wandering spirit rising

white paint versus black ash

the neck pain is real

the giddy heights of limitlessness

above the clouds breathless beyond death

Ratatorsk is coming for us

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 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.

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.

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.

29.

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.

30.

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.

31.

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.

32.

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

33.

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

34.

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.

35.

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.

36.

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.

finis

26.

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.

27.

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.

28.

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.

15.

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

16.

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

17.

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.

18.

“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

19.

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.

20.

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)

21.

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.

22.

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

23.

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

24.

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

25.

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.