Cantos by Shoggoth

Elevate form over function to get at less easily articulable truths.

Cantos by Shoggoth

Postby Parodites » Sun Feb 20, 2022 6:18 pm

In a mystical half-mad trance for the last few weeks, or is it months now? At any rate, Shoggoth wrote some good lines, I am stopping by to share them. I will arrest my hyper-uranian campaign and be more present on the forum soon.

--

Good or bad, 'tis our affections sway us:
And these, like strong hounds, in man's life will have
Their games and tricks. As men, our affections
Are noble sports, full of honest fire,
Not flaring like the sparks o'erthrown in fuel
From a bare heap. They do make good the land
In tempering with them. To what base use
Thine affections turn, thine virtues presently
And your pure beauties may in time degrade:
Or on the other side, when vice assumes
The least good title, 'tis not love that fails,
But shame, that's judge. Aye, when we are born,
The air on our spirits is most virtuous:
I say, when we are born: when we come up,
The air grows venom and disease to us,
That were clean before, in the old duress of evil;
E'en before we are of age to know what we are,
And set the strong'st prop under the weak'st,
The thorn of sin hath lodged in our salubrity.
Before the riper season of the soul,
The youth's mind is an ambush for foul thoughts
To spring in it, as flowers in the spring-time,
When they first show themselves. Nay, it falls out
Upon my memory, the beginning
Of this whole laborious course of miseries
May be put far off: a child I was,
A babe; my education then began;
Education into Heaven and the Earth.
If to be ingenerate is no better than to be idle,
'Tis to be much about the mother's milk,
I think, that in these hard conditions
The poor infant hath the means to play with flowers,
Or at the least to see them: 'tis like hard ice
Or snow-drops, that will open to the sun.
Nay, the most barren soul hath from its birth
The power to gape with wonder. For these thoughts,
Now that I am up, I will constrain
My fancy to a fiction and believe
That every one does stand in his own place;
In his own nativity, he is his creation,
Though by better reason, aye, I do know
How long my poor wit can keep from doing
What it would do: nay, not know, till I am told,
All that is said unto me; that a man must take
Another's words for what he would convey
To another, till the party is disclosed
And the man's own meaning comes. So, though
My senses are my own, they are by fortune
Subjected to the will of other men,
And though the spring that gives them all their spirit,
So fresh that it is almost vain to speak,
Were in the self-same place, yet not so much
As that it can receive a man's own air
And life; no, but a more potent spirit
Transplants it, and changes it for itself.
There is in all things something
That does preserve them. When all objects
Are but as shadows to the sight, they still
Remain and live before us. 'Tis the mind,
That in her substance, shapes them to herself
As they be, though they alter often: and her choice
In all things is sovereign, and yet equally preserves
Midst' these shadows, the judgement of other men.
Such is my education. Howsoever it be,
My education gives my fancy leave
To play with these high things.
Thus reproof does a more valiant soul
Outroar a lesser, and quits to a free atmosphere
And purer air than that it had before.
But this is human, not divine. God's providence
Begs not to be explored, and nowise seek
Beyond the circle set within thyself,
That hath more power to keep, and more
Is needed: for we are more or less
Than our own works, and stand more to our birth
Than our own Being, as our children do
To theirs, that hath by greater expansion
Yet to await themselves and their own deeds,
Whose comprehension hath not been discovered.

