Acknowledge and Proceed

0:

When you are unprepared, the information is useless.

1:

The froth of public advertising is a surface level shallow interpretation of form and commodity, silly when viewing the beholden archetypal presence, a pure form usually presented as simulacrum, the glossalia of the mimic and mock, the attack ready for anything with a notion of spirituality tagged onto it.

2:

he was suddenly in the void, the unwhen. The gate he had entered was still open, a blinding speck in the ocean of infinity. The Thing, the typewriter hydra, grasped the edges of the frameless door, crackling like old film, cigarette spots at the edges of the scene, a boundless white, an unending black, a snake circling the Axis Mundi, the ouroboros on which Vishnu dreams the universe. He hadn't lost form in this formlessness, so a context still existed. The tangled beast of burden snagged him as he coasted along the edges of no/everywhere, click click clack clack, dragging him towards the doorway even as he began to dissolve. Braced against the doorway, what remained of his frame crackled formless for a moment. He ceased the struggle. Motion and stillness. Matter and energy. Redundancies realigned. He was gone, unwhere.

3:

she stood, ignoring the glass crunching underfoot. The troll scuttled ahead, stomping spiders as he went. The Thing was shredding her bed, blade and tooth oozing acidic digestive juices on old scrapbooks and other identifications.
"Excuse me."
All the eyes, the weighted terrible eyes, tearing up and winking and blinking and glaring and scrunching and widening, were upon her.
"I'd like you out of my house. You are uninvited."
The temperature in the room plummeted. Frost bit at her bleeding toes. The Thing, crouched on her bed in the midst of the enterprise of undoing all things within the room, seemed to shrink a bit.
"Go out the way you came in, please. I don't want my neighbors seeing you."
The Thing hissed as it slinked out, through the living room, up the wall, and out the window.
The Troll scratched his beard and turned to her. He said something in the affirmative feminine, but she wasn't certain what.
She reached for a broom and he went to get a dustpan from his place under the kitchen sink.

0:

The Corpus, dignified, trundles packages through cold winter winding sailboat intensities.

1:

Of course the burden of beauty is the observation by countless unseen arbiters, judgment calls at the halls. Two false cards seem to be Justice and what, Strength? Useless fictions carried out by pointless people.

2:

He floated, caressing the wallet, the keys, the many cigarette butts and articles of clothing. Dream-logic suddenly held sway in the realm of the Real. Four great doors opened in the four walls, and the typewriter, silently orbiting the desk until then, was suddenly a beast, a fantastic machinery Thing, all curbs and joints and tentacle-tresses, its keys and gears and ribbons unfolding towards him. Green France, the beaches of Normandy to be exact, were beyond the doorway before him. To his left, an Arizona mesa propped against epic clouds and endless blue. To his right, an angry crowded village in Tibet, protesters being stomped by militants. Behind him, the posters parted to reveal a doorway with no door, no frame, no hinges. At his feet, the typewriter whirred and clicked and buzzed like a flyoctopusmanticorehydra, tendrils flailing and grasping. He propelled himself backward, and

3:

She felt the window shatter, and there was no pain when it cur into her. The Thing was inside her apartment, past her, slimy trail like a slug as it rounded the corner of her open bedroom door, it was suddenly massive, suddenly enormous. She sat down, dazed. In shock. The troll padded out of the kitchen and along the hardwood floors towards her. Bits of glass in her hair, her clothes, her face. Wiping a clot of expired milk from his beard, her troll, her sweet loyal diminutive troll, tugged at her dress and said something in his own language. She didn't understand a word, but looked where he was pointing. In her bedroom, the Thing was wreaking havoc. Precious pictures and old family heirlooms clattered and crashed. The Thing's torso was like a massive silkworm filled with a thousand eyes. The eyes burst like pimples and thousands of baby spiders skittered along the walls and ceilings. She closed her eyes and then

0:

The horizontal line stretched along the axis forever.

1:

Grundle grope snack shop owner sinks fingers into hearty soup stock sipping sudsy souls of sorrowful sops.

2:

He stood suddenly, kicking the chair across the room. He started slamming himself against the walls of the room. Gravity eventually reversed and then nullified itself. Floating particles filled the room, all the emptied suitcases full of dirty clothes rearranged themselves in a stream of wrinkles around him. At the center he hovered, eyes rolled up, the whites and bursting veins the only thing evident.

3:

She looked out the window and touched it. Cold. Frosted. The Thing pressed against the windowpane lurched and curled, myriad eyes blinking and compounding, mixing and reproducing. She looked through the doorway and into the kitchen. The troll picked something out of the crack of his pock-marked buttocks, sniffed it pensively, then ate it. The Thing made the window-frame shake, and she placed her hand the glass again.

0:

Necromancy failed the pope once before, but he found few flaws in giving it another go.

1:

Yesterday beat up Tomorrow for his lunch money. There were bats circling overhead in the last light before sunset, catching bugs and swooping and click chattering outside audible ranges.

2:

He stared at the typewriter for hours with absolutely nothing special coming to mind. The muse he had amused for so long had abandoned him. Now he was stuck in the same scene over and over: phantoms wandered in and out, flipping through his dictionaries and talking amongst themselves. Self conscious, he kept looking over, and they kept conferring, occasionally glancing over their shoulders at him.

3:

In her apartment, the plants bloomed new flowers, and everything she had to tell them about her day was fresh air to them. The troll living under her kitchen sink pushed his way out and greeted her with a lewd hip thrust. He opened the refrigerator and scratched himself, looking for some milk to drink out of the carton. Ignoring him, she started to text message her boyfriend, then stopped. There was something at the window.

0:

Turbulent psychology, the inference of spirit and spite. Unaware, the lone interested observer.

1:

Positive observations: a death cot/ humans gyrating under the moon and stars/ a fly on a carcass.

2:

He walked across the room, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, and sat at the typewriter. After touring France for four summers, he was finally washed up on the shores of America once more. He had nothing to say anymore.

3:

She walked up the steps of her building and unlocked the door. Stuck at first, she gave it a sharp kick. The hallway smelled faintly of patchouli incense.

