After The Book of the Goddesses, The Great Passage and The Ultimate Dawn, this fourth part overturns the reassuring barriers of a commonly accepted reality. He makes us enter a world outside of the world, a time stopped from all eternity that has never been. And we? If we are virtual in this simulated life, will we really exist after that? In what beyond unimaginable?
I thought that I could no longer translate and decipher the rebus that make up the continuation of the Book of the Goddesses. I had to, I thought, make a famous break to find the thread of revelation. The Goddess does not hear it that way. She came, she was naked in all the virginal splendor of our infinite mother.
When I saw it, I trembled. When I heard it, I failed. But his words will forever remain engraved in my mortal, ugly and bancroche head that has pure only its absence. Its dementia and its insignificance.
That’s the beauty of it. The poor little man I am, a naked monkey without shelter in this hostile land, a beefy biped who has hardly anything to live for, a clown who came back from all but mad love, an old man on the move, a stranger of no importance, already forgotten who by the grace of John Sekie became the scribe of the Immense.
Scribbler unworthy of this too great mystery, I am silent. May His word enlighten us.
Book of the Goddesses, verses 111 to 115
111 In the infinite void of the uncreated submissive
112 In the distance, nothing is no more The impossible is admitted
113 The worst is desirable and all desire is dead
114 The near is the absolute Death is the heart of life
115 Life becomes non-life death becomes non-death
We have always existed in the uncreated. The astral. True life is elsewhere. Beyond false pretenses. Beyond death. We must accept our present state, it is absence. Absence to ourselves, absence to the true life, absence to our true nature which is pure light.
The uncreated is the pre-existing of the Gnostics. This non-world that has always been, but from which we are cut off here and now. We are prisoners of a world of dense matter, where all effort is painful, where the gravity crushes us, where our bodies are only a miserable copy of the body of light inhabited by the Self.
We have no dimension. We are a fictional point in the void, we whose nature is infinite. Can do better, the teacher writes in the margin of the notebook. The lazy student shrugs his shoulders. He knows that he can do better, he does it every night in his real life, without school, without degrees, without career, without profession, without youth, without old age, without nothing — to be able to embrace everything.
Book of the Goddesses, verses 116 to 120
116 Let’s resurrect fearless valour
117 Let us be drunk by the abyss perfumes
118 The other side is our raison d’être
119 In this non-world where there is
120 Neither world, nor side, nor reason or being
It takes courage to face the unknown. This non-world is unlike anything familiar. To start from scratch the path of life, of another life more true, brighter, less restrictive. It takes courage. But why fearless? Probably because we will face the unknown, even unknowable. No dream or nightmare, no imagination can prepare us for such a shock.
So we’ll have to hold on. Resist scattering. Keep our assembly point in its prime position. And gradually it will change place. It will grow. Our view of the outside will no longer be filtered by a single point, it will be emitted by the totality of our brightness. We can finally have an infinity of points of view in the same eternal moment.
We will not see it sparkle
Over the icy desert
The beloved silhouette
Of the sublime Hyperborea.
Gradually, our inner gaze will become accustomed to the unacceptable. And the last image we will take of our dying planet will come from a past already too far away to give us any regret. Oblivion of the last dawn, we will live the eternal zenith.
It is death I take, it is life that I am given.
Have I not lived so much for this infinite?
Pardi, it is the agony that wants to teach me how to live.
If life is left to me, death deliver me.
To live or die is a me, sails the drunk ship.
Love pleasure is never learned in books.
(John None)
Book of Goddesses, verses 121 to 125
121 Yes we have suffered shame, failed humans
122 Yes, we have received the promised punishment
123 Yes we have known the fear that disunites
124 These times are now honnis, banished, finished
125 Yes the past is no more and the future is not
Old biker I loved, better late than never, as Wan says. At the foot of the mystery we judge the enchanter. If you do, don’t judge me, Ladies of old. You were gone, here you are again. You seem to be woven with love. You were the queen of humans, united with us like fingers.
Book of the Goddesses, verses 126 to 131
126 Like oriflammes
127 To the celestial hearse
128 So deeply you suffer
129 Awaiting forever
130 The return of Circe
131 In the fury of flames
Circe, powerful magician, you who the fool Homer called polyphármakos,πολυφάρ μακος illustrious expert in drugs of all horizons, dedicated to multiple shocks, many poisons, you modify things, you metamorphosis us.
Shame is ours, good apostles. Let us drink to forget.
Let us drink ourselves to last in the joking embrace
Of a world as fakey as this painted canvas
(Moaning of the passing weeping)
Eternal refrain of finite time that lasts infinitely. Repeated couplet of an absent space that carries us yet. Incomprehensibly clear, obscurely clear, we hit the invisible walls that have never locked us. It is the conventions, the false rules, the non-existent constraints that make up the walls of our prison.
Take a step, one step and suddenly you breathe. the ordeal is no longer there. All vice has disappeared. There is no more morality or virtue. There is only love, seat and place of life, horizon of death, alcohol that delivers the need to be drunk.
As for the promised punishment
Do you know what it is?
Good or bad?
Is it inevitable?
Is this an ejection seat?
Could it be omitted?
At the end of the day?
To throw to the ants?
(I. Dunno)
Book of the Goddesses, verses 132 to 136
132 Space is abolished, nothing holds on yesterday
133 In the desert firmament the lights are turned off
134 Do not turn, do not look elsewhere
135 Everything is there before you, nothing, misfortune, happiness
136 Soon you will understand that these treasures are yours
More space, more time. Already it is incomprehensible. Nothing in our spatio-temporal experience allows us to understand eternity. And yet I tell you that it exists. Elsewhere than in the dream, elsewhere than in my views. So many old religions have taught our ancestors! It is true that the news has lulled us into deceptive illusions. It has sold us hard gold at the price of fine gold.
