This day the Lord of the Sun arrives on a long curved ship. I will read to him from the books of Thoth: he who has won knowledge of all; who saw all things and understood all things and understanding had the power to disclose and to explain. For what he knew he hid, keeping silent, so that every younger age of cosmic time might seek for them.
I will admit the Lord to the Temple. He will wash his face, hands and feet with fragrant water. He will bend forth his raven head and I will expound the sacred text. In darkness we shall descend to the inner chamber of stone where I shall give him the cordial and chant the words from the Book of the Gates to guide his ascent. He must know each sky before he can be an Akh, a spirit transfigured by Aton: Akhenaten.
In the boat of Isis, sailing upon a river of souls, he will be carried through the gates of Duat. He will see Orion and Sirius as the rays break over the celestial horizon and strike the Sphinx that points to Leo. Isis will show him what has created him and he shall gaze upon her, who is light, and warmth, and life. She shall speak forth the cosmic word that is Osiris and he will hear the choir of glorious spirits, the Akhimu-Seku, sing the glory of Aton, and he will know, that Osiris the Sun has made all things, that he setteth every man in his place, that he distinguishes skin and separates speech. Osiris will rise in his heart and his heart will burn and begin its journey.
After three days have passed he will know these things. He will know also that the time has come for darkness to descend upon the eyes of the priests and kings. Darkness shall come. He will know that Osiris is the Cosmic word, that Isis works from the regions beyond time and creates the womb from which the infant Horus will descend. A deed that shall mark a new age.
Later, I shall be thrown into the pit of snakes and my Lord who has seen these things shall have his name erased from the list of Kings and from the sacred texts and his face shall be struck from the reliefs of stone and no man shall utter his name. He will be remembered only as a heretic.
Aum...Aumen...This shall be so...
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Tuesday 22 June 2010
Tuesday 15 June 2010
How Stefan Rautter illustrates his Thesaurus and Fausto Experiences Blue...
Rautter placed before him a solid disc made of copper with ten divisions, each denoting one of Aristotle’s categories. A crank connected to a devise - a series of wheels within wheels - made the large disc rotate through inertia.
“You see the blacksmith at the village made it for me, it is very commodious.” He then brought forth a multitude of pieces of paper weighed down by pins, upon which the fundamental concepts were written.
“Ja! You see! Thesaurus!” He said proudly.
“But how does it work?” asked Fausto feeling disoriented and unwell.
“Of course it would take a lifetime or two, and I shall devote what is left of mine, in order to enumerate every substance, every quality etcetera. However I have spent many hours collecting several hundred upon which our little compendium is predicated. The wheel is the causa, or should we say, the motivator. Once it is set to a spin, as Raymon Lull your fellow countryman tells us, we must throw in our concepts, and allow them to fall where they will. This way they will be found, one on another. That is the secret mein silly fellow, the secret is this, then we read!”
“But that sounds nonsensical.” Answered Fausto flatly, feeling the effects of the arquaeous taken moments before.
“Nonsensical to you perhaps!” He thundered now in a bad mood. “But to those who are not chaotic senior, completely practical.”
He cranked, and the wheel started to spin, slowly at first, then faster, then the monk ceremoniously threw in a handful of fundamental concepts.
“Now senior, we see what we find……” He waited patiently for the disc to come to a standstill. “You see what poetry! For blue we have…..Melancholy cerulean speck of….backward liquid matter glowing outward momentarily together! There you see?”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Sighed Fausto.
“What doesn’t you silly, silly, fool?”
“It, your thesaurus, it is mechanical, awkward and….and it sounds absurd and not at all poetical!”
“Absurd!” Rautter flew into a rage occasioned perhaps by lack of sleep, and the wisdom of his neophyte’s words, and turning the handle on disc spun it around and around.
Fausto observed it with intensity, was he too spinning? He saw a mountainous cerulean blue into which his one eye dissolved, wishing to accompany it forever. In blue there was grace, devotion, and selflessness that sought to become larger than himself, to expand outwards to the stars and beyond to the great cosmic spaces.
He was lost, weaving and becoming, irradiated by inner suns out of a depthless darkness. Manifold permutations and combinations of existence he had been told, was measured by these principles but (alas!) he was illiterate! Form unrecognisable! Words dispossessed, weeping nightingales frowning in the sadness of an inner winter - blue. A light shot through a darkened soul illuminated a violet therein, observing the innocence of its uplifted face - blue. At once fused, then dispersed, curling, swirling being, positioning and possessing rainbows of hyperbole in a sky that was fading and becoming pale, shedding its dewy tears upon the earth - blue.
