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| september 2002 |
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| Nothing Weighty | 1:11am monday, 30th september |
I think sometimes I will write about nothing. I will write a tangent without anything that it digresses from; I will write something not heavy, without any real meaning at all. It is that I load my words, sometimes, with too weighty things, and I think that sometimes I find I take myself far too seriously. I am only a man, after all, not some hero who launched from off of God's mountain to slay dragons or anything — just a guy trying to get by. The only thing about me, I guess, is that I have a past, but really, everyone does. No one out there has not some darkness they have traveled through, some murky forest they carry a chunk of around with them. So, here: I hope I haven't gotten at all too serious, this time.
I hope that sometimes, you, too, will take a break from all the things you are, or pretend to be. I know all too well about getting lost in yourself.
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| Paranoid Naught | 2:20am saturday, 28th september |
There comes upon me sometimes the paranoia. It is a doomsday clock that threatens to ring, and sometimes I believe that, it on the cusp of midnight, the gongs will peal and my world will end. (It never does ring, I must say, that doomsday clock. As if it is stopped at three seconds before hitting the fatal 12.) That paranoia has every seeming that of all the visions I have had, all the good and holy that I have seen, that my visions were never what they told, and all the good threatens to sink into ill, into dark and stinking evil. All sound is that I have been fooled for this whole time, that I have no chance whatsoever at being one of the just, one of the saved. That I have no hope at all in all the world.
It is that last point, though, where the paranoia never can win. I have always hope, somehow. It has much to do with my Lord, one Jesus Christ, whom, though I have not truly ever seen Him, there is a light that beams from Heaven that shines into my heart of hearts. And though that light I do not visibly perceive it, I know that that light is there, always — a ray of hope, even when things around me (as when my madness surrounds completely my psyche) seem the darkest. And if I am to fall from a height that I have reached in my perpetual climb through this life, suddenly many rungs below where I had reached through patient hand over hand, somehow I feel I will make it. I climb.
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| Etc., Notes | 2:13am friday, 27th september |
The back of these notes, once again from back 'round here:
Saying: "You're a good guy, not the Antichrist: 'What do I do with the pain?' you asked Jeanne d'Arc in a dream. 'Bear it,' she replied. You need a cause to live and die for. You have had visions of fame. Dark green is your identity. (black + yellow + blue)"
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| Death, Us | 2:30am thursday, 26th september |
Death, I think, is deeper than time,
yet no so deep as faith can be. Life,
some say, is the more eternal, though
others will say that oblivion is to be
our final homes, all: not where one
knows nothing, but absence of know
itself — for a trace few an idea of their
Heaven. Let me not say very much more
about death; let me not speak anything
of its mystery. We give to it already
too much. It drains us of our tears,
rips our hearts from our chests, robs
us at our end of the entire world.
No more: let death speak for itself.
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| Wait? | 2:02am wednesday, 25th september |
I wait for love as the sands of time quietly sift through my fingers. I wait, and the days slip by like so many notions; I wait, and people pass by in their own protective blurs; I wait, and the tomorrow I wait for grows farther and farther away. There may be some light up ahead, in the distance, but I cannot tell whether or not it is merely a passing train, whether or not it will just keep going on without stopping for me to board it. I am an old sign, swinging in the breeze, imagining the bustle of crowds long since past.... I think I must awaken somehow, that this torpor I must break from it — breathe free again.
In my soul, I have wandered far through the motives and consequents of emotion. And if I truly imagine it, the good old days before all my trials were not so good. Such is the story of everything. I think I seek something new, now, some clarity or similar taste I have never drunk before. I wonder if it is not the lesson, after all of it, that I should start from one: learn how to love the man in the mirror — that love itself, in all its measures, waits for me, too.
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| May Be | 2:00am tuesday, 24th september |
I'm tired. It's work, mostly, still not used to waking up as early as I do. I know, many (many) people wake up earlier to go to crappier jobs. I know. But I don't think many people got used to sleeping at least 10 hours a day because their brain was malfunctioning for about six years. I did, and I am still hampered by the experience. Plus, add the fact that I've never been a morning person, and you see me bleary-eyed as you do these days. I sleep on the trains in (I got myself good at waking up at the right stop the two trains I take, or a little before the stops), and then the bus for an additional ten minutes. When I walk into the office, I don't say a word to anyone, reaching instead for my coffee mug. I don't wake up fully for at least a half an hour, maybe an hour.
