THE HOLLOW WALL

a sketch

2008-11-22T06:27:00.001-08:00

She was at the balcony, breathing in the night air. It was an expansive, traveling vessel of which was suffused smells. Potent vapors: barbecued pork and chicken; gaseous trash from the anuses of vehicles; the sweat of the working man and woman; the waste of our commercialism snug on the sides of our buildings, like visible plaque on teeth. Also, if she tried hard enough, she could smell the sulfur.

All this olfactory data was borne by the wind.

She rubbed her ears. Laughter and chatter too, of kids, adults, and old folk—gave body to the young night. Five-to-ten year olds were still at it with block 1-2-3, tumbang preso and the classic patintero. Some of them were being hollered at to return home, supper was approaching, they needed to be clean to eat. Adults gobbled up the latest local scandal with a rather pious eye and dirty mouth, a natural and diurnal practice of consumption and regurgitation. All news punctuated by joke followed through by infectious laughter.

Laughter was full and voluptuous, healthy and a whore.

She opened her eyes, slowly. She saw tricycles. Their cargo of scowls, bad skin, and lost eyes. Silent as coffins in hearses, their souls drowning in a pretzel-shaped loop of mnemonic re-runs, and fluffy what-ifs. Pell-mell, linear constellations of people flanking sari-sari stores, carinderias and pedi-cabs—impatient faces, chatting, laughing or in la-la land. Would poverty be poverty if everyone was poor? Marie thought.

The church bell tolled. She exhaled…

II

…And left the terrace. She woke up early. Suddenly, the familiar blast of corpse-reviving din bombarded the small world of her room. She closed in on the necessary trouble-maker, and hit the red button on its top—hard. The alarm died.

She thought: Which blouse to wear with what jeans, or do I wear jeans? Or skirt or cargo pants? Or jazz pants? With tee or tube or spaghetti or tank top? Or halter back with jacket corduroy or sweater, or pashmina? What color do I feel like today, hmm? What fit do I prefer, hm? Would I like to show some skin, mm, or wrap myself up silly?

She catches her eyes in the full-length mirror. A dark sparkle of resentment had resided in the deep corners of her 25-year old eyes. Her thoughts moved away from this deep and heavy development; she noted instead the superficial: bags under eyes; light-gray bags—badges for her trade.

Another button is depressed, and blue lights burst into animation. Tori Amos is chosen, Sleeps With Butterflies. REPEAT is pushed down. Hair is tossed, limbs stretched, her nighty removed. She continued to determine her mood, and the gear that will go with it, in the shower.

The house was older than most men. Well-to-do Spaniards had put it up, when the neighborhood was still “good”. Marie and her family paid rent each month for the top floor. Right below her room, their living room and part of their dining room, was the garage of the owner. Below their kitchen was another, smaller unit, where another, bigger family rented. There are two rooms upstairs, the master bedroom and regular bedroom. The regular bedroom was sublet by Marie to a couple. The man worked in a grocery near the wet market, and the waitress worked at a bar under the LRT. They paid almost a third of the total rent for Marie and her family’s unit. The remaining was all up to Marie.

The shower room had no shower. It was filled with drums. Five in all. Five, big, black drums which were stuffed with water. A naked toilet was rooted near a corner, its dignity resplendent from its whiteness and cleanliness, despite it being deprived of seat and cover. All was left was a little patch of floor to “shower” in.

The water dipper is utilized, and provides the convenience and illusion of a spraying nozzle. Her mind runs back into the closet in her mind. Near the edge of her awareness stainless steel clicked, China stirred, cabinets opened, closed. Her mother was going through preparations.

play

2008-11-22T05:33:00.000-08:00

We are just outside the North gate to Heaven. St. Peter is behind a desk.
An angel comes up to him and places a small object on his palm. It’s a tiny scroll. St. Peter nods toward the pearly gate. The man nods back in thanks and enters Heaven. Trumpets blast as he enters, startling him, destroying his dignified composure.

Angel comes back up to St. Peter. Hands him a thick roll of parchment. St. Peter sighs.

“Next!”

A woman leaves the queue and nears St. Peter, passes him, and assumes no verification or interview is required on her. She is immaculate, and proceeds toward Heaven’s entrance.

ST. PETER: “Hold on, sister, where’s the sale? Come back here like everyone else, no special treatment here; rich, poor—you are interviewed by me. Unless of course you want to pass through the East gate and deal with Maat. She’ll go old school on you, hon’, rip your heart out and weigh it against a feather? You like the odds? Be my guest.”

WOMAN: “Why sir, you let that gentleman pass without so much as a word.”

“That gentleman had a single brief sentence on his file. You want to know what it was? I’ll tell you: suicide crossed his mind. Crossed his mind! He was practically a saint. Compare yours.”

“Why is it so thick?”

“It’s heavy too. Wanna lift? We got a long interview ahead of us ma’am. Would you like a seat?”

“I shall stand, thank you. May I have a drink.?”

“A drink of what? I hope you don’t mean to get drunk. I don’t think you want to meet Him while you’re smashed. You might flirt, for god’s sake.”

“Water. All I want is water.”

“Ophaniel! I need water and a chair.”

“I don’t need a chair, I said.”

It’s not for you, it’s for me. (makes a note)

Ophaniel enters.

Chair is for me, thanks Ophy.

The Candy Store

2008-11-21T18:37:00.001-08:00

The street was slick. Harold Bogart’s umbrella could not keep him even remotely dry. From across the street eccentric Mrs. Reynolds was watering her plants for the third time that time; she feeds them three times a day; she doesn’t think plants are so far apart from humans that they don’t deserve the same comfortable, controlled redundancies. She said, “look at Mr. Bogie over there, Julia, his gray uniform looks almost translucent in this cat and dog rain.” The orchid did not reply.

A few block from Mrs. Reynolds was Harold Bogart’s house. He ran up the concrete steps, and clipped his umbrella shut as he went for the door. Honey, I’m home! He used to say, once upon a time. Now he just murmurs to himself, and to the grim brownstone possibly, “the end.”

Elma was in the kitchen, banging things on surfaces or banging cabinet doors and drawers shut. She moved like a hippo in a Chinese kitchen. She looked like a hippo, too.

Hi Hon’, he managed to say—he’s had enough practice to say it in a cheerful manner. What’s for dinner?

Grub. She said. And continued on banging; a pan was getting a beating from a spatula. He leaned and peeped at the stuff that was between the quarreling utensils; it sure looked like grub.

I’ll be upstairs, changing, he told her. He went upstairs, gray walls reminded him of the swelling rain outside.

“Hey, Joe” he said, looking into the boy’s room.

No reply. Joe was playing with some Transformers; expensive toys; he had just had his birthday. Hey, Joe, his called once again. The Autobots were in a crucial battle with the evil leader Megatron; Optimus Prime’s head was inches away from one of Joe’s feet; the autobots needed to win!

Alright, Joe, see you later…son. He closed the door. Went to this room. Entered his room. Closed the door, silently; though it creaked. He wanted to bang it, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to disturb the peace.

II

Harold Bogart's section of the company made old-fashioned typewriters. They made them, they fixed them. Mr. Bogart was in charge of the Fix It department. All day long he dealt with paperwork, boss memos, employee complaints. It was a very exciting job.

III

Harold Bogart decides to leave work early.

p2

2008-11-21T18:16:00.001-08:00

The cat in a bag wriggled. Its legs were all tied, forming a triangle with a sausage body—that convulsed in alarm intermittently. The little boy with red freckles knocked timidly on the door of the Haunted Hotel.

On the third timid rap the door opened abruptly, revealing a smile on a face, its eyes welcoming, beckoning. Hello, it said; its body presenting itself after the congenial greeting.

The head connected to the neck. What can I do for you? The happy head queried.

Mr Shingle asked for this, and the boy held up the velvet bag as he told the head this.
“Ah! Yes,

part one;

2008-11-21T02:49:00.000-08:00

The wind was sparse, smelled of burnt iron shavings, metallic and crisp. The craft bobbed on a black ocean filled with blue eyes, glinting, unblinking. We were many; the departed. Our captain and oarsman stood at the bow, his shaft going in and out of the black ocean, his head never stirring, focused on an unseen destination. We all knew where we were going; the land of the dead.

