Call no man happy until he is dead.
“
| — | Herodotus (Greek author, 484-430/420BC) |
A sleeping explorer his wandering mind crossed over the border a mind like a cemetery where the corpses are turning where the bodies twist deep in the frozen grip of a dreamless sleep then the lowest comes up like a wreck from the depths. He hears night calling and has dreams of waking here in this brightness that burns like slow lightening he sees words burnt in ice reads, “The World is a Wound”. Effects of the animal - Animal sound effects He says, “Death he is my friend He promised me a quick end”. Says, “The world is in pain and should be put down and God is a sadist and that he knows it”. The depths of the night sky reflects in his eye He says, “Everything changes And everyone dies”. And the night slits her veins and the darkness drains and the void rumbles in like an underground train… Forever comes closer the world is in pain we all must be shown we must realize that everyone changes and everything dies.
[ From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/blood-from-the-air-lyrics-coil.html ]
Origins, continued
[3: The Other - A bit about Henry]
There weren’t a lot of children to play with while I was growing up. With my parents distant and aloof, I turned to imaginary pastimes and friends. After some time, these friends evolved into tulpas to talk to and model reality with - mostly the usual sort of thing: dollies and invisible friends and a ghost that would sometimes hold my hand at night. Much of this time is occluded by the gauzy membranes of near-forgotten memory, but certain highlights stand out.
Henry is an odd lad, and he always has been. He is very shy and quiet, and sometimes we sit for hours at a time, never speaking, but somehow communicating, a breath or a sigh here, a scratch and a glance there. I’ll lie on the bed, sprawled for hours and nights reading and writing, and he’ll sit at my desk there, tinkering with his tools and traps. Sometimes he’ll read what garbage I might have written. He reads with a quick raptness, the book held up to his nose and turning pages with great energy. I appreciate him greatly for reading, and he always is encouraging, even when what I’ve written is dull, self-absorbed, trivial. I love him so.
There are times when Henry will look at me intensely, as if he were deeply fascinated with some absurd physical detail of me - my legs, or breasts, or sometimes he fixates on my neck and provides audience to the life-vein there. He says he loves the curvature of my neck. Some people might find his look creepy, or a bit off; but I think it’s the most genuine expression I’ve ever seen on a person’s face. It is at once challenging and intense, yet tender and plaintive. I sometimes try smiling and inviting him to come sit with me by the bed, but he usually demurs, a stupid, sideways grin appearing at the crook of his mouth. At one time I thought maybe he was queer, or fancied me unfit for some reason, but I’ve come to realize that’s not the case at all.
Shaman-sorcerers have the upper hand; as beings on their way to dying, they have someone whispering in their ear that everything is ephemeral. The whisperer is Death, the infallible advisor, the only one who won’t ever tell you a lie.” -Don Juan Matus to Carlos Castaneda, “The Active Side of Infinity
“
Origins
[1: Born Dead]
“Silence is the true friend that never betrays.” - unknown
Most of my life has been spent feeling dead inside, waiting for my body to catch up. Tonight the moon is dark, there is not a cloud in sight, and even the stars are pale, as if snuffed out. A good time to reflect and set words to paper.
In reality, I don’t like to write much, although journaling provides an outlet for my frustrations. I was trained in the art of the scrivener, and also the writing of plays, ballads and poetry growing up - all the pointless forms, fantasies and fallacies - but in the end I realized I had nothing to say and too many would-be clever ways to say it. The mystery of potentiality - the unspoken, unwritten, the secret weight of our hearts - these things are greater than the disappointment of creation, always, in all ways. Anyway—
That little nothing, that is what it’s all about, in some ways, but I’ll come to that later.
There are really only two or three stories, you know, and every tale is just a variation on a few central themes: You are born wanting, desiring, craving, needing, and you seek satiety; you either overcome or you don’t. You live, you die.
Incomplete: the essence of desire is at root indistinguishable from that of terror. Some of us are between living and dying, though, and this is my story.
