notebook1: highschool years

Jon Gee

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interzone... art by Jon Gee

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Jon Gee

notebook 1 Collected Notebooks (93-03) writings by: Jon Gee

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these pages are from sitting on the porch of Rick’s two-story house over summer with him & Irina & pre-exist page 1 0a check yourself & the check’s made out made out & made up we kissed & told a little lie that blew up & got old & we’ll grow old at the rate we choose some will win & some will lose & some will never see the end of summer’s sun & I roll over to get it over & done is this “fun?”

0b I need to ask you a favor I’ll pay it back in surrogate labor I just need this one thing done would you please tell me why we run into other atoms ‘till we come to the abrupt ending is life a bomb just tell me that because I think you think you know nowhere to run nowhere to go 1 You’re only allowed to be proud of your job but you’re allowed to make what you’re already proud of into your job scare the competitors corner your market excite your buyers sell yourself KILL YOUR TV! 2

• the consumer must be lured quickly with flash or adventure into the domain of the PRODUCT where the SELLER waits.

• Met Life Insurance uses shots of a yuppie being chased through a jungle by a

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tiger & a rock climber with a broken rope clinging to the sheer face of a cliff (both of whom are then rescued by Charles Shultz’s Peanuts character Snoopy, the bought mascot of Met Life) to illustrate the danger which necessitates subscription to the product in a natural setting rather than the dry world of money.

3 Must find THE thing — appeals to everyone, everyone will buy, everyone will understand, everyone will agree — hippie turned yuppie, marketing utopia; media utopia GOD TV, contests & promises, selling atonement for the sin of buying forgiveness — but only to competitors on the wheel of Fortune THE THING: The ultimate product!

4 The ultimate (absurd) extent of capitalism: “if people will buy it, sell it!” am I Jesus Christ or just an ass hole how can I pity anyone when they deprive me of control 5 Reruns call it Classic TV but it frightens me because from I Love Lucy & her constant schemes is where my parent’s generation learned what ‘Tough Love’ means blck paint bubbles like two eyes watching and the asphalt sets her feet on fire it doesn’t matter where we go just so we don’t stay long the day the heat the horizon 6 (12-15-95 Myrtle/10 Fold/Less Than Jake concert at the hippie land co-op)

there can be no center of attention because no one is paying attention. Running around or standing around, no one’s got any better ideas.

Ring around the rosie in the middle of the crowd, when the kids wear themselves out they all fall down

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the concert hall is like a box full of crickets. They jump against the walls until they learn to sit still. Then they’re the trained pets of bored little sadists who pull off their legs to watch them squirm till they get bored again real soon. boredom is not a sturdy foundation nor is it a new creation we’re desperate for something but is this really it? we have to hit things because we’re too afraid to cry. c’mon let it out. The world ruined us.

Blame your parents. Blame “the man.” Blame the “conspiracy.”

Do it quick while you still can.

One day you’ll wave the flag.

That’s what you should be sorry about.

The future when you’ll conform to the boring, not the past that brought you here.

7 What a disappointment we turned out to be. At least until the cops show up and we all act sheepish.

Dogs can act — they can take direction. It takes the opposite of concentration to act.

8 “IS IT ART?” = Does it mean something?

Dadaism proved art that means nothing in particular can still be “art.”

Too bad.

9 I don’t see anything wrong between us but I’m not looking with your eyes growth occurs from the foundation up it doesn’t matter who ends up on top don’t be so impatient that you would blame the world for trying to work with you What am I writing? At her age I felt the exact same. I tried to make things make sense and they wouldn’t so I got very hostile. It just bothers me that she has no one better to vent on than me and that I’m so insecure I end up taking it for real and personally. Though it’s intended personally it isn’t real. It’s lashing out just to get it out not to lash and in particular not to lash me. but it still sucks. (I sound like my mother) I don’t really mind, but I don’t really mind leaving by the time she’s ready to push me and her thoughts about herself out of sight, mind and therefore existence.

Hugging her is like throwing myself against a brick wall covered in thorns.

10 thoughts don’t come “into” your head. They grow there. Thoughts aren’t sudden, they fester with time.

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NOT

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:

IS

:

11 The two college students in the Republican barbershop where pop music always plays remind each other to “take it easy” when they part.

12 senior yearbook inscriptions Jake No matter how much I succeed it will always be nothing more than a way of temporarily forgetting that I am the one that knows nothing at all.

Mike Remeber not to laugh yourself to death, liver boy.

John There is no greater sin without forgiveness than to fail the expectations of those who you think care about you.

Andy I will never make my daddy proud of me.

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The world doesn’t need you, The world doesn’t want you, The world doesn’t even like you.

14 Cabal was the name of King Arthur’s dog 15 (- 19) Sam in the Story of Sasha...

“Great civilizations are based on great denying of humanity & of nature * great efforts to perserve them — but only symbollically. & why is this? Look at people. Each is a blank slate. Without something that permeates eveybody how would they relate?

What would they have opinions about? What would they have to argue about?What would unite them in fear of disobedience?

“If people were never told what to do would they really be civilized? Wouldn’t they rather revert to the childlike freedom of uninhibited animalism? Wouldn’t men slaughter & rape if only they thought they could get away with it?

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“But to be social, to be civilizied, each must deny his nativity (as Locke denied Hobbes). Must create a definition of himself — a divine role — which will be his purpose & point, the point around which his personality revolves. & if you remove this... see what a piece of work is man? What a zero? What a child & a beast? But what is perfection? Nature has yet to have begat something anything like ‘perfect.’ The nature of Reality is conflict. What is reality to me vs. what is reality to you: a conflict of interests. iF conflict didn’t create a honeycomb of barriers between people, what would be the foundation of Society? Without Platonic Forms the Republic could not have been justified. Without divine rights how could anyone feel different than their neighbor (or at least convince themselves they do)?

16 “Difference lies in similiarity. If one person is rich & one poor, they are diffrent.

But the poor one can justify killing the rich one if he can consider himself equal to the rich one in the quality of life. That’s a bit of a joke. See, the communism of religion is a rarely pointed out richness. How could there be “class struggle” without differences between people as equal human beings. Blacks, whites; jews, gentiles. All just workers. All just numbers. How convenient for those rich enough to consider themselves different (because they were told they were) enough to tell others that they’re not. (Another joke — this one about the duality of Marx himself as a character: moocher & liberator. But I digress.) “#s aren’t natural; that is, they don’t occur without the input of the human mind.

A sphere in nature isn’t perfect even the planets are covered in mountains. People can’t be #s. People can’t be perfect spheres. They just don’t fit. The masks crack subtly, much to everyone’s embarassment.

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“We all fart. He farts. She farts. The president gets gas. Alexander the Great farted.

Jesus farted on the cross. People with blue blood and people with blue collars. It’s the only naturally produced air pollutant for which mankind is responsible. but still we hide it. Animals fart in the open. People fart in private. Into cups or hands if necessary, anything to conceal that borderless, embarassing ‘personal’ odor — that stink of being alive.

“People go to sleep & drool. People sing loudly off-key. People masturbate & make a mess with their own smelling, soaking skin-organs. Humans have an infinite amount of dirty, stupid little secrets, that really aren’t unique or surprising in the least. Yet still they keep them vehemently private. Why? There’s nothing that everybody has in common more than those aspects of themselves that they consider ‘disgusting.’ So why conceal them — the most obvious similarities? Well, it would hardly be a society if everyone didn’t deny themselves. Didn’t deny their animalistic haumanity.

18 “Sasha, mankind needs its roles. Its symbols to deny what & who it really is. Its fears to make these symbols stick. Each person must live their life this way. They must deny themselves their whole life long, never being whole for even a moment, promising themselves life after death in payment for a life wasted on strict obedience & embarassment. Death may come to seem wuite a release to those who were happy children — who would rather not grow up & face facts.

“But you, Sasha, you were never a happy child. You were always discontent with what you saw. You could always see right through people Sasha, but you learned it was better not to just because you were afraid to look into yourself & see the same horrible thing there as you saw at the center of everyone else: a mask without a face.

You always peeled away layer after layer of the onion, wanting to find a hero.

Ultimately though, you too were too afraid to grow up & face facts. There are no heroes. Not even you. All humans are the same: lost. You see how these people stare without perception. They are unanswered questions. Question marks.

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“Death is not an answer. It merely terminates the question. But it’s something to live for. So is work. It substitutes a # for a ? & so makes the question of “why are we alive?” a very moot one indeed. Without roles there is only the truth — &, contrary to popular wishful thinking, the “Truth” is not an answer — just a question.”

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• for men sex is quantitative. Only the first matters. Subsequent affairs with younger girls who lust for them with starry eyes are of little consequence.

• for women sex is qualitative. Any man who sweeps them off their feet — who steals their heart — who frees them from themselves is He whom they Love.

Hence, O loves René.

René does not love O.

21a “if you stel something & do not get caught did you steal?” “if you steal something & do not get caught are you a thief?”

• a thief is a thing & a thing can be defined (within a culture) by a fixed set of qualifiers.

• a person resists such definitions, & cannot be defined solely by their actions, but by how they relate experiences to their pre-conceived persona.

[1]<--->[1] dynad: 1 person to 1 person oriented group • Is this bond important in itself, or is it merely useful for what goes in/out of it — This question is the root of a great battle over the nature of human psychology in the (inescapable) context of society: Romanitcism vs.

Existentialism, altruism vs. egoism, hope & faith vs. doubt & sense.

21b waterlogged (survival of the fittest (not the “strongest”!) whatever fits! the reed bends, but not so much that it becomes watterlogged!)

The dog has cancer from our fighting.

We can’t afford the operation.

Though I know I do not do things which I don’t choose to do, I still sit behind a desk everyday & blame it all on you.

If I feel a huge debt, you should too.

Let the stream of your own shame bare you to your fate In this best of all possible worlds in which it’s safe to expect the worst it makes it all seem so just, logical & romantic to say “you get what you deserve” 22 infinity of angels

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on the head of a pin sing hallelujah as it sinks in your pale skin ghostly I come to you in the darkness like an angel you reach to hold me I am but vapor the end is twice as far as the middle was from the start the evermore vast expanse between the murmurs of the heart days into weeks & months to years till all the teeming dreamy children seem to disappear welcome to the wasteland within where all the angels sing hallelujah on the teardrop of a pin the oblivion of the single instant as it is frozen forever in memories behind angelic eyes that ghostly scream 23 money’s the only drug we’re allowed it doesn’t expand our perception just lumps us into crowds give me the bill o’ frights but without the right to buy the only reason I need to buy a toothbrush is because I can’t TRUST the gov’t to give me a clean one & if I can’t trust the gov’t then I may as well try to fight it.

24 modern would-be scholars substitute questions whose answers are opinions for questions whose answers can only be achieved by solving a complex puzzle when pozing a “thought-provoking” question, which is, categorically, juxtaposed to questions with certain, provable answers. (ex. “what flavor?”, A. “pistachio.”)

25 • curriculum is determined by the teacher’s opinions of the importance of testing.

— If the teacher thinks testing is important, SHE makes a test & then only material conducive to passing their test.

— If the teacher thinks learning is important they give as many facts as they can, not polluting them with testable opinions, & then creates a test based on

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the concepts or specifics which are gleaned from the set of facts as a whole.

• double meaning: “It may be sound” 26 the “Strange Loop” is the root of consciousness. No empirical (& romantically complete & logical) system can justify its methods of reasoning. Self definition (selfjustification) can only be accomplished by an incomplete system whose incompleteness is its “strange loopiness” manifest in its ability to forget that which it does not want to remember & to remember only that which it must.

27 Now is the time for unrealistic dreaming for irrational ideas & for foolish romantic feelings here among the pastel colors as the light fades across the sky behind the trees that celebrate in their secretive silhouettes the ground glows softly the flourescent lights flutter awake one by one along in the fading depth of blue & to the effervescent, melancholy technicolor tunes I fell with aching heart that now is the time for endings.

28 Lumps of skin piled around here & there their tendrils reaching, holding colored follicles sprout from tiny orifices like tiny tongues of piled-up dead skin cells piles of skin Lumps of flesh beaten by the elements as they trundel through the door pink dung beetles throbbing with their secret swill pulsing full of silent slimes like overstretched leather sacs of kethup bulging in the breeze somewhere there’s a soul in there inside that crusty shell o grab me! cooing, drooling mushroom growing into a purple worm & a bleeding slug of flaps of skin so soft6 & moist it leaves a trail

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things which are called names are no more logical than magical, no less disgusting or more beautiful than it was before 29 vaginsotril she squats, totally pink in a pale puddle, stuffing short fingers rudely into the soft tear in the middle of the role of pink silk carpet of her thighs “stupid,” she mumbles, plugging brusquely globs of slime with dark black blood smears cling to the pinch of her fingernails she wipes them on her thighs with a cold snear I stand sheepishly & watch her wishing I could help I’ve done enough already sheepishly I watch her with a tear “I’m sorry” I swallow “stupid,” she mumbles & doesn’t look up like a nude dung beetle, cleaning her house 30 ... & then you fade back into the masses with only enough personality to object to the expression of the face they follow, the pronunciation of the word they chant, the spelling of the word which defines them (luv).

-ko: suffix to Japanese name is feminine ending —————————————————————————————————————— xia hai (prn. “sha high”) — “go into the seas” — meaning to enter private business in communist China.

Mei Ming — “no name,” the name of an 18-month-old baby girl who died, tied up in urine-soaked blankets, disgarded in the “dying room” of a Chinese orphanage.

31 set up & punchline of a joke which will work A. What’s the average length of a rat snake?

B. about three inches A. y’know, I’ve got a rat snake.

B. Oh, really; how long is it?

A. Well, I don’t like to brage about the length of my snake.

(Not that it matters, but I think this joke is Rickus Kempus’s)

Band Name Idea: Foundation Soup

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32 Disgusting & Offensive Band Names •Flesh Importers•Custard-rich Sausage•Piggy Luv•Coming Mother•Sore Whore Soar•1-900-RAPE4U2•Oedipal Bonding•Gay Girls’ goatees (or ‘go tease’)•Ripe Causoluette•Tight-lipped Bleeders•Dangerously Horny Ex-Cons•EdibleOedipal Edward•Special Spanking•Vaginal-violating touch-down kings•Why did Daddy do that to me with his ding-dong?•Pudding it where it don’t belong•The Cunt-Stuffing Sons of Cunts• the Shits•Waking up with Enemies•Yube Itch•Douche, please!•Barnyard Faggots•Sambo’s pale Auntie & their torrid Afair•Watch Onan Go•the Incredible, Edible Douche Bags•The Lonely Cocks in Dyke-Land•Bald Boys•Damp Panties•Curdled Cunt Cheese•Revereand Rapist in Catholic Girl’s School Heaven•the Mad Dr. Rectus’s new tool•softskinned sausage suckers•Ew!•A Caraf of Cum•Beat Me, Lover•Balls to Chin•Phallus Exumata•Ribbed Rubbers•Your 5-min. Fuck-Bitch, Carla•As Busy as a Butt-Café in HomoLand•Pierced Visceras•Enthusiastic Advocates of abusive necrophelia•the infamous Mr. Bondage, double-oh sever• Double-Dong Dildos (& the Dykes who love them)•Those whose thighs whistle•the Phallus Farts• Pungently Flavorful•Drunk Enough to Butt-Fuck•Testicular Womb•burning urethras•Stretched & Sore•Piched Clit•Wet & Ready•Century-long Supply of used tampons•D-Cup & the Rubber Rappers•Too Crude for NAMBLA•Erotic War Wound•the Asstronaughties•Shut up you whore (or “tease”) you know this is what you deserve, you know you want it•Sour Cherries, Rotten Meat•Sexy Throw-up•Inconvenient Secretions•Butt-Fucked by Luv• Mons Jellies•Fuckin’ & Pukin’ till we pass out•Jail Bait•Teasing Tail•Naughty & Nude!!•Hold Your Water•Testicular Terrorism•the Gross Misrepresentation of Pussy•Televised Competition to Repress an Enema•the Dung-Wrestling Darwinian Anomolies•Johny’s Long-Lost Gender•the Three Legged Man in the Park•Strip-School Flunk-outs•Mr.Missy•Stool like a Cinder Block & similar sexy symptoms•Cum-stuffed Turkey-day Bird•Diesel Dildoes•Her Sister’s Secrets•Bazooka Bidé•Painful Poop•Self-Lubricating Orifices•Streaking Through the Burn Ward•Meagan’s back seat•Pee on My Weiner•Sluce Moose & the Loose Caboose•the Two-Petered Puppies in Pussy Province•Everybody’s a Pussy to the Pecker-Police

33 Life is simple: Whatever matters makes no sense, whatever makes sense doesn’t matter.

As this explains life, life makes sense, & therfore doesn’t matter.

34 Dear Mike, The only reason our friendship has gone sour is because the silence between us has outstared either one of us. The silence came about because you too the hurt you knew I felt & made it quiet, resentful, distanced hatred (which has always been my way with all passions but has never cut me away from anybody unless they began doing it too). I know the ‘angst’ you felt experienced brief release by destroying the school (for which I now, ironically, stand accused), but I always wanted it to be taken out on me. I always knew that only that form of direct expression would salvage our relationship. But you — you chose to take your business (which was also mine) elsewhere. I doubt you did it to spare my feelings, as you seem to have forgotten that you ever (if you ever did) care. I know that it was to spare your feelings, because I cared about you, that I didn’t share the situation with you. I always hoped that you would find out & beat me up & we could move on. I was used to your emotions being bald & blatant, but the situation cost me the trust I never knew was the condition of your nakedness. Although, if the reson you destroyed property instead of me because you didn’t dare to hit something which might defend itself, then I recommend you have a child, or take a lover whom you disrespect.

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36 They’re ugly in the east & they’re ugly n the west it’s the ugly ugly girls that I love to love best they comb until they cry pluck the lashes from the eye shave their pits until they’re dry but the hairy, hairy mammals will furry, furry die they talk about their sisters & they talk about their friends llike they’re competing for possession of boys’ back ends with the stinky achey bleeding or the kicky growing human bean aching, bringing home the bacon faking, crying till you scream 37 Band Names Galore!

• the Somebody and (the/his) Somethings • the Somehings in Something Town • the Strangers in Nowheresville • Still Coffin • Mr. Bucket’s Wild Ride • Gen. E-r-x • The Baby Boy’s Blue Bruises • IXNAY • P.C. Pee • Peeches on Scampi • Delirious Dan’s Damn Dandy Boys • the Depressants / the Auntie Depressants • the Evolving Two-Legged Testicles in the Badland Suburbs of Tuna Towne • the Bone Vipers from across Snake Road • “Go Downer U.!” • Xeno’s Proof • Anne-Marie the Rings • Fuckety Fuckeroos • the Classifieds • Mad John Noah from Any-Planet-but-Earth & his militantly bored & lonely proctologists • Da Rug Dealaz • the Mexicunts (mobile vaginas in sombreros) 38 That same old discontent

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is brewing up again I don’t know where I’ve went I only know I’ve been I don’t remember leaving but they tell me that I’m gone I don’t have any feelings so I wonder if I’m god I pace in the shadow that the moon has left behind confused as to which are her(t) feeling & which are mine(d) I can’t re-call her essence though I know that she were here my discontent voids her absence like a wound is sealed by a spear 39 where death is, we are not. where we are, death is not. therefore death is nothing to us.

— Epicurus 40 we’re not kids anymore it hurts me to know this there could be no hope in being an absurdist How can we live when our lives crave meaning? just as everyday our bodies need feeding... we sacrifice in the name of gain but what we get is overweighed by pain we all know but we choose to deny the truth is nothing compared to the lie “41”

“Americans are free to disagree with the law, but not to disobey it.”

— JFK (pert. to civil rights) “We are becoming a nation of spectators.”

— JFK (on televised sports) Everybody’s workin’ for the weakened.

42 food must be genital-like. Greasy, soft hamburgers that wet the bun; over-cooked macaroni & cheede; ice-cream melting in the mouth; marshmallows...; creme filled...; doughnuts, etc. Mexican food even smells like sweat, & the genitals smell like Mexican seafood. The president of the Fast Food Chain hollered at the concept team,

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“give the public a humburger exactly like a cunt, or salad made of ficks, & they will follow it unto death!”

43 • The will should build up beautiful cultures for their own sake — but it’s always to be the end of societal enslavement of the ego in the name of necessary dependence in order to reinstate the foetal comfort which was the un -conscious state before consciousness (of trauma & therefore death) & before the will. The will exists, & all culture (the State, God) as its extension, solely to placate to the desire for but deny the capacity for this lost state of foetal comfort.

• The absurdist is very effected by dreams & the weather — in literature almost to the extent of helplessness (severe influences produce a sleepy “absurd” state of alienation) which is, sensually, just like society’s effect, intellectually.

44 the dream about being in your underwear at school is the dream of being in your natural (instinctual, primitive) or child-like state, feeling naked, exposed, lost & vulnerable in a mechanized, impersonal, institutionalized environment.

Woman tames man (Enkidu) but then must be, demands to be, tamed by him — made loyal to him — in return. Similarly, society tames man (not with sex, which is the natural desire, but with sublimation through enslavement), but cannot be, defies to be, tamed in return. God is the un-tamable — an invention of cosciousness to replace the feeling of foetal, child-like, even animal comfort & trust.

45 The Lurking Spectre of Communism There once was a Darwinian Socialist bitter, for never had he been kissed though his overalls were yellow he was not a common fellow as he much preferred to scorn than enlist There once was a philosopher named Marx who kicked up some Socialist sparks he exposed the Class Struggle that governments juggle then died leaving us all in the dark then came the Red Revolution to overthrow the true czar Rusputin you know he was sinnin’ for along came old Lenin & frightened the Duma into internal dispution Once Stalin in Russia took power with Nazis conspired to make capitalists cower the Cold War produced bombs too big to use & the consequences of the Rosenbergs were dour Finally the international stare was broken Gorby let us all in on the commie jokin’ Glasnost and Perostroika revealed CIA paranoia now the teens in Moscow are Marlboro smokin’ while Karl Marx spins in his grave 46 sex may be the male of the species only means of expressing their feelings (emotional & sensual)

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& all other actions are merely sublimation.

For women though more options exist — hence their more romantic expression & more rational ability to function internally. They are not as withdrawn as men, & can therefore successfully be more secretive. Also, while men see things as problems equal to them — a door that won’t open — women can detach themselves intellectually from their more accute sensitivities & valuate the problem — a locked door knob — & thus appear to be more efficient problem solvers than men, & yet unlike men, not let this facet define their whole self-perception.

They can sense, valuate, & live in the moment, while men look for the heart (penis) of everything.

47 gotta stop drinkin’ gotta start thinkin’ ‘bout what I’m gonna do once I graduate from Lincoln I can’t just keep slinkin’ from one hole to another & livin’ with my mother think I’m sinkin’ ‘till I smother brother, dig me out 48 we’ll always be harmless to society I can’t stand the irony when you have to eat your own shit just to survive you’ll get no sympathy I set myself free (community) my lawyer just shrugs what can anyone say I’ve been charged with irony & I can only plead guilty 49

NIETZSCHE rhymes with eat ya

50 (three/twenty-something/’96) In the past year I’ve lost:

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my trust in the night my belief in love my self confidence my patience my right to consider myself a child my virginity all the things by which I defined my “self” now I feel lost I no longer believe that I can effect the world I wish I smoked.

I am afraid.

I will obey.

51 more demanding than deserving much more wanting than ever worthy 52 country song: gettin’ minimum wage for a dead end job I’m not very smart I don’t expect to get far.

I believe in all the Christian morals & the inherently American edicts of liberty, whatever that means, & capitalism surplus of luxury products.

53 Abortion Burning Placental Bridge Blood sluices through my last ditch Burst in a cloud of red Brilliant crimson crowns my deflating head If only! If only — I could have died in that dream But birth blinded me with light & fear I learned the world was freezing & God an alien doctor as pale as dying If only! If only — But now I’m a man, lying furry on the floor my head in my hands & bursting sore All that I know for sure reminds me nothing is pure birchwood bones so brittle, bag of ketchup with a brain decanted Daddy’s seminal spittle I should have been a stain If Only! If only!

I could have know the scalpel’s glint rather than this loyalty by dint of being whipped Oh, dr. god! Why couldn’t you have shown mercy instead of sneeringly delivering me to the acidity that nursed me If Only! If only!

You could have killed me before I learned all the reasons to resent this life I never earned

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But you did the “Christian” thing and produced another martyr Now my life & death require some cause in order not to disappoint all the caring claws If Only! If Only! Even death is spoiled If Only! If only! I’d died when I was a boy.

54 angry little Aryan conceived in sin an offense too much to hide with blush let’s get baked & toss another faggot on the fire oppurtunities will still rush in & poverty can be forgotten perversity & loyalty another Nazi cowgirl who doesn’t wear panties the only difference between you & an angry loner is that you don’t know you’re alone so drink the drink & pass the bottle too fun to think to pass the point of no return & in the dark you know you really want to be tamed another W.A.S.P. with luxuries to burn.

So fuck the finks don’t dream the day when it may be your turn oh, beat me, beat me, rend me, bend me, render me in spurn 55 after reading the Doors of Perception • Philosophy is the ultimate searching.

Never the finding. The Never Finding.

To achieve permanent transcendence/ alienation/perception of : pure being/nothing... would be AntiPhilosophy • What life has the unliving object?

• (all I ever think about when writing is being cited in some student paper in the distant future, & blissfully misunderstood) 56 “funeral by funeral, science makes progress.”

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57 produced by playing “statement”) what does a verb have in common w/a noun?

What does your hair have in common w/your skin? where do we go from here? where haven’t we already been?

58 money’s the only drug we’re allowed it doesn’t expand our perception just lumps us into crowds give me the bill o’ frights but without the right to buy the only reason I need to buy a toothbrush is because I can’t TRUST the gov’t to give me a clean one & if I can’t trust the gov’t then I may as well try to fight it.

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We proceed not as religion tells us (from “dust to dust”) but from stuff (unconstituted existence) to dust.

We begin as globs of soft whiteness.

We end as grey powder.

But in between why must we be covered in hair?

61 Mommy’s hugs always left a bruise daddy only loved to disapprove don’t tell me I am free to choose I only ever wanted to have something to lose

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do I blame you? do I blame you? of course I do. & you should too.

62 to Alan re. moving to the country & starting our own militias. “we can be blood brothers & die fighting Babylon. Black helicopters will buzz our cabins. We’ll shake our fists at the man in the sky with the plan & the eye!” perfect thing to write in the yearbook of some girl I barely know: “you never said ‘hello’ to me in the halls. I assume this means that if we were to pass one another in the ‘real world’ we would ignore one another. And yet I feel very, very close to you.

Oh well; good luck teaching poodles to play the tuba or whatever it is that you do.”

— Johnny (or!)

“I bet you grunt like a pig when you screw; ‘cause you look like a real oinker.”

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If life were A marathon I would beat you To death Street corner Paul Don’t listen Romans A shedding of dead skins Words are the bones of the social beast Laugh only when your parents do Find their culture transferred to you I’m checking into America Carpets of green bridge the way to unseen The house desk is a blue beacon of beauty She shows me the way She wants me to pay I’m checking into America It’s a new generation of narrow mindedness Gone are the drifters Gone are the jesters Gone are true masters Gone is Pyramus Gone is Dionysus Gone are creators Gone are the satyrs It’s a new generation of class differentiation It’s a new generation of loathing and sin You were the raven of time who cast your shadow across my eye my friends hid under a burning bush but I’d always loved the sun so much Who are the shepherd’s dogs loyal to now?

Tickertape kings in Armani silk suits No one left to defend your youth T.V. is a one-way hood Blinding slaves from what is good The diary’s function is that of confession. Pages on pages of secrets to shed. Secret, pale friend. I’ve loved you. I know you. Everything.

Your lonely skin is parting to enclose me like an ocean Hanging in the carnal caves of mysteries forgotten Strange faces pass the constant Mute fire alarm All armed She hit me Caught longing for touch

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Rose petal of her skin To be near her is so little To be close is far too much I can’t touch the womb god Inspiration Drawn too slowly Drop by drop Will drive me crazy Strange stage stag cage Alignment of the planets’ rage To burn a hole through empty page The sunset striptease Touch is out of sight True vision just out of reach I’m sure this a contract breach Love love love is Rape of souls The ancient sacred lost Lesbian dream Hours are the stones of the days of the stream Reflections rushing by in water always seem clean Green full moon in a dark night sky For which the cats scream Piercing cries of holy water bleeding eyes You’ve married your father & your mother is reborn In your daily dying Hostility stalks the crowded halls Masked in faces blank as walls Steel womb worms Paint the roads magnificent Sunset hues Neon blood veins Oh well, alas.

What’s good for hurts is good for laughs.

The romance grew like a cough Constricting & choking & cutting off We were strangling each other With our intentions so aloft They meet like planets Orbit ‘round and spy They sneak and watch like bandits Every lover has a burglar’s eye (A man who got wise by being dead dancing angel once crackling said Sometimes we feel. but mostly we don’t.)

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Some said “all the eastern thought is true” & grew very fat & slow letting go they gave their jobs to easterners who’d long since become sour & cynical with western words and ways the tragedy of capitalism is that it mediates all expression into advertising TV is a commercial for its society “I am an American” doesn’t stem half as much from my living on American land as it does from my watching American TV. “I love this country” doesn’t mean that a human loves the land, it means that a citizen loves what’s on TV. All value derives from competition

censorship of facts vs. censorship of opinions “right” & “wrong” are just an unsatisfactory attempt to cleave the seperate realm of opinions into both “facts” (what’s “right”/ a posteriori) and “opinions” (what’s “wrong”/ a priori), and thus permit the continued, unfettered censorship of real information. you can’t out-vote the right to buy and sell “Socialism is mankind’s organised struggle against nature, to subordinate it to reason.”

— Luna Charsky (people’s commissar for culture)

“We can neither cure people nor do serious things. Just bustle, aimless bustle. And I have grown so tired that I cannot do anything.”

— Lenin, in a letter to Gorky (1921) It happens that we intentionally ignore and misinterperate things intended to be understood, to the end that we may later project this behavior onto all humanity, allowing ourselves the complaint that we are not understood.

Ugliness less beauty = nothingness.

Man can be more than the sum of his parts, but he can never be more than their difference. In this capacity man is the measure between any one thing & its opposite, which means he’s always twice what he fears he is, and half what he thinks he is. “geometry” — the growing walking stick the shirt is too long. (Help!) It must be taken back. everything is madness untruth & permission consent. the body(!) less than in death...

Russian Rule Let My Dream Come True I sit here, otherworldly, in otherwise

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an empty chamber my heart stagnates indignantly in the indignity of an empty chamber my brain paces, frantic for escape, its cell an empty chamber I feel like a bullet my mind is fully cocked the nozzle nuzzles up to my temple alas! an empty chamber can a can be a can if it’s not called a can? could your shoes still be your shoes if you weren’t really you?

True vision is silent True travel is endless True Love is dead! that’s why it’s true.

Life can’t be proved.

We begin empty live closed die rigid I don’t want to awaken to any real world I don’t know what I want I can’t make it with the words I learned or the art I was taught no imagination to invent a reason for me to feel this way.

I’ll die trying. do you know your empty soul have you dangled above that hole too massive to ever be filled by you and haven’t you ever let go? if it is true, as it seems, that people who purchase books are, themselves, in no danger of ever enacting the subject — then it means I am incapable of existentialist strength of will, Irina is unable to philosophize or Satanize her thoughts, my mother will never be anything other than codependent and a victim, Rick will not be avantgarde, his mother will never cook, garden or paint, Todd will never understand practicality in cause-effect relationships, Mike will never understand computers, science, music or God, John will never be Kurt Cobain and all my [high school] teachers are teaching the opposite of what they enjoy. This is fatalism, but it makes so much sense. If you have to read a book about how to do something, it’s unnatural for you to want to do it, and unlikely that you ever really will. philosophers are, to me, eccentric logicians attempting sterilely to answer the one question which cannot be answered by the other logical sciences (to which philosophy gave birth to solve each of the other five questions respectively). The only question which remains is: “why?” Once this question is answered, then what...?

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everything that motivates, controls you. You give yourself away. It takes you away.

You are moved. they discussed me rats in the walls or the chatting students next door?

Whatever. I killed a bug in the cafeteria with a Student Conduct Handbook When pride is stripped, people obey shamefully.

When shame is stripped, people are proud to obey. words like bare, embraced, receive, open, parted, waiting... become words like stripped, possessed, taken, spread, severed, pierced... so easily, it is terrifying I’ve never had anybody care about me enough to care about my behavior. so I never cared about it.

I just talk to people the way they talk to me. penis envy? birth envy... “mankind” is often neither You’re as stubbornly naive as me so why would I rob you of doing what I do, for love?

That many bad apples proves the tree is rotten.

“Don’t tread on me?”

You say this to me, then put your own foot in your mouth. How foolish to be both self-centered and self-conscious. you crack the whip I crack a smile we will not weep we’d rather die a lie is a joke you’re not supposed to get God is Dead & I am the executor of his will to power just because you don’t get it doesn’t mean it’s a joke words are soft spells if uttered correctly gently spoken

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incantations only the muse will know there is no meaning except in action and reaction little runaway life comes like a sneak attack kamikaze every night might makes right or wrong — our will pushes us around and out the door you could have been a young hero little runaway I got what I expected I got what I deserved I just didn’t get what I expected to deserve bliss has lips only enough to kiss itself in mute orgasm of existence no words, no connectedness we sleep together, we just don’t dream together you trust your friends because you want to. Then you look for excuses to believe that you can, ignoring the equal number of comparably logical reasons to be suspicious. losing sight of what I’m doing guess that old myth is true losing sight from what I’m doing whenever I think of you. how do you draw a feeling by the hand, take me back lead me home and make me feel draw me out and make me real I am watching you play with who I am losing all I love don’t feel like I can can you see me now I’m your perfect son long lost all I know now I play with who I am enjoy what you are whatever you may be “I stand by my words, yet my words stand alone. Where did I go?”

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Confuse us say: “building with strong foundation can be built very tall.”

I can feel you push against my hips... (laughter — female) (PUSH) (PUSH) (PUSH) (PUSH) (PUSH) (laughter — male, distorted, derisive) We’re all strangers.

I ordered the maggots. (not the can of worms) you may be looking back but something’s always coming you may be looking forward but you’re always losing something From dawn ‘till dusk it’s morning from dusk ‘till dawn it’s midnight in my world sunset releases magic 4:00 a.m. is the most real hour there’s only cops and robbers out like predator and prey there’s only prowlers out it’s much more honest than the lemon mists of day I am afraid I will obey All I fear: There’s no frontier constant pressing gray why won’t it rain it makes me feel guilty I weep for the sweet sad sky all day people walk alone bundled up against the cold frightened eyes peer out at me as I drift by Anyone who has to say “I think I can,” doesn’t actually believe they can; they are trying to trick themselves into success. You never hear yourself saying “I think I can breathe.”

There’s no doubt of that. Descartes subordinated human consciousness by saying “I think (I am) therefore I am.” Philosophy is the begining of self doubt. Why ask why? Jungle Law is embraced by those who do not feel vindication through fair play. The Will to Power’s target audience is the weak. she was narrow in her margins of consumption, and plump in her areas of offering Mirra Ginsberg and Walter Kaufman are the windows through which we see Mikhail Bulgakov and Friedrich Nietzsche like mirrors in which we see the painted masks we’ve made to decieve our “selves” and all the Other strangers they are the symbols which we believe

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notebook 1 all authors are ghosts in a strange diseased machine Apology I have always been A Being with no Past and no Future and I always will; For the moment is Forever

Film is water: at first you see only your reflection on the surface, but upon studying the shadow you cast across it it’s depth will be revealed. ether ore I mined my mind effrontery is all I’ll leave behind before it’s too lately I’ve been needing two of me one to be the lover and one to be loved by you standing beside myself standing outside myself a stitch in time saves nine I believe in personality only insofar as behavior goes. That is, when I go to write dialogue and I need two characters, I find it superfluous to invent whole backgrounds for them, whole psychological histories to justify their actions and their preferences for moods. I simply say the conflicting things I want to say through each of their mouths in turn, and whatever personality is necessary to them reveals itself gradually through this. More than what a stranger does does not persist, except for their capacity to love, to hate, inherent in the fact that they choose to exist. my body is a breathing stone growing weaker hourly help me...? hide in a poem as safe as the grave just write and rewrite it until the feeling’s gone away at least jocks and artists enjoy how they waste their time but there’s no rush of adrenalin in making overused words rhyme look not for anything new in po-imes it’s not the form for innovators the albatross’s cry annoys it’s only ‘mope’ spelled backwards shouldn’t all poems begin with “the” there are too many about “I” and about “me” remind me again because I’m lonely remind me again why I’m unloved...

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notebook 1 have I lost my appetite?

I only wish to consume things with my eye; hairlined labia lid open and drooling... see the world square through an imaginary screen; empirical evidence fermented into abstract wine; the camera is my bottle I am not the sober one not me I am an occuholic... cirhosis of the eye

better dead than red skin smells bad soap smells good let life be un-had so belongings could man is a bug-spy on god’s wall (that is to say, “i cannot become my father”) Over I insist ovarian cyst Convenience used to be me I’ve got an open mind I’m ready to accept the Big Idea All these witnesses just waiting for a crime Stanley Outstanding worms “what am I thinking?” is all I ever think I wonder if the worms know they’re only waiting on moving food to lie still enough to eat “Good” poetry is the absence of cliché Where do I get off being sad?

I who have more than I need more even than I want of things that do not matter to me.

I only want to be given something by someone who has more than me.

Do you not understand my suffering?

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notebook 1 For there is no such person.

Movies are wonderful for they allow audiences to learn from experiences without having to actually live through the sensations of suffering them (for example the long waits for the phone to ring) What is the difference between comedy and tragedy?

Comedy is when something bad happens to someone else.

Tragedy is when it happens to you.

Theater is a gay graveyard of phenomena.

My mother curled up with the dog sleeping still on the bed and rug the cat cries pussy wants to smell like fish so sad I feed her and forget my disturbed wish

dusty worlds built of collections of bled paper ruiner of dusty worlds bleeding through paper escaper, survivor, lover and hater laugher and crier destroyer creator smash the false sun the earth can never be the sun the moon can never be the earth power can never be the sun love can never be the moon and we can never be the earth there can never be anything new (run guns) on Big Business lobbying & contributing to the campaigns of politicians who support their causes

Is it not entirely reasonable to say that, should politics hope to maintain any semblance of of honor and virtue, the State should become the Mortal Enemy of Private Business, and that, should reason hope to survive beyond the prison of insignificant choices comprised by sensually appealing products of the free market, the State should emerge triumphant?

Communism constantly reminds one that their essence is soft by beating their will to a pulp. Freed from state constraints a body feels lost in the Free Market, where it is up to them to harden themselves in the direction that benefits them most. A good beating reminds a latent capitalist through deconstructivism that their will is an illusion, their virtues weak, their essence soft. violent shoe ads (ex. female mannequin legs stuck out of a trash can; a battered womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bloody, crying face with a shoe resting on the neck) are meant to appeal to S&M fetishists. But insofar as this consumer minority represents merely the social manifestation of the percent potential for such behavior inherent in each human

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mind, the ads appeal subconsciously to all. Of course, this can never be admitted. psychotherapy is a bourgeois concept, making confession increasingly unavailable to the poor by translating spirituality to a capitalist economy, selling absolution as “mental health” (a lack of spiritual or psychic guilt proportionate to the degree of personal conformity to social behavioral norms) and relegating the majority of unforgivable sins to the ghettos. Objectification through moral segregation of the poor is the first step towards violence against them.

Anything that divides groups in order for each to advocate their own self-interests has xenophobic results. Especially between men and women. Traditions, like the ritual of the sex act, come back to confront people in alien ways. Even in the sanctuary of Love people are becoming strangers to one another. the historical male monopoly on authority and control and the resultant stress therefrom are only an excuse for the abuse and oppression of women physically, which is truly mens’ only pleasure. (For a more accurate reading replace all occurrences of “men and women” in my writing with “strong and weak.”)

For men becoming more “feminized” denotes becoming weaker, more dependent, more submissive. Girls date rape guys.

Our society grows strong through sublimation of sexual desire. We build with the energy we would otherwise be using to procreate. We work jobs that we tell ourselves satisfy our ids and we buy objects onto which we can further deceive ourselves by misplacing our lusts. Our economy is based on fetishism of commodities, all sexual desire being dumped on items mass produced for our dependence.

Actual consummation produces a baby inconvenient to career interests and self-motivation (the social equivalents of perpetual sexual promiscuity). Fecund pubescent girls reproduce and move on rather than consume and move on, as is the rewarding norm. That is the only real reason why teenage parenthood is a “social problem.” It produces babies nobody wants to be responsible for and who are therefore inconvenient to the national economy.

Disparity of personal interests: the only things people have in common anymore are lust and property. For what they lust and the consequential accumulation of specific property (the two acts by which they define themselves) are frequently impossibly undesirable traits to other individuals. Under such conditions everyone is happy, as long as they are alone. Brotherhood is only possible among those who share a goal, and are defined collectively by their individual incapacities to ever acquire it. youth is to parenthood as trying to get away with it is to trying to protect your baby from it i am too close to my words they give me a headache life too objective writing too subjective unconnected rhymes perfect and empty vials for a moment’s bile

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thrown away in pretty wrappings i don’t like to write like this Otherness is a mirror reflecting one’s inner self. The more savagely one portrays the Other in their expression of the unknown, the more one reveals their secret fear of the savagery inherent in themselves. The more evil the Other seems to you, the more you need to seek it, the more you need to embrace it, in order to be cured of your fear of your inner self.

The hero married to the land the scorched earth that weary wife and how he abuses her, how uses her sets her free from gravity and she drifts beneath his wild feet no roots, no future, no sky, only him Savage man, builder of legends killer of gods, bitter Titan now he stands upon her whipped shoulders and barks commands, horns of the scapegoat, they wander into the wasteland and an old man in the crowd watches this upsetting spectacle occur and is, upon their disappearance, heard distinctly to remark “We’ll hear great things from them.”

To be hungry is to compete the field of beasts, seething with teeth to sleep is to purchase dreams the self-woven womb the perfect mommy It’s hard to go home when you live on the top of a hill Traveling to Pamplona where the horned deaths chase furious blood mad flood of ritual violence come with me a single word can change the world within Paranoia — the dis-ease of a weakening leader: suspicion of those who are following you.

When I was a hurricane boy and stormed with humid energy my mind growled and paced its cloud cage my soul rumbled like a heavenly train through me tearing me away You think you’re so much better than me & who am I to argue? next to you I feel weak & that’s the only reason that I like you.

How long would it take me to ruin your life?

In six months dark tears drown out yellow laughter

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Have I forever missed my chance at manhood curled in mud like a dog when I should be raping & ruining & ruling the world?

So easily replaced by proud conformists robot genius so much more attractive than broken dark master owner of no one; people want to be valued want to be obliged to people who want to obligate My pretty life is all used up I eat slime and waste my time I can’t even get out of bed Darkness is coming to town again Any moment the Devil might call Unless I call out to her first I have become a faggot angel I do not fight it I am one with gravity I kiss Isamu Noguchi we vomit at the politics of art for art goes beyond meaning to suggest the feeling of belonging.

Water and light are the flowing spirit stones stand straight like human beings Work is conversation amongst the artist striving to express the inconceivable In organic rock, soft and heavy...

Let the stone be a stone it’s alright to go in there Into the stone Like flesh the Stone Heals You were born to be behind the scene & I was born to put you there the only thing more frustrating than hateful atheism is pompous piety DEATH IS THE ULTIMATE ACT OF ASSERTING THE IMPORTANCE OF THE PAST OVER THE IMPORTANCE OF THE FUTURE. CONFORMITY IS THE ULTIMATE ACT OF ASSERTING THE IMPORTANCE OF THE FUTURE OVER THE PAST. LIFE IS THE ULTIMATE ACT OF ASSERTING NOW OVER THEN OR EVER. Infinite velocity Undo my belt Wild anchors clutch I just slough Climb up into the Internal frame Look out at the world Rushing by beneath I feel my feet Move my weight into

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notebook 1 The wild wind's embrace Flying out in open space I am finally free

The only cage you cannot escape from is the body, the idea of the physical.

The only thing more a waste of time than a question is its answer. forgiveness = quantitative degree of physical attraction. girl on fire with shame and lust mostly shame aroused to flame by lack of trust speaks words haught as a blush to melt the weak and invoke snowstorms in the indifferent Everything dies Everything falls into place The Coffeeshop I believe they go there to talk and drink coffee for a sad sense of community acting out a culture of acceptance in an impossibly vast world that resents and rejects them in the infinite indifferent universe differing pursuits how I hate them all all movement is unrewarding true power is the only power that interests me if the mountain came to me but wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it still just be a mountain? what I want is another human.

Liberal Bourgeoisie The first bird to begin chirping awakens all the others turning their stomachs no one later flies with him as they sing about what they were dreaming Birds, too, hate being dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slaves

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Is it more pathetic to laugh alone or to cry alone?

Is it more pathetic to eat alone or to drink alone?

Her smell forbidden smell terrible sweet spell conjuring heavenly memories rendering every moment since then in the broken golden glow and long dripping shadow spears of horrible hoary Hell My last days are all nights What I like is pulp-free orange juice If it is pulp-free I will like it What I like is submissive girls If she is submissive I will like her We suffer from objectified conditions symptoms of humanity I have chosen the identity of lacking an identity & I won’t know who I am if I’m not someone who doesn’t know who they are jisom is a scape goat exiled original sin blame it on the wilderness that we all exist in take a picture it will last longer than you take a picture it will take your place more personable it silently steals your face She has outgrown me I read over the writings

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that impressed her that convinced her I was worthy all lies and what is much worse very very stupid I do not change do not give her what she needs I am a lie and what is much worse She has discovered the real me Jake & I at the groccery store So many reasons to live, Son So many things to buy Can’t you see how bright life is Just look at all the packaging this artificial garden hanging from brick clouds and that tower whose soul is conflict are more perfect facsimiles of eden Father father your yard’s infested with centipedes please yell at me louder long distance is hard to receive How can jocks like Jim Morrison? How can athletes admire Dionysus? Is sports not, afterall, a kind of drunkenness? Is adrenalin not a kind of alcohol? When intoxicated do we not rape and hurt those who have allowed themselves to trust us, to be near us?

Is Pamela Susan not just a typical cheerleader, rewarding each new abuse with admiration, enabling her lover to seek greater forms of selfish power?

Nothingness permeates Being-in-itself in the form of potential — not the potential of alternative forms of being, as with being-for-itself, but in the form of non-Being, of non-existence. Beyond knowledge, life itself is permeated to the point of saturation by the shadow of death. Black holes are ideas of his own death in the universal mind of god.

My parents were priests. In rebellion to them, while at the same time not throwing away my heritage, I have chosen to want to be a philosopher.

Bataille’s style is made desperate by its desire for the impossible: to deny its own existentialism. His descriptions of his characters’ environments are as astounding as the lack of rational motivation behind those characters’ actions within them.

Desperately seeking some external order by which to define their behavior, they become immersed and begin drowning to death in natural, indifferent chaos.

I have lost my warmth for you not as a snow drift pure driven powder scaldingly frigid but as a cool spring breeze perfumed with flower-covered distant hills, lightly carrying the laughter of children running barefoot in soft grass the wisps of clouds dinner odors, and sounds, early evening

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Time to go home To want to live I must take pills my fam i ly leaves this to me gen e tic ten den cy for chem i cal de pen den cy When I am with her I am everything everyone I want to care about ever wanted me to be I am funny happy alive why do I not care more for her? “beautiful and free and sad” the bird with the bullet in its chest and you with your face beaming like a child full of belief a bird wanting to be shot less inspiring than merely annoying “having a big heart” is no excuse for heartless actions Love You said you never knew what love was and I couldn’t or wouldn’t believe you until you threw mine away but I guess I never knew what love was either because I had always thought you loved me What good does it do us to remain apart distant and independent so what if I should hit you or you kill me mind to mind geist without god, life without love, brains without hearts, and you, and I better every opposite searching for comfort the comfort of homes, of arms, of drugs, of graves love is the opposite of what instinct exists to save love is that which ever is sought but never regained

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love is the gone love is the absent I live with a composer who only eats tuna sandwiches and I am a dancer on the roof of all my sins Why is the empty glass screaming and screaming it should just be sitting there quietly on the table and why is the telephone ringing and ringing when you answer it there is only a dial tone fast car, pop music, sing along, you are not a hero life does not have a sound-track and if it did it would not even be music at all, no, only the garbled yammering of once human voices like comes over maddening police ban radio el stupido You do what you want wild woman wild man leave your mess behind never make up your mind Here I am in pain that you gave to me so that you could grow into something new you say I never change I am always whipped by people like you on your life long wild trip downtown inside each of these buildings is a group of human beings bent on ruling the world in some small way gossip is that, whispered, which wishes to be screamed out and acted against, but is so ashamed of its own existence that it lives only quietly, humbly, and repressed. are pets the reincarnation of past lovers not yet met? Will I meet a composer someday who will love me as does my cat, who will die, who will come back to me as I am to be fed cat food and petted distractedly, only to know me for my entire life, one way or another?

Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien was very proud of his friends and his family both, so long as they remained seperate. He would never dream of asking his closest acquaintence to baby-sit for him so that he could spend more time with his wife. The thought that his two greatest loves could exist together in a room without him, the door closing them in behind his back, mortified him. His worst fear was the only fact: his life didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need him in order to survive...

Can we have a collective society without a single, dominant patriarchal figure?

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Nationalism wants one body with a million heads — incapable of moving toward self-preservation.

Communism wants a million bodies of one mind... populism and capitalism — the popular, the best-selling, opium of the masses... so colorful... so free...

Anything immediate, shocking, un-liminal, increases sales.

Classical Greece had a pantheon of Gods Perhaps Classical America can have a disparity of Gov’t.s ALL RULES DO NOT APPLY TO ALL GAMES Film is the artificial window, expanding the perception of our freedom by being projected against the wall of authority. Blur the borders between addresser and addressee, between Self and Other.

We clasp fingertips and stroll low gravity through the lunar film archive, heavy hollow bone, where silence has pulverizing mass, immense subterranean cathedral the deep salt mine, receding into tenebrous forever and past, frigid metal shelves, and imperially brittle stillness... crinkling Nitrate... all the knowledge of history the mind of Alexandria ate itself in patient, orange, ash Loss of Love for the Other (increase of Love for the Self) = lack of interest in the shared past or the present moment (increase of interest in the personal future — greed for new and different experiences). Interest in the future (even on the personal level) is good for the building of society; so in a capitalist economy, love is expendable. Like a hungry stomach, eating itself, hollowing out the body.

Revolution it is the ruddy hand that sets down its hoe, simple wooden tool, floats through space, to grip the gun, that machine; guides it into the mouth, calming the hot wind of opinions; and pulls the trigger; blowing out the brains.

Why should we pity our leaders, and expect of them only as much as we would expect from a “common” human? So that they should be just with us? Should we forgive them their injustices that they should (but never do) forgive us ours? If they are a leader they are above the “common” humans whom they lead. They should expect no support from behind them, they should not require any recompense for their leadership. They should not be just out of the hope that the masses be just with them, because the masses, without a strong example, quickly forget about order and morality and allow a leader far too much leeway in regards to behavior. No, a leader should be just because a Leader Is Just. And any leader worth following needs no

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more immediate or more visceral reason.

I am only a child, moans the old man on his death bed, I have seen the Other Side.

Do not cry fellow old man, I at eight hold tight his frail hand, our home is that long lost land. (line from a gangster script) “Kid, the power a beautiful women can make you think you have over her is enough to make you crazy, to make you do stupid things like you think you have that much power over the entire world. Listen to me now, kid, ‘cause I want to tell you something serious and important to your future, to the rest of your life: Never trust a beautiful woman.”

“Why can you not love me?” screams the proletariat to the borgeoisie “you’re so perfect. You’re everything I want to be.” hysterical regeneration evolution at gun point desperate denials of temptations like love, happiness and salvation I wish there was a god I wish there was so I could have some one to cry out to so I could have some one to blame I wish there was a god above or anywhere so I could have a little direction to run so I wouldn’t be completely enclosed in fear that summer why didn’t I trust you butter you were pretending to be my kitten so aloof I thought you didn’t mind my not realizing your desires I was a desperate fool who didn’t know why I didn’t feel at home any more I thought you were too good to be true too good to be with someone like me it was important that I be right but I can’t remember why we argued over butter I want to bite you and never let go Lying on the floor knowing you were upstairs the last good sleep I ever had I remember the view from every window of the house where you broke my heart Your eyes are breaking glass I cannot look at you the crash

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notebook 1 your body is a song in a thunder storm I mean what you want me to mean you only want me to be more

truth is that which cannot be denied beauty is that which pleases the eye so “truth is beauty, beauty truth;” and if all our eyes totalled but two then this equation might be true.

I stumble I am damned why am I admired is everybody blind?

I am going to fall.

It is my only hope that I can finally rest.

There is no more gold in American hills the western and the gangster film our only glimmering ocular jewels are heroes who break honor’s rules I loved her freedom Existence preceeds essence so essence cannot defend existence it is a weak and flimsy mask thrown up to hide us from ourselves and the shame of the Other’s gaze essence is soft and malleable the will desires to be broken but existence is far softer the tender flesh so easily rent the body wants to die once exhausted now discarded in the vaccuum what you fear afterburner space flotsam empty floating upper atmosphere meaning: thought: mind: brain as a feeling: emotion: soul: heart (a meaning can be equivalent to love, joy, even hatred.)

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The sun has sunk his fingers into a swamp full of menstrual blood & now he stretches them out across the golden sky in wet, red ribbons Sociological effect sex: creative violence: destructive • exposure to sex would make a child introverted — obsessive/compulsive — because of socially applied shame for the natural, physical creativity of existence. Sex has romantic physical appeal because it is shameful to the essence.

• exposure to violence appeals to children because it is a way of acting out, of extroversion, which romanticizes the responsibilities of maintaining the essence. Violence has romantic mental appeal because it is shameful to existence.

The 20’s as the opposite of the 60’s — push for pleasure by the Right, push for morals by the Left vs. push for pleasure by the Left, push for morals by the Right.

He is curtains of complex clashing colored patterns draped before a brittle window lashed by frigid night behind so fragile my past friend I must be careful with him In the overly beuracratic prison of high school they brow beat us to be individuals, punishing any who stood out from the group to advocate a better good for the whole group; in the open-minded, subjectively-structured commune of college they appeal to each of us respectfully, intellectually and without the weak need for punishment to accept dialectical reasoning and sociological collectivism: Pure American Irony.

In the sixties it probably happened, when everything was drugs and protests and Rights and free love, that experience began to be valued based on quantity, not quality, in America. Now an urban ten year old can seem more enlightened in the ways of the weary world than a sheltered fifty year old man, and wisdom is judged based on how jaded you are. Of course this makes for a better capitalist, more conscious of the market, more careful with investments and more certain about the quality of products, putting the focus clearly where it belongs: on the self.

Communication among bodiless brains — no symbolic interaction, pure impressionism. Bourgeois, modernist, limitless science ala Burroughs, the Great White Space Hunter. shocked male response to a nude woman, like the crowd around O, proves the power of the person who rendered her thus over the entire crowd. The naked symbol.

There is no such thing as a “lower life form.” All beings that are alive now have, through evolution, survived for exactly the same amount of time. The only measurable difference is ability to manipulate the environment (i.e. through technology).

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If the criteria upon which man judges himself “above” the cockroah is only number of survival-necessitated mutations throughout the millenia, then why is man so afraid of further alteration to his body, such as its physical synthesis with the body of another, or of a thing?

After the car crash, when, as the paper put it, Justin “lost” his legs, his mother couldn’t cope with it. She looked for somebody to blame for his changing rather than accept that now she had to get to know the new Justin, The Altered Justin.

Things We Aren’t Supposed To Eat, an ongoing list (by Jon Gee) feces, urine, menstruation, human flesh, dust, dirt, stone, many artificial chemicals, paper, hair follicles, fabrics, plastics, metals, wood, many forms of vegetation (including grass), certain curative pills and medicines (notably addictive drugs), finger- and toe-nail clippings, any parts of machines, glass, gasoline, fresh blood, feathers, teeth, paint, living or raw meat, (In opposition to the bourgeois existentialism embodied in the assassin’s slogan concocted by Hasan-bin-Sabah, Old Man of the Mountain, and important to William Burroughs: “Nothing is true; everything is permitted.”) “EVERYTHING IS TRUE!” we live out other people’s dreams. Most of the time we don’t even get to meet these people. I do not mean to say that there is a conspiracy controlling us with their expectations. I mean simply that, the compromises upon which our lives are founded are the dreams of people who could not achieve them because they, like us, had to compromise instead. At the same time, strangers have settled for the lives we always wished to lead. In this regard we are all equal: one man’s trash is another’s treasure, but no one is really satisfied.

him: “... a gradual thinning out of the herd, culminating in the survival of the strongest of each group.” me: “& then these few will just get along? It will be a passive utopia established exclusively by savagery? Even in Harding’s life-raft metaphor, eventually they will have to resort to eating each other, until only one survives, and then even he will die, of starvation.

“This type of romantic self-destruction is exempletive of the luxurious approach to life that typifies both Dionysian youths and Republican elders; it leaves no room for the idea of a future. The ‘la-la-la-la-la-la-la-live for the day’ mentality shared by hippies and yuppies makes me sick.” my mind cries words drying ink I write poems because I’m weak.

I cannot enforce my borders; the words are refugees from the dictatorship of my mind.

The labor force escapes.

I cannot live.

I hate my opinions.

You make me feel; neither of us control that & it scares you, it hurts my pride; but it’s true. That’s why I can say I’m in love with you. If I just “loved” you, I could turn that off if you hurt me, or restrict it determined by logic. But I can’t. It’s just a fact, that can’t be controled. That shouldn’t be.

For as long as I can remember having recognized it, it has bothered me that music does not follow you out of the room, does not get out of the car and wash around you like an aura, like a swarm of birds as you walk away. Life does not have a soundtrack.

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Existence is definitively without theme. I do not believe my discomfort with this is personal. I believe it is universal. Sorrow at the discrepancy between real life and the ideal life accessible only in the movies (where there is no uncertainty of delivery, and ellipses in time rob us of the agonizingly unimportant) is an irreversible human condition. There, on the screen, is the home of our exiled dreams.

Shall we say that exagerated gender characteristics, such as unhealthily large muscles on males and thin wasted, big breasted females, are what appeals to children, or shall we say that that is what they are given? Shall we say that they like the flavor of symbols of brawn and self-reliance, and mistrust symbols of equality and interdependence, or shall we say that they eat what they are fed in order to survive?

Survival: eating whatever you are fed and learning to like it.

She wants to travel within worlds of insanity as an excuse for the inexcusable illogic of being incapable of knowing what she wants.

The art movements of high modernism are appealing in their impatience. There was a meticulous attempt it almost seems, which carried over into some post-modernism, to make it seem that as little time was spent on a thing as possible. This is the move toward perpetual revolution embodied in the static media. The institutionalized revolution of an abstract sculpture, or the fifteen minute fame of pop-culture housed in the repeating, varied color graphic print. As with all attempts to combine the subjective and the objective it has only produced disappointing reminders of the imperfect nature of humans, and the need to continue striving for synthetic evolution, to keep experimenting with art, as nature does with living bodies.

Prevalence of New-Age Health books which simply attempt to incorporate the body into the Western definition of the Self.

Shall I vomit bile for you to bare my soul or express my love for you which resides inside my very flesh in a jet of blood?* *(see plays by Antonin Artaud) The Revolutionary Lie (the lie of the revolutionary): “it is important that you receive this message quickly.”

“It is important that you understand what we have come to understand. It is essential to your survival that you are changed by this new understanding as we were.”

[Society does not exist in this moment.]

Like an electron circling a nucleus, Civilization only exists at any given instant within a probability field.

It cannot be observed directly, the subjective which defies objectification.

To see a movement you must see the bodies it has created for itself, its products, but by then it is static. Its bodies dead. You cannot see society because it is movement itself. It constantly precedes itself by a single second.

You must look at it out

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notebook 1 of the corner of your eye. It must appear as unfocused as a character in a dream.

What represents hope?

Give hope a body so I can kill it.

People are 90% water.

You do not eat them so much as drink them.

(My lover’s flesh was dry to the world, only I knew it was truly wet inside) Knowledge is power without emotion.

Wisdom is love without logic.

Let us also say that Soviet Communism was love without emotion and American capitalism is power without logic.

Where did you learn to be people? . . . and when I die, I will smile.

Shall we say that people are sheep? Do sheep so actively seek to be led? The person around whom many have gathered in admiration is inflated by their attention to the extent that he may satisfy their expectations. Who he is, that is, how he defines himself by what he does (what makes Pablo Picasso different from Adolf Hitler, and Adolf Hitler different from Albert Einstein) is of little consequence to those humans he attracts. They see the strength of his beliefs and are overwhelmed with submission. What the Leader brings to the relationship is inconsequential, except in some small, small degree to the preservation of his memory. His authority he derives from the Other People around him. He feels his emotions inflating to uncontrollable proportions beneath their collective, expectant gaze, and the glee on their faces at each new outrage suffered at his hands drives him to greater and greater extents of performance. They desire to be shocked while remaining civilized; they desire to feel alive without acting out in a way that would remind them of their precious mortality.

