THE BEAUTY
OF KHADIJA
parts I-III
I – in her
life
did not
Mohammads' frail despondency,
the
hissing crickets of angst
the
inward tension of personality
and his heavy, tar-bittered heart ---
and his heavy, tar-bittered heart ---
these,
the collected seismicity
of
his particular conditions ---
hatch and
crawl
from the
egg of a womans' love---
her
warmth, her eyes and her youthful laughter
woven
with the maturest of all wisdoms?
did not
her smile that humbled lions
and made
peace with all the robbers of the dunes
certainly
make stalwart impression on young Mohammad? ---
certainly,
for it was
the
firmness with which she conducted trade
and the
alacrity with which she spread her voice, so by the wind;
Mohammad
parttook with diligence
in
the construction of Khadijas' furniture
and he
lived by the sweat of his brow;
he
travelled about with her mercantile caravans;
he was
strong on the field like an ox ---
yet it
was a humble lamb in prostration
whom
maintained Khadijas' pottery and her silks...
it was
not for nothing the princess of Quraysh
enjoyed
her glimmering status
and her
most stellar of reputations ---
and that
surely must have
broken
the prophet
in
two --- torn between
jealousy;
inferiority; resentment --- the hostage-situation of love
Khadija
chose her Mohammad ---
Mohammad
did not choose his Khadija.
many men she
turned down
in their
stubborn campaigns of marriage,
but not
Mohammad, for whose hand she asked---
...the
prophet exulted, they loved...
she cast
her spell of womanhood
which
slithered around like scandent vine,
and the
tumultous upsurge of romance
hugged
fear out of them both...
then, what
drove him to Hira in pursuit of solicitude and contemplation?
he did not
have it bad with Khadija, indeed the opposite was true;
her love
conjured demons --- every real emotion does this ---
abominable
imps of the love abyss,
charging
with their red hot scimitars,
lashing
about their metal rods
on the
anvil of his heart as dense as iron...
did not
Aisha, many years later, tremor in quakes of jealousy
at the
thought of her beloved husband
so did
the other wives, by the way,
all the
way down to the Copt,
for the
prophet was indeed merciful,
and
indeed had his plenitude of women,
with
the myriad difficulties that would bring about,
sown
discord; enmity; spite; jealousy; resentment
alas,
if not the prophet be loving:
...
yet,
competition in romance ---
the
autumnal tempest, scythe of emotion---
eschatological
conclusion of love ---
did not
even caress Khadija, whom faced no rivalry,
for
their love was indeed true ---
n
o w o n d e r ---
she
salvaged him from poverty!
bottomless
manholes
of
miserable, dolorous sewage
where he had
waded and toiled for years...
did not
beautiful Khadija --- al-Tahira ---
console the
weary visionary,
as he
stormed down the mountain
like
delirious Zarathustra 'neath the scaphism of gods' love,
feeling
weakness in his body, salivating from his desert throat
the white
drool of redemption ---
the Arab
sun unforgiving, boiling hot as fire?
did she not
articulate with him
the great
and captivating mystery,
t h e
n i g h t m a r i s h v i s i o n s ,
the
molestation of the weary soul?
did she not,
the loving and trustful,
shroud
the torments of the most acute spate
of
spiritual trepidation
with the
warmth of hugs and blankets,
in
effect,
suffocating
darkness with love,
for
better and for worse?
she indeed
held the prophets hand
to the
cavernous bottoms, by the rivers of woe,
across
swampy moors and the wood, thorned, of doubt;
across the
ranges of fearsome mountains,
the
next higher than the last,
of
gradually developing states
of
religious abandon---
Mohammed
was caught in the sombre web,
the
evil spider leered...
Mohammad
found,
unlocked
the
metal cellar door
the
circular stairway down the
abyss
of the crisis of personality
with
the lovesome aid
of
his warm Khadija;
for she
had reconciled with madness
and
swallowed the lava of mysteries;
she had slept in his bed of night-terrors
she had slept in his bed of night-terrors
and kissed
and tucked him softly
as
flickered between wakeness and parasomnia...
