mass extinction by chainsaw, net, bolt-gun or bomb they said, “96% of children in Gaza feel that death is imminent” in Sudan, the famine is massive, oh, this reaper, he is very discriminate in Congo, there’s mass enslavement for minerals, see the phone in her hand?! her hypocrisy?! she can’t claim to be innocent! the Pacific’s so hot, that it’s killed 4 million murres while the Indigenous still invoke “cultural rights” to baby seal furs
therefore,
God is either male — or, truer, the God who created everything, was the very first one extincted, as Nietzsche, and the german thinkers before him, all, belatedly said,
i feel fortunate this book was my introduction to Plath and her poet husband, Ted Hughes— and other significant influences in her life and poetry /
hat tip to my long-time favorite podcast: Aeon Byte Gnostic Radio — created and hosted by Miguel Conner at The Virtual Alexandria for interviewing Gordon-Bramer, because, for the first time ever, i was actually interested in Plath — and furthermore, i unexpectedly experienced a psychic “something” with Plath while listening to the audiobook; this “something” — i want to digest, explore – and possibly explain, in detail, in a future essay //
while i imbibed this book, i was simultaneously raising an injured and orphaned starling nestling — on an intensive feeding schedule — and during this time, i learned from the book, that Sylvia and Ted also attempted to rescue an injured and sick baby bird — but after a week, and upon determining rehabilitation was futile, they jointly and sadly euthanized the bird in their gas oven (i know. wow.) ///
this was the summer of broken limbs on trees, animals — and men this was the summer of the fuck-it, no-good vegetable garden this was the summer of “not this year”, “but, maybe next,” — again this was the summer of the i-still-can’t-believe-she’s-dead birthday this was the summer of nesting swallows, wicked sparrows, and a fallen starling nestling, whom she fed, and kept in her pocket for future starlight this was the summer of hanging baskets heavy with rainbow gazanias and pots full of midnight black petunias — for balance — incessant dead-heading and concrete stains, a small price this was the summer of the blue serpent; of serpentine bracelets and of the serpent-printed dress — she to be photographed on this land with the flowers, the dog and the bird, like Frida this was the summer of first-realizing she may be the reincarnation of the spirit once-embodied in Sylvia Plath
“We are all called to be mothers of God, for God is always waiting to be born.”
— Meister Eckhart, 13th century German mystic
madonna & child stained glass 2013, Portage Park, Chicago
The Christmas narrative speaks to us beyond a phenomenal story about Mary and the Baby Jesus. It tells us about an inbreak of God's consciousness into the world. Inbreaks of the Divine require a flexible mind capable of letting go of every acquired concept of God. God gnosis is quite different from religious, historical, and any other kind of knowledge. The first emerges from within, throwing open our inner gates; the latter comes from without.
foremost Earthling, crone, and mother to a golden boy; nightly traveler into liminality; mostly obeisant to intuition & premonition; poet, writer; heart-sleeved, bleeding heart pessimist; devoted friend of crows (at last), meadow-restorer/tender, & long-lost sister to snakes, bats and coyotes, deer & bluebird whisperer, seed saver, food grower, an admirer and propagator of lilacs, hydrangeas, sycamores, mulberries, pawpaws and oaks; dna-tested kin to goldenrod, milkweed, bison, cottonwoods, thistle and monarchs; wader into ephemeral and glacial lakes and deep snow; Moon’s luminous, loyal daughter & Sun’s prodigal, ever-questioning shadow equally; devout, ecstatic desert, forest and river worshipper; reverent of and humbly deferent to bear, wolf, moose, elk & bighorn sheep and hummingbirds; a mountain, canyon, valley, prairie and beach walker;
In this piece, which is an interpretation of one of many universal myths which impart the water crossing and trek we all are to embark upon after death,
most of the departed climb up the steep, barren embankment and enter the tunnel individually, while a child and a dog are tenderly escorted — led by the hand or carried by chthonic monks into the tunnel leading to the
Underworld
the tunnel appears under geological strata — presumably the surface of Earth, with blue sky and forest in background above it
interestingly, the artist’s limited use of perspective also allows the sky and forest to be viewed potentially as the Great Beyond itself — as a Northern or Alpine “paradise,” a Valhalla, beyond the sojourn in and through the tunnel
a high, solid, wooden fencebisects the river, embankment and tunnel and prevents arrivals from observing the exiting monks — only one-way vision and traffic for the dead
and while the monks do not cast shadows, the human figures continue to be accompanied by their shadows; for those who subscribe to Jungian analytical psychology or gnostic texts, the physical shadow depicted may be interpreted symbolically as the anima/animus of the person — which would ultimately disappear during the tunnel upon the full reintegration of the Self/Soul/Spirit
through re-unification with one’s divine twin (which is sometimes also called the cosmic/celestial twin or daimon) after having been separated during human incarnation and birth.
