Our shadow qualities, they go nowhere without integration, they hang right there around the penumbra of experience and reach out in cooperation when it’s opportune. The public personality is the self emptied of those idiosyncratic flavours that brook no boundary, that which is chaotic and frightening to the Jehovian mind, who pours scorn on the organic and projects there only death and dangerous deiform femininity.
The mind can be held in fragmentation but it cannot be fractured, it is a will to unity that if separated and forbidden will nonetheless live on in autonomy, bleeding into the world-model.
A Voyage to Arcturus is deeply moving. 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.
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.
The Kundabuffer loathes a synchronicity.