Angel Empires I. When angels cease to resemble themselves. A Rehabilation and lament. The Effects of Angelic Civilization.

When Angels Cease to Resemble Themselves

 Followers of the good make matters worse. When RP asked how angels can cease to resemble themselves, he was not offering what angels are in themselves. Thinking angels are the better sort of man makes the angelic every equivocation of word that can exist. That's when RP posited that good is evil and evil is good. Take them one at a time.

Angels are experts and that is their downfall. Electro-magnetic beings like angels are perfect. The effects of angel civilization are the good and evil of imperfect man whose consciousness reconstructs and reconnects pain, removing the bandage of inoculated, anesthetic memory. Then the pain of realization begins. Do  angels have realization? No. Rehabilitation and restitution happen over a lifetime of a man but angels don't have a lifetime! Traumas of assault and their consequent memory, treated with propranolol in a man. remove the pain.  There is no angelic propranolol. They have no pain. They have no memories. A man's identity dilemma forces memories upon him. The pain prevents him doing it again. It is his learning. Sleep is his healing, but angels don't sleep. Angels don't feel pain. Learning from mistakes a man has to always face and remember pain. If the comprachicoes could have administered propranolol they could have gone on mutilating and maiming ad infinitum, but memory causes it to stop. Like the mandarin taken to another planet to be tortured forever in exchange for peace on earth, peace at any price is no peace. No memory allows infinite torture. Our sufferings make us whole. We would have to see angels suffering for their sins, in penance, forever!

Evil is good, everything that is good is reversed. The good that disparages poverty, racism, hatred, is the very cause by which poverty, racism, hatred exist. The good invents evil to hide its crimes. This good practices nearly an infinite series of control. By this time we have left the seen for the unseen and dual meaning is taken as reality.

Of the many likenesses to the applied psychological disfigurements in the underworld of comprachicoe mutilations, none greater occurred than the psychological mutilation of the German grandchildren of Rudolph Hoess, commander of Auschwitz. These things must either be faced or denied. Rainer Hoess, grandson of Rudolph Hoess, shows the immense pain but also the courage of the great. This view in the treating of all such PTSD argues that what the lost angels feel in silence is their complicity. The comprachicoes removed the memory of dislocated joints, stunting the spine, burning the face, incisions, manipulations and restraints with a drug, a stultifying powder, an anesthetic escape, so that the mind's ability to recall the depravities imposed on it was deadened, and if remembered, it was remembered with an anesthetic, so the meaning of the pain was masked with forgetfulness.

What there is for the angels to face is the greater subject of this question.

That is he social issue raised by the suicide of Clay Hunt http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_thelook..., the vet activist who saw his friends killed in front of his eyes. How much can the drugs, the escapes and consciousness heal? Not only that, but what can heal an angel? Only death? Annihilation?

There is no lack of disinfectant of the making monstrous in the memory of the unfeeling, but to take a view through metaphor, let us say that wind is greater than water. That is, the wind of consciousness is greater than the water of memory and identification of the pain. You can know that on a mountaintop, but down in the pain, at sea level, where mere humidity swallows you up you are a fish.  Or better, swallowed by a fish, you wake up in the belly cradle and earth. Darkness and humidity,are vistas to cross as similarities to a fish belly. Being subject to forces and denial makes a Jonah, who helps us conceive Rimbaud. But these all pertain to a man. Where is the redemption for the angel? Staying away from the beach? You get to be a hundred, two hundred as a man and start to wake a little. Three hundred and even in Bilbo Baggins light begins to dawn in the darkness. But how old are the angels? Which means, what can they have learned?

When we want to hear about  polarities in Angels who Cease to Resemble Themselves, A Study of Rimbaud by Henry Miller, the poet taken as a kind of angel, invites turnabout to see how far angels can be taken as a kind of man. The angels' loss of identity takes up the all reversed norms which none of us receive. Reversed polarity embroideres these mystery moralities into anti-moralitities.

We come upon this character, call him RP, who, when he is not denying them says good is evil and evil is good, meaning that the good, in its ensuing manners, dress, and comport hides evil that is masked, which only unmasks when it has complete control. The victims of this predatory good are always the same, first animals, then children, women, men, then the earth. Whether the good stops there must be part of an ongoing inquiry of Space. Because it is good, its followers are unable to doubt, which leaves them in their frenzies.

