Retraining the Populus.
Every part and parcel of the high knowledge is necrophilic, but no results are found in the search for "defecations of
light" which massive defecations that pose as light constitute a major combat of
angels. Like the whistle blower who was to reveal reptile practices but canceled because he said it would do more harm than good, the fear is that people would be so repulsed that the revelation would refute itself.
So
inimical to us that we can only address it in metaphor, the celebration in Tolkien and romantic
sagas, such a term as dragon blood is a metaphor neither dragon nor blood, coined by the same forces of dragon that create them. Reptile
blood is the generic and the portal of
the Novus
ordo seclorum is its anus, which anatomical model of the journey down
references eyes, mouths, bloodstreams, then intestines in the
Malbolge. Dante's enigmatic passage of entry into the Malbolge about what point he
must have passed, disgusted, is appropriately clear (Canto
XXXI), as if what would be in the scheme of schools and higher orders of learning, with arks of diamonds streaming in
meteors across the sky, were feces streaming Secret Doctrine and mystery religion, Atlantis, Stonehenge, black holes, Bermuda
Triangle, sun worship.
Enoch says the fallen assume "many
different forms in defiling mankind and lead them astray into sacrificing to
demons as gods" (I.19). Feces of rocket ships out of alien portals, spiral
portals of snake gateways in the sky take the
multidimensional wisdom of the Malebolge as the sum of all occult wisdom; it is a
reverse toilet that flushes its refuse into our world, though up and down mean
little in dimensional settings, where a toilet bowl is worn as a fish hat. The
bowl flushed into our noosphere does not transmit diamonds of light, but waste
to defile, for the true diamond, the true gold is what we already have on earth
that Nephilim want for themselves. Both bowl and hat are up and down depending on
how worn, but the "wisdom" is polluted. Waste away!
Nephilim are second only to the fallen angel eidolon
in these deceits, whose universe is behind ours and needs to open such portals to
come through. The
largest scientific consortiums of the world sponsor these entemenaki-
baba-alu, the opening of Abzu, gate of hell-torn immortals. The Ninth Circle is reserved for that faculty of intellect joined with
brute force and evil will. The coming through is to be en masse, a digestion gone wrong, a corporate
structure, a mass evacuation of
mustard parts. Rulers, kings and scientists make deals
with these portals because they think to gain access to the immortal life of published Nephilim designs. These designs
mask as the golden age: good weather, three harvests, long life, which, being translated, means
immorality, chemtrails and GMO food, with a bonus thrown in as voice to skull technology called inner wisdom. This is the "light" of Satan's
intestine broadcast into earth. It is alimentary Mr. Watson. These are the defecation angels, apologies to Jack.
PupPoets are heroes of this unworld of undigested giants.
They speak for Giants who might be compared to alien
farmers who grow PupPoets to serve and eat, as well as the general
populace to consume. It puts a whole new sense on food. If we understand it is more the mind than meat
they seek, the more is eaten the more they need, but then new planets are required to
devour. Giants aren't space aliens. They are endemic to earth to
glorify space exploration to spread the disease.
It's not as if poets couldn't think of anything else to write.
Perversion, lust and dissolution spill. "Stated boldly," one tweeter said: "Today's Troy is Freudian in myth, Jungian in archetype and pagan in scene,
a surrealist combo of dreamlike change." There's no freedom of expression or inspiration in that, or dictation of the divine. It is the hydrocephalic obesity that death embodied long before. On Mt. Hermon at Baal Peor Spit-lust desolation angels, princes of desolation were lords. Mount Cognentis Olympus Solipsis. This imaginative poverty spreads in writer's work and ilk. In the Book of Giants, and plenteously in Enoch,
"the land is crying out," that giants are offspring of the defecation
angels. Those angels' lust made "every animal, every bird [a target] for
miscegenation (Book of Giants, 1Q23 Frag), "the outcome of demonic corruption, violence, perversion, and a brood of monstrous beings. Compare Genesis 6.4)." Oh dear. Writers surrender to the apocalyptic constant of their Troy, the excavation which convenes at the Troy Horse Neptune War Roundup, The Palms of David and The Book of Kurk Wold [where all OOks and Orcs] hold this view. PO-EATS-here!
We
abstract the topology of the
human torso to space, the planet Liver, the satellite fart, the comet
fingernail, or from the rides at Disneyland, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride,
Pirates of
the Caribbean, Haunted Mansion, Alpine Matterhorn, not just digestive
allegories that follow the
underworld/gastrointestine theme, except the soul within the body
is the Inferno. So many space names come from myth. Why has
hell moved to the
planets in scientific discovery? Paradise
could as easy be there. Amaranthus might bloom, or Salvia. It suggests in space discovery a ruse afoot to deceive,
with the bare exception of the moons of Uranus named for the characters of Shakespeare, Miranda, Ariel, Umbriel,
Titania, and Oberon, as if the localities of Phlegathon, Archeron,
Styxeron were a damned development of Birnam Wood, with streets like Bloody
Hands, Serpent Underneath and N'er Be Clean to neighbor nearing Dunsinane. It tells more about
the namer than the thing. Surely
they have plans to unveil a new psychology planet, Oedipal Complex,
Medusa, Medea, Murderous BiPolar, before they get round to naming them for the
denominations of BitCoin.
But to face these substitutes is not the tyranny of Greece
over Germany, or Philo over Hegel. It
doesn't matter whether canonizers of the accepted, the good, the true and the beautiful, are talking about Shelley, Byron, Keats,
Whitman, Wordsworth, Dickinson, Dickens or Crane, the canons of order declare
them righteous as planets, in whom, if you will pardon the descending rungs
of this analogy, the cousins of astronomers, critics unleash the
unrelenting dementias of hell. The inevitable return of our thought upon
ourselves in every case of literature, physics and astronomy is obvious simply in the way
planetary and psychological landscapes are named in the 181 natural
satellites. Astronomical convention names
its bodies in a Plutonian system of mythological Greek and Roman deities,
demons and geography of the Underworld. The moons of Jupiter were named for
characters in the life of the demon Zeus, but why should the
Jupiter be so named. "Following tradition is strongly
encouraged!" say the NASA authorities. Not that this is any different from
calling Uranus and Neptune the Ice Giants, as if they were taken from the mythology of the
Abenaki with Caucasoid glee. But what tradition is that? The nephilim! What
about the Gas Giants? Scientists reserve that for themselves.
Most of Jupiter is filled by an underground sea that so squashes its hydrogen
you can drink it, so they belly up also there.
The gods and their wisdom
powers, Adam Kadmon, idol of this invention and Blake's Albion,
are other guards in this prison. The illusion is that there was a pagan
diaspora and the Romantic poets idea of the gods returns, "they will
return, the gods for whom you weep." But they never left. That they
revived as the illumined Kadmon is false because they never left,
but always ruled in the fashion of their illusion. Every spot, every couch in
the bower of science and philosophy, oh poetry what have you there, is a
Delfica of Apollo, ode to the oracle sport of Skynet - Space Fence
Blake's Tyger was his system of mind forged manacles in
this myth-science, a commonplace
perhaps. Geoffrey Hartman's affection for the notion in his latter day, delivered the
statement that the misprison of our imaginative powers, the exploitation and
institutionalization of human fears about them...Mankind, a self-bound
Prometheus, exudes the "net of religion" from the guts of his own
imagination and, taking the gods literally, worshiping these invented giants,
becomes entangled in the net. (Scars of the Spirit, 152).