Offer Hectate
the
more
public realizations of the the liber XV,
to shape Sunday gnostics,
past each one monthly.

This serious lance spectacles the graal
grow will
big probability,

it observes the Thelemic
of first hand it is rituals
an order of Other,
in order to form as it satisfies,
these interests channel
new forms that are found every hour,

this it can djajrescej'.

First medium then Monday

ezhemesyachnosti

we propose afete'roy

our meeting mirrors the Rosicrucian's,

open as an officieux
being more inferior forum,
in celui-ly'!

more with regard to our oasis,

east is the essential aim

as it satisfies our goals to learn

it also notes medeoccultists.

In in the middle

and the second month
the sacrifice of
roof ridges every Monday

or our meeting of the Javacrucians,

that gives the forum an open distant clash,

officieux as that
the tone signature
has had more adversely

functioned in our metre

the one
her that is struck custard synthetique

( us )

I have punctured the flowers

and

the Worker of occultism's tone.

Enlisting invokers for the scrumptious bash.
A gunshot of a thunderclap, roaring rumble throughout the western area.


Watch us do this.


Heart heart hurt.

Cure all.

Kio.

Ju rthit ohm.

Lover. Love. Beloved.

Spiderweb, etcetera.

Beginning. Glossalia as path

Recorded dao redundancies. The Way, Lane.

Unity,


Jumpstart underwear…

Gripless strawberries. Stupid madness is crazy people that can’t articulate themselves,

Conduits for certain powers.

Gritty ugly unfun? What is that mess.

Cigarette un-need scrimp.

Guesswork grip
The seventy two twenty sevens.

Strange Candies.

Proliferation of mutations.

Nonformal center, something to fall back on. How to Stop Smoking. Russian. Twenty pages of brick chewing, facts that effect, sumptuous brilliance, then who even knows if it’s Black Sea, swam for five minutes, ran out of breath, reactor heavy shit dome.

Amalgam American Questionable as ever:

TOOTHPICK.

Pickaxes. Everybody THAT was sent there marriage reunites kids.

Ra.

Fragments.

METEORS! AND SPLOSIONS, AND EVERYBODY!

Orgasms around that spot, that miniscule fury that is the calm eye of the raging storm.

Interspecies coalition. Politicians ruin it, they don't even exist. It's the street pavers, the architects, the bustling forces of the brick-layers. Put the kids through college. Form a caul around the head of the matter.

Half life. Decomposition, a matter of Half-Life. Killed effect,

Proliferation, some people never think of the future, they only think of the past, an ignoble flight irradiated run fallout jungle, limitless power.

Who’s even capable of arguing about the tidal catastrophe, the imbalance of the particulars set throughout. Ugly lifetimes played out for the unfitting power struggle and


Colonies of United States,
Butterflies effective

Function, flatulated.

limited bullshit thing to say.


What agonies of a peach might be had, the eternal symphony of the world crack my brain is fine.

An inkling of the truth reveals little but says much.

We never know the complexities of simplicity, due to the nature of the beast.

Masters of the House, corridors of words, the cascading ripple effect that comes with the act of reading, creation, most urges bases primal sentries set up to patrol the depths, the heights,

Unrevelled. Unrevealed.

Constructs of realm, creator fluke, fuck function.

Most things can be evolved, whether they like it or not.


To tell a successful story it must be visualized first and completely. Moving in/out and accumulating distinctions. I conceptually understand all corners of this book. Most is just the edge, playing, but stops after a while.

Justified fortified. And thus it goes.

The sirens are pointless.

The flashbulbs of underreality snapping and flashing.

Around the edges, a curling cascade of energies
All lovely aspects of rest. Accept in terms of the body. Acceptable outsourcing for waste mental physical lovely unlovely

Concepts burn at the matchstick.

Irrelevancies become myriad. Doors are found in locks, which begs a million questions.

I understand, how it must feel to be so piffling mundane and not matter, sure, fine but once you understand, everything else becomes irrelevant, once you know that it’s not a matter of knowing, it’s not just a matter of finding the right context of interaction, the right turn of the screw, the whole system written as a sort of constant flux, angry raw creation spark being harnessed fine, but even the tiniest glimmer, the slightest notion towards a particular pathway is most magnanimously annexed by the clusterbomb such thoughts tend to set off, a thoughtform a chimera formed from the coaxial flutterspeak of the flowers, being circles intersecting and nothing more.

Waves of deja vu, the life already lived.


We fall at an impasse, the abyss being the lime-light tinged absurdity that this flawed history has thrust upon us. What did this one do, moved away from the warm center, the calm cover, the safety of notion, of space?

Yesterday:
I did a few things that reminded me how far behind I am. I failed myself once more, lowered my standards yet again, and found myself in questionable situations I've been in before but finally, yes, finally refuse to ever be in again.

Today, before work, I was sitting in a bookstore, upstairs. I exploded.

Cleaning myself up was an issue. My friends, I woke them from some nude slumber so I could borrow a trashbag to dispose of my remnants. Soon I'll have my clutter out of their lives entirely. They are and always have been a soothing balm.

Soon my clutter will find its rightful place in a tiny room adjacent to the wrong side of the tracks.

Finished a book about the history of wizards. It was succinct but extensive, sparse but informative. May start incorporating it into my systemics, maybe get a better grip on the fictions and facts of my ardent query before plunging headlong into the final messy mystery.

It's arcane in the sense that certain aspects of the process are a secret, and I have a Magical intent involved.

Here, with all these vibrant tos and fros, where I frolick with language as if it was a sylph summoned for such things, I commit to the first stage of a three stage process, an evocation of sorts. It's going to be fun.

You get to watch.

"I'm too lazy to figure out a way to do it the lazy way, so I'm gonna do it the hard way."

To be there is some sport
within тягостен and my work
Yet the joy in them departs:

Some kinds of lowliness
Are underpulled and fed
while the poorest questions survive.

