nola23

 One neophyte perpetual, i sit down in the park and listen to myself animal. I aware become me of them, and curious, they seem me to be tuned of me that he adjusts inside. E one another one case to listen when no one this saying anything? Alan Moore said that ducks are the armchair magicos of the multi-dao animal.  I belive that.

Man hangs by one leg  Mt.a.a. Crosses, sometimes from bar or tree. His free habit always that experience to create " 4, " his face always peaceful, never sufferers. Sometimes his hands is likely, sometimes they hang. Sometimes drowns an autumn from his pockets or hands.

 The stupid settles under tree, intention to find the self the spiritual his. There he is remaining for nine days, without to eat, hardly to move. People commits his hand, animals, clouds, the wind, the rain, the stars, sun and moon. On today the ninth, without aware thought on why, he is a climber in the branch and hang changed like boy, concedes momentarily, every that he, desires, knows or cares on. Autumn of coins from his pockets  (Ocpibgllcbzmnbgllcbzmnbgllmshna) point Of View. This as if he hangs between the world and the world, able to see both. This a moment dazzling, dreamlike still clear. Contact terror NA that he never understood before become, mysteries from goals.

But eternal as this moment of brightness seems, he understands that this is not last. Very soon, he must itself right, and when he does, things will be different. He will need to act whereby that he will be learned. 

Implicit of bleary eyed basic

 This reflects the story of and judgement that offered itself as sacrifice in order to obtain a knowledge. To hang from the tree of the world, was wounded by spear, you didn't give no bread or vaporizes, he is her mound for nine days.  

The man Hmwka, similarly, he is a ticket on suspension, is not life or death. This time of sentence or meditation, altruism, from approaching, prediction.  Hkarant stop to oppose ; instead of he does itself vulnerable, sacrifices his position or resistance,  Oblashot so, illumination of profits.  He sees the world is different, almost insights of mysticism.  Things will continue in the at the moment, aside from now, they will expect, eternal.

The thirteenth observations

Neptune is spirituality, dreams are spirituality, and the man  Hmwka afloat in these. He also 12 the antithesis of the ticket of the world, 21. With the world of ticket that you go infinitely. With the man Hmwka, you go infinitely in.

This ticket indicates a time of insight so deep this, momentarily, nothing but this insight exists. Every readers of bleary eyed have these moments when we see, with absolute brightness, the picture of completion, all the message that was offered by expansion. The man Hmwka symbolizes these moments of suspension between mystical physical worlds.  Sacrifice of belief or point Of View, wish, dreams, hope, money, time or even  Salphod.  Sometimes you need to sacrifice positions,  Mwkrim, yourself is open to the authenticity are other, other point Of Views in order to find solutions, in order to bring on changeable. One certain thing, if the insight is big or spiritual little or normal, once you the man Hmwka that you never see things him very.

   We, as a society, have become sick; and that is actually the good news.
As we have noted in the above pages and at length, the sickness of an individual paves the way for spiritual enlightenment and psychological integration. The acute schizophrenia we are now experiencing as a society may be the necessary preliminary step to a shamanic-style rebirth. The hideous violence and degradation we see all around us -and on our television screens and computer monitors- may be the signal that the dismemberment of our society is at hand. The sinister forces have been evoked from within the magic circle of the Oval Office, the videocam, the seal on the floor of CIA headquarters at Langely, and in a million other places. These may be alien forces from from another planet  or another dimension; or they may be demons, battalions of demons as in a painting by Breughel, marching through our blasted landscape and meting out torture and death along the way. Our saving grace as Americans is the fact that we can recognize this, that we do not simply sit still and watch from the sidelines as our civilization crumbles around us.
   We are not "good Germans." Hitler's Germany will forever remain our example of the sinister forces that we have came to despise, the complacency of a citizenry in which evil triumphs because good men do nothing. We are Americans, and we are biased, and bigoted, and provincial, and arrogant, and naive and stupid; all of this is true. But we are also dreamers; our worst citizens have been guilty of bad dreams, perhaps, but were dreamers nonetheless. We are a sentimental people who cry at Disney movies, for which the sophisticated European laughs at us. Europe, the heir to the Renaissance: clearly the last time there was anything resembling grandeur on that continent. Bitter in their shameful history of genocide and holocaust and collaboration and cowardice, and eager for company in their spiritual deterioration, Europeans are the crowd that stands below a building and urges the potential suicide to jump. We will ignore them, for we are not standing on top of that building to jump, but to reach just a little higher.
   We have committed some grave sins in our history; of this there can be no doubt. The slaughter of the  Native American population is perhaps the first sin, and one of the most grave. The brutal inescapable fact of slavery is another, with its sickening offspring, racism; also the way some of our wealthiest and most powerful families and leaders sponsored eugenics and genocide. [...] Our colonial attitude to the peoples of Latin America is another; thousands upon thousands of people have died in Latin America, and millions more suffered incredible hardships, due to American foreign policy in the region. Our support of military dictatorships around the world is another grave sin. [...] Hiroshima was a horrible crime, and Nagasaki even greater, for we did not need a Nagasaki after the holocaust of Hiroshima.
   [...] But while our elected officials may be guilty of cynicism and cowardice and evil intentions, our electorate is not. Our people still believe in the old dreams, the idea of what it means to be an American. That is why they were all so shocked be the events of September 11, 2001.
   They could not understand why anybody would hate them. They have not been abroad. They don't speak the language. They haven't done the reading. They have not seen the handiwork of which our elected officials and corporate leaders are capable. For if they did know all of this, and if they were not shocked by September 11, then the only conclusion we could draw is that they were accomplices in all of this, and all actually were the war-mongers and racists and neo-fascists the rest of the world thinks they are.
   But their shock was the shock of the innocent, and perhaps of the stupid and of the ignorant...but not of the evil.

