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Into the mystic

Into the mystic

Water falls off the shale edge
It is brown in the summer shade
We’re in our creek shoes
Old sneakers on their way out
Performing a final service
There’s glass and cans and wires sometimes
Hard to see beneath the sliding brown glass

This is an expedition
We went under the cement arch under East Lake Road
Everything we do is kept safe by a benign democratic empire.
We are never bombed. No one ever destroys our homes. No one ever sprays us with machine gun fire.
We live in a wide miracle-space outside the historic flow of commotions.

We will slosh through the creek almost to the lake and then head back home in time for a nice dinner in a safe home where we are loved in a country where don’t have to agree with the government to stay out of trouble.

That was before.
Now we’re parceled out into outposts in little huddles with new families.
Or alone in a box in a building in a giant city that’s always mindlessly tapping its fingers on the ocean in the bay and out to sea.

We are now called
To
Go into the mystery
Into the mystic
Into the place
Beyond
what we
think we know are see

I see
slimy green streaks
growing on the shale
where the water thins and fans out, readying itself for the
drop

I see
political evil
and a will to top-down crime

I hear someone living 2016
quoting her father talking of the new president,
“I just want him to be the Godfather.”

I see generations
Shielded from blood and real fear
Watching mob movies and glorying in what is actually about as stupid and boring a life as one can choose

I see proud patriots living in their sitcom realities
And still finding a way to
Feel oppressed
And to
Pretend their home is on fire their water is cut off their food is rotten their speech is censored their God is outlawed their Truth is forced into hiding

There are real problems
Some have more than others
But the problems here don’t start to constitute an excuse
For failing to pay a modicum of attention and to choose reasonably plausible over conspiracy and to choose an imperfect but workable democratic republic that on the whole selects for reasonably good behavior and faithful stewardship over red ribbon incompetence laced with criminal intent

But yelling
Never saved
Anyone’s soul

So let us
Simmer down
And wade together
Into the warm summer creek
Into the mystic
God-or-Nature
Into the Light
that cannot lose, that will not die, that will guide us away from the worse and towards the better

Some afternoons in the wide clear but somehow brown creek
Last forever
And point the way

God’s place for me

God’s place for me

Abe: My Sarah morning dove who weaves light
criss-cross my life. I’ve prayed all day and night
that God might guide this nation out of sin.
For surely choosing evil leaders when
you don’t have to is a serious crime
‘gainst God and man and the space where we find
each other, where our hearts may mingle, mix,
and synergize for good or ill. This fix
we’re in is not the work of angry God
or spiteful goblin, but the path we’ve trod.

Sarah: My Abraham, your morning robe is flecked
with bits of breakfast, and your hair’s a mess.
But if you think you’re strong enough to stand
up tall and stride easy, take my little hand
and run away with me before we learn
how bad-intent and eroded-law will turn,
whatever evil stew these power-drunk
soul-forgetting fools will hasty-hands splunk
this land into.

Abe: But honey: money, where will it come from?
Will gold fall like manna through desert sun?

Sarah: How shall we stop the evil unless we go
deep into the mystic? How may we know
which words to speak without God filling us
with Holy Ghost? We need out of the crush
and into space enough to sing for real.
A quiet mystic place to together feel
our way to God and what that Love decrees.
Come away with me, please.

Abe: No earthly path’s without thorns
Prepare we shall, but this very morn
let’s worldly dreams of safe and sound gently scorn.
The mystic’s past all time and space:
Our home’s outside of any earthly place.
Hold my hand, we’ll walk through Holy land
wherever we in this world may from moment to moment stand.

Prometheus & Santa

Prometheus & Santa

I will tell you, children, a true account
of Santa Claus and Prometheus.

The Thunder-throwing King of Gods is Zeus.

When humans tricked Great Zeus into choosing bones
instead of meat (which is why still today
we give the gods the bones and eat the meat
ourselves), Zeus got mad and took fire away.
Without fire, people collapsed in defeat
and cried and rolled around like babies.
Prometheus felt bad and said “Maybe,
I should steal fire back for them.
They need it more than Zeus, who bends
all time and space at will, who moves all things
with the shake of his thoughts.” So Pro then brings
back fire to humankind.
And we were grateful, at the time.