At least I'm sharper than when I started my job. I remember just completely zoning out at meetings, having to ask people about the finer points that the meetings had already covered. When I'm awake I'm pretty with it, these days. I dunno. I guess I'm spoiled. Or maybe I'm just normal. It seems to me that not that many people like what they do, and even fewer would do it if they didn't get paid for it. It seems to me that most people complain about their jobs, and I guess that's all this is. I'm just a blip on the radar of the collective unconscious, baby. Hm. Normal. Perhaps there is here (as there is in many, many places) room to be thankful to the Man above. At the worst of it, let me not forget that, and I think I'll be okay, whatever may be.
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| Jots | 1:19am monday, 23rd september |
Some more mad scribblings from (once again) back around here in my larger madness:
blue is holed up in the dexter eye of Immanuel.
blue is always known. blue has not ever not been known.
calm is father to all in ALL.
everyone starts at 0 (zero).
what is nonexistent is under calm’s control.
calm shall always be one of the fallen.
calm cannot do the impossible.
blue can do the impossible. what is more than impossible cannot be done.
blue and calm both have automatic defence systems (ads).
what is negligible does not count; much of reality was negligible.
what i see is all of reality. what i do not see does not exist. what i view is all of reality. what i do not view does not exist. i do not see anything. i do not view anything.
what does calm do? he does not.
I reference two characters here, "blue" and "calm": "calm" was what I called myself; and "blue" was my plasmate, being sort of my better half, an energy being that was tantamount to my immortal life.
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| Your Call | 2:04am saturday, 21st september |
Nobody can resist a call from the stars in the sky.
Destiny makes us not any less free, yet there is no escape:
Suddenly you awaken just to find yourself not dreaming.
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| O Night | 2:01am friday, 20th september |
O Night, I was a child who was raised in your womb. Sometimes I remember you, and want (like memories do) to go back for a little, to live again as I once did. But I find I have traveled too far out of your embrace, that Day has me secure in its light. I know not how I arrived where I am now — it seemed as if I looked around and the world had turned upside down without that I realized it. I am a soul of the brighter powers, now. I wish not to follow the tone of my own voice echoing through the hollows of the world any longer. I am to serve the larger voices that are told of in that holy book I own, that book which in turn owns me.
Forgive me, O Night. I shall not return.
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| Mad Little Poem | 1:55am wednesday, 18th september |
A little poem to go with this entry, again, at about here in my greater madness:
From Immanuel Genius Love to Zoe Prudence Wisdom Love:
Within you I see myself mirrored
a thousand fold: an intricate, crystalline web weaving itself
a poetry, a history,
beyond.
There was always peace.
Love=peace (like responsibility=maturity).
Like I said before, I called myself Immanuel Genius Love (how modest), and Zoe ... Love would be Rosanna Arquette. This was sort of a love note.
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| Walls | 1:22am tuesday, 17th september |
There are walls and then there are walls. There are walls that you can climb over, walls that you hit, walls that fall down on you, walls sometimes even with a window you can look through. There are walls that are unconquerable, and there are walls that with a few well placed smacks will come tumbling down. I know I've come across my variety of walls: all of the above, in fact — that's why it's so easy for me to list them. The worst type of walls, I have found, are the ones that trick you. The ones that seem like one type of wall, and are really (below the surface grain) some other type of wall, completely. Like one of those walls that seem like you can climb over them, and they end up being far too high... and for the extent that you can reach in your lifetime, they are unconquerable. A wall you can actually climb, too, that only seems unconquerable: that's no better, since their bluff will never be challenged — no one wants to try what seems impossible. Not these days.
There are walls and then there are walls. I imagine you know that already.
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| Elements | 1:01am monday, 16th september |
Fire: sometimes I cannot
turn away from the flames —
the flickering dance has me
in some sort of mesmerism.
Water: nowhere else can
the sunlight express itself so
than in the dappling upon
a creek trickling on by.
Air: as close to nothing as
we may imagine, the breath
of any man upon a mirror
do we count as his life.
