Easter

Easter. It's all about Jesus, isn't it? He was crucified on Friday, died the same day (most crucifixion victims take a couple of days to die) and was buried, and rose again in three days, on the Sunday. Oh, but wait a sec... You'd have thought someone would have noticed something here, like, about 1900 years ago.

Easter. Where does the name come from? According to the Venerable Bede, from Oestre, an ancient Anglo-Saxon/Germanic pagan fertility goddess. Easter, the beginning of spring, when the girls are suddenly all in short skirts, and people are smiling at each other, emerge blinking from their winter hibernation with their hormones stirring to life...

Easter.... Oestre... oestrogen... reproduction... sex... What, you never wondered why the symbols of Easter are chicks, and eggs, and... bunny rabbits? You must have heard the old expression "to fuck like rabbits", from your grandma or somebody.

Where does this all leave Jesus, then?

Just fuck Jesus, you might say...

Well yeah. Hell yeah, why not? Think about it... Gay Six-way Jesus Gang-bang Orgy! to celebrate this pagan festival of mating and sex...

Six-way, you ask? Well, count the holes...

So. Happy Easter, y'all, and Happy Jesus Six-way Gang-bang!


(Oh, and more on Easter... via malung-tv-news on the Dean of St. Alban's, the Very Reverend Jeffrey John's bizarre Easter radio broadcast: “What sort of God was this, getting so angry with the world and the people he created and then, to calm himself down, demanding the blood of his own son? And anyway, why should God forgive us through punishing somebody else? It was worse than illogical, it was insane. It made God sound like a psychopath. If any human being behaved like this, we would say they were a monster.”)

Cigarettes

(I don't trust air that I can't see)

I climbed over the bed and leaned precariously to put the other ashtray in its place on the window-sill. Ashtrays, too, must be placed strategically in order to support a pre-determined arc of smoking - like machine-gun nests, they interact with the topography of the environment in order to command a room, or a battle-field.


(-64? why 64?, i demand. -you know I don't like numbers that divide too easily into smaller numbers...
-they're strumpets, she suggests
-yeah... the way they squishily divide into lots of smaller numbers... it feels so horribly squelchy...)

Sunday Lurches

(what, can you tell i'm on drugs?)
(i'd like to complain about the hallucinations, they're not at all what i expected...)

Lex Insulinsur Real - the Testament of Solomon


sunlight reflects blindingly off the table. i feel comfortable behind my shades, always, the world's painful intensity dulled, but i take them off because i want to drink in her eyes, put the dark glasses on again when the sun comes out of the clouds and the glare becomes intolerable once more.

i have not been sworn to silence. "you haven't even sworn me to silence" i say. "i trust you" she says. shouldn't have.

i want this young girl who is asking me how to kill someone and get away with it so much it fucking hurts, but the valium and hashish take the edge off and my thoughts of raping her in a pub toilet are vague, detached, abstract. when memories of her naked perfect skin arise to torment me it is not too difficult to forget.

she wants this human being dead because she thinks it will make her relationship with her boyfriend finally perfect.

fucking idiot. accessory to murder.

her fucking accessory, you.

we sink deeper and deeper in a happy world in the middle of the day.

sugar, don't be fucking stupid. you are delusional. you would never carry this out. you don't know what it is you're proposing. ("are you still seeing your councillor?" i ask. "have you been diagnosed with any mental disorders? are you on any medication? what drugs have you been taking recently?")

--are you cold enough to do it?

you don't even know what it is you're considering. i am not god, to decide whether this human deserves to live or die, and you are not fucking god, to calculate cause and effect. the ripples from this action will spread in ways that you cannot even guess.

--are you really?

and so... and so i tell her about LD50 values, organic versus inorganic toxins, fatal doses of various drugs or non-prescription medications, coroners' toxicology reports, and if she is researching poisons to do it on a computer they will not be able to trace her search records on. i tell her about falling from heights, head trauma, diabetic crises, the effects of insulin, hemoglycaemic index, syringes, needles and air embolisms, unnoticeable entry points such as between toes or at the sites of existing scrapes, cuts or scars. i tell her how the optic nerve can absorb a lethal dose of something as innocuous as butyl nitrate poppers poured into the eyes directly into the brain. we discuss night ferries to holland and hypothermia.

it's not murder, really, is it? it's just a sort of.. ah... retrospective abortion.

but no, if you were expecting me to have a magic pill in my wallet for this situation, no, i can't help you.

