It’s confusing, isn’t it? Man evolves for untold years, and then
apparently he’s got it wrong and along comes modernity. Fontella Bass may be
ahead of the game; her Chess move carried her out to sea and to the avant-garde
jazz scene in Paris
The physical universe is seen from Earth; anything else is a convincing
illusion, the universe of perspective we are in. This is the one sorcerers have
created and that acolytes serve. The physical universe is also psychic since
the two are intertwined. Evolution, it stands to reason, can only be physical,
and so we are back to the primeval kingdom of the chase, blood and everlasting
hunt (Sir Gawain and the Green Knight ).
The hunt is blood and rebirth. One bounds over
hill and dale, the domain of the woodsman who sees stags framed against
twilight trees, who cuts and plants to secure the prey. Strength is in the
decadent world of death and rebirth, the strength that is symbolised by the
full moon rising over majestic sights of yore
In its heyday a castle was communal, physical
and psyche; dirt and cleanliness; housebound and womanly; horsebound and
warrior; young, old, maiden and monk. As an example of physical evolution, that
takes some beating!
Physically speaking, Detroit has all of that
apart from horses and warriors (Drama3). The point I’m making is that modernism stands for hygiene – lack of
decadence – and not for any of the above. Detroit declined through decadence,
and that was a sign of communal living. Decadence breeds strength and revival –
evolution. In the US, where capital has not yet got a choke-hold, some of that
is still evident. Latin America, for all its left/right lunacy, still breeds
decadence in its poverty-stricken communes (Hyborian
Bridge 62/2). Physical and psychic strength; dirt and
cleanliness.
What that seems to say is that where capital
doesn’t rule – Detroit, quite a lot of Latin America – decadence does and, with
it, physical evolution. Physical evolution is not factual, it is poetic – the sun
and moon are physical twins; rusticated cottages twine with the vine; Puritan
maidens throb in the bosom of nature (Hyborian
Bridge 61/3)
Letitia Landon poem set to this picture
Aye, here, dear
love, is just a home,
Like what our home should be;
A home of peace—a home of love—
As made for thee and me.
A cottage with its roof of thatch,
Its porch of the red rose,
Its white walls hidden by the wreath
The bridal jasmine throws.
The rooms are dark, for the green vines
Have twin'd each lattice round;
Where, veil'd by leaves, the wild wind harp
Breathes forth its lonely sound.
And round are many landscapes hung,
Each of some foreign shore,
Of rock, and storm, to make us prize
Our own calm home the more.
A green turf lies before the door,
A fairy carpet spread
With silver daisies—pearls of dew,
Meet for the Elf-queen's tread.
About are beds of many flowers,
Sweet shrubs, and blossom'd trees;
Beside that elm the dove-cote's plac'd,
Beneath that ash, the bees.
And there the little green-house stands,
A refuge for the spring ;
Where, even in the winter time,
The rose is flourishing.
There is a murmur on the wind,
Of the far billow's sweep:
Come on this mount of scented plants,
And you can see the deep.
Look to the east, where the grey wave
Is blent with the grey sky,
To where the setting sun has left
It's purple pageantry.
Like what our home should be;
A home of peace—a home of love—
As made for thee and me.
A cottage with its roof of thatch,
Its porch of the red rose,
Its white walls hidden by the wreath
The bridal jasmine throws.
The rooms are dark, for the green vines
Have twin'd each lattice round;
Where, veil'd by leaves, the wild wind harp
Breathes forth its lonely sound.
And round are many landscapes hung,
Each of some foreign shore,
Of rock, and storm, to make us prize
Our own calm home the more.
A green turf lies before the door,
A fairy carpet spread
With silver daisies—pearls of dew,
Meet for the Elf-queen's tread.
About are beds of many flowers,
Sweet shrubs, and blossom'd trees;
Beside that elm the dove-cote's plac'd,
Beneath that ash, the bees.
And there the little green-house stands,
A refuge for the spring ;
Where, even in the winter time,
The rose is flourishing.
There is a murmur on the wind,
Of the far billow's sweep:
Come on this mount of scented plants,
And you can see the deep.
Look to the east, where the grey wave
Is blent with the grey sky,
To where the setting sun has left
It's purple pageantry.
How pleasant, in another hour,
Our wand'ring there will be!
When the dim ships, like shadows, ride
Over the star-lit sea.
When sailing in the deep blue heav'n,
The moon, like a young bride,
Comes timid, as she fear'd to claim
Her empire o'er the tide.
Then, to return from the white cliffs,
Where winds and waters beat,
How shall we love the leaves and flowers
Of our own calm retreat!
We should be happy;— yet let all
Sweet dreams, like these, depart:
It matters not whate'er his lot,—
Love's home is in the heart.
Landen was as
facile as Byron; a fallen woman who painted physical tableaux as eternal as
sunrise. The physical universe of fate and melodic trees (with wind-chimes, “The
Ram and the Peacock” BWS) changes very little. The description Howard gives
of an Aquilonian woodsman’s home is very similar (Hyborian Bridge 62/2)
Rembrandt’s painting 
Susanna and the Elders (prev) has the same languid ease
of limbs and trees. The merging of Man with nature that has the languid grace
of vine-laden walls and sunken wells, of deer nibbling, of sweetgrass grazing.
Susanna and the Elders (prev) has the same languid ease
of limbs and trees. The merging of Man with nature that has the languid grace
of vine-laden walls and sunken wells, of deer nibbling, of sweetgrass grazing.
Romantic nature is the physical decadence that inspires evolution. If you
pick-out Howard’s illustrators of dreamy rusticity the pattern becomes clear.
Roy Krenkel, Satyrs Fighting from AMRA#6
Evolution is a physical power, brawny and lusty, of the type that Weird
Tales covers are famous for. That is, the human physique and the psychic
luster of scenes of erotic danger.
Our physical sense of the universe is proportionate between sun and moon,
between man and woman, brawn and beauty, life and death. Above all it is an
earthpower, an earth that rotates between sun and moon.
That physical power
has been abandoned by the acolytes of a hygienic universe of perspective, or
the vanishing point of technique (“speed” Pictorial 47). A parallel world of
the lens that is as devilishly convincing as a mirage in the desert.
Dubai