Page 64 - GALIET HEAVEN´S SCROLL IV

These magic realisms perhaps belonging to the land, not of Oz, but of Mr. García Márquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude, ever marvelling and terrifying us, as nomads and lost dwellers within a mysterious, perplexing myth, or some mischievous Jungean archetype in the collective unconscious, whose word descants a cavern of shady symbols ferried across towards our bleak, labyrinthine consciousness, yet where “A is never A,” and all things perspire with simple and extended metaphors of “A is B.”
Metaphors, whose airy wings make us flee from our dim ninety-nine cent reality, where the Word agonizes, as we toss and turn, and stare some in horror, some in ennui, some in absolute indifference, at manifold images and lit screens, aspiring towards a sustainable secular, virtual humanism of sorts, or to a return to an Ideal Divine, for in what modern sea might Icarus’ waxen wings found be? For in what Kantean a-priori or Hegelian dream might dwell “A is A” in this celestial drought?
How far-off, how distant are we really from the blood- curling Cerberus’ bark? From tenebrous nihilistic descents? From infinite underworlds and labyrinths filled with real or imaginary kakodaemons within, or without, and from devouring Minotaurs, Hadeses, or Satans, and from Dantesque malebolges, and their pools of vice and filth, whose Gates of Hell warn and spell,
Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye.
—64—