"Durand, it has been obvious for a very long time that you do not consider that anything that we do, think, or say is worthwhile of anything but your cryptic, schizoidal critiques."-Laura.
Well, that's an overstatement, doubtless. The whole history of my comments argues, and proves, otherwise. But I don't begrudge the characterization. What Am I to U? Your faith confesses it, and I don't mind playing the pauper.
I agree with Henry's response, but the notion expressed in the Editorial is still dangerously obsessive and, if pursued with such violence as these responses indicate, violence done to that which stands outside of this Assertion (the dependance of Americans on the Reality of 9-11 Conspiracy scenarios for wakening to the 'horror...' etc.), I think it's clear that you and them who harbor the notion must suffer attendant and unnecessary consequences...the worst of which is sheer distraction, loss of time, from that which Does matter for the actual transformation of our perspective, darkened way. Your bootstrap theory of awakening thus, though well enough constructed, has a dire vulnerability to the overall pool of energy available here for such Work as you avow. Spend much time pushing this protocol and you'll find yourself serving the retarded and crippled. Even if you save them, the method of attempt can only sink you in their profound mediocrity. Save this? A misplaced interest.
I mean, looking at these responses one can see how important the notion is to you all, something of a linchpin in your own methods/projects for awakeneing others. It's just poorly placed in the constellation of other worthy notions and nowhere near approaches the juncture of perspective to objectivity, despite your very strenuous efforts. An admirable attempt, perhaps, and well meaning, no doubt; but a sacred cow, nonetheless.
How do we scratch each other?
It must be true what Heisenburg was driving at, as to the effect of the observer upon the Matter; and as such, tincture everything you lay claim to in the way of objectivity. A cherished Principle, and worthily so; but in the hands of an overweaning assumption as to the nature and dynamics of the Process of wakening, a poor guide ultimately. If I believe this for good reason, and I perceive or even believe that I perceive, my friends' vulnerability to this little energy sucking assumption, wouldn't I cry out to them if even but to receive back little more than disdain, contempt, and denigration? What's good for the goose is good for the gander, unless your conceits are wholly justified and you stand above all others in this Dynamic, needing no humility on the Way yet untrod.
All these little psycho-traumas are evidence of the Hammer wielding, no doubt; though once you set these filings to humming about, if you suppose to return to the same albeit just orientations, your kidding yourself somewhat. We all can be brought down a notch, you can bet on that. And why not?
I never supposed that my cryptic enterprises were for the crew which you seem so anxious to awaken. Your apparent ministry in this admirable, so far as it goes; but the enormous energy you expend, which is considerable (I understand) will not be repaid with such harvest as this Editorial assumes is the program for these, caverned men. And if one needs 9-11 to wake them up to the horror of the situation, they are too deeply mired in somnolescent idiocy to ever be anything but another's plucked firebrand...good for nothing but windowdressing (preened conceits); though I suppose both gods and devils need their finery, too. But hang this one around your necks and expect a loaded grief that cannot repay you for your devotion here expressed, and undoubted. The spirit is willing (major arcana); but the flesh is weak (minor arcana). Something about millstones around the neck.
And if this crypto-logia seems too subtle to find a thread to pull at, in the very least in action it unseats the confidence of the Royal Couple for a moment in jest of their pretended wealth. And it frankly doesn't matter if your insights are the light of the world, if in the end you whimper at what you cannot Control or otherwise bend to service of your own, vast conceits. Ah yes, an hundred eyed Argos, batting at each Other in the Dark.
It has ever been the Way that 2 would follow upon the steps of an Other, and as iron sharpens iron, so the proverb goes, so the face of man sharpens man. But you mistake me when you assert the above, and which assertion bleeds into the minds of others with whom you have to do, witholding what Key is there for them but which you disavow and would have them contemn as well. This is NOT a creative approach, but here torques down heavily with an entropic denunciation that goes well beyond the bounds of my own, simple qualifications (albeit dimly, cryptically held). I offer you a somewhat bitter inoculation (hardly tempting), and a number rushes forth to spew acid chaos on the plane. I take it that some pleasure would ensue upon my eradication. Nice.