author’s note:
i often and prefer to call the underworld aka afterlife “The Great Wide Open of the All” — which in my liminal gleanings is a supremely contented blackness of universal consciousness, devoid of thought or sensation — a perfected existence in the dark cosmic fabric of nothingness,
there may be levels in the afterlife which may manifest our own personal imaginal constructs of paradise — far beyond what our limited sensory perception and experiences of life on Earth are - such as, an Alpine Paradise upon emerging from the tunnel -
i know full well the breathtaking beauty and feeling upon exiting a scary and lengthy mountain tunnel where my heart and eyes are stunned by a grand vista of forest, peaks and sky — from my many road trips in the Western U.S.
yet, i truly prefer the former — when i die, i want to rest for all eternity — although with just one desire, one sensation: warmth.
she sips a glass of wine and admits, agrees she too, doesn’t want to be
on this prison planet under these archons, guided and insulated by sadistic angels, both, in servitude to the demiurge
no escaping it, Them
even in Bucolia
she’s still plagued by the 24-hour news cycle, contemplation that often veers off into nihilism,
and, by bouts of suicidal ideation — but to go back around, back to another false birth in this Samsara, to start over? — no thanks //
perhaps crying in the wilderness, then.
where is that, exactly? the mountains, buttes and canyons also betray us — those ancient Watchers, the petroglyphs warned us of — and of shapeshifters cloaked in feathers, fur and scales ///
she knows she can’t save her Self, preserve her Pneuma and reunite with her Daimon, solely with an Earth-based practice of resistance
and, so begins the invocation, the genesis of her mission,
she supposes the element of surprise may be compromised by Their so-called omniscience
but who knows – what They actually know
even gods have blindspots even gods sleep and fuck — or mindlessly scroll and binge
we, Their creation, create Their content, after all
yes.
she will go to Them
traversing the liminal terrain
to find and kill Them in their confident repose in the Kenoma
The Gnostic is neither an ascetic nor a theologian and need not even be particularly religious in the conventional way. The Gnostic is an artist. The Gnostic's brushes, colors, and canvasses are her own body, his own psyche. The Gnostic's technique is one of living and observing life and recognizing it for what it is, without illusions of security, glamor, or despair.
The Gnostic continually explores, always seeking the core of the nature of things. But gnosis, like art, cannot be taught. The flame of living gnosis awakens and rises of its own accord. All we can provide is a nest within our heart, a sanctuary of repose where the breath of the Infinite may whisper its secrets.
—Rosamonde Ishvàku Miller, The Experience of Gnosis. Full article published in The Allure of Gnosticism, Pg. 203, ed. Segal et al, Illinois, USA, Open Court Publishing Company, 1995.
gnome (n.2) "short, pithy statement of general truth," 1570s, from Greek gnōmē "judgment, opinion; maxim, fthe opinion of wise men," from PIE root *gno- "to know."
kiss your Self awake | save your Self an all-time favorite by Saint Hoax 2015/2016
“You was blind to Him as your footprints in the ashes, but He saw you.
Beneath every disguise; in every gesture false or true; every silent resentment – He saw you in those dark corners. He heard you. Oh my brothers, He heard those thoughts.
Now, I am here today to talk to you about reality. I’m here to tell you about what you already know.
This, all, — this, is not real. It is merely the limitation of our senses which are meager devices. Your angers, and your griefs and your separations, are a fevered hallucination, one suffered by us all, we prisoners of light and matter…
Our faces pressed to the bars, lookin’ out, lookin up, askin’ the question, beggin’ the question — “Are YOU there?” Would that we had ears to hear – because every moment, every now — is an answer; every beat of every heart, every second of every minute, every minute of every hour, every hour of every day — is an answer.
