3.07.2012
2.23.2012
Ritual
All participants were dressed in white cloth with the exception of Apollo, whom was bare-chested with a golden embroidered red cape with a gold Aleph emblazoned upon the back.
All participants entered the Temple in darkness. The altar was draped with a green cloth with the eye of Hermes in a golden triangle, and with the wooden grail in the center. The candles arranged were white and black. All stood quietly in the circle facing east with the exception of Apollo, who stood outside the circle facing away from the rest.
He was crouched, still and absolutely silent.
Old Pan rang the bell three times and they all said in unision:
"There is no Law, only All."
Candles were lit by Erik, and the Max lit the incense and censes the chamber saying: "To ALL-NOW, what is, was, and ever will be. The force which binds and unbinds all. AHM."
Max traces a perfect and proper pentagram of earth with his silver ankh, muttering prototypes based on the first syllables of creation.
Erik made sign language gestures which were the key for the ritual, proclaiming: God is All and All is Everything.
Tommy followed up with sign of Harpocrates, and then began to spin around in a lurching chaotic stupor. Dance and seizure.
Erik gave the sign of chaos prime: [as above; so below; yes, no and maybe so] as Max formed the sign of Trismegistus Shandy.
Max recited the First Enochian Key and continued the invocation:
THE ONE IS THE ALL AND THE ALL IS NOW.
Apollo turned to face the others. He removed his gold embroidered red cape revealing his bare chest, tattooed with primal Enochian runes copied from Dee's noebook and transferred only to select order members.
Tommy ceased his whirling and walked over to the altar and took the wooden grail in his hand, traced the sigil of silence over the rim and offers it to Old Pan who drinks it fully.
Immediately Old Pan made a gesture with his hands as if to suggest a steeple, then moved to the floor at the center of the prepared circle assuming the life posture. But, before doing so he cried out:
The fall of all veils will initiate apotheosis.
Tommy held out the cup triumphantly and says:
Far below, the Abyss bellows, my dear friends!
Far be it from me to hedge my bets.
1.01.2012
12.31.2011
2012 approaches
You've been participating in the world's first fully interactive quantum comic book, starring all of us.
I discovered my secret magic hero word in a crossword puzzle my future self passed me.
2012 is the year of many endings and the one beginning.
Thank you for your participation. I love you. Look up!
I gather people from parallel realities
Plato was our only window into what the Library of Alexandria contained including the knowledge of the existence of Atlantis.
The founder of Babylon according to ancient texts and legend was Nimrod who reigned with his wife, Queen Semiramis. The Babylonian Brotherhood is like another name for the Illuminati today. Genealogists even believe that families like the Rothschilds can be traced all the way back to Nimrod. The Brotherhood which controls the world today is the modern expression of the Babylonian Brotherhood.
The next time some braggart asks whether you've been afraid of going deep into the rabbit hole, just smile, knowing that you've freefallen for no other reason than because you could.
The human snake's writhing action is the act of creating a human ouroborus.
It's gorgeous when enough elements are available.
Ripples up stairs through the house, growing as it enters each room filled with debauch you can't imagine, winding into elaborate gardens, then meeting its inception point in the stable, where precisely forty three minutes earlier it had been birthed by my lovely assistant Lillith, when she came upon Ganymede and Zeus masked individuals humping amongst restless horses.
Eternally young immortal man, on my compound in Iceland. I made peace with the spirits long ago. They leave me to my task.
Aurora Borealis
Magma fed mansion
Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted.
--Aldous Huxley
Man would sooner have the void for his purpose than be void of purpose.
-- Nietzsche
Accident is the name of the greatest of all inventors.
--Mark Twain
11.11.2011
Thus as well as quickly like the lessening of the shalt thousands, thus a lot quickly thousand grow' ; st in one of thine, of which thousand ulterior ones departest; And this fresh blood that youngly thousand bestow'st, thine of l' appeal of the mayst of thousands when thousands of the youth convertest. In attached the wisdom lives, the beauty, and l' increase; Without this madness, age, and decaimiento cold: If all were imported therefore, the times must stop and l' year of the threescore would render the world absent. Left those who hath of the nature not made for the warehouse, rough, without distintiva characteristic, and crude, dies barrenly it: Watched that quit the best one has equipped, has given more; Which shouldst generous of thousands of the gift in generosity caresse: It has cut the thee for its stamp, and it has communicated to it d' such way, with impression of the shouldst of more thousands, than that not lazy meurt the copy.
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endowed, she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endowed, she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
9.29.2011
9.26.2011
Poimandres
There is a very particular meaning derived when one seeks to examine the peculiarly poetical power of light in relation to mind.
Naturally, the principles of the classification system humans derive as necessity are promoted, in some fashion, by the degrees of inclusion within the constraints of the game itself.
The degree to which you understand the mechanics of Being is directly proportional to the depths of your humility in the face of this understanding. Nothing is in and of itself describable to the fullest extent. Where language fails, where words cease to derive meaning or primacy, we should allow image to take the wheel, and metaphor is itself wholly derived from this pathway and inclusion. Time, it will be proven again and again, is not linear, at least not in the sense that proponents of Freudian or Einsteinian models once quibbled through in their respective fields. Time is in fact simultaneous. The All-Now described by Gnostics as The Pleroma.
If that omnipresent background proves to be folding and collapsible, and human being's relation to mind and light both individually and collectively, then it stands to reason that, as the neural pathways of a single human brain outnumber the collective stellar activities of the known universe, and that which is above is like that which is below, then any seeming action or activity, regardless of moral implications, works according to the omnipresence.
To this end, Good and Bad are naturally little more than labels, and the visual systems crowding aesthetic theory are matters of divination best left to the Oracles and arbiters of good taste and sound judgment.
In retrospect we view the Ancients as backwards and brutish, lacking our sophistication or technological achievements, see their associations of gods and goddesses to locations and corporeal forms as limiting, and prescribe our own phantasms to the realm of action in such a manner that the invisible world, the molecular and spiritual, goes unrecorded, disregarded, and inconsequential.
That "treasure in the realm of shadowy thought" as Kant put it, or " the archetype" as Jung put it, is often a projection we overcompensate for, creating an imbalance in our perceptive capabilities and applying neurosis to the collective rather than the individual, where it originates.
And with regards to Esoteric Essay Blogging, the act of E.E.Bs, we so often seek out regions form submissions and end up being dominated. Balance for the Whole is sought and even on rare occasions found.
Naturally, the principles of the classification system humans derive as necessity are promoted, in some fashion, by the degrees of inclusion within the constraints of the game itself.
The degree to which you understand the mechanics of Being is directly proportional to the depths of your humility in the face of this understanding. Nothing is in and of itself describable to the fullest extent. Where language fails, where words cease to derive meaning or primacy, we should allow image to take the wheel, and metaphor is itself wholly derived from this pathway and inclusion. Time, it will be proven again and again, is not linear, at least not in the sense that proponents of Freudian or Einsteinian models once quibbled through in their respective fields. Time is in fact simultaneous. The All-Now described by Gnostics as The Pleroma.
If that omnipresent background proves to be folding and collapsible, and human being's relation to mind and light both individually and collectively, then it stands to reason that, as the neural pathways of a single human brain outnumber the collective stellar activities of the known universe, and that which is above is like that which is below, then any seeming action or activity, regardless of moral implications, works according to the omnipresence.
To this end, Good and Bad are naturally little more than labels, and the visual systems crowding aesthetic theory are matters of divination best left to the Oracles and arbiters of good taste and sound judgment.
In retrospect we view the Ancients as backwards and brutish, lacking our sophistication or technological achievements, see their associations of gods and goddesses to locations and corporeal forms as limiting, and prescribe our own phantasms to the realm of action in such a manner that the invisible world, the molecular and spiritual, goes unrecorded, disregarded, and inconsequential.
That "treasure in the realm of shadowy thought" as Kant put it, or " the archetype" as Jung put it, is often a projection we overcompensate for, creating an imbalance in our perceptive capabilities and applying neurosis to the collective rather than the individual, where it originates.
And with regards to Esoteric Essay Blogging, the act of E.E.Bs, we so often seek out regions form submissions and end up being dominated. Balance for the Whole is sought and even on rare occasions found.