You suppose I do not applaud your efforts in the Work, and rationalize this as just cause to lampoon my integrity, though still a nominal guest (that's ever the way with me). This latter fact is gentle token of your remaining faith, which I see twinkle in the twilight of patient endurance. And though it is disguised, I hear a serious complaint that can only refer to a rusty hinge in the major arcana of the Work; such as is yet well beyond the mob whom you so much condescend to liberate from self-serving bondage (an even nicer trick).
The fact that I AM looking for something Other than what you so much admire of the potency in this Work ought tell you something Other than what you have yet evinced by and in the Work itself. But Noooo, says ye. THAT cannot Be, for We in our Counsel do not 'objectively' realize the import, cryptically beheld. So I see the end of the line for your expectations, still muttering about the abtuse, obtruding, oblique, or otherwise wide veering apparency. Ya get what you C, and C what you get. All else is Other. But who would plunge such pool? Eh, it's all just philosophical mumbo jumbo...I know, I know...clatter of dried bones in the valley, or napsack purse spilled open, the dancing runes flung round upon the silver lave.
Philosophers will tell you how you can't philosophize (Truth) and Theologians will espy every Heterodoxy (Love); men will give your Head nowhere to lay down at Night, and the gods and devils give you little to no Rest, not till the last farthing be paid, at least; and THAT'S all you may know, or can know, about the fates and limits of mortality. Behold, I have seen a great vanity under the Sun that is performed by men; in that all striving is one in quest of domination over another, and how every skill and ambition among men is the fruit of this empty conquest...Period.
If you're complaining, it's but the half-eyed Odin's Raven cawing down the Night into your clamored hearing, or the tinkling dishes of Artemis, beseemed. Your desperate hope is still endearing, and so you knock upon the major arcana as initiate to this horror, not as the Magistry you seem sometimes to pretend. Get used to IT. The Devil's Advocate is an Office of In-spection, NOT a ministry of Defence. First comes One, then comes the Other...and a man's case seems just until an other comes along to examine them. Wherefor the Trial of Job. Welcome to the Maelstrom.
So, you sit there on the Mountain Cleft, seeing far and wide the great expance of their captivity, being well fed by the Raven once let loose from out the Ark of Argos (wrongly thrown down, or Osiris besieged?), and otherwise tended by the Gourd sprung up in the desert places where once the son of Melchizadek pondered Nineva or the wasteling places of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Sound of Majesty passes bye, but you dare not look upon the Face of IT, blinded besides and viewing but the back of Glory. Not a problem, except that Thing you refuse to tell Them, tempted ever to look back upon the smoldering ruin in hope that it cannot Be so, transfixed thereby in the sight.
Or is IT what you refuse to tell your selves about what you know that you do not gnow? I'll admit, if you wish, that you are adept at the minor glyphs; that the cypher of discovery for the mediate soul is accessible now like never before, speaking of objective criteria. How long to applaud? Such sight is transfixing, to be sure, but the obsessiveness that it compels is not unlike a salt-lick of the Aeons, so much entrancing to your initiates and bitter as wormwood the slake, or little reed which is a book. Aviary, indeed. Where comes the Eye of Odin do you suppose, and from what Roots are you sprung? Even THIS had an I to pay for Wisdom, as them their farthings...little selves, perhaps in payment of the One Self.
So you have your bushels of grain (or is IT stocks?), and winnow out the tears in seed of joy, seeking to come again carrying your bounty with you...the payment is the Work, and cuts both ways. What to one is tears wrought joy in an other, sowing and reaping at once and garnering of the dear bought fold. Little flock, and remnant, which untrampled by the violent usurpations of conceit come gently into the stores. And what of the Goats, or Shephards of the Flock on the Way? Did I not tell you that there is no one you may call Master? How you were to the least of these, my ken...IT staring you in the face while you whimper. Indeed, men need their devils as they need their gods, if but in order to make a place to stand and behold. What you C is what you Are. Voila.
