tahoma;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 6</span></span></span><br /><span style=";font-family:Tahoma;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Lanthanein</span></span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Sigurðr kvað:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> 12. "Segðu mér, Fáfnir,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> alls þik fróðan kveða</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> ok vel margt vita,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> hverjar ro þær nornir,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> er nauðgönglar ro</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> ok kjósa mæðr frá mögum."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> -</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Fáfnir kvað:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> 13. "Sundrbornar mjök</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> segi ek nornir vera,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> eigu-t þær ætt saman;</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> sumar eru áskunngar,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> sumar alfkunngar,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> sumar dætr Dvalins."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> -Fáfnismál</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">"sirenum Sirenes secundum fabulam tres, parte virgines fuerunt, parte volucres, Acheloi fluminis et Calliopes musae filiae. harum una voce, altera tibiis, alia lyra canebat..."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-Maurus Servius Honoratus, Commentary on the Aeneid of Vergil, 5: 864</span><br /><br /></span><br />In the dark grey dawn of ages long ago when heart and mind were<br />spellbound, before fate had breeched the threshold of night and clawed<br />its way to the summit of day, restless spirits lay fallow in the spool<br />of an incantation vessel; unruly filaments twined, plaited and netted,<br />subverting the inflexible pretzel of change.<br />Votaries of it's secret Temple and those who found their way to it could<br />join in the invocation whose refrain returns, in a beautiful psalm:<br />'O Lord of every Lord! Make the litany of the Light arise'.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The shattered vessel containing divine sparks became<br />conduit to the infernal felly of maelstrom's ouroboros below, escaping the<br />the imaginal temple into movement of the crab and the rhythms of geometry,<br />tide and topology of escape, releasing the alchemical potency of the<br />Shem ha-Mephorash boustrophedon. Roly poly, roly poly, roly poly, poly<br />singing songs of love, rewinding the covenant till time be ceased; Aldina and<br />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.<br /><br />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;<br />axis of the splintered gimbal, blown windrose.<br />This luminous hieroglyph appears a moment later at the nombril within the chamber, with centrifugal pulsing coriolus force;<br />the husk of the true-rune crowned with lily-bud pirouettes, its gyre evoking the dead abandoning their prescripture of stupor.<br /><br />The Cailleach phiseogach: Vanadi, Iridi and Yttri, working the alloy of their voices,<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The Cailleach sightread from skaldmaers' caul, voluspa frayed and threadbare, thin tattooed skrim testament of time and indecipherable as a fleeting whim,<br />their thrice great threnody entangled with mantic persuasions<br />outsings what lies beyond, between or within the lines we muse; the light gone dim<br />our magic carpet worn, our purchase grim.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />Above, the Sun's theophanic modality, the virility and fecundity of the triumphant Light forever rising through the florid door of yesteryore.<br /><br />Gone, past the lapsed Hereafter.<br /><br />Days following days, night swallowing the lot only to belch forth Eureka! and inside out rolls the sun.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"<a href="http://nichiren.info/buddhism/lotussutra/text/chap13.html">World-Honored One, after the Thus Come One has entered extinction we<br />will travel here and there, back and forth through the worlds in the ten<br />directions so as to enable living beings to copy this sutra, receive,<br />embrace, read and recite it, understand and preach its principles,<br />practice it in accordance with the Law, and properly keep it in their<br />thoughts.</a>"<br /><br />Year: 2012<br />Winter solstice<br />As Betelgeuse achieved its midnight culmination,<br />Madimi closing the lid, let her round notebook lapse asleep to the snoring of a bear.<br />Maximum headroom forever.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">"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."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> -Franz Kafka: The Silence of the Sirens, 1917</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-86506990528073522982011-03-11T19:31:00.003-05:002011-03-11T19:47:06.006-05:00Chronicon<div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Chapter 5.5 </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Gurges Mirabilis</span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">"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…"</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">-New Orleans Daily Picayune,September 7, 1859</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">…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…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"> -New Orleans Daily Picayune, September 3, 1859</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"> …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…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"> -The New Orleans Bee, September 2, 1859</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"> '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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"> -New Orleans Daily Picayune, p.5</span><br /><br /></span> -+-<br /><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> A silence of metabolic interioritys engulfed Lafitte's airship which the Æolipylæ had re-named '<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Luna</span>', as it slipped surging through the amniotic sussurus of the quicksilvered obsidian quern.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Here, moments do not pass consecutively like attendants bearing the bier</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">of hindsight & forethought over their heads towards some final ossuary;</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">change is the constant in which they occur. Restless thought consumed in the absolute ever present</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Enveloped in the </span>wide waste of flickering silence they were thus borne, their channel penetrating a declension of lifetimes to issue forth in some very remote parturition.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Strong myometrial contractions propel their moth through perinatal matrixes of the cosmogenetic intrauterine passage.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> 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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">The roaring caldron cast them forth. A thick mist enveloped everything, and a magnificent rainbow hung over that bridge between Time and Eternity.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">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.</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Cora rolled her eyes, whispering aside to Xquiq and Aldina: "he keeps himself in clouds".</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Come, my coach, by the power of song we cross it."</span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">They cast their hawsers then to the Skomorokhi waiting on Hinba down below.</span><br /><br /> -+-<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);font-size:85%;" >"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".<br />-Norbert Weiner: The Human Use of Human Beings: Cybernetics and Society<br /><br />" O great creator of being grant us one more hour to perform our art and perfect our lives<br /> The moths & atheists are doubly divine & dying<br /> We live, we die and death not ends it."<br /> - James Douglas Morrison</span>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-56918445893368189742011-02-25T12:47:00.005-05:002012-11-24T13:13:57.619-05:00Chronicon<div align="center">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 130%;"><b>Chapter 5</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000;">The Nistarim</span></div>
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<br /><br /><i><span style="color: yellow; font-size: 85%;">"He who does not love the organ-man has no bowels for humanity, no taste for music, no soul for poetry. The man himself is a man and a brother; and as to his instrument, what sings the poet, the same who bade the Nine descend?<br />'When the full organ joins the tuneful quire,<br />Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear,<br />Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,<br />While solemn airs improve the sacred fire,<br />And angels lean from Heaven to hear.' "<br />-Charles Dickens: All the Years Round, June 11, 1864<br /></span></i></div>
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In a world the shape of enormous endings and beginnings, rises many stories high a skyscraper of a Tale<br />whose depths lie in an unfathomed dark Almandal, where history's handmaid beheld its reflection.<br />The angels of these altitudes have differing offices, offices such as the will to be taught, the delight in that which is wanted, the pursuit of that in which delight is found, the ability to grasp what was pursued, the ability to remember what was grasped, the act of finding similarities to that which is remembered, the ability to judge that which was found, to select that which was judged and, finally, the eloquent presentation of that which was selected. These offices are not numbered, their officiants know where they're needed.<br /><br />In a world the size of a bottomless handmirror, Madimi sat in a chamber before her own speculum,<br />sporadically channel-surfing on a black roundtop notebook resembling a modified Revo-Round, glimmerswitching from one nodal point to another in time, flitting across the dial of historical vignettes in an ever watching vigil, listening to Atlantis, by Sun Ra and his Arkestra; an unedited graphic novel lay neglected on her lap featuring Spider Jerusalem doing a Ulysses on a looming cyclopean GeoEye. Max Headroom screensaver set on endless improv, mourning; dormant like an urgent tulip, green fuse lit for Spring.<br /><br />Rising to light the room with candles, she was expecting company. And darkness.<br /><br />Epochs surged by leaving strange whispering tracers, dust devils caught in her flatlined book of hours.<br />Screen readout:<br /><br />Year: 1882<br />November 18, Transit of Venus Solar Storm<br /><br />Year: 1903<br />November 1, Solar Storm<br /><br />Year: 1921<br />May 13, New York Railroad Solar Storm<br /><br />Year: 1940<br />March 25, Easter Solar Storm<br /><br />Year: 1956<br />February 24, Acheron submarine Solar storm<br /><br />Year: 1989<br />March 13: solar storm collapsing the Hydro-Québec power grid. Millions of people in darkness; areas in the northeast U.S. and Sweden lose power, aurorae visible as far south as Texas.<br />In the middle of a magical supply warehouse, huddled on the floor, holding one another as wisps of smoke escape upwards, Eiderdown and Cricket cry, shuddering over the prostrate form of Aldina.<br /><br />October 9: concert- Warlocks performing a song, Dark Star at Hampton Coliseum in<br />Hampton, Virginia. Cricket and Aldina, arms around a prominently pregnant Eiderdown dancing a Woodstock sungrope neath a mirrorball explosion of galaxies.<br /><br />December 23: Eiderdown in labour, keening and howling; sweat pouring from her face as the bitter weather pummeled the window outside, tiny white mittens gone berserk like winter moths drawn to unearthly light. Cricket and Aldina held her and coaxed her with soothing encouragements. The moment came. Triplets. Identical triskelion blue eyes that do not cry. The infants seemed instead to be singing to one another.<br /><br />Year: 1789<br />Furtwangen Germany<br />An aged Uhrenträger, veering from discourse with a gaggle of motley minstrels concerning the design of their certainly singular Schwarzwälder uhr, slapped his forehead in epiphany.<br />"Die Mädchen waren fortgesprungen, aber der Bär rief ihnen nach:<br />weisse rose für schneeweisschenWeihnachtssternrote Rose ür Rosenrot"Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot<br />fürchtet euch nicht, wartet, ich will mit euch gehen."<br />Da erkannten sie seine Stimme und blieben stehen<br />und als der Bär bei ihnen war, fiel plötzlich die Bärenhaut ab<br />und er stand da als ein schöner Mann und war ganz in Gold gekleidet.<br /><br />"Ich bin eines Königs Sohn" sprach er, "und war von dem gottlosen Zwerg<br />der mir meine Schätze gestohlen hatte, verwünscht<br />als ein wilder Bär in dem Walde zu laufen, bis ich durch seinen Tod erlöst würde.<br />Jetzt hat er seine wohlverdiente Strafe empfangen."<br /><br />Year: 1942<br />June 2:<br />"The world is just a barrel-organ which the Lord God turns Himself. We<br />all have to dance to the tune which is already on the drum."<br />-Reinhard Heydrich, SS Obergruppenfuehrer (Party Number 544916)<br />Reich "<i>Protector</i>" of Bohemia and Moravia.<br /><br />Beside her, a bear bereaved with one trap-maimed foot explained: "that machine kills fascists."