Conversations with the Spirit
From: Mike Helsher
Date: Fri Jan 23, 2004 6:13 am
Subject: Conversations with the Spirit
In the beginning there was the Word, and the
Word was with the spirit, and the spirit was the Word.
And the Spirit spoke and said:
"Heresy is for new wings pleasure"
Now my feeble intellect twists and churns and conjures up a noble
question:
"What is pleasure then?"
The Spirit answers:
"Interesting."
Truth and Love
Mike
...................................................................................................................................
From: Harvey Bornfield <earlyfire>
Date: Fri Jan 23, 2004 12:41 pm
Subject: Re: [anthroposophy_tomorrow] Conversations with the
Spirit
Dear Mike,
Move over, "Dances with Wolves",
'tis time to speak of the elasticity of language, as if to view
in wide-angle time-lapse surround-sound, the migration of meanings
across centuries of the chameleon-like power of the Word, to
domocile into shifting meanings, and shifting focus as in descending
from mythological and allegorical perk, down into the handcuff
of the literal and legal harness which creates a Mafia-like hold
in political and religious redneck coagulations, that is to say,
in policy and dogma, which drives the Ork conveyor belts of Henry
Ford's well-skulled assembly lines, which have strange to say
developed into the designer models that transport the astral
lives of men and give them some lucid, sterile identity imagined
trustworthy and negotiable in higher worlds both at hand and
for most, still yet to come.
Shakespeare and Goethe mentored such shifts,
inebriating language in magical wines, parolling their respective
centuries with metaphors to molt the serpent-skin of its hold,
at crucial times in history when new levels of subtlety and innuendo
and pierce were destined to debut. Wherefore, Steiner has remarked
that certain spirits incarnate into this mortal greenhouse at
given historical times at the behest of Archai influences, in
order to be enzymes to pioneer new ways to metabolize thought,
feeling and will in ever freer, which one dare say means in more
conscious ways.
What follows, is but footnote, which would
bewitch, for homeopathically expanding upon this idea, dwells,
one even dares suggest, thrives in akashic space before the white
light fractures into color, whose spectrum Goethe calls "the
sufferings of light" just as rainbow celebrates, wreathes
in weeping hues' most joyous eulogy, the Atlantean cataclysm.
Exhale the Present, travel with us backward through the looking
glass. Methinks that the Tower of Babel is not an event, but
a living ladder twixt heaven and earth, which is demolished whenever
the handwriting in the sky which the Hierarchies, far more ethereally
literate than we, Princes of Thud and Boast, Purveyors of Intrigue,
and Customer Service Representatives of Hidden Agenda, that to
each an umbilical silver cord, a well-spined scaffold which the
hierarchies demolish whenever they perceive, whenever they know
our intent in building be not to rise, but rather to climb, which
is to say, to commandeer our "own" turf; and so Babel
is shattered most Tarot-like in order to fulfill the implicit
"sold-separately death-wish" of men, who on their way
to become Angels, strange to say, one thinks seduced or so 'twould
seem, I venture dream, coaxed by short-order Sirens into some
kind of Kali-Yuga-like ADHD, imagining it desirable to aspire
North to Heaven by first becoming accomplished Merchants. Apprentice
Angels jam-packed in full-clink coin of well-Caesar'd saddlebags,
planning to assault, planning to thread the postern of a little
needle's eye. Yes, Achamod, Desire, what barbed wire Stonehenge
surrounds most men, and turns Solomon's Temple into an Oven,
and soon, money-lenders, everywhere! Alas, pardon our zeal: How
then to better act, to repeal such enchanting diatribe as this,
which most bewitching, nonetheless and evermore delights to distract............
So where were we? Abnormal Spirits of Movement,
the Noble, elevated throwback genii's all, the radient, convoluted
Authors of Language, well labyrinthed in secrets, who recipe
the snake oil, and through its whisper, and its whisper's glide
and sway, adeptly mentor the Spin Doctor Cobras of this strange
age, through whose well-torqued Spin-Doctoring the human race
losing will, becomes ill, and in all this mayhem methinks, kneeling
in the silence smiling, there is a Lucifer in the bathwater awaiting
redemption. My kingdom for a Christ-powered Skywalker................
; - )
So here's where we are: Contemplating indulging
the enchanting notion that the Word itself as it costumes itself
anew, in incremental, almost unnoticable gait of transfiguration,
pebbling its way across decades, spelling, perhaps even 'magic-spelling'
in many a milepost of changing literary style the almost imperceptible
evolution of language over hundreds upon hundreds of years, and
of recognizing this as a participation in the progressive stream.
Yes, that's a good place to begin. Finally!
Language is a shape-shifting sidewinder hybrid of Word made Flesh,
and like a serpent, its skin drys out and molts. Word grows its
husk, its badge, its meanings, if left alone, untutored by inspiration,
turn into stereotypes. Oh it enjoys comfort for a time, bragging
in its own skin, its quilted scales perfectly stylistically enclosing.