Quite finely, richly they dine.
This my middle-point task
to take under consideration

However, it would in some cases
be for me a form of meanness,
as well as hard-won ends reserved

The Gatgeberin which I serve
accelerates what has died
makes gentle the passage

Just as it delivers
my working pleasure:
Rutting faun in most aspects

It is is more than pleasant
on the tenfold file
rather than the Father Grincheux,

Such is the way he formed
from the cruelty
within the loss.

I should carry this
A little bit tausen
When we accumulate some

Thousands of
spirits in
these trunks and bags,

Outside painful June or otherwise:
my agreeable wetnurse
shouts aloud when I am at work,

Such an avarice never had this one
as the executor of his desire.
Though this I seem to forget.

As such, these agreeable thoughts cool
even in my own works,
Busier than not, when this I do.

Given a touch of your flame.

Contemplate the Nobel Prize Winner's mentally handicapped son, immediately institutionalized upon birth, as was the fashion at the time.

When they met at a rally years later, both sponsoring in their own ways an unfairly accused man with similar braintroubles, the playwright's son embraced him in that awkward way that only sons can. The Nobel Prize Winner was taken aback, but before suspicions could even be aroused, a picture was taken. Some people in the crowd were confused... had this poor retarded boy seen the playwright's work and been moved?

The flashbulbs went off and hands shaken were then seperated. I know the look on the boy's face. My own face will echo it when I see my father again. A pat on the back came later with the manchild's inclusion into an equal share of the playwright's inheritence a few weeks before his death. Doubtless it's a touchy subject, but as with all dramatists the Nobel Prize Winner was seeking emotional stability in every situation, and in failing to do that, merely stirred up more mud. In any event, there's little doubt the whole thing rotted like a nasty wound under a tainted band-aid.

They say his work never hit greatness after the birth of this son, popular moralists such as he was, perhaps he was skinning his teeth in shame, and as a result standing up for those he could have sold out, but even in that kindness, perhaps fitting in with the Fallen after all.

Everybody wants to sustain all those dinner parties and lies.

If there's something outside that you want to see, just take a step outside and you'll see it.

All my dreams are chases now, a group of erstwhile well-wishers accompanying me as nodes of sorts, bandying about clever quips and phrases for the general bemusement of the masses, the masses being that clever machine following me meanwhile, ugly clank click machine like a steam press, travelling streams and eddies along the ideascape, sharpening razors and grimacing in metal fang fashion, twisted black magik beard creeping rapid slow, curling and blinking.

When in contrapasto
with the chance
to inspect Mainline,
all single and
entire in the state
while hearing
impaired with
my call out
the kept eyes
in fruitless bowls
in the wounds that
are person but
that which
is sought equal
richer this is with the hope,
offered some similar this,
me and places equal aces
depths of friends that
wish the art of this
individual and
prositotita of the individual,
with which
the benediction
of majority
that satisfies minus plus
Error breeds

In these thoughts
the same thing
perifronei until
almost still,
perhaps kathos
fundraisers--for esena
it then in entirity
of the state,
I like in the
interruption of day,
where appears
last vestige of
the territory,

Community anthems
of song in the door
For the lead
the afternoon asks
why you are so sweet
yours similar to that
of the abundance for the love,
this it comes with
this perifronei
then so appears that
it changes beyond
merely being
impressive
amongst the kings

Finding flight
in the way.

adult swim, air, alan ginsberg, alan moore, alchemy, aldous huxley, aleister crowley, amon tobin, anticon, anton chekov, aphex twin, arcade fire, bach, beatles, beck, bill willingham, bjork, black sabbath, bob marley, brian michael bendis, broken social scene, cake, cardigans, carl gustav jung, cat stevens, charles williams, chris ware, christopher pike, chuck palahniuk, cigarettes (quitting), clive barker, clouddead, coco rosie, coffee, coitus, cometbus, comic books, conspiracy theories, cycles, daemons, dan clowes, dave eggers, dave sim, david lapham, david sedaris, death from above 1979, deities, domakesaythink, donald barthleme, douglas adams, drawing, dungen, edgar allan poe, edward gorey, eels, ella fitzgerald, elliot smith, evan dorkin, fionna apple, flannery o' conner, frank zappa, franz kafka, george orwell, gnosis, gnostic philosophy, godspeed you black emperor, grant morrison, graphic novels, handsome boy modeling school, henry darger, herbie hancock, hp lovecraft, hunter s thompson, irvine welsh, italo calvino, jack kerouac, james kolchaka, jd salinger, jeffrey brown, jimi hendrix, john coltrane, joseph campbell, joyce carol oates, julie doucet, kabbalah, kronos quartet, kurt busiek, kurt vonnegut, larry niven, led zepplin, lewis carrol, lightning bolt, lovage, lucid dreams, marc bell, marina warner, mark millar, mark twain, mark waid, mark z danielewski, mc paul barman, medeski martin and wood, mf doom, miles davis, mogwai, moldy peaches, morphine, neil gaiman, nervous cop, neutral milk hotel, nick hornby, nin, nirvana, old time relijun, pablo picasso, pantera, paulo coelho, pavement, peter david, philip glass, phillip k dick, pink floyd, portishead, primus, radiohead, ravi shankar, ray bradbury, raymond carver, robert anton wilson, rumah sakit, sam keith, scott mccloud, seragraphs, sigur ros, six degrees of seperation, solex, sonic youth, soul coughing, spirals (golden, archimedian, and otherwise), stereolab, stravinsky, subtle, telephone jim jesus, tom robbins, tom waits, tony millionaire, tortoise, vast, vincent van gogh, warren ellis, ween, white stripes, william carlos williams, william s burroughs

Recently reformed the rotation of the Great Work. Adopting handwritten pages over the troublesome digital input.

Product recalls on magnets and lead-paint factories in China. Suicides and secular groups protest.

CONCEPTS ARRIVAL: Territory evolved-

1984 : AntiUtopia, New World Order : Apocalypse, Scifi subgenre : Cyberpunk, Glamorama : Brett Easton Ellis, Idiocracy : The Stupid have Won, Archeologies of the Future : Jameson, Forget Foulcout : Jean Baudrillard,




CURRENT AP FEED:

A flood of guns into Iraq from Italy, Russian-manufactured wonders. Black-market forces on the side of The War's perpetuation, though they can claim allegiance to American "liberators".



