Chronicon

MMXII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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