The great song and the sacred heart

taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times,  from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book

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Like many of you I have also had my insides ripped out, hacked to pieces, molded into nothing recognizable, and stuffed back into my groaning hollow. Loss and sadness are nothing new to my eternal being.

I too am in this world, this life, this voice behind the mind. I am speaking slowly, through the misty night of our old losses, hoarse in the brooding depths of fatigued untruth. I pause often, sigh, and continue. Hear my hollow metronome, charmed of the meter's dark whimper.

I thought of never touching down, of never saying who I was, where I had been, or what I did when I got there.

I thought of never writing a syllable from this broken mold of unwhole timelessness, because it seemed that I had attained nothing: no happiness, no truth, no love, no answer. I had no path to salvation, no idea on how to redeem. I had nothing to give to others but myself, and my wild, euphoric imaginings.

But life brings its own tasks, and I am not one to argue- not, at least, with the One who yet knows me. Thus, under the coercion of the tender, tickling Muse do I spill forth my own imperfect visions into the heartless land of men. Unto unhearing ears does the Word, be it alive and living, emit from my diffident pen.

And if I share with you what I can share, it is not so as to impose a matrix upon our infinite lives, but only that I might give myself away completely, in a blind attempt to join with you completely.

Perhaps I am only a hoarse voice in the chaotic chorus of the Great Song, but ...I am a voice.

What I have to say, is only what I have seen. I have sought the labours of a hero; a paradigm of consciousness is my maiden in distress. I have sought to transform our spirits with symbols; to heal the world with words, to drown all of life in a apocalypse of love and gratitude- to bleed the voice of sorrow from the stone.


But am I simply a lame busker, crooning stale requiems at the honored gates, to all those gathered impatiently about, waiting to be denied entry? Am I but the phlegmatic sexton of an abandoned, crumbling, obsolete temenos? A bell-ringer without a church? A hanged man, ejaculating life back at his dead executioners?

Am I not also am caught in the inexorable, powerful grip of life? Yes indeed, and yet ...I am that grip; that grip squeezed in upon itself like a tortured, empty fist, unable to break free of its clench until it punches something harder. But I do not punch. I only grip more arduously into myself, because only exhaustion will undo my hold upon my task, my world, my self. I am the grip of life, but I do not punch, I sing.


Between the profane and the divine lives the psychic, intermediary realm of myth and symbol. Here all opposites meet, intermingle, and go to war together. Here is where the non-existent forces of Good and Evil actually exist. Here is where the individual is most effected, and has the most effect. Here is where my people are trapped, laughing and weeping, and running about.

Here it is also where one, seeking to rise up from the profane to the divine, can get caught forever in the middle ground- between the tug and pull of the two waters, so to speak- without knowledge or hope of a further redemption. Only the individual who holds firmly to his or her unknowable 'I', despite events both inward and out, will make it through unscathed.

We will all walk this path eventually. We will all be born of virgins, we will all long for a better world, we will all be tempted in the desert of our souls, all seek to save others, all be denied and betrayed by a kiss, all be baptized in water and spirit, we will all carry our own cross and die by crucifixion between two thieves, on the lonely mountain of the world's pain, and all be resurrected into the sacred heart and true life.

And when we are brought back, as we are all brought back, we will refuse to die again for others, and we will begin to live Life itself for the very first time.

To that end I say, while the dead are burying the dead, let the living exhume their lives.

I offer to you my benedection, my observations, my song.






Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.










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