Totem of the DL
Minions of the DL
In the Eye of the DL
Crystal Sceptres of the DL
The Right Hand Knows What the Left Hand Does
The 7th Day of Solvation
Daughter of the DL
Welcome to the Kali Yuga
Equinox of the DL
Smoky Elixer of the DL
The tombstone was once a heap of rocks thrown in contempt at an outcast, history’s perhaps most socially mediated yet radically direct instrument of execution. Death itself is numinous, and the piled stones became a monument to the horrific event. The origin of Hermes in “herms,” which seems to be well-attested, had nothing to do with the complacent and happy tourist tick of making little piles of stones while waiting for buses at crossroads, even if the buses bus in the night or in the treeless noon heat between Mediterranean towns exempt from history.
Around the herms spirits gathered. Cadres of images swarmed in unexorcizable vibratory ecstasies. Do the dead attract the wraiths of all the beings with whom they had ever been associated in a net of outrage? Or are they potencies of the locus where the stone is set? Or do they inhabit the crack between places? (Wherever god or mortal is slain becomes a crack between places.)
But the spirit of the stone itself is no swarm or miasma. It is the most caustic of well-jelled entities. It Holds Its Own. It is the womb of autotelic insignia, marking the solemn regions of being relative to bodily zones: a Guardian with chubby cheeks and above the head a pair of menacing cudgels; a crown with a black center: the Abyss of the Crown; an egg-shaped diadem; through all of this, a raging animation of textures, beings appropriate to each level, gesticulations that are almost the gestures of their work, conducting conducting conducting impossible potencies into the dubious light of some manifest universe or other; thorax open, luminous, sporting geometry, a hearted lion with more than adequate frontal development…
The Dark Lord, I must report here, as I should have done months ago when first his lordship sleezed among the pixels, appears somewhere in one of Kerenyi’s books-either the big one on Eleusis or the essay he wrote with Jung-where he made it do for the figure to which Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, and Dionysos are equal contributors-the chthonic master who welcomes expiring heroes to subterranean citadels. It is always possible to divest one’s divagations, whatever the intricacy of their inversions, to the mothering darkness that husbands them.
Distract attention but a tad, and the figures return to their textures, writhing in the aftermath or protocosm, the deep configurative goo or tar pit or vat of primordial roilings.
Only thinking makes it so.
The Dark is the Source of the Light.
One Monkey for the Minx and the Manx is a Minkey indeed…
Money has an enema.
There is an outrageous principle in the interpretation of images from the Odyssey. It says for chrissake don’t invert the sense of acts of violence outraging concrete bodily parts, JUST so that the Odyssey can be brought in line with some crazy associative schema, like Kundalini yoga for instance. OUTRAGEOUS I say. Who would think of such a thing?When Hermes, in his Homeric Hymn, scooped out with a chisel the spinal marrow from a lowly mountain turtle’s body ONLY to turn the carapace of the creature, once dead, into a bloody Zither, DON’T YOU DARE suggest that the word AION, which means spinal marrow, and comes to signify life itself, and then later once again becomes the word the Platonists, the Gnostics, and who the hell else used for timeless ETERNITY as opposed, for instance, to mere ever-lastingness in time-outrageous to suspect, I say, that this scooping business, deployed in the invention of what even Apollo, or particularly Apollo, will experience as an extraordinary deepening of the very possibility of music-outrageous to suspect that this violent intervention in the depths of vertebrate physiology were a secret sign for just that deepening; that the Kunadlini function were being roused in the West, by so egregiously focusing attention on the spinal marrow in connection with a deepening of creative potential.
The first time I met Harry Smith was at a meeting of LEMAR at the Peace-Eye Bookstore of Ed Sanders in December of 1964. I was dropping off copies of my one-issue publication, “AION: A Journal of Traditionary Science,” including a text of Aleister Crowley, and this group, formed to agitate for the LEgalization of MARijuana, was meeting in Sander’s store. Attenders included Ed, Harry, Allen Ginsberg, and a few others whom I did not recognize. Harry sported the most curious of physiognomic features: a GNasty black-gray wound to the spot between the eyes and just above the eyebrows. I remember thinking it looked like someone had taken a cigar and ground it into the poor man’s third eye. One would not think of Harry has having had his aijna chakra extinguished in so cyclopean a manner. So there it is. The olive-wood cudgel that was tempered by Odysseus to put out Polyphemus’s only optical receptor, impressed that physiognomic site on Western culture’s imagination with utter vividness, disguising the THIRD eye as an ONLY eye, as if the entire rigamarole of the narrative embroiling the wounded Cyclops, Poseidon (one of the Persons of the DL, you will remember), the colonialism of Odysseus, and the general slander about Polyphemus being cannibal, were staged primarily to foist that image on the Western World, so that three millennia later, when Blavatsky’s and Leadbetter’s Theosophy brought news from the East of Kundalini Yoga and its soon to be famous “Third Eye,” the image ground was well prepared. We knew what it was because, like they say, “we seen it.” Outrageous. But I do think so.