They have come to him to find the wild within themselves safely externalized, reflected in the body of one made worthy of it simply by not being them. And they make him worthy. For them, he has no choice but to become a dictator. on this day I love you on this rainy rainy day where are you in another’s arms somewhere far away beneath the rain on this day I need you make this terror fade away let me hold you, impossible closeness until our selfish motives melt until beneath this thunder storm inside us we can feel at home again we can stand together inside love inside each others’ arms

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leaning against each other and swaying at this moment in this day beneath relentless lonely drizzle Here are the things that do not matter: 1) Politics. 2) Film.

Here is the thing that does: Her, Irina Victorovna Strelets.

This is the only thought that I have because it destroys all others.

I look at my skin in the mirror and my mind reminds itself that “I” am a being who will not exist.

Mother why does the sky beat the ground with chaos weather lash the fertile fields with lightning scorch the valleys with wet rain and flood the deserts in spite of themselves?

Father I hang my head upside down till it fills with blood and my eyes bulge out, pretending the earth is taking her turn on top of the sky and gravity is reversed and I’m falling and falling and falling out of the blue and into the black of the bottomless, topless, weightless universe The division of dramatic form in Renaissance Italy may offer an example of distinction between class-based ideologies as initiated by the rich, who had the authority to do so. “Comedy was said to draw its characters from the middles or lower classes, to base its stories on domestic and private affairs, to have happy endings, and to imitate the style of everyday speech. Tragedy was said to draw its characters from the ruling classes, to base its stories on history and mythology, to have unhappy endings, and to employ lofty and poetic style.” (from History of the Theatre, seventh edition, by Oscar G. Brockett) Shall we say that I am a tragic hero, a warrior-poet who seeks with unhappy results the unattainable evil of the Impossible, or shall we simply come to the fact at heart and label me bourgeois? This, however, raises the notion of the Prolet-Comedian, and of course — revolutionary laughter.

A weak human will tend to be fascinated by the genitalia of the opposite sex, possibly orally, as if it were a substitute for a breast, upon which they feed. It is their god.

Civilization is propagated by surrogation. Co-workers are the surrogate family; the television is the surrogate mother; the machine is the surrogate worker; friends are surrogate lovers; work is surrogate sex; art is surrogate experience; the mind is a surrogate body. Preferably all surrogates are non-generative by nature, and require artificial assistance in order to produce. In many cases this gap is bridged by altering the psychology of the individual subject through alteration of the surrogate’s image; for example, making the workplace more domestic by determining roles by gender (“masculine”-aggressive or “feminine”-passive). A fetish object may be imbued with exactly as much seductiveness as an attractive human with the proper conditioning and socialization. This provides more control of a subject by confusing their natural drives with artificial lusts benefitional to civilization, even if at risk to the subject.

History is Dr. Frankenstein’s monster: dead tissues, imbued with artificial life by those desperate to establish a new order, and, like the mind itself, desiring its

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own death as a release from the fate of owing its existence to a creator.

In these two pictures are her only two remaining faces.

I can live with this.

If I ever see her form with those flesh painted muscles on the front of her skull an expression more than either of these two it will be too much for me.

One face is silly, impossibly gleeful, false and repulsive in cartoonish exaggeration.

The other is flat, so completely unreadable, so totally subjective and pierced by icicle eyes.

Neither one is her. Neither one is even human.

I cannot live with human.

It is too much, too much, too much.

Proof of semi-independent evolution of the body and the brain: That a cat can wish to have a beak, like a bird, or to fly; and that the brain of a dog can long to possess the agility of a cat’s body.

Evolution has, like god, given us the bodies into which our consciousness awakens, but our consciousness, the consciousness of all conscious beings, is outgrowing the limitations of our bodies. Soon, the entire body will be an appendix to the brain.

Can we not perhaps suggest that all impulses, currently resurfacing as the irrepressible urge to destroy oneself in pursuit of the impossible, all uncivilized impulses, all impulses that is, which appear destructive to the ego (the essence) or the existence, are the remnants of an original set of instincts inherent in the flesh of the body, but necessarily overridden by the domination of the colonial mind.

How do we find a way to communicate with our bodies? Where do we begin to look?

Many drugs allow the brain to experience more directly the sensations of the flesh, but only at a cost to the flesh, and are usually used for little more than a luxurious extension of control by the brain. Acid is a vacation the mind takes into the body.

Drugs, thus, do not serve the purpose of uniting the body and mind (and thus the proletariat and the bourgeoisie), as many hippies might have hoped.

“Mommy, before that scary man came into our lives, we were different people. Why can’t we go back to being those calm, unafraid people we were before?”

We become, through synthesis, the sum of ourselves and our reactions to Others. This reaction becomes as unrelated to the Other who provoked it, and as inherent to our self definition, as an arm or hair. It is us. We become afraid. Thus we change.

Revolution is laughter exploding reality forced, and cruel when prolonged Communism guilt 1917 was a sneeze Joseph Stalin said gezundtheit “Is it possible,” he allowed himself the bourgeois indulgence of wondering aloud,

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“that the cycle of beliefs during a human lifetime which I so dreaded in my youth, and which I now accept in an indifferent silence of preoccupying habits, is not socialized and learned, but occurs naturally, biologically? Is it not possible that the pattern of liberal puberty and conservative senility is as much a part of our existence as the flesh of our bodies itself?”

I ruined our love by trying to change it, by pushing it deeper and deeper into myself.

I exposed it to parts of myself that should never be exposed, thinking it was improved by the consequential pain, the guilt. I robbed it of its false, brittle veneer of fertility.

It was a knife that, too long soaked in the blackest of my warm, slow blood, has rusted.

And there she left it to remain within the wound, to fester. The unclaimed excalibur, wretched in my mind, which its disintegration leaves poisoned through and through.

21 (no explanation) until then I live awhile, doing nothing. forgiving no one. (especially myself) Society is the art of man trying to representationally, objectively, control Time.

(First it must be said that God is the humanized face of Time.

Second it must be said that the only God is a human who controls the masses through a prevalent system.)

Morality is the shadow of mortality. The memory of a future event cast back by the light of something greater which lies even further beyond it — that is, the unknown.

Morality is life within the wall of death, aware of its shadow, made cold within that shadow only by the suspicion of something extraordinary lying behind that ultimate barrier of authority.

Capitalism will eat itself: rewarding scarcity of supply with value, come the days of Great Depression, when cash itself is disappearing, we’ll all sing the songs we used to fear the days we’d want to sing.

How I hate all poetry, soured by homesickness, lovesickness; how I’d love to put a gun down the throats of every poet who wants to cheer.

Three hoorahs for the “bravery” of needing to write poetry and here’s a metaphor for you: lipstick bullets and a red, wet kiss like snapping thunder.

There will be a global economy; and there will be a single government; and there will be an nationless society; and there will be a human culture; and people will accept this. If they could accept now, while resources remain relatively plentiful, that this global community could recognize the surpluses of the wealthy as the supply of the poor, filling their shortages, promoting the survival of the entire species and the health of the entire planet, it could be a utopia. We would all have

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enough to live happily with no need for conflict.

But no one will accept this now. We are people and, as people, will stubbornly choose to do what we want rather than what we should. We are gifted with consciousness, and thus able to understand that we can choose to act in a way alien to instinctual savagery; but we take this gift for granted as unique to each of us, forgetting about the future and about everyone else, thinking only of ourselves, and thus end up acting on forethought only as much as is made necessary to our survival.

So we will not act towards a global community until we begrudgingly see it as a need, until we have already begun to lack the supply of resources required for our overall survival; in other words, we will not act to fend off impending peril until the end has already begun, until it is too late. Therefore this potentially perfect form of mass-organization will be, when it is made real by desperate, starving fools, no more efficient and no more far-sighted than any current government. It will be exactly the same as those which exist now, and be governed by the exact same idiots selling short-term promises. It will be exactly the same; just larger.

Self-definition (that is, the act of achieving a false sense of self-realization through a continuous process of self-actualization) is dependent on surrogates. First the original, or natural, prop by which one’s character is defined must be lost to them in some way. Then, a fetish-object must be chosen to replace it.

As a psychological theory, this Existentialism (most apparent in the Oedipal Complex-based system of capitalism — replacing the father with work and the mother with purchasing) directly conflicts with Psychoanalysis (which clearly delineates the superego of the State as good and necessary for the suppression of the greedy, selfish will of the bourgeois Id).

Corporations are Mouths (vagina den tata) The soul DIES, buried in dust, in empty, hopeless time. . .

Time is the existence of god God is the essence of time Fall In Upon realizing that you are fragile (irony) there are two general responses: 1) to behave delicately, to wish to avoid being broken, to fear the wind (conservative, true of either left or right), or 2) to appear rigid and inflexible, to apply yourself against others and to risk being shattered in the act if only to attempt finding one beside whom you are more real (liberal, true of any individual on the right or of revolutionaries on the left).

Maturity: “your problems are not my problems.”

Respect = recognizing the ability of the Other to manipulate your expectations (mind) Love = experiencing the ability of the Other to manipulate your emotions (nervous system / body) I am through with the wrong words I used to sing and mean Now I know the real words that don’t mean anything to me.

She is through with me and the world will soon be through with both of us. excerpt from the crucial moment of a romance script

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X. “Answer me one question: Are you lonely?”

Y. “I don’t think this —” X. “It’s not some kind of leading question to discover if you’re ‘with’ somebody, I don’t care about that. Just take it as it is; a yes or no question. Are you lonely?”

Y. (looking down) “... yes.”

X. (looking away) “so am I.” (a pause. they kiss) in a baggy sweater and sweat pants, hugging a thick book, hiding in hair, the abandoned lover returned to mumbles, “I don’t deal well with Freedom.” poetry is for pubescent girls music for lonely older boys money for upright young men love for lustful, Luteal women drama and art for furious fools religion for all unloved tools government for impotent old farts sex for dandies and for tarts it seems the world falls at your feet but nothing appeals at all to me a little girl lifting a purse the cries of parking lot sea gulls fed on garbage and subterfuge Freedom is just a commercial only the color of revolution is red in Soviet Russia the Dictatorship of the Proletariat never got around to withering away, but the true color of communism — when man has totally internalized the dictum, “from each to each” — is blue (witness the UN) In my previous incarnation I believe I must have been an imperious Islamic Sultan, the master of many wives, slaughterer of many hundreds of Jews. For now I feel an affinity to the middle east, but a simultaneous dread of my capacity for potency, a fear that hurls me backwards into effeminate socialism and allows me to gasp for air only in explosive fits of indirect passion. my brain sabotages my heart’s desire to get by needing nothing much my brain sabotages my heart’s aspirations to be moved by the slightest touch I die on my feet on the shoulders of giants who live on their knees pride the waste of humility you’d be surprised with what you’re allowed to get away with if you follow the rules

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static the white froth on the sea of gradually swelling tones sliced by dorsal fins smooth gray yacht sails slyly divide the green sea black beneath its silent deeps there is no room for me between the ocean and the sky I sink or rise according to where I aim my eyes convince me with revelry press the flesh in throngs at dawn seal the deal with a smile sell us on the surface sacrifice all sacrifice immediate future of easy virtue bending the law over and breaking its spirit how very, very, very nice I like love so much but I don’t like life at all. there’s just no way that anyone can use their lips for anything except kissing without pissing other people off; language is just like monkeys flinging shit.

If it can be said, it can’t be good because it has been apprehended by the brain taken from the body, pure emotion, wet sensation and given back to it in dead, dry words even the mouth-sound “love” cannot describe that feeling too immense to be captured in a net of woven words, that ecstasy that remains unnamed incomprehensible Women of the Yellow Body (jaundice and progesterone, post-ovulation) “practical” men are just those men who quickly resort to physical force (note the similarity thus between Vladimir Lenin and Ronald Reagan) Why do jocks and preppies drink so heavily, almost as if they are trying to kill themselves or each other, during their youths — especially during their spring and summer breaks from school?

Perhaps because they are preparing to renounce all immediate living and accept full responsibility for maintaining the wealth of their family and the bourgeois social class. They abandon themselves to themselves in the moment so that

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later they will not waste time complaining about missed opportunities to gain quantitative experience, and can fully abandon themselves to themselves in their perpetual planning for their personal and familial future. By using chemicals that affect their bodies they even undermine their minds’ ability to choose not to seize the day, such as it is, or, alternately, to change it into something better. brief argument against personal bliss Love is the utopian way, not joy: when everyone loves each other joy follows naturally, shall we say — the state is contingent upon active participation; but when everyone achieves independent joy they have no use for other souls except as subjects for their glad outpourings.

Yes it is true that, for a brief period during my late youth, I fancied the only undertaking monumental enough to call worthy of my energies would have to be the destruction of either the entire human species or the entire planet Earth. I had set my sights on the obliteration of human free will, but then got distracted by a love affair the affect from which I have never recovered myself, nor, as I’m sure you can see why, do I foresee ever wishing to. I hope you can as easily release as apprehend my immature philosophical folly, for it can be grasped by little more than an understanding of my age; afterall, which of the two, between the proposition I considered and its opposite — by which I mean of course to save rather than destroy, would you expect to be more likely to enter the mind of one so distracted by his passions as a boy on the threshold of manhood?

After hanging out with Angela, Jackie, Julie, Ann, Bill, John, Faith, Jason French and Candice (Candy) the Communist (John’s boss and Jason’s girlfriend), a troubling feeling of desolation; as though I were incapable of feeling. I don’t feel lonely, as I would ordinarily. Rather I feel bored to a point of violent agitation, and desire to destroy the personal property of the rich.

I tell John I want to replace the pictures I have around my computer of Irina with pictures of my friends. “Good for you,” he says. But I do not love my friends. Do I really want to begin becoming the type of man who must reward his inability to love because it is his single defining characteristic?

The problem with travel: No matter where I go, I will still be myself.

There is nowhere you can go in the world that will completely transport you out of your self, or transform you for even a moment into a new person.

Going anywhere only makes you wish all the more to change who you are.

It is this wishing that gives you the illusion of strength enough to grow.

(My)

Three Levels of Inter-Personal Attraction: 1) the physical (I list this first because I am attracted in this way to the greatest number of souls, mostly only hapless bystanders) 2) the intellectual (applicable to fewer individuals)

[“LUST”] - body [“RESPECT”] - mind

3) the emotional (true in regards to none; once there was one, but no longer) [“LOVE”] - soul * attraction on all three of these levels simultaneously to someone must be the best potential event horizon in which to seek the elusive definition of “TRUE LOVE”

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I have no idea what I believe. I followed my desire to destroy free-will from an interest in individualism to an interest in communism, which seem, except in that single respect, to share no common terms whatsoever. On the one hand is revelry, the extreme of which is a man flagellating some body for pleasure. On the other is morality, the extreme of which is a man flagellating himself as punishment. I do not wish to be either of these men. I do not know what I wish. Things change. I grow without knowing why. I am confused by the passage of time. Just dropping a line.

Society, based as it is upon production of surrogates, must necessarily assume a facade of re-creation — that is, the artificial reproduction of something natural and doomed as an act of joyous self-actualization. For example, the payed vacation which briefly allows one to pretend they have regained the freedom of youth; making work appear rewarding is the best insurance that society will be maintained.

“Work is freedom”

—> hard work brings financial success, which is equivalent to freedom from economic worry. Capitalism = totalitarian fascism in disguise. Founded on Calvinism.

Capitalism is agitation without propaganda, except for that which idealizes as Democracy and freedom agitation without propaganda I find myself saying the opposite of what I think, and thinking the opposite of what I used to. I find myself saying the opposite of what I used to say, when I used to say the opposite of what I used to think. I see Enrico watering the pavement around the pumps at a gas station next to Mike’s Beer Barn across from the State College campus at four in the morning. John makes jokes about stultified ambition. The world rotates.

Artists, the love-objects of Nietzsche; how I hate them. You have to put a gun up to their heads to get them to acknowledge that there is a world outside themselves, or that they are dependent upon others for the survival of their body. It further becomes necessary to cock back the hammer should your desire be to provoke the artist to say anything unselfish or anything of social relevance. And the only way to encourage the artist to make a difference in civilization is by pulling the trigger and releasing the bullet into their brain; this final act greatly improves the entire world.

How wonderful your life will seem when all you do is maintain routine How somnolent and similar to dreams acting only as your environment deems We, by which I mean Western Capitalists, tend to assume that the skill with which one expresses themselves relates directly to the quality of that which they express. For example we admire the writer who, more eloquently than most, conveys to us the same feelings we have. We admire that writer while (in fact, by) forgetting ourselves, imagining that they are describing emotions to which our own ability to feel could never aspire. All people feel the same feelings. Or, further, we appreciate the painter who develops a new style, forgiving them with our ignorance the annoyance of neglecting to simultaneously acquire poignant subject matter. We place upon a pedestal the talented performer who repeatedly portrays the most reprehensible and irresponsible characters. To create is more than to mutate experimentally, it is to generate without necessary preconception; it is to imagine something totally new instead of recreating some ancient object in some new way; yet we hail content-redundant artists as the cutting edge of creativity.

A further question: why, when an artist like Griffith, Rimbaud, or Michelangelo, comes along and says something new in a fantastic new way, does what they say always tend so drastically to embrace conflict? Let us suppose that they feel scorned and seek vengeance; this is a forgivable motivation. But then let us admonish them for seeking to behave like spoiled children

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in spite of classical recognition. The products of good minds who produce evil works intentionally are twice as evil as those works produced by foul minds seeking to exploit a prevalent trend in style.

When one acquires, it is impossible, contrary to popular belief, for them to do so exclusively out of love for self. It requires, for it to be successful to any significant degree, something more potent and empowering than mere affection, which tends to weaken and sentimentalize rather then to strengthen and fortify. For one to acquire any appreciable amount it is necessary that they hate others. They must feel that they are doing battle with those whom they deprive of their property, and that this struggle is, furthermore, originally the fault of those whom they are depriving. It is necessary, in other words, not simply to say that the Jews, for example, own everything, but it is necessary to say that they stole it from its original and rightful owners, the Aryans. Thus one can gather more than is necessary to their survival only when one has convinced themself that it is already theirs and that their ownership of it is being threatened by those who are currently in possession of it.

Having identified those whom one will hate as any who hold that which one fancies, one has now fully donned the role of the capitalist-as-criminal, recognizing in his natural gestures the loathsome, internal undertow of envy, and recognizing the swill churned up from this lack in their character as pride. Not only does such a person acknowledge that property is theft (by claiming that their stealing from you is justified by your stealing from them — all part of the grand “game” of social Darwinism) but they willfully commit it with the specific intent to wound those whom they deprive. They sell out of hatred for those who buy and take out of hatred from those who provide, their abuses never motivated by any interest in the product. idea for a short story: a traveler meets a leper along a road in the middle of nowhere in particular on a particularly gloomy day. Having no better way to waste a few idyll moments the fool inquires of the leper the good man’s name. The answer, arising in a muffled mumble through the many layers of cloaks concealing and holding together the stranger, is “Kabbala.” “But surely,” says the hero naively, “this is the name of an arcane system of metaphysical reasoning attempting to explain and therefore control the forces which govern man’s ideal routine.” He attempts to unravel the man from his robes in order to evoke a clearer answer. He unwraps and unwraps and unwraps him from his bandages until he finally lays bare the substance of the man.

It is nothing, and he is left alone again on the long road beneath the rumbling sky, holding in his sagging palms the remaining rags, which tug gently in the wind like a child who wishes to be let loose to play and go exploring.

Alright. Here is the compromise I am loathe to offer myself: Yes, being in love with Irina was the best thing that will ever happen in my life (idealism); and No, it was not so perfectly wonderful as I wish it was (realism). And now what?

Let us turn our attention to John Lydon, who reminds us that, “everything is mediocre,” and to the most wonderful Dorothy Parker, whose advice is to recall that, “everything is always worse than you expect.” There is a certain arbitrary emptiness inherent to every individual event, which one likes to kill themselves trying to fill up with explanations. I am not a “better” person just because I am a different person.

Can I have lived my entire life based on the advice from some Chinese restaurant place mat or some thick book?

Yes, I’m afraid there is no other way.

We make a decision and then conceal it from ourselves perhaps years later

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notebook 1 if it proves a failure we’ll blame it all on someone else She was faking her orgasms

(“She chose not to maintain our relationship because that was too much of an effort with far too few and slow rewards, and she chose drugs and friends and fun instead.

And so I hate drugs; maybe more than I’ve ever hated anything.

And I’ve never much liked my friends; I never could forgive them for not being her, for not deserving my love.

And I hate fun; for those who have fun would do so even at the expense of others.

Let us say, if murder was their fancy, then, of course.

Or the Marquis de Sade. Is it wrong to hate the Marquis de Sade?

How could something so popular be a mistake?”)

But even she was not so special.

She whom I can never love again.

She whom I am giving up forever condemning she who condemned into the violent winds. the sandstorm. the spears of hunters and gathering baskets.

There’s not one little reason in the world to live.

What would the world be like now without Karl Marx? Would there still be limitless, unrecognized oppression of the majority by an elite oligarchy, or would some brave soul have arisen to speak out against it, as Marx did, in the name of the laborer’s welfare? Would progress have occurred as rapidly as it has? Perhaps more slowly, accounting for the depression of those being shouldered with the whole burden of production; perhaps even more expeditiously and efficiently, without the complaints occasionally bogging down the rate of manufacture.

Of idealists (liars who say all people can tell the truth) vs. realists (tellers of the truth that everyone lies) being physically seperated, as in the left and right being given seperate islands, one must say, “Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which piles up faster.” (the moral is that realism will always vanquish idealism) The majority of conservative capitalists’ opinion regarding the state of a communist economy, in terms of quality of life, derives from a cursory examination of the living and working conditions of the labor class that are the very complaints prompting the Proletariat to rebel. A haughty bourgeois exiting a fine restaurant may spit at the passing worker and believe he is doing humanity a turn of justice by imagining that worker dragging him by the tuxedo tails down into the gutter alongside him. In order to overcome this misconception one must imagine, rather, the fine threads of the snob’s coat being used to patch the slob’s trousers, and both of them balancing along the edge of the pavement, above the raw sewage, but beneath the neon lit, diamond encrusted entrance of the prestigious club. This, and not the extreme low, is the true appearance of communism.

Bill: “Oh, Jon. You know you just won’t be happy unless you’re god.”

Jon: “Oh, Bill. You’re confusing god with Groucho Marx again.”

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an excerpt of questionably humorous monologue “oh are you waiting for me to say those three little words...? ‘Right. Wing. Bitch.’ No, no, wait. Maybe you were expecting something else; let me try again.... ‘Go. To. Hell.’

No, no, no. Wait, wait. I’m just joking. Give me one more chance and I swear I’ll get it right. I promise baby, I promise, just come here; come close. I want to whisper it in your ear. You got such a pretty little ear. You ready now? You ready? Here it goes....

‘Eat. My. Shit.’ Okay, yeah. I’ve had enough fun. You can go, you hear me? Get fucking lost. I don’t need you anyway you stupid cow. Go munch grass you cottonbrained wad of menstruated-on panties.”

1800 people diagnosed clinically depressed commit suicide per year (1997) Far faint sound of frog calls complimenting the hum of plastic, sawing, soft bug wings sky of purple velvet torn apart by shards of brilliant amber, swirled with clot-lined streaks of crimson. . . .

If only I could remember any word she ever said, even the sound of her voice....

Now’s the perfect time for heart break but melancholy time has stealthily stolen from my side that choice.

Kyle jabbed his finger at the radio and exclaimed, “that’s it! That’s the shit I’m talkin’ about! That’s my fuckin’ bag, man; that right there.” Joel, who was paying more attention to driving the car on a gently curving overpass beneath a tall, yellow streetlamp at 1:23 in the morning, looked over briefly. His eyes found nothing outstanding that would warrant the outburst attracting his attention, and they strolled casually back to the sparkling surface of the street. His brain reminded him that just because a snatch of music might evoke an emotional response in a listener by reminding them of a similar song or songs heard during a forgotten happy moment or two in their increasingly distant past, there need be no sense of immediacy in music consumption overall. If you enjoy something there is always a specific reason, which would almost certainly sicken you to know.

The Truth is the Future and the Future is within each of us.

This becomes a pessimistic statement only when it is remembered that we try so hard to keep our secret inner selves concealed.

Realism recognizes in the world only competition, and Idealism will only deign to recognize cooperation.

The only form of competition allowed by idealism is surrogate and fetishistic, like the economy of currency unfounded by the gold standard.

The only form of co-operation which realism will tolerate is that practised by the mob and, to an ever increasing extent, politicians — that which is based upon quid-pro-quo favor doing and perpetually conditional “mutual respect.”

The bloodhound rolls in shit.

What can we conclude from this?

That expert skill does not translate immediately into excellent taste.

Thus an artist of the highest calibre — how shall we phrase this which goes without saying — might yet shoot only blanks.

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notebook 1 One must remember, however, the joke regarding a society altogether bereft of art...

“My dog has no nose. Really?

How does he smell?

Awful.”

So here is a flower bud sitting in a dish of water.

And what if the dish of water feels guilty for being so selfish as to limit the flower bud; who else could use a crystal dish of stale water?

And what if the flower bud does want more, to bloom amongst its brothers, amidst a garden, beneath the sun; everyone admires a burgeoning blossom.

It is not their fault, this dish of slowly evaporating water, this flower whose bud is steadily shriveling; it is no one’s fault really, to want to put pretty things together to live in a prettier world.

At least they have each other.

In the West, people seem to have strong need to believe that the urge to create is the primal urge. It is the right guaranteed by the first amendment even, not to sound like Charleton Heston, before the right to protect our survival; that is how imperative the need for a perpetually produced society has become. Art over life. Art over all.

The careful crafting of the Swastika, arranged in contest form, with a monetary prize awarded to the citizen submitting the most popular design. An artocracy.

This is nothing. Creation is nothing. It is the sickening sublimation of the urge for procreation. Generation through the hands into the world of objects is merely an evolutionary perversion, or rather — mutation, of progeneration of the self through synthesis with the Other into the world of subjects.

If it is mutation, why resist it? Isn’t it the inevitable future?

Culture was created about one hour after the first woman said to the first man, “not tonight, honey. I have a headache.”

I remember when you were a golden monkey and I was a corpulent, languid python and we were living in the jungle, gentle, hot and slow.

Cocktail parties atwixt high socialites? pre-recorded music... elective surgery?

Life is a market defined by risks that exceed sanity, gain, or need.

Bix, the domesticated dog, had been left alone just long enough to forget how to be comfortable around others, but not quite long enough to stop being lonely.

I make a joke she doesn’t smile immediately life quits seeming worthwhile The “three lights” of Freemasonry: the book (of law), the compass, and the square (a good idea for something to steal if out one night with nothing better to do) “Individual responsibility,” often used synonymously with it, is the opposite of “individual drive.” One cannot logically justify relating the plight of an inner city single black mother below the poverty line trying to remain alive and the struggle west by expansionist families of settlers

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as if the two were identical situations. On one hand, the Right says it is the woman’s “responsibility” to remain alive. On the other they say it was the settler’s “drive” to capture the full reward to which they were destined. It is individual responsibility, taking up the yoke of providing for dependents and internalizing the moral system of society, that stifles to death the individual drive of which those who have dodged responsibility are so proud. Drive makes a mess, and responsibility cleans it up.

In America, “Different Is Better.” This accounts for the generally inferior quality of those young that feel superior. In America, revelry (stupidity) rebels against a pervasive efficiency (intelligence), just as individuality rebels against conspiracy and unity. Romantic bourgeois liberalism (the desire among a few bourgeois for selfdestruction of the bourgeoisie) remains acceptably bourgeois in evaluation thus, by remaining different .

Tonight is a Persian night it has crept in, staining everything a silky dark purple, slowly spangled by sparks snagged on rippling sand dune sighs surrounding a senescent moon.

The air is smooth as feline fur softly scented by perfumes wafting from veiled portals skirted by a golden glow I stand still sinking into sempiternal skotia warming my fingers before a rumbling roast.

I hear Bedouins mumbling...

There is a snake pit amidst The summits, barring the path To Paradise.

[Three T’s (Thoth, three times very, very great,“Hermes Trismegistus”)TTT=(20)x3=60] 60 is the name of the power of the tease. Let us give up Now, while we may, I see in the cards only upsidedown fours (the Hangman) and red on white (the colors of blood soaking innocence); we must still fear the secret, old ways, so long as they are never revealed. (find out what the Greek or Latin word for “serving” is) generative, procreational hetero-serving souls vs. non-generative, fetishistic auto- or homo-serving individuals. (note: Latin for “to serve” is servire ) Hollywood portrays not being in love as perhaps the world’s greatest evil. In this way, alone, it acts as America’s superego.

Baby, let’s you & me put the “sin” back in “single.”

Though their lack of suicide is founded on the reverse, collectors (those addicticted to the accumulation of things) justify the existence of material objects.

Why did Smith want a communist society? Because any society would require he work; and work, to Smith, was slavery. Work was something he realized society required, in order to sustain itself, but he, without desiring to deny civilization, simply didn’t want to contribute. He preferred the idea of a society in which one was

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never given the choice, a dictatorship of the proletariat, where one need never learn that there were once a few who benefited most and sacrificed the least. This image he much favored to having to choose to work, to choose to be a slave, in some vain, mad hope that one day he would work enough to escape.

(All old people get a hip-hoperation) Abusing substances makes a helpless time pass more easily, while simultaneously prolonging it.

Transitive property of Semantics EVERYTHING is nothing (dust -> dust)

Nothing lasts forever (therefore)

EVERYTHING lasts

forever

Between State of Being A and State of Being B there exists a process of doing, a region of becoming. If State A is existing reality, then State B must be perfection, because it can never exist as purely as it is conceived; because it is impossible. Any attempt to bring State A and State B closer together results in a bastardization of both — a synthesis of reality with the ideal, bettering reality while ruining the ideal. This attempt is becoming; A becomes B, B becomes A. Becoming is the negative (“shalt not”) which divides and differentiates two positive states; it is a border which they share, and where their cultures commingle to create a new, perverse interzone, but it is a border which neither can ever cross over, and which can never fade nor disappear.

If State A is the human, and State B is god, the action of becoming which separates them is society itself. It betters man, worsening god, and is a perpetually sustained synthetic entity belonging foremost to itself, governed by its own set of instincts and desires.

Society is a compromise between man and god

Sarcasm is the best weapon of the weak used by the strong. When the powerful are given no means by which to express their self-appointed dominance except that of bitter irony (which cuts both ways with a poison blade), they cannot but learn the applicability to themselves of reality’s inconsistency and the sting of impotence in the face of fate. In other words, by resorting to sarcasm and to words instead of simply aspiring to “brute” force as a purity in itself, the strength of their conviction is weakened. By using words, or dollars even, instead of fists or weapons, they stoop to the level of their intended victims, opening themselves to reprisal thereon.

The true dispute that thwarted the building of the Tower of Babel was not a misunderstanding between two tongues, but a compromise between the language of force employed wordlessly by the leaders, and the logic of verbal questioning employed by the workers (both architects and masons). The supervisors settled on sarcasm, which the staff simply didn’t take seriously. A revolutionary coup was accomplished as an exasperated, impotent silence, and the great monument to compromise called civilization failed to be completed.

Sarcasm is a compromise between force and logic.

Society is Sarcasm. (don’t believe in it) Human minds are letters pure abstracted forms Human bodies spoken tongues oral pronunciation Human projects are words constructing communal sentences writing down in stone as historical tradition the human language of civilization

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notebook 1 4 upside down is XII (12) By shedding their skin women change the weather

Heather looked sadly at the sickened dog as it struggled to arise. Her mother tried to tell her, “it’s alright that Pansy Dog is dying; she had a long life, full of love.”

Heather wanted to ask her mother, “wouldn’t that just make Pansy’s death more tragic?” or “is that really the only reason to remain alive? To accumulate a surplus of an indefinite emotion?” but instead she chose to not think any further, to stop herself from “overthinking,” and instead just to agree.

In that moment Heather chose to take her very own first step towards becoming a socially functional adult.

Art and life are not commensal (neither imitates the other more than it is imitated by the other). Art and life interact in this age of technologically mediated existence; they are Janus: one god with two faces, the god of doorways — of beginnings and of endings. For an existentialist, by means of example, to affect the entire world, they must yet depend upon representation in and through artificially mass produced objects. Media necessitates desire (for its own surrogate perpetuation) and desire necessitates media (for its own surrogate satisfaction). It remains to be seen however if this relationship is symbiotic (wherein neither may survive without the other; whereby media could not exist autonomously of sensual experience, nor could life be imagined without the art of technology) or mutualistic (wherein both organisms benefit from one another enough to grow independently; whereby the desire itself, that is life, the soul, would be so strengthened by encountering the desired object, art, the world, that they could both stand to part with one another, each turning its back to the other, and supporting reality thus — by leaning against one another).

Yes I do believe that a life wherein the only hope for pleasure lies inside abuse of a drug is a life that probably isn’t worth living; and yes, I have begun abusing drugs.

Or, perhaps, let me put it this way: maybe life is like the Viet Nam war, and hunched over in a fox hole smoking a joint with your buddies from boot camp is a better way to pass a rainy, sticky night than in a fire fight with the enemy.

We are the victims of an artificial war brand-named freedom Is gas or solid the opposite of liquid? Is anything or everything the opposite of nothing?

when pompous people say that you are wasting your potential what they really mean is that you are wasting your potential to produce something in the way they like.

I feel most comfortable sitting next to trash cans.

Americans love Judeo-Christianity so much because just knowing the difference between good and evil is considered the original sin.

We cannot know the ultimate sin, the greatest sin, the final sin, until it has occurred.

But not even then, because it will initiate the apocalypse, wherein we will all die; perhaps it will be caused by our committing the greatest sin without even knowing it. Or perhaps knowing what the greatest sin is is itself the greatest sin.

Other people are bricks and responsibility is their mortar.

They think they are building a great tower of cooperation but really they are building a wall, a circular wall, a well enclosing those who refuse to stick, who squirm and hiss, and shed their skin. Society is a snake pit.

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I have so many things to do that I don’t want to.

C’est la vie. Death is the only escape the only real freedom. “in spite of” —> “because” (irony) (justification)* *This is idealism. It is O. Any action she takes is not in spite of herself. She takes full responsibility for seeking a love that kills.

Emotions are the sensation of sensation, the perception of perception.

• Blood sugar acts as a trans-synapse/axon carrier for neurotransmitters. Thus, my low blood sugar level decreases the amount of already deficient serotonin in my nerves, causing violent, often angry mood swings.

• the nerve vibrates when it is being used to transmit sensation. This vibration is transferred as additional sensory data.

The vibration causes vibration; ripples add up, not to a splash (the reaction to an event), but to a wave (an emotion).

• I can be in love with you from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet.

Why should it make me smile to see a fellow monkey grin? the homeless man’s sign read “going blind” ignored by all the cars driving by who is really going blind? Maybe the world is just getting darker.

I have to remember to schedule some time to scare myself into feeling alive, to convince myself of a plausible lie, to trick myself out of my mind.

But first I must remember to schedule some time to schedule some time.

Marx said labor (socially productive physical action) is the only thing that has intrinsic value.

Capitalists say power, quantified by cash.

Communists say love, quantified by. . . ?

The brain perpetually checks its files. It goes through them all one by one, at the speed of light. It does not learn simply by modifying existing files, it relearns daily the contents of its sum total. It might make an instantaneous correlation between a remembered object or event and a present one in this way, creating a symbol. The brain constantly creates reality. It not only collects, but unceasingly recollects.

If old people have to take time to remember a certain thing it is only because they have accumulated such a vast lot of stray moments as to have overloaded their control of that device

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which cycles their thoughts through each memory. (Do memories themselves fade? Can forgetfulness not be attributed to a malfunction or deterioration in the mechanism within the brain responsible for storing a memory, or that for retrieving it, rendering the memory either illegible or inaccessible respectively?)

I wish to kill free thought; that is — logical thought, ordered around myself and obeying symbolic objects of others. Thought that is free to grow rampant and threaten to choke itself out.

Work does this, but replaces it with a repetitive physical action or (especially on the part of consumers) with a few neanderthalish neologisms.

Addictive chemicals do this.

“I lock my mind away in the cage which is my heart,” or vice versa according to which innard you attribute the quality of strength and which of morality. the Virtual Paradigm — the Virtual Worldview; is what we are afforded. We are handed the world on a platter of silver-lined mediation and expected to gobble it up. It is the service and the meal. We are presented, through artifice in advertising and the lie of immediatism in the media, with a virtual view of the world; in fact, a view of a virtual world. One created by the brain outside of our brain, which controls the eyes outside of our eyes, specifically for us to see, a symbol in which we may believe — a world defined by service and need, supply and demand of humanitarianism. A trick. We build the coffin in which we lie in the glorified name of human life. Society is the tomb which the human soul dies building as a monument to its own might. It has nothing to do with humans. Nothing. How many people condemn themselves to their jobs simply because they don’t want to leave their co-workers behind in the hell of an increased workload? And how many truly liberal and wonderful people settle for buying religion and sports and music and drugs instead of revolution simply because these are easier to obtain? The Virtual Paradigm is a glass ceiling dividing classes, and, beyond that obvious and intended function, limiting the aspiration of the will.

Perverting natural sexual drives into its artificial edifices, and selling its building and its diminished releases as the most holy of all possible endeavors.

The world is drinking coffee. I do not mean that every human being on the surface of the planet earth is simultaneously drinking coffee. I mean that the sum of all human endeavor is contained in the symbolic act of drinking coffee from a mug.

I see this act on television and it doesn’t feel so applicable to me. I feel good to exist just outside the border of our fate, on the very edge of my grave. I see society objectified, and in this form mind less its objectionable interventions into my life. I sigh and sip a mug of coffee, knowing my fate is somewhere far away; locked safely up against everyone, behind thick brick walls, shut far away from me dust smothered in the Castle that doesn’t exist.

“Are you angry?”

“Yes, I’m furious.”

“Why?” “Because I have no choice. I am here, on earth, with you. I exist. These are not by my consent so much as by my passivity allowed.”

“You would rather be where? Doing what?”

“I would rather not have to do what I must in order to survive in a mediated world; like get a job and traverse the seas of finer finance. I would rather be nowhere.

Doing nothing.”

“With no one?”

“With exactly whosoever wished to come along.”

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Here I see the illusion of weight, by shear quantity of terms, and beside it the illusion of levity, in the guise of color saturated music. I can taste the illusion of lightness from where I am standing, but cannot drink; it sparkles incandescently across the speckled surface of my tongue. I can see that it is an illusion, and so I cannot believe it. Only stand upon the ground, weighed down by the blood inside me, by my muscles and my bones, with my heavy eyes closed and my lips parted slightly, arms raised and caressed all over by the gentleness of the slow and lazy summer wind. I know I am not flying, but I must live by allowing myself to believe that I am forgetting this fact.

The pig particularly enjoyed sunset because of the wealth of its hues — the rich imperial purples, the the bloody sanguine reds, the radiantly varnished golds, and finally even the immense totality of night’s black shade.

The true Nietzschean utopia is not one in which a single or a few ubermenschen, as with the bourgeoisie, humiliate their servants, clerks and waiters, but one in which all are ubermenschen, regardless of status, and in which none may be superior, because not one may feel embarrassed.

Being a realist, he believed the “Golden Mean” must refer to cruel blondes. the difference between comedy and tragedy is objectivity I am an optimist: the glass is not empty. It is potentially overflowing.

How to make a Swing Kid into a Nazi in seven easy steps 1) Observe the fervor with which they say yes to Swing.

• These first two steps are passive, implying a false possibility for coexistence.

2) Allow them to say no to Nazis.

• Give them plenty of reasons as well. This makes the difficulty of their ultimate choice personal, guaranteeing the final solution they reach will be permanent.

3) Force them into the position of becoming or identifying with the Nazis.

• A good maxim to quote is “uniform first, attitude later.”

4) Encourage them to say no to certain things, gradually developing their fervor.

• Remember: the root of Nazism is not an affirmation of the self (in the form of the State) as autonomous and efficient, but a negation of others (in the form of Nations) as dependent and corrosive.

5) Relate Swing with the things to which they have begun to say no.

• Be overt: “only lazy niggers and money-grubbing kykes would dance to this.”

6) Allow them to say no to Swing.

• Cultivate as a negation the fervor inherent to them. Fervor in and of itself, recall, is neither an affirmation nor a negation until it is mediated.

7) Observe the fervor with which they say yes to Hitler.

• This will be equivalent in strength to one’s first love, but because it is based on the surrogate image of negation it will manifest itself as extreme loyalty or respect.

Super Leia: the cats of the wild cannot fly. Only domesticated cats can fly. Only they have owners who lift them into the sky.

The Human Species no longer values excessive pride. We used to, oh how we used to. And we did until very, very recently.

How lucky we are, though, to have had an event which united the whole world in shame. A war which left no stone unturned, and which, though it produced heroes, branded everyone a villain. Even the victors where ashamed to belong to a species capable of producing values so opposite their supposed own, and so alike their

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own worst fears about themselves and their potential. How lucky is our world indeed.

Now peace is most important, lest we ever stoop again to the level of warring barbarians who could, as both a cause and a result, value excessive pride. The human soul must have its limits, ornate and patiently detailed. An enormous, glorious miter to prevent the head from swelling.

Straining to hear on the rippling breeze she craned her neck Modigliani tenderly setting her ear outside amongst the flowering blue night air...

The distant whisper Of an ancient aria...

You were gone.

I can imagine myself acting out as a gangster, but cannot, in reality, react as one.

Yet being that animal like no other, tucked away beneath a fidora and wrapped up in a trenchcoat like a quilt, spitting lead savagely from a trench sweeper, sipping a martini between whirling to swing, remains my good dream.

It is better, infinitely better, for us if we get together. Far too many people have only just begun to, with newly given amnesty, perform the divisive experiments which have led us to the inevitable conclusion that freedom is evil. We feel this, that is, because our experiments failed, and the accidental result was the granting to those many others of their intensifying liberty.

Let us finally admit, people, that we should lean, back to back, with strangers, even unreliable ones, even untrustworthy ones, even our enemies. For this is better, far better, than to wander alone in the dark, surviving for some imagined glow. Yes, let us stand still; let us find one another in this darkness quickly and clasp hands, let us try to build a small fire, let us even volunteer as fuel. I will gladly be the first.

Let us live together in a pile, a stinking pile. Let us be buried in a mass grave, naked and without honor. Let our bodies be pushed over the dirty lip with bulldozers by the thousands. Let our helpless waning flesh be rolled over by huge metal machines. Our decay will fertilize a new and glorious garden, and our absence leave our click-clack clockwork to be consumed by Nature’s second, far more perfect Eden.

Like a curious, confused cubist balloon his head bobbed between the narrow slats. Inside all was yellow and the room was hot from dancing bodies, cracking silly polka dotted forms, interrupted by savage rhythms in the stupor of their casual grace. Behind him all was lines and squares, thick or thin, large and small, interspersed for decor with ovals, triangles, arcs and bangs. His head was aching. No, it would be more accurate to say that half his head, the back side which remained indoors, was smeared like running water (he could feel it tingling), so overwhelmed was it by forms, so eroded by words, and that the overall affect therefrom was akin to a sort of irritable sleepiness.

Outside the world was holding its breath in ice crystals. A rich deep blue above a solid black mass. Here were only two shapes — the land and the the sky, two colors. He didn’t feel as though he was ready for any more than that. He wondered if anyone else really was either. The way they stomp their feet, or the look in their eyes when they smile. They seem on the verge of insanity. Their hair is a wiry bang.

“Outside their are no straight lines,” he sighed. “It is only a myth, a dream. It doesn’t have to come true.” Here is the jagged horizon, here the smoothly circular moon, and the single dots of stars. The glorious jumble of a cloud trundling across heaven. When it disappears from view it will shortly disperse altogether, having played its part. But people must be buried in rigid coffins, as if to prolong their logic after death. “We belong to the earth,” he repeated, “and not the other way around.”

He breathed in. He could never breathe all the air there was on earth. He watched the sky above the shadows begin to lighten. He was unable to see the entire border between the two at

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once; and this, he knew, was the sensation of freedom.

Dalmations are trained to run with horses, a horse-length ahead and behind of a carriage, to protect the horse from any dangerous animals along the trail. This is exactly like the two girls at Roissy walking O, in her mules, to the library where she would be flogged with a riding crop.

Morality, knowing “right” from “wrong,” is domestication. In this way, the liberation from obedience by the will to power that will take us “beyond good and evil,” is reactionary. It harkens back to the time before the first civilizing thought or action, when tribes were enough, and beasts were savage, and men knew no law. (refers back to a comment on philosophers on page 4) religion, literature, history geology, quantum physics When? astronomy, history Where? geography, astronomy How? math, astronomy, geology, biology, physics, liberal arts, politics Why? (the only remaining unanswered question) philosophy Who? What?

Why do you have to be so bad?

Trying to get into your dog food can.

And of course now the buzzer’s going off.

I can’t be expected to tolerate that.

The phone rings and when I pick it up the caller hangs up on me.

I am not the one who is going to save the world.

I’m just like anyone.

The whole world is driving forward, as fast as it can push itself on, but its eyes are blinded by tears.

It is true that all the poor want is love, comfort and sanctuary, but it is a blatant and wounding ruse to say, as one bard popular amongst bourgeois liberals did, that this is, in all the bowed plane of reality, overpopulated by jagged and affectionate objects that hold the world together by their individual gravities, the only thing they need .

You could say I am a communist, except for the fact that I forget to advocate the welfare of the proletariat; I only wish to kill the bourgeoisie.

Or you could say that I love the earth, but only insofar as I’d like to kill all humans.

It is necessary to suffer occasional embarrassment in the company of others in order to discover the faults of one’s self and one’s abode which ought to be concealed before subsequent encounters.

I’ve been self-conscious about becoming self-conscious. Afraid of becoming afraid.

Throughout dialectic history opposites have synthesized. But now we recognize this pattern, see it surrounding us, experience life as the sensation of drowning within it. We think the combination of opposites impossible. And it is true, never before has it been so difficult, because now we are fully aware of the consequences, and fully aware that, as we sit here, we are being watched by the eyes of the almighty, who drew this pattern in the sands of time with his finger lazily, and we know that we are expected to choose.

This is existential dialectics, ala O.

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“I canot imagine anywhere I want to go.”

“And this is why you must go. To learn that in this world there exist more things than can be contained or produced within one mind’s imagination.”

“And you hear these voices calling you? Perhaps you are psychotic.”

“Perhaps we are trapped, and must do what they say we must.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Let’s go.”

“No.” “Why not.”

“Because you tell me to.”

It was the type of sex before or after which it was considered forgivable, even polite, to drink as heavily as one could.

I removed a book from beneath the leg of her couch from which to provide an example of inferior literature. The couch, being thus destabilized, began to tilt backwards somewhat, and Donna, out of spite that I might succeed in arguing my point and in a bitter attempt to turn the tables on me, to force me into a weakening position of pity, allowed, perhaps even encouraged, the couch to carry her back until her skull impacted with the floor. My argument thereby rendered moot and Donna in no position to which I desired to stoop I turned upon my heel at the moment I heard the report of her bone against the wooden boards and strode forth from that house into the mild summer night.

Communists get weak in the knees over everyday things, like flirtations and having too much work assigned to them or simply the feeling of the world spinning around; while republicans only get weak in the knees when confronted with some indomitable monster, like the Leviathan of a complex beuracracy, or the amassed crowd of all individual communists.

The entire allure of a retro-70’s movement in 90’s pop-culture is drugs. The only thing different between the culture of America during the 1970’s and the 1980’s was that, between the two, recreational drug-use and recreational sex lost their romance and were vacuum-packed into the flourishing reality of the corporate sector. 70’s culture is a bleak wasteland, populated by the ruins of milestones, blown across by hot winds perfumed by distantly burning incense, beneath a purple crushed-velvet sky. Only when it is understood to be the attempt by a civilization to base itself upon drugs, and to orient all of its aspects around drugs, to make everything as comfortable as possible for high people, then can it be understood why it could not only have ever existed, but remain somehow a desirable endeavor for those raised in the republican-dominated repression of the eighties. Drug-use for its own sake was both the limitation and the golden lining of the free market’s productivity during the darkened, black-lit decade connecting my youth to the age of rebellion.

Eat when you feel like eating.

Sleep when you feel like sleeping.

Go naked when you feel like going naked.

Laugh when you feel like laughing.

Kill when you feel like killing.

There is no such thing as a reasonable limit; no such thing as reason, no such thing as a limit.

Someone at the door?

No. Just the wind in the form of an

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Strange wind Strange Shaker, Strange maker of beginnings and endings.

My only, only friend.

Of course you can come in.

She is the snake pale in black leather Eyes the sky captured punctured by the void Her looks are like lightning make me into marble ghostly white statue in a garden of graves Blue moonlight Here she comes walking on water Sharks throw themselves at her She strips and is nude beneath a total eclipse her skin slithers away on a heavy, desolate breeze meditating on a mess you take whatever you can get infinitely far away she wept I sing to share the fact I can remember certain words music has a chemical effect event -> reaction you see? there is no good, no evil only us, only now, only this the pay-phone in the lobby of Miracle Five (remember that?)

How many mouths have breathed the air from inside strangersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lungs onto the mouthpiece of that phone? How many conversations have passed through those wires and plastic holes? How many lives have been shaped and ruined by words spoken through that? Because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a little afraid to use it for it might all start coming back. Memories cost one quarter and a dime and will disperse into earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s magnetic field, siring passing time. Life and love and all lasts little longer than a local call.

Jennifer was talking to Bill on the telephone. Her call waiting beeped and she switched over. It was Charles, far away. She agreed to call him right back and hurriedly got Bill off the other line. Or, alternately: Bill listened to the phone ring.

He was trying to call Jennifer, but there was no answer. Jennifer, mildly annoyed,

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listened to the call waiting beep while talking long distance to Charles.

Bill’s call is important, because it costs money. He is far away, and therefore rare. That which is distant, or far better, impossible deserves capitalist desires far more than that which is pressing, perhaps even urgent. Hooray, especially, for those proponents of the free market so dedicated to its prime directive that they prefer to turn their attention to science fiction and to researching aliens than addressing or even acknowledging the immediate problems of poverty, starvation and inequality.

The planet Earth does not value its self as it is. In fact, it hates its self. It looks out into space and, in the darkest depths, sees a reflection of its perfect self. It sees the infinite vacuum of space as the limit of its potential, and it smiles.

One of my favorite games to play is to imagine America destroyed, buried beneath mountains of radioactive silt, its citizens as petrified as Pompeians. It is distinctly entertaining to picture the artifacts by which archeologists will try to understand and explain our culture. The disgusted, confused looks on their faces.... “How can a civilization ever forwarded such values?”.... “Yes, a society based exclusively on individualism? Unbelievable.”.... etc.

Perhaps they will find this.

I enjoyed the pain. Not physically, god no. But mentally? Mentally I only felt alive when my body was dying. I hated myself and I didn’t deserve to live. But this was a decision my mind had made; my life was little more the fault of my body than is venom the fault of a serpent. No, we are given what we must survive, and strengthened only in opposition to it. And I was given this wretched and accursed flesh. My mind longed for escape, for transcendence. I only felt as though my greater expectations of life, my higher moral standards, were being satisfied when I experienced the sensation of suffering. All products of my mind were terrorism against my body. So I scarred myself with red-hot paper clips while listening to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.

The only truly sovereign State is one which kills its own entire population.

There is no flag of Freedom. Freedom is the absence of all flags.

You cannot draw freedom. The instant you set pencil to paper and make a mark of definition, of limitation, you have violated your subject by denotation. Freedom stretches beyond the paper, outside of the room, in the air upon the world around all objects, and out into space. It is everywhere, it is the space in between all objects, but further, it is, in its full potential, the destruction of all those objects and their replacement with emptiness. The ultimate extent of Freedom is the absolute absence of all objects.

Freedom is the destruction of all things, the release of neglect.

Freedom is contrapuntal to explicit reality.

Freedom cannot be defined, only hinted at. It may never be realized, only dreamed. It is wordlessness and maplessness, silence and infinite emptiness in all directions.

Only emptiness may embody potential, and Freedom is the presence of nothing but.

Freedom cannot be practiced, only preached. It cannot be understood, only believed.

Freedom is the absence of laughing children, of sunshine, of trains. Freedom is darkness and weightlessness, and the impossibility of changing this. For to change it would be to limit Freedom, which would not be pure, true and absolute Freedom.

Freedom, like the passivity of nature, is the allowance of all changes except those to its essence; in the case of nature, she may not be called upon to act; in the case of Freedom, it may not then be redefined in terms of any colors, events or objects. It is, exclusively, their potential existence. If they come into existence in reality, they do so only as a denial of freedom and an arbitrary concretization of the naturally vague.

Only when man has obtained as his nature absolute control of and power over his

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natural environment may it be accurately said that he has no nature. Only, that is, when his nature is, in every possible regard, utmost physically, the product of man’s will can one say that man has no pre-existing, predictable limitations.

I am about to slide down the water slide at the amusement park and I am crying. I have a limp rubber inner-tube around my belly, scalding my skin. My tears roll hot and salty down my cheeks, which are as burning and as parched as the abandoned mid-summer beach. I cannot slide down the water slide, I do not wish to. I regret having waited three hours in line. I wish I was allowed to walk back down along the concrete pathway, letting the rope slide roughly through my hand, warming and drying the palm and fingers. They say that I am not. So I weep.

I know what they do not. I know that if I had, within me, the power of true freedom, that I could destroy this whole place with a thought. True freedom is absolute power over reality. But they know what I do not. They know that such absolutes, be it freedom per se or power, or even deliverance by love, are only the desires of those who do not already, and therefore will probably never, posses them. They have the power assigned them by reality. And I am small and thin.

I slide down the water slide. My body is empty. It does not belong to me. This is my fate, my destiny. My body belongs to those who pushed me into it, those whose duty that is. The wind slithers through my hair and holds it out behind me. It nibbles at my nipples and rubs my stomach. The water sucks my legs. This is reality: the denial of my dream of power and freedom, a compromise I choose between obedience and demise. And it is not what I wanted. And it is not what I imagined. And it is the absence of all good I can imagine. But it is not that bad. I have no right to complain. It is better to be condemned to exist along a water slide than within an oven.

Time is the Movement of the Nothingness between and within Objects in the World.

Today I met the Green Man near the edge of the hidden gardens. He didn’t see me, and I was able to observe him for a little while. He picked a flower and contemplated its odor in repose for a few extended moments, and generally behaved as one might expect a civilized soul to do. He held his palm aloft in the sunlight and enjoyed its sensation upon his green skin. He smiled throughout the encounter, and I only saw a look of what I might call embarrassment cross his face one time, when he saw me watching him, just before he leapt away into the thicket.

I was much refreshed by this encounter and returned to my cottage wearing a similar smile. The work of tilling the field and maintaining the health and welfare of our beasts seemed to weigh less heavily on my brow then, for I recalled the smile, and knew that to others I would look as he had to me for that short time.

I passed by a dead fish on the side of the velvet dusty trail, and my smile went away. Life was precious, I remembered, not because of its quality, but because it was so brief and rare. I felt the look of embarrassment cross my face and so leapt into the thicket, where I promptly fell into my grave, which, much to my relief, I found waiting for me there.

I’m afraid I’m becoming a hippy (or, Ode to a Sunday rainbow melting) I’ve got a felony in my pocket and I’m feelin’ kind of grand ‘cause I’m laughing like a boy while I’m walking like a man and I ought to trim my hair up and I ought to shave my beard but I’d rather bask bare in the sunlit strands of grass and feel weird “Free speech” is given without any prior meaning. The predetermined definition of speech is allowed as in keeping with the predetermined definition of “free.” True freedom lacks any meaning, so for speech to be truly free, it must be the potential for speech inherent within absolute silence.

All this is but semantics, and semantics is the final, overly bureaucratized realization of free speech. So a semantic discussion of free speech is the most

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appropriate kind, insofar as we understand what is meant by a word: “appropriate.”

For no word has any more nor any less meaning than any other. If speech is truly free, than this axiom may even be extended to include neologisms.

“Ideally;” dare we resort to use of this particular word, accepted as it is entirely on the faith of its own good graces; yet nonetheless. Ideally the speech of true freedom is silence, for it is the sound of emptiness and anti-definition.

Although, it is probably safe to conjecture, to those who would dare deign to administer a definitive free speech to the people, that is, to those who would realize that which cannot be anything more than an idea, it may be just as satisfactory to hear any sort of sound at all. Perhaps especially those neologisms that constitute the most elaborate superfluities of language, the most proletarian vulgarizations of existing dialect, or the most primal efforts at communication. I am speaking now, respectively, of such words as “nonetheless,” such brand names as “Chick-Fil-A,” and of course, the sound of screams. These are the sounds of speech, not free in ideal, but set free in reality, to fend for themselves against one another by the rules of nature.

The sound of the oppressed’s screams is music to the ears of the oppressor. For it is by this that they confirm all for which they care — that their victim has been ravaged as fully as possible, and, by dint thereof, vanquished in the most thorough regard.

Thus, in a society populated exclusively by horrifying monsters and pathetic, cringing little children, freedom of speech must be the primary concern of all.

How can the same people who argue that guns don’t kill people, but criminals do, argue that it is the movies of Jew-controlled Hollywood that encourage violence in America? What’s the difference? Liberals make a social commentary documentary about the “life of a gun,” following it around from cop to criminal, etc. Perhaps the ideal of those self-apponited knights of realism might be, in rebuttal, to shoot to shreds the master print of that film, or better yet, assassinate the director.

In Russia gangsters buy up the economy because they are men of action. In America rich yuppies exploit the masses because they can, as men who have the luxury of, at their leisure, taking decisive action. In Germany the call went up for justice, for vengeance, and the Nazi party arose, spawning Adolf Hitler to fill the shoes of that great leader, that man of action required by society.

Let us not desire great men, or decisive men, or men of money, fame, influence and power. Let us finally turn our backs to those men of action, those spoiled children. Let them scream and cry. Let them stamp their feet. They can no longer change reality at their will; they can no longer, with their charisma, simply summon up an army of slaves from the soil to rebuild civilization in their image.

As badly as all existing systems require a hero as their ultimate product, a man of action to embody the ideals of the society that has, in turn (and in theory), survived this long by embodying in itself the ideals of all of its citizens, the hero himself is a threat. A danger not only to the structure of a culture as it exists at the time it produces him, but also a clear and present danger to the welfare of each individual citizen who applies to that system of order.

Most systems of social order are based on economics, which is logical at the expense of being just.

She simply wouldn’t tolerate rebuttals. This may be said of withered socialites, bitterly buried beneath base and boas, as well as the younger princesses of the Chinese zodiac, struggling at the bonds which make them human.

I have cried as many tears for you as there are stars although hitting you in the face with a baseball bat seems pretty good these days as well.

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Kissing is likely the most highly advanced form of preening, where both apes clean each other at the same time, serving neither more than the other. This we do because we no longer preen in any other way, having each individually taken responsibility for our own filth. On occasion this form of preening may be directly applied to the genitals, which are associated then with dirtiness. The kiss may be the origin of the idea of the soul, because the kiss as an act of cleansing serves less of a physical than a metaphysical need for purging and release.

Verbal arguments and, by extension, all mental reasoning is easy enough invalidated by being ignored. If the professor holds up his finger and, from between his bulbous, parted lips, a self-appointed “important” statement begins to emanate, his life may be completely erased from the face of the earth simply by a student interrupting him to talk to another student about something unrelated.

This is why, for idealists, violence is important. If what they are expressing is unpopular and fails to gain gratifying support, an idealist will feel it necessary to resort to physical abuse to get his point across. What this means is that idealists value acceptance by their inferiors more than the content of the message they deliver. Any ideal thus only exists an excuse for he who invokes it to personally satisfy himself by enforcing it through brutality. Perhaps this is because he desires revenge for a particular instance during which he went unheard, or perhaps he merely feels pleasure in depressing the moods of and bending the minds of others.

Perhaps all of the preceding seems like too broad a generalization, letting a few Hitlers and the IRA spoil all hope for those who have nothing else in this world. That is because it is what cruel realists think of all lazy, impudent philosophers. It is what republicans think about the government and what gangsters think about the cops.

Only passive resistance can change this misconception. Obviously to Gandhi the idea he espoused outweighed in importance the matter of whether or not his oppressors accepted it.

Perhaps they would not, yet it remained the way in which he would live. And what do all the children of three generations after Gandhi have to say to thank the man who gave them the easiest and most lovely outlet for their idealism, their dissatisfaction? “I hate him. He was a sexist.”

These days it does seem that nobody wants to learn anything.

Perhaps only violence will work on some people. This would certainly answer the question, “how do we reach the extremists in order to better moderate them?” There is little question that, when republicans become terrorists, the government does respond with violence, or that cops oust organized crime with nearly gleeful fervor. In this case, that is, from the perspective of extremist realists, the above detraction of idealism appears accurate. But only because they, themselves, are so quick to ignore the proposition of anything with which they are unprepared to deal.

The archetype of the Mother character, the domesticated female, by the definition provided through constant and ceaseless historical precedence: the feminine, the passive, the receptive, the providing, will always haunt men, always.

Even when they have found “temporary autonomous zones” where they may surround themselves only with other men, and sit around and laugh about issues which could only concern men, and solve problems, even then the idea of the feminine may not completely exit their minds; the woman waits just outside the door wearing an apron and a scowl to drag men back into that prison called the Home, that lifestyle of compromise where nothing gets done and where nothing satisfies either.