When there is no sky, where to look for the stars? When there is nothing recognizable, why search again? One would search in vain. The infinite can fit in the palm of your hand. But you no longer have a hand. Nor tomorrow. You have nothing. And the gods make you believe that the All belongs to you. It is for everyone, for all humans. He is also to the Martians, the Venusians, the Saturnians, the Jupiterians and all those of the Sun, faithful guardian of the scientists illusions.
The Whole is also to those of distant stars. To those of other worlds, other galaxies, other universes. All these shall have nothing, and the gods of there will tell them that they are everything. Soon you will understand that nothing is yours.
We will get it through infinity
This endless moment of eternity
Sad garbage and erased gilding
We will get it on the soil gliding
(I. Phorgott)
Let us drink to last in the lurking embrace
Of a world as fakey as this painted canvas
Serving as a home or prison
In the heart of a love that has no more season
(Moaning of the Passing Weeping)
Book of the Goddesses, verses 137 to 142
137 You already understand that you do not exist
138 Athena wants you here
139 Where everything is one. You go among your own
140 Infinite immobile that occurs everywhere
141 Do you want to grow and unite with the Great All?
142 Be nothing.
And if you didn’t exist tell me why I would exist? Joe Dassin No one else apparently exists, yet Athena or John Secchi speak to me as if I could hear them without ears and hearing. By tuting me! Like a sad German! These people are vexing. And too intrusive.
Note that in the uncreated they will not take any more place. No one will take any more, which will leave room for others. What place? What other? Well gods, name them! The uncreated is theirs, they have been there forever, and even before. They have the key, not us. They close twice as soon as they leave to piss on the rest of the world. Impossible to walk in. Which is better, because the non-gods evaporate as soon as they enter. Caution. Let us stay at home, in the hope that the gods will do likewise.
Jacques Prévert
Our Father who is in heaven
Stay there
And we will remain on earth
Who is sometimes so pretty
(…)
Sometimes it’s so rotten too. In Prévert’s time, it was less visible. Yet Paris was filthy, black with dirt and boredom, it rained racist confetti, the grocer was afraid of blacks, my concierge was afraid of fellaghas bombs, people were laughing yellow waiting for the danger of the same name, which never came that.
Fellaga or fellagha is a term used to describe any Algerian fighter who fought for the independence of his country between 1952 and 1962, which was then an integral part of French territory.
I have a “Visit Russia” sticker. It makes you laugh yellow, like danger. Let us stay at home, in the hope that the Russians and the gods will do likewise.
It is possible that I have completely screwed up my interpretation of the uncreated. The subject is not easy. I, who am supposedly created from all eternity, I who have been swept through the ether, describe the unseen I have facilities, but paint the nothingness that did not exist, I hold.
Let us drink to last in the lurking embrace
Of a world as fakey as this painted canvas
Serving as a home or prison
In the heart of a love that has no more season
Do drugs to forget how much they cheat us
As they grubbed at the foot of half-mast pavilions
(Moaning of the passing weeping)
Book of the Goddesses, verses 143 to 149
143 Desire nothing: there is no one, everything goes
144 Your loves are gone that will not return
145 Through your fault the void has been created around you
146 Your beloved are there you will not see
147 You hold them, you have them but the wind takes them away
148 Furious wind of nothingness that slaps and cleans you
149 Your sisters and brother who are they but you
If it’s not you, it’s your brother. I don’t have any. So it’s someone of yours.* Which one? Who cares? Keep calm and take your pills.
*Jean de La Fontaine, The Wolf and the Lamb
Let us drink to last in the lurking embrace
Of a world as fakey as this painted canvas
Serving as a home or prison
In the heart of a love that has no more season
Do drugs to forget how much they cheat us
As they grubbed at the foot of half-mast pavilions
The Goddess promised happiness to satiety
Plowing effortlessly the meadows of eternity
(Moaning of the passing weeping)
Book of the Goddesses, verses 150 to 155
150 Do not refuse you anymore, open yourself, let go
151 What you deny becomes the promised eternity
152 Dream half designed, unique freedom
153 The erased eons, the outmoded giants
154 Your hand holds nothing, now the void
155 Here all that lasts is in your child’s heart
Hand holding nothingness. Nothing holds anything anymore. The void of the uncreated bites the non-tail. It hurts less than a real one. There is no more evil, nor good. Nor indeed. There is almost nothing but the almost it too has passed its way. What to say of nothingness? Let him speak for himself:
I would not have said it better. Let’s close the non-parenthesis.
BE DRUNK
You must always be drunk, everything is there; that’s the only question. To not feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your shoulders and you lean towards the earth, you must be intoxicated without a pause. But what?
Of wine, poetry, or virtue as you please, but get drunk!
And if, sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, you wake up, drunk already or no longer, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock; to all that leaks, to all that groans, to everything that rolls, To all who sing, to all who speak, ask what time it is. And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you, it’s time to get drunk; not to be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk constantly with wine, poetry, virtue, as you please. (Charles Baudelaire)
Let us drink to last in the lurking embrace
Of a world as fakey as this painted canvas
Serving as a home or prison
In the heart of a love that has no more season
Do drugs to forget how much they cheat us
As they grubbed at the foot of half-mast pavilions
The Goddess promised happiness to satiety
Plowing effortlessly the meadows of eternity
(Moaning of the passing weeping)
Not to be the martyred slaves of time
Coming soon: The end of the world & the Fifth part of The Book of Goddesses, This Obscure Clarity
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