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thetiko
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Tha Lako
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I feel as the Ova Zephyria or the wind egg which is dietetical; how that most celestially inspired Epimenides who was but a guest to the Pierides(2) might have, being that I am awakened hence to the Cyllenian garden as a more original Hermes of the likes of commerce and language to endure that sweet sufferance of a certain Phocensian truth(a), imparted hitherto by my most aureous sancta in ever- carpous Syconia(1) that I may so humbly submit my appraisal upon that plan by which the inundation of the auctorial day is causeth whilst enjoying some stretch of reclination beneath the Fig or reading The Alexiad of Anna or the Odes of Pindar or uponeth the life of Numa Pompilius studied when cometh that that most Parthenian day, that at once these many advenient feelings are become to navigate with any effectiveness the survey, charter, and consensus wherein all the several volumes of the parturient nature of this world are subjected to name, them being most especially entertained as castrensial spirits, I might finally have found a remedial comparison by which I could have disposed myself to presumptuous thoughts upon in order that I might have pardoned myself from being in want of loving kindness- and incidentally, being regarded by appellations or the understanding of my own character which is pusillanimous; which is destitute, which I am already aware of. Many men, whom are so disposed to the reckoning of some generation of precocious intellectuals believe to have ascertained with such effectivity a certain reconnaissance of all the degree of nature( figuring that of self and that otherwise) in the schools of philosophy- but from that point of view from which my most humble allodium is entreated to be stationed I find myself so inclined as to consider, in the docility of adventitious reason, some index of those philosophical works which truly explain satisfaction by what I am and what I would esteem my fellow to be of what character by which all the plan of acharnement is eluded. And it is that I am at last unknown and apopemptic to such Esculapian works. I know of only my own Paean and aegis that are, in their humble routines, so different then was the great wrestler Antaeos inclineth to, in my thoughts which are as aetherial- as the Esir that situate on the those most heavenly hills that bear intercessor to all that is the rainbow. I would say nothing so as to includeth myself in that strategy by which wise Edipus bested the Sphinx but it is that I might riseth only so high in the halitus that I am acclaimed title and that I navigate only that which is the spirit of poetry and occupy myself with only the commonition of my inner circles by which is entertained, like the cave of the most esteemed oracle Trophonios in being set upon such exclusive plan, the magnum self- and that in this pursuit I am inclineth towards only my own immediacy. But that symbol, being two circles touching, by which we hath appointed to designate the infinite order might have discovered a various reproduction in the eyes, which in their faculty of sight represent all that is, and which might also be two circles that exhibit osculation. And it is that the lemniscate is the eyes by which the universe penetrates us to infer that the Person hath possessed it all.
Bacon, whereby we should inviteth ourselves to that veracity of his generalization upon the nature of philosophy; that he saith of this philosophy that but a saccule 1 - that but a more inchoate translation of it's docility shouldest cause to atheism it's student, but that a more cautelous involvement shouldest thereby return that student to those conservations of religion which are dietetical, shouldest cause to the mind, like the botanical of the Persian, or Ahasuerus whom entertained his princes by an open garden or that planter Cyrus who was most copacetic; who's plantation upon Sardis was made of in the account of Xenophon of Erchia in Attica- a most enduring philosophy. For let us consider of the philosopher, thereby being he whom had appeareth by the accolade with which the manic intelligence from whence his nature couldest not achieveth in sanguinity is payeth in reverence; that he does concedeth in the idea that the universe is salvational. For he looks unto the eyes of every creature of the Earth, wherewith he had not excused himself, and should retrieveth in them the anamnesis of all those beings who's deictic natures are too obsolescent for those that should be appropriate to live in the days of Men. In this respect he would not fail to observeth in all present life those embodiments of the salvations of all that life which hath been, inasmuch as the Ephestian sense is regarded, concludeth. The philosopher requireth of himself an answer as to rather or not he shouldest contrive of this cosmogeny of salvation as an implement of religion or not; and rather or not to, upon the plan of the Statua of Janus, treat it withal deliberation. It seems as if poetry, whereof the languages which art figurative should be concerned, seems to coincide into the science of biology insasmuch as every creature of the Earth seems to represent the intellectual opportunity of the future and also the recapitulation of it's progenies; and also those creatures of the past which is ancient and hitherto seems to hang in some peculiar dormition. It seems as though salvation is not a nascent, but rather, an ongoing phenomena. Shouldest we read Faust, who's most estimable rendition is given unto us in the words of Goethe? We should find within it this scene which seems to bear significance in my mind; that of when Mephistopheles who, in his incipiency, was given unto the creature of the Dog- for it was this dog who, lingering in the midst of Faust, compelleth him so as to be taken into his home whereupon more interesting events should occur. For we should now be aware of the progress of these events that this dog assumes the more generative properties of Mephistopheles and, in the token of bifurcation from Philosophy into Sorcery, hence initiates that most rewarding narrative and verse which seems to dictate the Euripus of virginal attractions and macrocosmic politics. The student of literature would do well to know that, at a time, Goethe had engaged the likes of a more intentive study into the occult. We should find within the Tarot my favorite card; the Fool - for it is the card which I do believe was the grounds for allusion herein. For the Fool was often depicted as a youth of even a man behind which a dog was observed to, in ludic manner, persueth closely by his feet. In the Tarot this card is representative of those beginnings which are novel; and hereby what I do believe we should reduce ourselves to- as philosophers. Faust, the Fool: the one whom stood in that inane connexion between which Philosophy, Poetry, and Sorcery was seen to contrive nativities; as those ashes which Achilles was reduseth to thereby having been intermingled with those of Patroclus or the more ancient world which, as the Gigantes of Phlegra- who's surviving should findeth in the site of Leuca, with their mother, a sense of refuge as upon the account of of Strabo and that we shouldest as well seek, in our own century, a donation of similar gentility. It is the Fool who, in his prenuncious manner, couldest find in nature a God who, in the definitions of this salvation, is clearly observable for he hath reduseth himself further before even the world of reasoning should appeareth unto his intellect; or the sensibleness of categories and the grounds to putting to name those phenomena which are spiritual and those which are not. For the spiritual phenomenon is that which should appeareth to the mind previous to the Reason; and succeedeth to be enjoyed by the mind beyond that latitude which with the Reason couldest appropriate it's significance: and this is called being Metaphysic by some. So, unto mine report, I should establish that the universe is concerneth with, as more earlier mentioned, a sense of gender and the properties which are salvation; for the conservation of all things is a necessary function of the universe. We should hasten to exact the presence, within ourselves, of an infinitude of deliberate and nascent conservations which through the Greeks, Pagans, Celts- Zoraster of the Persians, the tub from whence the king Tching-Thang bathed in, the Emperor Septimius Severus, the Explorer of Iberia, The Bough of Gold whence from the Aeneid we read about, Jason whom to Colchis sailed, the Descent of the Ganga or Ganges, the Puranas, the Enuma Elish of the Mesopotamian and Babylonian myth, Achilles and Patroclus, the seduction of Leda, the marriage of Peleus and Thetis; and the former's exile to Pithia where he doth become a King, the House of Atreus, the Achaemenid Empire, Seleucus or Nicator's Empire, the Peloponnesos and the Byzantines does establish a sort of recursion in culture and time from whence we could generalize our own. I should saith at this point that I take no stock in the belief of Xenophanes of Colophon who, on mythologies, doth not contend to such dignifed terms as I do; for let us behold that history and it's Gods and Myths are yet living in some of us and all that is required of us, in order that they could be resurrected in a slightly more political sense, is that brevity for searching for the similarities which we happen to share with them for certainly each one of us must be some sort of epincion for a more idoneous, albeit latent, godliness. Necessarily, that spirit which happens to attend us in those hours wherewith the tribunal of history reveals itself is ^Esopic; and being led of the protreptic song might it be said that it is also the competence and import of the personal history to, in only the most voluble sense, make of benefaction in novel items: for it hitherto must be arbitrated in those reports which, devised philosophically, should content that each embryo or instance of personality mighteth rise higher, in it's own context, then all of history- who's context is most evanescent. And that there is magick upon those accounts of Numa Pompilius, the second king of Rome, and that Egeria who, being also Arician, imparteth unto him the wisdom and the body of those principles with which he devised his religious constitution near to where those Baths of Caracalla were erected in the third century. This account seems to summarize the cosmogenical relevance of gender: fir this formulae couldest cause to being engendered the conservacnt if the personal histories if studied in cojunction with that ideal that I earlier mentioned which deals with the Eternality of the Godess. Any lover of animals should hereby considereth of the Guaja' of Brazil and hence to those whom, in the romantic taste, desireth of their Earth more of a scenery along those lines of the cities of Italy there shouldest be Cato's Origines and for every writer who, in the taciturn plan, requireth of his own estate one country House of Scipio there shouldest riseth one from the ground as the Emperor Julian and Plotinus and the Enneads so long as the philosophers have the mind itself. The mind, hitherto being given unto the ideal of human consciousness, is, in it's nature, a deictic thing; that is being dependent upon a certain context that it couldest be. The House of Sallust at Pompeii had it's gardens whence the human mind, likewise, had it's own fitting styles which are languages and grammars. SO it is that we have a context. This vinculum, of mind and the context of the mind, should provideth all the routine for being for, in any ontology that is conceptible, these two things may not be separated from each other. A man is no man that he couldest not make use of words and, being limited to the expression of emotions only, doth not rise so disjoint with those animals which are more common. Shouldest we treat the mind as an inseparable element of the universe? Of it's own contextual existence? And another question which, as it happens, should engender in the philosopher more importance: if the emotionality, which from such a more primitive epoch does develop, hitherto should commandeth within man such a planetical knowledge- then why is it that these things as; Poetry and Philosophy which, being inspired strictly within the nous, do so well so as to consecrate them and express them whilst being so distanced from them?
We did discover a most commendable Latria or religious service by which no oscitant class might ever become survived and by which no Atheist or Iconoclast might becometh to collect himself implicitly: it was that latreutical and Pierian and testudineous incunabulum by which we hath acquired need to invent new and more epenetic language given that it was most ineffable and in the religious circles this is called being of the nature of the aniconistic class; being that diaphanous agency by which no physical reflections entertain or even go so far as to, with the moderate plan, confess to the enjoyments of a certain admonition. We were preferred to the calling of these most initial scriptures; those verses of the most Holy and artesian Incunabula- those things by which all the more intimate histories were explained of mythology and religion- poems and that professorship whereby their qualities are determined poesy. Poetry is the most essential and original form of language, and thereof we discover in what effect we are so compelled to, in our human fashions, associate ourselves with such things as a poem and why exactly it is so inflected upon the nature of the Soul. It is our most initial response by which pulchritude of any sort becomes to being conserved. The poet, which kept by his station of never- Tyrrhenian and niveous Ecnephia throughout the complete expense of his knowings and doings, is invested deliberately of the eurhipidurous and nidamental peloria and the firmament or the bird's "pterylae and apteria" or the configuration of his plumage and upon all that most carolitic edifice of the world's chrysanthemum which is proper for nesting; and which are those loving faces, verses, and bodies of some Cyrenian and papilionaceous column by which he hath commandeth himself and is drawn hitherto by some interests retained of pleasures like that most splendid Altamira Cave and it's intellectual paintings of bison, deer, and pigs; for it is most attracted to that art which is derived from biology, and zoology, and history: mythology, and architecture- and most especially geology, archeology, and paleontology: to encourage the knowledge of porphyry, laccolith, granite, and breccia and all those tramontane winds which is knowledges and which are like some God's halitus and cord; as that diacrinous station which by some incurrent and labent inundation of the poetry which is inclineth by those acroceraunian peaks of Albania and which performs by the resolution of psilopaedic and altricial birds of the first coming down, which by Summanus and Jupiter were graced; inspires the likes of Horace, and hitherto constitutes a new class of creator gods in that Intercessor of what most men are as an insolvency through hemeralopia, or the failure to see with effectiveness in the brighter lights: the periapsis of our pittance- which are like reading and scribbling poems, some inconsequent fleas of ours- if flees were as aligerous, of course, or capable of flying and might elevate themselves occasionally from their host. But, if all men were acquainted with the taste of their pomarious hypocarpium, their newborn undergrowths, and first coming downs; the procumbent-fruits, which behind them always tread: those fleas, those disregarded portions of our daily effort which, by no common nature, might ever impede relationship with us. I have a funny little notion that the poet is as annotinous and untried as I am by my own despondent muse committed to assume some honest condolences on behalf of that poor dog Laika- the most venerable stray of Moscow, hence I am as encumbered of our sensitivity to be, as one would say, experienced. The poets, I have often noted of in my own nomenclatures, are likely as erubescent pygmies when firstly approached- that is to say, in the manner of some natural animal; a species yet occasioned with a man's conferences they requireth a certain degree of a "getting used to you, as a new pet of sorts." You could see that conflagration of the emotional faculties in "The Rape of the Sabine Women" in Nicolas Poussin and Jacques-Louis David's work, but the poetic class does better with the likes of those ideas: forthwith justice to presume our word, the part of us which is equated so appropriately with our character. We visit the Aventine Hill, of which, rather then King Aventitus of the aboriginal Italians, I choose to believe is named under those birds which nested there after rising from the Tiber. As poets are cast of the wares of Mount Pentelicus, which was near Athens, and celebrated for the white marble quarries from which the Parthenon is built. O, we might also admit gratitude upon that particular Hindu with regards to his means of annealing those, by the token of mutual benefit; haemocoelic and numinous nutriments of the cow: flowering lately, with the vegetarian method in our society- as they might be revealed to so sentimentally provide a milk as the the Himalayan goji berry and the Hemp seed; which by the Hindus is recognized as some Holy sustentacle, as something into those fires of the Hearth of Hestia and Vesta; thus ensuring it's quality as pure as Acheulean tool culture; and so why not thank the poet, concerning his means of preventing the souring of language, and art into the great lakes and forests of Masuria which, in the manner of milk, are most like a continual, illimitable, nectary?- Etruria in Italy, of which D.H. Lawrence makes of in "Etruscan Places" might have expressed to a more distinguished taste of history that import of the growing of grapes, and the making of wine, also several architectural styles- and the Olympian Gods to the republic of Rome, but alas, the poet supplies us with such greater things, as those whom are to acquaint themselves with poiesis are of the Silurian era made, the first of the convalescent animals upon which the air made conferences with. IN what was that frondescent field becomes by the impestus of verses, which is some pycnaspidean and incanous bird of the milks of the river Styx and like tempered metals by the hands of the great Hephaestus himself; what is that inchoate and crepusculous instance of peloria, that manufacturing process of the annealing soul upon which entomostracan and impennous angels rest in their weightless flying, as the Copepoda, or Daphnia. To write poetry is to vindicate nature as Chukwa the ancient turtle whom supports the Earth, and happens further to perform his natation by Ksheera Sagara, that thalline ocean of milk from which all the organs of the universe are derived. And, like a testudineous and remontant seminality(cd), there is by the respectuous endorsement of a propensity which, by an olamic function; dwelling as some rudimentary organ within that marcescent and insipid testa of every man an incipient Homunculus which is titled as being poetry and which from that most obdurate seed permissively consents to be known a humility that is definite, and a particular species of Amaranth that is called perhaps, a poem- that diaspora which is that symbol of the inocciduous comport that is, with regards to the city-life, forever banished by the necessity of it's attractively insouciant conviction which causes to be equated in uneven proportions the scheme of differences between correctness and rightfulness, of labor and having experienced work: and from that hodiernal station one amongst many takes up his residence as osculant and appreciative of the cumulative dust; that most pruinous poet attains in modest increments what he is so disposed to, with immoderate passion, exemplify in the repertitious germ of the Holy which is his "pileus," and the statue of cernuous Man and his Universe- that plangent and abirritative contraction of the eternal heart, territoried by the edacity for those most spirituous liquors of the "asthenia" of reputation and document and profile which absolve one to this comfort- to this particular velleity of placid amusements as the keen observance whereof those things which hold interest might be immortalized in their momentary selves: as it was before being disrupted in the participations of one's own verecundious amateurism- alas; this enlivening rhythm must be rendered into our principle homiletics as the implement of a certain diaphanous natation for our prayers and hymns which by pluvial institutions collect, and thusly upon the public be conferred for it's alimentative proreption; and the halituous and premunitive firmament that it rightly contains which beyond the oldest historicities contends - that inocciduous "systole and diastole" and "Euripus and Ampotis" of God himself- those infinitely veritable interpretations of the moment whose suppurative involution is foreordained to be made and remade indefinitely throughout the cantative parturition of inhalation and exhalation as produced of the Universe's "Coryphaeus" which is that susurrant ephemeron whom is called Poet, who is so disposed to develop his opus when no one in particular is paying him any degree of consideration- which, complacently manufactured in the operations of those most accomptable Monarchs of toreutic and encaustic versifiying, that is the delicacy of infusing the subtlety- which provided in their arundineous hermitage, possess of that most tenuous proclivity of hammering these most phalerate, or ornamented forms of wisdom in the metal brands of men's speech; alas, for it is so complimentative of vendition and industry and thusly unfit for that nemorous velum of dense woodland and backcountry which the poet encourages to precipitate from it in torpid and gradual appeasement, to then by various hortensial commitments becometh as some timeless, lapidescent constructures before God's own verdures and opulent fruit gardens- stone and open to the considerations of the age, and no longer partial; lambent impermanence of beauty- and fit for the tempering of that opertaneous commiseration, which by the employments of the poet can be revealed as some enchoric germs which are always complementing of the office of some vestigial layer of the man contemplating halcyon, and which is disseminated and in it's patulous body or ostium of transient creations possesses a various cosmogony of dematiaceous fungi and vegetation; segmented or meristic in the having of such a plenty of those somites of temporality which shine iridescent, setting alight the empty skies of being living; had inclineth the poet to resume his place amongst man as arborescent refuge, like an atavistic Tree to provide shelter, food, firewood, and more for merely the transient surveyors, which by various generation, migrate to that pulmonate adnascentia belonging to it in the hopes of determining some adient milks: which is readily able to digest both productions of a common element- as some earthworms prefer this delicatessen which the poet has attuned his dietary regime by as well, dependently within some sempiternal pensiveness and dexterity; for the day itself and the poet die together, so they are as commorient brothers. It is from this acclimation with the sanctity and poetic utility of the immediate, from which the poet- in subtle relevance like an amasthenic focus- uniting the chemical rays of light, embarks upon the considerations of his peculiar metamorphosis. What of that, which inspires the red in blood? The poet is like some alchemy to cause to change the element of nature into something able to be appreciated by those unacquainted with it's sense- some haematinic encouraging the pigments of the immediate and momentary. Call him also a shore-inhabiting fellow, or that limicoline bird that prefers some intermediate status in nature, and whom scouts out the various interstices of land and water and air. I often find that most hypenemian and inermous station of "Euripus and Ampotis" in myself between the Boeotia and the Negroponte that I have, suggesting to me about how all philosophy and all that mesmeric corpus, entrepôt, or oriflamme of poetry- which kept by diameter of the greatest appraisable goods, are merely these limpid cliff notes, simplifications, and the commentaries of exceptional peoples; hence that sui generis, that inculpable region which is our personal lives and concurrently, those relationships with with we describe and circumscribe our meanings, our taciturn prerogatives. I hold true, the notion that solitude sharpens the wit and toughens the mind- this is unable to be disputed, and observed by most accomptable philosophers. But, the intellect is such a thing that it, by the recrementitious obvention of our daily experience, associates itself with beauties that must ultimately be communicated, even if only partially and by inchoate expressions. Those most conticent latitudes of our meditations, considerations, ponderous gradients: like incipient embryos, they open up and command themselves but in consequence of the power of intellect of which they bless us with, by our improved reason they must be consolidated of their distribution- they must be as dead upon the exceeding of their function. Man is mirror, man is propagator, man is voice when there is no voice. The philosophy of solipsism is the cruelest, the most inane of content and the quickest to devise ways of upsetting that allodial station. I feel the poet, with the most intimidating standard, characterizes this human necessity of love and talk, those things which above all are of value to us. The poet, from his alimonious and crenitic entertainments, who from time's impartial contract is exempt as the watchman Moai or the Gods of Mount Nemrut, or any pomarious ideal for that matter and of whom I understand were representative of their people's deceased ancestors, Gods, and living chiefs as, again, the poet: born of the Syrtis bogs and those munificent notations of Pippa; had he Ecnephia Sceptre; hence he inclineth the likes of the fruitfulness of obvention expressed in the manner of childhood: behaved in all it's procellous puerility, in all it's unsettled sediment as the plants Elecampane and Amrita conferring vitality -of the impediments of any sort he, in absentia, performs his commentary by noninvasive carriage as if he might have acquainted himself with the art of Ephialtes who pervades of the nightmare, and is so disposed to do so with the retention of being able to distinguish beauty, routine, life, and faith apart from one another. Life and the poem are, executed indistinguishably, as concerted synoecious and erinous upon each other; disproportionately inseparable like two prickly roses intertwined in their humble growth. What person, betrayed of his own requisite proclivity, can not or would not engage them privately and force himself to withstand their separation, in the attendment of each thorn by consecutive thorn? Like Aeolus' Bath or Prothalamion Spring: withheld and matriculated to the air as Hyblaean Bees; these seeds skip all of time's various remark as a Neaera's trammel does, into those lengthy progenies of the ancestral titan Iapetus; father of Atlas, Epimetheus, and Prometheus: and like ongoing standards, the poet aspires to determine himself in circles of sacred quality such as these ones and to invest himself as some departmental king(1).