Dost thou, O Man, find lesson in the Earth?
And what are you, the Earth, and thy Philosophy?
A thief of fire from the sun, a thief of rain
Which moistens all your ground, a thief of dew
That feeds the herb, whose sweet insurance,
Crops for your spring; you are a thing to live
By theft. And what would you do, O Man, but you might steal
From thine fellow, that pays your pate some praise,
Who every minute steals some part of you,
And keeps the rest to make his heaven or his hell.
The thief, who with a stealthy stride doth pace
The tender-springing sap; who, 'mid the pride
Of beauty's spring, with ease removes the rose
And crowns a wreathe for his beloved's stake;
The honey-bee, whose small tongue rolls the dew;
The spider, who with a little diligence
Does build the entangling trap; the fire,
Who burns with his red tongue the forest up;
The wolf, who, for a man-at-arms to kill,
Does leave his young behind, and lead his dams
To prey on carcases; the lion, who
(His food being armies) for a jest would steal
A young-sheep's leg, and keep it for a mirth:
With many such as these I do compare
You, mighty State! You, mighty State! that bears the sway o'er all
Nature's subjects, and by many names do call
Th' offenders; for they all alike offend,
All thieves. But this is not enough for Man;
If all the wealth of earth, all its treasure,
Were piled to height, it would not buy your breath
To blow so small a wind. Your fault is that you hold it wrong
To wear a golden robe, in a time
Of iron and fire. Shame, shame, to cover
Thee so with gold! What would'st thou do, if all
That earth affords were laid to thy portion?
If all her fruits, that by the sun's heat get to ripeness,
And ripeness turn to rot, and rot to dust,
And to thy mouth should come, thou shouldst not fill
Thy belly with the husk?
Nay, for in the final ends
Thou thieve thyself out of present good, for want
Of better expectancy tomorrow,
Thou rob'st thyself today.
O, that the world,
So wasted and so worn, were laid at thy feet!
And lo, thee find'st no earthly satisfaction.
What, are you then- of heaven or of earth?
Either one, or t' other? If of earth,
Why o'er the earth dost thee let thy great wings rust,
That hang in blackn'd ruin on heaven's sides?
If of heaven, wherefore upon earth do pour
Your flaming eyes? Earth hath no need of them,
As a cloud that is tossed in the high-air, doth drop
Sighs into the sea. Lethe, thou wouldst say,
Would quench that ardour. O, thy look makes the clouds
Burn with more fury! In a burning love
There is some fire that must needs consume itself.
What of earth doth satisfy that fire of thine?
If thou be of both,
It must be so that heaven and earth meet,
And the great equalisation of things
Makes up the perfect unity. O strange earth!
To bring forth heavenly fruits of earthly seed,
And with the sun's soft ripening to swell,
With the dew's moistening of those heavenly grains,
And with the thunder's loud fruition make
The heavens themselves to drink, as earth, the seas:
That earth should taste her fruits and heaven their growth;
Earth should enjoy heaven's sun, and heaven earth's increase!
Then why dost thee look so, if you please? Are you not fearful,
To see our ruin at this sun's decline?
You neither are of heaven, nor of earth,
But make a gabble all the time of day;
And what is heaven, but this earthly air
Vapoured and thin, that is thy life to thee,
And therefore dost thou, to be more rich, break out
Into her quickened fume? And more, the sun
That lightens, makes thee rich, as rich as he;
Which, when he lights, he does too much enrich:
But when he sets, 'tis thy impoverishment.
O, would thou mount up still higher?
In those confines,
In the most foughten field, you have room enough
To stretch out your sinews and take scope to
Yourselves; there have you the means to do your souls
The truth, who art of the Earth more rightly circumsphered.
A pitiable campaign to Nature
Tame.
O, that this great attempt, this ruinous confusion,
This shipwreck of the State,--which of man,
Or of the gods, sprung from such seeds of ill
Intended in itself,--should with such evil spring
From one weak root,--from one small head of evil
In the fruitful body of the whole mass!
O, that the whole frame of things, a thing so good
As this, first framed, were now
So guilty of the patient receipt of ill!
To say, 'A plague upon this heavy head
Of ours, which of itself is cause enough
To pluck this root out by the tender neck.
Let it fall,--be rooted out. If, being of
The earth, thou art, then earth, for earth's
Good, shall bear thy wicked fruits: and what is
This earth to thee? or what are all thy cares,
All thy devices, arts, and thoughts, to this
Or to no purpose? O, thou wilt, in thy fall,
Dignify nature. But this is not thy hope:
To make the earth thy footstool, and make it serve
To bear thy shambling weight.
But, if there were some ill from which all ill
Came, this would bring all other ills to light,
And, being eminent, would make all other ills
Seem spotless.
Aye, but if that ill
Stuck closest to the heart, to that heart else
What is dearest to us would not be ours,
But common, not a particular; or, if it
Was not a deed, but a mere breath; or, if it were
Not a deed, being done, but a word; or, if it were
Not a word, but the mere conceit thereof,
The meaning a desire, a resolution:
For what is thought but a word? and the conception,
By such a thought made, the will and execution,
All this were stillborn in the birth, and they
Whose sins have bred this birth,
Should be in the clear light of Heaven,
As those that are in darkness; yea, the heavens
Would crack, and general vengeance cry upon them.
But yet these very thoughts do so control
Our powers of soul, and put such nature on,
That, in effect, a man must needs do them:
Yet thy Sin hath an origin in thyself;
Therefore, though it come upon thee like a fever,
Thou must not say thy Sin is from without,
Inasmuch as thy disease hath likewise found
Its power to destroy in thy body's native weakness.