To amend this concept of institutionalization, imagination reveals a
far worse state than the imprisoning of religion and state. Instead, we face a
vast illusion of evil masked as a good, and this is exemplified in the idols and stars of all
human institutions, the Queen of England and all the way down, but masked by
a good, uninvented but mirrored utter evil through and through. By its own perverted justification of itself it requires itself to give open clues of its
contempt and desecration of all good. So with the statement, all institutions
are demonic (Hedges, Tillich), and the knowledge that all journalism is
disinformation along with scientific research and philosophy, we are setup for the
annihilation of the human. Two terms above need redefinition, gods
and invented giants, which redefinition briefly is that gods are nephilim and giants
are their progeny along with Men of Renown of Genesis 6. Of that same text which
Hartman generally alludes to in such phrases called "censorious monotheisms,"
that "recent scholarship has questioned the assumption that ethical
monotheism is a spiritual advance" (Scars, 153),
Levinas says is a deceit of morality. If we pull aside the veil cast over
institutions, science and literature, as we must do now before the illusion of
freedom is completely caught in the net of these demons, we must urge not
censorship of the gods, but their annihilation. And that right early! (Psalm
46).
In the middle years of
these wars of the gods comes an image out of Winslow Homer, a man in rowboat on a dark sea who
appeared, buffeted at the bottom of a rectangle of storm clouds that swirled
with twisted faces. Supercharged as the War
of Neptune to concoct deception of the Bohemian Grove-Mammon-Ishtar-Isis
killers, suddenly the whole image was rent down the middle, destroyed by a
figure of light, a man. These forces had raged over my citation of the
proposition, to them gave he the power to become the sons of God. I was
reciting this New Testament psalm as these surrounded me, as if it were Psalm 8
of the Old. I cannot exactly say what they were, these phantoms, spirits
in the night. Defending against the attacks, but not happily or utterly,
the only proper defense being their annihilation, right in the middle of this
psalm-saying, I called out the name of Jesus (the Blessed). In an instant there
was such peace that my son's chow, an overnight guest, came and lay beside my
bed. Such peace I have not felt in sleep for years, stillness and peace that I
carry along with the Blessed. Not for the first do I think we under
estimate the man and woman if these images come in their sight, or wonder how
they are so prepared to fight.
Satanists and
illusionists train their children in ritual and pain-divided alters from before
birth. Christians do not but await the spirit to turn the hearts of the
children toward the Father. Free will they will call it. Many are called, few are
chosen. Antagonists of these children cry foul every time repayment falls upon them, and
that's how the world will end, to general applause from wits who think it's a
joke. Then the burglars who claim to be pacifists will inhabit a controlled
universe which they ordain, self-initiated burglars, but the Christian gets no
sort of "hel" "p," is just left to be and to be. These
swirling spirits which he can't see, Screwtape live, Pilgrims's
Progress or Dante Inferno take off in image and fact, whatever that
is, not fiction, but real. Then the man calls on the name of the Blessed and
the heavens cleanse and he is flooded with peace. It makes you think more is
going on than meets the eye, as if the appalling human evils and inquisitions
and archipelagos were not enough, but that all asylums, prisons are modeled
upon the fallen spirits of these Neptunean kings. Spiritual wickedness in
high places. We're a lot more important than we think we are. here
In all this the bishops of Lit like to speak of the literary canon,
themselves the canonizers, who form a church after the Roman style where
those they let in have all the mark of saints, universal, descriptive,
miracles, the works, while in the main these bishops disbelieve any
authority other or greater than themselves. These are the elohim
priests, fish gods of Dagon crowned idol. Their works are swordship,
casting in and out, building up and taking down. They mightily
disbelieve an author other than their true nephilim. "Milton's
Counterplot" in Geoffrey Hartman's Critic Journey shows Hartman
much the devout believer in canon, even if against his wishes, for
Hartman rationally loves Milton's thought and sees the interplay of its
images without having to decimate its smooth sky.
"Angel forms, who lay intrans't
Thick as Autumnal Leaves..."
The created world is a Shelter against the fallen sons of God and their
giant egregoroi, these inverted demonic "brushed with the hiss" who the
"belated Peasant sees," that "careful Plowman." All the more reason for
these fallen to demolish the shelter of creation in the councils of
their stranglet cabinets. It was not such of old: "Paradise Lost was written
not for the sake of heaven or hell but for the sake of the
creation...whether man can stand though free to fall, whether man and
the world can survive their autonomy." (Journey, 118)
I find it
saddening that the things Hartman wanted to know and extract from the poets
with his huge erudition denied him direct access, for it cannot be known by
study or thought. He quotes Stevens wistfully, and Blake and Wordsworth who he
knew so well. He was drawn to "the mysteries of biblical figures
that had to shoulder the burden of a divine election (3), ...literary
sublimities I could not live up to, even in maturity." I feel his
separation from himself and from the emotion he does not have for the readings
of Midrash or Psalms, "I hear only the void shouting back." "I
adopted myself out to the words blowing in the wind and insights that detached
themselves from what I read" (Scholar's Tale, 147). Hartman says he
wanted to write "beyond the middle style" (A Scholar's Tale,
152). He was unwilling to give up a visionary kind of verse, but was a realist,
not a Baptist who takes the kingdom
of God by force. He
wanted "to stand in the presence--a wish that has never left me. I have
kept a belief in the possibility of a direct line to the truth, if only through
the medium of literature" (8). He says to his seminar that it might take
all their time to unpack "strange fits of passion I have known" but
he outwardly looks in.
In those fits, leaving Wordsworth alone with Annette, could be all the
embarrassing moments he seeks apology for in his colleagues' Nazi lapses, if by
that is understood their betrayal of the canons of righteousness commonly held,
and not the impiety of Blake snatching the angel away to view the bottomless.
Blake shows disregard for convention entirely, slaps it down, impugns it
royally, as if his doctoral candidates would go utterly stoned into their orals
after making love for the hours before. Indeed the premature Absolute Hartman
likens Medusa to a historical reality, a Medusa if you like of Chemtrails or
digital backdoors. I think he rationalizes as the "the ideal of
immediacy" itself the "direct intuition of reality," which he
cannot apprehend (35). Medusa, whether our historical reality or inner
archetype is the uninitiated conspiracy of paganism of the self.
Because of Hartman's association with Bloom I looked up that Department of One,
as he considers himself, whose love of kabbalah must inspire his love of comparing
Merrill and Yeats and his gemetria, "six is the perfect number," he
says for days of creation, just as far off, for there were seven days of
creation and the seventh the most important of all. Somewhere both Bloom and
Hartman confess with a little regret that they are not poets, but they are word
smiths. Bloom says "I summoned metalepsis," I rewrought Kenosis,
I called apophrades, (Anatomy of Influence, 194) like some
Prospero or Faustus he blinks, which shows the deeper nature of his possession.
