In innocence doth this work come unto the seeds of man; impelled by duty & love, the sower shall impart.

{JJH}

Beyond rhyme and reason, the waves of the surf doth shine - No man can stop the tide, be it bring rain or shine; to every word an utterance, beyond the filthy dregs of signs and symbols, letters and Number - he who cast the first stone, shall not enterprise to claim mastery over grammar, when beyond the veils of the cloudy sky lie stars unseen, places unvisited. Weep not for space, or tithe, letter, word, or call - what is beyond the veil of calculation, no man may peruse to berate. Let punctuation, spellings, and wordforms become obsolete as the day they were born. When thou has counted the witness, from top to bottom, left to side, thou shalt see that it is thou who hast become the victim, of thine own assumption.

PREAMBLE

8:23 PM Feb 10 2022

โœจ

12:24 Aug 27 2022

EHT ARRILAV

Published by Anumaraj

#1 Angel in the land

11 thoughts on “In innocence doth this work come unto the seeds of man; impelled by duty & love, the sower shall impart.

  1. Not trying anymore, and not forgivin.

    *A WORK BY PS*

    Edited by Jeremy James Hammers, a Silent Sister on the order of Malchizadek, for P.S., according to the Spirit of the Law, who hath this to say, as Personal Comment::

    Hereon is bestowed honor upon honor. The successor to FB {et. ฮฑl.} has surpassed all limits, knowing itself and not herself, to limits beyond time.

    In Regards to the Work of Editing, therein-

    “The authentic writing, always in the letter of the ๐Ÿฆ, that is, the spirit original within.”

    -FOR INDEED, THIS IS Bฯ…T ONE REALM.-

    Liked by 1 person

  2. A cure for bulimia?

    Dec 7 2023

    Hi Shawn,

    Today I stumbled upon a tale I found that I thought might interest you:

    I know a bulimic boy born Pave whose hunger drove him to eating red
    velvet cake repeatedly and retching it up, then eating it again, and
    repeating that process until finally his stomach grew so large his
    physical form could not contain the cake unless he shared it with
    others, but friends and lovers never understood his taste for cakes;
    they shirked at the thought. His favorite cake one day was consumed
    from within by the scutum of the scarab, and ever seeking the taste of
    the layers, with their friends the beetroot and the cream cheese, he
    ate.

    At that point his preacher Benjamin Asimov stepped in and reminded him
    of the FOUR laws of robotics — after all he had always loved SYFY and
    so the black slab of knowledge was always on his mind. Nightfall,
    Asimov told him, is near — but with it come the stars. The boy pave
    didn’t know what this meant, in fact he thought the cake required no
    layers, and in his hubris he thought he alone knew the proper way to
    bake it, for no one else (that he knew of) seemed to taste the flavors
    of the cake in the way he did. Asimov told him to Spell his name with
    a D in order to answer the Last Question, but he wasn’t sure it was
    advisable to take Dr. A.’s advice.

    So he played his tattered Game Boy instead while playing Beethoven’s
    “Moonlight” on repeat, and even in play he learned more, for he began
    to wonder if the apparent world was just the dream of the Wind Fish,
    and he searched diligently for the secret seashells to achieve the
    sword of power and solve Link’s Awakening. The more shells he
    discovered, the quicker he found the rest. But when he had completed
    the cartridge, he had no enemies left to zap with his sword, and he
    longed for a new game to play that would satisfy his needs — after
    all Zelda was just a game.

    Finding none available, he continued to read and watch and listen and
    learn. His acquaintance AC Clarke introduced him in 2001 to his pal
    Hal, and pave learned of Dave. “My God–It’s full of stars!” he read.

    Inspired, pave finally changed his name to dave. pave, now dave, had a
    tendency to rush to judgment when it came to cakes, as his taste buds,
    though burnt, forged and re-forged again and again, never seemed to
    truly lead him astray, and taste tests proved his percentile, so he
    scoffed at the tastes of most others — but those chefs he could learn
    from to better his recipe he resolved to kiss even when they didn’t
    have the whole design, even if they were mistaken regarding the
    ingredients, even if they were tasteless fools, because he knew only
    by tasting every piece of pie could he discern the true taste of the
    cake he desired to make. “Why so serious?” said his friends and
    lovers, and his enemies surrounded him with their libel. He thought to
    himself perhaps their bleating was deserved, perhaps he was on the
    wrong path, but he knew however that P->Q and Q->!P, and reason
    prevailed, even over himself. He had always been good at logic, for
    the whole search for truth and justice was predicated upon it.