Just as legend would have it, we awoke on a beach, its sand gray and fine. We had just died; some naturally, some intentionally, some accidentally. We spoke, all questions, all confused. He organized us, like a sheperd. Told us to form a line, and walk solemnly up to his vessel, a boat of dark, menacing, ancient wood. We did as we were told.

He seemed on edge, I don't know, that's just how I took, I am very sensitive. When I passed him on my way up his craft--he twitched, like, I were some atrocity. I was a very nice man; everyone liked me. Or maybe, he twitched because of my wife, who was behind me; she'd make any demon twitch, she herself being a demon of nagging and finickiness. My son followed her; we all died together in the jeepney I was driving. Accidental.

We all sat, then he came aboard. He paused for a moment infront my party of three; it was almost imperceptible, but he did pause. It felt like we were in the middle of our voyage when he disrobed, exposing an awesomely white skin, thin yet tough, fragile yet impenetrable. He faced his cargo.

"I have decided to quit. I've done this a long time. I am tired; and frankly bored. To get to the other side one of you must take up my robe and my oar; if you don't you won't get to the other side, where relatives and friends await; and in the world where you came from--no one will die."

We were all awestruck. He turned his back to us, and jumped, into the eyes, into the black liquid eternity.

I was a good driver, when I had lived. Never hit no one. When we died we were hit by a drunk taxi driver, I'm guessing he is here somewhere with his passenger, a young girl, unless of course, they both survived. A pity, I would not have minded if the taxi driver died with us. An eye for an eye; the golden rule.

This is an opportunity. If I don't take this surely my wife will be nagging me until the end of time, that is, if time were to end. This way I can buy my time, be useful; until I'm bored, then I can either go the way of the boatman, or go down the otherside--which I guess, actually, is unlikely; who would want to be me once they are on the other side, assuming I take his position, and power. Power. I never had power.

I stood; a few stood as well. I did not spend more time analyzing--I ran for the robe. And took it; the other two hopefuls, stumbling into each other and crashing on the floor of the craft; my craft now. My craft.

I turned my back on them. Whatever magic which unables us to speak is glorious; my wife's scowl nearly stabbed me to death.

Cigarettes...

2008-05-09T07:44:00.000-07:00

The line. The course of which we travel. You light up the line. Movement happens. Life and death dance.

The best time to light up a line is at night.

At night lines taste better, for some reason. The journey, though short, is sweet.

Smoke replies when you light up the line. I feel encoded in its movement are secrets, or lies...either way, they're interesting.

Lines kill. But what the fuck doesn't.

I surrender to its plea to live, by flicking the lighter and creating fire. In return, small jigsaw pieces will out.

It's good too, after showers.

Surprise Me Sexy

2008-01-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

Surprise is the trick to erection. Haphazardly contrive a surprise and take it through its limits: be prepared to go all out and produce full-rounded reactions of the green and red kind. Initiate and trigger the clicks of the impatient clitoris. Make it wet snappily! And never release your myopic, hypnotic executions until the great act of sex and love is as wasted on the floor as both your sweat-soaked naked bodies, under the half-light of lusty moonlight, and tacky blinking flourescent. Bringing the bacon home to its real lady master, who sits on the throne of the major and minor labias, smashes her expectations, changes her taut schedule, dizzies her and puts her out to sea with a violent jolt, to lose herself in the thralls and slashing waves of your passion, the whirls of your Machiavelian savoir-faire.

Surprise is the tool for fluidal spontaneity. So do not stop when you start. When you start do not stop. More, more, more: Hit it/her: she's stunned, go forth! and multiply the punches to her psyche. Rip her clothes off! Tear her undergarments to shards of dreary confetti, they are instruments of containment and oppression! Bring her down to the dark of the floor and make her rest in uncomfortable places filled with corners and blunt protrudencies. Introduce her to pain, to the flirtation of death, arouse her fantasies of destruction. Make her feel like a mammal about to be sacrificed, and you are dressing her with your saliva and sweat and she's assisting unsconsciously by coloring her hide red with just-unchained awakened guilt. Let the objects under her leave marks: sigils of approval for the carnage and horrific pleasure-land ahead. Do not stop, do not stop, if only to breath and punctuate the war. Have no doubt: this is a war! Spears and shields, swords and traps, wands and cups! Mental mazes, feigning strategies, sexy attacks of surround! This is ancient: Where the winner is the loser and the loser the winner.

Surprise is the signature of climactic expression. She's down but she's not out. Pounce baby pounce baby pounce! She thinks she's in for it, she thinks it's soon; it's coming: IT'S NOT. Retract: surprise through retreat. Don't give in to speed, to the calls of the weak belle-kitty-femme splattered on the floor of her own well of psychology. Retract your tongue and allow her pores to catch up to some oxygen; the animal is ready / but the animal is not ready. Conquer her through your silence, your slowness, your quiet calm rules over her naked pink skinscape. She will yearn, crave, call you names of praise then bludgeon your ego with hard words like GAY or FAGGOT or AMATEUR or COCKSUCKER or MATCH STICK but your cool will be kept and your eyes, each of which will speak for themselves, will say, FUCK!, and the other, YOU!, and your lips will underline their statement in harsh, barbarian sotto: SHUT UP! then sweetly, underbreath: MY BITCH! As sweet as Hitler would have said it. Now, you are done with the ego, move on to the being beneath it. To it a favor: Hurt it.

Surprise is the equivalent of blood, bones and congressions. Slap her face. Respect the sun gods as Apollo respects your cave and the moons and satellites trapped there, as he respects the shine of your own unquenchable modern horniness, a stellar creature long since imprisoned by neo-ropes of middle class tradition. And slap her again, teach her the scrolls of knowledge pregnant in each of the digits of your thick manly hand. Push her down, press on her the texture of your design by burdening her with the uncomfortableness of her position. Her body will applaud you through spasms; she is not fighting, it only appears that way--you know women--she wants more: slap her a third. Ah, her ego is bruised, but women's egos are denser, tougher than the toughest skins of partially cooked meat, louder than Jupiter's fat ass in the sky: she's bruised, but bruise her some more: Slap! her a fourth time. Ow, she might say, and she might mean it, but what word came out of a woman that wasn't bladed doubly? She. Only. Wants. More. The blood, that red juice, it's the external eggcell in floods as flags declaring MORE MORE MORE hit me some more! Slap her a fifth, shut up that stupid bitch! She doesn't know what she wants--thrust at her her needs.

Surprise is the parting of convention and the surrendering to exclamation. She's dreaming, with the Sandman and a dead Barbara Streisand, whose nose she wants: for your penis she can't have. Now is the time to insert. At that point on the cliff when she means suicide and has believed in your lie. This is when you insert...only the tip of its head...use this...it's a trick, a gesture of simplicity; tease; play; linger; lull; this move is soft-core drugs, the hard will come soon after...but not till a while...when on the verge of familiarity, withdraw: fuck her. These last two words she'll spill in mumbling druidic singsong. Don't give in, but give in; hand her your penis. Allow her hands to caress and smooth that magical weapon of creation, this wand and sword of will and imagination: she may take it upon her fingers and touch it and feel it and know its power. She may acquaint herself with the mark of your god, and she may pray to it in silence or stupor, but her heart you will hear chant: fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me--One hundred and twenty two FUCK MEs a minute. You will shove an iceberg-cold shoulder to all these ancient requests and control her movements on your little master. She is your slave. They all are.

Surprise is the food of sex, of the gods and goddesses and of the devils inside us that turn us on. When she's happy with this, as soon as she is happy with this: take it away. And dunk it between her teeth and lips. Up and down, go. She's still in that nirvana-hell-stupor and won't realize she's eating god-food until seconds of subconscious pleasure coalesces and coagulates and awakes her once-again eager hungry horny sex animal within, her true self. Then her lips will lock and you will let her. Then her teeth will shyly graze the tube of all life and you will like it and let her. But do not love it. Love her, you may, IT you may not: there is the war to consider. You must not lose/ you must lose (yourself)! Now, YOU rest, and she rides the spring of machoness and honor (whose shadow is righteousness) with the saddles of her tongue and the reins of her soft circular lips. Up and down, like the tune of the drama of all life, she goes, an endless performance of grand symbolism. Woman eating man, man kissing woman: together an ouroboros out of an Aztec's mushroom encrusted imaginings. We are Snake. Cuts of the same serpent. Scales of human make, eyes of Eden suns, energies of gods and goddesses, rulers of all creation, convoluting and pulsating madly like street dogs in heat under the hot white Helios.

