Thursday, December 3, 2009
THC: Another Kind of Smoke
T - Tragedy
H - History
C - Comedy
From beyond Uranus we tumble into the world of Time and Times, and unto the Solar Deity. For now, as we hurtle toward the Earth and yon, look - as we go by - look at the Great Wanderers in the Sky.
Saturn, its mighty rings the symbol of the binding walls of Time itself. Saturn is The Hotel California. The Letter B. The note Ti (natural) - most common in the music of 1500 to 1800 CE. A probability engine striving for the utmost unification of all transfinite events. Within its icy core, the Akasha: the library of all that has happened is happening and can happen yet, at least for the Time Being. Some call Saturn God, but this is only because they have no idea what God might be, and so must give the name Almighty to the greatest mechanism they can imagine.
Outside of Saturn is beyond Time. Dispatches from this distant shore are unreliable and garbled - non-linear and illogical - and so we call Saturn Seven, as 7 is the most complex of the integral primes and implies the impossibility of the hyperdoxical and super-infinite 8.
Jupiter and will soon grow to fill the limits of our peripheral acuity. Big-Bigger-Biggest. As we draw nigh, you will note a sinewy cable of star-dust that stretches back toward Saturn. The Aural-Optic Nerves. Jupiter, you see is an Eyeball Earhole which operates as both viewer, audience and projector of the Cosmic Melodrama.
It is grossly improper to imagine a sexual orientation to the persona of Jupiter, which is the pitfall of all religious thought throughout history and to this very day. Jupiter is not a fountain-phallus, you Theocrats, nor a tender-teat-for-suckling, o yea Pagans, but an EYE. Your eye. That is All.
Because this is a lonely eye, it sees and projects in 2d, from 5 directions: directly, from left, from right, from above, from below. The secrets of Jupiter can be easily divined by the cinephile, the painter, the tarot occultist, the practiced photographer and the Euclidean Geometer, and in audio by the actor, dancer and acoustic engineer.
In music, Jupiter is the chord that is sometimes called a 'sus' chord or 'sub dominant add four'. It is formed by the notes Do-Fa-Ti (flat) and is common in blues, folk, jazz, country and rock music. This particular combination or progression of tones has the quality of suspension, which is why music of this genre is often played into a fade out over vamp, as opposed to the resolution of the key common to the classical genres.
Numerically, Jupiter is 12, 21 and 42. These numbers are quite normally placid, balanced and playfully funny. The essence of Joviality, Poetic Justice and the Suspension of disbelief called Faith.
As stated, there has been much trickery in regard to the specific orientation of Mars vs. Venus.
Mars: Peace, Eternity, Anti-Gravity, Vipassana Submission, Left Eye and Ear and Hand (freedom), Right Brain, the number 5, the note Sol, the Man Alive, Gimme Five.
Venus: Calamity, Mortailty, Gravity, Homoepathic Paganism, Right Ear and Eye and Hand (law), Left Brain, the number 6, the note La, Sex and Death, Six Feet Under.
These forces work in perfect harmony as the twin serpents of the caduceus, as the platform, the stage and rigging of the Great Cosmic Theater of Electro-Orgasma-Plasma we call good the ol' planet Oit.
A cursory word about Earth and the Moon. These bodies are not Wanderers, not Planets. The Earth is a Hologram and the Moon is the internal emblem of the lens that focuses the image field into the false sphere of curved space. In the fullest sense, the Earth and Moon are the product and tool of the co-ordinated efforts of the Great Planetary Spheres - the product, and not more.
In music Mercury is the Octave, a note in perfect harmony with Do, the first note of the scale. This happenstance is the basis of the confusion of Mercury with the personality of the Magician and the Number 8.
Sun, which we find not a great body, but a tiny point, merely imaginary, the core of the self, where billions upon billions pour themselves into sacrifice for the implication of a light and heat that does not exist, into the dulcet harmony of Do Re and Me, the first, second and third notes of the scale, and forever outward whence we come on ripples of consecrated bliss.
It is here, after our first journey from the noumenon, the outreaches of Uranus, and into the core of the Self - the Sun - that we are given to consider that which reaches past Saturn and beyond the measure of Time and Space.