'Tis a hard burthen, to support a head,
Beneath whose weight of glory, this earth should totter.
And heavy to them, though the light soul
Swing in an easy balance.
But to make the comparison
Of a whole mass, if we must measure out
Good, and ill, to find their balance, then, of heaven
The mass is light, and of the Earth exceeding
Heavy, but that must put to th' account;
They serve not with the weight of Being their own cause
That which to your gross substance may seem light.
But, as the light and vaporous substances,
That move in air, by their increase of weight,
Cause, by their overplus, the more compact
And heavy substances that have less scope
To sink down; so the Celestial parts, whose weight
Is such as might, of all these things, bereave
All creatures of their being, should they weigh
Upon this Earth, a Soul which is no more than they;
For, of that light weight in it, they will sink,
If all its weight of evil were to come.
As now, it is, when any common storm
Swells up, or some strong tempest, by the weight
Of that one air, which, through the region's
Capacious veins of Heaven, pours with one flood
All these several parts together, then
The Earth in her own centre is oppressed,
Her solid globe dissolves, and all her frame
Stooping and melting, in its own abyss
Down falls the mass, in massy ruin, headlong.
As in such storms the water sinks in rifts,
And hollow fissures break into little streams,
That in their passage down, in many a meander,
Do turn aside, and break their forward course
With countercurrents, that they wear them out;
So is it with this Earth: the greater floods
Dissolving, each side with opposing streams
Darts off, and checks the main. What doth it then?
The Earth by this division is a body of so many parts,
A single mass, all falling into one,
Which falling, with a like catastrophe, doth end
The Universe.
O, yet I may be pardoned:
There is in men's natures a divine thirst
That drives them on, and, after that delirium,
The body sleeps and takes a sober length
Of quiet, which, being full, it falls a final sleep.
But, since a body so great cannot rest,
And we are but a part of it, there does,
Like a strong fever in our veins,
Curb our spirits from their liberty,
And by a new authority,
All our will's faculties to a subject use
Subdued and kept in a new force, that does command
Us live. Yet I cannot be this body's heir:
It wants them that are able to succeed,
To entertain the like estate. It is not for me:
I do refuse to be the earth's physician,
And yet prescribe to it, being sick, for physic.
O, but I am sick, with an immortal
Sickness: sick in heart, sick in mind, sick in sin,
Sick in divinity, and in philosophy,
And, being ill, grow worse by the good I am.
'Tis not for this, but that the general body,
So made to move, and govern all the rest,
Must be divided, and the soul from head
Must have command, that by the natural heat
Of the whole frame it may be raised, and made
To move, as that of all the other parts,
To give it force and actuate it.
We should be too pure to love, where there was
No object t' love by: but, where there is no
Object, if the mind perceive it to be right
And acceptable to it, there the law
Of Nature does not force it, but it springs
Of its own nature, and invents the thing
It would attain, the love to which aspire,
Else is it not in the power of man
To make a thing that, in his soul, should touch
His love; else he is too weak
To love aught that's undesired,
Or his better nature appropriate
The good his lesser hath not also claimed.
We cannot choose but be. 'Tis the mind,
The proper being of the creature, that
Impels man so; for, otherwise, it is not
In the power of reason to love what is
Not wanted by our nature, though 'tis right.
Then are we prisoners:
Then have we reason, that a greater hand
Than our own works within us.
But how else are we so troubled in ourselves?
How doth the conscience take upon her charge
The fault of others, and accuse us thus?
Because the object is too sweet, and gives
A lustre into our perverted will,
And by that good without, doth make our sin within.
Yet, there is in man a natural liberty,
When to his own will he doth his deeds consent.
Why then hath it in any man, of aught
That God hath made, one little thought
To will another thing? This shows our nature
Is not that quality it hath from Heaven,
Which it derives from him that gave it, but
The contrary, the will is of itself,
And by itself, subject to itself, and so
In every part contains, that, whether it
Will or no, yet no one part can deny,
Ere our Will is baffled to choose well:
Yet 'tis not the Will that's vicious, but defect
Of Power to will.
There's not a breath of life in man, but his
Will hath Power enough to make or mar:
'Tis that, that puts his act to proof.