Surprise is the mimed magical dance of intelligent pseudo-planning and boisterous sporadicalness. She is now terrified; her bones report to her the vulnerableness of their position, but what can obelisks do to upturned triangles but destroy them (it's their purpose?)? But eat she continues, appreciative of the ambrosia-snack. Then a hand reaches in deep into the woods of her hair and collects a bouquet of black thick strands, trapping them then pulling them, pulling up her head, her lips away from the bone. You look at her, she looks pathetic--and you think, soon: we will exchange expressions. She is down again, against books and toys and sharp whatnots that remind you you're alive and you can feel. Her oyster is consumed and regurgitated, consumed and regurgitated; and the smell of seafood is both pleasant and repugnant, and you love and abhor, love and abhore it. And you get drunk on the sea underneath the folds that keep the secret slit (or the slit secret). Bless Poseidon, this was one monster that bore his genius, this black hairy triangular grape-topped oyster cake. A magickal cake that would never leave you hungry nor ever serve you until you were full. A grand trick, as guile-filled as a lawyer's wordy contract, yet as sweet as a Kotzwinkle erotica. She's blessed to have this treasure chest of textures and wreaks and smells that produce inspiring and flagrant reactions within the bosom of each imagination. I get drunk, and now, I lose my power: to win you must lose...---

Surprise is intensity in the purest language; the spark of creation. She is in control; I, her slave. She is the controller now: editor of environment, intensity, rhythm, texture, smells: etc. She has learned from me. From us. And now, the moon burns like the sun in a doomsday, summer rage. I melt, into myself, close to the seabed of my consciousness as she plunges my totem into the black hole where not even our lust can escape. She is now the man, the cowgirl in outer space riding the rocket off in circles around planets and moons and asteriod littorals, and the astrological symbols that had bound her. She's off now, chasing comets in hyperspeed and pumping me slow like a re-converted nun's first time go at it. She is intuned with the universe: she IS the universe: and Lucifer is at her feet, chain-linked within the unseen spherical prison of ecstasy and sugary defeat. She is now Goddess; I mere mortal, dying in pleasure, deeper and deeper with love and warmth--warm, moist pleasure, sinking, and sinking into the void of nonentity and oneness and divinity.

Surprise will get you up, leave you up, finish you off at the right time before shovelling you back to earth. She is now pumping hard and fast, impersonating the Industrial Revolution's birth; like there is no tomorrow for two people in mad vertigo-love. She, the Goddess, is provoking my awakening. Mastering my soul into a sculpture of her design, upwards, cascading into the converging point. This is to contrast my roughness; a soft-hard answer to my "first word" (that first paragraph above), that first burst of titilating surprise. It is her stage, her time now, her honor to perform; it is hers, this leatherland of skin I may call eggshell to my universe. Within the layers of flesh, floods of blood, corridors of bone, lies the elements that comprise the composition of my very being, what I am "about". And here she dances with these elements through the use (abuse) of my penis as a phallicism. The gravity! of her actions; the antiquity of her sex's voice by slap and wallop! The mammmal tangoes with a black hole--

Surprise will kill the evil spirits of dullness and cobwebbed patterns of your grand parents. Slow, she goes...slow, like a child's interpretation of the first experience of rainfall. She orders you to move suddenly, this way and that way, mixing in her mind what would work, running through her instincts what would please the gods of pleasure, of life, of beautifull perversity; settling on a strange position of mutual, explosive, creamy texture. The sword and sheath renew their violent bass dance. The Indians danced for rain; we fuck to come; may the cum come, may the cum come! She is enjoying her power; she is the goddess, queen of all within the bed of blunt objects which I now use as ruined throne. I wait for rain to fall.

Surprise is the conqueror of tyrannical mudanity and the queen-king of pleasure. She thinks she is in touch with the goddess, without thinking she is; tapping on that blessed energy from a loosely mapped nonspacial source. This ancient brutality stems from all the seeds of creation and is a language understood by the body in the heat of procreation, or even just fucking, or swinging. The Devil is in the math; it is his expertise to be the unsung values between "ahh", "ohh", "o shit", and all the rest of it: Coming down to "condescend" a kiss to her prisoner, she rises, violently, erect again. The whip of her back--whose aftereffect is the whip of her comet-shaped hair--to return to her teachings atop--up and down: rhythmic loop--the pillar of men and mine. She is taking me far, to the ends of the 5 sensorial receptor's evaluation, down and up and up and down--fluctuating in ribbons of motion--towards the lost, untravelled lands of real freedom of expression.

Surprise will jumpstart you, pounce and devour silly expectations only to produce golden excrements of lemony sweetness and floral imagery. She scratches her amorphous resolutions on my chest, and leaves lines of wet red that drip to my sides and tickle me with their journey. I love this, I love her; but I can't right now: now is a time for war, and sentimentality will cost you mountains of psychedelic deliciousness and soul-educative bonking. Unexpectedly, I lunge, take the controls and the postures of power from her. Surprise can come in many ways. The variances of the sex-session's stories--it's written in pseudo-mime, with grunts as sign posts to where they've been and are going to; the logic of speed used as fuel, of pressure as insurance to conversational limbs and organs; of the talent to hit the marks in the sacred cave that require hard (or soft) touchability. These things and more require a "no mind" mentality, a state necessary in the practice of worshiping each other. I grab her hair and pull her down, and her face is pushed down against the tiled floor surround. The back door to the Temple, I enter. Her one monk, the one they call The Button, is smiling widely.

Surprise is the ruler on the hill who tripped Jack and Jill; his name is Fun, whose unproven etymological genes stem from Pan, the god, the first party-host and -goer, and the father of Ferris Bueller.

Overview

2007-11-25T21:40:00.000-08:00

First it's Malkuth, The Kingdom: then up to The Foundation, Yesod: next, if you wish, is Hod, or Glory: and its reflection, Netzach, Victory: on to Tiphareth, Beauty: hence to Severity, Geburah: and up to be blessed by Mercy, or Chesed: then Binah, Understanding: and Chokmah, Wisdom: to return to the Crown, our Kether.

Each of these is a sephiroth. Malkuth, Yesod, Hod, Netzach, Tiphareth, Geburah, Chesed, Binah, Chokmah, Kether. That's ten spheres, ten worlds, plus one, the Abyss, the eleventh, like the eleventh letter of several alphabets: K. Khu: Creative Power. Kteis: Vagina. Daath it is called, for Knowledge.

That's why real Magick is with a K.

Kether is an existence of non-being.

The Crown is at the top, below it three pillars of 3, 4 and 3 sephiroths. Three to its left and right, four right below. Directly below is the 11th.

Daath is a state where all exist; as opposed to Kether, nothing, Daath is everything. But it isn't as simple as that: Kether is nothing because everything came forth from it, before it "came." While Daath is everything, within it are at least semi-distinguishable entities.

Kether is pure unity. Intelligence without need for activity.
Daath is the depths.

The Tree of Life is a map of your mind, soul, world, universe and consciousness.

The three spheres of the pillar to the lower right of Kether, from highest to lowest: Binah, Geburah, Hod: Understanding, Severity, Splendour.

The three spheres of the pillar to the lower left of Kether, from highest to lowest: Chokmah, Chesed, Netzach: Wisdom, Mercy, Victory.

Below Daath: Tiphareth, Yesod, Malkuth: Beauty, Foundation, Kingdom.

Malkuth is the Kingdom, this Material Orgy we're existing in: Earth.

Yesod is the Moon.
The stepping stone out to the unknown universe beyond. That which reflects the majesty of all the other sephiroths toward Kingdom.

Tiphareth is the Sun.
Like the Sun, it's at the center; spawn of supernovae, as the Son is of the Father; and in a state of nuclear transmutation, as Tiphareth is conduit between material and ethereal, self and soul, Yesod and Kether--which each venture a toll paid, a sacrifice, like nuclei decay, or a Man on the Cross.

