A Cosmos Beyond Our Wildest Dreams and Wackiest Puns
Paul wrote, "Artists, writers, and musicians often speak of the overwhelming need to paint, or write, or sing. It builds up inside them until they cannot contain it anymore. They are forced to do so, not in the sense that one person compels another to do something by threat of force, but rather in the sense that they cannot do otherwise. It is because of who they are that they they paint, or write, or sing. If they ceased to do so, they would cease to be themselves."
Exactly. Furthermore, seeing as how the Creator expectorated this mirrorcle and we're His spittin' image, it follows that our own deep interior can tell us something -- as in the sense of a distant reflection or echo -- about the Creator's interior: "as above, so below." Thus, the "need to create, nested so deep in man's soul, is a reflection of the same characteristic writ large in God. Man and the cosmos he lives in were created precisely because of who God is. He could not do otherwise, because that would mean that He would cease to be God."
I couldn't have said it better. Therefore, I tried to say it worse, which is what the exblarnetory nonsense of pps. 7-17 of the Coonifesto is all about. There I attempted to shed some additional obscurity on the subject by -- in the manner, say, of an abstract expressionist -- seeking the form beneath the form of language and presenting a composite mythunderstanding of God's creative activity.
Frankly, if I could have been less unigmatic I would have been, but the book would have failed to sell even more copies and shot up the worstseller list with a fatal bullet to the head. As it stands, many people will no doubt pluck it from the shelf, flip through the first few pages, return it next to Shakti Gawain, and back away slowly. But this burdensome overchore to my unsour cosmic suite attempts to undo the whole bitter pointlessness of what fallows, theologically speaking.
Yesterday, a toothless and slack-jawed monocosmatic yokel dropped a steaming prairie pie of a comment to the effect that he didn't appreciate all of Dear Leader's "made up words," apparently bland to the fact that all words are made-up. This mulch is oblivious. One might just as well say, "Duh, I like Thelonious Monk, but what's with all the made-up notes?"
This type of raw material for a person is clearly malapropriate for my laughty revelation, which is intended to ripen a guffah-ha! experience unavailable to the spiritually immature fruitkook. As we learned a couple of days ago, my blog is not intended for the jung and easily freudened, for not until you reach a ribald age will you be able to grasp the wheel of my broken-down trancebardation.
As we have uddered and ruminanted upon many sacred occowsions, language is a double-edged s-word brickhouse, for on the one hand it liberates us from being "buried in the body and trapped in the senses," while on the other hand it can become it's own stinking prismhouse, reflecting only the dim and malodorous light of its own colliderescape.
Just as God's word simultaneously employs and shatters speeech, we too must use language in a similar way if we are to speak of the unspeakable, think the unthinkable, and glish the unglishable. Put it this way: if God used language in the mundane way that Reliapundit does, the cosmos would be too simple to have produced something even as basic as Reliapundit.
God is not a mathematician, or a watchmaker, or even a quantum cosmologist (or not only those things, to be precise). Rather, he is an extremely creative speaker. If he spoke in any less of a creative manner, all of this freaking creativity wouldn't be here! Nor, needless to say, would all the naturally supernatural beauty. After all, it's only everywhere and in everything. Let's see you do that with langauge.
So yes, we should not be surprised if grammatical lawlessness breaks out at the infra-linguistic and extra-semantic frontiers of Coon World -- at the innersection of O and (k), for here are the roiling waters -- the "mouth of the Ganges" -- where something that is not language becomes so; and equally the transcendentally peaceful waters where the river of language ceases being so and flows back to the Ocean of shut my mouth, enough bull, it's eneffable!
In short, pps. 7-17 of the Coonifesto convey the story of how and why the One becomes many, while pps. 252-266 tell the story of how and why the many return to the One. This is the primordial activity of the cosmic ground, and it is always going on. In ether worlds, speaking vertically, the cosmos is arising and disappearing on a moment-by-moment basis. Just like you.
Moving on to the next questions, Anonymous asked, "Is [the ghastly troll] Integralist a true manifestation of The Adversary, or is he just a misguided kid, or is he perhaps both?," and "Is the physical world a 'dream garment' worthy of our respect and attention while we are here, or is it merely a veil to be scorned and cast aside as soon as possible?"
Regarding the first question, the unambiguous answer is "yes and no," for all of us are a mixture of light and dark. Having said that, there does exist a generic "hostile force" that counters the evolutionary action of the cosmos and of the individual seeker who attempts to hasten the process. This statement is something of a banality, for it is something that all serious seekers encounter once they leave the beaten path for the victorious one. In other words, it seems that to declare one's allegiance to the light is to place a target on one's back. What did the Master say about it? I forget.
The enigmatic esotericist Boris Mouravieff (a unusually highbred of way-out Gurdjieffian cooncepts and way-in Russian Orthodoxy) referred to a "General Law" of the cosmos, and although the law may at times seem arbitrary or cruel, in hindsight we can see that it served a purpose in our own lives, similar, say, to the groomed area of a ski slope. Although you may not like it, those boundaries are ultimately there to protect you.
Thus, if you are going to be an extreme seeker and plunge down the black diamond metaphysical trails, you had better know what you are doing, because hazards are everywhere. Ultimately the hazards are not outside of you but inside of you, as is demonstrated by the one skier who skillfully makes his way down the ungroomed mountainside, another who tangles his pole or loses an edge and endures the agony of defeat week after week on the Wide World of Sports.
In short, to quote Bob Dylan, to live outside the law you must be honest. If you are not, then be prepared for a fall of epic proportions. Hard lessons are everywhere, like invisible rocks or slippery patches of ice scattered about your own mindscape.
My principle objection to leftism is not over this or that of its dopey dogmas, because those change and transmogrify over time. One day they claim to be against racism, while today they are its only atavistivc proponents. One day they are "for the little guy," whereas today they do everything in their power to keep him down and make him a dependent slave.
No, leftism is against the law because it is an embodiment of the adversary, which is to say the General Law gone haywire. It turns the General Law -- which is there to protect us -- into a totalitarian system that enslaves us. Instead of flexible ropes at the edges of the slope, it creates barriers of irony and steel that prevent anyone from even knowing about the Great Ungroomed, O. No one is permitted to ski beyond the materialistic and infrahuman barriers of political correctness that prevent a man from transcending himself and therefore becoming the man he was intended to be.
Now, "Is the physical world a 'dream garment' worthy of our respect and attention while we are here, or is it merely a veil to be scorned and cast aside as soon as possible?" In my view it is clearly the former, so long as one recognizes that it is indeed a dream garment. But what is a dream and who is the Dreamer who dreams it? Answer: "As above, so below." The Dreamer who dreams your dreams is inexhaustibly creative and can never be contained by language. To quote the brilliantly creative psychoanalyst James Grotstein,
[T]he production of a dream is a unique and mysterious event, an undertaking that requires an ability to think and to create that is beyond the capacity of conscious human beings.... [D]reams are, at the very least, complex cinematographic productions requiring consummate artistry, technology, and aesthetic decision making.... [D]reams are dramatic plays that are written, cast, plotted, directed, and produced and require the help of scenic designers and location scouts, along with other experts.... I am really proposing the existence of a profound preturnatural presence whose other name is the Ineffable Subject of Being, which itself is a part of a larger holographic entity, the Supraordinate Subject of Being and Agency.
Some dream. Some Dreamer.