And the ANSWER is: “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Your sorrows pin you to this place; they divide you from what your heart knows…
And we bandage our soft selves in hardness and anger.
You are a stranger to yourself, and yet He knows you… And when your hard heart made you like unto the stone and broke you from His Body — which is the stars and the wind between the stars — He knew you. He knew you – yet and forever. How could the Father forget His children; how could the world forget itself?
Doesn’t matter that the children do not understand what they are. Doesn’t matter that the world thinks that it’s many different things — rather than One – HIM. Doesn’t matter.
My sad and joyous, and frightened and courageous brothers and sisters,
I want you to close your eyes and let your chest swell as His lungs; I want you to feel His Portion in us – in each other.
Every single one of you, I want you to listen for that answer:
If ever your sorrow becomes such a burden that you forget yourself – forget this world, I want you to remember this truth, this is as indelible as the sun in the sky and the ground beneath your feet:
This world is a veil, and the face you wear is not your own.
The shape of our true face is not YET known to us.
And so I press my eyes to the bars, and I look out, and I look up — and I ask the question, no! I BEG the question: Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! – Your arms open and close, and the echoes of my life could never contain a single truth about You. You move the feather and ash, You touch the leaf with His flame, You linked Your soul to an Infinity of atomic creation, and of It – I am less than a drop in the ocean. How then can I know sorrow, how then, can I know despair? – Does the rain know sorrow, does the grass and the mountains, those beautiful mountains, know despair?
Such is not His Province, and so not be our purpose.
Be in Him, of Him, and then KNOW peace; that is His gift to us — our birthright.
In the End, we will find ourselves at the Beginning. We will at last KNOW ourselves; and our True Faces will weep in His Light – and those tears will feel like a warm rain.
There is something we were never told, and this is that there is a tradition of no tradition.
A tradition of Wild Mystics or Wild Gnostics, that don’t fit into any theological or academic classification: A tradition of spiritual nomads that would not be shackled to any system or scripture; that would write their own myths and stories with the blood of their own experiences, which source can be found within their own entrails, within the marrow of their bones; within the dust of the grave, beyond what can be called experience, but that comes within their every breath.
These mystics recognize and borrow everything that speaks true to the reality of their bones without binding themselves to the rest of their traditions, but most of all, they speak with their own voice. Their voice cannot be classified or pegged to any known tradition.
tradition is violence
As soon as a scholar thinks he or she has found their source, another scholar finds that they were mistaken; for scholars, as St. John of the Cross said, argue long but never leave the ground.
Scholars speak of Gnosis and of dualism and try to explain Gnostic writings without ever having experienced gnosis, and therefore, gnosis remains unfamiliar to them and to their poor mislead readers.
Their arguments are filled only with words and a reasoning that can make a case, but that fails the source and has no substance. That is a tragedy, for they not only don’t know, they don’t even know what they don’t know, and that they don’t know.
We don’t decide to become Gnostics, but we discover that’s what we were all along. We don’t adhere to beliefs or views imposed from the outside, but our worldview comes from our inner experience. Sometimes that experience comes with the sound of cannons. Most of the time it happens quietly and gently but nevertheless is life altering, even though most external observers won’t notice the difference. We are un-made and remade from the inside out rather than from the outside in.
“… When the chips are down and for one reason or the other you begin to recognize that you are not going to be on this earth forever … your body is falling apart … you’ll be there and you’ll say: “I lived 60 years; I lived 70 years, or whatever it is; and I still don’t know anything; I don’t know where I came from, and more importantly, I don’t know where I am going; I don’t know anything mportant at all!! …
I’ve been so reasonable, I’ve been so rational, I’ve been so sober; and now I stand before the door, and I am shaking like a leaf, and I am scared and I am miserable, because I haven’t learned what is important; I haven’t learned the truth — the essence of my own being; I have not been confronted with any reality … I tried to fit into the picture so nicely.”
You know what – the picture that you tried to fit into is going away – from you… be there [at the door] and there’s no picture, no society, no family, none of the things that you thought were so important – just you and a great stupendous mystery which will remind you:
“From that time you came into this world, I was available to you to be discovered; I was available to you to be known with your gnosis, but you haven’t done it at all; you didn’t pay any attention – you went after the reasonable will–o’–the–wisp and the unreasonable will–o’–the–wisp, but you didn’t take a look at this [great mystery]!”
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 