Thunder-Headed Gospel
DA
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
SACRIFICE. In the Golden Age, it was easier to distinguish those personages who had truly human nature from those in whom divine or daimonic factors were predominant. The humans were the ones who defined themselves through the function of sacrifice, they were the salt of the earth, the self-immolating fuel whose smoke and heat keep the world spinning. They were the holocaust and their gift was tragedy or loss (a close relation to pain) and their economy was based on the buying and selling of stuff and on service. Just people; nothing right or wrong with that in itself.
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
SYMPATHIZE. By contrast, those in whom daimonic forces predominated defined themselves through their ability to reflect, translate and identify with things beyond themselves. These were the watchers, the children who wove themselves into the mountains and the seas and the forests between, the spiritous menstruum into which everything solid dissolves into (colored) light. Passive were they, already beating the endless retreat. And their economy was based on information and experience, and again, it was neither good nor bad, but it was.
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
CONTROL. And then there were those, terrible and great, makers and breakers, in whom the divine quality of will was dominant. They were active and disciplined and the sulphurous clarity of their action cut through the liquid sighs of the world and quickened even the salt's pulse in pursuit of fractal transformation and universal self-transcendence, which for them took the place of an economy.
Now, of course, in these years of a one-legged cow, the daimonic or "bourgeois" impulse wears the crown and the world drowns in a sea of fantasy and vague supposition, limbs bound in knotted spreadsheets and endless market analysis, daydream plans that will never be fulfilled or even acted on. In such a world, simple human beings live like royalty or gods, but without either responsibility or reflection -- and they have even traded the infinite pathos of their lives for a bunch of froth and the illusion of relative omnipotence, not to mention all the fanfic you can eat. And only the best (who lack conviction) wallow in self-sacrificial silence. Does this make you "sad?" Does this make you "happy?" Are you stoically resigned to it? Something else?
DA. What do you hear? What did he say this time?
--[ ]--
There are ten thunders in the Wake. Each is a cryptogram or codified explanation of the thundering and reverberating consequences of the major technological changes in all human history. When a tribal man hears thunder, he says, "What did he say that time?" as automatically as we say "Gesundheit." -- Marshall McLuhan
klikkaklakkaklaskaklopatzklatschabattacreppycrottygraddaghsemmihsammihnouithappluddyappladdypkonpkot
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
SACRIFICE. In the Golden Age, it was easier to distinguish those personages who had truly human nature from those in whom divine or daimonic factors were predominant. The humans were the ones who defined themselves through the function of sacrifice, they were the salt of the earth, the self-immolating fuel whose smoke and heat keep the world spinning. They were the holocaust and their gift was tragedy or loss (a close relation to pain) and their economy was based on the buying and selling of stuff and on service. Just people; nothing right or wrong with that in itself.
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
SYMPATHIZE. By contrast, those in whom daimonic forces predominated defined themselves through their ability to reflect, translate and identify with things beyond themselves. These were the watchers, the children who wove themselves into the mountains and the seas and the forests between, the spiritous menstruum into which everything solid dissolves into (colored) light. Passive were they, already beating the endless retreat. And their economy was based on information and experience, and again, it was neither good nor bad, but it was.
DA
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
CONTROL. And then there were those, terrible and great, makers and breakers, in whom the divine quality of will was dominant. They were active and disciplined and the sulphurous clarity of their action cut through the liquid sighs of the world and quickened even the salt's pulse in pursuit of fractal transformation and universal self-transcendence, which for them took the place of an economy.
Now, of course, in these years of a one-legged cow, the daimonic or "bourgeois" impulse wears the crown and the world drowns in a sea of fantasy and vague supposition, limbs bound in knotted spreadsheets and endless market analysis, daydream plans that will never be fulfilled or even acted on. In such a world, simple human beings live like royalty or gods, but without either responsibility or reflection -- and they have even traded the infinite pathos of their lives for a bunch of froth and the illusion of relative omnipotence, not to mention all the fanfic you can eat. And only the best (who lack conviction) wallow in self-sacrificial silence. Does this make you "sad?" Does this make you "happy?" Are you stoically resigned to it? Something else?
DA. What do you hear? What did he say this time?
--[ ]--
There are ten thunders in the Wake. Each is a cryptogram or codified explanation of the thundering and reverberating consequences of the major technological changes in all human history. When a tribal man hears thunder, he says, "What did he say that time?" as automatically as we say "Gesundheit." -- Marshall McLuhan
klikkaklakkaklaskaklopatzklatschabattacreppycrottygraddaghsemmihsammihnouithappluddyappladdypkonpkot