Prismicity 101

When you see what's in the light, the light sees what's in you!

23rd January 2012

Had light not "seen" man, we should never have seen the light.

Goethe once said, "You would not exist if the light did not see you. [ . . . ] The eye owes its existence to the light." (340)

"Light, ever active, created the eye," wrote Amherst College professor Arthur Zajonc. "It sculpted an organ suited to itself, like the streaming water shaping the stones over and through which it flows."

The Sri Lankan sage Buddhaghosa explained that he who grasps the living vision of light is able to see it best in a beam shining through a crack, dappled with golden dust motes and dreams on a beautiful late afternoon.

The painter Cezanne advised: "Get to the heart of what is before you. In order to make progress, there is only nature, and the eye is trained through contact with her."

Zajonc wrote:

Like the alchemist, whose outer actions were but an image of an inner transformation, the artist, in creating outwardly, simultaneously accomplishes an equally precious inner work — clearsight.

and . . .

As Novalis — who was both a poet and a mining engineer — wrote: " . . . it is vain to attempt to preach and teach Nature. One born blind does not learn to see though we tell him forever about colors . . . just as no one who has not the necessary organ, the specific creating instrument . . . "

If we lack the "necessary organ, the inward instrument" as Novalis called it, we will need to cultivate it.

Bingo. Metaphrand.

It was an athanasian spring day on the campus of Skylax University, rare for January. The old perfesser (who looks suspiciously like Casey Stengel) gazed out the window as he constantly used to do as a student, and hypothetically putting himself in their position, wondered if any of this was sinking in, or if he was merely whistling Dixie to a bunch of vacuum tubes with reflexes who could program, but not deprogram.

At that precise moment, a tumultuous clamor in the hallway interrupted this lecture about the two kinds of light — the one that shines above and the one in the darkness within. Turns out two aging hippies wearing Velcro sneakers — someone said their names were Weenie and Crabgrass — were expectorating unflattering epithets from the hallway, seriously disparaging the professor's presentation.

"This ain't nuthin' but New Age gobsmackery," growled the seedy beatnik as he left a Bavarian Creme doughnut smeared handprint on the door to the classroom. "When do the Arcturians arrive? And how come you're not teaching Paul Shockley and 15-foot-tall steel clawed reptoids, millions of them festering in a hollow Nibiru nightmare now orbiting Saturn, which is what all our so-called probes are about?" he snarled sarcastically.

"Jewish paralinguistic poppycock is what you're dealing here, you deceived goy simpleton, you simpering goy wimp!" bleated the other.

The old perfesser, always up to a celestial challenge, grinned, invited them in, sat them down, rustled up some Perrier, and explained.

"Prismicity is the fortuitous science of a happy future accomplished merely by turning on the light within yourself. The result is like the sunspots that are connected to the Aurora borealis with a two-day lag time (Clif High says this is the way the Sun feeds the planet): instant synchronistic illumination and understanding of every single fraud that ever hurt you." "So your brain really takes orders from the Sun, but these have been practically all blotted out by the black mask of religion, and that keeps every human being from living the unencumbered life they should be living because they are being crushed by the malevolent materialized abstractions of their own fear.

Propelled by the power of synchronicity, which has been described by Giuliana Conforti as the weak nuclear force that Giordano Bruno first postulated as love, we can clear up virtually everything currently ailing us in a single, epiphaneous nanosecond simply by turning on our own light inside and realize what that light connects to — which is, namely, the universal vibe that comes through the light of sun, after which it becomes seriously obscured by the metaphorical shadows of our own chicken plucking weak kneed disbelief.

"So boys, what'd your say your names were: Studley and Sawgrass? Sit down the listen to the rest of the class."

The rest of the class smiled with a serene but rapt attention.

The deeds and sufferings of light

Where light meets darkness, colors flash into existence. Colors are, therefore, the greatest polarity our universe can offer. In the mythic language of Zarathustra, colors are a reflection of the mighty battle relentlessly waged between the god of light, Ahura Mazda, and the dark hosts of Ahriman. In Goethe's language, "Colors are the deeds and sufferings of light," the deeds and sufferings of light with darkness.
— Arthur Zajonc, Catching the Light: The Entwined History of Light and Mind, Oxford University Press, 1994, p. 210

which a sensitive tour of love and perception about our evolving approach to and recognition of the mindboggling and ultimately unfathomable properties of light. The great mystic philosopher Goethe leads a cast of sensitive intellectual giants who seriously expand the windshield of your mind.

If you think light is just a switch on the wall that you flick, well, then you're a dark dude indeed. Probably couldn't pass a polygraph, either.

Zajonc wields Goethe like one of those Star Wars light sabers.

' . . . nothing forbids us from seeking a loving approach to that which lies beyond our reach."

"I have known light in its purity and truth, and I consider it my duty to strive after it."

"Every manifestation of light . . . offers an occasion for enlightenment, for seeing light."

Students, this kind of light is like syrup being poured down from paradise

No Pleaidian Baphomets singing kumbiyah to us outside a shambolic yurt! Spare me the goddamned flutes and beads. No leering Ratzingeresque wraith offering to crucify you for fun and profit, no hatedripping rabbis pounding their heads against rock walls demanding they have to kill you if you don't stuff their Talmud up your rectum in the prescribed manner.

None of this metaphysical masturbation. No prayers, even. Let your work be your prayer.

Faith is believing that without a doubt that man would do the same for you as you would do for him, and that would be a trust to be our singular pervasion of the universe.

Religion is an empirical science based on knowledge, compassion and boundless love that bounces back on you when you unleash it upon the world.

When you look at the universe and know for sure that the universe looks back, you'll know you've gone prismic. And congratulations, because it's the only thing that can save any of us of all of us at this badly deteriorated point in time.

Whatever happened to Kaminski? Somebody said he went prismic.

All this comes clear through the eyes of your metaphrand, your sensible soul, replacing the one so soiled by so many.

The sparkling, the innumerable dimensions, the infinite tangents, and the music, and the love . . .

All at once the John Taylor Gatto bell rang, and students scrambled to put their various recording devices in their various transportation receptacles.

The perfesser gasped in astonishment. "Oh, there was so much more ground I wanted to cover. The most important point about how the Sun created the eyes in everything that lives so we could keep track of each other. How Prometheus swiped the fire from Zeus. Homer's wine dark sea. The lantern and the eye. Photographic principles. The fire in the eye.

Prismicity is the study of the shadows between the beams of light on which the Sun writes so clearly.

The eye of Ra. Mani. The Cathars. Oh and so important, Grossteste's cosmogony of light which has fantastic implications for the merging of computer and neurological theory . . . oh and so much, so little . . . "

But the clogs were clattering on the marble stairs by this time, and the message was lost as the kids headed toward the parking lot with their I-pods and their dogs, hopping into their hotrods to take them to their beautiful homes in the dreamy forest.

At the rear of the classroom, a gwyneth of a girl with her feet on the ground but building castles in the sky flashed a furtive smile at the metaphysically well-muscled Bohunkius in the next row, who returned her gaze with a softly spoken request that was both reassuring and magical.

"How'd you like to activate your metaphrand so we can travel the universe at will?"

She looked up at him with her big blue eyes, and said,
"Oh, baby ..."

John Kaminski is a writer who lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida, constantly trying to figure out why we are destroying ourselves, and pinpointing a corrupt belief system as the engine of our demise. Solely dependent on contributions from readers, please support his work by mail:

250 N. McCall Rd. #2,
FL 34223

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