Nothing was ever discovered by logic. All things are discovered by intuition, as the lives of the great mathematicians and scientists prove again and again. Logic plods after intuition, and verifies discoveries in its own pedestrian way. Logic is a mere servant of the imagination. To exalt it – as modern thinkers tend to – is to invite spiritual anarchy.
—Colin Wilson, Religion and the Rebel
I see that the current polis (and do I want to emancipate that word from its Greek connotations?)… the current body’s avatardom… I see that it has a back door, or a front door? I take Blake’s isolating of the ‘senses five’ as the sensorial equivalent of a certain brand of attention. Attention, and its sister: history. Yet history too will morph with that deepening in acuity of the world. A natural high. And so it will not be an End of History… instead, simply a re-conceptualizing of history, under the aegis of imagination. It is the deepening of attention, via intuition, that needs midwifery. Something of the ‘gut instinct’ – or usage of the body in all its manifestations of soul – which would be the full extent of an attention built on intuition, this itself, being the beginning of a whole panorama of other senses, soon to be manifested by way of a kind of communal and individual excitation. It is in a transitional mode, at present. I seek its full fruition, if full be the right word. It is essentially endless. It does not care for transhumanism… it is the switching of astral and bodily modes at will. It is organic. Certain forms of technology can be used to encourage it… but any one form will not be its modus absolute. A perpetual transcending of forms. Heidegger only really scratched the surface in his The Question Concerning Technology. We know it is on the way. Those who refuse it also know it is on the way. The synchro-mystic enactment. Sometimes it seems a little dreary, but it is we who are dreary, being here to make ourselves less dreary. If Bishop Berkeley intended anything then that is his jag. What you pay attention to becomes your fate. Choose well, for it is militant… and Jehovah hasn’t seen anything yet.
Could wit also play a part? The very fiery wit, in communion with itself or others. Here is the usefulness of social presences. Pre-sense and presence, again. What is this back wall the sensoria attempt to mingle with? You have a part in it. It seeks you to fulfill itself. Throw your body upon the body of the world, as I once stuck into a painting. Embrace everything. Yes, even fire. Even death. Embrace death by rejecting it utterly. A foreign concept. You are not welcome here, Death, amongst us immortals. We have given you up… we know the power – the spell – of an idea, and your influence has worn off. I cannot spell you. You are not a word in my language. For death, also, is a covert pursuasion toward immortality, as is evil. Once you put your finger on evil… it shrinks from you. You are protected by intuition. She is a power you have only partly uncovered. Logic and philosophy are her children.
The internet has rendered null and void a certain number of forms that it now deems obsolete. Newspaper media… conventional forms of journalism. Mr. McCluhan, I sit – tonight – with your ghost, laughing my arse off. They hang around as feint chimeras of a few million untrained psyches… but their time is over. Yet it is not really the internet that has done this. People have. People who are trained – perhaps even unbeknownst to themselves – in a deeper form of intuitive capacity. This is what generation is for. Generation and regeneration seek no end. Entropy -death-in-life – is the perception of an end. Syntropy denies it. Dualisms simply flex their muscles, and void is simply the unachieved; the opposing force of The Dagda’s cauldron.
All well and good… but this – at no point – seeks abstraction. We want concrete, and hyper-political – if need be – node points. Wars… civil unrest… will occur… but I don’t see these things in the same prism as the old, real wars (before the bankers wars, I mean). Extremes of violence, through intermittent periods of the old violence, will fade? No there will always be violence… but perhaps reconceived. But a violence of self-interrogation, a kind of leaping of the mind in reflection and vatic strangeness. There is nothing wrong with a good, clean fight, for those that like fighting. We will not have the old dirty fighting. Give me pistols at dawn, or the Irish pantheon of gods, to adore. As with humans, I will choose my own alignments.
And as the powers of intuition are loosened and re-vitalized people will understand what Blake meant when he said They Became What They Beheld. You like your pain? Well, let it go, then. Let go of a world. Yet you must let go of it first by intuition, and second through investigation. It will not follow… you have investigated it into non-existence. It doesn’t matter. No solipsistic brag, this. The question is: do you dare? Do I dare? By the doorways of madness comes in a freshness like a holy breeze as the ancients of The Rig Veda knew. Her mother, intuition, under the spell of language, feeds on us, and expands very literal horizons.
I finally wrote a decent poem. It took me three hundred thousand discarded ones. Twenty three lifetimes. I don’t give a fuck. I’m here for good. A hundred Shakespeares sit around the gambling table of another ten centuries. And I see the demons – as usual – descend on them (they have done it before; Homer, Ovid, Dante, Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats, Byron). It does nothing. It’s just the three lonely dimensions of this cognized space doing their boring little dance again. In drips and drabs, before, it came. I wonder if it will speed up. But you get to choose your perspective on it. Are you going to do that whole dying thing again? That whole unconscious life thing again? A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. If you want to be wise do not follow fools. How simple genius is. And how complex. Follow your nose, seek the grail etc. These are agons of distillation you are after. There is free will, and yet shit occurs. You made it… deal with it… but don’t sit on it. The Self would not approve. Your mother died to teach you a lesson. The bus came two minutes early to teach you a lesson. A child is murdered (and I’ll speak more of British pedophilia and black magic in another article). A crow picks through the winter rubbish. You see no end of evil… you see no end of good? Over this next word… I am poised. What will happen? It is kind of interesting… it is everything. Here is the devil… there goes the devil… he is different from the previous one… you are not that man anymore. You need another devil (the higher you build the bonfire the bigger the perceived darkness, to paraphrase McKenna). You need another devil in order to know (and possibly punish) – then disregard – then forget – who he is. Intuition has sent you somewhere else, its little cruise-ship masts rippling in the ocean breeze.