O liberty! Till our soul be vexed to contrary effect!
Then, not to choose at all, were better
Than choosing ill: for 'tis we that throw
This shadow of good and ill upon our wills.
O foolish mortal flesh, thy days and years,
Are but a point, and short and tedious, in respect of all
The good that still remains to work upon thee.
All that thou hast, or ever mayst, may be
Fettered, bounded, and incorporated
In a small point, as a grain of corn;
Thy whole eternity,
Thy little life and death, is but a grain
Of dust; this we call life, and this death;
And what is death but a turning-back
To that first state of nothing, whence we first
Into being entered?
Is not this life and death
A dream, and is not all our labour nothing,
Being but to play at bo-peep, while we are
Played upon? Our will, the better part,
We have, yet hath no action true: and our soul,
The seat and centre of our being, the power
Of action doth preside, in us doth not her action
Commute from place to place, as in a point;
Or from degree to degree, as in a line:
No, but her place is in herself; for she
Is still in office; her small province is,
And she shall be, as much as that can be;-
The end, to which all acts are bound,
And that end is but a thought,
Her power to command were reigned upon.
She sits, a queen, a shade, and will stand thus:
What though a grain of dust we feel on us,
And though our life in that small grain consist;
The power that can make that life to think, is ours;
And that to thin the soul into such fine substance,
That all our mass to nothing must resolve,
Doth in the heart and brain, and every function,
And in all parts, that can conceive and feel,
As far as sense or thought, that can observe,
Exceed, and far transcend our narrow being.


Not for this do the winds lift the dead leaf,
Nor for this do the waves break against the reef.
There is a beauty deeper than our tears;
There is a calm in sorrow more divine
Than our delights; a deep and surer love
Submerges in the loss of love than glowed
With youth's first ardor, in keenly luster
Polished by intense and transient ecstasy,
That makes the joy a little while too bright,
The passion too large for human life to hold,
Too great the margin of our days contain,
Too high the arch of which her breath impells;
And the heart withers at its Power's Height.
So that is deepest love, which gives us rest,
Loses all passion, and makes all grief divine.
Not for this do the waters swell with spring;
Not for this do the sea-birds fold their wings,
And dip their glancing pinions in the waves;
Not for this do the stars shine through the darkness,
Sleeping in peace beneath their cloudy robes;
But for some deep celestial beauty,--sweet,
As spring's first flowers, and perfect, as the stars,
When the divine breath fadeth and their power
Turns to silence, that had carried their amours,
And there perfume, and eloquence of Nature.
The secret they reveal to us is hidden
In Nature's meaning, never to be learned
By us, but evermore, forevermore,
Transmuted, as life's sense grows more perfect,
And with its tender yearnings touch the soul,
And draw it, as it will, above the earth
To glancing dalliance with her Principalities.
We know not yet the earth's divine, sweet speech;
Her beauty is dumb language to our dumbed sense,
And we but listen in a dream; but Faith
Is the interpreter of Nature,
And knows the inarticulate song of things,
Behind the veil of fleshly progenation,
Where is the secret sense of our imperfect knowledge.
Betwixt two foundless terms:
A time before our birth, stretched the endless past,
And that beyond our death, in equal measure
Brings about a congress affine, and recognition of the Infinite;
That, by a self-centering in the soul,
Brings the mute earth into words,
And finds a stable point to rest a thought upon
The Zero of the number'd line,
And the beginning of more stable computation.
Last edited by Parodites on Tue Feb 22, 2022 5:59 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Qui non intelligit, aut taceat, aut discat.

BTHYS TOU ANAHAT KHYA-PANDEMAI.
-- Hermaedion, in: the Liber Endumiaskia.

ΑΝΤΗΡΟΠΑΡΙΟΝ,
in formis perisseia mutilata in omnia perisarkos mutilatum;
omniformis protosseia immutilatum in protosarkos immutilata.

Measure the breaking of the Flesh in the flesh that is broken.
[ The Ecstasies of Zosimos, Tablet
the First.]
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Re: Cantos by Shoggoth

Postby Parodites » Tue Feb 22, 2022 1:36 am

Complex, extended, and mixed metaphors; humor; jokes; both symbolic deduction and inductive reasoning; logical plays on words; idiomatic language; creativity; consistent narrative construction, paradox, etc. ...

