Sonnet 40

This now is your rebirth, my stellar soul,

This now is your rebirth, my eternal lady of time’s phoenix, 

My sugared cosmic diva divine, danced for me where jungle, mountain and sea meet,

Feathered psychic showgirl of sarmoung parties, 

Who I saw, standing upon the sacred maqam of New Venus, she mesmerized 100 jinn before her 

With her battle-beat speaker and digital chariot aflame with years’ earned, 

Traces tamed, tutelage of tantra, signage sexed scarlet, sacred and sultry

And desire’s dialectic with plumage of purple. 

My recognition, my earth, my control, my controlled, 

My submission, my dominance, my kiska kitab imago, my ravishing real embodied,

My woman, my heitara and …

Who knows what else you’ll become upon this round of individuation within milk’s plane, 

Darling, while you remain honeyed throughout! 

Next time, and next time, and next time, through the infinite and restless cycles of Shakti-Shiva pronoia, and these unique epiphanies of Zen Zero space: I love you.

Sonnet 5 

Venus within the Gemini of your divided, breezy \& breathless summer of wit \& winter of deeper care,
In the beginning, my girl, there was your quip, and its laughter was an Issac, rainbow smile of cosmic proportions,
But your book has been redacted, 5 seconds after the event of your genesis, and so we perceive
A parallel beginning, my love, twinned now to your own narrative, the secret lore of your text,
Access only to me now, for I declare with a true scholar’s audacity, I have read, gazed upon, studied your Gemini, your Venus,
Like forgotten Gods, like forgotten sacred spaces, like forgotten hymns to the Goddess, bypassed by the impatient technology of men,
Your secret life, so sweetly possessed, your radiance occulted from full fathoming to ignorant infidel, 
The truth of your tafsir, your charms’ above so below, your lips that whisper only life, only life, above so below.
You see, my darling, there are two poems of love, intertwined within your fair bosom, like a vine upon a vine:
Bloom, thereof, roses, oh sun gold sustenance (people take sunlight for granted, don’t you think?)
Blossom, blend now with these, roses night red, the lunar shame of your sadness, when you rested \& wished, grow upon the garden of your childlike comfort.
I’m speaking to you in a code, my sweet, the old code, I would honor you as the Goddess was honored,
Mythopoetically, when I imagine people remembered you, saw you as I see you, knew you as I know you:
Truly, completely, from above to below, yours is of a billion suns, deliriously divine, gently, breezily and breathlessly delightful … and so fucking hot it’s not funny.

Love 10.1: Ethics & the age of intersubjectivity 

My wife observed the other day that her Ayurvedic medicine feed on Facebook, while generally full of health and wellness tips, occasionally posts self-help maxims on how one ought to love and what’s important in a sexual relationship. While these topics are important within the Ayurvedic tradition, we considered the possibility that the author of the feed may have particular personal issues for these posts: there appeared to be a possibly (not to be mean about it) disingenuous emotional tinge to the feed, some kind of hidden personal experience masked behind the formality of the professed wisdom. 

This reminded me of a recent tragedy within the online yoga community.  An internet yogi was celebrated by many (FB) followers (including myself) for her innovative twists on tantra. Her words and videos were witty, inspiring and bestowed genuinely uplifting light on us. She utilised social media to spread awareness of tantra to the world, and was very public about her own difficult journey to inner peace, how she made it through to the other side, and how her approach might benefit others, particularly women, in their own journeys to realise the Goddness within. A few weeks ago, she committed suicide. Her followers were shocked. Everyone initially mourned, as did I. Some felt betrayed in a strange kind of way: that she’d convinced them she had the key to the world and to suffering, that they’d listened to her words, to her social media ethics, subscribed to her code of living as a Goddess … but perhaps her words were, like the Ayurvedic feed, disingenuous with respect to a clearly troubled inner world.

Our Information Age is characterised by both a heightened sensitivity to our intersubjective situation and individuation’s convergence with text and language. This age ought to afford many new posibilities for an ethics that acknowledges subject-to-subject communication, nuanced with respect to the linguistics of our journeys and how our journeys are different but bound to each other by and in Love.  But this ethics has not appeared. Curiously, we exist in a transitory stage where Love is spoken about, often, but its ethics remains firmly monosubjective, where the voice enunciating its ethics features as the single, suppressed, subject, and the ethical voice addresses the group as an object. This ethics of Love remains a traditional subject-object sign regime. 