...
“You see the blacksmith at the village made it for me, it is very commodious.” He then brought forth a multitude of pieces of paper weighed down by pins, upon which the fundamental concepts were written.
“Ja! You see! Thesaurus!” He said proudly.
“But how does it work?” asked Fausto feeling disoriented and unwell.
“Of course it would take a lifetime or two, and I shall devote what is left of mine, in order to enumerate every substance, every quality etcetera. However I have spent many hours collecting several hundred upon which our little compendium is predicated. The wheel is the causa, or should we say, the motivator. Once it is set to a spin, as Raymon Lull your fellow countryman tells us, we must throw in our concepts, and allow them to fall where they will. This way they will be found, one on another. That is the secret mein silly fellow, the secret is this, then we read!”
“But that sounds nonsensical.” Answered Fausto flatly, feeling the effects of the arquaeous taken moments before.
“Nonsensical to you perhaps!” He thundered now in a bad mood. “But to those who are not chaotic senior, completely practical.”
He cranked, and the wheel started to spin, slowly at first, then faster, then the monk ceremoniously threw in a handful of fundamental concepts.
“Now senior, we see what we find……” He waited patiently for the disc to come to a standstill. “You see what poetry! For blue we have…..Melancholy cerulean speck of….backward liquid matter glowing outward momentarily together! There you see?”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Sighed Fausto.
“What doesn’t you silly, silly, fool?”
“It, your thesaurus, it is mechanical, awkward and….and it sounds absurd and not at all poetical!”
“Absurd!” Rautter flew into a rage occasioned perhaps by lack of sleep, and the wisdom of his neophyte’s words, and turning the handle on disc spun it around and around.
Fausto observed it with intensity, was he too spinning? He saw a mountainous cerulean blue into which his one eye dissolved, wishing to accompany it forever. In blue there was grace, devotion, and selflessness that sought to become larger than himself, to expand outwards to the stars and beyond to the great cosmic spaces.
He was lost, weaving and becoming, irradiated by inner suns out of a depthless darkness. Manifold permutations and combinations of existence he had been told, was measured by these principles but (alas!) he was illiterate! Form unrecognisable! Words dispossessed, weeping nightingales frowning in the sadness of an inner winter - blue. A light shot through a darkened soul illuminated a violet therein, observing the innocence of its uplifted face - blue. At once fused, then dispersed, curling, swirling being, positioning and possessing rainbows of hyperbole in a sky that was fading and becoming pale, shedding its dewy tears upon the earth - blue.
...
Thursday 10 June 2010
The Herbalist - Excerpt from The Seal
“Who are you?”
The man smiled a long straight row of teeth at him. “I am no one, and I am everyone!” he said.
This strangeness seemed less strange to him since he was without pain for the first time in a week. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“I spend my days in forests and valleys.”
“Do you not have a home? A village?” Etienne moved to find a comfortable place.
“God is my home,” the man said, simply.
The emphasis of these last words, made Etienne cautious and he chewed the remnants of the bitter herb in silence, tasting heresy.
“God is in that herb and in this blade of grass,” he said weaving the green things in his deft hands. “My soul creeps into the plants and it sees through them and I become one with them. In them I see how God rejoices. In the heart he is also to be found, but there he does not rejoice he is made sad by sin. When you find God you find the healing power in everything…I have found the healing in those herbs in your wound…God shall work in them and it shall not be the cause of your undoing.”
His eyes stared into Etienne’s a moment and in that stare Etienne observed the spirit of the blade of grass and the spirit of the tree and the spirit of the sky and cloud and river and all of it seemed to speak of wide spaces and heavenly distances, as if his life had only been a dream and only now was he awake and flying up to the heights to see it. All things lay spread out before him: the waves of cloud that gathered around the peaks of the high cliffs of the mountains throwing their long shadows on the world; the river running, foaming and rolling over polished rocks; the meadow covered in the first purple flush of Spring that stretched towards the line of fir trees. Here and there a little snow. Scarcely had he time to think on it than he saw himself a youth full of fresh notions and unspent years. In the old man’s eyes he observed it, therefore; the young man and the old man who looked upon him as he, now and again, observed Jourdain.
“No.” Etienne said to him and dropped a speck of a glance, a fidget of the eye towards the Seal, “The wound shall not be my end after all. I thank you.”