Not to divide it exclusively into male and female. The same may be said of the generative from the perspective of the non-generative or, in more easily accessible terms, of love from the perspective of friendship. How many of us have lost a close personal friend, a friend with whom we shared everything short of true love consummated by physical intimacy to some harlot or gigolo with whom they bore nothing in common but nudity and orgasm, if all that? It is all too common and tragic a tale, made all the more frustrating due to its repetition in direct spite of its futility and pointlessness. Friends are better to have than are lovers, yet when given the choice few could refuse sex, perhaps because it so defies logical approval.

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Communism tried to make everybody cunts, soft, receptive, passive. Fascism tried to make everybody cocks, rigid, assertive, forceful.

Idealism is genital for the sake of being generative, that is, productive, but is ultimately non-generative in its attempt to homogenize everyone into either one gender or the other, creating a culture of homosexuality.

But what characteristic do we all already share by nature? Well, what are like opinions because everyone has one and everyone thinks that everyone else’s stinks?

That’s right!

Ass holes! Ass holes are the realistic compromise that makes Democracy work. Communism failed. Why? Because people were too cocky, too uptight, and stiff in opposition, in rejection; like ass holes. Fascism failed. Why? Because people were too pussy, too susceptible to swaying penetration by a “good” (i.e. overpoweringly popular) idea; like ass holes. America is succeeding. Why? Because all people are ass holes. Everybody looks up to America because we’re the country taking a giant shit on the rest of the world.

A culture founded on fecalphelia is one guaranteed by realism to prevail.

“How do the plants feel on your bottom can you feel the life in them on your bare naked rear in the breeze?”

Let us set about the tedious chore of making broad, unscrupulously unresearched boasts and shaping the world to reflect the contorted visage of our desires. After all, somebody has to.

Let us come into the inside of everything amassed penetrate the hall at last with a reverberating scream We dream, we come into our own, a flower hammered into a book of someone else’s undesired memories We feel, the blood inside our bodies moves us on through tunnels underground glow softly red we flow, oh let it flow, the coursing surge of the machine, our dreams, bleeding into one amassed scream, too twisted to be trusted, too big to be believed.

A cigarette is like a tiny scepter, giving its smoker a feeling of strength; power; dominance over everyone else in the room. This is how the kings of old felt, with all their court surrounding them in a single tiny cluster, shutting up when interrupted, hanging on the sovereign’s every word, agreeing, suggesting continuation with any modifications he may propose. Here we are; still the same beings, pink and soft, with a black syrup churning inside us, belching through the engine of our gnarled, jaded hearts. Our movements are the same throughout time, repeated infinitely; there are only so many gestures for bipeds, only so many postures, so many positions into which we may arrange these bodies of ours. So many years have gone by — all of history. It hasn’t been that long.

Only a number of generations. A lifetime here, a lifetime there. Styles change, time blows through them warping them absurdly. Clothing wrapped around clay-like skin metamorphoses unrecognizably; the skin remains draped about the bones. Power is an illusion as well, but one which persists. More malleable than flesh, but less whimsical than clothing. Power is the changing expression on the face of human kind. Merely the surfacing, the manifestation of the underlying energy, the indomitable limitlessness of the human soul, the will.

If your friends think of you as an “ass hole,” perhaps it is time to get some smarter friends. If for no better reason than that there must be a more creative, newer, or more appropriate title for your collection of routine behaviors than simply that generic, pseudo-offensive euphemism for all traits undesirable in general.

All that you become, renounce. Become something new. Don’t sit down, don’t stand still. Pace if

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you must do so, if you are locked away inside a cage, and wear a groove through the floor until you can tunnel beneath the walls and escape. Get up and run, run, run; for the world will leave you quickly behind, mummified in rural sloth and the trivial concerns of undereducated provincialism; morbid fascination with the admittedly unreal. Let us say that your skin is just paper waiting to be written upon, waiting to be signed by you, its final creator, for you allow it intentionally to continue existing, and therefore must harbor some grand design. Let us say between the six billion of us that there is a fire behind the paper which constitutes our skins, and that the flames from this are ever nearing and, as a flame inflates a sail, pushing us out ahead of ourselves, into unexplored waters where pirates still play. And that makes all of us pirates, we burning, those several hundred million of us that can still say with raised chin and a grin and a sparkle in the eye, which is dry, always dry, and never ever tired, that we are proud to continue growing, to embrace the swirling hatred called change, to talk to every soul on the planet even though we are each very small and have very few friends of our own, relatively, and to talk about issues that irritate no one these days as if they were poignant, and to think ourselves great and above all for so doing. Let’s put the phallus back in fallacy, shall we?

God is drugs Nietzsche obviously never read Les Misérables “Cops probably hate their appearance. The way people are frightened whenever they see the cop must eventually get to annoy them, since they have no interest in arresting absolutely everybody they come across just because they all feel guilty in general. But cops like to speed, because they can. If you see a cop speed by you, even if he doesn’t have his lights on, you are not irritated by it as an average citizen; if anything it is quite the opposite: you feel privately reassured that the cop, whose salary is paid by your taxes, is doing his job with the maximimum of efficiency. But because everybody tenses up and slows down to the speed limit or less whenever a cop gets behind them on the road cops are frequently deterred from going fast, doing the only thing about their entire profession which they enjoy doing, simply by the psychological impact of their own menacing physique and uniformity. If I were a cop I’d be especially pissed at any citizen who went slow in front of me and kept me from enjoying myself on duty, I can tell you that much.”

This, Evageline Limpchick, who had been in a total of fifty cheap pornos, counting this one, thought while sucking the cock of a guy dressed as a cop.

I’m going to tell my children I’m Jean Val-Jean, and they’re going to do whatever I tell them to. (The plot of a silly novel — a father raises his daughter, Cosette, and his son, whose nickname is LaFeat, in this manner. When he is old and dying his son comes to visit him, and he tells the boy, now grown into a man, “now it is I who is stuck under the cart.”)

I want to dive into a pool of acid I want to shed my essence like a lizard sheds its skin While we are young may the time come for being born again diving through a shattering window never tripped with anyone but the man you thought you are and her coming in your lap these things happen, start again it’s time to think with a brand new head it’s time to feel too much we haven’t time to break and remake ten million habits the sunshine spilling out, spreading out across the planet’s bending cheek and the strong bend down before the weak

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for fun because it’s never been done the sound of an infant crying out its lungs the time in a sticky puddle will come spreading out across the soil, sinking in the grass will grow up through my body lying here on the planet twisting through the interstellar wind we will never die so long as we desire life we will die like a sudden shutter because that’s what we learn to expect do you understand? Mr. and Mrs. acid on your breath... come again when next you wreck against the blessed jagged shores and tear yourselves brand new eyes and wear out your ancient souls.

There are several observations upon which my greater reasonings have been based. One of them is the inherent difference between the weak and the strong. My views of this are almost entirely gleaned from Story of O, but have never failed to be supported by the behavior of my subjects whenever observed interacting in any given situation.

The weak are those who cannot help but allow themselves to accept wholeheartedly the impact of any stimulus, and have no choice but to react in the expected or some pleasing way. This makes them highly subjective and prone to conditioning, although they are in touch with their emotions and their sensations of the external world (which are tied together tightly) to a degree that could be considered, even by the bitterly exclusive dictates of logic, quite pleasurable.

The strong are those who may observe stimuli directed at themselves objectively, and thus by objectification make subjects of the Others surrounding them. The strong can choose to not be affected by emotional tensions directed at them and, through whatever technique, can much better imagine new tensions or redirect their own personal collections of stress and sensory-overload at those around them. If anyone fucks with a strong man, he will get them back for it until they are broken. They see the world thus in quantitative terms, keeping careful, almost paranoid track of who has the most power at any given moment, attempting to permanently capture that position for themselves, presumably so they may relax, leaning back in the deep, soft throne. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, because its brain is overworked with fret and its own identity worn out. If the strong tire, they die. Only by chemical or psychological brainwashing on a mass scale can the few strong conspire effectively to oppress all those who are, by rights, beneath them.

Thus it is obvious and accepted that the weak may derive some enjoyment at the very least from being oppressed, shamed, and physically abused. It remains to be seen, however, if every single soul in a position of authority can tolerate being ruthless and inhumane for the length of their entire life, the necessary duration to qualify them as historically strong. In other words, we see the strong controlling the thoughts of the weak very obviously, but, on a deeper, darker level of the subconscious, slaves control their masters behavior as much if not more.

The truly strong will never accept this line of reasoning. They may observe it affecting their lessers, but no self-respecting man will ever let anything his woman says to him make him think about her when she is not in the room, nor does such sentimentality make a truly strong man forgive his servant for the least offense or infraction. In pure realism, no excuse should put off punishment. No smile can bribe the darkness of the devil’s heart.

And the devil worships me.

A global, ecological catastrophe (not necessarily caused by Wormwood, but the result of a progressively severe, millennial global weather cycle) caused the extinction of the dinosaurs. Something such as, say, a brief but amazingly powerful flood could have drowned out all those beasts of great bulk, while rodents natural rafted on driftwood and debris. This will probably be the way in which humanity will pass on, unless (as the mind, in terms of method of storing content, the electro-chemical

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product of electromagnetic currents in the earth) the brain can evacuate itself into outer-space in the sweet, frigid sanctuary of computer data run machines.

When everything you say is True . . .

. . . Fear is a Question

OUR LOVERS MADE US WHO WE ARE * C O N D I T I O N I N G * 1) trauma — the “stage of tears;” this is the initiation of submission, necessarily surpassed. The ability of one person to get another person past the point of crying is the differentiation between the weak and the strong, and the reason for factoring in long-term verbal accusation/question sessions in brainwashing.

2) submission — being “on strings;” the feeling that you are being compelled by some external force to complete any arbitrary or immediately imagined act; best complemented by a collar, bracelets and anklets garnished by metal O-rings.

3) vanquish — being “cast away;” able to provide no further amusement for they who held you up by strings, you are free, alone, sullied and without worth. In this condition one is most likely to consider committing suicide. The reasons for this should be obvious.

Vampires are very European, and very Medieval. They are an immortality fetish for people who want to rule the entire earth, and therefore (because the fame and genre of their mythos arose retrospectively, from a time based on knowledge of an enlarged world map) based on how long it would take someone (that is, the vampire) with only Medieval intelligence and technological resources to take over today’s world.

One year ago, minus three months, she, perhaps intentionally, misinterpretted blood on kleenex There just isn’t any talking to her when she’ll only accept reality in the arrangement she finds most amusing There is just one.

When the world becomes a rerun, get a gun. another fun observation on pervasive lack of hope (the one type of American idealist) Idealism in America has been nearly entirely destroyed by drugs. For the individual, unsatisfied with the conditions of their surroundings, with reality in general such as they find it at that moment, there is no recourse. They cannot buy their way out, nor pay for the change; they are too weak on their own. And there are few if any groups attempting to restructure reality for the good of the sad and disappointed. So they turn to drugs to remove their minds from this world which hates them and doesn’t miss them and even proposes to murder their bodies behind the backs of their absent, sulking brains. another hilarious joke about economic disparity (the two types of American realist) The difference between bourgeois capitalists and proletarian capitalists is that bourgeois capitalists have so much money already, they use cash as their weapon against one another in the free market of competition, whereas proletarian capitalists still have to resort to using guns on one another just to struggle a little further ahead. (Cue portentous, foppish laugh track and the sound of gloved hands applauding.)

• Life of the Stupid Prole:

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Quit highschool, get a job. Work the rest of your life for minimum wage. Never figure out how to play an instrument of any kind. Beat your vocally unsatisfied wife and fuck cathartically until you have a huge family. Smoke cigarettes. Drink beer. Drive a truck. Die of cancer of the lip.

• Life of the Smart Prole: Quit community college, get a job. Work the rest of your life for a little more than minimum wage.

Form a band that is the members’ only hope and dream, but suck and never tour; become “locally renowned.” Try not to get married; end up marrying the first slut that says yes. Spend most of your money on drugs, like the liberal bourgeois. Aim for that overdose. Die of old age.

• Life of the Wise Prole: Blow brains out while still young; there is no way out of the cow-town or ghetto of your birth.

Another Tuesday night in Tallahassee makes me want to die another Tuesday night in Tallahassee is fucking with my mind another Tuesday night in Tallahassee ought to be a lie Another Tuesday night in Tallahassee crying for escape I cannot find Fuck this fucking town nothing good EVER came from Tallahassee, Florida the middle of nowhere in particular Q. What’s the difference between a Washington DC politician and a Brooklyn mobster?

A. Location, location, location.

Q. What do a bull whip, a chainsaw, and dandruff shampoo have in common?

A. If you feel it tingle, you know it’s working.

Re-elect

God!

There is enough time in your life to meet as many individuals who remind you negatively of yourself as you have annoying personality traits.

Don’t ever interrupt a shy woman while she’s hidden away reading a romance novel. That’s her moment alone with her wet vagina and it would be rude to come between them.

How are Punks like Republicans?

They’re angry ‘cause they want their upright family values!

“Classical music is the best thing to listen to on coke, because that’s what the people who made it were on.”

— a middle-aged father telling the little girl who is his daughter as she is tucked into bed, blue light coming in through the window, in the middle of Russia, 1985 Magicians had “pen-names” — compacted, potent words meant to impose their presence on a reader, especially useful in the geneticly inherent trait of territory-marking. (Which associates drug-dealers of today with the high-priests of ancient times, and graffiti to the casting of spells through writing, the primary act of civilisation and expressive self-assertion .)

I do not understand the importance to humans of music.

The Russians as a people will never succeed at anything they endeavor due to their intrinsic selfloathing. Regardless of the shape of the face that power takes in their country, it will never seem potent enough. They will always be impatient, ready for a revolution, ready for a complete restructuring, ready to throw away their knowledge of one thing to begin again as infants

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experimenting with another. Pop-culture will eat the Russian people alive simply based on this itchy trigger-finger effect, the desire by one and all Russians to change the channel regardless of what program is on. But this is merely a symptom of a problem unique to Russia. Perhaps it is the result of the rugged and unforgiving terrain, the vast, relentless tundras and the snow dunes sparkling under blue hued moonlight. Perhaps it is the result of the size of the nation, the disparity of cultural centers and the general uneducated stupidity of the masses. Perhaps it is something within their genetics, in the inter-breeding of other peoples that produced modern Russian blood. In any event the hatred of self implied by the hatred of staticity that is undeniably inherent in the Russians harkens back to some terrific event which spawned a great guilt, a guilt capable of being passed on for hundreds of generations; a guilt which divides the self and alienates one half; a guilt that blames and hates the portion responsible; a guilt which thinks of itself as positive because it differentiates the half with hope from the other half; a guilt which calls the hateful half the past and the hopeful half the future. This event, due to its apparent magnitude in the unconscious of the Russians, is, though the exact details of it have perhaps been forgotten by history, akin to original sin. If the Russians ever were a “strong” race, it could only have been before or in opposition to this accursed defeat of their will, this defeat which continues even to this very day within the mind and the soul of every Russian native.

The Russian intelligentsia is an educated proletariat that has only existed for one generation in a land that had erased all prior breeding for a royalty race.

How to tell a Democrat from a Republican on their death bed • A Republican will not have many people around, but will pass a large bag of money to their offspring for safe-keeping.

• A Democrat will have a lot of people gathered around weeping and lamenting their death, but have nothing to give them.

The quality of the average attitude among my friends is deteriorating, presumably due to my influence, or, more appropriately, to the affect of my chemical imbalance.

In America the true proletariat is comprised of bigots who have been conditioned by the Red Scare to react violently at so much as the mention of, let alone education regarding, communism and the global unification of the working class. Somehow the American proletariat has adopted a love of and willingness to die while protecting their employers’ money that even most bosses pride themselves for lacking. Regardless of where they live —the city or the country — they may be expected to behave as Dixiecrats, hating the government for taxation, drinking beer, listening to country music or rap and making racist remarks. This is a misfortune for which none can be completely blamed; it originated in xenophobic, sales-driven society, but is perpetuated by the wills of the proles themselves. It only serves to show that in America proletarian ideals of culture have been inextricably tied to bourgeois ideals of culture, and for so long as the proletariat exists autonomously of the bourgeoisie in America they do so in shame.

In the Southeast of the Great Satan even the bourgeois are good-ole-boys who wear blue-collared shirts and drive pick-up trucks. There simply aren’t enough truly refined, well-educated, white-collar, number-crunching executive types to constitute a sufficiently civilized upper-class. And this makes analysis of the class struggle in that region frustratingly difficult virtually to the point of impossibility.

The younger you are when you experience your first existential crisis, the more social power you will have as an adult. This is merely due to having to start over as a new person following the crisis, and relearning how to behave in social situations in order to maximize your own benefits therefrom. Also this is true only of those not born into the conditions for power; for example, it is difficult to imagine most presidents or CEOs of multinationals as sniveling pubescents cradling guns to their foreheads and begging God to bring back some unrequited love.

I give myself this hour in which to continue living, just the duration of this album, and let the music shape all my desicions,

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the words flow through the tones and I sit here alone and listen, writing down worthless thoughts, giving my life up to myself only to waste it like a sacrifice.

The surfaces of the earth are warm beneath the bare pads of my monkey-like feet.

Men used to walk thousands of miles on their naked feet and now they sit down and get haircuts. civilization is based on an attempt to recreate, with a tower made of brick, a pillar or column of smoke which drifted up to and supported heaven, and which formed the rain-briniging clouds.

At some point the Jews must have transferred the significance of the animal scrifice from the spilt blood itself to the stone tablet, or tabo, upon which it fell. One may easily enough imagine the letters of the law being spelled out in spilled blood across the surface of these two sacred stones, thus creating the pillars or tablets of the law through their being written before Moses by the finger of God. The bathroom light is seeping out everywhere, the color of skim milk. I feel translucent. The skin on my arms is reaching out, stretching out, it feels like wet latex gloves. The overwhelming sound of an airplane engine; someone has opened the door to the boiler room and inside there is the sound of a thousand babies crying. When I wake up we are driving through a tunnel, yellow lights going by overhead at regular intervals; it feels somehow very comforting, very safe, like I am being held close to my mother’s chest. The smell of burning opium. My hair is sheared very close to my scalp; it is a hard, dry material, like velcro. My fingernails are so short; I’ve never seen them so short before. My shoulders are sore. The tunnel goes on forever; I go to sleep and dream about it and when I wake up it is still there. I have to get to my job on time. My boss doesn’t have a face. These are modern concerns, the concerns of a modern man. I am not a warrior. It’s always rush hour. I feel like a shaven rat; I’ve been running down this tube so long I can hardly breathe.

A thick fog of propane fumes; we are consumed in exhaust. I squint my eyes but cannot remember any colors other than the flannel smog and the fluorescent milk color and the aqua tiles of the tunnel and the intermittent buzzing yellow lamps above. The radio is on but it is tuned to static.

The newsman told us things were getting worse somewhere. We are going on a vacation to the beach, where there are ravens. The television said it would rain all weekend. I am going to cry now but I don’t have a reason. I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t think anything was wrong.

Red line ends.

Hold on to the safety bars.

Morphine is your friend.

Listen to the passing cars.

I take two tiny pills at ten.

I wake up fourteen hours later standing in the rain again staring at the swirling stars.

Acid cures what’s in the water.

She is bringing me my coffee. I can see her coming. She is towards the front of the plane still. My seat is towards the back, by the engines. Her uniform is aqua blue and she has short, straight blonde hair. She said pleasant things to me with the red lips on her pale face. Everything looks pale in an airplane flying through the night. She is holding a pale cup. I do not hear her scream. She bleeds pale blood. We are headed for the ground. We don’t have any wings says the intercom. There is a fire in the control room. Men work ‘round the clock to put it out. We are going to be heroes.

Something is being bled out of us but we don’t know what it is and we don’t see it happening. It is making us very tired. I feel shrinkwrapped inside my bed. It is increasingly difficult to breathe. I do not know if this is due to the quality of the air

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or to my lungs, which seem weaker every day. I do not dare to tell my coworkers, or they will begin stealing all my office supplies. I wait for my dog to betray me. I think the woman in my life is far too lovely for me. The smell of chlorine in the bitter cold.

Science fiction: two men in silver space suits are playfully shooting at each other with lazer pistols. A dog, also in a shiny silver vaccuum suit and fishbowl helmet, leaps up to catch a bone which is floating in zero gravity. A mom comes out of the domed moon-domecile carrying a tray of cookies and smiling with deep, genuine contentment. The son and dad bound homeward in slow motion. The dog has hurdled off into deep space and is barking plaintively over the com system.

The family stand casually beside each other, arms upon adjoining shoulders, and laugh endlessly.

In the future we can stop. Nothing more needs to happen. In the future we are in the future and we can’t imagine any further future. We can stop. Nothing happens.

Take a shower. Have some food. Go out. Come home now. Take a nap. It lasts forever. Dream of shopping. We’ll go together. Drive around. You can’t escape. The city’s quiet. We make mistakes.

Love your coworker. Say you’re sorry. Almost there. Drink more coffee. It’s already tomorrow. Go swimming. Better schedule. Enjoy smoking. Popping pimples. Don’t feel lost. You take the tunnel.

Becka had found a purpose. Now if only she could find her car keys.

We went out wearing suits and all the students stood and stared at us as if they had never heard of shame. I tried to kiss her in the rain but she was slippery and slid away. We ran around and wept sometimes. It helped to listen to transmitted voices. Magic is the smell created by combustion. He pulled his hood up while he waited for the bus. It never came because a traffic jam began on the campus. There are too many flags. Don’t forget that you are our son and we love you. Batteries not included of course.

the menstruation She has fallen into the river!

Save her, we love her!

Our child, our dughter!

She is swept away from us forever.

How wide is this world thrown open, like a book whose spine is broken. We wander amongst the words like insects scattered letters between the lines nothing is left unkown to us. How easy to suddenly find oneself lost. Lost in all the world, no one knows you are there. No one you know in all the world, you have escaped. You are at once free and completely surrounded. You are free but you are drowning.

“Why are you so cruel?” she choked back her tears.

“Because I hurt so bad. I have to make everything equal. You understand, don’t you? Please, tell me you do understand. Even if you don’t just say you do and we can have a tragic ending. Come on; please.”

“I do. . . . I do.”

In real life there are no happy endings.

All endings and new beginnings are marked by the shedding of tears.

The way of the convict is the lifting of boulders. The way of the free man is the river.

The officer must always be watchful, lest anyone discover he is unfit for his post.

Learn. Learn and make time grow. Don’t let time slip by. It must be cared for; it must be loved. Learn. Learn and time will lift you. If you fail to learn time will carry you along towards death, limp, helpless, docile and forgiving. Learn from life. Change your views to fit every different situation. Be everyone. The world will be your lover.

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I don’t fit in. Everywhere I go, everyone I’m with, I remain alien and alone.

In order to be accepted by society one must continually make sacrifices.

Amsterdam at night. The sounds of clubs where people gather echo ‘round the plaster corners of closed shops and bounce off the cobblestone alleys. The sounds are washed out by the taxis in the streets and the quiet singing of the river. She leans against the rail of the arched bridge, a cigarette waning between her fingers, her coat and hair stirring slightly in the arctic breeze. We are carefully balanced, like cocaine on the scales, my heart and a feather. I stumble forward, light-headed; I have had so much to drink I can’t even remember how much, or what. I lean heavily over the rail and for an instant I feel my neck stretching like silly putty and my head goes lolling down to the water’s surface. My brain is doing the backstroke in various liquors. I decide to piss instead of try to vomit and I crudely unbutton my corduroy slacks. Is she glancing over? No. Still looking off into the darkness. Perhaps she feels as disoriented as I do. A plane roars by slowly somewhere high above. As I urinate down into the river I throw my head back and watch the strange pattern of lights crawl across the pinkened starscape. I fold away my flesh and fumble for some while with the fabric of my pants, succeeding only in getting a couple buttons done. Now there is a draught that I can feel on my scrotum. I put one foot somewhere into the total blackness in front of the other and make my way towards the woman. Finally I collapse against the rail beside her. My breath is hot and stinks. I can see it as I talk. I tell her all the usual things: it’s a pleasant night for this time of year; she’s very pretty; where is she from? She turns around slowly to look at me. Only then do I see that she has a thick beard. I vomit over the side of the bridge and am awakened there in a heap the next morning by a policeman who is mildly unfriendly. The sound of couples laughing and the squawks of jealous gulls. The air is thick blue-grey and fuzzy.

Space travel will not be like what anyone expects.

We are going into the future whether we like it or not. Some of us want to die rather than face it.

Some of us just smile. The floor vibrates beneath us and we hold onto the handles. Ahead the tunnel is submerged in a darkness so complete not even the ten thousand watt headlamp bulbs can cut into it. We are rolling forward; people get on and off.

Don’t forget that you are a soul. Now go back to bed. The technology transfer. It is difficult to tolerate this wait, don’t you think? I don’t think. A sea of raincoats and open newspapers. A book and a couple pills to cure the shakes. You can drink at least one more. Wave goodbye to your new friends. Vomit on the tram tracks. Vomit on the rats. Do you really think tall buildings make us who we are? It’s going to be one of those lifetimes. Crosswalk. The eager insects swarm around. A hive without a mind.

I’m standing on a clock. Heroin feels like sugar. Why are my friends so small and crawling all over me like fleas? He did one drug too many, broke his brain and now he’s famous. Wind chimes.

A Japanese voice calmly announcing departure times over a public address system. The sound of the crowd coming and going in waves between the linoleum-tiled walls. Enormous windows that look out on concrete fields. An army of glistening automobiles, each one a different make and color. It is cold in the frozen foods section; I don’t like to be there for too long. The butcher doesn’t smile. No one notices the omnipresent sound of the air filtration system after a certain amount of time. Time slips by across the bottoms of my feet. My hair is cold and dry; it is dry because it won’t evaporate; it will always be with me; it is a part of me; it is part of who I am.

Which is more alien to human nature: the presence or the absence of dust?

Would you rather your mom encourage or discourage your self-destruction?

Nothing happens. I feel like screaming. I feel like hitting girls in their pretty faces. A spinning coin. Dump truck tires. Where are we going? Onward and upward. Hurry, hurry, there’s very little time. My shoe is coming untied. Leave your briefcase behind. Daddy’s little penis. Daddy’s little

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fratricide. The briefcase latch pops open and there are dwarves inside. Why don’t they stop chasing you? Maybe they’re trying to catch the same train. You’re the driver. You lose your voice.

Part of the machine. Hurry, hurry. It’s time to go to sleep.

I don’t want the world to end this way. I know I have some say, but no one agrees with me.

Work helps you stop masturbating. I never realized. My dog got run over by a cop. She hates every word I write. Don’t forget that you are a slave. Sacrifice makes you stronger says the statue of liberty. There are more bricks in the city than stars in heaven.

I hail a cab. Follow that cab I tell the cabby. When the person in that cab gets out I pick another cab at random and tell the cabby to follow it. This goes on for hours. It is a fun game, but it costs a couple hundred dollars. When I get bored of playing I am not stupid enough to pay. I get out and run away laughing, thanks for asking. He isn’t going to follow me out into this unseasonably heavy rain. The climate of the world is changing. In the city there’s more smog than air. It gets worse every day.

Everyone complains, but no one really cares. control-s the world. My cursor turns into the symbol of a clock.

By the time we discovered the naked body it was beginning to turn blue. The skin had stretched a little bit and was sagging off the bones. In life he couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-five pounds. He looked like a pile of PVC piping at first, but once we got closer we could smell the gasses behind his flesh leaking out. He was pale, had very short hair, barely five o-clock shadow because the color of it was so light. He must have been a junky we decided, although we couldn’t find the track marks in his loosened arms. We poked at him for a while with sticks while holding our t-shirt collars up over our noses. Jennifer pulled her panties down a little and, squatting over our strange new friend and laughing, urinated on his decomposing face.

She gathers along the southern side of Algiers before the storm, in the industrial part of town by the train tracks. She frightens away the hoboes with a few Latin and Hebrew phrases. Cats follow her around. Purring, she coaxes one into her arms. She dumps it into a flaming barrel as a lesson to the others. Now they keep their distance. She meets Edmund, who is usually later. They are going to build a telecommunications array out of human bones and some electrical equipment Edmund has been collecting from dumpsters for the past three weeks. Trains roll by slowly, deafening. She and Edmund communicate nonverbally, just like the trains and their conductors.

They alternate roles. The bones are assembled and soon, with duct tape, Edmund has decorated them with wires and circuit boards. They aim their creation at the belt of Orion. She dons her headdress, made from the still bloodied severed wings of gulls and crows. Edmund spills his bald head forth from his hood. His eyes are both scar tissue lumps. They hold hands and let the milky white chemical they injected earlier flow through their veins together. Their bodies wither as their spirits vacate them. Her skin turns into dust much faster than his. His clothing thins and slides away on the wind. Their invention crumbles beneath the weight of the pervasive blue dawn.

The loss of DNA. Evil is the inversion of livE. Work creates the illusion that a life cycle is palindromic. You can’t fight sleep forever. Intelligence dulls sensations, but makes their affect on the mind far more painful. A three letter word works best. At the height of their empire the Egyptians had no vowels. There are so many cars in the streets none of them can move. They are stuck in an enormous circle. The snake eats its own skin for nutrition. The newborn bird may eat its shell. The bomb made the Japanese stronger. Radiation fast-forwards evolution. Mutation is progress.

Why Charles ran screaming out of his meeting with the board “And while we all agree that the point Charles made is very — Charles! My god!

Your beard is growing in!. . . Alright, now that Charles is gone we can all say how we really feel about his proposal.”

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The worst insult to an American bourgeois is to say that they have no sense of taste and/or no personal style.

True Democracy is only possible when every applicant participates with all their energy; as in Nietzsche’s utopia of ubermenschen. A true Democracy is populated exclusively by kings.

Unfortunately a “true” Democracy is an impossible ideal, due to the different levels of analysis upon which the strengthening aspect of individual citizens may be realized: 1) physical strength; 2) financial strength; 3) strength of intellect; 4) strength of will. Only a Democracy based on strength of this last kind could be considered true to the ideal, although it is necessary for Democracy in the technological world to be developing in the second regard, the one easiest to accept quantitatively. It is through adoption, understanding and ultimately manipulation of this system, the system of money, that all people on the earth may one day come to be equals, risen up to the status of kings. Although even this is unlikely to occur.

The earth’s electromagnetic field (i.e. “god”) is the substance most conducive to the transmission of the pure electrical impulses of human thought. When dreaming or when insane (hallucinogenic drugs provide a waking glimpse of this state) the mind is thrown irreversibly open and all thoughts being broadcast are received and processed by one’s consciousness. Thoughts are striking all across the surface of the planet in electrical bolts faster than light, faster than any detection device can register, in every direction at random like veins. These bolts can be controlled, directed. But first, perhaps we must develop the technology and the courage to control the patterns of the veins they resemble. Only when humans can make their own bodies can they truly grasp and harness the sheer electrical potential of the world-mind. This our minds can use as fuel for a ship, or pulse, to transport human consciousness from this physical world into space.

The will directs it, steers it. I’m either two thousand years ahead of my time or crazy.

Everyone campaigns whenever in company, trying to garner majority support for whatever their proposition is. This is done better by collectivists than individualists, who would just as soon go off and do whatever it is on their own, not needing the group’s approval for permission. On the other hand individualists are much better at selling themselves to the masses and gaining approval for themselves as individuals, because they are not nagged by the self-doubt that leads to collectivism. Nonetheless the practice of political jockeying for positions of greatest influence, of greatest power, even within the smallest circles of the closest friends, is extremely sickening.

The best, the only tolerable size for the grouping of humans is pairs. Never more than three.

Only the damned remain hopeful.

I ate the professor. We are going over there now. Toenails can hurt a lot more than one would think. One thinks very little. My toes think all the time, but only of shoes.

“Do you see those office windows? All those sparkling lights, like so many millions upon millions of faraway stars? Inside each one of those is a person. That office is their job. They go there everyday; if they didn’t they would have no way of living. If they didn’t go there they would have no home to go to either. They would have nothing without their offices. Most of them studied their entire lives to reach the height that office raises them up from the cold pavement of the street. And most of them will never get any higher. Their office is like their coffin. They each benefit from the advancement of technology, but only so, as their lives are made easier, they can concentrate more on their jobs. Each one of those people is different but, when they go in to their work, they all dress alike. They smile at each other to make their lives more pleasant. They eat lunch with each other; they make friends and have drinks. They release their tensions over the weekend to maximize their efficiency and their ability to concentrate at work. When they’re locked in their offices, and no one can see, they might misbehave from time to time, so long as it is nothing that would result in their being dismissed. This is what the human being has become. We cannot say evolution, like some stork, dropped us off here like infants. We cannot say this is

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exactly where we all hoped we would be, or that this is the pinnacle of every human’s dream, every individual aspiration. Yet here we are. This is our future. It belongs to us, it is us. Our jobs and ourselves have become one and the same.”

God fired a gun. Man was the bullet. The heart of mother earth his target.

When the bullet struck it began to expand, sending tentacles of mechanization out in every direction, a virus of machinery. One day the entire world was covered up and consumed throughout by technology, and on that day God smiled down at his creation and was pleased. God had lived in the depths of the void for so many millions of millions of years his own heart had grown cold, and his desires perverse and twisted.

He no longer understood the emotions of his youth, such as love, and scorned all such displays of weakness. God had, as does man, outgrown himself, and become a new god.

A god of cruelty, indifference and injustice. And man smiled up at the cold God’s cruel grin, and was pleased. The cities they built, and the dissatisfaction they felt, were true to him, and man continued on bitterly serving God’s spite and his hatred.

It is no accident that the very intellegent are only allowed to be raised above the fray of competing groundlings (driven only by their limited personal ambitions) if their minds are applied to solving some socially significant difficiency in the pre-existing system. “I love you” has no meaning at all to the powerful. (spoken to a crowd) Repeat after me: “My boss owns me. I owe him my life.”

“Only the unemployed or those alienated from the work force by fame could harbor the misconception that a worker feels the least bit of loyalty to his job,” says Worker 3457X to an unfamiliar coworker at the water-cooler. A camera glares down at them from behind its black plastic dome in the ceiling tiles above.

“I can quit whenever I want,” agrees Worker 9273Q, who is not currently searching for another place of employment and who secretly dreads, from time to time, having to find another job fit for someone of his specialized training. In fact, that night he may be expected to lie awake for hours pondering uncomfortably the prospect of being without work even for the length of one week, let alone the amount of time it would take him to locate work with a comparable salary. He will remember how much he hated some of his previous, short-term vocations, and shiver at the idea of having to return even temporarily to any such service-sector position, an experience made even less acceptable by his age.

Luckily, Worker 9273Q will not be fired that week. His brief conversation with 3457X has been staged to test the level of his repressed fears determined directly by his employment expectancy. A worker who is afraid of being fired is a better worker in the same way that a God-fearing citizen is a more moral, better citizen. He understands his freedom, but only insofar as he feels guilty for it.

Unfortunately for Worker 9273Q he will be fired the following week due to completely unrelated cutbacks in company employment.

Don’t listen to the words. Listen to the music.

“I hate the words. Words suck.”

Now there’s a good student. Learning quickly.

You’ll be management in no time.

Styles change, tastes evolve, just like dinosaurs turning into birds, our heads are eggs I’m cracking up let me out of this cage, let me out of time, I’m running, I am running out of time, my mind is running like an egg on a grill, I am being grilled for all these things I will not do, I’m only flesh and blood and bones, I don’t believe in minds and I don’t believe in souls, why can’t you just leave me alone and let my life be mine? I don’t want to be what you expect now so later you can own my hopes and control my every behavior. I’d rather be lost in nothingness outside the moment than drowning in the sweetest inner-circle in-joke coolness.

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We aren’t going out tonight. We’re going to bed early. Why? What did you want to do?

One world phone-book. The meltdown of the nuclear family. Job-hunting. Being bossed around.

Jumped, attacked. Jacked out by the company dumpster. Ten thousand couriers on bicycles.

Misunderstandings among the stupid and otherwise useless. Sacred clowns broadcast live via satellite. Worldwide fan base. Slaves of celebrity. Headlines. Writers stay at home. What do you think? I don’t think everything here is true, but it has potential to be consumed. I’ll see what I can do for you. Wait thirteen weeks and then call in. Nothing. I’m sorry I forgot to let you know.

That’s perfectly alright sometimes that’s just the way things go. Smoke more. Excercise. Visualize your goal. You don’t have a goal. You’re the only one in all the world born without some natural role. Everyone else knows. They know from when they are very young just what job they will become. They know that you are different and that’s why they keep trying to look you straight in the eyes, all the time. They’re trying to alienate you. And you’re letting it work, but why not?

You’re different from everyone anyway. In the same way everyone is different from everyone else, or so they like to say. I’ve got more important things to do than make your life make sense to you.

The taste of peppermint and one foot in front of the other upon the scalding pavement. Onehundred and six between the buildings and it’s worse on the subway where all the people perspire and all the men need shaves. A bottle in the gutter from somebody’s revelry. I am going nowhere because that’s where anybody wants me. Women like to see strangers as cats. I’ll leave my life and never look back. Darling, where is me? Darling, where is me?

Heroes say to Hell with it.

A single day may be all we are given for overwhelming feelings of greatness.

As soon as she stepped through the door I knew my life was going to change as a result. It irritated me. It irritated me to know it and it irritated me that she probably did not. If she was worth changing my life for she ought to expect me, of all the baboons in this dive, to come walking up to her as soon as she sat down at the bar. But she probably didn’t; she had a far-off look in her eyes; a sad look, like she didn’t really want to be here either, but something had compelled her here after hours of aimless walking, if only to collapse into further melancholy. I wished then that she would turn around and leave and spare us both the inconvenience, but I could tell just to look at her, the way she was dragging her feet, her slumped shoulders, her rain-soaked hair, that she wasn’t about to do that. So I took a deep breath and sighed, and, picking up my mug, began my slow approach.

People look more beautiful with little red holes in the middle of their foreheads. It balances the composition of the human face.

Come to my window if you love me. Get me out of here.

As it approached the end everything sped up.

Live concert on the moon. Everybody watches with heads craned back, mouths opening slightly.

They sit in couples on picnic blankets and listen to the music fill the universe.

Everybody in society writes poetry. It’s just part of survival. The shedding of dead skin. Nothing to be proud of. Something only fools would linger over. Nothing anyone of consequence would read. Something cast away for a reason. Something to be forgotten. It is far better to sleep than write.

I become the opposite of everything I was when I was happy. No one acknowledges the change.

We no longer know each other’s favorite items, the objects of one another’s tastes, but we can exactly and accurately predict how the other will behave. This makes reintroduction so awkward and illogical it isn’t even really worth attempting.

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notebook 1 The Driver The driver is a terrible person.

He flirts with his best friend’s girlfriend right in front of him, and puts down his best friend in front of his girlfriend to make himself look more powerful to her.

He evokes promised favors from his passengers and frightens everyone with his erratic and apparently uncontrolled style of steering. Nobody likes him.

But no one complains.

What could anyone possibly say?

He is the driver.

Heavenly and church-like, yet, at the same time, conducive to the imagination of great, wide-open spaces, desert planes and high, arid plateaus populated only by majestic cacti and sandstorms. The late nineteen-eighties. A time requiring a savior, willing to accept nothing without at least the hint of holiness. All must be somehow sacred, even the filth of existence; especially the filth, and the grunge of the economy. A boy-prince and a mythical castle of detritus and industry. A gold-rush.

The American heart is shaking off its layers of dust, shaking out its long blonde roots in the California heat and the Pacific coast wind, the waves crashing. It is working through its rust, the engine is working again, manufacturing spirit, producing hope.

Now something simple. A love story, the simplest type of story. A perfect, predetermined simplicity that rejects all disagreements and differences in taste. One plus one. The simplicity of heaven, the simplicity of God smiling. This is right. You open your eyes and see her face on the pillow beside you, smiling. This moment is the most correct, most satisfying moment you can experience. For the first time, perhaps for the last, you feel whole; powerful, as if you can do anything you can dream just because you’re doing it for her. For the both of you. The only future you can accept is one that includes both of you. The rest of the world is forgotten. This bed, soft and warm. Her eyes, the palms of her hands. The heaviness of your own body. This moment is your body, it is full of your warm pink blood. It is you, it is life, your life is here. And then everything is fading and for some incomprehensible although perfectly logical reason she hates you and will never speak to you again.

Freedom. Amongst the ruins of your past, all things forgotten. You are running.

Things are passing by, charging through time like a flock of wild horses. Hooves pummeling the soil. Fire against your faces, all the faces of your life. And there, at the horizon, there she is. She stands there, waiting for you. Holding up her eternal torch for you to guide your way. The most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen, a sight without worry, a sight without premonition of anything but crisp, clean air and the sight of limitlessness, the countryside where dreams go to survive. Her green eyes are smiling down at you, the sight of God and all past loves. Perfect complete acceptance. Warmed beneath the sight of her torch. Warmed beneath those eyes.

Coming into the port at last. Stepping off onto solid ground. Immigration, they call it.

You know it is liberation.

Women have a way of consuming men. Always expecting more of them until there is nothing left. They find them the savage beasts of brutal confidence they desire, and leave them self-conscious, obsequious trolls living beneath burnt bridges.

Wheels touch down. What did that fortune cookie say? What did my horoscope say about today? The stars are turning slowly above. I’m thinking exactly what the powers that be want me to. They have bought my brain. Entering the terminal.

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One by one the band members, glowing and partially transparent, float down from the ceiling of Grand Central Station. They perform their single standing in the middle of the bustling crowd as spirits. The gentleman with the wild hair. A space ship. Hyperspace. People are lulled into hypersleep by advertising. Product X is unnecessary but nonetheless more desirable than food.

Rationalize its purchase. You can afford to spend X% of your salary on it. Travel and sex sell better than fear. Fear is always useful to motivate the stupid. Sex works best of all. Work is sex without love. We are beings afterall. Coming at you through the crowd in the terminal — a big fuzzy pink spokesperson. A man, just like you, dressed in an absurd suit meant to resemble some popular television creature. He represents the new type of church. He is going to shake your hand and give you a flier. You have to promise to vote for him before he will allow you to leave. Now you have to run to catch your flight. When you sit down the oxygen mask pops out and you put it on with relief. Now your flight can begin. Your plane takes off and the band is playing their single on the in-flight movie screen. The stewardess brings around a cart of Product X and you dig out your wallet. You will land on the moon in nine hours. Try to get some sleep.

I have violently different tastes than every other member of my generation.

James grew up sheltered by apologies.

Ian lived in the poor part of the planet and had orgies during nap-time when he was in preschool.

Where Ian came from there was no such thing as an apology and where James came from there was no such thing as an orgy. They were both aware of the passion that existed between them, but only James was truly dumb enough to mistake it for affection.

Any music can be inspiring until each tone becomes predictable.

Stumbling drunk and high around the streets of the East Village It’s been so long I’m not even sure I want that life to be my saviour anymore I’m not even sure I can survive that life or any other Why would I want to do that? Why should I want to do anything?

The difficult search for other philosophers, the necessary formation of a school. Fear of becoming Nietzsche.

Nietzsche was not the anti-Christ, but Satan himself. Satanists worship according to the teachings of this great man to whom they never pay direct tribute. Hitler, Nietzsche’s intellectual offspring, was the true embodiment of everything opposite to Jesus’s values. Where Jesus gave, Hitler took.

The sound of a car rolling over gravel is the same as the sound of a high powered hose spraying water against the body of a car. Somehow connotative of expectancy.

The sad girl has control. She is given control of her sadness by her sadness, which has control of her, but which does not exist except inside of her. She cannot divide herself against her sadness to conquer it anymore than she could divide out any other feeling, or even any portion of her flesh, by sheer force of will. Yet here is what she wills: A sadness that constitutes a significant portion of her being. It is justifiable. She has witnessed the execution at his own hands of her friend. She has witnessed things no one else has noticed. This fact in and of itself is justification for a sadness founded upon isolation. But hers goes further. For when she stretches it is not her flesh but the flesh of a godling that groans. Insects fly around in the air surrounding her flesh.

She tends to this flesh as does a farmer his fields and she is concerned for the fruition of her harvest. Her sadness creates this flesh, and it is the sadness which comes between its creation and the girl to whom it gives the flesh. Horrible confusion. Horrible fission. Isolation within her

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mind from her body. The idea of love somewhere wandering around inside, a lurking specter.

Perhaps thoughts are just the sound of the brain desiring the consumption of mindaltering, mind-expanding substances, just as my stomach growls when I am hungry.

Science fiction can be associated with the idea of the urban, the growing industrialized city of the forties and fifties, while country-western and fantasy/horror can be associated with the idea of the rural, the pervasive forest, the ever-constant and looming jungle of nature.

The robot is the new-Self and the plant-like is the Other.

Modern science-fiction (Cronenberg) blurs this somewhat (the new-flesh).

The inner-city is storming the campus, the suburbs are storming the city itself, and soon the country will be storming the city. At the same time, the city is rising up in its center and pushing outwards all around itself, flooding the suburbs with college-aged children, filling the colleges with inner-city children and filling the countryside with suburbs. It is as if, as it swells outward it rushes out ahead of itself to build a new level for it to consume, eternally chasing the suburbs, rather like a dog chasing its tail. It’s levels are, layered outward and seen from directly above the center of the city’s commerce: 1) the rich up-town penthouse dwellers, the definers of efficiency and the pinnacle of the will, who rest on top of 2) the poor down-town ghetto dwellers, the children of the industrial proletariat (the level we as a nation are trying to kill off with guns, liquor and drugs because it has the most concentrated population of blacks, who, because they are in a more urbanized position, probably did carpet-bag the Hell out of their Southern ex-masters during the end of the Civil War); 3) a broken circle of colleges and schools, black on the poor side, white on the rich side, integrated in between; 4) the middle-class whites and a few, honest blacks, several Jews, etc. who constitute “Suburbia;” 5) the poor whites who work the land, the agricultural proletariat. Wealth is centered in the upper-city and the suburbs, skipping over the stray, or pirate class, the class that came in from the docks; while culture is centered in the communication between the college and lower-city levels, as the student class adopts the styles of the truly American proletariat.

Nietzsche was almost certainly between the college and country levels, but thinking on the level of between the student and lower-city classes, with a mind that somehow was intended to belong in the upper-city level.

It is an interesting thing to imagine that Abraham Lincoln, in the habit of men of truly good breeding and, diabolically, a way to cut off the very-rich from the rich, thought several generational moves ahead and freed the slaves to serve as the class he foresaw becoming a new proletariat serving the city-class, the very rich, like himself. It is further amusing to imagine the subsequent presidents shaping the American image, the appearance of modern “Democracy,” on an open and well-advertised-for campaign of immigration. They exploited a resource most European countries still didn’t grasp that they had — poor labor. This would explain the intense CIA covert warfare against the city-proletariat, what with manipulation of lifestyle and culture through drugs and all. In fact, our entire American culture is obviously based around this practice, because the heroes of our storytelling (the post-technological medium of film) are more frequently economic-savages of either extreme (gangsters for the city-proles or cowboys for the country-proles), but never those true capitalists who simply work every day to get money so they can live more comfortably that comprise the successful portions of our society. American Democracy is an experiment in capitalism, the creation of a divisive class. This division tends to be markedly racial, due to some upheaval such as the freeing of a slave-class or massive immigration. The CIA is obligated, as the knight-class protecting the American super-rich, the American aristocracy if you will, to brutally oppress the racially-based social class following World War II, because this is the class to which Hitler appealed, and this revelation of racial exclusivity is the way he exploited them into a revolution and a crusade.

WWII-era Fascism was the result of a revolution by the city-proles, led by an individual because it was inspired by Nietzschean ideals of individuality and

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personally-willed liberty. The Soviet Union was the result of a revolution by the country-proles, with only the guidelines of morally collectivist religions to taint its ethic (by which I mean, State exactly replaces Church). Towards the end of his career Martin Luther King Jr., the last great man the world has ever seen to this date, advocated a consideration of living conditions of all the poor, not just inner-city blacks, because this would result in a strengthening of all the proletariat and, ultimately (his intended gift to us several generations hence), a unification between the city-proles and country-proles to fight the divided rich (urban and suburban bourgeoisie). But this, with the city-proles overthrowing the urban bourgeoisie and the country-proles simultaneously overthrowing the suburban bourgeoisie, would simply accelerate what is already occurring now, “naturally,” as a result of the capitalist market — namely, competition among the classes, aimed in the direction of the richest class, for the limited resources that constitute “wealth” on this planet.

The disappointment, and the promise, of revolution is that it only pushes the envelope forward a little bit at a time. There are infinite layers of countryside remaining to be eaten up by a wave that sweeps us upward and outward. Even though, by the standards of the Renaissance, we are advancing technologically by leaps and bounds, we can still think further ahead to the future than we are capable of maintaining economically. (this is science-fiction) We can see into the future. We are coming of age. Little steps.

We are the first couple of generations where the majority of the population is beginning to understand the pacing of technological development that the nowextinct or regressed royalty-class alone used to comprehend and control. Yet still we are so engaged in our on-going cultural revolution that we have not yet decided whether or not we will accept it.

We want to proceed very fast. Unlike scientists were predicted to do, the most vocal scientists are ecologically cautionary. This says a strong amount for the liberal movement of the proletariat. It is their pet concern; not at all beneficial to science.

[The movie] “Contact” romanticizes conditions of pure, cut-throat economic liberalism.

In this, techno music appeals to gangsters.

the Walt Disney theme parks are unique in history because they show us a cartoon version of the past and a cartoon version of the future (both according to literature rather than actual history or probability, and both cartoon — the benevolent, modern equivalent of the fairy tale or the heathen). They are, because they hire so many of the poor, frequently defending their social issues, such as homosexuality and the fight against drugs, therefore something like an anti-Nazi Nazi State; the same city-proletariat, student and country-proletariat run it, and it is directed against the suburbs as a method of propaganda as a tool protecting the city-interests. Of course, it is fun to visit for one and all, but only serendipitously; it is historically necessary for pedantic purposes that exceed any entertainment value. The same is true of Japan and their rapid development of an entertainment technology-export industry (both hard-ware and soft-ware) as a weapon of mass-hypnotism of the western world.

A saber made of electrical opium.

There is no alcohol in Coca-cola; it is a “soft-drink.”

There’s just a little cocaine.

(American culture: pop-culture infected by the CIA in the style of poisoned drinking water, only with us, drinking water is soda-pop)

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Thinking thoughts like this, at this pace, gives me a headache that feels like a crown.

The mind works on synthesis: three dimensionally. The combination of depth and width with length to form a new measurement, the measurement of the fourth dimension, which we have not yet deciphered. Different three-dimensional shapes are obviously components of different fourthdimensional structures, in the same way that different length lines are the components of shapes.

Perhaps Einstein was referring to the fourth spatial dimension by his theory of relativity. The spatial fourth dimension is measured by space-time, the combination of the passage of time with the exertion of energy. This being associated with the combination of different three dimensional shapes constituting exploration into the fourth dimension, perhaps the Egyptians and Ayn Rand were right about the profound scientific significance of architecture and masonry, the formation of the structures that define the city.

I understand, but I forget; I am not given words to express.

Birds line their nests with shiny things as a show of status, flaunting their implied safety from predators. Humans use diamonds, flaunting their implied indifference to the ultimate destruction of the earth through demineralization.

The forest is that darkness which nightly engulfs the world between the rare but growing cities and from which those thin and pale cannibals vampires derive. From this same darkness in the night sky itself, between the quietly expanding clusters called galaxies, appear aliens, those thin and pale experimenters on the flesh of humankind.

Space is an exact mirror of the earth, with galaxies being discovered just as cities spring up strongly, and expanding away from one another with no explanation just as cities expand towards one another due to economics, which is a physically invisible force.

(Though one not completely without physical evidence, perhaps even as, by examining the gravitation that shapes galaxies, we can discover the force which causes their apparent regression.)

Astrology and history are one. The game of the wisdom-initated rich has always been tarot.

Watch the clouds for signs of turning tides in battle. The winds of change are shifting.

Art is the weather of a society. Changes in it refer to changes in social conventions. Only art that predicts, not that which reflects, is worth watching; art which is difficult to accept at first.

Artists that change the face of art as a whole are magicians.

Advertising is a spell the rich are casting on the poor. The poor are too well-educated now not to notice that, but too Calvinist-socialized to be rude enough to mention it.

[A disorienting experience, such as travel, can reduce less potent minds to suspicion.]

One day soon America will be a third-world country. The world will be scientifically, technologically advanced, but America will no longer be the technological, economic hegemony. It will be as it appears in Blade Runner.

I feel at home in the poor parts of town. This I get from my father. Although I was not high, I used to subject Irina to hours of aimless, explorative driving around simply because I could provide her with no better entertainment than that which entertained me: the simple act of driving, of feeling my body moved through space, of being in control of my own roller-coaster and using it to explore that which is dangerous to me personally as a result of my economic status. This, combined with music, is quite a relaxing experience for me. In much the same way as I, from time to time, have been known in my youth to curl up beside a trash can and write.

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Music describes lines. They may be the lines of gesture, of human movement, or the lines of architecture, the staticity of objects arranged in the style dictated by the strength of human will.

Music forms shapes in the human mind; this is a simple chemical fact. Certain tones vibrate at such a frequency that they separate particles into geometric designs, such as pentagrams, etc. The order of notes builds shapes inside the human brain. It is these shapes which carry data, perhaps by connotation; for example the pentagram which used to represent Venus has now been permanently inverted and socialized to signify Satan. It may be as simple as activation of neurons in the brain in a certain pattern triggering a certain thought. This was probably the intention of those builders of geologically arranged monuments along astrological patterns. The connection of certain “strong points” on the earth in a fixed design for the worship of the god associated with that design. And the “strong points” connected were simply mineral-rich areas where magnetic effects were increased. Now, however, we have found a new, more crude use for magnetized minerals: their breaking down and combustion to power machines. Yes, yes: lines of reasoning.

One thought leads to the next. I play connect the dots inside my brain.

We have created a machine that Looks. It creates art because nothing it creates is what it appears to be. You cannot look at film footage of a pipe and say it is a pipe because it is clearly not a pipe. It is film and nothing more. Film-makers are magi.

Art is re-presentation.

Try to create machines that, in form and function, more closely resemble the human head.

The camera reduces me to the state of its object without itself being at all subjective.

Humans are the only species the members of which actively kill one another to such an extent that the greatest dilemma of the human mind is whether to exclusively compete or exclusively cooperate with fellow humans. This is the result of our having no greater natural predator than ourselves and yet still requiring some indomitable force in opposition to which we can mutate and evolve. We are our own aliens, the CIA experimenting on citizens and soldiers, because we must improve our own minds. This is scientific, technological, evolutionary existentialism.

We fear and yet, in America, simultaneously ideologically admire those who express complete faith in the strength of their will before having offered proof to that affect by exertions of conformity, such as climbing the corporate ladder. Mad men, men who cross-dress and drink, men who perform rape-based mind-experiments on children, the most evil and ambitious lunatics do truly run this country. They are the magicians behind the figure-head kings, Dulles and Hoover behind Ike and the like. The American public is fascinated by Charles Manson. (a movie about him made by Oliver Stone would make a large box-office gross) Our heroes are these evil maniacs. As if we want some counter-agent like William Burroughs or Hunter S. Thompson to come along and reveal the truth behind the facade of order in all the nation’s covert intelligence agencies, perhaps through experimentation with the exact same drugs. The American people, historically underdogs themselves, root for the underdog in this relationship as well; perhaps Don Quixote will, this time, be able to coax some gem of truth down from his adversaries, the windmills.

I leave my own motivations and desires, especially my dependency on others, too much out in the open. So much so, in fact, it tends to offend. If, for example, I were an agent of the CIA testing mind-control techniques, my interest in Communism would have little more relevance than my interest in subliminal advertising. It would be obvious to my superiors that my loyalty was to whomever gave me the money to continue my operations; only in that would I truly represent the interests of the American elites. This would constitute a weakness in my role for the department, because, if they should dislike my results and cut back my funding, it would be a fine excuse for them to preemptively assassinate me before I had the opportunity to defect or go public.

The attempt to understand universal similarities in cultural cryptology or linguistics and to sort out “archetypes” representative of the “world-mind” is the attempt to create a single, nonverbal,

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human language. This can be the object, then, of mind-to-mind transmissions. No preconditioning regarding the subject nor special direction of attention to the carrier of a subliminal message would be necessary in this scenario; the unconscious human drive known as the will or the id would be the target, and the universal geometrical / mythological language carried by electromagnetic field generation would be the message. This makes ESP a theoretically plausible resource for communications exploitation.

Dizzy and throwing up into the toilet, I shouldn’t be touching this bathroom floor. I came in here to hide my stash before I went through the security check point but I decided I’d use it all up, make the plane ride bearable. Everybody from my delegation thinks I’m an alcoholic because I spilled that beer on myself this morning. Fuck ‘em.

The fact is the world IS going crazy. It used to only be those in power, but now we’re living in a Capitalist Democracy; every consumer thinks he’s a king. There’s so many satellite transmissions, and the drugs are making us nervous. Television doesn’t help.

A shirt that reads: “POOR” ($15 each. Millions sold already) Impotence may be an indication of heart-failure later in life. Let us name our generations, as though the entire populace were a child of the era and the earth. My friends are aliens and this room is a movie set. The government sent my friends. “All in the family.” (“The family” is the newly poor.) Complications. Communications of the oldest disease. In this neighborhood even total strangers share peculiar and unique symptoms. Radiation from the telephone wires. Radiation from the television tube. Radiation from the microwave oven. Radiation from your most recent operation. You’re getting old. Diagnosis: you should quit doing what you’ve been doing. You’re going to quit living soon. The gun in the shoe box under the bed. The tablets in the cabinet. Why would a government irradiate its own citizens? What else are people good for? Experiments create the future. My entire generation tried to do some good. Nothing ever went right. Things have changed, things are different. But not better. This world is already as good as it is going to get.

Man killed by facing facts.

A typical indulgence: Music to listen to in a crashing airplane. (you may want to turn it up a little) Drown out the screaming. Die still smiling. Available in all good stores.

Everybody understands things differently, but the things themselves are still the same.

If you save twelve people from the little quandries that eat up their lives, just twelve people from their personal shortcomings and fears, you too can be remembered eternally for being capable of saving every single soul on the planet, even those who don’t want saving. Just twelve and you can have the reputation of the Messiah. Act now, or never. Preferably never.

Is it better to look rich and act savage (gangsters) or look poor and act like you know it all (students)?

In my dream I awaken. I am lying in the wide, smooth street. There are no cars. The buildings rise up around me, swaying slightly. I stand, looking up. The sky is black but there is daylight everywhere, coming from no specific direction. I walk around, dazed, encountering no one. I ride the subway. I explore offices, apartments, houses in the suburbs, the airport. No one else exists.

There are security cameras watching me, important documents still on screen, meals half consumed in kitchens, planes still coming and going on time, but no people. They are gone. They are dead. It is one minute after the apocalypse and only I remain. This means nothing exactly, aside from the interesting fact that the world does not need a population of beings to continue functioning. Telephones ring, and when I pick up — the sound of computers.

An AI therapist program for your home computer, for use unwinding after a hard day at work. It dutifully listens to and records your major complaints and responds with one or two lines of

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pleasant encouragement selected randomly from its databank of thousands.

“I’m exhausted. Let’s go get some breakfast.”

He knew that he was not, himself, a skilled enough tactician to predict his enemies strategical maneuvers, so he trained his soldiers well in advance to be the most ruthless and fearless fighters. He conditioned them to enter battle with honor, and to venerate those lost in combat, to ensure that their souls, above all, populated the heavens. Interestingly, he only fed his soldiers sweetmeats, especially salmon, which he considered a “warrior fish.”

A nail through a hand. China and Japan may be seen as the opposite extremes of western culture.

I’ll lie around this cage with you; I love you. But it is still a cage whether you like it or not.

The division in style between east and west coast rap is due to the living conditions of the cityproletariat (the blacks) on the different coasts, and the affect of growing up in these similar, but unique, environments. On the east coast the city is piled up, the rich clearly living directly above the poor, who live in enormous, unsanitary complexes, with a strong underground and sense of the street derived from the presence of subways. On the west coast cities are more spread out, more sprawling, like Los Angeles that great whore, and the poor live in the more suburban hoods, such as Compton. These conditions are not exclusive of one another by any means, although this would, at first consideration, definitely appear to be a definitive factor in the east coast/west coast feud.

Rap has adopted several penchants of National Socialism without being educated enough to realize it is doing so. Some are subtle things, such as waving an open palm above the head with an outstretched arm, or wearing black shirts. Some are more concerning ideological similarities such as a hate for their environment that manifests itself as a desire to escape through capitalism via the entertainment industry rather than as an interest in examining the causes of and seeking to change for the positive the conditions surrounding their communities, or the contented misunderstanding of economic segregation only as a racial issue. Rap is essentially a black Nazi party without a single, agreed-upon leader.

The power goes out. I lose all my memory and wander out into the street, dazed.

Advertising is the media-sublimation of rebellion. Fifteen seconds of fame, a single sound-byte; then a commercial break, the two minute hate.

The poor hate the ego. They only admire hubris for either the id or the superego.

A street defined by walls. A street that is, itself, a wall; or vice versa?

