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The Myth of the Singer of the Shining Ball
by David Sparenberg
2016-09-01 08:24:44
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The clairvoyant Irish poet, William Butler Yeats, wrote: “There is some one myth for every man which, if we but knew it, would make us understand all he did and thought.”  For more than three decades I have seriously pondered this exceptional insight and have concluded on the myth I believe to be mine to live.  I call this the myth of the singer of the shining ball. Another way of expressing this title is to say “The psalmists, or again, myth-singer, of the narrative of the luminous, or enlightened, or awakened and awakening, universal living, life-energy sphere.” And I would venture to add that this is what a wise man calls a love relationship or apprenticeship to the cosmic dream maker.

Here now is how I wish to tell the story.

trova01The long time dwellers of the north say that there are seven worlds—worlds indeterminately ancient and worlds relatively new.  What is time, time, space, infinity, or eternity? There are worlds within worlds and worlds distinctly apart, inasmuch as any organism is in the mirage of not being joined to the fabric of everything else. Is not the universe of awareness one living holograph? One brain or breathing body? Are we not as vessels which can be whole and in being whole hold the whole of all, as plenum within?

In each of these emanated worlds there is a place, far, far away from this location of imaginative reasoning; from this turtle’s rough back, washed around by the salty fluid of our slow, evolutionary dreams.  That is the encampment of the shadow forms of fragmented souls who rush forward in a frenzied coterie of naked men and women, shrieking their pain and panic whenever a stranger approaches their dilapidated domiciles.  There the twisted stand, a yellow rage burning among them, as they tear their bodies with fingers and teeth, and lacerate the flesh of their equally tormented neighbors.

The same preservers of the most essential, organic memories of our species, that is, those who pilgrimage on spirit paths not now traveled by the majority of humankind, say that in each of the seven worlds an enormous madman occupies a promontory from which he hourly bellows out the names of that hour’s children of chaos; our relatives falling captive to the hallucinations of the giants’ projected nightmares.

Moreover, the voices of these tortured, anthropomorphic monsters—who have the audacity to call themselves kings of their worlds—reverberate, like the attacking bellows of a blood lusting beast; a beast that cannot be named among the animals of nature or mythology; that cannot be beheld in definable shape, which the human heart cannot sanction or tolerate—which can only be in the Reich of the demons of terror and the fetid body politic of inhuman contortions.

Despite this oddness, which sets the mad giants apart from pious men and women, they too draw the source of their existence from the subtlest interfacings, those zigzag hazes where energies transform into the smallest planetoids of matter.  Because this also is true, it is the myth of the singer of the shining ball that can best break the spell of the howling giants in each of the seven interactive worlds.

Only song, as psalm, poem, story and dreamtime telling, is granted the magic to journey from membrane to membrane, from vision to vision, and retain both passion and memory, which, after all, are the vital core of the integrity of narrative-singing (the narrative interpretation of the universe of experience of self-overhearing and pilgrimage).  Likewise, only the unifier of the ball of kaleidoscopic light; whether she or he be one who weds hemispheres of paradoxical powers, reveals the single head of three interpenetrating faces, or pieces together the multi-dimensional fragments of the puzzle that is as big as creation and no more, nor less, than the size of a stone with calcium thinness of an osprey’s egg; such a person, and such a person only is of the myth in their time, and can vocalize the truths that silence false usurpers and restore harmony to the naked multitudes in the shadow forms of horrified desolation. 

But what is this story that I speak to you of? For it cannot be told, except by living here, encircled, in this drama of Earth.  Why, it is a myth that bears the curve at the base of the spine, the genitals, navel, heart, voice, face and brain, male and female, profoundly, intensely, inside of it.  It is a way of being where love and power intertwine into moral strength.  Sweltering in acrid sweat, in dirt, in blood, in smoke, in the cinders of anger and in the furor of courage, in the agony of suffering and the enlightenment of ecstasy, the euphoria of having been, the humility of becoming, the poetry of belonging—this myth is holy.  Even to the same degree that it is human fertility.  The myth is the gift that waits to be given, as if in telling the words, a god who delights in self-sacrifice and the eternal return of increase is vocalized, vivified and given body.

Thus, insofar as I, little “I,”  in the many particulars that open and close in time before me, act out that portion of the drama I was given breath to be, there is the fulfilling and hallowing of the uniqueness of identity.  Identity as myth-life is destiny made spherical and luminously intimate—intimate even with luminal darkness and otherness within. Conversely, if I do not live this personal and meta-personal (transhuman) commandment; if the bravest of my songs do not reach out and stir you; or if you should let slip the delicate dream of the cosmic ball as it floats from my hands toward yours—saying, smoothly, “Look! Is it not wondrous?  Are we not, like lovers, responsible?”—then the giants (those grim, deluded, mega-men of our ever virtual sub-humanity) each on a promontory of the seven different worlds, are aroused, cry louder, lie, and, to the shameof our dignity, of all that is, assume, bellicose and inhuman, to command, condemn, betray—to prevail in madness and destruction.

David Sparenberg



Check David Sparenberg's NEW BOOK
THE GREEN TROUBADOUR A Source Book of Performance Ecosophy
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!



David Sparenberg has also 2 more Books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"Life in the Age of Extinctions volume 2 – Threshold"
Download for FREE HERE!




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Emanuel Paparella2016-09-01 15:08:42
Ah, the paradox that is myth! As Vico, Jung and Campbell have also well taught us, the Exodus event and other archetypal myths that they examined, may be public events concerning the common destiny of a particular people on a particular journey at a particular time, but at the same time they can be private events concerning the salvation of an individual hero or soul.

Who would bother reading the journey of a medieval man remembering medieval people and events as found in Dante’s Divine Comedy, where those events still relevant to a universal human nature? Indeed, nobody in our “enlightened” rational positivistic age would bother even perusing the Bible and other sacred scriptures that narrate events thousands of years old about a people of no great historical temporal significance within the general scheme of things?

Myth defies the rigorous logic of "non-contradiction" which proclaims that a thing cannot be and not be at the same time; therefore it appears slightly mad and deranged and even meaningless to those devoid of the poetic and the visionary; a tale told by a fool signifying nothing. But what myth reveals to an individual and a whole people capable of grasping it, may ultimately be more important than mere historical documented empirical events or scientific facts. The reason is that myth has to do with destiny and salvation which can be private and at the same time can be subjective and public, and universal. There lies the paradox. The poetical is better equipped to describe and narrate this paradoxical aspect existence, than mere science and rationality.

Why is there something rather than nothing is not a meaningless question because it is a religious "unscientific" question, it is a question probing the very depths and meaning of our lives within time and space...

The two, rationality and imagination have to be harmonized, something the ancients were well aware of (as demonstrated by the drama of an Aristophanes), and we modern advanced people are sadly bereft of, despite our boastful scientific advances and “progress.”

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