Year 2 Lunation 5

18 May 2015

Y2-L5


the Labyrinth of Solitude

14 May 2015

Life and Thought in Mexico by Octavio Paz (translated by Lysander Kemp)

“The other does not exist: this is rational faith, the incurable belief of human reason. Identity = reality, as if, in the end, everything must necessarily and absolutely be one and the same. But the other refuses to disappear; it subsists, it persists; it is the hard bone on which reason breaks its teeth.”
–Antonio Machado

III. the Day of the Dead

p50-52
New Year celebrations, in every culture, signify something beyond the mere observance of a date on the calendar. The day is a pause: time is stopped, is actually annihilated. The rites that celebrate its death are intended to provoke its rebirth, because they mark not only the end of an old year but also the beginning of a new. Everything attracts its opposite. The fiesta’s function, then, is more utilitarian than we think: waste attracts or promotes wealth, and is an investment like any other, except that the returns on it cannot be measured or counted. What is sought is potency, life, health. In this sense the fiesta, like the gift and the offering, is one of the most ancient of economic forms.

This interpretation has always seemed to me to be incomplete. The fiesta is by nature sacred, literally or figuratively, and above all it is the advent of the unusual. It is governed by its own special rules, that set it apart from other days, and it has a logic, an ethic and even an economy that are often in conflict with everyday norms. It all occurs in an enchanted world: time is transformed to a mythical past or a total present; space, the scene of the fiesta, is turned into a gaily decorated world of its own; and the persons taking part cast off all human or social rank and become, for the moment, living images. And everything takes place as if it were not so, as if it were a dream. But whatever happens, our actions have a greater lightness, a different gravity. They take on other meanings and with them we contract new obligations. We throw down our burdens of time and reason.

In certain fiestas the very notion of order disappears. Chaos comes back and license rules. Anything is permitted: the customary hierarchies vanish, along with all social, sex, caste, and trade distinctions. Men disguise themselves as women, gentlemen as slaves, the poor as the rich. The army, the clergy, and the law are ridiculed. Obligatory sacrilege, ritual profanation is committed. Love becomes promiscuity. Sometimes the fiesta becomes a Black Mass. Regulations, habits and customs are violated. Respectable people put away the dignified expressions and conservative clothes that isolate them, dress up in gaudy colors, hide behind a mask, and escape from themselves.

Therefore the fiesta is not only an excess, a ritual squandering of the goods painfully accumulated during the rest of the year; it is also a revolt, a sudden immersion in the formless, in pure being. By means of the fiesta society frees itself from the norms it has established. It ridicules its gods, its principles, and its laws: it denies its own self.

The fiesta is a revolution in the most literal sense of the word. In the confusion that it generates, society is dissolved, is drowned, insofar as it is an organism ruled according to certain laws and principles. But it drowns in itself, in its own original chaos or liberty. Everything is united: good and evil, day and night, the sacred and the profane. Everything merges, loses shape and individuality and returns to the primordial mass. The fiesta is a cosmic experiment, an experiment in disorder, reuniting contradictory elements and principles in order to bring about a renascence of life. Ritual death promotes a rebirth; vomiting increases the appetite; the orgy, sterile in itself, renews the fertility of the mother or of the earth. The fiesta is a return to a remote and undifferentiated state, prenatal or presocial. It is a return that is also a beginning, in accordance with the dialectic that is inherent in social processes.

The group emerges purified and strengthened from this plunge into chaos. It has immersed itself in its own origins, in the womb from which it came. To express it in another way, the fiesta denies society as an organic system of differentiated forms and principles, but affirms it as a source of creative energy. It is a true “re-creation,” the opposite of the “recreation” characterizing modern vacations, which do not entail any rites or ceremonies whatever and are as individualistic and sterile as the world that invented them.

Society communes with itself, during the fiesta. Its members return to original chaos and freedom. Social structures break down and new relationships, unexpected rules, capricious hierarchies are created. In the general disorder everybody forgets himself and enters into otherwise forbidden situations and places. The bounds between audience and actors, officials and servants, are erased. Everybody takes part in the fiesta, everybody is caught up in its whirlwind. Whatever its mood, its character, its meaning, the fiesta is participation, and this trait distinguishes it from all other ceremonies and social phenomena. Lay or religious, orgy or saturnalia, the fiesta is a social act based on the full participation of all its celebrants.

p54-55
The opposition between life and death was not so absolute to the ancient Mexicans as it is to us. Life extended into death, and vice versa. Death was not the natural end of life but one phase of an infinite cycle. Life, death and resurrection were stages of a cosmic process which repeated itself continuously. Life had no higher function than to flow into death, its opposite and complement; and death, in turn, was not an end in itself: man fed the insatiable hunger of life with his death. Sacrifices had a double purpose: on the one hand man participated in the creative process, at the same time paying back to the gods the debt contracted by his species; on the other hand he nourished cosmic life and also social life, which was nurtured by the former.