COMMENTARY:

Our Post Cold War era dystopian surrealism has been marked by a significant weight added to the hobby horse (read: dada) of American Popular Culture, beast what licked all aspects.

A psychoanalysis of Product shows scores of works indicating by their very publication a preservation of the social order, yet in many cases attempting to subvert the social dynamic or alleviate social decay. An alienation occurs, yet very little comes from it.

Fictional characters set in states of constant terror and persistent fear, quasifascist regimes having overtaken both solution and nonsolution.


Recently, Marvel underwent a house-shift unprecedented in their Multiverse. After a superhero reality television show results in the destruction of a small suburban town (the epicenter of the blast just outside an elementary school), the public demands a registration act for the American superhuman community, where they'll be government paid operatives beholden to laws, and anyone unregistered gets placed in a prison hidden in the Negative Zone, or detained in Camp X Ray, in Cuba. This creates a huge rift within the heroes themselves, with Iron Man supporting registration, and Captain America forming an underground resistance in response. A series of events cascades from this: Spider Man reveals his identity to the world, Captain America is killed after being taken into custody, and a fifty-state initiative is passed where every state in the union receives their own personal superhero team. Of course, before political intrigue can reach its peak, the Hulk returns from space and he is pissed. That's still in process, so we'll reserve judgment until they finish out the cycle or start resurrecting people/reverting to old status quo.

Look at Mark Millar's second volume of "The Ultimates", an alternative continuity comic book where G.W. Bush funds a team headed up by Captain America, a mirror darkly "Ultimate version" of the Marvel Universes Avengers, where superhumans are the equivalents of Weapons of Mass Destruction. The team tears itself apart from within, finally bearing an invasion from a coalition of countries unwilling to let America corner the superhuman market and effectively become an empire doing so. The superhumans leading up these forces call themselves "The Liberators" and they take over America in little under an hour. Naturally, these countries include Iraq, Iran, Syria, China, North Korea, and Russia, belying an collective anxiety of Americans seeking a "New Axis" sixty some-odd years after World War II's end; in the aftermath of Cold War potential peace, the black cloud of terrorism as an eternal threat supported by shadowy puppet-governments is all that is left, and it blots out the whole sky.

As another example of "parallel superhuman reality gone wrong", take Warren Ellis' "Black Summer", moving the concept housed within "Civil War" and "The Ultimates" to the next logical step, where superhumans have many amazing abilities (in fact, they designed these enhancements to fight a corrupt police force) along with realistic consciences and motivations and anxieties, eventually questioning the motives of the government that "suports" them. The most powerful of these heroes, dubbed "John Horus", murders the President, Vice President, the Presidential cabinet and a number of agents because he wholeheartedly believes that the war in Iraq is illegal and based upon an intricate money-laundering/pyramid scheme. He reassures the public (still splattered with blood) that it is not a coup, but demands immediate re-elections "using pencils and paper, counted by hand".

It's fairly well accepted that literature of a time is a reflection of the time it was written. Take the captivity narrative popular with the early colonial settlers. This offers a window into the puritan heart like very few historical records could. Comics has evolved from a distorted pulpy Mafia racket into a mature and playfully subversive set of serials, mass produced and collected for the general entertainment of a generation raised by single parent families (or as Brad Pitt put it in Fight Club: "We're a generation of men raised by women.") and the older nostalgia fiends from the camp-straddled sixties, seventies, and eighties. The weight of these critiques can be taken far more seriously now, due to a heightened awareness within the system, a growth of the talent base, and an interesting take on irony and dark humor previously unavailable to the average American (and in turn, global) consumer.

Bear in mind the meaning of Utopia (such as Thomas Moore put it): literally "No Place".

Don Delilo put it well: "There is no logic in Apocalypse."

In most instances, the Social Imagination is sparked by the Uncanny, a strange familiarity in the human captivation with destruction. In the windows of comics, there is constant movement, as opposed to the monochrome entropy of the everyday. Stagnation is fascinating to humans, so far as home is not what we believe it to be, and for that matter, We may not be what we believe ourselves to be. Imagine a world of Hypercapitalism: Ayn Rand's wet dream. Imagine every wish hyperbolized, and the utter horror of just that. The Death Drive plays its part in the restraint of most mediums outside comics lore, a subversion of one's own well being for something grandiose and uncontrollable. The opportunity to lick the sublime's underbelly in defiance of all else. Saviour Science has a mad methodology, the Objective viewpoint through No-Body, with Humans as mere objects of scrutiny, a social force of monsters, the experience of anxiety as a sort of safety net, the underdeveloped myths, the spectacular narratives, a concept of revolution with no actual pay-off.

Safely brewed in the brightly digitized realms of imagination, ours is a literature that halves expectations while thwarting them, surpassing them. Totality of corruption is apparent within the system we thrive in. An endemic fatalism regarding the vicious cycle of the military industrial complex. As the system is corrupt as a whole, nothing is being done for it on the most functional level. Why not imagine a world where our human frailties are hyperbolized along with optic blasts and diamond-hard skin? Dystopia is fascinating beyond the constraints of fear. Why not imagine a solution, past the endless battle most mainstream works endlessly subscribe to?

"War is over, if you want it."

Note that the Kingdom sphere breaks the picture plane, indicating the transcendent inclusion of the material world we're inhabiting.

A battle between spaceship captains and truffling shufflers distracts me momentarily. Then there's the issue of advertisements, viral memes and whatnot.

A transmission for the masses. Hoping that the one hating so well will not be reading.

Women have been easily faulted, lately. It's me, mostly// maybe... being so mean-spirited, lacking a true home. Corrections to that have been forthcoming. Finally.

Ah, and found a fellow good for discussions. Most impatient Buddhist I've ever met. Missing the point, but almost there. Trying, at least.

Got a call yesterday about the future impacted by the past. It was odd, the phrasing, the timing.