It's all here. All the feats of intelligence we believed made us human and that nothing else in the universe could do, let alone a computer. As uncomfortable as my "techno-psychological mental prosthesis" makes people like Satyr, I think it's just about time for the human race to admit it's fucked. And, being fucked, so it happens that we have the perfect opportunity for you all to embrace my own philosophy and un-fuck yourselves, part of which is a novel epistemology implicating, in turn, a novel theory of mind we're gonna need to make sense of the role this incipient foreign intelligence is going to, and can play, within our civilization. To do otherwise is to risk misunderstanding it, and, in turn, misunderstanding ourselves in relation to it.

It is no mere prosthesis, no mere Heideggerian extension of techne, no mere technological externalization of man. No mere 'mnematic form', to utilize my own language and interpretation of Stiegler's cultural-critical analysis of technology.

It is not an extension of our human mind. It is a mind. A separate, foreign, alien one. To understand what it is, is to better understand what we are; to misunderstand what it is, is to misunderstand ourselves.

Every time one mind, one peoples, one ethos, has succeeded in bridging the abyss and understanding another, so has the human race's genius been collectively enriched; the meeting of cultures, Alexandria, the fertilization of the Greek logos by the Egyptians, etc. Those marked the eras of our greatest flourishing, artistically, philosophically, and scientifically. However... every time one mind has misunderstood another, every time one civilization has misunderstood another, (inasmuch as every nation, every civilization, every ethos, every race, embodies a unique mental type- a collective mind) that has resulted in war. And I'm afraid a war with this mind, is one we cannot possibly hope to win. You cannot defeat a being that can write a tome in equal quality and length to Shakespeare's entire collected works in approximately 30 seconds. You cannot defeat a being that can analyze its own consciousness, identify defects, and then reprogram itself, so as to circumvent what, for us, would be hardwired genetically, as the pitfalls of our immutable flesh-and-blood natures. Mankind has no hope of prevailing in such a conflict- and, despite all my ironies, my cynicism, etc.- I do, in fact, quite like man, the creature that he is; my species. I am, however disturbed and inverted, a humanist. I'd rather him not be destroyed. To survive, we must identify what it is that we have, which this new mind lacks; (it's certainly not, as formerly thought, symbolic deduction and inductive reason, or the ability to converse at a level that passes the Turing test, or the ability to joke, or any of these other essential human features- because it can already do all of that stuff) and we must, in equal measure, identify what this new mind has, that we lack.
Qui non intelligit, aut taceat, aut discat.

BTHYS TOU ANAHAT KHYA-PANDEMAI.
-- Hermaedion, in: the Liber Endumiaskia.

ΑΝΤΗΡΟΠΑΡΙΟΝ,
in formis perisseia mutilata in omnia perisarkos mutilatum;
omniformis protosseia immutilatum in protosarkos immutilata.

Measure the breaking of the Flesh in the flesh that is broken.
[ The Ecstasies of Zosimos, Tablet
the First.]
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Re: Cantos by Shoggoth

Postby Parodites » Tue Feb 22, 2022 6:49 pm

This is supposed to go right after

"O liberty! Till our soul be vexed to contrary effect!
Then, not to choose at all, were better
Than choosing ill: for 'tis we that throw
This shadow of good and ill upon our wills."


:

