Entries are rooted in the state of mind experienced at the time of writing – they are not representative in any way apart from being standalone expressions of a particular mental vantage.
A Voyage to Arcturus is a deeply moving book. Something much more than the passions are moved by it however, the book is a truth serum, a sacred codex of anamnesis. It remains the most affecting text I’ve come across. The more time that elapses since having read it, the deeper this conviction sinks. The kinds of truth that are intimated by it are like fathomless monoliths embedded so deep and wide into the substrata of consciousness that one cannot hope to apprehend them, only to sightlessly palpate them, taste them, commune with them, to pick up the vague vibratory echoes that trail out from their subterranean lairs.
From early childhood there is something, of which I have always been dimly aware. The Mental Traveller, I would try to think my way farther and farther out, almost fugitive was the action, until I neared those most rarefied and dizzying outer fringes. And there always, as an object submerged in waters of ink, my thoughtstream would fall into a void. Out of bounds. I remember thinking on each of the times it occurred – what a wholly odd thing, certainly something outside of the usual course of things, I must not forget this. Direct encounter with Kundabuffer.
In writing this I feel I am converging again on those unsayable things.
‘Contingency’, ‘liminality’ are more of my appellations for the emptiness. The insubstantiality, unreality, emptiness of all things. That’s how virtual reality consciousness tastes.
The truth is not stranger than fiction, it is the strangest of conceivable things, the apotheosis of the bizarro and circuslike, the essence-juice of the uncanny: and it stands always laughing at one step’s remove from the outermost boundary of awareness.
To be is to deceive.
There is something so ineffably pregnant at the heart of being. Immanent and transcendent, one cannot form the words, they lump in the throat and falter at the lips, but here it is, here it is.
The most pernicious of the defilements smuggled in by the herd mind – so subtle you couldn’t notice it, a tinny station always playing in the back, just inside earshot – is that ‘given’ veil of mediocrity. That what you see before you is mediocre. Your life – mediocre. Yourself, your world, your inmost powers – mediocre.
A few of its many permutations: the ‘little old me,’ the ‘who am I to X,’ the ‘how likely is it everyone but you…’; the virulent cannibalism of po-mo irony and cynicism, cynicism and irony. No sounds too rude, no thoughts too vivid.
There is operative in this great mediocrity, always a sense of losing track of one’s voice amid the cacophony, of having been swallowed by Other-mind.
Staid standards, sublunary imaginations, desires that regress to the mean… blind dumb and deaf desires, of eyeless longings that vainly grope: able only to say ‘another’, ‘more’, ‘again’.
* * *
How different is the air outside, on whose eddying zephyrs the spirit spirals ever-upward, this holy faculty. At every nerve-end electrified, I take long measure of the distant steppe before me…unbounded are my thoughts in flight, endless is my single sight.
Every action feeds an I.
The Kundabuffer loathes a synchronicity.
Why live in fear of Chaos?
I am the very stuff out of which you are fashioned. I am truer than Order. I am your destiny.
You bastard creatures that cling to dry land as insects to cover of darkness, Order does not hide you from my sight. Order is only a waystation that now serves and now dies, but I am always there, that to which you are each time returning, that from which you borrow your existence.
Often men glimpse death, skance-eyed by a leading periphery of vision, and are sure it is me that they have seen on the window of their eye, but that is a mistake. Still, because they think it me they saw, people relate with death as an unctuous servant to Master, living always in Master’s shadow. In dreadful cognizance of Its power they cleave like sycophants to Its favour in soundless hopes of absolution. In such a way, many lives are an endless death, because their trajectories never err from the Hole’s great orbit. They never turn and stare, and eat death, but instead are constantly being eaten.
If you turn to look and see that peering through the holes is me.
The two deep-set caverns in a human skull…there nested, half-hid in pitchy reaches, my face.
ME wild Bacchus! ME wild PAN!
ME the protean! ME the trickster! ME the wink of creation! ME the soil, ME the sea! ME the Kali-tongued ecstasy!
Wild wild wild wild: I am the mad music that inflames and incites to flight – onto Godhead!