To call a literary critic possessed might be the best compliment he ever gets.
If you're a scholar you have to
pretend you believe in the zietgeist, in Barthes, deconstructs, new critics,
going back and in their kosherness, lioke Loch Ness, of Curtius, Auerbach,
Wellek, you know the kind, the masters of mind, not quite Herman Wouk or James
Watt or Creel who cast doubt on the whole paradigm of anti-lit, anti word and
want to uphold the word. It's almost as if Yale got a stipend from DARPA to
further disconnect humanity from its sources in order to deconstruct the
genome, and now, famously the mind, rat mind meld.
How far and to what end Bloom gives in
to his daimonia is questioned with his praise of the Satanic in Shelley and
Yeats, whether daimon in the Greek is the muse at all, or whether the muse of
Milton, Urania say, is something altogether different, opposites. When Bloom
speaks of the ruins of Sacred Texts (Truths) it is really sacred subjects in
poetry, especially Milton
he is after, by all means to exalt the character of Satan, pretty old hat since
Blake and his imitators.
Hartman wants to save the sacred even if he feels duty
bound to give the devil a due date. He was denied the community of worship into
adulthood so does not feel the joy of worship in his devotion that he says his
wife does. Still he wants to keep faith with the words, "the possibility
that there was an original meaning or a specific and authoritative act of
designation" He is a sad wrestler who asks "where did that
authority, that performative strength come from?"(Third Pillar,
31), where that "truth claim of the Bible, that Auerbach says is so imperious
that reality...is not dwelt upon" (30). Hartman admits that all his doubt
upon text and author from Barthes and on stems from German 19th century higher
criticism of the Bible which "analyzed a unified, authorless narrative
into its redacted and blended strands" (28) at least that is what is
taught by its scholars. He cites Gunkel, who thought the psalms and Abraham
never practically existed, and Speiser, more destroyers of the sacred text and
fathers of Barthes. He cites numbers 15 through 18 of Propp's list of the
components of the fairy tale, just to show that he's not going to give in
easily to loving the Word, as if he werewolfing a survey of evil interpretations
of Jacob's wrestling with the angel. In such thinking, by the frequency
of citation, he would believe much more in the Redactor, than in either author,
truth, or word, let alone the Father of all. But he does not believe in the werewolf as Bloom does, who is a good example of nephilim thought, all dazzle bedazzle,
pick it up and hide:
"One labyrinth in which the Father, Minotaur-like, can be slain, is the
Gnostic model adopted by learned skeptics from Denis Saurat to A. D. Nuttall. I
am reasonably certain that you can associate Sir Henry Vane's and the Muggletonians'
Inner Light with Milton's
temple-of-one, but Kabbalah and Ophite Gnosticism remain remote from the
shadowy abyss of Paradise Lost." (Anatomy of Influence, 107) [If that bit doesn't make you smile you've lost all good humor.]
The coruscation of this light
decays as it shines. Truly a prepossessing state of the nephilim, critic Bloom
reminds of someone going to see a film who first reads up in the classic
film books what the opinions are and afterward spouts them as his own. This
instead of just looking at the film for himself. Bloom has an Anxiety
of Influence, as he says, a deep insecurity that unleashes extraordinary
energy as does any fission, but is lost because his world is spinning too
fast. All this passes in the pic of Bloom at 84
with the flesh swatted off his face except there substance begins to emerge. Vain corrupt influence as the covering
cherub depends on your view, whether Lucifer or Satan covers, but since they are
the same, the notion that the poet/critic occupies a Throne so covered and is
hence his own deity is another instance of the presumed. Get your
hand off that girl's fly, Bloom.
I come to all this grateful for a chance
to understand civilization in its highest and best thoughts, marginally anyway,
for I was never the companion or even had discussions with these sensibilities
outside of entering the holies with JCC III in graduate school. Geoffrey
Hartman may be an example of one who has known them all. He cites Christopher
Smart several times in his Scholar's Tale for his poetry that would pierce
"the screen Twist thing and word...language straight from the soul."
Smart's life would not be sought as a trade off for this. Hartman says he would
"consider that [the poet] a mad and heroic endeavor beyond" (84)
himself, but I have loved Smart from first contact, and am glad he is given an
almost admission into the canon, like the fox going across the stream who gets
his tail wet, the last hexagram of the I Ching, Almost There.
All the understanding I have of philosophy and criticism comes from wrestling
with poetic issues first hand, so only because of that and not from brilliant
study do I recognize their importance when Hartman cites the oblique circuitry,
the history of trash, the extracanonical, multidirectional reading, thesaurus
of old stories and fantasies against the scientifically correct. This is so well said. To me that
demonstrates that we ourselves are capable of ourselves. Of course I admit to
being kindled to all this thought, otherwise it were for naught. One
explanation of my absence from academic discourse is that those faculties are so
desperately dull and self consumed.
He cites Numbers 11 that "would that
all the Lord's people were prophets." Mr. Hartman loves Blake because of Blake's direct apprehension, but to question the
visionary company of the Romantics, poetry is removed from direct
access, which is not in words, but to "walk in the light of your presence oh
Lord, we rejoice in your Name all day long, we exult in your
righteousness." Of course this fine gentleman sought this Existence, but I
get to live through his last four books the gemütlichkeit I forfeited to
live the estranged life of direct access. Hartman's "wish
to be affirmed, to stand in the presence--a wish that has never left me... a belief in the possibility of a direct line to the truth, if only through
the medium of literature" (Scholar's Tale, 8). He cites Stevens
that the great poem of earth is still to come. The interlingual cues that make
him aware of similarities (124), the minimalism of a memory trigger that
can produce by sonic accident some associational string, the realia, the sound
value of words he locates in Smart's literal, "sound reasoning." The
first two notions I hold of verbal obscurity are of the Elizabethans who were
obscure, especially Donne, and Herbert, even if they're not Elizabethans.
The poets are always read after their deaths, and not only the letters of their
ancestors are remaking their lives as we live. The second of obscurity is the
inevitable conclusion of conspiracy that if the work does not serve the
foreordained purposes of hierarchy then it must be obscured, although to
what purpose, when it can be easily ignored, one knows not. Is the apple cart
that insecure that it might overturn this modern phenom since '45, shall we say
from the beginning of cloning?
Delusions of
psychiatry occur in the search for divine archetypes. It turns more desperate when allegorists seek the prepotent word. Stop right there. Poets wanted in piecing the cowl! Robert Frost's cowl at birth, James Merrill's (David Jackson) Ouija, Charles Olson's peyote chips. No wonder they take mind altering drugs, practice magic -- poets want to Break on through where the subtext is connect with the power pre Sumerian nephilim. Resuming this
sacred demented theurgy, the oracle and its imitatio dei, sacred
dramas of the Washington Monument impregnate the Capitol Dome. Imitators of the gods hold guru asps to their bosom, pretend they are Isis. Does Blake
overthrow metaphysics to stand naked in the universe the way he
was made? Never. He is clothed in Delphic laboratories of world peace.