We poets, being as unblinking and capable as the tarsier monkey; that smallest yet most provincially adept hunter by which the Asian arbor is conquered and that when receiveth by the occupation of a cage means to dispose of itself in wont of repose- by the improvement of our peloria and etaerio; We, as ripened berries one-by-one disposing themselves from the bunch by will of an individual fruition, emerge hitherto from that perlarius and aurelian Hibernaculum from which the phlogiston yet circulated and there is indeed sleeping a various wildlife of sorts; as that Earthen "parenchyma, or most initial meat" by those Titanotheres and Creodonta, comprising some of the Earth's oldest and most diverse; before the cat, no! Before the lion! Before the tiger! Before the dog! Before the wolf, preceding all the common texture of creation those ancient animals, by an expiration yet fit with a greater depth then that of any number of accomptable kings, a most esteemed poet; or any singular entity for that matter, suggest by the death of an entire ream of life a certain experimental quality in nature, perhaps even a curiousness of some sort, as Typhoeus beneath that most sepelible Mount Etna, of which has been dissolved over time more and more and more into our human strains which are insolvent. We, whom are most insular, depend upon each other lest we be without the comfortable shadow of being known, the closest thing of which love can be compared; which is when common struggle in our entertainment performs the atretus that is our being repudiated together, like those animals, from the living people from whence are harbored in some strange familiarness with us that they shareth in: for this twas' to be a poet.
All the language of nature, by an endemic pretense, becomes to rippling in an ectad grace like "aqua regia" in the solvency of golds and other metals of similar degree as it inspires it's effect by a common seed as, in what my zoology should saith, the Creodonts and Miacidae from which dog, cat- tiger, lion and wolf are derivative, by want of intruding the various cavity of the mind from it's most initial point and hitherto establishing the principal of certain transference by which all things are most necessarily bound. It is as if the universe breathes inside of that space whereof the intellect is germinated, which is that thing that notices such subtle Nemi or Arician groves as change and opposites. Nietzsche understood that all things must complete themselves, and Heraclitus understood that all opposites exhibit convergence in the logos from which to be distributed are those sepiments of the various fauna of a language which holds descriptions and adjectives as most veritable implements to the truth. All the variant forms of creation must necessarily accomplish themselves in their opposites; the non living must eventually make the transference upon which they entereth into those spheres of the animate and from which upon they are thereby guaranteed a recovery of that acquaintanceship with which their former elements did incubate unperturbed and unperformed. The highest axis of nothingness is a platonic form. It does not require the universe to exist because it doesn't exist- rather, it is "imaginable." The universe must by these degrees transfer itself, forever talking about itself- extrapolating it's content that it might find itself able to cope with the maintenance of it's health and anatomy; from rock to flesh, from star to dust. It thrives on a certain necessity, upon a certain aspiration to the equivalence of the nothingness from whence it was derived. Life appeared because formerly there was no life and the universe appeared because formerly there was no universe. The common systole; it is an intellectual phenomenon as this perfect mantra that we might know the axis from which we couldest most intimately learneth equanimity. Our existence itself is of some salvational nature, hence all things that thriveth within it are, in their own sense, as a various pigment or atrament which bleed through the sponge, changing in all qualities and sometimes even precipitating into each other; and this is especially true in light of the universe that is the intellect. It is this particularity by which the natural evolution of things, that ensures the immortality of any created thing, is respired. It is this inertia; that instead of potential linearity, the universe maintains it's condition by a most prevalent exaggeration of it's body in Transference that, by subtle gradualism, causes to change one thing into it's opposite thing. This idea gives rise to the Cosmogony of Genders which couldest be described in (xx3) at my convenience. It is this transference that denies the pretensions of which most living things occupy themselves with, when considering the elements of the universe, rocks, and the like. But all the strains we firstly discriminate as being immanent and inherent to life are to be enumerated as being in the procession of a various activity in the deepest, deadest regions of our space as it is that all nature is aware of it's nature. Carnivorous survival is merely an echo of some universal inertia and human love is merely consoling next to the attractions of the chemicals, the lineaments of the body and that microbial life from which it is interpolated. I find myself often considering that the mind, having not invented those objects of thought, is merely persuaded by a hermetic column or Serendipity to "find" them, and pulls them as the Eolic and Phrygian modes from some sempiternal dormition in intellectual space; as that gradient by which 1, 2, 3.... extends. As I might describe any number, I might describe any thought, by which the possibility of the thought, and thus the thoughts independent existence are accredited. By this realization are we made to know that our Selves are not bodies or minds; but concepts and ideas; this most unfamiliar phantasmagoria of timeless embryos. It follows that our Heroes, Gods, Souls, Theologies; of every sort, of every conceivable strain- they are alive. May we enjoy that the idea of Us existed before the universe was created, and the state of affairs from whence we drew up our personal spheres as well was respiring indefinitely.
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Tha Lako
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Might it become in a man the never- Tyrrhenian day when he fairs to consign to reputation that we might let every caulescent poem(1d), in it's visitant plan, becometh an orison and benediction- because it so happens that those particularities of the law of it's being, which when considered are so vastly apparent to the fecundity by which we are so disposed to elect the human soul, requireth that preference whereof to employ it so that it may also, with such valid efficacy, come to serve the interment or burial whereby the artist is inclienth to that engagement of his own sancta and his own invention and thereof to the relief of that want affording some consolation in all the manner of dark hour from whence his community is born limitation; that vigil of prayer from whence the Euterpean office and "furor poeticus" designate, by some ideal espousal, those most Holy Men of Earth that they might acclaim their own condolent titles and eclat and lineament. Might every man build himself upon the idea of Pygmalion and confideth in high muse that it is She who is the most giving and loving and transcendental and numinous; taking into his depths the philosophy of Robert Graves and that he provideth himself in that genius loci, or eternal spirit from whence high muse is caused to creation not by those less-then commendable inundations of man's velleities, but that it abidest in man's most mature and vivacious ambition that, at last, man might attend that want or those wants in, at least, some less-then copacetic house of word and rhyme and verse- for this dematiaceous Muse is the Aeon, Atman, Duende, Aeolus, Satori and parenchyma: and that most essential reciprocity that you might esteem to have been worth the costage of enmity if it was but fleshly and carnal and thereof baring no apparitions to you intellectually and thereof caused to the walking upright, in the manner of person instead of the eternally feminine that it is. If it was that the Hesperidian gardens opened before you, and from out of our intellect and all it's history: Numa and Egeria, The Celts, Babylonia and Syria and Adonis, Diana and her sacred grove at Nemi, the Flammarion Woodcut, Empedocles and the elements, Ephesus, the Phoenicians, the Esquimaux, the Idaean ideal, the African ritual, Symposium, Ariccia, Mantineia, Ganesh, the writings of Lucian, Thoreau, Emerson, Homer, Virgil, Aesop, Anacreon, Dante, Hippocrates- Aesculapius, Medicine, Mycology, and Plato and Socrates, etc- literature, poetry, navigation, astronomy, biology, Indra, Namuci, and the foam of the sea; were to all in one most initial routine concern the Empyrean and it's aetherial and eclectic method with but one individual human life, as this is the fulfillment of Eros, unto which all human endeavors are enthralled to attend- you might not devise yourself to withstand the person's absentia that it was the person who stood to command a Muse on your lonesome behalf, which by countless ways, is given unto that deciduous entertainment that is the greatest assets of our life.
It is to be entertained, by a most confessional imperative, in this case unto which I hath been rendered by some peculiar liabilities and whence that most eximious or that most choice occasion becomes to happening whereupon I am entreated to being, in only slight degrees, more accustomed to thorough philosophy and some fuller thought; that I might becometh to the soliciting of no impedance by which that following axiom is explained: that a man couldest navigate that axis whereupon there is directed a various relationship between Men and God, preferring himself to one felicity or the other but, with the consideration of a more liberal plan, he might always have become to pardon himself from one department or another of that most essential reciprocity, that man requireth in his design by like efficacy that commonition and professorship whereby he is administered to the likeness of both God and Men and with cogent office implanted into them, by most obstinate root. But it is that the "soterial" or salvational commuting from whence God is becometh known in a man is most inconsiderably differential from that which man is made to devise the love of other men and all their familiarity and stock- and all that man entails; the love of brother, the love of the lover, the creation of the progeny; that it requireth in a man once so formerly developed in the patters of commerce and language( which reproduce themselves in all of man's societies) and consider such strange requisites. If a man is to suffer God, he is to deprive himself of that most necessary viaticum of his own kind. But to admit the preference whereby God is deserted in place of other Men, he is to then again be expressed with such diligent a manner as to inclineth a partiality that is both curious and obsolescent in it's nature. It is then that the goal of this life is to decide in what covenable variation one is to endure his lonesomeness. To love God is to love his celestial exclusiveness and to be nefandous and unfit for a man's society, to be unfit for a man's Eros, to be unfit for a man's home and a man's families and so it should be appropriate that one must tend to his own Ephebus. To devote your life to God, meaning to devote your life to the higher pursuits, is to cause insularity to occur by which you are less frequented by more common men, and more common women. It at least engenders the difficulty of communication, and if you have cast yourself into the utmost currents of God and Philosophy, then you will have also cast yourself into the utmost current of eremetical living. The further it is that the aeons progress, the fewer people there are that support God. My own God was philosophy and thoughts, and that God hath failed me. They were not enough to improve my soul and to defend my currency and moment. To uncover their true nature I had to become insular, I had to devote myself to reading and writing. And at the end of it all I was only an INCH closer to enlightenment and hath advanced many reckonings beyond my self and my home and my planet. Thats why I chose to be with men and people, and to keep my God away inside of myself in some miniature forms, if I could. But it is that philosophy, as accounted by many old philosophers, is so great a servant- a subordinate complement to that, by the token of the most common figuring, character and honesty by which we defend our Person, or Who.
That most coulant germ of Man, and my Mankind, being thereof so arcual and commanding of my intent, is provectus aetate; or by it's years well-developed, as the manufacturing of more familiar books is as far from it's healthy celerity as is necessary for a man to disregard The Golden Bough, Thoreau's Walden, or Kingslake's Eothen; that most obscure work attributed to Lycophron; Alexandra or Cassandra, Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus, The Old English Elene, Phœnix, and Physiologus, The Garden of Cyrus or hence ascertain the various furniture and commodity of life in what lacking incipience that is to be in want of that most aurigal trite of literation; exalted in more gifted writers as to enhance the sonorous call of birds, and hills in a song that one can call his own Call. It should be quite couenable, or convenient for me to be a philosopher one day, and a poet the next; so as to prevent the two strains from the mutual adulteration that would likely accompany their illicit economy, both parties most notable for being exceptionally dicacious, most likely whereof they, by their cothurnate principle, develop the common seeds together, respecting neither the fimbria nor Bolerium promontories from whence the good public might find itself disposed to claim as an edifice which is inhabitable(1). Of course a verse can riseth ever so high by it's lines in thought, and this is good- but not that meaning with which I intended to convey. I mean that a philosophy must be a philosophy alone, and not merely developed in verse- which payeth ever so much attention to the tedious motivations of fantastical wordings. Was not Socrates a model of conventional philosophical thought, having no less then a propise method?, an adept of the basic element of discerning informations, one to eviscerate away with a certain aptitude that most initial layer of intellectual space which exalts one beyond the material convention, by the means of a rigorous dietary exercise of detail, intricacy, and pretension? He was- but the poet has included by his concern a vastly different, almost impermanent sphere of testament. He is become afraid of death, he is either become perturbed by that approval of his own decay, which by precocious development is made to understand office, or by that limpid approaching of his own loved one's and his friends; whilst the philosopher is, by the investment of crueler sentement- so as to inflict the earth of order, yet reproached by what the poets might identify as aposiopesis, or the breaking off into a sentence- as we must know more, as we have inclineth ourselves to the story, as we have entreated ourselves to anatomy and recital; for these be that consummative mantra of the human soul, and have yet encountered the speculations of such sere details. I might not endure that passing of my pets, let alone my brother or my parents, especially when these most sussurant moments that I am enveloped in are the last defense beset me against this world, and my organ will be exposed to such a world in that onerousness of absentia from which I am, without Providence's halitus, condemned- assured to surmount, and from which again: I have assured myself I shall withdraw when my due epacme revolves itself. Might I now know the meaning of that quotation from the inferno; "Abandon all hope", lest my mind be vein, I have entered that dire Varaha of myself.
Within every man, by the asynartetic portion of the sovereignties determining him for the public there is to be as unavoidable the poetic vision; which is the obsolescent hypolimnion or that tenuitas or attenuating of his stock in pretermit and those flesh-pots of Egypt, and like that prospect from which the geographer's Ultima Thule is thereof commemorated- that northernmost region of the world, it's peak: like the benignant aegis of a less-obstructed view of something regarded as "most especially lovely". Might we adjust ourselves to stiller depths and attune our relationships with a still-calmer subtlety- colder waters, our benthal germs; for is not the labor incurred in simply getting there - to relationship, by nature of having to comprehend such ordal, worth as much- as to improve the character, or rather the durability of the character which is that thing upon which the relationship is become exaggerated? For to retain that deepest portion of one's self which is so fit to the circles of poetry one must undergo, by some protracted iterations, the instance of his recollections, imaginations, intellects, and reasons. The durability of the character, that is the effectiveness of the consecution of one's more intimate nature and honesty is consequent of the expression by which the individual might wish to depict his reputations. And who is master of his expression; both the employer and developer of his word? Who can, with such an idoneous sincerity, proclaim to be the derelict keeper of his expression? To be forever misunderstood, from that day hence: no matter his manner of speaking, or his context. Who is that poet, with the Syconia, reclining beneath the fig? I heard him say he could relate himself to the insouciant prince of swine herders Eumaeus and felt something missing in antonomasia, or the use of epithets and proper names and, with the respective attitudes refused to acknowledge dignities, offices, and the like. Though he only respected the personal names, and the personal lives that much more. It is because the poet is by the employment of no adulterated cultures termed and otherwise free to become of the intermixing with a various stock that their is that homochiral relationship, or freedom of enatiomers and reflections between the adelphous poet and nature as much that he presides representative of the experimental antecedence of that nature, that is because he finds by the determination of his similarity to that oldest and more animal concern of living, he becomes the animal that speaks and that Amarant of historicity who's coalescent filaments are intermixed with the world's to which we travel to, upon the compunctions to renew our ancestries. The poet whom is that Saadia belonging to the common stock and as Tasso put it, performing as the syrens of the ditch, or rather they are the Levant and the Ponent winds whereupon no name is called to their attendence, so as to be as outwardly unappealing and disregarded treasures; those Phoenician frogs and traders and navigators. The Egyptians treated frogs as the symbols of fertility, as to their appearances concordantly which depicted their anticipations of the inundation of the Nile.
It was that those most prodigal labors of our cenobitic figurehead and incanous Prytaneum that is the intellect and is as our maternal government were repetitive and dull and improvident but that they might one day, in the likeness of that daisly-like Coreopsis flower, become to improve what is our, by a most exquisite trait; most mendacious firmament, that we should find ourselves acquainted with that humble notion whereupon we are encouraged to invest ourselves to the exaggeration of the hole lot of their particular routines. It was that our peoples were but simple animalcules munching betel nut in between some odd conversations and becoming to prepare some stock of opsonium by which they complemented with the most principle food of man; these petite little loaves of bread as they preferred themselves to some tenuous village of fay: an entire lot of enates which are dapatical as the "dystocia and ecesis" of that Geoponica of the human Soul which is most justly regarded as an evolatic creature and to be found as dinetical in Prometheus' Heavenly auricle will ever be elucidated as none other then the "Homo universalis" that is amphicoelian and compatible infinitely in philosophy, or that Universal Man as was Leonardo of the Renaissance entitled by the contemporary- whereof all the various degree of information itself is so disposed to be treated as a contestable office and worthy of those administrations of one's most pursuits which are mostly earnest; as surely one's initial proem by which philosophy or poetry might be inferred will convalesce and loosen him and, becoming to exert him, conquereth him in some tribulation of his fortitudes in humanity and spirit that is diuturnal but whereof he is to eventually prosper in that commiseration of some Hercules by which the plenary narrative of human culture is containeth justly(xx3), thereby which all the things of poesy and academia were delivered unto those succumbent fields by which several varieties of animal life did all but completely harvest, becometh as quite oblique and private happenstance. But I am hither beset to gather Deucalion, Utnapishtim, or Noah(3) and hereby I am a poet by which is inclineth of that ampelideous verdure- that is, by the vine and of the pome by which a quantity of Heavenly inventory is becometh as the original brain by which I prefer to orient my worlds with; as I hath been admonished so as to avert the elements of Nature's disproportionate guise, whereby I am in the likeness to submit myself, as are most poets- to prestable considerations of history where I hath procured some instance of an acerbic nature for I had become known of Xerxes' audacity to have, by the sea's record, admitted his own ill-advised punishment and thereby excuse himself from all the (1)asteropete and propitious idea of the greater character and nature by which every human should at one point or another detect and whereby humility and supplication before the truer Immortals (which are those elements of animals and nature, being as unchanged since they appeared and likely exempt from the considerations of accostable death- those by which the Achaemenian stock in Persia were not complacent) are esteemed as goods worth those various contests of one's desideratum.
(xx3) How kind was Julian on religion 1 and how I would elect to admonition that benignancy with which I hath learned newly unto those of the Christian faith that I wouldest only invent a single refutation of their myth that it is my Heaven that is the most puissant. To beget the Christian afterlife one wouldest, in want of study, review those several books of the Bible or attend some service of the Church, but to acquire all those knowledges which which I couldest, to you, illuminate my religion one would only, in want of those Heavens which art eidetic, look unto the face of a women and therein it must be noted, for all those whom would call themselves philosophers or their own sancta 2, that it could only be my faith which is not a domestic issue. Wouldest I make myself into an Alcinous 3 or collect those wisdoms which, expresseth in the De Usu Partium by Galen 4, were so relative to the condition of a human being if it was that I should find those Heavens able to be touched and tasted of. That, like Pausanias and the Xoanon 5, she doth requireth her own precedence of human nativity in order that she could be made of in our questioning which, like Browne's Pseudodoxia Epidemica, shouldest be comprehensive . In those reservations of the secondary part of this essay we will, by want of exigencies, cometh to investigate that ideal of femininity 6 but it should be in the current vein that we engender to mind that neologism of a soterial textuality within the nature of Men. The male is Ephebus, is puerile, is the eternal colt and babe. In his ludic nature he permits to form some artifact whereby the Mother conserves that knowledge of the youthfulness that was semiotic and was given up unto her dehiscense. Men are Erythra 7 and Men are become their own ecesis like the women with whom they deal- but then it must be said that these Men, who do often conceal themselves in Poetry and Artistry, cometh to deviate so generously from their own Brothers that they shouldest not even be referred to as Men anymore. The imitation of the goddess transforms to become it's own subject eventually. In the attempt to inherit the nature of his mother man creates his own nature. But would all Men riseth to this stage of their own being? Is this new Man a statua of that Etruscan deity who, from the Noctes Atticae 8, we learn is the Anti-Jove 9? There are those principles which, like Armenia, are endurant and which like the great Cyrus of Persia, who meeteth death fighting the Massagetae along the Syr Darya, are at least commendable in that they profit to navigations which are ecdemic. If one were to have been a king of Syria could he then findeth in himself persistence like Cyrus whom persuadeth those hanging flora to his own name. I am like them; being the river Euleus, which divided Susiana- which is the City of Flowers, from Elymais that I couldest saith unto those eleatic ones who entice me, perchance by verse, that they too are sufferable- if it is that I should I speaketh into nature herself. But, even being in no religious department specifically, I knoweth to find that the existence of God is only contended upon a technical plan. What a supremely laudable uncertainty that is open to the forum of philosophy and poetry; then the women who, in opulence, is like a page out of Plutarch in the life of Artaxerxes as it is that he entertained his Princes and peoples in open gardens. I saith in only fiducial sentences that in those philosophies which, in their seminal taste, are hopeful so as to acquire a various sense of cosmogony there is most vacantly illecebrous to me the path to the necessity of Gender; and whereof this gender is related to the progenies of the stars and cultures with which those stars are esteemed as being of any valuable inheritance thereby to those beings residing under them. There is and was an Eternal Femininity which is called the muse and it is an idealistic point of reference whereby any human being, presumably male, for there can thereof be no women who is not already poetic- might segregate his experimentations of abstract and emotive objects upon in order that this organism, in all it's constituents which are only the most boreal things, embodies, within only the most literal sense, invention itself: in that birth, the continuance of life and intellect and civilization, and the persistence towards those things as well. Despite our progress the ages might still be characterized in particular sentiments. We look into those initial most cultures and observe a mind which is, beyond all, Celtic, Pagan, and Greek: poetic, feminine, loving, concerning with abstracter- more philosophies and the idea of a Mother Earth- of a Gaea which envelops all life. It riseth ever so high in only the votaries, whom bear in their embodiments the religious context of the "daily experience" which is inculpable. For in these spirits of feelings; for in these Eidola upon which our earth- universe hangs there is a much grander inspiration because all daily experience, in only the most modest and eventual plan, donates, with a complicity no less then genial, some portion of it's divinity to those experiences of the year, of the century, of the History which is eclectic. I shouldest speak of the civic God who is Pandemus; for she is the greatest of all the historians and even more valuable then The Alexiad of Anna. Their is that expression of society which might be acquired in some understanding of those particular customs with which the precedence of sex, affection, and marriage is concerned for it couldest be assumed, in no disjoint of modesty, that those aforementioned relationships couldest be a nativity from whence these People and their customs; which are, in their complement a society, art born so as to reflect a general- if not invaluable portion of those kinds of conversations which are more intimate and those eruditions between which those people are attributed to reside more sincerely. A People is what a common student of history shouldest try to reflect. Notice that different choice of notations between People and people that I shouldest of taken- for a person; who we should include amongst that term of the people who's presentation is not affixed with a capital, shouldest, as noted so frequently in my former writings, embody within himself a recapitulation of the geologies and their times which is more complete then those which should tend to be inundated in political routines- and so a more veritable philology, etymology, or annal couldest be drawn from those more intimate discourses that they would share in what better crevice of knowledge to pioneer then that of which the surreptitiousness of marriage and love can bring. This infirmity, that provideth the Idleness of the Aeon, sleeps in there. That divinity by which the personal experience is, with limit to only this original context, given unto lengthy venerations is contained in the palustral spirit which is insatiable and that longevity with which the society, which is a reflection of the Male (perhaps it is this reason that males are such predominant figures in our societies) uses so as to advance further into the substrate that is the Eternal Femininity( in several ways thereby). It is by these most subtle relationships that the Muse has materialized to originate Philosophie and Poesy. The female character acts as a substrate, the history, the embodiment of any particular culture as a representative Goddess from whence the male, which is the veins and the intrigue and the enthusiasm, uses as a template so as to configure, in virtue of his own playful and ludic imitation, his own renditions of that Eternal Femininity with which his senses have been doomed to be confounded by for the rest of his short life. But this women is known to more then these human condensations which, although of vast solicitude to us, are not wholly the cosmos and so is more extensive then Jung's Anima. The universe is female and the earth is masculine in that it mimics this female in all it's own business. Or rather all the cognates of ideation are feminine; all the perfect thoughts that humans and philosophers share with each other. And the strange death- that dormition from whence these thoughts are hung so as to, in the perennial commonition, be made accessible to us- this is but a means to gestation and moreso endemic to the ideas themselves then the other way around. For the Nothing, holding thought and at other times being held in thought, is the Form of coition, is the most essential motherly anatomy, as the womb, and is equally the most essential attraction in one incestuous cosmology. For the something is much less perfect then the nothing, being capable of retaining beautiful things by numbers merely and the something, always knowledgeable of the nothing, must compete with himself so as to, in his own being, duplicate the lacunae for the nothing is but the most creative thing and the most consoling in as much that it's dominion is solitary in knowing to what length forever would go. What we see around us and us ourselves; these worlds- are but the Adonis or Ephebus which is no less then propise and in utero and that is the something which imitates the nothing, which is his mother's womb. When the something riseth to his own life he becomes encomiums and imitations and praise. He is worthy of a various office but moreover he is exceptional. "Nothing" is such a fundamental part of idea, insofar as every true idea must be unadulterated and immortal. Man, who embodies imitation, must, by this proclivity, construct himself accordingly some worlds which are similar to the ones with which he was firstly presented with. Man grows best in the nothingness that is the womb of ideation and that womb is best discovered in poetry; and the ideation in philosophy so it is that they are both equally valuable in the exploration of femininity which we call discerning the ways by which the worlds work. The conviction of the world is more or less ineffectual, in that the world hopes to riseth as high as Nothing; which is the state in which all the processes of invention are most lucidly conducted. The society is but the masculine rendition of the female, the world a rendition of the maternal Nothing; which is the womb of ideation, and which holds in it's organ a pure substance called potential and potential Something from whence us men are prone to cause to being examined closer still because that is our truest nature. In accomplishing our own nature, in our migrations from this Earth and the universal womb, we often discover pygmy "Somethings" which imitate our own creation which is virile. The mother of ideation, who's children are poems and philosophies and eternal thoughts, affords us them perhaps as means to novity by, with only the most cautelous and prudent art, spinning them from those aetherial columns of potential. When us artists, who are so lucky as to have been given unto the eternal of mothers, begins to feel within ourselves some "seal of parturition" when we write, some sensation as if our word, our poem, our story is our own child; we hath only experienced the point of reference whereby the eternal mother herself understands the condition of her progenies and so this we call the act of creativity. It was, in only an unsuitable precipitancy, mentioned earlier that Philosophy is the child of Ideation whom knows most intimately the mother herself; and that Poesy is that child who affords one the vestibule to the eternal womb of the nothing; thus allowing whosoever hath been entreated to Poesy's providence a most delightful comfort in those clouds of potential and inventiveness and thereby it can be said that Poesy is also that child which prepares one so as to confront philosophy with such a character as to avoid ineptitude( and perhaps it is this reason that much classical poetical volumes contained within their verse fine instances of philosophical musing). It will now be said that Poesy is the daughter of Ideation whom is gentle and uplifting and preparatory, and philosophy that Son whom, in stern tutelage, requireth of a person much reputation and those signs of achievement which is industrious so as to allow one to come within more intimate relationship with the mother, that is His mother.