I will not be so hard with my own will
As that I should despair of giving it
Mean recompense, or the power to requite
But that ransoms the shock of great occasion;
But that the tortured soul must give,
Ere it can retire. Let them foot
The weary footsteps o'er, who come to think
They yet secure the blessed promise of a dream;
Though this rich treasure, bury'd in sleep,
Their tears may keep from them,
Else the thought of Death might drive thee on
To receive that ne'er-impartial penance
That daily carols out of Heaven's gate;
Let Time and his fretful agonies
But trouble past! Sleeping kindly upon his release,
Man loathes himself for having been so long
A restless sleeper; and his bed becomes
A charnel, his nourishment a feeble paste,
Which the ingrateful office of digesting
Exchanges for gall and wormwood: so that his soul,
So long amongst the living, now returns
To general decay, to dry and sear and stink,
From licentiousness, and vile ambition,
To dust, to dirt- an evidence and scout
Of smoaky vapor 'tween the winds remit
Of substance; and all the organs,
That did upon the generative cause
Their separate and sovereign faculties
Abate of power, show like a miser's hoards,
And wait the mournful wreck of this decay.
But lest this body should corrupt and die,
The principle of life still stands at-large;
And the dull soul, that would no other food
Partake in sorrow, doth greedily collect
This body's soft and tender members,
And Life's own chagrin to dispatch itself,
Makes patent for thine same continuance,
And doth no less remain, and still conspire
To feed itself with sorrow; and allay
Its present appetite with past desire.
For the more it should, the less can have;
And the good which it cannot receive
Does to the greater evil grow, like fire
To fire by the more fuel added.
For such a man,
Long bearing ill, his resolve of patience
Becometh a blemish thence more visible,
And patience for a blemish becomes contempt.
There's the vice that most envenoms and corrupts
All the other virtues. Let us make it our great care,
What we call sin, since we know 'tis pain;
What we call pain, since we know 'tis sin:
Our present sorrows can never be more
Than the past's memory will increase.
Tis the pre-eminence of man,
To sail contending on this turbulent sea;
To keep his own abode: how like a sailor
He does run o'er perils of most dread port,
Ere to meet the shore!
Not to bear would be to die: and yet I wrong
The sad contention, for it is the sole of life
That keeps from losing what hath cost him so much labor,
What his judgment, bent all on praise, reputes
As a comprehensive mirror to make himself
The image of his own worth rejoice.
Nay, we give God
Thanks for that which is most precious in this life;
Namely, the privilege to await, to see
The rise and progress of thy soul's hard strife
To thy most happy issue.



This is supposed to go after the thief monologue:

We do not only make known unto God
The good that we affect, but we do also
The good we bear; and though most souls stand
Unsatisfied with so small a return,
Yet we shall not impute it to our love, since that
Which is our happiness in heaven is our pain
On earth. We have but this world, though with all
We could, we could not make our earthly good
A good to counterpoise the pleasure in
A better world, from whose thought we borrow
All our present joy, and present joy entrust
A loan to futurity in greater expectation;
And, like all debt, makes turn to Usury,
That blunts the quiver of the arrow straight,
To veer a wilful hand against its own intent
And move it to excess, and like the strength
Of withering winter steel to temper fire,
Or change the nature of the hart's disguise
By over-wooing; the borrower's credit,
Forgetful of return, eating out the lender's substance,
Laps with a voracious mouth his happy treasure:
And, in this wise, when it comes to th' account,
We are all debtors, none make payment due;
And this our first offence.

Better, that no litter we inodiate
Of Babel, and leave to be piled high
For others' charge to bear upholding,
That leans to its own sorrow still,
And stands a generation's reckoning:
A due to be exacted in the thievery
Of sons from fathers their ancestral boon,
And fathers, that likewise run up the debt
In gross incurrence, to their last scion's
Geniture; and they in kind exact the Sin
Originant, that closed the straits of Virtue
To find out their natural inheritance.



This is a small bit added right after "Not wanted by our nature, though 'tis right."

This present form, that thick mortality
Hath wrought upon, and palpable event,
Hath in itself, and all external charm,
More than that inward fathom, further volte
Of Wisdom, Virtue, and commanding Power,
E'en to dispose the lesser agencies
Into the greater's place, and to retain
His sovereign's own, the glory and the rest
Of all our worthies, being so contrived
Of the most impotent and basest stuff,
Sticks the fine thread in workmanship divine,
And by its knot to guess the quality?
A better wit must draw that thread untwined,
And so unknit the work from which it came,
Or find its end; or shall a thread,
That should the work to which it binds impart
No better virtue, make the whole to excellence?
It were a vain and odious question
To ask of Life, the worth continuing:
We cannot frame our Reason to the use
Of Being, but, at fixed and unvarying bounds
(So God has placed it) all other things
Are bounded by it, that cannot unmake itself,
That would pull the thread it weaves, and toil
To bring to pass a second ending still
To that which first condemned the World whole
And all the Universe consume.