Perhaps the most characteristic aspect of this conception is the impersonal nature of the sacrifice. Since their lives did not belong to them, their deaths lacked any personal meaning. The dead – including warriors killed in battle and women dying in childbirth, companions of Huitzilopochtli the sun god – disappeared at the end of a certain period, to return to the undifferentiated country of the shadows, to be melted into the air, the earth, the fire, the animating substance of the universe. Our indigenous ancestors did not believe that their deaths belonged to them, just as they never thought that their lives were really theirs in the Christian sense. Everything wa examined to determine, from birth, the life and death of each man: his social class,, the year, the place, the day, the hour. The Aztec was as little responsible for his actions as for his death.

Space and time were bound together and formed an inseparable whole. There was a particular “time” for each place, each of the cardinal points and the center in which they were immobilized. And this … space-time possessed its own virtues and powers, which profoundly influenced and determined human life. To be born on a certain day was th to pertain to a place, a time, a color and a destiny. All was traced out in advance. Where we dissociate space and time, mere stage sets for the actions of our lives, there were as many “space-times” for the Aztecs as there were combinations of the priestly calendar, each one endowed with a particular qualitative significance, superior to human will.

VIII the Mexican Intelligentsia

p164-5
Alfonso Reyes offers us not only a criticism of language but also a philosophy and an ethics. It is not surprising, then, that while he defends the clarity of words and the universality of their meanings, he also points out a duty. The Mexican writer has certain specific obligations beyond the fidelity to language which should characterize every writer. The first and most important of these is to express our own nature – or, as Reyes put it, “to seek the soul of our nation.”This is an extremely arduous task, because we have only a received language, not one we created ourselves, to express the thoughts and feelings of our confused, inarticulate people. That is,we must use the language of Gongora and Quevedo, Cervantes and St. John of the Cross to express a very different world. For us, writing means breaking down the Spanish language and re-creating it in such a way that it becomes Mexican without ceasing to be Spanish. Our fidelity to language thus implies fidelity to our people and to a tradition that is ours only through an act of intellectual violence. Both terms of this immense obligation are vitally present in the writings of Alfonso Reyes, and for this reason his best work consists in the invention of a universal language and form that can contain all our unexpressed conflicts without smothering or disfiguring them.

IX the Dialectic of Solitude

p202-3
Love is one of the clearest examples of that double instinct which causes us to dig deeper into our own selves and, at the same time, to emerge from ourselves and to realize ourselves in another: death and re-creation, solitude and communion. But it is not the only one. In the life of every man there are periods that are both departures and reunions, separations and reconciliations. Each of these phases is an attempt to transcend our solitude, and is followed by an immersion in strange environments.

the child must face an irreducible reality, and at first he responds to its stimuli with tears or silence. The cord that united him with life has been broken, and he tries to restore it by means of play and affection. this is the beginning of a dialogue that ends only when he recites the monologue of his death. But his relations with the eternal world are not passive now, as they were in his prenatal life, because the world demands a response. Reality has to be peopled by his …. Thanks to games an fantasies, the inert natural world of adults – a chair, a book, anything – suddenly acquires a life of its own. The child uses the magic power of language and gesture, symbol or act, to create a living world in which objects are capable of replying to his questions. Language, freed of intellectual meanings, ceases to be a collection of signs and again becomes a delicate and magnetic organism. Verbal representation equals reproduction of the object itself, in the same way that a carving, for the primitive man, is not a representation but a double of the object represented. Speech again becomes a creative activity dealing with realities, that is, a potic activity. Through magic the child creates a world in his own image and thus resolves his solitude. Self-awareness begins when we doubt the magical efficacy of our instruments.

p208-212
The feeling of solitude, which is a nostalgic longing for the body from which we were cast out, is a longing for a place. According to an ancient belief, held by virtually all peoples, that place is the center of the world, the navel of the universe. Sometimes it is identified with paradise, and both of these with the group’s real or mythical place of origin. Among the Aztecs, the dead returned to Mictlan, a place situated in the north, from which they had emigrated. Almost all the rites connected with the founding of cities or houses allude to a search for that holy center from which we were riven out. The great sanctuaries – Rome, Jerusalem, Mecca – are at the center of the world, or symbolize and prefigure it. Pilgrimages to these sanctuaries are ritual repetitions of what each group did in the mythical past before establishing itself in the promised land. Teh custom of circling a house or city before entering it has the same origin.

