Remember, Circular Arguments : Chapter III; 1-21

The wisdom of Socrates

C : I certainly don’t believe that we already know everything. I am pretty sure that you know nothing.

A : How can I know nothing ? I am God.

C : Do you claim to be the only God, the One ?

A : Well, I wouldn’t go as far as saying that. Yet, those miss-believers that still believe the old religion…

C : What of them ? Are you going to eat them ? Fry them ? Boil them ?

A : They’re warned.

C : Let’s find the mouse of the matter.

A : I feel I am not as Good as Odinn. I can’ever spell his name for one thing.

C : Not your average run of the mill Pazuzu. Wasn’t Odinn both evil and good ? One eyed and all that ?

A : I sometimes ask myself: ‘Who am I, as a God?’ The answer : ‘I am a strong supporter of the righteous.’

C : There we go again with right and wrong. Who cares ? So there are some with rings of power. Surely Andvari’s curse applies to them too. And if not, not! Why all this begging, and guilt. I want to eat a mouse, I skin it. I go ahead and do it.

A : Is there a question ?

C : Is there ever an answer ? From you, or anyone ?

A : Surely, there must be something that we have done that is worth telling. Creating this world for example.

C : Geez, I wouldn’t ever want to take credit for this mess.

A : But who are you, cat ? Have you sat cross-legged on your way back from the desert, besieged by demons ?

C : That would be beneath me. But I know others who did those things. There’s nothing to be gained from navel-gazing.

A : That’s madness.

C : Not at all. Come meet my grandmother, Hel. She will tell you what’s what.


Churn the ocean

Steal the pot

Eternal life, my foot.

Demons every where

Evil is ill


It exists between silences and behind the eyes of your neighbours.

God is invoked, but revoked. The Iron Door is bent out of shape, its mechanic rings are spinning.

There’s no safe space, no formula, no litany, no succession

Athena is my witness, Artemis was my name.

If you think you are not good enough, join the moot.


A : A tapestry of pheasants, a conferences of doubters. A varied agony at the throat. Molasses of piano-stricken dialogues, riddled with root canals. I’m not the perfect Wagnerite. I am not the sound of some broken dream. Come and collect my nightmares, and you will see. They’re on offer. Discounted. I am lion that bites the flaccid buttocks of False Truth, and a friend to Asia and Europa alike.










Remember, Circular Arguments : Chapter II; 1-18

Chapter II: What is real ? What am I ?

C : Heraclitus said, there is only change.

A : Parmenides said, there is only permanence. Nothing ever changes.

C : From atop the dizzy mountain, what did your prophet say?

A : What we know is only based on a false report, written apocryphally many years later by a Dionysian follower.

C : Ok. But what did Zarathustra actually say?

A : He spoke of legends and fables, a collection of unreliable, fake stories.

C : Here goes. “As the Holy One then I acknowledge thee, Mazdah Ahura” – he is talking about YOU – ” When at life’s birth I first beheld thee, When thou didst make deeds and words of reward, Evil for Evil, a good Destiny for the good … ” – simple isn’t it? Like the narrative of good-evil on Arrakis.

A : Can’t you take anything seriously?

C : Listen to this. It gets good. “As the Holy One I acknowledge thee, Mazdah Ahura, When good thought once came to me, and asked me : WHO ARE THOU. WHOSE ART THOU. BY WHAT SIGN SHALL I MAKE KNOWN THE DAYS FOR INQUIRY OF WHAT IS THINE AND OF THYSELF ? “

A : I honestly don’t remember saying that. But then again, it’s been thousands of years. One tends to have a short memory. Hell, I can’t even remember what I did last week, let alone that long ago. I am not even sure I am the same god, even. My identity has shifted. I have nothing in common with that Ahura Mazdah. Gods age badly, my feline friend. At some point we’re all worshipped and full of vigour, and then the altars are deserted, and our breath changes, and staring at infinity won’t change our pulse. And so, Chubby the cat with impunity that got me in trouble… tell me, cat: are you a true foe of the liar, like Zarathustra?

C : I most certainly am. And yet, I am not sure what is the Truth. These days so many relative theories peddle perspective. So there is a collection of perspectives, and small absolutely diluted fake-truths. My truth is respected, though. Mostly in catly circles at least.

A : I was about to establish, that the definition of true Evil is the Lie. And then you went about relativism, and single pebbles, and oceans of wisdom. It’s discouraging.

C : Don’t be discouraged. But how, pray, do you define lie ?