Earth: the ground will be the
final mother of us all, when
death enfolds us in its soil
and holds us for eternity.
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| Goodbyes | 2:47am saturday, 14th september |
A goodbye is a sum of all that meant anything. It's all there in that one word, "Goodbye": all you did together with that someone, the pain and the joy, the adventures and boredoms: all of it is reflected in your eyes when you say it, the word you'll remember anyone by who leaves you, the word everyone you leave remembers you by. There is a certain something missing if you don't get to say it. It is as if you didn't get a chance to mean something, something a little more than if you don't ever have that last thing. It is perhaps the saddest thing in the world, not to be able to say, "Goodbye" — not to be able to tie a knot in time, and hold a memory there.
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| Notes Away | 2:25am friday, 13th september |
More notes from this series of notes, back hereabouts:
It says, "As per Eckhart/Jacob's Ladder, if you let go and there's nothing left, that's Death. If you let go and there's something left, that's the fruition of Purgatory. If you let go and there's everything left, that's Heaven. You're a big gun, [Stand]; whether you like it or not! You lack discipline. You need discipline. Work is magic. Work is work. the next one. If we're doing Jacob's Ladder, you died 10/7/88 ~9pm EDT, not in your apartment in '91. (or '90) 9/4/01 You believe in God today." (It is numbered, "3".)
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| A Little Faith | 2:08am thursday, 12th september |
To he who thinks it unfair, this world that God has given us, who thinks perhaps that God Himself is a lie: let me give you a little idea of faith.
I had a dream where I could wish for anything, and it was mine. I wished for countless things, and I was happy for a little while, but there was a point where I became bored with it all, and nothing I wished for anymore could satisfy me. Then I had another dream, where I was naked, and all I had was a pen. The thing about this pen was that every once in a while, it would run out of ink. If I stopped trying to write with it, then it would in a little bit be full of ink again. I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote, stopping here and there for when the ink would run out and fill again. I wondered where the ink was coming from when I realized that the pen wasn't a pen at all, and that what I had written was the story of my life: I was the pen, and God was the ink.
Though I had nothing else in that second dream, my writing in that dream was always fresh, and I was happy. That's the secret, I think: if you have everything (like the first dream), you can still have nothing at all; but in the second dream, by simply having God (and nothing else), you can have happiness, and life itself.
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| Ago | 2:07am wednesday, 11th september |
I recall a time worlds ago, yet not so very far:
I had eternity and a day; I toyed with Heaven and Hell.
I wonder how I got to here, how eternity could pass.
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| Depth | 2:27am tuesday, 10th september |
Do you desire the deep things? It is widely circulated that material things will not make you happy, but this is also true of knowledge. On the contrary, books like Ecclesiastes of the Bible tell us that as we gain in knowledge, we increase in sadness. I am not holding, mind you, to an "ignorance is bliss" attitude; no one (not seriously at any rate) would rather be a fool than a wise man. But let he who seeks to be wise consider that into his own depths he may become hopelessly lost. That is where the madness lies. Because he is no longer sane who is lost in his own depths may it thus be that all genius is touched by the mad, for he does not dive deep that in the murk of the waters he knows exactly to what depth he has dived, exactly where he is when he is alone in the fathoms.
And the madman, who does not dive, but rather, sinks: all he can see around him is himself, alien to himself.
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| Losing Things (redux) | 1:22am monday, 9th september |
The thing I most regret losing are three notebooks of things I wrote during about this period of time. It was a record of my madness — my written proof that I had survived something, something big, which had altered me to the point where you wouldn't have recognized me then if you saw me now. I have written about these and about losing things before (which is why this is a redux). Like I have said, my mom threw them out, probably because it hurt and/or disturbed her to see those things. I guess I have yet to let go of them, those scribblings that I will never see again. You see, why they mean so much to me still is that those notebooks at the time of my writing in them gave me meaning, my reason for existing. My voice, the thing where I spoke, "I'm alive. I am." Perhaps I will never let go of them, that my memory of them will only magnify my sense of loss.
