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| Welcome, poor wandering pilgrim. So far from home, so weary from searching alone. *Lost in this arcane realm of the cursed. Let me nourish your hunger and quench your burning thirst. Open your heart, unveil your soul and take my hand. I've traveled the strange, dark, thorny paths and I know the land. My spirit is a elixir distilled from pungent fruit of the sweet innocence of youth, and bitter grapes of the wisdom and folly of age. Prepared by a patient mixologist whose hand is sure and whose eyes and ears have long taken in the suffering and pleasure, joy and sorrow of life. Sip the warm, mellowed secrets of experience. This glass overflows with a heady brew that will set your mind spinning. The addictive delights of kinbaku and intoxicating pleasures of shiatsu are but a few of the ingredients that have gone into this savory, potent cocktail. Every sip will lift your soul to unknown levels of ecstasy.
I'm usually quite genteel and social. Whenever I'm not getting kicked out of the zoo for heckling the chimpanzees, I'm trying to achieve Tao and find Shambala soaking in an overflowing bath with chromatherapy, haunting sacred temples and hallowed cathedrals, holding "high converse with the mighty dead" in majestic museums and galleries, rollicking in enchanted hidden gardens, playing a good knife and fork in French bistros and regaling friends in cafes. My interests include Aestheticism (including Italian Decadentismo), Dionysian invocations from the Orphic hymns, Dialectical Materialist philosophy (particularly Antonio Gramsci), mussels with a Arbois Savagnin (love the "old vine" regions), Dmitri Uznadze's school of Set theory and practicing ancient Sumerian ceramonial Sarru ittasa incantation rites, such as the "Alpu ilittu Zi attama" ritual.
*Lost (l�st, l?st) 1. adrift; drifting or floating freely; not anchored or moored: at the mercy of wind and wave. a. off course, wandering aimlessly; mastless or rudderless, without direction or purpose: "there was a search for beauty that had somehow gone adrift". 2. no longer possessed or retained: lost friends. a. to be left alone or desolate because of the death of: lost his wife. 3. not used to one's benefit or advantage; not enjoyed; thrown away; employed ineffectually; wasted; squandered: a lost opportunity or benefit. 4. being something that someone has failed to win: a lost prize. a. having not been or unlikely to be won; unsuccessful: a lost battle; a lost cause. 5. Hardened beyond sensibility or recovery; alienated; insensible; as, lost to shame; lost to all sense of honor: the prodigal child of Judeo-Christian mythology. 6. Ruined or destroyed; past help or hope; beyond recovery or redemption; fallen or damned: a lost soul; Oedipus of Greek mythology. -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Iniqua nunquam regna perpetuo manent - Stern masters do not reign long. (Seneca Philosophus)
A fool is very dangerous when in power - so easily do weak men put in high positions turn villains. He who fox-like got his rank, is wolf-like in his office. � � � �
To draft and prescribe does not mean to understand and fulfill. Servility and devotion are like parallel lines, they never meet. -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
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Pindar, Eulogies Fragment 122 (Greek lyric C5th B.C.) :
"Guest-loving girls [courtesans]! Servants of Peitho (Suasion) in wealthy Korinthos! Ye that burn the golden tears of fresh frankincense, full often soaring upward in your souls unto Aphrodite."
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"When the poet's pain is soothed by a liquid jewel held in the sacred chalice, upon which rests the pierced spoon, the crystal sweetness, icy streams trickle down. The darkest forest melts into an open meadow. Waves of green seduce. Sanity surrendered, the soul spirals toward the murky depths, wherin lies the beautiful madness - absinthe." ~ Arthur Rimbaud
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a warm bath, a glass of absinthe, a book of Russian poetry, Chopin playing softly while clouds of burning frankincense and myrrh oils fill the air, that's a close approximation of heaven
Cheers, E. |
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ASPASIA
A ROMANCE OF ART AND LOVE IN ANCIENT HELLAS
From the German By MARY J. SAFFORD
But now youth and a secret youthful love, of which he was himself scarcely conscious, were seething in his veins. He was not yet the man, the old philosopher, of which the ancient books tell us—he was still the young stone-cutter in Phidias' studio.
He secretly loved the beautiful Aspasia, loved her, yet knew that he had the snub-nose of a barbarian, the face of a Silenus, and she could never love him in return.
He knew this, but he was still young and only half realized the force of the fire that secretly blazed in his veins.
" I know," he continued, " I seem to you to creep like a worm on the flowers of Hellenic life, secretly gnawing and sullying them with the spleen of sceptical thoughts, and you would like to snap me off with the tips of your rosy fingers. But, Aspasia, I would far rather be handsome than wise. Only tell me what I am to do, to become so."
" Always be gentle and bright," replied Aspasia, " and strive to sacrifice to the Graces."
" Shine upon me with the radiance of your eyes!" cried the usually quiet truth-seeker, overpowered by the emotion of his heart. " Then," he continued, " I shall always be gentle and bright."
