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I am

I am not my job.
I’m bigger.
Bigger than this room.
Than these corporations,
The government, these nations.
Planets, Galaxies, this universe.
Time, gravity, material.
An apparition adrift in the cosmos.
And yet I am everything.
I’m you, her, them, us.
Fragments of light, bottled & pickled.
Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh.

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Telesphorus: From Carl Jung

At the height of his life, Carl Jung was discovering the secrets of the Alchemical. He built a fortress of solitude near the river of Zurich. A stone monument was erected by Jung in which he inscribed Latin phrases. One reads:

CGJung

“I am an orphan, alone; nevertheless I am found everywhere. I am one, but opposed to myself. I am youth and old man at one and the same time. I have known neither father nor mother, because I have had to be fetched out of the deep like a fish, or fell like a white stone from heaven. In woods and mountains I roam, but I am hidden in the innermost soul of man. I am mortal for everyone, yet I am not touched by the cycle of aeons.” -C.J.

Prior to this account, Jung was deep within his academic career as a psychologist. Until a series of apparitions and premonitions occurred within dreams. He began to be drawn to the Gnostic’s, his unconscious was sending him mysterious signs. “The material brought to light from the unconscious had, almost literally, struck me dumb.” (Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections) He endeavored to discover the eternal truth’s of the universe.

“Consciously, deliberately, then, I abandoned my academic career. For I felt that something great was happening to me and I put my trust in the thing which I felt to be more important sub specie aeternitatis. I knew that it would fill my life, and for the sake of that goal I was ready to take any kind of risk.”

And so began the Jungian transmutation…

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The Pale Rider

Walking into to town the others see me coming.
They turn with askance at my rider who sways to and fro.
Head down to shun the sun with the brill of his cap.
Though I be the sober, he be the other.

Drinking water from my trough, he journey’s to the bar.
Avoiding the others at stools end.
Deep in contemplation he seems to be.
Not a glance up, nor the tip of a cup.

Back on the saddle he sways to meet the days end.
Leaving town they bid farewell and see his hollowed eyes.
Not knowing whither to he goes, or from whence he came.
We leave prompt all the same and he asks for no ones name.

I steer him here and there as if I know the way myself.
Wishing on the stars we meet our journey’s end on the moon itself.

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If I Could Give You the Stars and Outer Space

What sort of love is this?
Do you think of me when the morning dew hits?
In my arms do you feel any bliss,
A sudden need for a kiss?
There is love, but of what kind?
Confused passion for we are blind.
We are the scars left on another over time.
Or have we settled-assuming true love we’ll never find?
I feel no warmness from you.
When times of happiness are seldom few.
Why do we return expecting something new?
My inmost thoughts you pretended you knew.
I don’t want love like your movies on lifetime.
You should already know me without a lifeline.
I wish we had met at the right time,
Never really felt you to be all mine.
You fight yourself from change.
Both of us can’t seem to act our age.
But I somehow found a way,
Into my soul- things I cannot convey.

If this is what I’m left with,
I’ll have nothing at all.
Love has become some myth
Leading me unto the Fall.

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From ‘Self-Reliance’

This next excerpt is from one of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s most famous essays. Eloquently put, with such imaginative and broad diction, by far one of my favorite authors. I could read and reread his essays throughout my life and still find conceptual insights to dwell into like a warm blanket in the winter. The essay also delves into conformity and the need for individuality.

“The objection to conforming to usages that have Ralph_Waldo_Emerson_cph.3b20760become dead to you is, that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression of your character. If you maintain a dead church, contribute to a dead Bible-society, vote with a great party either for the government or against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,-under all these screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And, of course, so much force is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your work, and I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce yourself. A man must consider what a blindman’s-bluff is this game of conformity. If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.

There is ample conformity occurring this day day of age. The America’s are rampant with political divisions, racial divides, gender warfare, cultural genocide, class factionalism-not even the state’s nor the federal government properly working in unison. It is up to us citizens to become individual, to criticize your party for not adhering to your wishes; be no party but of yourself and your individual wishes and needs. We are scattered as individuals, adhering to the broadest statements of all sorts of generalities. We possess the most advanced technology in our hands, on our desks; yet we are fickle to our mobile applications, gaining nothing but a new high score, learning nothing but of gossip and media.

I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of his church. Do I know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I not know that, with all this ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution, he will do no such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side,-the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest affection. Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities of opinion.

When man is placed to service under an institution, he does not draw from the self or the individual, but rather the institution itself. They behave based upon protocol, therefore they are in fact not themselves at all, but cloned creatures of the entity they serve. Priests and ministers are held to one book, one ideology, they cannot say or do anything that is new or has not been heard of.

This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that every word they say chagrins us, and we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean “the foolish face of praise,” the forces smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved, but moved by a low usurping willfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face with the most disagreeable sensation.”

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MIA

To whoever actually reads any of this,

I’ve been working steadily since May, not a lot of personal time feels like I’ve enslaved myself. I apologize for the sudden break in writing, I have strayed from the self. As the world continues to corner itself, I hope my writings reach who they need to. In the coming years we will hopefully see the truth break free-the revealing. The Revelation or Apocalypse, as you frightened may call it. The translation from Greek apokalyptein “uncover, disclose, reveal” doesn’t seem to mention hell on Earth.

Heil Trump

 

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It Twitches and Festers

The levee’s been pushed to a brink,
If caught in the midst a heavy heart would sink.
Tears from heaven pour down hardened rain.
if only such a thing could wash away the pain.

Quiet and somber I feel your despair.
The shell of a man forewarned to beware.
And still she told me she gets what she wants,
Shifting emotions nullified if the past still haunts.

Our love is a cauldron mixed of bitters and sweets.
While my once wicked ways through your scars it seeps.
Aches in my chest from happiness divest;
Too little, too late—what once was, now irate.

Forgiveness a thing only measured by time,
and through it all I just wish you were mine.
To you I seek to do good—for all I repent
but kindness is misunderstood with outcry’s of resent.

Are you the dawn that had already set,
or the sunrise I never knew I had met?

Painting by William Blake
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Seeking

Cast into the physical,
a Sethian just looking for residuals.
In a sea of sheep, it’s hard to find any individuals.

Forbidden from the garden,
are the two with concealing garment.
For they had tasted knowledge and for that were abolished.

Oh Saklas, be thee foolish,
thinking Fate on your side is your true wish.
The prevalence of goodness is your cold dish.

Yet millions of years later,
the Demiurge is still a fuckin’ hater.
Still waitin’ on the end, but that’s a story for later.

To the rich few we cater,
bailing them out just to produce another failure.
Never asking, just obliging and waiting for the savior.

Between logic and insanity we reside,
of the rich and poor no greater divide.
He who will cross the Rubicon shall cast out the final lie.

Getting high on a whim,
both cursed and blessed by Djinn.
The struggle of salvation only found within,
but it’s much easier to just bask in sin.

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From Bitter Submergence, Loving Enlightenment.

This life it weighs on thee.
Bound to material,
the physical we endure combatively.
Earth-born all is ephemeral.

Ancient works uncovered,
only intensify a burden.
We are fallen angels unfeathered,
—of that I am certain.

Two into one, of three we be.
Yet unto one a return,
and of three they see.
Of transcendent planes we yearn.

Mortality the prescription,
sense perception an unawakened state.
Past loves I’m missin’-
dwelling on the things I hate.
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Of those from within,
and those of without.
Some just trying to win,
others filled with doubt.

On heavens light we pretend,
the end we cannot comprehend.
Seek and ye shall find,
an aeon not bound by time.