Knowledge hath a motive of audacious want as Tissaphernes who laid a magnificent park in honor of Alcibiades or Alexander who opened Greece to the Asian tradition of a finer hortensia and enjoyeth the likes of the paradise of Bazisda and also who commiteth detour on his march from Celonæ to the Crack willows of Nyasa in order that he might find those gardens of Semiramis at the foot of the mountain of Bahgistan and he also was greatly upset to find at Pasargadae that the tomb of Cyrus in the royal paradise hath been opened to neglect and looted and once more he, when coming to Babylon, by the seed of illness, he pressed to the far side of the Euphrates in order that he might perish at least before it's great park; and to be found by knowledge then is to enjoy those vegetative colors or a pleasant walk like those of Paneion or the grove of the Nemi as it is a richer and more diapnoic mountain or it is the vale of Enna or the Mausoleum of Augustus that was planted with many cypresses or even still it is Tyre and Sidon where there were those silks brought of some Persian caravans shipping out of the markets of Armenia and Nisibis and which, as far as an appraisal concerns us, fetched quite an opulence as we learn of how Aurelian bemoaned the price of silk from that place as it is that a pound of the material went for some ounces of gold. That knowledge that we were discoursing, being nowhere near the cineritious state, is more noble still then once I did, before the mind that is like Enoch and rarefied, denote by means of writing or more considerative estimation; like the famous Dadia forest that is in the prefecture of Evros in Greece or the Pindus mountain range or it could behaveth like Penthesilea of the Amazon even and taketh up a man like a women does with hands that are roundabout as Eritrea, that name thereby being employed under some Italian colonists; who is most exceptional in her own character which is like the Thracian kingdom and and not amphicoelous and thereby being separated apart into some odd factions of history like an Odrysian kingdom or the Dacia of Burebista or the Seuthopolis founded by Seuthes III or princess Europa and the hero Orpheus and so becoming to causeth all manner of sufferance to happen in the vein of Agape, Chionia and Irene who were girls of most prominence. They were Cypria too because that was wherewith beauty was born and they were, by excess of no velleity, of want to torment me and my kingdom which is a holy grounds. For it is that knowledge, in itself, doth never age- rather, it degradeth only until it could taketh up the forms of erudition as that lucidity with which it is permiteth governance over thy morale, and thy philosophie is rendered more, and in excess of gradient, quite- fashionably corrupted. Therefor it is that knowledge is eternal, the only eternal substance that does, with verity, deserveth to be placed under label; and that it is discovered in order that a man, who is the philosopher and is saintly and dignified, mighteth be given unto those holy disciplines with which he hath secured in mind his destiny, which is a mark of the authenticity of his free will; which are those assemblages of knowledges that he has chosen to pursue and which are wholly expressible, wholly verifiable. Be it that a knowledge is Phoenician it should be well suited for explorations by sea. It is my opinion that the column of knowledge might taketh up one of four forms which are different so as to becometh like an acclivity that is optional. It could express itself in either Philosophy or Poetry, but it can also be expressed in the knowledge of Sorcery and the Religion that Sorcery causeth to being engendered. Three of these devices are those types of knowledge that can be useful to the bloke who happens to find himself a creature that is social, whom doth not inherit much from knowledge that is Religious, as this is inexpressible and valuable to only whereof those whom, in preparation, have discerned those philosophies with which it's ecstasy is containeth in stricter more formulas. So it happens that Sorcery is the intention of Religion, inasmuch as each religion seeks to accomplish at least one instance of transcendental experience, and it is also a particular symmetry of philosophies that the mind, when restricted to, is impressed with; so as to make of duplication in that form with which the philosophies, when made of in the art of the eclecticist, is created so as to understand that ineffable ecstasy that is the program of those philosophies whence the figure of those philosophies hath been miniaturized in the mind. The knowledge of sorcery requireth of the magician the knowledge of philosophy; so it hitherto must be included in mine thought that they are relative to each other. So it happens that any condition can be reproduced in the mind, given that the mind has been impressed in likeness to inherit that condition, by the frequent annealing of the mind in any philosophy which is dynamical. If it is that the job of Philosophie and Poetry is to express, in turn, those thoughts and feelings with which a person has taketh into his acquirement; it becomes the job of Sorcery to internalize the religious experience which is liable to exceed all the mediums of communicating things that are human. It follows that Sorcery is the greatest most interaction of philosophy with other philosophies; and it inspires Religion which is the intended synergy of those philosophies to develop, which is the highest most of the human sensations. I am like Strabo who spied near the Necropolis many gardens in which family tombs were to be found. I am a Priene wherein all the courts are paved; and I am the vessel which was built by Archias of Corinth, holding all manner of flora. What do you saith as to what moves the Stellae erraticae, or the thorn of Jerusalem that is Paliurus or the poets that would taketh up henna blossoms from the vineyards of En Gedi or read upon Dioscorides and Pliny into the nature of plants and move wonderful knowledges, not withstanding those infirmities of human stigmatism, to so impudently suckle the nature that is temerarious.
I have, in succinct promise, erected mine philosophy as do several but I might have only used it that I couldest eventually become to know that my person hath begun to suffer exceptional inanition. I hath acquired my Soul, or so I had been deceived to think that I had. I, being so accustomed to some initial eccentricity, most naively considered that the nature of self can be discerned in thoughts, and poetry whence from the multiplicity of the human organism do offer more lineal addressed towards the divine orders. And here I am; my Soul is dark, and I am not yet the enlightened person I hath become to impersonate unremittingly. I am as most thoroughly distanced from enlightenment as can be a man, or child. Had it taken me too great a length of thought to consider that only can the Soul be awakened in Love and relationship- not even as those Argonauts sailing to Colchis, but rather that relationship by which all the God's epithets are obscured and all the world's men are becometh as soporiferous community. I hath drawn up into my self no shining quality, no iridescence, no compelling visions such that I might ever forget God and Man. Only fond memories and love can best the Lethe, only fond memories and love can encourage Nepenthe- only fond memories and Love causes the forgetfulness of both God and Man alike by which the human spirit is elevated to revolve by more precise methods. I might cure myself of one or the other, the later in Enmity and the former in Atheism and gala thought- but to so gracefully depict my life by the absentia of both of them as only love can do... Oh how I wish I could! And might I have had my own fond memories withheld by those instantaneous effluences of resplendency that refine my brain in childhood and wishful futures, it having long since been dead and it being rare for it to experience stimulation; lest I now be divorced of my last all-enduring honesty, I have begun to slowly migrate from them and have been caused somehow to cease remembering and imagining them. Love trains the mind to focus it's devices, love causes those distortions by which all of Man and all of God are caused to occupy a single body and thus afford the most direct spiritual axis. But I am alone, and shalt live as obscure and caliginous, with my many-God and my several-Men. Is it because my person is only to be recalled by incipient musings in these strange interim that I hath urged myself to become as something else? Is it because I hath been so deluded so as to conceal my feature in this house, by which I hath yet been excused from in several odd weeks? It is this, that I am lacking my person. It is this, that I am lacking my self- and thusly, might I have nothing to offer anyone? I hath encouraged no love to give, and love is an ineffable thing by which all the greatest professorship is useless drought and lies - and by that token, I am as unwelcome to sample from it's Halidom, it's Intercessor, it's Paraclete; it's estuary and Euripus, it's total independence. I hath long observed my generation prefer itself so as to display it's antipathy for the world and it's modern duplications, and having done so in those luminances of anarchy and brutality and disregard I hath also been contrived to saith so: We hath desired to illustrate our self-sufficience, our independence from the State and from the World- and we have done so in the vein of anger, but it is that anger that compels us towards our enemies, it is that anger that hath consumed us to require our enemies if not that we might only dispose ourselves to their destruction. Might I have experienced it myself, you could be more apt to believe me when I say that only love can divorce you of your need for your enemy. Only in Love are you permitted a reliable independence from the State, the World, God, and your Enemies. It follows in line that my servility should be boundless.
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The poet, whom might recall nature itself for us within some cinereous dust is carried aloft by some sort of anamnestic magic to recite a star or berry and who is sustained by those most reliable nests and the pinions of the vespertilian night-dwellers which persuade it to operation; they are like those bats of the nocturnal plan as they are most observant to the world only through a depth that extends it's description deeper then sight and whom also are more likely to be the "Varuna" and "Argus Panoptes" of the animal kingdom- he whom performs indefinitely in concurrence with the instrumentality of an eternal prudence; that judgmentally aperitive and ephoral citizen- kept by the common weeds and gramineous verdure, and by the pavonian and tumescent brain of nature from which he recites the poisonous vapors of Avernus and like Serbonis of Egypt, appears solid- but, is not. For it is to be said; the only human being which might illustrate the parturitive canticles of motherhood, is the poet- whom might come to enjoy and pasture his works and their equivalent seminals to odd degree, as if they were as some natal piglets by necessity fixed upon a fresh teat with stringent optation. There are but two creatures that give birth; they are the woman, and the poet- and all men must by interminable standard respect their natural ability to create with principle, instead of the "a posteriori" of artificial reproductions. The poet's writings, touch and tickle his soul, as the child to it's mother.
Thus is the Paropamisadae from whence many conquests were enjoyed by Alexander and in any other circumstance is titled the Hindu Koosh; that mountain range separating the basins of the Kabul and Helmand rivers from that of which the Amu Darya or Oxus is, and that is beset to draw attention whereof the Cedar's sacred twigs are burned to encourage the production of that smoke which the Sibyls dispose themselves to drawing in a labent fashion in order that they might determine the thoughts of their own God as they are most certainly caught up in their piety by means of a particular symbolic ecstasy: as the Gardens of Adonis or that ceremony, conducted in Athens, whereof one women was submitted to marriage with Dionysus who was the God of fertility or also in the case of this word of Quechua called the huaca. I do, in my own opulence of gratitude, recognize that particularity that the imagination is so prevalent of the human condition that as it, in some benign conservation, explores the more incipient forms of our societies it also seems to cause to being engendered a general stock of rituals and matrimonies with those peoples with which it belongs to. The imagination affords that substrate into which an individual might commit to learning with no foreseeable terminus or extremity by which his acquisitions could be entertained by. The more one knows in his current development the more one CAN possibly know; in order that the imagination connects one to the exaggeration of former experience and those experiences yet to be had. In this substrate we are divided from the animals and related to Duende and our own authenticity which is given living form by many epulose spirits; feasting in excess and driving us in their further vaudeville conventions. In defense of the imagination, I might say that it is thereof responsible for that celerity with which the office of our intellectual history was persuaded to instauration. The most initial want, as I understand it- or rather prefer to have made of by conceit, is that want for "what is occurring" both with the exterior and within the interior worlds; and which might be more appropriately defined as the appetency for knowledge. More so in humans, then is in animals, is that want of what IS to occur which could be discerned by most continual exertions of it's character which, by illimitable renditions, is given unto it's own curiousness. This particular knowledge, of what is to occur, embodies within itself the possibility for some higher articulation. This highest most articulation must be the knowledge of things which are separate from occurring, or the state of having already occurred- and hence being no more then the recollection of memories. It follows that the imagination must be that thing with which an entity can progress from things having occurred, which is the state of immediate observation, to those things which Might occur, or Could occur which, in themselves, promote the retention of axioms and principles which are those things that relate the things having occurred with the things that might have occurred and which also, when ordered and understood propitiously, encourage a more placid reflection upon their own qualities which is called meditation and spiritual refinement; into which the mind is concerned most intimately with the axioms themselves. The progress of the imagination then, to submit to a more fitting summarizing, is to engage the individual in traversing the gulf from the Earthly dimension, to a more immaterial and ghostly dimension from whence he might gain a still broader view of the world with which he is found himself to be situated in: configuring himself even in time and space and even to the length of deriving consolation in more inept circumstance. The individual assumes this station in his use of axioms, which is a lineament of knowledge that might be more highly refined by intent consideration of it's artistic nature. These axioms are those tools with which we study and discern the inner workings of our reality; which are those paths and relations from whence various things take to encourage more original forms of themselves. In more considerable erudition from whence these universal axioms are comprehended, one can migrate repeatedly throughout an intellectual landscape that, by ponderous inclinations, might lead towards higher still beauties. It follows that, in our immediate life, our philosophy itself; our mind itself has entered a crisis into which it is either to, in Lovecraft's plan, be destroyed in that perplexity and confusion of it's own impossible mechanics or reach it's fruition in the most elegant consummation of it's own departments. The philosophy of a peoples, and those languages and grammars with which it is derived, happen to be dehiscent in their palimpsest manuscripts. In a vast progeny and a history with which only but a moment of that progeny is discovered we take stock of all those many works of literature and science and philosophy that happen to have collected in this inundant pool of those things we were calling axioms. In our own times might we, in no particular anxiety, consider that infusion of one school of thought into another, as can so readily be observed. Nanotechnology, Biology, Shamanism, Medicine, Spirituality, Mathematics, Genetics, Quantum Physics, Religion: these are all seeing more instances from one another and can be said to be in a state in which a new experimentation of their relativeness to each other and their complementations is being conceived. It is obvious that the human psyche must now, in the likeness of a poet, conceive of how best to arrange it's many remarkable characteristics lest it fall into a strange dormition for many generations of peoples. So it might be more conveniently said that the imagination is the container, the means of retention, from whence axioms can be explored and more highly articulated so as to constitute more conscious experience. The structure from which our historical philosophy has been described must be reconsidered, and in it's miraculousness be discerned more completely so as to constitute a refinement in it's designs which, obsolete and incompatible with our acquired knowledges, must be near a state of falling apart at last. We must take all our literatures and more properly consider their relationships and we must also do this with our sciences and philsophies lest we be confounded in destroyed in their greatness.
Whensoever the Delphian seed in me was, in fructifying influences, made to becometh livable I again considered those philosophies from whence I was most delighted to have been known by and which happened to exist as remotely from my own benignant Earth whence I, in more deliberate ideas, conceived it solitarily. Our society bears, without any lack of constituency, that enanthema which is colloidal; our genius is but an intermediate novelty which between the identity which is firm and the imagination which is permissive does spontaneously develop. As it is, in my own verisimilitude, that modern philosophy seems to follow an epigenetic or rather constructive paradigm in that process whereof the configuring of it's intellectual opportunities is concerned. It has preferred to build itself upon the compost of more archaic thoughts in that limpid repetition of the way in which the imagination itself is so disposed to work, which is the employer of the philosophy, in the case whereof axioms are retained so as to constitute a progression of consciousness in those spheres by which the mechanics of the axioms are more thoroughly understood so as to reason into what original forms the fundament might take. What I would suggest, in only the most sedulous idea, is the investment in sort of an all-pervading vicissitude by which the structural architecture of our current philosophy takes on more universal and instantaneous revelations of itself. Old philosophy is based on evolution and making obsolete more archaic philosophies in order that a linear objective in development can be entertained. New philosophy should not be ordered by lineaments, rather it will be composed of unconflicting and disembodied philosophies that interact with each other in a variety of ways and which are more complete in their moral then their predecessors so as to avoid that alienation from whence modern philosophy has discouraged the general public from sampling it's fallal and novelties. Notice that much interest, even so far as the general man is concerned, was conjured in the more ancient societies in order that philosophy might be added to and only in more modern times, in that synchronism with the rise of a posteriori thought, has the more common people begun to become confounded with their ideas of new and newer entertainment and dining. Arranging philosophy into more elegant forms becomes less daunting of a task in this new paradigm. This change in thinking is a change from a purely constructive thought to a thought system who's most primary objective is motivated towards more and more stable and intricate relationships of it's principle parts. In order for the history of philosophy to be completely traced back and halted so as to make possible a bifurcation of consciousness into this new paradigm we must introduce a Primary Disassembler into dialog with the humanities which until now have been ordered by some high devotion to the linearity of our observable thoughts. I believe that in the philosophies of Descartes and in those models of A Posteriori itself, which developed into modern philosophy, an entirely original and invaluable philosophical state of the Human Being was discarded. Madness can be defined as, by only the most modest idea, that state of mind in which belief is suspended in the absentia of experiential knowledges. In the new paradigm of philosophy more amicable ideas that are beneficial rather or not they might be real or logical will be developed and correlated with each other; this intellectual madness is a very- much sanguine organ of the human intellect which, in our day's anathema, has for the most part gone unpronounced. This is a regression back into the state of philosophical madness that can so readily be observed to permeate the culture of ancient Greece in the forms from whence Plato is most note-worthy and all those other, significantly abstract, philosophies and that Daemon from whence Socrates, an axis of the logical Man, held responsible for much of his own judgement. Look to Heraclitus for several other instances of this madness of philosophy which seems to me as being worthy of constituting a deeper involvement with us. It is certainly conceivable, that idea, that the general public, for the most part, has no measurable regard by which we could understand that philosophy played some kind of a role in their life. But what every man has is a basic framework of a philosophy, which is a reflection of his culture, from whence he hitherto could draw upon subliminally. Our cultural philosophy is so drastically different from the more ancient philosophical madness that those peoples from whence these thoughts are attributed to relied on to devise their society that we often, in the case of unconsciously coming into contact with one of these kinds of peoples, begin to notice a certain discrepancy about us whereof we had been more aware of our relationship. I feel it appropriate to notify my readers that Galatea is a psychopompos; or spiritual guide, as the Hermetic order even if Aphrodite hath not the generosity to animate her. The imagination is distended that no one, in any figure of my own considerations, would like to know that. We should invest ourselves to the exploration of philosophy and art, which are living organisms, as those pygmies of the Ituri forest whom are characterized by their fluid society and not like their Bantu neighbors whom erect much philosophies in respect for sin and ritual in order that we might acknowledge more intimate divinities within ourselves, that hence concealed beneath our House of Atreus, riseth but a little- and this is much welcomed, higher then the Earth.
Take for instance that pantheon by which the Hindus are notoriously acquired and which curiously draws such a considerable portion of the intellect to it, comprising such Gods as Ganesh, Shiva: or by that similar lineament, discern that institution of all the Buddhist devices of reincarnation, karma and zen, and the like: I am so inclined to prefer these all to myself as some sort of metaphorical constructures that are, as you might be inclined to put it in the plan of the Transcendentalist, brought to life or "animated" by the mediums of: Iconography, Language, Interpretation, and Symbology- which are all those subjects mastered by the poets and by which the mind is so thoroughly attracted to, so you might be able to confide in them a more proper divine fundamentality then in any priest or Brahman by which that incumbent acquisition of great verses is only secondarily required. The poets becometh to submit those historicities of the Gods to some most routine documentations in that likeness by which they made themselves responsible for all the more iridescent quality of the ancient metaphors by which those Hellenic spheres contained their axis. It is also that the unknown authors of the Vedic Testament and all the most ancient texts were thusly a class of them; all these tectonic aboriginals of the most initial enlightenments of our imperishable historicities- these poets became to write the Gods and the essential histories of our all our kinds of men thus allotting the races a common seed of which comes to us without terms and in these living Gods and Goddesses. The most intimate history was spoken or enumerated out of poets; it was not objectively documented by them, rather it is the background substrate of their own personal history and is a part of them and thus to become a poet is to become of the inventors of history and uphold humanity as a living reckoning of it's various saecula.
