“and there is an antique set of scales for weighing coins that comes out of its lacquer box adorned with curious Chinese characters, like the spider that, folding up its long legs, takes refuge inside the cup of a tulip with a thousand colors.” – Gaspard de la Nuit of Aloysius Bertrand

part one

my dreams were often phantasms of my future, sharp-taloned specters would rest on my sleeping chest, their claws would invade my skull, each a fantasy of death, deep darkness, and the sun eclipsed fully black, each twist of the claw, an image of horror, with each twist, so also would I turn in my bed.

one such night I awoke to a room just as black, darkness such as known even in halcyon youth; darkened by the faint vision of a foreign face seen for but a moment and then as the eyelid closes, it vanishes, leaving nothing but black, such was the darkness which leered with an evil gaze.

as I did on such nights, i looked at the pattern of my night-table, Gilt with a golden arabesque; parquetry patterns topped with marble inlaid with the delicacy of lapidary skill; gems forming the features of a man’s solemn face, dignified as the marquetry woods of André Charles Boulle.

filled with trepidation, I would take from the stand my hand-mirror, trembling I would examine it, the gold leaf and carving of some Eros or Cupid face, in the back the name of Phobos or Psyche, my fear subsiding as I turn it upon myself, seeing no other than my own self.

I, I am who I am, but seen from the outside, the eye sees the face, looks past the wrinkles and sees in a moment youth, childhood, adulthood and now, the eye sees the eye, then remembers it is “I” I and the I within my mirror culminate as a singular name, Isador Di Elie.

i put down the antique and peered at my window, seeing languid clouds of evening, reliques of yesterday; each cloud a crown of martyr’s bones adorning an ancient forest whose groves have not been hewn by man, Oh untouched elderly elms, does not dwell among you the very soul of antiquity?

through the vales shines the silvery light, as if a veil of velvet bedight with a crescent sigil, it was as if a spectral hand of white reached out and caressed my brow with some lunar delight, but stained by the wistful silence of the night, of the blight of a solitude of the palest white hand.

as if by the moon’s desire, from my bed I moved, I drew near to the window and outstretched my hand, “let me grasp you, silver pedant of heaven”, i wished in my longing that just as a still lake seen by no one reflects the nocturnal light so also may I be granted such beauty and rest.

I began to pace to and fro within the room, this spell of neurosis sped up my mind so I could not sit in one place, back and forth first slowly, then quicker, and as I sped, the room felt smaller, i said mentally “mental measurements and ruminations concerning nothing are valueless.”

with mental energy filling every part of me, I contemplated that it would bring harmony to my mind if I entered into my study, thus I opened the door and made my way downstairs where dwelled a multitude of books on matters both Philosophical and Aesthetical.

Part 2

though dimly lit, i entered my library and marveled, each tome was at minimum Saffian bound, i had forgotten the diversity and rarity of my collection, gold embroidery and flashes of bejeweled manuscripts, I forgot each and like a child I grabbed at random.

with my stack of books, i sat down and looked over its contents, the first piece was the triangular book of St German, a book which was triangular in shape, each page was Latin further obscured in a cipher, each page described the process of evocation of spirits and invocation,

its was not dissimilar to the heptameron in content, for the book of Pietro d’Abano explained the right and proper hours to conjure angels and planetary intelligences, the properties of gemstones and the occult virtues of plants and of which incenses to censer with.

the next book was a veritable grimoire in its own right, Gaspard De La Nuit, the book given by that Devil to Bertrand which sang of God’s heart, of the valley of Lepers, of the stone tarrasques, even of the burning comet blazing with anger against the dark-blue vault of the firmament.

how mysterious was the next book bound in black goatskin, Abraham Abulafia’s accursed book of prophecies and letter permutations, does not Zechariah’s own terrible voice cry out through him? does he not conjure the angel who bears the Flaming sword, the Angel which guards Eden?

and yet, there is a more profound darkness in man, does not the treatise of Robert Burton plunge into the deep waters of melancholy where dwells the the soul of emptiness? many are his pearls of wisdom, for, does he not grasp that heartless void and crush it into a diamond Adamantine?