He uttered these words with passionate feeling, bending nearer to Aspasia, as if he wished to absorb the cheering light of her gaze, and putting his Silenus countenance so near her lovely face, that his pouting lips almost touched the beauty's.
" Sacrifice to the Graces!" cried Aspasia, starting up and walking rapidly away. |
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The Quincunx of Heaven:
I had a delightful picnic meal in the Conservatory Garden of Central Park with a charming lady Saturday afternoon. The garden's lascivious scents still roil in my mind, the warm sun heavy in the air, heady with the flowery bouquet of hyasinths and freesia. We lunched on a tiny amuse-gueule for starters, a single Belon oyster and a morsel of sausage, followed by a delicious black truffled pâté de foie gras with a Bâtard-Montrachet.
Afterwards, we strolled through the park to the Roof Garden Café at the Met for a soufflé dessert and coffee. I watched her sip from the blue fluted china cup while I admired how her eyes shone like cabochons in the candlelight. How wonderful the sunset plumbs the deeps of her décolleté.
She is a dish fit for the gods, enticing me into a sensuous world of forbidden desires to slake my insatiable hunger. |
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"Another sip of champagne. Then she dipped a finger into it and put the liquid on her hardened nipples as she had read the great Parisian courtesans would do, sometimes using sweet Château d'Yquem there and in other places..." from the novel Gai-Jin by James Clavell
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"At an early age children are weaned on the marvelous, and later on they fail to retain a sufficient virginity of mind to thoroughly enjoy fairy tales. No matter how charming they may be, a grown man would think he were reverting to childhood by nourishing himself on fairy tales, and I am the first to admit that all such tales are not suitable for him. The fabric of adorable improbabilities must be made a trifle more subtle the older we grow, and we are still at the age of waiting for this kind of spider.... But the faculties do not change radically. Fear, the attraction of the unusual, chance, the taste for things extravagant are all devices which we can always call upon without fear of deception. There are fairy tales to be written for adults, fairy tales still almost blue." ~Andre Breton
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The lamps had languisht and their light was pale;
On cushions deep Hippolyta reclined.
Those potent kisses that had torn the veil
From her young candour filled her dreaming mind.
With tempest-troubled eyes she sought the blue
Heaven of her innocence, how far away!
Like some sad traveller, who turns to view
The dim horizons passed at dawn of day.
~ Aldous Huxley, The Cicadas and Other Poems
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Meanwhile the woman, writhing like a snake
On fiery coals, kneaded her breasts to make
Them hug their steely corset; and she said,
Her lips redder than strawberries are red:
"Behold, my mouth is moist, and on my deep
Couch I can lull grim Conscience fast asleep,
I dry all tears on my triumphant breasts,
Where old men laugh like boys at boyish jests.
For him who sees me naked, I comprise
All moons and suns and stars and clouds and skies!
I am so skilled, fond scholar, in love's charms
That when I hug you in my ruthless arms,
Or, shy and lustful, frail and forceful, when
I yield taut nipples to the teeth of men,
My bosom's pillows, palpitant, would doom
Angels to ruin for coveting my womb..."
~ Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil
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Saepe creat molles aspera spina rosas - Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses. (Ovid)
Per aspera ad astra - Through the thorns to the stars. (Ovid)
In vinculis etiam audax - In chains yet still bold (free) --
Amat victoria curam - Victory favors those who take pains (lit., victory loves care). --Roman proverb |
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"Hierodule, sacred servant! Servants of Peitho (Suasion) in wealthy Korinthos! Ye that burn the golden tears of fresh frankincense, full often soaring upward in your souls unto Aphrodite." ~Pindar, Eulogies Fragment 122 (Greek lyric C5th B.C.)
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Hymn To Aphrodite (by Sappho)
Throned in splendor, immortal Aphrodite!
Child of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee
Slay me not in this distress and anguish,
Lady of beauty.
Hither come as once before thou camest,
When from afar thou heard'st my voice lamenting,
Heard'st and camest, leaving thy glorious father's Palace golden,
Yoking thy chariot. Fair the doves that bore thee;
Swift to the darksome earth their course directing,
Waving their thick wings from the highest heaven
Down through the ether.
Quickly they came. Then thou, O blessed goddess,
All in smiling wreathed thy face immortal,
Bade me tell thee the cause of all my suffering,
Why now I called thee;
What for my maddened heart I most was longing.
"Whom," thou criest, "dost wish that sweet Persuasion
Now win over and lead to thy love, my Sappho?
Who is it wrongs thee?
"For, though now he flies, he soon shall follow,
Soon shall be giving gifts who now rejects them.
Even though now he love not, soon shall he love thee
Even though thou wouldst not."
Come then now, dear goddess, and release me
From my anguish. All my heart's desiring
Grant thou now. Now too again as aforetime,
Be thou my ally. |
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The nightingale haunts the glades, the wine-dark ivy, dense and dark the untrodden, sacred wood of god rich with laurel and olives never touched by the sun, untouched by storms that blast from every quarter - where the reveler Dionysos strides the earth forever, where the wild nymphs are dancing round him, nymphs who nursed his life. (Oedipus at Colonnus)
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I am the Red Bull of the sacrifice, the blood nourisher of the earth.