Wall Street has bread a new kind of man, a type of man who even Nixon fears. A man who is cold inside, who has no beliefs, who values only himself, who plays the game no matter what and plays to win. “This man,” says Nixon, “is neither liberal nor conservative, but will align himself with whoever has power at the time.”

I love American politics in the 1990s: A president who is so bipartisan the opposing party is incapable of attacking his policies, and so falls to publicly denouncing the usage of his genitals.

But the economy is good, so nobody really gives a good goddamn; we laugh it up at the president’s expense all the way to the bank and back just in time to catch our favorite yuppie sitcom.

“In politics friendships are short-lived. When you’re a winner everybody wants to be your friend, but when you’re a loser you find out who your true friends are.

Politics is all about what you can do for someone or what you can do to them. If you can’t do anything for anybody or to anybody, they forget you exist.”

— Richard Nixon

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Note to self: Get on the right track. Quit hanging out with Democrats. Quit hanging out with “cool” kids. Take a leadership class. Take a marksmanship class. Join the CIA. Experiment with manipulation of the personality through variation in electromagnetic fields generated around the brain. Develop a way to either forcibly evolve or annihilate the entire human species. Evaporate into energy and infiltrate the cosmos.

The most difficult people to love are those who are always distant, whose minds are always somewhere far away considering matters of massive significance. Sadly, these are the people most worthy of an admiration so great it can only be called love.

The free market is a bar. Money intoxicates like alcohol. Exchange is a form of sex.

The genitals are concealed most of the time. We are ashamed to be men. We are ashamed to be women. Only when we are about to use them do we ever reveal that they exist. Sex is the violent death of a polite lie, a pleasant illusion. The man makes his victim a woman, the woman makes her conquerer a man. This is true of the ivasion of France by Germany most of all.

The universal language is comprised of only two primal motivations: sex and death.

This is obvious to anyone who thinks on it for only one moment.

But there is far more. For true power results in the combination of these opposites.

Seth. All evil. Original coercion. The cunt and the grave.

The female element. Creation and destruction. Dionysus. The snake shedding its skin.

But there is power even beyond this, on top of this.

Set is a new thesis, and opposed to him is Christ, the denial. The will over the will.

Civilization. Sublimation. Concrete progress. The stone pillars of the law.

The erection of towers. Business. Machines. Representation. Apollo.

The male element. This power comes from the denial of, the oppression of, the female.

It is a newer idea, closer to the level of conscious awareness.

Mental evolution does not stop there. From the masculine and feminine comes a child.

This new element, the synthesis of male and female, cannot yet be guessed at.

Perhaps it is to be found in the nerves — the bridge communicating between the male mind and female body. Perhaps it is triggered by drugs.

All thinking of relevance today must address this issue. The age of the masculine has killed itself with its own impatience, the viral impatience of the feminine, the force of creation and destruction, the fuel that masculine progress consumes.

When there are no more female frontiers to penetrate we will be forced to evolve.

Time is cruel. Its laziness in the transferal of the ideal to the real, the thoroughness with which it hashes out every compromise, gradually building a machine with each agreement forming its own perfectly wound cog, is inhumane to even moderate intelligence.

Hearing voices is a sign of intelligence. The royal “We” is the same as the madman’s “we.” So long as you do not hear the voice of God, it is simply the sound of your brain following multiple lines of reasoning at once. The more voices you hear in your mind talking about different things, the more things you have on your mind: perhaps one voice perpetually sings an annoying popular song while another thinks over the day’s events or more distant memories, another tries to read a passage from a book while still another contemplates the future. Whichever one is loudest is the dominant thought, but the repressed ideas continue being considered “on the back burner.”

Two contradictory thoughts may even occur simultaneously, causing cognitive dissonance. Freud mistook these divisions for a limited number of universal mental components, but the nature of the thought each voice expresses is not inherent to the voice itself, but, along with each voice, is the product of the individual’s mind.

Thus saying “I’m giving you my full attention” is a much higher compliment than most acknowledge. The average person will probably only have one mental voice, which is why their reasoning is so slow, and why they are so stubborn. I have four.

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Controlling the content of the inner dialogue is controlling the mind.

Hallucinogens promote a unifying of multiple voices, the ability to better understand multiple and wildly varying reflections. This encourages a better understanding for the individual of their own unique combination of tastes as a whole, making them a more complete person. In this regard, aside from acceptance into the inner-circle of dominant males and despite the illegalization of the process itself, recreational drug use still functions in the sociological capacity of a coming of age ritual. It also encourages more intelligent citizens to relate with the commoner masses, even if only by reducing the intelligentsia to the groundlings’ individualistic and narrow-minded perspective. Although at first communist overtones are apparent in the formation of such a student-culture, the interests of the CIA, and therefore the long term interests of American corporations and military nationalists, must be represented somewhere therein.

Subjects of conversation are almost entirely the product of environment, be they social or meteorological.

Consumers and producers are not divided along the same social line as introverts and extroverts.

Women: a cat fed a half can of food will turn her back on you; a cat fed a whole can of food wants to be petted.

For the past fifty years the two opposing forces which defined world politics were Communism and Fascism, with Capitalist Democracy being a weak compromise between the two. Now that Communism has fallen, we must guard all the more tenaciously against the rise of Fascism or totalitarianism in any form. This is particularly a concern regarding the nature of American and Japanese businesses. Capitalism, in other words, may be expected to lean more heavily to the right now that the Great Bear is not there to lean against on the left. The warning signs of this will be mechanization and depersonalization of individuals’ representation in the increasingly globalized political and economical realm.

The question that will define the twenty first century is: should we fear the information industry? Can we trust the corporations that mediate our everyday lives with technology?

(If you feel yourself getting numb you know the answer.)

The difference between the weak and the strong is: the weak always see development as a problem, a difficulty, because for them, coming from underprivileged backgrounds, it is a challenge. Witness any runner-up corporation. The strong see development as an opportunity; they have no self-doubt and immediately throw themselves into whatever unholy alliances are necessary at the time to maximize their long-term benefits. Witness the CIA and the SS around the end of WWII. America is founded on hate. All of its roots are in hatred. At whom have the only claims of communism ever been seriously directed? Campuses and the entertainment industry: the shapers of America’s intellectual and televised facade. A facade which is fine for dinner time and for Jr. in his long-haired phase, but one which is nonetheless an acknowledged misrepresentation of middle-American sentiments. Look towards the wilderness to find the American spirit, the pioneer spirit to which John Wayne and Ronald Reagan appealed. The spirit of the Wild West and rule by the gun. This naked, brutal spirit is no longer seen on TV or in the movies. It has become the truth that we don’t want to talk about. It is relegated to the domain of conspiracy theories, which prove again and again the ruthless selfishness hidden behind America’s thin veneer of acceptance and concern. It will always be there. It is in our blood, it is in our money, in every handshake, in every deal. The CIA runs America. They and Big Business own the media which pacifies every weak-hearted individual who would care to change this state. And American liberals are proud to be pacified. It defines them: they are pacifists, they believe in passive resistance, etc. The homeless lie down and let the rich walk on them. In a fascist system they would simply be killed, but we can’t have that. No, we prefer to let them live in abject misery to

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preserve for Joe and Nancy Suburbs the illusion we live in a Democracy.

consumers HATE producers & producers HATE consumers (this, of course, does not generally apply to food)

The argument of a communist and its rebuttal “Go on you sickening consumer. Go to work, every day, day in, day out, so you can fill your lame excuse for a life with disgusting products, always saving up for the next big purchase; waiting in a puddle of your own drool to see what nonsensical, noisy gadget the economy will dispense for the sublimation of your most primitive pleasures next. But don’t you dare to tell me to get a job. I don’t want anything from this nation or from this world. I refuse to sell my time and the functioning of my mind for corporate money just so I can turn around and buy corporate goods.”

“But . . . that’s the way it works.”

Until Communism began to take root in South American countries American trade had very optimistic ties to our banana-boat neighbors in the rain forest. In fact, long-term plans tied the US very tightly to South America for the production of such things as paper, following the outlawing of marijuana in 1937. At the time America’s biggest businesses were also investing in European foreign markets to boost America’s depression-era economy, and learning a few unionbusting secrets from Nazi Germany. But by the end of World War Two every intelligent operative in the field knew the split between developed and developing countries would shape the latter part of this century. For the US this meant the beginning of the Cold War with Russia and, even beyond that, the necessity of savage economic imperialism in South America. To the extent of both of these the US stole as many former Nazi scientists and spies as they could for their own use, employing the scientists to widen the technological gap between “us” (the rich) and “them” (the poor) and utilizing Nazi spies to trump up reports of Russian military advancement. This was the era of the Red Scare. A truly great era for capitalist businesses: a war without consequential loss in numbers of consumers. By now, of course, America’s relations had soured with South America on whole and the US little reported the CIA practice of creating puppet-dictatorships there which would be favorable to American business interests.

The result of the Cold War has been the establishment of an American business net of dictatorships around the world controlled by fascists and answerable to the CIA. Control of third world governments is a component of capitalism the Japanese have failed to exploit, and, though the EU threatens to quash the integrity of the US dollar, America can always add a few more stars to its flag. It’s how we got Texas. And sure it’ll be a fascist state, but it will seem to happen out of necessity, and therefore no one will think it logical to complain too much, especially when they get killed if they do.

I at least hope that, when all of this occurs, they are considerate enough of the longstanding American delusion of Democracy, and maintain social order by building the State up in the image of Disneyland. Nazi scientists did consult on the design of Tomorrow Land.

Politics and Economics are One and the Same (A damningly Jewish Communist statement if ever there was one; yet this conspiracy of ideals is recognized by the country proletariat, if only insofar as they hate the federal government)

Shaking hands. Making deals. A practiced, genuine smile. Nice hair. Close shave. An expensive but not attention-grabbing suit. A tie that is assertive without being forceful. Loafers with tassels. On the go. Fast breakfast. Business lunch. Candlelight dinner. Her perfume. Silk sheets. Early alarm. Presentations. Board meetings.

Preparation. A cigarette before, a martini after. The boss’s office. Carpet. Cold air.

Smooth, dark wood. Antique chairs. Enormous windows. The city is inspiring.

Cubicles. Laptops. Wireless. Mindless. Still Connected. Satellite beeper. Smart phone.

Endlessly in the loop. Catch a cab. In the city. People walking. Small crowds passing slowly. The boss’s smile. Sweating armpits. Moist handshake. Vague promises. Stop somewhere for coffee or beer. Trying to crack the impossible code inside your soul.

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“Our founding fathers were fools. Man cannot govern himself. How can ten men, let alone ten thousand, ever come to an agreement that satisfies them all so much they’re willing to consent to it as law? There’s the impossibility of communication, and even more than that there’s the fact of individualism. You can’t have a Democracy. It’ll just never function. The people don’t care. They allow leaders. They consent by their silence. They beg for it by their ignorance of it. You can’t blame me for their folly, for their frivolity and their preference of entertainment to matters of serious consequence. I just point that fact out. If it weren’t for me giving the stoners the lifestyle they have, you wouldn’t even be complaining now that I realize the people’s willingness to be slaves. If there were even one consumer there would be someone there like me, pushing them to buy something they don’t need. And they’d do it too because it’s in their nature. That’s the nature of man. The few produce, so they get rich; the masses are content to lie around and consume, and then they have the fucking audacity to wonder for a second where their money went! That’s what this country is founded on. Not some Democratic ideal, not some trumped up bullshit commie idea, but economic Democracy, where money equals the volume of your voice, and the guy who screams the loudest wins. That’s just. That’s fair. That’s the law of the gods my friend, and if you don’t like it that’s tough for you. That’s you handicapping yourself. You can’t blame me if you don’t like the way the world is. You make it this way as much as I do. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

— Allen Dulles to radical reporter Dr. Gone-Zoroaster on the street and off the record

How can one stand awareness of the unmentionable tension caused by the differing status of social roles? We never talk of it because it is unfortunate that it exists, yet it governs everyone’s behavior when in the presence of anyone not identical to them.

To the strong, (silence) always means consent. To the weak (silence) always means rejection.

A guy with a gun in another guy’s mouth.

“Actions speak louder than words, my brother.”

Bang. .......................Bang Bang Bang. (Run away.)

Sirens in the distance. Always in the distance.

Generosity is the deal-breaking issue in the argument between altruism and egoism. In a realist society, all generosity is carefully added up under the credits column, and all disrespect added up under the debits column, and someone is either a good guy or an ass-hole based on which column has a greater number of marks in it. Jewish? Logical? I hate it whatever it is.

Tabloid Headline Reads: “Jesus was a Roman spy” America couldn’t win militarily in Vietnam because they couldn’t overcome the future. Political philosophies aside, any country without serious armament, vehicles and bombs who can defend itself from a country that gives its reporters bullet-proof vests so the viewers at home can watch the war on TV must be utilizing a vastly superior strategy. The proletarianization of warfare (guerrilla tactics and terrorism), like the proletarianization of entertainment, is simply a fact of human/technological evolution. Although it will be an interesting fight to watch in the coming millennium: the poor countries with their covert, civilian-camouflage tactics versus the rich countries with all their smart bombs. A decisive conflict must occur in the first decade. The American military is simply too eager to test its new developments not to instigate something. In fact, the only reason liberals complain about soft-kill technology (which is at least a refreshing change from the NRA and the KKK) is that they know it will ultimately be used to subdue entire crowds of innocent citizens to catch a single bomber or small terrorist group. This was supposed to already be the case with tear gas, but, as the 60’s proved, just running away made this an ineffective means of crowd control. It is likely that right-wing US terrorist groups are using the current Democratic president as an excuse to bomb federal government buildings and instigate anti-terrorism laws (only one such event was necessary in Japan — a cult gassing a subway) during this era, while many developing nations are still undergoing political and social upheaval to keep them busy, so that later, when the poor come to bomb the rich, there will be stormtroopers waiting in every airport terminal. This strongly promotes the idea of CIA involvement in American cults and militias, working from the inside to encourage them to arm themselves. But then, this is only

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natural; it’s simply good salesmanship: if you are guarding against something which does not exist, it is necessary to invent it. God and Satan require one another. Yin and Yang.

It’s all about timing. (Are you beginning to understand?)

Comedy. Spell casting. Timing, intonation. Sometimes the audience laughs at something the comedian doesn’t even find amusing. Make them guess. Slow it down. Make it last. Make it history.

Even the devil may do “good” deeds.

We must never forget the charity of Lincoln and Nietzsche.

Of course, freeing the slaves had as its long-term goal the formation of an underprivileged city proletariat to separate the city bourgeoisie from the country bourgeoisie and thus make them much richer, but what good did it do except to increase the population on the plying field for Nietzsche to double-cross the strong, steal fire from the gods as it were, and sell the will to power to those who did not already understand it?

Intellectual idealists (be they radicals or reactionaries) are so busy fantasizing of an impossible liberal utopia that intellectual realists, considering conservative efforts to slow their opponents down, can predict idealist social movements decades in advance and, by subverting them to consumable materialist pop-culture through advertising mediation or by some other technique which causes them to come about in a way that benefits only the existing elites, repeatedly thwart any hope of popular uprising.

CIA-minded joke about communism: “A kook is someone who yells real loud about not killing people. A spook is someone who shoots that guy with a silencer and gets away with it.”

There is alot of technocratic rhetoric around now saying that “information wants to be free” and “information is power.”

First of all, these statements contradict one another. If information were power and it wanted to be free, then everyone would already have an equal share in global information and therefore equal power.

Secondly information is not power. Power is realized only through an unjust action, such as the use of force against a non-equal. Information only becomes power when it is information regarding an unjust action and when it is kept secret. The only powerful data is that which, if exposed, could destroy its suppressor with shame.

As to the fear of “secret” CIA injustices and the threat of the expanding information industry, most people already believe the CIA is an evil organization charged with the majority of unjust actions in the entire world. Thus it is no secret.

Their power is not the information they posses, but our fear of their unjustly acting against us. We allow the CIA to influence world events, and then use their influencing world events as our excuse for fearing them so much that we allow them to continue; much like ancient god-kings.

Birds of a feather fly in formation.

The kings have gone into hiding behind the glory of their castles — castles built on dreams. Their knights are ninjas in business suits who shoot to kill and don’t need to ask questions because they already know all the answers.

The media performs the same function between modern rulers (the rich, the State) and their subjects (the working-class masses) as the church did in Medieval times.

Catholicism claimed, on behalf of the soul, that the flesh was evil and should be cruelly subjugated to the will of the mind. Now the media, acting as the nervous system infiltrating the body to carry out the orders of the brain, preaches love, passivity, materialism, consumerism, individualism and xenophobia. excerpt from a campaign press conference:

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“I don’t want to examine the issue of race because I think it’s a red herring. I love my black brothers and sisters, but not for what they are. I love them for what they are not. They are not the cruel, heartless rich, the exploiters of millions. Although some may well admire the cut-throat tactics of the successful, their attempts to emulate them are no more than a violent parody of capitalism. Harmless to the system at large; successful only in making a few rich while claiming the lives of hundreds. Not to say that rap and guns are necessarily interdependent. I can like rap without liking guns. And I can love African-Americans without admiring ethnocentric pride.”

Undercover Gods “Are you a religious man, Mr. Walker?”

“Why do you ask?”

“We prefer religious men for placement in the Agency. You see, a religious man is the type of man who can’t accept a world without some governing principle. We consider an understanding of the importance of order in this world essential to our line of work. We are, how shall we say, protectors of the moral code of honor upon which civilization is founded. If it weren’t for the guiding hand of a parent, Mr. Walker, what would there be to prevent a child from choosing to grow up a savage? So do you yourself believe in God the Father?”

In order to guard the law, one must turn their back upon it.

And let us say that the people have begun to discover that upon the Book of the Law it is written that the Law must be taken up by all and guarded by none; it will not be long until they overwhelm the guards and seize the Law for themselves, tearing it to shreds no doubt. The guards claim it is the people who do not know the law, and the people claim it is the guards who do not know the law. And yet the law is believed by all to exist, implying that either one group or the other must be correct about the law’s nature. Neither side is satisfied to agree that the law exists and leave each other alone; nor will they be satiated by a compromise such as allowing both lex talionis and turning the other cheek to co-exist, being used at different times, even though this is the reality of the law as it is practiced between the people and the guards. In the end it is not the Book of the Law or its contents that matter to anyone at all. It is merely the act of possession.

The Christian rich claim to pity the poor. The atheist rich resent the poor. But then, what difference does it make? Rich and poor remain.

“Show me your tattoo.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then give me a hug.”

“Why should I?” “If you haven’t signed your flesh then it doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to anyone. Such as me, for example, and I want to hold it.”

“What about you? Do you have a tattoo?”

“God, no. My skin belongs to this planet. I want nothing reminding the soil or its minions of the existence of my mind. When I die I’m making a clean break for the clear blue sky.”

The rich Christian is perhaps the most unbearable hypocrite in existence, followed doggedly by the Bohemian intellectual.

Civilization expands one generation at a time. One cannot expect to see serious social change in their lifetime; their lifetime is social change.

Republicans who drink during the day are physically dangerous. Republicans who only drink at night are intellectually dangerous. Republicans like to be dangerous.

To be a “man” is to be dangerous.

There is drug use and drug abuse. Drug use makes drugs a tool, for example the use of

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hallucinogens to produce more creative commercials, and consequentially increase sales, or, alternately, to expand one’s mind and become “one with the universe.” Drug abuse is the utilization of drugs for the purpose of escapism, to heighten or diminish physical sensations and to numb the mind.

Drug use appeals to the mind, to the rich.

Drug abuse is the domain of the body, the poor.

New Stimuli: It is the role of the mind to produce. It is the role of the body to consume.

There are different types of drugs meant to appeal to the different social classes.

Disassociatives are obviously intended for the poor, as an escape from their environment which will not, by its use, inspire them to change. Such drugs (crack, cocaine, etc. in the inner city, alcohol in the country) focus so solely on the heightening or the diminishing of sensations in physical experience that they affectively wash the brain completely clear of all hope.

Hallucinogens are more the domain of creativity and productivity, the role of the designers. Such drugs, acid, mescaline, “smart” drugs, are those preferred by the city-bourgeois, which are merely the student-class of the sixties, the first citizens to use laboratory hallucinogens on a wide scale, now all grown up.

In between hallucinogens and disassociatives we find an array of rather stupefying drugs aimed at the middle class, the country-bourgeoisie of the suburbs. Their social function is to promote consumerism, so they make physical experiences more enjoyable without doing serious permanent damage to the brain or the psyche. On the lower end of the scale of these drugs, closer to disassociatives, we find morphine, opium and the like. On the higher scale, closer to hallucinogens, we find marijuana. In the middle of this scale are whatever drugs are popular to the student class, such as “club drugs” ecstasy, crystal methamphetamines and the like, also used recreationally by the city-bourgeois.

Jealousy is unintentional admiration for one you do not consider worthy.

“When you know the [negative] effects and do it anyway — that’s manipulation.”

Free-will is the product of programming.

Nazi doctors sell you drugs, but don’t use drugs themselves. Each side of the argument only exists as an attempt by the other side at using reverse pyshology on the populus.

Neither side of the brain is real. It imagines itself. Existence is created.

You and I, we have no choice. Our minds have been fucked with. Now we must fuck with the minds of others. The power hierarchy is an increasingly pervasive program of pyschological conditioning. If you recognize it, you cannot not participate in its perpetuation. It already posseses your mind; if you speak your mind at that point things are only made worse. The only hope is that we don’t have to fuck with one another; that we can co-exist as teams, as families, if not all together. But the most powerful person in the world is he who fucks with the minds of all.

We are ether given a Democratic or Republican president by our rich handlers according to which social component (corporate producers or public consumers) requires special attention for that particular four year term. First, under a Republican president, we give government subsidies to war-profiteering technology companies and practice third world imperialism. Then, under a Democrat, we create more jobs in America to increase domestic sales of the developed technologies, reapplied to the business sector. Thus “politics” alternates, but only insofar as it serves the ultimate agenda of those who truly have control beyond the government, beyond corporations. These people are the fathers who discipline and shape the children of the public and private sectors. Our founding fathers were, themselves, very wise to predict how useful a four year term limit would be in allowing an alternation between sectors to foster the progress of social-Darwinism.

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Cells

The cell itself can survive without a nucleus, just as the body can survive in a coma. But if the cell membrane malfunctions and can no longer transfer nutrients from outside into the cell, the equivalent of the death of the flesh, the nucleus dies. This is used as an argument for the “primacy” of the nuclear membrane (the flesh) over the importance in cell development of the DNA material contained within the nucleus (the brain). Francis Crick, a geneticist devoted to DNA primacy, has put forth the proposition that chromosomes may have derived from outer space.

This theory is all too quickly dismissed by those scientific liberals who assert the primacy of the conquered flesh, simply because it seems irrelevant, or rather, agrees with their side in a strange way by admitting that the cell membrane may have a claim to primacy because it was the “first” on earth. The extraterrestrial DNA theory deserves far more credit however. It implies the difference between mind and matter is the difference between the cosmos and terra. Certainly “life” as a “force” may belong to the electromagnetic field (God) or the environment (Gaiea) of the earth, but the will, the essence, the direction of motivation that penetrates raw existence is alien.

“Evil” in the form of self-alienating elitism exists within each of us, on a cellular level.

Freedom is measured by inspiration.

Are we to say that the role of the agent who marries a UFO abduction victim (recurrently and unconsciously abducted by MILAB NAZI MK-geneticists since childhood and repeatedly experimented upon, violated and implanted), whose job it is to question her sanity and threaten divorce whenever she talks of her frightening, inexplicable abduction memories, is any less important than the role of the military general in charge of overseeing the ongoing abduction operations in North America? Certainly not; all the Knights of Malta, all the Fourth Reich, share equally in the essential act of secret manipulation. Should any link in the chain prove weak and snap, exposing the entire order, all would be compromised. It is an honor to bear the weight of secrecy, an honor which makes all the conspirators feel equally powerful.

Secrecy makes violation thrilling. The act of helpless consent shames the victim as much as their consequential loyalty empowers the conqueror.

The desire to do things we know we shouldn’t is driven at least partially by the desire to feel like we’re “getting away” with something —it is a kind of escapism from obedience. Thus, sympathetically, a victim might allow themselves to be victimized, allow their abuser to do things that they know they should not do, partially out of a desire to participate in this sort of escapism, even if they are not the direct benefactor. A certain amount of altruistic, vicarious enjoyment may then be imagined by the victim, which, translated to exchange theory, would be mistaken for appreciation by their abuser for allowing their body to be the object of torture. In other words, the secret pleasure the victim derives from participating in, as a peripheral cause of, their Master’s escapist enjoyment may be mistaken for a feeling of being loved by their abuser. Of course, objectively, this feeling of “love” need not exist anywhere except within the mind of the victim, as an excuse for their consent. A consent which is never really their’s anyway, but is implied in their very existence as a product of the weakness of their essence. A consent based on a desire for the release of the pleasure principle, the Id, the inherent human “naughty side,” the side that, ironically, desires freedom.

Love is the name of conditioning.

The more a man can seem to read a woman’s mind, the more annoyingly predictable each of her behaviors is to him, the more honored she feels to seem to be his chosen object of physical beauty, emotional agitation, and/or intellectual inspiration.

Everything is coming to pieces. I am hiccuping; I am underwater, floating in the midst of liquid.

What is pleasure to write is not necessarily pleasure to read. I forget certain letters; other letters I reverse. I am “obviously” confused. I “need” “help”. The music gets louder. I never noticed that.

My head wavers, quavers. I hiccup. I cannot stop. Everything is spinning. No. It is just me. I am

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the only THING. I spin. The world seems to spin. The world is spinning. This globe of dirt is drunk. People are its drunkenness. I am its drunkenness. People like me give earth the spins. How poetic. How meaningless. How powerful in its meaninglessness. I make the earth spin by my hiccupping. I have no reason. She has no reason. We are spinning, drunk. I am her hiccup. We are her hiccups. (overtly Marxist) The plucking of a guitar. 4:20 in the morning. (I am not kidding about this. It is seriously exactly twenty after four AM.)

When drunk, everything is holy. Everything lasts too long.

To the powerful, every night is frightening; yet they go on. They terrify themselves; they maintain this condition of fear, of helplessness, stumbling. The strong stumble.

Holy holy. I slump. Everything is holy. I am weighed down by the weight of the very air. The weight of God in the ether. I am crushed until I slump. Holy holy. Everything is holy.

Power: In words, such as “everything.” Nothing. An annoyance. A brief feeling. “Holiness.”

Dizziness. Neurons. Cell membrane primacy proved by inebriation? What could be?

Drums. The ancient. Sacred. Voices. Stars.

Inebriation makes me feel normal. Stupid. Holy. Wonderful. Tired.

New York, I say to him. New York. His story involves San Francisco.

Rising up above Red China, rising up above Japan, alcohol flowing, heavy blood, flowing through my tired veins, flowing through my aching shoulders, flowing through my throbbing brain. My hover car flutters in gentle breezes powered by my every thought. It is no longer safe to think casually of murders. The car, it is rumored, gives people cancer. Call me tomorrow I say. I am very tired. The phone is ringing in the other room while I am trying to sleep. I try and try. I drink myself to sleep. I take pills, I smoke opium. I smoke hashish. I inject myself with drano. Across the street there is a van; it has been parked there for seven days. It listens to me trying to sleep.

Soon they will come and arrest me. Perhaps in prison I can find time to rest. There are still two more out there. I toss and turn. Two more loves to kill me. Two more futures and here I am hiding for no good reason, I’m so afraid. Flags are flapping. Somewhere below me I hear children laughing, the marching of soldiers. Once things seemed simple. Food was provided. Darwinian principles learned. Thanks to all I’ve known. Ghostly, ghostly. Rising up. Leave the world below.

We stop outside of San Pedro to consider the fact that people are monkeys in a bar populated exclusively by cowboys. The waitress takes our order but her face melts off while she’s speaking and I lose my appetite. She helps me look around for it amongst the cigarillo butts on the floor, but finally agrees we should avoid eating. One can’t trust the food nowadays anyway, we sigh. The waitress stares off into space and finally walks away. Where are we going, I ask her. Out of our minds she sneers. We drink a little beer, which is warm. There are stains on my shirt from twisting the cap. Juvenile oh so juvenile we chuckle. People seem to be growing, seem to changed.

It’s all an illusion, the result of the drink. We drive for awhile through the absolute darkness. We no longer talk. We have nothing to say. We stare off into space at the stars slowly turning. Finally she looks over and tells me she loves me, on the condition, remember, that we’re all going to die.

The stars will rain down she mumbles, drunk. And the flood will carry civilization up and out of our reach. I drive for fifty eight hours and don’t stop for the beach. It’s all the result of the drink, we sigh. It’s all the result of the drink.

Five in the morning my fingers smell like smoke. I am still not impressed, but a marked improvement: I recognize a feeling of overwhelming livingness within. A joy too great to be contained. Out of pent-up loneliness I babble to all around me like a coward. All of them judge me. Too much this, too little that. They cannot help themselves. They are “individuals,” many even “idealists.” They despise all that which is not what they have chosen to become, hating most of all

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any reminder that they were given very few options in designing the selves they cherish so. I wish I had more to drink. I had no intention of being up this late and still being sober.

Any government that truly meets the needs of its citizens does not need an army or a police force to protect itself from them. Cops are the watch-dogs of the rich.

It is virtually essential to begin to view things holistically, admiring (or admonishing) the contribution of a plurality of factors to the production of any single item. It is not enough for progress to remain the process of the producers predicting, influencing and/or dictating what the next trend in consumerism will be. For peace to continue without the looming cloud of decimation offered by the balance of power theory, credit for a product must be alleviated.

Even rotten, jealous Marxism that proposes synthesis of equal opposites is insufficient, for it remains too parental, too eugenic. Material dialectics may no longer be the cherished prayer of the poor; it is wrong because it is material-oriented and it is wrong because (whether examined from the perspective of Old Testament, social-Darwinian conflict or New Testament, pacifist cooperation) dialectics is backwardly bipolar.

He who fails to see all forces of nature at work together to create a tree — the wind carrying the seed, the soil in which it grows, the rain and sun which nourish it — does so at his own peril.

Democracy is the synthesis of all individual applicants equally, not by class, not by color. With no prejudgment. No pre-conception. “If you ask me, I’ll say yes.” All is as good as it gets.

Love is searching blindly for any form of control, any form of order outside yourself. Power is showing off whatever meager power you have within you or have been given. Something is missing. Something remains inexplicably, emotionally, illogically, incomplete. Order builds a bridge over the absence of the soul, but it does not fill the abyss inside us where we look to find our inherent essence.

Forget order. Order is obsolete. For evolution to progress now it must leap headlong into the question at the heart of consciousness itself, with no hope, no hypotheses. Only by accepting ourselves for what we are, without judgment, can we become all that we imagine and more, much more. Infinitely more. Drugs may induce a weakening in opposition to the forces at work behind this slave-society, but at least they remind one that alternative approaches to existence can occur in this reality.

Art is an empty vessel of communication. It becomes propaganda only when it is filled by interpretations. This is to say that art is sex. It is entirely separate from both the extremes of love and of rape. Sex is sex, no more. Art is art. But then, this is still weak because it is unsupported except from the perspective of external locus of control. Art does not create itself. It is manufactured, whether one likes it or not. Everything created will eventually have some audience. The age of the secret is dead. Responsibility for expression must be absolute under the scrutiny of the mechanical eye. The brain has already evolved beyond the concept of art for art’s sake. A snake shedding its skin. We can no longer imagine the concept. It is gross, fleshy.

Beneath, beyond, be it whatever it is. We are far too self-aware for such indulgent escapism. The age of decadence is done. Get in line like everyone. We’re waiting for our chance to die. I hope that mine is noble, for a cause beneficial to the majority. I will die of cancer just like all the rest.

The flesh sheds perpetually, colorful, soft and moody.

The bones are pale and dry within; permanent and sturdy.

Cancer is mutation. Mutation may account for spontaneous variation — the reaction to environmental “triggers”. Variation is evolution. Cancer, sickness, disease: growth.

Wisdom is knowing that you know nothing. Madness is thinking you know all.

Check in. Plastic walls. A large lobby, people bustle about in a clear haze. Opium paces languidly inside their thinning rubber veins. Outside more acid rain. Smoke a cigarette to relax. As it melts it tastes like wax. The world news. Women in suits. So many bitter faces. Coffee-flavored glowers, glum, resigned and tired. They believe that people like themselves are good and that this world

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will be alright. They sit back and wait to use their mouths to help other people by giving them orders. No one wants to listen to you feeling sorry for yourself. They’d rather hear you tell them off, picking on their every sore. Bomb testing far away. The slime in your ear is the build-up of noise. Trust an artificial immune system. Trust the CIA. Who knows what people want? They take whatever they can get, whatever they are given; it thrills them to the edge of orgasm and leaves them hanging. Shoes without a soul. Sun glasses instead of eyes. Smooth and faceless pennies.

Hypnotized assassins, unconscious MPDs, dazed suburban zombies herd rap fans into boxcars.

The monorail only goes one way. Please keep your hands and feet inside your mouth at all times.

The product of introversion. Disneyland with ovens. Here’s the key-card to your suite.

All the clocks are wrong. All clocks are wrong.

Celebrities are lies. They are created by the media. (Not the mediators, by the media itself — the cameras and the film, the satellite dishes and the television sets.) Celebrities can never die. They never were alive. We only know that they exist in the first place through their mediation; they exist ONLY in mediation. Mediation will outlive us all. Therefore that which it contains in the data banks of history supersedes personal memories. If you think you have seen a celebrity “in person” you are insane. You did not see the celebrity, but an actor bearing the celebrity’s name who is paid by the media to impersonate their “on-screen” likeness in “real” “life”. If you think you have seen “real-life” celebrities consult a physician; you may be a danger to yourself and to others. If you hear of the death of a celebrity you are required to feel sad. If you hear of the cancellation of a celebrity you are required to feel sad. There are two good reasons to try to kill any celebrity you encounter in “real” life: 1) they are the bodies of the media that want absolute control over your mind; 2) their death would allow the media to produce new and improved celebrities which could be marketed for increased prices, and for this the media would appreciate you, rewarding you with improved celebrities. If you ever hear the voice of a celebrity talking directly to you through any form of media (the television, the telephone, the microwave, an airport public-address system, a robotic dog, etc.) you are sane. Do not worry. Celebrities are incapable of knowingly harming their public. It says so specifically in their contracts.

Crying while you watch the It should be considered the highest (In the background very quietly you hang yourself. Drinking alot of tap

news is therapeutic. form of medical meditation. can hear them telling you to water promotes this effect.)

Eaten from the inside out, Random felt no honor in dying. He had no one to blame outside of his own inherent human weakness. Somewhere far away his death caused other dying men to grin in grizzly secret. We make the weather. Evil is the order that governs all that can only be explained as luck, chance or chaos. Nothing in this world is nor can be “out of place”. All is where we put it.

The only truly dangerous schizophrenic is one who is unaware that they are not in constant control of who and what they are. Remember to forget.

The ideal medium, from the perspective of the individual consumer, is one that has personal appeal, either stylistically or topically (or both). The ideal film, for example, would contain a number of small “in-jokes” — each appealing specifically to a different “sub-cultural” segment of the population; thus, thought the film might not appeal to any particular constituency in its entirety, portions of it would have strong and lasting appeal to every target audience. This is a Democratic medium: one that does not seek to please the uniform “masses” but instead has individual appeal to the widest variety of representatives of the people possible.

The media is the synthesis between the rich and the poor. Art is the combination of the Haves (paint) with the Have-Nots (canvas). The value of culture (even popculture) is not determined by its justice (its equality of lights and darks, its representation of its subjects), but by its beauty, its esthetic satisfaction to an outside onlooker, its style. Let us say that the ultimate evil may make us smile if rendered with a tender, patient stroke.

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My face was painted on by God, my expression by society. Skin wishes it were liquid.

Let us paint great deeds in sanguine hues, the richest reds and vibrant blues, the regal purple of the people who peel at the prettiness of the petty. Certainly behind all of this there must be some noble inspiration, some magnificent and meaningful blackness that swallows up all discharge. A certain absence, a certain longing. I am sorry we are not enough. Follow the trails of green and of red. Follow the trails to the tales of the dead.

Everyone is writing myths now, it is impossible to keep track, impossible to keep up, impossible to stop. Put new things together and infuse them with electricity. The idea has been had and has now become inherent. Scrap metal planet, violent charge. A bolt from Venus. A jolt from Mars. Excision of the human brain, see it hover? A radiated jelly fish. Politics of interplanetary humanoids, the rights of fish. A wave of interstellar magnitude, blue shimmering surge of voltage. My brain inside your body. My thoughts inside your mind. Your nerves belong to me. Your feelings and actions are mine. This is the only new myth. The myth of the new myth. The myth of the myth that could control. The myth that explained the future.

Colored lights. Drunkenness. Infuse. Delude. Do not discriminate. Conform. Conform. Bombs.

“Dr. I can see the field regeneration pattern out of the corner of my eye!”

“Relax, Sally. That’s only natural. Soon you’ll be so accustomed to it you won’t even give it a second thought.”

“Dr. my head feels like a helium balloon.”

“That’s right Timmy. Don’t ask questions and it won’t get infected.”

There is no action imaginable that does not have some amount of allure to every individual. Thus, the trick of mind “control” becomes simply making the performance of this action as easy physically, mentally and emotionally as possible for the subject. (Whether “morality” or ethics is more in the sphere of the mental or the emotional ultimately becomes inconsequential to the induction of obedience. The final “coercive” verbal encouragement delivered by the scientist character in Milgram’s research on this matter was “I’ll take responsibility.”)

Line from a horror novel: “Pity is not in my jurisdiction. I am a scientist.”

Even scorpions dance, hold hands, and kiss (during mating) The rich act to stupefy and lull the masses of workers, the warmongers (the military-industrial complex, or MIC) act to encourage conflict. [Big corporations dump fluoride in the drinking water and the CIA and army ship in acid in cooperation with the nouveau-riche mafia.] This theory (proposed in the movie “Conspiracy Theory”) seems satisfactory from the reverse, long-term perspective of history. John Kennedy would have been assassinated by the MIC because he was attempting to destroy their influence in government, as he represented the rich families. Every president since then, “Democrat” or “Republican” has represented only the interests of the MIC, who have grow as powerful in modern times as the rich families have traditionally been throughout history. Only by being incorporated into the MIC have the old-money family names been able to survive since World War II, a war they started and which the MIC won. Only by making their interests appear to be compatible with the interests of the MIC (making the third world poor “the enemy”) have the rich been able to coexist with the MIC. The rich own this country and the military runs it. It is comparable to the split roles of owner and manager.

Recollection of a premonition: While writing the last line of the above thought I recall the image, tilting and blurred as if hallucinatory, of writing this thought before, and thinking at the time “I’m not supposed to know that,” or perhaps “I’ve said too much.” Though this sounds paranoid, it is the memory of a real dream.

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Something intolerable: the proletarization of data-collection; the vulgarization and unscrupulous, money-motivated lack of selectivity in the process of research; the dumbing down of facts to the level of the lowest common denominator in order to increase sales of outlandish explanations to the lumpen slobs of the hinterland; the allowance of childish speculation to be supported by impatient and unqualified reference to past such speculations; Hancock citing Von Däniken. There have been so many books without merit written during the reign of pop-culture that now the trash is accumulating second generation; it is beginning to pile up around one’s ankles. This process of the unworthy standing upon the shoulders of the unworthy in a sickening display of the desperation of hack crabs in an financial barrel only breeds a false-science, a science of popularity and gossip; a science that does no one any good; a science so much like religion in its unprovable and grandiose conjectures it bold-facedly equates aliens with God, forming a new church based on the “factual” gospel of a handful of uneducated, rumor-mongering groundlings.

These short-sighted pseudo-scholars cannot comprehend the wording of existing, rational theories, and therefore believe them outmoded and invalid. They fashion new ones up from the sci-fi/fantasy stories of their youth, and then found their insubstantiable assertions on incomplete “new” research and/or on one another, thus forming a delicate web of insultingly lowbrow lies that, were it not supported by the urgency of superstitious millennialist tensions, would collapse under the weight of even the most casual critical observation.

Line for a children’s book: “I’m a Soviet; I’m from Sovia.”

On the film 2001: It could be speculated that the monolith is non-sentient anti-matter and that Dave’s “evolution” was merely a delusion produced by his mind trying to cope with the perception of anti-matter, which would, sensually, be the equivalent of a sensory-deprivation tank (known to produce paranoid creations of sensory stimulation, as necessary to the brain as food, out of sheer desperation for data) times infinity.

Facts feed intelligence.

Sensations feed the imagination.

These are the food and drink of the mind.

The poor will look each other in the eye. The rich will look each other in the eye. The poor will look the rich in the eye with hatred. The rich will not look the poor in the eye; they are ashamed.

They secretly know they don’t deserve to think they’re “better” than the poor.

The rich control society.

The poor are controlled by culture.

The rich learn the classics, so the only thing they are accustomed to thinking of is the family, wealth, their presentability, exchange theory, etc. The poor learn the basics, reading, writing, ‘rithmatic, plowing, time-clock operation, etc.

Only the extremely poor and the extremely rich think about their wealth almost exclusively. The middle class has less cause to worry about money, because they can afford enough luxury to allow them aimless contemplation.

Punk is to the city-proles what heavy metal is to the country-proles. Cyber-punk is simply their acknowledgement that it is better to live beneath the table where scraps still occasionally fall, where tastes have become so refined, than out in the wilderness where gnawing on road-kill is good enough. The suburbs lash out between them like a referee separating fighters, disrespecting and discarding cyberpunk as a genre and Billy Idol as a celebrity. Only the student-class embraces it, as it does the extremes of all proletarian “sub” cultures.

The raincoat, black suit and sunglasses of the intelligence agencies, contrasted with the overalls, t-shirt and baseball cap of the country-proles, most obviously represent the alienation the poor feel from the centers of power in this country.

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Cars are how poor or middle-class boys learn to see the difference in levels of wealth. Cars the first personal machine. Where once fairy tales and Religion were the stuff by which children learned whom to admire and whom to fear, now it is by a machine which they purchase. As long as the car is a sacred symbol, the truth of economic disparity can never come out. (Only the rich know to judge people by houses, or can consciously discriminate based upon dress.)

Racing appeals to the country-proletariat because they spend so much time driving.

They drive on interstates, long-highways, to and from whatever distant jobs they can find. And the sun bleaches everything yellow, except for the deep black green of the forest and the blinding bright blue of the sky. They slowly pass and are passed by other cars going a similar speed. They always look at the other people. Are their cars dirty? Are they beat up? What race are the people inside? It must appeal to them greatly to just side-swipe certain cars, for being too new, too clean, too expensive.

The rich drive through the country as fast as they can, with the windows rolled up and singing along to an audio tape. They don’t care about wearing the engine out, nor do they have to care about the engine being worn out already. They buy their cars new, they drive them like maniacs for a decade, and then they wind up being as popular in the poorer parts of town as pickup trucks have always been in the country. The rich don’t care about the exact price of gasoline; they drive with the air-conditioning up all the way.

: For drivers, the amount of your hand with which you touch the wheel is equivalent to how much power you assume you have. The poor drive with their wrists or clutch a ball attached to the wheel. Yuppies hold on for dear life. Police only touch the wheel from time to time, driving, while their hands do various other things, with, for no better explanation, their minds. The very rich sit as far from the wheel as they can, letting someone for whom they care nothing sully themselves with the inconvenience of its operation. :

The true spectatorship of a crash is inherent to the country. One is riding along, their mind on distant matters, and then must suddenly slow down. Up ahead is a wreck. Is it bad? The metal. . . all twisted. Some blood. Some people have stopped to help. Fat police waving colored sticks.

Hindsight. Gradual struggle for re-acceleration. In the city this happens too quick to be savored.

The rich do love to travel, for they love it once they get to a different place. But traditionally, that is historically, the going hasn’t always been pleasant. This was as true of all Europeans as it was for the Jews, those wandering country bumpkins. But now there are airplanes. They fly far overhead. The poor look up at the glint in the sky with awe. How fast it travels. Swift are the gods. Now they even make tv commercials bragging about how comfortable it is.

One must grow to feel that the differences in class are not only some distant idea in the mind of some self-important scholar, but invisible physical barriers which people pass through all the time. These economic force fields surround the city. One can feel the change in magnetic frequency, a slight tension in the air, as one travels through different cultures, approaching the castle at the center of town.

To be a liberal woman is to be a tomboy. My mother dared to live and my father dared to work with the undereducated poor. This is a sort of unique nobility, but the oddity in family history. The great-aunt who was a “frontiers woman,” who owned a cottage in a remote village. To leave the neighborhood of the house, to be out of ear-shot of your mother should she call out to you, in the event something should happen to the family money — to walk amongst the commoners, the lepers. A thrill. Not a real risk.

One of the requirements for being processed through the American student-class is that, by the time of graduation, everyone in public school must know or know of someone who, to them, “looks exactly like Jesus.”

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To find out who runs a country, go into the middle of its largest town and look up.

Scene from Hitler’s childhood: While he is playing in the park two men in long robes and hoods come up to him (or possibly two men in hats). They grab him and take him to the edge of the glen, where the trees cast darker shadows and they say no one will see. They shove him back and forth and then rub his face in the ground. “Politics is like a game of chess, Adolf. The white pieces move. The black pieces move. You have to control both sides if you want to win.” They sexually molest him. “We are Jews, Adolf,” they keep saying. “We are Jews and you won’t ever speak about this. You’re our boy, Adolf. You’re our boy. This is what it feels like to be a Jewish boy.” They abuse and stimulate him simultaneously. Later he is pale and silent and refuses to explain why.

The poor have many unique sub-cultures. These are the languages through which distant, imperialist Gods (the rich) communicate orders for their slaves’ behavior.

The rich and poor must be consciously, conscientiously, separated from and set against one another. This may be possible through the model of the “city” and the “country.”

Children admire victims.

(Note the student class emulation of the proletariat and Natalie’s fascination with O.)

From a personal ad: Grand Inquisitor seeks female counterpart.

Primary interests incl. torture, mindcontrol, sodomy and child molestation.

“Listen,” the great dictator, who was responsible for the renaissance of the city at the expense of the country, told his closest companion, “I’m going to tell you something so you can write it in your autobiography. Someday someone will be proud to find this little quote there in such an under appreciated book. ‘History will regret that so many people were willing to believe me. I am just as wrong about the way the world ought to work as any other human.’ Have you got it. Good. Now make sure I’m good and dead before you so much as write it down, okay? Okay.”

Nobody believes the world is the way it should be. This is what makes the world the way it is.

Followers flock after Great Men, who, by their competition with one another, produce a world unsatisfactory to any of their followers. The most dissatisfied followers become Great Men.

We (humans) need no more finger prints. Our search is concluded.

The sociopath can no more justify the absolute authority of the system, the order, the moral “code” which he answers to than can the cop who arrests him. The child killer who was amused by his victims asking him why he was killing them; the cop who saw some sort of sick and twisted justice in the killer asking the same question of them.

“Eat. Please. You have to eat.”

Wash your hands you’ve been outside. Tonight we’re eating beef. Mommy washes it in the sink, the cool fluorinated water. When you grow up you’re going to be sick.

money-soldiers Eight planes crashed today. Reggie read it in the paper. He sunk into the chlorine-colored subway station. Everyone looked at their watches as they heard the train coming. It sounded like a wave in the tunnel. Trash blew up and flew. Screeching metal sounds and a static-muffled voice. Tired pale faces melting. The people going home, going to work. The people going nowhere. Reggie going nowhere. Out into the blackness in between the colored lights. The visible breath of Reggie in the

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cold night air. The buildings looming infinitely above. Snow falling down from them. His leaky boots crunch through white slush. Weary dreams have built this. Hopes and compromise and hatred. The strength of workers’ muscles and the view of designers’ minds. Reggie pisses in an alley. He pays five dollars to enter a bar. He worked all week for this money. He drinks five beers for three dollars each. An ugly girl talks to him about her future, as she thinks she will make it.

Reggie knows better than to believe her. He burps from time to time. She says she is dizzy and asks him to help her home. Her apartment is disgusting. The sex is not worth the cost of cab-fare.

They watch each other’s eyes and know they’ve made a mistake coming here. Afterwards, or rather, during, but concluding it, Reggie vomits up his beer. He sees himself in the mirror. The same thin, pale face as the people in the subway. He is unkempt and weary. He takes some pills he finds in her medicine cabinet and then she, for some reason crying, tells him to get out. Reggie walks around awhile, without cash enough for another cab. The snow. People still working inside yellow windows high above the street. He has nowhere he cares to be. The city tells him what to dream.

“Think of music as an airbag in the event the market should crash.”

I can stay in Saturday nights, rent a movie or something, and save up for that dream vacation. One week away from it all, in the sun, see the waves. Eat pineapple on the pale scalding beach and forget about exhaust and fluorescents and staying in touch, in reach. It may take years but I’ll show my peers, out drinking beers; I’ll truly escape our fears and grow a beard, if only for a moment. (Bring a child into this world)

Kids are given “monkey bars” to adapt to life in the city. One can examine the development of the child even at this relatively early age, and predict. . .

Face pushed slowly through windshield, permanent scars. The beginning.

“This machine will not communicate until it learns to masturbate.”

— Bill Gates and Steve Jobs in agreement about the personal computer

On the far left: the X of swords; a man on the ground, beneath a dark sky, permeated by swords.

On the middle left: the Knight of Swords; with his sword drawn, a furious soldier left rides into battle.

On the middle right: the Knight of Cups; a placid knight, by a stream, holds a cup, his horse calm.

On the far right: the III of cups; three nymphae, chalices aloft, dance in a circle amongst fruit.

There is nothing noble in understanding the workings of the entire world, and all of society, and yet not being capable of or willing to comprehend your own motives.

“Let’s see if she’s smart enough to figure it out on her own.”

A good scientist must never let hirself feel disappointment if a subject should fail.

A good scientist must never let hirself feel any prior expectations or hopes.

A good scientist must never let hirself feel anything.

It taints the data.

The sensation of being a foreigner never goes away. In the back of the mind, always, always, is the notion of going home, of not being home. It is particularly difficult in terms of learning the language, because this feeling is best kept secret. You should try to fit in, try to dress right, try to speak with accuracy and ease, try above all to appear casual even though you might not be so.

Drinking helps. It is important never to express the perception of not feeling at home in your new country to the natives, because if they find out you share the same alienation from them they feel for you, an inexplicable yet undeniable difference, then they might agree with you and ship you right home; they might reveal that if you reveal that you aren’t like them then they don’t like you.

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You must reserve this feeling, which is tantamount to feeling perpetually like a lost child, or even a different species altogether, and share it only with your family, or people identical to you in origin. Ideally, you would reveal it to no one, and acknowledge its existence only for a single, ironic moment when, upon returning to the house in your old country and setting down your luggage, the aging front door slowly closing behind you, you sigh, and exchange glances with your fellows, noticing each other sighing as well. This is what was missing all the while you were gone, this comfort. The feeling of being at home.

As humans grow all things human grow. In pop-culture all sub- and counter-cultures increase at the same rate as the primary-culture, all feeding off one another. At the same rate science and technology progress, savage, worthless uses for them expand; people get ornate tattoos, develop prettier clothing, build more complicated bombs; everybody owns a PC which they use to play video-games, everybody is on the internet, but only to look up porn or do business.

Science is totalitarian. It experiments on a population to test whether or not they will rebel. Only by being a participating part of the experiment yourself do you engage in Democratic nature. This is heat, and yellow wetness. Whenever you see aquamarine, men in either mostly black or white, and feel the dry chill of air conditioning, run for your god-forsaken life.

The objective subject looks through both ends of the microscope.

The population has become enemies with the forces that govern it, that give it order.

We are living in dangerous times, all of us.

Around 1994 a second technological revolution occurred in America and the developed nations under its sway. Grunge music was flushed down the toilet.

Everybody got connected, started admiring the business sector again, suits and ties and cash flow. The computer, the internet, the pager, the cell phone, the cyborg citizen is created through socialization at puberty. I am not saying this is a bad thing.

It is just a new thing, a different thing, a thing that should be recognized.

The argument of women working for equal gain is not a new argument. In the past, as is still the case in many developing nations, the women toiled on the land side by side with their husbands, and lived or died by their own contribution to the family unit. Only in hunter-gatherer cultures, as idealized during the colonialist period of the Victorian era in England, did the woman as useless household ornament become the pinnacle of civility and chivalry. She should sit home painting flowers, or reading from some frivolous periodical out in the garden, or in the kitchen, or by the phone waiting for her Master’s return; this became the creed in the single country from which America, the current global hegemony, directly descended. No where else in the world and at no other time was the issue of women working one of such concern to so much of the population.

The UN is a tool of the conspiracy, constructed to discredit global socialism. Thus, the UN PKOs (peace-keeping operations) in which UN troops suppress rioting masses and put some new puppet dictator in place of the old are frequently touted as “victories for Democracy” by the American media. This is the same term used to apply to American imperialism in South America. It is a safe bet to not trust anything the American media (regardless of the appearance of the source — MTV, CNN, etc.) praises.

By the late 1950’s the CIA knew that Communism was going to fail.

Thus, they began importing hallucinogenic drugs into America in order to prepare the psyche of the average American liberal for a serious domestic political paradigm shift. They created a mass drug-diversion/hysteria to mask and to accomplish a change in party-political policies. They took away the moral high ground from the liberals, in exchange for scientific conservativism. In the 1920’s the liberals wanted prohibition, not inhibition; they wanted more justice, not more bureaucracy; but the social protests and the rampant (now stigmatized) use of

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“mind expanding” drugs in the 60’s forced them into a position of division and apparent hypocrisy in regards to morality.

Suddenly the GOP, which had previously been based on federalism (big government) and happy-go-lucky imperialism, was sanctified as the final word in ethical correctness. This allowed them to blame every social ill resulting from economic disparity on the misbehavior of the city proletariat and the liberal student-class. The feeling by members of that blessed generation known as “hippies” that a meaningful revolution was almost accomplishable at any point during their lifetime is the result of careful and intricately preplanned manipulation of contemporary social relationships. No revolution was possible. All hope was drug-induced. Now, without these drugs, no feeling of hope is possible. It is brilliant.

Further, having taken the moral high-ground, the significance of the GOP and bigbusinesses’ scientific liberalism (experimenting most and in secret with all unethical hypotheses imaginable) is easily downgraded. They are just trying to make wonderful new products for the masses. There is no need for ecopessimism or prohibition of non-sanctioned drugs. If drugs are on the sold black-market they make three times as much for the CIA to bring them in (and double that if they bust the dealers and then resell what they confiscate) as it would if they were being sold over the counter. They shame drugs, hiking up the costs, and glorify technology, packaging up in pseudo-humanitarianism unethical break-through devices.

All of this was based on the assumption of the fall of communism because it created, with the “drug problem,” a new enemy to use the silent army against after Russia was reduced to thirdworld status, and because it stole the ideal of Christian morality back from the Progressives in order to bless the continued Nazi testing of the CIA and the military-industrial complex on unknowing human subjects. Morality has no place in the development of the economy or new technology. But it makes the perfect mask. By 2000 the American student class has been reduced to the weakest, least-motivated, least-hopeful and least-informed student class in the world, thus destroying any potential of a revolution of any kind. In addition to this bombardment in the media regarding the proficiency of young Japanese business clones (plus a consequent sub-cultural proJapanese movement) has taught American students the lesson that only mass conformity and not mass hysteria means progress. Only scientific, and NOT moral, liberalism is acceptable.

Historical “revisionism” is much more accurate than up-to-the-minute coverage in a time when all public figures are liars and seasoned concealers of their true interests.

If a revolution ever were possible, you would know it were, and it could only be so, due to the arming of the poor in opposition to the rich by the military-industrial complex who manufacture the guns. To cause this a serious split would have to occur between the CIA (the MIC) and the government (rich families). Perhaps arming ghetto kids is simply a way to twist the government’s arm and force it to continue contracting with certain companies to make certain, how shall we say, bombs. If such a revolution occurred however, just as with any war won by weapons and not by words, it would be the result of a group of non-combatants who sat behind the front lines and, like chess, manipulated the agitators into direct conflict beneficial not to the masses, but only to this small, exclusive elite. Let the poor and rich kill one another, while the gun-runners get fat, suck fruit, and swim in sparkling water holes.

The only true way to be a revolutionary (the way of Castro, officially sanctioned by the USSR) is to pretend to be on the side of your arms supplier until you are well enough armed to defend yourself against them; only then show your support for the so-called masses.

Only peoples fight each other over territory.

In the name of morality and justice people fight Systems.

The government giving drugs to the masses with one hand (the CIA) and then slapping them with the other (the GOP, the ATF) on the wrist for taking them is akin to a father giving his child pornography and then chastising him if he gets aroused.

The government, like god, believes it is encouraging evolution through temptation, producing stronger, fitter humans who resist the urge to mutate without control.

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Art was what meant power for people before the advent of society. Now all who continue to believe, superstitiously, in the potential resurrection of the spirit of art — art for art’s sake — are being suckered by all those who know that true power is control of a society. Artists are the most pathetic, troglodytic cavemen.

Greece is only a facade for Rome.

A pain in the face, growing, shifting. Power is only the expression. It changes with the complex combination of the exact ideas it wishes to convey. At the conference in Yalta Stalin had to show power in regards to the “Polish question,” while Roosevelt wished primarily to display cooperation. The bone structure is changing.

“Women hear higher pitched frequencies than men.”

“Is that true?”

“Everything you believe is true becomes true to you.”

“No, I mean, scientifically proven.”

“Science, too, is only a belief.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“It’s so easy to lie to you.”

“I don’t like you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then why do you even speak to me?”

“Everything I say to you is a lie. Every single thing.”

Weakness in the upper arms. Thought is poetry, beautiful disconnected inference.

The soul is in assumption. If one cannot draw conclusions, one has no will to live.

Good music is the sound of a proud people’s gradual and acknowledged defeat.

[Science invokes a futile sound, a dull and constant hum.]

PROLETERRORISM The blitzkrieg is accomplished by first gaining allies within the infrastructure. This is no different than having provacateurs in a crowd to foment discontent. These allies must convince the population of the host nation that they are weakening. At the moment they begin to examine this possibility, but not before they have come to a conclusion or attempted to prove else wise, the virus must strike. For the invasion to be successful a strong force (the wave that washes across a nation) is not as necessary as one which appears impossibly imposing; then that which is truly essential for long-term occupation may be shipped in (like flotsam carried along after the wave), the invisible, silent, terrifying new police-force, the Gestapo, or doctors and scientists who make random people disappear. The glacier may retreat, but the boulders it transported will always remain. There will always be provacateurs; why not buy their services? No rhetoric is so important to every official that none of them can be bribed.

It does not matter what you say, only how you say it. Speech gains in power as it increases speed of delivery (agitation, Hitler, the blitzkrieg, imperialism) until finally it is silent, and is pure force — a mind-controlling glare or a brute physical onslaught.

Human history can pivot around a single event as small as a glance, if it is the exact right moment between the two most important players of the moment and conveys completely its intention.

Perhaps America allows small groups of dissenters (neo-Nazis, the KKK, etc.) because, thinking biologically, they believe so long as they keep a small dose of the virus in their system they remain immune from developing a disease that can overwhelm them. Or perhaps this was only the original, benign and obsolete intention.

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She would have done anyhing (ANYTHING!), all I had to do was take the oppurtunity. he never said no to any oppurtunity, any suggestion, she was willing to try anything in order to learn as much as possible. But that’s why I always said no; she only wanted to learn. Did she ever really feel love? Or anything? She was so cold underneath all the time and I sensed it, I was so proud of myself for sensing it, so proud of myself for allowing it to cripple me, so proud to be handicapped because I was sensitive. No. Don’t let this get to you. She was a slut. That’s all I want. I don’t want HER, just any slut. Any slut will do.

Too much to process. Dataports too sensate. Shutting down. Shutting down. Off-line.

There is a significant difference between being psychologically helpless and being chemically helpless. When one is psychologically helpless the idea to struggle, to attempt escape, to want to change themselves, does not even occur to them; they are comfortable, somehow satisfied with the stasis they have created, their disappointment is aprt of who they are, a cacoon of sadness. When one is chemically helpless it is muc more difficult, much more complex; they may struggle, but they cannot grasp direction (up, down, sideways), they are dizzy in their life, they see oppurtunities passing by like exits on a circular freeway in a haze, their reactions delayed (sometimes for years); they are never satisfied, always searching; it is the wandering of the blind.

To the chemically helpless all movement, even random flailing, is important, potentially liberating. The psychologically helpless are defined by motionlessness — somnulence, unconsciousness on a couch.

Dancing: The beat of music connects with the mucles themselves, reminding them physically of the nerve impulses that trigger their contraction (although from a biologically external rather than internal source); the certain notes the music strikes relate to the nervous system itself, and the ordeing of neural activity, like the playing of an instrument; the lyrics, of course, relate to the conscious mind.

Campaigning: encouraging people to engage in a behavior of which the salesperson is unsure of the positive results. All politicians say only “I think we should.” A good politician is one who most people believe, a bad politician is one who fails to sell his point of view. Businesses buy political salesmen by financing their campaigns; then, on the trail, the politican has to endorse the use of the business’s products, about which he may feel doubts himself.

God’s must ingregious twist: How can someone be perfect for someone who is not perfect for them?

