mysticism iv

the innocence of mysticism is what rouses scorn.  yet is it not in this very innocence that the question of humanity is raised, and the new brought to bear?  and is it not before this very innocence that the arrogance of knowledge falters, swoons?

the relation of mysticism and truth totters, like all relations, at an unspoken fulcrum in night’s ill-visited playground.  and yet, outside of that playground, away from the oscillations of darkness, we might say in certain moods that this relation is bound in a manner not dissimilar to the bindings of the womb.

since mysticism is the discipline that cannot be taught, the practice that cannot be shown, the learning that is an unlearning, the play that is never staged, of what use is it?  but that is the question it doesn’t care to ask.

mysticism does not destroy time and space – for what could destroy them? – but rearranges them according to principles hardly cognitive.  this hardly cognitive is something that is set before the world’s beginnings, questioned at the center of the world’s spinnings, and loosed past the world’s endings.

the distance between mysticism and nothing might, in a mathematics not yet invented, in a geometry still imprisoned in dream, be precisely the distance between good and evil, between yes and no.

when i speak, this i made more an i by being less, language is less a function or spawn of meaning, more a film on a window during rain.

the doubt of whether, when dreaming of being a butterfly, i am a human dreaming of being a butterfly, or, when appearing as a human, i’m a butterfly dreaming of being a human, if discredited by science or common skepticism, does not negate the spaces the doubt is trying to reach – spaces that may be alongside or even in the spaces that discredit, for these spaces themselves are spaces of negation and strewn through them holes to playful empathies, perhaps a necessary condition of constructive evolution.

if all this is only sophistry, language games, an avoidance of anything that’s truly life, i, who have known the conditions of those who know such things, would simply hold conditional reflection before them, this glass of nature, this laboratory of time and the human but some broken vials in it.

mysticism might be a way of sensing time not from the present but all presents, history melted butter, the human earth just another sphere.

mysticism, as a particular brand of hallucinatory existence, might be considered the formless form of the physics of hallucination.

mysticism is a means of interrogating nature, while having forgotten words and will.

we have said before that mysticism is the ratio 2:0, where 2 is the experience of the sensuous world, 0 the experience of emptiness, and : the experience of the relation between.

how does the continuously emerging technological global complex affect mysticism?  as an invasive species might affect a fog.

that what is sometimes called nihilism can be viewed as a negative form of mysticism (a negative form of a negative way) opens portals of the relations of time and myth, but barely.  the explorer of relations might use contortionist means to squeeze through narrow passages of language, entering what might be called a funhouse of negation, glimpsing flows of politics, psychology, and art as through an instrument made for alternative analyses.

the classic formula of mysticism – this is that – an equation at the root of art and knowledge, contains within it this is not that, this is this, that is that, that is not that, and this is not this.  without these inclusions, the formula is wholly empty.

if there is curriculum for the mystic, it might be to travel through these inclusions to the formula and through these travels know the formula not as formula but flesh.

i read the distant scrimmages of humans, i scan the daily blood.  the advances in knowledge and speed appear like cats.  the screaming significance of the living is muted by the eyes of the dead.  and the human seems to me less a newspaper than a cloud, more a river than a god.

i am led through the city by threads of energy spun from the grave’s slow looms.  the living blow around me like dust, their voices like bones clanking in the wind.  i am led, and there is no destination but to be a weaver too, to lead some who speak in analytic tongues, briefly, through the dust.  all is energy and dust and a strange weaving.

January 13 - Malfeasance of Children

When is the child born, why does the child die?

Is the child born on its mother’s tears?

Does the child die in her secret smile?

The child rose from its bed of play,

saw the shy world hiding, said, Come here,

I’m a princess and you’re a crocodile.

The world said, Sure, I was bored anyway,

but you be the croc and I’ll be a deer;

let’s rickshaw to China then skate on the Nile.

The two friends wandered that day,

ate rabbit delight and elephant ears,

composed a petunia and put broccoli on trial.

