WE ARE LOVEMAKING

We are forever for we want to be with each other forever. This is All in the eternal Kingdom of Plomari. So began Article #397 at its close, and so begins this page of The Chymical Wedding — picking up the thread exactly where it was dropped, as if the text refuses to let go of its own deepest truth. And then, in a passage that may be the most linguistically explosive in all 4,000 pages, the King unleashes a torrent of invented language so dense, so layered, so wildly alive that it reads like the psilocybin mushroom itself learned to write.

The Plomarian family reveals its full menagerie: a white dove, a dove with diamonds on her wings, a black mouse, a spiders (not "a spider" — "a spiders," plural in singular, as if one spider contains multitudes), a butterfly, Gods. And what did they do? They fell in love. They decided to be forever. Not destiny. Not fate. A decision. And they gathered "intop" the World Tree — into + atop = inside the crown of existence.

Three declarations. Each more total than the last. We are the psilocybin mushroom. Not we take the mushroom. We ARE it. We are Lovemaking. Not we make love. We ARE the act itself. We are Love manifesting in its most brilliant way. They are not people who love. They are Love's own self-expression at maximum luminosity.

Dylan Thomas's famous cry reborn in Plomarian fire. We will not go easy into that dark night. And then the declaration of absolute invincibility: normality is not a word he understands at all. He cannot be shaken. Cannot be broken. Cannot be overtaken. Not because he is strong, but because he does not exist on the same plane as those who would try.

The "muuuuu mushrooms" — the extended vowel is the sound of the trip itself stretching time like taffy. And the devastating question: how long will this moment wait for me? Just a moment ago it was Eternity, and then — lost in the History Dream. The History Dream — that collective hallucination we call "normal life" that the mushroom dissolves and that Plomari exists to escape forever.

The linguistic alchemy reaches its peak. Evil. Veil. Flip letters. EVIL rearranged is VEIL. Evil IS the veil. The veil IS evil. They are anagrams of each other — the "evil" in the world is just a veil hiding the splendor beneath. And beneath the veil? Snow is actually my Cecelia. The whiteness of the world is the Seamstress herself. And the snowcean — snow + ocean = the frozen infinite, the white sea, Cecelia's body as a landscape — "is you and me."

"Happily wedbed" — wedded + bed. The marriage IS the bed. The bed IS the marriage. "Sacred myrriage" — marriage + myrrh, the ancient sacred oil used in anointing rituals. Their marriage is an anointing. And they do not let it shimmer "unmess you heart the true" — unless you hear the true, but also un-mess (clean up) your heart TO the true. The truth is available, but only to those whose hearts have been un-messed.

And the glorious: "We flake full responded ability, and full responsissybillity for what we have not done." Responsibility becomes respond-ability (the ability to respond) and respon-SISSY-bility — Sissy is woven INTO the word for accountability itself. Cecilia is etymologically present in their capacity to answer for themselves.

The Prismic Heart — prismatic + prism. A heart that refracts. A heart that takes white light and splits it into every colour simultaneously. And it is "twisten" — twisted, but with a sweetness, a playfulness to the deformation. This is the Plomarian heart: not pure, not straight, not single-colored — prismic. Every emotion at once. Every love at once. Every gender at once. "I am a little bit of a bicurious girl" — said by the King who is also the Seamstress who is also God who is also a spiders.

Finnegans Cake. Finnegans Wake + wedding cake. Joyce's masterwork baked into a pastry. The wake becomes a wedding feast. The circular novel becomes a circular confection. And "aportionate" — a portion + proportionate, served at "this lacing crime" — lace + this place in time.

And then the donuts. "Donuts even think I cure if you donuts care." Do not = donuts. A round pastry with a hole in the center standing in for negation. "I cure" instead of "I care" — because in Plomari, caring IS curing. And "what I halves done" — halves, not have. Everything the King has done has been done in halves, because he is always only half of the pair. The other half is Cecilia.

"Normsality" — normality with norms shoved inside it. And "norns" — the Norse fates who weave destiny. He hates norms AND norns. Societal rules AND predestined fate. And what does he do? He "obsoletely ate them" — absolutely + obsolete + ate. He made them obsolete BY EATING THEM. He consumed normality itself. He digested the fates. This single sentence is the most Plomarian act ever committed in language.

The grinding of the alchemical stone — slowly and quick and exceedingly fine. Slowly AND quick at the same time, because in Plomari, contradictions coexist. The "one finnall alchemical stone" — final + Finn (Joyce again, always Joyce, the eternal companion). And they regrind. And regrind. And regrind. The philosopher's stone is not found once. It is ground infinitely. And while they grind, the wind tussles — which the King helpfully defines as "swoon cutely and kiss and make out." The cosmos grinds itself into perfection while kissing.

"Mari originae" — marijuana + Mary + origin. The meadow where the sun reaches from the ORIGIN of Mary, of the sacred feminine, of the plant that opens perception. And "gardening the late" — guarding the gate, but with garden, because in Plomari the gate IS a garden. They are not gatekeeping. They are garden-keeping. The gate is open to all if you have hurled in your heart enough to trick us. Not "heard" — "hurled." You must HURL your heart. Throw it. Launch it. And if you do, you trick the tricksters, and the garden-gate swings open.

We did it with the left hand. The sinister hand. The hand of the unconscious, the dream, the hidden path. In alchemy, the left-hand path is the forbidden route to knowledge. The Cogan Family did not walk the straight and narrow. They wove with the left hand. And the final question, repeated like a mantra: does it? Does stupidity justify meanness? Does a cross in a final act negate the performance? The text challenges you to answer. And the only correct answer is the one your heart already knows.