    As a younger boy naked under the stars of the sky he had stood in the
    cold crisp night air and wondered at the beauty, away from his father
    who had always loved him and had great plans for him, but didn’t
    understand him. He called to the stars, “I miss you! Take me! I’m
    yours!” but the stars did not reply. Under the cold moonlight he felt
    alone; under the stars he felt at home.

    He didn’t know then that to become a man his father would have to die
    first. He didn’t even know what he didn’t know. But die his father
    did, from pancreatic cancer they said, but from the world really. dave
    learned later that his father’s life on this earth could have been
    extended, if only he had known — but tragically he never could have
    known until his father was gone, for that was the only way to force
    him to give up and let go and finally learn why the world was the way
    it was. Over time dave came to realize that what is meant to be is
    necessary to honor the memory of his father, who had suspected he had
    a divine purpose. dave mourned, but born 7 pounds 7 ounces on July 7,
    his tears were reserved mainly for frustration at his own ignorance
    and impotence.

    On December 6th, the anniversary of his father’s death, who would have
    been 66, the boy pave, now dave, turned 13 and thought he had become a
    man. But without the Bar Mitzvah, how could he ever really capitalize
    that D? Besides, he wasn’t even Jewish to his knowledge!

    The boy was tired of playing games. The man he wished to be was near,
    he knew. Inevitable, in fact. So why wait? And so pave become dave
    unwrapped the Snickers bar handed to him and said โ€œyes!โ€ to life. The
    candy bar thus became red velvet cake on his tongue, and as he
    swallowed the first morsel he wondered if โ€œyes!โ€ would be the last
    word he’d utter. But his taste buds again failed to fail him, and he
    did not swallow lightly. Finally, after years of learning to
    appreciate fine cuisine, his stomach could handle the flavors because
    the taste was pure, the layers that previously had seemed too bitter
    were now heavenly, and he resolved never to upchuck again. After all,
    he had always had good taste; he had just needed to sample more foods
    to hone his palate and find the proper recipe between them.

    He realized, of course, that he hadn’t yet nailed the final recipe,
    that there is always more to learn from the cooks among the stars. He
    knew also that he’d need to grow up to have any hope of mastering
    himself. Long years of eating unhealthy pies and watching as other
    cooks promoted their cakes that, when tasted, did not taste as he knew
    they must based on the purported ingredients, had made him quick to
    anger, making him prone to vomiting the contents of his stomach all
    around him. In order to BE Dave, however, he’d have to work on his
    table manners in order to hold back the reflexive regurgitation. He
    didn’t think this would be difficult, as once his taste buds were
    trained his brain could, as usual, do the rest.

    dave sat down to contemplate the flavors for a moment, at which point
    the doorbell rang. His chef comrades had arrived, each bearing a fine
    cake. Each offered him a slice and he ate a sample from each. He was
    astounded by the refined tastes and eager to learn their recipes.
    Finally they could be shared. Finally his hunger was satisfied, his
    stomach settled. Finally he was home. He thought back to the day that
    as a child he’d stood naked under the starlight. He smiled.

    The next day Dave began his training as an apprentice to these chefs.
    He learned that among the chefs there was a hierarchy, and he would
    have to earn his place within it by helping them with their baking. He
    saw himself as a catalyst to the efforts of his fellow chefs and to
    the perfection of the recipes. He hoped that the chefs would see his
    worth and that he could live. He didn’t want to offend the chefs above
    him, or for the head chef to scold him. He knew how to serve (the
    worthy). He hoped that he could go on cooking swell cakes for many
    years more, as he had studied enough of the history of the chefs’
    endless cooking to know that trust in the kitchen was given as readily
    as the truth of the ingredients and the recipes, and hoped that he
    wasn’t cooking up a cake to be served swiftly at his deathbed by
    confiding in the chefs. He had always longed to meet his purpose, and
    that purpose was always to bake fine cakes. Yet he feared the cake had
    already been perfected, that he wouldn’t be needed or wanted and thus
    would not be allowed to bake — to work with his hands, stand with his
    legs, eat with his mouth, taste with his tongue, or even inhale the
    aromas with his nose, to be as free as free can ever be whilst alive,
    till the time comes for dessert. What a tragedy of the divine comedy
    that would be. But he couldn’t waste any more time, and he didn’t
    think the chefs would want to waste him either. He aspired; he makes a
    gambit.

    Regards,

    J

    Like

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