09-30-2015, 12:56 PM
^^^My bad, I guess. 
By the title of the poem "Our Father" I was merely referring to the masculine creative energy/persona/mythos of the universe. I was born and raised Catholic (am no longer), thus the title of the poem. It was basically conceived and written from a Gnostic and Kabbalahistic perspective, the idea that the creation and the fall were a single event, an event taking place in the mind of God beyond time, space, and materiality, an event in which some entire past was concluded at precisely the moment some entire future was being conceived, as if one was entirely dependent upon the other. Obviously, the theme of eternal recurrence comes into play at such a moment.
What I was fascinated by was the idea of putting an anthropomorphic spin upon the idea of "creation ex nihilo" (in the purest, post Enlightenment, scientific sense of the term), or, put another way, to attempt to express such a thing within a psychological context. That's what drew me to both the Kabbalah and Gnostic scripture in the first place, the only mythic systems that I know of that truly grant God an internal psychological complexity worthy of an entity attributed with the full weight and gravity of "initial cause" (and consequence). I mean, let's face it, from an anthropomorphic perspective, this God really fucked up, had to be "asleep-at-the-wheel" to have conceived of such an improbable and precarious sequence of events that led to the dawn of human consciousness in the first place, this before we even get into all necessary contingencies for the cultural development of our species to something approximating rationality, and all the ignorance, suffering and cruelty along our stumbling and bumbling productive and destructive ways. Yes, what could have possibly blinded such a creator God at that most eternally and universally significant moment a mind could possibly imagine or conceive? It's a puzzling bewilderment of wonder when you think about it in such a way.
It was then that I had that stunning moment of realization. I saw it. It was "otherness", perfect otherness that blinded such a God at such an eternally and universally significant moment...
Beholding but the beauty of the gift...
I never imagined that it could be so simple. What weakens us. What inspires us. What we most want to escape. What we most want to create. The past...
One sentimental moment to redeem...
The exact price that was paid.
This was a God I could resurrect. This was a God I could forgive. This was a God I could understand. This was a God just like me.
Carl Jung was fascinated by depth psychology, which of course brought him to the Gnostics. I'm not sure if he delved into the mystical musings of one Isaac Luria, but my guess was that he did. It's so hard to dive so deep. Everything starts to melt, to dissipate, and you know not whether you will have the one remaining "wit" to see, to behold, to grasp.
That's what I love about poetry. The best shit goes after those moments down to the last remaining wit. I love that quality in poets.
Anyway...just babbling...don't mind me.
By the title of the poem "Our Father" I was merely referring to the masculine creative energy/persona/mythos of the universe. I was born and raised Catholic (am no longer), thus the title of the poem. It was basically conceived and written from a Gnostic and Kabbalahistic perspective, the idea that the creation and the fall were a single event, an event taking place in the mind of God beyond time, space, and materiality, an event in which some entire past was concluded at precisely the moment some entire future was being conceived, as if one was entirely dependent upon the other. Obviously, the theme of eternal recurrence comes into play at such a moment. What I was fascinated by was the idea of putting an anthropomorphic spin upon the idea of "creation ex nihilo" (in the purest, post Enlightenment, scientific sense of the term), or, put another way, to attempt to express such a thing within a psychological context. That's what drew me to both the Kabbalah and Gnostic scripture in the first place, the only mythic systems that I know of that truly grant God an internal psychological complexity worthy of an entity attributed with the full weight and gravity of "initial cause" (and consequence). I mean, let's face it, from an anthropomorphic perspective, this God really fucked up, had to be "asleep-at-the-wheel" to have conceived of such an improbable and precarious sequence of events that led to the dawn of human consciousness in the first place, this before we even get into all necessary contingencies for the cultural development of our species to something approximating rationality, and all the ignorance, suffering and cruelty along our stumbling and bumbling productive and destructive ways. Yes, what could have possibly blinded such a creator God at that most eternally and universally significant moment a mind could possibly imagine or conceive? It's a puzzling bewilderment of wonder when you think about it in such a way.
It was then that I had that stunning moment of realization. I saw it. It was "otherness", perfect otherness that blinded such a God at such an eternally and universally significant moment...
Beholding but the beauty of the gift...
I never imagined that it could be so simple. What weakens us. What inspires us. What we most want to escape. What we most want to create. The past...
One sentimental moment to redeem...
The exact price that was paid.
This was a God I could resurrect. This was a God I could forgive. This was a God I could understand. This was a God just like me.
Carl Jung was fascinated by depth psychology, which of course brought him to the Gnostics. I'm not sure if he delved into the mystical musings of one Isaac Luria, but my guess was that he did. It's so hard to dive so deep. Everything starts to melt, to dissipate, and you know not whether you will have the one remaining "wit" to see, to behold, to grasp.
That's what I love about poetry. The best shit goes after those moments down to the last remaining wit. I love that quality in poets.
Anyway...just babbling...don't mind me.
You can't hate me more than I hate myself. I win.
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."
"When the spirit of justice eloped on the wings
Of a quivering vibrato's bittersweet sting."