Douglas Mercer
May 19 2024
That certain people are implicated in a network of prophecy becomes patently clear from the birds-eye perspective; that they are thrust into it and as they come out the other side they become (sometimes) partially conscious agents of it, or a preliminary version of it. That John Lennon and Paul McCartney are the greatest artists of the past seventy-five years (since Breker) is also passionately clear. This may seem odd given that in their wake they brought massive harm and even devastation—a movement counter to tradition and counter to our Folk. But within the final destining there are destinings within destinings and history, true history, only has cunning passages---and deceives by vanities. It is not beneath the words to choose any old person to further its goals, to publicize it, as the word, the divine force, the life force, is both impersonal and suprapersonal. Human beings are fallible and can easily be discarded---but language is eternal. The only factor that the agents plays is that of timing, that of appearing at the proper time, in the proper historical situation, in the imperishable economy of the plan.
During the time of their working together it was Lennon who was the more prophetic---words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup they slither wildly as they slip away across the universe, thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box, they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe—cosmic words, rain (reign), paper (writing), wind (breath is speech), letter box (written letters, runes). Though one could argue that “it’s coming down fast” gets the job done with more precision. But once the pairing was over Lennon’s voice was only a faint mechanical echo—we will be playing those mind games forever, some kind of druid dude—whereas McCartney became conscious of the gift that had been laid surprisingly at his door—somebody’s knocking at our door, somebody’s ringing our bell, do me a favor, open the door let him in, or I believe I’m going to rain. Transparent and cryptic in equal measures, he played a hinge but not final role in the coming of unconcealment. Hear any interview with him and he’s more or less a nondescript bloke but it is never beneath the gods to stoop to conquer.
***
Martin Heidegger said that destiny’s song neatest trick was the way it concealed itself, the way it withdrew from man. That is even in the off instance when a particular man was even aware of it it would turn its face away from him until it deemed itself ready to be seen. That is it hides itself (Heidegger: the one who hides the eggs), and it’s most cardinal way of hiding itself is that to the untrained eye and the untutored ear it must seem plainly preposterous, that is the truth will come into the world wearing a fool’s cap (fool on the hill), possibly even as an ill-mannered buffoon. That is it will seem to most like tossing a stone in a canyon and listening for the echo. The truth will also offend people because it will make them feel stupid and will threaten them (nobody likes him, they can see what he wants to do). So that a band of drugged out dirty hippies ostensibly and ostentatiously preaching a lukewarm brand of insipid love should usher in the word of the esoteric secret sacred narrative of tradition---it might seem very strange—but one should never look a gift horse in the mouth or the eyes or anything human but listen to the singing of the word’s voice. If this seems at first (or any) blush like vain cobweb spinning it’s meant to. It just has to be laid out step by step until like in the theory of Ariadne’s thread applied to a logic puzzle all possibilities save one are exhausted, the one that is not exhausted being inexhaustible. That is the only one who can emerge from the labyrinth of time is the black widow dream spider spinning out and unspooling Ariadne’s red thread and leave a few breadcrumbs behind to direct the wary traveler on the way to language. Just follow the bouncing ball and all will be clear and revealed in the end.
***
Consider that a man with impeccable Nordic features named David Robert Jones, who talked about eyes of blue, visions of swastikas, and plans for everyone (albeit equivocally it is true) should also have sat down with a television disc jockey arguing for more nigger music and married a black woman---this is just part of the concealment process. He was also obsessed with the cosmic and often dressed as an alien transvestite. But one must always consider the source, not the mouth that speaks it; the horse’s mouth. You always have to consider the source provided you know what the source is.
I look out my window what do I see
A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me
I think about a world to come
Where the books were found by the golden ones
Written in pain, written in awe
By a puzzled man who questioned
What we came here for
Let me make it plain
You have to make way for the homo superior
Look at your children
See our faces in golden rays
We don’t belong to you
We are the start of a coming race
The earth is not our home
You have finished your news
You Homo sapiens have outgrown your use
You have to make way for the homo superior
This is unadorned and straight up Cosmotheism, shades of William Pierce. Man is a way station, a step on the ladder, not an end in himself but a means to an end. The superman, the overman, the ubermensch, sonnenmesnschen. Man is a rope tied between nature and eternity strung out over an abyss. On the path to the stars homo sapiens will always be backwards and will always be a drag and need to be overcome and surpassed.