...AN ASIDE: Because of this research into the understanding of the Qabbalah and the Tree of Life, I've noticed an evolving pattern of organization with my thoughts. Being very vigilant and diligent about which thought or idea to entertain or persue, reject or retain, ban or embrace. Ideas are very dangerous. They rule us. We can't live without them. We are their puppets. They are the blood of purpose. (And purpose of Imagination.) Be wary of which idea you let into the front door--or backdoor--of your mind. By practicing discrimination one develops clarity and focus. This useful phenomena began when I started to follow The Beast's advice: attempt to file everything according to the sephiroths' boundaries, meanings, symbols, etc. With the little knowledge I had, I did this, and the phenomena re-invented itself, like an intelligent computer program, into what it is now. When one only allows the absolutely necessary into the mind one has more energy left over to throw attention to other subjects of consideration. Unlike before when I had numerous ideas vying space and care in my mind--like a jam-packed vehicle with each passenger demanding for their change or requesting their fare to be passed all at the same time--I (being the "driver") would burn out much faster during the day. END ASIDE...

From Foundation you can either go to Splendour, to its upper left, or Victory, to its upper right.

Just recently I had a very direct form of Victory happen to me. The agent was my partner. She destroyed some replaceable bits of me; which I naturally resented at first, but soon was thankful for. She was brave enough to demand of me; something she is not used to do with anyone, especially her parents though she so wished she could. She took a chance and it paid off. Victory is Venus. It's about love. The surrender of ego in exchange for the blunt bolt of that most ancient emotion--which is also as I see it the raw and earliest form of telepathy--Love.
Netzach is the planet of our emotions, the empress of which is Lady Love.

Splendour is intellect, or the planet Mercury. The realm of which philosophers loiter, and artists indulge, and inventors toil. This place spawned communicative arts. It is here where prayer was first employed, and the energies of the universe named. Together Hod and Netzach meet at Tiphareth and create Beauty; the plan is made up in Hod's basement as their muse in Venus is evoked into their hearts' esteemed thrones--and the secrets become unveiled in the platform at Tiphareth.

Yesod gave me the notion once I walked one of its many paths in its garden of ideas, and upon picking a rare breed of flora voyaged thither to Hod to formulate thy plan of attack all the whilst chanting my love and purpose, which rested in the heart chambers of Venus with a green glow of triumph. Assuring the fulfillment of that initial potent notion: I do all this in Malkuth, asleep, or sleep-walking, or wide awake: But always dreaming. Malkuth, my bed, Hod, my mind, Netzach my heart and Yesod my imagination: the human circuits of my self.

*FURTHER MORE ON NETZACH: I've realized now the need to worship Woman. Men need their Venuses. You do not have to be an artist to be in need of a muse. There is a woman at the center of our lives: this woman you could also view as many women in just one woman. To make this easier on your mind you need to think of all women--whether the ones that have been, are, or will be--as one woman. Her diamond selves litters the eras. That is the concept. Doesn't mean you worship them all--goodluck to your sanity! To all, you may respect. But one from the lot you got to escpecially pick out: and worship: it's an ancient tradition: by doing so you worship as well Mother Earth, your biological mother, your sister, your grandmother, and Eve (genetic and scriptural). Like Venus, in Grecian times, you honor the universal mother by worshipping your wife, lover, etc. This also underlines--finally--with clarity the intense longing for singular glorification: each one of us blokes needs a Venus. And that Venus must be tangible. She must not only be your goddess, but at some points, your slave: she needs to worship you the same way. This fulfills her need to worship a god. That's why the only true way to love is to love with total abandon: as if you've entrusted your soul to the winds of the times, or to divine beings. Women need--and do--worship themselves. Men definitely do. In this practice we honor that special characteristic that make us male or female: by loving the godliness within. By directing this energy to the opposite sex you fulfill that instinct to sacrifice, give up, surrender...to your polar opposite, your "soul mate": with love, hence in Netzach you reign. NOTHING FURTHER ON NETZACH, FOR NOW*

Chesed is Jupiter. The largest planetoid. And the most gaseous. Wherein suffused or component to its airy seas is the adundance of intellectual and universal appreciation for itself, as itself. Its size attests to its importance, this is emotion in a stellar sense, in a stretched in time-and-space sense, a nuclear and molecular sense, from the physics of celestial beings to the physics of vibrating-strings sense. It embraces these fields as a whole: it is bottomless in its understanding and being self-cherished. It is displayed in human terms as a good deed unseen and unheard and done anonymously: without expectance of anything in return: for a return would blemish the act of Chesed. Just as life does not--or shoud not--expect anything from its being created. We did not do anything to have deserved life. Creation is seen as the ultimate Chesed act. From nothing, for nothing, something!

...AN ASIDE, RE: CHESED: The universe don't owe you smack, and the universe includes people, people don't owe you jack: the gift of life, of breath, of food, of habitat, or action and thought the greatest package one can ask. It's incredibly appalling how much people--including me--waste time, physical and emotional energy, focus and thought on extremely minute occurences of injustice so-called: like having to wait on line for minutes, minutes! like three minutes let's say or worse five, let's say--but so what? does that merit the clerk a frown from your snobbish plate of features? or the person before you who was ordering, does that person have to be cursed underbreath? And worse, even if you're veiled in a sunshine smile: but your insides are volcanic from rage and indignation: well, I am so sorry for you (me included). But it's the truth that we neglect the greatest act of Chesed staring at us at every corner or curve of our world. The masters of the universe--so-called--can't even control their temper: their temper is controlling them, hence, the intellectual and malformed production of the devilish idea Pride, and other noxious, invidious slithering things that go about veiled in the light. Eternal life awaits, there goes the promise of all religion, and so our material bodies are fooled, and remain walking sleepers. A new religion should be maintained: that of death as tutored as impending, at every post and tree, hiding, ballooning with demonic cachinnation: and let us respect them their natural right as the other single most important element of our lives, the counterpart, or bridge to all life: our darling, dirty uncle Death. Enough of this hypocritical fear of The Lord. In your hearts the truth whispers--whispers now for it has been reproached once to often by you and others. The truth that only you know yet everybody knows and no one speaks of: and disrespects by bowing down--conning themselves they kept face somehow--to the reigning fad's thick and dark eyewear of prettified ruse and religion which extinguishes the individual down to a number or animal. Are you the taxpaying SSN# ending in 3145? Are you the mechanical organic drone that sits up and down like a good dog and pays off his installment plan every Sunday for that sweet, melodious real estate in Heaven? God doesn't need money. The church needs money. But really, who needs money, the poor and hungry fucking sentinels that pepper the entrances and exits of your favorite holy stomping ground! We've forgotten Chesed. We live in the-something-for-something-better world, and it is or should be a sin, for shame, this grand hypocrisy. We reflect the leaders that govern us, and, yet, in the puddles among the mud after the rain Chesed sits and waits, in silent kindness under the revolving sky, happy and unknown and unseen. END ASIDE...

Next up is Geburah, the Red Earh, or Mars. Here is the oven that burns all unwanted, useless organisms and accouterments; the excess is junked, only the pure will remain. This crimson atmosphere isolates the loose, floating concepts that haunt us and perform parasitical procedures on our subconsiousness, silently, if left to their devices they would eternally nibble at our better ideas, corrupting our future; Imagination is a big place, bigger than the known universe they say, a lot of danger lurks under her strata of realtiy-sheets. War Gods rule here, and under their swords, axes, shields, and hammers they hunt down the malignant characters that loiter the platform of our minds with their armies trained at locking in on the impure half-awake elements that escape from the Qliphoth, the Tree of Death (which we will get to at some point later), for all misleading elements are spawns of that Tree. The channels that mark her face are evidence of the strength of her sons' blades smiting the imperfections that have passed through her Judgement. Lava is her blood, volcanoes her pores, desert her flesh and she is the definition of might, discrimination stern and thoughtful. She cares with hands hewn from rough love, and you need her especially when you are being too nice for your own good, too dumb from sentimentality, too understanding it hurts you without producing knowledge. You need her to be firm and confident when handling people who don't understand the inner workings of a managerial mind; though your actions might be misinterpreted at onset its beauty in the long run will be tasted as intelligent and fruitful, like one's hard, loving father, or mother.