A : The lie is the repetition, it’s not really about truth, but the intention to deceive by exhausting the opposition (the listener), but a recursive common-sense elimination. Just keep repeating the lie until the listener is exhausted. And then it will get in, force-fed into the gullet, and it shall be come the Truth. And once it possesses the name of Truth, it truly be at the point of being the Lie, and thus, evil will step one closer to wrap up the multi-verse. Time to go.

C : Common sense ? Sense in which sense ?

A : You know, Psyche was not a little girl after all. And all the gifts in the world would not suffice. Her sisters did not refrain from lying.

C : Sometimes, I struggle to see the human in people.

A : Perhaps there isn’t any. People are slightly convoluted baboons, babbling about angels and demons, and struggling to keep their paws in the cookie jar, shitting all over each other, braying and screaming to get on top of their sexual selection process.

Remember, Circular Arguments : Chapter I ; 8-28

A : In these our modern times, I feel there is no silence, no space left. The dark matter prevails. The solar matter is diminished. In this ruckus, I am diminished, too. The pale reflection of who I once was shines in the high night.

C : So, as a Persian God, as a youth or a philosopher, you do not shine. You’re the ghost of the Sun. But do you still have magic? Can you see with second sight? Is the future any brighter? Can you change the world with the power of the Mind?

A : Not so. The future is nebulous. There are confused signs. Even as I pore over the sea-pebbles (and play the wizardry game) I find the ocean overcast with a plethora of false stories. This story is too narrow a margin to examine. We ought to examine them lies one by one.

by many turns we have been made to wander and found a friend or two

far back in time

and never too far ahead in the never-ending nebula

a poisonous snake-river

a half-bred fire-sword

C : Tell me, ferocious God-Beast. Do you still Have It?

Tell me, uber-godly monster, tell your servant and your friend, your enemy and your rhetorical opponent:

What is the nature of Evil?

A : In my youth, I thought I had come to understand it. There seemed to be a time in my adventures in foreign worlds when Evil was so simple, I could comprehend it. I saw it in its many phases and forms.

I debated with myself for a thousand nights (or so).

What should I do about it? Naught. Then I did.

I have fought the angry bull that rages, full of foaming jazz.

My lion bite has left a mark on the Evil creatures.

I did make a difference.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

C : I am not sure I can relate.

What does Evil look like?

Is it shared?

A : It is an image that neither floats or flies. It stays within the boundaries of the mind-fuck. All it does is reflect light, much like that stone full of magic, the satellite Luna.

C : It reflects light, like a mirror? Will you not be concrete? Example. What’s it sound like?

A : Evil sounds like the shape of the blue-winged Jay. Auspicious and winging it.

C : Metaphorical nonsense. Yes, I am a cat, and yes, I am Greek. But do not take me for a foolish follower of Athena. I am better than the Wise old Owl.

A : If Evil changes across time, it shape-shifts to ride with the Valkyre.

C : Now, then. Who should we recall from the dead? What’s in the Archive of Myth that can aid our cause? Who would come forth for Justice and Truth?

A : Once there was a Franklin, rosy-cheeked and full of Epicurus. He had a bit too much to eat. Not him.

C : Well, there was a colleague, an inverted God hanging from an Ash-Tree. He had two ravens like a later story-teller.  Their lies were only true on Wednesday.

A : Well there was a deep hole in the trenches, and there lived a Hobbit.

C : There was a volcanic eruption, a man out of the cave and into the forest with a rice bowl. Into the arms of a kind girl that smiled broadly, even-toothed.

A: There was the madness of Dionysus, and before him, the star of Ariadne in Heaven.

C : “Bewise of Fanciulla‘s heart ! The heart of Fanciulla !”

A : “Even the recollection of willow fronds is a spellbinder that lets to hear.”

C : How exhausting, the bubbles of time and space with all these broken stories. These might be our friends, and yet we do not give them full service. We are not even close to the start of a story that tells the dialogue of Evil.

A : Evil speaks clearly, much more than you and me. This jumble of fragments we are not shoring up against any flood. We’re just remembering in circles, hoping for the Muses to kick our head in.

Remember, Circular Arguments : Chapter I ; 1-7


Circular Arguments between a Holy Cat and an Ancient God

“Doing good to others is not a duty. It is a joy, for it increases your own health and happiness. I will be mindful of the truth, so long as I shall be able.
Mayest thou grant me the truth, tell me the best to be done.” Avesta


Dramatis personae

Chubby, the cat

Ahura Mazda, the Persian God


Chapter I: What do a cat and a Persian God have in common ?

C : Listen. I say.

A : Wot.

