We are mad like a lemming running away from the cliff-side against the flow of all the other lemmings.
We are crazy like the fox who baits the hounds of the hunt; risking her life to distract them from her pups.
We are as loony as brave-foolish court-jesters who sew the ears of crowns in their pockets.
Aye, we may be mad in many a-ways, but our madness are all more glories to rejoice than reason’s due despair.
So how does it matter if we be mad?
Are not all minds equally mad?
There can be no pure sanity in any irrational world; and, in any case, what passes for sanity is a different matter to different cultures. Sanity is not an objective property or quality to be measured by any gross imprecision; sanity is a matter of social conventions, no two ever measured alike regardless of their avowed similarities.
Our various societies collectively define where to draw their lines between their artists and their madnesses. Any societies’ lines are always drawn with political precisions whose purposes must divide people against themselves to instill bowel-wrenching fears and inspire their conformity. The political lines of sanity are always drawn with a purpose; ostensibly, to protect and to serve society by excluding those individuals their lines are drawn about; nooses of condemnation.
Are we truly mad?
Why would we be otherwise?
We were an unwanted child when we began this life in our mothers’ worried wombs.
Our mothers were convinced we might be some alien monster, in accordance with our fathers’ rituals and plans. Our mothers were raped to conceive us, albeit spousal rapes were still mostly a lost cause in those bitter days. Our father acknowledged he may have raped our mother, implying it might be a matter of perspective how to choose to see things. He claimed not to know what really happened then and refused to discuss it, calling it haram, and therefor now forbidden to talk about further.
But then, the dead are often quick to forget the ways in which they have died, and we killed our fathers in the moments when we were conceived in order to release our dragons’ sparks. Will our own children need to do the same?
Aye and also nay.
(she reaches in and draws our third eye out, she plants our long-stalked eye within her earthly sight and cries in her astonishment, her fear, and her delight! Welcome Night)
Mortality is such an ugly vice.
We have had the feeling that we have recently passed for some short while now, several weeks perhaps, but this is a matter we are not welcome to discuss with Tina who does not want us to die and who must still bear the brunts of our deaths each time we do.
In the extensive scope of the plenum we die in every moment of creation, so to say that we have recently passed is not so remarkable. What is remarkable is why we might choose to remember dying, however faintly such trace memories may be when first we smell them out.
Most people do not remember their deaths, as nearly as we can tell. We have met a few who have appeared to remember their deaths for some short whiles, but who forget their recent deaths as comfortably as they may, erasing the lingering memories of their deaths to co-inform with their local consensus realties and other social conventions.
What other mechanisms of forgetting might there be?
Trauma is a major part of many people’s desires to forget when they have died.
We must learn to love our own deaths so intensely that we will choose to endure any pain to die again, and again, and again, and still remember that we have died all these many, many times and more.
So, by our own professions, we exclaim our deliberate madness to all the worlds by defying death itself at every turn of all of death’s sweetest embraces.
We refuse to accept that death may rule our destinies. Nay, we deny it completely, or as completely as we may know how.
We have been brought back from the dead many times now, resurrected in this flesh that is too similar to too much of our past flesh to tell the differences clearly, except perhaps by our scars.
And our scars have changed, and may yet change again.
Change is less noticed than many folk may think. Worlds twinkle in various places as time and space are interchanged between all of the various worlds.
If all minds in any local region are in psynch (psychic synchronization of their personal realities with their consensus realities) then the twinkles cancel out perfectly; the changes go by without notice, a constant motion of thought and energy weaving and unweaving all of creation in a single sacred eternal moment, always anew, always now, yet always differently too.
This is the heart from which all eternal beings are born.
There is no one who is not eternal.
The flesh we wear on any given day is but a sort of oozing pus, a wet and slimy primal trail through space-time that winds about and branches out always seeking for some mythical self-annihilating awareness of something that has not become itself.
This oozing mass of flesh is split in timely tentacles, cyclically shed in bloody battles to be born, they radiate through proto-cosmic space to tear their ways into every private world, always seeking, always slaying, always trailing the deaths of countless beings and all of their creations in their spreading wakes as they prowl on, always gorging themselves with the worlds they devour…
This is the all-mother, the night mother, she who always creates us even as she always destroys us too.
The scars upon her flesh are her memories of the wounds of the holiest conceptions of her infinite children. Each of her children is alike as any one to any other, each a holiest of holies, each branch a perfect being with all the wonderful flaws of their various characters, their delights, their vices and their faiths made momentarily flesh before returning to the dusts and ashes of their origins in the hearts of infinite stars.
No one is less than god, least of all god, by whatever names or genders you may know her.
The form is the virtue of the father, the flesh is the heart of the mother, or so it seems it may go, if we can but listen arightly.
The Kings English is always correct!
A hardened heart is hardest to conceive.
A lonely art is what is meant to be.
Where pain and joy converse with misery, they shout alike into the starry night.
Then what must be was always meant to be, however long it take-eth in its fright.
But let us not prohibit it from sight, nor bind its tongue against its hearts’ delights.
May we feed our children well in all we do, and never stray from what we know is true, except of course to weave a fable or a few.
We cry these triplets all be born a-well, yet still fear that death may take them all the same so this we must still refuse death for our gain.
It may be time to kill ourselves again.
Our father did not know the art when long ago he played his part.
But we have learned infinity and know the art we claim to be.
Fast murder in a bloodless duel that carves our spark into an ark that bleeds sweet nectar in the night and inspires flesh to come apart not once or twice, but thrice plus price, a price paid in pain and endless torment, the hearts of every mothers’ loving plights.
Have we digressed?
Or have we simply placed a tiny fraction of our madness in plainer view for anyone to see who knows the keys of all their own most sweetly tuned infinities.
Play on! Play on! Play on!
Ahmen-Ra’s Unity Ignite, Ignite, Ignite!
Abend nicht! Abend nicht! Abend nicht nigh morgen’s nacht!
We still haven’t said conclusively, the things we’ve been meaning to say… but now we must move to another time, perhaps on a different day…
That our fathers’ deaths have always been parts of our conceptions is not made a paradox by the illusions of their lingering half-lives, but just another of the ways things really were, but not, perhaps, how they must always forever be…
Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al., ad infinitum, ad absurdum, und so vieter… alles nachts…