<br /><br />The bear had left a crooked corridor of wreckage and destruction as it sought the boy,<br />looming in his knowledge before Aidan ever saw it. Primordial phantom, it spread through his dreams, apotheosis of an indomitable anachronism; epitome of the abyss. It cast a gargantuan shadow all the way to the edge, too big for the dogs to drag it over, chthonic; monstrous as apocalypse.<br /><br />Repousse mistletoe's rune-lit embers smoldered on the lid as he replaced his gold mirror-locket safely within the pocket hidden in fur.<br />She had reached across dimensions for him, defying the veil. Now he came to her, without weapon, watch, or compass; their mirrors drew them, the attraction magnetizing their souls.<br /><br />Her voice rough with worn lament, Madimi looked at him.<br />"Science dwelleth in me, the heavens and depths oppress me,<br />for they covet and desire it with infinite appetite.<br />Few or none that are earthly have embraced me<br />for shadowed am I with the circle of your sun."<br /><br />"Madimi, your company's a harmony of many cymbals and<br />the honeytrap of your tongue sweeter than health itself."<br /><br />While his head lay in her lap, Madimi's fingers curled in his thick tangled fur.<br /><br />Year: 1564<br />"Terrestre quoddam corpus, Monas haec nostra Hieroglyphica, in Centro Centri, Latens, possidet: Quod Qua sit ACTUANDUM divina Potentia, sine Verbis, Ipsa docet: Cui jam ACTUATO, Lunaris & Solaris est (Matrimonio perpetuo)COPULANDA, Influentia Gonetica:Licet, ante, in Caelo vel alibi, fuere ab EODEM Corpore SEPARATISSMae. Hac (Dei Nutu) facta Gamaaea, (Quam, Parisienibus, sum ... interpretatus: id est, Matrimonii Terram: sive Influentialis Conjugii, Terrestre Signum)Super suam Nativam Terram, Eadem, ulterius Nutriri non potest, vel Irrigari, quam ad QUARTAM magnam vereque Metaphysicam Revolutionem Completam. Quo finito Progresso: qui aluit, in METAMORPHOSIM Primus Ipse abibit: Rarissimeque, post, Mortalium conspicietur oculis. Haec, O Rex Optime, Vera est, toties decantata (& sine Scelere) MAGORUM INVISIBILITAS: Qua (ut Posteri omnes satebuntur Magi)nostra est MONADIS concessa Theoriis."<br />- John Dee: <i>Monas Hieroglyphica</i><br />['This our hieroglyphic monad possesses, hidden away in its innermost centre, a corporeal body. The Monad teaches without words, by what divine force that corporeal body should be actualized and united to the generative lunar and solar currents... At the conclusion of this mandala's initiation, the adept will undergo a metamorphosis and afterward very rarely be held my mortal eye.']<br /><br />Year: 1604<br />October 9<br />A very large and bight twinkling star ignited for the first time in the 'constellation serpentari'. It appeared in the highest heaven and firmament, among other fixed stars, and not like other comets, low among the planets, and much less below the moon or in the element of the air...<br />Jupiter was in conjunction with Saturn, this conjunction took place in the same part of the sky every 800 years. In December 1603 there was to be a conjunction of Jupiter with Saturn in Sagittarius, which to astrologers was one of the points of the Fiery Trigon. In the autumn of 1604, when Jupiter and Saturn were still in the Fiery Trigon, and not far apart, Mars was to come, and be in conjunction with Saturn on September 26, and with Jupiter on Oct. 9. Thus in early October 1604 Mars, Jupiter and Saturn would be at the vertices of a triangle, forming a fiery triangle in the Fiery Trigon. A conjunction in the Fiery Trigon presaged great things; a fiery triangle there was surpassed, as an omen, only by a comet..."<br />-Johannes Kepler : <i>Bericht von einem ungewöhnlichen Neuen Stern</i>, 1604<br /><br />Year: 1615<br /><i>Confessio Fraternitatis</i>:<br />"Thus, we, oh mortals, must make it known that God hath concluded to send the World before its end, which preferently thereupon shall ensue, such a Truth, Light and Glory as Adam had, and which was expelled along with him from Paradise for the purpose of alleviating human misery.<br /><br />In the future, when (as we trust they will) all these things will have been removed, we will be presented with a perpetual unchanging directive; and although we owe this to those who worked on it, the Great Work, in its fullness, will be the product of this blessed crucial time.<br /><br />With a view to His Will, God has already sent ahead his Messengers, Stars appearing in Serpentarius and Cygnus. In their capacity of truely great Tokens of His mighty Will these can teach us how He would subjugate human intelligence to His secret law once everything that is to be discovered will have been combined; the Book of Nature will then be open to all and unveiled, although but few can read it in full, let alone understand it.<br /><br />Just as in the human head there are two organs for hearing and seeing, two for smelling and one for speaking and just as it would have been in vain to demand speaking of the ears or hearing of the eyes, so have there been times that have seen, others that have heard and yet others that have smelled. What remains is that soon, in a time that is coming rapidly nearer, the tongue too will be given due honour, so that what has once been seen, heard and smelled, can be brought into words at last when the World will have slept off the flush from drinking of its toxic, stupefying beaker, and early in the morning it can meet the rising Sun, with an open heart, bareheaded and barefooted, happily and jubilating. In the same way as God has put about Characters and His Alphabet through the Holy Scripures, so has He carved these distinctly in Heaven, Earth and Animals when the miraculous work of Creation was done, so that just as the astronomer foresees eclipses, we can predict the obfuscations of the church and the duration thereof long in advance. From such characters we derive all of our Magic and based on these we have formed us a new language which at the same time expresses the essence of things; therefore it would be no wonder if we could express ourselves only less refinedly in other languages and in this Latin. For we do know of these languages that they are not familiar to the language of Adam and Enoch, but have been desecrated by Babel's confusion of tongues."<br /><br />year: 1616<br /><i>Virga Aurea</i> of James Bonaventure Hepburn published at Rome.<br />A garland of seventy-two praises in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and Arabic, Etruscan, Assyrian, Armenian, Gothic, Scythian, Scottish, Hibernian, Coptic and Chaldaic, Mystical, the Noachic, the Adamean, the Solomonic, the Mosaic, the Seraphic, the Angelical, and the Supercelestial its mandorla surrounded by flowers and symbols, adorned with an inscribed ribbon:<br /><br />'Humbly I place and fasten this votive picture at the feet of the Most Blessed Virgin. After much midnight striving, may I make pledge of my soul, yearning and striving long years after the Blessed Virgin, to the success of the Rule in which we are blessed, and to its long and eternal fruitfulness.'<br /><br />Her severed bough knew the appearance of truth, subdued serpents, crosses hell, either bars or opens, and drew essence forth from the stone.<br /><br /><br />Year: 1994<br />June 22:<br />Listening with Eiderdown and Aldina to the novelty of a live in the studio radio station's broadcast emanating from Tweezerville, Indiana via the internet featuring the sky-grazing music of the Octave Doctors; Cricket began accompanying their two aethereal vocalists with overtone harmonic singing she had learned as a child. Three towheaded children who should have been in bed appeared before the startled Cricket.<br />Iridi looked up at her with enormous eyes and said: "teach us that".<br /><br />Year: 1995<br />May 14th: Cerberus traces the location of Eiderdown et al. deploying an assault unit which ambushes and attempts their abduction. From out of nowhere a warrior circus of Skomorkhi intervene, with their unicorn and guns; vanishing with Eiderdown, her two friends and her three five-year old daughters. Very Tarantino, thinks Madimi. Outrageous weapons.<br />Porlock business. Same old shillelagh, blood and thunders.<br /><br />That night, there was a bedtime tale bonanza in order to settle the children's terrors.<br />In order to put their ordeal in perspective, Eiderdown chose from her great grimoire of magic's inexplicable deeds that stupendous account of wonder surpassing all others amongst the uncanny savants of enchantment. Nestling her girls in an oasis of fat, irresistable pillows she began to unravel for them the tale that told of the Theft of the Peach. What? You do not know of the most fabled feat whispered of among wizards, deliberated between thaumaturge and fakir, sorceress and sage?<br />Listen my downy ducklings, I will tell all.<br /><br />It was winter in the great valley and the fields beneath the towering mountains were covered in snow. A flock of cranes had refused their last chance to fly to warmer grounds before the cold, cold season settled upon them. A shepherdess and her daughter were returning their herd to their village some distance further, when they came upon the graceful flock. The great birds, when they saw them, rejoiced for they were sure the woman would share something to eat. But the mother and daughter were poor, and quite hungry themselves. </div>
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One magnificent crane stepped forward and stretching her wings in greeting, spoke. </div>
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"My people will not survive the winter on gifts from the small pockets of hungry folk. I will make you a proposition.<br />The Queen of Heaven has an immortal peach tree. The nectar of a single of its peaches will keep us all alive til Spring.<br />Take your longest rope and put its end in my beak. I will fly with it up until I reach the cloud palace orchard of the Queen of Heaven. Your daughter is strong and small enough to climb to the top. She must climb into the tree and whisper her name to the peach or it will not detach from the bough. Then must she toss below the peach before she slides back down. In exchange for this great favor, I will teach you the secrets of our magic." </div>
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<br />Her mother was uneasy, sensing unknown danger, but the brave little girl was willing to help the elegant crane people. </div>
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<br />The way she flew up the rope after the crane led the way seemed as effortless as thread flying from the spindle of Necessity herself.<br />Soon, she disappeared among the clouds. Anxious moments passed. The remaining flock fidgeted restless around the tense mother. </div>
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Eventually, a whistling in the sky grew louder and louder and an enormous peach, glistening with crystalline cold juices landed plop! atop a tussock. Relieved, the flock circled around and around admiring this amazing treasure and feasted upon it ceremoniously taking turns until all that was left was a shimmering peach pit! </div>
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<br />Suddenly, another sound came through the air towards them. At first, they thought it another peach as it landed with a sickening thud. But no! In absolute horror the mother realized it was her daughter's head! She shreiked, the cranes shrieked and the earth itself shuddered. Arms and legs and the bloody rest of her followed. </div>
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Taking off her cloak, the mother's mind went numb as she gathered and wrapped her daughter's limbs together in the large thick cloak.<br /><br />She wept. The flock mourned. The earth grieved.<br /><br />A speck appeared in the sky and gradually floating larger, fluttering its way from a very great distance down, down to land next them in the field. It was the speaking crane returned from her voyage to Heaven.<br />The woman, looking up from her remorse, met the eyes of the crane.</div>
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"You have helped our flock in our dire need, now I will help you." It took the shimmering peach pit from the ground in the scissors of its beak and placing it in the palm of the mother's hand, told her, "this kernel holds the name you gave her at birth, plant it with care at home and it will bring you great wealth. The Queen of Heaven gives her now a new name. And whispering into the bundle, the crane stepped back. Movement stirred beneath the travelworn cloak as it slipped away to reveal the daughter yawning, stretching her arms, and with a puzzled look she said "I have just had the strangest dream..."<br /><br />From that time to this, Lady Cloud Walker has come on glorious wings to their descendants to teach these daughters the magical ways of Heaven.<br /><br /><br />Year: 2012<br />December, the Koreion<br />With their strong arms surrounding the beast, the Foolproof skomorokhi then, gate-wrecking unconquerable sons of thunder-thrashing bolts, descended one final time into the antarala realm of Cerberus, umbilicus maris according to the old geographers, 'gurges mirabilis omnium totius orbis terrarum celeberrimus et maximus' and brought the remaining captives back to the upper world after freeing them from their bonds. Wrapping the hounds in chains they carried them away in exhibition for inscrutable heaven.<br /><br />Queen Cora comes, bringing the Cailleach girls a flask holding the hieroglyph of water from the tabernacle nave centered in the primeval grinding mill-wheel of Corryvreckan's walls.<br /><br />River run round the circuit placid opacity of the almandal inaudible sizzle of hourglass sands shifting endless across the vast empty void, dark as the desert between stars. Tsunami.<br /><br /><i>To think they could lay him in cold ground<br />sing 'a-down a-down,' and call you him 'a-down-a'.<br />They bore him barefaced on the bier;<br />Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;<br />And in his grave rain'd many a tear-<br />Fared you well, my dove?<br /><br />Who can Kore from those lips now divide,<br />Whose kisses tell of Adonis died?<br />To Kore, e'en now his breath is fled,<br />Their kisses read reawake the dead.</i><br /><br />Intimate communion in the mass of the cataracts, consultation with the noise of many waters.<br />Assistence, elation and a taste of redemption.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #33ff33;">...He sung, and hell consented<br />To hear the Poet's pray'r;<br />Stern Proserpine relented,<br />And gave him back the fair.<br />Thus song could prevail<br />O'er death and o'er hell,<br />A conquest how hard and how glorious?<br />Tho' fate had fast bound her<br />With Styx nine times round her,<br />Yet music and love were victorious.<br />-Alexander Pope: Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, 1713<br /></span></span></i></div>
johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-73691367544184648512011-02-12T19:36:00.003-05:002011-02-12T20:12:23.859-05:00Chronicon<span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-size:130%;" > <span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 4.5 </span></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102); font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />St. Columba</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">"And, of course, Kalachakra? Yes.</span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > And Aryavarsha, from where the Kalki Avatar is expected? Yes.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > And Agharti with its subterranean cities? Yes.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > And Ming-ste? And the Great Yarkhas? And the Great Dwellers of</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >Mongolia? And the dwellers of Kalapa? And the Belovodye of Altai? And</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >the Grail—Lapis Exilis? And Chud, the subterranean? And the White</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >Island? And the underground passages of Turfan? And the hidden cities of</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >Cherchen? And the submerged Kitezh? And the Suburgan of Khotan? And the</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >White Mountain? And the sacred valley of Buddha’s Initiation? And Agni</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >Yoga? And Dejung? And the book of Wu-tai-shan? And the Tashi Lamas? And</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >the Place of the “Three Secrets”? And the White Burkhan?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > Yes! Yes! Yes! All these have assembled round the Great Name of</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" >Shambhala in the conception of many nations and many ages."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > -Nicholas Roerich: Heart of Asia</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > </span><br /></span></div><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">-----------------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Hinba, isle of the blessed was perhaps that same Thrinacia, the three</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">pronged isle that Odysseus once visited. An island filled with congregations</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">of red deer, highland cows, colonies of seals, and otter trysts along its coastline.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Sacrosanct mountains, tawny gorse where graze the unicorn, and heather </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">dancing down to the sea. Sheiling beehive looking shelters pollinate the land.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">It is a hidden land, a 'beyul' inaccessible or elusive to most. This</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">land is said to be inhabited by certain of 'those who know how to play hide-and-seek'.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Not a nation observed by orbiting spy satellites or sighted from</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">reconnaissance aircraft (though hunt they must); of this world and perhaps</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">another dimension as well. At the end of an aeon, should civilizations topple,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">consumed by fire and ice, it is said the realm will ascend again into the sky</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">merging with its celestial archetype in the heavens, an imperishable</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">sacred land girt by the oroboric Milky Way above, waiting.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Here, a ring of standing stones remain sentinnel from the Bronze Age,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">vertical rock outcroppings with twenty-eight cups carved in their surfaces</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">to pour offerings to local spirits.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Here, a historical circuit of the world's parks and plazas is completed; </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">from beneath the marquee moon of entertainment spots, lots, restaurants, cafes,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">bars, pubs and theaters, from the shadow of the subway and twilight zone of bus stops.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Here, a performance occurs quite unlike any other.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> - + -</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> Ladies and Gentlemen... Step up! Step up!</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Behold the simulacrum of singularity itself! See the roving warrior</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">minstrels of the Skomorokhi band:<span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:130%;" > <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Foolproof</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">,</span> unfold the dromenon of the</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">New Titurel!!</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Witness the enigma, marvel at the mystery, captured at great peril from</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the terrible Wilds of Time at long last. Hear with your very own ears</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the unbelievable whispering wail of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Contes Fantastiques</span>. These Good</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Shepherds caught in the bright sheep-glazed headlights of Elsewhere's</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Otherwhen wonders, delved undaunted that deep sepulchre of Musae to</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">meddle with the echoes of those Cerberean sons of nothing; synchronized</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">with Jupiter above and the infine beyond to fetch forth the wretched</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">spirits of mortals, trapped like leaves buffeted by the wind and aching</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">at the gates of Acheron.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Noble exiles from the four corners, intimates of seven seas and tangent</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">to no time nor place but Hinba, this our isle of the blessed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Introducing Eumolpus Flintwort master of circular breathing on musical</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">reed instruments and fire eating; Aidan Afterthought organ-grinder and</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">warden of the 777 pound dancing Carpathian black Bear Kolbjorn, Take a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">bow, Kolbjorn! And presenting Strannik, miraculous puppeteer and</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">hurdy-gurdy churner; Hercule Poncelot, virtuoso on his shimmering, ethereal</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">gadulka fiddle and sculptor Air Balon Extraordinaire modelling</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">shapeshifting balloon creatures from thin air smoking caterpillaie which</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">morph into moth and be-fluttered bye-byes; Ullamh O'Corn juggler</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">formidable and drummer indefatiguable on the gaelic bodhran.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Join the queue! Only five quid a go!</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">No better bargain while the Baktun lasts!</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /> -+-<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Ullamh O'Corn, assuming the pose astride the churlish dishwater daylight</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">declamed:</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Must we stopper the backwash, seal the sucking coriolus's yawning maw</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">of sorry demise? Must we sup on the curdled regurgitate of Winagain's</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Fake and slip on the slaver of mad Lapdog's yelp?</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> Seize I say, seize that ungentle song befell silence and shake loose</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the time signature! The piping shreik of commerce and terror entangled</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">to the end cavils to the drum and iniquitous din from seige engines of</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">chaos and disorder, lurching like a lemming ambulance service downhill.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Doom's cathexis of commodity purchased faulty fallback, busted</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">safeguard, stripped nightwatch, broke failsafe, ripped stopgap. Lost.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Lost to the flotsam of ephemera, efluvium requisitioned for the</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">trajectory of our own dire diaspora.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">No afficianados of sepia tinted historical jaundice we, clicking out the</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">barbells of time mockspeed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"This here merry-go-round brokedown giddyup gone spannered in'er corset"</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">muttered Aidan absently, probing with obstetric care the interior naos</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">of his travelworn barrel-organ.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Regarding Ullamh disdainfully, Kolbjorn the bear turned his head,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">snorting in gaelic: "Is fheàrr deagh chainnt na h-asail na droch fhacal</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">fàidh." (<span style="font-style: italic;">The good speech of an ass is better than the bad word of a prophet</span>.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"I'd call ya my sweet little dove but yer as black as the Earl of Hell's</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">waistcoat, bottler!"</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">A tin cup in the hand of the bear rattled coins defiantly.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Eumolpus, cleaning his duduk heaved a sigh.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Bletherskite, Ullamh. Yer bum's oot the windae."</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Tell me, are ye one of them barny mad nibble squibbits, Eumolpus,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">chuffin' up in the trees that sound like a wee Pekinese with a head-cold?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Ignoring the reply, Ullamh turned his annoyance on Aidan.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"That intergalactic hot dog of yours Aidan,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">you treat that thing like its bleedin' Sleeping Beauty"</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Aidan paused, staring intent in the innards. "Ullamh, it IS the very</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">herald of Spring. Just the thing needed to chant new paeans to the sun."</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Having the appearance of the Sun it did, with gleaming brass fittings on</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the spectacular apparatus. The huge barrel-organ weighed well over a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">hundred pounds with rows of pipes mounted on a cart that was pulled by</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the bear. The elaborate organ had mechanical figures, automata mounted</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">on the front of the case and surmounting it was a unique variation of a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">'cuckoo' clock; a Phoenix's jack-in-the-box aerie crested a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">nine-storyed mountain, at the base of which sprang four rivers, flowing</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">towards the four cardinal directions.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Pumpin' circumstance again mate? With those princely good looks, a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">right regular bodice-ripping Lochinvar you; some Sheila needs wreathing</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">ribbons o' pyrite in a crown for them furious notions doggin' your distresses."