| Jan. 25th, 2010 @ 03:28 pm conclusions to personal work with venus/eros, Part two: Mass! |
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We are called to The True Mass, not for the opiate that the act veils but that again the Rose of Man may taste the bee who we have bloomed for, that we might call our God out- not to play and be tickled while we Unite, but that the rose might be with the bee forever- our libido is just a joke, an absurdity saying bloom even if it pains you! even if in the blooming you may die! the interplay of love whispers to us very sweetly; it is true, but why refuse the bait? the truth is love whispers to every man that will ever live, forever...'once more!' again & again & again... love will come to us and call us to the work of being beautiful for our god when nothing else can rouse us.
that is the miracle of the mass, the wisdom in the communion:
organic life works so hard, so incredibly hard to bring us to the complexity required to engage in the opiate and joy that veils our procreation. the miracle is not in the joy that veils the act, not even simply in the act but that the act, the procreative chain of knots happens, the very chain of links that can never be tied is linked and is tied and united. we love not for our pleasure but, that flesh can suffer complexity once again and bring itself (ONCE MORE! Always it calls to us ONCE MORE!) to the brink of physical crucifixion- to suffer the life and the death again- that every nuance and strain could be formed again and again and again- for our Crucifixion in flesh never ends, we will it even if it be our death and it is- the flower has a joy in the blooming but its a process that is likely lethal. you are just such a flower of this rose, brother- not the bush its self, you are not that important to be god but then are you not god? is not the rose the rose? is not the flower the plant? is it not true that we know the plant by its work and not by its roots, even you brother as beautiful as you are can boast and say without a lie- there is no part of me that is not a part of EVERYTHING WONDERFUL AND EVERYTHING HORRIBLE. all that lives is the rose and all that doesn't live is simply root and stem, seed and bud.
by brother i entertain every living thing with this joke i am telling- you are simply a beautiful way by which this bush may by its own works be a rose- be known and be beautiful and be sweet to the bee. it forms and its chaotic growth is to find a joy in a simple complexity- in every simple complexity, a nuance called by us the stain of flesh- but the system in its whole is in the rock and in the fire- it sleeps in the magnetism of iron and it screams to us in cycle of the stars, in the fall of rain or the laughter of thunder rubbing against the air in which it has but a single breath- it is all the same beautiful blooming rose, the same system which blooms to be called a rose, and by which all things are a form there of. it is one god and that one god is ALL that you know and can know.
this joke that i witness is not the vision of a gear in a clock- but its my fear, my drowning in a stream which empties into a sea, the very sea in which floats a constant song of the curents, and they speak of a conversation everywhere expanding and contracting with every ocean that an entire planet has to offer... we are another atom to be whispered reasons to ignite in the heart of a sun- a solar event far larger and more complex then the flash of 'light' in orgasm of our flesh. flesh is a link in a chain of knots without ties, united and divided.
the mass and its study is not some obsession with the physical action of ejaculate and its organic rewards, sex is this drama- even a practical joke itself which needs performance, one which the response is not simply the joy called laughter but the problems of pain and boredom and fear- once performed the TRUE MASS begs a question which has a physical mark. it is a mark that is absurd to see as it is to be that mark, the solution of that question of which we are punctuation- needs to be lived to be solved, and even lived an infinite times in an infinite number of configurations- never will it be for us ever once truly understood; could a flower understand the reasons it is red or white or yellow- let alone the biology and logic of the bee, is not the bee to the flower, the climax to sex, and is not the dissolution in joy to man a GOD? is not the bee the god of the garden?
...
could it be? could it be that i am even alive for this, that my laughter to this absurdity is not its self a joke? that i am the punctuation at the end of a joke that will take millions of years to be answered? |
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