...A LITTLE MORE EXTRA DATA ON GEBURAH: My mother was always high on her. I understand why. She had led a life ruled by great forces that took control of her and abused her. Her idealism for one, really took her for a ride. Her own mother thought she knew better than she and had happen to wrongly advice (push?) her--though I know she thought it was well meaning of her to do so. So, she was very hard on me as a result or redemptive act. That as my history, I know Geburah like the back of my hand, and though it has been of great utility at times, I've hated it for the longest time: as long as I've hated my mother, in fact. But I regrettably played it as a one-way street, I could be easily hard on others--pleasurably tough, I might add--but not as hard as I could on my obstinate, stupid self. Well, the shadows are drawing thin, the light from the windows of the agents of Geburah forcing me to walk the straight and narrow and teaching me things brilliantly suffused with power, goodness and unveiled, simple acumen. Like work, for example, plain old simple hard work: such charismatic thought-processes lead off from this mundane act, much confidence and propriety is earned with each plain intense performance. Geburah required me to realize that sometimes ideas, and even language, can lead us off into the wrong sunlight. END OF EXTRA DATA.

Geburah isolates the nonsense and bans them from re-entering her and employs limits as balance for Chesed whose purpose is to expand, invest and give. Beyond them, or I should say, before them, is Binah, Understanding, who is (traditionally) Saturn in this continuing vein of metaphor...

But I think a more accurate interpretation of her would be time-space, the womb we've never left, the tub and tomb of the still-blooming, sure-to-end and re-begin universe, the darkness that surrounds us and let's us play in this stage we call existence, or to some, even consciousness. This is appropriate for Binah is related to the color black wherein swims all colors, all answers, veiled until her secret is unlocked through study and contemplation and a bellicose focus on love. A history of experiences deemed as black if faced with respect and balanced, conscious inebriation and sincere want for clarity will earn us saturnine understanding of the whats, hows and whys of those dark times, dark clouds re-interpreted as tools and products of the love that wills us to be refined as beings, as creatures of progressive consciousness, made of and by the building blocks of Understanding, of Binah. Isn't the vastness of outer space loneliness defined in physical reality? Imagine yourself, lost between the worlds, loitering in loneliness, silence, amongst yet apart of distant white specks, a journey within a cold sphere of endless, intangible black. This is Binah, and in silence, with love, you shall find her precious coffers, and ironically, they shall all be unearthed from your very soul. For once stripped to the bare minimum, as a man forced or who decides to walk naked among a society of clothed Earthlings (for which I call those unlit, not in-tuned or sleeping men), all answers loosen from their wombs to entreat light and yourself, as a ripe fruit, to be chosen, picked and utilized for consumption...eventually to be returned to its source of life, the land from which it sprang, the paper upon which Wisdom or Chokmah wrote on, the four-dimensional time-space of earth and universe. For every instance you are changed from amassing understanding through each trial or trying situation you die, i.e. change, and this is how Binah ends her sentences. Little and big deaths are her punctuation. To know her is a test, and to pass these tests is to know her intimately. From the combined energies of Chokmah to her left the liberated idea-stuffs from Kether are unleashed at her to be nursed and realized as the beginnings of matter through pure intuitive construction. As the sun, Kether, produces photons, Chokmah, which hits the mud-covered seed, Man, on earth, Malkuth, to struggle through dramas of dirt, weather, and herbivores the life form founds a dark and realistic understanding, a sense of mother and universe: Binah.

Man, I am rambling, I initially planned this out as a very simple and straight forward "overview" but something this special really affects me and possesses me to ramble. This article is now unbalanced because of my late proliferation. I'll take care of that at some point close to this paragraph, amending the unintentional asymmetry to an acceptable aesthetic rhythm. Another of the beans I mean to spill is my intention of first giving an accurate, traditional account of the Tree of Life and then applying my personal interpretations on it, which will also come soon after this--should have been--brief and succinct overview (if I have begun yet with those interpretations). Moving on--

Chokmah. The second sephiroth right after the first, Kether. If Kether is the first consciousness, the first emanation, Chokmah or Wisdom, is the first gale of thought out of its solar perimeters. Ein--or Ayn--Sof is the Divine Energy driven by Divine Will which leapt out of, well, itself (actually it is defined as a practically--but not absolutely--unknowable tri-system of En, nothingness, En Sof, limitless nothingness, and En Sof Or, limitless light) to produce first Kether, then Chokmah, and so on, until we reach Malkuth. In a way Kether is the Malkuth before the Negative Veils of Existence (En, En Sof and En Sof Or) and Chokmah is where thought initially occurs. But this isn't any kind of intelligence that can be pinned down and analyzed, this is pure Wisdom, and an aspect of its radiation is intuition. Knowing without the benefit of knowledge, or Daath, since it comes before it. What authorized the scales of the coral snake that paradigm of color composition for the purpose of intimidation and deception in the assistance towards its survival? The fore-thought of Chokmah written in ancient DNA. What ganged-up the gases under the attraction of gravity to produce the star, our Sun, the father to our Earth, if not our god-father scribe Chokmah? In creation, Before the Word was uttered then heard and understood in Binah, there was the Will, or momentum of super-stellar force that brought forth all, but the Word was conceptualized and given body and tone by the naked, burning, plotting fathers in Chokmah. Once in Chokmah, Kether will magnetize you.

...be continued.

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Identity.

2007-10-22T08:15:00.000-07:00

Do you have one, he asked himself. There seems to be too many of you. Which one tells of absolute truth? Maybe, and this scares you, the answer is none...

...isn't that a good thing? Carte blanche? The filling in of the blank page...but what if your ink is white? White on white? Or it's black, but your blind?

He picked up the tube of coral. Perforated. Pink. He dropped it back into...the ocean's edges kiss the skirt of shore. There are bubbles of intoxication from malt playing like children behind his eyes. He bobs his head like a silly dog trapped on the dashboard of a silly running car.

You drink too much, take it easy...she said.

...from behind him the voice sounded like his conscience.

He burped, that was his reply, his cuss to her...advice?

Why can't people understand when they are not liked. Oh yeah, this one wasn't one of those, those ordinary folk, this one, like you...like you...?

Ever thought about your identity? he said.

Yeah, she said, which surprised him; yeah, like what?

How? What are your thoughts? he said.

It was close to twilight. Was it the world that developed in us these unanswerable moods of intense surveys of meaning during this magical time of the day? She wasn't sure. Her feet, submerged in the soup of her birth, ancient water. Her feet greets our Great Mother, its oldest womb.

She yawns, and supplies him her thoughts: To really have an identity. A real identity. Everyone else must die. If you're a man, every man; if you're a woman, every woman.

His penis alerted him of a possible hard-on.

She continued: there are way too many peeps out there...every man, let's just use person, so I don't keep switching genders for political correctness's sake. Every person out there, each one we meet, we absorb, their images are branded into our brains; their actions are...copied, to copy is to memorize; their speech becomes our speech. There are too many people in the world. How do you know you are not just a patchwork of these retained reflections? How do you know you are you? Isn't that your question?

Yes, you stupid bitch, he told himself, where'd you come from, I was here, minding my own business, I was deep; and now here you are mirroring my thoughts. Those are my thoughts. Mine!

Yes, he said.

Yeah, she said, I thought so.

He fought it at first, but it was no use, really, he knew, so he allowed his urge to win him over, and he sat down beside "the bitch."

Hi, he said.

They swapped names.

Mind? he said, but his fingers were already on the burning joint.

Go ahead. But she pulled her hand away, which startled him; and she, smoothly, like a jazz dancer's stock move, suavely turned the burning head of the stick toward her, and her lips; her red lips, red from the butcher shop glow from on high; she opened those red lips, moist from the soft blanket of imperceptible sea-foam, to envelope and lock on the burning head; okay, he got the idea, and leaned forward---shotgun!

Bhooosssh, bhoooossh, bhooooosshh, went their motions, went the sea and shore and sky.

It's like everything is beating. Everything has a hearbeat. He confessed this.

I know, she said, and slipped her hand over his; their hands both, these two that touched was on a rock bed on the shore, it should be high tide, but that tide was late; maybe it too got stoned, drunk and lost, maybe it too questioned its purpose, though its purpose seems quite clear and straight.

Isn't that how they all start? Clear and straight?

Are you serious, he challenged, and politely swept up his hand under hers; what was that about? Manners, he ain't too good with.

Yeah.

Yeah, he parroted...and left it at that a while...he needed to pause, for effect, and maybe she knew it, who cares.

There's a whole party behind us, enjoying themselves; happy people.

Uh-huh, she replied.

Happy, he repeated...I hate happy people.