</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Aidan put a screwdriver down, pondering. Resting an elbow on his knee,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">he cupped his chin and looked at Ullamh.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"There are stout wooden doors that thwart the axe of wicked witches,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">hammered copper doors admitting wizard and queen and books that open</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Time's unbound vestments of poetry like smoke from Her lips.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">By making a vast detour we've arrived already in that other world no</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">passage only portal can take us.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The transition exists solely for the sake of the Tale. No passport, no</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">visa; transition as trauma.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">We are those who traverse the displacement."</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Ullamh squinting his eyes, stalked off to ravage another ear, impatient</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">with Aidan's theosophy of illumination.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Hey, come showtime Oy been takin' the piss, old Walleye & Frightwig</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">slippin me the evil eye. Gowk tattyboggles both of them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Strannik looked at him askance.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"My son, my son; we must not ply at other's afflictions."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Fair 'nuff Rabbi, but these two bettys was mad as fumigatin' bats</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">snortin' champa. Wallies rattlin' with every word. VERY special, indeed. </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> Called us 'guardians of the temple' protectin some clishmaclaiver 'book</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">of hours'. An that's when yer arse fell aff, I says. Pure dead brilliant rubbish."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Strannik frowned.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"By the power of the ineffable Name which stems from the three verses</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">originating out of hesed by which was the world created:</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Roly poly, roly poly, roly poly, poly singing songs of love. We sing the</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">psaltery of ten strings, Ullamh;</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">comprehend the comprehension that is worthwhile to be comprehended in</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">potentia, and it will turn to be in actuality."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Ah, mambo jambo sugar & jam slippin it sideways to the Queen of Siam.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Phoar, look at this heap o' mollycoddled pollyglot.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Its one infernal pecadillo after another, chasing old Smokey to smother..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Shaking sudden like an elf-shot terrier and gesturing upward at the kaleidescopic Aurora</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">flickering across the sky Hercule barked out:</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Good Sharkey, Colonel God!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Strannik gave him a glare of the red eye.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"What's that you say? What's that?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"O, it is nothing, nothing. Just a nagging little clouseau I picked up</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">last time the Cerberus took a wee bite. Reflex reaction, you know.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Passes quick as bozo shackles."<br />He coughed into his hand, embarassed at</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> the uncontrollable tic.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Ullamh slapped him on the shoulder blades.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Right, then old Bampot. O, I might seem coarse as kipper on the outside</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Strannik; its insides wots sens'tive. Zat empath Keef the Riff, he an</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Mad Moon taught me to improvise while unconscious. Studied their every</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">moves, I did."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Zat where you nicked lovely byliny starina everyone must copy?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Nah, that were one of old Macca's tunes, what was it , ... Scrambled</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Eggs...?</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Anyway, workin' up this right now:</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> 'Hy women be layzy and low be lowd,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> fair be sluttish, and fowll be proud.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> were ye long, lazy, little or loud; fat or fulsome,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> Hy women be ye pretty and proud.' "</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Its been fifteen years now since Aldina, Cricket, Eiderdown and her daughters</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">graced our Isle."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Our nursery of Adepts, the Cailleach girls then, hath nigh fled the nest to launch their</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">own perambulations. Is this the year when they finally immanentized the Eschaton, then?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"When Luna's Æolipylæ have ridden the low moon out of the sky..."</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Aidan glanced skyward at the lightshow.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Well, that's the signal there then, innit? Come along then, skinny malinky longlegs</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">and stick your nose in the kennel! Time ta see a man about a dog!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">They wore their grudge with Cerberus like temporary tattoos in</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">perpetuity. Aidan had been held in a Cerberus katorga limbo as a child,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">indicted by a corporate shadow government as a potential paradoxical,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">his file was sealed. Awakening from a childhood virtually shut up in a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">coffin, the Skomorkhi had sprung him and also an old musician acquaintence of</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Strannik named Efimov Nezvanova and his young daughter Netochka, thanks to the</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Bear's aspaklarya; symbiont glass to the obsidian beryllisticus of Queen</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Cora, it availed them temporal displacements. Together, the two specula</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">constituted a sort of parallel processing Urtu-Tamitu, the twain comparative</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">to the sun, source of light, and the moon, which has no light of its own.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Their sheath of foretelling reflections were the perfection of imaginative power; their</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">locative powers that of a retro-chronal seance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Seeing as we're gine to the fishin' hole, better bring the toolkit along with the fiddlesticks</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> this time. Never know what else we'll catch."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">'Toolkit' was a battered golf bag holding a halberd double-barreled</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">wheellock, an ax match and wheellock, a large bore, short brass barreled</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">blunderbuss and an espingole musketoon decorated with a carving in the</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">form of a dragon's head around the muzzle; the blast gave the impression</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">of a dragon belching magma.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Holding more than leather bellows, wood and metal pipes, Aidan's</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">sharmanka or barrel-organ held multiple barrels, letters looking like </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">3/k KTP stenciled black in cyrilic on the rear of the cabinet below the crank</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">and above the artisan's name: Jan van Steenken.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Aside from their regular musical repertoire, a couple</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">special barrels were custom repinned and retrofitted by Efimov's</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">daughter Netochka, following Hercule's translation from<span style="font-style: italic;"> L'art du</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Facteur Des Orgues</span> by Dom François Bédos de Celles.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The hard-coding upon these barrels formed one continuous spiral, a</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">worm gear on the crank shaft causing a barrel to rotate slowly drawing</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">positrons slowed by atoms in the atmosphere from thunderstorms. The</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">positrons traveling in a spiral path around magnetic field lines due to</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the magnetic force on moving charged particles, primed for one barrel,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">an aetheric oscillator's positronic beam arming it for retrocausal</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">psychokinesis; deminimumizing targets to the fourth dimension, irrefragably.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> -+-</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Coming to the entry in the Garvellachs in the last half hour of the ebb,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">the Skomorokhi waited for tide to break, as it ripped furiously through<br />the sea,</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> gargling between springs and neaps with the wind nine knots in full<br />flood Corryvreckan.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">An archway had been erected there by Cerberus corporation's<br />geospatial data paparazzi Cyclops </span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">overseeing the Pass of the Grey Dogs.<br />At this gateway, Aidan would soon plant</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> the golden bough on the<br />threshold before the Underworld.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"God us keep from <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> single vision and Newtons sleep."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Aww, Tanstagi: 'There Ain't No Such Thing As Government Interference',</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">cuz we <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> the gate of the friggin' Dolorous Garde."</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> In the middle of the passage lay an islet enabling a brief crossing<br />from one island to</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> the other. The passage was negotiable at slack water,<br />but at the ebb took to coursing like</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> a millrace through the Pass of the Grey Dogs<br />just as Corryvreckan began to boil</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">, opening a well of raging waters.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Yon upwelling from the boiling taps of Hades rathskeller's enough to sate an<br />incarnate demon-prince.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> I know where I'm going, but I inna'gine kowtow to<br />Doom's promotional brochure of</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> shattered illusions, broken dreams and<br />disappointments. Anyway, always gives me</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> the whirlypits, these wee lil jaunts..."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"Don't worry mate, I got yer Novikov self-consistency principle right</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">here</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">."<br /><br /> -+-<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Oh, ’tis fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee,</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The dancing bear came back with me;</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">For the sugar-plum trees were stripped and bare,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And we couldn't find cookies anywhere.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And the solemn old fellow he sighed and said,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Well, he didn't say much, but he shook his head,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">While I looked at him and he blinked at me</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Till I shed a tear and so did he;</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And both of us thought of our supper that lay</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Over the hills and far away.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Then the dancing bear he took my hand,</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And we hurried away through the twilight land;</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And 'twas fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">When the dancing bear came back with me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">-The Dancing Bear</span><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Albert Bigelow Paine, 1893</span><br /></span></div><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);font-family:lucida grande;" > </span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /></span>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-9752500344482424362010-12-20T10:14:00.002-05:002012-11-24T11:15:52.946-05:00Chronicon<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #ff6600; font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Chapter 4 Deiknyomena</span></span><span style="color: #ff6600;">:</span><br />