But Zeus wasn’t grateful. He was angry.
So Zeus tossed Prometheus up against
a high and jagged cliff, where he dangled —
his wrists and ankles tied to that tall stone fence.

And then, as if hanging a thousand feet up
in baking sun and freezing rain weren’t enough,
Prometheus had to watch every day
as an eagle ate his liver away!

That’s right! Every day an eagle — symbol
of Zeus, wise ruler of the blessed immortals —
will peck Pro’s liver thimble by thimble
until all gone, while spiteful Zeus chortles
and says, “That’s what you get for crossing me!”
!Each night Pro’s liver grows back and the eagle gets hungry!

Now Santa’s a giant and jolly elf
who flies through the sky in a reindeer sleigh.
One blessed morning, Santa Claus himself
Saw poor Prometheus chained all the way
up on the steep mountainside. He pulled the reins
and told the reindeers, “Hold, this man’s in pain.”

Santa shooed the eagle off and began
to hammer adamantine chains. But Pro
said, “You mustn’t! Zeus will surely ram
a hundred thunderbolts through me and you
if you defy his will and set me free.”
The Claus paused and said, “your Zeus can’t be
a god of much degree if kindness he
would punish.”

The gods live on Mount Olympus. They drink
ambrosia and chat and giggle and waste
one century after another. Think
about that! But now they’re face to face
with Prometheus and Santa Claus
and Jesus and the Buddha and all
these other religious reformers,
these bright-eyed, heavenly party stormers.

“Hey Zeus, don’t you know that Love’s the only God?
Don’t cry! Don’t be sad! Be glad that God is not
like you or me or like anything except
an infinite generous joy of kind delight
that guides us all to what is good and right.”

But Zeus kept bawling. He wanted to be God!
It wasn’t fair! He had worked hard to win!
He should be allowed the scepter and the rod!
He should decide who was out and who was in!

But then he stopped, and he wiped the snot
off his perfectly divine nose,
and he said, well, at least we’ve still got
restaurants, live music, and TV shows.

Author: BW
Editor: AW
Copyright: AMW

real and not

real and not

real and not real
never could
keep the hazes apart

real and not real
never could
reliably

real and not real
not really
clear here

real and not real
the promise
of liars

real and not real
somewhere past
the rainbow

real and not real
burning in the sun
and
in the sparkler
waved by a small child
on a great lawn
he should wear safety goggles
he should not be allowed to have fire crackers, nor even sparklers

Stuck in my throat
real or not real?
Caught on my tongue
real or not real?

and Real?
Where you at?

Ghostly Faith

Ghostly Faith

Abe: Hello dear, I’ve returned from death.

Sara: Hello dear, I’ll fix you a bite to eat.

Abe: Never mind dear, I’m not hungry.

Sara: You look so thin and tired.

Abe: Put me to bed and let me drift away.
Maybe my mind and body will rewrite themselves
while I sleep off all the
evil

Sara: You left me a sick man and have returned
a ghost, a flickering shadow on a cool cavern wall

Abe: Put me to bed and let me float
between substance and spirit.
I’ve learned to live forever
by always falling down
the deep dark well

Sara: I always just wanted a nice life,
a nice life with you.

Abe: You can be a ghost with me
We can haunt the meadows
You can be a reflection with me
We can ripple with the pond
You can be the moment between life and death with me
We can share heaven on earth
a moment hanging forever
like a dewdrop on a grass blade wobbling about to
fall
forever
splash and sink
into the dirt
below

the demagogue

the demagogue

Note December 21, 2024: Hmmm

the demagogue

he thinks he leads the way
but he rides the beast
where it goes

he thinks he holds sway
but he’s just dirty yeast
through the goo

Let him
Let him be a pawn
of the boring tempertantrum
he opened

Let him
Let him be the tool
of the half-ass crime-boss fantasy
he plagiarized

Let him
Let him burn through the willing victims
So eager to serve the meanness
So happy to be in the club
anything
to get your name
on the big-man wall (not really; but you get to pretend it’s there and they’re proud of you and love you and share their fries with you)

It’s not my fault
It really isn’t
The fault lies with those
who chose the evil
Let them see themselves
for once

a bunch of babies
a nation of babies
a nation of wimps
a nation of gimmes

rather win
than do what is right
rather be safe
than be good
rather be loved
than loving

learn yourselves
why don’t you?
or can’t you?

