Heavenly Habiliment has Neither Seam Nor Loose Strands 天衣無縫(ちょっとnsfwかも）和訳はWIP
No seams in between or loose threads exists
In a heavenly habiliment made for enlightened God and his holy ghosts,
for if there ever in the ever-looming of the immortal life-coil, in its creation
(those celestial spinstresses, painless and wordless websters
ever spinning and weaving,
that is, ever conjuring and conjoining threads of Destiny
So it becomes the tapestry of one and only immutable Fate)
should be one who has a moment of doubt, for her craft, or shed she some drops of empathetic tears,
for the never-ending-labour for the sake of ever-lasting-love,
momently in the holy-spinning automaton many a threads would get stuck,
in the destiny’s shuttles traversing and crossing to and fro working in the universal doom-loom
therefore for a moment in the immortal annals
of the ever-lasting kingdom of heavens was interrupted and paused
for the sake of an angel’s empathetic tears
to a most guilty mortal man whose sin is to have become so guileless, and even more innocent than the most innocent dove or lamb
for he never lies and dies
and for this damned forever to never go to immortal heaven
the unchanging woven pattern of a foretold eternal doom
got messed up and messed about,
and so there is now a cataclysm in the society of heavens!
(Five signs of decay and degeneration in heavenly beings!)
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
the cherubs’ flowing robe that becomes her
tirelessly wisdom-seeking quest, shall be arrested and caught
by a most gruesomely dark and menacingly bitter thorn
and with its spirit-consoling fabric torn, leaving her in naked shame.
(The shame, that like the lower body of a mortal woman
It has such an ugly torn seam in its soft and luxuriant satin fabric
that shall never be sealed.
That shall never sealed.
Not even by the most wise and crafty men that boasts virtues and strength.
That shall never heal, notwithstanding knowledge and wisdom’s eternal quest for healing.)
—
and the Seraph’s burning wings of salvation
ceased its flapping along with their immortal cry for love
so divine and urgent so brutishly strangled,
by himself and the wings fell like a piece of a more enveloping, doubly effulgent with black and white,
— folded themselves and fell like a dark pall
upon their fresh and fleshy forms so carnally disfigured and gored,
by the heaven-rendering thunderbolts and horn s— —
piercing through the love-coveting dainty creature’s loincloth
and to her angelic embarrassment it was torn asunder!
Muder! Cold-blooded murder! that is
alike unto the moon-watching night-moth frightened
by the cessation of sounds of in some invisible darkness of night,
— — some timeless web-spinner’s clear and transient web-spinning music
its sudden and inexplicable end.
And so fearful he was, thinking all the heavens turned dead and the earth was doomed.
thus chose he to spew from their guts and bile
the blackest silk unknown to him, and confounded him even in carefree youth in his white and smooth silk-cocoon under the Sun.
and with it as a night-moth seeking eternal moonlight he himself
smothered with black knowledge and black portends and died
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
And thus even enlightened mighty God,
Would in his own perplexity, when donning that heavenly regalia
of interminably enduring, insufferably just, inhumanly impassionate
and wise that royal mantle woven with silent fire, decorated with light over night,
scented with ash and smoke,
deprived of any earthly vices
that might offend his righteous authority,
inebriated in blissful spirit
through all things offered votive in acts, ideas and music.
through the endless labour of love of art, science and morality
built he the temple that generated and issued forth jewels of eternal joy in paradise.
O — -iee, the incorruptible transcendental joy everlasting forevermore in a most distant and unknown paradise to be found or regained
yet should the divine habiliment be torn from wantonness and left an ugly seam
or a loose end of threads rise up from old age or bad usage
if even a tiny proportion of that mysteries of the celestial and immortal
the transcendental should by Man or Nature instead of itself unraveled.
If in that habit woven even with the threads of eternal and unyielding love
Should see its heart stray, make a mistake or change of mind.
(Should the unrendable be rent — -the water or air be broken and scatter in pieces. Should be eternal Moon of my soul be broken. Break it thus — — Broken Moon!)
Drifting emotions, questions to the devotion or loss of affection and even affectation,
Then say I, then I say,
Hencefoth Adieu, God. Adieu.