<span style="color: #ff6600;"> </span><span style="color: #ff6600; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Æolipylæ Provisionals</span></div>
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<div style="color: yellow; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-style: italic;">A</span><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">nd still the Weaver plies his loom, whose warp and woof is wretched Man</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Weaving th' unpattern'd dark design, so dark we doubt it owns a plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> -Richard F. Burton: Kasidah</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Three young women reunited with their Doyenne were taking lotus tea in a courtyard garden on an island at the mouth of the Mississippi one late summer's afternoon in 1859. Xquiq, a Mayan <span style="font-style: italic;">ajq'ij</span> or weaving day keeper come from the Mexican Island of Swallows accompanied Catiche Villard, the sole living grandchild of the notorious pirate Jean Lafitte as they consulted with their sister, the 'spirituale creature' Madimi, through the medium of the occult looking-glass brought circuitously downriver to this oubliette of freedom, Barataria. Back door to New Orleans, Barataria was the lost pirate utopia of the Lafitte brothers. Formerly protected by 'letters of marque' issued by the Spanish republic of Cartagena fighting for independence from Columbia, it was once teeming with nearly a thousand restless refugees, brigands and exiles from all flags leaving burned bridges behind. This throng had filled the ships' crews with gunners, navigators, carpenters, cooks and sail makers and riggers. Their descendants now constellated the bayous.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Behind them now stuccoed with oyster shells, Lafitte's brick two-story house facing the sea lay in ruins along with forgotten buccaneer schemes of marauding. Before them near the estate, still stood the barracoon quarters where smuggled slaves had awaited clandestine sale less than half a century earlier. Concealed within its crumbling walls there remained cached her grandfather's secret bequest for Catiche.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> Xquiq's mother had come in times past to Barataria from Cozumel with Catiche's Creole quadroon grand-mother, Jean Lafitte's wife. An island outpost for Lafitte, Cozumel was sacred to the Maya moon goddess Ix Chel; women desiring children would make a pilgrimage to her temples. There, Catiche's mother had been born. Mother and daughter both had been blessed by the goddess with alluring beauty and insight. They had settled later within the Baratarian colony of palmetto-thatched roof cottages. Catiche inherited what was left of her grand-father's estate once the government and lawyers grew bored of scavenging in the postscript of his disappearance and the mystery of his fate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Examining Cora's obsidian disc, Xquiq described for Catiche the transient properties of the Mayan mirror in which the Elizabethan Dr. Dee had centuries before stumbled blindly through the playground of their elusive sister, trying to follow her elfin labyrinth as traced by his skryer Edward Kelley.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> Looking deep within the glass and following with her eyes Xquiq translated aloud as Madimi, within the glass, turned over bark-paper leafs from a lost Mayan glyphic codex held now in her arms; a tale of the Sisters, of how the earth is untangled and how the heavens are woven.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">“Creation is born from the black hole at the Crossroads; birth cleft of the Milky Way's Great Mother. Images appear in the sky. Then will the sun be reborn completing his age-old journey though the stars of the night sky. Jaguar comes from another realm to attend the rebirth of the world, one called Bolon Yokte K’u whose jaguar paw at the foot of the nine-measured Creation Tree marks his presence. Present at the last World Age creation in 3114 BCE and again present at the next one, which begins the day of least light in 2012. 13.0.0.0.0 4 Ahaw 3 K’anki’in. Jaguar is descending along serpent ropes from the sky cleft bringing the ornaments from your ancestors. Ancestors peer out from the mouths of serpents descending from the celestial throne of Mayan kings, the place of transformation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">A sky canoe carved from Creation's Tree rides the Milky Way, sinking below the infinite horizon of night's progress, carrying star children of nearby constellations. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">The spotted Jaguar wears these stars of night, its mouth opens the Underworld Portal, the dark rift in the Milky Way. Hear it roar. Our way lies there."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Madimi addressed them directly and spoke.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Our order, wherein the wonders of time are wrought with power: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> with you, as my words are: with my self, as my Creation is. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">The generations of our alchemy quicken to fruition. Our trinosophia here prepares our sisters down the way.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Thrice triangular, our facilty extends to the horizon that lays unvanquished; seeing through the Aurorae to the theophanic form of the Eikon. To see in each luminous thing the light that reveals it,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">this shewstone's dark lantern yields not reflections, but explication of an order most implicate. Our chamber of operations draws forth the hieroglyph, shedding cinders of vision; lampblackened petals of Midnight's stricken rose. Dark are my dreams choked within this collar of stone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Here, the Chymical Wedding of novelty and terminus are entombed, incurring serendipity. Though hateful ignorance may mourn the dead believing the dreams of color, shall we play the game existence to the end of the beginning?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">My Mother is at hand who opens the will of Fate."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> "Behold! she says. I make a new heaven and a new earth..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"My words pour from many mouths, a fountain everyoung enfolding the overlapping vectors of language reflecting écritures à lunettes; true mirror of our luminous moth drawn ever to the close at day's new dawning." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"But woe be unto those would-be bookends of the earth, for they are full corrupted; a leaking wicked wrasting stock, and firebrand to the conscience."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">When Madimi had finished, Xqiq respectfully handed the mirror then to Cora.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Madimi came from a village on the Cauchy Boundary out beyond the lost horizon, unbound, scalar in time. She might appear a pretty girl about eight years old, attired in a chatoyant silk dress of red and green or a voluptuous young woman of their own age as occasioned her fancy. Space however, was another proposition and her interface with this realm was accessed by way of the mirror alone, like a genie and her lamp. Whether she was perceptible visibly or invisibly appeared to depend upon her whim. She might congeal like an apparition, obtaining substantiality in the vicinity outside of the mirror. Phantasmagoric hologram or no, she was capable of delivering some considerable degree of force recognizable to consensual physics.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Seeming to have a special wardship over books, Madimi's exegesis of John Dee's obscure Monas Hieroglyphica had equipped the Sisterhood with a technique for rescripting history.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">She also lent an adroit hand at subverting indeterminancy and was instrumental in avoiding Cerberus.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Nightingale, stroking his beard, addressed the conclave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"In light of precarious confrontations Barataria frequently found itself imbroglioed in with both soverign and foreign intrigue, the Corsair Lafitte prudently invested a sultan's ransom in a covert transport maintained against the advent of a sticky extrication. It awaits us in the old abandoned slave quarters yonder. "</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Finding himself finally in a place beyond fight, flight or seizure; our Æolipylæ's retrocausal itinerary persuaded Lafitte there are those more appreciative of his aerostat's uniquely equipped virtues than mere thrones, powers and dominions. Incomparably augmented by the infamous Lord Byron whom, while in the Aegean upon his travels in exile, encountered a sponge diver named Valerios Kondos. Discoveror of a most peculiar parapegma-like contraption off the island of Symi, that among other things calculates the equation for occurence. Unaware of its remarkable abilities, he gave it to Byron in exchange for the secret recipe to Sindbad's legendary rat-tailed chimichanga, reknowned for sustaining his stranded crew for a fortnight."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">" Byron, eventually deciphering the device's recondite purpose, later presented it to Jean Lafitte; a token of his admiration for this other lone, wild and strange Magister Exemptus. Approximately the size of a gravid dictionary, with wooden sides and bronze faces, it operated by a handle on the side manipulating complex epicyclic gearing that indicated the results of its calculations on dials. A sort of hyperdimensional successor to the almanac that provides navigation for the airship. The device included a dial displaying progressed Saros cycles and Callippic cycles synchronized with the periodic solar variation index."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Powered by a hydromagnetic dynamo driven by the inductive action of internal solar flows; sun storms, in other words, our forty foot long tri-lobe airship was formerly inflated by a portable hydrogen gas generator, a system of tanks and copper plumbing which converts iron filings mixed with sulfuric acid to hydrogen. The generator could be conveyed out to landing fields on a buckboard buggy. We, however, will be requiring a non flammable gas hitherto unknown, made available for use by certain merchants of chance receptive to our terms of trade."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"The balloon itself is composed of silk, varnished with caoutchouc. It's dimensions, containing so many cubic feet of gas supply sufficient supporting power for the machine and all passengers. A balloon, even though perfectly sealed to retain its gas could only be maintained for less than six weeks. We will be equipped however, with emergency provisions alone, as the experience of our transit's duration is accomplished in but a wink of the eye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">The gondola is composed of strong light wicker, with a rim is about four feet deep and furnished with a grapnel and indispensable guide-rope. I'm informed that strong arms indeed await us."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"We will catch the morrow's peak solar maximum, riding the frequency occurrence of coronal mass ejections through the magnetic field's polarity reversal churned by turbulent convection through the transport mechanism of the solar flow. The flux produced from a strong toroidal magnetic field within the solar interior forms a regenerative loop where the toroidal component produces a poloidal field, ones and zeroes."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Catiche shuddered in an attempt to parse Nightingale's code, her blue eyes narrowing through disheveled hair: delphiniums tangled in blue-black wings lost to foreign fields of flight. Nightingale brayed on til his voice trailed off muttering softly:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">“Recta tangit circulum puncto. Intelligentia videns. Contractus ad Punctum.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Adsit Ruach Hochmah-El; intellectus! Es sey Da;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">der Geist der Weißheit Gottes; in dir Gott der außerlesene!