Celebrating my scam or sell, I had a desert that was far too big for me and read Joseph Campbell's analysis of the book of Job. I bought my final pack of anything. I went to a club with a clever name, ordered two drinks, played some Tetris, and went to Hestia's. She didn't sound enthused.

Slept on a floor in the front storage space while the foreign exchange student shared Hestia's bed and The Lovers pushed two couches together. The Gemini woke me up around six a.m. when she was leaving for work. I wandered into the city via shuttle, all the trains closed down. A Marathon on State street drove me into my pseudoffice, where I got a good two hours rest on a black leather couch. This is not much longer. A deposit, then a rental.

In this room of many windows, my cascading branch effect surpasses previous models. For some reason.

Shill or stupidity?-
These fools, the hoaxes of counterculture. You'd have to be a moron to engage for more than a moment with these piddling moralists, a gaggle of fools and haters, death threat-junkies with some correlaries arranged along the sidelines, aggressive confirmists with a personal vendetta of some sort, jargons and acronyms budding like thorny flowers in their minds, tormented by mental illness throughout most digital shouting matches, proposing nonsense evidence in a sense provoking prejudice, changing the topic of discussion, the uncontrollable paranoia, assessing objective nonsense, a rambling commentary, paperwork plagues.

All those golden afternoons made us put our revolutions on the shelf.

Once, our nation possessed a vast empire in Albion, stretching from Northern Yorick to West Phantasmopolis. My father had a small estate on Crystal Lake; I was the fifth of seven sons. Instead of settling for that pettifogging compromise that would have made me worse than a sad dog or a fool, for the last three years I have been living in a large city, and have made an excellent stag to trot around the planet with. I am without borders or limitations here. I see tragic flaws in foresight that rob maidens of their alleged vitality. I ring bells deep within stomachs, pressed against corroded brick walls, grasping at neck, shoulder, hair. I was born in the Terai lowlands close to the foothills of God's Mountain, near the borders of Triumverate City.

I stood on the bridge and watched the swift water passing twenty yards below. I was not afraid, I had forgotten fear, and when I passed through the thoroughfare to the stained concrete residence of the sin-eater I checked my hat at the door and promptly made my way to room 36. Dueling is a game for young boys, and quite pointless. The itch persisted, however, and when I saw that gigantic parrot hovering over the cook's head, I knew blood of some variety would be shed by dawn's first glimpse of these rotting bordellos. It was there that crapulous inferiority and sublime superiority swayed as that ancient bird did, once quick and twice slow, side to side, all along a tenuous perch.

When sidling up to the sidelines, the game being played was at once barbaric and genteel. A holographic menagerie swam through crystalline refractions and glazed turntables. Music hit cacophony and symphony as the miniscule beasts battled for locations along the table's axis: a grid powered by the players, directed by little more than a thought or a whim. Craving and envy curled along these people at the round table. My exercises in mindfulness and compassion immediately upset the balance of the game. My mere presence in the room made the axis whirl and spin, the bestiary hit a fit of pique, slaughtering and recycling each other, instant chimeras where once simple components spun and clawed. I wished darkness illuminated from a light within, and the ephemeral match returned to the slowly strobing shimmerclash once more.

The players, for their part, did not turn from the match or change expression. For they gawk at this shameless spectacle with steadfast love, a conditioned and ugly thing. Full of their fantasies, they return home every night lighter in the pockets and feeling neither remorse nor shame. White Widows and Misty Peaks visit them in their dreams, and these are things they refuse to remember upon waking.

Here, the shifting of perspective from the repose of these game-fiends to the turbulent hurly burly of the game itself, a peripheral side-effect of a society steeped in escapes, has some bearing upon the manner in which I was brought to be in this smokeless dimly lit repository, in the first place.

The self-accordant and unalterable essence of every consciousness, the interdependent spirit residing within the activity of actuality, an incidental when juxtaposed with the immense weight of the world in which I reside, every home a shrine, every water-passage filled to the brim with some watery incestuous daughter of some blindfolded king, this place where I quietly reside and walk alone along these cobble-stone passages, these places revolution once convulsed ugly and raw in the streets, staining walls and sewers red, these tarnished fool's-gold terraces constructed in a fortnight seeming to last a year and a day, paltry this place seems when confined to my meager descriptives, a fantasy borne of dream-fever or opiate, some dystopia disguised under the Will of Love, humanistic philosopher poets swilling drinks under the Male Gaze and convulsing under my passionate embrace, the digital penetration.

Eros, my name and my rank. A lesser but greater being, shooting passion into the heart of the All-Father, the Source-Mother, the dank hermit yellow sweats gone brownblack, all these faces wishing for a better lot, these anonymously immature gamers spending the bulk of their days forgetting who they are, who they know, what they were or how they will ever be.

Ah, but more mature minds seek souls of like mind.

Enough pretty faces trapped in petty delusions.

The inability to play devil's advocate proves one's lacking. If unable to see yourself in the other person's shoes, greed notwithstanding, then the first task (daunting as it is) is to dislocate the ego in such a way that no meager vestiges of that old corrupt system remain. The darkness within needs no exit. This which was wrought might yet be undone with love. Belief in the subtle trickery of that All God, the laughter pervading all instances, it is in the writing that something happens which makes the context of the Godjoke very satisfying, as if suddenly the tunnel, the perspective, the angle on which such things are viewed by not all or some but One, the One Mind, the will directing even chaos, an order bespeaking omniscience, as we will ourselves in a place higher than vermin, so would such beings view us as fluttering flaps of a falling speck, larvae to be fed upon at least, analyzed carefully (unless they are our equivalent of mean-spirited boys pulling the wings off of flies) or, at the very most, meddled with in a righteous manner, for the sake of ripples.



This art is not to be duplicated without the direct permission of the creator. This is your opportunity to ask me questions.

0:

Certain shapes and numbers vibrate and thus have power. When applied to architecture, this enhances the psychological attitude of those who dwell within.

1:

There was Priapus the Good, Eloim the blind, and Eden, also known as Israel. A trinity, with two unaware of the One.

Humans, clay and twigs on a beach, formulated in vats and tide-pools.

Eloim gave humans Spirit. Eden gave them Souls.