“When Do Angels Cease to Resemble themselves?  Henry Miller quotes Rimbaud: “if my spirit were always wide-awake…I would not have given in to degenerate instincts, to a forgotten epoch.” Miller says, “what it was that sealed his vision, and thereby brought about his doom, no one knows-and probably no one ever will know.” But we do know. Our lives are filled with such events, maybe not all, but neutralized by denial, selection, amnesia and drugs. In other words Rimbaud gives himself up to debauch and every vice just to forget the pain of his lost innocence. It would be like the angels who sang could only curse. He made himself monstrous to take revenge upon himself. He made himself into a comprachicoes, those in the circus children whose physical appearance was tortured to improve their act. Except Rimbaud did it on his own. He however mutilates his soul inexpertly, which is his salvation because when he is done making monstrous he turns to faith.

A man is a kind of Jonah and here’s the hope, God will rescue him out of his trouble. The trouble is himself and the forces that bind him. He doesn’t come without a past even if he doesn’t know it. He doesn’t come without a present even if he doesn’t feel it. He gives meaning to blindness. If it weren’t for friends along the way, women usually, who save his life, he wouldn’t survive at all. He doesn’t want to give account of the women though, he wants to face the forces. He wants to take out after his enemies who oppressed him, but he has to face himself. The displaced angels however are the good, the true and the beautiful and their enemies are the truth that they are evil along with their followers. How's that going to play? All unmentionable, all dark shot with rays, lots of rays, but the light doesn’t blind the man. The dark does.

Even in darkness light dawns for the upright. He gets to be compassionate because of the dark, the affliction, the pain that lines the tiled hallways of cement floors along the halls of different states of dementia, drooling, moaning are no dream but an image from the past. He’s not nobody from the Midwest, he’s worse. He comes out of the grave shorn, unshorn with the memory of his sins. His sins, unless you say the innocent are the oppressed and what is done to the kindreds, the strange fruits of their tortures, beatings, is the fault of some enemy. But their still his sins. But that’s the one, the enemy of forces. So he looked at his three hundred years in the dark and it was getting light. By then it was as if he had lived twenty lives, thirty.

By then the illuminant hadn’t filled every corner of the hallway in the belly. They were all still there, but without the same power, like they had lost mass, like a river of oxygen was diverted into their midst. But where is the oxygen for angels? Who are so busy polluting the man?

He could float this river, but not like some aging Huxley or Eiseley, reimaging evolution, floating on his back down the canyons of rock. Even at three hundred years the light that dawns is still earth light that the pains gibber at. He walks down the center of the hall like he did the first time, over and over. What did the boy see but what we know? They could not touch him. They had to wait for that. That hadn’t happened yet.

What was it like in Noah’s childhood? Playing with too much water. Jonah, playing at the wharf with pelicans for pets would come home with shells in a bag. Nobody can say if we’re all that way. Oh do not call them naive who kick in the belly womb. The fish is their life. Life is their fish. Moses floated early. How far is it to where he kicks the rock. He hit the rock with his stick. He hit the rock! Ouch.

The rock has a sense of humor about it even at the time it puts Moses to bed in Egypt. We go down to get his body in a few years the way we go down to get our memory of the dirty hallway with its stretchers and wheelchairs. The results of the finished work of the comprachicoes are all along both sides of the hall, misshapen, drooling. Funny it has no smell. That was from all the disinfectant. There was no lack of disinfectant among the unfeeling. Then of course there were all the drugs pumped into the skin. That was before drugs were so common. All the pains took them. Palsy took him drugs. Rage took Valium. Lust had a range of pharmacopoeia. Hatred must have eaten some. Sicknesses all. Diseases all. Rampant in the hall. Covered when the Lord entered that hall long before and found a species of Noah and Jonah. But no angels. A hall more like a tunnel of misery. My sin was there that I resurrect here. My sins were theirs. So was yours. The enemies inoculate you with pain. Redemption is not cleansing like a nuclear flash, or a flood. It feels more like a plant growing.

 Runoff

If water is the symbol of pain then there are different sizes of vessel in which the volume of wat
er collects. That does not indicate the pain is greater, it just means it is felt more because of the larger vessel. The water from a kitchen spigot is nothing compared to a thunder storm on the mountain when the runs off the mountain and collects in a vessel. The vessel feels more like a slicker laid on the ground. With this kind of runoff you have to be sunk to make an impression.

Necronauts, explorers of death, boast they ride in Charon's boat and cross and recross the Dante. Are they 40, 50, 60, 70, in full flesh after a meal, wine and love make possible their satiate long sleep. Amid talk of Beckett dying in his rocking chair, this boatman, whose mind you think diminished bhe sees what frightens all How his hair is growing thin. Cheeks hang. His life and work are not enough. He sees the cold, no alibi. Everybody knows. Faulkner frowns. None good. Down in ships. Vanity, said the man's son.

So if angels cannot be treated with the expectations of man then what can we expect of them/ The immediate point in the classes, which are remote to experience, divide them as Dr. Faustus, good and bad. But what is good and what is evil?

In III parts: Part II Continued here: http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/.