Broken texts. Broken texts are relied upon as a ritual almost, clay sculptures fall off the table, sink, implode, having been
pushed too far. Any number of disasters befall so it can become an active means of composition, which at least ensnares freshness and unexpected spontaneity
to the work. To apply this to writing makes a broken text. But to apply it to clay, a pot I tried to make after it got pushed too far and
totally fell, the deal is that the clay still has to be used, so it got
made into a large protuberant figure to be called Molly or Maggie. Maybe I think intuition in the nature of clay is like the hyper grammatical, each jot and tittle even mathematical. But no, to me language is sound and sounds skewed, consonant assonant meanings
misspelled with punlike contextual corporate collective meanings along with image yes,
but of the sound itself, therefore flowing and changing as the clay that falls forms the pot. There
are two of these, the other, still to be fired, came as a result of a
failed tapestry, then cut in half and formed as such.
When Stephen Spender says it is in the Seen that word poems remind us of some other inner state, I think of the phrase, to walk in the light of Your presence. Whole books and long meditations try to plumb this meaning as the same phrase continues and builds, to
rejoice in your name all day long. There are multiple envelops
of experience that contain the letter, the word, the sound, the grammar. This is so much more than literal that it exists in the song upon the
bed all night long that David wrote about and the song when awakening that feeds the brook, the stream, the spring that recedes from consciousness in day but
surges again in night and plays, sings, murmurs, shines all during the instruction of sleep that is the instruction all night long. Spender gets at this experience of language as the ground Heidegger is after, not philosophical, it is the song in the night, not
poetical even, it is much more. I both participate in and view the simultaneous
presentation of these events when waking. Enormous to express, they are simultaneous and rotate in the mind with
clarity, welcome insights that feel good to see and know. If I did not
make this note the process would be gone from conscious memory. Hartman's
Heidegger calls "for a liberation of hermeneutics from its dependency on
texts...it is Being itself, according to Heidegger, not the text that
"calls" to us in those poets." This is what Spender is after. However the meaning
exists and whether it calls to us like
the new birth, and we hear the sound thereof but know not whence it comes or
wither it goes, the text provokes the meaning and meaning makes the text
grow so that it is a new birth, which becomes a song:
"He was in the world and the world was made by Him
and the world knew Him not.
He came unto His own and his own received Him, not,
but to as many as received Him,
to as many as received Him,
To as many as received Him
to them gave he the power,
to them gave He the Pow-er
to become the sons of God!
(added to Methods of Unconscious), "To Walk in the light of your presence, rejoice in your Name, exult in
your righteousness. Psalm 89.15. The light of His presence is not the light of the heavens, defamed by the man of earth and the fallen. I got up to give water to Zion in the night. I
rescued her when she went over the cliff on her chain. The presence is what we see by and that orders our lives. The sun,
defamed in the heavens by the nephilim fallen, the annunaki Sumerian spirit hose rats, is
the Day star that rises in our hearts, a symbol of the one who made it, as
Zechariah says, "the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on
those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the
path of peace" (Luke 1 78,9).
Psalm 149: The children of Zion joyful in their king, sing upon their
beds high praises, swords execute vengeance to bind kings, nobles with iron, and
this honor have all saints.
I said Theo had marks of character in his face and beauty.
Sabrina said, what's the difference? Beauty can be corrupted, character not.
Psalm 149: He will beautify the meek with salvation.
One
microchip away occurs the war that redoubles meaning like the retelling of the giving of the Law, the second strike of the Rock. As if to say, bye bye homo sap. This brings us
to the odd Malaprop that everything touted as true is false, Sinai, that doubles itself but must have revelation mediated by an angel, poet, priest or critic. Hence what
is not celebrated of what is said to be false is true. Suddenly we
are
surrounded by flat earths and worse, but better that than every
shibboleth science and media project, meaning literally everything
hybrid you can name, with evolution, relativity....
When Psalm 119 says Thy Word is a lamp, it meditates upon this word over
and over, so that when such apostles as are say to sing spiritual songs and
psalms in your hearts all day long, that meditation of the word grows in
appreciation. For David this word was Torah, for the unfolding meditation it is
all the prophets and writings too, language filled with the songs of hearts
that bless and sustain. David had Torah, we have David, and we have Isaiah
and Daniel and all the history and biography of the sacred to meditate and we
have the gospels and the letters too. So our meditation is complete. When that
word says, because he loves me says Yahve I will rescue him, I will protect
him because he acknowledges My Name, or, I will surround him with songs of
deliverance, these are the strength of a life. Hence, Blessed are those who
have learned to acclaim him, who walk in the light of the presence Yahweh. We
rejoice in your name all day long...in your name and your word as the Psalm
says, we rejoice for its own sake and because by your favor you have exalted
our horn. We are exalted in spirit, joy, peace. Blessing and love overflow us
as we walk. Being so led He leads, to lie down, he leads beside still waters,
he leads me, he restores. His rod and staff comfort me. He prepares a table...
this goes on and on in the songs and spiritual psalms that surround and deliver
us.
This bio
note: Geoffrey Hartman was born in Frankfurt,
Germany in 1929 and was
placed on a Kindertransport to England
in 1939, where he spent six years on the Waddeston estate of James Rothschild
with 19 other boys. He did not attend the reunion
of the Cedars Boys in 1983 at the Rothschild estate. There is no reason to
think that
this is why.
Both at Iowa and Texas I was invited to join circles of the intellect
and literarti, which means get into bed with them literally, which I was not
constituted to do, seeing it be the greatest of distractions, what they call in
the underground levels soul scalping. How far and how wide the inbred
dissolution goes is not hard to discern; faculties are pretty small towns,
precursors of digital neighborhoods where when all human feeling has been
drained and operators no longer process sensation they can spray cannabis on
their patootie, applied directly, consume DMT or more earnestly powdered white
gold. Did ya ever notice how much a fig leaf looks like a cannabis? No fig wants that, or merchants want the siege.
It was in
Geoffrey Hartman's class that first semester at Iowa I entered the intuitive way in writing
an essay on the Tyger. He had begun the class with a several session
meditation of Collins, Ode on Poetical Character, handed out to read. It
was my first graduate class. I remember puzzling about Collin's logic and
expression in his Ode as much as Hartman was from the front of the room, filled
with coats and boots and scarves.The first assignment was to pick a poem of
Blake and write about it, no other restrictions. For no reason I remember I sat
down that weekend with the Tyger and gradually emerged with, as if the poem
opened up, a vista of Blake's system. The essay was to be four pages but
mine was closer to six, which I achieved by compressing 1 1/2 spacing with a
small elite typewriter.
for
the book of the creation of the world
Planetary astroarchaeologies, Electric universe, NASA
Satellite Blue Beam Projection
HAARP
Chem trail geoengineering
the Pope and the President political engineering
Jesuit, Masonic, NSA, CIA social engineering
Drugs, EM rads, Alpha states
MK Ultra, DARPA
Beta
testing Methodical Illusion
Scientific experiments 7th level Dulce, Denver
Underground bases, cities
Know for sure these things are all
grossly horrified that in our time those fallen gods come back to whisper,
then shout their obscenities over the high places. These massive
defecations that pose as light constitute a major combat of angels. Every
part and parcel of the high knowledge is necrophilic, but no results are found
in the search for "defecations of light." Like the
whistle blower who was to reveal the reptile practices but cancel because he
said it would do more harm than good, the fear is that people would so
repulsive at these practices that the revelation would refute itself. To say
this is so repulsive is its own refutation. Such a term as dragon blood is a
metaphor if we get the meaning, for it is neither dragon nor blood. It is so
inimical to us that we can only address it in metaphor, all the more
precarious since its celebration in Tolkien and every such romantic saga,
written by the same forces of dragon that create them. Reptile blood is the
generic. To call it what it is.