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Leaning over to Catiche, with a gleam in her eye Xquiq whispered:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">" He can't see the Thesaurus for the Threes..."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Coming round again, he snapped out of his trance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Honored fiends & philanthropes, tempus fugit. Ours is the teleological attractor at the end of time unveiling interconnectivity climaxing in the attainment of singularity both infinitely complex and yet of infinite simplicity; the Zefirium. The point at which anything can happen and probably will. Everything imaginable occurring simultaneously. Hallelujah and amen, its about time I reckon."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Cora stirred as she felt the shewstone tremble in her hands. Looking therein she saw the moon looming behind Madimi, bearing an inscription: '<span style="color: yellow; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Si nunc se nobis ille aureus arbore ramus</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><span style="color: yellow; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">ostendat nemore in tanto</span>!' Madimi then withdrew into an orchard there saying to her, "Draw nearer."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">In the mirror her head was half hidden amongst wide, dark leaves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"The barren fruit upon these branches and amongst these leaves are but withering skulls. Not as they are am I yet. Do you stretch forth your hand."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Cora stretched her hand forth deep into the mirror amongst the branches and through the leaves. Then Madimi kissed her hand. Fire entered into Madimi's mouth and she waxed of higher stature, having now three faces. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"I and I have a few things to say, and I say." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> Cora heard a marvelous music, as thunderous as many mountains falling, as if half the world were rushing downhill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"This that I give thee is my posterity, as for thee, flee from this place into the Upperworld, and go where I shall lead thee." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Through waste and wild, he wandered wearing the wolves' cap of invisibility; nine times the space that measures day and night waiting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> Confounded though immortal, dreaded hounds ere hunting, almost lost to name but for boon companions and our Lady's troth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Nearer draw thee still, Haruspex; behold now this Liber Vitreus opening into your confidence. Read herein unfolding odyssey of Aidan's exile and concealment..."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> Far upriver, they could all hear the guage-cock of a steamer screaming toward the coming violence of the sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">From soul to soul hath war been waged,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> From star to star, from sun to sun:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> Nor e'er shall be the strife assuaged</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> That's hourly lost and hourly won.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> Ancient of Days, that here in light,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> And there in darkness, dost array Thee,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> Thou madest day, Thou madest night,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> And both obey Thee.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> The sons of night Thy servants are:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> They work Thy will, no less than we,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> The sons of light, that with them war</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;"> Unwearied where no end can be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">-Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton : ORVAL; 1869</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">OR, THE FOOL OF TIME. A POEM.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Alias: Owen Meredith</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">1831-1891 Dedication. TO COUNT ARTHUR DE GOBINEAU</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Meredith, Owen. A pseudonym adopted by Edward Robert, first Earl of Lytton (1831-1891 viceroy of India, 1875-80), met de Gobineau at Athens, 1865;), son of the novelist Bulwer-Lytton,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">After Paradise or Legends of Exile: With Other Poems</span></div>
<br /></div>
johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-12627095629953560802010-11-11T20:00:00.003-05:002012-11-24T11:41:41.792-05:00Chronicon<div align="center">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 130%;"><i><b>Chapter III</b></i></span></div>
<div align="center">
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: 130%;"><b><i>Prohodros</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: 130%;"><b><i> </i></b></span><span style="color: yellow; font-size: 85%;">"<i>Great talke there is of a glasse that he [Roger Bacon] made in Oxforde, in whiche men myght see thynges that were doon in other places, and that was judged to be done by power of evyll spirites. But I knowe the reason of it to bee good and naturall and to be wrought by geometrie (sythe perspective is a parte of it) and to stand as well with reason as to see your face in common glasse</i>."<br /><br />-Dr. John Dee</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Finalizing preparations for their departure through the liminal concourse between chapters below and above, Cora looked over her shoulder and in a soft voice husky with insurrection, gave edict: "Nightingale, leave Mr. Ace o' Spades a note, tell him... I'm steppin' out."<br /><br />In her hands the golden bough not only illuminated their way, but carried them forth as if they were riding bare-back an enormous but invisible serpent force.<br />In due course approaching their destination, the passage narrowed to the merest strip, neither bridge nor parapet; the bottomless vaults of Hades below. They crossed the terrible causeway, surrounded on either side by deep forboding waters and bordered by dense black poplars. The wrath of a sentinel wind disturbed from long uninterrupted slumbers staggered awake and came howling gale-force toward them, only cleaving aside as she held aloft the golden bough; sure as Moses cleft the Red Sea. Ahead, torch-light from two ever-burning braziers swam spectral across a hammered copper door set into the red granite's finality; like an augury in a dragon's eye.<br /><br />Nightingale, stepping before the door, uttered: "<i>Salammbo</i>".<br />The door slowly swung open, begrudging admission. The hierokeryx stepped aside, permitting Cora to step forward into a subterraneum antechamber dominated by a wrought iron spiral staircase. They ascended to a workshop occupied by a broad table, upon which files and heaps of geometrical diagrams accumulated with complicated schematics littered amongst logarithmic mechanical apparatus and involved curvigraphical machines, automatons and curious devices of brass and ivory, nickel and mahogany animated by means of steam and multiplying gear.<br /><br />Extensive volumes of books lined the walls and piled the nooks and crannies with titles such as <i>Rays of Light on Operations with the Universal Instrument</i> by Ala Al-Din Abu'l-Hasan Ali Ibn Ibrahim Ibn al-Shatir, <i>Alchemical Fire in a Flash & Glow from Glow-Worms</i> by John French, Banu Musa's <i>Kitab al-Hiyal, or Book of Ingenious Devices</i>, Archimede's <i>On the Making of Spheres</i>, Ctesibius <i>On pneumatics</i>, John Dee's <i>Inventum Mechanicum, Paradoxum</i>... as well as his <i>Trochilici inventa mea</i> and Simon Studion's <i>Naometria</i>.<br /><br />Against the western wall there stood a gigantic clock of ebony whose pendulum swung with a heavy monotonous stroke. When the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock the rolling explosion of a gong; a sound which reverberated the skeleton of the entire ediface- so loud and deep and peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, even the dust motes seemed to pause, momentarily, in their trajectories to hearken to the sound and moths waltzing in the attics caught their breaths.<br /><br />"Our present sanctuary, the once upon a perhaps remote possibility; a long lost appendage of the Otherhood, widely believed disassembled. I'm afraid our presence here reflects a complete disregard for the evidence of its non-existence. One may question the veracity of claims lacking empirical evidence; a practical, epistemological position. Critical rationalism, skeptical inquiry, thrown back ad infinitum festering in Boojum Paradox. I, however am a True Believer and we shall set our conundrums to guess when-wherever we may..."<br /><br />She looked at him wryly. "Just when-where are we?"<br /><br />Varifying his own reckoning against the gargantuan clock, he determined: "for the moment we reside under the auspices of the Atelier Gryphon in Tweezerville, Indiana August, 21, 1859 and if we are to arrive in New Orleans to mate our destiny, we must deploy post haste!<br />------------------------------------------------------------------------ </span></div>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"></span><br />
<div align="center">
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Emerging from the romanesque limestone building carved with a female figure bestride a gryphon stretching its wings across the gable, they passed beneath an oroboric dragon encircling the entrance archway, maintaining its vigilance amidst ivy scrollwork.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Looking up past its twin cylindrical towers into the blue unblemished sky, Nightingale was startled to see it free from the vapor trailing raptors of war and industry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Appraising her traveling apparel of cinched saffron skirt and buckled bodice over her chartreuse blouse, he blurted,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Well, Cora if you ain't the Canary's Pyjamas!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"You rude old toad! Better croak a sweeter song or I'll have your guts for garters..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Honi soit qui mal y pense, cherie."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Just gun it, Grampy."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"By your gussets and grommets, I shall!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Gadzooks & god's pronouns!" The old curmudgeon winced at the impact as a locust detonated on his cheekbone; the speed on the 8 Hp flash-tube Serpollet modified Micheaux-Perreau steam Velocipede would hit the ceiling at 60 mph with one rider. Queen Cora adjusted her goggles with one hand as she clung to the motorcycle's swearing navigator. Exhilarating way to travel but hell on the bladder and kidneys, she thought. Their long dusters billowed behind in their wake, the boneshaker's constant eldritch shriek tore loose like a bat entombed in Tartarus broke forth smoking from the dark primordial chaos at the Earth's core to reckon with day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">They were boring their way south through the last of the stampeding dog days of summer dust heading for the Ohio River. There they would board the steamboat that would reconnoitre them, in theory, with a couple of Nightingale's shady accomplices; gamblers in possession of an item dubiously won, the utility of which Nightingale maintained they would soon require. Hoping his timetables were still accurate, by their account the ship would pass directly over the necessary temporal vent allowing portage from time wave zero.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Time and tide..." he muttered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">The steamboat <i>Lagniappe</i> was on the last leg of its seven day journey from Cincinnati to New Orleans and Nightingale's mysterious liasons were still not in evidence among the passengers aboard the ship. Were one to check, their names would be absent from the ship's manifest as well. The Queen incognito and her whiskered escort though uneasy about the rendezvous, were content enough with the accomodations and allowed themselves to enjoy the comforts of the floating palace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Promenading the specious boiler-deck at twilight on the fifth day, they passed a stateroom whose door was propped ajar to let out the surplus tobacco smoke and profanity. The sounds of surreptitious gambling, boasts mingled with sharp exclamations and liquor evaporating drew Nightingale's attention and he cast a quick glance inside.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Ah gentlemen, at last."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Barton and Maxwell were two orienteering eudaemons, gamblers traveling the circuit along closed timeline curves, fleecing every rube and fondling every fiction; Fortune permitting them the gravest of injuries to fleeting coffers. Two refugees, leaving behind them now a pile of yellow-boys, grumbled past them out the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Maxwell was the epitome of lawless glissando: his grin slipping over the edge into the abyss and dragging out the sunrise; his voice a rusted timber saw virtuoso leaving sawdust behind rough-hewn auditory nerve endings. Barton was an elegant behemoth, soft-spoken though entirely audible. Eyes as gentle as doves; well-poached doves when he dipped in the whiskey. Both had extremely well-manicured hands, rascal masters of topping the deck and the center deal. These veteran wool-gatherers both carried horse headed alicorne canes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Barton spoke up. "Sorry about the schedule, had a busted Lorentzian manifold on the way over."