The myth of the labyrinth pertains to this set of belies. SEveral related ideas make the labyrinth one of the most fertile and meaningful mythical symbols: the talisman or other object, capable of restoring health or freedom to the people, a the center of a sacred area; the hero or saint who, after doing penance and performing the rites of expiation, enters the labyrinth or enchanted palace; and the hero’s return either to save or redeem his city or to found a new one. In the Perseus myth the mystical elements are almost invisible, but in that of the Holy Grail asceticism and mysticism are closely related: sin, which causes sterility in the lands and subjects of the Fisher King; purification rites; spiritual combat; and, finally, grace – that is, communion.

We have been expelled from the center of the world and are condemned to search for it through jungles and deserts or in the underground mazes of the labyrinth. Also, there was a time when time was not succession and transition, but rather the perpetual source of a fixed present in which all times, past and future, were contained. When man was exiled from that eternity in which all ties were one, he entered chronometric time an became a prisoner of the clock and the calendar. As soon as time was divided up into yesterday, today and tomorrow, into hours, minutes and seconds, man ceased to be one with time, ceased to coincide with the flow of reality. When one says, “at this moment,” the moment has already passed. these spatial measurements of time separate man from reality – which is a continuous present – and turn all the presences in which reality manifests itself, as Bergson said, into phantasms.

If we consider the nature of these two opposing ideas, it becomes clear that chronometric time is a homogeneous succession lacking all particularity. It is always the same, always indifferent to pleasure or pain. Mythological time, on the other hand, is impregnated with all the particulars of our lives: it is as long as eternity or as short as a breath, ominous or propitious, fecund or sterile. This idea allows fr the existence of a number of varying times. Life and time coalesce to form a single whole, an indivisible unity. To the Aztecs, time was associated with space, and each day with one of the cardinal points. The same can be said of any religious calendar. A fiesta is more than a date or anniversary. It does not celebrate an event: it reproduces it. Chronometric time is destroyed and the eternal present – for a brief but immeasurable period – is reinstated. The fiesta becomes the creator of time; repetition becomes conception. the golden age returns. Whenever the priest officiates in the Mystery of the Holy Mass, Christ descends to the here and now, giving himself to man and saving the world. The true believers, as Kierkegaard wished, are “contemporaries of Jesus.” And myths and religious fiestas are not the only ways in which the present can interrupt succession. Love and poetry also offer us a brief revelation of this original time. Juan Ramon Jimenez wrote: “More time is not more eternity,” referring to the eternity of the poetic instant. Unquestionably the conception of time as a fixed present and as pure actuality is more ancient than that of chronometric time, which is not an immediate apprehension of the flow of reality but is instead a rationalization of its passing.

This dichotomy is expressed in the opposition between history and myth or between history and poetry. In myth – as in religious fiestas or children’s stories – time has no dates: “Once upon a time…” “In the days when animals could talk…” “In the beginning…” And that beginning, which is not such-and-such a year or day, contains all beginnings and ushers us into living time where everything truly begins every instant. Through ritual, which realizes and reproduces a mythical account, and also through poetry and fairy tales, man gains access to a world in which opposites are reconciled and united. As VAn der Leeuw said, “all rituals have the property of taking place in the now, at this very instant.” Every poem we read is a re-creation, that is, a ceremonial ritual, a fiesta.

The theater and the epic are also fiestas. In theatrical performances and in the reciting of poetry, ordinary time ceases to operate and is replaced by original time. Thanks to participation, the mythical time – father of all the times that mask reality – coincides with our inner, subjective time. Man, the prisoner of succession, breaks out of his invisible jail and enters living time: his subjective life becomes identical with the exterior time, because this has ceased to be a spatial measurement and has changed into a source, a spring, in the absolute present, endlessly re-creating itself. Myths and fiestas, whether secular or religious, permit man to emerge from his solitude and become one with creation. Therefore myth – disguised, obscure, hidden – reappears in almost all our acts and intervenes decisively in our history: it opens the doors of communion.

Contemporary man has rationalized the myths, but he has not been able to destroy them. many of our scientific truths, like the majority of our moral, political and philosophical conceptions, are only new ways of expressing tendencies that were embodied earlier in mythical forms. The rational language of our day can barely hide the ancient myths behind it. Utopias – especially modern political utopias (despite their rationalistic disguises) – are violently concentrated expressions fo the tendency that causes every society to imagine a golden age from which the social group was exiled and to which man will return on the Day of Days. Modern fiestas – political meetings, parades, demonstrations and other ritual acts – prefigure the advent of that day of redemption. Everyone hopes society will return to its original freedom, and man to his primitive purity. Then time will cease to torment us with doubts, with the necessity of choosing between good and evil, the just and the unjust, the real and the imaginary. The kingdom of the fixed present, of perpetual communion, will be re-established. REality will tear off its masks, and at last we will be able to know both it and our fellow men.