“Dieu, a Dieu vous comant” (God, I commend thee to God)
And A-vous — — Man I commend God to you.
Homme, Je recommande Dieu à vous. (Man, I commend God to you)
God is dead.
If in his flawlessly sufficient and charismic self God should
Like Man in the unerring, eternal motion of Sun or Moon he trusted, (even in their deviations and ruin)
should have doubt
God would against and over himself resist and subdued,
Out of himself his own earnest desire and freewill,
Himself mastered and overcame, by him, with even more perfected craft,
Rather than that of finding the effortless effort in all manners of thinking and doing, consumption and consummation that ended in vain.
Live effortfully through spending effort — — a hard struggling against depreciation and death.
And when his labour is thoroughly done with and his will fulfilled,
Paradisal heaven is true and enow. And life is done with.
Then so wisely have it renounced and abjured,
and hence perpetually being and becoming free,
snuffed himself out forthwith joyful, uninjured!
(Commend thyself to Eternity, then! Beautiful Man!)
Regardless if you have suffered or submitted — -or been defeat or conquered, even in losing of the battle of the universal tragic, all cheers to love!
Fight and be broken! And break it, so to become eternal legends!
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
-
— — Upon its wonted secret throne she sits serpentine and piously prostrate, the throne laid on secrets upon secrets — the secrets of old webs-
that resists all attempts to decipher it, whether through science
or art, none may enter and serve her — — enter her secret court of winds, raindrops, flowers and birds.
and behold the most holy and exalted, high seat of a merciful conqueror
for the adjudicator and imperator for the three-thousand-cosmoses!
the throne is too small even for a child! a web-throne made of see-through spinning threads!
And from this she sees a trillion births and deaths of three-thousand-universes in each and every hour.
Eye for the Three-Millions-and-Three-Thousand-Miles! The all-suffering weather-eye. It is called (both human and divine) compassion!
And from the vibrations of the insects or worms struggling on her web, she knows — — time to devour, judge and pronounce their doom
— — Tongue that is shaped like a hefty bejwelled mace or gavel!
It is called artful philosophy — gay science! Joyful Wisdomcraft.
Upon her throne she resides and sees, knows, and sings
some timeless web-spinner’s clear and transient web-spinning music from some forgotten aeons
that could entrap and slay the weak and clueless decrying worms, crying
and withstand the pitter-patter of raindrops that would have flattened a big mountain
and know this — — its true mission is to spin secretly the fluttering strands
fine and delicate
the long invisible strand that is an immortal’s wise and grey hair
which concealed divinity is at once apparent when it is subsumed and consumed — — consummated when it is tasted
so feed human through the mouth of body or soul when either starves
and nourish and teach a man the wonders of things that grow old and decay
the magic through undergoing mutations, the joy in the universal sorrow
of metamorphosis, always turning and changing for the newer and stronger
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
O the spider threads that feed me — -so transparent and white like very ripened black hair of a Japanese maid and oft wet with beads of her crystal tears,
O the spinner’s hair-strand — -this is what is woven into the fabric of my soul —
— and this is is the fabrication of my existence —
— I lied and made up a person which is me —
- and I found artful joy and happiness in making more and more little me — my children.
O Universe bless thy spider children thou hast sent as thy messenge
and harbinger.
With their long and insubstantial silk-lines she had brewed and stewed —
within the glands of labourous pleasure
always sore and painful in their abdomen
like carrying powerfully burdensome thoughts both artistic or philosophical
— with that intangibly flowing brook of the goosamery milk
-much like a good book and a good song —
I was fed and I grew!
Spiritus, joyful with my great-spinner-mama
and my little-spinner-wife.
I am always full and satisfied from your milk
you sent from above —
— from the spider-nest your children have hanging
on the wooden beams on the ceiling — -
-and nightly they drop down
from a strand of their white and wise hair
and feeds pieces and fragments of it spiced with bad fortune and time to me like feeding a babe nourishing and hearty noodles.
Pieces and fragments that nourish — — that inspire!
I know this — -spider’s purpose and intention,
Their throne — — their kingdom — — their being
feeds and grows in human what is called Imagination.