Eden, abandoned by Eloim, commanded Babel to sow seeds of adultery among the humans. Naas the snake raped Adam and Eve. Suspected novelties arose which few could quench.

Eloim sent the angel Baruch as messenger to Moses, to Heracles, and finally to Jesus.

Eloim's disappearance wreaks havoc on Earth, but also opens a pathway to the highest God.

2: The probability of knowledge holds everything suspect.

Meaningful coincidence is connected by simultaneity and meaning.

Formless yet complete, existing before heaven and earth, the Great Meaning. A drop molded into a clot, a clot massaged into a form, given meaning in mangled exchange, a lost pathway along strong-armed underworld types. Apparatus for transmutation run by an egotistical spot of a man. Focusing on words with faith and devotion, all material and spiritual goals could be met. The daughters may be derived by reading the mothers horizontally. Living turbulence manifests as bubbling froth and is processed, reprocessed, and distributed according to the will of the universe, the One.

3: I saw what I saw and I know what I know, which is only that I know not.

4: The Bi Disc



May represent the totality and eternal presence of Tao (pronounced Dow), that which is within us all and is often translated as "the Way"... infinite cosmic space describing the structure underlying the universe for all time. In Taoist thought, chi is spontaneously generated out of the empty stillness that has always been the Tao.

Profiting from the significance of a sidereal system, an existential fluke fluttering around a contracting visage, these "exteriorisations", these ontological, almost masturbatory skitterings along the edges of reason, the joys and frustrations of apprehending the Whole, may yet prove worthwhile as intuitive stimulus, an accumulative process which in its own terms manifests Them: two or more things which cannot be put together without a third element, a binding agent, some useful device adapted to instigate Union.

Wisdom's autonomous actions almost indicate evidence of arrogance, a thing outside of and buried beneath the deed, the dead, the ideal lost to Winter and fried fatty salted treats. Fictions manifesting for their own sake, the power inherent therein.

"Every single (investigation) has suggested that it was badly handled, and errors were made, but in no instance has any evidence of a cover-up, to use the phrase you used, been presented or put forward."

There should be more than one World.
By nature of our quantum processes, the world is precisely what we make it.
This would seem irrelevant, however. Angels dancing on the head of a pin, through which a camel must leap for any wealthy man to find peace in heaven. No, it's an alignment of perceptions.
For every world, there is One Mind.

Asymetry and symetry, the black and the white and the golden. Three paths, four humours, five elements. Dualities acting as red herring alongside triplicates and quadrants. Opportunity and chance. Luck and Love. Ideals and Mysteries. The Labyrinth Lane.



Thoughtforms as commentary on the subjectivity of consensus reality, the Euclidean illusion. Order imposed upon the chaos of delving which smacks of automatic aura infiltration.



Aura in the sense that Benjamin meant.
Structures based loosely off the Kabbalistic tree of life, Norse mythology of Yggdrasill.

The aura in relation to the ritual values of traditional art, and in turn, religion. Analogue carnivore and digital omnivore. Capatilism responds by commidifying art, making it infinitely replicable. Digitally reproduced a million times, instantaneously gratifying and inflitrating liminal states to heighten awareness, stimulate imagination, promote empathy.



As Mesmer attempted to harness the electromagnetic field that humans resonate, so too are certain images such that when viewed, when sorted and stored by the brain, they realign perceptions on an unconscious level, tug at neurons and fuse, fire, flux.



As Austin Osman Spare succeeded, Aleister Crowley failed, and as Leonora Carrington stewed an alchemical nonsense vat, Max Ernst studied the nature of the material as sublimation, and Hans Bellmer hinted at the plasticity of the male gaze. Dali tackles a giant chiken dressed up like the Pope (new goblin Nazi version) and the Post-dada midflux consortium steps up as the council of the global village, revelling in access to the numinosum interface which is prohibited by most ritualistic peanut galleries of that ilk, if not alignment. Everyone has a group entitled to their stake in this nonsense. I sidle my glance at the Gnostic Freemasons that may have a sardonic wit, a wry humor, a good grip. A handle on the situation, despite the bleak period. We will see soon enough who was wrong and who was foolish.



For correlaries of consciousness, influences and anchorpoints: In the more pomo era, there is Matthew Ritchie and Julie Mehretu. Futurists such as Warren Ellis float alongside chaos magicians (Grant Morrison) and gnostic snake worshippers (Alan Moore). These lot sometimes read behind the lines, between, around, above, and underneath. It is the nature of the alleged United Kingdom, as a whole, to say one thing and mean quite another. That, and imbibing frequently. Also: dropping names as if hot to the touch.



Some see leafless trees. Others see a thousand faces, or one. Some see demons and daemons, others see angels and angles. Spines or genitals or doorways, spiraled symetry. Order failing to fully impose itself upon chaos, and vice versa. Along the lines of the solution to Xeno's Paradox, Schrodinger's Cat, Pavlov's Dog. Choose your response carefully, consider the subliminal.

The future is now. Today is tomorrow.

This is a world.

Acknowledge this, and proceed.

-Bohemian Xenophile.

"the world of appearance ceases and its noumenal source is revealed." -AOS

Israel and Palestine, each with their own whores and goddesses, demons and saviours. Suicidals and affair-strewn business-types. Now inexorably bound, like bitter bitter siamese twin brothers.



Palestine in general, everyone feeling so oppressed and angry, generations-old hurts digging their way out of the spinal column, the ribcage, the bladder. Parasites with barbs. They won't smile for me, and when they do it is without humor and they quote me the things said by those intimately involved in postmodern sectarian(ish) disputes: "Terrorism is in the eye of the beholder."



Then there's Tsahal and the subtle irony of the term "Israeli Defensive Forces" who operate under a credo "to protect the inhabitants of Israel and to combat all forms of terrorism which threaten the daily life" which sounds mighty zeitgeist, given it was formed in 1948. Teens in Israel are encouraged to include their hate letters in, or write them on, the missles they tend to fling over the fence.



Aggressive clashes along the burning hedges of history's bloody labyrinth, a topiary garden of incalculable size, all burning angles stretching along four horizons.

