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!
What diabolical worms had wriggled into my head! What meretricious lies, what foul melodies.
“The highest point at which human life and art meet is in the ordinary. To look down on the ordinary is to despise what you can’t have. Show me a man who fears being ordinary, and I’ll show you a man who is not yet a man.”
― Thirst for Love
“Again and again, the cicada’s untiring cry pierced the sultry summer air like a needle at work on thick cotton cloth.”
― The Decay of the Angel
“Thus in a single phrase I can define the great illusion concerning ‘love’ in this world. It is the effort to join reality with the apparition.”
― The Temple of the Golden Pavilion
“The perfectly ordinary girl and the great philosopher are alike: for both, the smallest triviality can become the vision that wipes out the world.”
― The Decay of the Angel
“He was always thinking of death, and this had so refined him that the physical seemed to fall away, freeing him from the pull of earth and enabling him to walk about some distance above its surface. Indeed he felt that even his distaste and hatred for the affairs of the world no longer stirred him deeply.”
― Runaway Horses
“As he saw it, there was only one choice — to be strong and upright, or to commit suicide.”
― Seven Stories
“Each man’s life represents a road toward himself, an attempt at such a road, the intimation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself.”
Each human being is born with an inmost map, a genetic animus, a Gordian knot. When we enter the world, by and by the outer map overlays the inner, and the place we find ourselves is the ineluctable labyrinth. To still find the way to oneself, despite the confusion. To unravel the skeins latent in man. To stir from the fugue. This is the purpose of the egoic life.
In the minds of the most conventionally beautiful women, the deepest-lying and sharpest-fanged demons are bred. Undue adoration is the most delicious and insidious poisoned chalice there is.
The Kundabuffer is the ‘OK-making’ device of the mind that I have for so long intuited. It’s what I’m driving at in the fifth paragraph of #8.
[” But the mind filters on, makes OK, shields the tender mortal eyes. Binds them once more to its will, booming but one elemental command: ‘LIVE ON.’ “]
It is a relative of the psychic censor, but this concept has a much stronger Gnostic redolence. That most strange and unsayable sense of recognition in watching Westworld… the android in us getting a bit self-conscious.
* * *
The scene of a car-crash passed at speed; the look in the face of a roadside vagrant, the faces on the city tube; beauty that calls the soul to arms; intimations of animality; clearings steeped in silence far from scents of the formicary.
A glitch of thought that leads by accident to an inaccessible door of the mind; an uncanny sense of vertigo.
‘Doesn’t look like anything to me.’
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.
Grasp time’s fabric, bring it to you, do The Work.
There is only ever The Work to do.
Written under influence. A felicitous expression of an inner self.
I am a creature come from extreme lands. I am a mountaineer in an environment of flatlands.
I want – each moment to be a convergence on the moment, I want each action to be one that drinks Life, thirsty and triumphant, from the well of Death.
For each step I take, to bring me closer to the purer place, where the land is pristine snow and the air is rarefied…
To breach with mortal foot the door of eternity.
Do not fall into the easy trap of believing the world boring and given. We must hold fast the knowledge that we have hardly begun the business of traversing the path of true will – that the world is a living cosmos, and that there is much Work left to be done.
Hold this strand in the intellect until the heart sends up its energy. Discipline yourself in this.
We must not see our awakening as an externality to be conferred on us, but as something that we ourselves must actively work to author in the arena of our lives.
When the Life-energy sets on our lives and abandons us, we must hold on to the memory of her through the valleys of Night, until our greater faith is rewarded with recrudescing Day.