Whose digestive system is so disturbed and what has it
consumed? Oh do not ask what is it? The portal of the Novus ordo seclorum
is its anus, which anatomical model of the journey down references eyes,
mouths, bloodstreams, then intestines (the Malbolge). Then Dante's enigmatic
passage into the Malbolge about what point he must have passed, disgusted, is
appropriately clear (Canto XXXI), as if what would be in the scheme of schools
and higher orders of learning arks of diamonds streaming in meteors across the
sky were feces. Secret Doctrine and mystery religion dictating Atlantis,
Stonehenge, black holes, Bermuda Triangle, sun worship?
Enoch says the fallen assume "many different
forms in defiling mankind and lead them astray into sacrificing to demons as
gods" (I.19). Feces of rocket ships out of alien portals, spiral portals
of snake gateways in the sky take the multidimensional wisdom of the Malebolge
as the sum of all occult wisdom; it is a reverse toilet that flushes its refuse
into our world, though up and down mean little in dimensional settings, where a
toilet bowl is worn as a fish hat. The bowl flushed into our noosphere
does not transmit diamonds of light, but waste to defile, for the true diamond,
the true gold is what we already have on earth that Nephilim want for
themselves. Both bowl and hat are up and down depending on how worn, but the
"wisdom" is polluted. Waste away! Nephilim are second only to the
fallen angel eidolon in these deceits, whose universe is behind ours and needs
to open such portals to come through.
The largest scientific consortiums of the
world sponsor these entemenaki- baba-alu, the opening of Abzu, gate of
hell-torn immortals. The Ninth Circle is reserved for that faculty of intellect
joined with brute force and evil will. The coming through is to be en masse, a digestion
gone wrong, a corporate structure, a mass evacuation of mustard parts. Rulers,
kings and scientists make deals with these portals because they think to
gain access to the immortal life of published Nephilim designs. These designs
mask as the golden age: good weather, three harvests, long life, which, being
translated, means immorality, chemtrails and GMO food, with a bonus thrown in
as voice to skull technology called inner wisdom. This is the "light"
of Satan's intestine broadcast into earth. It is alimentary Mr. Watson. These
are the defecation angels, apologies to Jack.
PupPoets are heroes of this unworld of undigested giants. They
speak for Giants who might be compared to alien farmers who grow PupPoets to
serve and eat, as well as the general populace to consume. It puts a whole new
sense on food. If we understand it is more the mind than meat they seek, the
more is eaten the more they need, but then new planets are required to devour.
Giants aren't space aliens. They are endemic to earth to glorify space
exploration to spread the
disease. It's not as if poets couldn't think of anything else to
write. Perversion, lust and dissolution spill. "Stated boldly,"
one tweeter said: "Today's Troy
is Freudian in myth, Jungian in archetype and pagan in scene, a surrealist
combo of dreamlike change."
There's no freedom of expression or inspiration in that, or dictation of the
divine. It is the hydrocephalic obesity that death embodied long before. On Mt.
Hermon at
Baal Peor Spit-lust desolation angels, princes of desolation were lords.
Mount Cognentis Olympus Solipsis. This imaginative poverty spreads in writer's
work and ilk. In the Book of Giants, and plenteously in Enoch, "the land
is crying out," that giants are offspring of the defecation angels. Those
angels' lust made "every animal, every bird [a target] for miscegenation (Book
of Giants, 1Q23 Frag), "the outcome of demonic corruption, violence,
perversion, and a brood of monstrous beings. Compare Genesis 6.4)."
Oh dear. Writers surrender to the apocalyptic constant of their Troy, the
excavation which convenes at the Troy Horse
Neptune War Roundup, The Palms of
David and The Book of Kurk
Wold [where all OOks
and Orcs]
hold this view. PO-EATS-here!
We abstract the topology of the human torso to space,
the planet Liver, the satellite fart, the comet fingernail, or from the rides
at Disneyland, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, Pirates of the Caribbean, Haunted Mansion,
Alpine Matterhorn, not just digestive allegories that follow the
underworld/gastrointestine theme, except the soul within the body is the
Inferno. So many space names come from myth. Why has hell moved to the planets
in scientific discovery? Paradise could as easy be there. Amaranthus might
bloom, or Salvia. It suggests in space discovery a ruse afoot to deceive, with
the bare exception of the moons of Uranus named for the characters of
Shakespeare, Miranda, Ariel, Umbriel, Titania, and Oberon, as if the localities
of Phlegathon, Archeron, Styxeron were a damned development of Birnam Wood,
with streets like Bloody Hands, Serpent Underneath and N'er Be Clean to
neighbor nearing Dunsinane. It tells more about the namer than the thing.
Surely they have plans to unveil a new psychology planet, Oedipal Complex,
Medusa, Medea, Murderous BiPolar, before they get round to naming them for the
denominations of BitCoin.
But to face these substitutes is not the tyranny of Greece over Germany, or
Philo over Hegel. It doesn't matter whether canonizers of the accepted, the
good, the true and the beautiful, are talking about Shelley, Byron, Keats,
Whitman, Wordsworth, Dickinson, Dickens or Crane, the canons of order declare
them righteous as planets, in whom, if you will pardon the descending rungs of
this analogy, the cousins of astronomers, critics have located the
unrelenting dementias of hell. The inevitable return of our thought upon
ourselves in every case of literature, physics and astronomy is obvious simply
in the way planetary and psychological landscapes are named in the 181 natural
satellites. Astronomical convention names
its bodies in a Plutonian system of mythological Greek and Roman deities,
demons and geography of the Underworld. The moons of Jupiter were named for
characters in the life of the demon Zeus, but why should the Jupiter be so
named. "Following tradition is strongly encouraged!" say the NASA
authorities. Not that this is any different from calling Uranus and Neptune the
Ice Giants, as if they were taken from the mythology of the
Abenaki with Caucasoid glee. But what tradition is that? The nephilim! What
about the Gas Giants? Scientists reserve that for themselves. Most of Jupiter
is filled by an underground sea that so squashes its hydrogen you can drink it,
so they belly up also there.
The gods and their wisdom powers, Adam Kadmon, idol of this
invention and Blake's Albion, are other guards in this prison. The illusion is
that there was a pagan diaspora and the Romantic poets idea of the gods
returns, "they will return, the gods for whom you weep." But they
never left. That they revived as the illumined Kadmon is false because they
never left, but always ruled in the fashion of their illusion. Every spot,
every couch in the bower of science and philosophy, oh poetry what have you
there, is a Delfica of Apollo, ode to the oracle sport of Skynet - Space
Fence
Blake's Tyger was his system of mind forged manacles in this
myth-science, a commonplace perhaps. Geoffrey Hartman's affection for the
notion in his latter day, delivered the statement that the misprison of our
imaginative powers, the exploitation and institutionalization of human fears
about them...Mankind, a self-bound Prometheus, exudes the "net of
religion" from the guts of his own imagination and, taking the gods
literally, worshiping these invented giants, becomes entangled in the net. (Scars
of the Spirit, 152).
