2013/01/22

from archives -- a bit of Lady Chatterley

Exquisite!! L,

D Mattingly Conner wrote:
>
> The golden chain is passed from soul to soul, body to body, That's
> the only truth I know. I dunno. I dunno. We're all initiates, else
> it all seems frozen and unalive. Another mere church. Better the
> stillness of trees.
>
> " Nothing shields you better against the solitude and forlornness of
> the divine experience better than community. It is the best and safest
> substitute for individual responsibility. " cgjung, in Psych & Western
> religion
>
> Below: Lawrence was dying when he wrote this. He seemed to be
> constantly crossing the boundry -- and speaking it. He too, will sit
> quietly with you. Even now. That's leaving something behind... and
> it isn't ego. It's gift. It's love moving in stillness.
>
> It's in you now. I don't know where or how else to even look for it.
> Except there.
>
> Godspeed. Thank you all. Sprinkles water, lights smoke, closes up the
> doors.
>
> Deborah Mattingly Conner
>
> Now, he slept absolutely motionless, keeping her within the circle of
> his arm, her breast like a fruit on the tree, in the hollow of his
> hand. And now he seemed really at peace, he seemed to have achieved
> his own peace, perhaps at the expense of her own. While she would lie
> still and submissive in the circle of his enclosing arm, he was at
> peace, and his wounds were closed. But the moment she broke away, he
> would wake, and memory would open like a wound.
> She could feel the slow, strong thudding of his heart, as he held her
> against him. And it made her think of that other strange creature m
> him, the erect, sightless, overweening phallus. A little frightening
> that had been, in its erect, blind overweening. And somehow she
> realised that it was the soul of his phallus, the overweening blind
> male soul in him, that had been wounded all his life, wounded through
> his mother and his step-father from the beginning of his days, and
> whose wound gaped with the pain and hatred of sex. Because, his
> phallus was rooted in his soul, and rose erect from the soul's deeps,
> in naive pride of creation. And it was this queer, sight-less,
> mindless phallic nature that had been hurt in him all his life, and
> whose wound only closed now, in sleep, while she lay submissive in
> the circle of his flesh.
> Vaguely, she realised for the first time in her life what the phallus
> meant, and her heart seemed to enter a new, wide world. Between the
> two hesitating creatures, himself and her, she had seen the third
> creature, erect, alert, overweening, utterly unhesitating, stand
> there in a queer new assertion, rising from the roots of his body. It
> was like some primitive, grotesque god: but alive, and unspeakably
> vivid, alert with its own weird life, apart from both their per-
> sonalities. Sightless, it seemed to look round, like a mole risen
> from the depths of the earth. The resurrection of the flesh, it was
> called in joke. But wasn't it really so? Wasn't there a weird,
> grotesque god-head in it?
> And this godhead in him had always been wounded, yet even now was not
> dead. In most men it was dead. To most men, the penis was merely a
> member, at the disposal of the personality. Most men merely used
> their penis as they use their fingers, for some personal purpose of
> their own. But in a true man, the penis has a life of its own, and is
> the second man within the man. It is prior to the per-sonality. And
> the personality must yield before the priority and the mysterious
> root-knowledge of the penis, or the phallus. For this is the
> difference between the two: the penis is a mere member of the physi-
> ological body. But the phallus, in the old sense, has roots, the
> deepest roots of all, in the soul and the greater consciousness of
> man, and it is through the phallic roots that inspiration enters the
> soul.
> Vaguely, she realised it. Vaguely, she knew now what he meant when he
> said: 'I don't know what you mean by only,' to him, there could never
> be 'only fucking'. Because his phallus rose in its own weird godhead,
> with its own swarthy pride and surety, and 'fucking' went to the
> phallic roots of his soul. It was not just sensational excita-tion,
> worked from the ego and the personality. His phallus was not the
> vulgar organ, the penis. And with the life or death of his phallus,
> he would live or die. That too she realised. Men like Clifford, and a
> vast number of modern men, lived in the petty triumph over the
> phallus. They have a nasty penis, with which they play about like
> dirty little boys. But when it comes to the act, in spite of all the
> gush about love, it is merely fucking, the functional orgasm, the
> momentary sensa-tional thrill, the cheap and nasty excitation of a
> moment.
> She herself was enclosed in the phallic circle of flesh, and her
> female nature set in the socket of the male clasp. For the moment.