Yet if this model were, however, to continue beyond a certain
shelf-life, a window of historical viability, it would, methinks
become most a jaded, atavistic, hence here to lightly tiptoe
tread, by implication, an Evil impulse to remain, words insisting
upon being a revered and to enjoy a "one size fits all criterion
of meaning"; To converse with the spirit, if one wishes
to choreograph in words, is to change in a phone booth from "Business
as Usual" into "Art as Miraculous", and to seek,
as poet in heart-residence, to become a prince charming who counters
the blind redneck loyalty most Ahrimanic, which seeks downsizing
its mystery, seeks to compress into vocabulary an artificial
permanence.
What causes this probably has something to
do with desire itself, delicious Achamod, which automates the
life of feeling, corrupts, coffining the Astral, the life of
feeling with objects of feeling, with possession, with 9/10th
of the law. How very Mosaic, you who have Nomad'd your way 2000
years downstream of the Christ, watching as men still hawk law
and precedents over heart. Therefore, fear not the visible Iron
Maiden, rather instead only fear of change, and regularly scheduled
kneejerk terror at entertaining unrehearsed, at practicing unprotected
improvisation, and flirtless, wonderless, falling unwitting prey
to impoverishing rigidification of etheric adaptability which
breeds in the dark a statically utopian, no-longer-volatile tenor
to suffocate quest, to blackmail thoughts of interpretation,
hoping instead for Once and For All, Messiah of Ultimate Meaning,
"Der Fuhrer", God made Boss, "Perfect Meaning"
which all writ upon the Attorney General's well-cunieformed gravestone.
But now, the paradigm shift to Conversations
with the Sprit, how to discover the primal point at which philosophy
detraffics from business, takes to the air, verges, enters in
upon, and bravely intersects the sphere of Alchemy.
Now Alchemy, the mystical discipline of conversing
with the elements, or of singing to them, or of "Music-Sphere-Singing
to them, already 1000 years or more since its debut, and courting
the overt goal of charming Lead to Gold by leavening, by "yeasting"
its vibrational configuration, to morph its "molecular attitude",
so to speak, so to sing, so to charm, to higher ambience most
changelinglike, Alchemy is now, since 1933, Earlyfire suspects,
ready to turn its efforts to achieving more powerful voice, the
same which implies, which foreshadows, which invites the 6th
root-race impulse of speaking forth man.
After all, - pause for stun of wonder in this
winter season of enhanced silence and reflection - it stands
to imagination, probably more than frail reason, it "Flies
to Imagination rather than stands to reason" that in order
to inlay a few rungs in Jacob's Ladder, seeking to conjure spirit
into matter, one must, or more gently, one "would"
first off, like a five-year-old pianist on his way to performing
at Carnegie Hall, find modalities to rehearse such miracle.
Now this very interesting task of investing
words with spectral spike of ether-transforming punctuation,
like a softly-drummed impress of a King's Ring on hot sealing
wax, finds a very interesting epicenter in the early 20th century,
in the Melchizedik-like word-authoring, better the word-annointing
capability of the genius Rainer Maria Rilke, who refers to the
intent of his entire poetic Ouvre to be the creation of "Welt-Innen-Raum",
or World-Inner-Room. Etheric Sanctuary for an Etheric Christ,
altogether brickless Bethlehem. Van Gogh's inner finger-painter.
Rilke deftly displays by such alchemical power
of molding etheric configurations, of investing ideas with conjural,
seemingly sorcerial levels of imaginative spark, the ability
to constellate ideas in ways which both freeze and thaw, creating
image states which are as islands; then releasing, dissolving
these islands back into a stream, into turbulence, into process,
into rivers of inspiration. And this seems to Earlyfire the beginnings
of a new breed of Chela work, of a generation of undercover initiates
who have made their Holiness Robust and Well-Warriored, being
able to come out of the closet and manifest in the secular realm
of lyric poetry wisdom which during dark, Ahrimanically paralyzed
centuries of Fascist -Hyphen-Papal-Hyphen-Corporate Domination
within the granite prison of Medieval Europe, was heretofore
forced to remain well nigh "cellar'd" under esoteric
House Arrest most Ramalla-like.
Consider Rilke, at 18, what his fertile "blue-cheese-like"
imagination offers, when he writes in the Notebooks of Malta
Laurids Brigge, of the creation of the Ork. And this we surf
in copious, well-blurred paraphrase: "I observe an expression
of tired meaninglessness take a hold of their countenance, how
it reduces their light, and so their face wears "thin as
a paper bag, till finally, there looms at last, the terrifying
No-Face". Altogether Alchemical bleach, which describes
in but a glance some act of interior strip-mining, the utter
depersonalization, and the loss of ability to gather, harbor
and reflect light, hence also the light of self-expression. Prior
to this, we all had to figure this out in the contemplation of
the archetype of the Vampire, the Nosferatu, also defrocked of
all psychic connectivity to Devachanic access, as the Daylight-Phobic
One, repelled by the image of a cross where space and time are
cross-haired, riveted into the Now, flitting, earthless, anchorless
shade who is not honored with a Divine Essence, Ring-Wraith'd,
hence failing such metaphysical substance as a soul, utterly
fails capability to manifest a reflection in a mirror.