He returned his hand under her palm, her palm was warm.

I wish I was/ If I was a Racist--

2007-10-11T08:42:00.000-07:00

I'd hate Whitey.

I wish I was/ If I was a Racist--

I'd spit on every whiteman's mug and spill curses his way to wipe it off.

I wish I was...

I'd connive with space-aliens and sell each and every one of em white boys, for testing, for experimentation, for implants, for trauma, and why not, for extinction.

If I was a--

I'd form The Shabazz League of Cracker Eaters, and hunt down them white land-sharks, as their counterparts in the KKK did, but as a twist, we'll cook em white skin, peel it off, feed it to vultures and have their meat removed to be fed to endangered species in and around Africa, and if there's enough why not the whole globe.

I wish I was a Racist...

But I lack hate.

If I was a Racist--

I'd educate them motherfuckers. Show em enacted footage of all their 1800-1900 sins; the sins of their great great great (but really not so great) forefathers. Then, have the history replayed by applying the same rules of the game that time on their backs, on black farms in the Mother Land, have their wives as our wives, use them as breeding tools, like a toaster that can impregnate a waffle-maker and produce a blender: property that produces more property, I can see the Mother Land's gross national product now: whiteheads.

If I was a--

I'd dress up in black, not white, the true robe of Death, and rob you of what you've robbed me of, and do so with an obsidian scythe, glassy like the eyes of the eternal night, by plucking each o' your heads you ghouls, nighthawks, giants, furies, titans, hydras, dragons and wizards, with the ease of an Ancient tribal lord cutting up a beaten mark to be boiled and dehaired and skinned and cooked by the tribe's lady's princesses, for dinner or festival, to be served to all like some communist family, to be danced around upon during these times of celebration, these offerings to the ancestors and to the ancestors' spirits, to the Earth's blood, the sea, to the Earth's breath, the sky, to the Earth's other children, the animals and insects and plants, to the Earth's flesh, the land.

(...AND SO ON AND SO FORTH...)

And then I decided, this is kinda one sided. The blacks did let the whiteys do it. It wasn't the whites fault the blacks gave in, in general. It takes two to dance the tango: and the whiteys lead.

At Church...

2007-10-07T20:17:00.001-07:00

...I see dead people.

It's not empty. It's full. It's Sunday.

It's a mass. So why the plastic masks like it's a funeral?

(I note only a few, a rare small number, that I see and feel are sincere.)

Their eyes eat visuals of this detail and that, their ears observe sounds other than the priest's.

Some thoughts occupy their minds. Little nonsensical articles cloudy at this early hour; mostly though, mostly, their mind is full, only of emptiness.

Corpses can't think. These zombies hear the padre but don't listen. Might they need to? They've heard this all before, since childhood, when life shone in their visages.

Like children, they toy at acting out the required god-fascination so naggingly needled out of them by their superiors and elders since their dead formative existence.

The ones that are really pious are dispersed, rarely do they group, isolation is an ingredient to meditation, if not a physical one, at least one that rockets the mind and soul to other depths, levels, degrees of love and awareness.

Others check their watches. Smooth their pants or dresses. Tell their offspring to shut it. Tell their offspring to wake up. Are you awake, parent? Do YOU hear? But why then do you not heed? Do you believe the "the voice of the people, is the voice of God"? If you do, you let your fellows judge you.

Your fellows can only judge by what they witness. I wish I had an Oscar for every one of you. Masters of disguise and guile. Commanders of whipped up and puffy facial emoticons. Where do you take class? Hogwarts? Your glamours are art, a dark art, like the art of Marcos, Mussolini and Mao.

Your fellows' jugdement is flawed. If the voice of the people is flawed, then the god of the people is flawed. Simple as your ABCs. Yet, not. Consider this. A meme. A cultural component that clones itself through each mind that receives it. A catch phrase. A line from a pop song. A religion. This is called a memeplex (a compound of memes). Acts like a gene...or sometimes, a gene of a virus.

Like in this case, with these zombies sitting up, sitting down, mumbling, kneeling, walking to, walking fro, nodding, parroting, forming crosses on their upper halves, with the grace and understanding of replicas of Frankenstein. I note no respect underneath. If the god of the people is flawed, the people are flawed. Yet we follow the people. We follow the dance of the dead. Unmiraculous and unholy.

It doesn't stop here, this living death. But it may certainly have begun here. The symptoms were tell-tale a long ways back in time. The abandonment of culture, left the skin of our pride dry, which shed itself soon enough, but the virions didn't stop there, those were mere first steps, onto the heart of the being: the brain: give up your responsibility to think and you give up your soul, and Mr. Webster can't be everywhere.

What makes you you? Most people only vaguely know. Most people are clones of the model molded by some other, rather foreign entity, far away; alien and distant lands where silence drives men open to the free mental elements that inspire power, and what keener path to power than a useful, romantic glamour? A religion, mayhap? A nice old new idea-structure sure to win the masses over, bowl them down with an emotional flush of awww. "Wasn't that nice of Him, eh? Dying like that for us all, oh well, time for brunch."

Doesn't the host discern the funeral masks we have on? (Yes, I am dead too. But I know it. And besides, his not my only god, I am a player when it comes to gods. Why have just one? When you can have them all? No, I am not spreading myself out too thin, because players have themselves to look out for numero uno. In other words, we're too unfaithful to bother with different versions of the, essentially, same program: love the software not the hardware.) Does he care? If he is dense, he shouldn't be up there, sensitivity should be prerequisite. If he feels the noxious plumes outpoured by this congregation, what then does he do to improve the lesson plan, which is obviously flawed, it's from the people.

What would happen I wonder if we actually listened, actually obeyed, actually became pious? Just as theses priests, but throw in sex, and sometimes a little horsing around and beers with the boys (or girls)? I'll tell you straight the eventual consequence would be: the demise of control. The freedom of yourselves from power that should rightly be yours. The clarity of mind to think and not be judged, to act and not be ashamed. Do What Thou Wilt means not do whatever the fuck you feel like whenever the fuck you feel it however the fuck you feel it to whomever the fuck. It means following your true path, the path that is in harmony with the universe, the path to yourself and the riches there. Some say the path to your Holy Guardian Angel: I just say the path to your Higher Self, your holier consciousness, the you that is free from your corpse shell and witnesses eternity at every waking instance. Do What Thou Wilt in accordance to your real Will.

Let me use this paragraph to describe that path. Let's use the stars. The star system we call Solar has x number of planets and stars and comets and asteriods. Each of these and others I have not mentioned are perfectly timed. Like instruments in a timepiece. As above, so below; or, as without, so within. We are the stars, within us the universe; the only distinctive difference: we have will. The power of choice. You're hungry. Choose. Eat now. Eat later. Eat now, little. Eat later, lots. Eat not at all. Eat now, fast, or slow, etc.--etc.--etc. You are hungry, but the choice to eat is yours. Your soul cries for nutrition, like a good book, something of Joseph Campbell's, or Thomas Moore's or Timothy Leary's, whatever. It does. It is your choice to feed it. The universe may dance to the tune of your secret and true Will, force factors that will set you up for that opportunity: this situation that will surely introduce to you that which your soul yearns for, yet yours is the choice. Buy it, heed your love that loves you; don't buy it, buy it soon, buy it later, take your time, absolutely turn back on the intuitive urge: up to you. If you do choose to go with your Will, then, my friends, you act like such stars in a star system, dancing perfectly, brilliantly radiant in darkness. If each of us followed their True Path, if we collide, you'd know in instinctively, it was meant to be, and you shrug and let it go, you followed your path and you don't question it: your bones and each of your cells know it is truth in molecular form. You shrug and you say to yourself, move on, baby, it was the Will of the universe, I know, I am part of it, like I know my heart is part of me. I am intrinsic.