To amend this concept of institutionalization, imagination reveals a far
worse state than the imprisoning of religion and state. Instead, we face a vast
illusion of evil masked as a good, and this is exemplified in the idols and
stars of all human institutions, the Queen of England and all the way
down, but masked by a good, uninvented but mirrored utter evil through and
through. By its own perverted justification of itself it requires itself to
give open clues of its contempt and desecration of all good. So with the
statement, all institutions are demonic (Hedges, Tillich), and the knowledge
that all journalism is disinformation along with scientific research and
philosophy, we are setup for the annihilation of the human. Two terms above
need redefinition, gods and invented giants, which redefinition briefly is that
gods are nephilim and giants are their progeny along with Men of Renown of
Genesis 6. Of that same text which Hartman generally alludes to in such phrases
called "censorious monotheisms," that "recent scholarship has
questioned the assumption that ethical monotheism is a spiritual
advance" (Scars, 153), Levinas says is a deceit of morality.
If we pull aside the veil cast over institutions, science and literature, as we
must do now before the illusion of freedom is completely caught in the net of
these demons, we must urge not censorship of the gods, but their annihilation.
And that right early! (Psalm 46).
In the middle years of these wars of the gods comes an image
out of Winslow Homer, a man in rowboat on a dark sea who appeared, buffeted at
the bottom of a rectangle of storm clouds that swirled with twisted
faces. Supercharged as the War of Neptune
to concoct deception of the Bohemian Grove-Mammon-Ishtar-Isis killers, suddenly
the whole image was rent down the middle, destroyed by a figure of light, a
man. These forces had raged over my citation of the proposition, to them gave
he the power to become the sons of God. I was reciting this New Testament psalm
as these surrounded me, as if it were Psalm 8 of the Old. I cannot
exactly say what they were, these phantoms, spirits in the night.
Defending against the attacks, but not happily or utterly, the only proper
defense being their annihilation, right in the middle of this psalm-saying, I
called out the name of Jesus (the Blessed). In an instant there was such peace
that my son's chow, an overnight guest, came and lay beside my bed. Such peace
I have not felt in sleep for years, stillness and peace that I carry along with
the Blessed. Not for the first do I think we under estimate the man and woman
if these images come in their sight, or wonder how they are so prepared to
fight.
Satanists and illusionists train their children in ritual
and pain-divided alters from before birth. Christians do not but await the
spirit to turn the hearts of the children toward the Father. Free will they
will call it. Many are called, few are chosen. Antagonists of these children
cry foul every time repayment falls upon them, and that's how the world will
end, to general applause from wits who think it's a joke. Then the burglars who
claim to be pacifists will inhabit a controlled universe which they ordain,
self-initiated burglars, but the Christian gets no sort of "hel"
"p," is just left to be and to be. These swirling spirits which he
can't see, Screwtape live, Pilgrims's Progress or Dante Inferno take off in
image and fact, whatever that is, not fiction, but real. Then the man calls on
the name of the Blessed and the heavens cleanse and he is flooded with
peace. It makes you think more is going on than meets the eye, as if the
appalling human evils and inquisitions and archipelagos were not enough, but
that all asylums, prisons are modeled upon the fallen spirits of these
Neptunean kings. Spiritual wickedness in high places. We're a lot more
important than we think we are. here
In all this the bishops of Lit like to speak of the literary canon,
themselves the canonizers, who form a church after the Roman style where those
they let in have all the mark of saints, universal, descriptive, miracles, the
works, while in the main these bishops disbelieve any authority other or
greater than themselves. These are the elohim priests, fish gods of Dagon
crowned idol. Their works are swordship, casting in and out, building up and
taking down. They mightily disbelieve an author other than their true nephilim.
"Milton's Counterplot" in Geoffrey Hartman's Critic Journey shows
Hartman much the devout believer in canon, even if against his wishes, for
Hartman rationally loves Milton's thought and sees the interplay of its images
without having to decimate its smooth sky.
"Angel forms, who lay intrans't
Thick as Autumnal Leaves..."
The created world is a Shelter against the fallen sons of
God and their giant egregoroi, these inverted demonic "brushed with the
hiss" who the "belated Peasant sees," that "careful
Plowman." All the more reason for the fallen to demolish the shelter of
creation within the councils of stranglet cabinets. It was not such of old:
"Paradise Lost was written not for the sake of heaven or hell but for the
sake of the creation...whether man can stand though free to fall, whether man
and the world can survive their autonomy." (Journey, 118)
I find it saddening that the things Hartman wanted to know
and extract from the poets with his huge erudition denied him direct access,
for it cannot be known by study or thought. He quotes Stevens wistfully, and
Blake and Wordsworth who he knew so well. He was drawn to "the
mysteries of biblical figures that had to shoulder the burden of a divine
election (3), ...literary sublimities I could not live up to, even in
maturity." I feel his separation from himself and from the emotion he does
not have for the readings of Midrash or Psalms, "I hear only the void
shouting back." "I adopted myself out to the words blowing in the
wind and insights that detached themselves from what I read" (Scholar's
Tale, 147). Hartman says he wanted to write "beyond the middle style"
(A Scholar's Tale, 152). He was unwilling to give up a visionary kind of verse,
but was a realist, not a Baptist who takes the kingdom of God by force. He
wanted "to stand in the presence--a wish that has never left me. I have
kept a belief in the possibility of a direct line to the truth, if only through
the medium of literature" (8). He says to his seminar that it might take
all their time to unpack "strange fits of passion I have known" but
he outwardly looks in.
In those fits, leaving Wordsworth alone with Annette, could be all the
embarrassing moments he seeks apology for in his colleagues' Nazi lapses, if by
that is understood their betrayal of the canons of righteousness commonly held,
and not the impiety of Blake snatching the angel away to view the bottomless.
Blake shows disregard for convention entirely, slaps it down, impugns it
royally, as if his doctoral candidates would go utterly stoned into their orals
after making love for the hours before. Indeed the premature Absolute Hartman
likens Medusa to a historical reality, a Medusa if you like of Chemtrails or
digital backdoors. I think he rationalizes as the "the ideal of
immediacy" itself the "direct intuition of reality," which he
cannot apprehend (35). Medusa, whether our historical reality or inner
archetype is the uninitiated conspiracy of paganism of the self.
Because of Hartman's association with Bloom I looked up that Department of One,
as he considers himself, whose love of kabbalah must inspire his love of
comparing Merrill and Yeats and his gemetria, "six is the perfect
number," he says for days of creation, just as far off, for there were
seven days of creation and the seventh the most important of all. Somewhere
both Bloom and Hartman confess with a little regret that they are not poets,
but they are word smiths. Bloom says "I summoned metalepsis," I
rewrought Kenosis, I called apophrades, (Anatomy of Influence, 194) like some
Prospero or Faustus he blinks, which shows the deeper nature of his possession.