The man got up stiffly as if his bones were hinged and rusty and creaking, “I will go, for nature is old and revelation is young…” he said this and threw the item he had been weaving into Etienne’s lap.
It was a cross.
“The sword will be forgotten one day,” the old man said to him, “but the memory of the cross will live, not as it does now, the black cross of death, but a living cross entwined with roses…” He looked at Etienne, “Someday!” Then he took himself to his mule and went on his way...
The man smiled a long straight row of teeth at him. “I am no one, and I am everyone!” he said.
This strangeness seemed less strange to him since he was without pain for the first time in a week. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“I spend my days in forests and valleys.”
“Do you not have a home? A village?” Etienne moved to find a comfortable place.
“God is my home,” the man said, simply.
The emphasis of these last words, made Etienne cautious and he chewed the remnants of the bitter herb in silence, tasting heresy.
“God is in that herb and in this blade of grass,” he said weaving the green things in his deft hands. “My soul creeps into the plants and it sees through them and I become one with them. In them I see how God rejoices. In the heart he is also to be found, but there he does not rejoice he is made sad by sin. When you find God you find the healing power in everything…I have found the healing in those herbs in your wound…God shall work in them and it shall not be the cause of your undoing.”
His eyes stared into Etienne’s a moment and in that stare Etienne observed the spirit of the blade of grass and the spirit of the tree and the spirit of the sky and cloud and river and all of it seemed to speak of wide spaces and heavenly distances, as if his life had only been a dream and only now was he awake and flying up to the heights to see it. All things lay spread out before him: the waves of cloud that gathered around the peaks of the high cliffs of the mountains throwing their long shadows on the world; the river running, foaming and rolling over polished rocks; the meadow covered in the first purple flush of Spring that stretched towards the line of fir trees. Here and there a little snow. Scarcely had he time to think on it than he saw himself a youth full of fresh notions and unspent years. In the old man’s eyes he observed it, therefore; the young man and the old man who looked upon him as he, now and again, observed Jourdain.
“No.” Etienne said to him and dropped a speck of a glance, a fidget of the eye towards the Seal, “The wound shall not be my end after all. I thank you.”
The man got up stiffly as if his bones were hinged and rusty and creaking, “I will go, for nature is old and revelation is young…” he said this and threw the item he had been weaving into Etienne’s lap.
It was a cross.
“The sword will be forgotten one day,” the old man said to him, “but the memory of the cross will live, not as it does now, the black cross of death, but a living cross entwined with roses…” He looked at Etienne, “Someday!” Then he took himself to his mule and went on his way...
Monday 7 June 2010
The Nightingale and the Rose...Excerpt from Fifth Gospel
They looked until nightfall. Exhausted they found lodgings and rested, but Mary’s sickness had increased with her sorrow and concern. In her feverish sleep, she heard the song of a night bird and it was woven in her dreams with an Arab tale that she had often told Jesus. It was the tale of a Nightingale that loved a white rose and sang the most beautiful songs to it, but only from afar, for fear of its thorns. One night, beneath the swollen moon, having drunk her fill of song and emboldened by love, the Nightingale resolved to embrace the rose and clasping it to her breast, was pierced through by a thorn. She sang the most beautiful song she had ever sung, pressing the thorn closer and closer to her heart, a song of sacrifice and true love found, until having stained the rose with her own heart’s blood, she died.
And so that rose, in mourning, forever after bloomed red.
And so that rose, in mourning, forever after bloomed red.
Saturday 5 June 2010
The Devil and the Author
The author sat between the head editor and the publisher.
'What's this you've brought us?' said the publisher.
'What you paid for.'
'No...we don't want Christ...Jesus is fine, Jesus we can understand...but Christ? No one will buy it...no one is interested in Christ,' said the publisher.
'Why not take Christ out altogther,' said the head editor having a sudden epiphany.
'What is Jesus without Christ? That would be a half truth and besides it wouldn't make sense,' said the author.
'Well...you could replace Christ with Hitler.' said the editor, hoping to salvage something from this mess.
'What?' said the author, aghast.
'Well, you could connect the time of Jesus with Hitler somehow, you know fast paced, a page turner...you can do it, we have faith in you.'
'Jesus and Hitler...without Christ?' the author said calm, composed, bristling.
'Yes...yes...we like this idea for a different book,' said the publisher. 'It would be a best seller. Let's just change the contract shall we? After all we only want the best for you...we want to build up your career...then you can write anything you want!'