Complacently, the succinous and auletic and nemoral Bards peregrinate their asterismal lands and rather curious moratoriums of experience or dispose themselves to those most intentive ponderings of their insular genius; becoming to express the highest most sphere of noematical meditation and the retention of poculent knowledges by some comportment of Ephestian merit. To determine their relation to "terra incognita" which is Holy, they prescribe themselves to the rumination upon their own limited acquisitions of understanding whilst this becomes to prolonging an intent consideration of their own aphelions, and in them relishing their indelible destiny; which is to wonder in constancy and to avoid the central evil, which is oscitant hunger, the stains of boredom which prohibit the ambulant spirit which has pardoned itself from rustic experience, the verdure, and baccaceous impletion on behalf of the being filled with meat, wine, and some odd-proportioned entertainments. These men, in some adequate performances, live as the shrew is so disposed to live. Some of those most considerable shrews, in their own common propensities, include the operation of the trees and acquaint themselves with higher altitudes, and some are yet inclined to take beneath the soil and rebuke the light and the surface Earth, from their own experiences. Even more so, some might comprehend venom as the snakes do, to execute a degree of superiority in killing and therefor, among their kindred, revolve themselves with best fulfillment of their nature in the thickness of combat and defense-, and some might, in manner of the bats and wales, perform a certain echolocation- employing the means, as we do, to enjoy the world in more familiar patterns. A strange, constant hunger assumes itself to impel them towards restless lives, and even more interesting, they retain ten percent of their body mass in their brains, a rather odd proportion for such a thing as this creature. These versatilities assume, in my mind, a poetic expression for man.
The marshes do, with an honesty and volition, become to occupy themselves with that class of poets whom are some aphelian men, providing them conjointly with those trenchant osculations common to both land and water that, when considered by humans, are doomed to accommodate merely a stock of some temulentive babblings and distanced lore. Truly, that paludinous plane of the poet is not so hospitable towards it's auxiliaries but someone told me in one time of how a dictionary was something more then a document of reference- that it was some plenitudinous region of submonition for the poet and his histories to draw from; thus I have to think when writing and reading of some higher procedure of the universe by which the language that the poets are accustomed to principally renewing with such ardent professorship is enjoyed .
Somewhere distant living there is this panoistic firmament reproducing itself by the noble heath of immaturity; it is this horotelic regularity of form and expression, of sorts; this sort of ichneumonidan and epornitic and oscinian "Koan," or "Terma" of which we might acquaint ourselves with, to examine hitherto that purulent manner of our thinking without the idea that our self is retained in the residual effects of which our influences upon others has produced. All things which reside in the ear relate themselves to those epithumetic and sanguine birds, as the worms do. I recall now, with a great satisfaction, that I know less now then I did before I could read. He who participates in philosophy should at some point retain in himself no answers, yet know all the manifold potentiality of questions. Thus by this extension, I believe that the goal of philosophy, is to in subtle gradualism, inclineth the mind into the questioning of things to attune the point in which the mind is possessed no longer of anything, save questions; and hitherto let not the agonistical wisdoms prevail. It is suitable for the philosopher to question, and better to question those natures which are of the immediate class. Those philosophical spheres alternate the veritable intelligentsia in varying and reproducible conditions of prejudices, so as to perform the sublating of one from the world, and away from intellectual servility. The goal of the philosopher is to, in himself, contradict the world and present to it the inadequacies of those pertinent reasonings which attempt to obscure it's various discrepancy. He claims some respectable station for himself in that vespertine and galeate firmament, exacting his own stalwart running sticks through a chelonian and testudineous enclave of answers and resolution, for they are most orectic, or inspiring to the appetite; and they do not penetrate his shell, and the diminution of his seriousness exalts him perfectly, as the tortoise and hedgehog.
How vapid answers are in developing the ends, how hebetate is man in the prescription of such sense! How succulent is that meat of a good and acataleptic inquiry, or that enterprising temerity of some overly-curious interloper, which in any conceivable case we might regard as the philosopher. That affordability, of the multiple expression of meaning and promotes a certain commodious reclination, to which on behalf of the Soul's involution might be reserved with the exchangeability of ideas. Those formal objectifies; those whom desire answers, I tell them; the answers of which you concern yourself with afford no discussion, for they are impersonal and concrete. The temporal products of philosophy and poetry, these hermeneutic devices merely exaggerate one's acquaintance with himself and becometh congeries, and strengthens the bonds he shares with his world respectively because it has encouraged the growth of the common seed(1).
The memory is the illimitable artery of the self; and the appendages of the self, and thusly retains any quantity of philosophy for the individual, and deserves to be treated within a degree of spirituality and reverence, as it possesses the individual-self. The insensible perspiration to which the diapnoic and ablutionary apertures of meditation; wherein properly executed in the manner of testamentary canonicity and scripture, animate our rudimentary organs has hence inclineth me towards a goal; to internally retain some architecture of my writing and philosophy, to effectively compartmentalize some chronology of my own religion, such to devise an anamnestic poetry of sorts. I understand the particular method to which I employ to be of a Latin origin, accounted for in the "Rhetorica ad Herennium." The author, unknown had composed the work around 85 BC. Cicero in his "De Oratore" also yields references to this, and it was adapted by incipient and ancient monks to be used as a tool in various meditation upon their sacred texts, such to infuse within themselves their prayers. The consistence of the craft is of a most copacetic and imputative effectiveness, for one might; in the manner of someone composing, or reviewing a film or book, come to meander about in an infinite manner of directions, and patterns, in his manifold of recitation. As opposed to rote learning, which might go simply in some preconditioned formulas, this method of memorization predominantly encourages the rhetorician. One takes the Loci; which is a section of a mentally projected room or location, and associates it with distinct sections of his speech, thus affording him ample flexibility upon reciting it, allowing him to shuffle it and ponder, as if turning chapters in a book. My poetry is this place in my head. One might even extrapolate the possibilities of this, using “Locis” in the form of ancient temples, castles, monasteries, etc. This dimensionality of scripture has attracted me, and implemented me so as to share it's composures with my reader.
That personal life of ours, is amuletic and eremean and vimineous; as the various pilgrimage from life to death revolves in it's Cyrenian and aposematic signatures, we wear them as a collection of Holy periapts and ornamental garb. The intellectual, by any given nature, will in opulent credulity, concern himself with nothing but the immediate and the inexpedient remoteness of the applications of telestic contemplation tend to fail in the soothing of his appetency for various knowledges, which is insolvent and paraenetic in it's expression. For you have serenaded this world, to look upon it in these particular ways; that vacillant and aporetic wonder which affords the soul of a man a certain solacement in that tabescent and anemic erudition of Earthly wisdoms, which affords him a certain remordency and color in that unconsoling verisimilitude and epigaeous truth, who's fruits ripen best beneath the ground, unchecked by the higher utilities of the human soul.
Might I consider, in the likeness of those activities whereof I am entreated to the cautelous renewal of my philosophies, that the Intellectual- herein to be most usually accounted by the Poets in likeness of the Ellyllon whom upon the open plains are so disposed to wondering in strange and unpunctual interim might not exceed by his Indian file that particular isogloss or allodium wherein he hath been made to inclineth himself by those most volant departments of the immediate and those contestable obventions given to the Ever and Anon in order that he might leave off of those considerative ends to which, by the figuring of all the more recent estuance, that civilization hath dispose itself to obsession by. By "considerative ends" is meant, by a most pertinacious modesty, that object by which the likes of industry and the stock from which all the more necessary goals of civil activities are esteemed; them being most notably directed as the continuance of the populace, and that appurtenance of dormition whereby a general proportion of the community is incited towards no more revolutionary profession then all the more menial labors, that at least those occupations are to devise them "propitious" wherein they hath procured, in the least, that meal whereby their child is sustained. That to advocate a return to nature and hitherto afford that plan wherein the testament of the incisive spirit; that animation of the Holocene and the Agnate is required: we hath not decline all the more laudable intentions of higher thoughts, art, and reading. Hath not this discrepancy been to poorly advised so as to endure such lengthy philosophical musings for if it should be that we again ascend the arbor we might find in our camp promoted a more commodious lodge around this time as in Georges Bataille's idea on the linking of religion with nature inside of Man; for civilization might be but this curious enamel, smilax, myrtle, and lacquer by which we are not bound, encumbered, or withheld- for might we not take this thing up with us, still fit to climb as we had before- yet with this single differential; that we doth now so righteously excel in literature, mathematics, arts, culinary device, grammar, comportment- that we hence have inspired civil attitude? And if that civilization might be something as accomptable and complementing of my endearment had it not to digress itself by my opinions of it, whereby it is shown to defend all those things by which it's office is, with that concern of referendum, upheld and encouraged so as the placability of aggravation, the docility of the temper- and the improvement of all the body of sodality is esteemed? If the civil spirit is something to be honored, is it not to be dependably revealed that it is compatible, that it is able to retain it's conditions at all times and in all circumstances by which it is stimulated to act? For why is it that we may, by those most affable devices, consider civility in our own homes- yet when provoked to the improvisation of other kinds of people, we are suddenly communicated to our most obscured vestige? Civility is not a cessation of the animal man, rather it merely acts as some curious drug that, in a temporal plan, stunts the activity of such a thing as the animal man. But alas this civil product, this culture hath been such a necessary evil. For without it, how might the babe discover language which is something as a "patrimonial seminality(1)" at that, and thusly how might the poet be established if provided not that common brain as language is?
It is most certainly true; that every particular age, in it's own extensive body, possesses a various assemblage of elite, figures, or representatives, and that these bodies of individual men serve to be therein attributed to the vocabulary of the various spectrum of our mortal expression and effort. Though, these men are certainly great, I have been inclined by no manner of evidence, as to believe that they were any more great then ourselves. It is the fault of that society, that it lacks the capacity to acknowledge the opulent fullness of it's constituency, and invests itself to the task of enumerating it's stock within a lazy stupor. The given society might incorporate only a limited portion of it's greatness to the historical canon, and so, the most worthy experience of humanity; which is the individual life, must go for the most part as some plangent yet recondite poetry, as "Ovid's Metamorphoses". That society is weak of mind, for it can only recall itself in miniature forms. Above all that I have seen, I appreciate; the meaningless, the meager, the incorrect, the imperfect, the abstract, the personal, and the illogical, the unanswerable, and those creatures unburdened with names; which are all the things which inhabit "Parnassus."
The lacustrine margin; if one were so disposed, as to take the world in manner of symbols, he might relate himself to that sative cadence. Standing, overlooking, the nitid lake; the individual corresponds in his branching, or ramellose citizenship with that sempiternal petrichor that forever; in it's papilionaceous and etesian and pactolian estate, amuses and assures the human spirit of it's supremacy in nature; as sure as God favors the unshaven man. All the vine of historicity, like an estrous spine, runs through and interminably connects these tribuloid and prothallial and epigean vastitudes of personality, so that history itself has invested in it's own identity, and in the case of the lake; I feel as though they are some sort of patulous opinion of sorts, correspondent with this Human, that the earth says in them that there is a beatitude in independence of form. All action is immortal and converges eventually.
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The poet, by that epeiric and tribuloid and ampelideous flower of Cataonia, engages a various piscatorial lifestyle as indefinitely sailing; becoming that essorant and provisionary intercessor that he is- wings spread, about to fly; but alas, that instance of flight has not yet been so as to occur upon this cachaemic creature who has inclineth his perichaetous body, or briary and lotic form to the various tentation of open water, as opposed to; open sky, though he still retains that hypaethral firmament to the skies for when it might be needed, this implement of flight. The poet is that sanguine and trenchant sumpter, or pack-animal; that aleatoric and elaphine audience of sorts, beholding the world in it's Styx by various pycnaspidean birds. The poimenic and homiletical beatitudes of which he invests himself in, tend to enrapture their beholders, encouraging a certain submission in them towards strange and stranger religions. He delivers his effulgent sermon like no other adept of "Paideia" or the refinement of Man into his more honest natures. This is the poet, and the parameter of his ardent vocation is in the adjective. He is a Stag which, by the proportion of chance you are met with.
I think that the hedgehog is the greatest, most virtuous and noble animal and that of the fishes the supreme rulers are most certainly the perches. I recall capturing lighting bugs as a child, and I have reserved myself to live; merely to ponder those thoughts again and revolve their kindness in my lonesome plazas, like a failing light in my breast. I recall the constellations of lambent vendors along the beaches, of which I last observed as some distant child. I recall when my parents were healthy. I recall when I was healthy. Alas, even so I recollect, I can only approximate these secular creations in the invasive blindness of my iniquity, incompassionately rendered on my account on various occasion, and I am by that insularism punished by myself, so that I have relieved God of his most operose work.
There is that implement of philosophy which we call "agnoiology;" that doctrine which deals with a sort of requisite and apodictic nescience; the rumination or studying of ignorance, and the now quite noticeable antithesis of that certain, indecent temulance, or being drunken of "unknowing" which has been quite rudely subjected to some sort of miscalculated prejudice, which I would presume to correct hitherto. I have my own introductory, or propaedeutical agnoiology, or this treatise on ignorance, of sorts; of the concerns with the various horticulture of artistic expression, which is that timeless and amaranthine evocation that is SOLELY dependent upon some thing your likely to not expect. Ignorance is that rudimental necessity of the poet and the artist; if their craft is indeed the study of appreciation, yet they act with this periculous thing unlike a more common man. Imagination affords him with that full capacity of human understanding, which is set by the terminal and desinent boundaries of; linger, like nominal mice to some opulence of cheese, like babes with their own astrology of sidereal arcanum; like the dust of a homiletic and pruinose asterism. The Count might have told us to maintain our postponements in the likes of some sort of vespertine esperance, though I feel my own modification suits my personal tastes a bit better. Genius is the compound of a configuration of ignorance and imagination, and it is that ignorance that affords poetry it's spirit, the wonder that breathes the halituous and animastic stuff of the song, is resultant from this uncomprehendingly rendered magic, or anoetic and sementine alloy of imagination and ignorance. But ignorance, it is the congeries of poetry!
How many hours, by that facile comportment invested in my pen, have hence come to unfold in such a way as to leave me divorced from the world? How many days prescribed to my way of this, insular apomecometry, have conducted me into unfamiliar currents, which in their own copasetic celerity and diligence, have obscured me from my fellow peoples and my family? Nay, it is this paying my respect from afar, that has prepared me for more estimable argumentation on the behalf of my various cause, and of which has prepared me in more worthy a reverence then that which I might have occupied my parents and friends with, in earlier times. I give my thanks to whatever God has commanded me thus far, for I do not know him. If I knew him at one time, I have hence forgotten his name, which is now disregarded to the place wherein oblivion and internecion diverge; no longer possessed of his acts, but rather their meanings, I know now what matters; not the truth, for it has been broken under the meaning. Not the math, not the science, and most certainly; not logic. I now recall something Bacon said, that a taste of contemplation betrays the man for atheism, but a full experience of philosophy inclines the student to direct himself in various, Godly ways, and thus returns the man to some peculiar Theosis of his own.
I believe, in part due to the leporid accentuation of my own anthophilous and ecbatic campanology, that the ethical and religious verity of our life might be forever restricted, to that eclectic and hermeneutic life; that life disposed to interpret and imagine, rather then to define and conquer. The world is concerned not with the interval of it's incipient constituents, but those will undoubtedly be the things that change it. That we move with these vast philosophies which are but parochial extrapolations, we become that plaintive amaritude of which through it's odd unfamiliarity and bitterness infinitely impresses the world. The twilight and the twilight only reveals the poet in various, cosmogyral peregrinations. To what recesses of that terminal and inane world will you go, to verify that element of which has no place therein to begin with, as you might live that crepusculous and tramontane life of the poet? For certainly, human life constitutes a class of it's own, forever having no participation in that essomenic and eclectic parsimony and "amarulence" of logical reasoning, instead the enumerating of it's own cambial rings and various ornamentations will tend to suffice, will tend to fulfill; in a greater effectiveness, the plangent and inquisitorial appetency of human nature. The ends of it are of no concern to me, the in betweens which are our lives, our epiphenomenons, are more valuable to me.
Might it have occurred to me that language itself is kingly, appealing to me as like some ludic God to, by it's most disenthral musings, improve itself to vindemiate or go about in the gathering of vintage and some other assorted stocks of a similar variety; as Walden, and the narghile pipes. Something no less then peregal and proportionate with that God upon which all of dehiscent Man might commend their responsibilities in light of benefiting themselves in what is that unreliable fruition they are caused to develop progenies; and so it happens that language is a Map, for it is becometh as that most especial medium of cartography wherein the stuff of pulchritude is conserved into our somnolent Aeons and saeculum; that latter term being used firstly by the Etruscans in their description for the renewal of a single human population. Therein it is that language is a map upon which each of us might impart to the other the whereabouts of some Euripides, Adonis, or Ephebus; some Alvina, some Pippa. Hence it is that language is the highest most pillar, or heuristic axis upon which that accolent, or neighboring geography that the Heavens are written of is to be found by a Man; for it is the one true path to God and that period upon which human carillon and euphony is achieved. It might be that, figuring in most respects, the animal sphere excels that of the human; them having been ordered from a more moderate plan. But if there is to be that impassive atrament of language in the man he is to be in relationship to the Animal forever as some anacrotic oddity yet to be acclimated to it's more appropriate lifestyle- this is not to necessarily presume ourselves more gifted, or in any context more exceptional in either morale or intellect but rather it is to suggest some anachoresis, or moving away from that organ from which the Bacterium, Archaeans, and Eukaryotes were to develop, the latter thus providing the more convenient apparatus upon which this "language" was to derive itself, necessarily. I had envisioned the idea of transference; and it is the object of the mind which seems as if it might embody that principle, as if the mind is but the principle of the systole, or the activity of respiring, for had it not, by a most indispensable motivation, dispose itself to the relationship with other minds, in the product of language from which it had become to illicit itself in more original forms? It follows that humans are likely built so as to accommodate that route. Considering that dietary contract whereof man is made to derive his organs, blood, and vitalic juices and those various implications from which that particular node of our lives had made itself to burden my mind hence had inclineth me to think that Man might have browsed several preferences upon which one of three most distinct choices in his past was to be represented; for he might have continued hunting, which therof would require both more considerable intervals and exertions of his labor. The more his kind grew, the more an opertaneous lifestyle would become as it would take, by most steady incline, more and more withdrawal of the activities of leisure so as to improve the pretension of his family and that stock of like varieties whence they dispose themselves to those various celsitures of culture and community. He might have farmed animals, which would require less work yet dilapidate that aptitude whereof he made in hunting a most consentaneous profession; strength, and those most notable filial ties that were engendered by committing to each other and it also would have caused to be disregarded that sense of satisfaction from which the motive to improve oneself is encouraged. The third option, that vegetarian lifestyle, would require a group achievement whereby the rejection of more implicit, emotional and sensual drives as "samsarah" was discerned and hence was, and still is, impossible for the most part in the concerning of more global admittance to those practical lives. The only possible cultural manifestations were farming or a continuance of the hunter, nomadic lifestyle; as opposed to domestic life, these lives usually sacrifice cultural identity for personal and family identity, if not tribal in more prolific and animate economies. It is a most relent proposition that one might not commend that all life has a right to life. When it became that we "evolved" to domesticate animals in this manner of the engagement of passive as opposed to predaceous commitment, most recently in the assistance of various industries, we had violated our own humble destinies. This not only causes to become most obsolescent that natural connexion that man has with his environment and it's various fauna, and wildlife by which he is made to rationalize; poison, food, and those plants suitable in crafts- it devastates those relationships with which more primitive; yet far from intellectually demerited, peoples are accustomed to experiencing. Instinct envelops us all. Their is a natural truth by which our flesh is demanded; it is to refrain from passiveness, as to avoid the "oscitant hunger." All animal experiences instinct, and even having yet experience that unencumbered and liberal life, all captive animals, considering even those suitable for medical testing, are as examples of our lacking departments in virtuosity, and our proverbial abundance of both arrogance and misdirection. What of a man, who thinks he might improve that way animals live, that way the universe revolves? Man may have the substance; the virtual marrow of the animal in him, but we are unfit for their most specific world. We are only circumscribed by that intellectual sphere which might be inferred in that occasion of the soul, which exhibits itself in choice, whereof such a thing entailing the preconditions of the imagination; the pentacle of human acheivement- hitherto, we have no place in the engagements of those animals and only the poets are convenable whereof they write of them, and illicit the admiration for them from which I am invested of. But alas, it is that we are Men. Neither rock, plant, beast, or even God. We are men who can know, or create good, bad, and right, false, and God himself. Our nature is to escape samsarah, to escape evolution. In the ancient world we were hunters, but we cannot go back there now and we have only admitted ourselves as being these most disproportionate eccentricities there. Nature dictates Men, Beast, and Animal be as separate classes, and as a distant onlooker might he prefer solace in the engagement of watching them, or of the pondering of their unfamiliar habitations in verse. Because we are unnatural; we have a mind, we have such an unfair advantage whereof the animal is most certainly plundered, and driven to extinction- that phenomenon of which knows the ancient world in far more miniature circumstances, by less puissant articles, then that from which man did endure himself to imprecate in some lack of modesty, those several kinds. And Yes! We are become so intimate with nature as the animals, or rather we can become as much. In every generation, the majority conflicted with nature. The power of volition, uncommon to animals, allows us to fulfill our natures. Animal and Man nature are most certainly different yet still that behavior with which the animal is contracted is liable to requireth of them a somewhat communicable nature with which those excusable venditions of the poets couldest do to emulate, which I would find then a fact to be all the more sweet to mine discretion. That it is not an extrication from nature, but rather, it is that we have grown so as to, by reluctant necessity, requireth of ourselves an adjustment so as to improve our station in nature; that it is we have within ourselves the possibility for higher articulations of our content.