C : I am a virtuous cat, and I have holyness about my paws. I am here to discuss the Truth.

A : I believe you. ‘ I speak the Truth, or not at all. ‘

C : So, by way of introduction , you present yourself as a sun-dial. How charming.

A : Nay, I am the SUN. I shone in the land of Persia, for the benefit of all sentient beings.

C : Uh-uh. Why, myself I am a cold-blooded feline. I love to sniff out mice while I sing of
golden showers across the solar system. Poetry and Justice are the same thing, I will
have you know.

Darkness and schmonsequences

What is that Titanic spark yonder?
Is it Athena rising of Metis? What lily?
What Narcissus? What Echo is there?

There, thieving love may be stolen; if
Stoned to death, we are burgled and
Then rendered in three dimensions.

Wet grass under the bridge. What remains?
Fear of the other, presumed loss, false
Idols. The wisdom of commerce. Biscuits.

Crying out from tear-gases, the memory
Of you, not-you, definitely Somme at else.
I did love once, and lost all marbles. Wait.

A quantum of transcendence

If Socrates is right, and the soul is immortal
And intrinsically good, then a minimum of it
Is carried by the body at all times, no matter
The circumstance. The black body radiation

Of πνεῦμα can only change its energy
In a minimal increment proportional to
The frequency of its transcendental wave;
I oscillate between freedom and chain.

If Emily Brontë is right, and there is such a thing
As the dawn of the Invisible, the Unseen Truth,
Only when the outward senses in electron-like
Spin perfectly align in angular momentum,
Only then my inward essence will feel.

Almost free, I wait for that constant Dream.

dream interpreter – Part 2 : 29-36


Rebirth once was Pythagorean. That history,
we have remembered. Stretching, we touch
the daughter of Leto. That silvery light
longbow will soon change us and chase us down.

All the ghosts of the labyrinth are roaming.
In times to come they all shall seem to die.
But in dismantled memories, the gods set
yelping hounds upon them, their bodies torn.


Reader! If you return to Knossos, you might
dance the Antic Hay. Perchance you’d meet
Ariadni, as the pilgrim sought the bull-tail.
You might talk to her. And if the sorceress

crawled out of a chest in bitter resentment,
you might still sit in meditation. The ruler
would look at you vanishing into dark thoughts.
You might chase dreams, much like the merchant.


Ariadni might tell you how she forgot who she
was. She once had a false love, before meeting
a raving lunatic who had been adrift in Gangas.
He stole her hair, and promised her the stars.

She might tell you of his drunkenness, and his
joy. She might leave you mid-sentence, as
a ghost would – coming upon you at night with a
grimace, or a platitude cast to dispel the quiet.


Ariadni might tell you of the TigerTiger roaring
to her horror, a lifetime of servitude. Ghosts
roaming the empty palace, would come hither, you’d
find yourself talking to the dusty halls, a shell

of a person. Ariadni might show you an Orphic
tablet, much like she showed to Desert Storm,
beg pardon, Dream eater before she turned into
a banshee. “Look here, instructions for the next


Life”, quotes the tablet. Bee-stinger evaporated
into an all-knowing cloud having followed the
rules of the game. And what are those, you might
ask? Key-holder wondered about that, before jumping

in. “The water is just fine.” Instructions for the
soul who wishes to re-incarnate: you may wish to
learn your grammar and your trigonometry first, if
you please. Then as you walk in, ignore the well-spring


On the left, that’s Lethe. You may wish to walk on
and reach Mnemosyne. Refresh yourself in that pool.
By all means, have a bubble bath. To be clear.
Drink not from forgetfulness (!) but from memory (!)

Dionysus was thrice torn apart, and returned each time.
He came and went to Jai Hind (forgive them, Mahatma).
He returned home in full Buddha-hood while segment one
of the Veil nebula echoed with Zauberflöte being sung.


Then in a haze, rainbow-hued gas densities
shift-haunted her heart, but Ariadni laughed:
the sick thoughts of planets are finally here.
They are to be discussed by the Athenian School.

In the labyrinth, all ghosts will fail, By Gravity.
By Exocytosis. Here we be like the flow of water.
We built a vessel to push across the gate of
history, crossing the boundaries of Kronos.


For that, we bought a ticket to the museyroom.
I wish we had minded our steps. We stumbled on
a big koan going in. There, three Muses met us.
At Knossos, the ghosts in chains, tethered with

the Griffin to the column in the great Eastern
Hall. The bull escaped us, like it escaped Marco.
The Venetian merchant had not come to terms with
his egotistical choices, and they pulled him down.


dream interpreter – Part 2 : 26-28


The pilgrim, the sorceress, the ruler,
the merchant and the adventurer are
within the gates of the grand palace
of the double axe, endlessly circling

its corridors breathing in the cool air:
it is a place to rest. But they are restless,
amid rocks aglow with mystic power.
They are alone, each is lost separately.


