[size=115]Upon a pedestal the White ones have climbed, calling out for worshipers, using positive notes, and harmonies, to draw them close…closer, until a crowd gathers at their feet, and they can call them their own.
Detached from the earth they can soar high, dreaming of paradise, and supreme angels, mermaids in their abyss.
Only the highest for one so high.
What is theirs is on another level, because there is no world, no objective standard to destroy their dreams.
Imagination unhindered by the indifferent world turns pure white light- pure fantasy: brilliant, warm, dazzling, heavenly.
And reciting text makes you the ideal.
Now all can be Hellenes. [/size]
[size=115]I am the Black plague the bringer of misery and death.
I have the reverse Midas: whatever I touch turns to dust; crumbles beneath my fingertips, and whither under the stink of my breathe.
Best you stay away, if pure, and white and clean you wish to stay - if hope is still in you.
Best you stay away if childhood is where you long to be, and day-trips into Hades’ kingdom is still thrilling.
And if you recoil before my cold hands, the chill stays with you, for a long while.
No sun, no fire, no blanket sewn from mother’s apron stings, can make you forget it.
And if you’ve breathed in from my internal rot, blossoms will bloom in your stomach, and little changes will reveal your brush with the dark side.
Have you not, already began quoting my words, and like all dark ones refused to offer gratitude to the one who seeded you?
Have you not shaped your attitude to agree with what made you recoil?
Apollo’s light does, so, burn after prolonged exposure.
Cancerous mutations emerge and grow upon pristine skin, and delicate hide.[/size]
[size=115]Uprooted, homogenized, processed and pasteurized, the landless ones rise up, over the dirt, to the clouds.
Process released from purpose, finds in masturbation an endless affirmation.
To make love to self, for self, the ultimate turn-on.
When the clouds are reached one forgets about the ground.
All is spirit.
The living forget about the dead.
All is bathed in love, in self-love.
To appreciate self, as if he were an other, unconditionally; to agree with the appreciation one is the product of: to appreciate the universal appreciator.
Shall we rewrite the holy texts?
We need to sell something worn.[/size]
[size=115]What clever games the positive ones play.
They’ve learned the art of stringing words together, arranged in any order.
Big, impressive sounding words following no logic other than the emotional need to impress to be effective.
Words full of innuendo, insinuating grand things; emotional words, implying, offering, comforting.
The sequence only matters in relation to the desirable effect, the intent.
One word after an other, the before it, then jumbled into one.
Give it a back-beat, a rhythm, in harmony with the heart, and let its effect begin.
Sometimes deep and resonating, making the bones shake, touching you in the most secret places, then trebling, high and fast, making your heartbeat race, swelling veins, hyperventilating, a trance overcoming, hysteria.
The believer is taken by the whirlwind of sensations; words lose meaning, they become notes with their own sound.
String them together, this way, then that.
Backward, forward, sideways, up and down.
Make them dance, make them feel your energy, let their minds settle upon that primal energy, that automatic neurological process, before the cerebral cortex emerges to harness it.
Release the beast, and call it man - the New Man. [/size]
[size=115]The multi-headed monster is wearing the face of a unicorn; magical, inspiring, mystical.
It’s added a new method to its defensive panoply.
The hero adapts as well.
No longer a hero, but a angel of Darkness, a Black Knight.
You can’t kill this beast one head at a time, you must attack its common ground, its body, its huge, bulging stomach.
the heads appear detached from each other; each with a will of its own: its own teeth, its own tongue, its own eyes.
But follow the head to the neck and then way down, to where it is hiding, the shared stomach, that gaping anus, that vagina.
Orifice upon orifice it is.
In its belly many heroes have been digested.
Pieces cut away, the rest defecated, expelled as noxious fumes. [/size]
[size=115]Monstrosities of a scale find a common lair.
They seek out warm flesh to devour, to fulfill their emptiness, and if none are present they turn hungry eyes on one another and a new feast begins.
For now they embrace, tails wagging, intertwining in loving gestures.
Fangs are sheathed and nails are retracted.
Puuuuring calms agitations.
They gather on the rock to suck-up the solar heat, like reptiles often do.
