Sunday, March 19, 2017

On Coleridge's Kubla Khan

I see no ships to carry me to the history of the future.

When I ponder which ship can carry me home across such a wide sea, I tell myself that home is where I hang my hat, home is where you are. There is no ship. There is no sea. 

Coleridge dreamt his poem about Khublai Khan, but he was interrupted by the door bell.

When he went back to sleep, the rest of the poem was gone. He could not remember it.

I keep waiting for someone else to stumble across the rest of that poem, in the form of a book, the least of books, as a manuscript, a palimpsest overwritten by tracts of forgotten heresies, the least of manuscripts, in the immortal and boundless library that some call the Akashic record, and others our vast collective unconscious.

Some say that this collective memory must be finite. If you accept that each cell remembers its origins in a primordial ooze, perhaps from a comet seeding the Earth from distant stars, it is possible that a start point, a singularity, once existed in the ineluctable moment before an orgasmic spasm started time. 

But our cells remember the endless dream of potentiality that preceded that first moment. That dream is infinite. It predates time.

Coleridge's poem is part of the patrimony of humanity, it belongs to all of us. Coleridge did not write it. He remembered it. He heard it. It already existed.

Has no one else read the rest of it? Has no one else heard its forgotten staves? Can no one else remember it?

How many of us children of haphazard fathers are the progeny of a moment's abandon, the infinitely collapsing milliseconds when the imperative to create overflows the universe? Who predicted us? Who envisioned us? Who crafted the template of our consciousness? Who wrote that poem? 

Perhaps we are collective motes of an infinite Godhead that dreams us. In our own collective trance, we dream poems.

You say that humans cannot experience a black hole? You say that humans cannot experience infinity? I say to you that the miraculous infinitude of orgasm refutes you. Orgasm is an echo, a glimpse, of the oblivion that birthed us and to which we are blessed, or doomed, to return.

I often write under noms d'plume. We are not authors so much as conduits, anyway, we are mediums for the expression of the collective conscience that we share, our timeless racial memory that demands to be pronounced through acts of artistic creation. 

Our memory is stamped on our DNA. A byline is vanity. Your name does not matter. Hence the motto on all my websites: Writing for Oblivion. 

Homer lived thousands of years ago. Only strange people like me read Homer anymore. But his ideas, the myths and the legends and the memories that he recounted, those are immortal, insinuated into our collective conscience. Those we remember.

That is the best individual immortality that an ego can encompass, as we all ultimately return to energy and dust that gradually and inexorably trends towards entropy. Then there will be peace.

I wonder, after we rejoin the Godhead after our physical death, if we can still participate in the collective dream of our species?

As we dream, so we wake, and so we live. So we remember. 

Let me know if you remember the rest of Coleridge's poem.


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