and yet, O Hegel, how much more adamantine is the purity of thy mind, which drinks from the Chalice of Spirit, whose book is the book of the marriage of heaven and Earth, who knows the secret of time as the overflowing of God’s Being, are you not Böhme reborn as Trismegistus?

the reverie of each tome induced in me a fugue of vibrant colors, was not each idea an intoxicant or, perhaps, a dream? each a world of syllables and tones? am I Abraham von Worms or am I Schiller ? O dream-delirium, I confess, I did not read upon that night.

the faint fire illumined the books and my chair, my mind was rapt and inflamed with aesthetical contemplations, how can one choose between the torches of great men? amid the cataracts of burning passions, of these many great shades, I chose none, instead resting in an aesthetic quietude. 

there I sat for a while, carving into myself each impression and sensation, drawing first the outline and then painting into it the essence, yet, the image lacked the music, the mighty and terrible note, the taste called sublime, fear of God, Hell and death, thus I sought to remedy myself.

part 3

in a dark corner I see dimly a painting, it is the temptation of St Anthony by salvator Rosa, and yet it is more than an image, for I know that a demonic hand or perhaps a light half malefic, half angelic had moved him into creating this dark portal.

Anthony dwelled and did not dwell in a desert, for though in the flesh he walked upon the hostile sand, in spirit he was upon a precipice which stands before a wrinkled sea, is this not the Sea where lives the leviathan? the dark waters of old, known to men by the name of Sin and Death.

though he was in an ethereal realm he was laid supine against the Stones, accursed by the hidden skull, ephemeral pain strikes with immortal sorrow yet he does not fall, he is held by the pages of a book, his Bible, the eternal foundation which is both his cloak and his blanket. 

an infection roams on the rocks, like a disease, upon the crags sits a host of Vile spirits, passes between them an infection of perverse joy, they laugh with the laugh of the devourer, their faces are like the dog who comes upon a little child and places his soft head into their jaws.

unveiled is the Great Devil demogorgon brought from the pit of dull darkness, whose ligaments are enervate yet curved as a scythe, whose sinews are seen beneath leper’s skin, filled with poverty, look upon his twisted spine and neck; a chimera of both serpent and worm whose crawling flesh ever writhes.

I will not fail to speak of his obscene head, an
amalgamation of the skull of Bird and boar,
his lineaments were forged of iron, sharpened
to the point of a piercing blade, his beak, between
his tusks he has the teeth of a human corpse, but
his tongue is that of the dog, full of thirstiness. 

Saint Anthony and the Demon face each other, the demon is upon him like lightning from the height, yet just as the earth is stricken by the bolt and remains still, so did Anthony’s face remain in stoic calm, and why? how did Anthony remain with resolve against demonic temptation?

Anthony held in his hand a wooden cross, just as Seraph-faced Stephen continued his speech, just as Mordecai was blessed with the signet ring, just as David slew the giant, Goliath, and buried his head in the place of the skull, golgotha, just as all of these, the Lord was with Anthony.

How great in power is the artifice of man? what is a man that he may perform genesis, that he may create a world of Saints and devils? the painter’s imprint is nothing but the imprint of God in man, his own scintillating intellect casting against the cave wall an illusion.

considering these things, I turned myself towards the contemplation of a thought far greater, towards the nature of Art itself and whether it be a thing divine or but a delusive shadow, if it is but a thing from the hand of a man or if it is a cherubic child of God.