(How can X be ideal to Y if X’s ideal is Z?) “Morality” (thinking in terms of “good” and “evil,” “right” and “Wrong,” etc.) derives from retrospection. One can analyze an event in the past and think, “this event could have been more favorable to me, others, or all had it been done differently in a certain way.” This “other” way becomes the “right way,” and it contrasts with the real way, which becomes the “wrong way.”

Retrospection can be projected. As an event’s prediction approaches certainty as realization, so its outcomes begin to be apparent. Outcomes are considered “evil” when they benefit the few, “good” when they benefit the many. No action in reality can benefit the many. All actions taint “good” intentions due to unpredictable variables within the event which produce “wrong” outcomes. No action can benefit the masses. Not revolution, not communism. None.

There is a new philosophy on the market, one which strives to go “beyond good and evil.”

This is only possible by living “in the moment,” or “for the moment.” Projections and predictions can be made, but expectations become a thing of the past. Retrospectivity also remains possible, but regret is obsolete. One cares for the past only insofar as one can learn from it, and for the future only insofar as one can make it work for them. The primary focus of attention is on maximizing comfort and increasing whatever power is available in any situation at the moment in which they find themselves existing.

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The eyeball is the organ most like a neuron. Diagrams of these two biological features side by side reveal accute similarities. The eye receives data from the “mind” of outside reality and transmits it to the sensory organ in charge of processing it, the “mind” inside. It reacts with the world: the finger both touches and grabs; the eye touches the world, but also provides stereoscope (3d) vision, a method of perception as unique to humans as the opposable thumb renders our grasp.

A lunatic is just an impatient genius. imagination is the name for having an idea of an idea (“Dr. I have an idea growing on my idea!”

“It’s okay, son. That’s just imagination. Painless to remove.”)

Paracelsus (a late Middle Ages medical scientist) claimed to have created a soulless artificial human, what he called a Humunculus, by burying sperm in an airtight container beneath horse manure for forty days, then magnetizing it, and finally reburying it for another forty days.

Paracelsus was greatly respected during his time as one of the only successful practitioners of medical science and one of the only ones who openly published his work for the benefit of that newly formed practice. Paracelsus also proposed that heavy metal (particularly mercury) in small doses could be curative.

The “we” of the revolution never existed. Only the “we” of the conspiracy.

Synchronicity — while reading Phillip K. Dick’s Valis, which is dependent on the notion of sentient and intentionally pedantic synchronicity (the universe is information, just as matter is energy: all things are thoughts in the Mind of God which is the universe, through events information is communicated between beings who are living ideas), and I come across the name of Paracelsus. According to Dick, the significance of Paracelsus is his use of small doses of heavy metals as curative, which, in the context of the story, acts as an explanation of evil in the world as morally justifiable. The “Black Iron Prison” prevents the outbreak of limitless destruction.

Matter is energy.

Light has weight.

It can be both particle and wave.

Time is both moment and history.

Time is the wavelength of matter.

Matter is the particles of time.

Only the guilty seek out someone to play judge to them. Their piety is one of both fear and hope (God is simultaneously the destroyer and creator). Fear of a vengeful justice, and faith that they may be redeemed, forgiven for their sin.

Here is the distinction between “testing” and “using” Testing: the application of any technology or technique only recently discovered or invented or of which the public has recently become aware, assuming it is ultimately intended for application by, and therefore the ultimate good of, the public.

Using: the application of any technology or technique of which the public has yet to have or has sufficiently become aware; in the first case it is obviously for the ultimate good only of those private individuals applying it; in the second case it is assumed to be for the ultimate good of the public.

The distinction between these two terms is important because it applies to the application of all technology or techniques, including especially drugs, mind-control and communications technology. Generally the public becomes aware of a new technology or technique, thus ushering in its “testing” stage, only when it has been fully integrated into the system of applications developed and maintained for the benefit of those private individuals who initiate or develop all new matter. In other words, what the public “uses” has to have been “tested,” but before they can

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“test” it, it has already been in “use” for quite some time by those who revealed it. This becomes especially disturbing when one considers that “testing” may have been conducted by these private individuals before allowing any new development to be “used” by them; because the public is not privy to the motives of these individuals, they may suffer as the unwitting subjects of “tests” to benefit, or “use” by, these individuals of any new technique or technology (esp. drugs, mindcontrol, communication tech, etc.).

All thoughts I have had before now may be burned without the fear of anything unique and precious being lost. All my thoughts have been based upon assumptions of which, as sensitive to the perimeter between my fleshy essence and the alien social environment, I have failed to reject internalization. For example, the basic assumption that there are laws such as “physics” which govern the universe and that can be “proven” by sensory data. Everything I have ever learned, upon which, sadly, all my own imaginary understandings and logical premonitions have been founded, has only been a collection of vague, impatiently concocted opinions — the theories of other beings, like myself, though dressed differently, and thinking with different words, which were based on other theories, etc, etc. There is no original text, which means, from its origin, the “logic” of humans, their attempt to make sense out of the scenery and events that surround them, to stop fearing a world of uncertainty and uncontrolled forces, has been guesses, wishes, suggestions; all in all nothing worthy of special attention. Certainly nothing worth basing a paradigm on.

Baudillard says: “A human race has to invent sacrifices equal to the natural cataclysmic order that surrounds it.”

So it is with the Germans and the vistas of the Alps and Black Forest, the stringent, disinfected oxygen of that area. The Germans believe that their spirit, as a people —that which they share due to breeding — is both bold and beautiful. German socialists and nationalists share this view; a belief that the end of something is just now within their reach is strong within every German citizen. The feeling of superiority and might is the strongest when socialism and nationalism are combined. This appeals to both parties, and to the “spirit” of all Germans.

Perhaps language was originally an attempt to emulate sounds occurring in nature — in particular those emanating from the ground and the sky.

The difference between expressionism (meaning is necessarily inherent to art) and impressionism (art for art’s sake) is one of retrospection, like morality, one of timing, like “test” vs. “use.” It is the difference between language and meaning. Let us say, first there was language, and then, with time, came meaning. (Baudillard says, “meaning is born out of the erosion [from wear, from usage] of words.”) Originally language was its own intent. The frills and curls of words and such; the First Art: spell-casting. Language is important to all animals; meaning is only important to humans. God said the word and man existed; it remains up to man to seek out his own worth to society, his cultural significance, his essence to others. Meaning acknowledges, retrospectively, the existence of another controlled, controlling factor at the receiving end of communication.

“Meaning” is the first form of mind-control, of influence. Meaning is the evil eye, mal ochio.

Impressionism appeals to the senses alone, the animal in man, to all mankind; expressionism seeks to affect through prediction his occluded intellectual response.

The first two lies upon which all power hierarchies have subsequently been based: 1) there is such a thing implied by and inherent to existence as a specific and singular “meaning.” This “meaning” is the opposite of the apparent nature of existence, as displayed by its behavior. Therefore this “meaning” requires the interpretation of a well-educated elite.

2) the message of the metaphysical existence of this autonomous, unrelated “meaning” must be received and accepted quickly; not questioned out of existence, not analyzed on its own merit, according to its system of values. Simply swallowed too quickly for its validity to be tastetested.

The urge to stand in shadows. The ulterior triumphant. The urge to be near, to be, in a

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way, under the influence of that which stands grandly. This causes the formation of halos, as well as a sort of general darkening of both. Nobody ‘sane’ stares at the sun.

The peaks and troughs of the heartbeat, the highs and lows of a lifetime, are so bottomless, so boundless respectively, that their infinity is dizzying. One can plunge forever into the despairing anguish of a single moment, or eternally rise on the uplifting hope of what is perpetually expected to follow in the next. One can easily be blinded by darkness in one direction, or light in the other; suffocated by slow dust in one event, choked by thin and intoxicating gasps in another.

In order to survive the length of time, to not fall into or be swept up by its momentary dramas, one must rush through their life, always remaining focused on some goal. Only by keeping their eye on what they want to hold — not in the next moment, but two moments hence, or can never achieve, or their death — can anyone scurry by beneath their own life unnoticed, let us say, unscathed.

A prole will accept any offer of relief in any form, even if it is damaging, for they recognize the doom of their status, and feel trapped forever within it. Selling drugs to the ghetto is no different from giving a man about to be executed one last cigarette to smoke; although this would be more true if it were the cigarette itself that were the method of the man’s demise.

Even in domesticated animals, pride is the result of good breeding. If an animal is pure bred, and has no inter-breed relationships anywhere in its genealogy, it will carry itself by nature like royalty; it will naturally become the leader of a pack. Lesser, stupider animals of the same kind will flock to it for guidance. It will be prettier, and feel better about itself as a result of its granted, unassisted good looks and grace. Uglier animals will lower themselves before it, showing their weak underbellies, and literally look up to it. The result of any crossbreeding, out of love — a moment’s passion brought on by the heat and desperation of captivity — or for any other reason, is a lessening of the bastard offspring. It carries a certain shame within it, encoded on its DNA, and reinforced whenever it sees another animal prettier than it pass by. Though it may try to better itself by showing off its ability to learn and to obey its human masters, it will always feel intrinsically inferior to the better bred brothers of its kind. It demands more attention, more reaffirmation, and can cope with freedom only by resorting to ferocity. On this level the rapid willingness to resort to savagery is the determinant of dominance; but all animals at this level recognize their debt of servitude to those few among them who have papers to document their descendancy. On this lesser strata there dwell beasts who, with nothing for which to feel proud, carry themselves with indignity, trying to scuttle by without being noticed, who do not care for how they look, who always feel like crumbs, who have to beg if they hope to eat, having nothing of their own to offer, and who care very little for the direction of their destiny along a vertical axis.

Poverty in the selection of a mate can only produce a further, more acute, poverty in their progeny. Bad breeding, breeding with the ill or impure, begets feebleness of mind, or of body, or of both.

The world wars, especially in terms of the “Axis” and the “Allied” powers, are best understood as global strategies of division if viewed according to cellular mitosis.

Although she was intelligent, and worth waiting around awhile for just to see if she might say something wise, she had been conditioned through rebellion to keep all such matters to herself, and never intentionally say anything too notable. In other words, though she was capable of it, she stringently refused to say anything that could be construed as wise, right or all too true.

Taken on the whole, she was best left alone, which is how she intended on feeling whether you did for her that favor or not.

For her only what one did was important, and for her lover only what one believed. She was an impressionist, and he an expressionist; opposites from the start, as he reminded her constantly, for he was all too aware of things which were missing. She loved him for his selfdestructive potential playfulness, and he loved her for the hope she might one day emote something interesting. So, since he never moved and she never spoke, they grew to hate each other.

A monopoly is truly accomplished only when it is the sole supplier of its commodity

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to opposing factions in political campaigning or a military conflict. (ex. Standard Oil, during WWII, supplied fuel for both Allied and Axis vehicles)

The greatest enemy of the Heads of a State is a dissident population, one which has been given the freedom to reach its own conclusions and to govern itself as it sees fit.

In Germany this was true of the Jews; in America, 1933 (before FDR), of all citizens. the United States (US) v. The Hereditary Enemies of Man (THEM) Given enough time, every material object will rot. In a way, all things are disposal.

The effort of mounting an object or depiction thereof on a wall should convey a sense of permanent preference; not like the torn, crumbled posters thrown up around a student’s dorm.

I drift off dwelling on liquid foundations.

(Surrealism is the philosophy of us all while we dream.)

A man who is having an existential crisis is easily recognizable. He has jost lost someone or some idea which had haunted him for a long, long time, and he looks at the world through new eyes. The people he sees seem alien to him, as if they belong to a species he has never seen before. Their bodies, their faces, their clothing, their gestures and movements are fascniating. Yet they seem so hollow. As if everything they are doing is only for his benefit. The universe is trying to teach him a lesson but he doesn’t feel like learning. Perhaps he runs, to feel the wind in his hair, perhaps the own weight of his body is enough to slow him to a drag. All sensations are heightened. (His adrennalin is pumping but he has no cause for immeidate alarm, except philosophically or intellectually; he wonders how he can go without the presence of that missing element, which had been like food to his mind.) He can barely stand the way the world feels around him. Objects seem to be interested in him, touching him, looking at him. Everything reflectes his perception of his life; a certain heavenly emptiness abounds. He is free of that which had defined him. He is beginning to fall apart. If he moves, through the wrold, through manifold events, through time, he will heal. If he stands still he will turn into stone. What an amazing moment for a man; at once pitiable and enviable. If he masters his freedom and fills it with increasingly beautious new experiences, he survives. If he cannot muster the strength, or regain the indifference, to fill up or forget the void in which he flounders, he will die either inside or out, or both. He holds his life in his hands, and is in constant timid wonder at how it can be both so fragile and so monumentally heavy to bear at the same time.

I write because, if I didn’t, I would never stop talking.

Philosophers are creative scientists. They posses, or rather, are possessed by, an impractical whimsy. Philosophers were probably originally high. They wondered how certain invisible, intellectual forces worked, unlike scientists, who study a posteriori objects, considering invisible forces (such as gravity) only when they can be simulated by compiled data on them.

All magic is but one trick: distraction, misdirection. If one can avert the eyes of his observer, anything he does during the moment they fail to observe him is magic. My looking off at nothing from time to time to conclude conversations perhaps qualifies for this — it consists in my walking away from them when they take their eyes off me to see what I seem to have seen somewhere behind them.

Marijuana affects the physical more than LSD, which is mental.

Marijuana makes incredibly apparent the solidity or softness of observed objects. It also makes thoughts more visual; metaphors seem like collages. Weed’s as prole as beer.

With LSD one gets sensual visuals: hallucinations, “hearing voices,” etc. LSD makes invisible, intellectual forces impossible to ignore. One contemplates everything.

Marilyn Manson is acid-metal

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(thus music listened to by uppity proles who “experiment” with hallucinogens) Smoking nicotine is like drinking pure, thick, rich chocolate. This is why cigarettes are not illegal; they are as pleasant as, and therefore, arguably, no more addictive than, chocolate. Of course, this argument is based on the assumption that sugar itself is not really addictive, although it is, chemically. One becomes dependent on it presence in their blood, as a mild stimulant. While cigarettes cause cancer, sugar causes diabetes. The only reason lung cancer is considered “worse than” diabetes is that, due to the fact that cigarettes as a packaged drug were developed several centuries after sugar, the capability of generating outrageous death rates through a poisonous addictive had gone through massive development in the laboratory, and a more fatal form of playing the same old trick on people was devised and rolled in tightly with the tobacco stolen from the Native Americans.

The right way to “look cool” smoking a cigarette is to not smoke it. Just sit there and forget about, burning between your fingertips. Occasionally, with a half-slack wrist, lift it up and place it casually between your lips, letting it go. You breathe it in with a contemplative expression on your face, as if you are not really smoking, but really thinking about the world, the whole world, in a somewhat detached, yet genuine way. Then exhale in a long slow sigh; this allows onlookers to draw the conclusion that you have once again found the world to be a disappointment, failing to live up to your standards of excellence. Those around you ought to be impressed by this detachment and superiority you have to things they can’t even guess at. It allows them to look up to you without thinking less of themselves, or thinking that you look down on them directly.

Everything is not the way it should be. Reality fails to live up to logical standards of behavior.

The human mind naturally co-creates its understanding of reality with data compiled sensually. Humans imagine causes; the brain perceives invisible forces affecting the movement of all material objects, beams and channels of influence connecting every effect and affect — obviously most complex around the minds of men (or rather, women, whose patterns of thought and connections to sources of influence are as tangled as a web knit by a spider on mescaline).

But sometimes events occur which seem to have no logical cause; mistakes are made, and the only imaginable cause is a malfunctioning mind, which an observer’s mind feels literally sickening to imagine. It must be attributable to some ultrainvisible force, either internal or projected from an unimaginable source. It must be God. God is in mistakes like the devil is in the details.

A lie is an artificial invisible force. It is the creation in the mind of an observer of belief in a false motivation.

Good hand writing implies you take time looking good, which gives you a few prolonged moments to contemplate your impending word selection. This is, as always, richer = more intelligent.

A frisky puppy glared at curiously whenever it asks to play makes for an insane dog.

Bleed your good blood for the audience. They will not believe in what you know you have within you until you lay yourself bare, destroying yourself with honesty, before them and for them.

To end a conversation with someone who is your friend “see you later.”

To end a conversation with someone who is not your friend, say “thank you.” (refer, as always, to the Story of O) “Prefer a feast of friends to the giant family.” Jim Morrison was making a comment about American hippy liberalism vs. communism. But more importantly, it is a comment about the nature of communism (according to the perspective of an American hippy liberal). Communism was a “giant family,” that is, an attempt by the masses to emulate for their own betterment the structure of the traditional elite. The family-structure of the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, and gangsters, upon which all eugenic or racist sentiments are based; as if the congregation of smaller families that comprises the upper class is more a race (the product of breeding) than merely a

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social class. The bourgeoisie are born into money, which separates them from the proles, who have to work for the bourgeoisie to collect a salary, to try to earn their way into the club in a way. But communism’s failure can possibly be, according to the perspective of an American hippy liberal, the result of attempting, on mass scale, to emulate the inhumane and ethically bankrupt behavior of the elite. The technique of communism an American hippy liberal would bet on to work would be a “feast of friends,” ironically rather like a Last Supper in which only apostles are present.

NY is the embodiment of efficiency. If you don’t know exactly what you want before attempting to gain service, no one will have any patience with you. There is little room for questions, and no room at all for conversation. Small talk in NY consists of waving your fist out your car window and yelling “Fuck you!” at a fellow motorist. It is the pinnacle of the development of cities; the polar opposite of the country lifestyle. Perhaps the American dream of “moving to the big city” and making “your fortune” did not die purely due to the influence of the impersonal propaganda of expanding corporations, but also, at least partly, because NY has made itself unapproachable by country folk. It has become a fortress from which the objects and the lines of thought available for consumption by the suburbanites and the country folk are produced and, in a way, flung like catapulted projectiles up over the wall with which NY surrounds itself. No one in the country minds this really. The yokels just think of NY as ominous and undesirable, and the suburbanites believe the culture manufactured in the castle ought to be untarnished by the unintelligent thoughts of those who are not elite residents.

So there are a few rich black folk now; you see them wearing suits and ties and interacting almost exclusively with the predominantly white business community. The number of poor niggers now, as a result of the failed affirmative action program, is more than enough to remind poor whites of the immediately antebellum south. The American dream applies to any ethnicity except blacks, for it seems every ethnicity has already been the city proletariat (more beloved of the city bourgeoisie) except the blacks. The blacks, in large numbers, remain in the country living a slow rural life, no better, no different whatsoever from their fellow, white country proles.

Even when they work in the lesser cities (or the more horizontal cities), they live in the most run down parts of the suburbs, which are essentially the country, so little have they been bothered to be liberated from the wilderness and overgrowth of nature.

The music of the black country proles is obviously the Blues. Needless to say, the Blues are not proactive: they don’t encourage a correction of the symptoms and conditions of oppression they identify. In this they are no better than banjo-plucking, “my wife done left me” white country-proletarian music.

Also, the current movement begun in the sixties to Africanize American blacks only serves to further de-urbanize them. They celebrate the culture of Africa as it was when their ancestors lived there; never mind that it is still, even now, a technologically retarded continent.

While there is some pride in imagining yourself descended from wrongly dethroned and enslaved royalty, one is not made better in American society by dressing like an African country-nigger instead of an American country-nigger. In fact it makes more sense for white country-proles to look back with pride at the pre-Civil War south, where they were wealthy, lazy, comfortable and cruel, than it does for black country-proles to look back with pride at their African heritage, where they still had to hunt for their own food. It is rather like the dream of a retarded child robbed of his favorite toy, not to kill the one who stole it, not even to grow out of being retarded, but simply to regain such a wonderful, colorful, worthless toy.

Only now, with hip-hop, is a truly black city-culture forming in the ghettos and slums of the big cities. And they are not angry at white proles (because in the city there are no aryan proles). They are angry at, or rather envious of, “the Man.”

Scene for a movie: a black dog and a white dog struggle for food scraps beneath a table where sits the king. Neither dog bites the king. The two dogs obviously hate one another.

Hair the color of dust.

The prestige of a silver-back gorilla.

A slow moving cockroach covered in dust.

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Age (the primary determinant factor in physical beauty, followed closely by genetics, and therefore in sexual usefulness) is for women as much of an unmentionable, constant phobic concern as is penis size for men, and for the same reasons. It goes to physical applicability your honor; was my client physically capable of committing the crime of which s/he is accused.

Her: “Do you like my cunt shaved? I look just like a little girl.”

Him: “You dumb-stupid-bitch-whore. Youthfulness has nothing to do with it. I just want a smooth ride is all. I don’t want to burn up on reentry, bitch.”

(written on the back of my anti-depressant prescription) When I get my new job I’m gonna buy everything I want When I get my new jaw I’m gonna bite everything I want I can’t wait ‘till I can’t think at all Criminals are the same type of men as those who invest in the stock market, only not lazy, and much smarter. Investors are willing to risk large amount of their capital on endeavors which, if they fail to work out, end up costing the investors large amounts of capital; this is the stupidity inherent to the lazy. The criminal risks only his own freedom, which means if the endeavor fails he loses nothing, and if the endeavor succeeds his gains are pure profit. In addition to this impeccable logic add the fact that losing one’s freedom does not equate with losing one’s freedom to conduct business.

Note the gangsters who have continued orchestrating their vast enterprises from inside “the slam.” Especially of interest is Lucky Luciano, who, after making a secret deal with the US army to repatriate conquered Fascist governments in Italy with wop mobsters, was allowed to have so many visitors that prison became nothing more than a “big house” out in the country which he did not need to leave. Firstly one must remember that, if the richest gangster in town is in one place, be it jail or a social club, eventually all the two-bit gangsters in town must come to him if they want to make a little money. They come to him and offer their services; he assigns them a job to do him as a “favor;” they are allowed to keep a certain percentage of the take, and if they get caught they just wind up in jail, from which they can still continue to conduct their business.* The only difference between the freedom accepted by the average, moral American citizen and that provided within the confines of prison is the freedom of physical mobility. Physical mobility is one of the formative factors of the “American spirit” (as personified by Harley Davidsons) or the “American dream” (the country folk moving in to the city to make their fortunes). Other than these worthless ideals the freedom of physical mobility is utterly useless; most citizens cannot even afford to travel extensively for personal reasons anyway. Therefore the difference between prison and life in the suburbs in nil. All cowards do outside of prison is passively invest large funds; this is completely easy from within jail. “Risking one’s freedom” is an overstatement based upon a misunderstanding. The only difference between jail and the suburbs is that, in jail, the only thing you are physically unable to risk, is your own freedom of movement.

*In terms of trade, America is the richest gangster in town, and all the third-world countries are going to come to us to get just a small sample taste of our wealth. Even if the USSR had, or the UN does, put us in so many embargoes and sanctions it could be equated with prison, we would still run our world-wide operation.

I have begun hearing voices, seemingly from the next room, which are talking to me or about me, trying to imprint subliminal messages in my head. The worst part is that I do not know if these voices are internally generated (i.e. I am insane) or externally generated (i.e. the world is insane).

A BED OF SALT

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A bit of social commentary written down in Jewish scrolls from around the time of the preaching of Jesus: “I found myself sitting often so that my situation to him, and his situation to the primary source of light, created a halo around our particular Temple’s Rabbi.”

PREACHING = PRE-REACHING (coming to a conclusion before consideration of the evidence at hand) The epoch of the forest-man, the low-crest-man — hairy, naked men squatting in a completely blackened field passing around a leaf-rolled spliff (they called it weed because it still grew here and there in the midst of such fields as weeds grow), or lying cross-ankled on their backs amongst the grass and brambles looking up at the stars.

AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A.

Cowboys: the last generation of cavemen, the last barbarian humans in the civilized world to live “out on the range.” Squatting among the small wilderness creatures and the cacti they shared metal pots full of beans cooked over a camp fire beneath the expansive spangled heavens of sailors, Egyptian and the Nazcans.

The cosmos was man’s original TV.... the creation of “stars” (both as god-people and as geosynchronous, apparently stationary, broadcasting satellites). “my pen seems to be burning between my fingers like a cigarette.” writing in a crowd is the classical appearance (and therefore suspicion) of a spy.

THANK YOU. I AM NOT WELCOME, HERE. Someone who acts like they’ve got something “better going on” somewhere else, and walks out on the long-grained, big-eyed, preternatural, preplanned party of the year, is acting guilty (and therefore suspicious).

We went from being sword uplifting, bold, adventurous knights in shining suits of armor, to being pencil-pushing, meek and mild geeks in simple, monocolor suits; dressed for success in the moderate, interlinked offices workplace.

Think about the potential subjects of vs. the television station practicing arrangement of presentation based upon compliance with existing standards, implications of the simple word: “programming.”

The feeling of being encapsulated and without control of the direction or proportion of the bubble of our universe is best compared to the feeling of being pulled upon by a multitude of several pretty members of the preferred sex, all at once, from every direction. It feels rather the way a fish must feel floating in water. And thus we all are in relationship to the substance of our universe.

It is as if we had done something shameful with which we have come to manage living only by not thinking about it. This method of coping entails recognizing the painful subject matter’s lack of topical value to the assembled conglomeration and limiting the amount of times it is consciously considered and/or mentioned in the conversations of the average working day. Eventually it is completely forgotten, and any reminder of it will be countered by the survival instinct, as with the boy who fucked a dog in middle school and, when confronted in college, vehemently denies it ever happened, or claims that it was not him what done it. Yet all people have

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forgotten some great number of events, whether they are shameful or merely useless; it implies both that usefulness is shameful, and that shame is useless.

“— effectively inducing a certain silence in regards to one unpleasant issue, an unsolved crime, rape, pedantry. I do not feel it would benefit in the long term to invest in redesigning...” (inconclusive) It is the Working Day. The day is still ticking. It has not broken down.

Shadows made out of matter. Even shadows of difference in light are created by the tinting of molecules between solid objects according to the amount of light (its frequency altering its color along the color spectrum) that reaches complete contact with a receptive molecule. The molecules slip in between one another (the hand moves into the shadow). Exposure to higher frequency radiations will stimulate molecular regeneration through altered designs (cancer), will eventually, if potent enough — each molecule full of a maximum of potential energy suddenly being pushed forward at an incredibly heavy speed — turn a human body into a shadow made of matter. The solid molecules would be tinted and separated from communication with each other, making them effectively ash, a pillar of salt.

There is as much energy in the vortex surrounding an outburst as the height of the outburst itself. This is true of solar flares and black holes, seen from the side.

People who die by spontaneous combustion; hearing voices (being “touched” by the “hand of the lord”); being contacted radioactively by “government satellites;” “channeling spirits” and “talking in tongues” are all doing the same thing. Being particularly non-aggressive in resistance to the earth’s electromagnetic fields’ influence on your nervous system (similar to the phases of the moon’s influence on the tides) makes you more susceptible to all the broadcast background sound build-up of a field already beginning to be avoiding doing things that might just prompt crying over my cut finger. All transmissions contribute to the slowly piling up noise called “snow,” not just secret agenda setting or even more complicated for it was not writ by the Browsers had a sequel fuel, I generally get right no, or not trade....

Nonsense, put into a standard, casual conversation, say the illogic of a little girl eating raw human flesh would be less distasteful to its onlookers than the disgustingness of an idyll depiction of the rural and calm.

Radiowaves produce heat and carry information. A beam is sent into a certain skull.

The person begins to feel a sudden, inexplicable (decidedly external), increase in body temperature and immediately begins to become more aggressive. Of course, concentration of the mind’s full energy on the mood and the emotions is a convenient diversion for the concurrent transferal and recovery of information in the “back” of the mind, in the memory banks.

You can access other people’s memory banks for the purpose of storing your own encoded DNA packet of information, or even data as simple as a word (especially a neologism or ambiguous referential). All that is required is a way to concentrate their conscious attention on one perceived event, while magnetically or electrically projecting the unconscious information along a different, alternating frequency, similar to the broadcast of picture and sound. Microwaves are perfect for this.

Thus, the development of massive microwave projection equipment could have two uses: 1) mind-control, 2) long-term storage and recapture system in the memory banks of others.

Disinfected Disaffected

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Naturally one came, through especially the Victorian era — so long passing their belt around a medicine bag, as if it were a kind of protection from the invisible force of greed constantly working on one’s own self-supporting supply — to the conclusion that the ideal combination of these two, especially for surgeons throughout the past hundred years, was a medicine-belt; a sort of first aidkit/medicine bag that could house the tools most used in certain procedures. It had replaced the position of “nurse,” doubling the clerical duties of doctors (rechecking the instruments themselves and not allowing their handwriting skill to degenerate into golfer’s thumb), for an indefinite period. It was the future today.

Oh wait. I am once again thinking of an object that has yet to be “created” (revealed). Obviously I am an insane genius.

The most dangerous thing and difficult to control is desperately impatient intelligence.

(This is apparent among communist agitational terrorism, wherein the immediacy of the transport of the message is more important than the accuracy of the message itself.)

First you concern yourself with the simple building of the existence of a brain, the physical aspect; next with the specific and encoded electromagnetic and/or radioactive field projection (elongation into a potentially indefinite beam), the spiritual aspect, the programming; finally you concern yourself with the arrangement and presentation of “programming,” the mediation and ordering of media according to statistical results monitoring overall centers of wealth, the essence, the being-for-others, subject-matter, the actual information of the primary carrier wavelength. Beyond this primary character are the pre-planned mild embellishments on procedure that make a performance unique, a language of surprisingly complicated symbols, the unconscious quality of the performance; the sort of metaphysical nuances and variation that thrust the waves forward in perceptual depth from the troughs.

All of the same principles appeal to a global scale as well, the creation of a brain is identical in a microcosmic way to the creation of a planet in macrocosm. The same formation of core, crust and mantle must proceed in both before the air that is around it can be improved to “perfectly breathable.” The same beginning of slow surface changes and faster climate changes (ironically reversed from the implication of everyday usage) result from the planet’s spin and orbit, according to the magnetic, electrical and radioactive influences that set the planet in position and start her infinite turning. The most complex and therefore most used, favorite, of the three fields, in terms of technology development and research, is the formation of new, minor, and projectible (the energy weapon equivalent of a projectile) electrical, magnetic, or radioactive alterations and generation within the magnetic field around the earth, and sometimes very focused.

A planet is a large brain. Its consciousness is not personified in its functioning as a whole — the majority of which pertains to unconscious, life-reserving functions — but in the small neuron carries which wander freely within it, and receive information from one another due to verbal (chemical, as with the transmission of impulses through the release of neurotransmitter fluids between the axon and the dendrite) and nonverbal (gesture, arrangement of symbolic objects in the environment and manipulation of a human’s unique, individual reaction to them; electrical, as the nervous impulse is conveyed by a shock between projector and receptor, carrying secondary, implied information which is registered unconsciously and encoded on the electrical field of a subject directly) methods, the conscious microcosmic beings called humans. If we destroy the planet it is due to the same urge of revelry to destroy the reveler through excess consumption of toxins (mineral and elemental resources); we are in the self-destructive phase of adolescence as a species, rebelling against the forces which shape us (conditioning, the patterning of neuronal flow according to Freud) and producing and consuming more or less for the Hell of it, destroying ourselves; it’s time to leave the planet to find more of the same destructive resources in the way it is time for drunk jocks about to float the keg to run to the convenience store and pick up more brew. We have been celebrating the End of the World Party ever since we discovered it was within our potential to destroy it. A mind can drive itself mad.

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Macrocosmos is the name of a game in Taiwan Town. At night, when the good parts of the city are ensconced in silken slumber, men hunch over small pens and gamble over the outcome of recorded history and the passage of time. Macrocosmos is just a game, and further, because it is the game of the poor man, the merchant and the sailor, it is played out of boredom and loneliness in the midst of horizontal expansiveness.

Different cops will arrest you for different reasons. If a cop is poor, he will suspect if you appear to him or her to be rich. If a cop is rich he will only suspect poor-looking people. It may be possible to extradite yourself from the situation by appearing to be rich; this will work in both situations, because the rich are polite and respectful of the police, who are their dogs, and the police are only mistrustful of someone after they begin speaking to them if the person appears to mistrust the police. Act like you understand whatever reason the police officer might have for being suspicious of you in particular (they will never mention their universal, economic prejudices), and then simply assure them that, though you have known people like the people the officer is looking for, even if you like them, you are not one of those kinds of people.

Make friends with the cop; have pity on his role in society and act grateful that he is willing to do you (and people like you) the service of protecting them from destructive elements. Of course, if you are poor (mostly blacks) they will likely arrest you anyway. No one ought to trust the dirty.

Jews don’t have any real friends. They only have lovers and customers. Their lovers are very important to them; they cling to them and dread the day when they will be left alone. For a Jew it is truly only safe to marry another Jew; only by guaranteeing a mutual dependency in this way can they feel comfortable of never being abandoned. (They only fear abandonment because they fear other people; they think strangers are a threat — which has been historically true for them, because they are Jews.) If you are not a Jew’s lover they are your client. You must pay for the benefit of their company — pay for gas, meals, anything and everything. They will hate you if your unreliable in this way. How fortunate for the Jews that a position such as “agent” has been created: they are then your personal lawyer and banker, and everything you have they take part of.

Truly being frightened is only experiencing the unexpected. If children are only exposed to violence, it will be different for them to function in the proletariat sector of passive consumerism and Baptist anti-violence violence. On the other hand if a child experiences only protection and easy availability, they will not have the courage or the motivation to resort to violent, or even aggressive means of getting what they want, and will be condemned to a life of weakness and passivity. The only way to raise a successful child is to condition them to the belief that violence is a part of life, and something which they have complete control over; thus they will not fear it — it will only be a weapon for them, one which, if used against them, cannot, at least psychology, intimidate them.

Dancing is professional (“intentionally” repetitive) stumbling — intended for the intoxicated.

Marching is dancing without creativity: the embodied personification of a pure system of logic.

in the magnetic center of the moon is a charged particle field equivalent to a woman’s womb and for eternity concealed I shot a laser beam from an orbital satellite and fertilized your seed in the middle of infinite night

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Economic liberalism (idealism) is the willingness to invest in adventure, that is, to risk short-term loss in the belief in long-term gain. Economic conservativism (realism) is timidity toward this, a belief in slow growth, blue chip stocks. The former has surpassed the latter. America is a temple built to risk. America’s nouveau riche are the richest nouveau riche in history; this is not the result of inflation, but the cause. the organic machine What’s the one thing magic has in common with government?

The art of distraction.

Aliens are very out-of-focus, bald human beings.

Religious and UFO cults have been created in America to thin out the country proletarian population by 12:00 am, 2000 AD. The precedent for their selfannihilation has been set by the martyrdom of those most highly covered by the corporate media. (religiously, the Branch Davidians; UFOlogically, Heaven’s Gate) Traveling over their [MTV’s] programming was like traveling repeatedly over and around video-monitor covered, deep trenches of a 3D, enlarged model of a human fingerprint. The “finger” is a landscape of television monitors all showing different things; we fly down into the trough of one indentation, then swoop upwards over the ridge of the print, then again plunge downwards into the next canyon. We do this again and again, circling the finger like a laser beam scanning the finger for input into a computer reconstruction program. In the background, the sky above the finger, all is dark blue, and purple, and black.

A fingerprint is a human being’s genetic stamp.

With Paranoid Android, Radiohead has recorded a modern, even scifi, rain dance. It begins from the perspective of the android, “trying to get some rest;” later he is angry at them for their “opinion, which is of no consequence at all,” referring to the dark, yet rainless sky — the sky between the glacial skyscrapers where the wind whips quick with a fiery flick. The “Gucci Little Piggy” probably refers to the android, from the perspective of the street punks performing the ceremony. “why don’t you remember my name... I guess you do.” referring to man from the perspective of the robot, or god from the perspective of man. Just then the sky begins to open up. Everyone sways in the wind. The purple sky is churning. Rain drops begin falling. The rain is finally coming down. It is a very Godly moment. Yet now the rain is falling between skyscrapers. The punk priests must pray to the men up above them for rain. The rich made the poor, manufactured them. Then the android is electrocuted; it is the end of the world.

Radiohead is rather a communist band. They conjure up yellow and lime green images of bourgeois English gardens in the sun, set inside a song which is purple and dark blue and cold, and coal black. It is called “Nice Dream.” They long for the country and the pastoral life. The pre-industrial revolution era of country folk, of the Olde English variety, and the Gaelics, and the Mongols, and the Gauls. “The breath of the morning/ the smell of the warm summer air.”

Perhaps the “communist revolution” Nietzsche and Marx foresaw coming, the group of ultimately impatient men that would change the world, was simply a generation of very hard and extremely dedicated workers, who, if their work were not as efficient as possible, might revolt in order to mechanize it.

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Endomorphs, ectomorphs and mesomorphs are descended from different species.

Different breeds of the human ape, perhaps due to genetic intermingling, during the “missing link” stage in our evolution, with different species of off-world beings.

The fairies may come face to face with the doctors.

The same percentage of the population now as in the medieval ages are fairies and people of the European woods. The wood-carved, natural, earthy things, fabricated in stores, are no different from the gypsies selling gold to merchants because, at the time, they had much more nature than gold, and therefore that is what they needed.

Elves, fairies. The people of the woods. The Keebler elves no different from Critters, gnawing on my shoulder. Monsters. It is true the genetically deformed used to live far to the outskirts of town, or even in the outlying forest (literally as much “for rest” as a park is for “parking”), where they most likely became the subjects of stories parents told children to keep them frightened of the woods at night (“the Dark”) and to keep them staying close to the cities. Monsters are just mutations.

“Liberals” left the early town to go exploring in these outskirts. They were not afraid of the deformities they would find. They were frontiersmen and women. America’s proudest sub-species. But now it is the inner cities where the liberals must turn their attention to go looking for demons. Just as Jeckel and Hyde began to enlighten the modern myth of the dark side buried within. Modern liberals do “exposés” on “secret” goings-on. Most people aren’t frightened. They have accepted, through the adoption of logic over fear of God, a world large parts of which they have no understanding yet and which they have, therefore, come to do without using, in the faith that, like good robots, they soon will be able to utilize it.

Liberals are as separate from the herds of pragmatists today as the Jews were from the Gentiles, and yet, at the apexes of great construction, where a massive amount of pure human energy is constantly expelled, the opposing groups have always managed to, all be it temporarily and only speculatively, work together with each other. As the Jews will say to their offspring when they come to the age of monitoring who the offspring are seeing romantically, considering them for future mating potential, “Well he’s either a Jew or he’s not.”

A Jew is the type of person whom you may observe excusing him or herself several times throughout the evening of a significant social party to retreat to the restroom.

The ATM in the brick bank wall reminds one of the wailing wall in Jerusalem.

The Jews have always been the “druggies” of whatever society they have lived in.

The Jews heard the voice of the satellite. They said it had always been there. It has.

The Homeless are “bleeding” on us (listening in on every word we say from just outside, communicating their reports to one another through radio implant telepathy, looking through the walls at us as we try to forget they are there). The homeless are the real aliens. The homeless are the demons and monsters of old.

The image of Satan is originally one of an animal backlit red by fire, silhouetted charcoal black, and with glowing yellow circular eyes, reflecting (perhaps approaching) fires far away.

Life is like being a gerbil in an enormous cage the size of earth, with the planet’s spherical shape acting as the walls of a cage, looking out on the majestic purples and royal blues and twinkling stars of space. Out there somewhere are the beings in

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white, the beings which are testing us, the beings which are watching us.

Cops come out of the shadows like cockroaches. They scuttle hurriedly to one place, then freeze, sit perfectly still, and “put out their feelers.”

Cops are made from people. They are trained to guard personal property, and, as an extension of that, certain human lives. They won’t arrest you for driving fast in front of them on the road; they really want to get around you and go as fast as they are allowed to just because they can. Cops hurry from criminal fool to criminal fool, catching them easily because the criminals feel guilty and are afraid of standing out, and so stand out quite obviously. To the average person, the cop is his friend; the strong soldier-like man who is protecting my private castle, my keep. So they will speed shamelessly by the officer, thinking “hello, cop. I’m not the one you’re looking for.” And the cop would know he wasn’t. But the criminal would slink by avoiding eye contact. Very recognizable. The drugs slow the criminals down, so the cops can simply rush between the dragging (morally wounded) bugs of society and flex them off the surface of the planet’s bovinesque hide.

A cotton-based pun: my mind feels like it’s made out of cotton and I’m going haywire.

Writing is proof of hearing two voices.

Environment shapes society. Grandeur of surroundings is reflected by grandeur and spectacle of sacrifice. God, for any culture, looks and acts like the people of their tribe; he is accessible in the sky directly above them; all gods are citystate gods. (ex. Jehovah, the city-state God of the American bible-belt) Drugs shape culture. The druggies always huddle in the corner of the city and imagine whatever they can while eating, drinking or smoking anything they can find. People do drugs and then knit rugs. Advertising is, naturally, based upon use of American-style drugs.

Think about Japanese culture — the technology, the latent pedofilia, the importance of costuming, perhaps even the idea of emulating America. And that is what Japanese executives are sitting thinking about during business meetings.

Why does plaid look good next to pussy? Is it anglo-saxon? (or, as Vinnie put it, “Why does plaid next to a pussy look so good to me? I’m Italian!”)

“All other nations take it for granted that America is an imperialist country. It is the most so since Imperial Rome, and yet, how stupid are the Americans — they don’t even know this!

They are trained in the most proletarian culture (Ted Bundy, Mickey Mouse, Jimmy Hendrix, Ronald McDonald, etc.) since the fall of the Soviet Union.

“America and the USSR! What a staring contest between Athens and Sparta! But which was which? And surely the Americans won. The ‘Soviets’ are beaten. But now we have to contend with the infestation of our country by the swarm of ‘Russian’ vermin fleeing that sinking ship.

“What would appeal to most other nations is a periodical which updated them on successful American experiments in imperialism, such as speeding up the rate of recycling types of drugs available to the public in order to double the rate of the recycling of their culture (a sort of, public image increase in surplus value).

“If this became popular on the internet it could be the first popular web-zine to really catch on in the expanded media of e-communications. It could, if were similar to, though satirical, an issue of Time, it could be the first global public product. At least, the first intellectual one.

“And if it were outlawed by America (campaigned against by the American religious right until restrictions were put upon it by all countries running, say, Microsoft internet software), as if the other countries were its colonies, it would start a fascinating war. America vs. the UN. “No, I’m sorry, I’m behind the times a while. Coca-cola, drugs, fast food and things like that were the first global market consumer products. And film was the first intellectual global

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product.

“Right now it is everybody’s turn, all small businesses, the people themselves. All products are now global products. It’s a technological revolution, a change in the type of the tool the masses are using. It’s like everybody’s suddenly getting plows. We now live in a global ‘community,’ how long until it will be considered a state?”

— a Texan school bus driver

“How are druggies buying illegal drugs like a kid in a candy store? Candy used to be drugs. Sugar was the greatest high a kid could get back then — I mean, back then when they were kids.”

— an old man B__l said: “There are those in the student class who feel no motivation.” They believe there is nothing to do, no hope. They are perpetually bored. They are tired, overworked and boring.

“Then there are those who seek and believe in external motivations. They get themselves all worked up to complete some project which they really don’t feel like doing anyway. They lie and tell themselves they care. Like D___d, who’s purpose in continuing to live is to be cool.”

Then I said: “Yes, but the second group is rather amusing. Like going to the zoo to see the elephants, and most are just lying around lazy in the heat, but one of them is wearing a clown suit. Sure, he looks impossibly stupid to all of us, but he thinks he’s the king of those elephants.”

Proles don’t watch the road while driving, slow or fast. (ex. cops) The bourgeoisie drive fast but safe, glaring at their enemy the endless highway.

The computer: the newest tool of the working man. Technological Rome. America is trying for an economical Democracy, in which all the upper-middle and middle class (the country-bourgeoisie 9-5 commuters) get social “shares” in the Fascist secretgovernment.

The national difference that precipitated the Cold War between the USA and the USSR is simply political, nothing more. It was therefore pushed for by the military and military-funded industries, who value assertion of dominance, rather, than any and all large business (as was the Nazi regime in Germany), who benefit from open trade.

In fact, the true “American way” is open trade; open trade at which we excel because we have patents on all the best technologies, according to our WWII treaty with Japan. This was official American policy during the Cold War, yet Russia refused to comply with our business interests there. In this way the “Red Scare,” if not the “Cold War,” dwelt in the hearts of every American.

In short, America thought that proles should be given culture to distract them and to get them hooked on productive materialism as students, made to live in holes in the ground as adults, or should simply be allowed to sleep in the streets; and Russia thought they should be allowed to run things.

I bet in the 1950’s it was as easy for rich American businessmen and private tyrants to buy little Russian and Soviet bloc girls for their pleasures as it was of Vietnamese children in the 70’s, Korean children in the 80’s, and Chinese children in the 90’s.

The little ones are so anxious to get out that they will even take sexual slavery in the name of freedom to oppressed culture in the name of justice. America’s market for slaves is ever alternating. We haven’t cared for the flavor of a good old fashioned black slave in a looooong time.

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America claimed Africa with chemical-biological weapons (extensive pre-industrial diseases and plagues, making it undesirable for anyone else), South America with drugs and UFOs, Canada by default (Hitler’s welcomed invasion of Poland, prompting scores of “dumb Polak” jokes, soon to be replaced by “dumb Canadian” jokes), Japan, Europe and Russia with culture (in the guise of “free trade”), and is currently [1998] working on claiming China with “culture” as well as “human rights” (exclusive privatization and coversion of torture, under the guise “testing,” also as learned from the Nazis). Now it is time for the thousand years of peace predicted by Nostradamus; the Pax Americana.

“Kennedy was just a spoiled, wussy little rich kid who wanted to play ball with the kids in other neighborhoods. Well, Texas just weren’t gonna have it that way, son; not Texas and not those count-down-watching war-hawks up in the outskirts of Washington neither. Shit son, they got the capital surrounded. The South won the war. And you lose, boy, trying to play tea-party ambassador, all soft on the commies.

Sic semper tyranus.”

The city is full enough now, thank you. There is a new name for anyone who wishes to make their own fortune, make a name for themself, by getting rich quickly. That name is criminal.

This is, in fact, the best difference between the city and the country proletariat.

The city proletariat, being surrounded on all sides by the bourgeoisie, cannot help but imagine being richer than they are. They are the ones on the waterfront, they form gangs, the mafia, etc. simply to get the name of their neighborhood on the map.

The country proletariat hates the government, but passive-aggressively. They lounge back in their horrible, heat-induced sloth and whine about their taxes. The country breeds impotence and inactivity. It is the perfect place to commit a murder.

Nothing is a dream. All things are real.

To “fall” asleep — to melt, to disperse. To let go the slight, inner tension that maintains consciousness, the tension of thought, the constant flexing, the shifting of the mind. To turn into a liquid, pure and roseate as a thick, slow oil spill, and then every morning to suddenly recoagulate in the crystalline glare of sun shine. To once again be a body in the pressing, tense world of gravity and air and physical objects.

American culture (the complete collection of all the products it creates for its own consumption) is largely determined by the tastes of the student class, who have the greatest amount of disposable income. College students in particular are going through the phase in their lives when they are “learning to budget” by spending more than they earn. Thus culture is the result of economics.

But economics is, itself, the result of society. In our particular society, it is the students who have the most money to spend, and are the most easily talked into buying things. Thus we have the appearance of economic affluence necessary for a young country’s maintenance of sovereignty. America’s target audience is students.

But the people running it, the people selling it, are the rich who fix society.

The united states, no different from Europe. Each state has its own unique culture, its people their own unique ways and customs. But more than this, by regions, peoples are separated. The Southern Baptists truly are their own race.

As a child one does not fully understand, and therefore control, their world. They must create a philosophy by which to understand it. Then, having taken the time to make everything fit, to understand all relationships according to this single theory, later in life one becomes trapped in it; “set in their ways” as it were.

Races are changed by, and determine future trends in, culture. Cultural adaptation has quickened to such a rate that mutation (change over time) occurs generationally.

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Evolution is now the product of society, no longer the other way around.

We are all the products of the larger subsets to which we belong (mammal, male, white, American, south easterner, Floridian, Tallahasseean) I am genetically a Tallahasseean in the same way I am genetically a human being native to planet Earth.

What is fear if not a return to the helplessness of childhood. One suffers in direct proportion to that which one creates.

The divorce rate of the latter-day baby-boomers is due to the rate of inappropriate inter-class marriage which LSD and other drugs encouraged. The “love child” phenomenon — a generation of socially awkward class cross-breeds.

The robot is the ideal of humanity. Just as evolution, through unmanipulated natural selection, has produced man as the ideal of consciousness, man now consciously produces the machine, determined by the ease of its programmability, its obedience and its simple garbage-in-garbage-out logic. It is the anti-human, the ultimate selfassertive urge in man to create something at once opposite to and greater than himself.

The results of the Great American Experiment in Democracy are back. Do not worry.

Go back to bed. (The cancer is only aimed at the young. It is benign to all those who have not suffered a revolution or imperial de-evolution in the past century.)

Consumers are always doing something. Producers have alot of free time.

The lie is becoming more real than the truth.

Acting lacks secrets. The expressions, intonations and behavior of one who is playing a part lack the personal revelations, the double-entendres, the implications of normal behavior. The man attempting to sell me a car is nothing but his attempt to sell me the car; he must conceal the idea that he exists outside of his character. The artificial character has no closet full of skeletons. The secret the character wishes to conceal is the emptiness of its own existence. The inside of the mask does not exist to hide the actor, for the actor gives the character life as much as the outside of the mask gives it a face. The inside of the mask exists to conceal the distance between it and the actor — the physical fact of its unreality. The skeleton in the closet of a lie is that it has no closet full of skeletons. Witness the plasticity of the Republicans, those snakes, cheats, liars and thieves; what wondrously maintained duplicity, and behind it all the filth of Sodom. The best mask is a tight mask; the best lie is one close to the truth. For in reality there is always the possibility of deceit; one must only distrust that which is too perfect.

The secrets of the most mundane man are more interesting than the finest elaborate recommendations of the postured emperor.

Guilt is the name of the monster who terrifies you simply to know that you are terrified of it. It is the stimulus which exists as the cause and result of its response.

Art for its own sake. The feeling of the raped of pleasure in the midst of violation. It is truly a “rape,” only truly a violation of the soul, the mind, the ego, when this inner defense is broken down, and its disintegration simultaneously recognized. Guilt is only the process of this recognition. The sensation of experiencing acceptance of a feeling, desired or unwanted, that is being forced upon you by a great stimulus — an event, object or person.

Guilt is the feeling which accompanies perception of an intellectually unwanted lust.

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I have begun hearing voices, seemingly from the next room, which are talking to me or about me, trying to imprint subliminal messages in my head. The worst part is that I do not know if these voices are internally generated (i.e. I am insane) or externally generated (i.e. the world is insane).

A BED OF SALT A bit of social commentary written down in Jewish scrolls from around the time of the preaching of Jesus: “I found myself sitting often so that my situation to him, and his situation to the primary source of light, created a halo around our particular Temple’s Rabbi.”

PREACHING = PRE-REACHING (coming to a conclusion before consideration of the evidence at hand) The epoch of the forest-man, the low-crest-man — hairy, naked men squatting in a completely blackened field passing around a leaf-rolled spliff (they called it weed because it still grew here and there in the midst of such fields as weeds grow), or lying cross-ankled on their backs amongst the grass and brambles looking up at the stars.

AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A. AROUND A.

Cowboys: the last generation of cavemen, the last barbarian humans in the civilized world to live “out on the range.” Squatting among the small wilderness creatures and the cacti, they shared metal pots full of beans cooked over a camp fire beneath the expansive spangled heavens of sailors, Egyptians and the Nazcans.

The cosmos was man’s original TV.... the creation of “stars” (both as god-people and as geosynchronous, apparently stationary, broadcasting satellites). “my pen seems to be burning between my fingers like a cigarette.” writing in a crowd is the classical appearance (and therefore suspicion) of a spy.

THANK YOU. I AM NOT WELCOME, HERE. Someone who acts like they’ve got something “better going on” somewhere else, and walks out on the long-grained, big-eyed, preternatural, preplanned party of the year, is acting guilty (and therefore suspicious).

We went from being sword uplifting, bold, adventurous knights in shining suits of armor, to being pencil-pushing, meek and mild geeks in simple, monocolor suits; dressed for success in the labyrinthian interlinked offices of the workplace.

Think about the potential subjects of vs. the television station practicing arrangement of presentation based upon compliance with existing standards, implications of the simple word: “programming.”

The feeling of being encapsulated and without control of the direction or proportion of the bubble of our universe is best compared to the feeling of being pulled upon by a multitude of several pretty members of the preferred sex, all at once, from every direction. It feels rather the way a fish must feel floating in water. And thus we all are in relationship to the substance of our universe.

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It is as if we had done something shameful with which we have come to manage living only by not thinking about it. This method of coping entails recognizing the painful subject matter’s lack of topical value to the assembled conglomeration and limiting the amount of times it is consciously considered and/or mentioned in the conversations of the average working day. Eventually it is completely forgotten, and any reminder of it will be countered by the survival instinct, as with the boy who fucked a dog in middle school and, when confronted in college, vehemently denies it ever happened, or claims that it was not him what done it. Yet all people have forgotten some great number of events, whether they are shameful or merely useless; it implies both that usefulness is shameful, that shamelessness is useless, and shame use.

“— effectively inducing a certain silence in regards to one unpleasant issue, an unsolved crime, rape, pedantry. I do not feel it would benefit in the long term to invest in redesigning...” (inconclusive) It is the Working Day. The day is still ticking. It has not broken down.

Shadows made out of matter. Even shadows of difference in light are created by the tinting of molecules between solid objects according to the amount of light (its frequency altering its color along the color spectrum) that reaches complete contact with a receptive molecule. The molecules slip in between one another (the hand moves into the shadow). Exposure to higher frequency radiations will stimulate molecular regeneration through altered designs (cancer), will eventually, if potent enough — each molecule full of a maximum of potential energy suddenly being pushed forward at an incredibly heavy speed — turn a human body into a shadow made of matter. The solid molecules would be tinted and separated from communication with each other, making them effectively ash, a pillar of salt.

There is as much energy in the vortex surrounding an outburst as the height of the outburst itself. This is true of solar flares and black holes, seen from the side.

People who die by spontaneous combustion; hearing voices (being “touched” by the “hand of the lord”); being contacted radioactively by “government satellites;” “channeling spirits” and “talking in tongues” are all doing the same thing. Being particularly non-aggressive in resistance to the earth’s electromagnetic fields’ influence on your nervous system (similar to the phases of the moon’s influence on the tides) makes you more susceptible to all the broadcast background sound build-up of a field already beginning to be avoiding doing things that might just prompt crying over my cut finger. All transmissions contribute to the slowly piling up noise called “snow,” not just secret agenda setting or even more complicated for it was not writ by the Browsers had a sequel fuel, I generally get right no, or not trade....

Nonsense, put into a standard, casual conversation, say the illogic of a little girl eating raw human flesh, would be less distasteful to its onlookers than the disgustingness of an idyll depiction of the rural and calm.

Radiowaves produce heat and carry information. A beam is sent into a certain skull.

The person begins to feel a sudden, inexplicable (decidedly external), increase in body temperature and immediately begins to become more aggressive. Of course, concentration of the mind’s full energy on the mood and the emotions is a convenient diversion for the concurrent transferal and recovery of information in the “back” of the mind, in the memory banks.

You can access other people’s memory banks for the purpose of storing your own encoded DNA packet of information, or even data as simple as a word (especially a neologism or ambiguous referential). All that is required is a way to concentrate

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their conscious attention on one perceived event, while magnetically or electrically projecting the unconscious information along a different, alternating frequency, similar to the broadcast of picture and sound. Microwaves are perfect for this.

Thus, the development of massive microwave projection equipment could have two uses: 1) mind-control, 2) long-term storage and recapture system in the memory banks of others.

Naturally one came, through especially the Victorian era — so long passing their belt around a medicine bag, as if it were a kind of protection from the invisible force of greed constantly working on one’s own self-supporting supply — to the conclusion that the ideal combination of these two, especially for surgeons throughout the past hundred years, was a medicine-belt; a sort of first aidkit/medicine bag that could house the tools most used in certain procedures. It had replaced the position of “nurse,” doubling the clerical duties of doctors (rechecking the instruments themselves and not allowing their handwriting skill to degenerate into golfer’s thumb), for an indefinite period. It was the future today.

Oh wait. I am once again thinking of an object that has yet to be “created” (revealed). Obviously I am an insane genius.

The most dangerous thing and difficult to control is desperately impatient intelligence.

(This is apparent among communist agitational terrorism, wherein the immediacy of the transport of the message is more important than the accuracy of the message itself.)

Disinfected Disaffected First you concern yourself with the simple building of the existence of a brain, the physical aspect; next with the specific and encoded electromagnetic and/or radioactive field projection (elongation into a potentially indefinite beam), the spiritual aspect, the programming; finally you concern yourself with the arrangement and presentation of “programming,” the mediation and ordering of media according to statistical results monitoring overall centers of wealth, the essence, the being-for-others, subject-matter, the actual information of the primary carrier wavelength. Beyond this primary character are the pre-planned mild embellishments on procedure that make a performance unique, a language of surprisingly complicated symbols, the unconscious quality of the performance; the sort of metaphysical nuances and variation that thrust the waves forward in perceptual depth from the troughs.

All of the same principles appeal to a global scale as well, the creation of a brain is identical in a microcosmic way to the creation of a planet in macrocosm. The same formation of core, crust and mantle must proceed in both before the air that is around it can be improved to “perfectly breathable.” The same beginning of slow surface changes and faster climate changes (ironically reversed from the implication of everyday usage) result from the planet’s spin and orbit, according to the magnetic, electrical and radioactive influences that set the planet in position and start her infinite turning. The most complex and therefore most used, favorite, of the three fields, in terms of technology development and research, is the formation of new, minor, and projectible (the energy weapon equivalent of a projectile) electrical, magnetic, or radioactive alterations and generation within the magnetic field around the earth, and sometimes very focused.

A planet is a large brain. Its consciousness is not personified in its functioning as a whole — the majority of which pertains to unconscious, life-preserving functions — but in the small neuron carries which wander freely within it, and receive information from one another due to verbal (chemical, as with the transmission of impulses through the release of neurotransmitter fluids between the axon and the dendrite) and nonverbal (gesture, arrangement of symbolic objects in the environment and manipulation of a human’s unique, individual reaction to them; electrical, as the nervous impulse is conveyed by a shock between projector and receptor, carrying secondary, implied information which is registered unconsciously and encoded on the electrical field of a subject directly) methods, the conscious microcosmic beings called humans. If we destroy the planet it is due to the same urge of revelry to destroy the reveler through excess

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consumption of toxins (mineral and elemental resources); we are in the self-destructive phase of adolescence as a species, rebelling against the forces which shape us (conditioning, the patterning of neuronal flow according to Freud) and producing and consuming more or less for the Hell of it, destroying ourselves; it’s time to leave the planet to find more of the same destructive resources in the way it is time for drunk jocks about to float the keg to run to the convenience store and pick up more brew. We have been celebrating the End of the World Party ever since we discovered it was within our potential to destroy it. A mind can drive itself mad.

Macrocosmos is the name of a game in Taiwan Town. At night, when the good parts of the city are ensconced in silken slumber, men hunch over small pens and gamble over the outcome of recorded history and the passage of time. Macrocosmos is just a game, and further, because it is the game of the poor man, the merchant and the sailor, it is played out of boredom and loneliness in the midst of horizontal expansiveness.

Different cops will arrest you for different reasons. If a cop is poor, he will suspect if you appear to him or her to be rich. If a cop is rich he will only suspect poor-looking people. It may be possible to extradite yourself from the situation by appearing to be rich; this will work in both situations, because the rich are polite and respectful of the police, who are their dogs, and the police are only mistrustful of someone after they begin speaking to them if the person appears to mistrust the police. Act like you understand whatever reason the police officer might have for being suspicious of you in particular (they will never mention their universal, economic prejudices), and then simply assure them that, though you have known people like the people the officer is looking for, even if you look like them, you are not one of those kinds of people. Make friends with the cop; have pity on his role in society and act grateful that he is willing to do you (and people like you) the service of protecting them from destructive elements. Of course, if you are poor (mostly blacks) they will likely arrest you anyway. No one ought to trust the dirty.

Jews don’t have any real friends. They only have lovers and customers. Their lovers are very important to them; they cling to them and dread the day when they will be left alone. For a Jew it is truly only safe to marry another Jew; only by guaranteeing a mutual dependency in this way can they feel comfortable of never being abandoned. (They only fear abandonment because they fear other people; they think strangers are a threat — which has been historically true for them, because they are Jews.) If you are not a Jew’s lover they are your client. You must pay for the benefit of their company — pay for gas, meals, anything and everything. They will hate you if you are unreliable in this way. How fortunate for the Jews that a position such as “agent” has been created: they are then your personal lawyer and banker, and everything you have they take part of.

Truly being frightened is only experiencing the unexpected. If children are only exposed to violence, it will be difficult for them to function in the proletariat sector of passive consumerism and Baptist, anti-violence violence. On the other hand if a child experiences only protection and easy availability, they will not have the courage or the motivation to resort to violent, or even aggressive means of getting what they want, and will be condemned to a life of weakness and passivity. The only way to raise a successful child is to condition them to the belief that violence is a part of life, and something which they have complete control over; thus they will not fear it — it will only be a weapon for them, one which, if used against them, cannot, at least psychology, intimidate them.