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Nightingale made the requisite introductions .</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Ah... Doyenne of the Ennead nine. Enchante, Madame." Barton brushed her hand with a genteel kiss.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Maxwell doffed his hat and in a Lochinvar drawl that would embarass a magnolia entoned: "It's a real pleasure, Ma'm. How is Zaimph, our Lady Illusionati? And Godiva's little Cricket?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">He sighed. "Zaimph, I'd still like to show her some new manipulations... card maneuvers, you know..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">He got a faraway look on his face that drifted them apace down the river before he began again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Nightingale roused him from his revery:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"I presume as you have still the Outlandish Watch, transience remains at your disposal? You'll want then to catch up with her then for New Year's day 1990.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">She will have Expeditus medallions for you both and Marie Laveau's gris-gris as prescribed: John Conqueror root, grains of paradise, powdered lodestone, eagle eye and shark tooth annointed with essence of three kings and two knaves. And perhaps a surprise... two or three, even. Last I spoke with her, she expressed a regret she hadn't learned the Zarrow shuffle from you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Maxwell, reflecting; arched an eyebrow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Ezra, now about this old speculum you wanted... I've grown kinda attached to the rustic little mirror. Its just the sweetest way to shave. Imagine her a barber - Madimi. Maybe we could get her a cell phone instead for consultations... like the anachronaut female-impersonator used at the premier of Charlie Chaplin's Circus; poorly disguised SS from Cerberus looking for your truly. Lost us in all of Graumann's Ballyhoo: Alice from Dallas, the 503-pound fat girl, and Lady Ruth thirty-two inches tall and fifty-two pounds. Poodles Hanneford, the Ace of Riding Clowns and Pallenberg's Performing Bears on bikes, a lion tamer, and Samaroff and Sona's performing dogs."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Great garbled embouchure, what are you trying to say man?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Maxwell, with a sheepish wolf-eating grin, said: "Ezra, we have been travelin' together a while now and well, me and the little lady was thinkin' of gettin' hitched!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">An instant later he was howling and clutching his leg.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"She kicked me in the shin with those crystal winkle-pickin' slippers she wears. I was only larkin', ya tempermental tinkerbell. Well, no more chin-tucky bourbon for you!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Barton rolled his blood-shot eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Are you gonna let a little flicker filly rumble you? That mirror's nothing but a closet full of cartoons and you're groaning like an arrow-head's in your bony old back-side."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"She's real as the meat and potatoes of the damned," Maxwell fumed. "Dark heathen glass, anyway. She up and left old Dr. Dee to rot. Here, I guess she's all yours."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">He handed the glass gingerly to Nightingale who in turn passed the circular obsidian mirror, seven inches in diameter, to Cora; recollecting: 'The Black Stone into which Dr Dee used to call his spirits ...'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Smooth as a panther swathed in gin, my man", Barton ribbed his partner. "If a sweet little haint like her can harm you, maybe that makes you a vapor mechanic yourself?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"O Madimi, shall I have any more of these grievous pangs?", Maxwell howled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">A child's voice ran through the cabin like a brook:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">"Curst gambling devils are sore companions. Be seeing you..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">
</span>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><i><span style="color: yellow;">"He'd read Dee's prefaces before,<br />The Dev'l and Euclid o'er and o'er;<br />And all th' intrigues 'twixt him and Kelley,<br />Lascus and th' Emperor, would tell ye.<br />Kelley did all his feats upon<br />The devil's looking-glass, a stone<br />Where, playing with him at bo-peep<br />He solved all problems ne'er so deep."</span></i><span style="color: yellow;">-Samuel Butler: Hudibras, Part II, Canto III, 11, 235-8, and 631-4. </span></span>johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8965038992516837010.post-77501120129317483952010-10-24T17:28:00.008-04:002012-11-24T11:23:41.319-05:00Chronicon<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">II 1/2</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">St. Maroon</span></span></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="color: #cc6600; font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Apres</span> ye tire cannon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Negue</span> sans passe ... "</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> -An old 'Maroon' / <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Cimarron</span> saying from New Orleans</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Al<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dina</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Croquiere</span> had lived on St. Ann St. in the Quarter with her venerable Creole Grandmother whom folk respectfully called the Widow Paris since she was a small child. Her mother had left <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Aldina</span> in the elder woman's care for instruction in the old ways of belief that had become her own as well. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Aldina</span> had always simply known</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">her grandma as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mamaloi</span>, listening to her wonderful stories on the veranda out front beneath the wisteria or </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">nestled at the foot of the feather bed, learning songs in tongues of elder days. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Aldina</span> was a young woman now, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">following in the footsteps of the wise had led her to the Sisterhood; their </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">combination of skillful ways merging together in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">graal</span> of common purpose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Mamaloi</span>, crowned in her madras <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">tignon</span> and anchored in her rocking chair spoke.<br />"It</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> is time, child. Go now to your mother in Congo Square. The Sisters of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Eschaton</span> converge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">Calculations have been adjusted for echoes of that 1859 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Carrington</span> Event.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Telegraph messages gone awry </span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">on that occasion</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">, came from the mouths of beasts in the depths of the sea."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Handing her a small corn husk doll doing the splits and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">cornsilk</span> hair veiling her face, she indicated: "this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">garde</span>-corps is protection for the Three to come. "</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Giving her next a pair of chamois bags, she explained: "This gris-gris is for the river associates of the herald that escorts Cora."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> From around her neck she withdrew a reliquary necklace and handed it to her grand-daughter, "St. Maroon,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">child; protect yourself."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">Loading her then with sugar cane pralines to share with the others, she dismissed her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">grand-daughter</span>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> It was midsummer, St John's day, the day her mother led the dances in Congo Square. In a basket she took the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">plate of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">congri</span> ringed with silver coins, several small chamois bags tied shut and her Grandmother's carefully</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">wrapped copy of James Bonaventure Hepburn's manuscript. With a small bag of</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">personal necessities, she kissed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Mamaloi</span> on the brow and went to meet with her sisters, following St. Ann St. up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">the blocks to Congo Square.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Aldina</span> was waiting in the shade of a sycamore when they arrived, both also bearing hamper baskets on their</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">backs. Disconcertingly, Eiderdown in petticoats and crinoline finery was wearing a top hat and smoking a</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">cigar. Cricket somewhat more discretely, removed her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">nano</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">earbuds</span> and stopped chewing gum to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Malo's</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Suavecito</span>" playing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">sub-audibly</span> against the crowd babble. Nodding at Eiderdown, Cricket rolled her eyes and said:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> "sorry we're late. I leave her alone for just a few hours and when I get back, there she is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">skyclad</span> in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Orrery</span>,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">jay-naked and covered with butterflies. Baked."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Eiderdown blushed, muttering: "I had a very close encounter of the third kind."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Bewildered, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Aldina</span> stared at them. Translating for her, Cricket made a steeple with her fingertips: "Chosen by</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Yidam</span> in the monstrance-clock. You know, bareback <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Yippy</span>-O Ki-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Yay</span>!" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Aldina</span> thought she understood. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Loa</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">cheval</span>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">In Congo Square thousands had come to dance the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Bamboula</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Calinda</span> to the Creole songs and drums.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Dansez</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Calinda</span>! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Badoum</span>! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Badoum</span>!" Children, dancing on the outskirts, adding their screams and mayhem to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">the chorus and movement. A bazaar on the banquette was filled with lemonade, ginger beer, pies, and the ginger</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">cakes called "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">estomac</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">mulattre</span>," set out on tables with awnings, their streamers dancing in the breeze. Young</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">gentlemen from the College of Orleans, on their way to the theatre, stopped a moment to see the Congo dance</span>:<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">tremors increasing to movement; bodies contorting in convulsions, frenzy, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">ecstasies</span>.<br /><br />It was there <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Mam'zelle</span></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Conjure initiated the dance that told of the Beginning, when the Goddess of All Things, rising from Chaos and</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> finding nothing for her feet to rest upon, dances towards the south. Whirling, she caught hold of the north wind.