It wasn’t as if their mothers or they

hadn’t heard of textbooks, ethics or years,

but that that diet wasn’t their style.

You possibly haven’t or possibly may

have heard of a place where everything’s weird;

it’s not very far--just none or woo miles.

The world said, Well, it’s time to go away.

I’ve got commitments, I need a beer,

my voicemail’s ringing, which makes me feel virile.

The child lay down on a bed of grey,

saw shadows fighting her electric fears,

dreamt that night of God, gold and guile.

The child is born on the wing of a word.

The child dies when it first denies.

The Mantis, the Bedbug, and the Spider

A mantis, a bedbug, and a spider lived with reasonable camaraderie in the House of If, a dilapidating castle in the south of France.  Each had her own specific task, which complemented the others, and gave meaning to her life.  The bedbug gathered food every night, the spider prepared the food the next day, the mantis prayed to the gods for good health and peace, and they all dined together every evening, promptly, at 1800 hours, in the lower east kitchen.

One meal, somewhere around the seventh of May, the conversation went something like this—

Good spider, said the bedbug, rubescent, notwithstanding, ripe (this is the way the three friends spoke with one another):  this curdled curry from lower fibula is stunning.

Beneficent spider, said the mantis, thick and leggy and not of wings, the wise and crunchy bedbug has spoken justly:  the curdled curry from lower fibula is indeed the best of curdled curries from lower fibulae.  I swoon.

The bedbug and the mantis waited patiently for the spider to prepare her response.

Diverse and fast friends, said the spider after some minutes had passed, you who eat and trample time, oh future gods of all the present lords of earth:   I am unworthy of receiving this, the highest praise, from two such worthy culinaires.  Pray eat your curdled curry from lower fibula and do not make me eat your praise.

Nay, said the bedbug.  Your appointed task is high, higher than the other tasks:  my task, the task of Mantis.  It’s true—I gather the food, Mantis prays, and these are not without their substance in the eyes of the ancient darkness.  But you—you, create the great digestibles of which we all partake and swoon, the great creations of spectra and squish that we daily shove into our hungry mouths.  Mantis and I have been talking.  We know it to be true.

A few threads of silk escaped from one of Spider’s spinnerets.  She caressed them lightly with her fangs while raising two of her other, hairier legs.  You have been talking?  Spider tightened her spinnerets, her hairlets tingled.  We all know the eyes of the ancient darkness—we talk together or not at all.  We all know the eyes of the ancient darkness—our tasks are equal; we walk together or not at all. 

The remaining curdled curry from lower fibula cooled as the friends sat slowly in the new information, as they listened to the distant sounds of the humans preparing to become horizontal and offer themselves in their eternal destiny as nightly sacrifices to the bedbug’s rounds.  Bedbug and Mantis glanced at each other through their many eyes, a spectacle that was not unnoticed by Spider.  Time fermented slowly and the table was silent.

Things are not the way they were, said Mantis after long digestion.  The eyes of the ancient darkness grow dim and horny lips cast the shadow of our table aside.

Things will be not the way things once were, said Bedbug.  Things are never ways.

Ancient friends.  Raw and toasty members of the ancient order, said Spider.  Mantis has her praying paws, this is why she prays; Bedbug has her bloating belly, this is why she feeds; I have my web and sputum, this is why I cook.  What strange and stranger strangeness would you have us do?

We will not retreat, said Bedbug.  This is the mouth of all the futures, time’s extended tongue.

We have consulted ourselves and we shall be what we once were no more.  There are no ancient eyes, said Mantis.

Spider paused to contemplate some silk and then, seeing things as they had become, said, The way of the future is the way of the past.  That is why we are bugs.  Nevertheless.  We are kinswomen in The Great Kingdom of Bug.  My kinswomen have spoken.  What shall we do?

Bedbug and Mantis made various sounds they were inclined to make and Bedbug said, Mantis shall prepare the meal.