Every moribund or sterile society attempts to save itself by creating a redemption myth which is also a fertility myth, a creation myth. Solitude and sin are resolved in communion and fertility. The society we live in today has also created its myth. The sterility of the bourgeois world will end in suicide or a new form of creative participation. This is the “theme of our times,” in Ortega y Gasset’s phrase; it is the substance of our dreams and the meaning of our acts.

Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the mazes of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason. When we emerge, perhaps we will realize that we have been dreaming with our eyes open, and that the dreams of reason are intolerable. And then, perhaps, we will begin to dream once more with our eyes closed.


Sunstone by Octavio Paz

11 May 2015

in translation from the Spanish

                      Sun stone


	willow of crystal, a poplar of water, 
	a pillar of fountain by the wind drawn over, 
	tree that is firmly rooted and that dances, 
	turning course of a river that goes curving,
	advances and retreats, goes roundabout, 
	arriving forever:
                  	the calm course of a star 
	or the spring, appearing without urgency, 
	water behind a stillness of closed eyelids 
	flowing all night and pouring out prophecies, 
	a single presence in the procession of waves 
	wave over wave until all is overlapped, 
	in a green sovereignty without decline 
	a bright hallucination of many wings 
	when they all open at the height of the sky, 

	course of a journey among the densities 
	of the days of the future and the fateful 
	brilliance of misery shining like a bird 
	that petrifies the forest with its singing 
	and the annunciations of happiness 
	among the branches which go disappearing, 
	hours of light even now pecked away by the birds, 
	omens which even now fly out of my hand, 

	an actual presence like a burst of singing,
	like the song of the wind in a burning building,
	a long look holding the whole world suspended, 
	the world with all its seas and all its mountains, 
	body of light as it is filtered through agate, 
	the thighs of light, the belly of light, the bays, 
	the solar rock and the cloud-colored body, 
	color of day that goes racing and leaping, 
	the hour glitters and assumes its body, 
	now the world stands, visible through your body, 
	and is transparent through your transparency, 

	I go a journey in galleries of sound, 
	I flow among the resonant presences 
	going, a blind man passing transparencies, 
	one mirror cancels me, I rise from another, 
	forest whose trees are the pillars of magic, 
	under the arches of light I go among 
	the corridors of a dissolving autumn, 

	I go among your body as among the world, 
	your belly the sunlit center of the city, 
	your breasts two churches where are celebrated 
	the great parallel mysteries of the blood, 
	the looks of my eyes cover you like ivy, 
	you are a city by the sea assaulted, 
	you are a rampart by the light divided 
	into two halves, distinct, color of peaches, 
	and you are saltiness, you are rocks and birds 
	beneath the edict of concentrated noon 

	and dressed in the coloring of my desires 
	you go as naked as my thoughts go naked, 
	I go among your eyes as I swim water, 
	the tigers come to these eyes to drink their dreams, 
	the hummingbird is burning among these flames, 
	I go upon your forehead as on the moon, 
	like cloud I go among your imagining 
	journey your belly as I journey your dream, 

	your loins are harvest, a field of waves and singing, 
	your loins are crystal and your loins are water, 
	your lips, your hair, the looks you give me, they 
	all night shower down like rain, and all day long 
	you open up my breast with your fingers of water, 
	you close my eyelids with your mouth of water, 
	raining upon my bones, and in my breast 
	the roots of water drive deep a liquid tree, 

	I travel through your waist as through a river, 
	I voyage your body as through a grove going, 
	as by a footpath going up a mountain 
	and suddenly coming upon a steep ravine 
	I go the straitened way of your keen thoughts 
	break through to daylight upon your white forehead 
	and there my spirit flings itself down, is shattered 
	now I collect my fragments one by one 
	and go on, bodiless, searching, in the dark....

	you take on the likeness of a tree, a cloud, 
	you are all birds and now you are a star, 
	now you resemble the sharp edge of a sword 
	and now the executioner's bowl of blood, 
	the encroaching ivy that over grows and then 
	roots out the soul and divides it from itself, 

	writing of fire on the slab of jade,
	the cleft in the rock, serpent-goddess and queen,
	pillar of cloud, and fountain struck from the stone, 
	the nest of eagles, the circle of the moon,
	the seed of anise, mortal and smallest thorn 
	that has the power to give immortal pain, 
	shepherd of valleys underneath the sea 
	and guardian of the valley of the dead, 
	liana that hangs at the pitch of vertigo, 
	climber and bindweed and the venomous plant, 
	flower of resurrection and grape of life, 
	lady of the flute and of the lightning-flash, 
	terrace of jasmine, and salt rubbed in the wound, 
	a branch of roses for the man shot down, 
	snowstorm in August, moon of the harrowing, 
	the writing of the sea cut in basalt, 
	the writing of the wind upon the desert, 
	testament of the sun, pomegranate, wheat-ear....

