Coping with a disaster of forms

As I meditate on / stare at these Rajput “painted poems,” I ask by what means can I find the epic, the ecstatic, that has its roots, its generative element planted and springing from something free of the material. That is to ask, even, not how I might find a generative element radically free of the material, but rather, simply, somehow free of the material. A righteous man should be in the world, killing, even, if that is what his world demands, but always with his fruits, his intentions, offered to God; but how does one know if one should kill? And how to feel right about killing?

The impossible is the demand; the duty is the meeting of. The joke is on the human. The structuring that demands faith in classes is a construction and a dysfunction but the demands made therein are worth pulling from the flames of the Sati pyre. Perhaps my caste is widow, previously unnamed, but righteously most righteous. I create my utmost emotional and aesthetic universe out of burning things, things burning. Better yet, smoldering things – the “smolder” is the fire that is seems never to go out although, of course, it is out. The smoldering thing burns with little smoke and no flame. The smoldering thing burns nearly undetected. The smoldering flame makes great advancements with no leaps – it can be epic in scope and course without drawing the attention that the epic normally entails. It is in this way the entire course of all things, the truly and certainly cosmic, is smoldering. The advance is passings and trappings slipping and burning away. Why it most makes sense in the most non-material, senseless, “chaotic” moments is for the true mystic to understand and not adequately explain, painful as it may be for the rest of us to have to come to terms with. My own personal epic was executed painfully out of tune by loving friends, smoldering as it was, is, and will always be.

It is a disaster of forms that leaves us all grabbing at ourselves, trying to sense and make sense. As it all smolders around us, we attempt and attempt and construct attempts. Our only recourse is to secrets. That has been and always will be the way. From our youth, it is constructed as such, and from the very history of those that dwelt in caves, intoning and smoldering, that has been the way. The only real question at this point in history is whether or not those in the caves felt any sense of remorse – or shame – for having and keeping secrets from the rest of the walking universe. My bet is that those very people got considerably off on the danger of the secret itself. The secret is the smoldering, and there is no anything worthwhile without that very sense. God is the picture clandestinely handed over, beneath the very nose of the one who does not want you to hold it, to regard it. She is the “I didn’t smoke” “I didn’t touch myself” “I didn’t snicker”; but not simply that. That, then, is the generative moment. Beyond that, there is the truth of the situation. Beyond that, then, is the knowledge of the truth of the situation. It is, then, the apprehension of the knowledge of the truth of the situation. Somewhere within all of that resides the object of this particular inquiry. Or rather, and more precisely, somewhere within all of that resides the method of attaining the object of this particular inquiry. Do well by the world, while it is yours, and recognize the faces of those who are somehow more than entirely lost within it, those who cannot but rest in that pyre. If I am anything, it is a widow of forms, as my lazy eyes, steeped in shame, graze those particular devices to which I have consistently laid waste in my unfortunate tendency towards neglect. There is no freedom but through the very things which will most demand our bondage.