Saturday, July 18, 2015

Art and Artifex

There's a point where push comes to shove, pain becomes the weak, aloneness beckons the selfish, over-fullness begs the spill. A point on a map. Charted in coal and charred on your soul. No water, no sponge, no washing, no brushing. Away from integrity. This point is a membrane breaking and a part of you seeping through. It's the tip of the dart as it pushes through your skull and splits you in half. It's the point of intersection between you and your shadow's gaze, each one reflecting upon the other, none seeing eye to eye. This point, in Another's eye, is merely Art.

There's also a point when you make endless ends meet, opposites coincide, male and female conjunct. When you make struggle bare fruit, skill bare mastery, mystery, majesty. It's the point of clutching the dagger and pushing it through the back of your shadow, letting it bleed, igniting the fire, melding the glittering shards, and gifting the whole to another. To The Other. It's the point where you were your Priest and are now Artifex to Another.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

All the guys I've cast outside are all the guys I've never had

Mountain Dew guy. You were the Sun to my South Node. You left me first, I left you second. I left you first, you left me second. There was nothing more I could have learned from you. You also drank too much Mountain Dew.

MD guy. You were the Sun to my Sun and I was the Sun to your South Node. We were too much alike and our likeness rendered a chemical wedding impossible. No matter how much Venus and Pluto tried. And Saturn insisted. We met to say goodbye.

Scorpio guy. You were the Sun to my Moon and my Jupiter didn't like that. Your Sun also didn't seem to like my Jupiter. I was too lush, you were too austere.

Summer guy. You were the Sun to my North Node. You were also taken. I guess I'll see you in the next life. When you'll be my dad.

Crescent Moon guy. You were the Moon to my North Node and I was the Sun to your South Node. You were surprisingly awesome. But too similar and too remote. I hope I'll still see you in the next life. When you'll be my mom.

No jealousy guy. You were the Sun to my Sun and I was the Moon to your South Node. You were jealous. And a hypocrite. We only met to say goodbye.

Friday, November 14, 2014

Facts and Artefacts

There are always a handful of things waiting to be bought, a handful of things waiting to be borrowed, a handful of things waiting to be done, a handful of things waiting to be said. There are also a handful of facts waiting to be uncovered. They wait around the corner of the street you're on, which lies at the intersection between your past and your potentialities.

But there is also the love for the veil. The awe for the mystery. The temptation of knowing and forgetting. Owning and disowning. Abiding and foreboding. The love for nothing. The lust for everything. There is also the Hand of God. It manipulates at the intersection between being and willing, Nephesh and Neshamah.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

All the girls I've cast outside are all the girls I have inside

Unlovely girl. You barged into my life without ever being invited. I played it nice and you took advantage. I took you out of my heart and you insisted on coming back in. You are the descendant to my ascendant and my ruler cusps the seventh house. I win. I integrated my shadow. I don't need you. You have my scrubs and scraps, now leave and never come back!

Big Redhead girl. You're too Capricorn for me. You insult parts of me constantly. And do things obnoxiously wrong. Explaining to myself how and why everything you do is so wrong took too much of my time. I can't stay mad at you for long, though. I like to toy with your expectations when I'm drunk. If we ever cross bar-hopping paths, we can talk.

Alluring girl. I asked you to stop being self-deprecating in front of me and you took offense. You were bothered by my privately displayed sincerity. I was bothered by your publicly displayed sincerity. We have different understandings of what friendship means. And for that I am sorry.

Sphere girl. I don't know you personally and yet you manage to do so many of the things I want to do. I keep myself hidden from you so that you can never do what I want and I can never want what you do. Don't take offense. It's best that way.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Date with Illusion. Date with Destiny

When Neptune enters 7 degrees Pisces, I serve you. The heart opens into a blood eagle, the throat exhales into the sighs of the world, my eyes close into an open Eye, the mind unites into the Light. I heal. When Illusion meets certainty, they battle, and only one overcomes.