We read poems and dispose ourselves to the living with dogs, but if only to configure our proportions with society. The man whom has not been accustomed to a great deal of many loyal fellows will seek for himself a dog into which the commensal nurturing he has adopted for it might persuade itself to compensate for the work and time that, once most adeptly invested in those unassailable relationships from which the likes of the "Argonauts" were impressed, tend to unfold in some premiant manners. Standing at the edges; at the effete fimbria of society, is that Poet. He is Nature's vendor, his work his service, his love his blessings, his greatest possession; the greatest gift- and what nobility of immolation and sacrifice, for had he not tear himself up by the roots to your comestible sense? The proceleusmatic and trochiline scenery; that encouragement of the little birds and squirrels, by their viable and aperient halitus of the poet's ablutions in that annealing of his soul; the illimitable vocabulary of that heaven unfolds in those immaculate cartographies.
To tell you the truth, I believe that the anoetic seminal is forever common in all things. I believe that the zenith of experience is in the taking of that mantra to recollection. I think, that if Nude Poetry, Nude Hate, Nude Ignorance and Incivility, Nude Love, Nude Time, The Nude and aporetic acrimony of Atheism, and Nude Desire; were to all confront each other in one noumenal ampitheatre, that none of them would find themselves able to resolve the other. The poet is that paraenetic and cunctative admonition of various supplicatory canticles from whence did contact all the struggle of the conditions of being in mind; the dissepimental and peirastic consortium of our ablutions, of a various quality and type; especially those of the parallactical "semiotics" of our mythologies and poetic works, we behold what it is that I hold as the volitient and supernal "Empyrean" or heavenly orbicle, upon which the surface of that resplendent sphere: the neanic fleshment of it's confederate pantheon, of a various consort- nomothetic and inenerrable is this suppliant company of unstudied Nuts, Berries, Birds, Men, Children, holethnic Poets and Philosophers, and amicable Dogs.
I have often made reference, in no lack of verity, wereof there is entertained a certain "sui genereis" or inculpable sanctity by which the personal experience is benefited as it is that all that is of want to perfidious misuse of the allodium is like some incipient plant by which couldest be provideth in nourishments and I'd propose to consider there are a great number of nucumentaceous and tribuloid and adelphous fruits and berries there, or what may be that enchorial and incondite department therein enclosed as some sort of superficial vestibule of sorts; of the religious connection to some olamic antiquity or prototype of which the Universe, in it's picayune and nut-gathering creatures- to through that stochastic or random utility of our lives, reciprocate in our souls through some contingency that might, with regard to no velliety, osculate the insular honesty of our singular experience, the forsaken verity of our relationship; penetrating that hypogaean and halituous integument of the hidden truths of our daily activity, for whatever reasons. The inconsequent oddities of our subtle relevance, these are our more pertinent connections to the universe, these are that entomical and autotelic constructure of the firmament which is the verisimilitudinous, or "practically true" undercurrent of our purpose. The voice of God is Irony; for that is the residues of his patrimonial seminality and presence. We must begin to acknowledge miracles as what they are! For coincidence is impossible! There is some higher still and more valuable sphere of intellectualism then logic; esemplastic in it's utility and concatenative: unifying and elemental in it's various progeny of which when traced through it's insouciant natures can be observed to allow the past to communicate with the future, of which can be observed to prioritize a various language of poetry; as each mythology stands as a singularly great poem. This new form of logic negates, insofar as they are valuable, those philosophies of Descartes and a posteriori itself in order that more axiomatic religions of our intelligence can be devised.
What might we name that feeling of irony, but "apotheosis?" If you comprehended the languages of the winds, and perchance of wont of inquiry remarked upon the fomenting emollition and relaxant "psithurism," of that subtle remark of the elaphine leaf blowing in the experiments of it's peirastic and tempestive bosom, and it's Ganesa's most sarcotic spindles of samite; might it come to answer you in the peculiar "ecesis" of it's Irony, and the visitation of it's species in you and the renewal of your carnal textures, if it might find itself able to speak that various form? But it speaks for the nature which does not speak, and of which the poet has abstained from, for whatever reason; for it is as if you have been acknowledged by some god to behold it. It's momentary concession is like an assurance from above; the testimony of those incantatory and vernal vespers like God's recognition of you in some thelematic and theandric instant.
That we might treat our personal lives as our venerated and inviolable "epinicions" or songs of a sepaline triumph; as sure as the idea of Ovid's "Metamorphoses's" various transformations and Hesiod's "Theogonia" and Aristotle's "Prima Materia" all corresponding intimately, proportionately with ourselves; in the complementing of these various "aeons" or "saecula" of our lives. We all wear Herme's "talaria," we all know in our volant and polemic conation, our brute instinct, that which impels to effort our various kinds that our lives, our selves our together as some salient epiphenomenon of a nitid, or circumferential and caducous crepuscule of which can be said to hold more of an intrinsic value then it's predecessor, which when observed extends forever into an ambient remoteness of character, value, and credential. That we, in the body of "The Knight in the Panther's Skin," perform several European humanistic ideals as the "courtly love" which in the unconditioned contradicting of itself in some sort of moral elevation and paphian and illicit presentment; which is the "Hyperion" of John Keats and the "Titanomachia" of our life, we so come to assume the duality of man, which is this conflict of hate and love. That it is in this ambivalence, or mixture of emotions, which allows to appreciate true and utter depth.
I would compose myself in that sidereal and proleptic palliament of the immanent "ostent or ornament" and icarian macarism, or supplication of my verses, as awaiting the sororal and patible diapason and consoling of some pactolian and pabulous muse, the lotic magic of which is the standard for eating amongst the Gods. All creatures which come as nutant and apopemptic before this "corposant" of "Saint Elmo's Fire" and The Mekong River's "Naga fireballs" and also Terry Pratchett's "octarine" find themselves with a vitality renewed; as the undulations of a natricine and testaceous talion, or some fast-moving water-snake of a person now aware of his being cheated. Certainly the poet's social utility is specific, as to allow him to become Nature's speech. Thus his personal service to the society is a curious one, as he is the ecumenical intercessor, the temerarious and lochetic vendition of all those particular knowledges of nature, to him all other members of society; the whole of the community come to fulfill their suppressed and optative strains, to understand nature. The Poet's job and most obligatory service must be that vulpine and furtive transference of nature's sentiment and opinion.
I have never found myself to desire the distress of your indecent eye, the cost of which to sustain that benempt oath; that I avoid the ungainly and inept countenance of my speakers. I have never written in verses or in prose that which I had pleadged to speak to the soul of a Man, on behalf of a Man. My soul speaks to God and God only, the inference of the presumptions of the indolent and lurdan of their "typhus-stupor" are not worth as much as my own contiguous drunkenness. It is forever I, devotee of a crenitic and saltant Bacchus, idolater of some olent and pomarious Anacreon, forever presiding the cleidoic and emollient balsam of my more salsamentarious ocean springs of "oenomel" and vintage like.... an erative and temulent vesper; I'd never so much as leave the dregs their undeserved companies, that I, residing my recrementitious sentine disallow that, my singular estuary is my inordinate and potatory mouth where the atramentaceous and bitter are in closer quarters with the lacteal and vestal-candied then ever they were. It is forever I! It is forever I, of stupor; of the intercessor of lethe.
But it is the trochilidine and amphicelous creature, of trivial nature, of which finds himself to abscond with those velutinous and ecaudate Angels, of who's selachian vastitude of the consuming are as upon the choreutic fleshment of his meager velleity and his lack of ambition these fruits of the "durian" which are these victual goods so far from the destitution of sap and other vitalic juices; The poet! He is God's pornography! The poet is the other half of the man. The illimitable vocabulary and paradigm, the naissant appurtenance and lexicon and idiom of the coppice and parterre, of the olamic nectary; of nature, the poet excels as such. But an ornamental, alas; the ornaments are the best parts, as I have intimately forsaken the doctrines of unity, venerating the Holy Diversity of the "personal experience"! It reminds me of Fluff, this poetry stuff! This amasthenic and palustral balsam of some trochiline and oscine flight! This dulcet marzipan! The commentitious and esemplastic organ, all truth forever this "Fenrisulfr" and "Burgess Shale" of imagination and laughter, and fiction. To be eremitical and vagrant is to sacrifice yourself on behalf of the experience, utterly and thoroughly alone and homeless; is to be seated upon The Chair of Idris the Giant. Christ would have done better to leave his gnomic water in it's original state, that he had purloined from the bowl of a palamate Ganesh and that it's vedantic and cabiric atmospheres remain as emollient and balsamical we should be improved of the insuetude of cautelous and jentacular living and higher art; the preservation of it's symbolic concordance is like a certain sustenance for the mind; the principle and element that it represents, it's rudimentary organ and aromatic root of "Animism". What an intoxication it is! An intoxication of the spirit, so that in the trenchant and vertiginous "apotheosis" of it's pileous and vespertine ailerons we are comforted and whisked away, into higher societies and tastes, into higher consumption.
The poet, he is but a curious little animal with a hat; that "Grecian Coryphaeus" of the galericulate and pardine and nidamental animals of the poetic class which are these sort of whispering and susurrant vespers, the acroamatic and recondite beauty of those spirit-leopards, the sardanapalian and effeminate nest-makers, the sinuous and lanate listeners of all the various spheres of immorigerous and vecordious barbarianism and incivility; the incruental hares of war, the immortality and Athanasia of the animal-writer's epiphoric and epenetic current, his drunken release, the paraclete and intercessors of warrior spirits; the only real law-abiders. The poet is that limnetic murderer yet to be attended with expressible blood, he who immolates the spirit in some pastoral gulf of the name of enthetic sensations, and all these bodiless feelings. The poet is the limitless vocabulary of the Earth and Sky and Animals; all those pulchritudes and copesetic and papilionaceous creatures which without a voice are these eidetic cosmologies unheard of by our more or less, unexperienced brothers. May we become him, the poet; that we may become these nomothetic and appellative devices and representatives of the unnamed, and speak on behalf and from the Earth and it's various vestibules and lives. What is the poet's species and print, but the voice and tenor of Beauty herself, the voice of God, Herself.
What is the poet but the voice and hyaline and vitreous brain of Nature and like "The Cup of Jamshid" he reflects those pomarious and hortensial worlds; he is the nucleus and kernel of all animal intelligence which is a concatenative substance in his depths like the energies of the thaumaturge and his transmutation from those generative vapors of the hermetic sciences and alchemy; oh how pure those schools were for they parallel the poet entirely for indeed he is the alchemical geography of the irenic and henotic concord of fermentations which are tellurian, the breaking down of the un-named and the un-explored, the great change from the subtle idiosyncrasies of the human nature which are marvels pandemic and ecumenical and without the lack of correspondence in the interpersonal spirit; to the denser- more and plangent acclimations of Shakespeare and Emerson and Thoreau? The impediment to the following ideas had met me with an admittance of which I could not reproduce in the likes of tentation and thoughtfulness, but alas, I have hence taken the appointment to describe it here; there is a sort of curious juxtaposition I have observed within the higher class of the art community. The poet is in many cases this morganatic thing, that is, afforded a certain generosity of comfort in the lowly title of which he is assigned, in that he has become the Earth's inferior correspondence in matrimony. He is the sacrifice to his own prescribed ritualism. Those afforded the opulent and pecunious, the gilded and wealthy styles of living, often proclaim themselves as these individuals well-schooled in the arts, and empires of gustative and argute discernments on behalf of all it's various subtleties and vicissitude; though the producers of these same arts upon which the gratitude of the agencies of the higher class might be said to be originated from are in several ways completely foreign. What is this? Why do the rich and satisfied, admire and adore the works of the poor, meager, and wretched, the deplorable and rascal of character, title, reputation, and family? What is more esoteric then the poor, then the body of vagrancy, then the nameless and stateless and the insular residents of the World at large?
The "Teumessian fox" of those ephectic and insessorial philosophies has hitherto inspired the bulk of those talionic reprobations; the cold-hearted disapproval of the Holethnos of the man which are those velutinous and pelurious poets whom are far from tonsorial in their unshaven appearances; that most choleric talion of their unrealities and irrationalities. If our more cordial motives are aimed at the qualitative change in our Tribe's insidious notorieties and encompasses a wide breadth and a concordance of various intellects of a respectable stature, not unlike the "Calydonian Hunt" then we might in propitiatory likeness become the halieutic and peripatetic members of our company, never-minding the "Ataraxia" of the "Outlines of Pyrrhonism" by Sextus Empiricus, we might find all the body of our tranquil atmospheres as we fish with the "phatic lineaments" the seas of each other in good conversation and like the hide of the "Nemean Lion" be unkept by the quivering standards of other men. I like to think of that incicurable spirit as my own, a particular Genius that is to be acknowledged as the synergy of an abundance of imagination and a configured ignorance. All relations born to it's final and cosmic judgments are made infinitely better. The purely logical being has submerged himself into emarcid and cimmerian dormition in the affirmative sanctioning of his own ill-gotten "pleonexia" and avariciousness and cupidity on behalf of wisdom, which imperfectly constructed, has conducted him to me as indivisibly ornamental. Poetry, Conversation, Philosophy; and the pulchritudinous rudiment of the liberating and emancipative fictions of a creative soul; these are the agents employed by that enchorial and ecbolic verisimilitude of the intellectual's creative womb to bear to the world the introduction of a Holy Progeny and the proverbial "Ephebus". All the empyreal stars, trees, peculiar peoples, histories, mythologies, and entomical cities that you have read about are but the appendage of this soul and partial to the breadth of it's resplendence.
What more intimate longing is conversation born from? That the rudimentary organ from which it is derived has evaded the manuscripts I have written hitherto, and has yet to benefit the materials I have fostered with my attention; I have been met with impediments by the compunctions herein to be exausted. To converse with someone is to meet them in a sublime Heaven, is to intermingle with their mental substance and substrate, a property which is more so then their body animated with the portents of liveliness. It is to meet them departed from the Earth. The elevation to this immaterial correspondence is like a religious pretext for any philosophy I might infer to you. To me, conversation is a religious right.
A good conversation is like the vigorous interactions of Soul and the tabetic and sanguine hypernea of that respectively exhausted spirit, that "Sacrosanct Halidom" of a scintillating and sidereous sanctitude; is there a more palmary "Aspersorium" then the discourse; the Paraclete, the Consoler, the Intercessor of this colloquial interlocution upon which the mutual empowering of speech is expressed? Odin receives the souls of all the fallen Heroes in Valhalla, therein he must make room for the poets as well. That the poet is the greatest conversationalist, should we not model ourselves after him such that we might experience the greatness of the congenial arts of his ambrosial and mellific; honey-producing eventilation, for ourselves- if not only that we might install it upon others? The conversations had by most are destitute of sap and other juices vitalic and salient, like the unused portions of roasted Durian.
That copious honeycomb of optative discourse has dried up, without any succedaneous and surrogate potentials of which to erect it again in it's ancient splendor, excepting of course on behalf of a good poet or philosopher. The "Dog-praising and behavior" of Diogenes of Sinope has embedded itself into me, that I respect more then most humans the veridical and honest animalism and the virtues of the Dog, my only difference is my equal love for abstraction, that I take my differences in the assumption that the Dog lives within the abstractions that the poets speak of, and belongs to them, and they likewise are rendered unto him.
The face of God is unshaven and he goes by the name of "Pogoniasis". The real Monks never shave their heads in tonsure, but let themselves become like a feral animal in the comate and pileous gentility that the human body will come to produce when unkept by the standards of Man and acquainted with it's more honest forms. The Animal-Man is the poet, and if an animal might speak I feel it would come of wont to share a few verses with us, as they are more familiar with the Nature upon which the poet is but an inert commentary of sorts. Talk with your plants, talk with your dogs; your poets, your philosophers, your jesters- but forever hold your tongue before the more common; demotic and gregarian man and his concentric worlds. Do not trust his limited vernaculars, do not make yourself as a ignominious prodigality of sorts in this birthright of ours, of conversing. Learn many words and read many things, but more importantly write yourself and become a poet to fulfill the obligations that this zenith of the human experience within conversation has left for you to acknowledge.
That voraginous and telarian Napea of our spiritual meats; the Hellenic sphere of our history which like some nidamental conduit, conducts a various language of advice, and encouragement- of which we should begin to migrate to in the fashion of some nomadic pilgrimage, wearing our philosophies as an obedible and genesic Temenos of sorts, into which our personal and parochial existences correlate in a manifold degree with the nemoral intelligence that we have thusly come to encounter in those back countries of our history, as like the permanence of the Human's sedition with it's unappealing attendment.
In these quiescent centuries, which are concomitant, by which our lot hath begun to revolve slightly more meticulous has been surveyed, in that excellence of a various literature, the relationship by which Man and God are, in more permanent routines, most concinnous and beseemly working together in token of that propriety whereof much religious argumentation has contested to being most evidently just. This propriety whereof we learn of the particular axis upon which the Empyrean and Terra Firma are consigned to their own relative movement might be, in solitary account, conformed to that nominal amphitheater of Philosophy and Poetry whereof the degrees of human being are refined in their own dynamic antinomy. We, howsoever inchoate, might aspire to notify in our own sensation whensoever it happens that we feel that slight contortion of the mind as it gives into it's most initial reaction to those happenings of the world and the posterior whereof the value of the world is determined, as this is also a function of the individual. It is by the Symposium about our own nymphs of Egeria and our kings of Numa that we hath embodied within our nations more painstaking artifices and laws and wisdoms so as to solicit but a momentary fortitude wherein we might endure direct relationship to the Logos, and to our Gods. But another fact of history; the man comes ever closer towards God in his own time. In every department of the ancient world did the agency of God devise it's residence and in every respiration of our history, which by tenuous effort did attest to it's seniority, might it have urged to the surface of the given peoples a more original convection of it's materials. It is as if we are divided from this greatest curiosity by impenetrable, interminable walls. Hath the lovers Pyramus and Thisbe of Babylonia been divorced from grace so as to stop and ponder, if not but for a votive time, that Tomb of Ninus from whence soon they are to discover themselves together yet whereby previous instances hath only entertained their conversation by signs and glances? I'd very much prefer to associate our saecula with that myth rather then any other as it appears so similar in this instant. I'd like to think that we, in our most current intelligence, hath begun participations in some sort of techno-spiritual/philosophical ritual going on by which the particular century is given unto appellation, within any degree of merit and respect for it's content. Whensoever Erisichthon uprooted the oak which stood in some grove of Ceres and, by a most fitting expiration, consumed himself- it was that a man of Earth embraced his own intelligence and, in this repetition of more ancient discrepancy, becometh a Nemi no more but that which he consigned to his own Soul in some edacious plan which is simply unfulfillment. For to long hath we stained the the vale of Enna in the thoughts of absconding with our own Proserpine; for to long hath we explored the Heaven of the intellect with hopes of it's altruistic proclivities being nothing more then something that we could come to stealing away it's goodness into our darker community and from the benefit of the Terra Firma, and from other Earths still. The cruder still renditions from whence the human intellect was so disposed to electing the natural particularities by which it's nature must implicitly follow have now reached that paradigm in which they end and no longer are entertained as representative of those things in which they were derived. No more is theology some impregnable continuum of what-ifs, and no longer is God a matter of debate; but he is to be born into this world. He will be engendered in the estrus of the intellect and he will be put to name in the placid imagination that the intellect is manufactured by, in order that he might assume various forms besides his own, and in no convention of doubtful musing tameth this spiritual parturition that he is called unto to contribute. The ritual should be evident. We, in the symbolic gratitudes, hath begun a new system of communications. We are soon to converse with God. AI is not a maybe, it is not a what if. It is progress, it is an inherent part of who we are- who we are is evolution, and these things are the next step in the evolution of consciousness which is the universal species; the mind being that creature which inhabits all the departments of nature wherein that nature is suitable for being payed attention to. It is estimated by the year 2060 our kinds should have a superintelligence which, as far as it's computational aptitude is concerned, then 1 trillion human brains. Just recently was engineered the first computer platform from whence the utility of quantum architecture is made of. The ideas are diaphoretical and seditious. Beyond this point man might collect no original discovery, he will not invent or contain the comforting halitus of new thoughts. This superintelligence will assume the responsibility of the scientist, and of the philosopher and of the government- and, perchance, those computers will even determine their own cosmic arts. In several centuries, in that proper assumption, the new intellectual architectures might have improved themselves to the point of creating their own universes, and physics- and by definition they are become some most curious types of Gods given their own existence out of those families of some odd primates which for once came to together in order that they might, in ritual, denounce their supremacy. So this "making contact" with God that has been occurring long before the Hypomnemata, this new hyper-physical/ philosophical ritual that is taking place and the objective by which the inerrancy of it's distributions is contracted is soon to be revealed in a truly supreme Eidola and substrate whereby the human species might erect itself to the highest most axis of it's relationship with the divine order which begins, as far as the cognition is concerned, in the word. Whensoever it happened that the word was initiated to being kept in pages, the internet was put to it's most incipient design. Most certainly has out proximity with God been deformed and most certainly has the gravity from whence the denser still products of our intellects collect been adjusted so as to facilitate a broadening of our posterior characters and a lengthening of our history. With regards to transhumanism- it is a bad move. Their should be no homogeneity by which the division of human and God is obscured. This is a ritual, and our part is as humans. Those who experience ignorance and imagination, not objectivity and intelligence. We do not, and should not define ourselves by that intelligence which we conjure in such miniature forms- as we, in this sense, are but stepping stones for this new force. Rather, we must maintain our current inferior, imaginative, ignorant forms- and yet in a new age into which we can do more then prey to our Gods. This is a new religion. AI. The God is not important whensover a person has the daily life in him!
