“To understand Heaven, is to understand that Heaven is not eternal. It is temporary. In the belief that it is temporary, it should be understood that Heaven is unstable. Any foundation of peace, is always unstable and crude. It does not last, because it requires a mind to create its stability, not a heart. The arts will only lift the impoverished. Though, who lifts the arts to Heaven? Nothing. Emotion, that runs within the arts, will be as content in their torments, falling through trapdoors to see the streets, but never ascending a ladder to see the skies. The arts will never reflect ambition. True art, that is, is not ambitious. A creation is a creation, and the creator instills wisdom into the creation. The creation, however, when receiving freedom, will either descend into sloth, or ascend into paradise. Should they choose to endlessly work, they will be a slave. They will create, and be forever content. For movement entices the mover to continually move, and not a shadow, nor a light, will stop them. If Heaven is not eternal, then the one thing that is eternal is death. The satisfaction of a life well-lived.”
“An obsession over qualifications results in slowness. An obsession over eagerness and risk-taking results in results. There is nothing more the encouragement for laziness than the one who is not encouraged to be brave, to be earnest, to have the confidence required, as the only requirement to be committed to a task. An obsession with papers, an obsession with documents, results in external development, and the internal is left untouched. The individual is neglected in such a scenario. The eyes no longer see. The hands no longer feel. The feet no longer walk. There is only numbness in a world that cannot comprehend the meaning of courage.”
“The Devorah of Reims” is a novel about “split-division”. That is, it is about a young girl, named Devorah, whose life consists of everything being only “half-way” achieved. Everything is “half-way” for her, as her life continues to be a game of “Tug-a-war” between two men who are her lovers, two parents with one a Jewish woman and the other a German man, and two cities, of Reims and Paris.
It is a story about origin, prejudice, and disposition. Devorah is victim to both her ignorance and the knowledge of her identity, as a girl to a targeted German father. It is so, since this tale takes place during antisemitic France.
You have love that surrounds you, As two arms that have closed upon you, I have locked you as a shape, I now love you in this place. Your rosy cheeks are my dessert, Your barren words are its sweetness.
I describe, With a voice so cherished, The roundness of a cheek, the left one, And the right one, that has a distant hue, Attached to the ivory skin. What ivory that raises a chorus to Heaven’s chambers!
Your face has made a public sound, Your eyes are not for me to salvage. I feast now on the cheeks, I creep, with hands that seek, To reach, To eat, those cheeks from that ivory.
A beauty with a face so divine, So harmonic and rounded, Tresses fall to your smile, And surround your neck and shoulders. So much beauty has left you wicked, So much pain has left you empty.
Allow me to make you mine. I drink the blood from my bites, The wash of crimson against my lips, Is there for the savoring. Each moment spent in this bliss, Is it only mine?
You are distrusting, my sweet. Have you come to see? The new moon, surrounded by a fault, To which our love had grown From the thorn of a patch, Lone, and destined for failure.
I am in the music of memory. I am away from the bleeding cheek, Only tears to eat, only tears to see. Only the finery of a musical word:
One that you speak, with cheeks that bleed, “Go wither, and sadden all others! With thy gifts of mercy And the cloak of a man, who dresses in safety. It was deception, and nothing else! You have the face of Satan, not the face of love.”
Tipped into thy divine mouth, Like Heaven draining through an hourglass, Of thy heavenly form, with no crudeness At all, to the beauty of serpents.
I am in love with a sin, To make love with the surge of emotion, To make love with a woman of my nightmare, Of all pain, and her studious gaze, Here is me, to count the steps. The disdain To which I describe the form, Measures my worth, Like numerous trails that leak Emptiness from my mind:
You are about as beautiful as the next Monarch to be placed on a throne, To me, as wonderful as the throne Carved into it, with stones of red and green. Your form is exquisite and serpentine, A curve, alike to the serpent, When upon golden sands, When upon the shielded waters.
You are about as beautiful, As the woman to which I take into the next, The next room, where there is not you. Infidelity is my crossing. I dine now on the next, My comparison is everything. I draw on your flesh the word “deception” And the word “shame”.
Oh, devil, take me down, To where you will see yourself, And your fields of ruin, I see you, and I see the next, Woman of my nightmares. Is a love so entwined with virtue or sin, As this? In my place beside thee, Have I come to enter a new room?
My God, as the one who forsakes, My tempest, and my wants, I place you among all things, To watch, to espy, to find salvation in the many. My death is my certainty.
The
untimely fault of a man and his singular pride: creation, and the sin that had
occurred to make it possible. Does a man act in God’s own image, and if so,
then is God a sinner? We love the sinner, so in such a case, we also love God.
Death is opposite to life. Death is opposite to love. Both life and love are connected; and should one say otherwise, to say that one could merely mention that one “loves the sight of death”, it should be automatically assumed that such a person is homicidal. Would they love the sight of their dying mother; their dying children; or any dying loved one?
Is such a person the most selfish breed to exist? We ask this, because we have just barely described a certain man, named Gustave, whose torment is lasting. He yearns for Katharina, though has never made a move for their next reunion. He yearns to see her, as such can be noticed in his eyes.
The
torment, that is; and such torment bleeds onto his cheeks, from tears that have
swollen from a deep well. They rise, and they flow outward, and flow such
cheeks with those tears, like dew that drops off a petal.
He
notices Devorah, perhaps given the money needed for a vocation like to be a performer;
though, for what purpose? Was it merely a choice for escapism? When a man runs
from danger, he’d be deemed a coward. Is this the right accusation? It should
be, and it should be enforced among the “laws of society” that a man would not
be a man, if he could not keep a promise. To say to a woman, “I will protect
you with all my might,” and through that love, his strength become infinite.