II – in her death
quarter a
century of a most humble loyalty
between the
two
forged
loves' copper bondage
and left
both transformed forever;
so, as
beautiful Khadija died,
not much
longer could his darkness
be
kept at bay
and
his demons kept housebroken
before
shit and piss
would
start to stink up his beloved grotto .
fear-stricken
o n e i r o m a n c y
of the
illiterate prophet.
the
loneliness and love-sickness of the despairing widower,
and his
sleep-paralytic nightmares
as
black and cold as led
became
the mystic midwife of islam, the unconditional surrender unto
Allah---
fever
dreams of hedonia
mutinied
this spiritual ship,
untrodden
seaways to glory,
lustrous
idylls of mercantilism---
harbors
of the blissful divine
in
the heart of the warmer currents---
far
downstream the headlands,
the
lonely prophet envisaged...
he wakes
up to the dream, he does not sleep into it;
in the speculation of Khadija, in her wiseness,
in the speculation of Khadija, in her wiseness,
it may
just be the defining divider between
the
mystic and the ordinary dream-states:
[he
dreamt:]
the
heavenly
al-Burāq,
winged horse grazing on the pastures of the night,
the
keeper of the gates, the deepest of all the slumbers,
, the
seventh of the heavens and the phantasmagoria of death,
the
heavenly of loves... the even heavenlier of warfields,
ascending
the majesty of existential plateaus
above rats
basking in the wealth of the sun of transcendence,
he dreamt
of the opium nights, the felicity and quietude of mind
all the
way to the riches in life; the riches thereafter;
to the
ecstasy of victorious battle...
to the
spoils of mighty sieges ...
and to the
retreat --- in surrender or in valor ---
from
those great, great battles within...
Mohammad
blessed
by war
the horns
of battle and death's percussion
forebode
his
pillaging advent
and, in
extension,
the
noxious scent of tribesblood
started
to stink up his pigsties
of
luxury and of polygyny---
did
not Allah favour this
heavenly
vengeance on the Quraysh,
for
their enmious hostilities
and
indeed if he disdained it,
why
did he let it be?
there was
a road to the gates of paradise ---
and
Mohammed was eager to set foot
in any
direction away
from
the agonizing memories
of his
most endeared Khadija---
the
prophet rode into the primeval mists
of
purity and solidarity
clinging, the sabres of extermination...
III – Appendix
it is probable that
Mohammads'
revelations
would
today designate as
sleep
paralyses of a most eruptive kind,
his
prophethood put in question ---
how many
prophets have indeed been disgarded as mad,
vilified
for it, abject with ridicule and belittlement...
how many visionaries have enucleated themselves in the courts of the blind
how many visionaries have enucleated themselves in the courts of the blind
and
drunken boiling oil to scold the tongue which beget words
in
the face of the most harrowing fear of all,
of persecution, condemnation or worse?
people
want to live; it is understandable,
but,
hold on --- only fools find that respectable:
we can not know the true character of Mohammad,
but if it is indeed true, what Islamic tradition
pictures,
he would be a magnificent man amongst dogs...
however, it is also probable that these traditions
however, it is also probable that these traditions
have been infused with so much complete bullshit
to the point of completely flooding it,
that the truth is now only historical.
I
cast the first stone in this esoteric and gnostic re-interpretation
of Mohammad and the archaeo-islamic era:
the religion that we today associate with the extremism
the religion that we today associate with the extremism
of outward manifestation; omni-encompasssing
jurisdiction;
externalization of divinity; totalitarian code of
morality, et cetera,
is the facade of modernity on the aeonic skeleton of
religion
and that the flesh attached to these white bones of
ire,
is poisoned, rotted, attacked with the flesh-eating
bacteria
of the Kierkegaardian anarcho-religious idea:
the freedom from dogma, the innecessity of ritual ---
the real and honest
highly personal
and
subjective connection with the divine...
the Islamic religion was born with a series of sleep paralyses,
the Islamic religion was born with a series of sleep paralyses,
as
having been experienced by Mohammad; it is with this first dictum
that
I launch the archaeo-islamic esotericism...
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