Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Guest Post: Culture Is Our Bitch

The following is a guest post by the honorable: House Of Madness.
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Sunday, May 29, 2011


Between the things of this world and the things of being there is an unbridgeable gap.  Jump.  You cannot think your way there.  
Only by daring will you get there.   Only by being.  
But you can't be; you can only think.
What is more a waste of time than philosophy?  
  It holds out the prospect of knowledge beyond the secrets of God.  
  It promises to lead you to the heart of being.  
  It will give you existence.  
  It and you will work to try to remember its arguments.  
Then surely they will see you in Glory.  
But you never succeed in remembering, existence has been yours all along, and God is a secret you are embarrassed to tell.  
Time is a wasteland.  
Philosophy will not follow you back into town.  
And your thoughts of town has become little mosquitoes in this horrible night.  
Too hot.  You can't cover up. You can't uncover.  
The thoughts bite and will not leave you alone.  
Being is close and love is far away.  The itch is all you have.  
But if you had something the itching and scratching could be oh so lovely.  
On to the other.  
And biting.  And pricking. And swelling up.  And digging.  
Until the rain comes.  And it's over.  At last.
It's an entanglement and a knot and you have only to pull it tighter.  
The mess of your thinking is full of being.  It is nothing but being.  
If you will only let it be, but you can't.  
And that is your way home.  The night has been long.  
It will turn to fire. 

Sunday, May 22, 2011

ars combinatoria


You must remember the existential moment.  
These transcendental cuttings are your own mind.  
You left intellectual distance far behind.  
The flesh you are stuck to is the show.
My words have no meaning other than themselves.  
They form a tight unity into a paragraph.  An area surrounded by silence.

I long for an empty desert.  No sound, no one speaking to me.  No living thing.  I want a whole planet like that.  I want my words to be silent geometry.  Themselves a sign of themselves.
I want phrases great and empty.  Tacked on.  A great ramshackle house.  Containing gardens disappearing.  Students at their desks.  Falling into pure grammar.  Secret correspondences nothing at all.  
Commentaries about commentaries.  Shifting lines, empty nothingness tempting witnesses, and so I say I have been found out, dug out, let to dry. 
My pockets are empty nothingness inside empty nothingness.  
Well ordered never enough.  Crawling craving sin.
As you see my writing is just that, artful non-deliberation.  
Maybe not only un-but anti-social.  Or maybe it's non-human.  Maybe angelic.  Demonic.  They’re one in the same.  That strange immaterial thing described by Des Cartes.  Instantaneous flashes of eternity.  
Everything broken.  Up.  
If you were little you could crawl all over these words.  They say nothing.  Silence.  
The true non-saying saying paradox.  Maybe false.  No thought at all.  
The true non-thought thought paradox.  Tiresome.  
The silence is getting thick and heavy, top heavy.  
Spin spin spin the dirvish can make it fly up and up and up into itself.
The desert, the dirvish and the broken senses.  St. John of the Cross, Cervantes, Love, Sin and the absurd all traveled together until one night in a kiss they melted into one whirling whirlegig, entered the school room of the student Des Cartes was sitting with his spanish. moorish, aryian masters and like clockwork the modern world began.  
Slowly working his way from Byzantium.  The student was taken again.

Sunday, May 15, 2011


In every religion of sacrifice it is always the pure innocent that are given up.  
Their suffering and death take away the sins of sinners.  
Sometimes I am the innocent; sometimes I am the sinner.  
Sometimes I am God; sometimes I am the accuser.  
The slaughter of innocents never ceases.  For the glory of God.  
He slaughters his own.  He himself goes down to this hell.  It's relentless.
A religion of sacrifice is beyond all reason.  
Our holy books have failed to make sense of it.  
We wait for a stronger light.  
Until then I cling to unreason.  
To bad writing.  To wallowing in spiritual lust.  I refuse all moderation.  
I will be wild. I, the very timid, the dreamer, the polite, the good boy, by writing these few words I will be wild.  In my stillness.
All philosophy is adolescent writing.  
Even if it is hard logical analysis it eventually arrives at the very words themselves.  
That a boy, because he knows the mirror, has said to himself speaking before the world.  
He knows two things that are one thing.  And one thing is magically two things.  
He knows that language has the power to speak nothing at all.  
More than the professor, he knows that he is all those things.  
Unlike the professor, he falls so God can catch him.  Philosophy falls.  
He will show him how.
It's all so mechanical.  
The one disappearing into the many disappearing into the one.  
The ars combinatoria of Raymond Lull.  The heart suffering from love.  
Working on our cars.  Nothing quite fits.  The perfect fit.  
So sleek and trim and fast.  Pure grammar.  Active and passive.  
And they speak in their middle voice, alone, in-caused except from out of themselves, the despised.  Work them way into the night.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Silent Geometry

All of life reduces to a gesture,
   to letter sounds, to a tilt of the head, to a whisper in a sentence with strange syntax.   

Minimal things themselves so reduced to a piece of spirit that they can carry mind and meaning and disappear.  

We come at last to nothing in the desperation of love.  
The substance of culture and heaven.  
And the shame that keeps us very still.  
This is all the way of adolescent youth, young kids.  Young toughs.  
The delicate trying to be young toughs.  Glorious, pretty criminals.  
The innocent hurting the innocent.  Infuriating the perfect.  
The beloved outside reason and the reasonable just like the Godhead.  
And just like the Godhead draining all your wealth away.  
You have no appeal against this.  
You and it and the spirit in it are no more than a sigh,
    but that sigh is the most substantial substance there is.  

As hard its fist against you, though it loved you and doesn't know why at that moment it hated 

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


I cannot really think these thoughts.  Therefore I cannot write them,
but I can write them better than I can think them,
because there is something in my thinking,
or not-thinking, that forms lines in front of my eyes and shatters into letters and seeks out other eyes to invade them.  
Without story or history,
a god in a breaking of intellectual light.
It is always a shock to me just what I write.  
I intended nothing of the sort.  
I wanted to be sober and scholarly,

but as you can see I am neither,

though I have been obedient to the stuff that such sobriety and studious work has tried to interpret, and failed.  

I have been obedient to the alchemical lover that has always been there.   
To love and to all the spiritual sins it brings.  
A god is there with me.  
The lord of this house,
this temple, my body, many chambered mind. 
 The one trying to kill this worldly life of mine and take me there with it.  
I am blinded.  I am shaking.  It is a dark night.   
The shock will come again.  
The lines with form again.  The same old lines.  I would never leave it, though common sense says I should.  

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Everything on this page is a lie.  Wake up.  
You're late for class.  
Today's the day you are to present your ideas.  How could you forget.
You know perfectly well the secret of everything.  
Why can't you speak it?  
     You're being looked at.   
So you speak, 
and after a few halting missteps you speak perfectly 
and lyrically 
and you're beautiful.    
But nobody likes what you are saying, 
though they're too polite to say so.  
You've lost absolutely everything.  And you walk home in the cold.  
Somewhere along the way you have fallen in love.
Everything on this page is a lie.  And time has stumbled.
Good prose is a slow walk over gentle terrain.  
To speak the final things of philosophy good prose will never do.  Nor of love.