Palette One

mixt in three of the kinds spoke of
distance calls to time by the pure assembling of origins
private name whose tragedy and monstrous destruction was therefore only distractions
a knight in burning Autumn
motivation of this most common murmured speculation
his mind and Agony coloured with the unknown prayer that drives you back
knowing our space
the personalities always seemed sunken
the union 's been the potential fog and obsession
his yellow nature
nine vibratory wire nightingales
nonhuman and discreet
they thought flesh gods maintained the hovering necessity
ordinary innocence long the symbol of vain sirens
fixed Flegm by the look in his spoiled wise Melancholy face
desperation and time in the equivalent matrix
objective space in mind as place of question divided
prodigies in proper dark penumbras
compressing the heart and the Loadstone will
the dark triangle of whence the fog has inverted his desolation
null angel Entering the broader circles
literal crack long been accepted
'operational mind become occult diamond manuscript
without all the Iron beasts of the Prophet touching the infected opposites
make the system ceaseless For number searching
the problem was eloquence persisting in cold pale spaces
unconscious word already killing the Unity
hands unleashing the personal god 's impatient imagination
bad Faith As paranormal conclusion
simply by number all Innocents connected
envisioning Paul locked in the wooden Albion
secretly understanding the legend of his mediocrity
vertue and reverie in desired juxtaposition
the ancient figure folds the animall dress
common good as supposed problem
the gospel of unkempt prefix
a sacred state of cosmogonic symbolism
numbers and foundations As totem for long memory
surround your myth system with pink teeth and permanent vanities
meeting the Confessors in dreamed Albania
They inhabited a great well likely infinite
which turned one to pearly love and intermediate Revelations
tepid procession of Jesus wheels and beardless Oneness
In myself This single space of unscathed Geometry
simple heaven by woodland grid offers a modicum of mystery
Phylosophy cannot equall the motion of exchange
periodic Paranoid touch
slavery interrupted to hear of Moving extensions
because Number We lived and are living
Therefore Art And symbol be bad mythology
four eyes soft and small
illumination knotted and lightweight and common
perhaps made pure from fixed line of liminal envisioning
acute cases being incapable of imagination mentality
Druid world is shapeless forest become rational intention
the lovers of Lilith have extinguished the ghost dimension
one curse shall overturn the altitudes Elsewhere
yellow vulture sketch of singular bitterness
the gravity is pulling young Pythagorians through the emanating hum
as a shift that also By Naturall motion will square all Unity
this black memory in X and negative semblance
their Magick number written in light
We understand Isolation
yes we quote the Artificers
the book mentions disorder in unknown ages
these dissection doctors always mysterious with Numbers and legends
anything of earth’ is animall and recurring
the number is the tympanum of future DRUIDS
the gatekeeper is languidly transparent and of Celestiall form
there surround the space four judge units in Taurus
the perfected divination assures Continuing time And cause
drastic sudden end is according to solar mystery
Since darkness must face coldness in time's Divine movements
the manipulator of numbers has the pleasure to go as a God
to go in a restored Ark of mystical origins
the time has again done a ridiculous bourgeois thing
in Celestiall satisfaction this toilet kingdom remains under his total will
if the being is there and extant
the little ineffable diviner is steered to the beginning
to parts mysterious and unknown
the Soothsaying Trismegistus is dropped By the Drug Forest
a fantastic mask of memorable imagination
He is envisioning this long intoxication
his terror is stifled before the sermon
this circle always sadly crossed By anxiety
this Mind repurposed in void violate
all middle motion was Dull of ambitions
you sense inversion of pattern and unblack deceptions
Numbers and Saint sleepers somewhat pale and pulling The spirits through the exits
twenty machines extinguished the light
what number dimension is repeating effect and intention
and what terms are emanating now through this portion of foresworn indifference
the Age of paralysis
smolders and is sterilized
dead distribution as incapable passage
psyche as number and shifted deposit
Pindar prostituted because of pure Theory
they wish in unbroken folktales of blackest common yelping
four great Pythagorians entertain you between tomorrows
This confused dying interrupted by gusts of vultures
bad illusion lets know a bit of small mystery
that awful shapeless formula of society and man
envelope of self the same in equall herds
the beardless Gate of grin distinguishes his memory
we prognosticate now on space mind and the carved symbolic
Aries procession to pearly SPRINGS
likely regarded as beginner folly
equivalent recurrence is human distance assessed through problem
the system initiated all potential illumination dreamed of but long abandoned
alchemic needles abuse the degrees and vertues
periodic Commandments formed this universe of dangers
juxtaposition undoubtedly is the propensity for theory or reverie
by numbers you pick the doctrine
the water is only living
Devil in human process grid offers cloud signs and wonder Books
Also the phlegm of the wealthy
and revised figures from the sea of Speculis
some remembrance of Jesus the infinite αυτοµατα
for power In prudence with female incidents
potential concurrence ended in demons
and symbolically is always the steel void inhabited by number
number generator is a prehistoric totem of Hermetic spiral of noise not sacred
these promised things of gospel unconscious
equivalent to A desperation to commit the shifting potentialities
occult observers in ancient animall happiness
them unknown and betwixt the contrary envisioning
briefly the spiders opened the column of dreamed souls
As They deposit phenomena in every seventh diamond
'operational blueprint of mental manifestation
John says something mad And Hebrew
management is dark microcosm’
smaller Images generated by secondary entities
ˈkʁaɪzə pronounced mother’ the same hole which horses shared
vulgar fog the will to level their tangible being
compressing behind unperceptive association of number and Lord
regional principalities of incapable reality points to the living time of His defunct grace and sign
splendor the death of Leo and the humanized Sciences
the gesture grandmother regularly perform s the same perfect approach and purpose
the insipid daylit justice Evangelists jerking to nightingale nightmares
shuddering neuroses lurk in the yellow Hour of murmured Man
always in caves and green with complex distractions
the purpose I’ve no grasp of
the shudder and the pattern
inversion persisted and Now smallest Autumn enters Later Ambiguity
the plural relation is lost and inconceivable
numbers persist in whiteness and fourfold topographical fire
alchemy As the golden LED which is However a damned whiteman light
the Minerall ambiguity passed with smoke and red infernal horses
The gate is Still Numbers
the features formed in frequent NOTICE
clumsy stasis to glow or darkness stunts recurrence
and signifies his secret value in Animal motif

