Having my way with Ulysses

Separating forces.

A god limited in his omniscience and of his acts, and creating things that lead to horror. He is a . . . sick god, whose ambitions exceed his powers and who does not realize it at first. A god who has created systems or mechanisms that served specific ends but have now overstepped and betrayed them. And he has created eternity, which was to have measured his power, and which measures his unending defeat.2:09 am

Anagrams of names: Uslessly wishy-washy, smug vanity. Try this one on, as kinetic poetry it will invoke either desire or loathing:

Nova coin tinker,
(Akin to conniver!)
Can’t invoke iron?
Crave ion, not ink:
A rock invention.

See? Feel it? That ain’t desire. Shall we try for something more esthetic? Something static, that we might arrest our minds (put a pin in that!) just enough to feel ourselves freely rising above desire and loathing without fear of floating away. Words that say you are mine, the world is mine.

You are mine. The world is mine.
The world is mined. You are mined.
You are mind. The world is mind.

Too Stanislaw Lem? Perhaps we should stick to mental poetry, otherwise we are not gods but tinkers.

Dreams go by contraries.

For a Spectre has no Emanation but what he imbibes from deceiving A Victim! Then he becomes her Priest & she his Tabernacle. And his Oak Grove, till the Victim rend the woven Veil. 12:50 am

Follow me. Come on, follow. Follow follow follow. You know me, yes? Remember? Almost it.  There you go, you saw me in your dream.  I held up a watermelon for you to smell.  Now follow, come away from that badger hole, nothing buried dead buried in there. Now. Is it guilt or shame today? What do you regret, action or inaction? I know that answer. They both have a face and you will see who. Look. I say, look. Lapwing you are. As am I. So a lapwing be. Let us bury your agenbite of inwit in a nice deep grave and lead each other away.  I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how my sweet buzzard scavenger darling, you’ll fly and your foes will be beneath you as they every shall be. Word without end. Listen now. Don’t be Polonius standing behind a curtain, everybody can see your feet sticking out the bottom. You do remember what happened to him, don’t you? You think that bit of rag hanging over your conscience will protect you? Don’t you know anything about hiding? Listen. You’ve done things. We all know it. We see your clay feet. Your actions we all witnessed birthed reactions and those reactions reproduced.  You bury the grandmother deeds all you like, and lead us all away. Hop hop away, little bird, follow me this way. Pay no attention to that world behind the curtain. But the things you didn’t do. Came to a whole lot of nothing, no? Well mark my words babylove, that nothing will be the something that buries you.

Nes. Yo.

Orca Bellona! Heavencry at earthcall, etnat athos?12:36 am

In the beginning was the world, in the end the word without end. Oh my heart, am I my mother? Fantasy. Just anima’s fantasy. Here’s how it goes; you’ve heard it I’m sure: there’s nothing naked under the clothing moon. But first, I’m all of a mucksweat. The day ins and outs of it born from a heart and nine months hard labor, but then coming forth of darkness and Orc’s away now! Nice, no? Every phenomenon has natural cause, even revolutions in the word. First, cause. Then I’ll be thy mouth given unto me! Fly as the hawk’s right eye! Free will! But watch out for the 32 feet per second per second. Oh that. What goes down must come. It goes the other way too. As below, so above. Rock becomes root becomes worm becomes serpent in the garden. Beryl was there, and the other rainbow girls. How’s that for gloomery glamory? Shall I be the toad on your shoulder? Come here, my Athos and warm me up.  I’ll whisper little somethings right where the camel went through the needle. I’ll obey your every. I’ll be slave to your chic, Dave to your dick, and we’ll root in the fat of the land. I’m willing, now force me. Good dog.

You’ll have to rise precious early, you sinner there, if you want to diddle the Amighty God.

It was all very well to say 'Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. 'No, I'll look first,' she said, 'and see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.11:07 pm

Oooooh I feel a fight coming on. I feel us a fight a coming on.  Lord there’s a something a coming on. You hear me jesus? Your hear me Jesus? Jesus Lord Christ anointed son of the fullness of God our Messiah anointed in the blood of the lamb I feel it a coming. It’s a coming. Call down Elijah for us O Jesus, bring us the holy ghost into our bodies there’s a gonna be a fight. You coming long Jesus? I see Brother Dick, I see Brother Davy and all you beautiful brothers and sisters in this here tabernacle.  You sir, the guy in black.  Have you sinned against the light Brother Black?  Are you ready to declare your sins and be washed in the bloo of the lamb, Brother Black? The day is at hand when he shall come to judge the word by fire.  Yes Jesus.  He will come to judge us that the scriptures might be fulfilled. Elijah is coming. Shout salvation in Jesus Christ! Come on brothers and sisters and follow my pitiful endeverance to explain to you good sinners that we are all of us living in the last day. All that’s done is all for the kingdom of God. Feel it now brothers and sisters. Feel the outpouring of the Holy Ghost. You will be made whole by the power of Jesus. Throwaway your sins and blaze on to Edenville for Elijah is coming! Come on now. Come on all you harddrinking gutpuking bloodspilling gasguzzling facebooking tweettwittering existences. Bring your afflictions for He’s got a cough mixture for you in His back pocket and we shall all drink the blood of the lamb!

