“Si les vers ont esté l’abus de ma jeunesse, les vers seront aussi l’appuy de ma vieillesse. S’ils furent ma folie, ils seront ma raison.”
“If poetry has been the abuse of my youth, it will be the support of my old age. If it was my folly, it will be my reason.”— Joachim Du Bellay.
I’m here lying on my back, looking into a bare bulb. A perfect knob of light, turned into photon straw that is thatched across the wrinkled, mirrored, mylar ceiling of my office. I love to meditate on Light. On light as what? As both pure perception and the most truthful event. I stare into bare bulbs, into the Sun, to drink. The mind is an iris. Isn’t is funny that we snicker at the Sun cults of previous cultures. At Incas or Akhenaten. It is ridiculous and inexcusable that we do not worship the Sun. The Sun: a fiery being, a hundred times the size of our world, of infinite energy, that is the Creator of all light, warmth, and life— you cannot ask anything more of a god than this. If we cannot worship such a being, then we have robbed worship of all meaning.
The Sun is the origin of meaning. Gilgamesh pleas that he may see the light of the Sun until he is “dazzled by looking.” Please, yes. For him, Death is a confusion; a dissipation of the Senses. Hell would be cold. Far away from light and perception. Plutonic… Never the sulphuric Hell of modern Christendom— Hell as a spiritualization of revenge.
I have to drive the rest of my books to Virginia tomorrow.
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