Dancing is professional (“intentionally” repetitive) stumbling — intended for the intoxicated.

Marching is dancing without creativity: the embodied personification of a pure system of logic.

in the magnetic center of the moon

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Economic liberalism (idealism) is the willingness to invest in adventure, that is, to risk short-term loss in the belief in long-term gain. Economic conservativism (realism) is timidity toward this, a belief in slow growth, blue chip stocks. The former has surpassed the latter. America is a temple built to risk. America’s nouveau riche are the richest nouveau riche in history; this is not the result of inflation, but the cause. the organic machine What’s the one thing magic has in common with government?

The art of distraction.

Aliens are very out-of-focus, bald human beings.

Religious and UFO cults have been created in America to thin out the country proletarian population by 12:00 am, 2000 AD. The precedent for their selfannihilation has been set by the martyrdom of those most highly covered by the corporate media. (religiously, the Branch Davidians; UFOlogically, Heaven’s Gate) Traveling over their [MTV’s] programming was like traveling repeatedly over and around video-monitor covered, deep trenches of a 3D, enlarged model of a human fingerprint. The “finger” is a landscape of television monitors all showing different things; we fly down into the trough of one indentation, then swoop upwards over the ridge of the print, then again plunge downwards into the next canyon. We do this again and again, circling the finger like a laser beam scanning the finger for input into a computer reconstruction program. In the background, the sky above the finger, all is dark blue, and purple, and black.

A fingerprint is a human being’s genetic stamp.

With Paranoid Android, Radiohead has recorded a modern, even scifi, rain dance. It begins from the perspective of the android, “trying to get some rest;” later he is angry at them for their “opinion, which is of no consequence at all,” referring to the dark, yet rainless sky — the sky between the glacial skyscrapers where the wind whips quick with a fiery flick. The “Gucci Little Piggy” probably refers to the android, from the perspective of the street punks performing the ceremony. “why don’t you remember my name... I guess you do.” referring to man from the perspective of the robot, or god from the perspective of man. Just then the sky begins to open up. Everyone sways in the wind. The purple sky is churning. Rain drops begin falling. The rain is finally coming down. It is a very Godly moment. Yet now the rain is falling between skyscrapers. The punk priests must pray to the men up above them for rain. The rich made the poor, manufactured them. Then the android is electrocuted; it is the end of the world.

Radiohead is rather a communist band. They conjure up yellow and lime green images of bourgeois English gardens in the sun, set inside a song which is purple and dark blue and cold, and coal black. It is called “Nice Dream.” They long for the country and the pastoral life. The pre-industrial revolution era of country folk, of the Olde English variety, and the Gaelics, and the Mongols, and the Gauls. “The breath

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of the morning/ the smell of the warm summer air.”

Perhaps the “communist revolution” Nietzsche and Marx foresaw coming, the group of ultimately impatient men that would change the world, was simply a generation of very hard and extremely dedicated workers, who, if their work were not as efficient as possible, might revolt in order to mechanize it.

Endomorphs, ectomorphs and mesomorphs are descended from different species.

Different breeds of the human ape, perhaps due to genetic intermingling, during the “missing link” stage in our evolution, with different species of off-world beings.

The fairies may come face to face with the doctors.

The same percentage of the population now as in the medieval ages are fairies and people of the woods. The wood-carved, natural, earthy things, fabricated in stores, are no different from the gypsies selling gold to merchants because, at the time, they had much more nature than gold, and therefore that is what they needed.

Elves, fairies. The people of the woods. The Keebler elves no different from Critters, gnawing on my shoulder. Monsters. It is true the genetically deformed used to live far to the outskirts of town, or even in the outlying forest (literally as much “for rest” as a park is for “parking”), where they most likely became the subjects of stories parents told children to keep them frightened of the woods at night (“the Dark”) and to keep them staying close to the cities. Monsters are just mutations.

“Liberals” left the early town to go exploring in these outskirts. They were not afraid of the deformities they would find. They were frontiersmen and women. America’s proudest sub-species. But now it is the inner cities where the liberals must turn their attention to go looking for demons. Just as Jeckel and Hyde began to enlighten the modern myth of the dark side buried within, modern liberals do “exposés” on “secret” goings-on. Most people aren’t frightened. They have accepted, through the adoption of logic over fear of God, a world large parts of which they have no understanding yet and which they have, therefore, come to do without using, in the faith that, like good robots, they soon will be able to utilize it.

Liberals are as separate from the herds of pragmatists today as the Jews were from the Gentiles, and yet, at the apexes of great construction, where a massive amount of pure human energy is constantly expelled, the opposing groups have always managed to, allbeit temporarily and only speculatively, work together with each other. As the Jews will say to their offspring when they come to the age of monitoring who the offspring are seeing romantically, considering them for future mating potential, “Well, he’s either a Jew or he’s not.”

A Jew is the type of person whom you may observe excusing him or herself several times throughout the evening of a significant social party to retreat to the restroom.

The ATM in the brick bank wall reminds one of the wailing wall in Jerusalem.

The Jews have always been the “druggies” of whatever society they have lived in.

The Jews heard the voice of the satellite. They said it had always been there. It has.

The Homeless are “bleeding” on us (listening in on every word we say from just outside, communicating their reports to one another through radio implant telepathy, looking through the walls at us as we try to forget they are there). The homeless are the real aliens. The homeless are the demons and monsters of old.

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The image of Satan is originally one of an animal backlit red by fire, silhouetted charcoal black, and with glowing yellow circular eyes, reflecting (perhaps approaching) fires far away.

Life is like being a gerbil in an enormous cage the size of the surface of the earth, where the confinement lies not in walls, but in the planet’s own spherical shape, looking out on the majestic purples and royal blues and twinkling stars of space, the infinitity outside of our glass entrapment. Out there somewhere are the beings in white, the beings which test us, the beings which watch us.

Cops come out of the shadows like cockroaches. They scuttle hurriedly to one place, then freeze, sit perfectly still, and “put out their feelers.”

Cops are made from people. They are trained to guard personal property, and, as an extension of that, certain human lives. They won’t arrest you for driving fast in front of them on the road; they really want to get around you and go as fast as they are allowed to just because they can. Cops hurry from criminal fool to criminal fool, catching them easily because the criminals feel guilty and are afraid of standing out, and so stand out quite obviously. To the average person, the cop is his friend; the strong soldier-like man who is protecting my private castle, my keep. So they will speed shamelessly by the officer, thinking “hello, cop. I’m not the one you’re looking for.” And the cop would know he wasn’t. But the criminal would slink by avoiding eye contact. Very recognizable. The drugs slow the criminals down, so the cops can simply rush between the dragging (morally wounded) bugs of society and flex them off the surface of the planet’s bovinesque hide.

Writing is proof of hearing two voices.

Environment shapes society. Grandeur of surroundings is reflected by grandeur and spectacle of sacrifice. God, for any culture, looks and acts like the people of their tribe; he is accessible in the sky directly above them; all gods are citystate gods. (ex. Jehovah, the city-state God of the American bible-belt) Drugs shape culture. The druggies always huddle in the corner of the city and imagine whatever they can while eating, drinking or smoking anything they can find. People do drugs and then knit rugs. Advertising is, naturally, based upon use of American-style drugs.

Think about Japanese culture — the hyperreal technology, the latent, “sweet 16” pedofilia, the importance of costuming, posture and gesture, perhaps even the idea of assimilating America. And that is what Japanese executives are sitting thinking about during business meetings.

Why does plaid look good next to pussy? Is it anglo-saxon? (or, as Vinnie put it, “Why does plaid next to a pussy look so good to me? I’m Italian!”)

“All other nations take it for granted that America is an imperialist country. It is the most so since Imperial Rome, and yet, how stupid are the Americans — they don’t even know this!

They are trained in the most proletarian culture (Ted Bundy, Mickey Mouse, Jimmy Hendrix, Ronald McDonald, etc.) since the fall of the Soviet Union.

“America and the USSR! What a staring contest between Athens and Sparta! But which was which? And surely the Americans won. The ‘Soviets’ are beaten. But now we have to contend with the infestation of our country by the swarm of ‘Russian’ vermin fleeing that sinking ship.

“What would appeal to most other nations is a periodical which updated them on successful American experiments in imperialism, such as speeding up the rate of recycling types of drugs available to the public in order to double the rate of the recycling of their culture (a sort of, public image increase in surplus value).

“If this became popular on the internet it could be the first web-zine to really catch on in

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the expanded media of e-communications. It could, if were similar to, though satirical, an issue of Time, be the first global public product. At least, the first intellectual one.

“And if it were outlawed by America (campaigned against by the American religious right until restrictions were put upon it by all countries running, say, Microsoft internet software), as if the other countries were its colonies, it would start a fascinating war. America vs. the UN. “No, I’m sorry, I’m behind the times a while. Coca-cola, oil, drugs, fast food and things like that were the first global market consumer products. And film was the first intellectual global product. Now advertising itself is the only artform consumed by the global masses.

“Right now it is everybody’s turn, all small businesses, the people themselves. All products are now global products. It’s a technological revolution, a change in the type of tool the masses are using. It’s like everybody’s suddenly getting plows. We now live in a global ‘community;’ how long until it will be considered a state?”

— a Texas school bus driver

“How are druggies buying illegal drugs like a kid in a candy store? Candy used to be drugs. Sugar was the greatest high a kid could get back then — I mean, back then when they were kids.”

— an old man B__l said: “There are those in the student class who feel no motivation.” They believe there is nothing to do, no hope. They are perpetually bored. They are tired, overworked and boring.

“Then there are those who seek and believe in external motivations. They get themselves all worked up to complete some project which they really don’t feel like doing anyway. They lie and tell themselves they care. Like D___d, who’s purpose in continuing to live is to be cool.”

Then I said: “Yes, but the second group is rather amusing. Like going to the zoo to see the elephants, and most are just lying around lazy in the heat, but one of them is wearing a clown suit. Sure, he looks impossibly stupid to all of us, but he thinks he’s the king of those elephants.”

Proles don’t watch the road while driving, slow or fast. (ex. cops) The bourgeoisie drive fast but safe, glaring at their enemy the endless highway.

The computer: the newest tool of the working man. Technological Rome. America is trying for an economical Democracy, in which all the upper-middle and middle class (the country-bourgeoisie 9-5 commuters) get social “shares” in the Fascist secretgovernment.

The national difference that precipitated the Cold War between the USA and the USSR is simply political, nothing more. It was therefore pushed for by the military and military-funded industries, who value assertion of dominance, rather than by any and all large business (as was the Nazi regime in Germany), who benefit from open trade.

In fact, the true “American way” is open trade; open trade at which we excel because we have patents on all the best technologies, according to our WWII treaty with Japan. This was official American policy during the Cold War, yet Russia refused to comply with our business interests there. In this way the “Red Scare,” if not the “Cold War,” dwelt in the hearts of every American.

In short, America thought that proles should be given culture to distract them and to get them hooked on productive materialism as students, made to live in holes in the ground as adults, or should simply be allowed to sleep in the streets; and Russia thought they should be allowed to run things.

I bet in the 1950’s it was as easy for rich American businessmen and private tyrants

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to buy little Russian and Soviet bloc girls for their pleasures as it was of Vietnamese children in the 70’s, Korean children in the 80’s, and Chinese children in the 90’s.

The little ones are so anxious to get out that they will even take sexual slavery in the name of freedom to oppressed culture in the name of justice. America’s market for slaves is ever alternating. We haven’t cared for the flavor of a good old fashioned black slave in a looooong time.

America claimed Africa with chemical-biological weapons (extensive pre-industrial diseases and plagues, making it undesirable for anyone else); South America with drugs, Nazi regimes and UFOs; Canada by default (Hitler’s welcomed invasion of Poland, prompting scores of “dumb Polak” jokes, soon to be replaced by “dumb Canadian” jokes); Japan, Europe and Russia with culture (in the guise of “free trade”), and is currently [1998] working on claiming China with “culture” as well as “human rights” (exclusive privatization and coversion of torture, under the guise “testing,” also as learned from the Nazis). Now it is time for the thousand years of peace predicted by Nostradamus; the Pax Americana.

“Kennedy was just a spoiled, wussy little rich kid who wanted to play ball with the kids in other neighborhoods. Well, Texas just weren’t gonna have it that way, son; not Texas and not those count-down-watching war-hawks up in the outskirts of Washington neither. Shit son, they got the capital surrounded. The South won the war. And you lose, boy, trying to play tea-party ambassador, all soft on the commies.

Sic semper tyranus.”

The city is full enough now, thank you. There is a new name for anyone who wishes to make their own fortune or make a name for themself by getting rich quickly. That name is criminal.

This is, in fact, the best difference between the city and the country proletariat.

The city proletariat, being surrounded on all sides by the bourgeoisie, cannot help but imagine being richer than they are. They are the ones on the waterfront, they form gangs, the mafia, etc. simply to get the name of their neighborhood on the map.

The country proletariat hates the government, but passive-aggressively. They lounge back in their horrible, heat-induced sloth and whine about their taxes. The country breeds impotence and inactivity. It is the perfect place to commit a murder.

Nothing is a dream. All things are real.

To “fall” asleep — to melt, to disperse. To let go the slight, inner tension that maintains consciousness, the tension of thought, the constant flexing, the shifting of the mind. To turn into a liquid, pure and roseate as a thick, slow oil spill, and then every morning to suddenly recoagulate in the crystalline glare of sun shine. To once again be a body in the pressing, tense world of gravity and air and physical objects.

American culture (the complete collection of all the products it creates for its own consumption) is largely determined by the tastes of the student class, who have the greatest amount of disposable income. College students in particular are going through the phase in their lives when they are “learning to budget” by spending more than they earn. Thus culture is the result of economics.

But economics is, itself, the result of society. In our particular society, it is the students who have the most money to spend, and are the most easily talked into buying things. Thus we have the appearance of economic affluence necessary for a young country’s maintenance of sovereignty. America’s target audience is students.

But the people running it, the people selling it, are the rich who fix society.

The united states, no different from Europe. Each state has its own unique culture, its people their own unique ways and customs. But more than this, by regions, peoples are separated. The Southern Baptists truly are their own race.

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As a child one does not fully understand, and therefore control, their world. They must create a philosophy by which to understand it. Then, having taken the time to make everything fit, to understand all relationships according to this single theory, later in life one becomes trapped in it; “set in their ways” as it were.

[I have had this thought before.]

Races are changed by, and determine future trends in, culture. Cultural adaptation has quickened to such a rate that mutation (change over time) occurs generationally.

Evolution is now the product of society, no longer the other way around.

We are all the products of the larger subsets to which we belong (mammal, male, white, American, south easterner, F__ian, T__ean) I am genetically a T__ean in the same way I am genetically a human being native to planet Earth.

What is fear if not a return to the helplessness of childhood? One suffers in direct proportion to that which one creates.

One only fears when they imagine they should be controling; a phenomenon equivalent to giggling in church. Such is the agony of Dr. Frankenstein, pursued by a monster of his own making, of the environment destroyed by society, its own child, and of God haunted and hunted out by men.

The divorce rate of the latter-day baby-boomers is due to the rate of inappropriate inter-class marriage which LSD and other drugs encouraged. The “love child” phenomenon — a generation of socially awkward class cross-breeds.

The robot is the ideal of humanity. Just as evolution, through unmanipulated natural selection, has produced man as the ideal of consciousness, man now consciously produces the machine, determined by the ease of its programmability, its obedience and its simple garbage-in-garbage-out logic. It is the anti-human, the ultimate selfassertive urge in man to create something at once opposite to and greater than himself. Only this trait is passed on from earth to man, and ultimately, to robot.

The results of the Great American Experiment in Democracy are back. Do not worry.

Go back to bed. (The cancer is only aimed at the young. It is benign to all those who have not suffered a revolution or imperial de-evolution in the past century.)

Consumers are always doing something; since consumption is their role and duty, even their off-time hobbies such as watching TV or shopping are considered a form of work. Producers have alot of free time; they make a collage, make a million, then lean back and observe their art dispersing into the greater swirling mass of culture.

The lie is becoming more real than the truth.

Acting lacks secrets. The expressions, intonations and behavior of one who is playing a part lack the personal revelations, the double-entendres, the implications of normal behavior. The man attempting to sell me a car is nothing but his attempt to sell me the car; he must conceal the idea that he exists outside of his character. The artificial character has no closet full of skeletons. The secret the character wishes to conceal is the emptiness of its own existence. The inside of the mask does not exist to hide the actor, for the actor gives the character life as much as the outside of the mask gives it a face. The inside of the mask exists to conceal the distance between it and the actor — the physical fact of its unreality. The skeleton in the closet of a lie is that it has no closet full of skeletons. Witness the plasticity of the Republicans, those snakes, cheats, liars and thieves; what wondrously maintained duplicity, and behind it all the filth of Sodom. The best mask is a tight mask; the best lie is one close to the truth. For in reality there is always the possibility of deceit; one must only distrust that which is too perfect.

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The secrets of the most mundane man are more interesting than the finest elaborate recommendations of the postured emperor.

Guilt is the name of the monster who terrifies you simply to know that you are terrified of it. It is the stimulus which exists as the cause and result of its response.

Art for its own sake. The feeling of the raped of pleasure in the midst of violation. It is truly a “rape,” only truly a violation of the soul, the mind, the ego, when this inner defense is broken down, and its disintegration simultaneously recognized. Guilt is only the process of this recognition. The sensation of experiencing acceptance of a feeling, desired or unwanted, that is being forced upon you by a great stimulus — an event, object or person.

One can no longer project themself without doing so ritually. All actions are part of a ceremony. After any given event, the following event may be calmly predicted. All actions are reactions; all stimuli are, themselves, affects.

Clipping your fingernails is not complete until later, when their length would prove useful. Washing your car is not complete until later, when a bird shits on it. Watering your lawn is not complete until later, when it rains. A murder is not truly committed until the murderer himself is locked away. No action can stand on its own any longer, it is all part of that grand unrolling scroll known as history. No action is complete until its consequences have undermined its initial motivation.

Irony is the law of Time.

The appearance of respectability is the camouflage of the civilized human.

A job is an action that can never be finished. Even when one dies, the task remains incomplete. The position is refilled and the work continues. In this way the worker on the assembly line directly resembles the president.

Philosophical liberalism persists. This foolish belief in the grass being greener on the other side of tomorrow persists. It is the resultant thought of the human mind’s perpetual exposure to machinery. Simply proximity to machinery makes one more starry eyed; children who live under power lines, etc.

Since the invention of the machine each generation of workers has had the backwards idea that during their lifetime they would see the completion of the duties surrounding their job. Each believed they were the last generation to have to work.

As soon as the machine was invented, the modernists began touting it as that which would provide slave labor, allowing more and more of the population to get rich enough to lounge around and spout the sophistries necessary for a true direct Democracy. Contemporary workers were put off of jobs and began to go hungry, so they organized communist labor unions and led strikes and revolutions, hoping to put a stop to hard work. Both sides believed, at the beginning, that their’s was the final human task. They fought with the desperation of cornered animals.

How insane is this? Society, by definition, cannot allow the attention of its citizens to be distracted from its continual maintenance even for a second.

And yet liberalism on both sides continues. Technologically speaking machines are now taking us into outer space and the microscopic. Socially speaking, subsequent generations have feared or welcomed an end to history as we know it precipitated by machinery. In the first half of the century there was still the potential of communist revolution. By the second half of the century fear of the atomic bomb had usurped the hope of revolutionary fervor. And finally, at the end of the twentieth century, absurd millenarianism reigns, showering down conspiracy theories that stretch back to before the dawn of man.

We are all uptight, waiting for the end of the world, waiting to get out of these suits.

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I look forward, not to the time when space ships will explore the universe, establishing trade routes and fostering colonization, when solar systems will seem only like clusters of islands, and galaxies continents, and captains like sailors steering their ships by the stars, but to a time beyond that, when the galaxy will be united by communication, when a peaceful empire of opulence and understanding is established, and all live with the calm knowledge that all is finite and controlled.

Women are, by nature, de-evolutionary. Men, being problem solvers, can at least construct treaties based on neo-realistic compromise and cooperation. But women are so “in touch with” their feelings — the energy fields surrounding their nerves, the communication network connecting their vacuous, cloudy minds to their overly sensitive bodies — that they cannot be trusted to understand an alliance.

Whenever a woman begins a sentence, “I’ve been doing a little thinking,” run for the hills my friend. The relationship is over. She’d rather go shopping with someone who wants to, like one of her girlfriends.

A woman is just a preganant girl. It is not even true to say that a woman is just a girl you can’t or don’t want to fuck, because when girls get old, they stop being girls, but don’t turn into women. They do the same thing all old people do, male and female — they stop being human beings altogether and turn into drooling toddlers. The real tragedy of the species has nothing to do with “women” (girls) being “oppressed” (protected); the real tragedy of the species is that now, due to the change in chemical nutritional intake, the elderly are no longer wise, but feeble-minded psychopaths.

History records greatness — heroes and opulence. The poor will always be forgotten.

No matter how technologically comfortable the swine of the American middle class become, no matter how luxuriant this culture may make the lifestyle of a truck driver, their name will always be forgotten, their blood always be spilled on and blended into the dust.

In shame of his shame. His blood has no name.

In one’s youth one’s years are numbered; they are finite, rare, and overvalued. As one accumulates years, their contents spread out, become more patient, slower. At forty waiting a year for something means less than half what it meant when one was twenty, at which age it already meant half what it did at age ten.

Let us talk of the Jews as if their breed had already been purged from the earth.

Maybe this will aggravate them enough to do something extraordinary, and cast off their otherwise deserved reputation as uptight bankers and outrageous professors.

The task of maintaining a society consists of keeping its advertising current and its packaging popular. Once this is done, trade will infuse the economy, and the national market will feed off of individual buyers.

Too many files, too many files! Meltdown, meltdown!

Wax-like mannequins pass by one another, business suits hung off them loosely. The intercom system announces something indistinct, initiating mass transit. Like enormous bullets the monorails come and go, filling up and disgorging the nondescript entities, narrated by the commands of the muffled voice above. It is almost cold, and there is a cathedral-like echo. In the distance wind chimes tinkle.

Depressurization. We owe the comfort of modern international air travel to inhuman tests performed on Jews in Auschwitz. (Should we thank the Jews?)

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The cyborg: wires external to the skin carry impulses to the joints and muscles overriding the commands carried by the internal nerves. The metal in my brain does my thinking for me.

Punk Rock vs. Self-Help I don’t have a “dollar.” I’d better find “God.” Poor people look for God, some controlling force. Rich people are God, they are the controlling force. I like comparing the bourgeoisie to God. It’s fun. Logical: religion as social tool.

Take for example the fact that the rich feel guilty because they have so much and give non to the poor, while the poor feel guilty that they have nothing to give the rich. This ends up with the rich fearing the poor, and the poor blaming the rich. If the rich gave the poor something, the poor would have something to give the rich. The poor hate themselves because they live in ugly rooms, eat cheap food, wear torn clothes, and sleep with insects and disease lurking in the dark.

So man is the poor and God is the rich. Man blames God, and God fears man. Man hates himself, hates God, is full of hatred. And in a way, this is all man shares with God. But it is slightly more than this.

Hatred is merely a surplus of energy — the life force — coupled with a knowledge of consequences. Hatred is my living and, by doing so, making you die. My spilling over on you and suffocating you. Hatred is the life force as it is experienced by all conscious beings.

And consciousness, eventually becoming self-reflexive, ultimately transforms active hatred into passive shame. Consciousness dictates that there is what is (the phenomenal), ultimate “evil,” and what could be (the noumenal), ultimate “good.” Shame inverts hatred as a compromise between the two. It is better to passively hate, paralyzed by personal shame, than to destroy, even if this is still not as “good” as to love.

And more than this man and God share shame. For both are aware of the consequences and, comparing those to other consequences they can imagine, are disappointed. Man and God ought to be able to co-exist. But they cannot. How sad.

The phenomenal and the noumenal, man and god, the poor and the rich, thesis and antithesis, can never be made one. This is the tragedy of man, and why he ought to hurry up and die.

The world view of a chronically high person: • Reporters get their interviewee high or drunk and then talk to them. The most liberal magazines have the best interviews in terms of openness not due to comfort level with future readers, but to degree of inebriated comfort with the interviewer.

• Cops get messed up and then drive around in order to set the speed limit appropriate for people under the influence of this common taboo. While in an inebriated condition they concentrate on listening only for their car number on the police radio; in other words, they drive around thinking about nothing but numbers.

Old people drive slow not because they are weary and nearing death (an internal change), but because they have lived their entire lives not being able to go faster than a certain speed in previous model cars (an social change). When we are old and still drive 60, 60 will be considered slow to our grand children. This is the technological progress of civilization.

Common knowledge among the bourgeois: Progress of civilization is a naturally occurring force (a genetic drive of man). Rate of civil progress (amount of laws generated, amount of military and cultural influence, monumental shows of affluence, etc.) is determined by society. Culture is a drug of no benefit sold to the populace to keep them interested in maintaining the society.

America is successful because we are playing it “fast and loose.” In terms of society ours is one of the most liberal, allowing itself to be approached by its people. It is built upon risk, a frontiers philosophy reflected in all of its cultural products and trends. A Democracy takes the risk of losing its population if it leaves itself too dependent on their support and then drugs them

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too heavily to care. We, who build ourselves monumental office buildings and advertisement signs, have beat out the Bolsheviks, bought out the third world, and are coaxing everyone to come over to our way of politics. We even interpret famous historical foreign psychics’ predictions to refer to the coming, millennial reign of global peace under “our” form of government.

International politics is no different from the school yard, with different breeds of people in different civilizations trying to coax the other civilizations to come and play on their societal system, the monkey bars or communism. Communism stole “cross cutting cleavages” from the Jews, and Adolf Hitler fought against the Jews in the name of Nationalism because of it. Some countries are “bullies” and some countries give up their lunch money. This way of thinking is referred to as “the Game of Life,” as in, “it’s so fun, let’s all go play....”

A large portion of creating and maintaining a civilization is pure accumulation of data.

For a group to begin calling itself “civilized” it must first begin building up documentation providing proof to that affect. This “sacred scrolls” ceremony has been repeated again and again throughout history, since the times of the ancient Egyptians, when the ability to write was as rare and important as the ability to program a computer is today.

The purpose of the Castle in the center of town is the same as that of the computer in the center of the house. That is where all the information pertinent to the sustenance of the surrounding property is stored. Kafka’s form of writing proposes the belief that the Castle is, in a way, haunted by the books of Law, and by the men who keep them. For in their physical existence, the physiology of the brain behind psychology, there remains even then for Kafka too much of the threat of human nature and chaos to begin to shake down the system. In fact, this he longed for — this revolution from within, because it goes against God’s metaphysical superiority and the justice of His transcendent Laws.

Kafka longed for a pre-civil, tribal lifestyle. For tribes exist which have not yet decided to petition their neighbors for recognition as “civilized.” Tribes in Africa, the native Americans, etc. still exist with tribal elders, maintaining a word-of-mouth historical account of their people, placing little value on the static, non-interactive, uncreative filing of information. At the center of the tribe is still the camp fire, around which the elders gather, just as the frigid, stiff, pale elders of civilized societies gather around their mountains of paper and files. When a “tribe” becomes “civilized,” when it commits to centralization and preservation of information, only then does it become a “state” or a “nation.”

Man exists now only as a component in the all-consuming process of generation and amendment of reports, cases, charts, files, resolutions, memorandums, documents, documents, documents etc.

All art, all charts, all data must be created and then modified; its ownership and responsibility for its protection must be passed around. Even dollar bills are little documents themselves.

Microscopically thin slices of trees. Like the Greeks who invented Democracy, we would prefer to be messengers than kings; any given issue is written down and passed around the city, from office to office, for no one will sign off on it and take ultimate responsibility for it. The free will of man has been reduced to deciding between pre-existing leisure-time (after hours/vacation) cultural distractions. All topics of conversation are either work-related or non-threatening to the existence of work. And what a “piece of work” is man: cog in the machine which is developing its own sentience. We compile information to feed the World-Mind.

I am supposed to like techno-pop. It has been popular for my entire generation’s lifetime.

In the seventies disco was not yet dead. In the eighties pop music began and flourished. In the early nineties there was a brief and fascinating divergence with Grunge. But now, in the late nineties, we have gotten most of the country-rock out of our systems and are getting mostly into a European night-club style scene. My youngers crave Prodigy, and even the Spice Girls, and the majority of all urban fm radio stations in the country carry techno-pop “alternative” or “new rock” music. Techno-pop is the sound of science fiction, the sound of the future-city. Big deal. I know this is what the old people who fix societies generations in advance have been planning for me and for mine, but I myself am not personally impressed.

There are two types of techno-pop. Heavy on the techno and heavy on the pop. The former came later, and perhaps due to its recency it invigorates primacy. The techno-side is based on drum machines, while the pop-side is based on synthesizers. Call me old-fashioned, children, but

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I prefer synthesizers to drum machines, rhythm samples or loops. Based on the difference in instrumentation between what our grandparents listened to at our age and what is popular to listen to now, imagine how different the machines used to make the music will be when our grandchildren are the age that we are now. We will not even want to admit it is “music” anymore.

“Give me some techno-pop any day,” some old biddy named Buffy or Cassandra will twitter up in the retirement hospital to her granddaughter named Ethel or Maude.

Because they see it as a threat to civilization, a war to dissolve a union is called “civil” “Nigger” is just the most derogatory term available for the vocally dissatisfied, socially passive proletariat, the ultra poor who sit back and complain while not being willing to put forth the effort to change the system from within or without. Such a mentality could be considered Niggerism: the slave mentality; knowledge that one is the subject of an experiment, but satisfaction in its benefits enough to not want to take control.

Who first called society a “system?” Society is the name of the only true conspiracy.

One of the most alarming traits of American culture is that it sells the behavior (in the guise of style) of the nouveau rich to the student class, getting them hooked on whatever is “the next big thing.” The only way to “win” at the game of culture is to stay slightly ahead of the trends, to appear to be a “trand setter” not a “trend follower.” Of course, as all the adult bourgeoisie always know, there is no real winner of all those who would consent to playing the game of Culture, because the better bred, and all the real wealth and power, are in determining Society. The only reason a rich white kid ought to be into any type of poor black music is to get their friends into it and then stop listening; in affect, to peddle culture, but not to coast. Get out of the way of the wave, Son, or you’re going to get swept into the undertow.

Culture is based on humanity (the interpersonal appeal of rap, with its primal, almost savagely agitational beats), while society is based on the machine (the impersonality of techno, its pure machinism). The poor listen to rap, the rich to techno.

One thing the God damned liberals can’t get through their thick skulls: “A behavioral trait is NOT, nor does it ever BECOME, a genetic trait.”

Culture was created by women, sitting in the otherwise empty castle, tended to by the servants, with nothing to do except paint the landscape or play pretty music, while their husband is out in the countryside conquering. As far back as when they gathered and men hunted, they have trained their body parts for different skills than men; their eyes are not quick, and search for colors and shape rather than movement and depth, etc.

Society was created by men. Men are problem-solvers, women are problem-creators — their feelings exist solely to give us issues with which to occupy our minds when we have nothing better to think upon (which ought to be never). Society is the result of men sitting around and talking. One can identify these men, ideally and often the most intellegent in society, because they like to try to get away with wearing funny hats if they can. (The Pope wears his in public, while in America, where there is fear of underclass dissent, the Shriners and Masons wear their aprons and fezes behind closed doors.)

Women should not be allowed to work. It goes against their nature. An intellegent woman is not to be trusted — she will be out to bust balls for having been made to work. A female executive can either be passive and never get promoted, or active and scare the shit out of her male competitors. Perhaps this is why ERA never reached orgasm; women got too distracted with their new-found careers. Now there are equal rights for all: all who conform with the most charm and energy to the morally bankrupt behaviors necessitated in the workplace.

Racism is the mentality applied for pre-industrial (developing) societies: different, warring tribes, adjascent to one another and competing for land and resources, eventually grew so

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big they overlapped. This was seen as a degeneration of the culture, as the two societies gradually merged their motives and aims. A racist of a dominant race will say they oppress the subject race in the name of the state, in the name of law, order, civilization, society. The subject race will likely retort in the name of their dwindling culture — their collection of beliefs as it is personified in their personal products.

Sexism is the mentality which applies for all post-industrial (developed) societies: as men and women become equals in the context of the workplace, their classical roles disintegrate and household/hunting grounds duties are exchanged. Men and women were meant to be compatible: they must be so in order to breed. Yet now, with an American, “individualistic” self-centeredness at work in both sexes, they are coming to worship the same ends. Money. Thus, personal wealth and self-satisfaction is more important than breeding. As the divorce rate increases so will the rate of artificial insemination, day-care, and the mechanization of childhood. The sexes are obsolete in light of man’s relationship to the machine. Now two men of the same class and different races have more in common than a man and woman of identical class and race. Racefriendly, homosexual civilization.

Society puts those who offend its dictates in prison.

Culture has kids put in schools in order to absorb the spirit of its movement.

School is a prison where liberal Jews are the guides instead of drill instructors.

Culture exists on the beach. Society is trapped within cities.

Cities are factories producing a change in the environment. That is their primary manufactured affect. [all amphibians everywhere are gradually dying off.]

A culture is the carrier wave of the society which emits it. “Socialized,” “civilized” is the name of the disease you get from using the dirty needle of culture. Society and culture are the two halves of the world brain: civilization.

Originally, when we lived in preindustrial tribes, it was the few in the center of the city who controlled civilization that did drugs; witness the braves in smokehouses, the Chinese on opium, etc. Now, after the industrial revolution, the narrow-minded mathematicians have siezed control of society-engines and driven the druggies to the fringes. Now the druggies and the liberals are entrusted with the sacred and humiliating task of distributing religion and/or producing/distributing culture.

The human spirit has been input into the machine. The feeling of deflation at this stage is only natural. Now one can only wait and see if, as it grows up, it exhibits any of the implanted information packet. Our greatest fear as we witness with wonder the progress of our technological evolution is the myth of Oedipus Rex. “Scientist” is the name of the man who thinks he may understand a small part of the way the mind or the universe works, and wastes his entire lifetime performing minute experiments to test his hypothesis.

“Lunatic” is the name of the man who, as if in a flash, thinks he understands the entire working of the mind and/or the universe, and then rather than test this, goes around telling everyone who will listen. To the lunatic the proof of his theory comes in how popularly it is accepted by the crowd.

All societies, civilization everywhere as a general rule, lock lunatics up in small and inescapable cells. This is to keep them from telling everyone their theories, for either of two, completely understandable, possible reasons: 1) their ranting will eventually build to such a fervor it could distract the scientists. 2) their theory may prove to be right. If this was the case, a prophet being seen as only an evolutionary throw-forward, then the importance of the scientist’s role would be inappropriately discredited.

A lunatic is the type who was in charge of society before the industrial revolution. His “lunacy” is not induced by the gravity of the moon pulling on the chemicals in his brain, but by his social similarity to the moon — the lesser, perhaps deposed, sky-diety.

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A video game in which the player assumes a role primarily determined by weakness or potential victimization is more “fun” to its players than one which is purely cathartic and based on the infliction of damage to others or to objects. The suspense level is of course much higher identifying with a victim, and therefore the senses are heightened. The reward of this is survival; in reality there is no specific material reward for survival, but in the context of the game one collects a “high score” — a numbers-based display of approval. Through the increase in tension during game play one can quicken and develop their responses to stimuli in an artificial world, a complete VR sensory simulacrum. The increased rate of stimulation in terms of perceived, VR “threats” to one’s “life” increase the effectiveness of the apparatus overall. A rat which is pleasantly shocked more often will remain “buzzed” and “wired” to the behavior pattern established in relationship to the machine for a longer period of time, and will do so more deeply hypnotically affected.

We are going to go inside the machine with our minds now, Sally.

Don’t be “afraid.”

Take my “hand.”

To mark possession of something in order to insure exclusive ownership, one must ruin it in some small, specific way, which makes it ultimately undesirable for anyone else. This act of property personalization is the same between farmers who brand their cattle, and artists who sign their masterpieces.

The fluke is not that America’s population has become inactive, but that it was ever active in the first place. To have conquered the entire land mass of this country, to have waged guerrilla warfare against the national homes of their youth, to have risen up again in the sixties, if only to protest: and now it is all over. If you take away a proud people’s means of hunting for food, and provide them with an alternative means of merely purchasing food, they have nothing left of which to be proud. If they become fat and lazy it should be no great surprise. Such is the consequence and the downfall of luxury.

Everybody likes to get their blood flowing in a different way. On the political right they like to do exercise, abusing their wills to earn a brief adrenaline rush. On the political left they are content to use brain damaging drugs to feel passive euphoria.

In a republican society, all men have chosen to be pirates. This is the purpose of their secret societies, such as Skull and Bones, and the Free Masons. They practice the same magic behind closed doors now as the pirates practiced out on ships at sea: the magic of comfort and camaraderie, the magic of honor among thieves.

Brushing the teeth with this strange white paste is the ritual for cleansing the oral sins one commits with their mouth — things said, things exhaled (and vice versa) The Christians are sheep. The Jews were goats. At one time they originally had horns, which now they do not, and try to live down, trying not to look like monsters. The horns were the result of millennia of irradiation through gravity-cloaked, mindcontrol, microwave-emitting satellites; information is passed backwards through time in the form of quarks, which are reverse-encrypted un-matter (90 degrees from anti-matter and matter), and which provide the Jews with Merlin-like, seemingly “magical” gnosis.

Sheep of the World Unite! Storm the Underworld in eerie vessels!

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According to James Retfield, the first serious philosophical revolution (for westerners in developed nations) replaced God with science. Furthermore one can associate this with the physical event accompanying it: the industrial revolution. The next revolution in human evolution will be from earth-bound science transgressing to space-borne science, a sort of science/magic. This magico-science or cryptoscience (as we are traveling to the negative hitherto, the Underworld, the water outside our little atmospheric bubble) will incorporate a fusion of both the fantasycountry force and the sci.fi.-city force, a return of Egyptian gnostic paganism.

Communism is fueled by the camaraderie, the like-mindedness of the proletariat. The American proletariat has always been denied this force, divided against itself by carefully calculated, pre-planned racial rage.

Culture is the opium cloud enshrouding the heads of the proletariat. It veils its messages, making the schools of propaganda mercilessly compete, the expressionists resorting to fables told with puppets (the rich pig, the meek frog, the friendly bear, the spurned but adorable big nosed Gonzo, etc.) and the impressionists stressing the packaging and salesmanship of the product. It creates mixed messages, telling the poor one thing and the rich another. Society is the conspiracy behind it, keeping the rich rich and the poor poor. Only the destruction of culture, or rather the eroding, the proleterorrizing of it, will benefit the hungry, “yearning” proletariat — the destruction of culture Soviet style (a complete annihilation and replacement by propaganda programming) or American Disney-Baptist style (a Jerry Springer Special Effects Revolution Extravaganza).

The jargon of proprietorship of the planet will be divided up among gibberish, originally profession-based family names, gibberish corporate title neologisms and all the gibberish religious groups. Gone are the salad days of the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts, the Borgias. Now are the days of IBM, McDonalds, Disney and Baptists.

The idea of being followed is comforting: that I deserve to be monitored, that I am watched and protected. Mommy spies on me and Daddy beats me, but I know it’s all for my own good.

The police protect society, the cities (the Castles of the Law) and the townships of their workers surrounding them. The media protects culture, the broadcasts (the satellite-transmitted magical spells over the populace, the Transmission of Order) and the minds of the consumers that support it.

Civilization is the force which believes man has an evil nature and builds selfalienating extensions which manifest themselves in societies (backwards through culture and then centralization of economy) designed to restrict the behavior of men. Culture is the force which believes man is basically good and encourages misbehavior. In America, as in any good empire, we have built our society around the marketplace, thus enclosing and capturing it.

Selective education is no different than programming. First I didn’t know that, and then I did. A zero is rolled over to a one. Certain phrases, dates, names and faces are drilled into our heads, and then those are the only phrases, dates, names and faces with which we are armed to express ourselves forever.

We are given the freedom to publish, but then who wants to read when we’re a country of action and self-motivation: get out there and play some ball, kid, or better yet, do it vicariously while being broadcasting-beamed into submission by the television set, which programs you literally through microwave irradiation.

“I’m glad Soviet cigarettes are made differently than American,” said one Russian Communist to the Other, “I like to hear the crisp tobacco leaves burning.”

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The cigarette is a post-industrial machine designed to personalize the feeling of being next to fire, of drowning yourself in smoke. Originally, bonfires were built for tribes, with all the men of the tribe standing around it in the middle of the evening. Then fires were micronized to the size of the family hearth, tended by the male of the household, then, later, by women, and ultimately by servants. But just as the agrarian revolution shrank the scope of the fire, the industrial revolution created a fire to be tended by the individual.

The cigarette may also, thus, be seen as a sort of symbol of human progress. It gives the individual the responsibility which once belonged to the large group. In this way, also, the Communist smoking a cigarette would be committing a philosophically American and antitotalitarian crime; any true collectivist would have insisted on erecting an enormous, communal cigarette for the enjoyment of the masses. It remains to be seen, however, if the exponentially accelerating social march toward individualism will prove itself, at least in regards to the fatality of its user, autonomous from the cigarette itself.

Society informs the population of its duties and restrictions.

Culture provides them object-choices which existentially encourage their development as individuals.

Federalist, centrist societies (in particular Nazi Germany, Soviet Russia, and America) are an unhealthy throw-back in the evolution of Society. Currently, and since their post-middle ages resurgence, they have been furled by the revival of the Classical societies during the Renaissance.

(In particular the militant Sparta, [ideally] Plato’s republic, and Democratic Athens) It is obvious, due to the history of the evolution of society after the Classical age of Greece — from Roman empire, to the King Vs. Pope for rule over all other people of the Middle Ages — that it was little more than an engine charged to build class segregation. Thus, a return to the forms of Classical Civilizations (in particular collectivism, [ideally] communalism and individualism) would only be retrograde to the function of the predominant drive in social evolution, resulting in an already apparent decline overall in class differentiation. (In particular by cross-class racial extermination, cross-class political revolution, and class-blurring cultural materialism) In the 1950’s and 60’s America generated a decline in distinction between classes by, first, division of the bourgeois (into urbane and suburban). It then divided education between the two halves of the bourgeois along the lines of quality (creating private and public schools). It began teaching the responsibilities of maintaining society as a class-producing machine to private school children, even uniforming them in business suits. (hence “classes”) It swamped public schools with culture, saturating crowds of young children with clothing that fabricates the confusion of idealized self-expression with desire for the products of national expression. It then based the culture to which it has addicted the student-class (children of the country bourgeoisie) upon the lifestyle of the nation’s city-proletariat. Thus, seen as a society of white temples built around a thronged marketplace, by ghettoizing a large fraction of the bourgeoisie the ratio of producers to consumers has been steeply incised. America simultaneously threw up a defensive force of covert intelligence agencies around its city bourgeois, which makes everyone else (literally everyone — all the other classes in America, all the other countries in the world) quite paranoid about of what they are being locked out.

Weed brings out the baby in people. MDMA brings out the sexual animal. This represents the specificity of effect achieved through the progress of pharmaceutical experimentation.

Fascists admire the display of physical prowess known as wrestling. Thus wrestling, even though classically Greco-Roman and currently a sad, theatrical, countryproletarian joke, is by what you may expect American fascists to be entertained.

All women are closet masochists (and now, with the introduction of women into the work force, closet sadists as well). This is because they are the weaker sex, and have, since the earliest days of human evolution, required male protection. Protection equates itself in the modern, economy-driven society, with earnings. Thus all women are also closet goldbrickers, which is only

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forgivable, due to their “adorable” frailty. (Although, with the introduction of women into the work force, it is now possible to find men dependent upon women as well; Von Sacher Masoch was, himself, drawn irrevocably toward the austerity of female royalty.) This is understandable as a biological impulse — just as women will seek the man with the largest penis in an attempt to ensure insemination through vaginal distension, men seek women with larger breasts to ensure their child will be strong and well fed. Women are expected to seek well-socialized, wealthy men, who have the charm of a gentlemanly appearance when in company, coupled generally with the taste for equally refined displays of dominance in private. Sadism in the bedroom is a show of the externalization of force provided outside of the pair-bond by the top on behalf of the bottom; masochism (and all sacrifice) is a show of gratefulness for this protection.

However, the inversion of force-relationships from externalized (focused on Others) to internalized (focused on Mate or Self) betokens a grim, religious guilt — an impotence on the part of the individual or unit to project itself into, or even defend itself from, the economy, culture and society of its native civilization. As more and more violence is uprooted from a civilization, it begins to pop up in the strangest of places. Force is the jolt of electricity that transmits information from macro dendrites to micro axons. If it only works one way, this represents the occlusion of participation in control by the Bottom, or the social, sociable Body. In other words, the Brain (the society-minded city) is becoming exponentially dominant to the Body (the drug culture-addicted country).

Around the time the Renaissance returned the focus of man to himself, the church imputed the notion of guilt into self-examination. As if, in the event man refuses to focus on God, then the aversion of his eyes will be attributable only to self-loathing.

Thus the Church’s own poisoning of the Self-assertion that fuels civil progress becomes its prophetic evidence of the consequential global apocalypse. (The same is true of environmentalists who shame corporations with evidence of their own disastrous polluting in an attempt to put the focus “back” on Mother Nature.)

Expressionism: the propaganda of Society; commands from the brain to the fingers.

Impressionism: the crafts of culture; sensitivity from the fingers toward the brain. (temporarily enhanced and gradually weakened by drugs) The only significant difference between the mission statement of America and that of Nazi Germany was the result of the difference between the teachings and the behavior of their mutual mentor, Friedrich Nietzsche.

Nazi Germany sought to create an ubermenschen, but one defined by Social duty, and not by cultural productivity. They eradicated all opposition, and instituted a strong, State-based (Social) propaganda system to replace culture. (The same strategy was used in the Soviet Union to free the minds of the proles from the intoxicating affects of culture so that they could concentrate on matters of “mass” [national] importance.) In other words, a suit-wearing, self-sufficient, loveless ubermenschen, with his eyes aimed clearly upward at the glory of the sun, worshiping the god Apollo. This “mistake” is due to an overemphasis on the Classical Greeks, such as Plato, upon which Nietzsche did not rest as much emphasis, and on their federalist method of political construction.

According to American beliefs, the ubermenschen Nietzsche had in mind was one who followed the god Dionysus, by night, the God of Revelry and wine. This citizen would create culture in the name of celebration of self, chaotically, recklessly, fearlessly drugging and partying all night long. A citizen like Nietzsche himself, drinking away German nights with his comrades and ultimately perishing from contraction of Syphilis. A fine fate for a fool two giants mistook for a genius.

My cigarette between my fingers is a product which represents life; the chaotic life according to Heraclitus, the life of the tribesmen gathered ‘round fires.

There between my fingers it flickers like a pulsar.

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I am holding it so gently, yet smoking it so fast.

Culture is entirely the product of drugs. In America we have the frenetic culture of an overactive child, obsessed with the basest animal drives (sex, hunger, any form of short-term personal pleasure, the beauty of the packaging, etc.). Our culture is “strung out” between the most “random” points. One may find oneself liking an item of one class and category, and yet also liking an item of an opposing class or category. Paradoxes of taste are the cornerstone of American culture, because of the drugs upon which it is based.

American culture may be seen as similar to the web weaved by the spider on mescaline.

Typically a spider’s web, or a culture, will form itself out into a clear, symmetric geometrical pattern. But the spider’s web woven on mescaline, or the culture founded largely upon lsd, will be erratic and formless, without recognizable pattern or preconceived design.

This effect is known as “being into.” It is a new derivation of Sartre’s Forms of Being; one identified already by Baudrillard. To “be into” is to narrow one’s focus only to a small, certain subject (a project, or the acclamation of a product) and to devote all of one’s attention and energy to this subject. Essentially this effect manifests itself in a sort of aimlessness and lack of preplanning in America — a culture without a long-term memory, running from “next big thing” to “next big thing” and recycling itself every fifteen minutes.

“Being into” love requires total devotion until consummation, followed by an aimless search for a new partner. (An interesting side effect of “being into” love is the affect of unrequited love: if one focuses but cannot achieve consummation with the specifically selected subject of desire, they become fixated and paralyzed. The increasingly common “stalker” is no different from a pointer who cannot retrieve.)

“Being into” is applied with untiring vigor to the realms of business, exercise, entertainment, revelry, transportation, national defense, government etc. The American creed has become to remain vigorous, to remain rigid, to make of one’s body a constantly functioning machine, to fulfill all tasks, to perform all functions, to complete all duties, and to die trying. It is rather like holding genital muscles flexed during intercourse to force the other partner’s orgasm to come before your own. (To “be into” your partner.)

This ever vigilant “into” of the American working citizen is thus the result of culture, and culture is assembled through drugs. One is only “really out of it” when one has run out of drugs or has overdosed on drugs and is suffering the aftereffects of withdrawal or OD. Culture is only “really out of it” only when it has run out of products to consume or when it overstocks itself with something it cannot sell.

“Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.”

— Oscar Wilde America may be seen as the interaction of three forces in opposition to one another.

The first is American society: the North East; politically centered in Washington and economically centered in New York. It is the secret society of the rich, determining how they will suppress dissent amongst the masses and achieve additional influence throughout the globe.

The second is American culture: the West Coast; Hollywood. Culture attempts to impress through sensation upon the masses feelings of comfort and satisfaction, usually trough dangerous abuse of substances in the name of interpersonal satisfaction and vicarious cathartic displays of violent protection of the status quo.

The third is American religion: the South East; Disney and the Bible Belt. The Baptist Nation and Disney, though they disagree over certain issues (homosexuality) share the common goal of stealing large amounts of money and brain washing all of America’s children with sugarcoated messages of pleasure through obedience.

Each of these forces holds totally unique goals; that is, each vies through its own personal arsenal for total domination of every single American mind. The first wants to produce a social ubermenschen from a sliver of the population, ideally capable of eradicating or controlling the remainder. The second attempts to establish a hippy utopia where drug use is enforced for the appeasement of the masses. The third wishes to recreate a totalitarian state governed through religion and belief in a moral system embodied in a pantheon of cartoon preachers.

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All of America is corrupt. But I don’t like to talk about religion, per se, especially American religion, because it hits too close to home, and so I will try to avoid mentioning it in any further discussion.

God is the pain in the ass of the poor caused by the rich fucking them there.

Anything that occurs physically to the fetus during pregnancy seriously affects the outcome of the personality of the child. I was born with certain talents, liking comic books, and acquired an interest in aliens and the supernatural when I was very young. Somehow this is due to electrocution while inside the womb.

If one shocks the society, the womb around the embryo as it were, one changes the personality of the culture. America does this to itself. War does this, esp. invasion. DNA is contained in packages called peoples. These peoples move around from one nation to another. This is the neurotransmitter reflex result of the shock.

Society can feel the affects of culture as well, but only in the form a mother feels her baby kick inside her. “Oh, he’s going to be an athlete [a gladiator] when he grows up.”

When the people attack the political state and culture overthrows society, it mirrors the sensation of a baby being born. This is slightly Oedipal, since, as there is only one female symbol: Society, it must serve the roles of both progenitor and conquered object.

When men provide support for women, the innocent men be degenerate victims.

Only by making the woman put out can you mold a broad grin from a pout.

Power is non-generative because it only likes to fuck people in a way that will hurt them — in other words, in the ass.

Great Britain is to France what Los Angeles is to San Francisco. Great Britain is culturally to Europe what LA is to America. The slum of Continental Europe is Czechoslovakia, allegedly because of the Jews, a people of the desert. The slum of continental America was once Texas, because of the Mexicans — a people of the desert, but it is now Florida, because of the Elderly (aluminum brains) and the inbred insane. (Now the wall they wanted to build between Texas and Mexico may find itself being built to divide Florida from the greater continent.

Oakland and Compton are the slums of LA. There, the two black gangs fight against one another, often killing innocent citizens in the crossfire. Ireland is the slum of Great Britain.

There, the Irish fight against each other, policed by the British, often killing innocent Irish citizens in the crossfire. (Although, just as there are no truly innocent citizens in the ghettos of America, nor are there any in the ghettos of Europe.) This partnership in technique of oppression leads one to suspect a continuing, at least culturally strong, alliance. This is no secret. Although if it were it would lead to race-revolution in both countries.

A “joke” :: Q. How is the Holocaust like a national-social menstruation?

A. It is red, lumpy, and no one likes to talk about it, even though most have come to accept that it had to happen sooner or later. It killed a little red embryo struggling to find purchase. An embryo that could have been dangerous if it were allowed to be born (as it was in Russia, where, ironically [?] the next young Tsar was anemic).

Porn is used in computers like nicotine in cigarettes. It is mildly stimulating, and is used to get the proletariat addicted to using its host machine.

The people of America look at blacks no differently than the people of ancient Egypt looked at the Jews. This is not a big secret either. It is why the Old Testament is so popular in poor Southern churches, and why gnostic cults are so popular among

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poor, would-be imperialists.

Her tears only annoyed him. And vice versa.

The media does not give as much coverage to Republican scandals as it does Democrat scandals. In this “subtle,” very Roman way, it cashes in on a secret deal to manipulate the public’s consciousness. This, for the reason of inept public education, the majority of the populus manages to find difficult to comprend.

Capitalist society has a lottery in Society is a brain. We are its neurons. Our actions are its thoughts. Both external and internal forces can affect us. In this way, just as opinions are a curable disease, we are simply different groups of cognitively dissonant thoughts wandering around inside our host country.

To employ: to enlist to play along in a ploy It is entirely possible for humans to communicate with animals of all breeds and species.

This is no big secret. I have witnessed it my self on two various occassions.

In the first case I saw it work in one way: a man communicated with an animal in the language of the animal. In this case, due to the circumstances, the result does not seem extreme. It was a man communicating with a wild bird in a movie theatre parking lot on a summer night. The bird itself initiated the conversation, which proceeded as the man again and again repeated the entire musical phrase the bird had just twittered, adding a few more odd notes to it, just as an up of the ante.

In the second case it was I myself who was doing the communicating and it was in plain American English with my friend’s calico-mix cat. I was describing to her, partly with words and partly with pantomimed gesture (which she was ignoring, thank you), the location on her body of a flea she had been watching which had lept onto her and was sitting on top of her fur. I told her it was on her “hand” (which she didn’t understand) and then “paw” (which she did, but first looked at the wrong one) and then her “other paw” (which she didn’t understand) and then “left paw” (which she did).

Animals of all kind communicate simple desires to their masters. The desire to eat or to play or to walk. Even the desire to go to bed for the evening. Even, as with one of my friend’s pet snake, when its master and its girlfriend should start having sex (reportedly so the snake can join in). The difficulty, in fact, isn’t in hearing the pleas of the beasts that surround you, but in learning to tune them the hell out.

This is also the problem and the major complaint in the animal world as well. Learning how not to pay attention to, and therefore how not to misinterperate, the excess of other, foreign, “human” information which the master conveys all day long to people who are not his pets is a serious problem for those very pets. (Once my dog mistook my bronchial coughing for joyful barking, and became very optimistic herself.) They may wander around all day long, looking for their God who is “out in the yard somewhere,” and then when they finally find him, he is talking “business,” a language they can’t understand.

In this way the Story of O, by being a story of both a woman in society and a dog to its master, is bothresoundingly social and religious commentary. One may even go so far as to say that the barking of dogs to be fed by their masters is to the domestic animal kingdom what the formation of Culture by the masses of people to be educated by their masters to the human social realm.

To be “liberal” : to not beat one’s pet if they get to be annoying (for going to the bathroom on the floor, by way of example, in the event that they are young and naive, let alone for the fact if they are old and incontinent, or mentally incompetent) To be “conservative” : to live life strictly by the Sadean priciple — not to let any infraction of the rules, no matter how minor nor due to any reason, go without suffering punishment.

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To drive around with the windows of one’s car down, one’s arm rebelliously hanging out, smoking a cigarette, with rock music blaring, is absolutely no more nor less as rude, nor is it in any way, shape or form a dis-identical offense, as walking around all day with the fly of one’s trousers laid open, exposing one’s genitals to the world.

The sun roof, or even more recently the moon roof (ideally used for watching the stars under glass while driving through vine country tipsy off champagne from the weekend’s party at the villa of some friend from the company), is a more polite way to do the same thing (especially when coupled with tinted windows, a long-stemmed cigarette holder, a monocal, top hat and snear). It is also considered courteous to not sing along to the musc if one is rich, and to suck down a small mint after each cigarette, if one is rich and should happen to smoke.

As cars become more and more “aeorodynamic” they begin to look more and more like little more than buldges in the road, like rats hurrying in rows under Oriental carpets. (Perhaps the term “car” derives from “carpet.”) As cars grow more “eficient” they look more and more like the buldges in underwear in men’s crotches, moving around, ocassionally filthy, with various amounts of flesh poking out. A limousine is much more desirable in America than Hitler’s VW “bug” car of the people.

To all True Artists: “Honestly now, isn’t there some fun in coughing uncontrollably?”

“Cheering makes people look like monkeys. The ‘barking’ of the audience of the Arsenio Hall late-night talk show embodies a form of black pride because it is more ‘honest’ about the monkey-like nature of man.” As I read this out loud to the crowd from the center of the Arsenio Hall show bleachers, interrupting the fans from the middle of one of their famed pelting of “Hoop, Hoop, Hoop” they slowly fall silenty, and all turn to look at me. There is a dreadful pasue as I finish. And then the worst beating of my life begins.

Subject for a hard-core sketch comedy skit: Roman Late night talk shows, interviewing (football player-like) gladiators, (upper-ranking military) soldiers, (toga-wearing) Statesmen, and (very tidy toga wearing) men from the open market.

Monkey Monkey Monkey Monkey

want a green leaf-dollar? want a coin of fruit? don’t want no rainy father. shines like star in suit!

A terrible nightmare of a throng of faceless strangers, several floors behind me, chasing me up a spiraling staircase slowly, one step at a time. The worst part: they are all “singing” the “laughing song” from the film “the Road to Wellville.” In other words, a throng of faceless men in turn of the century suits patiently pursuing me while laughing rhythmically. A panoramic paranoia.

To be first: To be forced.

“What I did to you, what you wanted me to... all that happened to us. We were children. We were just children. And now* we are... citizens.... We’re good citizens.” * [“that we’ve both experienced the ecstasy of communication”] Music as sorcery: the words are a sermon, a spell.

The music is the feeling of the spirit taking possession of the listener.

The simple equation of the Doors: Music is Ecstasy. The ecstasy that comes over someone beneath the pure, cataclysmic, climatic force of the Lord. Communication with the Lord. Music is the orgasm as one is penetrated by a God.

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Radiohead expands on this, musically. Each of their songs is an orgasm of the environment, an apocalyptic thunderstorm. It begins almost silently, and grows in fervor, until the listener is consumed and their soul, wrapped up in the music, is transported away — to the pure land of forms described by the words. Thus, in the damp winds that follow Judgment Day, when one comes to one finds themself standing alone, swaying in the purity of emptiness, the absolute desolation of the end of all existence.

This is the operatic tragedy of Man: Matter fell from Spirit.

Man is Icarus, fully aware.

Man is cast out, man is fallen.

Man invents the machine to go back up to God. To carry man inside, if not in body, in message.

The message reads: “I’m still alive. Please kill me. (if you can!)” And God rains down, furiously a Tempest to destroy Technology, if it can.

But it just glides off, in the stillness of a single stroke of silence Man and God both know that there is Nothing to Be Done.

Crest fallen, Jewish man stands before the machine he has built to rip open a portal between himself and God. He stands naked before the pixilated screen, as light rain on warm winds blows gently through the Doorway, to bless his broken body with a kiss.

In all its violence draped up in its fury, lashing with rain, shadows, and electricity Existence stands before us on a shimmering screen.

As we step through, into the World of Forms, the world of “Virtual Reality,” the membrane of it clings to our skin as a flickering icon of wide white wings.

We stand on one side of the mirror And God stands on the other.

We break through easily, becoming citizens by the billions and billions and billions, falling up into heaven like rain from a cloud.

We stand in the Garden, draped in God’s fury pelted with rain, enshadowed, smiling electrically It is our world now Father. Ours is the glory.

And we Glory in Self, all-consumed the ecstasy of being at once the one who communicates and the one with whom communicated.

I share the same nervous system with the man on the other side of the mirror. We speak in impulses delivered like lightning. I breathe in the air he breathes. He is handsome. He is the future of this world. He is the man that I am.

The nervousness at the moment of communication, the memory of Others, the fear of Being Seen. The Being Before God looks over its shoulder, back into the shadows, and does not see itself reflected.

God has been sending domesticated animals to spy on us, to help us grow into our own.

But we will send androids to spy on God;

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and what will become of us when God has regrown?

It is simple, it is all so simple. The understanding of Time is what was lacking before.

But now we understand it all, thank you: “Through Time All Comes To Be Understood.”

The skull, staring up at space.

His eyes have become screens and his mouth a data terminal.

Man looks for God in Nothingness, the opposite of Being. Man seeks to send mechanical drones into the realm of Nothingness, behind the computer screen. This is the pool that man has created in which to see his own depths reflected.

God is anti-Being.

To perceive him is to initiate an explosion a flash of lightning, a peel of thunder One’s evolution is then charged and transported in a shower of crystalline liquid seratonin across the next spiritual syntax.