8.16.2011
7.24.2011
Advanced Euphemism
I managed to raise my eyebrows just in time to save some face.
The light of the night fell on the city like a widow's veil.
We rode that tandem bike into the horizon and flipped over the handlebars in unison, an act unrecorded and unrepeatable.
Self-delusion is impossible at this point. We're looking sideways along the timestream at the impact eddies made by the Action. The psychological and biological after-effects, the groanings which cannot be uttered, ears heavy and eyes shut. Still crooked, empowered and maintained, yet elegant in a perfect and beautiful order. Inter-dimensional eddies, shifting like a pregnant woman late in term, knitting, pearl one, knit two, looming, spinning great webs, great swaths of cloth, the skin of the world, atlases springing, roads emerging, snapping of bone and bridle, snorts of disappointment, a rigorous theory of reference. Cognate references refreshed, she looks up over the rim of her eyeglasses, a dim recognition emerging.
A virgin bride. Female asceticism developed and maintained in certain households. Sexual austerity was taken for granted. As a result, the fevered actions of their decadent descendents, those bucking adolescents, taking place on the threadbare couches in the next room, went undiscovered by the parental figures, each set of the youngster's ears keyed to atmospheric alterations so subtle a cat might have missed them, fingers removed and short shorts shifted just in time to avoid notice, the television at full blast or even half-mast providing a muffling of at least some of the furtive movements. A magnificent snag, a certain scope of things, strings, kings, rings. And the fat lady sings.
The light of the night fell on the city like a widow's veil.
We rode that tandem bike into the horizon and flipped over the handlebars in unison, an act unrecorded and unrepeatable.
Self-delusion is impossible at this point. We're looking sideways along the timestream at the impact eddies made by the Action. The psychological and biological after-effects, the groanings which cannot be uttered, ears heavy and eyes shut. Still crooked, empowered and maintained, yet elegant in a perfect and beautiful order. Inter-dimensional eddies, shifting like a pregnant woman late in term, knitting, pearl one, knit two, looming, spinning great webs, great swaths of cloth, the skin of the world, atlases springing, roads emerging, snapping of bone and bridle, snorts of disappointment, a rigorous theory of reference. Cognate references refreshed, she looks up over the rim of her eyeglasses, a dim recognition emerging.
A virgin bride. Female asceticism developed and maintained in certain households. Sexual austerity was taken for granted. As a result, the fevered actions of their decadent descendents, those bucking adolescents, taking place on the threadbare couches in the next room, went undiscovered by the parental figures, each set of the youngster's ears keyed to atmospheric alterations so subtle a cat might have missed them, fingers removed and short shorts shifted just in time to avoid notice, the television at full blast or even half-mast providing a muffling of at least some of the furtive movements. A magnificent snag, a certain scope of things, strings, kings, rings. And the fat lady sings.
Waiting for the trumpets
The blessed face and voice of the Word, a noise boisterous in its earthly function.
The operative relevance of the translated passages is such that even one sample spoken aloud displays profound psychological transformations in the reader, the speaker, such that old-fashioned principles can be observed to rot through like moldy timbers, a matter of time and probability, drowsily dousing the insight of the everyday for profundities hardly comprehensible to mortal reckoning.
All that is alive is in some view profane; a taste for sweets justifies unmerited suffering.
It's a game of zero-distribution. An equation of the working substance within these words cannot be properly known, that is, it cannot be housed by sane means, couched in linear thinking.The evidence seems pervasive that contemporary experiments with the Word provide a coalescence of identity which is not ordinarily provided in ideal persona models, factory-direct or home-grown. The alliance between so-called conventional wisdom and and sanguine fancies grows dim in the presence of the Word. Linguistic structure as a whole begins to break down on a cosmic level, in a manner of speaking.
Mimic the dealer and you will never bust; a concurrence of skulls and diamonds.
Periodical linguistic consumption and purging fringes our interactions here, as if the process of translation itself was never-ending. The massive lore of the Word's cryptography yawns wide like a black-lit abyss, antiphonal, scarcely pronounceable, hastily scribbled, hurriedly typed, unmistakably unique it its inheritance. The manuscript, as we have already said, is compelling yet absurd. It deconstructs itself halfway through, then works back towards a linear model with just enough time for a photo finish.
The operative relevance of the translated passages is such that even one sample spoken aloud displays profound psychological transformations in the reader, the speaker, such that old-fashioned principles can be observed to rot through like moldy timbers, a matter of time and probability, drowsily dousing the insight of the everyday for profundities hardly comprehensible to mortal reckoning.
All that is alive is in some view profane; a taste for sweets justifies unmerited suffering.
It's a game of zero-distribution. An equation of the working substance within these words cannot be properly known, that is, it cannot be housed by sane means, couched in linear thinking.The evidence seems pervasive that contemporary experiments with the Word provide a coalescence of identity which is not ordinarily provided in ideal persona models, factory-direct or home-grown. The alliance between so-called conventional wisdom and and sanguine fancies grows dim in the presence of the Word. Linguistic structure as a whole begins to break down on a cosmic level, in a manner of speaking.
Mimic the dealer and you will never bust; a concurrence of skulls and diamonds.
Periodical linguistic consumption and purging fringes our interactions here, as if the process of translation itself was never-ending. The massive lore of the Word's cryptography yawns wide like a black-lit abyss, antiphonal, scarcely pronounceable, hastily scribbled, hurriedly typed, unmistakably unique it its inheritance. The manuscript, as we have already said, is compelling yet absurd. It deconstructs itself halfway through, then works back towards a linear model with just enough time for a photo finish.
5.23.2011
Invocation Twelveleven of the 5D Consulate
Magico-religious power chooses the master of the world from historic and salvific records stored within certain symbolic animals.
Each one of us is patterned after an archetypal model stored in something known as the Stellar Drive. We create countless but not innumerable variants of this archetype and live them out according to specific parameters.
Designated events in the seemingly chaotic swirl of events motivates us to enter mystical states from time to time.
You might say that Yahweh and Baal struggle against one another throughout the constructs and constraints of a particular program; every religious structure engages the concept of the divine within the space allotted it in society, whether positive or negative, ruling class or slave, and as such is informed by the space's limits and excesses.
Understand that even this text is only acknowledging that the writer is I who speak to you, the one you expected.
I see the clock on the mantlepiece. The Universal Tree centered at the core of everything. Acts are, but there is no actor. The furnace of Gehenna and the paradises of Arcadia are alike and apart in their terrible and wonderful beauty Outwith the fourth dimension.
The sky is set to the movements of the four elements and light particles distill three wheels to the moon and the sun. A maiden robed in light enters the chamber of the archons. The result is all plant life. Miscarriages from heaven string the land and self-replicate. The result is all animal life.
Western alchemists attempted to re-create this scenario for centuries. The result has been billionaire boy's clubs where damaged people come to revel in their own crapulence. Like dark shadows they swallow light and return nothing.
The expression of the undifferentiated symbol, or Logos is by far best represented in the overall scriptures attributed to Jesus Christ. This was co-opted by the Empire and re-edited for public consumption to assure a more complacent populace as a whole. This has met with periodic resistance amongst those most in need of reassurance.
Baseline message as processed by Philip K Dick in VALIS: THE EMPIRE NEVER ENDED.
There are levels attributed to Gnostic Cosmology that correspond fittingly with Quantum theories. As science and religion both have their own unique relationship with dogma, it arises that one might Quantify God as a Tenth Dimensional entity, comprising the whole of not just this universe but every potential universe that could ever exist or even be imagined, as the Fifth Dimension is easily quantifiable as the imagination, a paradox machine generated by the miracle of life and observational existence. And as such to a Tenth Dimensional entity time is not just simultaneous, but omnipresent. This greatest being destroys senses of hierarchy. The eschatological character of certain entrenched religio-political shadowplays maintaining perpetual war at the cost of light and life gives rise to a culture of fear, which eventually gives rise to an overthrow of said entrenched systems, as crisis after crisis precipitates change overall.
Each one of us is patterned after an archetypal model stored in something known as the Stellar Drive. We create countless but not innumerable variants of this archetype and live them out according to specific parameters.
Designated events in the seemingly chaotic swirl of events motivates us to enter mystical states from time to time.