This is the appearance is on me.

 To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments: Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!10:37 pm

I’m soft.  I’ve gone soft. Look, can you see me? It is so hard to see myself as others see me. Look closer, look at my head. Below I’m a mess, but my eyes are still here, ayin tachat ayin.  Oh I am punished. This must be hell. Now I know what hell is. Yes I expected some obliteration, but must I pay such a high price for it?  Is it such a crime resurrection?  Is translation so horrible?  So loathsome? It’s not like I murdered a child or something; I should think the living would have some fun with it. Surprise, I’m back! There’s so much potential, and for the benefit of all, properly executed.  Except it’s hard to see me. That’s a problem. And I understand I smell like something murdered, but I’ve never smelt it myself. I’m here, though, you can see me. I’m like looking at some sort of dark animal at night. Or at a spider: all head, web body.  It’s not so bad.  My hell is in this life but it’s not so bad.  And I don’t have it in me to cause my own re-death so here we are. I’ll have to make do. Besides Lizzie will have my head if I dare show my face amongst the dead. Think of the vendetta. Well, history is to blame for that, I refuse to feel guilty.  Or what’s that other world?  She’ll make dope her hope, but perhaps I’m being rather a sentimentalist there.  But really, I’ve incurred too immense a debtorship for my enjoyment.  Well, a thing done is a thing done.  I’ll camp out here. Distractions. Burn something. It is rather nice to be back in some of my old haunts. Eternity is fine but I admit feeling a bit nostalgic for the present.

The story of a haunting sorrow was written on his face.

The dead you is constantly being rubbed away by the dead me. Your cells fall and flake away, fodder to dust mites and bed bugs. Your droppings support colonies of life that graze on skin and hair no longer wanted. You don't feel a thing. How could you? All your sensation comes from deeper down, the live places where the dermis is renewing itself, making another armadillo layer. You are a knight in shining armour.

8:32 pm

I’m so in love.  Because they always say you just know when it happens and I know because it’s like an instinct, you know?  I feel it.  I can feel it right here.  And it feels like like what, like he is the one that matters the most.  Because it doesn’t matter what he has ever done, you know?  I couldn’t give a shit what he’s done.  Because whatever he has ever suffered or had others suffer, even if he is the worst person possible I don’t care.  That’s what love is.  That’s love.  He can even be a non-Christian too, because I always know what matters most is Jesus and after him Mary and St. Joseph and St. Rose of Lima and after her St. Anthony if you lose something because if he really loves me he will convert no problem.  It’s him.  It’s like I recognize him, you know?  It’s a total recognition like I’ve known him forever because I’m going to know him forever.   I love him and he is my dreamhusband I’ve been waiting for.  See him, sitting over there on those rocks wearing all black.  Sad.  He has sad written all over his face.  I’d give the word to know what it is making him so sad.  He is looking at me and I can see he means it.  There’s something in his look that’s saying words to me.  The words are so clearly there, for me to read and only me.  And he can read my very soul.  He can look right inside me and read me.  He’s reading me now.  He looks a little like a foreigner.  Very cool.  Actually, he looks just like the picture I have of Robert Pattinson taped next to my bed!  I want to know all about him and forgive him for everything ever even even if he even if he was the biggest sinner of them all we can go to hell together and all our friends will be there anyway so that will be even better.  We’ll be together and in love and that’s all that matters.  And I’ll help him forget the memory of his past.  And I’ll make him fall in love with me.  And he’ll pull me to him gently.  And he’ll crush me against him like a real man.  And I’ll be his ownest girlie.

The rich incrustations of time

he spat in careful convertedness a musaic dispensation about his hearthstone, if you please (Irish saliva, mawshe dho hole, but would a respectable prominently connected fellow of Iro-European ascendances with welldressed ideas who knew the correct thing such as Mr Shallwesigh or Mr Shallwelaugh expectorate after such a callous fashiion, no thank yous! when he had his belcher spuckertuck in his pucket, pthuck?)

5:51 pm

Sedimentary reality — that’s history.  Do you see?  History is made from memory, and the memories that make history, the ones that stick, the ones that calcify, you know the ones, the ones that start out as shifting sands until they become mineral accretions on our bodies, oh where to what to.  I’ll stand to say it.  The memories that make history are the ones compressed into our souls through force, through hatred, through persecution.  All the history of the world is full of it.  Persecution, injustice.  Look at your self.  Train your eye on yourself.  What is your nation?  And what about your race? What are these worlds?  Where dyoublong?  You think, you think, you think history is what was when?  It happened then?  Over there?  Back before whatchuyoucallitwhen?  No.  There is no over there back when.  It’s here now.  Now.  Right now.  This very moment.  This very instant.  Look, the hatred, the injustice, you think that goes away?  It hardens and sticks.  It creates layers all over the place.  Layers right here now, all over us.  Everywhere.  And it persists.  I don’t mean extension in time, no.  There’s no line here from then to when.  I’m saying it is all right here now persisting.  Calcifying.  Barnacling.  Do you see?  Force, hatred, injustice, history.  Insult.  History.  That’s history.  That’s history.  And it’s no way to live.  No life.  You can’t.  You can’t.  But you know it’s no use to stand up to hatred.  Hatred collects and and and it shifts, and it compacts and compresses and it calcifies into memory.  And then it becomes history.  That’s how it happens.  The layers become reality.  Sedimentary reality.  The real built on shifting sands, until it creates a nice hard surface.  No standing up to that.  It’s the opposite of that is life.  It’s.  Oh, what is it?  That world everybody knows.  You know it, don’t you.

