Vibes Like Aesir

Isn't it weird how cool the imagination of these creative types are?

Outside of the circles of time, the visionaries and artists of our species have fantastic sensitivity - they come back from reverie with the collective motherlode of human symbols in tow (if they are especially good, that is).

Oh, sometimes you wonder, "how do people come up with this stuff"? Or DO people come up with stuff? The creative gift is actually the opposite when you see it strong enough to be called genius, it seems. A genius does not come up with a masterwork; a masterwork comes up with a genius.

Genius comes from genii after all; it's best to keep in mind that even if you were the lucky golden goose to rub the magic lamp, your three wishes are a jackpot with several strings attached. The genii of the genius emerges from the magic lamp within the seeker's soul, even the seeker who knows not he may have been salted and peppered with a certain sort of magic.

The genii comes out of the mouth and the heart and the crown above the eye, three wishes yes, but I'm afraid it does not go back in the bottle nor stay on a leash, it doesn't nibble kibble and won't respond to "heel".

Also, it may leave roses buried in your wishes hoping you will bask in their elegance, not realizing that human hands are wont to seize the treasure with both arms before appreciating the artistry of the treasure chest. Genius, unknowning of its own source, occassionally finds itself with bubbles of blood forming of pricked skin, having seen not the gift of flowers nor the warning of thorns.

The genii emerges from the artist, the mystic visionary and shaman, the LSD trips of Francis Crick as he allowed the double helix to pour squarely out of his forehead and swirl in synchrony like serpents. The genii emerges from beyond the circles of time, the genii remains untamed and it cannot be called loyal. The genii of genius is simply looking to meet its match, that is why it only emerges to deliver impossible wishes to those whom share the same wishes as it.

I digress.
A wish emerges from behind the portal of daath, but that doesn't mean it comes with a key to Isis' window curtain.

A wish emerges from the throat of some stars as they sing in harmonies that echo the sphere's faint pulsating gyrating dance in the heavens, but the wish does not drop The Lost Word on her tongue even as cerebrus is soothed in sound slumber and the crowd roars and clamours.

A wish emerges from jeanne d'ark even as she burns, because in her heart is a flame potent beyond kilojoules, and thus it shines so brightly she feels no burn, having been on fire in a far more significant way - for timespans that may range from years to weeks but may as well be eternal in mere moments.

some geniuses gleam brighter than history's eraser as it rubs and rubs and rubs away at the etched markings of both mountains and men. Perhaps the product of this unceasing effort is a smudged word, a name with bent letters and deeds that all recall, but no face to attach to that timeless capstone.

some geniuses are shorn from stone tablets before their names are ever known, the genii of their emerald spirit embedded in the ratios of every mitotic division.

some names for genius have long since sunk into the sea, their fragmented fossils glimmering with a gleam so unmistakably invaluable that the Little Mermaid Ariel received each and every one into her hidden grotto, and to this day her father Poseidon has never entered there.

there are genii that reside so deep in the recesses of space that even immortality would allow us enough time to travel there. but when those geniis wish to travel to us, living at the border patrol of our universe's terminal boundry presents no quandary of distance. the geniuses have no names and they are not capable of lightspeed travel, they have never known the concept of movement because they always arrive at the royal arch centuries before it was born in the dreamscape of its inevitable architect.


it is not so that some are duly chosen, it is not so that some are singled out for the honor of a bejeweled and thorny box, and it is not true that every wish carries with it a splinter that infects helping hands with the prophecy of a Midas touch. Aladdin didn't enter the lottery of the cosmos when he decided to search for the magic lamp, and he did not encounter the cave which housed that genii by a stroke of luck.

Like every replica of our cells houses the nucleus of its organism in the same helical strands, each shining eye at the edge of the galaxy awaits a human heart to swing open the double doors of fortune's palace. The geniuses who have broken into the palace of fate are few and have gone by a few phrases,
for example "The Thief in the Night", and "The Once and Future King", except this is not a prophecy reserved only for the singular Arthur Pendragon.

Fate's Palace, and the illustrious pen, are for anybody with the will to arrive, and said seekers would have to find the train which travels straight through the trunk of yggsdrasil and then off the tracks of the wheel of fortune itself. this is so tricky that the freemasons, rosicrucians, and templars all lost the word they needed use.