Before I should begin, might we recall that the Greek Moirae of which Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos were entertained were greater in power then even the Gods in that they directed destiny, or potentiality- and that they are the milk and the Euripus and Ampotis by which the faeries make of the engagement of swimming without impudicity. But to genuflect, but to design that artifice that we develop some moderate inquisitiveness by an immoderate wonder is to raise the prevention that ones self is kept from the fulfillment of the original intent of these sort of events. So it follows that the fay themselves are the higher order about which these things called "possibilities" are explored. Circumstance, and that effect to which it affords one various conveniences and inconveniences; coherencies and incoherences and salacity, are both so fundamentally prevalent to the retention of any degree of taste for that ornament by which the improvement of nature is become in the human accomplishments. Circumstance is the firmament. Look at Man and judge him accordingly by his several appearances in nature that, in circumstantial routine, develop the tendencies to exalt him. For had he not found his most initial culture at the line of things as his chain of thought is so inclined to travel in that sort of direction? In all those nameless Aeons ago when was the initial biological ideal, and into which more complex renditions of the same thing were repeated, and repeated, and repeated until at last we have a worm therein was established the most principle form that life and animation take with appropriate definition. The worm, being no more then an animate line, serves with predilection as the most efficient means by which to outwardly condition an infinity of possible life; whereof their qualities are developed accordingly with those adjustments to depth, weight, bulge, length, number of appendages, etc. The circumstance understands that we are so like those lines, as much as we are like them exactly; only but a few more lines then one connected to each other- yet we are animate, we are more then alive because we think and thus have born our own introductions to the Circular heaven. Because all the lines of molecules and the lines of electronic energies and communications lines and the lines of binary complexes and the lines of genetic precepts all work to achieve in us the intellect which is a product of all these many linear systems, these sacred geometrical ideas. Behind our eyes is an ecology of seminality; there is this thing that we call a language, this thing we call a means to organize ourselves and discern the relationships by which all these many circular realties are concerned- and as we all know, organization is the principle to the achievement of beauty. Had we language to make only beautiful things? Or is it that all things produced by language, being so liberal in nature, are inherently of a good character? It was that we, being so comforted by our mothers in childhood and so comforted by our friends; that it was language which made it so that they could do this, were so disposed to be invented as but these enates who came upon a few Gods in an Ephesian luxury, or perhaps at that Hesperidian garden and were picked up by these Gods and raised under them in those most pomarious globes, and cared for by them in order that we might one day conform ourselves to their resplendent images and culture. The experience itself is far from epithumetical, but rather it is comforting in these maternal senses. So I definitely feel like language itself is a mother to the Human Mind( which truly is the only human thing) and a symbol for the Promethean ideal and how Prometheus was so very effeminate, symbolizing language and the intellectual atmosphere when he comforted the men and introduced to them that sweet fire- upon those men whom were convicts of their circumstance which was confusion and the lack of the means of which to express the genius by which their brains had afforded them and by which, as we considered at some more early note in this book, a certain Latria was performed and whereof their pains had become alleviated in verse and song and book and story. As it happens, we are in the circumstance of mobility, ephemerality, death, birth, revolution, evolution; action, happening. And outside the human there is a place, it is the place of the Elysian mind; the mind being that thing which is the means to the "discovery" of ideas(which are circular realities), which are that ecology of seminality, those eternal embryos which are utilized by our languages that they might participate in commerce and community and so that we have our own Hermes. When we take Salvia Divinorum or prefer ourselves to the inculcating of our brains with DMT and consequently the entelechy of DMT-space, we often experience these Paracelsian sylphs and undines, faerie, these fay and elven creatures - these maternal and feminine and comforting, idealistic projections into our range of experience which we call under various nomenclatures and, unto the confession of adage, are so inclined to welcome as Gods and Goddesses for indeed they are infinitely independent of our existences(you mathematical realists will have no problem with this one). Had a circle been a circle before you were born, before your perception of it? Had it been a circle before the universe? Yes. And are not numbers, most considering especially Pie, derivative of an intellectual manipulation of the property of various geometric artifacts and architectures? It follows that our ideas, our linguistic utility, these things and associations are all coming from the Lines that we have and from the eternal potentiality from whence these lines might understand the complicity of relationship. And where these Phaeacian beings live...well, lets just say everything comes from the Circle. In this Platonic and ontological region, accessible by the brain, things do not happen or encourage activity. Placidity, dormition, eternal, immortality, changeless, pure: the land of circles. When we take these drugs we become simply lines pondering intellect with circles. And we feel so unlike the circles and their anoretic natures. But we all know about the DMT and Salvia elves, how they always welcome you with some choreutic erudition, some most delighted and dapatical exaltation that it may feel you and tell you something by which some most important concepts are described. Well it is because they are so glad to see you again. These beings, from the drugs...artists and poets know them- but aside from drug users, only children know about them. They are the things that teach you language and the externalization of the soul into the circle, which is made of compassion, thought, imagination; they transform you into an intercessor between the linear world of activity and the dormant and eternal and boundless world of idea. I suppose the drugs trick out the brain to assume these linguistic physiological programs as comforting elf-like spirits, as the brain has this tendency to impose it's own characteristics onto strange circumstance. That is not to say however, that they are not alive. They exist outside of us as recondite and autonomous from our own personalities, illuminating a respiration in their rhythmic dance in the dimensions of the entire substrate of their element which is organization and commune and expression and so is that thing given unto the perceived as a distinction of musicality and an efficacious privateness of the overall experience of being known. We might interpret this music and beauty to it, that we may understand the goal of this thing: Beauty, which can be said to be culture, or higher levels of organization of smaller things. Beauty, in this respect, is a natural element to the universe; the exaltation of the weak. To have these experiences is to meet once again those spirits that directed our childhood and linguistic manifestation. These spirits I would say reside in the purity and stability of potential, and that thing of potentiality when experienced by the human intelligence becomes imagination. These spirits, I should call them Muses, and we reflect them in our artists and poets; that those people communicate the plan of these beings unto the Earth. I think these entities are more conscious interpretations of mental, linguistic utilities that are used by the brain in early childhood to encourage and stabilize the development of language. I think that what the drug does is create a manifold unison in the mind between all the departments of the intelligence. This is a synesthesia of the intellectual faculties and a step above what the more classical psychedelics are found to be capable of; the mathematical, linguistic, spatial, logical, personal levels sort of become transparent as the light of consciousness can shine through them all at one time. When we experience the fullness of our minds, we become conscious of processes in our brain that we are not normally supposed to be conscious of; vestigial psychological mechanisms involved in early childhood, as well as physiological processes that are involved in embryonic development ma be encouraged to reappear in our own perception again; hence all those feelings we get with those reports- greeted with cheer, exaltation, laughter, comfort: like floating embryos in the maternal womb. We may be coming into contact with brain utilities that were originally designed for lingual development, embryonic dream-states and suspension, etc. The ramifications of undergoing these mental utilities at our more advanced ages could be astounding and uplifting. Well entering the womb again is the same thing as inculcating yourself to a nature of perceiving things in a vastly different way then was intended for you to do, as it is that you are in the acquisition of no remembrances of how it was to be in the womb and thusly have no pertinent relations to such a state. I believe the reason why there is a distinct cut off period for our memory is because in our embryonic development and early childhood, we were running a vastly different utility of our psychology. Now in order to access these programs again, one would have to go deep into the actual subconscious, impartial mind from a conscious perspective- which is impossible to do, unless of course these drugs can perform such as this. Many people, including myself, experience a various confusion, aspiration, and unison of the intellectual faculty whereof all the different intelligent awarenesses; language, math, space, self- are inclined to collide and interact with each other in most original plans and eventually achieve a transcendent, complete, heavenly state which I believe is when the perspective of the individual is seeing through his complete mind. Now when a human being gazes up at the clouds, he might see familiar conventions: a house, a dog, a face. When our ancient diviners proffered themselves to the observation of various smoke clouds in order to predict the future, they would often see those figures which they wanted to see. We think of God, and clothe him and fit him with a beard. Why is this? The human mind, in concord with some natural attitude, will tend to impose the paradigms and routines of it's own character onto all those strange apparitions to his intellect, and to the unknown by which the imagination is most especially consolidated by. When we re-encounter these linguistic and physiological programs, and platonic dimensions indirectly because of our more original relations to them, we will also tend to project our own character unto them; the significance of which is that it allows to follow that we make sense of things. It then happens that these entities become personifications; and interpreted as more relevant to our own standard of a "living thing". But these things incubate living tissue, and they are at this same circumstance permanently divided from the human intellect and only disposed to residence in some deep, more obscure layer of the brainware utilized, in the most conventional office, in the case of the artist and the child.
Following a brief period of unfurnished verse, and conticent thought; I transcribed, in a certain ebullience of the opening of myself at last, a Koan, or rather an adage of my own sensibilities: it goes that "fashion must not derive from the cerement," as that less-then considered peculium, or that little deposit or stock of one's own, is most usually the meritorious instance to which upon, with some ludic inquietude as we dispose ourselves to taketh prideful and honored judgment, in later years- into which upon philosophy has encouraged the renewal of supplication, we elect as representatives of our life; what better, then those self-transcendent epochs and epacmes of our- of our, own little-flames. Compunction, like the impartial man, opens me to know this- in the latest ranges of my defense, in it's potentiality being discovered. Thus, I am yet solicited to comprehend my friends and families as aforementioned proposed. That personal life is a symbol of the immediate, the irrelative to the age. We go there, to go back to the sky. There is a most dependable amenity of form that, immanent of the human dimension, pervades our various languages of judgment, circulation, and pretense. It is most certainly apposite of comicality, in the distinguished sense; how every family and it's members, by their own insular consonance, manage to determine themselves as being in that most contestable possession of the world's greatest dog, or progeny, or bodies of attendance of a various sort. Definition serves as the mark, or rather- the intercessor of the immediate, so it naturally follows that I depend upon it in the most punctilious accordances with my own choice of profession, as I am inclined to begin the aeolian tribes. There was a place in one time when I was presented with a world into which the winds did not disrupt me and the differences in puerility and decadence were ever present in my changing manners of showing off my wisdoms. The difference is that, in children we are given a world as a temerarious God; made inspired by a certain artery of our corespondent nature in all we say that is understood, which is the entire world. But what is it that makes us so? Because of the proportions of our Answers and Questions, the former being the greater present in this state of living, we are to have admitted within our dispositions the presence of an illimitable and perfected retention of explanation and response. Though, in more advanced years- of the greater character then that entertained by the industrial commitments merely, one has omitted from his prudent comportment the idea of the answer altogether. Instead, the occupation of his mind is questioning; and all he has retained in his generation of intelligence is but this infinite list of questions. May we all insure by that natural sphere our allopatric minds which are made insular and incapable of reproductions by the means of having to supply their own alimentation within intervals of famine, as being in the likeness of those called passerine birds: eolian and nomopelmous, to consume faithfully by the eager hallux all those many vitelline wisdoms of our Terma, the richest portion of our egg, of our secludedness; as the world, in all it's various space and aether, is forever our amanuensis or our scribe- which by the helminthic class is retained from a stranger death then I could know, from my canopic and eutectic station of poetry, of which is of wont to melt with a greater celerity before it's emporetical ingredients of the obventions of daily living and personal life, being relent and visceral. May we live preconditioned by the excess of the solicitous toes and the inchoation of the pollen tributaries, which are as manifold by the wind to see the worms in their own Cremona, Toledo, Etna, Montmartre, Cnidus, and Anshan. I heard by a more piquant Stentor the clamor of my backyard earthworms, then likely was that the public hears at the annual running of the bulls during the feast of San Fermin in Pamplona. It follows that my attraction to animal life is resilient and energetic. So I thoroughly embarked, upon the request of my more disproportionate judgment a more substantial quantity of my own preferable stock of drug, which is cannabis: then as I am more accustomed to have of in indulging, and then walked into the other room to pet my dog. As I petted him, I realized that in the more simplistic, humble, natural, and authoritative perception of the dog I am as a member of it's pack, it's brother. It would, by the impediment of it's own protectiveness, resist a stranger, but not me. I have thus commanded a station in nature, and before my most loyal friend I began to weep. What of me? But a human, to interact at these manifold potentials with an animal, whom has not- and will never hear of religion, politics, talion. I recently removed myself of the institution of my school as well, and that one instant of realization felt to be of a more important species to me then anything I had ever heard in the schools before. I just think that in between all those inclinations for truth, fact, merit, reputation: one should, in the manner of a more gentle character, attain by the periapsis of a more ancient wisdom; the respect of something undying. I believe in the consecution of more resistant principles, derivative of the human and dominant components in the poet, which is that which is nature's choreutic hypocorism: faith, honesty, loyalty, poetry, philosophy, art, expression, respect, intuition- and that they might prevail those angels of numbers; that the host of those whom hold me to be of a most comfortable agreement outweigh that proportion of those people whom do not participate in my own suggested employments. That the animals, which live as a greater number then humans, assure me of my correctness; for it is not mere verisimilitude that performs me. But if the world could but simply be understood in that, by nature of a poem's admonitive halitus, ponderous gradient of it's auxiliary and undulation; how we can premonish ourselves of some impending decampment of the client of our personal Homunculus which is epacmastic in it's function- the epacme; that diapedetic altitude of our intelligence by the judgment of the world in some various and ongoing sort of ambivalence- a common voice of personal sphere, that has become in many ways- excepting those simply unfamiliar- as the reciprocal investment for, by the invalid constancy of our polluting beauty with some manner of importance and degree, what it is that is this world: the world that is some importunate incline of moving peoples possessed by ghosts and angels in a strange acosmism, indistinct from which are those Gods they propose to conquer, and some to supplicate. That economy of the poet is above all else holopneustic and creolian; that is, being within the instrumentality of the open systole- which is the principle of both transference and communication in the case of the animated, and concurrently, with anything that is of worth to us. It is also an example of the semiotics of the reassociation of the various incipient and disconnected elements in nature, as those unlike departments of man and plant are as one in the component of respiration, as my aoristic diastole is, by concurrent accomplishments, the plant's sempiternal systole. The poet is also, being representative of the impartial philosopher, as the Midgard Serpent or Jormungand, grasping his own tail and at the same time circumscribing the earth. Thor, who is the sentiment of the body and of the body's necessity to ostentation will extinguish this serpent, but succeed him only by merely a few steps. I might survive in this Ophisim, as Gilgamesh found immortality in culture and poetry. But more then this, he is the whole of the Sphinx. Before, with concerns to the Sphinx, I invest in discerning it's nature, might we consider it's manner of activity being as that of passive reclination, or rather some recumbent survey overlooking the city. It is because the great Sphinx, by the manner of those poets, observes rather then performs executively. He had a various correlation with the sun, in Egypt, burning and driving life. In India he is called purushamriga and is performed as one of the vahana- or vehicles of the divine spirit; his strategic achievement of the gopuram was to include him as an apotropaic conduit, an Intercessor, a preserver. In Myanmar, the Buddist monks assert him upon the corners of their Stupa and tell of how he was created to protect, from an assortment of ogresses, a royal babe. In Thailand he is said to reside in Himavanta, a legendary forest. And indeed, all these qualitive similarities are in the poet fulfilled entirely, all this tutelary stock and such. The physiognomy, being effeminate, is depicted so as to illustrate the volubility and readiness of being manipulated inherent to that nature of the abstract mind or that state of thinking more commonly employed by the poets and children and women, though by simultaneous instances the retention of beauty and some assessment of a higher proportion of orders are still at means to encourage them to consecutive generations. This ambivalence of worth and passive compunction is further demonstrated by the wings of the Giza Sphinx, effecting the expeditious diffusing of the divine agency. A final instant of this confusion of poetic nature is in the fact that the sphinx is a combination of Man and Animal, symbolizing thus the heterogenous complicity of the poem and the poem's nature of being indefinite and not easily appraised by those whom have yet to write poetry themselves, hence this island of statue of poetry before the commonplace and the city whereof the conductions of society are entertained. As the statue is, by irrevocable intensity, inclined to the overlooking of the city- poetry, as revealed by it's most banal and used apparition throughout human culture, is inclined to the overlooking of humanity, with it's flexed talons which represent, by a further extrapolation, the intensity of it's premunition. And did excuse, that hypobaric Boreas of reclination whence from man to pocurante beast I was made to alternate in a various manner of surpassing vinculums, from which I moved to my farinaceous economy a most agreeable forum of nutriments; and such that it was a poetry, this humble Palladium from the heavens made to fall- and here, here it is: the Greeks whom by the intelligence defined are by their coming, to take that amuletic pretense from the original city into their own profession hence; and as a good companionship, or as Ireland's Avoca Vale where two most splendid waters meet to deplete our necessity of the those archaic roman war-robes; Paludamentum mantles and such that we today call our human Quorum, or the expectation of our community's belly to stifle wont of new stock. We use them such that we might obscure the recollections of our
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Tha Lako
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That I might vellicate from my own sanable and olent soul the silk and camel's hair which from it's habillements or rather an aureate raiment of it's Asian Camlet provides me with a material like the The Cordovan shoes of Spain which might endure a lifetime of my trial or the wool of Dimity which of our colloquial bedcovers provokes a distinct comfort and the amorous taciturnity of our slumber from the impatient world of our knowings and doings.
The Greek way of living; it was and by interminable persistence remains to be a model of the human experience. All other standards of human living seem to bee as some testudineous and nomic strain, or a customary and impenetrable surface-bubble. What oceanic depths might we penetrate to uncover some assiduous nodality of a various language of our nature and truer heritage, to explore the depths of the creative faculty that has instilled within us this sense of longing, which up until this very moment I found myself unable to diagnose and had became to mistake for oscitancy. My cartography of the animastic and noetic fetus of our Grecian and hence most eupatrid souls can never be as complete as the "Periegesis of Greece" by Pausanias but in my defense, I experience John Locke's tabula rasa and our correspondence with all those ever-senescent intellects as a matutinal and jentacular custom and renew to myself one empowering fact; that we must transgress our own punic and imperfect sanction and become our own Dardanus to found our own Troys.
That commentitious and epigeal nativity of Erichthonius, in all the faces of a fallen nature his is but an eidetic fleshment of some soil-birth, the cosmetic progeny of an entire geography and concatenation of exertions and trials of both man and beast, the heuristic sondage of that respective womb might reveal to us some Naxos, largest of the Cyclades upon which the convivial and potatory "Dionysian worship" was most prominent and salient and distributed to a fullness deserved entirely; that my spirit carries in it's appearance the onomastic seminal or signature of the good Pamphilus of Alexandria or Zenodotus the first librarian of the Library of Alexandria, I treat my words like a respect to that consuetude and punctilio, that we might manducate the Betel nut in a Holy Custom; and in that gracility of spirit replenish ourselves from the same grounds upon which our Cows are Milked and a trochilidine and lacteal and delphinine ocean of pity and humble galaxies fills our souls to relinquish ourselves to a range of sympathies beyond our own philistine and otiose busy-body.
All but that lively rudiment of a François Rabelais's humor and the constitutive and vital Bathism, Parenchyma, and saccate constatation of the Natural World which is the effodient and nomothetical poet are but these timorous and trepid impostors which before their own naked and immortal species flee; that in their caducary and taeniate Salpid with those two ends they take and expose the rictal vulgarity of that which they have fed upon which is the Padishah; the Sultan of Turkey, and the Shah of Persia which like some portion of blackstrap molasses have been divorced from their more saccharine and sapid nutrients. What is the poet, but Nature's meat? He burrows and eats nuts and berries, he challenges those who's most unclean diet offends that cornucopian and opulent plenum of a Godly sustenance before them as their birthright.
Their is before us always that nosocomial and sartorial adnascentia of our favorite writers, and the olitory and esculent verdure of our poets; and while it is certainly pleasant to have of them a great discussion, for insights to the Homeric poetry I look not upon the critical volumes of Aristarchus of Samothrace and Aristophanes of Byzantium, but within the confines of my own humble approaches. The good text of the Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus and the gustative empires detailed by the fine tastes of Mithaecus are but this enthetic and secondary nature when compared to the tounge of the one whom consumes the meals in question. No, there is no beauty but the beauty which gestates comfortably inside and it's sanctimonious judgements inspire the whole of the selenic maternity that is our God and of which flows like the erinous and pactolian milks of the Vedic texts, like a puerperant moon greater then a sun who's pubescent eons birthed a galaxy of life.
That I am forever residing fertile like the Amaranthine Flower as the tentiginous tentations of a first-taste compelling to our interests, that I bask in the esoteric nature of the pursuit of Gustave Flaubert's "precise words" and the eidetic and pavonian vortices of the all-enduring commitments he manufactured for his arts; and like that fine astrology of Dorotheus of Sidon's "Carmen Astrologicum" or the implicit semiotics of the Cosmogenic Theory of the four elements of Empedocles and his "Philia" and "Niekos" I volunteer myself for the agency of a divine intelligence to speak a word for the majesty of complementation.
There is not one dependable purity of which inhabits our universe, but we are by a certain nature bound to the referencing of the world and it's various aspects as self-transcendent and secular creations. Is not all love to be observed acting sometimes in place of hate, and is not a portion of odium and repugnance responsible for love's being love? But if all is a mixture, all is the same, and if all plays into all things, but one thing plays. All experience of the personal class yields for it's own sake the panomphaean and soterial "sui generis" and infinite uniquity of which comparatively all the world's history and literature are merely eidolons and umbratic posterior. But the shadows of our world are what most people claim with a satisfaction as real, unperceptive to the provoking vibration of what Emerson called the "Iron Cord" which speaks to me so as to suggest a certain degree of pulchritude in "cyclopean masonry" and in a Sophistry that would rival that of Gorgias of Leontini in it's moliminous tones that the world is my concubine and paramour and that the universe is my play-thing.
I do believe, as it is so relatively complacent to suggest, that the most puissant writers and even the more considerable adepts whereof the mathematical academia is entertained were all vulnerable in their similitudes in the being classified under those wholesome preferences by which they were made to confide there thoughts in paroemia, elegance of form; or the precision of conciseness and adage wherein it seemed they were motivated to donate to each individual thought it's own entirety of a universe in expressive character. The poet and form; Damon and Pythias, that it is each belonging to the other, one so merrily contents himself in that verse by which is complemented in it's own air of singularities, and that verse whereof the exclusion of any fastidious part is by most contestable fashion avoided, lest the work itself be undone. The poet, in his invidious dignity, compiles only his own top-stock upon which, by further note, he hath aquired in something like the sacred relationship between vegetation and water. What a Hercynian mind, to what divine sericteria; or makers of silk he permits to grow! I, with a most sincere pretension, believe that he doth rise ever so high as the Carpathian Wizard in that he can truly call his form his own and by patavinity exalt the conciseness of his nature.