The author smiled, thanked them and walked out of the room.
Outside the day seemed different somehow. The light was softer, the sounds more mellow. It felt like spring. The author would always celebrate this day, for this was the day the author almost lost her soul.
'What's this you've brought us?' said the publisher.
'What you paid for.'
'No...we don't want Christ...Jesus is fine, Jesus we can understand...but Christ? No one will buy it...no one is interested in Christ,' said the publisher.
'Why not take Christ out altogther,' said the head editor having a sudden epiphany.
'What is Jesus without Christ? That would be a half truth and besides it wouldn't make sense,' said the author.
'Well...you could replace Christ with Hitler.' said the editor, hoping to salvage something from this mess.
'What?' said the author, aghast.
'Well, you could connect the time of Jesus with Hitler somehow, you know fast paced, a page turner...you can do it, we have faith in you.'
'Jesus and Hitler...without Christ?' the author said calm, composed, bristling.
'Yes...yes...we like this idea for a different book,' said the publisher. 'It would be a best seller. Let's just change the contract shall we? After all we only want the best for you...we want to build up your career...then you can write anything you want!'
The author smiled, thanked them and walked out of the room.
Outside the day seemed different somehow. The light was softer, the sounds more mellow. It felt like spring. The author would always celebrate this day, for this was the day the author almost lost her soul.
Excerpt from the soon to be published 'Fifth Gospel' - The Holy Grail of Joseph of Arimathea
The wind paused, the rumble grew quiet. In this sudden, otherworldly silence, Joseph was taken by a vision.
Clouds parted to allow a soft light to console the mother, who held her dead son. The world lay in hushed adoration of it. Even the moans and sobs of the women who had come to join them in their doings were now paused. Standing before this vision, holding the cup in his hand, a second realisation came. Joseph fell to his knees. Here was that image that he had seen in the heavens standing in his garden those months ago, but then it had taken the form of a slice of moon holding the dark disc of the sun! He looked to the cup and he looked to the mother in that light-radiance. He understood – mother and cup were one. For the mother held her Son, like the cup in Joseph’s hands held His blood!
Clouds parted to allow a soft light to console the mother, who held her dead son. The world lay in hushed adoration of it. Even the moans and sobs of the women who had come to join them in their doings were now paused. Standing before this vision, holding the cup in his hand, a second realisation came. Joseph fell to his knees. Here was that image that he had seen in the heavens standing in his garden those months ago, but then it had taken the form of a slice of moon holding the dark disc of the sun! He looked to the cup and he looked to the mother in that light-radiance. He understood – mother and cup were one. For the mother held her Son, like the cup in Joseph’s hands held His blood!
Thursday 3 June 2010
How Fausto argues Plato and Vanquishes the Inquisitor...
Fausto walked over to the galleries and raised one hand eloquently in the air and all eyes were alight, his successes up to this moment had been theirs also, now this too might be a victory. He turned to the Dominican.
"So you say the Inquisition is Holy, your holiness...but we have not yet ascertained if it is Holy because God approves of it, or if God approves of it because it is holy. Perhaps we need the Greek philosophers to help us to know it. Plato for instance?"
"Plato is a pagan." He spat.
"Yes but Plato can help us to answer this question. Tell me did you come here by mule?"
"That is plain to see!" He vociferated."I will soon lose my patience, what has this to do with anything!"
"It will soon become apparent your holiness. The mule carried you here. Now, were you carried because you got carried, or for some other reason?"
"I was carried because I was being carried....and you are sounding like the Devil!" He snarled in a rage.
"And if I am your holiness, it is your job to vanquish me."
The other man narrowed his eyes into slits, realising that he was suddenly now in judgement. "Proceed...antes que tu me eches los higados!"
"So isn't it true that a thing is not being carried because it gets carried, but rather because it gets carried it is being carried, am I right?'
The inquisitor looked blankly at his fellow friar, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "I assume this will lead somehow to holiness?" He answered ambiguously.
"Most certainly....for surely an erudite man such as yourself realises that something does not get approved by God simply by being approved by God, but rather, being approved by God because it gets approved! So that for something to be approved by God, it must first be holy, and not the other way."
"Stop!" Cried the other man. "It is as though you were speaking in tongues! It matters not who approves or disapproves first, second or last. Holy is holy and that is that!"
"Ahh. But we were just speculating on the holiness of the inquisition, your holiness. Is it holy because it is approved of by God or is it approved of by God because it is holy?"