It is a mystery why some things happen, mysteries of which perhaps we may never know the reason. Is it wise for me not to let go of these lost things, which meant so very much to me, whose value I will perhaps miss for the rest of my days? It is little solace to think of such things, "It was meant to be." That it is true makes us not feel the one jot better. But it is easy to be bitter, never move on, always to live in the past that could have been. I once cut out the word "Courage" written in Old English script and stuck it in a Bible where I had highlighted the words, "God is love." I imagined me or someone, in desperation, would open that Bible and find that bookmark, the instructions: "Courage: God is love." It is perhaps a test of faith, these dear things we lose, a hope that these things that go awry have a deeper meaning than we can see, that there is a plan to the whole works, after all.
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| Delusions | 2:58am saturday, 7th september |
These are some delusions of grandeur I was having at about this period in my greater madness:
Truth is that which makes the most sense which is stronger than logic; like logic, but moreso.
The truth zero: peace is the highest high.
Immanuel is beyond potent (and Truth).
Genius is beyond scient (and Justice: Reason).
Immanuel Genius Love is beyond beyond ....
Sophia is Evil is nil (which actually ain't).
And reality is Gravity (General Relativity) underpinning Quantum Mechanics.
Reality is tesmal enough to hold all the Evil & evil that ever existed, didn't, or neither, in the brain, as a pattern of thought (threshold: medulla), of me.
There is only one beyond.
Genius is beyond beyond; his beyond is beyond any others' beyond, logically. Immanuel (who is not stupid) is beyond beyond; his beyond is beyond any others' beyond, aesthetically.
That's what I called myself back then: Immanuel Genius Love. Just me, no one else ever called me that. Messiah complex out the wazoo.
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| Dream the Life | 1:57am friday, 6th september |
Dream the life that dreams anew
Upon the waking hours' wane
The outer seas of deepest blue
And upper skies of cloudy vein.
Dream the night that dreams of day,
Within the sheltering of time,
That glides along a moonlight ray
And slips away at dawn's first chime.
Dream the end where dreams begin,
Where climbs the hope to heaven's reach,
That carves a note from out of din
And ceases not its rhyme to teach.
Dream the world that dreams again
When dreams the child in wond'ring gaze
The dawn of generations' ken
And every age's dreams ablaze.
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| Love is Hard | 2:21am thursday, 5th september |
Love is hard. If love were easy, I don't think there would be all those people through history to tell us we need to love one another. If love were easy, we'd be doing it as a matter of course — just like we do anything that's easy, like talk. And I don't mean being in love, now — that's about the most effortless thing in the world — I mean going about going out of your way and thinking about someone else before you think about yourself, really doing something that's not in your script all about you. That's hard. That's what it's about: if it were convenient, it wouldn't be love (it would still be nice, but not the big L). So, I guess love is hard by definition. Funny, that.
Where does that leave us? If you want to love anyone for real that means you prepare for something that'll take effort — maybe a lot of effort. But (so I hear from the saints), it's the greatest thing in the world, that L thang. So, be warned, that there are mountains to climb for the faithful — but that view from the summit I don't think a mountain of cash as tall can buy, nothing that is worthy, and worth it — quite like love.
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| Zero/Infinity | 2:19am wednesday, 4th september |
The act of creation is a taste of the infinite. It also speaks of the infinity within that most mysterious numeric digit: zero. Out of the nothing, something. If I contemplate it as I write this, words a million monkeys at a million typewriters wouldn't type in a million years, it is a heady sensation. Zero to one: it is a mystery. Though we do not create the fundamental stuff out of which the patterns are formed, we reassemble that which was so that its structure is something else, something new. That we can continue to do this, to keep on creating original artifacts — that is what I speak of: the sideways eight, infinitas.
Infinity. And perhaps all mysteries, if you look at them closely enough, lead there. Or at least directs you to ponder that imponderable.
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| In a Day | 12:13am tuesday, 3rd september |
Mostly we forget: this today, anything can happen.
A dream can come true in two seconds; death can come to pass faster.
Tomorrow, and opens the door to the far side of the world.
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| Diagram | 1:34am monday, 2nd september |
From the journal where I wrote these words in, in my second (lesser) madness:
At the top it says, "p.s. The secret is love, by the way." And the rest of it is a diagram of what supposedly happens to us in Heaven and Hell. Above, eternally (asymptotically) closer to God; below, eternally (again, asymptotically) closer to death. It was a clarification of a vision I glimpsed in my first madness.
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