Feeding it — — like feeding some drops of cloudy and cool water sucked from the breast
Meat of some freshly caught deepwater fish in the southern sea, with white-bleached flesh, age-yellowed teeth, inky blue fins and rainbow-coloured scales — —
the fish once lived in some strange and cavernous society or phantasmic fish-habours with formless gathering, eating and talking places secretly subterrain heavens with no exit — -
Which drunk the limy water dripped from the white stone spires that hung
in reverse from the ceiling of a white limestone cave ancient and does not know itself
and caught some strange and smaller fishes or shrimps that look was borne out of wedlock by Leviathan.
and tasted sometimes the inexplicable joy and liberation,
when he consumed by accident the essence released by some pernicious wild weeds,
into the clean and clear water he drinks, eats and breathes in,
along with other more filthier things.
that he is made pure, happy, passionate when he drunk a few drops of lethal poison in his little ocean,
while listening to and observing always the pitter-patter of the water collected and dripped from
the white stone spires that hung in reverse from the ceiling like menacing blades
of a white limestone cave ancient and unknowable.
and only its primordial sound and music that fell from up above
and hit the water surface ceaselessly with no regard of his needs or wants
“Ding Dong Ding”
“Ding Dong Ding”
Is this to him the eternal music, or does it one day end?
“Ding Dong Ding”
that is the source of human imagination
as humans drink and inhale spiders transparent and silky threads
in walled and gloomy rooms so lightly and anciently crumbled.
And always waited upon and observed by the night-stalkers
the scarlet devils of jet black wings
Bats! Bats everywhere! Even more mysterious and unfathomable than its cousin the Spider. Sure if the spider plays the song for the imaginative mind, the bats tucked away in some dark and unnoticeable recesses on the ceiling must have furtively and cautiously glided over me when I was not thinking.
and dropped to my head or brain a dark star that can never be perceived or interacted with — -a thing-in-and-of-itself with no qualities and no self.
Mysteries upon mysteries, the bats. Children of Tao or Time!
Must they then, punish your lazy or truant children for mother nature when they grow too stupid to keep thinking! They bring new and paradoxical ideas — -newer, more nuanced, stronger way of thinking! think think think, bats bring think you drink and take it like ink in a inky glass full of ink, drinking also makes words themselves think no matter it is black like ink or just opaque and brown like beer. ink tastes better than beer!
May bats come and bring their scarlet disease! Contract me with the inexplicable swamp fever of existence that I once tasted when I tried to make the blackest ink from only purest whiteness and purest redness that I took from my body and spirit with the surgical knife made of true aether to cut sharply into truths that have grown cancers. That knife was a cheap student pencil with crisscrossed red and black pattern like which is often found on Scottish kilts!
Man still wanders, sits or lies still in his old and crumbling room,
a new room that is newly-born and has started crumbling.
Crumbling! Crumbling! The crumbling crumbled white stonehouse that still crumbles but does not collapse
The House that crumbles! The Universe!
— — Yet do not collapse, not yet. Not now.
(this stanza was inspired by an old English poem called the Ruin, you can read its translation here The Ruin | Old English Poetry Project | Rutgers University)
Appendix: An essay on artistic and philosophic curiositites
the drops of sweet water were made from leaf of shaded emerald that fell from a small and ugly bush with glossy ebony branches and trunk for its body, and stunted in its growth. It was a bush of a very ancient and nameless kind that has no active countermeasures against predators, and useless in adapting to the threats to its life and progeny, and only through the virtues of its lethally potent poison it survives or in deed thrives in the underworld, displacing most other plants and animals that are supposed to be more adaptive in the subterrain world through evolution. such an old and ridiculous-sounding stratagem for survival through rejecting and denying all things through oneself becoming such potent poison that is bad for the health of all things in nature, which is probably not going to be successful in the world above when one can always rely on help from one's own kind or herd, would find in so much triumph when the only things around are ancient and immutable, that always deny willpower and reject meanings in one's work, maligning and full of contempt for any and all endeavour---that by embracing the dark philosophy of those darksome things it should thrive like so---it is very perplexing to one with a more European mind like me.