i do have 10mg diazepam. i know it would make me feel better...

your alternative, of course, is black magic. evocation to visible appearance. the real hardcore shit. you will want to conjure the ....

no, i don't even know if i should say that name out loud...

in case your familiarity with the medieval occult tradition is not great, allow this to serve as an introduction:

in the tradition of the medieval occult and kabbalah, solomon was an accomplished sorceror and many texts are (fancifully) attributed to him. a tract i found here speaks of the great king solomon (or suleiman) son of david (ibn daud), who had authority over all spirits under heaven, under earth, of the deep oceans, and power over all djinni.

the magnificence of solomon is discussed at length, and how his wisdom, power and munificence leads all to pay respect to the lord God Sabaoth of Israel and render tribute to the Great Temple which Solomon built for the lord god...

granted power over the demons by grace of god elohim sabaoth, one by one, he begins to summon the spirits:

43. But I Solomon glorified the Lord, and bade another demon come before me. And there was brought to me a demon having all the limbs of a man, but without a head. And I, seeing him, said to him: "Tell me, who art thou?'' And he answered: "I am a demon." So I said to him: "Which?" And he answered me: "I am called Envy. For I delight to devour heads, being desirous to secure for myself a head; but I do not eat enough, but am anxious to have such a head as thou hast."
44. I Solomon, on hearing this, sealed him, stretching out my hand against his chest. Whereon the demon leapt up, and threw himself down, and gave a groan, saying: "Woe is me! where am I come to? O traitor Ornias, I cannot see!" So I said to him: "I am Solomon. Tell me then how thou dost manage to see." And he answered me: "By means of my feelings." I then, Solomon, having heard his voice come up to me, asked him how he managed to speak. And he answered me: "I, O King Solomon, am wholly voice, for I have inherited the voices of many men. For in the case of all men who are called dumb, I it is who smashed their heads, when they were children and had reached their eighth day. Then when a child is crying in the night, I become a spirit, and glide by means of his voice. . . . In the crossways1 also I have many services to render, and my encounter is fraught with harm. For I grasp in all instant a man's head, and with my hands, as with a sword, I cut it off, and put it on to myself. And in this way, by means of the fire which is in me, through my neck it is swallowed up....

he seems overcome by insatiable curiosity, interrogating the demons about their natures:

16. I then asked of the demon if there were females among them. And when he told me that there were, I said that I desired to see them. So Beelzeboul went off at high speed, and brought unto me Onoskelis, that had a very pretty shape, and the skin of a fair-hued woman; and she tossed her head [D: Onoskelis means "she who has ass's legs."]
17. And when she was come, I said to her: "Tell me who art thou?" But she said to me: "I am called Onoskelis, a spirit which has been made into a body, lurking upon the earth. There is a golden cave where I lie. But I have a place that ever shifts
16. At one time I strangle men with a noose; at another, I creep up from the nature to the arms. But my most frequent dwelling-places are the precipices, caves, ravines. Oftentimes, however, do I consort with men in the semblance of a woman, and above all with those of a dark skin
18. For they share my star with me; since they it is who privily or openly worship my star, without knowing that they harm themselves, and but whet my appetite for further mischief. For they wish to provide money by means of memory [commemmoration of me], but I supply a little to those who worship me fairly."


18. And I Solomon questioned her about her birth, and she replied: "I was born of a voice untimely, the so-called echo of a man's ordure dropped in a wood." [For the demon born of an echo we have an analogue in the Hebrew Bath Kol, "the daughter of a voice." In D: "I was generated from an unexpected voice which is called a voice of the echo of a black heaven, emitted in matter. (meaning uncertain)"]
19. And I said to her: "Under what star dost thou pass?" And she answered me: "Under the star of the full moon, for the reason that the moon travels over most things." Then I said to her: "And what angel is it that frustrates thee?" And she said to me: "He that in thee is reigning." And I thought that she mocked me, and bade a soldier strike her. But she cried aloud, and said: "I am [subjected] to thee, O king, by the wisdom of God given to thee."
20. So I uttered the name of the Holy One of Israel and commanded her to spin the hemp for the ropes used in the building of the house of God; and accordingly, when I had sealed and bound her, she was so overcome and brought to naught as to stand night and day spinning the hemp.