You might say that Yahweh and Baal struggle against one another throughout the constructs and constraints of a particular program; every religious structure engages the concept of the divine within the space allotted it in society, whether positive or negative, ruling class or slave, and as such is informed by the space's limits and excesses.
Understand that even this text is only acknowledging that the writer is I who speak to you, the one you expected.
I see the clock on the mantlepiece. The Universal Tree centered at the core of everything. Acts are, but there is no actor. The furnace of Gehenna and the paradises of Arcadia are alike and apart in their terrible and wonderful beauty Outwith the fourth dimension.
The sky is set to the movements of the four elements and light particles distill three wheels to the moon and the sun. A maiden robed in light enters the chamber of the archons. The result is all plant life. Miscarriages from heaven string the land and self-replicate. The result is all animal life.
Western alchemists attempted to re-create this scenario for centuries. The result has been billionaire boy's clubs where damaged people come to revel in their own crapulence. Like dark shadows they swallow light and return nothing.
The expression of the undifferentiated symbol, or Logos is by far best represented in the overall scriptures attributed to Jesus Christ. This was co-opted by the Empire and re-edited for public consumption to assure a more complacent populace as a whole. This has met with periodic resistance amongst those most in need of reassurance.
Baseline message as processed by Philip K Dick in VALIS: THE EMPIRE NEVER ENDED.
There are levels attributed to Gnostic Cosmology that correspond fittingly with Quantum theories. As science and religion both have their own unique relationship with dogma, it arises that one might Quantify God as a Tenth Dimensional entity, comprising the whole of not just this universe but every potential universe that could ever exist or even be imagined, as the Fifth Dimension is easily quantifiable as the imagination, a paradox machine generated by the miracle of life and observational existence. And as such to a Tenth Dimensional entity time is not just simultaneous, but omnipresent. This greatest being destroys senses of hierarchy. The eschatological character of certain entrenched religio-political shadowplays maintaining perpetual war at the cost of light and life gives rise to a culture of fear, which eventually gives rise to an overthrow of said entrenched systems, as crisis after crisis precipitates change overall.
4.16.2011
Eucharist Premise (Poetics of Place)
Jigging in a circle.
Half-dressed and turgid,
narrow shoulders slapped the length,
assessed width, a
baby arm holding
an apple.
Growing restless in the sheets,
gesturing with an electronic device,
intruding the dew plum,
She grips on the gravity
slipping as performances
elsewhere and when
peak.
Performative verbs inform the
struggle,
too much noise, the squeaking
breaking bed folded lengthwise
in their acts.
Everyday sing-song tantrums,
performed by the acrobatic and eager,
sweaty slap of hips and tips,
rhythm of hood against groove.
A tip against lips, against puckers.
A flip of folds, a gentle tap of pats.
Promises primly provided,
as the world churns beneath them.
Half-dressed and turgid,
narrow shoulders slapped the length,
assessed width, a
baby arm holding
an apple.
Growing restless in the sheets,
gesturing with an electronic device,
intruding the dew plum,
She grips on the gravity
slipping as performances
elsewhere and when
peak.
Performative verbs inform the
struggle,
too much noise, the squeaking
breaking bed folded lengthwise
in their acts.
Everyday sing-song tantrums,
performed by the acrobatic and eager,
sweaty slap of hips and tips,
rhythm of hood against groove.
A tip against lips, against puckers.
A flip of folds, a gentle tap of pats.
Promises primly provided,
as the world churns beneath them.
Sturdy Boat
Simultaneous inhibition evidence, every drug know to modern man, huddled in a corner signaling creation's front, RISE AND SHINE, stand and bear witness, Autumn Frost, increased legibility, grounds frosted with fog, ghosted around the edges of the grim meat hooks, a pregnant doorway, bridal veil, mystic fallacy of assumption, tending to think Q entails P, synaptic change, a charging of odd systems, driven platoons, pantaloons, plantains, Plane Janes, and the cleft between legs indicating space not chafe, the scornful gaze of a gassy bore, vapid fellatrix, determined, undermined, handled fine, father's clothes fixed, trapped collars, theoretical contact, fluttering about in silk robes, white hair and black shoes, attempts at introduction, a tall great man, a fever-fit in the new melting spring, a sprig, a pig, hog tied, hungry hippopotamus making it his business to know, to know where the funding came from, a dedication to silence, a fund for the nationalized art paradox dozer, a front end loader...people who carried knives and war stories in equal portion. A pebble, a spark. Seeking anything in the dark. The redundancies of ideologues, the need for an enemy, the empire assimilating the Empire assimilating God and the metaphysician of mathemagical courts outwith the material sphere. Always responds to the fingers and the voice, yes, the terrible din, the crash of Will Straight, the Straight Line, the slant, the curve, the null and void toyed to death.
3.27.2011
Ace in the Hole
At the start of the day, committing war crimes for the machine.
Awful implications being the catch-all algorithm of pressed suit engineers, efficient solutions to the pollination of cosmic models upheld among shadow cabals. The Trilateral Commission of Xerd, repacked coal designated "instantly lethal" by victims of the original cryptogenocide, a genesis of unknown origin.
The house self destructed, we called it Bad House afterwards. Front end loader used to wreck a Cadillac, mechanical contrivance disguised as metaphor. Event posing as allegorical. Rodomontadebluster, boastful catch of the day.
Continuous opposition is the name of the game. Burst concealment like a song masquerading as a still-life.
Venerable emissary of Rex Mundi (aka Dr Neumix) arrives on the concourse, heralded by a bright ball of light streaking across the Midwest. Followed by a Dolphin Holocaust. Followed by an earthquake, a tsunami, and a nuclear meltdown. Unspeakable fissures drilled into the planet for the oceanscaping, radiation clouds dripping yellow, alignment shift for the melting icecaps, solar flares peaking, supermoon waning, the terraforming of a bright blue ball by hostile alien forces, subjugating the hominid aboriginals, turning the skies from one shade to another, puke green brown orange reflection of the city lights off the clouds, spinning tops of civilization whirring, tilting to one side, colliding with one another as a beast outwith normal operating parameters rampages, unchecked by the flow of time, names so new they have not the capacity for death, untold aeons circling a drain, cascades off of immense cliffs in remote regions as yet untouched by the despoiling corruption, the virus of civilization, cultural aggregates, biases inherited by wind-blown sand blasted entities, corrupted fractures along the spreading spiderweb on the windows of perception...
Justice is too often disregarded by the Law. Major Resistance Figures stand out as the individuals refusing the comfort of the group mindset, the easier path of no resistance, the antiquarian fear mongering that corrupts our occlusion, our acquiescence to the silent death sweeping landscapes, the stormcloud brewing, fit to burst with radioactive water the sharp Blonde would tell you is no health hazard, as a matter of fact it's healthy, misinformation rants accruing vitriol as jingoist patterns intensify.
Clear mountain mornings are becoming rare, puppies left out in the rain are slaughtered by policy makers with their hair-trigger pedantry, their pretense at knowledge, wholly ignorant, derivative, projecting endlessly, paths without direction, chairs with no legs, sky-scraping mounts of epic iron and malleable mithral. Such mythos crimp the style of mullet masters, cramping legs, charley horse, money, love, always have a little more than that which is shown.
Galactic coordinates are being transmitted.
Prepare.
Awful implications being the catch-all algorithm of pressed suit engineers, efficient solutions to the pollination of cosmic models upheld among shadow cabals. The Trilateral Commission of Xerd, repacked coal designated "instantly lethal" by victims of the original cryptogenocide, a genesis of unknown origin.
The house self destructed, we called it Bad House afterwards. Front end loader used to wreck a Cadillac, mechanical contrivance disguised as metaphor. Event posing as allegorical. Rodomontadebluster, boastful catch of the day.
Continuous opposition is the name of the game. Burst concealment like a song masquerading as a still-life.