----even if a spider were to cleverly make webs and tries to catch the little and vile flying insects of the underground---it will find nothing mostly as what is as pure-hearted and immaculate as a poisonous plant will never attract the worms that bring decay and death.
one of the leaves that is slightly less toxic than its stalk and roots coming into contact with the surface of that cool water and releasing in it such a green and sharp flavour and herbal fragrance that is like the most bitter tea brewed wastefully with far too much tealeaves of the most excellent quality--- so all the subtle beauties and enjoyment are so condensed into an experience that is like a black and imperceptibly small atom----one may tries to guess its true contents and have moments of inspiration---but always vicious, unknown and no ultimate joy to be found in deciphering its dark message through either philosophy or art.
the river then carries the flavours of the incautious and wanton marriage between the most biting essence of deadly weeds of a grotto-hell
and that runs it courses with myriad bends, detours and circumventions, and returns to the black and sunless ocean that was also its origin.
there are blind fishes living in the pond----they are born being blind and as their species had been living in the enclosed subterrain environment with not many predators for so long their auditory system went out of use and they degenerated to be only able to understand the cool dripping drops from the hanging stalactites made of limestone above. Is it like music unto them that either within it or though it they must understand their occupation and work and also progress through their lives with hardships? Is it perhaps what the bitter joy of life sounds like to them--- the endless pitter-patter of ceaseless raining of May that always disturbs and destroys the peaceful and traditional thoughts in the good old ways and force one to learn how to face up to the absurdities of the universe like a nomad hunter for the purpose of catching games, lest one become either the lazy and unthinking cow that grazes on the grass but does not know its taste--- and only drinks to make milk---or with so much eagerness and passion due to desiring so many wonderful things of the flesh in their dejection for the physically good in their term of torment---imposed both by the external universe and their own self---that without any heed or respect to learning and taking caution he destroys himself like futile seeds planted into wet sand?
Ah but the music echoes still in the cave. In the limestone cave it echoes and makes music--- ding dong ding! ding dong ding! So do the blind fishes listen to this eternal melody of their microcosm, and imagine it to to the eternal music of the transcendental and divine and would last for an eternity even if the underground rivers run dry and the caves collapse?
when the drops of sweet-bitter water were swallowed and the drops danced upon the tongue of some blind and deaf fish as he swam and tried to catch --all the nameless little or slightly bigger things---marine invertebrates that, owing to the insulated and unstressful environment ---boring and uneventful in other words--must have resembled very ancient and unevolved beings that lightens up and dims its light for a while, and feed entirely on microorganisms with no other ambition than eating simply and reproduction. but maybe sometimes he will swallow some fishes smaller than him to taste and learn their flesh and the hidden nature of their flesh along with its wise knowledge that it does not tell simply.
so he eats and eats and drinking some drops of the poisonous tea sometimes all alone in the dark and quiet sea underground.
after he consumed it and all its wise knowledge-he swam and swam ---and then eventually travelled to the water that is closer to certain shores more familiar to us ignorant humans--through first arriving at the vast and illimitable sea----- through joining the infinite, all-encompassing and all-reaching black ocean-
and swimming ever upwards or towards seas that are brighter and more visible---some seas distant under the tropical sun where truth is quite apparent--- as long as if he knows the mathematics to work out the refraction angle of the coming sunrays and map the phenomena occurred to him as mental representations to their true self as things-in-themselves... If such a calculation is possible for the blind and deaf fish used to the absence of any light and can only understand the music of water dripping from the ceiling of the limestone cave he calls heaven.
rising ever up and up towards the heaven and its intransient and effulgent glories---eternally burning glories from above that pours down below---the fish, of the kind-with iridescent scales and blue fins, and cold and soft flesh and squinted and fleshy eyes ---eyes that cannot look straight and also rejects all forms of light---so that it is so pallidly pure and white as milk!
it is also a microcosm to itself, the blindfish and its journey while keeping those drops of bitter and mind- and soul-addling tea within the inmost of its stomach, or heart----but it is still a blind fish living in the cavern swimming along or against the flow of underground currents and undercurrents. We may study it or eat it, but we will never know what it thinks, how it talks, and what is his opinion and enjoyment of that everlasting pitter-patter of the annoying drops of water dropping down to the surface of the water and disturbing their mind and soul even when they are free and do as they please like it is discussed in Zhuangzhi. Heaven is in a crisis and music loses both its grace and soul.
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