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that.

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast, To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak. I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd, And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd, By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound. What then am I? Am I more senseless grown Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe! 'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs. Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King; He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom. Why am not I at Peace?

 

4:25 pm

Stretto

Dear sir Mady,

Got your note cute as a rat and flower where the hell did I put it some pocket or other it is utterly impossible to write today.  Bore this, my patience are exhausted.  I’m just reflecting on you know what I mean.  Don’t make half so free.  Accept my poor little present attached ’till we are better acquainted.  Might be what you like.  Elijah is coming really and truly.  Write me a long answer.  Do you despise me?  Have you the horn?  I’m so excited why do you call me naughty?  You naughty too?  O dirty Mairy lost the string of her drawers.  Bye for today.  Yes, yes, I will tell you what perfume.  Time makes the tune.  I want you to keep it up, call me that other world.  You must believe it is true.  I swear to Saint Cecilia, best references, it will excite me.  You know how.

In haste,
Henry what is he playing now.

ps.  Who will you pun punish me.  Whack.  Tell me I want to know, of course if I didn’t I wouldn’t ask, but why is the minor sad?  Feel lost.

pps.  la la la re I feel so sad today so lonely.

Messrs. Callan Coleman and Co., limited.

Like to answer them all.

1:20 pm

O, leave them there to simmer.

Beneath a reign of uncouth stars.

For one of those gnostics, the visible universe was an illusion or (more precisely) a sophism. Mirrors and fatherhood are abominable because they multiply and disseminate that universe. 11:46 am

[A slight whispering wind blows through the theatre and we hear the sound of an incoming tide.  The veil of the temple rises revealing a circle of people lying on their backs staring up at the sky.]

Cassiopeia: [gazing at herself in a hand mirror] The stars are beautiful at this time of day, don’t you agree?  Though not as beautiful as me of course.

Pan:  Of course, baby.  Now come over here and sit on my lap.  My energies are rising.

Cassiopeia:  None so beautiful as me.

Shadow: [rolling over, bending himself toward the rocks, turning his back to the sun] Darkly they are there behind this light.  Darkness shining in the brightness.

Proteus:  [in the shape of a long stick, curved at the end, no knots]  We are here to look at birds people, not stars.  Now pay attention before I change my mind, I’m getting tired.  Did you hear that rook?  That means it will soon rain.

Pan:  This is Seattle, everything means it will soon rain.  Look, a dog!  It will soon rain. Look, a wave!  It will soon rain.  Please.  So, Virgin, your hand is so gentle.  Love the longlashed eyes, baby, want to trust me a little?

Cassiopeia:  She, she, she.  What is she to compare to me?

That Virgin:  [pointing] That cloud looks like a book.  See it up there?  Oooh, now it looks like letters.  U. P.

Pan:  [visibly aroused]  A lady of letters!  I am lonely here, touch me.

Proteus:  [in the form of our souls]  Goodness!  Look at that manshape ineluctable! I’ll sit on your lap. Cling to you a little, a woman to her lover.

Pan: [in his flutiest voice] The more the more!

Shadow:  [flatly] Come back to us Proteus, I see shadows of birds on a white field.

Pan: [Flutier] Don’t listen Proteus, come, cling, then come.  Now where the blue hell are you?

Proteus:  [In the form of a mirror] That’s better.  Feel a bit shamewounded.  Now where were we.  Oh yes.  Those birds, Shadow, are magpies and there are one, two, seven of them.  A secret.  And my stars, look, an owl!  And it is nearly noon, no wonder I am so tired.  Let’s see, owl, a revelation at night.  Also a bitter mystery.  A mysterious secret will be revealed at night.  Also, it will soon rain.

Cassiopeia:  [rubbing lotions into her skin]  Proteus, you’ve never looked so flat, yet in you I see distance.  Near, far, east, me.  Oh there I am.  Me.  Oh Proteus, you are so beautiful.  Oh, I feel something!  What is that word known to all men?

That Virgin:  What is that word?  I want to feel it too.  Point over here Proteus, show me what Cassiopeia sees.

Proteus: [In the form of Berkeley]  You see nothing.  You think you see.  Everything is flat, and you only think you see distances.  Those stars unbeheld behind this light?  Their distance is only an element of your idea of them.

Pan: [masturbating gently]  I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now.  I am quiet here alone.  Sad too.  Touch, touch me.

Shadow: [in the form of my form]  Not for all the word.