Part 4

my mind moved over a multitude of meanings, each consideration and each definition, for a moment each of them seemed to be the truth, just as waves obscure, so also was it obscured to me, until the waves of thought rested within themselves, and I saw a vision clear as water.

in a reverie i saw before me three trees, First;The Tree of Liberty, wet as with the blood poured from the free, which gives herself freely to all but requires that all who taste of her water her, and she is watered with freedom, her own fruit, for her real name is slavery and illusion.

the second tree was unto me filled with honor, for from it fell the fruits of the knowledge of good and evil which make of men to become gods and beggars, and yet accursed, for who is more honored than he who dwells in the sepulcher? the grave dispels the illusion, then knowledge returns to naught.

and finally revealed to me was the third tree, and it did not require a sacrifice for it was fed from the Fountain of living water and its fruits were the gold fruits of eternity which gives unto man an eternal living life and a light to his eyes and The Truth to his soul.

a child was next revealed to me, he walked among the trees and picked of each fruit and in his picking he fell and yet he held to the fruits with which he crushed and made dye and ink and paint, and with each he tried to trace his father’s forgotten face, but he could only remember dimly the form’s outline.

the child though lost delighted within the foreign forest, for a while he looked upon the warbler and upon the willow and the lily of white, but soon each lost their light, though he remembered the sight, so with his paint he painted each of them, but filled them with hidden light, with luminous glory.

from each ephemera an essence everlasting he extracted, and each of them filled him with Light, ennobling his mind, giving him liberty, yet each image was partial, each was but a taste of the many-colored land he had first seen, each seemed to him an imitation, an illusion.

as he sat and contemplated all his works, an old image, a memory, returned to him, with haste he took all his paintings and tessellated them with a forgotten pattern, which he once knew, forgot and returned back to him by the resemblance of the world found within his many paintings.

as in a dream, he beheld a mosaic formed from the delicate flowers, the flying creature, from the whole of the forest of many colors in unison, each hidden light brought into harmony, from them formed the face of his forgotten father, who he realized had never left him.

and thus ended the vision of the very soul of Art, just as the vision or fantasy began to fade away into darkness, so also did my eyes begin to fall away, and silence came upon me as comes for all who journey into the land of deepest peace, the land of slumber.

part 5

a Golden light sublime and substantial gradually fades from my view, then all becomes delicate blues and white-stained gold, an enamel heaven of tinged glory and of gushing Geysers of the deep, which, though unseen, rise up as a spume of silver, as pale hands the virgin Foam claps to the sky.

painted Dawn is dim on the dark water, painted yet pale, dark yet shining. she was born, she the deep sea’s daughter whose face to feet were fair and flawless, filled as with a light golden and with eyes that burned with the flame seen from far away shores, just as had been seen in the olden days when the sea was young.

gloomy onyx arose the hills and the cliffs and upon them soft as vellum grew the flowers tinged with the delicate white-gold of heaven among a grass just as gold as the sun that shined restfully upon the waters where fed upon foam were the red flowers of Proserpine beneath the cliffs.

she walks upon the cliffs, a young woman whose dress is pale, (yet paler still is her sickly skin) leaps from cliff to cliff, she does not fear the waters of the deep for with each leap she looks upon the abyss and yet its darkness does not stain her pallid skin agleam as with tears made of mother of pearl.

he marches from the dale to the hill and marches back again, his face was wizen, his voices were daven, his garb black and in his left hand he held a Red Cross and a pale lily in his right. every sixth step he would cry out “oh lord, my lord, Oh God, my God” he sought but knew not what he sought.

I held in my hand a little book, leather bound and illuminated, and though the letters were in some unknown script i was able to recite them “I speak to you who wears a sable garb, I cry to you who searches for naught, hear the bellows of my throat and behold I know what must be sought.”

the elder heard my voice, but believed it not, his neck grew long and quinsied, his arms sagged sallow and shriveled, the white lily fell from his grip and floated on the waters below the cliff, his bone sharp as saber could be seen through his skin, his eyes grew sunken, his breath blew ash-cloud and his face grew gaunt.

he marched from the dale to the hill and then returned back again. softly a song sang she who walks upon the cliffs, the white of the lily dapples the red poppy, his eyes cruel and abyssal looked upon her stainless eyes agleam as if made of mother of pearl, his eyes become tinged with golden light.

he marched over dale and hill and she leaps from the rocks and in the center met they where the waters meet the rocks. she grew ripe, her skin becomes stained with the red flush of life, his wizen form wastes away, revealing the face and form of a younger man who bears in his hand a spume-white sword of silver.