> But this night, at least, she submitted. She did not feel a prisoner.
> She felt enclosed, and safe, and her heart at last was still, had
> lost its tightness. She was no longer afraid. Always, all her life,
> she had had a seed of fear in her heart, that could suddenly grow
> like a grain of mustard-seed. Fear of what? Of nothing, and of
> everything. Fear of life, fear of society, fear of what would happen,
> fear of what would not happen. The war had ratified the fear, once
> and for all. And to conquer the fear, she had wanted to be free, and
> free, and more free. And the freer she was, the deeper the fear sent
> its root in her soul.
> Tonight she realised. The root of the fear had been fear of the
> phallus. This is the root-fear of all mankind. Hence the frenzied
> efforts of mankind to despise the phallus, and to nullify it. All out
> of fear. Hence the modern jazz desire to make the phallus quite
> trivial, a silly little popgun. Fear, just the same. Fear of this
> alter ego, this homunculus, this little master which is inside a man,
> the phallus. Men and women alike committed endless obscenities, in
> order to be rid of this little master, to be free of it! Free! Free!
> Freedom! Oh tale told by an idiot!
> Tonight she submitted. Tonight she would be enclosed and en-circled
> within the phallic body, like an egg set in a cup. Tonight for once
> she would be without fear. The only thing which had taken her quite
> away from fear, if only for a night, was the strange gallant phallus
> looking round in its odd bright godhead, and now the arm of flesh
> around her, the socket of the hand against her breast, the slow,
> sleeping thud of the man's heart against her body. It was all one
> thing
> - the mysterious phallic godhead. Now she knew that the worst
> had happened. This dragon had enfolded her, and its folds were pure
> gentleness and safety. There was something that danger could not
> touch: one thing and one only: the perfect sleeping circle of the
> male and female, phallic body.
> For once, her heart yielded, yielded and passed out. What did it
> matter who he was, in the daytime world! Now he was the silent man
> who enclosed her in the phallic circle, and she was like the yolk of
> the egg, enclosed. She wanted only, only to be perfectly enclosed, to
> be perfectly comforted, to be put perfectly to sleep.
> She slipped round in his arms, and clung to his body, pressing her
> body to his, in the nakedness. And she felt the mysterious change in
> his flesh, the beginnings of the inrush of power, the subtle potency
> that
> accompanies the rousing of the phallus. And her own flesh quivered
> and seemed to melt, in wave after wave of new moltenness, as he
> entered her and melted her in successive sharp, soft waves of un-
> speakable pleasure, molten and for ever more molten, while her voice
> uttered sharp, strange cries, till she reached the climax and was
> gone, in the pure bath of forgetting and of birth.
> Then at last she nestled into him, and slept as he had slept, in the
> new sleep. And her breast lay in the socket of his hand, and she was
> unaware of it. She was only the yolk in the egg.
> He woke at dawn in the morning. But he lay still, thinking. It was so
> good to lie like this, so still, within the inner circle of the
> angels, beyond all fear and pain. She slept, and his soul slept with
> her. Only his eyes watched the light through the window-blind, his
> ears heard the voices of birds, the moving of Flossie downstairs. If
> one could remain forever so, naked in the stillness, with the
> sleeping, naked woman! On the edge of his consciousness pressed the
> day, with its fear, its evil problems. But he remained within the
> inner circle of the phallic angels, with the woman.
> And at last she stirred too, woke, with a certain wonder, and turned
> round to meet his wide-open, quiet eyes, that gazed at her.
> 'Are you awake?' she said to him.
> dhLawrence, & Lady Jane (2nd version of Lady Chatterley)
>
>


mike:
> Stunning that they could ban stuff like this, isn't it?
As though it were pornographic...
Good Lord! (and Good Lady!)...
And largely because of 'class'!
There's a saying in the Zenrin Kushu: 'Doesn't recognise the smell of his own
shit!' In apartheid
South Africa I had a friend whose job it was to remove from all films any
glimpse of a naked
woman's body and every swearword from any line of text including the gods from
each and every
goddam. Thankfully she used to invite me round to see the movies before they
were mutilated.
You were allowed to kill as many people as you liked but you sure 'n hell
weren't allowed to
seen making love (or any of its derivatives) to 'em!
Funny where we think filth lies!

m



'Everything you know is wrong' - Firesign Theatre

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peter adds:

http://circumsolatious.blogspot.com/2013/01/connecting-inner-and-outer-total.html