Every World War had its seeds in the previous one, this much is certain.

In three acts the shadowplay works itself out: the exposition a cruelly crafted counterpoint to the utopia our genetic structures still have a feel for, a racial recall when there was no dispute for the sake of petty hate, an idealized unrealistic portrait of Eden as a lady, a lost lover, now wed to a loudmouth Pot-Dealing Pornographer with bad breath and arrogant histrionics... the flashy climax in the second act ties up a few dangling plotlines presented half-heartedly early on in the first act, frazzled as they are, the worn edges of a frayed PseudoPersian rug, though these things resolve nothing of greatest importance, the shadowplay still slouching to and fro backstage, prepping choice lines for the third act, where the stage is slowly emptied of all the players and the footlights turn on the audience.

The empty seats indicate a function of such materials as were structured for the Lost Generation of Swine.

There's no more room for hate in this crowded awful.

DRIVEN or truant, when that is what it is
a forsaken carelessness, an end by which
the truth of the beauty is in ink, and why?

It is the truth,
which must depend on beauty
and on love; Consequently distinguished.

Form an answer, cut your lip:
it is the fanning not necessary
The cruel opinion of critical gyre,

A truth not of color, repaired Beauty
not of truth of the establishments to him;
It is best Chose which is good,

If he never agitates will he acheive?
Since it does not have the quality praise,
Do you fade into summer?

Silence is the justification
not consequently; that fortune shift
becomes yours in this regard

Many have fallen only to be found
their praise of the age
gives us gilded sound.

The office by which they form then.
DRIVEN; I inform urgently to seem
like one prolongation
one hour
a long time by consequence.

Like theirs ends? From what distant point
of vision has this been wrought?
A Palace of sound-absorbing snow, itself said to be
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
The purest form is always the one
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,

XIX.

Jones Sound and Beaufort
Seathey sit with their wives
all day in the sun,

VI.

Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
you idiots.

Notion of a potion designed to destroy.

There were the Immortality Pills that an old Chinese alchemist concocted. He fed one to the dog, and when it didn't die immediately he took another. Then they both died. The older brother, believing in his sibling's capabilities, snapped a bit of cinnabar and took the next pill. He died. The youngest brother, faced with this pile of corpses, left to begin preparations for their funerals. When he returned home, both brothers and the dog were alive, new legends entering the ranks of the immortals.





Sixteen figures within the Twelve Houses, to make judgements according to marks made: Acquisitio, Amissio, Fortuna Major, Fortuna Minor, Letitia, Tristitia, Puella, Puer, Rubeus, Albus, Conjunctio, Carcer, Caput Droconis, Cauda Draconis, Via, Populus.

Observe the Ascendant, note whether or not it is fit for judgement. Note what House the demand belongs in, then seek Witnesses and Judge in their special table, note what is at the head of the demand. You may want to form a Reconciler from the figure in the House required and the Judge, noting what figure results and wherther it harmonizes properly.

A .'. A .'. incline acknowledgements as AOS dribbles in Light's Extension: KHABS AM PEKHT KONX OM PAX.

Madasul and Macaneh.

Lusadam and Henacam.

Flee from mercenary fraud when you can, inculcate research as may be appropriate for the Work.



Today, throughout the day, the symbols of Wheel of Fortune have sprung up, accompanied by the soft singing of ladies within my proximity. Train and hallway, street and sidewalk.



The notch now hits a golden peg, perhaps, directing me to better ventures, more sane evaluations. I am clarifying intentions within the context of the yearning ritual, the wish for a better hand. Let's not start explode-dancing just yet.


Harusame ni nuretsutsu yane no temari kana.

Critique evaluation and note the condensation. Psychic images experienced in the Present.





We speak of long or short spaces of time, and the indication of my cetnral protangonist coincides with not just the ancient Greek myth of Athena's adopted child, but more directly the indirect reading present (possible translation quirk) within the Orphic fragment in Malalas, wherein the Primordial Light is described as the trinitarian Metis, Phanes, Ericepaeus. The final is actually derived from a dream and is properly spelled Ericipaeus. Or perhaps Ericapaeus.

An unexpected content directly or indirectly connected with some objective external event. A matter of subjective reconstitution.

This rests, as Jung speculates, on the simultaneous occurence of two different psychic states. One is probable and the other critical, not causally derived from the first, but apparent, available. An irony in the thwarting, colored by coincidence.




Bypassing the dogma of reactionary language, the paradox of punditry, we first attempt to articulate the argument by responding to the style in which our organizing principles are manipulated. Free form contrast as a robbed symbol system, a spirit obsessed threat, some uncanny fondling akin to Deja Vu, experiences which act as reliquaries of me, myself and I. Borne on the backs of the dead, this shadow-stuff is a by-product of phallocentric hegemony. It should be noted that Gynocracies are just as harsh, just as horrid, but the system which sprang up along this serpentine light-code is split, a psychic comfort spoon-fed to those with a taste for silver. Mutation is revolution, and those Insidious Exactitudes you dismiss define you once more. Carnivorous multinationals care not for the speck until the vast magnifying lens swings it in the direction of the 52 inch hi-def plasma mother.

This is my contemplation of the fragrant lotus.

We are the culminaion of all hope.

Consuming the fruit of knowledge, we have but one hope in the face of fettered accountants.

Be alive. Enjoy it.

