| up a level
from the seer's-poncho dept.
The Logos that is To Mega Therion was conceived in the womb of the 19th century; I, Zarathustra the Godless, plowed therein a Seed.
The Eternal Recurrence is the Dance of Nuit and Hadit, the spiral coil of ecstasy. Eternity is the fractal infinitude of Qabalistic Zero -- which Thou Art! But verily, this be a Mystery of the Fool... look forth upon Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra, the sub-title thereof shall Initiate you.
Away with this ghastly speech, on to the Dance!
I. The Fourth Riddle of the Sphinx
"Only in another life can God's Justice be shown" -- thus spake the condemned logician. Calmly, precisely, suicidally. I looked at this Fool with utter contempt and irrational Pride; contempt for this Man of Thought, which leadeth to Sorrow; contempt for this Man of Sorrow, which leadeth to No. Pride cutting through me, deeply, shamelessly, yet painfully, the Reason hath lied and the feeling was borne in Me, that I too am this silly old Fool...
For I am the venom that slayed your Highest Man. I, venom, didst mix with His Blood, slaying the seeds of ecstasy -- a reward which the silly old fool would never see -- except insofar as that silly Old Fool is I. I am the Murderer of your Highest Man. The silly Old Fool asked for it, did He not? "Only in another life"?!
"You wicked old man!" spat the Philosopher. "How dare you simply assume, without even the slightest pretense to logical debate, that you have the right to take another's life? You attempt to talk prosaically and philosophically, but all you are spouting is the paranoid defense of your own diseased mind."
"The Blood spilt wast chosen via the formu --"
The philosopher cut the wicked old man off: "Enough of your blood! Aren't you going to attack my use of the term 'mind' instead of 'brain'? Because when you do, I will show you my Philosophy!"
"I am here to treat you of this Illness you call 'Philosophy,' then, even if I must slay you, too."
"What? Now you're threatening me?"
"I always threaten thee. And I shall always slay thee."
The Philosopher was stricken with remembrance. "You murdered me!"
The wicked old man's head moved just enough to convey a nod of condescending approval: "We meet again -- We shall always meet again."
"Why are you replaying this scene?"
The old bag developed a perversely painful, yet joyous as well, grin. Being an unacceptable answer at this time (which was a universal truism to all his responses, a burden that pained him mercilessly enough that the laughter, which sprung without effort, disturbed the sane world of morals and science), "It is my duty" was divulged.
"But what is duty? Please give me a definition of the term so that we may proceed from such general princ --"
"I am a mighty and terrible God! I am dynamite!" bellowed the brittle old man, who had suddenly transformed into a whirling mass of angry, spiral energy. A lightning bolt shot forth from the old man's beard, engulfing the Philosopher's Dictionary in flames. The Philosopher dropped his charred book. Horrified, he fled.
As the Philosopher fled, his Mind raced even quicker than He. In all the confusion didst He collapse. The Philosopher awoke several hundred years later to find Himself in another body. His hair was longer, and he was dressed in quite raggedy articles of filth (that only the uneducated would ever be caught dead in). His hands were nailed to a huge wooden cross, and His Spirit had just one last breath of effort left, which He used to play out His last act of Sophistry. With a gaze of hatred and ghostly pallor awaiting Death, the Philosopher looked up to the Sky, and cried to His Eternal Murderer, "Why hast Thou forsaken Me?"
The dying Man of the Cross hallucinated one final vision: a newly born baby, which sucked out the last of His Life Blood with its Laughter. Things became even more distorted in the Mind of the Philosopher. In this land between Life and Death, between Ideas and Things, He could see through an Eye all of His tormentors. And they were all none but He. The Laughter of the Child, whom some call Zoroaster, others Zarathustra, and yet still others Horus, vibrated the very core of the Mind of the Philosopher with orgasmic fluctuations of Life and Death. And then and only then did the Philosopher end this cycle of Maya. He Sorrowed no more, but took Joy in the Great Comedy. He had recognized that He is the Child, and knew now His historic, mortal nature. Only through these eternal Deaths could He be eternally reborn.
However, this was not the Philosopher. These were historical figures that existed separately from the body of Our Philosopher. Yet, the Philosopher was deeply confounded that He had felt the identity with these People, and yet now He saw the utter falseness and illogical nature of such phantasy.
Aye, then the victim, the wicked Old Man, was finally let off the hook by its cruel tormentor, the Philosopher:
"You fell for it again. You tried to avoid discussion with me and show me your doctrine -- You could not. You attacked the Why, in your polemical haze -- and ridiculed the Why in some 'other' -- and now you see that all these others, and I too, am only You."
The Old Man collapsed to his knees, his tongue (so esteemed for Wisdom that it was in 'chique') dripping with blood. The Paulinic Papal Philosopher wept at this sight (being that the P.P.P. is also a distinguished Philologist, and Pity was more important than giving the time of Pay to pesky puns), then sobbed to a vast flock:
The nutty old man (who also played Professor when he wasn't making bad jokes like this Work) was amusingly disgusted at this Ressentiment Cant -- a tongue all too easy to speak. "What you say is correct" he offered. "It is I who am the Nihilist. It is I who am the Nay-Sayer. It is I who am the Sophist."
The Tormenter spake: "You have tried to create a Philosophy of Yes, in a World of No. Even your own parables and polemics inevitably ensnare you as their prey."
"But I know who You are, and what your defects are, equally: You are merely Thought run wild, you are merely Thought. I am through with Philosophers, Politicians, Poets. I have descended into the depths of this land which others call Zarathustra's Cave, but I call my Serpent; and I have become drunk on the gluttony of Knowledge. It is a drunkenness devoid of enlightenment. For this "Knowledge" is but the mere Shell of Matter formed from the whirling energy of the infinite Orgasm of the continuous coming-into-being. I shall clean myself from Maya in the Waters of the Blood of my defeated, Martyred Soul."
"And how shall this keep you from bowing to me again, oh Wise One?"
Zarathustra was silent.
Thus (for the first time) Spoke Zarathustra.
< | >
|"As St. Paul says, 'Without shedding of blood there is no remission,' and who are we to argue with St. Paul?" -- Aleister Crowley|
|All trademarks and copyrights on this page are owned by their respective companies. Comments are owned by the Poster.|
This is an official and authorized archive of The Beast Bay
Hosted by Hermetic.com