They beam with Apollo’s grace, slumbering, having none of their own.
They dream of being heroes, slaying dragons.
But in the night the masks fall, and white no longer shines as bright; all turning into gray.
And the priest, of white, sheds his garments and behold he was neither white not man at all, but a creature entirely not of this world…A Gorgon, and one of three, as three is the number of the beast…
Is (s)he Stheno, Euryale, or the famous Medusa herself?
Her gaze turning fluidity into solid things, substance, immutable atoms.
Will she bear to see herself reflected in the menagerie of her master’s humble robes sparkling with glass he has renamed sapphire?
Will she survive the revelation of her being?
Where there is man and the smell of testicles, there be (s)he sniffing at the crotch, wanting another cock to lead the way.
Harken, brave souls, the White Knight has revealed himself as a Warrior Priest…neither black nor white but ethereal, transparent like a ghost.
Light flows right through him, for he lacks substance of his own.
The glow was not the brilliance of his goodness, but the moonlight reflecting upon his static particles - little glass beads for the natives to gawk at.
He gathers his minions with soothing words of praise, seeing great value in them all - such impeccable judgment, where none is needed, for value precedes it.
He will build a kingdom with such fools “gold” and call himself King.[/size]
[size=115]In the Universe of oneness, where other is self, and self is other, narcissism loses meaning, love loses meaning, it all becomes self masturbation.
Everywhere the mind looks self emerges, and it loves itself.
Every reflection upon the other is self reflected back.
The schism splits the psyche, the shizoid is now nothing but another image of the one Self.
To exist is to Be that Self.
Identity transported to other.
Madness is the refuge of delicate souls.
Better to be insane than dead.
Schisms protect the brain from the world - a distancing to self-preserve.
The Monster is a shape-shifter, a crafty doppelganger.
Each head protruding from the shared body is a psychological schism which then sees in the other heads a version of itself.
Each head bears a different countenance, adopts a different name, acquires different tastes to feed the shared stomach.
It begins as consciousness of other as food, and then it discovers itself in the other heads, and its new-found self-consciousness slowly develops.
It begins to identity with the all-bonding stomach.
From schism to detachment of self from self.
Identity splits, and then reintegrates with an identity outside itself.
It becomes no more than this Self’s voracious hunger, wanting to devour the world.
What does the Monster know about itself other than its own hunger, and what in the other can gratify it?[/size]
[size=115]The White Knight considers himself alone, and gathers with his heart, the destitute that have not…
What strange dwellings we have built we moderns
We gather stuff, most of it garbage, and consider it worth saving
Misers, we accumulate, and pile one upon the other, burying ourselves in bric-a-bracs, seeing in them images of ourselves.
Our generosity is the overflow of this garbage, we lost in the mounds of stuff.
we might categorize it to pretend that we still appreciate it, but there it sits underneath all our things, like a visit to the Taj Mahal, or a stroll across a the ancient agora beneath the acropolis, where we picked it up form one of the souvenir vendors for a buck and a half.
The miser collects, as if all others want what he wants, and all others evaluate their self-worth by such ostentatious collections of stuff, with questionable worth, as most of it lacks utility, or would demand such a time to shape and form as would defeat the purpose of its use.
But misers collect just to collect.
Not only things, but others, and most often experiences.
They visit exotic lands and come back invigorates, as if in the visiting they collected something unusual, something new.
Then they place it on a prominent place, to remind them of that visit, the enlightening experience, until slowly new experiences push it back, and under, and it gradually becomes buried under the heap they’ve collected and put aside. it’s only usage now as a display piece, for visitors, to imply that he is cultivated, and that through osmosis he has absorbed more than the mementos, the symbols of insinuation. [/size]
[size=115]The second, the third, the fourth, it all begins with one.
See them waiting for Apollo, now the one and only god, the god of vengeance and the obliteration of chaos, without which no life can come about?
It is Apollo who has been baptized, circumcised, given a new name.
And this second rebirth needs a second messiah.
They all want to be that savior, that representative of the second salvation, before the third, and the fourth - anything but nil.
Eternal recurrence.
