Instead of the Freudian Triad being a muted, unholy, supernatural apparition… to the schizophrenic it is all too real and holy. The power of the Gods are felt in the body, and mapped by the mind. Devotion to one’s self is the schizophrenic’s project.

The triadic myth is the new God (And by “god”, I mean beyond the power we can feel or imagine). There are three. This is what I believe ( this is actually immanant knowledge of the Freudian Apparatus’) . The “internalised father figure” is one of the Gods. It’s a principle based transcendent “entity”, as well as libidinal energy. There are two. The third is another scale of psychology. It is the apex of the triad. In this case, is the self. We have yet to learn to examine the self in a thorough manner. The psychological debri from the explosion of consciousness and existential crisis from the shock of feeling your self. This feeling is impacting, pulling and tugging at our triadic Gods. The paradigm shift, and psyche shift is occuring. It is an aesthetic shift – meaning the picture of our psyche is changing, namely the apex (the self). I think it’s becoming more accurate. When we move to the third scale of the psyche (akin to physics scales, “qua-nta” from Latin, I think,) We will learn our own selves. Scales, oddly move with time. – The shift of the Gods is measured in psychological times. As the dogmas lift, the ammendment-rationality will eventually ammend the role of the Super-Ego, and seek to find its self. It might not be what we expect. As quanta (by this I mean, strictly power) discovers itself, we will kno the self. And as self, we are being-in-a-communal-world. A mechanism that we all must come to terms with… a machine. When this is fully felt, I don’t know what will happen.

IN THE spring, Tipasa is inhabited by gods and the gods speak in the sun and the scent of absinthe leaves, in the silver armor of the sea, in the raw blue sky, the flowercovered ruins, and the great bubbles of light among the heaps of stone. At certain hours of the day the countryside is black with sunlight. The eyes try in vain to perceive anything but drops of light and colors trembling on the lashes. The thick scent of aromatic plants tears at the throat and suffocates in the vast heat. Far away, I can just make out the black bulk of the Chenoua, rooted in the hills around the village, moving with a slow and heavy rhythm until finally it crouches in the sea.” – Albert Camus, Lyrical and Critical Essays 

The Gods are speaking to camus, but it’s not in a logically distinguishible category. It is through experience – through his beetle. It is something magical – inexplicable, yet it is described. What is being described is not attributive of semantic agreement of articles of speach. This excerpt is not something we can logically sift through. Camus’ experience is not interpretive, or interpreted, but aesthetically percieved. Aesthetics are at work here, as in a painting, and not interpretation. One gets a sense – a felling of Camus’ experience. A qualia to qualia relationship – or an aesthetic relationship. The whole is percieved instead of its parts being interpreted. The magic of the Gods are experienced.

 

This River Carried Me and a Flag I Never Thought I Had.

The white sun flared through,
wrapped its melting-gold fingers
around window trim and clutched walls.
It was reluctantly dipping
into the horizon of wood, like
a drowning man flailing
his grip through the water’s tip.

A sweet-oak smoke billowed from the grill
and wove a grey veil around
quiet slopes of light.

The river of my drink plunged me
into the stool in front of the bar-tender.

“The only thing I think I believe
is that I don’t believe in solipsism.”,
I flung between chimes of glasses
and muted murmurs from a ball-game.

I slumped over to the side and
glanced at myself in the mirror
between bottles of alcohol glinting
with wisps of white hair.
The curve of my cheek-bone
hung the flesh-flag of my I.
I liked it this time.
And it rippled in the breeze from my smile.

The sun was losing it’s golden grip.
The smoke-veil unraveled
and furled into the descending glare.

There was absolutely
nothing I could do about it.

—————————————————————

Money, Value, and a Response

“Four dollars a shot,”
marched from the bartender’s mouth –
each syllable carried the clanks
of Herbie’s Rhodes – jutting like
glacier crags in swells of desert-base.
They carried the smoke curling like
a silver chain draped around a neck,
and the bulges of slurred blurbs.

The words seeped from the regular collection of
the blood-sweet odor of smoke –
not the bartender.

I understood the bar, but I didn’t know what he meant.

The four dollars rustled out of my wallet
and crinkled on the table like
brittle leaves popping back into form.

The sap-colored whiskey
plunked on the bar,
and hummed a sharp
alcoholic song.

Masked, the bartender noticed
an obtuse heap of slurs that
rumpled his skin into a smile.
His shoulders flipped,
and he was swept into
the patterned shrub of sensation.

He was now an indeterminable piece in a clouded order.

I swilled the amber,
and stumbled through links of smoke
until I spilled out
into the violent protrusions of the quiet evening –
like sails glaring on a sun-crushed sea.

I still can’t figure out what that four dollars was worth,
or what the bartender said to me.

————————————————————————

Perpetual self-construction

A stool-propped demolition crane draped in a bulk of plaid,
swung a hefty hand clutching the amber lead.
His head, precariously balanced atop
with a two inch crown of gold hair,
(no strand left out in their upwards thrust)
found itself heavier when his eye’s gazed inward.
With amber slugged, adobe lips cracked as they
pushed shores of skin into wax-coated dunes.
His eyebrows collapsed into a frown only allowing
a small wound to peer through.

“Do you…not want to give me a cigarette?,”
he said to me, forgetting I was there.
“Here,” rested underneath my tongue,
as I handed him a smoke.

His fingers grasped it like they would
a piece of charcoal. Tossing the roasting ember to and fro,
he was conducting a visual symphony with the
lipstick tiled bar-room floor.
He drew it to his mouth,
with lips clasping gently around it, and his arm fell
to his lap.

For an instant, he found me through the
accumulating cloud of his smoke.
With the cigarette stuck to his lips, he asked
“Do you think I look like someone
who has never smoked cigarettes before?”
“I don’t know.” I answered to myself.

He walked home that night,
thinking he would see himself in the mirror.