Ghost of Faith

Ghost of Faith

Scene 1: Hospital room, nighttime

Abe: I lie in hospital bed. All too soon
to surely die. I never wished to be
a mighty nation, but only to boost
the cause of joy, of people standing tall
all overflowing all exploding Godlight
all over the place all the time
.
God: Alive or dead, your ass is surely mine
You rise you fall, still you will always find
just Me: I Am Who I Am. You can’t escape
the Love that’s All, Great God beneath the Fates.

Abe: Let’s play a game. Each night I drift to sleep.
I dissolve and disappear within the deep.
Perhaps that’s death already, and every night.
I then awake and feel alive. But I think I might
mistake wooden, hollow open-eyed dreams
for living. What?, I wonder; What?, I scheme,
if I were to name my next sleep the end
of my earthy life — no longer to pretend
that morning light means new day, means more life.
Next morn, my ghost will float above the strife
of breathing breeding bleeding ’til one’s lost the plot.
A phantom’s not afraid to die. He knows he’s caught
‘tween realms of flesh and soul. He can enjoy
the general illusion, yet be no toy
to it,
no desperate addict of our shared daydream.
What do you think?

God: I think you may wean
yourself of life if you vacation there
while living death like a ghost who who’s seen through himself.
I’m not sure if I’d name that wisdom
or just another artful dodge.
You humans are so good at those duck-outs
from the Truth

Abe: We shall see, giant creator of all things
We’ll soon discover what this my game will bring.

God: Your game’s not the main of the action.
The question’s still only, will you be wise?
Will you live Love or will you live lies?

Under the sun

Under the sun

[As of Sunday, 11/24/2024, the below is begun, but not edited. We’ve only gotten as far as individual Something Deeperism. Then comes shared Something Deeperism. Then wisdom memes. Then the spiritual value of representative democracies. I don’t know why we spent the morning on this essay, when we were already working on an overview of our last few decades of big ideas. In general, we cannot explain why we keep rewriting this essay. It seems to be a type of intellectual/emotional tick or spasm.]

Nothing new under the sun.

Let’s see if we can paint the project in terms of old ideas that have been kicking around the world for centuries millennia or some other big chunk of human history.

Something Deeperism is the general worldview that people can relate meaningfully to the Truth, just not in a literal, definitive, or exclusive way: We can organize our feeling, thinking and acting around the Truth; and relate to It poetically — our ideas and feelings imperfectly but still meaningfully pointing-towards and -away from the Truth, and thereby imperfectly but still meaningfully flowing into and out of the Truth; rather than literally understanding the Truth so that our own ideas and feelings about the Truth might be considered “True”.

This view of spiritual wisdom holds that no human ideas and/or feelings are ever identical with the Truth — which is infinite, eternal, and perfect; and which therefore does not fit into human ideas and feelings. The best we humans can do is organize our feelings and ideas around the Truth and relate meaningfully enough to It to flow adequately-along with It. Human wisdom is thus not an endpoint, but an ongoing process of self-observation, -analysis, -critique, and -adjustment.

Something Deeperism therefore sounds a lot like concepts like the “perennial philosophy” and “spiritual universalism”: There’s not one religious path to spiritual growth, but many; and the main factor determining spiritual growth is not your dogmas, so much as how well you use your dogmas to transcend your dogmas and worship and follow God, rather than worshipping and following your own ideas and feelings (about God, or about No-God, or whatever your big and little notions of the moment may be).

We’ve gotten in the habit of motivating Something Deeperism in this way:

Your ideas and feelings are meaningful to you only to the degree that you abide by the universal values (aware, clear, honest, accurate, competent, compassionate, loving-kind, joyfully-together/-sharing); but deeper than that, your ideas and feelings (including ideas and feelings about the universal values) are meaningful to you only to the degree that your ideas and feelings relate meaningfully to a Reality = Love. Why? That’s just the psychological situation we humans find ourselves within. Except to the degree our feeling/thinking/acting flows off of Reality = Love, we cannot understand, believe in, or care about our own f/t/a; and we shoved about by external circumstances like our own notions*, other people’s notions, and the twists and turns of the prevailing winds.