Is church the path your soul speaks as true? Question yourself. The Beast said, even doubt is reality; consider your doubts, consider everything as paramount unless proven otherwise the worth of it is less than initially surmised; scientists pushed this global society forward into a technological age; apply that same scientific mentality to spirituality and transcendentalism; enough emotionless, soulless tradition, be sincere, you don't owe anyone your power but yourself; Do What Thou Wilt and trust the diseased spirit within you compose a plan for self-regeneration. Do What Thou Wilt and jump the cliff. If church is what it is for you, so be it, do it properly; you are not fooling any god of your theater-tactics; stay home then and put your feet up and yell to the wife to hurry with your beer and channel-controller, play network games, read verses on the erotic, whatever turns you on, whatever you NEED, but no one needs your hypocrisy, nobody but people who don't need it yet want your contribution, your generous tithes; your pennies and papers have replaced the Aztecs' human sacrifices, yes, but they, at least believed, were true, and their wars merely play-acts toward each others gods' and peoples' benefits, now pennies and papers for sacrifice, brilliant, no blood, but the blood of your wallet, all those coins and papers, they could end hunger, end poverty, yet we offer it to an absent dull idea instead of to our fellow visible starving family. Offer it to--who knows?-- men who can't face the fact they wanna fuck chicks, so they fuck children instead. Offer it to THE "representative of god on earth," whose predecessors were responsible for more blood shed on earth's soil through wars than Hitler's concentration camps. That's they don't mind you fucking other women other than your wife, you'll come for confession they are sure. They don't mind you killing or stealing, you'll be here Sunday, the day of cleansing and white forgiveness. Without your sins, they'd be out of business. Without the threat of hell, and the promise of heaven--which are accesible right here right now--their whole structure of lies crumble like expired Graham crackers. As above, so below; as without, so within: heaven and hell is in here, my heart my mind my soul, your heart your mind your soul; and heaven is out there, in sex with a much-loved one, in the vibrations of your young son's formative cackle, in the caress of your soulmate at night and in the morning; and hell is out there, in hurricanes that wipe out families and properties like a virus lunching on a weak gene, in diseases that seem to randomly take hold of your life and spirituality (if you let it: maybe you may, maybe you fight: ask your Will), in people that appear to have absolutely no iota of love contained in them, nothing but the black, heavy evil-throbbing of hate, which attacks and consumes like a blackhole: stay away from their event horizon: danger sometimes wears a sun's face.

We're stars who've Will. The cosmos is our church. Concentrate and connect to the cosmos and church within: power to YOU: as above, so within. Use the constellations as rosaries or runes, and pray to the hidden infinite pantheons lurking underneath and beyond (yet within) your own mere being. These souls of Ancients and Future Selves, allow each to guide you, spiritual stocks acting as one organism, the sun father to your body, the moon mother to your blood. Shine, you've only one life, Death's grin is too long, too determined and proud and too-certain of victory over another clone, another irrelevant zombie, stand out, stand up, SHOUT your aura's radiation like radiancy as it is supposed to and allow your personality's electro-magnetism to attract and trap friends, not foes; you are a corpse, as I am, as everyone I know or will know, as whoever had lived and will live is or was: you are already dead. Be dead, you have no choice, but don't be a zombie, a controlled clone, choose:

Surfing the Channels

2007-10-02T07:03:00.000-07:00

Your magick regenerates nocturnally,
diurnally you're happily robbed,
all this occurs at your perception,
or misconception.

Khu is choice.

The value of work
is the teacher to
the value of love
amid a storm.

Worship Thy Weapons.

Compassion is Imagination
denuded.

If people don't install in themselves
the practice of public nudity: systems of lies people
spin, like their clothes, mere evolving
masks,
will grow tighter and tauter and increasingly complex.

The Principle of Isolation may just be the first
leap off the Cliff to Adventure and The Unknown:
Be A Fool.

Laws are for slaves;
the Forces are slaves to Strings;
gravity to that of density;
my hand to that of my mind;
the proletariates to alien gods;
my Love to that of my Will.

The Universe did not design Me to take orders from my stupid fellows.

Every form, level, degree, gradation, manifestation of Love is Holy.

Emotion is noise.
Picture above the din.

I THINK WE ARE THE UNIVERSE'S INVENTION; ITS INTENTION FOR US, TO BE VESSELS OF HER AWARENESS.

SHE WANTS A MIRROR, OUT OF PINK SKIN
AND CRIMSON BLOOD.

SHE NEEDS OUR EYES; OUR MIND, THE KEY, HER
GREATEST DREAM MATERILIZED.

SO SHE MAY PERCEIVE, NARCISSITICALLY, HER OWN INFINITY.

TO NOT GO THE PATH OF THE OUROBOROS IS DANGEROUS; THE CIRCLE IS THE REAL PATH.

HIGH SPEED RIDE, SPHERIOD TRANSIT; BEAM, BOY!
THE LIGHTS ARE EMITTING OLD SMILES.

The Virtue Honesty: The Modern Holy Grail.

When we cower to Emotion, intelligence--beware!--sets the pace and plan of our escape--
but if we magically stand on principle--know thyself (first!)--we're rushed toward destinal
streets, meta-places of comfort and solitude, dangerous to know and natural to have;
your feetsies tingle from the sensation of ecstasy; your ears snap rigidly, as history is famous for
murdering true revolutionaries, in other words, heresies.

Music is Logic humping Idea in Death's black mustang's backseat;
as the audience, the constellations, applaud in twinkle-light;
and Death's hollow sockets, an abyss each, condense and swell,
to the rhythm of the Ancient Couple's machinations and groans.

This plane of discs is full of
glamour
stars that are diamonds,
fake carats of intensity,
values of negative hues,
they glitter but don't enlighten,
they shine, even blind, but nay
do they inject warmth to the pore,
or tickle somas in the cortex.

We intertwine our indulgences
creating a quilt of beam-beating
gemstone constructions,
hollow crystals and quartzs
of shallow relevance, acrid
potentialities that are rotting
invisibly and internally
at the core as its faceted facade
radiates and tempts and allures
with sublime steadfast vaingloriousness
we don much like our subtle
secret-pornstar-flesh-cloak
the real pigmentation of which is
chameleonic vertigo principled on
distraction.

Hook, line and sink her/him.

'Ware the lights that flicker
sweat and neon and television;
sitcom streams race laughtrack gales
down friction-filled fields of
plastic, artificially-intelligent,
puppets, commonly known as
commercials, pixel peppered and
hypnotic: buy buy buy birdie;
clever manipulations of primaries
titilate and hook, and reel...

Hook, line ("Yo' fired!") and sink 'im/her.

...natural chemical firedisplays
into submission and subserviency,
it's perfect math, one plus one equals two,
one minus a fraction equals a lesser man.

This plane of coins
is spilling with nutritious information.

The Subatomic Emotion

2007-09-16T23:31:00.000-07:00

is Fear.

It is the building block on which rests entire structures of emotional spectra. Name it, Fear is the origin, the mother of it. Speak your emotion, however complex, however simple, Fear is its root.

Not to say that that is a bad thing. Without fear to temper courage--as in battle, war or rumble--you'd probably end up a suicide case. Without fear to sooth and mold bold intelligence--as in competitive scientific pride and vanity--you'd probably arrive at cold smart arrogance, and a product like the nuclear bomb. Without fear to rein love you lose fair discrimination between evaluation of your partner, which leads to ("unforeseen") break-ups, divorces, etc., etc., etc., include here abuse, emotional and physical and what-else-have-you, and death, like murder, accidental or intentional--which can also be cause due to TOO much fear.

What makes up fear? If fear is the subatomic emotion what is its composition? Are there components to this base ingredient or is it a pure substance? And does it have a super-string equivalent? Some very interesting queries. We shall explore.

I shall answer based on my experiences, what my intuitive intelligence tells me, what my logical mind contributes, and naturally, what my own fears are like, specifically and in a universal sense.

Having pondered on this with, I'd like to deduct, all my sentient being, I have come upon some evidence of only the meta-physical sort, what kind is there when dealing with such subject--the chemical and electric conclusions science has uncovered has sure to have some weight on the subject, but, fundamentally, I throw them out here (that is, I do not reiterate, though of course I integrate: like a backstory in a movie or novel, you never read, experience it, but serves as formidable back bone), this is an intuitive excercise--a thing so mysterious because of its origin, the unbordered expanses of the mind, where, as my personal, unaware Virgil states (I paraphrase), " gods surely dwell".

Let us use a subject, Mr. A, for example, here below:

Mr. A is of average physical condition and aesthetic, intelligence and psychology (that is to say, he is very malleable).

When Mr. A was an infant, Mr. A did not fear. There was nothing to fear. Experience was not at all a lot, or close to nil; and even then, continous medical shots for preventive purposes, shots that do hurt, inspire tears and cries, do not transplant in him anymore fear than if it didn't happen.