Venerable emissary of Rex Mundi (aka Dr Neumix) arrives on the concourse, heralded by a bright ball of light streaking across the Midwest. Followed by a Dolphin Holocaust. Followed by an earthquake, a tsunami, and a nuclear meltdown. Unspeakable fissures drilled into the planet for the oceanscaping, radiation clouds dripping yellow, alignment shift for the melting icecaps, solar flares peaking, supermoon waning, the terraforming of a bright blue ball by hostile alien forces, subjugating the hominid aboriginals, turning the skies from one shade to another, puke green brown orange reflection of the city lights off the clouds, spinning tops of civilization whirring, tilting to one side, colliding with one another as a beast outwith normal operating parameters rampages, unchecked by the flow of time, names so new they have not the capacity for death, untold aeons circling a drain, cascades off of immense cliffs in remote regions as yet untouched by the despoiling corruption, the virus of civilization, cultural aggregates, biases inherited by wind-blown sand blasted entities, corrupted fractures along the spreading spiderweb on the windows of perception...
Justice is too often disregarded by the Law. Major Resistance Figures stand out as the individuals refusing the comfort of the group mindset, the easier path of no resistance, the antiquarian fear mongering that corrupts our occlusion, our acquiescence to the silent death sweeping landscapes, the stormcloud brewing, fit to burst with radioactive water the sharp Blonde would tell you is no health hazard, as a matter of fact it's healthy, misinformation rants accruing vitriol as jingoist patterns intensify.
Clear mountain mornings are becoming rare, puppies left out in the rain are slaughtered by policy makers with their hair-trigger pedantry, their pretense at knowledge, wholly ignorant, derivative, projecting endlessly, paths without direction, chairs with no legs, sky-scraping mounts of epic iron and malleable mithral. Such mythos crimp the style of mullet masters, cramping legs, charley horse, money, love, always have a little more than that which is shown.
Galactic coordinates are being transmitted.
Prepare.
3.24.2011
Nook
Because this item is also an exquisitely designed sculptural artifact, it cannot be reproduced. It will only increase in value.
We aren't due back for a spell. Pull up a seat and I'll tell you about a dream I had last night. We'll wear out the fire and let the stars crowd in, let the wind get colder.
In the dream, a creature was being cataloged by some network sponsor, a wetware design of unknown origin, a braintrust, an overdeveloped inorganic component of a higher structural entity outwith normal operating parameters, an Archon of the sort documented in Apocryphal texts.
The creature being cataloged was itself both organic and technological in construction. Dream amnesia deters proper description; the creature was at once like a dinosaur and the most complex cyborg you could imagine.
Solemnly baptized by the wetnurse chitin-cloth nuns of a collective backwash cult contingent stationed in the Orphanage of Damp Chains, this beast was integrated seamlessly into what appeared to be a futuristic toilet with an immense lidless eyeball bulging from the bowl.
Blades and silver sparkling nanotech filaments waved in an artificial breeze around the toilet and dinosaur as wavering plasma screens blinked red and blue for the audience for whom this creature was being cataloged, unseen and unheard but nonetheless interacting through a psychic rapport with the aforementioned Archon from a location referred to by top officials as the Nexus Fiber, a place nestled in the hierarchy of Angels between the (secret and forbidden) eighth and ninth day of the week, otherwise referred to as the eleventeenth subterfuge of all cash prize spambots, in toto, verbatim, pro bono, quid pro quo.
We aren't due back for a spell. Pull up a seat and I'll tell you about a dream I had last night. We'll wear out the fire and let the stars crowd in, let the wind get colder.
In the dream, a creature was being cataloged by some network sponsor, a wetware design of unknown origin, a braintrust, an overdeveloped inorganic component of a higher structural entity outwith normal operating parameters, an Archon of the sort documented in Apocryphal texts.
The creature being cataloged was itself both organic and technological in construction. Dream amnesia deters proper description; the creature was at once like a dinosaur and the most complex cyborg you could imagine.
Solemnly baptized by the wetnurse chitin-cloth nuns of a collective backwash cult contingent stationed in the Orphanage of Damp Chains, this beast was integrated seamlessly into what appeared to be a futuristic toilet with an immense lidless eyeball bulging from the bowl.
Blades and silver sparkling nanotech filaments waved in an artificial breeze around the toilet and dinosaur as wavering plasma screens blinked red and blue for the audience for whom this creature was being cataloged, unseen and unheard but nonetheless interacting through a psychic rapport with the aforementioned Archon from a location referred to by top officials as the Nexus Fiber, a place nestled in the hierarchy of Angels between the (secret and forbidden) eighth and ninth day of the week, otherwise referred to as the eleventeenth subterfuge of all cash prize spambots, in toto, verbatim, pro bono, quid pro quo.
1.29.2011
Seeds tied to Trees
She followed him down the short hall into the painting gallery, where carefully hung portraits of dead relatives clung to dignity with artful strokes on shoddy canvas, set in magnificent frames. A wizard's hat sits in the lap of a creepy distant Greatuncle Chestertown Crowley III. Not competent to be submitted as evidence of the finer points of their family's overall psychic makeup. Swaddled in the absurd, he sits betwixt new volumes of pressed butterflies, in fact our first Dojo fell into war with a crew of wererat swashbuckler ninjas from the more crapulent regions of the city between the river and the mountain, which is itself indicative of the overall elemental course prescribed in more recent reasons for primal fallen-matter work schematics our family involves itself in, derived from the foregone conclusions of distributive derivatives we are presented with, day to day. The others arrived, wearing animal masks and little else. She asked us to be gentle, but her eyes asked something else entirely. This is the human condition, mystery explained. Go home and cry about it, big whoop.
Whenwhere
Here we are, akimbo squad in the heaving restless hills, soaring by the whale float supports and delicate lattice-work architecture so common in these air-realm floating ventures. An axis develops and is populated along parameters set by designated roaming demiurges, writers and hybrid artist ramshackle suitors, ill-fit for less manageable designs surrounding intrepid individuals set for calamity clauses in the pandemonium halls and passage flutes. Posted secrets on stamps, mailed them to post office boxes throughout the continent, sent packages to Emperor Bazooka and the Intolerable Kid, redesigned packages for Saturn designates from beyond the Whenwhere Ranch, took stock of an indulgent Multibillionaire Mammon-Squall in the works, even now. Buyer's market, flipping over the handlebars into a ditch, leaking spinal fluid from the nose, nosey neighbors help him up, but this damages him further, paralysis sets in, and this collapsing shudders in the grass, gripping quiet poems as they waft out of his form and catch lightbeams, currents of air, cascading effect like a fire rainbow like a neuron firing like a downloaded fringe necklace of scenes and moments, a breathing real-life simulacrum of croaking creaks in the halls of my father there are many doors, all marked with the same stamp.
1.17.2011
Sympathy with All Things
Professional charmer. Information storage and retrieval. Tactless grief. Fearless as sharks. Patriotic gore. Starts and farts. Striped pipes. Not a religion but a technique. Not a nation but an idea. Navigating caverns by torchlight. Solve et Coagula. Shrine to the mother. Tower to the father. A voice like wine. Fatalistic drum of memory. Scarcely slackened pace. Unambiguous action in course of retrieval. Rotation of the terrestrial globe. Epistemological assumption. Predictable note struck. Revulsion at the sight of slimy water. Reasonable to introduce alternative prophets. Reproducing marginality in an original way. A sign of absence. Trembling in deliberation. The laughter of our demigod's daughters. Cosmic religiosity. The fatality of paradigmatic models. A world, presumably structured by laws. Confusing complexity. The seven hills of Rome. Imagination of history arises from flawed and singular memories. Measurements analogous to the exterior form. Window opening onto the resurrection. Apotheosis. Abnormal reaction to subscribed phenomenology. A placeless place. Narrative of triumph. Re-inscribing the misconfiguration of forms. Privation. Specular configuration. Movement within language. Entering into the form without properly submitting to it. Exploring dialects, models, formulas. Existing forever as a matter of words denoting thought and feeling.
1.12.2011
11:12 1/12/11
This moment has passed and nothing can change that. Moments such as this show up exclusively as being-for-us, but the human essence is vast and small, a paradox riddled with anxiety. We hold grand festivals of understanding and wallow in ignorance as pigs in slop. The technological discourse of instant communication has made these transfers between above and below not just possible but an integral part of the everyday. Almost every principal derived from our interaction with sublime material and gross matter is characterized by individual experience, such that even the driest rhetoric, the most stale academic jargon, is coated in a thin veneer of fertile philosophy. The character of these contents is for certain given a presence, then, in our own interpretation of the materials, the filtering borne of a general disquiet inherent to ontological query of any breadth or width, the presence of tradition insisting on a man who dwells inaccessible to the everyday to be flogged by the iniquity of the micromundane and macromonotony to the point that absurd notions of potions designed to destroy crop up, the life/death struggle quivers in anticipation, and spiritual napalm is extracted from what some would refer to as the collective soul of being, others a metaphysical life-essence trap.