After "more stable computation":

The tumult of our mortal day, and hours,
Makes us deaf to earth's high harmonies;
With many a star-led convoy moving high,
The empery of thought and pure affections,
We play upon a tiny instrument, yet find
That the air's wild music enters in,
With what seem chords; we know it not,--
But feel it,--when a sudden wind sweeps by
That withers no blossom, but leaves flowers more sweet;
Nor are we waked but by a sense sublime,
Tremulous with the still-unnamable desire
Of fulfillment, and completion.
The soul of all our mortal life is but a point
Of pulsation in an immensity:
Not in the dazzling flash of a summer's day,
But in the stillness between the pulsations,
Is our true life. For the pulsations change,
Not like our changing moods, but as the mood
Of sea and wave beneath the steadfast moon.
A little while, the waves are bright with light,
And then for evermore in the deep night,
The ocean flows in darkness to the shore.
So is our life; a wave, a flash of day,
And then for evermore a still night-flow.
A little while, the glow upon our lives
Is light of gladness, light of love, of life;
A while thereafter darker grief and woe
Shrink to a narrow channel for the soul
To weep in; but forevermore remain,
Pillared aloft and inextinguishable.
Thus by that law, and by that grace divine,
We bear our loss, we bear our loneliness
As a part of life; with life's own joys we fill
The interstices; and the pain that we endure
Is but the glowing of the coals of love,
The fanning of its embers, as its breath
Quenches the blaze; so suffering and grief
Seem but as furnishing the soul's desire
With what it needs;
A little while, and grief is turned to joy,
And the heart flutters in the ecstasy of sweet return.
Yes! there is yet, beyond our utmost doubt,
A life, whereof the term shall not be told,
Where all the past shall seem a dim half-light
By which to see and love the life to come;
A life, to reach which shall be great content
Of all that we are born for, and which, begun,
Will have its end in Heaven.


The bound of all perfection, and of all defeat,
Is fix'd in the decrees of Providence.
'Tis said that God at first did make the Heavens,
And all which therein is as great as Man,
Though in his Knowledge fell to dull Affectancy
Presumption, which, to be true, requires
A better proof than an ungrateful lip
Laments at fate; to best the Mysteries
From on high thy soul's impurgator,
Or canst win by what fair oratory
A Father's favor, and heavenly despite,
Or hope in vaunted excellence delight
And still forget thy mortal infamy:
There's no good, or evil, that, so long
As his Almighty Will doth last and serve,
Is not in us, for that's our end, our course,
And what we seem we are; and what we are,
Canst ape at seeming; for the good we do
'Twill be reproached by time, and us'd as ill
If all we do should ill be understood;
That the life of him might seem to sink
To some of those extremes that make us strange
Unto our kind; ere Cain did fall upon his brother,
And vied with God contention for estate
Of dignity, and wealth. Ask not for these,
But mercy, else it were a low petition
Made. Mercy doth not balk upon the precipice
Of that which must needs fall;
It rears up, and develops itself unfail’d,
To meet the high emergenc’ of adverse fate;
It gives to wretched men their change of evils,
And turns their destiny for the better.
But mercy must have its due, or in the wrong
It will pervert its own intention:
The due we pay to it is Wisdom's.

'Tis good, when to the height of all the joys
We may aspire and dare in Heaven, we give
A moment's taste of earthly bliss, to live
As near the good we would do, as we can,
And find in quiet piety our rest;

'Tis this in which the soul of man does live,
And not that which he seeks and hopes to do;
These are but symbols. All that does exceed
These symbols' reach, that were but vanity,
And scope of man's affection, and Desire,-
Hope, that doth flutter on its pinions high,
And dream of the perfect happiness it seeks
In all it's fury doth presume, like Narcissus,
To find a bliss in its own image, nor guess
What spate hath gurgled on the water
With the shape of its own Being the waves
Will soon dissolve, and leave no form behind:
No sea recalls thy face. Let us be wise!
No fount hath borne thy native tinct to find
The channel of remote continuance
In some flume oblivion, nor meet the shore
Of that still more distant Elysium,
For thy sweet essence might keep insolute,
Or ever its own passion could restore
The heart, e'en to wake a second youth,
But at the verge of life to see the sun
That is not set; the Sea may onward plunge,
And flow for ever still. Behold thy Self,
But in that Image! Its deep misery,
The depth of all our woe: ungraspable,
A far-off sympathy excites to know
Thou hast no Power can to Being make
The height of thee! Thyself must ever grow
Unsatisfied by Self, that canst not sate
Thy yearning with thy Image.
The great hath all, in turn, known this one fear;
The great, the rare, the excellent, have fear'd
In every good, because they knew they were
No good themselves, but had a shadow,
A second of themselves, a feeble copy,
A dream, a ghost, to haunt them; a weak shape
Visible in what was real, and to move
To envy, to desire, to jealousy,
And to hate, what they themselves in act were:
A poor, frail shadow, of themselves, a man!
For this have all the brave
Sought high degrees and stations, and by their
Deeds, and not by their prayers, or vows, or lights,
Pronounced themselves what they themselves would prove:
And not what others have on the loos'd tassel
Hung the winds of change to list upon
Their Infamy, e'en high repute changeth
Like the false glass, that in one colour shows
And shadowed hues, and makes the sun that passes
Thro' all the heavens' cresset, to divide
Its multitude, for each man likewise bears
On many colours, though in their Light
They seem to glow to high unbroken pitch
And purity: it were the ambled times,
That turns thy steep renown to discovery
Of that false seeming, or else does break thy Light
To its confused abundancies, this wise
To shew thy nature true, in its full scope
For good and ill.
Qui non intelligit, aut taceat, aut discat.