And Mantis said, Bedbug shall pray.

And the two said together, And you shall gather the food.

And Spider, spinning silk and thinking deeply, said, Nay. Mantis shall gather the food. Bedbug shall prepare the meal. And I shall pray.

More sounds were made, more awkward motions, more knowing glances from the many eyes.  

I do not find reason to dispute, said Bedbug.

Spider has joined us in the spirits of the ways, said Mantis.  She should therefore have her simple way in this.

You are equally and both the friends I have imagined, said Spider in response.  Let us take our new tasks and hold them firmly in our guts forever.

Not forever, said Bedbug.

Until such time, said Mantis.

Not forever, said Spider.  Until such time.

And the three friends departed, each scrambling her new and separate path, into the night.  Mantis disappeared and Bedbug disappeared and Spider wove a vast elaborate web and prayed—

Oh Eyes of the Ancient Darkness, be far-near.

Time touches time and eyes are eyes and shall be evermore.

And she stayed still and prayed long into the night and she did not move but only watched and prayed through her many eyes.

The first eve of the newly assigned tasks, at 1800 hours, the three friends gathered once again in the lower east kitchen.  What spottled sweets might be our delight tonight? asked Spider.

Gangled toejam of geriatric, said Bedbug.  With oofed baloog.  And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.

The second eve, the three friends gathered again in the familiar kitchen and Spider said, What spottled sweets might be our delight tonight?

Miffted earpoof of aging ponderousity, said Bedbug.  With poodled noof.  And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.

The third eve, once again at 1800 hours, the three were gathered and Spider said, not entirely without surprise, What spottled sweets might be our delight tonight?

Sligs of middling middles, said Bedbug.  With granch-granch.  And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.

The fourth eve, at the appointed time and in the appointed way, the lower east kitchen found the three friends gathered and Spider saying, What spottled sweets might be our delight tonight?

Mashley klabb-frigg of upandcomings, said Bedbug.  With melly ondiments.  And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.

The fifth eve was not unlike the others in gatherings and space and time and so it was no misfortune to anyone particular when Spider asked, What spottled sweets might be our delight tonight?

Long lineaments of lustables, said Bedbug.  With lollilols and slolillol and olilsloll.  And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.

The sixth eve, notwithstanding much or once, at 1800 hours, at the height of gathering, those present in the present kitchen heard the question that had been asked before.

Biggon of gabette, said Bedbug.  With many floopy iths.  And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.

The seventh eve, with the ancient sun spinned and spun and nothing really new, those destined in the kitchen waited for the question but there was no question and in its absence Bedbug spoke.  Old Friends. Tonight, to celebrate our buggy flexibilities, a delicacy of ofty tofness:  veltmeats of crambled tenderosities. With elfovers.

And Mantis and Spider said yumyum and many other fineries and the three friends talked in ways that old friends do.  And on that same night, not long into digestion, on the seventh night after the newly assigned tasks, full of prayer, the spider ate the bedbug and the mantis and clambered back to her web and lived alone in the House of If in the south of France and prayed without ceasing until she died.

Sisters in Wonderland: An Explanatory Note

The Secular Sadoo, Pariah Diaper, Bianca Gerald Calamine, and the griffin who lives in the muck of muliebrity, regret that The Sisters in Wonderland cannot be posted due to the incompatibility between its peculiar techno-graphic requirements and the peculiar confines of Blogger and/or our ignorance.


If ever time, money, and opportunity converge, the Artist Colony would like to mechanically present The Sisters in Wonderland in three dimensions--but such convergence, as those steeped in the tea of god well know, is unreliable ... and not necessarily benevolent.