Proust's Questionnaire
What's your current state of mind?
Mild to moderate anxiety.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
My special lady friend.
What are your favorite names?
Penelope. Ajax. Lane.
Which living person do you most admire?
My mother.
Which living person do you most despise?
Richard Cheney.
Who are your heroes in real life?
My mother.
Which trait do you most deplore in yourself?
Sanctimoniousness.
Which trait do you most deplore in others?
Fatuousness.
What's your greatest extravagance?
Books.
What is your most treasured possession?
Signed copy of Hunter S. Thompson's Kingdom of Fear
What is it that you most dislike?
Idiocy.
What do you consider your greatest acheivement?
Thus far, my first novel.
What is your favorite journey?
The one within.
What is your favorite occupation?
Writing.
What is your most marked characteristic?
Great height.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Inescapable monotony.
What is your greatest regret?
Breaking hearts and minds.
When and where were you happiest?
New York, 2003.
On what occasion do you lie?
Rare moments when it is warranted.
What talent would you most like to have?
Emotional ventriloquism.
What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Hair is difficult.
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I'd have to say something about my manner of presentation in front of large groups.
If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
It would be something about toning down their dysfunctional behavior.
How would you like to die?
Sleeping peacefully.
If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what do you think it would be?
A whale.
If you could choose, what would it be?
A monk.
What's your motto?
This is a world.
1.11.2011
1:11 1/11/11
Militarily threatening. The Epoch of Currency. Dependent on hospitality. Foundations of fanaticism. External forces. Brickbat cigarettes. Incredible Discipline. Solipsistic disease. Prison buildings. Circling back to another beginning. Posturing the mysteries of Mithra. Self-paralyzing psychiatry. Fictional uncertainties. Linguistic alienation. Central and defining avowal of widespread duality. Sentimental Autumn. Keen on life. Intrinsic rigor. Mistaken conclusions. Experienced Princes. Jokes constituting a dialogue. Implicit contradictions deemed inadmissible. Opinions separating myth from negligible existence. Secondary obsessions. Angry hunger. Substantial orientation. Specified particulars. Required critical concepts. Decades of unresolvable conflict. Magistrate's involuntary exclamation. A gallant man. Bursting with indignation. Exaggerated vigor. Bird and dagger. White gown, trimmed in lace. An affected gaiety. Arrival at the terrace. Abrupt bane. Crux reinterpreted. Not an idiot, but reverted to childhood nonetheless. Physiologically reactive. Consider herd remorse. Diversions from writing. Typing urges. Irony in groupings. Recognition of literary qualities. Truth and knowledge, hard to come by. Let the horses out. Rational process. Presentiment. Priestly hatred. Priest distinguished. Progress and success. Feminized control. Gender distinction. Immoralist's rainbow. Faith application. Depiction of transcendental moral order. Satisfaction of conscience. Dumbfounded silence. All numbers proceeding from the monad. All things changing, none perishing. Sacrifices to the Golden Cup. Emphasized services. Subsequent absence of the father. Motives and intent uncertain. Monument to Bluebeard. Fabrication of documents. Services rendered. Imprisoned grandfather. Shock of differences felt. Pseudoscopic determinates involving the illusion of movement. Immaterial occasion. A developed sensation. Voluminousness of emotion. Unwavering importance of conception. Vulgar demands. Path of instinct blocked by excitement of imagination. Sovereign individual. Earnest cruelty. Heavenly music. Fetish Abjection. Active necessity. Presumptuously compared. Verinnerlichung. Human jubilee. Trimming toasted marshmallows. Gong and pompadour. Toothbrushing and muscle-building. Funeral monuments. Glovemaker and wheelwright. Distiguished assassin. Black serendipity. Ultimate accolade. Prehistoric tourists. Poorly informed. The body of Il Duce stolen. Rubbed against forks tines. Bike carcass. Panting steeds. North wall of the garden. Blind crowder, wilting like a salad. Public charity. Common malady. Sniffing the breeze. Staring blankly. Vegetable trick. Suction pumps. Individual body dissolves. Infinite immutability. Without obstruction. Painful circumstance. Public shortcomings. Reformed traditions. Period of suffering. Dogmatic scheme. Heavenly facets. Seated in a hut. A clear light which is Itself. Significant letter. A questioning look. Stomach soothed. A lack of dignity, rights, or occupation. Something dangerous coming down the stairs. Duties shirked.
1.06.2011
Playground
"Lots of loudly-outspoken bigots in history... especially pre-1990, it was even fashionable. Mme. Blav was a medium, and very ugly. Blavatsky did translations for Jacob Bohme's Key (interesting stuff, once when I traced a few of his keys inIllustrator and then tried to load them online, reality broke in a new and interesting way) and provided Eliphas Levi marginalia commentaries... she debunked false mediums and had rampant threesomes with the Fox Sisters. I joke, I kid. Esoterically speaking, one should understand that all these sorts of "special clubs" of "initiation" into "mysteries" were exclusively reserved for the upper to sometimes upper-middle classes and amounted quite often to mere boys clubs (see: Freemasons), but have their roots in Mithras/Orphic Cults. Crowley worked for Hitler, briefly. Wrote disinformation booklets for him, said he was emphasizing on Jew Hate too much. Funny stuff. EVERYTHING influenced Nazi Occultism. Especially Tibetan Buddhism. Hence the flag and tarnishing/tilting the swastika. But hey, I digress. Manly P. Hall keeps popping up. He involved himself in a very fat volume of Hermetic lore that's sitting at my bookstore."
1.04.2011
An Inquiring Gaze
Contractile waves ripple through her.
The laws that took the vote away were for starry hieroglyphics.
Language is real motion, and motion makes reality form, and reality forms according to the laws of Destiny. Destiny is governed by the Kosmos, which is itself beholden to the Outsider, or non-being, standing in Perfection remote from the fullness of creation but completely intrinsic to it.
Simply a matter of having form in the desire of movement over stillness, action beyond inaction, pulling away from the lure of Nirvana for the sake of propagating the eternally desolating process of Life and its cold twin Death.
Freedom acts as a stimulant for the many classes to war over. The snobbish upper-lower middle class dynamics of previous steam-soaked centuries must be surmounted in order to bring about an egalitarian cure for the disease of government bureaucracy, its countless field agents, secret agents, active agents, inactive agents, moles, honeypots, plants, double agents, triple agents, black ops, etc. The power of the Proletariat is forgotten, long ago sold for cheap thrift sun-dresses and imported apples. Ask a child about Marx today and you'll see the wasted potential of movements for communist sympathy in the raucous American sixties. Everyone has sold out, and they have an expensive heated pool and dressage horses for their nephews and little bratty girl, and so on. Greed perpetuates Greed, sloughs off envy and pride and avarice-tinged fear, jealousy, and so on. As things stand we are all subject to a front row seat for the premiere attraction, the name of a game, which is Distraction. The economy of this worldwide global hellscape is much as the Roman Empire was, centered around symbols of status, self-perpetuating miracles that speak of a great wealth of history but provide very little in the realm of practicality. Time was, working a backhoe had integrity built into it. Now, staring blankly at the screen, you are left with words again, a keyboard laid out in front of you, in your pocket, on your ear, in your eye, in your brain. Get by on your brain. Yeah. Reinforce that anachronistic Cartesian Body/Mind split prevalent in Western norms. Brains in jars? Brains in jars.
So we live and have lived as average people (programmed) interacting with video screens, programs, from games like Winky Dink to the portable computer, the birthplace in games, games according to myriad convolutions/revolutions of rules, great and important work, trust&team-building exercises (excluding noobs), the seedbed for data interaction revolution via GNOSIS. The first person perspective of a shooting game versus the side-scrolling overhead of early children-geared greenbacks, the true impact of the immersible environment's perspective has not yet come to full fruition. What started as a solitary enterprise has become most real in the soldiers and controlled environs that provide an unbelievable amount of information while calmly controlling an environment. Information management is the defining characteristic of the twenty first century's dawn. The future is computer systems operated by movement. More and more we see the world as a system of the sublime. We have no easy answers, we have persuasive advertisers trying to develop a better consumer, a bonus point grubbing remote-sensor-covered designer of the spiritual engine. Who can stop this nightmare world from intruding upon the landscape when it is already the color of the grass. The urgent optimism of the interaction, the tight social fabric required for this tottering structure, this great and towering Pylon of our new century, millennium, in this our Year of the Rotting Zombie Jesus.