It is not usually averred that a chakra has an inverse, but this image is SO delicious to read: the figure whose third eye is a splendor of darkness, so active that it swells through the entire of said figure’s frontal region, skries within or by means of this function, this filling of the entire cerebrum with an abyss of reason-skries, it says, another figure that surmounts him where he stands, and whose very head is a cocoon of light, the inversion of the sable sphere from which it seems to be projected. You have to love it.
Actually, it needs to be noticed as well, that the dark abyss of this image is held in place by the ceremonial hands of the practitioner, as if the darkness that fills his brow were an object-say a skrying stone-like the black obsidian of Dr. Dee-as is quite appropriate, for to an set an object for skrying, whether a symbol for an elemental tatvah or the Black Mirror itself, it is one’s own instrumentation into which one in fact is entering.
A phoetus encased in gluey vital waters. Why? Because It Comes From Outer Space. But where is that? Sparkly things zoom about in Brownian anarchy; encased within plasticine encasements, at least two levels of them, a funny little grim ET, sustains his big-eyed countenance, within which I descry-the face’s nose being its torso-a little man, arms outstretched, head and neck arched back to gaze upon an apparent celestial invitation to ecstasy-unless those arms, which serve as well as white eye-liner for the ET’s black hole eyes, are but epaulets on the shoulders of the same figure, in an altogether different posture: that of the Charioteer, elbows held tight to the ribcage, forearms extended, managing typically invisible reins. He does not seem to be driving the entire figure, however. For take the plasticene at its own word, and consider the figure rather an arrangement of crystal scepters: the middlemost scepter is really worth a serious, participatory, perusal. I do recommend a 7% solution, Watson. Cathedral light and symmetric intricacies, and colors that, once again, demand a meditation that will not issue quickly into verbiage. The Japanese, and holy craftspersons of all the ages, and Plato and Plotinus themselves, have testified to the rigorous attitude of beauty that will not be relativized or brook the calumny of callow reports of transiency. Beauty, says Plotinus, exceeds the intelligible. It requires a light from the Ultimate to wake up even the highest forms. Such light is what allows the perfection of the colors, ravishes the information of them beyond calculation, till time has broken down, EP says, all things save beauty alone.
they see us but they don’t believe us
there are those who do not live in on or about the premises of purpose
and are the enemy of money
J.S. Bach :: Sonata in A minor for flute and continuo
Recorded September, 21 2006 in Mexico City in the studios of Maestro Manuel Lopez Ramos* (1926-2006)
Beatriz Favevada, flute
Guillermo Gonzalez, guitar
*Musical direction, Maestro Lopez Ramos (Guillermo’s teacher)
*Aula Lucis is a treatise by Vaughan composed in 1651. Several of the Symmetries of the DL derive from photographs of an experiment in organic dissolution and transformation involving a shattered goblet and a decaying orchid bloom.
The human race did have a beginning, but that was not the beginning. Nor
the beginning of life on earth, and, given the time scale for the cool-off
following the Great Singularity (Big Bang) in other galaxies and systems
thereof neither. 4.5 billion years. Nor the Singularity itself. Here the Prime
Deviation seems to have no creditable antecedent. If we knew it, we don’t
know it, if knowledge is predicated upon distinction. And that gets one to
the point. The advent of the Distinction of Distinction. There was no Prior
to it. Pry behind the Great Singularity and it is metaphysics that speaks
with the only authority imaginable.
Metaphysics can be rendered visible by figures of sufficient complexity
to stimulate intricacies that neither verbal expression nor mathematics
can conveniently render. But at a price: complexity exceeds concept, but
regenerates discourse; that is, requires it and quickly becomes beholden
to it. But discourse inhabits regions well on the hither side of
Singularity. There is no help for it. Discourse must.
It is not trivial that when extremes of human experience demand
discourse, people begin to press the boundaries that establish “what it
is to be human.” Behavior near death, in the chaos of natural or
military disasters, reminds that we do not cease to be primates, and the
matter of which we are, in our apparency, the forms does not cease to be
matter, nor does it (the matter) cease to be continuous with all that
came to be distinguished by the Singularity, and metaphysics the
discourse that would situate that distinction itself, as we have just
Gesture precedes speech, it would seem, if speech is a complexity
performed upon gesture. But gesture repeated leads straight to
ceremonial. Ceremonial affirms distinctions, and that is why there can
be no more relevant inquiry than whether the first magics were not the
Rites of Distinction performed to assure that it is we that are the
“humans,” that the gods have drawn us from the animal mass, that the
organization of ceremony itself assures our being other THAN that mass.