When purpose meets choice, spirit meets shell, toll meets life, and destiny meets identity, we serve each other. From South to North and East to West, rise to fall and beginning to end. We heal. When destiny hits you, you struggle, only one wins.

Purpose. Self. Others. Serve. Each Other. Sacrifice. End.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

It's Not Horror, it's Welcome To Night Vale. From Personal Consciousness to the Collective Unconscious

In my journey around here, I stumbled upon this little gem that put a big Sagittarian smile on my face. As I grew to love it, I eventually reached that dreadfully painful yellow stage, eons more painful than the black, where I wondered and became highly interested in what others thought of it, as a deep thirst for connection dawned upon me. Then I read this:

Okay, why is everyone falling in love with this? It simply isn't funny, it's just describing random events. It's like some writer decided to jot down whatever he thought of and have somebody read it. It was actually painful to listen to. There is no plot or character development and no attachment to the town. It is bad in every objective way possible.

I struggled with it for a bit, and then decided upon this:

Precisely. The writer(s) DID jot down whatever (t)he(y) thought of and THAT is why it's terrifying and generally appealing. When one writes down like that, it's called stream of consciousness, but I would much rather call it automatic writing. Due to the continuous, stream aspect of it, this technique lets the unconscious seep through the conscious. If used right, and by right I mean often, intensely, and insightfully enough, it enables one to bypass the conscious part of the mind completely and open the door to the hidden region of the self, which has a personal but also a collective side (you know, that place where the fear of death and a bunch of other general stuff are said to reside). The writers of Night Vale masterfully did just that. They pretty much unleash the collective unconscious archetypal creatures (disguised as glow clouds) on you, and you are either repelled or amused, depending on your relationship with that part of the human mind.

Since the unconscious is a very terrifying thing to confront/ become conscious of when unprepared, listening to something created with this technique is at least unnerving. For people who have already confronted and won over the (collective) unconscious, meeting it again is amusing, like meeting an old foe turned friend. If you find that you do not resonate with any of the things described by Cecil, it is because you are too high up in your conscious self to even realize there may be things you are completely unaware of, regarding yourself and anyone else. You are completely unconscious about the unconscious. You haven't reached Nigredo yet. Shuffle along and go on pretending to sleep.

Monday, February 10, 2014

It's not Horror, it's Eliade. From the Dark Night of the Soul to The Death of the Ego

Since the self dubbed "first Romanian horror movie" appeared in cinemas, I was forced on several social occasions to defend in small talk words and thus somehow mire my relationship with Eliade's literature. It wasn't the first time my intended discourse hit head-on the wall of exotericism. Interacting with people in general has that effect on me.

What I should have said is: It's one thing to be scared out of your regular heartbeat through the hollywoodian profane element of surprising horror or gore. It's a whole other world to be expelled out of your self through the awe inducing, mythic supernatural of Eliade.

Unlike the self-absorbed Artist, who is unable to accept the Sufferance derived from the intersection between the profane and sacred, matter and spirit, imperfect existence and aspirations to perfection, who is unable to accept the Sufferance triggered by the human condition and constantly opts to evade it through artistic creation, becoming trapped into an eternal Nigredo, the selfless Eliade masterfully draws you in with him into the sacred truth of the cosmic human and you are, if willing and ready, plunged into the ultimate uncanny, blood chilling, spine shivering, awfully marvelous manifestation and experience of the supernatural within the natural. If you let it, Eliade's fiction acts as the cosmic psychoanalyst, the tzadik that draws you into his soul trip and shows you what you need to do to heal and transcend. He slyly immerses you into the Darkness of the Soul to horrify you out of your selfish, ego satiated, self.

No, this is not horror. No, this is not Art. This is The Great Art. This is attaining Albedo through Nigredo. This is Alchemy. This is the literary Eliade.

Well, at least Dan Pița seems to get me.