English Comments #223US
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October 4, 2020 (223US) 
we poor ruderal ones!

The Father did neither blow on me like on a precious jasmine along the Taj Mahal nor like on a rose at the foot of the Vezelay basilica, but He blew on me like on some rustic ivy-leaved toadflax in the ruins of the world.
Since then, we as ruins blossom grow unnoticed, only noticed by a few venturesome hikers across the rubble of Life here below, that the world has already turned into without the masses having an inkling of it.

Cymbalaire des murs

the mission in the world like
the ivy-leaved toadflax in ruins.

On a world unaware that it is in ruins as it is, we as Arès Pilgrims are ruderal plants blossom of great diversity, the start of a civilisation which has never been in existence yet, the hardy metacivilisation where all opposites love each other.
Whenever or wherever on a mission we are as badly off as woodlouses under cobblestones. Very few people lift the cobbles up to see them. But every hardship has its advantage: We thus remain ignored by the white kings, the black kings (Rev of Arès x/6, etc.) and their dogs (x/5-18), who smooth over men's minds with their pumice apologues. We stay raw, unpolishable, pure, ready for the great times ahead of us.

My eye is crude so much that I cannot see the point of going to Mars miles from us while we do not even know what lies 1250 miles under, and so much so that I cannot see the point of putting in the 5G so as to download "Ben-Hur" twenty-seven times in one second, while a minute virus makes a letter come from Brest (Britain, France) to Bordeaux in two months. I am rustic so much so that I will not believe the A.I. (Artificial Intelligence) when it says to me that there is no such thing as God, Allah, Brama, the Father-Mother, Life, Him who is Wholly Other, etc. I may be held in contempt like a centipede which shuns the world's lights, I am aware that Life, Who has created me, is eternal and that I will go back to Her.

The other day I heard Mr Macron tell, "I'll put in the 5G, because I don't want to return to candlelight times..." and I immediately thought : "But didn't Plato, Aristotle, the Evangelists, Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant, Dostoevsky, etc. use to write by candlelight?" How boorish of me!
When it comes down to it, I am a lout who leads a life of penitence, so that my soul (if I've had one) may begin becoming what it will be in the hereafter, that is, the opposite of all that endlessly brings back the bright human flesh to its selfsatisfaction, its money, its successes like a firefly to its horde.  I as a rustic man believe that nothing but Good in me which is correctly to prepare my death that is approaching, because my soul is forever warming up by the Fire (Rév of Arès xLi/7). I think that only my penitence — wow ah ah ah! wow oh oh! the trendy people guffaw — will save me, and that loving and forgiving all men release me from sin, that I am inlaid with. This is my antisuperstition — one does the best one can —. And to add stupidity to rusticity, I am so rustic that I believe that I am against all that makes man very satisfied to be his self-destructor. If you answer the question, "What do you hope for?" by "I hope to be just an atom of infinite Life", just as I answer, you soon are to tumble from the world's exquisite civility down to Life's immense rusticitys.

Yes, I would say quite happily that my expectations look rustic and a bit basic, but what sort of cross do I let myself nail to? None. Nothing in me requires theological analyses. I need only love, forgive, make peace, have the heart's intelligence freed up from all prejudices in short, be a penitent. This enables me to fly to the Infinite.
I am rustic, because I go backwards across millennia searching for the Light that used to spread over everything constantly, while all the mighty and well updated people have already gone forwards well ahead of me under the spotlights in stadiums or along the exquisite highways to the sin of sins (Rev of Arès 38/2). The world judges me to be senseless, so that I under the world's watchful eyes am "neither standing, nor seating, nor even lying", has said Ionesco.
In USA a David Cope composes computational music made from lines of code and an algorithm which generate musical works in John Sebastian Bach's style. I is as weird as the mass that priests think they celebrate in Jésus' way." Why such a useless contrivance," I as a ruderal plantain ask myself, "since John Sebastian Bach composed works the beauty of which give us all we can wish for?" About everything in the world is contrived, I a clumsy rustic man think, except love, because it is not generated by me, but by Life (Rev of Arès 24/3-5)... non-biological Life. Whenever I spark off that dormant reality from the forgotten depths of the Creative Event, millions of eyes, which look at me, turn pitying.
I as a rustic guy is aware that a confinement and masks do not make men immortal, and that the seasonal influenza viruses make people very sick too without decrees plunging citizens into fear and throwing half the global population into economic slumps,  so I wonder why the useless political invention of the covid-19 epidemic. Thus, ever since my heart has gotten a toehold out of time (Rev of Arès 12/6) and the eyes of my soul see things otherwise than the eyes of my head see them, I consider too many things in the world as artificial. I see the white of my skin as an artifice, I cannot see me as different from a Pygmy, an Eskimo, an Indian, a Papuan, a Chinese, a Khoikhoi. I endeavor to be a man of no stock or blood,  of no customs, of no way of thinking or building, of no hatred, of no national pride... In short, I have given up existing in the classifications, categories and statictics statistiques, for which the world has a great fondness.

The audience of a basketball game have been asked not to keep track of the baskets, but to keep track of the changes of hand. As a basketball game is very fast, counting the changes of hand is very difficult. While the audience were following the ball movements carefully, a guy dressed up as a gorilla entered the floor, drummed his chest, and then left. Once the game was over, the audience were told that a gorilla had appeared on the parquet floor. The audience protested that they had not seen anything like it. The film of the game was then screened to them, so they were forced to admit that a gorilla had actually been there. This is called "unattentional blinding". I am present yet unnoticed like the gorilla.

No one has seen the anthropized God, the religions' heavenly judge and king, ever, the One in whom billions believe in, but those beliefs are lent to mankind just as extralucidity is lent to bishops, ash'arites, lamas, rabbis, gurus, presidents of nations, and so on, because they have been made quintessential. As they have long ceased to be natural wild plum trees, their laboratories have made them complicated cultivars, which bear fruit of which they make jams under a thousand marks. And one day, a Voice, which I erroneously thought I had aleady heard in my Church, called on me and spoke to me elsewhere, in Arès a God-forsaken township in Gironde, France. Why in a poor village inhabited by miscreant oyster fishers, encircled by huge pine forests through which the oceanic wind used to rush, and why to an undeserving clergyman exiled there? I have understood why. Any nobody on earth is qualified to be whole mankind all by himself. Since then, I claim that God is not the one of magi, priests, theologians, and that He is neither a judge, nor a king, even nor a person, but the Being ad infinitum, from the infinitesimal to the infinitely great; He is the Power, a part of Which each man conceals in the deep cellars of his or her own being. Religions sort it out doing their best with their God(s) anthropized, crowned, who record sins, just as republics sort it out putting up with their presidents, lawmakers and courts of justice who record misdemeanors. I have done nothing more than meet God, Who has seemed very different from what religions tells about Him  — They burst out laughing at the face of the poor rustic one who claims he has met That one Who can't be met.
Many people think that I'd better disappear; as a ruderal plant clinging to debris I am not sweet-smelling. I am not more impressive than a tuft of plantain in ruins. But I have long spoken and I continue. This bothers many people. Bother forms the opening bars of the opera that is going to be performed. I never stop saying to every chance human being that God is within him or her and even that he or she is God in some way, while he or she is an atom of the Power That has never stopped creating the Universe. The Revelation pf Arès and the event of the Surnatural, which the fellow, that I am, has lived through, have given us the standing to bet on unconditional Love and find Salvation in penitence.

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