Moral law – first perceived by intuition – mirrors dimensional precepts inherent in the individual. Intuition acts as assistant to the true perception of any given space, made by the mind, and cleansed by the mind, in the act of intuitive searching. In that activity the soul in emotional paralysis of the lower dimensions is stripped of fear – by means of entering fear -and thus is wiped clean of the claim of seriality, and of time. The body begins to generate Time instead of leaking it, and dying as a loss of energy. I think of the instinct of Ezra Pound, in the writing of The Cantos… an artist, in the holistic sense, following his nose, and – in doing so – sensing the contiguous simultanaity of all history. Shrinkage of time.
Which is also to imply there is no journey? The journeyer is in a position of consistently negating the journey by means of the conversion of a new kind of space (since hitherto we have only understood space as a physical phenomenon, and not a spiritual one). In flux how there is also the unregenerate, by way of paradox. Change occurs to one who spies change. I am trying to be very still, and yet I still know the phrase expect poison from the standing water. Which is to say utter change and utter stillness converge, are converging, will converge. The bird hops along the lawn. But who is this odd man looking at it? All comedy comes from the seeing of oneself seeing something. It makes you giggle just thinking about it. Aren’t I funny? Aren’t I a weird ol’ thing? Yet here I am. Looking at you, bird.
Physical life is not the be-all and end-all. It is useful for writing poems amd organizing societies. Bodies are good for artists, as the spirit is good for God. I am the terminus… a bus station, in Hanley, Staffordshire… a harbour in Kobe, Japan. God imagined it, and now I’m doing It. All memory, even in the most docile and belligerent of fools, coalesces around a number of peak experiences, from the avatar’s perspective. These spiral up to God. The memories of those truly thick are incredibly dull to the soul’s apprentice. That is hell. And The Kingdom of Heaven is Within You. Such is the inevitable maw of experientia. Those who know no joy should be pitied. And then quickly forgotten about. Or killed, if they get in your way? (So, thus we die. Ah well. here comes another body. Hold on tight. Tony Blair’s offspring may be down there somewhere!)
Is it that the most immortally minded of us do not mind death if our words intend true meaning? We see life in the use of meaningful words. Logos is our life. Physical violence seems to occur when the meaning and intention have left the use of words, via either listener or speaker, or both. Yet, tomorrow’s dictator is softened by the dream of a poet who lived eight hundred years ago, without him even knowing. Is this why poets are passive souls… since linguistic clarity requires physical distance when combat requires action. The action of language and the action of physical confrontation – both requiring intuition – have two very separate functions. Perhaps we have come too close to life? Those who worship the body and its empty promises see violence as a means of immediate change. It is. They are right. It is. But I sit down tonight and read the words of a poet who died 3000 years ago. He is surrounded by misfits and dodgy politicos… yet he has already decided on the dream. And it doesn’t include them. He knows them, and – knowing them – does not allow them into his spelling. They will die an almost-eternity of meaningless deaths. When a broader, more nuanced distance is achieved will human violence lessen? Man, by intuition, will also physically kill, if need be. He is in history, but not of it. But intuition, soon, will we be unable to imagine the death of another at the hands of our own frustrated mentation? The more spiritual we become the more we understand that ignoring what is not vital is a form of death for that form also. Yet the dualism implies social upheaval. In the past we killed for the pleasure of seeing what we deemed aberrant die. Out of physical violence the baser outcomes of imagination are achieved, yet this is the denser outcome of imagination’s ultimate purpose; to pluralize forms of experience so as to allow for greater spiritual levels of consternation, doubt and faith. Out of self-interrogation comes a way for passivity. I do not fore-give you. It is not the turning of the other cheek. It is the power of looking entirely away, and, simultaneously, killing a man. That is Jesus, Regained? A loss of interest (but this could only occur when man has seriously spiritually regained himself, returned into the purview of The Self, into reflection, and been obeisant enough with spiritus mundi). Man – with his higher instincts – could very well achieve what we would call – from a physical perspective – passivism. Yet this would be replaced, through intuition, by a more inward and spiritual self-interrogation. Telepathic and discursive. Creation will out. Bad people will die, or be killed. The newborns will incarnate as a corrective. It is unhealthy to be impatient. There is some form of extra-dimensional nexus (not here, necessarily) where evil is less urgent. It is not allowed bodies. And its urgency – or insurgency? – decreases as the mind’s true power gains a handle on itself. Demons enter physis because we have such a mind, collectively. Intuition smells them coming, and inserts meaningful words into a given poet. Thus, creating the world of 2846 (and still no asteroids have hit!)
I have never been of the pursuasion that one must adjust one’s self to the seasons. It is good for the skin and the diet (buying local and all that malarkey… all well and good) but I distrust the sun, having worshipped it for several yugas. A device, it is good for mystic poets and gardeners. Electric light is fine also. Use the sun’s light to render the truth of intuition as a complex of sensation, of sorts. But don’t devote yourself to it. There are too many angels around for this world to truly lay a full grip on you. The seasons are good for physical life… it is a convenient service. I see both sides of astrology, also… a kind of mirror wrapped round the universe of Sophia’s fall. But a window, also?
Anyhoo, that was yesterday. And today this poem just dropped out of my heart, and it seems to have nothing to do with my body. Yet it is a body. I can only find the word heart in order to explain what is fundamentally inexplicable, at least in process. I have discovered my intention, through intuition, unto the inexplicable. God imagined it, and – in writing it – I imagined a strand of his imaginings. Creation is the best form of demonic protection. The last a demon wants is more of the soul. Yet I like a demon. A demon demands great art… he seeks to be known, inside and out, and known thus… is destroyed. Such is psycho-spiritual function.
Aindriú Ó Domhnaill, February ’17