“We are not only closer to the divine but are in fact the living agents of Divine Providence, and it is the sin beyond all sins if we are prevented from continuing, and further purifying, ourselves — and reaching our Destiny.”
We won’t be so prevented because we cannot be so prevented. But to be a living agent of the destiny it to be a conscious agent of the destiny and to will it into being, to create it into being. There also must be a recognition that this will in the world has a future to be sure—all it has is a future, a future of radiant splendor—but a history also. The spirit did not just wake up one morning and reveal itself to man, no, it is a progressive process of evolutionary education in what is after all a difficult and fearsome tuition; there is a Star Man waiting in the sky, he’d like to come and meet us but he knows he will blow or minds; thus it has been giving glimpses to man since time out mind if recently they have been becoming more specific and more pointed. First of course the Greeks with their tragedy and their philosophy, the concepts of fate (moira), play, strife, enemy (nemesis), labyrinth, psyche, they laid down the substratum of the process; then, curiously, it lay nearly dormant for 2000 years until William Shakespeare came along and (subsequent to Marlowe) revived the tragic spirit with his supernatural soliciting and his heavenly charmers, his motes to trouble the mind’s eye (and his mind's eye) and his morns in russet mantle clad, and supercharged language and sent it into infinite space. Then of course it was the Germans, as always, Holderlin with his hymns to the gods, his they almost have to guide our fingers to write, Nietzsche with his flamboyant and ostentatious (and at times gratuitous) destruction of the idols to clear out the clearing of its rabid detritus. And then Heidegger with his patient and painstaking putting back together of everything on the nodal point and nexus of language. All in all for a few millennia or so it’s a rather Spartan itinerary; there were of course assorted small fry who pitched in now and again, but the mainline of the prophetic spirit has a cast numbering perhaps a dozen or so. For it is a fact that what German song accords to is both swift and fleeting.
***
Well, the travel agent told me that everything was taken care of,
But here am I, got the kids got the wife, nowhere to stay tonight.
The smug complacency of the world where the answers are pat and conventional, where the Sunday homilies are boring tripe, where everything has it normal place is here skewered; rather the narrator is unhoused, is a wanderer on the earth with his family, is in an existential situation of anxiety while seeking a home.
Yeah, the hotel in Benidorm, they are still building it.
Won't be finished soon, won't be finished soon.
Yeah, the hotel in Benidorm, still building, building, building
Benidorm is a tourist spot on the Mediterranean Coast of Spain. A rough translation form Latin could be the “good sleep.” Sleep is always death, the sleep of death and the opening of up of the rich world of eternity. But this new world is not finished, is still being built, is being built up in our minds. Heidegger’s essay Building Dwelling Thinking identifies thinking as building, that we golden ones are building the future world in our mind’s eye. It won’t be finished soon/ long is the time—Holderlin.
We go to the beach and we go for a swim,
But sooner or later
We are going to need to lay our whole world down
Sooner rather than later surely. A simple and straightforward statement of fact. The earth is not our home, and mankind has finished its news. Eventually the god will indicate that the recalcitrance of humanity has reached its limit, and the (g)olden ones have reached a state of spiritual development where it is time for it to become the intruder. That’s when they (not we) will have to lay their whole world down.
The hotel in Benidorm still isn't finished,
I guess we are going to just have to hang around.
The poem is a richly dense field of allusion; is an ominous portent. A signpost, a wave of psychic energy. To see what was once in place hanging so loosely in space—Rilke.
Building
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 4894
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 4894
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
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Douglas Mercer
- Posts: 4894
- Joined: Tue Mar 28, 2023 7:29 pm