he embraces her and for a moment, a golden light, sublime and substantial causes all to fade from my view and I drop my book of strange characters into the ancient sea where reflects the light of the enamel Sun and then they two with one voice speak to me “awaken thou, from thine dream.”

part 6

with a quiver I awoke, for a steady knock had shook the downstairs doors, tremulous it echoed from the portico trembling gently through each unlit room as with an anapestic rhythm, each vibration causing a slight flutter in my skull and a neurotic convulsion in my chest.

stirred by my mind’s raving, I left my library and headed quietly towards the rhythmical tapping, but a delirium came upon me as I entered the foreroom, each elemental particle of it seemed to take on a profound character within the night, but hid during day.

first i looked upon the sylvan statues of satyrs, some brazen Sea-green others marble white, each face was contorted into the devil-grin of Great Pan, their Lord, God of rapists and of the wild places, were these not the faces of revelry seen in the satanic visions of carducci?

but daimons were not the sole inhabitants of this Hellenic grove, for it was adorned with urns Aeolic and attic, some filled with ash drawn from charnel fires, others as vessels for wine poured in the hours of Carnal delight or perhaps, blight, is not nightshade the grape of Proserpine?

and upon the black marble table, like a dais, rested an idol of porphyry whose head was like a spider but had the phantasmal hands of a man with the decaying grip of rigor mortis, ebon and sharp clawed tipped with pale bone, and its eyes of ruby were aflame as with burning wrath.

and dolorous as midnight rain and raven cry was a haunting odour of sere, an aroma of withered flesh mingled as with wolf’s bane and the yew-berry, yet spectral-faint was it, the perfume of the night mingled with the anapestic rhythm leaving in me an image of a funeral.

the room took on a Fervid and fierce quality, the darkness becoming ashy and emberous, the idol-eyes becoming that of the lion, the Urns depicting the great serpent typhon and Dionysian rites in which men are torn limb from limb and the tapping rhythm became pounding.

on the door was a thangka, but of an awful atavism for it depicted a bleeding phantasmagorgic gules and black monster, which had as a carcanet golden serpents with agate eyes wrapt about its head, and it held skulls in its talons wherein was writ wrathful coronachs.

I entered the vestibule, dread darkness draped as a pall over the antechamber which was lit weakly by wax candles of white, revealing the worlds of secret darkness hid between parallel facing mirrors, an infinity where crawls my serpent of fear among Kali’s mandalic Dark.

though racked with panic and in fear of the rhythm which rang out as if pounding of thunder and of drums, i casted away the decadent fears which filled me, counting them as naught but a vain fantasy of an overly neurotic mind and assured myself of safety, thus I opened the door.

part 7

beyond the door was none other than my old friend, Jean-Paul cuartel the midget, the drunkard and the Idolater, brimming with the excitement only given by drinking overmuch spirits and he seemed to be carrying many idols, for he was a lover of idols, as was I.

I helped him in and brought in his multitude of supplies, each of which was draped over and hidden, after bringing in each we began to idle discussion, drinking, dancing and the exchanges of kisses which is fit for friends possessed by the spirits of strong liquor, Jean Paul then grew solemn.

“Whether we be absolved or damned,” murmured Jean Paul “upon your death you will have for a shroud a cloth of samite reserved for royalty, and a cloth of grey squirrel skin dug from the grave of a forgotten savage shall be your bed, and for myself, you will do the same if I die before you do.”
 
“Oh! That I should have such a shroud, and bedding.” I replied to him, my face having become red from having drank so much, “for you I will bring the choicest of the myrrhs and the most refined of the storax, and I will give you the burial offering divine, of Frankincense.”
 