*We count our own notions as “external circumstances” because underneath the sense that we must organize our f/t/a around and relate meaningfully to Reality = Love in order to be meaningful to ourselves, are two assumptions: Except to the degree Reality = Love (1) is What Is, and (2) we can base our lives on a meaningful relationship to It, our lives don’t mean anything to us. That’s because any other reality or Reality tastes like soap in our mouths — too lonely, boring, and pointless to build a moment around, let enough a life. And so our only hope for internal coherency (meaningfulness to ourselves) is that our own notions are not the essence of our experience, but are just some chains-of-feeling-and-thinking flowing through our conscious moment, and which can be good and helpful only to the degree they are shaped by a Reality = Love shining at the core of each conscious moment.

We don’t try to prove that Reality = Love is the Truth, or that we can relate our feeling, thinking, and acting meaningfully to Reality = Love. Instead, we suggest a kind of Pascalian Wager:

We’ve nothing to lose by seeking Reality = Love within each conscious moment, and everything (meaningfulness to ourselves, and thus the ability to meaningfully travel with our own feeling, thinking, and acting to our own conclusions — rather than bounce haplessly about as hopes, fears, and other desperate emotions fight for supremacy of our conscious moments) to gain.

And then we say, “And why not? Why not posit a Reality = Love shining through each conscious moment? If there is a Reality, it would seem reasonable for It to shine through all these illusionary trappings. And why couldn’t we relate meaningfully to Reality = Love? Just as we can get better and better at relating ideas and words to feelings by being more and more open and honest with ourselves; why couldn’t we get better at relating feelings, ideas, and words better and better to a Reality = Love shining through the core of each conscious moment by being more and more open and honest with ourselves?”

That’s like a Pascalian Wager. Sometimes we go past that attitude and claim that everyone is already a Something Deeperist. Because we all cannot avoid the realization that we require Truth to be meaningful to ourselves (we can’t really believe in the various relative truths we sometimes try to steer our thought by), but that we also can’t be meaningful to ourselves unless that Truth is infinitely loving and won’t let anyone down ever — a Reality that doesn’t always care for and salvationate everyone is not a Reality we can understand, believe in, or care about. And we all cannot avoid the realization that the Truth would have to be infinitely wider and deeper than our little ideas and feelings about the Truth; and that confusing our own ideas and feelings about the Truth for the Truth actually points us away from the Truth, and causes no end of human suffering and bullshit. And so we all know that our only hope is to find Reality = Love and organize our f/t/a around It, working to relate more and more meaningfully to It, while always fighting our own tendency to declare (at least with our feelings, if not always with our ideas) our own f/t/a the “Truth!” And then sometimes we go even further, and say that we can’t help but always find ourselves somewhere within the process of attempting to organize our f/t/a around and relate meaningfully to Reality = Love; and so our only real options are either (1) to pretend we do not find ourselves within a poetic/non-literal spiritual quest, or (2) admitting we do find ourselves in such a quest, and trying to make the best of that reality.

Some might argue that we can’t know that everyone is essentially the same, and we cannot therefore assume that with the forgoing we’ve been describing everyone’s essential psychological spot. But we consider the essential sameness of all conscious beings to be fundamental to the assumption (Reality = Love is True, and we can relate meaningfully to this Truth) that we must demonstrate to ourselves in order to be able to understand, believe in, or care about our own f/t/a. We’re not able to relate meaningfully to Reality if it is not equal to Love; and so a Reality in which others are not essentially the same as we are would contradict the only Reality that could be meaningful to us — such a Reality could not serve as a firm foundation for our f/t/a.

[Also note that we humans learn via empathy (my father stubs his toe, he makes certain facial expressions and gestures and uses certain words, and I map his facial expressions and gestures onto my mind-body, and thereby learn what he means with words like “owe” and “hurt” and “God damn stupid legos everywhere!”), so if we humans are not all essentially the same, how can we make any sense out of everything we “know”? All our “knowledge” is based on interactions with other humans and their artifacts.

Also note that we can’t actually believe we humans are not all essentially the same: The notion is too lonely and boring to seriously countenance.]

