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.

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.

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 be awake.

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.

William Shakespeare's Chemical Wedding

Let me not to the marriage of true kinds
Admit impediments. Art is not sulfur
Which alters when it mercury finds,
Or bends with the philosopher to fold:
Oh no! It is an ever-fixed sigil
That looks on Asiah and is never shaken;
It is the True Node to every wandering vigil
Whose worth's unknown, although his sign be taken.
Art is not Time's fool, though rosy cross and streaks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Art alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of Aziluth.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never moved, nor no man ever changed.