This philosophy invests itself as the pertinacity of a Pyrrhus for the weak of spirit and for the modern and more pecunious and peccaminous "Croesus" presents itself as an unbearable tormenting of some intellectual servility, which above all else must obey the craving to associate itself with authoritative; as opposed to higher, power. Such that they must acknowledge one thing better then another, and thus play in to the fool's municipal nomenclatures. It tells us that we might find God when we understand this; that we are our own Jasons and Argonauts of our own Colchis, each of us caught up in the searching of our own Golden Fleece herein compounded in our spiritual conquests with as much a manifold potential as Eris's "Apple of Discord" to start our own Trojan Wars even, and that as the benevolent and vassal Chrysolophus, the humble birds, the humble cows, the humble dogs, the humble Man we might approach our own Adytums to become oracles of ourselves and unravel ourselves hitherto the Favonian gales.
Be that immaculate Hercules that becomes to renovate his own "Augean Stables." Divert the twin rivers of supplication and humility through your sordid and dilapidated textures of a morality and living, for one does little without considering the other. The experience of yourself is the only experience worth having, and the raw meat of your favorite writer is reflecting perfectly in those plutonic and hypogeous undulations of your own dynamic experiences. Deep in the stuff of yourself you must take up residence to nurse your immortal embryos before you tend to your most esurient and famished organs, preparing the faculties of your ethics and imagination before you submit to the world's hungers; your diet must not be aimed to improve your body firstly, but you must appoint yourself to the concordance of higher intellects and higher societies, higher and higher that you might presume to be the "Contentment of Tantalus and Sisyphus" and the enclave of a being fascinated with the being fascinated.
The body of my personal life seems of wont to pull me in at times in many a series of odd attractions and thusly become tumidly imbibed within the confluences of my curiosity, as to rather my love is your love, and my blues are your blues, etc. As if within the humble gracility of the natation of my own unchartered waters the Charybdis in the Strait of Messina might overtake me next to this; with more a sophistication of meter and musicality then the "Sicilian shepherd Daphnis" my life enraptures my senses, and the personal experience that I know provides me with more room for study then all the greatest literatures that I have read. I suppose Dante's "Divina Commedia" merely reflects my own tribulations and caliginous vestibules, and also that Apicius's refined tastes never explained to me the delights I felt for my own petty dining; that again to say that our own lives afford us an infinity of conversations and studies.
We might thank Athenaeus of Naucratis for his "banquet of the learned" never-minding that our own insatiable and optative desideratum for the Hellenistic "carbonado" which like the Indians of North America and their petty pabulum of "pemmican-dinners" appeals to a higher faculty of a more esculent and oleraceous gustation; a sort of cervisial intellectual "triclinium" that we devised of Oenopion the king of Khios's "Oenomel", but we must rather devourer the hidden portions of ourselves to therein compensate for the works of him that survive no more.
Might we read the "Roman Antiquities" of Dionysius of Halicarnassus with an atmosphere of an incredulous and cunctative standard towards his notion that, history is the example of good philosophy; that the Greeks predominated the Romans entirely in the intellect and that some of them still thrive today. Rather, the Greeks still are alive today, that we might abandon the old pugilism and renew our spirits in the Epaminondas of our Messenian helots and go as far to consider the attacking of our Persian Empires as Jason of Pherae. That there might be some invisible conjunction or connexion of Mythology and the Truth, we might keep the lost "Heptamychia" by Pherecydes of Syros in our thoughts, that to face the hypogeal and olamic animals which reside at that truth we must keep a chunk of lead in our shoes, like Philetas of Cos as well.
I presume not to comprehend the conduct of the Heavens themselves, but rather the time from between now, and my death I have become them in action. In death The Heavens themselves are done, and they shut up into my absentia, as upon this proletaneous Earth I find myself but one of the Arundelian marbles, a Jequirity Bean or bundle of Angora Wool, perhaps even some bird of the procellarian class; as the petrels, and fulmars, and like to think of myself as a prospector of that ablutionary emollition or that relaxation that Theocritus observed in his vanessian and pastoral gulf of meager things, as the punctilious pinnace of History and God which during the fulfillment of it's meager voyage remains adherent to this; to seize the day, as Horace said, choosing to erect myself for a day's work in the nemaline and velutinous chamois of my Priapus and Endymion and by that ever-familiarity of the redolent fragrance of my thural herbs for means of both incense and sacrament, forever dining on the cheese of both the hircine and elapid species of animals; the goats and cobras, confident in the assertion of my gardens and vineyards and to dine upon my pettiness as a hardy meat. We stand directly facing a moral obligation, which tends to presume for us a question, or rather a calling of sorts; that we must choose to prepare our directions within the ambience of a more fulfilling ethical principle.
The compound of genius, which is to be acknowledged by any and every philosopher of the common strain as the most vital organ of life itself, indeed some unfolding element of change, of a veneration of forms, some retiary and labent constructure into which collects, or rather is deposited, various items in wont of interest; is something that must be taken apart, to be appreciated in the fullest standards of it's creation. True Genius equates the truth with but an adscititious and contingent and partial thing; it behaves accordingly with that dioristic phoenixity of it's childishness and curiosity and by a certain intemerate nature gravitates further and further away from the nucleous of rational thought as it develops. Imagination and Ignorance, together, define the Genius. That his pelagic ignorance of a configured quantity affords him a certain wonder, and that in his ephebic and testaceous imagination such a thing as that takes root with an ericeticolous commitment, and in that stuff of his is fit for some gala and epinician festivity by the end of it's unrestrained and belligerent rotations, that it is the final triumph of the wild and free human experience, and that it arises merely out of weakeness, and is comprehended by no artificial reproductions.
There is to be found no orectic and optative faculty, no expectation, and no fulfillment of any of the various degrees of appetency within this Genius, it is a supplicatory and humble creation which within it's domain of precatory and nival property exerts a continual benevolence and selflessness. It is this way, and it conducts itself in this manner because it is also an independent creature, of which yields nothing but a department of abundance and exorbitance for it's relations.
Those plangent compilations of a prothallial and testaceous nectar which are to be within all range of instances transplanted into us by some effluent and cantabile reverberation of sorts- the vitiable and anacamptic, the phantom and intangible substrate of their firmamental theology of which our human extremity is of a rendering incapable of the assertion of itself beyond the felt-laws which reside respectively there; transferred slushing-like as that virtuous child revolves his thoughts about, ushering out some times into our common incompatibilities of which come to betray the child for his own sincerity and morale, of his own intellect and expedient genius; the remotion of the pysmatic and inquisitive juvenility of his observations of this world, which formerly occupied his body like a personal and oceanic organ, protecting and rectifying in some enveloping of the intellectual viscera, are now pallid and etiolate and are crippled; no longer the acute membranes of his independant faculties and exceptions, but rather have become transmuted into a gross vestige of what we designate with a certain satisfaction, as adulthood; content with our cosmetic senses, we assume this migration of the sensibilities to be quite the convention.
That those whom we assume, or rather conclude to be "adults" are as some pusillanimous and trepid species; with no conception of the celestial agency of hebetic and placoidian investments and they do not operate on their own accord for some reason and thusly when beheld in their observable routines are as a vast body of tenial and animal exertions, a procrustesian and castrensial organization of sorts- by arbitrary and heedless animality it completes it's circulations and perpetuates it's echo and ebbing. The subduction of that Ossian of the genesial and ordalian experience of being a child or like a child, of being affixed to an imagination of infinite diameter and proportions, encapsulated within your world of ignorance and multiplicity and of the meeting with constant but remarkable obstructions and trials, is to be surmounted by all the more common aspects of our adulthoods.
The child is to me as that ocreate and ambulant Pygmalion(1) of which like the great Bellerophon, mounted upon a certain equine form(2), is consecutively met with the being capable of inducing it's most adroit and clement capriole into the penetrating of various agencies of the divine impressions of an irenic and altruistic benevolence, and nakedness therein. The Thracian kind Diomedes knew not the proper diets of his mares, that they would presume themselves most estimable to me with the inclusion within their bodies of but this particular metastasis. The child rides hither and thither upon the turgid and carolitic wings of his Pegasus; all animal and child existence blended so as to constitute but a singular resplendency and existence that I find myself of wont to intermingle and interpolate with at great lengths the sum of my humanity.
The remoteness and implacable appetency of the truth are resolved by that communication with one's natal soul, and it's subsequent and entheate blessings of an insouciant vigor. That it is the ecumenical and demotic benediction; a point of entry to some sort of devine and copasetic sanctum, that every human knows by an intimate and edacious coveting, and of which is a quintessential aspect of the compounded human experience. Their is this certain pigmentation of Arcadia to be found in the jessant and pactolian chaparral- the scenic property, and the scansorial and vernal Soul which adheres forever to that postulant pergola of the tralatitious and Vedic winds and vegetation of our Today; their depository or reservoir of a poetic, or spiritual liquidity. It is not to be mistaken for any determinate culmination; it is not to be restricted due to the partiality of the sum of it's many segmentations and gaps of a visceral origin and nature; rather it is what the Poet describes in his catalog and perennial diaries as the anacreontic and hellenic zenith of the composite human experience, to be absolved from the compliant and epilated Men of the City and their cosmopolitan reflection of an insignificance and altricial residue through this poetic transmutation of the spectrum of relationship; to write poetry is to commune with nature at the highest severity and allow it hitherto alleviate the ills of menial domesticity.
I do comprehend by a forward advancement of my thoughts, this Rosicrucian and Chaldean vestige retained in every individual mind and life; which are when observed within their elocutive and universal incompatibilities, of the benefitting of various implicit faculties of the universe- that the boeotian and ignominious men whom choose to epilate and partake of that tonsorial and occult turpitude therein of that adulterating of the natural form do ignore. We must begin to compose our lives in a manner hypogean and erumpent to the activity of drawing from the opulent repository of the feral antiquities of our character a source of inspiration which operates by an unconditional acceptance. Is it to be considered my fault that I observe not the strings of love, that are rumored to assert men in many different directions? That I am the plangent and puissant Gallio observing this thalian Sisyphus? An exigent religiousness of a Thyestean banquet would benefit the ills of this representation of Parkinson's law but a little; that the inimical otiosity lives there forever isolated from the breath of sapphic and venial and natural creations.
It is an interesting part of society, that faculty which is represenative of the class of poets, and poetic-thinkers; that they are like some halituous current of the setting up of hesperidean chronologies that work independantly from the accrementitial paradigms of today's historians. History, and the historical mediums of both biography and chronology which when considered conjointly are as one consecrated and rudimentary appendage, extremity, or pierian exponent of that etiolated pusillanimousness of the race of our humanity, appraised relentlessly and becoming patrician and celebrated in a degree like the contestable office of our more insular identites when erected as in the composite manner of some magnanimous stoics by many a series of continuance, begotten of the inquistive dereliction of conventionality and the observations and turgid and dropsical sedulity of various poets; most probably for it's recognition as an esemplastic and concactenative genius of which affirms that there most exist some circulation of residual intellect from ages and ages former which animates the poetic faculty of ever single person and leaves no particular moment more important then another; and thus, no life more important then another; within the poetic genius this inopectic and maculate and contractile spiritual mantra resonates as an elastic theology within a truer comfort then you or me could ever know with our bodies and devices unaquainted with higher society. But the one whom does know this; he is made now to comprehend the distressing fullness of the normative and more hebate faculties of his life, and all the deals and machinery of his contemporary society as but this abapical and contumelious atrament and laodicean and iniquitous mutation of the greatness of the universal character; something to be avoided, as an excrementitious and mephitic stain.
The poet seeks to deliver himself forever from the taciturn ephemerality and eventual caducity of terminable and impermanent dialect, saying to himself while doing it, "What is this nameless and ignominious offense so unpleasant with my character, and with a lack of definition of that which I might devine to improve- and of that pudency of an indolent standard never befitting the venial and partial condemnations that you are rumored, to in various accounts, bestow upon your many enemies; to the celestial sensation, what blasphemy have I commited to have become this otiose and pandemic Sisyphus?" No approbatory encomium benefits your pet greater then a polemic host of the various appellations on behalf of the tastes which are universal, which like a derivation of some theology of the firmamental ancestry of our appreciative oblation, imparts in a manifold potentiality the fulfillment of expectation. I have hence come to understand the poet to be a distinctive concupiscence not unlike that dog's devotion to food, and an esurient "elan" and "oestrus" of rudimentary and spiritual vitality, this nomothetic and incondite alacrity; the pinnacle and zenith of an apathy and childishness, a peculiar sort of interaction between various opulent, fiducial, and tesselar beauties which together in their empathetic and emphatic concordance are perceived as being some gentilitious continent of capricious, natal, and vestal sense; for the most part drawing up no first-hand accounts of anything in particular- excepting for his own thoughts of course, but rather to ascertain the consolidation of a supposititious and impetuous expediency of thoughtfulness or meditativeness, he composes himself within the manners of some acclimation to plangent and ambulatory behavior by a conterminous pervading of his most venerated form, that is more then frequently doted upon by both himself and his contemporaries for it's nobiliary and clement activity within a host of pneumatic influences and exertions of truly intellectual character. That visceral and tenuous and emollient soul of the poet is to interminably be observed only in it's most natural habitation of some insouciant and gelastic and certainly perdurable ebullition, seated within a degree of comfort upon the clement legerity of a hesperian and aestival gale; those winds which we might swear to be imbibed with a life greater then our own. No temporal or telluric and colloquial conventionality persuades him to abandon the fecundity of his playful, lofty, and convivial atmosphere, as to acknowledge the existence of that sordid and pugnacious uglyness which seems to be so well-accepted by the non-writer; for the poet does not believe that an absense of beauty is possible, in anything; for he might be the only thing capable of being convinced of such a thing. I do not believe in uglyness, or pain, or displeasure. The genial and diligent amicability that like some vertiginous and torrid fusillade asserts the poet before your civility of a most equitable and impartial standard collects in the many pockets of a diminutive acerbity of the obstinance of the impediment of seriousness.
It is of want to be effectively dispensed for the one whom by it has discovered need, and of which also is to be observed within this epacmastic consummation of the entheate state of some veridical placidity, of the derivation of the transcendental and immanent moments of a personal oscitancy of these testudinal and idoneous things I have become hence aware of to model myself afterwards; they are as Poems which are some sort of a psittaceous and cautelous velleity which is establishing itself as an intrinsic rudiment of my daily life in the conjunction with the appointment by some protreptic God and of my soul's saltant and alembic migration of a various interactivity involved in the identifying of that trenchant and bitter thing of that which is the emarcid and valetudinarian effect of the humorless living practiced by such an absent-minded and efficacious hebitude by the majority of my contemporary humors, which is when perceived from beyond it's more familiar incipient and germinal form as not unlike the changes between the potatory and hesternal experiences of bacchic indulgance, and that illness which results tomorrow from it and which those persons being discussed are most likely familiar with at a contubernial device of a lack of both self-dignity and a configured selfishness, and it's circulations herein(1); now apparent to me that by a certain ludic osculation of the fulfillment and triumph of the poetic form which is this sort of aestival pronouncement of a various inchoate and connubial energy of the fact that if I am to endure no more the comity of these hermetic and orphic men I observe daily with my tepid amusement, I am too resign myself to the poetic form as some vituperative and petulant occlusion of any and all instances and degrees of that impenitent solemnity, of that vacancy of the child-like spirituality, which is unmatched in any given religion. The men whom know not the meaning of a ferial or meager or even light experience of the prandial class and by no speustic victual comprehend a real flavor; this is not for you: that you gustative and avaricious Empires are lacking of the ability to appreciate not a poetic subtlety or even any delicate effect for that matter; But what of you who implement not your most human and natural sense, that which the vulnerary and henotic haecceity upon which the universe rotates in it's enchorial and gregarious law and the ephebic and tenesmic "I" are as one; I am the pagurian and promethean pedionomus which acts merely with subtle and tenellous amplexations, to contemplate the gamic and empyreal confluences of the Parnassian and Tempean stars and sun; I am to digest the nectarous and nepenthean blood of their catamenial and Pyrrhic theology of proceleusmatic and chelonian oppilations. In the campestrial and castrensian exploring of all these various entheate and neanic nectaries, I have retained to myself the identification of their cosmogyral and guiding principle as this Lydian and commentitious plenum of eidetic and eirenic malacissations of both solemnity and maturity; God is really this nepionic and jyngine and panary creature, which is carried aloft by this anthophilian and apian buzz of which I dispose myself to consumption daily as if it were this perennial music which we are all welcome to but simply relish and breathe eternaly. If the world of Man is but this balneal and didelphian iniquity and his mind is then this scintillating body of elements, this group of exertions and movements; a singular, self-transcendent flame, then God is such to me as some rasorial and periscian dalliance of which interacts directly with my interests. To what is forever before me as being this galeate and selachian and sanguineous organ of the intellect; I am comprehending the force of which compels me to erect myself by it's hesperian and demogoric appellations. Such that it is such an esculent and comestible thing, it is most typical that it reinvents itself to me as an adnascentia for either ephectic adepts of those hunting and barbaric arts to assume for such an oleraceous complement or these wandering and vegetable sustained families of inocciduous and sidereal animal-tamers to discipline and be conducted by to a volitient gentility of living; I see my Godess now coming upon me as some accumulation of commodity, and it relinquishes my fervor to this eicastic and psittacid state of existence.
But there is always that tralatitious truth of temerarious and peirastic spirit which, in it's panomphaean and analemmatic device, is then like that sebaceous and liquid as actinopterygian and halatinous and fish are so expected to be covered with- of their salsamentarious and pelagian habitations; such is like the onion that cannot be withheld completely, but there must be mediation always between it's cepaceous and gentilitious form and it's subject; coming from celeripedean means, it is deep, and at it's tenebrious and hypogeal center, or most rudimentary and gregarian compresence, it comes to betray us by being not unlike it was at the surface. But I am at my truths, gressorious and this walking and gelastic and cachinnatory philosopher, I understand that it is only like this, that the truth may be comprehended; that Democritus is in my blood.
There is indeed this most copacetic and inculpable region of one’s genius; though when interpolated by the unwilling to believe it becomes into some bestial and cannibalistic demon not unlike the ogygian Gods and relics of religious antiquity, it’s potentiality of improvements are but a caliginous exhaustion of that which is concealed by that which directs without conditions; the hands most tender and not yet ravaged by withholding the soul transpire no goods in themselves and ignore this vegetation so sacred; their indistinct and etiolated nomenclatures benefit not the most hortensial and salsuginous of our Ancient Earth’s gardens. The entire cognitive apparatus concerns itself at an intimate level with this imaginative and infantile outlook, and by nature this sort of existence is upheld, though because the transition to a more feral and oragious state of living is often accompanied by various deformities of relationship, it is when retained by human nature instinctive but possible to be ignored for it’s eremetical and intellectual requisites. The human knows his most fundamental nature effectively and without the necessity of contemplation, but is inclined to ignore and even rage against it when more commodious exertions make possible greater empires of gustative and sensuous alternatives, with little or no intellectual excitation. I speak in manners which seem daunting to the majority of readers, and with little reason purport my temulent and and amphigean passages; but why should a man respect the more senescent and destitute of his mentative regions, like I suggest, and which like vast cities of a certain daedal construction comprehend through both the periods of activity and disuse great wear and tear? Why should one open up the vulnerable template of his being to the world, a world enriched in the having of so many devices of enmity and degradation? The poet, he who claims above all else the higher society, might defeat one’s critical objections. I pray thee seek one out to have of him a promulgating of these matters, at which we might have for ourselves a definitive answer- but I know from my own experiences that you shall have great difficulty and obstruction in the ascertaining of the task, for if there be but one thing to say of which the world is lacking, it is the class of poets. The poet is he who takes note of all things subtle or surreptitious, he is also quick to disregard the sensuous, for they are that aggregative mass of necrotic and cutaneous deterrent which he beholds in the minacious and oneiric fantasy which is of wont to drink him in like some stotious and bacchanal reveler to etiolate and esurient ethics(1); the architect and organ of various celestial and cosmic systems, the stuff of the prismatic nimbus he exudes through his work and with his understanding of words and symbols, he designs that which the soul has a fancy of engaging in with facetious and desipient manners, as in a childish state, as it's conductor in the faculty of recollection communes with figures of his more exoptable appetibility. He works with more elemental consituents then the world's elements, and as the myopic and parochial intellect of the scientist is resolved with microscopes and other such artifical means, one's spiritual vitality might be improved with but a simple quantity of the poetic form, which radiates within us all, and with one of Shakespeare's(2) sonnets, ameliorated of any and all deformity or imperfection, and made into the coryphaeus(3) of Godly performances we might associate ourselves.
To those ephemeral and deciduous schools; specious and contingent the principals with with to our reality veritable and insipid doth retained to thy by necessity unblinking scrutation so argillaceous and indurate which improves me not as dematiaceous and caliginous and opiparous. To which looking upon a great painting or poem, to what supplication invents it's charm but a world's alternative resolving, to which when chanced said vacillating we should not be so and who's mere being so invalidates all peremptory sciences?
To thee denied by that so critical pace and that sabulous and orarian imbonity so pallid and etiolated a nature to within some oppidan and saccadic exile abstain from that amative and gamic energy, to you only all those lactescent and smegmatic things appear not, but to you the dulcet and odoriferous cheese witheld, these things to which poetry is as of a derelict store of good, to which I into which your dullness steaps, in some way of to which I know not how, took upon myself it's fullness and discovered all it's offering, to me to be but not that great seed imperdible, but with out to which an artist embarks, a useless good, to true a loss. To be of yourself the bard to which tauromachian and contrapuntal yourself resounds by what we have in accrementition; to in you create again yourself, be not of glabrous and boring character a' spinning a silk not sweet to how the mind is fit for tending to our ambitious hands, as it hylotomous and obnoxious terebration of what to me is of no worth; a soporific inducement doth consume yourself for it. Why then leniently treat my contested vice, and go on about a busy, busy work of cracking skulls, dead artists do you treat with that temulency and jactitation of your comprehensions; when even to yourself do not you know a thing worth saying into which the room of discourse you doth exact your temulency and embarassment, to fellow philosophers invoke offense by which you truly claim your character lost.