There, they all caught an early glimpse of
the spiritual bull. Now they are wandering
inside the stone labyrinth in absent search
of a sign of the animal’s tail, but once again

they are back to the gate, blind to each other’s
presence. As ghosts, they haunt the high halls
of the entombed ox-palace where white river
lilies wave hazily at the sleeping mountain.


Their life has been a short meteoric tumble
along the forever resting steppes. Yet it has
seen murder from a Venetian roof-top, and
has met the devil voices on an Indian wall.

Now they are caught up in delusion: pride,
power, divine right, pleasure and delight.
They are oblivious, as forgotten deserts,
as ocean bottom feeders. This is Knossos.

dream interpreter – Part 2 : 15-25


Key-holder, Bee-stinger, Dream-eater and
Marco have been on the inside of a long
dream, each in their own under-ground rage
lost in the tunnels of time, until now.

Bee-stinger the maiden witch emerges first,
cloud in hand; the tunnels of time and space
have not aged her beauty, but her mind is old.
She has lived powerful dominance through Art


Over and over again, through century upon
century of training, spells cast over vast
dominions, mountains turned to dust, deserts
turned to oceans of flowers, animals turned

to humans, and humans to animals. The body
of her work is so impressive, it is nearly
infinite. In her dream, she has become all-
mighty, but time has had fun. Her haughty


Consciousness has evolved into the soul of
an old vampire who has lived multiple lives
and has seen it absolutely all. As she walks
out, still her teenage self in appearance,

The Pilgrim is surprised to see her standing
upright like a spider that suddenly stands
on two legs and walks straight into a mirror.
She squares him up, her eyes cold and numbing.


“Who are you?”, dares the Pilgrim say. Silence.
Then, a feeble hiss. “Who are YOU”, she replies.
The Pilgrim, now emboldened, smiles. “I am the
Gate-Keeper of the Castle”, he says gently.

“My name is Fugitive”. She looks at him intently,
then leans toward the door, and moves past him.
“Good to meet you, priest”, she says as she walks
away. He runs after her, and walks with her into


The sunshine, out of the Basilica into the town
square. Everything is still, as the morning is
not yet under way. “What is your affliction?
I mean, religion”, she asks him as he struggles

to keep up with her brisk pace. “Where are you
going?”, he replies, confusedly. “I am off”, she
says, and then she departs. He looks on, as her
body moves away, her shadow increases in length.


Dream-eater walks out after her sister. In her
sleep-wake, she has lived an eternity of self
achievement, mastered the mind into meditative
sittings and matra-ing, and her body has reduced

the fat to the skeleton of a burnt candle. In
the stratosphere of common dreams, her exercises
have gained thousands, nay millions of followers.
She has a whole planet (in the underground tunnels)


completely plastered with her pretty pictures,
and a ring is keeping her hand diamond-cast, and
her eyes full of Venereal joy. In fact, she has
come to rival Venus in the status of ultimate

Goddess. Naturally, because of this, she has a
little attitude problem if she does not get her
way. Her gem makes her body younger, and her mind
older, and it takes pictures of her all the while.


Key-holder walks out with a whole tribe. Like a
war-lord, he has sired a multitude of children,
and in the tunnels his grief has grown into love
of the flesh, and then to a pit in the stomach.

Women of every age and shape walk behind him in
a file. Even as we thought we lived in dreams in
those murderous, lustful running tunnels, the
consequences of our mind actions follow us to the


Town square, to the Castle locked in a senseless
war, and suddenly the piazza is alight with the
racket of playing children, and of wailing wives.
Key-holder walks straight up, looks to the horizon,

and ignores the Pilgrim. His dream was to achieve
enlightenment, was to fall in love with the young
Saka princess. Instead, he has fathered a generation
of grief, but his anger has steadied, he reaches out


To more supple buttocks, and he unrestrainedly mates
in the town square with one of his younger wives.
He has aged considerably, but his eyes are still
shrill cries into the void, and his hands are soft.