the demons responsible for epilepsy and bad fortune, for fits, for night terrors, for unclean spirits from the desert, for diseased winds are described, their names given, and the angels who have the power to frustrate them, and the means to invoke them. one by one, solomon summons the demons before him, revelling in his new-found power and setting the demons and even the prince of the demons beelzeboul to work building the great temple:

21. And I at once bade another demon to be led unto me; and instantly there approached me the demon Asmodeus, bound, and I asked him: "Who art thou?" But he shot on me a glance of anger and rage, and said: "And who art thou?" And I said to him: "Thus punished as thou art, answerest thou me?" But he, with rage, said to me: "But how shall I answer thee, for thou art a son of man; whereas I was born an angel's seed by a daughter of man, so that no word of our heavenly kind addressed to the earth-born can be overweening
24. Wherefore also my star is bright in heaven, and men call it, some the Wain [Ursula Major, the Great Bear], and some the dragon's child. I keep near unto this star. So ask me not many things; for thy kingdom also after a little time is to be disrupted, and thy glory is but for a season. And short will be thy tyranny over us; and then we shall again have free range over mankind, so as that they shall revere us as if we were gods, not knowing, men that they are, the names of the angels set over us."
[Asmodeus also appears in Tobit 3:8, and is ultimately derived from the Avestan demon Aeshma-daeva ("demon of wrath"). -JHP]

22. And I Solomon, on hearing this, bound him more carefully, and ordered him to be flogged with thongs of ox-hide, and to tell me humbly what was his name and what his business. And he answered me thus: "I am called Asmodeus among mortals, and my business is to plot against the newly wedded, so that they may not know one another. And I sever them utterly by many calamities, and I waste away the beauty of virgin women, and estrange their hearts."
23. And I said to him: "Is this thy only business?" And he answered me: "I transport men into fits of madness and desire, when they have wives of their own, so that they leave them, and go off by night and day to others that belong to other men; with the result that they commit sin, and fall into murderous deeds." [D: I spread (or, I *sting to ?) madness about women through the stars, and I have often committed a rash of murders.]
24. And I adjured him by the name of the Lord Sabaôth, saying: "Fear God, Asmodeus, and tell me by what angel thou art frustrated." But he said: "By Raphael, the archangel that stands before the throne of God."

and so on and on. and solomon is secure in the wisdom granted to him of the lord god of israel, and peace reigns in the land, and repose and rejoycing are in jerusalem, and solomon takes many wives.

but he is unsatisfied; he dreams of, he desires violently the shummamite... her, she of the people who worship moloch, the dreadful black-magic god who demands burnt sacrifice of children...

she must have been a young dark-haired princess, just like mine...

the story ends abruptly and ignobly. solomon writes:

129. And when I answered that I would on no account worship strange gods, they told the maiden not to sleep with me until I complied and sacrificed to the gods. I then was moved, but crafty Eros brought and laid by her for me five grasshoppers, saying: "Take these grasshoppers, and crush them together in the name of the god Moloch; and then will I sleep with you." And this I actually did. And at once the Spirit of God departed from me, and I became weak as well as foolish in my words. And after that I was obliged by her to build a temple of idols to Baal, and to Rapha, and to Moloch, and to the other idols.
130. I then, wretch that I am, followed her advice, and the glory of God departed from me; and my spirit was darkened, and I became the sport of idols and demons. Wherefore I wrote out this Testament, that ye who get possession of it may pity, and attend to the last things1, and not to the first. So that ye may find grace for ever and ever. Amen.

no punchline at the end here, just a rambling digression. i don't even know why i wrote this. i keep changing it. you see what i've done, though. young beautiful.

"Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief; Kill for inspiration, then sing about the grief" (misheard U2 lyric...)
----------------------------------------


(a note on the text: from "The Testament of Solomon" (translated from the codex of the Paris Library, after the edition of Fleck, Wissensch. Reise, bd. ii. abth. 3)

rapidly adapted and re-formated from
http://www.xanga.com/item.aspx?user=theelf29&tab=weblogs&uid=536995636)

FISH

Freedom In Strength and Happiness
Fortitude in Superlative Hepatoviruses
Freedom in Secret Hospitals
Fucking Invasory Sodomite Harpies

He’s the first black man to walk on the moon since Michael Jackson… but is that in your white news? No.

Will beak dick for devil! (the diabolic gigolo-bird)

“Baby you are on the cutting edge of philosophy. You are where the action is. You are on the front line of metaphysics. You can’t trust anything. You cannot know if anything is real.”

