LSD in the Wind

[Terrance]

The terrible wind, look, in the tunnel (GR.452), beneath, at
the flank of the mind (GR.471), alone, we panic in open
spaces, alone in the wilderness, in the desert, on the
planes, pampas, the sky, look at Borges (GR.100, 303, 340,
264). Like Henry Adams, that self-conscious scribbler, his
phallic staff more needed than his own two legs, the pen
works, no Heideggerian Hammer, not an extension of the human
form, but it's reaction to the open spaced horror of a
handful of dust in the wind, yes T.S. Eliot turned East too,
from little g gnostic, but in Pynchon Stencil and the rest
turn with perversity and guilt and "long to RETURN to that
first unscribbled serenity ...  that anarchic oneness of
pampas and sky." (GR.264)

And glory be to the bomb, the escape from the planet,
Weissmann's gnostic ""paranoid cosmic consciousness",
Urstaff, he will escape from the  "closed white version of
reality." 



, 

Dave Monroe wrote:
> 
> 1.  Genesis
> 
> Wasteland.
>     Total, glaring, absolute.
>     Stark, terrible.
>     Nothing growing.
>     Nothing moving.
>     Ageless, perpetual silence.  Eternal solitude.  Only the piercing
> whine of the dry nameless wind blowing in from a distantly heard sea.
>     Desolation.  A universe of nakedness and nil.
>     Utter, supreme.  Everlasting.
>     Nothing of Life.  Only the unrelenting deathly stillness.  The
> infinity of zero, emptiness, nothingness.
>     This is the planet where Man has lost his supreme position in the
> scheme of things.  Listen to the Wind.
>     If it could speak [...]  The scorching, chilling breath of the
> wind's passage would carry the terrible tale to the walls of Infinity,
> down the endless corridors of the vast timelessness which seems to be
> the core of the land itself ...
>     Listen, the Wind ...
>     "This is the truth eternal: whatever thinks, can speak.  And
> whatever speaks can murder.
>     "But what is there to murder in this dead place?"
>     There is no answer for the Wind.
>     [...]
>     The Wind whines higher and louder, scoring over a dead landscape.
> Weird lambent lights suffuse the terrain.  There is a vast unearthly
> brilliance invested in a panorama of Nothingness.
>     [...]
>     The dead snads remained unmoving, the wind prowled over the
> monolithic expanse of desert-like desolation.  And isolation.  The
> unknown lights bathed the wasteland with a dull, inflexible glow.
>     [...]
>     A long-dead lady of stone eyes, stone ears and stone senses--whose
> only companion for an eon had been--
>     --the Wind.
>     [...]
>     "Goddamn you all to hell!"
>     [...]
>     The Statue of Liberty could not hear Taylor weeping.
>     Stone has no heart.
>     Or soul.
>     It does not even hear the wind.
> 
> Avallone, Michael.  Beneath the Planet of the Apes.
>     New York: Bantam, 1970.  pp. 1-3
> 
> ... "based upon characters created by Pierre Boulle."  Well, there was
> something in the wind ca. the turn of the decade, at any rate.  And note
> the echo of Thomas stearns Eliot's "The Waste-land" there as well.  By
> the way, I've been reliably informed that, alchemically, April is,
> indeed, "the cruelest month" ....