“No!” jeered the dwarf, going into a fit of laughter “my flesh shall be the property of the worm, and my soul shall ascend to some Elysian Field or descend to where time is lost to itself, dreaded forgetful Lethe, for your offerings to honor me, you must burn them for your own pleasure. “
 
“Then you would rather,” I responded, still flushed as with the red mask of drunkenness, “be given worship and offering by doing as you would in life? so be it! I will drink as you drink, eat as you would eat, rich and diverse meats and heavy drink and I will burn to myself exotic incense.”

with jovial expression he leapt and replied “it is good to be understood! how rare is the jewel of good company? how hard is it to cut of the stone so as to remove the impure and leave only the natural virtues of each man in complimentary mode?” he then got up.
 
he then unveiled the first of his idolic stock, a painting wherein was depicted a giant peacock whose plumes were as if the many eye of Argus, each eye a different color, some red others Golden, others Indian blue and pale. yet the eyes of the peacock were filled as with tears.

next he brought forth a very large mammet which was brazen, but had a beak filled with dark stones and two eyes of sapphire and it had written upon it many names of birds and of deities of wealth, from Ganesh to mercury and great kubera, even the dread names of Mammon and Plutus.

for a while I examined each, and each filled me as with a magnetic attention, for I did not understand the both of them. the dwarf drinking once more began to speak to me concerning a dream for which he had formed the idols, as they were revealed to him, for he was an Idolater.

Part 8

he began “I dreamed that I committed an act of unspeakable evil, so that my own friends had taken me away and had slain my flesh and committed an awful rite so as to stain my soul with the heavy darkness of lead, and they cursed me for they denied me a Christian burial.

each one wore the black cloth of mourning and the white taper of mourning they held as they carried me through the grey city streets where none moaned nor cried for my flesh but the fog and the wind, for the houses looked upon me with anger as did all things formed of man’s hands, they then carried me to the river.

the river was wrestling with the tide of the sea, each one was filled with grim darkness and then gained a light in their eyes as the tapers approached them, these things I saw though the lights of my eyes were gone, for I was dead, but my spirit was still among my bones, for I was denied even a place in hell.

they took me down a stairway which was green with slimy things and they made for me a shallow grave before the river where dwell the forgotten things where barely the tide would ebb and flow as to deny me the burial of the sea, and into the river they cast their tapers which glittered the sea.

though dead and without feeling, I perceived still the river and the remorse of my bones, and before me was all of the forlorn things of the river, of lonely rocks and shells, scattered glass and the bones of sunken barges, which though dead had been given rest, for I was not given Christian burial.

the next night came about as with a storm so that the tide was mighty, and for a little while i entered the sepulcher of the sea wherein all things are sunken into the sleep of the sea, but then the tide would retreat and once more, I would long for proper burial or the sea sepulcher.

for many years was I before the ebb and flow until the city found my bones and had given me a true burial, my first, a decent grave, but that very night my friends came and dug my bones and returned them to the hollow hole before the river where dwelled the forlorn and forgotten things.

and for centuries this same pattern was done, first by my friends, then repeated by their sons and their sons, each making it a tradition to deny me my rest, and this continued ‘til the city breathed its last breath and all men who dwelled within it had perished, leaving none but the birds of the air.

the multitudes of birds came and spoke amongst themselves “he has only sinned against man and not us, let us be kind to him” then every type of bird from all the earth gathered in the air before me, their pinions as if a rainbow of fire, each of them began to sing their song before me.

as they sang more and more appeared until millions gathered, bloating out the sky in the colors of birds, forming an image of a great peacock from the many birds, and as their song ascended so also did my soul rise from my bones until it reached the paradisal gates, I then awoke.”

Part 9

the dwarf finished his story and left my home, but he had left with me the image of the peacock, for “I have received and have given the essence of the idol, what does its body matter to me?” I placed it within my foreroom and returned to my bed, for it was late and I was tired.

though I laid still and beckoned the world of dreaming sleep, my mind still wandered, marrying mentally the dreams and works of the hands of man, yet each did not satisfy my restless brain strained as with pain to see internally a fantasy of majesty, “Oh vanity of vanities bless me!”

and by the spoken invocation I am garbed as with light and glory and I am become as a king, imaginal robes of tyre clothe me, i am given authority over Phoenicia and Judaea, for I am the second Solomon, a silk rose of Sharon, the valley’s Lie.

yearly sixfold six hundred and sixty six talents of gold are given unto me from Ophir, treasures of the Red Sea are continually brought before me, the belly of the sea is torn asunder and it bleeds precious coral, pearl and all of the fish of Dagon prostrate to be my meal.