The laws that took the vote away were for starry hieroglyphics.
Language is real motion, and motion makes reality form, and reality forms according to the laws of Destiny. Destiny is governed by the Kosmos, which is itself beholden to the Outsider, or non-being, standing in Perfection remote from the fullness of creation but completely intrinsic to it.
Simply a matter of having form in the desire of movement over stillness, action beyond inaction, pulling away from the lure of Nirvana for the sake of propagating the eternally desolating process of Life and its cold twin Death.
Freedom acts as a stimulant for the many classes to war over. The snobbish upper-lower middle class dynamics of previous steam-soaked centuries must be surmounted in order to bring about an egalitarian cure for the disease of government bureaucracy, its countless field agents, secret agents, active agents, inactive agents, moles, honeypots, plants, double agents, triple agents, black ops, etc. The power of the Proletariat is forgotten, long ago sold for cheap thrift sun-dresses and imported apples. Ask a child about Marx today and you'll see the wasted potential of movements for communist sympathy in the raucous American sixties. Everyone has sold out, and they have an expensive heated pool and dressage horses for their nephews and little bratty girl, and so on. Greed perpetuates Greed, sloughs off envy and pride and avarice-tinged fear, jealousy, and so on. As things stand we are all subject to a front row seat for the premiere attraction, the name of a game, which is Distraction. The economy of this worldwide global hellscape is much as the Roman Empire was, centered around symbols of status, self-perpetuating miracles that speak of a great wealth of history but provide very little in the realm of practicality. Time was, working a backhoe had integrity built into it. Now, staring blankly at the screen, you are left with words again, a keyboard laid out in front of you, in your pocket, on your ear, in your eye, in your brain. Get by on your brain. Yeah. Reinforce that anachronistic Cartesian Body/Mind split prevalent in Western norms. Brains in jars? Brains in jars.
So we live and have lived as average people (programmed) interacting with video screens, programs, from games like Winky Dink to the portable computer, the birthplace in games, games according to myriad convolutions/revolutions of rules, great and important work, trust&team-building exercises (excluding noobs), the seedbed for data interaction revolution via GNOSIS. The first person perspective of a shooting game versus the side-scrolling overhead of early children-geared greenbacks, the true impact of the immersible environment's perspective has not yet come to full fruition. What started as a solitary enterprise has become most real in the soldiers and controlled environs that provide an unbelievable amount of information while calmly controlling an environment. Information management is the defining characteristic of the twenty first century's dawn. The future is computer systems operated by movement. More and more we see the world as a system of the sublime. We have no easy answers, we have persuasive advertisers trying to develop a better consumer, a bonus point grubbing remote-sensor-covered designer of the spiritual engine. Who can stop this nightmare world from intruding upon the landscape when it is already the color of the grass. The urgent optimism of the interaction, the tight social fabric required for this tottering structure, this great and towering Pylon of our new century, millennium, in this our Year of the Rotting Zombie Jesus.
1.03.2011
12.28.2010
12.22.2010
Does God Exist?
Usually whenever a theist or an atheist gets into these conversations, they are both using similar points of departure inthat they are convinced, utterly, that the convictions they carry are correct. Neither entertains the notion that they are ignoramuses in the face of a totality so vast as God. Of course, usually neither realizes that they are both in their own ways programmed by the social norms and conditioning received at whatever institution or group they spent the majority of their lives in (families, homes, churches, synagogues, schools, nightclubs, etc.).
Without humility in approaching this question, one must confront their ignorance with humility, or a snarling beast may emerge without warning.
This often leads to an argument or steeping weeping arrogant banter where an enlightening dialogue could have done nicely.
When approaching the question of God's existence on my own (I tend to avoid these conversations) I usually arrive, with some hemming and hawing, at the elegant statement that the concept is variable and our words for it extremely limited, but God (that is to say, the perfect and most Alien Being that encapsulates the entirety of existence, not the Demiurge called Yahweh, etc. but more what is described by some as Allah, the Pleroma, Kosmos) is an absence that indicates a Presence.
Does that make much sense? A crude metaphor would be a hand in a glove, say. But I digress. Yes, yes I am a Gnostic. We're the rarest of sorts, anachronistic in our approach due to a claim of "direct knowledge of God" that very few touting "faith in God" would care to stomach, hypocrites and cowards that they are, by and large. Religions are spoiled directly after inception due to the fallen nature of matter.
Matter is fallen, you ask?
Yes, insofar as all living things are beholden to cessation. Perfection, another unattainable concept, as remote as God, stands at the forefront of our attempts to interact with the everyday. And every day we fail. God is a Thought. If your grasp on reality is such that you tend to require irrefutable proof in every formula, every i dotted, every t crossed, then you could say that no, God does not exist.
Is that simple enough? God exists as a concept that drives us through its divinity; perfect, immortal, mysterious and eternal, insofar as we will carry the concept so long as we exist as thinking beings.
Without humility in approaching this question, one must confront their ignorance with humility, or a snarling beast may emerge without warning.
This often leads to an argument or steeping weeping arrogant banter where an enlightening dialogue could have done nicely.
When approaching the question of God's existence on my own (I tend to avoid these conversations) I usually arrive, with some hemming and hawing, at the elegant statement that the concept is variable and our words for it extremely limited, but God (that is to say, the perfect and most Alien Being that encapsulates the entirety of existence, not the Demiurge called Yahweh, etc. but more what is described by some as Allah, the Pleroma, Kosmos) is an absence that indicates a Presence.
Does that make much sense? A crude metaphor would be a hand in a glove, say. But I digress. Yes, yes I am a Gnostic. We're the rarest of sorts, anachronistic in our approach due to a claim of "direct knowledge of God" that very few touting "faith in God" would care to stomach, hypocrites and cowards that they are, by and large. Religions are spoiled directly after inception due to the fallen nature of matter.
Matter is fallen, you ask?
Yes, insofar as all living things are beholden to cessation. Perfection, another unattainable concept, as remote as God, stands at the forefront of our attempts to interact with the everyday. And every day we fail. God is a Thought. If your grasp on reality is such that you tend to require irrefutable proof in every formula, every i dotted, every t crossed, then you could say that no, God does not exist.
Is that simple enough? God exists as a concept that drives us through its divinity; perfect, immortal, mysterious and eternal, insofar as we will carry the concept so long as we exist as thinking beings.
12.05.2010
Write.
Doesn't matter what. Have a friend tell you a story and you'll see that the mouth is quicker in the hand, I'd suggest shorthand that only you can crack. Many people have kept up through sheer quickness of wrist.
Write anything. Describe your feelings or an afternoon or an event. Or all at once, one right after the other or in one place at once, a paragraph of text. A discussion.
11.11.2010
Part 7: Instructions
The more joyful the sadness, the more soundly the paradox slumbers. Derivatives of the situation's gravity have given any well-meaning pundit a moment of pause, the enriched notion of exit presumes a full understanding of these informal remarks. The essence of human language is one of parallels and contradictions, voluminous black clouds of contrarian doublespeak and outright lies overhanging the symmetry of what is said and what is written. When statistical perfection is realized in the mind of an individual, any one will do, the roots of the eschatological language have taken hold, and the world of visionaries, mediums and the like is laid bare. A logical consistency is not immediately apparent but completely inherent to eschatological language. One might approach it as a book of thought which has evolved into a living organism. Images concerning it vary, but a quality is attached which may best be described as uncompromising though light, a primal station embraced by a degree of providence and a good quantity of something akin to but not quite grace.