161/1662 One man’s uncle is another man’s “I’ll do anything for money”

on dec 2 I will wake up with a marvellous idea o fhow to complete the Greater Islington project and therby


[an undated entry in the dead man's diaries... no explanation is offered... the following sketch accompanies the entry, captioned "astral cubic being"]

Bored? You're bored?

How can you be bored with the whole internet to play with?

Did anyone notice I just learned a new HTML tag?

Dose of literature for today II

(for your dose of literature for the day I + high court story + the original dose of literature)

...

(painted on my eye the impenetrable blue jelly of 'this world')

Poe I think of Poe with the opium horrors groping his way to the writing table at dusk or is it dawn: 'There came to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist earth.'

...

NEMA LIVE SU REVILED
On another level all this word soup has generated another presence, just as IAO generate the alifbet and just as deep structures generate surface structures. I have called the other presence tentatively God. It may not be God. It may not be another presence. It may originate from:
(1) The machine or part of the machine.
(2) My brain or part of my brain.
(3) Some physical outside source, neither machine nor brain.
(4) Some non-physical outside source.
(5) Nowhere and nothing (in the case it really is God).
(6) One of the ten combinations of (1) through (5), in pairs.
(7) One of the ten combinations of three of (1) through (5).
(8) One of the five combinations of four of (1) through (5).
(9) All of (1) through (5).
(10) None of the above.

It all operates like some think tank, where all the words, in crisp shirts (plastic pocket protector for slide rule, red pencil, black pencil, pen) confer - run around conferring - the important words forming their teams of lesser words, talking up enthusiasm for this project: 'All right, fellas, the buzzword around here today is going to be "epiphany". Bounce that idea around, examine the macro-structure, get the big depth picture. Sam, you'll be handling the theological end of this, I want to see you work nice and close with Bud's team, they're looking at the "weak force" angle. Let's get at the interface of this problem, guys. Let's state our tentative objective as the answer to "Who made you?" '

Then in the beginning was the word, only now there's too much word, its face is like a teleprompter and the answers keep rolling across, answers to questions I haven't thought of asking yet - have I? - and there isn't any way of shutting it off. Maybe my mind is doing all its thinking at the same time, maybe there isn't any 'time' here...

- Bob Shairp presumably whilst trapped in limbo after being uploaded to Muller-Fokker computer tape, in The Muller-Fokker Effect, John Sladek (pp43-44, Panther Books 1972 paperback ed.)

Deja morte: just like the good old days

[redacted]

I wish I could find words of such power that into two or three I could distill the essence, the flavour of the insanity... spreading out a sheet on the pavement near the market to flog all my redundant possessions, watching the Sunday strollers and the church-goers stop to flip through books or browse through bric-a-brac... living on the run out of a shoulder-bag with a laptop and a single change of clothes... begging 30p to get money for a Dunn's River Nurishment drink (vanilla, of course), ah that went down nicely, first protein and sugar molecules of the day, have another cigarette and then get on the phone to negotiate a grand and a half out of a newspaper editor for a story... checking into detox and then doing a runner, cold and clammy and then hot and shivering like an epileptic in the backseat of a cab racing north through London winterdark, swigging cognac that does nothing to take the edge off, and oh my God this city is beautiful at night, and some evil drum and bass is pumping from the radio and the devil has the best tunes and we're laughing together as we reach Holloway Road, only five minutes away from salvation of my eternal soul...

[redacted]
Time flickers back into existence, and the terrifying question of what to do with it all... get my kicks wandering store aisles and valuable things drop into my pockets by magic... It's ninja training,[redacted]
 Perhaps because I spat on providence I found myself, not long afterwards, in a police holding cell, under arrest for something I didn't do, noticing they hadn't taken my belt from me and looking for somewhere to loop the end over... It was a bitter dark cold winter, trapped in London by bail and addiction... But the winters always are like that, damn this cold and Protestant north.

But the fearful, the absurd question of time... what should I be doing now?

Just breathe... That might be a good place to start... keep breathing, it's very important you keep breathing...

I am staying for a time with the Nietzschean psychedelic-fascist bitch wife (that's a term of endearment, here) one of the original characters on realgem and whose fault everything is and the malung bones is not far either... it feels much better here in South London, away from streets whose familiarity sickens me, like I have trodden them so many times I have worn holes in surface reality and don't want to see the nauseous squalid truth underneath...[redacted]

We shout and swear at each other... 'What is the chocolate spread doing there?' - 'What, it's not fucking doing anything... look at it, it's a fucking jar of chocolate spread... it's being taught to like being wherever it's put, right by that spoon, it has no fucking choice in the matter...' - 'No, I mean... fuckin hell, Mike... you're a weirdo.' - 'I'm making some fucking chocolate toast. Fuck, what?' [redacted]

Angels

A complex system of mirrors, floating in mid-air against the background of a cell-block.