My seed, deposited in the earth is fed by My sacrifice.
I am the heat of the flame, the intense scorcher.
At the tip of each horn burns the blue flame of My Divinity.
I am the bloodlust, the great trampler.
My hooves pound and the ground runs red.
I am the Render of Souls, the Tearer of Hearts.
I am the Red Bull who illumines the ultimate Lysios.
I am the freedom bringer, for I take away all.
My awesome broming strikes fear in all who know not that
My ear shattering cry is meant to vibrate the soul.
I am the Red Bull of the Fiery Blood, know Me in your heart.
Through fear, know excitement
Through excitement, know passion
Through passion, know ecstasy
Through ecstasy, know union
Through union, know Zoe
Through Zoe, know the All
Through the All-Nothing
I am the Red Bull of the Fiery Heart, know Me.
I am all this, but I am more.
I am the Far-Reacher, I am the Earth-Shaker, I am the Loud-Shouter
I am Dionysos Bromios and I sound My cry to awaken your soul.
~Philentheos |
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The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight. ~ Charles Baudelaire
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“All things truly wicked start from an innocence.” ~ Ernest Hemingway |
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"Kima Parsi Labiruti" (Treat them according to the ancient rites)
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My Sumerian incantation;
BUZUR Peta Babkama Luruba Anaku INA KADINGIR
Ati Me Peta Babka Petu Babkama Luruba Anaku EDUBBA
Ati Me Peta Babka Resussun Petu Babkama Luruba Anaku SHIIMTI
~translation~
BUZUR, god of the deep mines, god who solves secrets. Open the gate for me so that I can enter through KADINGIR (gateway of the gods).
Gatekeeper, open your gate for me. Open the gate so that I can enter EDUBBA (house of scribal tablets).
Gatekeeper, open your gate for me. Help open the gate so that I can enter SHIIMTI (house where the wind of life is breathed in) |
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An invocation of Dionysos, from the Orphic hymns
"I call upon loud-roaring and revelling Dionysos, primeval, double-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord, wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned and two-shaped.
Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howling, pure, You take raw flesh, you have feasts, wrapt in foliage, decked with grape clusters.
Resourceful Eubouleus, immortal god sired by Zeus when he mated with Persephone in unspeakable union.
Hearken to my voice, O blessed one, and with your fair-girdled nymphs breathe on me in a spirit of perfect agape." |
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Faber est suae quisque fortunae - Every man is the artisan of his own fortune. (Appius Claudius Caecus)
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INVENIAM VIAM AUT FACIAM. - I shall find a way, or I shall make one. ~Peary, discoverer of the North Pole
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OVID: ARS AMATORIA - THE ART OF LOVE
Book I Part XVII: Tears, Kisses, and Take the Lead
What wise man doesn’t mingle tears with kisses?
Though she might not give, take what isn’t given.
Perhaps she’ll struggle, and then say ‘you’re wicked’: struggling she still wants, herself, to be conquered.
Only, take care her lips aren’t bruised by snatching, and that she can’t complain that you were harsh.
Who takes a kiss, and doesn’t take the rest, deserves to lose all that were granted too.
How much short of your wish are you after that kiss? Ah me, that was boorishness stopped you not modesty.
Though you call it force: it’s force that pleases girls: what delights is often to have given what they wanted, against their will.
She who is taken in love’s sudden onslaught is pleased, and finds wickedness is a tribute.
And she who might have been forced, and escapes unscathed, will be saddened, though her face pretends delight.
Though the tale’s known, it’s still worth repeating, how the girl of Scyros mated Achilles the hero.
Now the lovely goddess had given her fatal bribe to defeat the other two beneath Ida’s slopes: now a daughter-in-law had come to Priam from an enemy land: a Greek wife in Trojan walls: all swore the prescribed oath to the injured husband: now one man’s grief became a nation’s cause.
Shamefully, though he gave way to a mother’s prayer, Achilles hid his manhood in women’s clothes.
What’s this, Aeacides? Spinning’s not your work: your search for fame’s through Pallas’s other arts.
Why the basket? Your arm’s meant to bear a shield: why does the hand that will slay Hector hold the yarn?
Throw away the spindle wound laboriously with thread! The spear from Pelion’s to be brandished by this hand.
By chance a royal virgin shared the room: through her rape she learned he was a man.
That she was truly won by force, we must think: but she still wanted to be won by force.
She often cried: ‘Stop!’ afterwards, when Achilles hurried on: now he’d taken up stronger weapons than the distaff.
Where’s that force now? Why do you restrain the perpetrator of your rape, Deidamia?
No doubt as there’s a sort of shame in having started first, so it’s pleasant to have what someone else has started.
Ah! The youth has too much faith in his own beauty, if he waits until she asks him first.
Translated by A. S. Kline © 2001 All Rights Reserved |
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