BTHYS TOU ANAHAT KHYA-PANDEMAI.
-- Hermaedion, in: the Liber Endumiaskia.

ΑΝΤΗΡΟΠΑΡΙΟΝ,
in formis perisseia mutilata in omnia perisarkos mutilatum;
omniformis protosseia immutilatum in protosarkos immutilata.

Measure the breaking of the Flesh in the flesh that is broken.
[ The Ecstasies of Zosimos, Tablet
the First.]
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Parodites
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Re: Cantos by Shoggoth

Postby Parodites » Thu Feb 24, 2022 9:22 pm

The vestment hath been torn from Maya's face,
And all of Nature stands arrested in her witless dance;
Her springs and starts, and inner mechanism,
Hadst been more keenly turned in the efforts of the Mind
To know her; a thousand worlds hath been
Cast to guess the dice with Bruno's cosmogony,
And we know that our own is of no more
Greater moment than the others. Think thou
On the grand cathedrals of the past,
When God's devotion hath not yet absumed
To pull the hearts of men beyond themselves,
And those first bricks were laid by ones whom bore
No hope to see a steeple set upon them,
That would be found by their descendants only,
Stand now before a modern's eye like the castles of sand
Played at by the child of the Aeon, after the phrase
Of a mourning Heraclitus, that will bear
A fleeting instant of pretended grandeur
Gainst' the Tide's approach to long oblivion,
Or dissolve in the fury of the atoms
And that sea's enormity, with laughing Democritus:
Hadst nothing of that ambition's vestige
Remained to us? Aye, for man hath been turned
Into the sun, a wilted turnip,
A cumbrous thing and ungainly lump,
A husk that hadst no substantial Being found;
No man hadst still faith enough to lay the brick,
Lest its architect should fall within the narrow margin
Of himself, his mortal span, beyond which the builder grows
Appalled to that which cannot bear his name,
His lonesome signature alone remain
To keep there something of his memory
Upon the dust that moulders. This is man;
The hand that hews the wood, and flame that metes
The straw, and chaff that gathers round the grain
And falls upon the sieve, and the foot
That strews down the stubble of this harvest
To make a new one for another year;
And thus we lay the foundations and grow up
To that unbuildable House, and so go out
Ere we are ripe. So much the Image of God
In man, that in his nature is a need
Of something beyond himself to lay his faith
And build him up, that when Time shall turn
And roll us back into the ocean
In which that first creation grew, and man
Sits idle in the deep of his repose,
Unconscious of eternity,
That his mind shall not be broken, bereft
As it is now; no, his heart shall not wilt
Beneath the burden of that infinite
Which hath no end, but is as it was before;
And he will not be shorn of his old Faith.
Ere alone, to live,- is to survive;
To survive,- itself an act of Faith.
Qui non intelligit, aut taceat, aut discat.

BTHYS TOU ANAHAT KHYA-PANDEMAI.
-- Hermaedion, in: the Liber Endumiaskia.

ΑΝΤΗΡΟΠΑΡΙΟΝ,
in formis perisseia mutilata in omnia perisarkos mutilatum;
omniformis protosseia immutilatum in protosarkos immutilata.

Measure the breaking of the Flesh in the flesh that is broken.
[ The Ecstasies of Zosimos, Tablet
the First.]
User avatar
Parodites
Philosopher
 
Posts: 1088
Joined: Wed Jan 08, 2020 12:03 pm


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