The masses must be saved from themselves, continuously; one method giving way to the next, modernized, updated.
Dionysus laughs, and takes another swig from his flask…[/size]
[size=115]Fat, and ugly, and permanently drunk, who would go to such a creature - vine leaves on the head, shaped like satanic horns.[/size]
Silenus…
[size=115]Dearest god, what followers you attract.
What man-tearing women worship you…[/size]
[size=115]When the Semite comes into contact with the Hellene Jesus is born, and then some translator from Tarsus names Saul, picks up the thread, finding opportunity in the strands, and Christianity is born and sold to the pagan rabble.
A new market for the slavish soul.
And what happens when a Semite comes into contact with a German infected with Hellenic wonder?
A new Christianity is born.
After Marxism a new surplus value sharing. [/size]
[size=115]The White Bishop, preacher of positivity, must spread doubt, skepticism to force the many to settle for the subjective, where he can then inject his poison.
In the personal space the need dominates.
Detached from reality the mind can settle for what feels good, and the White ones feed this need, with praise, flattery, reaffirmation of the need.
It is how the negative comes to be positive, and Nihilism becomes progress.
It could be this, but it also could be that, so how does one decide what is most probable?
Feeling…pleasure…just because…whatever I want, I am sovereign.
An appeal, to ego, or to feebleness?
The answer is reversible, irreversible, irrelevant…the words, as symbols, are detached from the world, the noumenon disconnected. Consciousness can be outside brain, and value preceded judgment, and love can be universal goodness.
The marketing scheme sells to the many, and receives quantity to validate its word-games.
The motive is not to describe reality as accurately as possible, but to describe human desire as universally as possible.
The food of monsters is humanity: human meat, human emotions, passions, reactions.
The miser collects them, and puts him in his vault - memories he swims in. [/size]
[size=115]Years of unwarranted cockiness, and a sense of righteousness, has cut weariness into the White Knight.
He now retreats to the self-evident, as if it were his message all-along, and then, emboldened by a spell of quiet, he ventures forth, once more, swinging his blade of absurdity.
The absurd exposing his weak-side is where he holds his shield high, hoping to protect it with humble simplicity, but on his other side arrogance attaining the pinnacle of hyperbolic idiocy cuts away, one slice at a time.
The Judeo-Christian offers his Golden Rule of peaceful coexistence on a blade of childish hubris.
Ahhhh, but the Black One is adept at the fine-arts of duplicity, and the double-edged sword of dualism: it cuts both going in, and retreating out, like a saw.
Have you not heard of Ιανός, or shall we find a more current depiction in the two-faced “victim” of Modern schizophrenia?
Saw…saw…saw…in, and out…in and out…
A rape scene.
Does the liar believe his own lies?
Only if he wishes to convince those who had evolved a sense of the absurd, or simply feel it and express the feeling as cynicism.
The “white ones” are ambitious, wanting to seduce those high-brow cynics, and resistant skeptics, but their absurdity is too evident for them to have much of an effect.
They fall back on a second strategic goal: the seduction of the simpleton.
With numbers they hope to create a singularity, a black hole, a gravitational pull that will suck all of existence into a Being.
With smiles, and good natured intentions, they sell what they now buy, to become more convincing.
The absurd comes in the form of a word detached from all experience, hovering in some state of limbo, connecting to nothing.
To make it seductive the word is harvested from the book of codes, definitions, and is chosen by its emotional insinuations.
Detached from experience, the phenomenon, this word, this noetic symbol, is reconnected back to a human interpretation: the symbol of interpretation referring back to another interpretation, and preferably to an emotional, instinctive, and therefore, a primal automatic interpretation, outside the mind’s immediate willful control, requiring little to no self-knowledge.
The Christians used many such words but the most effective was Love.
Detached from its reference to reality, it became a mystical, magical, word, referring to an emotion, a primal reaction.
In Marketing this connection of a product with a instinctive, primal, force, is what guarantees unconscious acquiescence, despite reasoning, and sometimes despite awareness of the tactic itself.
The power of the marketed symbol is that it is all-inclusive, positive, as it requires no effort, or minimal effort, to enjoy its rewards - most often it only requires a change of attitude towards it.
