Exhibits in the ‘Can’t Get “Her” Out of My Head’ Gallery

Is not Being Herself so much the form of a Person, or IN the form of a Person, that the attempt to feel into the All-Encompassing or All-Pervading, finds persons and person-like morphologems just about in everything and everywhere? The little suckers will not be so readily importuned away. Banishing practices menace the greater Hegemons, but their former minions, liberated from hegemony, swarm in the fire-light, stick to the pigments and the pixels, express an insistence our boredom with them cannot quite allay. Eyes and armpits, shadows and shining windows, infinitely intricate surfaces and deep enticing orifices-and not only belonging to Her-and not only filling one’s Head. They remain, whatever the tedium (on the premise that Being is a Person) as the product of an inalienable practice expressing an essential dynamic functioning.

Conversely: Pound thought, regarding the number of deities a reasonable man might encourage himself to occasion familiarity with-a few would do. No need to expect of oneself the Knowledge and Conversation of ALL the gods, since in an important sense, each IS all, if each god in fact were a tincture of the whole. Hermes, Aphrodite (Terrestrial or Ouranian), Artemis (Pound’s favorite) Hephaistos, Hera, Hades, Persephone, Dionysos… On the understanding that these names survive the degeneration of the very pantheon that configured them: for each, as their reflection reaches further into our future, carries charges from epochs even the Greeks had forgotten.

But that Being were a Person is not uniquely posited. For the Person dissolves in the direction of Being, neither night nor luminosity, whose riches envelop all that fidgeting firelight, all the wealth of worldhood appertaining to these and all other gods. So the apparitional entities are less in a state of insistent emergency than suffering their own dissolution, and thus the magnificent monumentality of their theophanies solicit an uninterruptible state of contemplation, which the impossibility of ridding oneself of abject erotic thralldom postpones or intermits.

That such a playground remains, even as Thanatos Himself or Herself, (Hades, certainly, but a god whose most apt appellation is “The God With Many Names”) exacts, indeed, a certain color of tedium, if only on account of the grim and infinite delay of His Lordship’s arrival-that such a playground remains is astonishing. Astonishing also that there is anything whatsoever stuck in one’s head; that at such a season the form of our sweet goddess interposes anywhere but at the very summit of the Real. But there she is, with her lilac scent and her infinitely transitory attitudes, her quiet flesh awakening the interiority of one’s corpus, both nocturnal and luminous, as if there were ever-more life to be squeezed from the stone.


Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 27.07.08

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