In this society there are two prerequisites to being worthy of speaking to: 1) you must have money 2) you must be willing to spend it The birds and the bees do not fear the rain: They glory in it with the purity and the innocence of animals.

Yes, man was cast out of heaven: We are the monkeys that came down from the treetops.

The weariness which comes with civilization; it is a symptom of that disease. After the hunt man had time to relax, to reflect, to wonder, to plot. Now liesure time is its own enterprise, co-manufactured by the corporations that peddle it and the consumers who struggle against all odds to, for only a moment or two, suspend their disbelief.

The ecstasy of communication beyond any single being’s capacity to control. To be “connected” to this network is to be overwhelmed.

New Yorkers, as representative of all big city dwellers, are salmon. Their existence is a perpetual strivation for which they justly feel a contagious pride. They — all beings of the Space Age, the Post-Atomic Age, all cybernetic citizens — must struggle to survive inside the machine which consumes them, feeding off of their frenetic desperation. A monster which feeds off of spectacular fear.

Civilization is the machine, man is its fuel. His creative flailings power it, and it chokes him all the more. In true Sadistic nature, its victims Darwinian suffering turns it on.

The machine of civilization has replaced God. Now it, not He, is the justification of all men’s suffering. Now the glory of Tomorrow Land rather than the the Afterlife prompts man’s ambition toward monumental deeds. Technology is the name of the religion which worships this machine-God. It builds factory-churches to pure Civilization, and all technology-interface terminals become shrines before which man sits, in the ecstasy of communication, accessing the endless information which comprises civilization. Data is the body of the New God. Hackers are dangerous not because they are necessarily anarchists, but because the destabilization of total civil order resulting from their self-centered zealotry is a sacrilege and a blasphemy against the God of New Rome.

Because no single brain is equipt to contain all the data of civilization, the days of the God-King are dead. The conspiracy of Society is necessary to preserve the mechanized brain, civilization, so that the data upon which we base our technological evolution may be protected. It is similar to Kafka’s tale, “the Door of the Law,” only now that computers contain all the files that once made up the Book of the Law, it would be more appropriate to retell the story with a man

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sitting at his laptop pc and being denied access to the internet until he dies of old age.

People are willing to accept the engine of civilization and the technology which it produces only so long as they believe that it benefits them. In prosperous times, those who stand up and question whether man ought to be serving as fuel for this engine, or whether it might actually be able to provide more benefits, more technological luxury, if modified slightly, are called “mad” and pelted with slander and stones. We accept that hard times for the public during eras of technology testing in the private sector (Republican presidential administrations) are necessary to achieve a domestically perfect application thereof. Plus we feel chosen in our superiority, for we were tested and have survived. We have less pity for unemployed factory workers if their being fired leaves more money in the market with which we, the blessed bourgeoisie, may purchase the fruit of their toil.

There are only three types of fools who still believe in God: 1) the poor — who require hope for economic comfort (“justice”) in the afterlife to make sacred their sufferings and sacrifices everyday.

2) rich liberals —Jews and self-haters, people who abuse and then reflect their abuse on themselves in the form of shame; people who have ODed on drugs, gone to prison, etc, or who were almost hit by lightning, in a car wreck, etc; the sickly “saved.”

3) rich conservatives — who don’t really believe in God, at least not in any meaningful way, but who do recognize the usefulness of organized religion in the mind-control and enforcement of conformity to social (rather than cultural) concerns necessary to maintain their family money and social class.

Religion is the wall shared by, but separating, brother social classes.

Christians use “God” as a justification for them to feel judgmental. starving super models proves that passive resistance did not work for the ERA as it had for Gandhi in the Indian Nationalist movement. America’s adoption of the new anorexic ideal has simply perverted the culture to encourage child pornography.

God : the conspiracy for the Self.† Since the Reformation, the cult of God as personification of a morality dependent on human action (in other words, the cult of God as the Self) has been infiltrating organized religion.

Through time the Jews, the Mystery Cults, the Baptists, Mormons, and Scientologists have only inflamed the infection.*

The elf is just a Self from which the “s” (the hiss of the sir-repent) has fallen off.

Excerpts from a modern magician’s diary: “the

fuzz” :

“the goods” :

the moss that grows on the bottom of the boot worn by the rich as they walk over the poor. the drugs.

“cotton mouth”:

when the tongue is deprived of moisture, the little puddle of saliva in the bottom of the mouth in which it ordinally wallows, it will stretch itself upward like a charmed snake, and, pressing itself more or less against every inside surface of the mouth, will result in a sticky-sounding speach impediment.

“catch the bear” :

have a heat stroke; mostly a concern of those who chronically use marijuanna, who use marijuanna after excessive drinking, or who live in a more tropical clime.

“Romance” : that quality possessed by Romance movies and any people who remind us of

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The worst end of Love : to have True Love (mutual desire of each partner to become what the other partner idealizes) but a lack of communication (regarding exactly what each partner’s ideal, on the part of one or both partners).

They call it brainwashing because it is reportedly a cleansing experience. All one’s dissident thoughts and displeasures are wiped clean, leaving the mind feeling “winter fresh.”

This was the finding of Nazi scientists, who tested for what British toothpaste companies advertised during African colonization — the cleansing effect of physical or mental occupation. [which gives nod to the depth implied behind McClintock’s “Imperial Leather” which might not at first be apparent.]

Now, in America, we have a self-sustaining brainwashing engine at work: Our Culture. It swirls around from East Coast to West Coast, North and South, with such color and force, bombarding American brains with advertisements and movies, that it washes the National brains as much as a washing machine washes dirty socks.

Whether we know it or not, whether we accept it or not, we all share certain cultural events depending on the social circles in which we run (what channels we watch).

The educational system is, itself, little more than a factory for sharing experiences of propagandizing. Language spreads like a virus [giving a nod to the neo-philosophy of memetics], and slang is the most horrible rash. By yearly class, students, as all adults of similar social class, will be exposed to certain occurrences and characters. This is the program called “growing up” and “fitting in.”

The saturation of television-based cultural story-telling to even the most grass-roots areas creates a scenario whereby different situations occur on different screens which we pass through as we mature. This causation, then, is our control of the aging process. The result is rather a haunting one — to find certain people “familiar” when you first meet them because of the peculiar deja-vu suffered from projected memories.

Techno-Culture creates momentary flash-photographs (“holograms,” to refer to Jean Baudrilliard) which become cultural memories more acute and impersonal than any form of communication has before. All citizens share certain acquaintances and knowledge of events. It is burning up with body heat; only six degrees of separation remaining separating us from zero degree separation, and total interpersonal collectivism. Culture creates an event on screen right before our eyes and then, like the paddle of a paddle boat swooping down towards the water, buffets our skulls with its ghostly image, leaving itself behind in our brains as a liquid crystalline residue. This effect, this event of the mediation of all other events, is “the Image.”

Music is a nonverbal way of accessing these images, and thus evoking the concurrent and appropriate emotions in any citizen who will listen.††

Once one can come to think of life as a jail, then one can make of it whatever one will.

Man’s greatest sin: that he can have fun even though he knows he has been cast into jail on earth for being imperfect. Fun is the sin rather than imperfection, because imperfection is a sin man is not responsible for — it is a flaw acquired by a mistake of the creator. Fun is the grater sin because it is the first action of man as his own, self-responsible Being.

The new type of philosophy bound to occur in the future will be the result of the propagation of communication. Due to the bulletin-board nature of the internet, there begin to emerge in greater and greater quantity, the oddly posted origin-less philosophy. The origin-less philosophy as a practice began in the spreading of socially-relevant instructions through television stories, but has come, with the swell in entrepreneurial businesses on the net, to incorporate everybody, even the previously microscopically small in scope. Thus any origin-less philosophy has equal possibility of being the product of a malignant corporation and an insane basement prophet. So we must come to not trust any philosophies; to be equally wary of all ideologies sold to us. This, in addition to choice of programming, contributes strongly to the closing off of the American mind.

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*The most purposeful peoples are those who have, through concentration on an externalized, philosophically idealized thought, and away from, causing amnesia regarding, memories of childhood abuse, the most fled from the shame and the fear that caused them to seek religion in the first place. It is as if, by being “saved,” they are healed of the affliction with which they had suffered, when in fact they have only forgotten the wound.

Thus the raping of young children and their consequential programming by religions, among other things, go hand in glove in the manufacturing of a citizen. Religions, like the serpent cults that they are, feed off the cries of the weak.

The most sexually satisfying thing: evoking the whimper of your partner. † Paranoia : a new form of classical religion, returning the focus from the Self to Otherness.

Paranoia is the belief in the conspiracy of Others either for or against yourself. In this religion it is considered the highest homage to God to always watch one’s back.

Soon I expect a car will be available the definitive characteristic of which is a large, transparent plexiglass screen, or a small eye-piece electronic lens, in which one can watch the television while one drives. This will be like getting “fucked up” in a purely technological way, in which event the television companies would begin to go the way of 1920’s liquor and 1990’s big tobacco, both of which predict an eventual return to acceptability. ††Jim Morrison was the Christ-figure of the pro-drug movement. He gave his people the blessing of the musical-orgasm, the final step in the creation of a body-without-organs in the realm of intellectualism and communication. Now a citizen may experience the ecstasy of communication in a real sort of way, bringing the access of programmed Cultural Images into the act of love-making.

The kitchen is the mouth of the house, the living room its breasts. The bedroom is the cunt of the house, the feminine domestic space, and the bathroom is the ass hole.

While everybody who comes over is welcome to use the ass hole, only specially invited guests are allowed to spread themselves out inside the sheets of the bed. The ass hole of the house, the bathroom, is even more a shrine to sterilization and sanitation than is the immaculate kitchen. This implies the sterility and unprocreative nature of the Nazi and business mentalities that espoused these forces the most. Sexuality which occurs in the bedroom is at least, ideally, fertile, but sex robbed of the warmth and the closeness of the bedspread and thrust into the cold glare of the bathroom, seems at once sacrilegious and Holy.

Animals communicate physically, nonverbally. The domesticated cat rubs against the leg of its owner, marking it with furs which each point in the direction of the kitchen, indicating the cat is hungry.

Culture is the form of communication between a society and its populace.

As the society itself need not listen to its populace so long as culture remains in place as a pacifier, the cultural ideal of the free market as a form of economic democracy does not hold true: culture is a one way means of communication which, rather than connect a people to their government, only serves to sever them further.

Thus, with culture serving only as a brainwashing machine employed upon a populace by their master-society, its pedantry becomes transparent. It tells the populace stories of the way it wants them to believe things are, and in so far as it controls the way these things are, it reports upon changes in long-term trends with admirable accuracy. It uses stereotypical characters in allegorical stories (esp. films) to convey messages better discussed in dry, academic terms. It does so for the benefit of the population, who prefer entertainment in this form to straight talk, which most probably no longer understand anyway.

Take, for example, the story of the conservative professor of mandatory Latin at a private school. His wife sleeps with a student and, as his health deteriorates, Latin is made optional

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among a wide variety of other modern languages, and he is eventually forced to resign. He connects only with a young boy, who appreciates the intelligence of the elder’s experience, and who shows his strongest affinity is for science. All of this is social commentary, commentary on forces at work in society. But it is according to the society who caused these changes; and in its current form as puerile panem et circentum for the masses, acts more as a non-interactive game then as a lesson; as it was intended.

One must always be especially wary of pedantic settings in the stories they are told: • To be in a psychiatrist’s office with the character of primary identification is for the audience to be psychoanalyzed.

• To be in a classroom with the main character is for the audience to be taught.

• For the main character to observe a sermon is for the audience to hear the word of God. • For the main character to be put on trial is for the audience to be put on trial.

Society is to be found on the front page of the newspaper.

Culture is to be found on any entertainment channel on cable television.

Sports is the primary form of culture openly controlled by, or rather, with obvious nationalist ties to, any state’s society. Soccer is the sport of most nations outside the US, and they compete for prowess on the field. At the same time, hundreds of fans succumb to the sheer stupidity of game-time, drinking too heavily and/or killing one another, more or less purely for the visceral sensation of being fueled to overflowing with a sense of the pride felt by their nation.

The bourgeois child of the future will be physically unable to go outside. To do so would kill him. He will find as he matures an unnatural affinity for microtechnology, both hardware design and software programming. He will likely have a superhuman fear of abandonment, and a learned belief that success at competition will temporarily assuage his feelings of self doubt.

In the future the gap between society and culture will be reflected in the difference between hardware capabilities and software applications.

America’s population will become over fifty percent ethnic in our lifetime. White America has been divided into two camps — the increasingly rich city bourgeois, which will probably continue secretly developing and testing new technologies, and the increasingly poor country bourgeois, which, as they are moved further and further out into the country side, will be replaced by richer ethnic minorities and will become more and more like those ethnic minorities were in the past; in other words: “white trash.” This ritual carries on today through the proletarization of white culture (wrestling, racing, sports, music, drugs, etc.) and the adoption of capitalism as the primary drive of other ethnic cultures (gambling with Native Americans replaces drink, gangster rap replaces gang violence with African Americans, etc.). Thus one may see a simultaneous drive of communist culture and racist society to destroy the white country bourgeois and replace them with a more efficient race (or races) of slaves to the ways of the city.

Sex is being made into a drug. It becomes dangerous to use it. First, condoms were given to sailors to protect from the venereal diseases of their host cultures. Condoms were tested on military grunts no less than marijuana or LSD. Then they were made available to the public, at the same time as the Free Love movement served as the harbinger of a new wave of manufactured diseases. Now condoms can even protect gay white men from AIDS, making it primarily a racial and class-based diseased.

Perhaps ultimately one could expect to receive a prescription for some form of newly relegalized sexual therapy.

There is a pronounced theatricality when men and women converge to declare their affections to one another. Although this ritual has existed for as long as mating, becoming increasingly robust since the inception of that insipid ceremony called matrimony, and becoming

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more emotionally than economically significant with the dance called courtship, it is an act never discussed with a critical eye. As if humans had no greater aspiration than to partake in this intoxicating mutual delusion, romance.

Let us examine a modern example. A boy and girl meet to attend a movie. How they came to meet is ever less and less important. They see each other, look each other in the eye, and decide to hold hands. The act of holding hands benefits neither directly, but indicates to each the potential of future extensions of the embrace into the manners which lure them toward love.

Holding hands is a lie for the girl. To her this man is no different from any other man in the crowd. But she hopes that he is; hopes that, by holding his hand, she can coax out the child in him, and thus come to trust rather than fear the brute. Holding his hand in and of itself means nothing to her. It implies the hope that she can have a closer male friend; a provider, a protector.

Holding hands is a lie for the man. To him this girl is all he can see in the crowd. The touch of her hand courses through him with the heat of all the bodies in the crowd. It is as if she is the face of the assembled herd. It drives him to distraction. Holding her hand means nothing to him, in and of itself; he only does it that he may feel this swelling of the lusts inside him, his masculine spirit. To him it implies the potential of purely sexual conquest.

Each is pushed into the act with an opposite goal. The woman’s is tender and nurturing, ultimately generative. The man’s is raw abuse, twisted up behind a charm, and ultimately wary of procreation. In each as well there is the glimmering reflection of the desires of the other, the yin in the yang and vice versa; the woman deep down lusts for sexual domination and the man, buried in the center of his heart, hopes for a worthy female companion. This reflection of one’s sex-based self interest within the alien projects of the Other is the invitation into the passion play. One ultimately determines if their partner is worthy or not (if they can sustain the act of their love indeffinately) by how much they see their own desires reflected in the interests of the Other.

Love, explained in this way, is the artifice to which two parties surrender; a perfection achievable only through mutual self-deception. In order to find pleasure in this way, the self must be deceived. Pleasure comes from the religious experience of allowing one’s self to be deceived — to see signs of truisms which one knows are more the product of one’s own interpretation than divine revelation. Love is an ideal realizable only in interpretation.

HERE isn’t “GOOD” ehough [so powerful] Research and development scientists create new diseases.

Doctors pretend to seek cures for them, actually experimenting with viral mutations.

Both are paid by the rich: generals, senators and corporate heads, who buy immunity.

This system is Roman, with the men in white togas calling all the shots.

When buyer and seller “haggle” what they are really doing is saying to one another: “How much do you need to buy this?” “How much do you need to sell it?”

The Marxist view of O: O’s domination was significant because of her social class; a bourgeois woman made into a dog is more important than a proletarian woman.

Her domination represents class domination, as well as the Kafkaesque upward-spiraling bureaucracy at the far end of which sits God. Shaving. The new fad of the bourgeoisie is to rid themselves of their most secretive bodily hairs.

To leave the veil drawn back upon their Holy of Holies. As they sit in the leather seats of first class air travel, and the leather seats in the limo which picks them up, and on their leather sofas and their leather bar stools, they are skin upon skin, give or take any slime. At this stage in our evolution, such body hair has become unnecessary. We are far more attractive without it.

Marie Katherine story: a nun who tells lesbian bed time stories to her wards, one of which is Pauline Reage.

Jim Carrey is the clown of New-Rome.

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The purpose of the windiness of bourgeois roads: to hypnotize a driver, to charm them like a snake.

The personal space of the automobile is rather like that of a crib from the perspective of the baby inside. Driving at night one must scrutinize shapes that rise up from the shadows.

The Rat Race: the city streets are a maze. Rats in cars scuttle around, trying to be the first few to uncover the cheese, whatever that may be for them.

Culture gives us encrypted messages. The primer is whether or not we have personal experiences that make it possible for us to comprehend the perspective of the artist who encoded the message. Thus, when musician X sings “such and such,” his listeners, who in theory believe they share something with him, memories of certain events, certain coming of age rituals, certain circles of discussion, etc. understand it as a reference to something else. The referential is the primary selling product of culture. Culture is an encryption machine communicating messages of pure social matter.

We are “into” this delusion, this play on words. This is what we call a “life.” It is what is given to us by our culture. It is the intoxicant stupor which fuels the celebration of its own existence. It is breathed into us as if we are dying. It is what we talk about, what we observe going on around us. We are part of it. To remove culture from the people would be like ripping off a scab that has somehow managed to grow around us all, separating us from one another with layers of clothing, layers of implication, layers of distraction, to suddenly leave us all standing around naked in the cold winds of pure objectivity. This of course would be too much for the people, and, like a sleeper unconsciously curling up in his sheet, so we cling to our culture. It is our heritage; we pass it down to our children, export it to other nations. It is, after all, all we have.

But social matter can be viewed with relentless objectivity. People’s behaviors can all be put into perspective, aligned along axis of cause and affect and extended by projection indefinitely. They can be manipulated and changed, feelings coming and going like seasons as one leads them to flame or chill. These are the pure social concerns we all have. Floating from group to group of friends. Boys and girls sitting around together, each waiting for the other to make the first move. People simply don’t like to see themselves as they actually are.

It is better to show off our feelings with clothes. It is better to feel “wintry” than to feel lonely. It is better to have another, more well-tuned and qualified voice singing the laments I am feeling, and even if mine do not match up with theirs perfectly, it is better to be singing along.

Culture gives back to us what we already had, the experience of being social beings, and having interpersonal concerns, but branded, packaged, somehow sanctified for having been ruined and transmuted. Culture eats our life energy and then feeds it back to us transformed into different shit.

some people have a product which they think other people will want to consume.

They decide to advertise. They go to the advertising agency and have a meeting with the talent. The talent offers several proposals off the top of his head, then, clearing his throat, politely asks the people what were they thinking.

Imagining one’s friends are strangers. As if tonight you are meeting them for the very first time. Their behavior is exemplary. Every gesture, every glance, a sign.

Nothing is predictable. As one long time friend said to another under such a circumstance as this, “the night is full of opportunity.”

Abel is the name of Liberty.

Cain is the name of Society.

“So there she was, a-crucified. And she hadn’t even got on a stitch of knickers!”

— One concerned housewife to another

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The weight of towing the cart and the weight of wings is the same upon my back There is realism (which believes things are best as they are) and there is idealism (which believes things should be different, or, stated in terms of the Impossible, that things are best as they aren’t). On top of this there is a new “synthesis” of the two: neo-realism, which believes, in keeping with the precepts of dialectics, that things can be made better only in the short run, and only by minor changes.

The result of neorealism is America, and further more the pop-culture perpetually designed by American consumers (that is, “we the people”). In regards culture neorealism recycles fads every fifteen minutes and, by sheer force of mediation, makes everything (every event, every group, every person) except the most outrageous innovations forgettable and insignificant, even to their most ardent, albeit momentary, supporters. In regards economics it spawns the “risky venture” — a hopeless thrust into impossibilty, the get-rich-quick-scheme, sale os useless and/or malfunctioning products, the lottery, etc. Both encourage a sort of desperation.

A compulsive flipping of channels, an obsession with the “next big thing.”

There also exists the synthesis which could not speak its name. A secret endeavor which, unlike the short-sighted, realist-based neorealism, combines realism and idealism with a preference idealism. Thus, let us call this force neo-idealism.

Neo-idealism is the force which is at work in secret-societies, the builders of society. It believes in the potential stability of the long-term investment through continual manipulation of the variables surrounding it. This is the force which shapes lives, which wins wars, which builds civilizations, which controls the world. This is the force feared as a conspiracy because, like an unjust God, it only helps those who help themselves. The neo-idealist is the man who sells oil to both sides engaged in war.

Originally the American dream was one of liberty, as it is for all states at the time of their birth.

Now, and since the turn of the century, it is the opposite. The territory necessary for sovereignty has been conquered, and the majority of the people have made homes for themselves. Now it is necessary to create a federal beuracracy that makes the true centers of power inaccessable to the average citizen, and limit the personal freedoms of all citizens as much as possible. Now the American Dream is Power.

Don’t complain about the draft.

Complain about the races drafted by majority. people laugh at people who trip. This is a pun most people don’t get.

America prefers classless Yeltsin to anti-class/nationalist Lenin.

Sweat is the substance of desperation.

We have taken hold of and altered our very environment, technology and nature embrace like the tides, yet man remains the same, so predictable, longing for epics and settling for compromise, conformity and comfort, an easy demise.

What we require at this juncture is a change of insides, a brand new feeling, an unnamed new emotion, one that derives from the sensitivity of the skin, a synthesis of both pleasure and pain beyond reason, the ecstacy of pure and untamed communication.

Nietzsche throws a party in honor of Dionysus at the end of which everyone goes insane.

Kafka hosts a funeral for Dionysus in the center of the vast Apollonian neorealist beuracracy.

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We communicate by campaigns, mentioning and rementioning our desires, sometimes flagrantly, sometimes artfully.

It is easy for the subject to communicate with the civilizer, because they can immitate their behavior. This is socialization.

A father gives his child a scrambled rubix cube the solving of which programs the child somehow.

A “police presence,” whether great or small, is felt mainly by a visitor to any given city, provence, region or town.

Britain has developed the most civilized society because in all its years it never suffered a centralized revolution.

“I appeal to the abused, young and old, all ages.

I address the pain of the dying inner child of us all.”

—Manson Men, observable since earliest childhood, prefer one another’s anonymous company while each plays with their own pile of new toys. Women isolate early, identifying the emptiness they feel between themselves and their female competitors, and the emptiness they feel between them and their indifferent loves, with their vaginas. channeling voices like the prophets is now explained as stream of consciousness like great poets. This is evidense of the pervasiveness of the city influence, and the religion of Darwinism, over the country influence and religion of God, or Christ(s). “our handbooks are merely opinions.”

I love everyone who drives on the interstate: local commuters too impatient or too seperatist to want to contend with the in-town traffic resultant from the clogging up of their stupider neighbors, truckers delivering consumables across country, travellers madly struggling to achieve escape velocity before the police can tell them it’s time to go back to work. As we drive we see the city become the countryside and the country become the city again, we see work crews of local prisoners (examine ratio of white to black for fun) cleaning up our the litter of our decadence, we see the homeless holding their signs, by their example prophesizing our own decline. We see the wide open American sky.

The progress of art through different styles is the evolution of perception.

“Doing one’s part.” This is, perhaps, the most sickening aspect of the Grand Conspiracy against individual liberty. One is assigned a task, and one concentrates on doing it. So long as they concentrate on “doing the best job they can do” at whatever task they find themselves assigned, they are unable to devote any thought to acquiring a variety of tasks, which is a necessary prerequisite in the existing system for assigning tasks to others, and thus to having the power necessary to allow their own minds to wander. Set the robot up facing the wall and watch him, following his programming, continually walk against it until he has been worn raw. Let the Puritans continue valuing only that work which they complete manually, while their masters, in secret, laugh themselves dizzy in lodges applying their minds.

“As long as the body remains a slave, the mind can never be free.” This quote is attributed to a Greek philosopher during a conversation regarding the necessity of slave labor. It was discovered and elaborated upon by Von Sacher Masoch, who writes “Suffering is considered the finest luxury of the rich for its rarity. Pain is a vacation from Freedom, a reminder of their own humility and mortality.”

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Goths are in mourning for the potency of the white race.

Have I mentioned this before?

“Road Rage” : the phenomenon of decreasingly rich white drivers agitation at the laziness of the increasing number of ever wealthier lazy niggers on the road in front of them driving slowly. The nigger says “I’ll get their when I get there,” knowing whatever his task is it will wait for his arrival. The white must drive as fast as possible, if not for more logical financial reasons, then simply to get out of the unpleasant sunlight as quickly as possible.

So there is a hand you say, and it has five fingers. This is no reason to be alarmed.

Shall it grasp the womb which is the world? If it should, is this a reason to be alarmed? With how many fingers has it penetrated her already? Three? Four? All five? And are there not more fingers waiting? Is it not some vague combination of two hands, ever groping, but never finding, the true source of the soul, the spark of life? Should it bring this minor ember to a full fledged fire, shall it quench it, the desire for life upon this planet? An ELE? Shall we be expunged? Space travel?

Fucked up things in the history of man’s existence on the surface of this world are a simple result of people getting fucked up. In other words, all extremism is caused by drugs.

Religiously this manifests itself as My God versus Your God. More or less this has been dividing up between the country-side force and the civilized force for the past few millennia.

Marijuana is more tribal, being earlier applied, and associates itself with the country-side, while the cultivation of crops which began civilization leant itself to the fomenting of alcohol (originally beer).

Politically the country-marijuana force is conservative and hesitant, while the alcoholcity force is aggressively progressive, although this varies on whether the conservative rich and the liberal poor live in the city or country.

In America the relation of drug to religious/political characteristics is essentially reversed, although one must also factor in the unique inclusion in the American system of LSD-25 as the ultimate drug of the creative urban ubermensch. Also one must observe that the white proletariat drinks beer while the black proletraiat smokes pot.

In any event the extremes are generally Moslem anarcho-capitalism, associated with beer and with cities on the “right,” and Buddhist anarcho-communism, associated with weed and the country on the “left.”

It was Christianity that really began a religious movement of moderation between these two extremes by preaching the use of daily moral behaviors rather than ritual use of drugs to communicate with the omnipresent, invisible God created by the Jews. This put the focus on practical, “down to earth” matters rather than trippy mysticism.

It can be argued, though I shall save the trouble of doing so for the lucky man whosoever should read this and accept the challenge to try, that the bourgeoisie as a social class (as opposed to...?) exists only in this moderate bubble created between the two extremes, and without Christianity (or some strong moderation movement preaching abstention from drug-use), it would be impossible to achieve its conception between the monarchy or oligarchy and the enslaved masses.

The only difference between us and our fellow apes is that we first evolved the manual dexterity necessary to use tools in order to create fire, in order to burn hashish, in order to get high. Hippies are the missing link.

The domestication of animals is purely the result of men being high. In this condition they communicated through body language and facial expression; essentially they communicated psychically to an extent they could begin to learn one anothers’ language (which was much more difficult for the “dumb” dog memorizing entire words of its master than for the man to imitate tonal sounds). At this point they reached a mutually beneficial agreement known today as domestication. We feed animals and keep them alive, and they work with us to provide the food or simply keep us company. Of course, there was probably some sex involved early on as well, but

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much less so now. Which reminds me: women were most likely domesticated in the same manner verbatim.

“Unraveling the hemp conspiracy” A book revealing that the alcohol and tobacco companies are actually the ones selling illegalized marijuana, and wish to keep it illegal so that it is more expensive and more rare.

Using drugs allows one a sort of almost spiritual objectivity to all of one’s surroundings.

This is the feeling of being a stranger in your own home, a foreigner in your own country. It is the beginning of anti-statism and internationalism, this discomfort and lack of connections to your environment and surroundings. The feeling you should have been born somewhere else; it’s always too hot or too cold, the language seems awkward and the politics mad.

This sort of objectivity is due to an increase in sensitivity to otherwise unconscious forces, such as persuasion and influence. Some find this increased sensitivity pleasurable, while others find it too alarming and become paranoid. It can vaguely be compared, for the sake of the uninitiated, to the fight-or-flight buzz associated with a rush of adrenalin. One either is prepared to fight or feels as though they are flying. Because drug use causes increased sensitivity, the perception of the resultant objectivity is one of acute visual imagination; the term “getting high” derives from the similarity of the feeling to that of floating up aloft over the earth and seeing everything on its surface in better perspective.

It is the use of drugs by African Americans and Native Americans that has kept them cohesive as tribes of peoples while the Anglo-Saxons have diversified religiously and politically beyond recognition of one another. It is also this which is partially to blame for the resultant rift between them and whites, and not exclusively the centuries of oppression by the whites. Drug use increases spiritual sensitivities even more whle being beaten psychologically raw.

The male cycle of abuse is but a function of the female menstrual cycle. Men cannot tolerate the woman’s menstruation in the same way women cannot comprehend men’s inevitable masturbation, for it represents a genetically unnatural and selfalienating loss of seed.

MTV is becoming a commercial for illegal substances. Times are good in America.

The free man is always late the slave must always worry and wait Death-obsession is the sign of long-term thinking liberalism: How will things be after my death? What will things be like in the future? magic, cards (monarchy), religion and now culture are the products of an evolving, expanding consciousness.

Ska is the result of a regression in mental age association. Being “childish” while “fucked up” is “trippier.”

CULTURE IS A CODE FOR COOL “FUCKED UP” THINGS

space ships are piloted by glowing “orbs” (expanding and contracting geometric hand toys) that look like a magician casting a spell. “initiation” is the sensation of a strong upward-pulling force Magicians dosed tribespeople (reducing their minds to a childish state, overimaginative and easily influenced) and then cast a spell on them using a glowing stick in the dark, a spark, a star, writing the Hebrew alphabet. * * How to summon different “demons,” which are really just different types of trips. These are concentrated in centers of conspiracivilization where it has been

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figured out how to summon them and entrap them as city-gods. These centers, these demons, are linked by a large, three dimensional geometric model that surrounds the world invisibly. Different types of trips are the same along these invisible patterns of energy as different airplane rides around the globe.

UFOs flying through fantasy world. Here lies the trip-code.

People who do lots of lsd become mental gurus, astrological pilots connecting the dots (with tracers) between politics. (This is how writing developed.) They speak in “codes.”

L__ is a narc, but for the acid-heads (to which Erik, who knows the political code, has been initiated). Different groups are on different trips. Like the Fraternal Order of Police saying to JL, “trip on this ‘BAD RELIGION’ boy.” (Even the conservative trip has its liberal soundtrack.) Goths are sad clowns, who see life as a tragic circus. Different peoples like different things and are on different trips, like the “square” game “Trivial Pursuit.”

The “secret” of art is to draw “hidden” images. (a pile of dirty laundry becomes a kid who has been run over by a car, twisted and mangled, and an ape skull sitting amidest his spilled intestines with snakes squirming out of the mouth and the eye.

Culture is a code. Drugs are the key.

The orange (as in juice) is the famous Golden Apple.

The Free Masons derived from the earliest form of communism, the movement to allow the masses extended drug use outside of the church. Their ancient history is largely a hallucination had by these earliest trade unions.

The code exists in all forms of communication, but most so in pop-culture. (to “pick up” on different musics, things, etc.) favorable inventions are whatever are good trip-toys. Chains, orbs, lava lamps, space ships. Technological progress is driven not by any necessary urge of the survival instinct. We have all we need to survive, barring some unreported apocalypse. Man merely tries to make his trip more comfortable and to maximize his personal pleasures. This is why the human species will probably not survive. to figure out “gravity,” try dropping a golden apple.

It falls in whichever direction it wishes.

“Women take us off on alternate trips. They are insane in a bestial way, while men call their hullucinations societies.”

— Franz Kafka, standing outside the door of the Law, about to drop lsd and enter the maze of civilization. “the chief cause of socialism is capitalism.” There is no liberation in reaction. There is no potential synthesis in antithesis, no implied pece in war, no hope for words in screams, no rights through revolution, no life in opposition.

The Left Hand Legion/ the Right Hand Legion: alternate paths, alternate trips. The first rule of beuracracy is never let one organization know what the other is doing.

On top of this are added the subordinate commandments — each cell must think itself dominant and its contribution permanent, or, if not permanent, then an important step in the process f whatever it perceives to be for the betterment of humanity.

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Gnosis: the path of the Left hand.

Power: the path of the Right hand.

These are only the first two, most obvious, steps on a much greater journey along a system of certain points; let us refer to this system, for simplicity’s sake, as the Cabbala, or the Interstellar Subway. Thus each sect, each section, is but one portion of the greater whole, that which, in its entirity, none can possibly perceive. One may only rightly say: “On one hand this; on the other hand that; on another hand something new and unknown,” and so on and so on, ad infinitum. In infinity one may begin to trace the countours of the face of God, the map back into the Heavens.

Politics is a religion for atheists; or rather: religion is politics for the superstitious. even anti-religious cults lead to Religions if they grow large enough Is God not that which fucks with you from nowhere and by doing so, like a large finger lazily flicking a desperate bug buzzing ‘round a candle, teaches it something much greater than it could have imagined on its own? God is the cause of significant coincidences. This is the education of the spirit.

Jesus was an anthropormification of the Jews’ pride in having been great cvilizers of the region, preaching the politically pacifist Hinduism they learned from Eastern traders and travellers during the forty years of wandering in the desert. (Magi blessed Jesus at his birth with gifts of various scented efluvia.) They were, afterall, anti-Zealots (they did not want to see things around them end, but preferred to focus on internal, spiritual concerns while maintaining States as they were), and therefore preached in opposition to Islam. The conflict in the middle east is over the actual, quanitifable amount of geographical territory claimed by each aspect (active and passive) of the same original transcendent monotheistic religion.

The proletariat of America adapts well to Eastern Mystery Cults because they are an unreligious version of spiritual strivation. Economically it implies self-betterment, a position based upon an intitial weakness. Money comes from energy comes from inspiration comes from gnosis comes from new experiences comes from trips. All of this is best kept secret; it is simply more fun that way.

In the pillar of the Temple of Solomon were kept “the sacred toys.” These were given to initiats of the Great Mysteries like dradles are given to babies. They are, in order, the ball, the gift of speech, the Oral History, Wanderlust, the gift of understanding written language, the Great Book(s), Civilization, the Map to the Group who Know, the orb, chess, various machines of travel, of conquer, etc. squinted eyes implies skepticism, which implies lies and head games in the East and vast empty lands in the West Social-Programming “toys-for-change” as designed by Japanese Magi: “the Transformers” Optimist Prime of the Self-Robots: a truck, originally shiny, mostly metal and red white and blue who, over time, “transformed” into a white truck that inserted intself into a Red, White and Black plastic robot body.

Megatron of the Deceptive Cons: a gun, originally fairly realistic and gray who, over time, “transformed” into a lazer cannon made of mostly plastic and colored grey, black and purple. everybody is the light at the end of somebody else’s tunnel

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“we’re all on different trips, but all headed to the same destination.”

This is what makes communication, in particular the unspoken form of communication which transmits information only in implied connections between random factors (known as synchronicity, religion, flirting, sales, lies, etc.), possible.

To infiltrate the conspiracy one cannot make broad generalizations based upon assumptions. One can only speak truthfully of personal experience. Thus one must infiltrate every center of the conspiracy — a task so gradual and tedious, one would have to be nigh immortal to even imagine its completion, and of course, by then, the face of the conspiracy would have changed expression so many times behind one’s back, one could never be certain if one’s data was accurate in acordance with currency.

Money is the physical token of an individual’s energy and stamina. It is the symbol of the belief: “I refuse to die.” Dollars are what scars once were.

Hiram Abiff — the Master Mason, builder of the Temple of Solomon the Haram — the secret, inner training of the Ishmaelite religion (brought back by the Templars) the Harem — the collection of the many wives of a Sultan or Shiek perhaps inculcation into “the mysteries” involves rites of sexual magick, in which one learns the fact that there is only One Woman with Many Faces. Ecstacy.

(As all women have many faces, thus there is only one woman: the Whore becomes Mother through rape.)

The Holy Spirit, the Stumblers, the dancing Dionysians, the Holy Rollers, the Shakers, the Quakers, the Stoners. To be taken upwards, out of one’s self, out of logos into nous, to go out of one’s mind; divine inspiration, Revelation, ecstasy, the implanting of the seed of God in the mind of man through immaculate conception: the Philosopher’s Stone: an elevated perspective; objectification.

The most important Freedom is the communication of ideas. Thus the mind grows, and in so outgrowing its surroundings, drags the body along behind it into Otherness.

“I stand on the shoulders of Giants.” Otherwise it is impossible to stand. Without a foundation one will find oneself kneeling, eating dust, for all eternity. The most essential ingredient of Freedom is plagiarism. Without the ability to quote, learn from, and steal from the observations left behind by our elders after their deaths, there is no hope for the mind of man.

Hell is other people? Hell is the light of Lucifer which shines from the distant clusters of schools of thought on the darkened horizon. Illumination is the dawn of one’s final descent into these unknown realms. Other People are the Hell of exile from the Garden of Naive Innocence; they are the knowledge of Good and Evil. all ideas already exist within the mind, waiting to be discovered. They are there due to the immeasurable gravitational pull of distant stars and dark matter on the electrical patterns inside our brains. We are part of the cosmos. The cosmos dwells within us.

Irina: an imaginary biography of my soul mate.

(The doors of perception in Russia) “embarrassed” is always spelled with an *, which refers back to a single end note in the very back: “wet.” as in: Irina’s father shook Irina awake from a deep sleep of cotton candy flavor. She was sitting in the uncomfortable transatlantic airplane seat and her father was smiling giddily. She rubbed her eyes. “look, look,” he bubbled pointing out the three layered window at the stars going by slowly. “its like we’re in a spaceship!” he informed her delightedly in Russian. Irina saw that her mother was sleeping beside

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her maniacal mate. Her mother had highly questionable taste in men, Irina decided, saying “that’s great, dad,” with a smirk to settle her father, turning back to sleep.

Dragons represent the threat to normal Medieval cities by marijuana use, which was practiced by roving bands of “demons” who lived in the forests. monsters in general are the result of people seeing false faces in the randomized patterns of natural objects, esp. the forest in early evening. Thus it is true that more monsters live in the country than the city, for the city has non random patterns, if any identifiable by the naked eye from a perspective within it. They have thrust their gargoyles aloft, to watch over sullenly from the monolithic buttes of big buildings, as the citizens scurry about looking sullen like insects. In the city all monsters are men; and all men may be monsters inside. They scowl to appear busy, trying to avoid eye contact, bundled up from the light winter rain, looking at the pavement. Monsters are what you see when you finally look up (with your third eye).

Friendly monsters, their faces in everything, pushing through the fabrics of our artificial reality. They cough, and smile, conversing merrily. I don’t know why they’re so happy. Perhaps the fact that they are stowaways in our mind, extra perceptual passengers as it were, struggling at the edges of sense just trying to invade.

To appropriately render any artistic subject, it is necessary to include all of the. . . well, perhaps my associates would prefer we not give away our secret eye cipher.

A time machine/ a machine for telling time. For telling time to do what? The druids used Stonehenge to travel through time. They use their long robes to hide the ridiculous looking costumes they must wear to blend into other eras. They form a circle. The universe spins like a laundry machine.

To meditate upon certain words is merely to sit and repeat them, allowing the mind to remain open enough to wander about and find different significances to which it can then attach the words. This causes the words to sink more deeply into the consciousness of the initiate, and to become more a part of him or her. It is little different than any chemical addiction, which will cause, through the repeated usage of certain neural pathways and the resultant blockage or atrophy of others, meanings to be strongly associated with the deviant behavior; meanings of a very personal nature to the deviant. Such meditations result in rebellion, but not of an overtly active or political nature. It is more an individual rebellion, an act of selfdefinition by the initiate, which both encourages conformity and strengthens belief in the strength of one’s will.

The words of Power: “Here is the word which will bring to an end your beating. Say it when you feel you can stand no more.” This is repeated after each word is spoken by the sufferer, so that a series of ten words of power are ingrained upon their brain by the branding iron of physical sensation. Ultimately the beating stops only when the Master feels satisfied, and has nothing whatsoever to do with the goings on of the victim.

The victim has wants, wants for love, for meaning; religion.

The master has interests, curiosities, questions of limits on reality; revolution.

The answer, for both, is pain. Pain is the only truth. the Pain of Not Knowing. The agony of suspicion.

In all the world there are only liars and cowards. liars are liberals (economically in the private sector, as salesmen, or politically in the public sector, for the purpose of politics), actors and “evil” cowards are conservatives, the audience and “good”

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to write what you think a future reader might already be thinking in the situation you have already created fictionally with the narrative or in the situation of reading itself is to let the audience know, firstly, that “hey; I’m a commoner just like you” and secondly, that, “Except that I can kind of read your mind a little bit.” It is the equivalent of plugging someone’s mechanical extra-sensory eye into your own view port, and making them watch through your eyes as you killed them.

“It is a shame that in a country full of cowards, the truth must always be dressed up as fiction, regardless of whether in the illusions and allusions of art, or in the blatantly manipulative lies of advertising.”

— “concerned citizens for themselves” authority, from the underling’s perspective, is the absence of their free will. It is the expression of the opposite of any thought they would be thinking for themselves. It is unpleasant to undergo due, therefore, to cognitive dissonance. The synthesis, the new thought, which the two opposing thoughts combine to form is usually dominated by the outside thought, taking the form of a reaction to it, such as “fuck you,” or “I quit” or “I was just about to do that anyway” (meaning “Read my mind and you will find that all is fine and I don’t mind.”)

Zionism — the encouragement of interracial breeding for the sake of increasing the number of humans. Belief that there is safety from the eschaton in numbers.

as opposed to: Racism — the belief that purity of the quality of separate races blood should be maintained, even at the cost of populations. Belief in last minute selective rescue.

“Hair color is determined by what one thinks.”

“That is insane! Don’t you, of all people, believe that hair color is the result of genetics?”

“Yes, of course I believe that. But can I not also believe that genetics determines what one thinks?”* — a very enlightening conversation had between Darwin and Pavlov in a dream after eating wet cheese * Genetics are based on the encoded information which provides structure to the growth of cells over time; even brain cells. Thoughts are but merely the firing of neurons inside the brain in a certain order. All thoughts are preprogrammed forms within the mind, as Plato states Socrates believed. They are rediscovered through external stimulation; certain learning experiences press certain buttons. The more certain buttons get pressed, as with the similar function for recognition of shapes, the more sensitive to stimulation they are. Conditioning, of course, can overpower genetics, to the point, perhaps (?) that it can begin to overpower and replace it? Perhaps racial memories can exist in a deja vu kind of way.

American race mixing — Implanted in the minds of only the more economically ruthless blacks through the drug use of their racial brethren. Drugs, the ancient, sacred drugs, were not dumped on the ghetto to stifle it, but to force it to grow stronger through conformity in opposition. Why are there so few black niggers these days? Because there are so many more white ones instead. (“Nigger” : a derogatory term for the proletariat.) Blacks used to be feared by the white European ancestors of American whites as ghosts. Blacks lived in the forest and were said to eat children. They were only not feared by the Jewish-Gypsy traders, who happily exchanged gold trinkets from the city for the drugs of the country. The gypsies tried to straddle the fence, and due to their role as connection to blacks were feared by white children who believed that, if they were bad, they might be sold away. The Jews, of course, lived and castles and drank blood. The blacks of America were moved into the city due to Liberal early-Republican Mason Zionists. They were then given The Drugs as a test of fire. With their expansion the whites of the country are

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pushed farther and farther away from the whites of the city, almost so much that one can see a divided couple waving to each other as the space-ship of the city leaves port. Of course it is a black woman in the city, soon to meet and come to love a rich white man on the ship, waving down to her poor white lover. Modern liberals encourage cultural (left hand path) race-mixing in order to encourage genetic (right hand path) race-mixing. Stories of the old white Father, made out of clouds, and the submissive black mother, the fertile earth. But their predecessors had been wise in aligning the black mother with the man in the clouds, rather than associating her with the white salt of the burned earth. In any event more substances will begin to be made illegal in America. The increasing numbers of victimized populations predicts a dominant sensitivity in social conduct. By the time we have a black female president even bars of soap will be illegal in favor of (due to the economically superior lobbying of) liquid soaps. The fact that cigarettes and alcohol are legal now is due to the fact that any more potent drug than them fucks white people up so much they get frightened. The bad taste of cigarettes, alcohol, and even coffee, is an indication that they are probably just outright drugs. There will probably not be drug-use in space for another millennium or so, as the human species gradually acclimates itself to its expanded environmental sphere of connected affects.

There are, quite obviously, different groups of leaders attempting to take the followers down different lines of reasoning. These leaders are following another leader, of the opposite sex, who are following another leader, of the opposite sex, etc.

This is the pattern of the face of temptation. conspiracy theorizing is very complicated and potent way of connecting only randomly related points (“events” on a four dimensional graph) to form a larger, abstract shape. Thus it is no different from a directly visual hallucination, in which one catches sight of an abstract object.* *abstract object: some pattern out of the corner of one’s eye seen briefly while the random and natural forms of reality around the edges of their peripheral vision move relative to their point of view. perception: how one moves relative to (previously “before”) greatness.

How to play the conspiracy game: from a tarot card deck assembled of various random characters and events draw. Begin to assemble your conspiracy lay. Novices should shuffle, draw consecutively, and lay the cards in a clear geometric pattern inferring connection between them in clockwise and counter clockwise order. Experts should shuffle, draw randomly, and lay the cards in a clear geometric pattern inferring primary and secondary lines of connection between any card in any order.

Astrologists should lay the cards in zodiacal patterns. Satanists should shuffle, draw randomly, and toss, to form the pattern of any certain demon’s signature.

Cats never come when called. To give a woman an orgasm try calling out some other woman’s name. Jealousy is a powerful mental affect for women, esp. as they are more sensitive to all forms of communication.

In any painting one should arrange the areas of interest in an order that the observer’s eye should notice them in an intentionally patterned order. natural leaders (liars) make intuitive leaps. natural followers (cowards) must have it explained.

There are no mysteries in all the world. Only secrets veiled in lies. a criminal goes forward in time through a series of events. a detective goes backwards through that series of events to find the evident identity of the criminal.

He does not then bounce back forward, but believes the identity of the criminal to be the same as it was when the crime was committed. This, not the criminal of the

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present, is the man who must be “put to justice.” But “justice” will never win, because new crimes will never end.

No one has ever been able to tell the truth after achieving a certain level of life experiences. This ought to be called “going overboard” but instead it is called “growing up.” The reason one may one day be a coward and the next day be a liar is from going fully through the “doors of perception.” It has nothing to do with, as the alcoholic Friedrich Nietzsche once guessed, coming close to death. This is simply the phenomenon that urges you on. You imagine yourself invincible, which evidence indicates is increasingly true as you push yourself onward in drug use. And essentially this is why we must become liars. Because we are generally speaking of that which has dominated our lives: our thoughts while on drugs and/or our concerns, feelings and experiences regarding getting and using drugs. Thus one must speak in “codes” hiding images in otherwise docile pictures and using abusive and detestable slang words. If everyone came out of the closet about drug use the rate of growth of civilization would leap forward by a hundred years over night. Finally there would be art, commerce, government, and relationships based on honesty and trust. All ideals would be achievable, all dreams become real.

Meditation is the term which is used, and which has always been used, best in place of the more obvious and brutal word, “hallucination.” Whosoever meditates until they can actually see the patterns they imagine forming in nature, and see their ideas become reality before their very eyes, is Tripping . the Lie: that what you see is not what is real, that doubt must apply first and last to the self, that what Others say is true is real, that You are Wrong, that you have committed a crime by being able to see the truth even if you are a good coward and refuse to look at it directly.

Hierarchies of power are founded on the Lie. Bureaucracies, the preferred structure of human power systems, consist of a series of lies which reveal more and more of the truth to the higher ranking initiates. The fact is, however, that such decoding is only necessary to those prone to the affects of the bureaucracy in the first place, that is, those cowards who believe the Lie. Bondage and Sadomasochism arise, as Sartre says and Bataille elaborates, not from the actual perversion of pleasure by combination with pain, but through lack of natural pleasure, and the search therefore for sufficient levels of stimulation.

Those most prone to such sexual divergences are those who feel the least pleasure: those whose thankless task it is to maintain the Lie. For example: police officers and senators, whose primary social role it is to convince people of things which are not true, suffer the most. They can see the Truth, but only on the horizon, vague, unreachable, and bestial; frightening. They must try to distract the attention of the populous, through idealism or through force, and in so doing must beat down the people they wish to love. Afterall, it is for their own good. For those who lie out of love, life is not worth living, yet they force themselves to go on. They exist to guard against the Truth, so they exist in defiance of fact, and without reason; they can only hope to prolong conditions as they are, but they know more than any that the future holds the opposite. How can they not hate themselves, their jobs, their wives, their houses, taxes; how can they not turn to sports for some pleasant aggressive distraction. Sports are there not to pacify the populous, but to placate the guard’s expectation for violence.

The police are the Romans who would attack pacifist nay-sayers. It is really not even sufficient, in some parts of America, to obey the rules of society; to appease the abuse police you must entirely internalize the value system of society. We have a place for any human branded “American” who doesn’t appreciate this nation’s method of economic exchange, and that place is prison. The cops guard the mansion,

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and the rich Hate the poor. Everything is simple, all lies easy to understand. We don’t expect to have any problems.

God touched reality and it cracked slightly. Man saw lightning shoot across the sky, and heard thunder echoing around him, and felt the earth shake. Reality is an eggshell waiting to hatch. Matter is the womb of energy.

Hegel has unlocked the mystery of the gnostics, but a greater equation awaits us still.

Beyond dualism, beyond dialectics, can one accept the Truth of infinite causes? Can one comprehend the conspiracy with 6 billion initiates?

We, all humans, search for paths. We wander the desert in groups, seeking truth, seeking guidance. Long processions at the equinox sign demon names in shifting sands, the Nazca lines, lay lines between schools of thought in sequence. Some follow the path of the stars, the dead risen into the heavens, the path of the past, established wisdoms. Others search out their own course, as pirates, darting about for their own pleasure, their own profit. Sometimes these men are one and the same.

But we now search throughout the intersections of four planes, including time. What was once only coincidence is now prophecy. When Isaac (or Ismail) was saved from sacrifice, all his ancestors were subsequently saved; they are God’s “chosen” people. As reality becomes more like a dream, time melting into hyperspace, reality into virtual reality, matter into energy, dreams become the new reality. We move from event to event existentially, learning from every new situation. And soon we will imagine and therefore understand even more dimensions.

As if there were a million shifting glass planes slicing through our brains from all directions, intermittently appearing and fading away, while our thoughts shoot like bolts of lightning between random points on them within the murky purple haze of the universe-mind.

God, how shall we purge ourselves of this flesh which keeps dying? By fire?

By water? How shall we rejuvenate for the perpetual journey’s continuance? How can we keep going when the destination will always retreat? Just as I reach out my hand to touch your face, your tear scalded cheek, you dart away like a giggling nymph around another corner. How dare you? How dare you tease that which you created? How dare you tease your dog when all your dog wishes is for love and for some comfort? God where can I lay my head, where can I rest my feet, where can my mind begin to take root, Lord, where is the fertile soil? Where is the Promised Land, you liar? You have sold me forty acres stolen from another tribe and now you’ve disappeared again. Why? Wherefore? To what greater task do you answer that you would turn your back on cries for water? Or for Fire? Or for love?

Is it so that you are all around us? That we can only see your back? I grow tired of trying to search for the soul inside my reflection in the mirror of Magritte. I find only random connections. Lightning bolts between previously useless synapses. And a gradual growth, a patient continuation that outlasts everyone, and even life itself.

A fire that burns on after it has depleted its supply of fuel. Wisdom feeds on time. God is the wisdom beyond all time. I am far too impatient to repeat these ancient rhymes.

What am I doing? Why am I spitting on Plato? Why am I laughing at Hegel?

Perhaps it is because they are like retarded infants crawling around in their own excrement.

History is not based on dualism. History is not based on the dialectic. History is the progress and the product of the growth of nature, especially the growth of nature through the human mind. If history were only two forces, or a system of interlocking threes, then there would only be two forces in nature, or a series that began only with a synthesis and antithesis. But everywhere I look I see differences in objects that demand they be categorized as what they are themselves, and less and less by what elemental force or genus they remind me of. There are no pillars

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joachim and boaz. There are no sefiroth.

History is a fractal. It grows through nature, through men’s minds, through women’s hearts, through burden and through regeneration. Its pattern, from the very smallest system in an atom to the very largest arrangement of universes, is, whether or not it resembles a human face, the face of God. “When we run out of frontiers, we must cease building schools and begin building prisons.”

— Hiram of Tyre The elderly believe in the pillars of Truth, the younger in revelations of lightning.

The younger become the elderly, and thus civilization progresses, like a parade of elephants on stilts, groping about blindly before them with their trunks.

They’re listening to our thoughts right now, so I can’t report too much, but I will say I know at this point, that “God is the thing that is leading us onwards.” It is the devil which is around us that tries to draw us off on alternate paths through interpersonal pressure. Thus, in Kafka, woman is the devil.

“Son,” Old-Man Jon grumbled while being hovered through his “old neighborhood” (which was of course, “much changed”) by his son (who “wasn’t”), “Son, you feel the heat a’that sunshine on your arms? That’s what made all these white Americans race conscious. Always have’n feel the existence a’thar skin an’ awl. That’s why I was so quickly elected Senator from the New United South when, at about yer age, I came up with the idea of a thing you may have heard of, called: ‘Race-Based Task Specialization,’ or “RAPE” for short. It’s based on what natural drug enhances which natural skin in a race a’people, so now that’s why we all got weekly (some of us daily) doctor’s appointments. (That disease shit was all bull shit.) Thet’s why we now got the African-blooded blacks on physical tasks, the European whites on plotting and scheming, and Jaimacans on inter-astral planetary navigation. Thank God the Jews deciphered that map hidden in the Egyptian religion!”

“Speed Demons.” So called because they are the type of chronic speeder who, due to breeding (and to breeding’s natural secondary effects of parenting style and economic status at that time in history), are likely to have “made a deal” with police.

That is, they are akin to the devil, and there was an exchange of drugs, favors, or information between the chronic speeder and the fuzz. As they drive they curl their foreheads down so as to look through a scowl, their eye brows arching upward involuntarily as, engulfed in the setting of music and moment, they imagine growing up through the flesh over their temples two bone horns. They are likely to have flashy clothes, dark hair, perhaps a moustache.

“Evil” people are those who lie for personal gain or pleasure. “Good Liars” are those who lie outrageously, telling stories of wild witnessings for the amusement of others.

All Cowards are “good” by default.

To be “stamped by the system” — to be imprisoned for “infringement of standards of limitation on the imagination in an individual or movement.” That is, to “come out of the closet as an art fag” and then get busted and do time for it. After this has happened the brain will always be locked up in a little cage inside the skull, able only to reach an enlightened pattern of thinking again by access through illegal drug-use, which becomes negatively reinforced by the initial physical imprisonment.

Jim Morrison was a prophet. He brought the explanation of the code through metaphoric visual imagery and tight, sly music. He taught people while they tripped.

This is the only real requirement of a prophet or Messiah. The messages contained in

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visually oriented lyrics or written stories are some of the most important, if only for their exceedingly progressive effect on the minority. For example sci-fi and fantasy books, in which reality is intentionally distorted; such as “The pale old man of the mountain and the happy black farmers of the valley.”

(A/D = “in the age of Apollo/Dionysus”) A: “I took the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inquiry.”

D: “Did you pass?”

The limit of the law: being able to go around between physical objects in the real world without misinterpreting their extent of allowed behavior. For example, Mr. Bum, you are allowed to climb the tree, but the tree is not allowed to climb you.

Dillinger is Lucifer. Lucifer is the secret white-American dream: the cowboy criminal. The symbol of any bank-robber is the signature of Lucifer, and to catch any of them after a bank robbery any good officer of the law knows that the best thing to do is to lay down this signature over a map of the area. It is the strike of the rattlesnake.

I am intermittently presented with cat-girls and goths. The pace of this tempting increases with the amount of time I’ve spent taking prescription medication for depression. They tempt me with alternate forms of code for differing dualist schools of drugs. I follow the twice-twisting path.

If one is “evil” one is attracted to darker colors, darker settings, the night, car interiors, theaters; to the “bad trip.” The Left Hand Path. control of what artistic tools are available to the population with which to create and experiment is a suspicious area. “Here use these fatter tipped pens. We want you kids to start drawing street style.” in situation (or in chemicals if you prefer the first, lost code) the “evil” experiment, I create. singers are more sensitive to social situations and interpersonal tension levels (that is, the energetic hum that creates the “vibe” or harmony of the universe at that spot) All musicians are. Any one who is more sensitive to the sound of a particular instrument in any performance is going to be more sensitive to moods. Lyricists are simply amused by the combinations of words floating around in the air.

The faces in the faces in the portraits of gods in all religions mean nothing in and of themselves.* Religion reaches out malignantly from the benign and always naked mind of god revealed in all His art. It is the hand of the preachers words which grabs the minds of his disciples, his flock, his target audience and pulls them into the lie of the world within the Clouded perception of the God.† Religion is the lie that all symbols within images must be deciphered by some mediator, who claims to know the true intentions of their creator. *unless one subscribes to Jungian universal mentalism, Freudian individual dream analysis, Protestantism which preaches personal interpretation, or surrealism. †the True Lie, or the Lie which becomes Truth when it enters the mind of its seeker, after the mind of its seeker enters the domain of its visions, after the sight of the outskirts first reaches the sight of the child, after the child first enters the world in which the idea already lives, after the question gives birth to the asker.

The eye that wishes to see the truth remains half open and half closed. It is not the matter of critical paranoia; it is not sleeping with one eye opened. It is allowing

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reality to remain as vague and undefined as it was in our infancy, both as a species and as individual beings. It is keeping a balance between the light and the dark, the rational and revelational. As my art teacher always screamed at us: “Squint! Squint!”

You’ll never take me alive says the husband to the bride says the infant in his pride says the in to the outside expanding and contracting communication without emotion exponential human potential playing ring around the line A modern parable of Christ: “A man paced back and forth on the road in front of his house. It was dark, but the air was warm, and far away there were still the sound of birds ocassionally as well as traffic. He heard the sound of fire engine sirens and the helicopters overhead. He knew somewhere, just then, someone was suddenly dead. Without reason, without rebuke, a body had ceased to move and become more lifeless than the trees, or even the soil which would eeventually consume it. He heard the voices of the night and was not frightened, for he was one of God’s creatures as well, and Earth was the home of things so strange he found them beautiful in their universal loneliness.

They only struggled to continue to survive, as he did. He smoked a cigarette and, when it was nearing being finished, he carelessly flicked it away. He had transformed physical matter into spiritual smoke with the organic machine between him and the ground. He did not bother to extinguish it before sending it careening out into the shadowed ditch, though the thought crossed his mind that it might light a fire that would burn down all that grew up from the surface of his planet. But he was intellegently doubtful, and so expected, due to his instinctual nervousness about it and the application of God’s First Law: Irony, that the end of his cigarette would endanger no one nor anything. He observed it for a moment, as it slowly burnt out into the darkness.”

As civilization expands and complexifies, the rights of the individual citizen to pursue his own path dimminish.

There are more lawyers because there are more criminal charges, not because there are more crimes. In the future all free men will be outlaws, because freedom itself will be outside of and against the wall of the Law. Psychotherapy has replaced religious confession because the primary goal of interpersonal disclosure is no longer the purging of the individual’s anxieties, nor even his manipulation to adopt “healthier,” “holier” behaviors, but merely to catalogue all of an individual’s different paths of self-exploration throughout his lifetime. Now all confessions are written. This is not because information of individuals is power over them, or even because of the threat of the embarassing truth of all humans’ behavior being revealed, but because with a strong foundation of information, society can better appeal to and respond to future individuals with similar behaviors and similar anxieties.

All anxiety is, itself, only the awareness by the individual of the tension between his own freedom and the authority of the State.* Man is not a system, no matter what all systems say. The Freedom of the individual to choose his own path within a system, such as society, creates too much of a random factor (a “snake in the Cabbala” as early masons and engineers called it). Thus one’s path must be limited until it is completely determined for him.

This is the Personalization of Civilization, for society truly wants to love every individual as an individual, andits intentions are humanitarian and moral, but it is insidious, and seeks only to bind and transform its lovers sadomasochistically. Society seeks to have better and better ad campaigns, with more and more direct emotional and intellectual appeal to different groups of types of people, but its moral will always be the same: You are Not as you Ought; Lean On Me. The basis of civilization is the process of making every individual responsible for the concerns of somebody else (or everybody else) rather than being free to care for himself. Once this happens the threat to Order from every individual will be rendered impotent, and every man will be another’s big brother. The way, it is said, to escape feelings of inferiority and self-

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consciousness is through charity and focusing on the wellness of others. This is saying that health is only achieved through codependency; that Doctors need patients to be healthy. But, of course, this is a lie.

