Friday, 24 November 2017

Planet Heaven


The love of my life lived in the Pleiades.

Love had lived in less credible places.

People wonder about the travel to distant planets.

But the celestial world affords us the ability to imagine by way of travel to and travel to by way of imagining distant kinds of the same planet like Planet Peace or Planet Heaven. The story of my life were Planet Pleiades, a planet where every kind of light were of a celestial current of biological significance of likewise celestial stories, organs and proportions that afforded a reading, spelling and dissembling of our very own voice that was absolutely necessary to the whole restoration, development or growth of our brain, to the fleshing out - as was, is or would be conceived of - our whole mind or nature.

We were free if rarely freely encouraged to imagine or flesh out what meaning we might like from the constellations in the sky. 

Contractions of life and death, of beginning and ending and of rest and action were a celestial language all itself, a language and impulse of life.

The most knowledgeable book one could possibly study from were the Book of your life. And the only way to incorporate and complete its current of riches was to give voice to one's own flesh and blood of truly celestial stories, forces, organs and proportions. To give voice, to labour after our Mother's heart, to delve into the deeps of the voice of our own flesh and blood impressions from every contraction of cause and effect of every dimension of our existence were to gain the greatest possible advantage from everything that life itself had ever said to us, how we heard it with our own flesh and blood brain development; how both what we heard and how we heard it could, alone, help our brains to grow.

Such people as listen to this voice, such people who would find their voice buried in every fold of their whole experience of life [their voice and many other voices besides, voices of our whole flesh and blood], these people become different; they grow, they just naturally grow. 

And most people cannot even tell the difference.

They may not have or ever need have all knowledge, or even the better part of it; instead, they know what knowledge is and what knowledge is not, what of the voice and story of any knowledge and how adequate provision it makes or would or never even thought about making for the voices of our flesh and blood celestial biology as though fully expecting to be thought intelligent and sane people of no little competence and authority to any "reasonable" person. Their confidence is, of course, disarming as it is pitiful and, ultimately, deadly in so much as a society predicated upon nothing better or more credible or less insulting to all human intelligence and heritage will generally tend to groom a ready and even devoted audience if not whole population of complicit dupes and predators of unequaled impunity in the history of the war and the world. 

To grow one's brain were to know one's voice.

To know one's voice were to grow one's brain in the vacuum not of "outer space" but of adequate social stimulation for almost total lack of any literature on the subject of accounting for the actual scales of stress induced by war as a way of life for thousands of years of hundreds of generations of families the world over: the success and failure of society.

In fact, I have found most people inclined to be quite hostile to the mere suggestion of whole brain development or what anyone but an imbecile would equate with that lofty goal that must be owned to be the most unlikely result to what the whole world is daily enthralled with pursuing and protecting with every generation of confused and lonely children of heartbreaking readiness to capitulate as though that is what life was always meant to be about, the deficit of which however socially expedient delusion being readily extracted from everyone else with a collective impunity rivaled only by the slaughter of invading aliens in the latest Hollywood schlock science fiction marathon of a celestial waters almost wholly dominated with military-grade propaganda of truly Biblical proportions and conceits for all to read to truly thunderous effect. 

So I repeat. The sky is for a child to make their own meaning from, for it is the visible expression of all higher brain development. A child who knows their whole life and mind to be utterly knit into every living story of the entire cosmos does not suffer the need to read its every detail but only to breathe deeply of its vigorous contractions of celestial organs and proportions of startling familiarity, for all their veritable prohibition from the literary and scientific scriptures of all surviving human history, one all about and never about the silencing of the voice of Man's flesh and blood celestial biology of ancestral intelligence and echoing contractions of all that is life and all that is death, all lives in action and action in rest. 



"[Edmund] Spenser designed his poem as a wheel, in which the action, instead of following in a simple line, rays out from its center and Gloriana's court, and then, in some way not arrived at by the poem, returns to that center again. The "Faerie Queene" [c. 1590] is a game played upon a wheel-shaped board, with each knight advancing or retreating along its spokes according to the cast of the dice announced in successive stanzas. Arthur appears to travel in a circle around the rim. Although he is supposed to be in search of the Faerie Queene, from whose court each of the other knights has come, he neither asks nor receives directions. The circular movement itself is a way of getting there. Ariosto saw his poem as a web woven by the artist who finds the most compelling reason for life in the pleasure that he takes in his control over the story which so aggressively refuses a simple chronological line, but weaves in and out with the greatest, almost perverse, complexity imaginable.

"The alternating viewpoint with which one is permitted to look at epic - the trompe-l'œil patterning - trains the mind and eye for the reintegration of the apparent opposites of action and contemplation. It works like a perspective picture of the interchanging patterns of figure and ground. We can neither stay with the story nor rest in the pattern; the story is not only an account of progress toward a goal, nor is the pattern a static rendering of experience. The story undercuts the value of action; the pattern is made up of unceasing motion. The ideal life of man, in which action and thought, body and soul, are integral with one another, is being restored, or achieved, by the demand that the poem makes upon the reader. As with immortality, by giving up the false contemplation represented by the Bower of Bliss, man learns true contemplation by immersing himself in the active pattern of life." 

Milton and His Epic Tradition, Joan Malory Webber, University of Washington Press, 1979, Part II, "The Tradition," Page 93 - 94


Psalms of Love Epic Poem













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