It's my mother's birthday tomorrow, this one is for her.
"The great luminaries, like Nietzsche, like Rimbaud, like Van Gogh, are human suns which suffer the same fate as the celestial orb. It is only when they are sinking, or have sunk from sight , that we become aware of the glory that was theirs. In mourning their passing we blind our eyes to the existence of other new suns. We look backwards and forwards but never does our gaze pierce direct to the heart of reality. If we do occasionally worship the solar body which gives us warmth and light we reflect not on the suns which have been blazing since eternity. We accept unthinkingly the fact that all space is studded with suns.
Verily, the universe swims in light. Everything is alive and alight. Man too is the recipient of inexhaustible radiant energy. Strange, only in the mind of man is there darkness and paralysis.
A little too much light, a little too much energy (here on earth), and one is rendered unfit for human society. The reward of the visionary is the mad-house or the cross. A grey, neutral world is our natural habitat, it would seem. It has been so for a long time now. But that world, that condition of things, is passing. Like it or not, with blinkers-and blinders or without, we stand on the threshold of the new world. We shall be witness to splendours and horrors, alternately and simultaneously. We shall see with a thousand eyes, like the goddess Indra. The stars are moving in on us, even the most distant ones.
With our instruments we now detect worlds of whose existence ancient man had not the slightest inkling. We are able to plot realms of worlds beyond our present ken, because our minds are already receptive to the light which emanates from them. At the same time we are also able to visualize our own wholesale destruction. But are we frozen in our tracks? No. Our faith is greater than we dare admit. We sense the magnificence of that life eternal which is man’s and which we have ever denied. Despite all our pride and vanity, we behave as if we knew nothing of our true heritage. We protest that we are only human, all-too-human. But if we were truly human we would be capable of all things, ready for all exigencies, know all conditions of being. We ought to remind ourselves daily, repeat it like a litany, that in our being lies concealed the whole gamut of existence. We should cease worshipping and inspire worship. Above all, we should cease postponing the act of becoming what in fact and essence we are.
I prefer, wrote Van Gogh, to paint men’s eyes than to paint cathedrals, because there is something in men’s eyes which is not in cathedrals, however majestic and imposing the latter may be…"
Henry Miller
in Plexus - The Rosy Crucifixion (page 64/65)
Happy Birthday
