Harry Hears Everything
In times like these, direct action furthers. And theurgic action is “more like” chalk marks scratched on the suddenly emitted space in front of Everything by a firm and rapid muscular hand than the subtle energetic projections of subtler and less volatile momentary epochs. Epochs, let us remind ourselves, are abstract numeric extensions-they span nanoseconds or millennia, indifferently. But their shifts and shenanigans fuel alertness for all players congenitally wary. It behooves that the mind step out of its own milieu and move instanter along trajectories yet of its own engagement-things are tough and getting tougher, man, and even Harry hears it in his panoply of elsewheres, his timeless backcountry research habitats, his strange transcosmic zoos. There is hay to be made fore the moon shines for the magus who sidesteps the general panic and conflagration.
These words themselves intend to sidestep all trivially general economies. Any world, malgre its material provenance and epochal scale, will only die once.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 15.10.08
Harry Made Me Do Them (07.07)
“Heaven & Earth Magic”
The Ghost Outside the Machine
The One of the South and the One of the North
from Robert Kelly:
The One of the South and the One of the North
He put down his measuring tape
and stalked off through his eyeglasses
into the amber world
Yes, I am here again
he said when he got there
men swinging hammers
a flock of purple finches bothering the trees
So that’s what they mean by ritual
he thought and thought again
there is no ceremony but the skin.
from Charles Stein:
Oh sable night and toroidal celerity; Inceptional is Exceptional. That is to say, we seem to have entered the Chambers of Singularity, or one of them. When particles collide and Night is Light.
Reprove all “natural” chromatology and it is evident how the end of genealogical identity is to be countenanced; that is to say, by way of quoting one David Leahy: “the End of the End and the Beginning of the Beginning”; ie, no more whining about lost anything. Nature turns another loop such that what is super and what is trans (vis a vis IT) are wrought in the same self-evaginating function, and Being’s latest appears as sleek as Bialy’s dream jaguar–pronounced Jag-You-Are, present past and future but a time jag? As the World Turns [the World! mind you] it seems no longer the case that there’s only more and more of what has always been. However. It is not propitious to get too cozy with any fixed hyperdimensional articulation whatever. The multifarious elsewheres do not necessarily form a system. “The owl, the bat, and the bumblebee / down yonder in a holler tree.” We beat AROUND the bushy singularity. And we ourselves are excerpted tautologically from our own law.
Homage to Harry Smith in the Manner of the Denizens of the Cedar Tavern
Once a White Flower
We have found the mothering darkness, the dark retreat, the edgeless happiness that is nevertheless a circle, a sphere, a hyper-sphere, a sphere in however many dimensions as you will. But the edgeless darkness is situated in its own relief, its own happiness. Quiet beneath the mothering groin of ageless being, as if the wheel of some universal Car.
And the color temperature of happiness is the precise cyanity that dreams here, as dawn flowers arising from somatic loci not correlated with any conventionally virtualized trajectory of desire. The mind of DL has returned to its own rapture, the recrudescence of that in He that has never required concentration, gathering, focus.
The Nostos-the Homecoming-itself is overcome. The paradox that rules the “plotting” of the Odyssey-that the states that might have been the very symbols and means of every homecoming-seduction (the rapturous music of the Sirens), erotic enchantment (Circe, Calypso), pharmacological ecstasies (Lotus Eaters, Circe again)-remain diverse from the “true” direction home (Penelope, Athena, the doubled double of Odysseus’s true nature)-the paradox is resolved. There never was an Ithaca to have been departed from, never a Troy to maul with exorbitant ruses, never a wine-black ocean over which to traverse a course of mighty nemeses, or a system of overweening, neurotic, anthropomorphic gods. Only the mothering darkness and its color. Only the tiny word that opens the void whose secret name is possibility, whose public face is is.
It doesn’t matter at all what the figure is. This blackness exceeds all blackness, this lordship all hegemony, this omneity all inclusion.
Paris? Paris? “Her grey towers groan, and the bastile trembles.”
28 July 2006
Homage to Harry
What comes across? Does not necessarily stay across. When the mists come in colors-and we love to tease ourselves with the volubility of “others” that fog the nearmost happentance. You are alone in the room, certainly. There is little ambient noise, white or articulated. Nothing to stimulate the sense that a crowd of entities muffles the crispness of a presence that is only your own.
But in this weather, it is clear that a trap has been set to draw them from inexistent sources: a diamond, with the shape of a mouth, a tissue of membranes, a colossus like the Dark Lord, though pulsations of colored auras occupy his body so that, the function of the DL being cast in doubt, the existence of him flickers off the “monitor.”
Just why are they here. For instance, there is no sense of yearning, hunger, need, conjuring presences from vacuity. Is it a feature of attention itself, that before it achieves pristine acuity, it must pass through a careful range of distractions peculiar to the discriminatory intelligence that will be its own prerogative and provocation?
Ask them to speak? They only gesture. Ask them to identify themselves, and they morph into other identities. It is night, or early dawn, or tomorrow, or time is not. It is a revenant or a trolley car, an amoeba, or a morphism. It matters not. Being has extracted itself from the ambit leaving trails and traces, a foretaste of membranes to come, a painted mind.
Actually it is the idea of “homage” that stimulates this great waffling dubeity. For you ought not be able to pay homage to one to whom you would render yourself transparent. Such is the drift of the matter.