For many, this frontier demands a recap of the Life of a Time, a Time Line, and such travelers, as all have been past, must re-incorporate into the linear streams of Akasha and back into the Sun. This journey can be repeated as often as wished, and usually is. Trouble is, these curtain calls have the sublime tendency of enhancing the performer until he or she threatens to become, let's say, bigger than Time. Such infamy is impolite, and the refined soul will exeunt stage left to avoid the loss of their discreet personality into a larger archetype.
Gates of Uranus, Uranus the Comedian and true Magician of the Super 8, who bars the passage of anything sacred, and into the Violet Essence of the real mystic, but one of an ecclesia of artists that share just two qualities among them: that of an altogether unique self identity and a taste for lowbrow humor...
...or as some like to call it Comedia Ultraismo, - the Old Ultra Violets. Comedy is difficult and difficult comedy is somehow funnier with each new examination. As an example of my own expertise - that of a mere acolyte - I proffer the notion that certain films and novels, notorious for their reputation of profundity and moral import, are in fact resplendent baroque farce and best discussed in the shithouse over a schwitz. Kubrick, T.S. Eliot, Fellini and Joyce, and Tolle (a personal fav) are fine examplars. Francis Bacon is supreme for shaking a spear.
For the fettered souls we leave behind, within Karma, which is Space, and Dogma, which is Time, the story of the sovereign self cycles glumly repetitious in the Theater of The Tragi-Hysterical just as Megan Follows. To refresh our humors and to last, we recall the Tragedy of Human Suffering and History of Human Striving.
A Midsummer Night's Dream, Bacon's funniest, is crypto-tragic, because its content implies the inferiority of the mortal. The joke is on you, for when the intellect, the academic, the poet, and the poser laugh at the Comedy, it is a laugh of self-deprecation, of self-pity, of self-loathing. Laughter yes, but circumscribed by the ineluctable distance between the mortal and the heavily advertised divine.
To the young mind, the tragic mind, the mind without sufficient evidence of pattern, All is Tragedy and its laughter is a callow, hollow ruse without a memory.
The transition to History promises growth, but wilts upon the vine. The Tempest, the sole Baconian opus that can not be specifically classed as Tragedy, History or Comedy and with pretension to the 'mystic self', is the favorite muse of the Historically Grateful Dunderhead. Our lives, we are told, are dust - a touch...
...of gray, no more to say. To know this is to plunge with 'the fervor of necessity' into the Mercantile Operation of the Alchemical Wedding, which aims to ensure immortality through the line of our seminal genesis and work product. To become, in simple terms, a businessman - and get down to business.
On first blush, such pursuit seduces the aging mind with the promise of dignity and the social honors that come with. But, and precisely at the moment of pattern recognition, which is simultaneous with the inner birth of the sovereign self, the Historical model shatters. Caliban Sees Himself. Caliban Sees Nothing.
The moment is defined astronomically as a threshold on the souls journey away from the Sun Sacrifice and back into the Akasha, when it sees Jupiter, shall we say Eye to Eye, which is the extreme moment of self awareness inside of Time. It is to look into ones own third-eye, and go blind at once.
The preferred response is to re-juvenate into the Tragic mode, and return to the Sun and the labyrinth of Time.
Now, the comedian reads Hamlet and finds neither a Tragedy, nor even a specific story worth repeating, but a Colossal Cluster of Crazed Comic Corkscrews, Fugal Frolics and Bawdy Bathroom Phoney Bones. The whole she-bang of it is a one liner and when staged properly oughtta quite literally rib-tickle its audience to death.
- LOLOTF, OMG, I'm Dead!
- Haha! What? U2!
- 2B or not 2B, WTF?
- Tubey or not Tubey?
- I prefer rice.
- I feel ya.
- I missed her potato head.
- Alas, Yorick. Porridge.
T or H or C, my hidden friend, it is up to only thee.
The Comedy at History's end is good enough for me.
Also, a little reefer does wonders, I am told.
But then again, what do I know... I'm just Mark LeClair, and may have slighted the Moon.
Yesterday I felt a very strong desire to hear "The hills are alive with the sound of music" and instead I listened to this because I couldn't find a good copy
Posted by Anonymous at 12:41 AM