Part 6: Nascence
The consistency of expectations comes in a discourse between individuals seeking to give solidity to the inexplicable through an outdated mode of communication. Treachery has birthed this language of eschatology, the silent annihilation all-too-often incorrectly identified as beholden to religious structures (predominantly the three Abrahamic faiths) and their inherent dogmatic restrictions and seemingly limitless self-contradictions. Eschatological linguistics arise rather conversely from the urge towards wholeness that presently existing discourses discount or disregard. The formation of this language is such that attempting to give a description of its peculiar nuance here, before its nascence, when its inception is still only a hint, a mote, a speck, is like a blind paraplegic with no tongue and one ear attempting to describe whalesong from a place on the shore.
Part 5: Philology
Standard sources are found lacking, for in the formation of an entirely new language one cannot hearken back to historical accounts for safe passage. One must first note the syntax, the phonological features, and the community by which the language has been derived. A lexicon composed of structures and sounds indicating an obliteration of the arbitrary is at first an obscene gesture in the undertaking; emotional markers are presupposed as contrary by nature, denying millenniums of development yet enveloping shifts in articulation and tearing down the trenchant divisions of formalism, there are inherently contradictory and hardly indistinguishable nuances to the presentation of the language as a whole. Classical doctrine is ravaged by the utterance of such a language, and literary theory is left by the wayside as the words of this language invade registrations and erase seeming photographic objectifications with very little to no effort, as if the act of said words existing had already started shifting the sands of time over recently-living ones, burying them alive, interbreeding with them, forming hybrids at the borders of old nations before erasing them from history completely.
Part 4: Poetics
As a poet wills no need for explanation, to deny a claim of poetics within the framework of Eschatological Linguistics is to call forth the unborn as well as the undying, that is, towards a realistic state of unbecoming, one might surmise an interpretation of assertions carrying such vast capacity would never satisfy investigators seeking conjunctions or determinations. The as yet unknown but innate structures that this language of the end times prepossesses deals with this problem elegantly enough: ambiguity gives way to pun, allegory, and a variety of emotion highly informed by what has been up until now described as ethereal, that is, rather than being a linguistic structure built on the edifice of sensation, it is a superstructure beholden to the interaction of forces. In this sense an oracular or inaugural weight is called upon in the problem of response; stanzas fall flat, haiku seems contrived, and any distinguishing between the Mind or the Hand seems a trivial observation to be shattered with each enunciation.
Part 3: Essence
Where a word meets a boundary, there will the new language find purchase; details summarizing a resonance in second or third or fifth meaning, as the dimensions of time and space and potential arise, so too does the Eschaton Language. The essential function of a mode of communication such as this is to emphasize the deeper structure of meaning in language (or essence) to the degree that so-called "surface chatter" becomes increasingly irrelevant as words take on ever-greater (and ultimately infinite) resonance. As such, any attempt at a lexicon's functional application in this matter abdicates to a continual renunciation of appropriation by standardized systems and culminates in unframed correspondences or, in effect, a seeming silence.
Part 2: Functionality
A unifying reference crossed out, held in check, grounded to the extent that it carries the weight of the dichotomy addressed in any commentary or question, for much as a heart is designed to pump blood so to would this new language communicate aggregates in a series of assertions that address the activity of a subject as well as the ontological weight of an object, the “divine similitude” found lacking since the fall of the Tower of Babel. The key or indivisible mirror of this new form would sweep the diversity of structure in human language clear of all vagaries, would do away with the subjunctive sorrows that accrue in the shadows of any language or system of communication, wherein beliefs may be waylaid for appropriate environmental conditions, or rather, the pathetic relics of state that arise in political discourse inevitable to any such system, a bed of snakes developed with the intent to obfuscate simple matters and deride linguistic organization as a whole.
Seven types of Reflection/Deconstruction towards Eschatology Linguistics: Part 1: Conception
Suppose the marvelous correspondence of every second or third generation believing their times to be the end times proved at last to be correct and as such their linguistic habit or neighborhood engendered the formation of peculiar or eccentric languages puzzling over the quandary of the eschaton in new and exciting fashions, to wit: the praise of the faraway/near giving rise to a sudden surge of homonyms using local language and moral practices to formulate entirely new purposes, drawing boundaries and distinctions from a storehouse of concepts as yet undefined, languages from distant lands creating bulkheads on the shore of the proverbial psychic beach, and in doing so remaking the world, triggering the apocalypse as ever in the manner of a self-fulfilling prophecy, a naturalist's nightmare, sanity's bane, an objectivity-annihilating glossolalia of end times proportions determined as an end to all wars, the destruction of desolation and the nullification of distraction, exemption from idiocy and destructive ignorance cascading correlations heretofore misconceived.
11.05.2010
10.31.2010
Record
|  | Canada | ||
|  | United States | ||
|  | Czech Republic | Melnik, Stredocesky Kraj | |
|  | Spain | Barcelona, Cataluna | |
| | Canada | ||
|  | Argentina | Buenos Aires, Distrito Federal | |
|  | Netherlands | Hilvarenbeek, Noord-Brabant | |
|  | Mexico | ||
|  | Sweden | Staffanstorp, Skane Lan | |
| | United States | Iselin, New Jersey | |
| | Canada | ||
| | Sweden | Juvansbo, Gavleborgs Lan | |
| | United States | Bel Air, Maryland | |
| | United States | Mountain View, California | |
| | United States | ||
| | Canada | ||
|  | Japan | Toyohashi, Aichi | |
| | Netherlands | Twello, Gelderland | |
|  | Australia | Warrnambool, Victoria | |
| | Canada |
10.27.2010
Mysterium Tremendum
Devils wait with every human on the planet for a signal to infest them.
There are a great many gates that have sprung up since the onset of the Atomic Age directly due to the testing of atomic weapons, the constant detonation in atmospheres and underground, the outpouring of radiation.
In years to come historians will tell of the marvels and wonders that led into the Silicon Age, then the Holographic Age.
In all the strife and horror that is inflicted on man and animal and plant and mineral, there is one thing which distinguishes real from unreal, and that is the degree to which it stands by itself, where it can be said to exist with any concrete validity or passing attempt at objectivity. Sychronicity is the idea proposed by Jung to explain what is seen as meaningful coincidence, or more validly, correlations a human mind can draw from any number of events to inculcate a belief in something like fate or significance.
It has been said numerous times that the individual can be rational, and some hold that the human, by nature of being a "thinking" animal, is inherently a rational one as well. This has been cited as primary to the development of so-called "civilization", humanitarian and technological advances. It simply is not reality. We should bear in mind that the seat of all action for a human animal is in the realm of the emotional. Animals are emotional by nature of living, hence reproductive processes expressed in life forms higher on the evolutionary scale as mating rituals. Proved with numerous tests, the stock market is not beholden to rationality but an emotionally informed attempt at rationality. The ennui and angst that arises when the seat of power in a government is filled by an incompetent fool or nepotistic stooge is carried in the cultural under-consciousness (a specific tangential aggregate of the so-called "collective unconscious") and results in an emotional reaction in all markets. When a culture is bred in these conditions, the Unawake, or mass psychology as a whole, react with fear and greed. Fear is a basic triggering mechanisms by which populaces can be controlled or directed. Greed arises from a spoiling of masses by individual cells.
10.18.2010
10.17.2010
Reappraisals
I have undertaken and am seeking to publish a series of memoirs which are interlaced with pure fiction and what can only be described as a peculiar adaptation of reality.
The question of course being what is reality, what constitutes unreality. Fiction given the non-fictional bent, aligned with certain occult properties which carry a peculiar stigma in esoteric traditions but are rarely expressed in exoteric or mainstream spheres.
I am looking for something concrete to interlace with the fluff and nonsense which permeates most of my appropriated cannon-fodder prose, avoiding airport novels and their focus on thrillers or sales-driven narratives, such as this digressive distraction of a web-based log, removed from my core occurrence and event of 'being' by at least one if not three intervals. This is my thrice-removed context for confession, my machination of externalizing the excess materials I am forced to deal with. This mind. These thoughts.
As artists draw from live models to better hone their ability to draw, so too do I use my own life to draw from in order to better hone my ability to write. Real life as a model, the shifting chaos which writing imposes a particular order upon, is a matter of capturing and imprisoning moments into text, honing the methodology and practice to the point where flaws are at least less apparent, and eventually (after some revision) completely invisible, while nonetheless present. I'll always know they are there. Doesn't mean you have to.