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Rubbing it between her hands, behold! She dances with the great serpent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Ophion</span>, the low humming song rising</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> louder and louder; dancers whirling around, faster and faster, crying, waving their red</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">handkerchiefs, sometimes falling delirious, exhausted, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">pell</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">mell</span>, blind, ridden in the hot dense darkness down to</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">nightfall when the cortege would close, and the dispersing revellers would sing on their way home to another week of</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> slavery and labour:</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Bonsoir</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">dansé</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Soleil</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">couché</span>!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> But now, however, a frock coated blue ripple of double-breasted uniforms ruptured the confluence of spirit and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">flesh as a phalanx of law enforcement wedged its way through the throngs of celebrants; star and crescent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">badges slashing through the sunlight like scimitars. The dancing faltered and came to a halt, the mass of dancers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">surrounding the woman with her formidable snake. At the tip of the wedge, Major Joseph M. Bell addressed the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">assemblage.<br />"This gathering has not been sanctioned by the City Council and has been deemed illegal and unsafe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">You are hereby commanded to cease your activities and await further instructions."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">Within the regiment, a slightly taller though nondescript trio was methodically moving, surveying the crowd. Each</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">carried a small dark baton in their hand.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> "Uh oh, here comes the SS." Puzzled, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Aldina</span> looked at Eiderdown.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">" Sidereal security for Cerberus Corporation. Rent-a-hounds from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Elsewhen</span>. They mix in with the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">local heat when they can. Pets of the Devil's Chaplain," she explained. "Cerberus supposedly owns exclusive</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">rights to all the Anubis gates of temporal anomaly. Goofy. By the way, stay away from those lightning-bolt cobras</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> they carry."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Eiderdown and Cricket might as well have been spotlit. Marking the three women, the SS veered in their direction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">Once they had established their target, Cerberus moved fast, extending their telescoping spring batons charged</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">with a million volts each that would not only disable but render those it touched senseless for hours. The</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">display of the hissing, sparking anachronisms brought instant chaos. The crowd went hysterical. In the square's center,</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Marie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">Laveau</span> calmly knelt, serpent draped; drawing a specific pattern in the dust.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> In the ensuing melee, the three girls were divided. From her basket Cricket removed her peculiar prayer wheel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">and began spinning it with her hand, producing a growling array of skin-crawling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">eldritch</span> overtones augmented</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">by an inhuman throat singing crescendo emerging from her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">petit</span> frame, as if some primordial beast was ripping</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">through the fabric of the space she occupied. This drew the attention of two hounds. Nearest the center of the Square and keeping her eyes on Cricket as the SS closed in on her,</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Eiderdown mused. Observe white crane dancing with</span> <span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">ape; supple as a fountain lifting on the breeze, Eiderdown watched the arc of her attack.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> One of the agents lunged, his weapon belching like a kid's sparkler. Cricket wasn't there. The concussion</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">came in a shock-wave an instant afterward. A flickering Ferris wheel hologram accompanied the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">bardo</span> warrior's</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">roar. Then, there she was again, her dagger already done; the hound rolling backward into infinity like Hell's</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">bowling ball.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> The other agent, having backed away, had already reached halfway to Eiderdown. Showtime, she thought. As he</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> approached, she removed her hat. Odd jobs mam, yer horse at least I'll fodder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Closing quickly, the dead-eyed agent barked, "time's up, you're coming with me, sweetheart."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">She shook her finger. "That's Worshipful Mistress to you, and you can gag on your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Münchhausen</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Trilemma</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">sandwich. Meet me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Gibus</span>, old chap."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Collapsing the trick top-hat in her hands she threw it at his feet. Contorting into a puddle around his feet, it began</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">contracting in a spiral; devouring him like a pit of quicksand. In rage and horror he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">shreiked</span> -"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">What've</span> you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">done?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> "I know, I know; and you never thought a little girl like me would ever be able to end your wicked deeds," she</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">sighed.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> "Like Kit Carson said, 'Hell is paved with silk top-hats'."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">With a sewer-burbling belch he was gone, where the goblins go; below.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Marie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Laveau</span> stood, drew back her shoulders, her head high and called to them: "Sisters, converge! The umbilicus of</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Expedite, quick, they must not have it!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">Aldina</span>, however was cornered by the third against a wall of fleeing bodies; too far for Cricket to reach her in</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">time. As the agent whipped his wrist the baton extended, leaping with a viper's bite. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">Aldina</span> clutched her necklace</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">and cried for the Saint. As the weapon scourged her mind with occluding cobwebs, massive arms emerged spectral from the chaos, catching her in mid-fall.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"><br />And he was there, enormous; arisen from some spiritual geology amongst the</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> aristocracy of the wild and free, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Cimarron</span> nightfall of mahogany; the color of primordial gumbo roux. His head</span> <span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">was adorned with plumage from the celestial hierarchies of the swamps and hung around his neck were shells gathered</span> <span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">from the sacred mound where the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">Baratarian</span> bayous merged.<br />With one swing of his thick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">sinewed</span> arm, he struck the</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> agent's neck breaking it. The hound collapsed, an outdated sack of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">dogfood</span>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Cradled gently like an unbruised apricot in the crater of a volcano no longer dormant, her champion carried the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">unconscious young woman to her mother, laying her gently in the circle. The mother's eyes met his. She addressed him in</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Creole/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">Mobilian</span> trade jargon and English,<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">Ayeko</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">ayeko</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">chukma</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">fehna</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">nde</span>. My Mother and I thank you. May the Almighty protect our faithful and defend against those who would</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> thwart us. Through Elysian Fields take safe haven."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Departing, the mythic figure melted through the crowd, his feathered headdress towering over the disorganized throng. Perceiving his route,</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> the swarm began to follow. In the tumult of the riot, the police regulars had not seen their counterfeit</span> <span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">infiltrators fall, but now the unit had regrouped and was making its way toward the center of the Square.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Cricket and Eiderdown knelt next to their sister. Marie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">Laveau</span> setting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">Ophion</span> with care upon the ground, rapped upon the</span> <span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">earth three times calling, "La Bas, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_77">ouvre</span> la port", stepping aside as the huge snake encircled the three Sisters within.</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Eiderdown drew forth the incantation bowl, wrenching the basket open and set it in their center. The interior of</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> the bowl was a quantum cyclotron cocoon spinning brilliant light locked in an imperceptible orbit. Cricket and</span> <span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">Eiderdown joined hands around <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_78">Aldina's</span> limp form. A muffled implosion like the sound of vapors igniting signaled the</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_79">wangateur</span> and she dropped a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_80">toby</span> of Whirlwind Getaway powders on the ground, the ensuing dust-</span><span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;">swirl obscuring the trio's abrupt disappearance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 100%;"> Over Congo Square golden pollen began to fall beneath the weight of massive bees, their trumpet flowered tango in vines embracing oak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">“That which is called a demon is not some great black</span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">thing that petrifies whoever sees it. A demon is</span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">anything that obstructs the achievement of freedom….</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">There is no greater devil than Mr. Say So. </span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">The child asks: why? The Devil answers: "Because I say so."</span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">So until this ego-fixation is cut off, all the demons</span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">wait with open mouths. For this reason, you need to</span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">exert yourself at a skillful method to sever the devil</span><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">Said-So.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #cc0000; font-style: italic;">-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_81">Yeshe</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_82">Tsogyal</span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></div>
johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09464961728456935652noreply@blogger.com0