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 anthroposophy_tomorrow@yahoogroups.com, 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.

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