Miss Fortune as the watcher of the watcher of the watchers and the author of the authors, is thoroughly passive on her island of Aeons at the eye of the Ouroboros. If a Thief in the Night does find a way inside her palace, it is said she is generally already awaiting them with refreshments long before they have opened the door, because Miss Fortune does not get a lot of tresspassers and due to the nature of that timeless place she actually forfeits the memories of each Theif to whom she has bestowed a pen upon. However, that information is not lost. It is offered to the aeon....and the dragons that preside over the aeon. If a theif manages to meet Miss Fortune, the dragons change to reflect the existence of a new pendragon. How do they change? nobody knows exactly...because...


fortune herself lives in the chtonic underbelly of the akashic record, in the eye of the cycling storm of serpents that never consume one another but rise in mutual pursuit until they have risen too tall for light itself to chronicle their chase. at the eye of the ouroboros, only fortune knows the fates of those serpents which climb over the teeth of their brethren's circling circumference and are crowned as denizens "beyond time". only in fortune's island at the still midpoint of the ouroboros storm can the shadows of these ascended serpents be seen, no longer without limbs but with wings large and lustrous, with shadows that spell out scales so finely chiseled their colors can be seen before the darkening of the creature's phantom traces render all evidence invisible. These are the dragons, and they, like her, live outside of not only space and time, but outside the umbrage of yggdrasil itself. the dragons are above even the canopy where the aesir reside, while she is neither above the abyss nor below its gate, occupying a horizon even the Three Fates envy.

It is an estate for a watcher of watchers and an author who serves authorship to every bold genius that manages to trespass on her stormy island palace, untouched by the rain of looping serpents and the legacy of aeons they create and destroy when head meets tail. the gift of tresspassing on her here is a pen called Serendipity. The genii of the genius has inscribed its legend into myth and so the promise of the pen lives as a wandering Excalibur. What stone can fortune's stolen pen fail to reframe? The "Once" and "Future" king, of course, does not force the submission of the stone, but proclaims himself it's builder. Maybe the genii singled out Arthur, but who is to say when the fabled king met fortune, as their meeting was both long before the forging of Excalibur, but long after the legend of his death.

Miss Fortune has met the futures of endless kings and greeted their ghosts as old friends, a ritual so familiar that each encounter as it is singled out in eternity is offered to the dragons above the event horizon in hopes they may bring seasons of torrential inspiration into the Aeons of consciousness, like a hurricane, and give birth to new Future kings and swords with names that will author themselve.s

s. and each theif in the night is a mystery not even the author of authorship may disrupt. The Once King is nobody now, but the Future King is a series of genius shadows that stand shoulder to shoulder and extend into an eternity without end.



Miss Fortune does not actually move her wheel, but she does bear the burdan of watching it's orbiting art from Outside the Circles of time. Miss fortune consults her own anaolgue to our own starry sky, but hers is not made of gaseous giants and twinkling distant planets. the tapestry of fortune's celestial sky is an ever expanding mosiac of existence in the process of unfolding, and so when she looks up above the interlocking serpentine circumfrance of her sea, the vista continues to progress through endless variations of geometric subtlety - from the chaotic, the dissonant, to the symmetrically impeccable. from here, the wheel of the aeons endlessly weaves the story that once begun with the infinite source's fantastic explosion into endless fragmentations and extensions of divinity without end, and self defined, inspiring itself ever to new spiralling pinnacles of potentiality. the miracle of eternity, according to miss fortune, is cultivated by the collisions of divine sparks of endless variety. Love is the engine of transcendence, but hate gives the dragons the fire they need to forge the hero that will one day save Love from the Novocain of apathy.



the wheel which churns all of space and time in unceasing and perpetual motion. every sentience and all life past and present, every form of awareness, both the dimly lit dashes of hungry mosquitos and the blinding blanket of a supernova's flare, are themselves the mill of masterpiece, for they spill out from both above and below the confines of their respective dimensions to form an ever expanding fractal tie dye where it is said all dreams are destined to converge, rivers that channel to and from infinite configurations but each ultimately arriving at the same gate to heaven, a gate ever changing for the newly divine and immortal beings that are yet to sweep their brushes in the silver ink of serendipidty.



the heaven at the eye of the ain soph aur, the one at the center of the wheel which mills all dreamers whether they are ancient planets or the vagrant and homeless men of earth, tossing and turning at night from cardboard mattresses until in lucid sleep they arrive at the riverbank of the divine dreamer only to find a crystal ball whose secret center is only visible to those whose eyes house I's.

where is this part of the wheel? no it is not miss fortune's isle...
do you want to know? so do I....
it is not on yggdrasil, nor in agartha, nor upon the wheel of fortune, nor atop the canopy of the aesir, nor upon the demiurges throne, nor any node of the sephiroth, however, I have heard, if you look at "the places where all the things meet", you might actually figure out how to find it...
"
at the center of every intersection is a symmetry, at the intersection of every symmetry is a singularity. "

the very best I can do given that you have to conceptually and ideologically actually trace this construct and kinda solve et coaglua is just put this pic here, I would feel uncomfortable trying to preach about a place where even I have only periodic flashes of illumination about, but I have traced it and I think if you can do that it will make sense to you too....


[imgur] [link to imgur.com (secure)]
[imgur] [link to imgur.com (secure)]