Marco walks out last: alone, and he can barely walk.
He drags a trunk over-flowing with treasure. He
struggles with the chest and his stomach, which
is wide and flabby, his head is bald, and his body


has come to be a rotten fruit. His mind, likewise,
obsesses with riches, and with revenge. He is stock
piling monies in order to stave off enemies. In his
dream, he has fought countless economic wars and

he has come to loathe every human being on this
and other planets. His only joy, his only relief
from endless coin-counting is stuffing his face
with the greasiest of meat-pies, and with cheese.

dream interpreter – Part 2 : 1-14


In the castle, several years have come
And gone. The music of youth has faded.
The pilgrim has withered, grizzled and
Shrunk in size. The castle is still under

Siege. The barbaric times have evolved.
A fat, balding bland pope has taken office.
Wars are multiplying like furry animals.
The way of silk is being mechanised.


The castle is ageing like a beautiful lass,
The alpine eyes overlooking a river of
Sadness, the limbs slightly sore, slightly
Stiffer, still in need of love and care, but

The hands and loins of lovers are growing
Scarce, and her sweet joyful face is like
An autumn day, undecisive, under attack,
Resolute in the wake of a battle she is


Almost entirely certain that she will lose.
Her resolve was never greater, her hand
Never steadier. Her children flock at her
Feet, still climb her fortress and parapets

In search for protection, blind in the faith
That the future is ever increasing, that
The lessons of Panglossism apply to us,
Confident that immortality is a gift granted.


The pilgrim has long since ceased his
Pilgrimage, and in the midst of all the chaos
He has chosen a career as professional
Religious man, now that faith has left him.

As the barricade of broken, braking ships
Cracks on, as foreign bandits slowly crawl
In at night and build an army of plunderers
Within the city walls, as long as time slows,


The pilgrim keeps the Temple open;
He sweeps the floors, he paints the sun-baked
Walls, he dusts the mouldy paintings.
Panting and coughing as he labours,

The pilgrim thinks of nothing, perhaps
Only about tomorrow’s breakfast. As he
Walks in rounds, left shoulder to the outer
Wall, he wields the temple keys like toys.


He slowly entertains the stair, upwards
Toward the top of the tower: from atop
The belfry he can oversee the entire harbour
In flames, along with his faith, and the faith

Of others, merchants, zealots, junkies
And drug-dealers alike. Atop the deck,
He rolls his beads and mutters nonsense
Under his breath, his mantra has long


Since ceased to mean anything. Presently
A cannonade shakes all and his senses,
The walls of a nearby building take a hit.
As he rejoins the habitual haunters of

The temple hall, he notices a gluttonous
Fat woman filling the offering bowl with
Oil to the brim. The wall painters are busy
Frescoing, he offers them a glass of water.


There is a thick hack of beef sitting on
The altar, an oddity, given the worship
Of the Bull-White Man, the prince of lilies,
And the ancient rites of the double-axe.

The mystical calf has two thick angry horns
And religion is no longer simple, and the
Basilica is on the town square, overlooking
A new marble fountain, a gift from the most


Recent foreign conqueror. A grim decor
Of vaulting, revolting sugary statuines
Whizzing around like candy floss, syrupy
Water spouting softly, like the lies of

Old and new masters, invaders, conquerors,
Warlords local and foreign, all bent on
Securing the future at the expense of the
Present, while the past looks on in horror.


The pilgrim has made it. He has forsaken
The life of spirituality and pseudo Mystic
Falling for the robes and offices of an
Institutionalized Supplicant, where his

Daily routine involves archiving, cleaning
And devolving responsibility to unwitting
Underlings, who are eager to appear busy,
Ever begging the approval of others.


As they live to appear to be serving,
The pilgrim is monk, healer, public servant.
He no longer sees ghosts at night and day,
And his third eye has been sealed shut.

His folly has been contained, and he does
Not listen to God anymore, not anymore
Than to a nagging wife. But in his little
Life, he keeps an extraordinary secret.


In the temple, he guards three doors to
Other dimensions. One leads to a small
Island of Grecian deities, another leads
To a narrow cave where a Nepalese prince

Once hid. The third to a system of tunnels
Under a city famous for tulips, apples,
Snow leopards, mountains, and looking
On the vastness of the murderous steppe.


Many a night the pilgrim steps through
The second door to sit alone in the heat
Of the cave. Interdimensional travel just
Happens, he does not think much of it.

In the cave he listens in to the radio waves
Of his greed, his anger, his resentment
And fear. He now longs for peace, but at
What cost. Ghosts cannot reach him.


In the cave, he does not fear the vampires,
Ghosts, ghouls on the other side, and he
Has long since ceased to dwell on the
Meaning of stories written on paper or

On water. His education ended the minute
He sat in meditation and he saw a black
Circle canceling out the moon. The words
Of libraries failed him, and silence is gone.