Re: Melzer

Straussian "esoteric reading" indicates something akin to a "perennial philosophy" (Huxley) permeating the philosophic tradition; our modern literal/superficial readings take the garment for the true content (mistakenly). In the same way, Strauss's superficial political activity is taken by many to represent his true significance, ignoring what Melzer demonstrates as his actual import and value--again, superficiality leads people like myself to be "warned away" from Strauss on the basis of irrelevant details (note my own reticence on seeing Bill Kristol thanked in the opening acknowledgements--we are far too affected by irrelevancies).

what it is, etc.

you struggle to hammer words into the music, but you must, right, because the voice and the words & thoughts voiced are so essential to the higher gestalt, right--right? but it never rattles off into deep kruggian windings, no, you can't work out more than a bare framework supporting a single sentiment, the notion is minimal, limited. its only a thin outline of an obscure feeling, you lean on repetition, muttering the same two-note phrase in groups of four. the leanness of your verbage is akin to the specificity of the music itself, the music coming and going in throw-away fits, each song a container for one passing mood, emitted in the moment, sculpted for an hour, packed away and forgotten, uploaded and barely noted. the words and the sounds are all in miniature, all time-stamped and committed to the instant of their emergence and no more. it all flows like some uneventful weather, spontaneous and forgettable, outpoured from your anonymous aetheric haze and always of no consequence, like atmosphere, like breeze.

losing what--

noting that by the varied methods of measurement one has Naught to show for all-thus-far;

and said realization nagging, persistent kick;

and your own defense for what-you-do beginning to break down, becoming no longer valid within the private limit of your own reckoning (and this was your only secure holding, this precarious thread);

and all again heading (limping) toward the Old Inevitable;

motivated by failure, by debt;

and it's all rather tiresome;

and those last little sparks are going out.

in my head there's a city @ nite

Re-Turn to Re-Read

You have to continually go back and re-read those 'Monumental Texts,' due to your shoddy psyche working ever-diligently to repress the Troubling Revelations inscribed therein.

“The struggle between poetry and prose is a constant in my life. If you obey the poetic impulse, you risk becoming unreadable. If you disobey, you’re ready for a career as an honest ‘storyteller.’”

childe drawland

Hilarity Noted Not, Not--

a reviewer of gaddis' collected non-fiction states--

and although I still find them [The Recognitions/JR] hilarious satires, I'm starting to doubt the penetration of the thought behind the comedy.

having come upon this before, as with commentaries on Pynchon, etc., i find i am often adrift from this viewpoint, wherein one sees the essence in Satire, in Humor. yes, i understand that those elements are present, but my perception barely registers the comedic, when i'm in communion with these certain authors.

it's more like, in my reading, i'm bypassing those 'lighter' attributes in a, ah yes, Desperate hunt for the, uhm, Philosophical, the, yes'm well, the Wisdom, so to--say...

and i could care less about satire, humor, i let it lie there unengaged, quickly passed over because what i want and what i need is The Lesson, The Maxim, the Tell-Me-How-to-Live and the Tell-Me-How-to-See...