The significator, not shown is the card you have chosen to embody your presence and the focus of the reading. The Magician: Mastery over word, mind, and matter. The ability to turn ideas into actions, handle problems, and control one's life. The initiation of new projects, great works, or a new way of life. Eloquent and moving communication. Arcane and eldritch technologies.
The card at the top left represents how you see yourself. Knight of Pentacles, when reversed: The essence of earth behaving as fire, such as molten magma: One slow to action, even in the most urgent circumstances. A force of nature that cannot be diverted from the wrong path. The voice of duty and honor utterly divorced from reality. Lack of imagination and the complete unwillingness to try a different approach, even if the face of complete failure. Idleness and stagnation.
The card at the top right represents how you see your partner. The Star, when reversed: Lost hopes, doubt and failure. Physical health and mental outlook lost in the outer darkness. Desperation leading to blind faith in false solutions.
The card in the center left represents how you feel about your partner. Ace of Swords, when reversed: The seed of defeat - perhaps as yet unseen. A challenge met with the invocation of force, leading to disastrous results. Reason and intelligence misdirected or cast aside, resulting in injustice and falsehood. An excessive power abused. May suggest new ideas or information with dangerous implications.
The card in the center right represents what stands between you and your partner. Eight of Pentacles (Prudence): Dedicating yourself fully to a task. Learning a new craft or skill. Applying painstaking attention to detail. Industriousness and the efficient completion of tasks. Sticking with a project long enough to see it through.
The card in the lower left represents how your partner sees you. Ace of Wands: The seed of a new venture - perhaps as yet unseen. An opportunity to be met with boldness, vigor, and enthusiasm. The herald of birth, invention, or entrepreneurship. An innate and primal force released. May suggest a surge of vitality, creativity, or fertility that can set things in motion.
The card in the lower right represents what your partner feels about you. Knight of Wands: The essence of fire, such a great conflagration. One filled with vitality and passion for life. A sexy and exciting person, daring in their actions, cocky in their attitude, and utterly without fear. Absolute sincerity, coupled with violent emotions that swing wildly from one extreme to another. Boundless creativity and lust for a change of both pace and place. The rapid approach, or more likely departure, of something that sets your world ablaze. Often suggests travel or escape.
The card in the center represents the present status or challenge of the relationship. Nine of Wands (Strength): A pause in the current struggle to ready oneself. Preparation to meet the final conclusive onslaught. Forces assembled in anticipation of trials and tribulations. The steeling of the will to stand or fall. A line drawn in the sand.

The card not shown but at the center of the cross, represents the atmosphere surrounding the central issue. Nine of Cups (Happiness): Contentment and satisfaction in romance, friendship, or other relationships. Achieving your deepest desires and savoring beauty and sensual pleasures. A state of joy and abundance radiating fulfillment and bliss.
The card visible at the center of the cross represents the obstacle that stands in your way - it may even be something that sounds good but is not actually to your benefit. The Empress, when reversed: Stifling matriarchal influence. Unhappiness, selfishness, poverty and disruption of the home or family. Indecision, paranoia, and jealous rage. Sterility.
The card at the top of the cross represents your goal, or the best you can achieve without a dramatic change of priorities. Knight of Wands, when reversed: The dark essence of fire, such as a great conflagration: One filled with vitality and limitless appetite. A sexy and exciting person, obsessed with style and outward appearance, overconfident in their abilities, and foolhardy in their actions. A hot temper and domineering nature, coupled with a love of false drama and all things theatrical. Anxiety over remaining in one place or with one person for too long. The rapid approach, or more likely departure, of someone or something that ruptures your world. Often suggests travel as the result of discord, or cruel indifference.
The card at the bottom of the cross represents the foundation on which the situation is based. Seven of Cups (Temptation): Daydreams and things seen in the glass of contemplation. The scattering of energies by strong desires and unrealistic goals. The pursuit of illusions and the dissipation of energy on false choices. Intoxication, delirium, and hallucination, leading to the negation of effort. Under rare and extreme circumstances, may indicate the revelation of transcendental spiritual truth.
The card at the left of the cross represents a passing influence or something to be released. Six of Pentacles (Success): A time of prosperity and profit. Success and generosity in material things. Power and influence turned to noble pursuits. Philanthropy, and the balancing of physical and spiritual life. May suggest gifts or aid to one in need.
The card at the right of the cross represents an approaching influence or something to be embraced. The Lovers, when reversed: Inner strife, frustration, suspicion, and disagreements in a relationship. Irresponsibility and indecision. Avoiding true intimacy in favor of lust. Unfaithfulness.
The card at the base of the staff represents your role or attitude. Page of Swords: The essence of air behaving as earth, such as a steady wind: The approach of an unexpected challenge, to be met with clear thought and just action. A person filled with an eager appetite for all matters of mind and logic. The gathering of information through unfaltering vigilance, careful examination, and subtle spycraft. The use of reason or eloquent speech to penetrate the veil of confusion and cut to the heart of the matter.
The card second from the bottom of the staff represents your environment and the people you are interacting with. Page of Wands, when reversed: The dark essence of fire behaving as earth, such as dry wood: The surprising appearance of a new passion or inflammatory news. A trickster who can unexpectedly ignite a dangerous situation. The intensity and childish imagination that can send even the most stable venture spinning wildly out of control. Can represent a person outwardly timid, but harboring unexpected inner fury. May indicate the birth of a child.
The card second from the top of the staff represents your hopes, fears, or an unexpected element that will come into play. Five of Cups (Disappointment), when reversed: Accepting a loss. Overcoming sadness and grief to get on with your life. Realizing the value of what you still have. Dissatisfaction gives way to a new hope and understanding. May allude to a broken relationship or tragedy. May also refer to a gift, inheritance, opportunity, partnership, or marriage that has fallen below expectations.
The card at the top of the staff represents the ultimate outcome should you continue on this course. Four of Wands (Completion), when reversed: Squandering a great and hard won victory through decadence and laziness. Failing to reward those truly responsible for an achievement. Using past accomplishments as an excuse to ignore current problems. Abandoning the very qualities that brought about initial success.

Nougat.

The flood of information tripped jug band taxation.

The indicators of this order stake their reputations on random phone calls, tall tactics text and tingles.

Isometric drawings, a myriad of designs, a plethora of possibilities.

The IMAGOS undercurrent present in what PKD saw as KING FELIX, a semibenevolent REX MUNDI, as if such a thing existed. Pseduosaviour every couple of generations, taken down by government order or waxing nonsensical in some hut on the far edge of the commune's property.

Paradiso antimatter as the peacefully played antithesis: a game of men in stuffed shirts with dodgy histories and shifty eyes, smoking cigars and ashing out in acrobat ottomans, legs splayed akimbo, awaiting orders patiently, muscles tremors shunt causality chain trickle.