Project 2
Hypostasis of the Archons notes:
Hypostasis meaning:
Wikipedia [an underlying reality or substance, as opposed to attributes or to that which lacks substance.]
Archons: who/what were they?
“Archon” is used in Modern Greek colloquially, as άρχοντας (archontas), for someone that holds a form of status or power,[8] and the Arab-speaking Copts use it in church parlance in the form أرخن ʼurḫun as a title for a leading member of the laity.[9] Archon was the title of Great Officers of Sicily.[10] It can also be used as a title in fraternities and sororities.[citation needed]
In Gnostic religious traditions, the term archon generally refers to a group of seven supernatural beings, associated with the seven classical planets and considered to be responsible for the creation of the physical world.
The Nag Hammadi Library is a very dense and obscure collection of the Gnostic scriptures.
Through inspiration from “The definitive translation…” (3rd, completely revised edition. paperback, HarperSanFrancisco) I am motivated to make a personal poetic interpretation. I found that the process involved coincides with the revamp of my experimental novel, Saltworks.
Hypostasis Of The Archons
#1) Movement on Account Of Reality (with expansion notes)
Purpose of the exercise:
make a picture to send home
carve guts into the frame of an idea about creation
putting awareness into all these fine flavors or
tea for the morning/ tea for the evening/ tea for two
baked on blue stretching into a horizon hewn from the glass of (a) God
he whom sent me down to the corner shop to buy
just enough wares for a weekends indulgence
crack down upon the laggards as large as life, spread out across the road we built as lads in our
clamour clamour barrel of laughs loaded up
enough to underline this day by day music from heaven
long before being lost in the autumn fog
a lurking perfection out to see in a world
not yet thought of even by man
Purpose of the exercise: (with expansion notes):
make a picture to send home
initialization. In the friggin’ workshop and I feel the concrete floor. It’s grey. Frank Narbie’s tools are smelling of old oil. All spread out between east and west. and I select a chisel
Putting awareness into all these fine flavors or
buckets of fun. syrup sweet echoes from the deep. making even greater the achievement as the maker of this concoction of songs and sweetmeats was a blind man. we’ll sing about him in due course
Carve guts into the frame of an idea about creation
sitting half-pie, the rug could use a clean. fire crackle, night gargle love long bright and he’ll cut into anything by halves and halves. slice something that imitates a head of sorts. the big driver man, thickset eyes and forehead so shiny and smart. a bastard of a man. but he never intended no harm. just the way he waved his stick and flashed his teeth
Tea for the morning/ tea for the evening/ tea for the sinner man
your time being ripe… we packed a picnic lunch and made for the knoll. yonder craggy knoll a step up enough to make boiling the water for the brew an easy task because of the altitude/ latitude. taste of summer. she flashed her youth at me from between her legs and I fell for the bait. we became entwined and eventually lived together for ever
Baked on blue stretching into a horizon hewn from the glass of (a) God
caught in the act. out here we thought no rules apply. another way of saying, running naked in the wind. a marvelous feeling of space (yes, crystal like) occasional flash of white (white tips of waves) such the perfect contrasts. expression too of this chaos between the light and the dark. being the cut and the non-cut. raising our glasses yes, to the idea of this in the pub. and the barmaid polishes the counter and we’re all “doing her sweet” in our sinful minds. perfect facets of our wild leap into the abyss. Save Our Souls
He whom sent me down to the corner shop to buy
alas it must’ve been her day off. the darling at the cash register. she whom her parents christened Sophia. I fucked my own pillow with the thought of her. while back on her level, she made quick her notions of building up and breaking down. smiling to me/not smiling to me. hiding her drawing pad while all the blokes new about it anyway. her sketches of her favorite devils
Just enough wares for a weekends indulgence
that bloody shimmery picture. you know, reflected in the puddle. always the same face. just shaky stark bright spark and the lads salivate and reach deep into it and long for something pertaining to forever. can’t be attainable though and we know it. only the pretty parcel of what an idea could be like if. just if
Crack down upon the laggards as large as life, spread out across the road we built as lads in our
before then there was nothing sir. not even the idea of what could be there. what could be achieved. and so too from this empty ride of potential. empty Sunday gossip at church, the seed being sown. and we clapped with our clever clever hands. the priest and the prophet, proper rogues both
Clamour clamour barrel of laughs loaded up
empty promise was enough to set them cracking. all the good folks took a liking to the bottle and this made them feel fine and a party was had
Enough to underline this day by day music from heaven
just sparkles of her now. and the old bastards just scratched and waited for someone or something to put a foot wrong. ok, they were just teachers as they were in those times
Long before being lost in the autumn fog
not good enough dear cobbers. we’ll just have to take things into our own hands said they. spitting gobs of age onto the footpath. we couldn’t stand in their way. we could see by the knobbly joints on their fingers that they meant business
Lurking perfection out to see in a world
others rode past without comment, but the odd one stopped to ask questions or even directions. kids like us were stacking timber, acting on the orders given. their hands were soiled hard and dry –a rehearsal for whatever was to come
Not yet thought of even by man
and again, in the dust of the day. the old fuddy-duddies formed large ques outside the supermarkets of town. they ignored our jeers despite the good-hearted manner. could be they were preparing something other than dinner. we’d stacked all the timber and waited for payment. a wage of a sorts. but all seemed blankety blank. we ripped off down the main street. at a loss. golden blanket of silence at long last. darkness came early. no amount of grog could set the scene for whatever came next