Which brings us back to this whole nonsense about being out of step, so to speak, with the tempo or orientation of your minor arcana there. It's all good, except for that part about who knocks on the Door. Joe had it well the other day in Commentary, how that he challenges the adversary on quite what is the Complaint, saying: U want the Truth?! Ok then...Here IT IS! But one can only C what One IS, eh. And so there is a tilting at windmills, pinwheels, and other such psycho-trauma as the depraved are in need of...an extreme medicine. Granted. Yet this is not all, but barely a beginning, and not a very good nor early one...a kind of last-chance probe to the most extreme lethargy of spirit. This is amusing in a kind of comedic/tragic pschizoidal-ism, sure. Careful how you pin that emblem on the vesture though, and on whom; as it may well be a token of a vaster surmise yet to be resolved. So, perhaps, in coming to the very depths of the Deep we are enabled to discern the Above IN all that Below, and not just some darkling shadow of a glove-cave captivity.
From the Mystery and Rites of Demeter, the Virgin Mother ascends from the realms of Plouton, that Major Arcana owning all that is sown and reaped, waved aloft in the Golden Grain Stalk, Root of Culture-Destiny. Nope, ya can't kill this off, and so own what belongs to you, and owing belong to what owns you. Point Be-ing? Pay your debts while on your way to Court and reconcile the Complaint before it is taken up by another Greater than U and both be clamped in irons and handed over to the Jailor. I tell you the Truth, verily: U will not escape those dank haunts till you have paid the last mite of what the soul does owe. Take that to the bank...chuckle*
In those Days the born of Heaven descried the sons and daughters of Earth, their Mother. And they said: Behold how lovely are the daughters of men; let Us go unto them. And so the Angels descended, as if on Jacob's ladder. They did not guess what Debt would owe nor what impulse of theirs might beget upon the Stage new enterprises or contests. But the gods looked on and saw that the children of Earth were cast into a most dire predicament, in that the innocence which their Mother begat upon them was strained by the cultivation of that beyond them, the sons of Heaven wreaking havoc upon the simplicity of another's proper inheritence.
And it was that the sons of Heaven did despise somewhat their roles among men, despondent of their captivity and exuding virtues to appall the Elders, such that They met in Counsel of the stark surmise, construded life upon the Moment and rose up a Companion, thrice born Man among the Greeny shadows of their own clear prescriptions of Remedy, a balance of the aethers and humid growth Earth's latter luxury espouses Heaven. Enlin or Enki devising plans to stamp down the mire before it over-runs the enterprising Link and ruin the Work, otherwise crafting an Ark into which IS cast the seeds of all life (seedbanks eh?...probably a good idea, watertight and fireproof preferred). And what did this venture mean for Gilgamesh, but Enkidu followed suit to suffer the wrong of his own loves' devotions and regret, thrown down by the hasty Argo-nauts' hundred-eyed, some empty musing on the glory of civil-ization, caverned men or wayward sons of Heaven, contesting the now impossible in harm of Gaia's cherished. "Who sent this Man here?!" Oops, they then said. Think we sacra-ficed the wrong One? Yah...bud, who's on First?!
So the games begun, and Game begin again in stark challenge of resolution. But death came to all men, yet a live dog were better than a dead lion, and the gods condescended to weep upon their Work, owning the inheritance of Each and securing the Debt for Line-E-age of Parent outcroppings, and new Aeons ever without end.
Now you may wonder about those caught in the mire up to their necks, or the bedraggled servitude of Earth or besodded cosmic flotsam, but it will not avail much to help the poor nor cast bread to the dogs (there have always been and ever are plenty of these [get your spinknard]), as nothing is more obnoxious than a swine with a gold ring in its snout, wallowing away in vocal snortle of its own shite and stinking cisterns. Your own footing may give way and you find yourself wallowing up to your knees, not quite sunken, but towing a sled of chattering idiots who somehow enjoy the rankling chaos upon which they blithely float. Rather set down in the house of Lazarus and Rest a while, for the beloved of thy beloved (friend of my friend) only sleeps, and Mary would honey-comb threw the tears spent on her tresses, wiping withal the Beloved of thy beloved, deep embibing what Martha would own, if all but too busy or anxious or otherwise first fearful for the late Visit life's love promised.