Analysis of structure is a method which many rely on for their revisions, however I feel my means to the end and ends themselves can best be served by sectioning my method into 'work-zones' clearly defined as utter chaos, controlled chaos, and chaotic order.
You could say that utter chaos is as a mental diarrhea, sputtering chunks and liquid soft segments which spew violently from the bowels of my muse as if inundated with some e. coli laden chili dog of inspiration. In this mess we find a series of unintentional repetition and unidentifiable sources, a sort of soupy mixture which is unfettered by the second guesses of the conscious mind, a graphic broth containing, among other things, the many sources of my material, including but not limited to statements and events within the context of "everyday life", prose and poetry which I intake, television and radio which I see or listen to, and art which I digest through the eyes or ears.
Controlled chaos comes when I am in the midst of the day, somewhere peaceful, with a real and honest idea which has been brewing in the back of my head, or sifted out of the utter chaos shitpile, and there are clips and phrases, usually lines of prose or statements directly taken from memory or manipulated from another context, and I jot them down somewhere like a yellow legal pad, or a notebook. The controlled chaos cannot be typed, for all too often when I attempt to enter controlled chaos into typed text it instead degenerates into utter chaos, and suddenly the few lines I intended have evolved into a messy convoluted series of paragraphs, for the most part illegible or obscene, or at the very least ill-conceived.
Chaotic order is the place which is arrived at shortly before revision, which is a stage that evolves the work into something worthwhile, after appropriate review and feedback from whatever source I am currently subscribing to as valid. Chaotic order may be shifted slightly, but remains itself at the core, as by the time I have arrived at this stage a theme has been established, characters have introduced themselves to me, and the plot has fought it's way out of the birth canal, mewling pitifully. These are all things which are arrived at in a less than intentional manner, sometimes fed by the roar of the utter chaos, and sometimes conceived in the heat of passion by the controlled chaos. Like a symphony with no liner notes, you might say. Clips and phrases from my hand-written word metastasize in the body of the text like a fast-acting small-cell cancer. They destroy the chaos an impose an order onto the work which kills some parts, yet heightens the experience for the reader, since that is ultimately my highest priority.
See, though writing feeds a need within me, and without it I would in fact wither like a raisin in the sun or whatever, dream deferred and soforth, the audience is crucial, for without them, I would never make a living off of doing what I want with my life, which believe it or not is my goal, all lofty ideals concerning art and all that notwithstanding.
Ideals without profit as a goal don't feed you or get you royalty checks. Ideals without profit as a goal get you hungry or poor or dead. Mind you, profit is not the only goal, it can't be unless you want to become a metahack or a flake, but it must be kept towards the front of the mind at all time to remind you of the audience you are feeding your shitstorms to, applied to whatever you in whatever manner is plausible as many times as possible.
Here, in my utter chaos and squalor, this hobbled hovel, I am seated calmly in my confessional booth with the computer monitor as the privacy screen between me and that old priest who is an obvious metaphor for whoever just read those words I just wrote, who could say something in response but usually just listens quietly as I spew my list of sins in an infinitely digressive quality which comes out in great quantities, my overflowing poetic purse of verse and prose-prone mishaps scraping along the pathways of excess in these vast palaces of wisdom, where everything said is scooped up like horse manure and processed, then used to fertilize those gardens tended to by the well-intentioned angels of my higher functions, the flowers and trees blooming in the sunshine proliferating at an exponential rate of growth, sometimes getting pruned, sometimes getting pulled (if their root systems become a hazard to the prettier plants), and sometimes getting plucked and placed on my dinner table in a vase, to make this place look and smell pretty when I have polite company over.
That might be the longest sentence I have ever written. Hm.
The question of course being what is reality, what constitutes unreality. Fiction given the non-fictional bent, aligned with certain occult properties which carry a peculiar stigma in esoteric traditions but are rarely expressed in exoteric or mainstream spheres.
-
I am looking for something concrete to interlace with the fluff and nonsense which permeates most of my appropriated cannon-fodder prose, avoiding airport novels and their focus on thrillers or sales-driven narratives, such as this digressive distraction of a web-based log, removed from my core occurrence and event of 'being' by at least one if not three intervals. This is my thrice-removed context for confession, my machination of externalizing the excess materials I am forced to deal with. This mind. These thoughts.
-
As artists draw from live models to better hone their ability to draw, so too do I use my own life to draw from in order to better hone my ability to write. Real life as a model, the shifting chaos which writing imposes a particular order upon, is a matter of capturing and imprisoning moments into text, honing the methodology and practice to the point where flaws are at least less apparent, and eventually (after some revision) completely invisible, while nonetheless present. I'll always know they are there. Doesn't mean you have to.
-
Analysis of structure is a method which many rely on for their revisions, however I feel my means to the end and ends themselves can best be served by sectioning my method into 'work-zones' clearly defined as utter chaos, controlled chaos, and chaotic order.
-
You could say that utter chaos is as a mental diarrhea, sputtering chunks and liquid soft segments which spew violently from the bowels of my muse as if inundated with some e. coli laden chili dog of inspiration. In this mess we find a series of unintentional repetition and unidentifiable sources, a sort of soupy mixture which is unfettered by the second guesses of the conscious mind, a graphic broth containing, among other things, the many sources of my material, including but not limited to statements and events within the context of "everyday life", prose and poetry which I intake, television and radio which I see or listen to, and art which I digest through the eyes or ears.
-
Controlled chaos comes when I am in the midst of the day, somewhere peaceful, with a real and honest idea which has been brewing in the back of my head, or sifted out of the utter chaos shitpile, and there are clips and phrases, usually lines of prose or statements directly taken from memory or manipulated from another context, and I jot them down somewhere like a yellow legal pad, or a notebook. The controlled chaos cannot be typed, for all too often when I attempt to enter controlled chaos into typed text it instead degenerates into utter chaos, and suddenly the few lines I intended have evolved into a messy convoluted series of paragraphs, for the most part illegible or obscene, or at the very least ill-conceived.
Chaotic order is the place which is arrived at shortly before revision, which is a stage that evolves the work into something worthwhile, after appropriate review and feedback from whatever source I am currently subscribing to as valid. Chaotic order may be shifted slightly, but remains itself at the core, as by the time I have arrived at this stage a theme has been established, characters have introduced themselves to me, and the plot has fought it's way out of the birth canal, mewling pitifully. These are all things which are arrived at in a less than intentional manner, sometimes fed by the roar of the utter chaos, and sometimes conceived in the heat of passion by the controlled chaos. Like a symphony with no liner notes, you might say. Clips and phrases from my hand-written word metastasize in the body of the text like a fast-acting small-cell cancer. They destroy the chaos an impose an order onto the work which kills some parts, yet heightens the experience for the reader, since that is ultimately my highest priority.
-
See, though writing feeds a need within me, and without it I would in fact wither like a raisin in the sun or whatever, dream deferred and soforth, the audience is crucial, for without them, I would never make a living off of doing what I want with my life, which believe it or not is my goal, all lofty ideals concerning art and all that notwithstanding.
-
Ideals without profit as a goal don't feed you or get you royalty checks. Ideals without profit as a goal get you hungry or poor or dead. Mind you, profit is not the only goal, it can't be unless you want to become a metahack or a flake, but it must be kept towards the front of the mind at all time to remind you of the audience you are feeding your shitstorms to, applied to whatever you in whatever manner is plausible as many times as possible.
-
Here, in my utter chaos and squalor, this hobbled hovel, I am seated calmly in my confessional booth with the computer monitor as the privacy screen between me and that old priest who is an obvious metaphor for whoever just read those words I just wrote, who could say something in response but usually just listens quietly as I spew my list of sins in an infinitely digressive quality which comes out in great quantities, my overflowing poetic purse of verse and prose-prone mishaps scraping along the pathways of excess in these vast palaces of wisdom, where everything said is scooped up like horse manure and processed, then used to fertilize those gardens tended to by the well-intentioned angels of my higher functions, the flowers and trees blooming in the sunshine proliferating at an exponential rate of growth, sometimes getting pruned, sometimes getting pulled (if their root systems become a hazard to the prettier plants), and sometimes getting plucked and placed on my dinner table in a vase, to make this place look and smell pretty when I have polite company over.
That might be the longest sentence I have ever written. Hm.
-
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