Most respectfully on this fifth day of January in one of the years of the many apocalypses,


Bianca Gerald Calamine
The Griffin Who Lives in the Muck of Mulebrity
Pariah Diaper
The Secular Sadoo

Quaff Quail

Bianca Gerald Calamine, after getting a double Ph.D. in Neonanophysics and Old English, had three nervous breakdowns and gently retired to a woodsy cabin somewhat eastnortheast of Minneapolis.  There she gave birth to herself and wrote four very short stories:  Quaff Quail, Sisters of Wonderland, Fred and the Lost Penis, and The Mantis, the Bedbug, and the Spider.

The Secular Sadoo is pleased to present these four little jewels of innocence during Proper of Saints interludes, in whatever installments please it.  We begin with Quaff Quail in its entirety.

Quaff Quail

One day Quaff Quail, unexpectedly, was made god of the turnips.  Quaff immediately went out and began doing the sorts of things she thought gods were supposed to do—she went to Mexico and drank lime margaritas and married a Mexican mojito.  But the turnips did not want a god like this and said so—

Quaff, they said, We like you.  You’re one of the better gods we’ve had.  But you’re not behaving the way you’re supposed to.

So Quaff crossed the Atlantic and went to India.  There she met with fennies and drank largish mugs of neera hadia and married a Chuak Chhaang or two.  But the turnips were displeased and said to Quaff— We like you.  You’re a decent sort of god.  But you’re not behaving the way we expect you to behave.

So Quaff parted the monsoons and headed southeast to Thailand in a haberdasher’s cart.  She sat underneath a Sang Som tree and bathed in satho juice and married three Mekhong whiskeys, who dumped her for a bowl of curried cat.  But the turnips hummed and hawed and said to Quaff— We like you.  You’re kind of all right, for a god.  But we’re not satisfied and you have work to do.

So Quaff said to herself, Quails are strange and gods are stranger but turnips are the strangest of them all.  So she headed through heat and insects to the dark cloudy passages of the north and found herself in Hotel Gulden Draak in Antwerp, where five beautiful Westvleterens passed her by while she swam in the Rochefort Sea and ducks were snow shovels and flowers were a song.

But the turnips waved their little pointy bottoms and said to Quaff— We still like you.  We don’t know why.  When we consider all the jots and tittles of all the gods in all of time and not, you’re not unwelcome.  But you don’t quite get it and you need to get it.

So Quaff took the long watery road to Columbia and spoke with whales and did the chichi.  She slept on aguardiente beds and married twelve cañelazos, only one of whom sort of kind of liked her.  But the turnips read in strange turnipy voices from the ancient books and did not refrain from riddles and said to Quaff— The way was not what is and blue is green and twelve are sometimes one but gods are puzzled dark.

So Quaff rented a bicycle and, after many disasters and hullabaloos, arrived in The Republic of Newfoundland, where it was cold.  She screeched and she screeched and she screeched, night after stormy night, day after windy day, night after stormy night, day after windy day, and she married an old fisherman who smelled of cod and curses and something like the beginning of the world.  They moved into a shack together and things could have been worse.  But the turnips twirled around like dervishes and said to Quaff— We like you, maybe even a lot.  We’ve told you time and time again that you belong where you belong.  But what has to happen isn’t happening and that means something.

So Quaff shrugged her weird shoulders, breathed a very deep breath, left the fisherman and went across and through and down until she eventually passed signs that read—

Welcome (maybe) to Atlantis

and

Where did you “come” from?

                       And “Why”?

Immediately, a forced mistletoe tried to eat her and some willow night chained her mightily for almost forever and she fell in love with a magenta speckled fuzzypuss.  She might have stayed there for a long long time, but the turnips gathered all the force of their turnipness and said to Quaff— This is it.  We love you.  We’ve told you over and over that you’re a good god, maybe even a great one, but you’re not doing things right.  You have to change and you have to change now and the time to change is now.

But Quaff said, Look you turnips.  You turnips, you.  I’ve tried to be the best god I can be and you don’t like it.  I can’t go back to just being a quail again.  What do I do?

Well, said the turnips, you can become a turnip.

So Quaff became a turnip and that was that.