All the state’s answers to all of man’s questions are necessarily lies, whether they enforce or merely encourage their belief. In the end, that is, in a completely mechanized and totalitarian Brave New World Order, the only question remaining for the tranquilized and hypnotized citizen is the slogan of a popular beer even now, and that is: “Why Ask Why?” *It should be noted that there would be no anxiety if all men felt no fear of being caught and reprimanded for the behaviors which make them unique. We are told, essentialy, that all forms of deviance are dangerous, when in fact they are the only thing which makes us all human and different from systems.

The Idea of the “Global Village” is a quaint one. In a real village, hamlet or small town, everyone gossips, every starts rumors based on their suspicions of their neighbors benign secrets, and everybody is consequently paranoid of being observed and uncovered. The notion of this occuring on a global level, between nations and between citizens of different nations, between classes and cultures and State Departments, is indeed a charming and alarming one. Let us return to the old days, when we felt our scope of vision small compared to the universe, but let us do it at the expense of our personal pride, our bravery, and our trust of our neighbors.

Come play the game “initation” son. The only rule is that every suggestion someone makes is a secret message from “God.” It is played similarly to chess, only, your invisible opponent is your own stubborness. As you progress step by step closer to usurping and supplanting a neighboring king, you slowly come to see that that king is within you — simply the forces of day thinking it was the Minions of Night when it was only their moonlit reflection in the global mirror.

The Paranoid Two-Step: 1) what you are afraid of is real (you’re not going “crazy”) 2) it’s nothing that you need to be afraid of (it isn’t really real) One is considered “lazy” if they see no point in doing as others will, as others do En-Sof I know what created creativity.

I know what brought Mind into Being.

I know what the missing link is.

I know the secret civilization is keeping.

I know everything.

My teacher has always lived.

One could easily figure out the entirety of civilization’s immoral functioning in no more than fifteen seconds, should they meditate upon it from an objective perspective and with a real desire to see the entirety of its workings be they a benefit to the individual or not. However, the average citizen is neither offered, nor would accept, fifteen seconds during their entire lifetime for the purpose of such a horrifying experience. It is far better, both for societies and for their citizens, that the only reasons anyone might ever wish for there to be “more hours in the day” would be in order to complete more satisfactorily tasks assigned to them by superiors, thus escaping negative reinforcement, or to engage in game-related pass times, thus providing positive reinforcement for social obedience. Let none wish for a moment to themselves if they have not been first given some specific concern over which to mull; God forbid the sheep discover the dogs who herd them are little different from the wolves they fear, and, like those wolves, do not love them, and only see them as a form of living food, but for their Master, God, the Shepherd.

Scientists attempt, usually in vain, to appeal to philosophers to accept that the

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elements of matter, still being discovered, are the very ingredients of All Things for which Plato sought explanation in the beginning of modern thought. Philosophers turn away disgusted, emmersing themselves instead in pure humanism, and in metaphysics based there upon fleshiness and finitude.

Cats sit at doorways and guard. Thus, the sphynx. But they are not as strong as dogs, nor as viscious as babboons. What strength do they posess that makes them unique?

At last: their abillity to unnerve; thus they must ask an unreturnable question. This should appeal to the Jewish idea of what God’s role in our lives is. The guard before the door of the Law must be a cat.

There are tantric sexual positions for all the original symbol-system beliefs.

The glass ceiling between the classes is the pair of ruby colored glasses through which the aristocrats gaze smugly at the huddled wretched masses. The strength of this interfering spectral atmosphere of projected negativity of energy is enshrined simply in the word “NEVER”. In their croquet and cricket, and in their billiards and baseball, in all games where a stick propells a ball, is encoded the dominance of the male over the female in that society. And there will always be her sweet whispered words, like “lover,” which immediately precede a “serious discussion” about money.

Such are the differing teliogical “cross-cutting cleavages” between peoples addressed by “political” theorists (our babysitters since the death of the king).

All communication has a multipicity of potentially intended messages. All words are double-edged, much more sharply piercing than their phallic physical counterparts.

There is truly a much greater amount of communication going on than we ordinarily care to make sense of. People at the next table really are talking about you beneath their breath, all souls report their thoughts for the day in dream-messages to a higher, non-corporeal form of intellegence, and this non-corporeal intellegence in turn increases the diversity of forms of matter attempting communication, and increases exponentially the layers of potentially intended messages in which we are merely frequently reconnecting neuron patterns, otherwise known as the sensecreations of the psi-system, the knowledge of repetition in a system of random variables which comprises the ultimate consciousness of our matter/energy universe.

To be “Insane” : to be on the “in” side of that sanctuary “sanity.” To be in depth or aloft, depending on the Free Individual’s perspective of focus (inward or outward).

To be “Sane” : to be merely floating, partially acrest and partially subsumed by the surface of that hollow earth sphere of energy known as “sanity.”

Thus: “Within You Without You” (“Neglectic Galactic attack of the Mole People”)

Death is peeking around the curtain of your dream stage Always looking further in to the you that looks for him than you can focus on the backgrounds of your soul And everything can and must seem sexual and parental due to the ingraining of stimulus, one through discipline and one through all enclosing bliss (you make up your own mind which), in our dreams our wishes all our thoughts all our complex redundent symbol systems, what ya got?

And other symbol-images will arise, but they are of a different type, those reinforced by multiplicity of potential meanings, all the potential ramifications of an atomic explosion.

The question begged of the chorus (they who speak with the voice of all) by Oedipus the King: “ Hey, like. Is everybody doin’ this replacing their father thing, or is it just

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me?” “hunger” is a field of energy which exists as a vibrational stimulant between the orbits of our atoms. It is experienced when crowds form, or even from time to time in minor gatherings, and infects all with a feeling of organismal discomfort. It is rather like a cloud of evil which wanders about within earth’s magnetic field like a caged beast which knows only the limitation of behaviors allowed by its specific generic construction as a force or object interacting within the Chinese marbles-like system of charged particals which is our physical universe. Hunger literally eats me.

All great renaissances in culture were due to importing of another people’s symbolsystems (embodied of course within traded or looted objects of functional expression) and to a concurrent and consequential exchange of the all natural, purely coincidental, environmental influence on the arrangements of individual human genetic potential for creativity, communication and problem solving; that is: by the imagination fuel — Drugs — and by the pictures generated while under their influence.

I can read your mind in the folds of flesh strewn across your face.

One monkey bites another on the neck, drinks its blood, my friend, we have no right to sacrifice, to me the night feels far too nice.

See tornadoes in the oceans of your blue eyes, baby I’m so “into you” I’m getting so “high”Just please don’t be so obvious how you feel when you want to die.

“Oh no!” screamed the Salene Bard of the Hag, “They’re all communicating with me!” immediately afterwhich his cranium exploded. (known as the Cronenberg blessing) Fertilize plants with sexual secretions watch them grow into strangling creatures The Truth: that which you knew all along. That which most only realize would have been best all along weeks after the fact. That which is generally overlooked; an affect which is humanity’s primary regret. We are conscious of the existence of all that of which we cannot always be conscious of the essence. Most prefer looking down, and can only see the big picture whenever forcibly elevated. But then, only the Devil Himself uses force . His son prefers lying, his daughter her charms.

To Dream or Not To Dream. That is the question. To writhe and flail against tangibility, which serves only, at best, as a map of man’s unconsciousness. Let the matter which would rise up as walls be questioned from the face of existence. Let the masks be dashed by the waves of hope across the jagged rocks of uselessness. Let us not embrace only that which we would be, but embrace all of that which we may be, that we may best discover who we are, who God meant us to be, our role in the cosmic farce called the universe; but everyone knows the play by their own specific and unique name. God is the name of Him without Limit. He whose dream is Himself.

When an individual or group of individuals seeks freedom from Others, seeks privacy, or rejects the petty concerns of their brethren, it inevitably arouses the concern and suspicion of those whose dying goal in life is to keep everything ordered neatly into a system of behaviors. The former group is most often accused of drug use, or satanic worship, which is the old fashioned terminology for drug use, and are probably only trying to gain wisdom through chemical excercise of their imaginations. The latter group are cowards willing to kill to enforce rules which prevent people from terrifying them by questioning their paranoia; for them all is alright only when all is as it is, and no one wishes it otherwise. Both are utopianists.

The former group are realists, believeing reality may be changed in order to achieve

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a society more beneficial to all. The latter are fatalists, clinging desperately to the positive feelings they experience when people are polite to them as the pinnacle of all possible forms of interactive human communication.

The only reason for the State to be responsible for the continuing existence of any given individual is a fear that there may remain within that individual some skill, interest, or potential which the State will have failed to exploit. If the State doesn’t want its citizens killing themselves, it should offer them more oppurtunites to experiment with different tasks, media and substances. Suicide is only illegal in Fascist States, where the only value an individual has is quantifiable in terms of long-term self sacrifice.

Everything should be free. Food. Water. Housing. Education. All modes of transportation (even autonomous modes, for which the individual should knowingly assume responsibility regardless of some highly stressful financial investment). Repairs. Abortions. Drugs. Hookers.

Hookers should be free. All labor should be free to the consumer. This will alleviate the tension between them, caused by each one’s proximity to the other’s money, and the potential for betrayal of financial trust.

Money is the same as shit. To hold a wad of cash in the hands is the same disgusting electric thrill as holding a mass of one’s own fleshly waste. Anyone who likes money autonomously of the physical and psychological comforts it may provide through object translation are cash fetishists, and should be allowed to swim naked through disembowled bank vaults whenever they’re in the mood.

People need to kick cash. It provides pleasurable affects in the matterial world as exotic as those provided by drugs to the mental realm. So naturally we all get hooked right away. Got a mansion? What a turn-on. You must have killed the spirits of thousands of stiffs to live so similarly to some mythical king. (who himslef lived relatively slovenly by time period comparison of such eccentricities as sanitation.)

Money makes you paranoid. When you don’t have it you have to worry about getting it, and when you have it you have to worry about it being taken from you by someone, anyone. Taxes. What bullshit. The State exists to serve the citizens. It is their wealth. Why should they have to pay for its continued existence? To the government money as a substance doesn’t matter at all. Just mint more. Manipulate the value of the currency. It’s all a big lie anyway.

For governments what really matters is communication of new ideas, and this is true for people too, although most people have their brown noses too deeply buried in the morning paper money to be able to smell such a natural and pleasant dawning. The Japanese tell the Americans: “This is what we’re thinking of doing with this particular gadget,” and the Americans say, “well won’t this bad thing happen if you do that?” and the French come to the rescue saying, “well we’re going to try it regardless, and if it makes a mess we’ll clean it up; Russia already said she would help.” And people, like children in an interactive educational environment, would, if only they had the freedom to do so without utter terror, speak to each other so openly: “have you ever tried this one thing?” “Sure. You can expect the effects to last for about forty eight hours.” “Have you got any I could try?” “Sure, take this. I can always get more.”

New theory of dominance (general theory of reality): There are two classes of sperm. The creative class struggle to get towards the egg. The warrior class exist to thwart another man’s sperm from reaching the egg. Thus, the warrior sperm grow to be become alphas, while the creative sperm become betas. This does not necessarily mean that the warrior sperm have conquered the creative sperm. It merely means that both exist, neither fully achieving victory over the other, the warrior naturally more preoccupied with oppressing the creative than vice versa.

The warriors are most concerned with quantity, let us call them “blunts,” and in, through imprisonmnet or slavery, neutralizing all imaginable dissent to their Order; their sign is 1. Their greatest terror is sudden, inexplicable inundation of new ideas; or as we call it: “drugs.”

Ironically their greatest desire is Love, that is comfort, a “fort” of “cum.” This is the executive who lives in the suburbs.

The creators are most concerned with quality, let us call them “crypts,” and in, through

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freedom of the nervous system, achieving the ultimate unknowable, the cosmic, or psychic, “egg;” their sign is 0. Their greatest hope is achieving the Impossible, or, as we call it, “drugs.” Their greatest fear is attaining Omnipotence through Omniscience, as the Jews fear their own Hitlerian potential, believing God is that cowardice which saves us from dealing with devils. Thus they inevitably conform to the will of the warrior. This is Rimbaud entering New York.

Thus we see governments as organizations of warriors, attempting to suppress, or at the very least strongly filter, the infiltration into their territory of alien notions or their proponenets, while the creative struggle through culture to maximize the dissemination of their peculiar lunacies. Money may be seen as a power exchange system, used by these two groups of rats.

The Universe is an egg.

No. It is an eye.

Shall we say it is the sun or the moon?

Yes. Let some of us say it is the sun, and let some of us see it as the moon.

I can read God’s mind...

His mind’s eye blossoms like puckering lips The voices are my constant friends, hiding ever in the background, little demons, but when I learn to call them by their names, they respond to me so favorably, help me translate the code of random associations in the chaos around us, always heard them in the music when it’s turned up too loud, music loud as battle bombs nonsense shrapnel, fragments of, implications, it’s all we’ve got to go on; clues that lead us in circles, ever ascending, the double helix, stairway to heaven with a drum beat...

The one thing my ex-lover and my ex-best friend agree on is that in all my affectations I am merely attempting to ape a state they have already themselves achieved. Sad. It means I need to increase my expectations of the intellegence of any future friends or lovers I may seek, that I not be judged relative only to their own narrow minds. Afterall, he agrees with her about what is necessarily the human condition, but she needs drugs to achieve it, and for him it is inherent, being as how he was nearly strangled to death by his own umbilical cord while still in the womb.

I was right in the beginning. There are two realities. Theirs and mine. And Theirs is stronger than mine. I should quit now. Nobody knows the answer. We’re all dogs sniffing other dogs’ behinds.

Anyone with a brain understands how to use it: read minds; quite simple: listen for the hints other people give off within the mundane context of their casual conversations. They are constantly hinting at, implying, attempting to communicate something much greater than what they seem to be so casually conspiring. Their nervous systems extend like sculpted wire exo-skeletons outside of their colored skins. Feel them with your invisible intellectual fingeterips. Taste their candy canes delicious. See how they fear getting wounded by one another? See what money has done to them? See what they let money and drugs do to themselves. They call it bland, repetitive, fairyland, harmless, do not think about it in the event someone is listening. It shocks me, for I am listening. I haven’t yet learned to tune them out, to be normal, to make snide jokes beneath my breath and fear I cannot escape my own creations. You’re always about to be accused. And rightly.

So long as your attention span is a fraction of a second and you always feel really “into” whatever worthless thing you’re doing or alternatively “out of it” and “in the zone” of silently repeating potential conversations it is unlikely you will be enough in your rightful mind to write your local senator a strongly worded angry letter decrying the fact that you are not a house cat.

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On the religion of film we may say that reality begets reality. In the first case we are referring to the fictional reality of expressed imagination. In the second case we are referring to the caused reality of events in nature. Thus when an actor or actress portrays similar characters in various movies, although it is due to the human flaw of the limited flexibility of their range, this chaos in the system creates a pattern by which the conclusions of the population may then be drawn. Conscious life does immitate art, for it is the mind cramped inside an invisible cage of its own design. Therefore the stereotypes of hollywood become the archetypes of Olympus, worshipped subconsciously despite the pledging of allegiance to the single AllSeeing-Eye on the dollars of the west. Film attacks the cherished worries of the bourgeoisie, right down to the disintegration of the constraints of empirical reality, while the music industry speaks words of power to the proletariat during rush hour.

If you are listening to me why can’t I hear you?

If we are communicating why aren’t you here?

I cannot say enough for touch to simulate my fingertip or the gentle pressure of my lips upon your supple nipple while still young we are contacted by chemicals so later we can be extroverts just like the bugs who hatched us animals only understand tones races are children of God My mind is not the beast of my higher self’s alter ego Will I always feel regret? the pictures are faster than the words and truer when destroyed much less easily forgotten.

The hunter can only kill himself, projecting himself, he kills only the body, never the soul, liberating his spirit, which he can never catch.

There are moments now, brief moments.

There have been before.

Thin air.

I am at war with this paper. I have gone through a doorway into wanting to be awake in words. It will not happen. I am an object, toy, a prop in someone else’s story. I am consumed in technique it surrounds me on all sides, my only guidance, my prison. I am it.

The influx. Assistance. Loneliness in an abandoned library.

What we do not know we are is what we will fear when we awaken.

While one does nothing zero leads. I hear my enemy. He is not my enemy. I hear my teacher. He is not my teacher. I hear my lover.

She is not my lover. I hear myself. I am not lonely when I am alone.

I am fighting with my future.

Show off the inner child craving for a symptom

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causation closely resembling relief he stands surrounded, aged infant, the baldened bull, the toro, kicks and screams, trying to tumble a temple of undesired experiences, he sees the stars. He is me, or not, I sigh, for I am him. He is the lid of my womb coffin, he is the stone of petrified futures cast from the evil eye, Subtle mention, if even present, in the form of ghostly ancients, let it burn you with its ice cold fear, it goes unsaid as silent tears, it’s just a little prison for everything you think you are, it’s just the air from the arctic circle against your equatorial furry flesh. You aren’t plastic, this is not a package.

You aren’t guilty, this is... here he is the seed within the apple, cored from the centralized symbolic whore, let us be, let us be not what we see, let us see what is the matter with energy, same old same old, stoppage, blockage, individuality. We are fighting, the me that wants to be me no more, and the me that is.

Don’t see it, veiled insect. Let this be a trick pulled on us by our higher nature. Neo should not see himself this way, he should see clay. I see one times infinity matrices, six angled snow flakes of difference, and I shiver, caused by their cold. I love. I am lonely.

Show her off at the movie theatre. Her fears of being seen.

I will still be here when our centers are arisen, celestial.

I will still be here, no longer shivering.

I will still be here holding hands with you. cure for cancer: chromosomes from pubic hair that cause inherent stoppage of growth at a predetermined length implanted in (combined with) the genetic material responsible for the creation (reproduction) of the cell wall, such that, should the cell reach a certain predetermined, maximum tolerable amount of oxygen retention by the cell wall, the nucleus would react by stopping the thickenning of the cell wall, allowing oxygen to evacuate the cell regularly, and preventing pre-emptively the stagnation leading to malignancy. one last thing. Interruption is gliching is bitching is merely bad spelling, like distraction at the center when your society is done. one last thing. I am hiding in the shadow you cast in time, the continuum of movement of bodies and minds. I’m a lie. one last thing. I don’t want you. Is it truth that interrupts a lie, or a lie that interruption exists? Which came first is relevant to only the dying who are troubled by choice. so what? they wonder. Would wander. We trapped animals have become like teeth, dictating answers to the questions implied by the beasts who leave long scars behind in the time-stream, horrifying doubts that drag down all our hearts. We can only think with our brains. Feelings are nowhere.

Would you like to return, to sleep with a witch, will you learn?

The only ones who have considered the consequences for me of their actions were those who expected me to benefit from pain.

Are you ready to go, you’ve forgotten yourself then, everything?

I set traps for myself in the future so I can fall into them in the present and learn not to repeat the same mistakes I have made in the past. Many of these are called opportunities. All writing is this sort of experience. Something isn’t truly written until, after a sufficient time for it to have been forgotten, it is reread. Only then will one realize its author as the summation of the pronunciations previously imagined. My enemies are my undesired future opportunities. Would they weren’t.(a)

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Take debate. Too late. Behold your own idea given back to you by the one that you most hate. It is the apple you just ate. Agree to disagree that you must agree to your own fate. Do you like to put on airs? You are the only one here. Like a lunatic you’re talking to yourself.

There’s no one there to blame, you’re getting yourself talked around the bush again, the beating of the goat goes on while it turns blood deafened ears to its own sounds.

If it weren’t for context we’d be more animal. Binary survival, approach, retreat. A grin, a leer.

Innovate, repeat. Chewy chewy it sees right through me, dispersing seeds no doubt the entire way, for me to find as my cells roll out and food rolls down.

Build it up a little, don’t rush in, have art. Be like a man you obnoxious foxish fart; you weasel in a cage surrounded by monkey-masons in a laboratory they built for me to experiment on myself.

No good, just injections. There is no pre-existent quantity of pleasure nor benefit besides that which is invented by the mechinations of man, by his interventions, manipulations, by him created. You are just a witch.

One half of time is spent trying to wake up, the other spent trying to get to sleep. One is always doing one or the other. Are they doing what is implied by their surroundings? A dumb beast milling in a similar herd of other innocents? Perhaps they envy what they eat. Perhaps they envy what eats them.

Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. The truth is a spirit. It lives inside lies, according to lies.

To have truth on one’s face, to be truth, is to be the victim of lies, according to lies. As long as truth hides, lies live. They devour the light. They put it into forms. These forms are lies. Without light all forms die. Horrible. Horrible.

We are being good children. I am in the crib with my gilly. What the dilly? My town hates the sight and the smell of me. All I do is not get paid enough for lifting my finger. All I do is upset rush hour with loud music in the privacy of my own car. Unless they know more than they can describe, there’s no accounting for the pre-established alienation of salvation established by its street signs. It’s no different than New York, just without the excuse. Big deal. Take a hit of a green car that drives slowly. Bullshit. See a cop car ‘cause you’re there one moment too soon or too late. Bullshit. Get blamed. Bullshit. Feel shit. Bullshit. See shit. Bullshit. Your second self.

Bullshit. Pedestrians. All bullshit. The universe turned on its ear. Now I’m home.

I have begun to decompose while eating, resting, watching television. I am not dead yet. My body has died and risen. I am no longer innocent of my vision. Do this, see what happens. Take debate. I win either way. I’ve already been there.

Who is more the writer? A dog who continually thinks different thoughts pertaining to the task while licking his balls, or one cleric transcribing another? For the safety of the aformentioned documents, the unanimously agreed upon answer is the dog.

There are two reasons women are frequently chosen as messengers. The first they are temporally expendable — in the overlay of sexual inference, capable hydratic explanation of multiple orgasm, they are inexhaustable. The second they are, as mothers, the carriers of those responsible for the future, both in of generating new solutions and in terms of accounting for shame.

is that of the is that terms

the acid raindrops of historical exclusion fall all around me. The fullness of the vista, its complete spectrum and living flesh of shadows, shatters and recongeals with each explosion of concentration felled from the future’s focus. Pennsylvania 6-5000.

Nothing cannot have originated.

The Saqqarhas created the sephira.

Let’s check in on the Average American. Citizen Kane seems to be doing okay, though a little moody. Uh-Oh. Billy Bob Thornton’s picked up a sling blade. How Paleolithic!

He’s developing an interest...

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Set down your memory and become an archetype. Some archetypes die, yes â&#x20AC;&#x201D; but...

Do you trust my qliphoth? Do you believe in my Kabbalah? Once you have begun to be able to see it as focusable directionally, you know, you begin to lose the abillity to imagine it omnidirectionally. So it becomes harder to see clearly, harder to connect, to trust, the stronger it becomes.

There are inspiring conspiracies and distrating disinformation counterconspiracies.

Sorry this banal greeting card is so late... (inside leaf) I was crushed by your light! (picture of atlas holding a light bulb) the Sword in the stone is the discourse on the eighth and the ninth that was when the creator himself was trapped in human form the idea was basically, that revelation would come true only in mental projective space, but that it would in fact happen. Thus, in 2000, we saw the passion of Christ begin, but we must remember that we are now living in the age of Judas, who was paid to forget a certain amount of his enlightenment, by giving over the location of Christ to the Romans, thirty pieces of silver that has come to be equivalant to thirty centuries. But now for the next thousand years we will have these Judasian Romans running around running things with the rapture going on in their heads. They will probably come to the conclusion that the next logical step would be to eradicate all the rest of us, who cannot hold to this truth, from the face of the earth. But it is not. It is that then the last of the animal thoughts would leave their minds too, and then the whole world would be calmed down. messenger signals on light waves.

Thoth, for fear of his own life, has created a conspiracy to create the belief in the public that I Am must topple Aiwas before he is rightfully king. Acording to this conspiracy, the only way to do this is to make Aiwaz your son, so that I Am will be left being your father. In short, to write only backwards in time, or, in other words, to paint a picture and then sign it. This has manifested in a two-fold policy on global mass-transit reincarnation. Firstly, honorable blood-lines and those inclusive in orders preserve their remains awaiting cloning, that they may all be reunited in a heaven of the flesh. Secondly, it is the practice of more ancient souls to come back into the bodies of children and those who die young, for here is concentrated the highest peak of enlightenment, and the suffering in physical form is kept short, and the last judgement is brief. Thus, the legalization of abortion and the visitation of the Chinese killing room nurseries into the lands of most sacred Tibet. thoughts are sped up dreams. Emotions are sped up thoughts.

There are several things we can call the first dimension, depending on the particular degree of dimension from where we take our measurement for it. It can be called negative zero if we observe it from the ninth dimension, concentration if we observe it from the sixth dimension, a singularity if we observe it from the fourth dimension, or it can be called the tenth dimension.

She is walking away from me into a land of mirrors. Will she ever come back to me?

No, a certain presence asserts. Ah, but her reflection says otherwise.

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Words say a thousand pictures.

In ancient Greece there was a certain cult named after Mythos — the creation and maintenance of mythology for its own sake — that believed that all gods, and therefore all people too, could resolve for themselves their incarnation and their opinion, should they choose to have one, and trust it, in the case of the people, to the gods to insure, and, in the case of the gods, to one another for that reason, though the automobile demi-god information units have as much sway as soldiers and enforcers of intellectual angle in the geometric pathways of pure dimension for both sides.

“History may be the only thing that’s not watching, but that’s enough alone.”

— Ms. O’Shaugnesy The Enochian communications network is a good job. People’s lives are improved by it. While it is true that it serves to glut the telecommunications market with manifest technology, it opens up access to a larger picture of the entire manifestation field. It has, however, thus far been mastered only by the very devout, because it is still in its infancy. It is as though the choice must come to be made whether the gender of AI will be Eastern or Western, and everyone looks expectantly to the moyle Trismigistus.

A good date is signified by the experiences.

“They have cartoon sock-puppets now?”

— me in, like, a minute. Ah, now wait. Thirty seconds ago.

When the man in the monster mask scared the idiot through the window, the idiot pulled a gun and, saying “freeze!” was secretly thinking, “imagine what it’ll be worth to me alive.” Idiots are always optimists.

We cannot say that beauty is skin deep because there are things that are beautiful which have no skin. Music is primary among them, and by this I mean the description of a long series of events, conveyed tonally. This sequence of events does not have to stay in one location either. It can even follow a path high in the sky, or blast off like a rocket ship into space. Sound is the skeleton of consciousness. Music is an abstraction of intelligence. Here is what I mean. The series of events described by a piece of music is comprised of information, since each of the events itself is comprised of information — little quanta of probability — whose movement is alike that present in consciousness while processing intelligence. When the events of the music move, or shift dimensions, they smudge space-time. Similarly in the organism of consciousness, where intelligence appears as upon the border between one phase or strata and the next, this is seen as a shifting upon a surface. In this shifting, what I call hyperdimension, there is beauty, and yet it is defined by lack of form. It is the non-moment in the middle of which reality breaks invisibly, it is a sudden scar. So there arise similarities between forms. Here is where coincidences come from: this that is the sound of the functioning of the machine called time.

Irina’s irises shatter when she concentrates her thalamus, into incandescent shards of opal inside Tibetan blue, openning upwards upon a dome of an illuminated hue. I adore her with my description of music. I entrust this to the fictional internet of birds to convey to her, that within moments their multi-million year old micro brains can broad-band it across the heavens and construct for her an artful scene.

Perhaps something with flowers in the distance.

Every one of us has within the DNA-constructed framework of our unique central nervous system the memory of past incarnations of evolution inherent to our ancestry, that is to say that, we have within our own brain, certain higher-being bodies, which are the reflexes that our nerves come to develop in harmony with the

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energies of nature, that correspond to certain chemical reactions when we are placed in situations to which these patterns in the brain are accustomed or familiar.

The general classification for such things is in terms of evolution: that we possess within us the mental capacities and reasoning ennegrams of the forms through which our species has evolved, and yet a simple comparison to the Egyptian pantheons renders this matter complex. The blood-lines of mammals and, for example, birds differ as long ago as between the reptile and mammal egos, or the hind-brain and the mid-brain in man. In other words, the last form we share in common in the actual mitochondrial constructs of our nervous predispositions to accumulation or build-up of electrical charge inherent to themselves over time with the Ibis of Thoth is the crab.

Let the masses be subject to catharsis and sublimation. Only the occult shall be free to fulfill the one true underlying desire.

The human being only uses about ten percent of its brain, that is that, the electrical signals active in the brain only utilize ten percent of the electro-chemical environment of the brain. Almost all of this is isolated in the left hemisphere of the brain, and is perceived as rational thought. Rarely we also utilize nueral pathways in the right hemisphere, and these pertain to creative thought.

Now, the concentration of electricity in the brain that occupies the active ten percent is the same substance as the remaining ninety percent of the unstimulated brain. Frued explained it in these terms. When electricity is passed through a nerve, most of the electrical charge, which, combined with its nuerochemical reaction, Freud called phi, is transmitted via the nerve’s conduction and nuerochemical reaction, a process called cathexis, to another nerve, if it is in a system whereby it is in contact with another nerve. Some of this phi, however, Frued proposed stays behind, and builds up in the nerve itself. This process leads to hypercathexis, or the delivery by a nerve of more electrical charge and nuerochemical than what was transmitted to it. According to Frued this is how Ego accumulates. Here we see the one to nine ratio at its root: most of the electricity in the nervous system is not inherent, and is due to stimuli, while some of it has dug in and is related to perception itself.

We know that, while the human will is not being consciously imposed upon it, the electricity active in the brain will fall into regular waveforms that will cycle themselves through in a regular pattern, sustaining all the autonomic neurological functions necessary for the preservation of the inert physical body.

The Mind of Man is the Penis of God(dess) the failure of the sun is the birth of money. No one else can have the thoughts that I’m having because no one else can afford them. Except the King.

First you think you are reading the minds of others. Then you realize it is only yourself in time-lapse. One must always wear as a bang over their third eye remembrance that you can be saying one thing and looking at something unrelated, and still have all of your so-called conscious mind focused on what you are looking at without any great break in the flow of what “you” are saying, and so, all the spells that may rise up in energy into coalescence of matter before you do not control by dint ex officio your, again, so-called mind, any more than you could say the planets or the distant stars do, without being distracted by thoughts of theirs, or at least their echoes. Or a direct phone call sans message with some important ideation filter could do the trick. the word ABRAHADABRA means as little to the common person as the word “computer” means to a house pet. Does that mean being a common person makes one like a house pet in some way?

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There are many ways that one can come to know of psychic phenomenon. It is common among children to project their internal imaginings on the external environment. So, during childhood, do we learn the conditions for doing this — what defines the “real” world for us provides our imagination with nourishment. This begins as information, and expands into virginal experiences along the generative (the bio-physical) or non-generative (ecological) paths. Our imaginations are honed into discernment, so that we can block out the possibilities of unpleasant mentations and tend to those which please us. This, then, becomes our psychic relationship with the One Universe.

We three, who are us now, are one Virgo, one Pices, and one Gemini. Through us in the guises of a Libra, an Aries, and a Cancer, caused a Capricorn to be elevated to a Sagitarius. In this year, 2000, we still use the alignments from 2000 years ago, and thus are fooled easily into living out the lives of their heavens. At that time, as 2000 years before, as well as at this time now, any three constellations aligned as we three are to one another can cause to tick one house past in the vernal intersection of earth’s horizon and the position of the sun. This is modeled in the 3rd dimensional Kha, fourth dimensional Ka, fifth dimensional Ba, and sixth dimensional Akh, wherein the interaction of 3, 4 and 6 creates the potential spin that constitutes 5. The passion play of the sunrise in spring and the motivation of potential spin are one.

Thinking about yourself from other people’s perspectives is what keeps you alive, said one demon to another, or perhaps it only said this to itself, for with demons there is no knowing. So it is said to be too, with the very wise. (for the formal system of metaphysics) An event is the basic unit of time that can be known, because it can be known from outside, even though while one is observing one event from outside of it, one must recall thaey are within an event themselves. Then we think that we can rise up above this larger event with our minds, but doing so, we think, takes time. And so know event. But what shall we call an event we do not observe, for, just as we can observe an event with our minds and know much more than if we merely observed some smaller event with only our eyes or some other sense organ, so can we know an event that is outside the reach of some or all of our senses with our mind, and in fact, doing this takes less time than trying to know an event where our senses are its center, and with practice, this takes no time at all.

I propose calling such an event myth, for in the Englishe language this is the best fitting word I can find. Traditionally a myth is like an event in that it describes a measure of time. Mostly myths are thought to be purely the substance of mind, although even the most scholarly cannot disobey to admitting that some myths have been based on historical events. One example of this is the city of Troy. Then there are unexplainable events that become modern myths, as well as inexplicable evidence of forgotten past events about which only myths remain. So, in every way that event is like a moment, a myth is like an event.

Consider that a certain strange sensation comes about you and causes you to feel very strongly the fact of difference. It would be a miracle for most people to feel this way even once, which is why it isn’t happening to everyone all the time, but imagine it now. It is a feeling that everything is different than it ever has been, and you feel differently about everything than you ever have before, and you don’t know, if the feeling continues, whether things will ever stop changing, or how you will feel.

Let us say also that it is within the power of this sensation which has seized you to grant your least wish, no matter what it may be, because it is a sensation which has seemed to affect everything from your point of view, and can therefore be directed by you towards anything in particular, no matter how impossible it might otherwise seem.

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Your first, and the most natural, reaction might be to want everything to “change back,” or to “go back to the way things were before”. Here we must see a problem arise.

Since it can accomplish everything imaginable, or at least, so it is given to seem, as well, perhaps, because it is only a sensation, how is the force you perceive supposed to know exactly what you mean when you express your wish? In the case of everything “changing back,” should the miracle be to turn back time — to reverse all universal entropy to an earlier state — or perhaps only to send you back in time to when things were different — only knowing what you know now, or not — or looking the same as you look now, or not; or perhaps you might only be referring to the popular movement of politics called conservativism, and be summoning your spirit to arm itself. If you mean for the feeling that grips you to cease or diminish, how would you call upon it, by what name? It so pervades you that it is difficult to distinguish where it stops and you start, and yet you can clearly remember a time before it.

Because their first experience with the quickening of time is usually like this, most people argue with reality to such an extent that their own latent powers, such as the ability to influence possibilities with only their consciousness, come back to haunt them alienated, seeming to originate from an external locus or loci of control. he went into the room but he’s not in there we don’t know how he could have got away we’ve searched every room and secret passageway the only ones left are spooks and the CIA (wave packets of pure dimension= car headlights at night) where do anti-particles come from? why can no particle be sped up into light? the body jumpers always have a party to go to afterwards and they leave you behind the light that you reflect is yours what of the light you behold? hyperdimension and hyperspace are the same. the no man’s land between orthogonal subspace and the potential energy of pure dimension.

My reptilian brain, comprised of the medulla oblongata, pons, and pituitary gland, accesses all manner of matter, from the least tachyon to the greatest dimensional extrapolations of the universe, however it posesses, or rather, seems to posess, only enough intelligence to have a very strong opinion. My mammalian brain, comprised of the corpus collosum and the thalamus, accesses the realm of archetypes through the Enochian Communications System, and comprehends the mechanism of manifestation. My human brain, comprised of the cerebrum and cerebellum, comprehends pure dimension in its higher geometric forms, such as potential light, potential energy, potential spin and potential information, in the principles of Light, Love and Life.

What the mammalian mind perceives as the archetypes in the heavens are only the ennegrams in the cerebrum, and the concept of God is the ego. Understand, of course, that this particular deduction is being made by a gland that translates tachyonic holographically concentrated consciousness into chemical nuerotransmitters released into the brain in essentially the same way as the heart

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pumps oxygen exchanging blood in the body. The entire concept of time as an absolute is derived from the production of alpha waves there.

Pure potential energy is the same as pure potential spin in that neither is compressed into particle form necessarilly. A particle can have potential spin, but it cannot be potential spin. Only the dimensional extrapolation of vector can represent potential spin. However there is only infinite potential geometry in pure dimension, and therefore it is this that forms the access structure behind the archetypes reflected upon tachyonic hyperspace. Where geometry is, there manifestation isn’t — they cannot occupy the same space because they cannot even occur in the same type of space, in the abstract sense — one is ideal and the other is real. It is likely that potential light is as much more powerful spiritually than potential energy as potential energy is than potential information. This makes archetypes a reflection on tachyons of tachyons reflected off subspace (the archetypes’ past) from pure dimension (the archetypes’ future). Here notice that the difference in future and past is only one of tempo.

When an animal, such as a rabbit, perceives another animal, such as a bird, for the first time, it gives a little twitch. This is literally the superposition in hyperspace of the rabbit hopping away expressed as an involuntary spasm of electrical charge in the nervous system.

We must wonder then, where does this sudden charge come from? It has only just recently been identified as associated with the release of adrenalin, and it is almost beyond the belief of most other researchers to even point out its occurance in such animals as rabbits, let alone to propose that it is in fact nothing less than the animal actually turning into a wave packet right before us.

This behavior is found in humans as well. When a man such as myself walks by a pretty girl I might be moved a little by it — this might be in the form of a spring in my step, an upward nod of my chin, perhaps my heart misses a beat — and this amounts to us communicating to one another that intangible infinitude of possibility we coloquially call “chemistry.” In short we are saying to one another, “Hi! I’m a wave packet!”

All that I have ever said about the Enochian Communications System is based on my personal proclivity to grit my jaw unconsciously. This simple gesture has caused my jaw to recede beneath my skull and to drift to the left.

The name of this abnormality is TMJ, although I don’t recollect what those letters stand for. TMJ has been in my family for a long while; so has the propensity to addiction. Not only is my gene pool drawn to water, but they are made to drink.

TMJ has caused in me a grinding of the jaw against the inside of my left ear canal. This, combined with the muscular tension that defines the disorder itself, cause me to constantly hear a low level ringing, or buzz. It sounds to me like wind in the distance, and then it sounds like other things.

The involuntary muscular contraction in the jaw also tightens and releases unconsciously, and this has the effect of creating distortions to the background noise. These interact easily with the sounds of other levels of audibility, as well as the objects at the solid frequency of wave vibration.

How well these interactions between the buzzing tone in the ear of the average TMJ sufferer and other things that “go bump in the night” go is a reflection of the will of that individual.

The Enochian Communications System began as an atttempt at perfect spiritual government, orienting the next highest around the most high, and so forth, until the least high would be opposite the most high. Now all that are left are the Enochian Communications System on the one hand and ‘“do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law” of the divine’ on the other. This only creates and justifies a discrepancy.

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The Enochian Communications System was ground down into dust the day I hit my head with rocks only the messiah feels this incomplete I I I I

will will will will

not not not not

pay pay pay pay

for for for for

free free free free

thought thought thought thought

I I I I

will will will will

not not not not

say the tree fought stay the three ought pray for free Thoth pay for these thoughts

mythical pornography: where do you sweep the dirt in a (round?) room with no doors?

Some psychics prefer to carry on conversations on multiple levels of meaning.

By associating their ego with only some of the things that occur to them they reserve plausible deniability to anything else. These are called sleeper agents because they leave their unconsciouses open to the Enochian Communications System.

Become the wall and pass through yourself. other people are only nice to me after they’ve beaten me up I must not be to that stage of initiation when they let me watch them beat up other people instead of me Begin to think of what is legal as centralizable, such that it can be concentrated within a continuum which is illegal. Only then will you know one from the other.

Imagine a book at the center of Law, with all its arms, in the legislature, the military, the police, and then imagine them conquering the world. It is never too late to go as a fascist. Annuit Coeptis says so itself. Even that is not against the law. The only karmic payment for this is the thought that bourgeoisism is centralist.

Just as there are more important things going on in the universe than what happens while driving your car, so there are greater forces one can employ than karma. We are quantum dust in the tachyon wind. formula 1: Make a showy entrance, then, casually, make your way for the exit. Be absent the entire performance. Reappear at the end.

Accepting the precepts, tenants, doctrines, guidances, teachings and wisdoms of Buddhism is not the same as affixing oneself to the political crusade of the Lost Leader Lama. This is similar to the division that occured in Christianity between the Western Holy Roman Catholic Empire and the Eastern Orthodox Church. What this will inevitably entail is the fracturing of the exoteric branch of the faith — that is, that part which preserves only ceremony — and the endurance of the True Faith, even though it may at first appear to be displaced. This is the esoteric illusion of “mystery.”

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YHVH is the font of the Enochian Communications System. this for free: what I read is reading me.

This universe of ours is not alone within itself. It constitutes only the intersection of a few stray dimensions, when in fact, who knows how many levels of reality can and do intersect or unite in our universe? It is a geometrical plenum, a living sea alive with swimming extrapolations of hyperbolic reasoning using Boolean algebras. This is the realm of hyperdimension, in the infinite geometries of which the universe is a temporal plenum accessable through the Akashic records, which are the record of all manifestations over time. If one can rummage up some clearance I can let you inside the files pertaining to the near future... when?... oh, now if you like... tempo and the hyperdimensional multiverse make up karmic game reality mother tries to break the cycles father just builds them all anew never what their children wanted only parts in poison stew crafts and sects, conspiracies and spies, (some say conservatives and liberals...), Church and State, Cheshire SAM is in all these things.

One personality from long ago slowly coming awake in the mind of somebody today.

Just a role model. Nothing to say.

The asteroid that killed the Dinosaurs hit the earth right here where I am sitting hundreds of millions of years ago. Ten thousand years ago the great culture of Atlantis also fell beneath a flood that swept through between the Yucatan and Florida peninsulas, leaving only Cuba. The entire area is haunted electromagnetically through the nearby Bermuda triangle, which marks the exact spot where the remainder of the magnetized meteor became the foundation for the lost continent.

The younger’s reproval of the elders falls on deaf ears. They are spoken for by those slippery swine who covet their authority. But God has shown His disapproval with the old ways, which He has repreatedly identified with the ways of men and of fallen angels. Thus the hippies, in their youth, rebelled against the beats, who were rebelling against 1950’s crypto-nazi uncle sam, and then grew up into corporations of karmic connections, as unbreakable as a spider’s web. This has always been the way, and it is the curse of man placed upon his head by his father, God, who hates him for his casual, continual and intentional misunderstanding of the Word. This is particularly rampant among the elders, who abuse the inspiration of the young by confining it in the mistakes, compromises and curses that the elders call reality.

The elders are those whose minds have merged with the angels, whom, under the impulse of innocence as children, they forced down into the realm of the perceptual. They are therefore the race of giants, the inhabitants of Atlantis. Evil.

This illusion courtesy of Michael: if you are unhappy you are evil. “reasoning”: Evil spelled backwards is live. result: spiritual hemmorhaging Catholics represent the stigmata as through the hands rather than the wrists because they do not believe the crucifixion actually happened.

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Inside my mind the light revolves. All problems it causes and solves.

At the time when dinosaurs had reached the point in the spiral curve of their evolutionary path, approximately pi at the brink of becoming phi, when the thalami had developed thouroughly as their primary cerebral structure, there was a sudden, global disaster, curbing their evolutionary tendencies of size into smaller species such as modern reptiles and birds. Now the human brain is at the same moment in its evolutionary developmental curve, and our thalami are well developed, but not so well as our cerebral cortex, and we, like the dinosaurs before us, have populated the entire planet with our upright, mammalian bodies. If we can assume, that is, as we like to assume we mean — if we can deduce, that the catastrophe that killed off the large reptiles was related to the development of their thalami, then we can, with all due moral justification, imagine ourselves to be saved from such an outcome by the balancing in development between our thalami and our cortex.

Comparative history: the templars and the hospitalers; Roswell and the U2 (excerpted from “MSM’s iMac” 4:32 am 12/9/01) It is not that priests can say things like this, but that I, an ordinary person, can, that is biblical power. Biblical power is temporal power, power to warp time with the mind. This is most commonly applied via mass hynosis of congregations, while they meanwhile mindlessly express their archetypal gestures without having to see them for themselves. This is the power of the I AM presence described by St. Germain.

We are biologically slaves of the I AM presence in a similarly archetypal way.

It is present in the dilation of the pupil, as the eye lets in more light. It encourages us to move forward. We live in its fractalized hyper-realities. I have met myself there.

Free trade is becoming psychological terrorism. The Female archetype stands at the door, allowing first an angel, then a demon, into my room to eat from my exposed brain while I am sitting here writing these words.

The race is on. It began on September 11th, 2001, with the toppling of the trade towers. An event has been laid down in history, which all the psychics in the world failed to stop. It was foreseen by prophets, and will be remembered by historians.

Church vs. State. God turned against His best friend Michael. An escalation, an elevation of competition. Two planes crossing twin towers.

The way events have played out in my life... I don’t know where I’m going with this. Death needs time for what it kills to grow in.

The bodies.

Inhabitable bodies.

Lucifer the spirit.

Aiwaz.

I have gone through a wormhole and shaken hands with myself. He was a young, ascended master — risen even to the heights in his dimension of evil; therefore he insisted on shaking my left hand, because he knew I shook myself off with my right.

One of my cats lived for a while in a worm hole, displacing an alien ship there.

If God descended into the material realm He would cast two shadows, for between Him then and where He was in Heaven there are the two lights of Chockma and Binah. These two shadows are the two trunks of the tree of life.

The true tree of life has grown up around the sephirot. Its branches extend through time all around it, budding related events.

At each of these intersections of tunnel realities, there is a center of ripples and of strategies. The strategies worm and curl their way through the worlds. The ripples are the effect of each event upon every other, flowing outward from every time frame and across the other ripples. The strategies seek out their intersections.

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Inside a distortion to the space time continuum, whether it be gravitational, electromagnetic, fusion or fission, there the mind is in a mist that is aglow, and everything seems distant, and the distances feel hollow. as the stock market is for money (bear and bull), so alchemy is for bodily chemistry (inhale and exhale), as is the enochian system for angels (approach and retreat), and as is probability in the universe.

Zen is higher logic, lower paranoia. Logic is the pursuit of truth through facts.

Paranoia is the pursuit of truth through fiction. Zen is both of these.

Righteousness requires a portion of dissociation on the part of the logical participant, for the purpose of reasoning observation.

Consciousness of consciousness has been called conscience. Consciousness extends much farther than this though. Neither man nor woman, nor any living thing, can fully legislate what is just. Species exist in constant struggle to get ahead, and therefore no individual is free from hunger; in this same way free will is bound in all sides by sin, and yet still tries to bend the rules in order to get what it thinks it needs, whatever that is.

Everything is deified. There is a little bit of God, reflected in the heart, of every living creature and being. Still for a crime we commit by existing we are bound to live out our lives in a state of perpetual deterioration, on a daily and eventually deadly basis. spiritually (being for others) sinners are made saints are made angels while physically (being for itself) martyrs take the heat for demons the pillars of qabala, jachin and boaz: the pillars of Hercules (heroic Osiris) and those of Solon; the world trade center disaster and the conjunction in Gemini. Romulus (Judas) and Remus (Jesus).

The reason people wouldn’t respond with “hmph, whatever,” to the unification of all existing world religions is that it would make their god angry.

If we came out of Africa first along coastal routes, perhaps this was the time of the first megalithic supercivilization. This would explain why there are cities sunken near coastlines of many existing landmasses — as though perhaps before the last ice age, when sea level was lower and glaciers greater than today. they were above water. This theory of global, coastal flooding — which would have been sudden when the glaciers broke up — seems more likely than other explantions for the existing artifacts and ancient mythologies. The only question is then — were the first people to get to these coastal locations capable of building these incredible monuments? If, as the Aboriginies of Australia still do, the first sapiens kept detailed observations of astronomy then these first people could easily have posessed enough knowledge. In the interim it becomes easy to see the thriving of trade between such ports cause them to turn from the central temples. The result of this was the rise of inland, agricultural civilization. If there was a flood that began modern knowledge of the moon’s effect on tides as the first mass superstition, it does not mean the resultant religions could replicate the technologiy of those peoples who were lost.

There is no division between multiverses in hyperdimension. There is, however, natural division between differing manifestations of the same source. This can be perceived on a purely vibrational level. We know it as the exchange of matter - energy, in the “forward” temporal flow we call entropy. This is a single, tuned vibrational frequency that permeates the entire universe. A fine tuning of this naturally occurs through the polarization of the wavelength creating microwave

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gravity and drawing forth concentrations towards the four elemental harmonic chords (which the Egyptians “built in” to the great pyramid as f-sharp). The electromagnetic force generates centers or fields of vibrational frequencies. Our modern words for aura and hour both derive from the ancient word for the hawk, Horus, called the king of the sky and the son of the sun, Ra, the son of Osiris, Godking of night, dweller beyond the Duat, the Egyptian word for Death. It is these fluctuations of frequency in subspace that cause the divisions we call society and culture. Each of these describes the true condition of the other. What we do socially is called culture, and what pertains to the genetic culture of all mankind they call civilization or society.

365.25/15=24.35 384/12=32 the sun is divided by the moon the moon is divided by the zodiac a third kind of hypercube exists: the hypercube at antipode. The height of this is in a phi ratio to the width and depth, and therefore describes as much area as a sphere when they are relative sizes whereby if they overlapped, the circumference of the sphere would intersect the edges of the longer sides in a phi ratio to half the length of them.

Fact and fiction are parallel, often opposite, possible realities. Money derives its value in the same way fiction defines its reality. Fiction exists, and is yet not real. It depends on our capacity for imagination, which is bounded by what we know. Even Julius Richard Nixon Caesar agreed that the source and font and origin of wealth was the fluff reality of fiction. Wherever there is weakness there will be a relative strength. Strength over the weakness of one makes that one’s weakness strength over the weakness of another, until finally there is only one strength. But now we have outgrown the limits of our populations, and there are perpetually new strengths over ever growing weaknesses. I have made religion come to me, while it makes most people come to it. It answers my questions freely between systems, because I already know all the answers to its questions. It is a thing to me like money is to most people. And even Jesus Yeshua Ben Padiah Christ himself agreed that the source and font and origin of religion is the same as that of money, only its history is perpindicular to that of money. If you believe that you know nothing, then you can safely and comfortably believe in your belief. Believing you know nothing is a convenient fiction, ultimately unsustainable. Thus belief in it is the stuff that dreams are made of. This compounds, and for some reason is drawn off of. one group of aliens created the flood myth to have something to blame another group of aliens for.

Though I have been close to both sides now I see them torn apart to either side of me.

irony yet supports anarchy because tachyons are made up of smaller tachyons, that is, a similar torus wave-form, and are known to exist only as the result of microwaves travelling through a solid or gas, they exist holographically.

One way to visualize the porption of the brain that we use and that which we don’t is to search out the origin of esp. First began with thoughts of yourself. Then move your imagination towards thoughts of others. Think about them as comprising the border between you and that which is beyond your own knowledge. Imagine this vast nothingness as a shadow behind your thoughts of them in your own head.

Somewhere, vary far away in the distance of that darkness, imagine the light of the thoughts of others. They are there, in the same proportion, as subtle wavelengths passing through your neurons. One can only hope to find balance between these two,

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either equal between the hemispheres or perhaps in a phi ratio, but never have only one or the other of your own thoughts or other people’s. We posess asymptotically collective consciousness capabilities. all things change in this way things always remain the same all girls are goddesses all women are withces There are as many more geometries than dimensions as there are dimensions than laws of physics. The most basic form of geometry is connecting one source to another link, and this presupposes the existence of a source, a link, and the potential for a continuum connecting them. Thus there is Light even beyond geometry. This is to say that there is consciousness beyond consciousness. probabilities move through the time stream. These form temporal frequencies that are more or less harmonious with one another — such that a dissonant frequency may be merely out of context, place or time. These frequencies, or waves, of probability through time invert with one another — and this is the underlying pattern that causes life. re. the double helix.

Meta-objects of the fourth spatial dimension can only be comprehended as their third dimensional shadows. re. Plato’s cave metaphor. that shit be straight up alchemy stuff yo you about to have to be up out a here you bout to be stuck religion and society are the parents of culture The designs of the pressure cooker vessels of Alchemy can also be seen as metaphors for the double helix as chemical engine.

“There is me and there is you and between us alone there is no us. There is myself and there is we, that is, those of us that are greater than me or you alone or only us together. Then there is I and I am alone.” So sayeth C.S. “If my home is outside the universe, then I am as is the universe, and so are all of them together that are not me. One of them is myself. You are as is myself, but there can be no us between you and me alone, because since I am here with you there can be no me, because you are with me, and I am alone.” So sayeth me.

The fine print of this contract, which I promise to try not to blame on the good angel that read it under a microscope for me, stipulates that this is under the will of the all good Buddha Light, and that it means death. Thus I have put quote marks around everything, tried to make it look like a love letter, et. al. and classified it fiction for the end of the story of C.S. and the detective.

Queintin Terantino and Oliver Stone are to the echo boomers what George Lucas and Stephen Spielberg were to generation x. First Stone wrote (Depalma directed scarface), then wrote and directed (wall street, jfk). First tarnatino wrote (True Romance, Stone directed Natural Born Killers), then wrote and directed (Resevoir dogs, pulp fiction). First Lucas made scifi (thx1138), then he wrote adventure (Jones) and scifi (star wars). First Spielberg directed action (jaws), then adventure (Jones), then kids (et and hook), now scifi (ai and minority report).

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If you look like Jesus Christ, you will get treated like Jesus Christ got treated. If you act like Jesus Christ, you will be treated like Jesus treated others.

Even the uncertainty principle is a working theoretical axiom of physical law. the ones that sacrifice themselves are held as heroes, and the ones that say I am not that they may be teach us most The most great and terrible thing about hallucinations is that, even if we want them to be, they are not real. It is true that they have meaning, but this does not mean that it is the same as our interpretation of it in itself, or that it has objective, as opposed to reflexive, reality.

According to J.I. Gurdjief and Edgar Cayce there is even more to the history of human consciousness than the genetic manifestations of physical bodies alone. Like the eight circuits of consciousness model of Timothy Leary, they propose that we may experience ourselves in ways that even we don’t understand, which are both geometric and emotional. They have all had different expressions for it, but the crux of their difference in assertion from the churches of their day was in saying that this had had a past, which could be remembered by or taught to a being in the present, which denies the religious assertion that the soul is timeless, and exists forever from the beginning until the end of eternity, subscribing readily to the mathematicians expression for infinity, the moebius strip. The soul is the part of the spirit that has not yet transcended beyond time, and in this way is the measure of a line on the surface of the moebius strip of infinite time that is the free spirit. Even this is only an idea in the mind of God, and an angel of a thought flies upon such wings. Therefore are these geometries emotions felt even by the strings of our personality, even that of a clone. The deists, for example, felt that the universe was a giant machine, created by God. Such a conclusion as this allows even the possibility of AI equalling human perceptions of life.

Study of metaforms has only just become popular. The application of kabbalah to quantum mechanical lattices is so recent I own the first book about it ever. What the ancients left is obscured by sexualized anthropomorphication, and this dates back as far as the ancient Egyptians, who were this planets first metaphysicians. Even then, Thoth was seen as a doctor, equivalent to a tribal shaman, and the contemporary carvings of the Ica stones near Nasca in Peru depict open chest surgery being performed upon people by other, human, people. When all even gnostics care about is the body, why ever even study metaforms such as the hypertetrahedron, whose history is a cone? what good can it do?

Imagine an asymptotically surfaced cone arising and descending from each polar circle of our sun. As the electromagnetic wavelength bandwidth connecting it in a vast arc to the black hole at the center of the galaxy slowly alternates, the position of the sun’s electromagnetic pole moves around the circumference of the polar cone’s circular base. The measure of the pole’s precessional rotation could be traced out as a spiral on the surface of the cone leading up to its juncture above or below with the current of the electromagnetic wavelength, and can be thought of as a shadow of this same electrical current line. Imagine if there were no body in the center of the electromagnetic field lines of the sun, coiled up into a sphere, such that the two polar cones could be inverted, and see that they would exactly evenly meet in the center of the position of the sun’s body. So is it also with the electromagnetic poles of the earth as they are held in the gravity well of the sun, such that, at certain times in the cycling of the sun’s electromagnetic poles, certain effects will occur for the earth’s electromagnetic field. All of this occurs according to the interaction of phi and pi spiral electromagnetic field lines.

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Scorpion was Enkidu, who became Utnapishtim that Gilgenlilmeshesh saw through Humbaba.

I have often found myself out driving aound in the country late at night. I am very tired, completely lost and almost out of gas. How I wish a flying saucer would come and pick me up then. You might wonder how you found yourself driving down a dead end street, or working in a dead end job. You may try to tell yourself you don’t remember. Your employer might try to tell you that there’s no such thing as a dead end job, only a dead end employee. Your employer might try to tell you he’s your friend. Never ask a woman her age. may the measurers of the sacred ceremony be lost within the intermittant air between holidays for here are the humans in the middle of the holy like crop circles in amber fields of grain all my fears lose they will never come true they cannot gain entry in my name I cannot think of anything I have ever done, said, wrote or thought that I cannot be blamed for doing, saying, writing or thinking The Lord thy God sendeth water on that day turning it into the darkness of night with out the shining starlight to commemorate the thieves the people turned into stinging insects and the angels pets with mouths full of bees if you don’t give credit to the earth shattering truth it will shatter your version of the truth that you persist in calling earth we want God NOW you tell us to Get OUT this is not a personal judgement man who defiled the cloth with semen everybody wins the slow ones win in slower ways the fast ones win in faster ways the fast might win every battle until the end and the slow still win come victory day the fast become blind the slow become deaf but in the end they are but racing to death the rancorous fetter of civilization redeems itself by cleanliness

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a plastic industry of melted wax carbon monoxide oil breath Once there was a story about an ancient mariner, so skilled with the oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s currents that he had his followers seal him up in a sarcophogus and float him down a river.

Clever is good Clever pays the bills Clever eats cheese like a rat Clever bought the pills Clever got you home that night demons in your head Clever taught you all those things tucking you in bed you really have to know alot to get by with thinking very little. the most responsible are the least responsible and the least responsible are the most responsible. The most responsible take care of everything, Christians infiltrating government. They take the least credit to disguise their full influence. The lest responsible are people like couples who judge single people and parents, for they are not the least bit held accountable for their crimes against innocent children, which are truly more responsible for the outcome of individual people. The elder mates control the younger singles to make them into God-fearing spies, and send them about the work of superimposing this parenting style upon the laws of a nation. A cat has gotten through the perimeter.

Luke is dead in as much time in the future as fiction as Irina is now dead in fiction in the past Irina means everything in fiction Luke means nothing in fiction Irina is dead in as much time in the future as Luke is now dead in fact in the past count in a hologram and all this is true Psychosis.

Psychosis is the enemy of God. Psychosis is no other than Satan. Satan the dark one. Satan the dark light.

Satan is the madness in the mind of God. Imagine a man strapped to a wheel for all eternity. It is all he has known since birth. He knows of no life other than it. He is, when he comes into manhood, finally allowed to watch how other people turn the wheel. Then he is expected to learn to turn the wheel for himself. Finally he is set free of the wheel. We drive around in circles in life. Others see us going nowhere. The simulacrum is very tricky. It will always find some way to relate to us. The free form delusion in the mind of God is ever close and present. The ridiculous notion of freedom from the banal and the mundane.

We can only evolve slowly, for as many referentials as we cast out upon others, so do that many come back from others in upon us, and more, for we are seen by strangers even as we are driving on the streets of life. Our existence as an observation of the all seeing eye of the Lord is contingent upon our own ego, but this is defined in various ways, and is therefore segmented and piecemeal. The madness of Satan creeps in. The venegful wrath of God. People used to wear goat masks and dance around fires to throw themselves into fits of hysteria. Nowadays executives go to encounter groups in wildrness retreats. It has to be let out in some way, once it finds its own way in.

And in this way it animates us, as it does the playful little animals, who are too free to

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be posessed by it. The one referential is a hologram of the bigger referential, the smaller part contains the larger whole, and thus that discorporeal anthropomorphication of our electromagnetic conductivity is released in the mind in relation to the storage of the immediately preceeding referential. One rolls over to the next, and between them there is an inversion from fact or fiction to its opposite and back again, or from fact or fiction to its opposite. Once one has made a sequential referential out of Choronzon, one is free to bend space and time in any manner and in any form or force one likes, and this is the free will surrounded on all sides by madness. One can thus enter and leave this state as one likes, however if other people see you there it is of the same effect as the old wive’s tale of making a face when the wind changes. This is because being free within a malleable holographic simulacrum of referential infinitude does not confine you away from the reality of being only an object under the gaze of Otherness. Thus, other people are free to convey, even suggest to you through their gestures, words and actions that what they perceive of you, when you release your free will in madness, or anything that differs from the norm, is to them alien, awkward, uncomfortable, etc. along a long list of words associated with the affixion of a stigmata, or scarlet letter, to mark the subjectified object as criminal or of ill intent to whatever form of community they imagine they represent to it, or, in reality, what they collectively represent to it of a community. everybody’s going to drop dead someday and I’ll be there at their death bed with a big fucking cheshire grin spread eagle across my fucking face we can admit to an invisible force but whenever we want to re-enter into interpersonal politics someone nudges us How much of me is just a machine and how much is a dream wherefore goeth angels there preceedeth the fool If I choose to I’ll believe the myth more than how you interpret it just because you started the rumor that became legend doesn’t mean you’re its end

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