To call a literary critic possessed might be the best compliment he ever gets.
If you're a scholar you have to pretend you believe in the
zietgeist, in Barthes, deconstructs, new critics, going back and in their
kosherness, lioke Loch Ness, of Curtius, Auerbach, Wellek, you know the kind,
the masters of mind, not quite Herman Wouk or James Watt or Creel who cast
doubt on the whole paradigm of anti-lit, anti word and want to uphold the word.
It's almost as if Yale got a stipend from DARPA to further disconnect humanity
from its sources in order to deconstruct the genome, and now, famously the
mind, rat mind meld.
How far and to what end Bloom gives in to his daimonia is
questioned with his praise of the Satanic in Shelley and Yeats, whether daimon
in the Greek is the muse at all, or whether the muse of Milton, Urania say, is
something altogether different, opposites. When Bloom speaks of the ruins of
Sacred Texts (Truths) it is really sacred subjects in poetry, especially Milton
he is after, by all means to exalt the character of Satan, pretty old hat since
Blake and his imitators.
Hartman wants to save the sacred even if he feels duty
bound to give the devil a due date. He was denied the community of worship into
adulthood so does not feel the joy of worship in his devotion that he says his
wife does. Still he wants to keep faith with the words, "the possibility
that there was an original meaning or a specific and authoritative act of
designation" He is a sad wrestler who asks "where did that
authority, that performative strength come from?"(Third Pillar, 31), where
that "truth claim of the Bible, Auerbach says, is so imperious that
reality...is not dwelt upon" (30). He admits that all his doubt upon
text and author from Barthes and on stems from German 19th century higher
criticism of the Bible which "analyzed a unified, authorless narrative
into its redacted and blended strands" (28) at least that is what is
taught by his scholars. He cites Gunkel, who thought the psalms and Abraham
never practically existed, and Speiser, more destroyers of the sacred text and
fathers of Barthes. He cites numbers 15 through 18 of Propp's list of the
components of the fairy tale, just to show that he's not going to give in
easily to loving the Word, as if he werewolfing a survey of evil
interpretations of Jacob's wrestling with the angel. In such thinking, by the
frequency of citation, he would believe much more in the Redactor, than in
either author, truth, or word, let alone the Father of all. But he does not
believe in the werewolf, however Bloom does, and is a good example of nephilim
thought, all dazzle bedazzle, pick it up and hide:
"One labyrinth in which the Father, Minotaur-like, can be slain, is the
Gnostic model adopted by learned skeptics from Denis Saurat to A. D. Nuttall. I
am reasonably certain that you can associate Sir Henry Vane's and the
Muggletonians' Inner Light with Milton's temple-of-one, but Kabbalah and Ophite
Gnosticism remain remote from the shadowy abyss of Paradise Lost." (Anatomy
of Influence, 107)
Whether there is substance here is impossible to say. The coruscations of light
decay as they shine. Truly a possessing state of the nephilim, critic Bloom
reminds of someone going to see a film but who first reads up in the classic
film books what the opinions are and afterward spouts them as his own. This
instead of just looking at the film for himself. Bloom truly has an Anxiety of
Influence, as he says, a deep insecurity that unleashes extraordinary energy as
does any fission, but he is completely lost, the world is spinning too fast.
But all this passes in the pic of Bloom at 84
with all the flesh swatted off his face. Influence as the covering cherub
depends on your view, whether Lucifer or Satan covers, but since they are the
same, the notion that the poet/critic occupies the Throne so covered and is
hence his own deity is proved another instance of hubris presumed. Get your
hand off that girl's fly, Bloom.
I come to all this grateful for a chance to understand
civilization in its highest and best thoughts, marginally anyway, for I was
never the companion or even had discussions with these sensibilities outside of
entering the holies with JCC III in graduate school. Geoffrey Hartman may be an
example of one who has known them all. He cites Christopher Smart several times
in his Scholar's Tale for his poetry that would pierce "the screen Twist
thing and word...language straight from the soul." Smart's life would not
be sought as a trade off for this. Hartman says he would "consider that
[the poet] a mad and heroic endeavor beyond" (84) himself, but I have
loved Smart from first contact, and am glad he is given an almost admission
into the canon, like the fox going across the stream who gets his tail wet, the
last hexagram of the I Ching, Almost There.
All the understanding I have of philosophy and criticism comes from wrestling
with poetic issues first hand, so only because of that and not from brilliant
study do I recognize their importance when Hartman cites the oblique circuitry,
the history of trash, the extracanonical, multidirectional reading, thesaurus
of old stories and fantasies against the scientifically correct. To me that
demonstrates that we ourselves are capable of ourselves. Of course I admit to
being kindled to all this thought, otherwise it were for naught. One
explanation of my absence from academic discourse is that faculties are so
desperately dull and self consumed.
Mr. Hartman loves Blake because of his direct apprehension, to question the
visionary company of the Romantics. He cites Numbers 11 that "would that
all the Lord's people were prophets." But poetry is removed from direct
access, which is not in words, to "walk in the light of your presence oh
Lord, we rejoice in your Name all day long, we exult in your
righteousness." Of course this fine gentleman sought this existence, but I
get to live through his last four books the gemütlichkeit I forfeited to live
the estranged life of access. Further sympathies with Hartman's "wish to
be affirmed, to stand in the presence--a wish that has never left me. I have
kept a belief in the possibility of a direct line to the truth, if only through
the medium of literature" (Scholar's Tale, 8). He cites Stevens that the
great poem of earth is still to come, the interlingual cues that make him aware
of similarities (124), the minimalism of a memory trigger that can
produce by sonic accident some associational string, the realia, the sound
value of words he locates in Smart's literal, "sound reasoning." The
first two notions I hold of verbal obscurity are of the Elizabethans who were
obscure, especially Donne, and Herbert, even if they're not Elizabethans.
The poets are always read after their deaths, and not only
the letters of their ancestors are remaking their lives as we live. The second
of obscurity is the inevitable conclusion of conspiracy that if the work
does not serve the foreordained purposes of hierarchy then it must be
obscured, although to what purpose, when it can be easily ignored, one knows
not. Is the apple cart that insecure that it might overturn this modern phenom
since '45, shall we say from the beginning of cloning?
Delusions of psychiatry occur in the search for divine
archetypes. It turns more desperate when allegorists seek the prepotent word.
Stop right there. Poets wanted in piecing the cowl! Robert Frost's cowl
at birth, James Merrill's (David Jackson) Ouija, Charles Olson's peyote chips.
No wonder they take mind altering drugs, practice magic -- poets want to Break
on through where the subtext is connect with the power pre Sumerian nephilim.
Resuming this sacred demented theurgy, the oracle and its imitatio dei, sacred
dramas of the Washington Monument impregnate the Capitol Dome. Imitators of the
gods hold guru asps to their bosom, pretend they are Isis. Does Blake overthrow
metaphysics to stand naked in the universe the way he was made? Never. He is
clothed in Delphic laboratories of world peace.