and am I not priest and King? I lead the choicest of fish and lamb and Bull before the horns of God’s altar within the temple, I anoint my ears with the blood of the sacrifice, I join in the singing of ancient psalms to a king of greater majesty than even I, Praise the Lord! praise God!

then the fantasy intensifies, I am no longer the king Solomon, but a man starved in the desert, without food and without drink and yet I am full of undying Will, unconquered Will, for a voice more than immortal calls out to me “come before me, and you will look upon my face.”

and Enflamed with love I ascended a mountain which shook and I prayed “great One, the mountains melt as wax before you, your breath is the frost, your eyes are the scorching heat, All might abounds in thy face, Lord ardour ablaze am I, let me be melted in the flame if I must, I beg you, show me your face. “

then the mountain dissolved, the sky rolled up as if it were a scroll, the sun turned black as a sackcloth and the moon bled red, even the earth was devoured in the fire of passion, in the fire of love, and I fell prostrate for vanity died, for I beheld the very throne of God most high.

I beheld the sea of glass, the Sapphire Sea, i beheld archangels of the presence and the four cherubim each of which had the four faces of Lion, eagle, man and Bull, each filled as with eyes, I beheld the 24 elders who give glory to the lamb singing “worthy is the lamb!”

and in the center blazed the seven lamps which are the seven spirits of God known to none but God, and in the center is the slain yet living lamb who has seven horn and sevens eyes, and in the center upon the throne surrounded by a rainbow of emerald burns as a flame the Father’s face.

Part 10

then the imaginal vision faded and I lifted my hands in prayer as tiredness washed over me, crying “before the mountains, before the untold worlds were formed, all things rested in your mind, eternally lord has the first light rested in your unchanging and yet contemplating mind.

Lord in seventy two letters you brought wrath to Egypt, in seventy two letters you brought peace to Israel, in seventy two letters you have carved your great fourfold name, whether I speak of you as Tetragrammaton or as father or as friend, you are seventy two fold and yet one.

Thou hast conquered my soul, O pale Galilean; vanity has grown grey from thy breath; the flowers of the poets and the painters have withered to ash and so also have they my lord, for what is fame and what is skill? just the least gift from your hand Lord! how much greater is the giver of the gifts!

just as the gazelle pants for water, so also have I thirsted for the least part of your glory, for this whole world is nothing but an illusion and decadence is a lie the fruit of which is suffering, it is as the priest who washes the cursed letters of bitterness into the waters.

to you who has promised rest to the weary i sing a hymn of another man! O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down, now scornfully surrounded with thorns, thine only crown! O sacred Head, what glory, what bliss till now was thine! Yet, though despised and hoary, i joy to call thee mine.

oh lord to you who is meek and mild, to you who became a little child I sing! What thou, my Lord, hast suffered was all for sinners’ gain, Mine, mine was the transgression, but thine the deadly pain Lo, here I fall, my Savior! Tis I deserve thy place. Look on me with thy favor, and grant to me thy grace.

to you sabaoth the spirit of shalom and the lord of the sabbath I sing! What language shall I borrow to thank thee, dearest Friend, for this, thy dying sorrow, thy pity without end? Oh, make me thine forever, and should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to thee.

the heaven and earth is empty, for my portion is you Lord, my portion is you. Be near when I am dying, oh, show thy cross to me, and for my rescue, flying, come, Lord, and set me free! These eyes, new faith receiving, from Jesus shall not move, for one who dies believing dies safely, through thy love.”

so ended my song and I closed my eyes for hieratic repose had come upon me, for a peace the world does not understand fell upon my heart and for the first time I knew true rest and the land of slumber, but I did not dream nor did I awake, nor did I know dreamless sleep, for I had died.

all of the Gods and mighty ones of the earth are subjected unto death, all of this world passes unto death and vain repetitions, but above the wheel of the winds sits God alone and unchanging. though there is no God found on earth stronger than death, to the sons of God death is naught but a sleep.