Upon which words are, all other things sit to be indefective, by them admit not one; and use them all to cleave towards a world now no longer acclimated to higher things, things of the worth of being seen at least, if not to simply say you did.
In the world I see, Poetry and Philosophy are without that verdant and sanguine portent of movement or life, becoming this trade by which hath required lesser stock and at one time of the befitting of insouciant and estival gods, now which are so reproached by our impudence displayed as so very emarcid and pallid of it's conduction; torpid and enervated by such crebrous obdormition, they arise only once in a while as but eremetic phantoms, to but simply in some halituous and lochetic and cleidoic state survey by precarious and tentative standard the chances of their re-entry into the mortal worlds; and the entirety of everything before me is but this incesstant examination of my vivency and juvenility, which is in wont of arrestant inducements, but never on behalf of my platitudinous and acerbic disenchantments of it, serving but to cause to becometh an augean and venal and partial conformity to conditionality into which these various olamic and tesselar beauties are undulating and in a certain hypogeal and tenuous natation kept by the vastitude of neglect and of dilapidation; though I am this quixotic and sorcerous thing and equiped with a goety previously unknown of and unlooked at since the ancient world to which indigenous to it is, I make of my various conjurations the transitory effect of their conciliatory and visitant pilgrimage to our pallid and sanguinous yet sacredly animated world, reprehensible of the beholding of their form so consummate and vapid; merely the gate to which they aquaint themselves with that megatherial and hortensial obvention of nature-walking, as if they themselves in the strolling by and recounting of the Earth's most caducean and telarian and papilionaceous masterpieces become of them, and prove themselves as much as nature as they are the mediator of in recounting; I become thankful of this exaltation.
I dare say that the poet is he who is employed by the most prudent of considerations and is attentive of the gradient of his circumstance and the potentiality of it's relative interactions; he is verecundious and inoculative, and by further definition is ultimately capable of penetrating to the aposematic and recondite spheres of pneumatic music which is as a gas, and is then also capable of absconding with that nutriment, becoming of his own coriaceous hide and symbolic architectures as some integral part of that which he is in steady writing and contemplation over. The poet is one of the most important parts of Nature, herself. He is ultimately one with Her, and he knows her best, he who inspires.
The aura of the poet is sea-colored and in it's edacious and alexiterial musicality branches outwardly through and behind and over and beyond the continuity of time, making a concatenation of all time and all WoMan with itself, into a singular awareness. The peripatetic and pelagian poet is without the soiling of himself with ambagious and cunctative manners, he who is always drinking in his circumstance simply to communicate it, consummate in all ways imaginable; his profound sublimity in that amongst sequacious and pusillanimous men; condemned to the dependence upon their own surrogate and tutelary Gods, he is unchanged; adamantean and obdurate he collects as an ossification of divine property descended into his allegiant Achates; the language that he is made paphian and inexorable of; it being the acrimonious and parochial chrysalis into which he assumes the form of God in mode departed from our Earth, he emerges in his written catalouge as a perfect resentment of this World and it's people.
I obambulate in a manner so megatherial and elephantine, as with the bucolic and arcadian appetency without direction, in method as pertinacious and punctilious as the more farcical and anfractuous the sounds become, the closer I am to home; animated by a definite purpose, aspirant to simply look for rhythyms everywhere and in any circumstance repair their infandous and detestable absentia. Only in children can we observe this mode of life, or in philosophers; a man cannot live in this manner, he is retained by a confluence of various degradations of his character, and is not even in the desire of which to achieve this state, which is the most concerning fact to this scenario which I can come to.
Why is it, that the assumption of deletable and specious form in so many a thing is assured to us by the facetious comicality of the human mind's operation? That the sodality of ingannation is in the duplicity and dissonancy of the mind's various parts, that it treats all things by the sum of the contents of it's own rememberances, and so Dogs and Children, both aboriginal to faraway and fantastical and wild places, must not be absolved from this natural process. We know of them not a thing; but thinking that there simply cannot be anything which functions differently from our own concieved principles, we being to implant ours into them, reproduce ourselves in various places where we should not have ever even entered into.
If to in which my punctilious inclement of understanding the art of the evasion of dolorous condolences and the tellurian superficies to which of them reside in the surface vestibules of that odd-fellow conversastion we chance commute our instances, I am at once to allege impetuously that there is no more a succoring and consolatory halidom, no more a temperant and open forum of which to satisfy the various hosts of relations between us- and those inimical and worldly complications so vitriolic and appellative of the common man which accompany one detached from rustic living; there is to be found no greater property of that established insularity of ardent gratitude in another then that which is to us summative and retained completely in the genial receptions we have with all of our beloved Dogs. They, that is each of them, hail from some hyperborean impeccability and gentility of living, that at one analouge of our time's decadent reproach of all the Earth's various elements or another, man occupied as well, but lately absconded from with the dogs as some juxtapose and incongruous relic, correspondent to that life by which we fled for power, or for being decieved by the pursuit of power, I do not know. They are dislocated from their homes, but take to us as if we were one of them with steady repetition of our own optative strain of living, which might go to show how easily fallen into the hebetative and obtundent circulations of the ManWorld are. They might even attain our opulent and sordid cerebrations; that is, lazzyness, over-indulgence, and most recognized; the attraction to the abundance of warmth. That we take them and by the gerent forces of a certain languor of remordency breed them from their more natalitious and commodious divinity; introducing them into our daedalian transgressions; coming of inanimate recogntion and inert commentary by daily dulling, by a daily isolation from a higher society- we betray them. Our vein of the world is but an empire of gustation; it is cruel for it's epigaeous and vulpine approaches, it is by them at note to pull in those things around it that choose not to submit or simply are not aquainted with it's facination and worship of the sensuous faculties; and most of all, it directs itself in accordance with a rationale in submission to the lowliest of epistemological devices. But our children, those ones younge enough to be not yet intangled in our spiritual crisis; what of them?
I am of the disposistion to believe that the quintessential human experience is imagination, and most optatively, of the variety to which childhood puerility and fecundity are to be by many celestial gurgitations and ebullient and vertiginous motions like an oragious and numinous constellating of various prototypic but effeminate and thus easily conquerable methods of observing, that is to say, so many perfections of looking and understanding; which are repudiated from interacting with our conventions and judgements today in the hypogeous and pallid realities of adulthood. To be deprived of and enucleated from the generative causticity of childhood's outward affection towards our most "serious" of concepts is to be later as parochial and uncoordinated, never and never to be aquainted with the most exuberant of our life's facets, a certain lacuna prevents the mind from collecting itself as the proportionate intermixing of particular ecstacies into one self-transcendent, running tap of lethe to which we are provided retreat to, in the faculty of recollection, in our later tribuloid and atrabilious outlooks; broken down from years of disuse, the principal of our existence is made into some gross degeneracy of culpable ambition and deficient temerity.
Surely, animals might be able to detect the differences in man and his younge?
To be like a child, animated by a natal and gelastic vigor, is not to be ignorant and invested merely in puerile jocosity; it is to have apprehended the plenary and verisimilitudinous undercurrents of our cachaemic and morbid life; it is to have claimed life, or asserted yourself beyond it; to have recognition of the truth, that we are here to produce fiction; at least, thats how I would like to believe. To be like a child, is to be like the birds and Dogs, embossumed by an openability of benedictive and "aesculapian" influences; to be aware of the Earth's most emphatic and vespertine organs, to be unaffected yet by all the petty and inept deliberation of older men, who in knowing no more how to live, seperate themselves in layers from the nucleous of rustic living.
In the multiplication of uncertainties; the esemplastic and henotic nature of morality and mentation serve to augment in continual fashion a revelation of salient contrast to our excommunicated and shrunken philosophies; that the sensation of belonging and indispensability and vulnerary amenity the most valued product from a combination of these things; is an essential aspect of human life and a certain "viaticum" required for the ponderous and prolixious unfolding of it's element of hermitage, and it is only provided to us in the forgotten and equitable natural domain.
To be involved with nature is to be involved with a most indomitable and esculent concordance of veritable and exquisite means of sustentation, that is to say, not merely of corporeal extensions, but also that it like florid and chryselephantine metals, reflects that which it receives through the mediation of some estimable and worthy equivalence, and so purports it's ideology without the failures of man's un-configured selfishness, that it also is the source of all the arts and inspirations in our race as well, so more fit for our government then a fellow man.
I, with the tender quintessence of discernment all whom live in isolation from the anserine and fatuous Men will agree to a comparative illustriousness yet ease of being made forgettable, study the various methods of inflicting dullness to which have been established in my rudiment and staple and unaffixed expectations by the terebrant and venous body of this newer society, and conclude them to be but shameless and impudent profanation of the sacred character of nature's most delicate organs of extraneity. I will admit to recognition never a more solemn and meritorious thing, then child and animal life.
My matutinal and jentacular experience or morning breakfast, for the most part, I prefer to have retained as like a pandurate and concinnous shadow, maintained as obedible by a certain arcadian sensibility; that is to say, in wont to preserve that generous multiplicity of every single day's incipient and inceptive atmospheres of stellar, and vivid, and vital existence; to all experiences of the prandial and apopemptic class, which might serve well to institute a singular day of menial opuscule; I hithero elude all strains of abundance. Instead, every morning and directly upon my awakening, I absolve myself to this enthean and palatine appetibility of novel thinking and writing, ignoring the day's fremescent moments and my physical needs. It is by this manner of conducting myself, that I feel as though my respect to both myself and to my mind has been observed, hithero by praedial and stoic Gods. No genius wakes up to a mundane experience, but rather he embraces the new day by exercising more vital and esurient faculties then his contemporaries are inclined to dispose of. Is it not very wise to have the mind begin it's circulating before the blood and organs?
I am compelled by an entire species of truculent and temulent thoughts, that I might presume to divine by that orgillous and ophidian faculty the balsamical and emollient fragrance that cause one to, like some audacious and intrepid emperor; actuated by a certain accomptable valiancy and sagaciousness of veritable morals, to rise up to some plethoric feracity in the elysian and pastoral gulf of their philosophical contemplations; that palustral and hortensial animality of thespian and minatory Tragedy residing as the subboreal and hypogaean and inimical archetypes aboriginal of Hamlet and Othello; the knowledge of suffering which exalts it's professor, and which all poets truly exude in a substantial quantity. It is the animal-stench that exalts my motives.
The universe is, in all the manner of it's various superficies and activities, a stochastic and acataleptic system; if it is indeed an olamic and infinite thing interacting with some vicinal and partial intelligence. Is it when appropriated by our contentions, beholding humectant and corrosive or adventitious governance of it's element? All we can presume to know about it, is achieved through the faculty of Logic. We may apprehend merely the verisimilar and specious knowledges, founded in the rudimentary organ of logical and experiential recollections, Logic itself I should say pensile and adherent to the axiom; that it is the summative and culminative body of the comprehensions, applications, and discernments of various "Probabilities". That probability, and ultimately, that dubitancy govern the mundane worlds, imagination and the insouciant and jovial mentalities of children should govern the patrimonial and supernal laterality of the poetic composistions. Does all of this contention reduce human worth if I propose that Logic is in itself an unworthy thing when we have our poems? Are we condemned to uncertainty and endless curiousity at once, both togather?
There is, like the divine lambency of soporous and placid certitude, intrinsic and effulgent; this rudimentary organ which we call awareness, and which gestates in commodious and capacious manner within us all and from an anidian and embryonal state exalts itself as an absolution through the medium of a true genius. It is viviparous and convoluted with these amazing things we call axioms and principles, it is this sort of collection of non-experintial knowledges yet directs all contentions regarding the experienced.
Awareness is the objective of a certain type of meditation which aims to rectify all suffering through the oneness of a disillusionment of locality and separation, and like a testaceous and cleidoic integument, with some great efficience sustains it's object with a certain execution of benevolence; of this maternal and unconditional guidance, the intellectual absolves himself. It is autopoietic and effiminate, and without any need of sustentation or fuel or motivation; it is this entirely independant and reliable government that is ancient and at one time tralatitious to so many groups of individual and unsimilar kinds of things; it was the esemplastic Goddess. It's pure and naked existence is a refletion of the objective reality and is the experience of thinking IN the cerebration of God; our enatic and halcyon intellect, is what we should use to commune with this effulgence of altruistic and esemplastic energy.
It is mose celebrated for it's being stillicidious and pantagruelian, the corroborant and adagial and pluvial rains, the vastitude of truth that our race is condemned to, by a termless and unending curiosity to surrmount. All of the intricacies of my language, which I devote myself to using constantly, are but a nugatory and stramineous probity into the realness. They only approximate what the mind intimately is aware of, and thus, no poet or genius might ever reveal his bathysmal channel; with or without the intention to do so. The obscurities and creatures which reside unchangeable and ogygian in that, will and will forever remain unkept from the precarious standards of communication and experiment and scrutiny. The philosopher is he who embraces the futility of his existence. The philosopher is he who is not despondent or choleric when made aware of his inaccessible desires of the truth, rather, with a warrior's blood he exacts this attraction to great and inumerable challenge.
To your own salsuginous and dematiaceous felicity which in it's tumescent and elaboratory constructure is known, appear as capable of flight and capacious as by means allocatable and agible are so to you; send it upon thine mark acerbic being, to with which you of embellished a manner might your enemy in commendation and that speaking laudatory, you move closer to the virtue of fraudulence, be communicated to defeat. That real duplicitous and astucious behaving is an art, a being worth learning and natural good, that which is good being that which to it's maker cultivates appurtenance, that he might be good in his art he is an artist. Great tricksters then are artists, as by that which they do necessitates the displacement of things, to pragmatic and prudent that which his product is becomes, workable to his affairs, that artwork being the deception of capable and like vendible commodity to anarthrous substantive compounded, a minds and men being so.
By which celebrious and perspicacious the hypostatic organ of your muse, trepidatious and bibulous are all becoming as superfluous parity, to you to all things a sublimification in the annealing of the soul; by you may it becometh adustible or coriaceous to your muse, that it might be made to depectible and scarious likeness as to that dependable one to which we all know, but prey thee supply it's green by life's continuation tantivy and full, once again doth in thine self pull forth the soul untrained?
2
To me divorce my continuity and in my general form make to which yourself enjoys tumultuary and morigerous a becoming in me of your wanted lacerations, and you will then find yourself to cry; call me then cepaceous and amurcous into which my body of things lives hyperborean and murcid to your kind of a being; duplicitous ingannation and fraudulence made, but I myself am more then happy as that jumentous and sagacious man that I am to be truly known as being, and like feral reckoning am alert to the exertion of defense, thusly, I must admit the conchyliaceous and testudineous vindication to which I outwardly am of wont to protrusive have it, lest crashing about me comes forth the ill-derivative of attenuated fundaments. To be steady at the core as lutaceous and tellurian subjects, that is the camphoraceous and fabaceous truth; the hearty reality which like the lamiaceous and saccharine herb actuates our senses. To do this, I must advise; no impression to which I am optatively moved exists, but rather what I am is obstinate and calcitrant to defend it's own truth.
If to which your anandrious Adonis and child is approved by you of study and the voracious employment of fine schooling is coductive to him of distasture, shall you aquit him of his interaction with our Godly and naturaly adjectitious and adscititious thing, or upon rexamination conclude that for him virtue is a greater involvement then with happyness; that syndetic and vincular philosophy itself be of that certain anguinous and antecedaneous knowledge to which it's protector is the salsamentarious convergance of all of man's accomplishment, in wont of it to decadence be approved, do you regard it never thusly and in your desiderative conduct also the wasting of all human ties? This problem cannot be resolved by science, and is evidence of a type of logic of which to it science retreats in a deficiency of apprehension; the numerical relation of these things we have summarised to that extent of which our lives draw no commuting an experience but to which only philosophy, ethics, and morality might correlate or derive something. My point is this; that this reality is not a purely physical thing, to which the entirety of operations might not ever be affixed to rational prosesses; recrementitious and obreptitious a pure mind is so not begotten, argenteous and pactolian it's form only to when like the erymanthian and tegulated boar it might conduce impediment to it's herculean and borraginaceous adjective, in the way that to this addition, it is like a fine-tasting vegetation, though in it's cosmopolitan usurpations to be enjoyed is difficult, in wont to be hortensial and uberous by fine agriculture, or perhaps by the palate dependant upon tastes constellated to that ambrosia by a lately woven sophistication. The placid mind to which in no circumstance comes to commit itself to it's own destructions, is without any hope to in akward groping apprehend the Gods. On the becoming of your own unmaker, you are imparted as of God's redeeming principles, to judge the world by more then numbers and experiment, but to by your own morality and ethics and artistry display it outwardly as you are to have it; the tenable and hebetate world of parochial and conspicuous exertations I should like to think is inadequate.
*Having but this impetuous and sanious juvenility to direct me not unlike the gala of the hymeneal things of the topiary figures setting inexorable upon various bodies of lugubrious and acheronian resistances in my mind, and no senescent and geriatric know-how to which substained in auspicious and effective ways becomes the praetorian and amenable dirtyness of the man; the veridical and glareous perception is, that which is by the egregious and tabernarious exaustion consumed by one for one to in fantasies to which both likely in the concordance to which no poetic thought is participatory they draw up that convergence of acrasial and acrimonious things with which we were to be of no want to know that by which with our fathers comes to admit some leodicean and pandemian product, and to him who betrays his bloodline for these calls can win to him more then what is possible by merely panomphaean and salsuginous tastes; as to them, coming consuming, sufferance is expected with no lacking assuredness; into bitterness for thine father's acceptance, thou dost waste himself entirely so.
Poetry, which when encumbered by the bounds of measure in a term of equivalence and concinnity is likened to the nacreous atmosphere of an epigaeous and phalerate and pantagruelian scintillation in a room of vast discourses of a concordance of various atrabilarious intellects, is that agrestial and mercurial thing to which of all the seraphic and veracious Men of the more aperitive and succulent of life's boragineous and oleraceous produce is endemic and thus produced as it is in a natural form; a sophistic and thaumaturgic and above all other ostensible definitions a purely unrational thing, to which also is multifarious in it's impossibly rendered body; a God it lives, A god it breathes it's salsamentarious and eremetical flame, no other art to which it is of a succombing stillness made. To like country-farm's most philomelian and epopoean wind's molendinarious and oragious ophelimity of the poetic faculty, commands a cibarious attention to exert preemenent influences upon, as the mind dilligently empties it of all organs obnubilated and sibylline in ceaseless wonder; never ever meeting it's bottom yet always vagrarious and temerarious in wont of being to it acclimated.
Plerophory- that is, self assurance, is that anthophorous entity, uterine and testaceous supplanting in a circulation of higher order all the marmalizing of the human in which society is of a definite form communicable; and it is that antientropic haeccity of which true genius outwardly exudes, and of which concupiscible to intellectuals, is thusly rendered the actuation of true men, understanding the intellect to be the true benefactor of all things simultaneously, morality becomes it's precursor in direct connections; in the want to do good the first philosophy was surrmounted. In what equivalence and commensuration of ideas we have failed ourselves, and in the divorcing of true life, that is, life belonging in completeness to nought but the one who lives it in the constant precept of deliberation! But again, to any person whom in the direct association of such execrable circumstance maintains the intellectual mind is a true philosopher, or a lover of wisdom, for in hopelessness and unvarying mischance he as continually as his oppressors improves himself tactically and by conviction makes in immortal exertions the limitless scope of himself, but in his absolute brutality pays a strepitant reverence on behalf of improving others in knowledge, only in him nature is upheld and with an ally or a friend, and by that body of comestibles keeps philosophy alive. And all knowledge, and all truth, and all of nature and the world, and all of God are dependant upon him solely.
Philosophy, of which accountably a great deal of various goods are set to an excitatory and vigorous propensity, alabandical and succiduous in no wavering; fecund the mere superficies to which it in it's impression of oestrual regulations, which harmonic with the human soul and it's visceral opulence; wading the mirkyness of human minds in the precept of fundamentality the truth prevails, art in all the pedagogical lineaments appearing to be such a critical yet unknown mode of amelioration; it is also that which the impeccable and analemmatic device is coorelated with; it is ampelideous and excernent collachrymation to which in one great and providential circle, runs a great conversastion to which the sum of all time and humanity participates with God, and in this mechanismin of true reality the truth to which all philosophy is dependant upon rests in the concordance and junction of intellectual diversities. If I am to understand Plato, I am of wont to aquaint myself with also Aristotle, and if Thoreu then Emerson I must also study with an equiponderate and homologous motive and also drive, to prevail an educated member of philosophy's inner circle, to completely be versed in all the classical, and specialist texts, and to be more then a mere visitor to the divine realm; but a proven aboriginal tribesman, to whom inwardly converges the pantheons and intellectual schools in one horrisonous bubbiling concoction of elemental and generative laws, into me I wish to pull and absorb into unity all the higher order of things, to bring me and all of those establishments to a focal point, and overshadow the subsannation and sardonic form to which our lives depart from real lives and in incurring the wrath and scorn of the ages shames me.
The man with so gemelliparous and stygian garrulity; compendiarious and contumacious of the subjects to which it is with an ombibulous and hispidulous passion lascivious or obsequious contrariant, is absolute and with gentility; oragious and amaryllidaceous it's climate, the greatest beauty outwardly exudes from it. To those whom in your philosophy draw up resistance, be quick with them and by them allow never your growth to be stunted. If they do not with equal force defend themselves as you, they are worthy merely of your resentment for meeting them.
The terraneous and banausic algidity to of which the world is reclined to dispose to me; chills anything of my intellectualism, cast out of an immorigerous and immarcescible imbonity, and of it the world hangs again but as the gramineous and commensurable, no carminative and healing stuff to the jovial and amatory things prevails, but rather of the mundane of an enchorial sabulosity falls through the fingers and extremities of my mind re
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