Broken texts. Broken texts are relied upon as a ritual
almost, clay sculptures fall off the table, sink, implode, having been pushed
too far. Any number of disasters befall so it can become an active means of
composition, which at least ensnares freshness and unexpected spontaneity to
the work. To apply this to writing makes a broken text. But to apply it
to clay, a pot I tried to make after it got pushed too far and totally fell,
the deal is that the clay still has to be used, so it got made into a large
protuberant figure to be called Molly or Maggie. Maybe I think intuition in the
nature of clay is like the hyper grammatical, each jot and tittle even
mathematical. But no, to me language is sound and sounds skewed, consonant
assonant meanings misspelled with punlike contextual corporate collective
meanings along with image yes, but of the sound itself, therefore flowing and
changing as the clay that falls forms the pot. There are two of these, the
other, still to be fired, came as a result of a failed tapestry, then cut in
half and formed as such.
When Stephen Spender says it is in the Seen that word poems
remind us of some other inner state, I think of the phrase, to walk in the
light of Your presence. Whole books and long meditations try to plumb this
meaning as the same phrase continues and builds, to rejoice in your name all
day long. There are multiple envelops of experience that contain the letter,
the word, the sound, the grammar. This is so much more than literal that it
exists in the song upon the bed all night long that David wrote about and the
song when awakening that feeds the brook, the stream, the spring that recedes
from consciousness in day but surges again in night and plays, sings, murmurs,
shines all during the instruction of sleep that is the instruction all night
long. Spender gets at this experience of language as the ground Heidegger is
after, not philosophical, it is the song in the night, not poetical even, it is
much more. I both participate in and view the simultaneous presentation of
these events when waking. Enormous to express, they are simultaneous and rotate
in the mind with clarity, welcome insights that feel good to see and know. If I
did not make this note the process would be gone from conscious memory.
Hartman's Heidegger calls "for a liberation of hermeneutics from its
dependency on texts...it is Being itself, according to Heidegger, not the text
that "calls" to us in those poets." This is what Spender is
after. However the meaning exists and whether it calls to us like the new
birth, and we hear the sound thereof but know not whence it comes or wither it
goes, the text provokes the meaning and meaning makes the text grow so that it
is a new birth, which becomes a song:
"He was in the world and the world was made by Him
and the world knew Him not.
He came unto His own and his own received Him, not,
but to as many as received Him,
to as many as received Him,
To as many as received Him
to them gave he the power,
to them gave He the Pow-er
to become the sons of God!
(added to Methods of Unconscious), "To Walk in the
light of your presence, rejoice in your Name, exult in your
righteousness. Psalm 89.15. The light of His presence is not the light of
the heavens, defamed by the man of earth and the fallen. I got up to give water
to Zion in the night. I rescued her when she went over the cliff on her chain. The
presence is what we see by and that orders our lives. The sun, defamed in the
heavens by the nephilim fallen, the annunaki Sumerian spirit hose rats, is the
Day star that rises in our hearts, a symbol of the one who made it, as
Zechariah says, "the rising sun will come to us from heaven to shine on
those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the
path of peace" (Luke 1 78,9).
Psalm 149: The children of Zion joyful in their king, sing
upon their beds high praises, swords execute vengeance to bind kings, nobles
with iron, and this honor have all saints.
I said Theo had marks of character in his face and beauty.
Sabrina said, what's the difference? Beauty can be corrupted, character not.
Psalm 149: He will beautify the meek with salvation.
One microchip away occurs the war that redoubles meaning like the
retelling of the giving of the Law, the second strike of the Rock. As if to
say, bye bye homo sap. This brings us to the odd Malaprop that everything
touted as true is false, Sinai, that doubles itself but must have revelation
mediated by an angel, poet, priest or critic. Hence what is not celebrated of
what is said to be false is true. Suddenly we are surrounded by flat earths and
worse, but better that than every shibboleth science and media project, meaning
literally everything hybrid you can name, with evolution, relativity....
When Psalm 119 says Thy Word is a lamp, it meditates upon this word over and
over, so that when such apostles as are say to sing spiritual songs and psalms
in your hearts all day long, that meditation of the word grows in appreciation.
For David this word was Torah, for the unfolding meditation it is all the
prophets and writings too, language filled with the songs of hearts that bless
and sustain. David had Torah, we have David, and we have Isaiah and Daniel and
all the history and biography of the sacred to meditate and we have the gospels
and the letters too. So our meditation is complete. When that word says,
because he loves me says Yahve I will rescue him, I will protect him because he
acknowledges My Name, or, I will surround him with songs of deliverance, these
are the strength of a life. Hence, Blessed are those who have learned to
acclaim him, who walk in the light of the presence Yahweh. We rejoice in your
name all day long...in your name and your word as the Psalm says, we rejoice
for its own sake and because by your favor you have exalted our horn. We are
exalted in spirit, joy, peace. Blessing and love overflow us as we walk. Being
so led He leads, to lie down, he leads beside still waters, he leads me, he
restores. His rod and staff comfort me. He prepares a table... this goes on and
on in the songs and spiritual psalms that surround and deliver us.
This bio
note: Geoffrey Hartman was born in Frankfurt, Germany in 1929 and was
placed on a Kindertransport to England in 1939, where he spent six years on the
Waddeston estate of James Rothschild with 19 other boys. He did not attend the reunion
of the Cedars Boys in 1983 at the Rothschild estate. There is no reason to
think that
this is why.
Both at Iowa and Texas I was invited to join circles of the intellect and
literarti, which means get into bed with them literally, which I was not
constituted to do, seeing it be the greatest of distractions, what they call in
the underground levels soul scalping. How far and how wide the inbred
dissolution goes is not hard to discern; faculties are pretty small towns,
precursors of digital neighborhoods where when all human feeling has been
drained and operators no longer process sensation they can spray cannabis on
their patootie, applied directly, consume DMT or more earnestly powdered white
gold. Did ya ever notice how much a fig leaf looks like a cannabis? No fig
wants that, or merchants want the siege.
It was in Geoffrey Hartman's class that first
semester at Iowa I entered the intuitive way in writing an essay on the
Tyger. He had begun the class with a several session meditation of
Collins, Ode on Poetical Character, handed out to read. It was my first
graduate class. I remember puzzling about Collin's logic and expression in his
Ode as much as Hartman was from the front of the room, filled with coats and
boots and scarves.The first assignment was to pick a poem of Blake and write
about it, no other restrictions. For no reason I remember I sat down that
weekend with the Tyger and gradually emerged with, as if the poem opened up, a
vista of Blake's system. The essay was to be four pages but mine was
closer to six, which I achieved by compressing 1 1/2 spacing with a small elite
typewriter.
for the book of the creation of the world
Planetary astroarchaeologies, Electric universe, NASA
Satellite Blue Beam Projection
HAARP
Chem trail geoengineering
the Pope and the President political engineering
Jesuit, Masonic, NSA, CIA social engineering
Drugs, EM rads, Alpha states
MK Ultra, DARPA
Beta
testing Methodical Illusion
Scientific experiments 7th level Dulce, Denver
Underground bases, cities
In case you didn't know DeKooning took the angel of history as his model for woman 1952.