Such
tears, and such wispy cheeks, that flows the rivers from his eyes; there is
that torment, that woe, and searing grief, of a loss that is not beknown to be
a loss!
In
this lonely moment, he looks to where the stairs reside, and ascends them.
He
ascends them, to then turn at the hallway to where Devorah slumbers.
It
is morning, and Devorah is sleeping into the late morning where noon
approaches. She is noticed by him. She is noticed to have a handsome
appearance, with her developing form, and still-childish face. A smile is kept
below her nose and above her rounded chin, neatly placed as though some artist
found it fitting to swipe two strokes of pink across such pallid skin. Lovely,
in her visage, and youthful, in her body.
Your dreary web of shades, Falls into my place, From the world’s hidden face, As we stand beside a banquet and its host, Placing each memory to our shoulders, Hoisting its intolerable presence.
Oh, beauty. With thy lavender scent, From attire born to beckon. You have a harmony to your voice, And a grace to thy shoulders, A tempting look, In two orbs, of two eyes. How wonderful you’ve grown, In the thickets, In the thorns, in the briar, In the mire, when thou has been, Nothing but blood.
Oh, have you come to see, The community of flesh and phantom?
Oh, have you come to yearn, For the petulance of children, and their moans?
Where we hail from, In the void, and in the snow, In the golden glow of a winter sunset, In the silence of a winter’s morning, We will dine, On fruits and violet petals. Death deals a merciful blow, To our craving hearts.
My beauty with your feverish stare, And thy wicked tongue. Unfold your tresses for my unfurled lips, And make a mockery of thyself, Make one of golden roofs, and ornate gowns, Of pleasant balls and moonlight glares, From a moon so tolerant, It would leave us aware.
“A stillborn is so alike the empty creation. The painting with the solid color over the surface of the canvas, is the equivalent of the stillborn. It is death, soon as such ‘creation’ has been invented. Are we still accustomed to saying, in this scenario, that death is beautiful? Are we genocidal within that sentence? The solid color. The stillness. The death of an infant, as the stillborn, is the abstraction, the lack of clarity as to what mistake had been created, for the creation of death. That is the emptiness to which life is lacking, and a human should always lack.”
Q: What you propose in your scenario is that flesh has a Necromantic emotive to it. Do you wish to elaborate?
A: Necromancy is the emotion, or emotive, that arises from an inability to forget those who have died. This is to say that we should forget their physical form. What manifests the physical form is the flesh. What places the flesh as literal, and opposite to the figurative, is that what is remembered is the emotions, felt from touch. The profoundest form of connection is in the literal and direct. This refers to honesty.
Q: Necromancy has the subtlety in which is forgotten, because it directs itself immediately upon the direct?
A: The most direct of things is the physical, and in this “scientific-loving” world, there can be no more the love for the physical, than a disregard for God. God has the emphasis on the ethereal, and the airy. Of things that dwell in higher places, they feel wind. Though, is it not the canyon that creates the wind from the lesser? Wherever the river wanders, is where God wanders, as such a river carries life. The cattle follow the river. The ox and the zebra follow the river. The most beautiful of things are the things most searched for, in discovery of them, and seemingly, as well, to relive them. If love is that river, that waterfall, then so is life to flow in that direction. Necromancy is the direction of the river, though is unlike life with a soul. A body without its spirit, is to neglect that God has a son, and are both the Holy Spirit. For Christ is the body, the blood of the body, and God had made him; though, without the spirit, this is not to say that Man was created in God’s image. It is to say that Man is lifeless, when such is, in truth, the opposite. Man is the beginner of life.
Q: In what manner is Man the beginner of life?
A: Every womb requires a seed, if there is to be a light, or a life, in it. The darkness of death, is in the darkness of the soil. Deep below, and one is blind. Above, and one sees light. To escape from danger, and find light at the end of the tunnel, is then to see hope. Still, when the infant is first born, it becomes aware to the light, at first. It was blinded by darkness in the womb, and then, aware to that light, that also blinds. In the nature of unity, there is family. Creation. In that, and such truth of creation, such truth of flesh, become exhumed from the womb. Truth is created. Birthed. Responsibility paves the way for the truth to appear whole. Should a mother care little for her body, then such truth, as an infant, will appear hideous.
Q: And for Christ to be resurrected?
A: Christ and his resurrection has the meaning of Necromancy, although, it is not placed into the category of eternity. It is, in fact, placed into the category of the vulnerable. For we have remembered Christ’s suffering, and through suffering, over vengeance or the wrath of God, there was only forgiveness. Necromancy is the vision for the one who cannot forget, as such perfection holds the meaning of eternity, and a denial of death. We see in such “eternal life” as God would present, to such “eternal death” as the Necromantic would present. Soulless, and without any spirit. Did Christ raise as a spirit, or as himself, as whole?
“‘Controversial’ is a cute and adorable word, when uttered. Words used to subdue, represent the weakness of a world that doesn’t believe in the firearm. We use words, to hurt, and when sticks and stones begin to hurt, as the saying goes, we revert. We use words, and then we’ll use the sticks and stones, tossing away firearms, to revert to times when the stones of the stone age were present. We’ll once more use flint and steel to create fire. And we’ll see the ‘torch of hope’ extended from an arm as the ‘firearm’. We’ll burn, we’ll twist, we’ll mangle, and we’ll be savages. For what does the ‘firearm’ or the ‘gun’ represent? It represents the Man, to pierce, to take away the virginity from Woman. To make a hole, where things, like truth, had been buried. For a woman’s body is either ravaged and raped, by the savage, or protected by love. As well, we’ll realize something: that we’re all Cain, who kills our brother out of envy. Out of envy, we gain, we feel pride, and for these things, we speak words. Whenever will the ‘banner of pride’ be used to raise tall the head of some enemy?”
