Posted 25 August 2000 - 09:12 PM
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 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: DHLawrence 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)
the only truth I know. I dunno. I dunno. We're all initiates, else
it all seems frozen and unalive. Another 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: DHLawrence 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)