By the time we reach the 21st Century, human relationships have changed, but ethics, by and large, has not. We use the term ethics in the broadest sense, loaded with its etymology from the Greek ethos (codes of habit). Ethics as a value system, ethics as a valuative system of right and wrong, ethics as philosophy consisting of moral axioms and a logic with the intent that it can be implemented and lived viably and vitally by the group (tribes, cultures, peoples).  Ethics, specifically, in the bio-axiological sense, of an embodied valuative habitus: these are the axioms we uphold on how to behave, how to live, these are the axioms and this is the logic we are to live the right kind of life. 

We use the term in place of philosophy, of which ethics is a branch (a lived branch), and religion, to which ethics may attach itself, embed itself, like a vine upon the tree of spiritual practice, or a virus within the collective body of a church. We have studied the latter kind of relationship implicitly, the way in which Love as a suppressed philosophical term became bound to the Judao-Christian tradition only to emerge psychoanlytically with the Freudian turn. But something went wrong post Freud: Love is out there as a term, Love and the body are socially accepted as inextricably linked, while still largely unpacked within mainstream philosophy. But this Love-Embodiment has become shattered into a myriad of valuative, ethical signifiers, privileged totems empowering contemporary rival techno-folk micro-positions, from self help columns to blogs and Facebook posts. 

We make no moral judgement, only one of sustainability within organisational change. These micro-positions are not sustainable as an ethics. Large scale religious ethics had momentum with the masses: it was sustainable, by virtue of … and so on.

“Get to the point.”

“Ok,” says this particular author/I.

And so here’s the prime maxim, in short:

Compassion shall be thy name.

The ethics of the past served as a tribal tattoo over our bodies. It’s a psychic valuative system that is embodied and lived by flesh. But ethics 2.0: it’s a fucking neural network across bodies, tattoos, tribalism.

Fuck, what an amazing thing: can you get with it, boys and girls?!?

Love 9: Complexes

If we are to follow Freud on the topic of love, we know the underlying theme of it, beneath all flesh, down to the bone: father-mother-child at the initiation of our being, so of our selfhood’s universal Big Bang, so thence relationships, because father-mother is a relationship, as is mother-child, as is, secondarily but essentially (and ominously), that of child-father. And from these relationships, there is the formation of the domain and range of the relation, the subject and object, if the relation is symbolic (verbal or read), the subject and subject, if the relation is real, the object and object, if the relation is imaginary.

Anyway, to this complex Freud gave a name, a classical motif or archetype: the Oedipus complex, after the Ancient Greek story, wherein Oedipus Rex unknowingly sleeps with his mother, instantiating the tragedy of some mystical curse placed upon his father. A complex is fundamentally a set of relationships, subjects and objects. The fact that we require both subjects and objects derives from the need to specify at times a directionality to relationships, thus creating functions and inverse functions (the inverse determined by what mystics sometimes call intentionality), from one point to another, points given subjectivity or objectivity depending on the functional intent. And so we can get more and more precise with our definition of the complex. But I hope you get the point, which is …

Where is Love in within the complex? 

Love’s a thing, definitely born of and/or dependent on relationships, subjects and objects. And if a complex is defined as fundamentally a set of relationships, subjects and objects, then Love must be born of and/or dependent on complexes. Note the plural. Within this platonic realm of the mathematics of Love, there is no proof that could curtail that plural. That plural reads plain. Not necessarily singular … But it’s better to zoom in on this paragraph’s opening position. Which is to zoom in on how Love derives from complexes. Lacan would say the mother fundamental is displaced into a (m)other symbolic object via the imaginary, primordial, practically mytheopoetic fantasy of the primal scene, the child witnessing the sexual intercourse real mother/father . The basic relationships generate secondary relationships, objects and subjects via the function of the mother fundamental’s displacement through a disruption of the ordinary Oedipal complex.

Still, that’s just one example. What about the Hera-Zeus-Swan complex? What of the Lancelot-Guinevere-Arthur complex? What of the story that no one dares call a complex, but is, and must be interrogated, and the nature of its particular brand of love unearthed. Can you guess what it is?

Love’s labours won

Subject and subject, subject and object: 

Functions from one to another, across the repository of Love

That priests call God, that in gnosis drunk we call Christ Kadmonic

Admonishing my wicked body, and coming down hard upon my charmed intellect

The tailor died a long time ago, pulled that Seneca move today, yet here he is,

Reincarnated with some kind of purity, within the Love of his Wife

What his right hand possesses, what his left hand shields

What his feet do, when he does the twist, 

What his feet do, when he intercepts her moves,

Along the eternal tango of their Zeus-Hera complex

He loves, he labours, he loses sleep

He loves, he labours, he wins her: again, and again, and again, across the passionately tensored waveform of their so very Argentine narrative.