Exhibits in the ‘We Await Thee’ Gallery

To whom does such ecstasy belong? I pass outside myself, outside the bounded (bonded) person, in my own right, outside the ritual circle that defines our unexceptionable paradise. There must be a recipient of all this enthusiasm, this eagerness, this color, beyond all happy optical spasms of our own recipiency, pure exuberance of somatic largesse, the richness of having discovered the intimacy and profligacy of Being that does not egress from its own happiness, is not divided-property not to be divided-into legacies of remorse and betrayal; cannot be annihilated because cannot be produced. Let him who understands, understand he understands-these utterly Eleatic propositions.


Baphomet at the steering wheel, “Hermes in dark glasses,” driving over the wine-black waters, the officiant of the rite attempting to stuff a certain miniature personage into the fuselage of some future century’s transdimensional sailing vessel, stuff our untoward inner parts away in a metal bottle, a bottle acquired from the evacuees of an as-yet-unhorizoned holocaust. That’s it: we are would-be evacuees from oncoming miseries: typhoon, tremor, or tsunami…

There ought to be no recourse to previous opinings or periphrasis. Our own way ’round midnight ought to be enough. And it is just such satiation that affords unanticipated happiness. We wrote the book on it.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 20.08.08

Harsh colors mean heartbreak. Oracle of the Absent Hand. And a grid too. The swarming matrix teems with… life…not wonted of the matrix… due no doubt to an excessive perturbation, instinct within its underlying abstractions, or rather of the materium upon which its abstractions play, or rather of the abstract materium which, bound to the forms of the matrix, constitute substance in abstracto…yes yes, that’s the proper scholastic formulation, certainly. Too much disturbance of that-the roiling animal spirits, the “tormented” skies-and the matrix itself begins to emit its affect as color choice, and its infantile, checkerboard organization bleeds on through.

But do I not detect in this quasi-oracular symptomotology, something like the recrudescence of (some) Dark Lord, grimly triumphant, claiming to have commandeered the matrix once again? Our DL, in this place, however, seems himself to be subject to the disturbance that, though he would have us think he is the author of it, in fact is pitching him about with such vehemence, that his first order symmetries require dire measures to be installed herein.

In any case, wicked virtualities storm the blood of a certain creature, the absolute quality of whose activity, not fully determined, and being the source of the general puruturbation, the blues and reds and blacks of hematology, no doubt, tincturing the chromatological vagaries. (With the whites having been so diminished in the chemo that who know what alien objects have run on through. Not that the turbulence itself is heterological, rather than essential to the affected medium. Precisely that equivocation confounds the operation. Which waits on time and event, until the Will be known-the very stuff of this and any sorcery.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 12.08.08

We Await Thee, IV (04/2009)

We await thee, V

We Await Thee, V (04/2009)

We Await Thee, VI (05/2009)

We await thee, IX

We Await Thee, IX (09/2009)

we await thee, X

We Await Thee, X

Deep surface once again. The critters diminish in the cracked tile. It was a long time ago. They were there, the whole world, or a whole world, there,

and the rest of us, wandering among interstices, happy among them; nothing excised, nothing ill-disposed.

The fabric out of which history first invented itself covers everything these days, but no longer satisfies. The images grow indistinct and we, disposed as images, grow indistinct as well. The issues surrounding our long ontological morbidity are no mystery. Each quarter of the (so-called) cosmos articulates with perfect clarity, its own frustrations, anticipations, crude solutions, readiness or lack there of, for the same demise.

If there is only one “empty set, ” death is the same for all, in all ages, whether enunciated under various historicities, or under whatever other ontological vagaries. But it turns out the uniqueness of the empty set was itself an historical rendition. Thus absence, mortality, impossibility–retain their mystery, their impertinence, their lure.

Meanwhile the ancient symmetries echo through the mists. Obscurity is no obfuscation. The darkness is palpable, and relieves all the gray mendacities of The Real.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 16.06.10

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