So, fear, certainly very obvious, is an Adult concept.

(Now, you protest, you came to now fear before your pubic hair sprouted! Yes. But. See! "Adults," as I discern them, carry on, mostly, the same level of maturity as if they were pre-pubescent. Agree. Take a pill. That's fear in the form of denial. You, my friend, as such I, are as immature as we were before masturbation. Did we really change that much, look around you, no, is the answer. So, allow the term Adult to apply to a level of maturity above the infant, though before wetdreams. I mean, is there really a difference between two brothers murderously competing to be numero uno in the household at StreetFighter and two countries playing at--let's not kid ourselves, comic books have their Doctor Dooms, we have our Nixons and Bushs--world domination? The only distinguishing fact here is that the two brothers are in healthy competition...for now.)

Is fear, therefore, an illusion? I will answer our first question. What makes up fear? If fear is the subatomic emotion what is its composition? Are there components to this base ingredient or is it a pure substance?

Awareness.

Awareness is the substance fear is composed of, infinite eyes of attention, detection, comparative retention, ancient fugue-recorders that began in East Africa, our real Eden, states of caution and studiousness--the Manhattan Project was developed because of the fear that the Nazis might pull-out a nuke before them; the Joliot-Curies, was vanity their motive? they knew their findings would be used as weaponry, isn't vanity a shallow fear, dangerous in this instance, maybe, they thought, "I want to be remembered": I am sure Nagasaki and Hiroshima will never forget you--and as society has evolved and mutated, so did this Sentiency, into phobia, paranoia, global schizophrenia(?): as we move farther away from our Original States of Consciousness (like Mr. A whence a babe) we divide, and divide, religion cuts, social rules cut, your peers' commandments further divide, your parents' wishes too want a piece, don't they? mostly, well no wonder we have never had more cases of multiple personalities, all feel like out in the rain, vulnerable and cold and it's dark, and of course, the dark, the unknown quality, is fear's breeding ground, where it is most happy with distorted fruition.

Unless you are real smart and imaginative and maybe even lucky and then fear can work for you, work for you in beautiful ways. Creation is intention or necessity or will equals intuition or sensitivity or compassion equals to fear, awareness or intelligence, and finally, its teetotal: existence or creation or space-time-matter materialization. This equation is an Ouroboros.

Another virtue, I be sarcastic, of Man, is, I guess, here I can't not use some science, fear can be a stimulus. The adrenaline-blood-oxygen rush, the tweaking of tuned-in awareness rise; the sweat, hairs erect, the fight-or-flight expression, debate, on the face, in the mind; the flood of light and detail: it's pristine accuracy. I know it's beautiful. It's goddamn addictive.

It's addictive. Horror movies. Flight. Boxing. Fight. Confrontation: fight-or-flight? Decisions: fight-or-flight? Courtship: fight-or-flight? First base: fight-or-flight? Balrog charging at you: fight-or-flight, Chun-Li? The USSR's or Nazis' chutzpah: oh for the brave West--Fight! A tresspasser with a knife at your daughter's throat, you ran to her room, heard the scream, your wife heard it first though, and she's at your feet, you discover, sprawled red and immobile, and the snicker of the villain inspires scenes of rape and of course murder on both you and your kid's mind: Fight? Or flight? Either way, it's one hell of a drama, a natural, biological, psychological, physiological, intellectual, emotional (spiritual? why not!) orgy, and what's the climax: fight-or-flight? Who wins, who loses?

Some are, like drunks and gamblers and serial killers, like to be losers, yet they dramatize their battles with bottle, cards or marks, as if victory were the Holy Grail, and they, mere slaves of (k)nights. The athletes and celebrities and CEOs, they want to be winners. What's your high?

So is Fear a disease? Is there a cure, if so? Should there be, if so?

Ah, and I quote a character of His, from THE book of His, as I am required and compelled to: "It is all in your hands".

A Prayer to The Element(al)s

2007-09-16T23:15:00.000-07:00

I pray my -half has my back.
I know she does, it is a fact.

I pray my child stays strong and bright.
I know he will, says so the gods of Health and Light.

I pray the monolith I face is destructible.
I know it is as still I am able.

I pray my tears whet my mind.
I know they will, I know as I am kind.

Let my joyous roar flood the skies, my Lord.
'Llow my brood triumph with Cup, Wand, Coin and Sword.

The Angel and The Demon

2007-09-09T07:48:00.000-07:00

Z attracts Z.

Whoever you are, whatever you are: this is the law. When I had wanted destruction the world complied, delivered to me an amalgamation of pathologies in rich bitch format. And she did what she was created to do, what I asked her to execute. She annihilated me. And, yes, I thank her. Probably the most infuential living man in my life is right: what else can you do with murderers and rapists in prisons except learn from them, through dialogue. The killer can also be the ferryman over the Styx. But the point of any adventure is a return to the roots. The task is a Goliath. That's why we call those that make it Heroes and Heroines.

Y attracts Y.

When Dante needed it Virgil came. When Pooh needed help Tigger came. And when it was my turn, She came. She was much the answer to me as I was to Her. We no longer roam the Earth as glimp living question marks with myopic eye sight, and neurosis. Now, we are one big phat throbbing spherical punctuation mark: period. (--With neurosis.)

X attracts X, and sometimes, they multipy.

The Cross that Bears Me

2007-09-08T08:16:00.000-07:00

Na Ra, an aspect of my Holy Guardian Angel, seems to be an agent of my Pure Will. The Black God, a doberman faced black man in an Egyptian Pharaoh get up. Na Ra more likely is a slave, to Pure Will, and is made of grains of Precambrian sand. The Black God is Intelligence. The mind of my Angel, possibly. This is all specualtion of course. There is The White Girl, she seems to be a person made up of sperm. Or sperm and eggcells, yeah. She is Inspiration. They all three live in the surface and orifices of the body of the Red Queen, the Holy Mother. The whore to all, the virgin to none, yet Purity is the founding word of her soul. These are my deities.

Na Ra came to me in half-dream. The rest followed in the same fashion. They came, for I needed them.

The Incredible Lightness of Purpose

2007-09-08T07:40:00.000-07:00

I see kids play in the rain, and they remind me of when, I too, rejoiced in wet play. Do they know, one day, they'll have to earn to eat? When I was about three, my first memory, concerned my whole being immersed in sunlight, I was imagining the creases and folds of the powdered cement mountain as roads silkily winding down or up it and I must have had a toy car or one of those green plastic soldiers on surf boards for I was making car noises and winding movements down or up the grey, granule mount. I must have decided to terrorize it at some point for I recall traversing its upper surfaces, cutting nastily the ribbons of silky roads, when I found I had lost a slipper. Naturally, play was postponed, and work commenced. The search for the slipper daunted me. It was like, it slipped beyond this reality to another dimension. I could not find it, and the mount was nearly a plain by now. I talked to myself then. Should I continue, seems fruitless, and deep down I knew it was gone forever, and too, the sun was mercilessly on my back, riding me directly, and I felt I should quit. Quit. What's a flip-flop? But I did not. I with my pride relentlessly and I mean relentlessly persisted. The sun's rays by waves trashed on me, producing foam-sweat, and my shirt felt like it absorbed the Atlantic Ocean within its threads it was so heavy. And I remember saying to the effect that shit, shit, it has to be here it has to be here it can't not be here that just doesn't happen it does not happen it is here where else would it be? And with some vanity I thought I'll find it I'll find it and then it will be glorious 'cause I'd have won, finding it, finding it. I never found the damn missing piece. And it was just there. Then after some moments messing around, pfff. Gone.

Like childhood. Inexplicably.

The Tip of The Iceberg

2007-09-08T07:33:00.000-07:00

The Hollow Wall. Is what I dreamt wide awake to be the transition between pure idea and our reality, this matter ridden space. It is the barrier between God-Idea and Matter-crafted. A space of no space. Infinite and nowhere. Here, but never to be. Where artists and scientists roam, exist. Where memes are the life-supporting bacteria. Here lingers the unmade dreams of future practitioners of art and science. Here stirs the collapsed relics of pre-antiquarian concepts. Always dynamic, movement is freedom, lightning is its rain. And it holds only that one season. Forever it pours, uneven and lunatic, sensible and dangerous, pungent and vivid and vague. The Hollow Wall.

My Home.