With this “firm foundation” we betray our debt to Descartes, who sought a firm foundation for his thinking by doubting everything until he landed upon the (to his way of thinking) undoubtable thought of “I think therefore I am”. You can further in tracing that debt by noting that Descartes ended up working his way to a proof of the existence of God based on the fact that a clear and distinct idea of God’s essence is enough to demonstrate the existence of God to the meditator, because necessary existence is included within the essence of God.

Descarte’s Ontological Argument (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy), Section 1. The Simplicity of the “Argument”:

One of the hallmarks of Descartes’ version of the ontological argument is its simplicity. Indeed, it reads more like the report of an intuition than a formal proof. Descartes underscores the simplicity of his demonstration by comparing it to the way we ordinarily establish very basic truths in arithmetic and geometry, such as that the number two is even or that the sum of the angles of a triangle is equal to the sum of two right angles. We intuit such truths directly by inspecting our clear and distinct ideas of the number two and of a triangle. So, likewise, we are able to attain knowledge of God’s existence simply by apprehending that necessary existence is included in the clear and distinct idea of a supremely perfect being. As Descartes writes in the Fifth Meditation:

[1] But if the mere fact that I can produce from my thought the idea of something entails that everything which I clearly and distinctly perceive to belong to that thing really does belong to it, is not this a possible basis for another argument to prove the existence of God? Certainly, the idea of God, or a supremely perfect being, is one that I find within me just as surely as the idea of any shape or number. And my understanding that it belongs to his nature that he always exists is no less clear and distinct than is the case when I prove of any shape or number that some property belongs to its nature (AT 7:65; CSM 2:45).

One is easily misled by the analogy between the ontological argument and a geometric demonstration, and by the language of “proof” in this passage and others like it. Descartes does not conceive of the ontological argument on the model of a Euclidean or axiomatic proof, in which theorems are derived from epistemically prior axioms and definitions. On the contrary, he is drawing our attention to another method of establishing truths that informs our ordinary practices and is non-discursive. This method employs intuition or, what is the same for Descartes, clear and distinct perception. It consists in unveiling the contents of our clear and distinct ideas. The basis for this method is the rule for truth, which was previously established in the Fourth Meditation. According to the version of this rule invoked in the Fifth Meditation, whatever I clearly and distinctly perceive to be contained in the idea of something is true of that thing. So if I clearly and distinctly perceive that necessary existence pertains to the idea of a supremely perfect being, then such a being truly exists.

If we change the “idea” of God’s essence to a “whole-being insight (all aspects of one’s conscious moment — ideas, feelings, and the Reality = Love shining through each moment — working meaningfully, though of course not literally/directly or exclusively/definitively together) into Reality = Love“; then we can see how Descartes’ belief that we could intuit God’s existence via a clear and concise idea about God’s essence is very similar to our sketch of an experiential proof for the existence of Reality = Love. Like Descartes, we would seek to clarify our f/t/a to the point that we could perceive our own conscious moment as it really is, and we hope to find therein a Reality = Love that we can relate meaningfully to. If we read Descartes’ proof of God primarily as a sketch for how one might climb through one’s conscious moment to an intuition of God that included the Reality of God within that intuition, then it is very close to our sketch of an experiential proof of Reality = Love. Such arguments are also not far from Buddhist notions like using dogmas as ladders to the Truth, rather than pretending dogmas can contain the Truth.

We don’t usually think of the project in terms of Descartes’ ideas, but instead compare it to Plato’s arguments in his Republic.

In his Republic, Plato argued that human psychology included distinct appetite, honor-loving, and reasoning aspects; and that the best aspect should rule the rest, and that only the reasoning aspect had any idea what was going on (the other aspects aren’t even trying to figure out what’s going on, but merely demand we satisfy their cravings for food, honor, or et cetera), so clearly it should rule. But how should the reasoning aspect reason? Doesn’t it need to follow what’s Best? But what is Best? Well, the essence of Goodness, the essence of Bestness, the Form of the Good — clearly that’s Best. But how to follow the Form of Good when It resides in the realm of perfect Forms, and we’re so mundane? Oh, I know: we can clarify our minds and thus our apprehensions of the Forms or essences of all ideas, and gradually work our way up to the Form of the Good. Well, at least the Philosopher Kings can: They can work their way up to the Form of the Good, drop back down to reality with that insight still imprinted on their thought, use that insight to make good decisions for the whole community, and then climb back up …

That’s basically what we’re doing here at Skullvalley After Whistletown Booksellers Extraordinaire.