                         	life and death
	are reconciled in thee, lady of midnight, 
	tower of clarity, empress of daybreak, 
	moon virgin, mother of all mother liquids, 
	body and flesh of the world, the house of death, 
	I have been endlessly falling since my birth, 
	I fall in my own self, never touch my depth, 
	gather me in your eyes, at last bring together 
	my scattered dust, make peace among my ashes, 
	bind the dismemberment of my bones, and breathe 
	upon my being, bring me to earth in your earth, 
	your silence of peace to the intellectual act 
	against itself aroused;
                         open now your hand 
	lady of the seeds of life, seeds that are days, 
	day is an immortality, it rises, it grows, 
	is done with being born and never is done, 
	every day is a birth, and every daybreak 
	another birthplace and I am the break of day, 
	we all dawn on the day, the sun dawns and 
	daybreak is the face of the sun....

	gate of our being, awaken me, bring dawn, 
	grant that I see the face of the living day, 
	grant that I see the face of this live night, 
	everything speaks now, everything is transformed, 
	O arch of blood, bridge of our pulse beating, 
	carry me through to the far side of this night....

	gateway of being: open your being, awaken, 
	learn then to be, begin to carve your face, 
	develop your elements, and keep your vision 
	keen to look at my face, as I at yours, 
	keen to look full at life right through to death, 
	faces of sea, of bread, of rock, of fountain, 
	the spring of origin which will dissolve our faces 
	in the nameless face, existence without face 
	the inexpressible presence of presences...

	I want to go on, to go beyond; I cannot; 
	the moment scatters itself in many things, 
	I have slept the dreams of the stone that never dreams 
	and deep among the dreams of years like stones 
	have heard the singing of my imprisoned blood, 
	with a premonition of light the sea sang, 
	and one by one the barriers give way, 
	all of the gates have fallen to decay, 
	the sun has forced an entrance through my forehead, 
	has opened my eyelids at last that were kept closed, 
	unfastened my being of its swaddling clothes, 
	has rooted me out of my self, and separated 
	me from my animal sleep centuries of stone 
	and the magic of reflections resurrects 
	willow of crystal, a poplar of water, 
	a pillar of fountain by the wind drawn over, 
	tree that is firmly rooted and that dances, 
	turning course of a river that goes curving, 
	advances and retreats, goes roundabout, 
	arriving forever:





	
	





Apple Butter

11 May 2015

rich amber sweetness.

With an abundance of inexpensive apples from the end of the storage season, this is much less expensive than buying apple butter at outrageous prices. I don’t recommend doing this on an unseasonably hot evening as I did. The oven’s on for a long time.

Ingredients

(these are relative ratios – I used 6lbs of empire and macintosh apples for this, and adjusted the rest)

1 pound assorted apples, peeled and chopped
1/2 cup apple cider
1/8 cup maple syrup
pinch Kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pinch of ground allspice

1. combine apples, cider, syrup and a pinch of salt (1/8 tsp) in a dutch oven or other pot you can put in the oven. You’ll need to. Heat over medium heat until it comes to a simmer, and leave the apples to soften. Takes about 20 minutes.

2. remove from heat. add lemon juice, cinnamon, vanilla, and allspice. Puree the mess with an immersion blender, or a regular blender in batches. You’ll want this to be very smooth.

3. place in a 250F oven, uncovered, and bake for 2 1/2 to 3 1/2 hours, stirring every 30 minutes. The apple goo will thicken an darken to a rich caramel brown.

4. remove from oven, let cool, and store in refrigerator. It won’t keep for too long, so share, and feast as is your inkling.


Year 2 Month 5

11 May 2015

Y2M5


Year 2 Midquarter 1

7 May 2015

Mayday according to theAbysmal

Year-1---wheel-of-the-year

May 1 is traditionally a time for fertility rituals (I recall wrapping a maypole, fwiw), flowers, mothers, and other symbols of fecundity (in the southern hemisphere, the sun retreats farther north still). It’s also the day for the labour movement (along with labour day).


Leap Days Solve Every Problem

20 April 2015

XKCD knows this


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