The other man frowned. "It must be that it is approved of because it is holy."
"Then you are saying that you are holier than God, because following your reasoning, God himself only approves of you because you are holy in the first place!"
"I said no such thing!" He exclaimed. He loosened his collar, and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, 'You are twisting my words!'
The crowd gasped. The inquisitor choked. The friar distanced himself just a little.
"I don't know..." He said a little confused. "I....."
"So you say the Inquisition is Holy, your holiness...but we have not yet ascertained if it is Holy because God approves of it, or if God approves of it because it is holy. Perhaps we need the Greek philosophers to help us to know it. Plato for instance?"
"Plato is a pagan." He spat.
"Yes but Plato can help us to answer this question. Tell me did you come here by mule?"
"That is plain to see!" He vociferated."I will soon lose my patience, what has this to do with anything!"
"It will soon become apparent your holiness. The mule carried you here. Now, were you carried because you got carried, or for some other reason?"
"I was carried because I was being carried....and you are sounding like the Devil!" He snarled in a rage.
"And if I am your holiness, it is your job to vanquish me."
The other man narrowed his eyes into slits, realising that he was suddenly now in judgement. "Proceed...antes que tu me eches los higados!"
"So isn't it true that a thing is not being carried because it gets carried, but rather because it gets carried it is being carried, am I right?'
The inquisitor looked blankly at his fellow friar, who merely shrugged his shoulders. "I assume this will lead somehow to holiness?" He answered ambiguously.
"Most certainly....for surely an erudite man such as yourself realises that something does not get approved by God simply by being approved by God, but rather, being approved by God because it gets approved! So that for something to be approved by God, it must first be holy, and not the other way."
"Stop!" Cried the other man. "It is as though you were speaking in tongues! It matters not who approves or disapproves first, second or last. Holy is holy and that is that!"
"Ahh. But we were just speculating on the holiness of the inquisition, your holiness. Is it holy because it is approved of by God or is it approved of by God because it is holy?"
The other man frowned. "It must be that it is approved of because it is holy."
"Then you are saying that you are holier than God, because following your reasoning, God himself only approves of you because you are holy in the first place!"
"I said no such thing!" He exclaimed. He loosened his collar, and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, 'You are twisting my words!'
The crowd gasped. The inquisitor choked. The friar distanced himself just a little.
"I don't know..." He said a little confused. "I....."
Tuesday 1 June 2010
How Fausto Redeems the Word...
A weakness descended over his limbs and he dropped to his knees. Instead of the circle of men before him, he saw vividly, all his self-love, his indulgent suffering, his madness. He searched himself, perusing all the poisons of his character, would they these demons overcome him, consume him? Would he arrive at the unknown a criminal, utterly damned, to be broken up into pieces, obliterated?
First a resistance then, a great abyss opened up in his soul, wherein he experienced the greatest loneliness….his own annihilation, for one says I to the sum of all of one’s past moments relived! A tenuous condensation for one about to forget all that he knows….Then he asked the question into the void. The question that had been long awaited...
"How shall I purify the word?"
Then the voice of Satan answered him.
Oh question! How longingly longed for!
Oh what release and sweet relief!
For eons, secula, these bonds have stiffened my bones,
And pressed me down to infinite matter.
But now you have seen my need and answered it and I am free!
At that moment all around Fausto a sigh was sensed and these words could be heard ringing through the fifth.
O lovely concord, O sacred peace
From which the heart doth find release.
Behind life’s baseless fabric seeming
Dissolved like mists before our dreaming
Awaken Christ’s word in all things seen
And the word of the world in Christ redeem!
First a resistance then, a great abyss opened up in his soul, wherein he experienced the greatest loneliness….his own annihilation, for one says I to the sum of all of one’s past moments relived! A tenuous condensation for one about to forget all that he knows….Then he asked the question into the void. The question that had been long awaited...
"How shall I purify the word?"
Then the voice of Satan answered him.
Oh question! How longingly longed for!
Oh what release and sweet relief!
For eons, secula, these bonds have stiffened my bones,
And pressed me down to infinite matter.
But now you have seen my need and answered it and I am free!
At that moment all around Fausto a sigh was sensed and these words could be heard ringing through the fifth.
O lovely concord, O sacred peace
From which the heart doth find release.
Behind life’s baseless fabric seeming
Dissolved like mists before our dreaming
Awaken Christ’s word in all things seen
And the word of the world in Christ redeem!
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