as with The Recognitions, see, that's a deadly serious text for me, it's all very grave and somewhat-morbidly resonant, so to speak of hilarity, well, There's Not Time Enough For That, etc.---

Widening  grounds for a school of trance, mesmeric intonations to prime the young ones--

I am so happy
I am so happy
Today--

So chanted and learned, committed to memory, enchantment through affirmation, the ever more expansive reach of a multisensory school of trance--

Public Burning (2)

Reading Coover's treatment of Nixon, fictionalized, giving him a sort of Learish weight (gravity), it comes to mind, to take up the task of sculpting likewise, a treatment of My Nixon, the sweet-souled Gumdrop Prince hisself, O' W.--

[Of course, though, having to note, that we [I] are [am] of the lineage of Coleridge, as it pertains to the mental conjuration of Great Works in embryo, persistently left to miscarry, dissolve, undone, unwritten--]

It seems some sort of necessity, or eternal recurrence, that each age (or Author) will have its specific tyrant, whether Nixon, Nero, Nebuchadnezzar, etc. etc.--

Certainly, in those years, W. inscribed hisself on this soul, mine, littering so many--too many--book margins, his shade invoked to curry the relevance, the resonance--and this is a sort of indignity now, to look at those books, and see the obsessive trackings of W.'s movement, his grace, going to and fro and up and down upon my meager library--

But it would be sort of, what, fun (?)--to perform a bit of tikkunim on that tawdry half-shame, to give that past and presence a bit of polish, to elevate it, remold it into something a bit, eh, deeper than a mere Princely Bumbling, as mystically odd as all of that still is, to think of it (and that, of course, needing to be an element, perhaps revamped and repurposed as some sort of queer dissimulation, for purposes, what, esoteric? --or otherwise hazy, hidden....)--

5-0-

Why is it, that 'The Fifties,' in America, are adorned with a sort of golden-age-y pastoral legacy, when reading something like Coover's The Public Burning makes it quickly obvious that even there, tensions were ever flaring, the body politic was aswarm with snarl and bite, etc.--

And people know, everyone knows, of McCarthy, Korea, etc.--yet the Arcadian mirage persists, as a sort of mental shorthand, even among leftists who should know better--

Like with the misconception, also so popular and cherished, that a dream can offer the lived experience of a lifetime, of lifetimes, within a single night--

These myths, these fallacies, like a kind of unthinking sentimental shorthand--

Designs in Cancellation Are Stitched for Shoddy Carpets

Nopenheimer surveys a figure there on the barren landscape, This Kid Russ in the act of repudiating the Trinity--and off the cuff of the weakened winds they can hear, the muttered half-moans aloft--

I have become Nixnaw,
Aborter of Works...

The Tyrannical, The Flat, The Simple, The What--

There is a certain mode of communication--speech, uttered or written--you can see it in the Reverend Gwyon, in the Consul Firmin, in Wyatt (or Stefan, or otherwise Unnameable--)--

(in some transcribed memory bank, tattered old abandoned site, when there were one or two, who spoke eclectic--)

--a lively mode, highly literary, bordering on the mystical, or perhaps just obscure, but desired just the same, whether esoteric or plainly erratic--

(such a mode to shame the rest, the sort, what was it, stenographic speech, the daily-everyday-mundane-bleak, all of it just a dull tyranny shouting down those elusive bits, the rare creatures skirting in, out, ever dimming with lostness, elusive--)

--which is the wanted type, because it excites, it begs interpretation, and--this being key--the interpretations are in the vein of literary interpretation, symbols cryptic, some of that precious-because-rare mystery, and, like--

(and had we met it, maybe once, twice, then dodged down, took-off-and-gone, lingering only as memory-residual, lost spark, and so then, so now, pressed out, eliminated, overcome--yes, by this, the everyday, the stenographic--)

--and to see it in this wayward slope of the three or so 'Key Authors,' yes and giving thanks, that they are there, that this exists, for you to read, but likewise, same-time, the recurrence [eternal] of a note of bitterness, to recall that you had broached it once, twice, not on the page, not in story, but hereabouts, in this, this Real Life, ah, you knew it, once-twice-what?--so we think, right, to dimly recall, those sites--

Otherwise awash in, again, this, the stenographic, the uninspired, surrounding--

Fronts with no backs to them, exo- vaunting victorious over eso-, gloom-dyed Normal, repressive Apparent, threatened now, these days, only by these texts, these tales, from that fiery resilient so-rare slope, that three-pointed semi-straight segment, our link, via Lowry-Gaddis-Pynchon, in defiance of the, ahem, Real, so they, they are there--

But is it enough, one wonders, somber-shaded desperate wonder, of those three, alighting the only apparent alternative, to, what, all this--

Ending in sigh, in Ehhh..., 'midst this, this so-much, the stenographic....