Or the poem the Swan, in which his awkward
gate of so much left undone while stumbling on land, the metaphor
for his presence in mortal climate, turns into an instantly graceful
glide upon the waters of a pond, how the poet illustrates the
shift from life through death and beyond, creating surprise as
the fulcrum upon which to create, to model for mankind "Virtual
Death". And of Golgotha, and how Beethoven, deaf Beethoven
does to inspire identical expansion with the sublime language
of classical musical architecture what Goethe and Shakespeare
to with common language, and why this takes place before the
Spirits of Darkness are cast down by 1879, there is much more
to say.
Yet play with this idea: I think that Knighthood
is initiation, and acquiring the ability to utilize language
in "freelance mode", is first earned by pulling the
sword out of a stone, and that there are as many swords and stones
as there are those who present this challenge and the invitation
of this challenge before themselves, and that the one who acquires
the courage to accomplish this, turns into one who can now Author,
which is to say, turns into Arthur, whom courage has King'd.
So many tickets Abroad, yet but one common challenge. And so
we think again, color is but chameleoned white light, premordial
weave made orchestral, a Hand of God lightly gloved and as Princess
Charming, Prince Disarming might suggest, to each a prism and
the right to traverse, which is to say, the right to converse.
Our story loses purr.......
Our roam, most widespread, composed as he was of youngest tread,
lightly stitched, devout in weave of silver thread, now's complete,
And so suspect, tis time to rest my feet, take my wandering dreams
to bed. Touch down then, nomad, lay aside all thoughts of Frankincense
and Myrrh
And judging by latitude,
Fresh palm trees and lots of room at the inn in user-friendly
Tucson up ahead
All Warm regards,
Harvey
On Friday, January 23, 2004, at 07:13 AM,
Mike Helsher wrote:
In the beginning there was the Word, and
the Word was with the spirit, and the spirit was the Word.
And the Spirit spoke and said:
"Heresy is for new wings pleasure"
Now my feeble intellect twists and churns and conjures up a noble
question:
"What is pleasure then?"
The Spirit answers:
"Interesting."
Truth and Love
Mike
And to Solomon the power
of the swiftly-blowing Wind..... and it sped at his bidding to
the lands We had blessed, for We know all things........
Quran
...................................................................................................................................
From: b m <bryanmillermail>
Date: Fri Jan 23, 2004 1:27 pm
Subject: Re: [anthroposophy_tomorrow] Conversations with the
Spirit
Wow Bradford! Is Mr. Bornfield your twin brother,
clone, or what? I think we should be told...
Bryan
Harvey Bornfield <earlyfire> wrote:
Dear Mike,
Move over, "Dances with Wolves",
'tis time to speak of the elasticity of language...(etc etc etc)
...................................................................................................................................
From: holderlin66
Date: Fri Jan 23, 2004 2:05 pm
Subject: Re: Conversations with the Spirit
--- In [email protected],
b m <bryanmillermail> wrote:
Wow Bradford! Is Mr. Bornfield your twin
brother, clone, or what? I think we should be told...
Bryan
The Truth?! We can't handle the Truth. There
is no singer so profound as the warble of HB. Now I am not refering
to HB of theosophy, She was imprisoned in bubble of brotherhoods
out of the East. Rather the He, who with Shakespeare's mantle,
having found, buried in Arizona, the staff that Shakespeare buried
deeper than ever plumetted sound, has found the lost object in
a Devachan hole in the ozone out in the desert.
Harvey has more content in the swirl of a
sentence than three books. To unravel just a piece of the wool
of this mighty sky spinner has always made my pen halt in mid
air, my jaw sagging, and in baffled wonder sometimes say, Yea
and Amen. But that is just me.
Others find Harvey impossible to unravel.
He soars above Intellectual spin so ardently that snails of the
intellect fear that they might become bird food. To put it simply
Harvey upsets a lot of people who are unprepared for the soaring
Eagle ride he offers. They get off, green and puking, wishing
they could get their money back or at least quickly find a paper
bag to dispose of their flight sickness.
But, for all that, I kinda like Harvey. He
allows me to see around corners. But we have more of a feather
like this, Jan, Tarjei, Golden; Kim; Daniel..yup. The Michael
School aren't we the Santini's fledgling flight school. Snoopie
sitting on his own private dog house with his googles on. Each
of us Ring Bearers and Each of us asked to pull the Sword out
of the Stone. No need for Arthur, Goethe, Shakespeare and others
to stand there alone like Frodo. It's party and all are invited.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Click to subscribe to anthroposophy_tomorrow
January/February
2004
The Uncle
Taz "Anthroposophy Tomorrow" Files
Anthroposophy & Anarchism
Anthroposophy & Scientology
Anthroposophical
Morsels
Anthroposophy,
Critics, and Controversy