First we note that reason itself is an appetite: Left to its own devices, it keeps mindlessly demanding more and more intellectual certainty — even though humans cannot really conceive of perfect intellectual certainty. And so the only thing that should rule the whole is the Form of the Good, i.e. Godlight i.e. God i.e. Pure Love

We organize our feeling and thinking around the Pure Love (the only thing that truly exists) that shines through everything (including each conscious moment; Pure Love creates, sustains, shines-through, and love-lifts this entire interconnected flowing-together of creation), and relate our feeling and thinking poetically to (pointing adequately towards, while taking care not to pretend we are literally, exclusively, or definitively grasping) Pure Love. And then we drop down to our task and write with our minds/hearts still seared by the infinite Light of infinitely joyous infinite giving (to give another poetic description of what the poetic description “Pure Love” aims at). And on and on, up and down we travel, always sinking deeper and deeper into the Love that chooses and is enough for everyone, and always flowing more and more gently/truly off that Love.

Well, that was the plan, anyway.

THE AUTHORS TAKE A MOMENT TO STRETCH

So how far have gotten?

Just up to individual Something Deeperism, I’m afraid. And we didn’t even mention Camus or Kierkegaard. Oh, and we left out how radical skepticism did indeed prove itself a self-defeating logos.

questionable character

questionable character

oh but man was he ever a questionable character
people questioned his character
and like well-fed house-dogs bayed and wiggled in proud disdain
some even went so far as to brag to their friends that they didn’t care they would go right up to his face and tell him
no one ever actually got as far as his face though
it was enough to know
enough to roll around in his questionableness like well-fed house-dogs wiggle-triumphing on their backs through the reassuring stench of something some days dead somehow spread across the lawn
that was all good and just
him being such a questionable character and all
they said yeah he walks with a limp — but just to lull unsuspecting victims a little nearer to his badger claws and wolf teeth
they said yeah he eats cabbage stew for breakfast lunch and dinner — and that’s to hide in farts like a tigress hunts downwind to mask her cruel powers her sultry feline glands
they said yeah he thumb-pops dandelion heads — like how psychopaths start out by torturing cats, not that cats are all that great or anything, but it’s like a warmup evil and a sign
they said yeah he talks to himself while wandering these wide woods — someday some shooter’s gonna mistake him for a talking deer and we’ll all be better off
and then they laugh being heroes by doing nothing all day every day over and over again in the shade of a regulated market economy with safety nets and backed by an active central bank
they said yeah he’s a questionable character and I got these sneakers on sale what do you think?

[What is this? This is not a new literary dispensation!
We want a new art!
This feels like a grumpy old art.
Just reading it makes me sleepy and look I’m putting on an old flannel bathrobe and trusted old soft-bellied rough-leather slippers, and here I slip into the paper the coffee the cigarette the glaring yellow linoleum tiles, wallpaper, hard tabletop plush chair back — everything yellow linoleum with hints of silver, swirls of white, shades of faded hope and ashtrayed-dreams; and here my long square fingers — knotted red now at the joints — pat my wife’s round-grown rump in her yellow towel-material bathrobe, and yes we are falling asleep in the kitchen with the stove on and while cigarettes — at $0.60 a pack who can say no to another? — dangle from our lips; and we have mixed vodka into our coffee; and we are tired ]

New Idea

New Idea

A new idea
A new authorship
Like a beetle with his black shiny three-piece shells and his sturdy black snap-together legs
His head down he charges forward through the short grasses he thinks are tall
Yes! Like a beetle!
Because they live but a season
And so are always new
Always come out cluelessly self-assured raring to go
A new idea, a new authorship, a new literary dispensation
charging with newborn
with a newborn’s pep vigor innocence and drive
another beetle hatched with rounded shells, churning legs, and ping-ping billiard-table brains
this new
exciting
classy super classy
art