Politics, if it requires further reflection, would do well to take up
If it would take on the responsibility to invert–the Rites of Distinction.
Being precedes the Prime Deviation: Distinction being ITS distinction.
Then every ritual sacrifice with its preparation, horrific act, and
restitution, carries a mimetic core that vibrates to an ontological
rhythm: Being / Appearance / Awakening.
It is the colors, as is often the case, that rivets the sense in this
asiderial. That, and the display of unanswerable order: inversions
iterated to the point of the creation of interval, interval the
habitation of color, color the distinction beyond structure, whose
structure haunts its own dream. What a relief that creaturely
countenances are subdued within this structure, so that all is abstract
chalice and pillar, interpenetration of gyres, reach of obelisk,
permeation of atmosphere. But the Color, Bialy-the Color! (The color.)
22 August 2006
Leave it to the mind of darkness to withdraw the very distinction that
his own being had propounded; that is to say, in attempting to find that
which is beyond beyond the metacomplexities of multiply-superimposed
emblem structures, the shifting of images within these asiderials-to
withdraw us from the complexities of distinction itself, I called to
color. (color): one, alas of many such strategems; the rainbow goddess
shimmering in the vaults where tempests fulgurate, now, in fact, being
the season of it.
Not only that, but it being the Sphinx Point two days ago, I had
received as birthday gifts two eggs, not just one, mind you; for my
birthday, corresponds to the Sphinx Point, and, it not being egg day,
one was a crystal egg with a flattened bottom, the other, a rattle; so I
take it that this return to B&W and this central column of egg-shaped
skrying stones, is somehow a birthday missive. No matter.
For years the only way for me to see Tantric images was in black and
white reproductions. And in the discourse on emblemality, and the
pretense of the disposition of their universal metastructure, B&W should
suffice. To lay structure bare, color need not apply. Though this
afternoon in the realm of the Bark Eaters I did see the stump of some
sort of birch tree, whose bark markings glowed like an unimaginable
cuneiform palimpsest, but whose color was like the skin of the
transition between the ages. “And I thought of you.” Is that it? That
color, in regard to structure is not inessential, so much as liminal?
For here we do have yantra-resisting yantras, and the faces of Guardians
resisting the analysis of themselves as faces of Guardians, or any thing
else: They address, direct, their prey, not the least of the reasons for
which is that in this case the prey is self-selected, even if the little
beasties panic, like the throngs of the clamorous dead about the Eidolon
of Mighty Herakles (the hero himself not being in Hades at all, but
sporting with trim-ankled Hebe in some luminous elsewhere), or indeed
like Odysseus himself, who pretends to be terrified at the sight of
Herakles’ astonishing baldrick with its “bears and bores and lions with
radiant eyes / and battles and wars and killings and the slayings of
Elsewhere is not elsewhere, actually. Where Herakles actually
resides-well THAT requires another stratagem. Think about this.
Where have all the children gone? Into the publishing industry.
Where have all the textbooks gone? Into the industrial diamond industry.
Where have all the faces gone? Into the charcoal industry. What is the impetus for regnant confusion? The random universe presses upon us apace.
It is not a bad thing only if we are able to shoot our mind-directed vessel straight home to Ithaca while enjoying well-deserved slumber beneath the streaking starlight down in the hold, while Phaeacian youths maintain our blissful psycosm steady as she goes. Or further north and east to Euboea, the most distant place there is. Poseidon’s name cannot be philologized. He rumbles in the alayavijnana. The random noise beyond all possible matrices rumbles of him also. Within the discarnate gonads crystal palaces. It has been long in coming that in regard to the mind the dyad in and out, inner and outer, inward, outward, hath no pertinence. The little figures that vibrate across the rungs of little crystals in the mind, waltz right out of those crystals and kiss their make balanced on ethereal studs. The furniture of the cosmos is the cosmos truly. The kings of the aeon sit on comfortable lounge chairs, with the latest vibrators dissolving what small aeonic zhro depositories they find computable and compatible. Primal energy is computable but that cloud it rides on is not. The cloud is colored handsome charcoal black and gray and black. It cannot be severed from the space it darkens. The segmentations of the charcoal are the segmentations of segmentation itself. The attractive granules that manipulate the gray scale to deliver the hue, though suggestive possibly, are certainly gratuitous. Though Being has been aptly likened to a well-rounded sphere, so may the most transient bubble in the goo. It is an rascible fact of our nature that just when we thought to have concocted a substance equal to the task of mirroring whatever requires of us some mirroring, as a poem I stuttered forty years ago had it, the mirror wants to talk first. That is to say, there is information without source, and it is this that gives the lie to the prickly default ontology waxing in the noosphere-that information fuck you is All. Sphere my ass.
Catalogued as: Symmetries of the DL.