Jesus is rational only when you accept Jesus into your heart, you see?
Then the symbol of Jesus as a savior is not only logical but an inspiring, fundamental, force that opens the mind up to infinite positive possibilities.
The absurdity of the Jesus archetype retreats to the self-evident logic of the message of quid pro quo, and is lost in it.
[size=115]Confusing the “what is” with the “what ought to be done”, which has already settled on a need for intervention, philosophy shape-shifts into politics, and marketing, and psychology - the “what ought to be done to harmonize the masses”, the “how to package this ‘ought’ to make it appealing”, and the “how to break it to them, or how to deal with the side-effects of this ‘ought’ upon them”.
Th Symposium has been opened up to the boy and the woman, and they listen to what they despair over, and vengefully oppose, becoming mad, hysterical, their anger turning to hate, accusing the participants of intending it.
And a preacher is always present to manipulate, and direct this hysterical mob.
Zombies directed by the self-infected, to mask their smell, offered blood, and meat, at some coming time.
The Doctor becomes ill.
Healing his patients is a self-healing, and when all cures fail rename the dis-ease health, and open the doors to empty the hospital wards.
Streets full of “healthy” monstrosities.
[size=115]Who, but a Heart of Darkness could tolerate the terrible reality of time, and the absence?
Only a stomach full of caustic liquids could digest it.
For the rest, with a more delicate peptic constitution, it has to be diluted, cooked down, combined with other nutrients to make it appealing - presentation when the eye tastes before the tongue.
If we would dare summarize philosophy it would be the slow-cooking process of turning rotting bio-matter into a palatable, impressive, first to the eye and then to the tongue, dish.
Everything from eternal afterlife to the eternal recurrence has been a display of culinary artistry; blood turned into a delicious sauce to pleasure the senses, and prevent heartburn; every famous intellectual a gifted saucier…a sorcerer.
[/size]
[size=115]
Dead and decaying things arrayed in pleasing forms, promising life, feeding need - a continuance of construction founded on destruction.
That was the insight Socrates came back to Athens with, after the war - after his long contact with human destructiveness to find tyrants back home:
How to reduce down the liquid to a thickness the tongue could taste.
How to separate ingredients to promote some and use others as “place holders”, and frames.
How to burn away the undesirable and leave only the palatable, the nutritional.
How to break it all down for a baby to drink, and grow.
Need finding negation before suffering.
In superfluous human environments made so easy, so simple, so clean.
Man forgets the suffering and immerses himself in the pleasure of satiation - in the ritual of a refined dinner.
How do you explain to a spoiled brain how pain is part of his meal, that intercourse is about imposition, whether consensual or not, that risk is deadly, and no declaration of bankruptcy can cleanse it away, that the rush of a treadmill run is not the same as stress outside the gym walls where a broken tooth and a sprained ankle means death?
How do you discuss reality with the infantile, the man-child, the wo-man?
You don’t…
[/size]
[size=115]
You simply hold a dinner party and invite them to partake from your generosity.
Call it a book, and yourself a writer, a thinker, a…philosopher.
[/size]
[size=115]
Let’s eat from this bounty of pain and suffering, and forget.
Better still, let us never know, and in our ignorance find innocence.
Let us lose ourselves in the sensation of decreasing our own suffering, and call it good, and bathe it in flickering white candlelight, civilizes musical notes, accentuating its colors, and shapes; odors and sounds adding to the magic.
Coming across an oasis in the desert, after days under the hot sun…the lost traveler spends days in its lushness, thinking it is the healthiest wood in the world.
After a week, or so, he forgets the sand and the heat and the dryness.
The entire world is a jungle, cool and pleasant, like this.
It decides to live there forever.
Within its world-view, supported and maintained by forces the mind prefers to think of as benevolent, it can now select what patterns are pleasant, or can, potentially, be made pleasant, disregarding the rest as irrelevant.
It can do so because it need not take care or pay the consequences, within the privileged place it is in.
Like all privileges, this one is also costly.
The mind having been born into the payment rituals, considers them the only possible ones, and it forgets the cost, like when a man paying alimony has the money subtracted from his pay automatically so that, in time, he forgets how much he was really making.