Some fine distinctions, to be sure, and we sift out the hours' many treasures or churn away upon the dials the advent of Now, sturdier moments in momentum for the richer, sweeter, more certified Future. IT's a marriage date, and Well Come to the Party salutes. Wherefore all the dismal complaint upon the Shore?, when Remedy did Call and Guests arrive, some sodden and poor, some ready and prepared, each finding a seat around the Banquet; perhaps even the birds of the Air (aviary?) some little feast, as if inheriting the fleeting hordes belched from Pluto's dank abode (frogs?), none of Her darlings denied, nor threshing out of the tares.
IT IS a Mystery, indeed. Why not treat IT as such, for a moment or two from time to time, or have ye no spare for such twaddle? Nor did Enkidu convince against assault upon the Forest Timbre nor Serpent Watch. Perhaps THIS now encoils Enkidu and they, together, complain upon the Alter of Persephone whom some did beguile at great cost, though seeming postponed, and razed the Ancient Wood whose Groves were sacred and unsought, then in thrawl as Pythia to Apollo's Might, the sons of Heaven intruding upon what they could not understand of Night. Thus Athene lept forth and Dionysus tore through the filaments their Garbs of Time did weave, the Norns a subtle tapestry or Ariadne spun to semblance of what they C, echoing the ruin of pride and Aye offending, secrets wrought, Cassandra taught, and Librarian Sybls stocked, the History of Nations. Behold what may B the Glory of the vast enterprise in that the one in a hundred voyagers (monkeys?), as one ship of venture among an hundred, or one eye among fifty (so small is the remnant, or little flock), may pluck the vine, catch the wine (Sans Grael?) and reel up the rites as if Leviathan from the Depths, what seemed once soo stark a befalling...Jonah, Jonah...how aileth thee this Trial?!
Green Man/Leviathan/Ororoubus, thrice born and but once elected foresight to wrack upon ruin the viperous objectivity and condemnation of unjust war, the friend of my better making enemies, tempting me by love of lonely but innocent familiarity of Home my own contentments (leaving the noisy rabble of Gilgamesh's forceful ways of civil-ization [[think rationality of science, which we may call the Ark but not the Treasure; for it is not the Alter that makes Worthy, but the Giver whose Gift is benefaction and honor itself]]), which is too often turned to ambitious means for ambitious ways among the civil-ized/objectified. A thing which is torturous to some, to be sure, and near wholly a matter for Accusation of Wrong, from whence greater wrongs issue like spiderlings from a single treacherous egg (thought), hatched of despite in the sons of Heaven, or their Maiden conquests seemed suffering from Aegytus' spawn.
Together though they Form the Fact of Devotion in the Cause, and Osiris is not his own; wherefor the Ceremony, or Drama of the Major Key. Symbols anyone?
"Who sent this Man here?!" says She, and all of Heaven bows to the Right/Rite Major, both what Their Mother and Night allowed or elsewise insisted on against all comers. This is a Secret spelled horizontally and vertically to every Plane any may Cross, and under which banner the Marriage is prepared from the foundations of the Earth, a Promise more firm than the Heavens' Heaven, or Founded such God of gods in Throned of the Heart and Crowned in Rainbow hews, shone the bright Majesty of Peace. Perhaps this would be the Gnostic Saaboath, which said feeble son does outvote the treachery of others. Lines tide too taught? I guess so.
Clash and Clang, the Aeons roll, and U can hear it on the resounding Aer...the Wind carries IT in its belly.
Enough writing on the Wall my graffiti, or if I am anywhere near the stockyards...I'll go scribble on the Kabooses. Toot, toot, and a tut in common...good Day.