   We could sum up with a quotation from the late, lamented Walt Kelley's Pogo comic strip: "We have met the enemy and he is us. Once we realize this, we can begin to make America the place of greatness and beauty and transcendence that it was intended to be, intended to be by our founding fathers who were, after all, Freemasons and Rosicrucians and Templars and freethinkers and mystics, who believed in spiritual regeneration and psychological integration. 
   Instead, we will end with another quotation.
   That first Sunday in June 1968, at the funeral of for Robert F. Kennedy -the last, best hope for a renewed America for a long time to come- his brother, Senator Edward Kennedy, read the eulogy. It contained Bobby's favorite quotation, one that he would use to revive his flagging spirits or to raise the energy of his followers.  
   It is a beautiful sentiment, but how many listeners in St. Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan that solemn spring day realized the original context? As Bobby's body lay in the center aisle of that Gothic pile, surrounded by those who loved and admired him, his "robopathic" assassin in jail in Los Angeles staring stupidly around him in confusion, the men who authorized that murder toasting themselves in comfort in their boardrooms and cloakrooms and living rooms and conference rooms and bed rooms of America, some of them even there, in the church watching the funeral service with cynical satisfaction, knowing that the last assassination had taken place and that America was ripe for the plunder, the words of their sinister god were being quoted as an epitaph:
   "You see things; and you say "Why?" But I dream things that never were;and I say "Why not?"

   The quote comes form George Bernard Shaw's Back To Methuselah, and they are the words of the Devil.

from Sinister Forces, A Grimoir of American Political Witchcraft, Vol. III; The Manson Secret


  

         earth sky

            sea salt water

flesh and

             oragami

                     enfolding

says
world unfold the day

                     sufix
                           prolouge

        shifting
               erupting           the dark
creates
         cultural

                         slow moving

             fidelity

             hard as bone

                           newborn skin
following,

I am scared of loneliness should be used to by now. A  white noise in a hole my Black Ships spiral ate  the Sky. Love, Oedichrist. Am I  that ritual thus line? Legba  got my  back. Stellar Fire to walk with Peter Levendan Necronomicrom forces. Left  hand but  be not ego. Don't Sinister means Left in  latin? I  am  simply handed. Circles tighter the noose I am I who dont what I? Just ordinary with left to say. Christ's  sake. So  damage  my  fault  in mind.  Fault  lines mine. Once, a St. John's eve or an nearby eclipse the night. Upon around above under abridge.

   One man sets a trap, another is emptied rabble. I am going to would build. I require nothing from, get thee in there sometime. You. Give me a double-malted, a eucharist with cream cheese and jelly? Shall I not awaken the world at all? Shall I lift up the eyes of these sick bastards? Without light, without HOPE...ah, ah, ah I am the tower where the dead. Of the thing he tracks. Oh. The bright sticky-still boys. Curse my womb-chilled supplication. The whore's child is unlucky talent. The biting blades of, seated on my throne...unceasingly...a laughing stock...'tis creation. Sit me in the sluggish bed, a bad messenger who has his mud. Let Alfa piss till Omega's head cut off. There we can be run dry. The howling of the scaffolding for the dwelling,  their own foul nets; the humming of the not guilty. Crenelate me, bodies locked together like stuck-dogs in Jesus! An intonation from the grave. The slums. I'll write my name. Do you feel jocund, brother? Ain't I in the stars across your world? Its offal? The pyrography of events. What is this beautiful covenent between toss-pot and my sin-offering? What a gallimaufry is us...The hunter always has the face of her desires! Many eyes in a detestable hideous fertile gay sad massive terrorless face. Cold and dark and irrestibly weary; ardent, boundless, real, frantic and cowering in pain...this cheating shadow face...sour, miraculous, callous, insolent, offensive, delicate, aristocratic jades of hell dirty my bed. Spry, extraordinary, prodigious, enormous, meek, barren Christ doth bless the minstrels of defeat. Unpolished, wise, taciturn, matchless, unruly, empty. The snorting of humans caught extravagantly dull, corrupt, chaste. I am. Know what I'm saying? I feed the flames...What profit it Thou to only another quack? I'm rapacious,  modest. To torture poor coots like me- nodding frugaly, celebrated, droll, audacious, wicked, slyly at the windows of this twilight, a worthless, vigorous, clever, pitiless, handsome, ungainly Death. Prophetess of our night, make gentle the unreasonably sluggish, determinedly reckless, lasting clean; O terrible Mother, put serviceably unclean, fouly brittle, ingenuously sick, my two burnt  lads, and by God, feel this embracing noose! Make your own mythology. I am, aye, putting salt where the hurt is. Speaking of course of Mary. Not that I am pure, the mother of God and all, but that I love purity; not that I am yelling that I am on fire, but the roof of me is. I don't know that I love those whose souls in the peace of the midwet blooming are snared; one man is damned by the god of hosts and in the world another is saved; one man kills, is rusty-toothed and runnable of old, his fellows, another himself; one mans bag of dead tricks swimming in, boasts in the temple where another weeps a pus of bog so take his call...,
-From The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchen

   Bonadea's system had so far consisted of leading a double life. Her social status was assured in that she belonged to a family of distinction; that she gave way to certain temptations she could ascribe to being constitutionally overexcitable, or having a heart given to folly, since the follies of the heart, like romantic political crimes, enjoy a certain esteem, even when committed under dubious circumstances. Here the heart plays about the same role as honor, obedience, and Service Regulations, Part III, played in the General's life, or as the irrational element in every well ordered life that ultimately puts to rights whatever baffles the unaided rational mind. 
   But Bonadea's system had a flaw, in that it split her life into two different conditions, the transition from one to the other of which could not be achieved without paying a heavy price. For however eloquent her heart could be before one of her lapses, it was equally deflated afterward, and she was constantly alternating between a maniacally effervescent state of mind and one that drained away into inky blackness, hardly ever coming into equilibrium. All the same, it was a system, that is, it was no mere play of uncontrolled instincts- the way life used to be seen as  the automatic squaring of accounts between pleasure and pain, with a certain profit registered on the side of pleasure, but a system that included quite a number of psychological moves designed to fake these accounts.
   Everyone has some such method of jockeying ones psychological accounts in one's own favor, aiming at a minimum balance of pleasure that should ordinarily get one through the day. A person's pleasure in life can also consist of displeasure; such differences in kind don't matter much, since as everyone knows, there are as many contented melancholics as there are funeral marches that float as lightly in their element as a dance tune does in its own. The opposite is probably equally valid, in that many normally cheerful persons are no whit happier than many habitually sad ones, because happiness is just as much a strain as as unhappiness, more or less like flying on the principle of lighter or heavier than air.  In practice, it comes down to this, that everyone bears his burden with the patience of a donkey, since a donkey whose strength slightly exceeds the demands of his burden is happy enough. And this is, in fact, the  soundest available definition of personal happiness, as long as we restrict ourselves to donkeys. In reality, however, personal happiness (or equilibrium, contentment, whatever we may choose to call the innermost reflex aim of the personality) is self-contained only as a stone is in a wall, or a drop of water in a river, which are permeated by the forces and tensions of the whole.  What a person does and feels is a negligible part of what he must assume many others normally do and feel with him. A human being never lives only in his own equilibrium but depends on that of the surrounding strata of humanity, so that the individual's little pleasure factory is affected by a most complicated moral credit system, about which more will have to be said later on, being as much a part of the community's psychic balance sheet as of the individual's.

-From The Man Without Qualities, by Robert Musil

From early puberty until about the mid-ninetys I had a reoccurring nightmare, about once every couple of years. It would be night, there would be a freeway, and then there would be a bridge crossing either a river or a swamp, and the bridge would be so high up as to defy physics. In the early dreams I would be on foot through the entire dream, but after I started driving, the dream would start out with me in a car. Then I would come to the bridge, and suddenly I would be on foot. The bridge was always an iron grid-deck type. Suddenly I would be on the outside of this bridge and trying to make it across to the other side, terrified, because it was so high up, and I felt in urgent danger of falling off. These dreams were always filled with pervasive feelings of loneliness, dread and foreboding, as if I were in danger not only of falling off, but also of something unknown. I would make it about halfway across and then I would wake up, sheets covered in sweat, sick with loneliness and fear. I never had a clue what the fear in these dreams was all about. Once, in mexico as a young child on vacation with the family, we came to a hill which was so steep, I was sure the car was going to topple over backward. Later, when ever we would cross the mississippi river bridge at night I would hide in the back seat and (for fun) pretend to be scared that the car would go off the edge and we would fall into the river. I thought these dreams were somehow rehashing these two memories, but why, I couldnt figure.

In elementary school I had one of those cheap brass chinese windchimes hanging from my ceiling fan. On my mantle piece I had my collection of die-cast Corgi toy cars. One morning I'm getting dressed for school and the windchime jangles like someone had smacked it. I turned to look and as I'm turning, one of the cars jumps off the mantle and hits me on the shoulder. I ran like hell.