It’s privileges, contained within the choices provided for it, seem infinite.
The Middle-earth is the navel of the world, where the Delphic Omphalos bears the command of Know Thyself.
But the navel of the world, is also the extreme edge that the two eagles Zeus sends to cross intersect at Delphi. A similar idea was among the Vedics;
The edge of thought is the navel of speech.
Like the hero, “having descended to the Darkness has not left behind that part, but has carried it with him”, so does Orpheus descend into the Underworld - the edge of the world, to bring back speech, self-knowledge, Eury-Dike - wide justice.
The descent into the Underworld is called Katabasis.
Knowledge that the hero brings up from his descent has to be walked-with, and cannot be apprehended directly, for it is too wide [eury-dike]. To walk-with something or someone, to linger with it and never lose track, is exactly what Brooding is. The intelligence of the heart is attained only at the edge of thought where the fountain is musical. The ones truly in touch with themselves hear a musical spring in their deep sleep. Jaynes, in the origin of consciousness in the breakdown of the Bicameral mind spoke of this;
The “dark night of the soul” of the hero is the deadly (k)Nightshade that distills music. Also called Atropa Belladonna or beautiful lady, or beautiful death, for the dilation of the pupils that look seductive and dead-ly, the toxin of this plant produced, the shadow cannot be directly looked at. In low light conditions, the dilation of the pupil lets in more light. The deadly nightshade “widens” the vision.
You cannot see the beautiful lady head on; to constrict the pupil, to focus is to fall into darkness at the edge of Abysmal self-knowledge; you will lose her.
The poison path has to be walked with and brooded over.
Atropos or Aisa also called the inflexible one, was one of the three Fates who cut the life-thread of a mortal.
There, Jung speaks of the “whole” human being.
On initiation and the Japanese theory of Hara, Evola remarks after Nietzsche’s “the spirit is a stomach”;
The “whole” human being or the “centralized” human type is centred at the seat of memories, or what Nietzsche called the “womb of wombs” and the “navel string of time”.
Orphism is recollected memory, speech.
We call him Man.
Speech that carries up into the light, the thoughts reborn at the edge.
Orpheus’ battle is with the snake that kills eurydike and pulls her to the underworld.
Apollo’s battle is with the snake at Delphi, where later, the pythia spoke his oracles.
Like a general theme in I.E. myth, Orphic knowledge is of the one who follows the sun into its underworld journey.
Indra who “broke upon the rocks to release the cows”, that is the sun from the underworld guarded by a dragon, is evoked as:
‘Svarjit’ - ‘winner of the sun’, ‘having the sun as prize’,
‘Svardrs’ - ‘seeing the sun’,
'Svarpati - ‘lord of the sun’,
'Svarvat - ‘possessing the sun’,
‘Svarvid’ - ‘finding the sun’,
‘Svarsa/svarsati’ - ‘winning the sun’.
The winner of the sun, is the ‘Knower of the Riddle’… he ‘swells like the Brahman’ (lit. to swell, expand)… the dilation of the pupil.
Delphi as the navel of the world was the very seat of meditation, of Pythian brooding… and the command of self-knowledge born from a katabasis. Apollonian victory is where the two eagles of Zeus at the end of the world cross as auspices. X
The swastika as the sign of victory.
Nietzsche thought that the god of Delphi neither conceals, nor reveals, but only Indicates:
While Heidegger “widens” the meaning of Justice / Dike [eury+dike], Nietzsche, the mad, perhaps knew why he did not want to turn around and continued to ‘walk-with’ eury-dike…
The supreme philosopher writes to initiaLize.
He writes to expand the momentum of his Initial.
That means both directions. Awakening self Re-cognition in others is a self-recovery, a Knowing Thyself,…
Recovering is truly a self-kenosis; the more you empty and dis-Pose yourself away, the more you behold yourself in your eyes, until, like the sand-clock, you, like the sand… become a body of knowledge at the other end. You create your own avatar… and the clock turns, shifting the weight again… and “I return again and again…”…
The supreme philosopher is a Heraclitean child; he writes to play.
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