It is actually a gigantic kaleidoscope, the permutations of which reveal the totality of all possible universes, and as such is also the sculpture of an angel, which are essentially kaleidoscopes praising God, although they can assume many forms. A gigantic kaleidoscope with connected spectrograph, radio telescope, a ground FM aerial, several genuine vacuum tubes, and a rebuilt prototype CCTV camera. It revolves around itself, and is powered by only the stripped and flayed nervous system of a dragonfly, embedded in an organic computer chip.

It is possible to build one using materials found on every well-stocked astral plane.

...but only the silent and hideous ones

I, too, watch for the silent and hideous ones. A glimpse can be caught sometimes, in an eye or a particular walk. I am compelled, having recognised one, to not ignore them like a sane person and hurry on, eyes front, to the pool of light under the next streetlamp. Instead I have to court danger, flirt with madness, violence, sudden brutal death.

Why? There is something, maybe, I hope to learn from them. But I cannot openly approach them for teaching, of course, it is not the nature of the game. I have to attract their malevolent gaze, make it fall on me. I have to provoke them to play, I have to give them something worth their attention. Why should they deign to match their powers against mine? To present them an entertaining diversion requires extra-ordinary mental toughness from me.

This mental toughness is why I have taken to playing the game. I am honing my fighting instinct to a fine edge, and my consciousness and alertness expand, in every area of my life.

I don't even know how the gun got in my hand
Five bullets, five names, and a contract worth 500 grand

My only apology is for what I have never done
Five bullets, five names, and my head swinging high in the moonlit sky

(Barry Adamson Whispering Streets, from the King of Nothing Hill)

press Play

(video from MisterSable)

Dancing with the Devil

yeah so this is to the Marcuses and the Deans, the Double-Ds and the Js:

"any motherfuckin coward can serve drugs,

any bitch nigger with a gun can bust slugs..."

(Immortal Technique, Dancing with the Devil)

don't cross my path again...

(This YouTube video has the Immortal Tech track over a video-montage of weird Bohemian Grove, Skull & Bones and NWO related images and footage... the link is to the Infowars.com website... as endorsed by Abu Abdullah...)

Ewige blumenkraft

(c) c. f.

(hint: click on photo to enlarge...)

greetings to friends in afghanistan!

Support the Taliban, buy Afghani heroin

peace and love and guns and opium!

waziri tribal woman (c) lea h.

(copyrights in all photos enforced by AK74...)

The Summoning of the Dark Matter

Question: What is dark matter and what is it good for?

Answer: A theoretical astro-physical concept to explain the missing ghost mass in the universe.

The intangible ineffable creative intelligence of the universe is also "dark". The ghost in the machine is also invisible.

We summon dark matter. The dark matter will permeate our being and alter it, and emit dark rays. We invoke dark matter from the universal information matrix, or the non-locality matrix, and manifest it as an egg in our local space-time. We summon more dark matter.

It will reach a critical mass and collapse the structure of the space-time around it. Dark matter will then begin to pour into our locality from the outer reaches of the galaxy.

Dark matter is the medium of molecular intelligence. The creative force of "anti-entropy", the birth of ever-more complex forms, is a function of dark matter, just as gravity is a function of mass.

Dark matter acts as an attractor of wealth and fortune. Do not assume your own definitions of wealth and fortune will apply here. Dark matter attracts unpredictability (chaos contains more information). It binds and twists disparate threads. Its nature is hyper-linked rather than linear. It is the driving force of evolution. It is the material basis of intelligence and consciousness. It is the aether, it is the orgone, the chi, the prana.

We summon dark matter. We develop further the means, the rituals, the programmes and codes by which to summon more. Our ability to programme the non-locality matrix increases with the amount of dark matter in our cells, and our summonings and invocations become more powerful. The process is exponential. The effort is in a) initiating the process and b) achieving the critical mass.

Take a deep breath now. Clear your mind and listen to one or two breath-cycles without thinking. There, that's all the preparation necessary.

Now see, in your mind's eye, the glittering molecular vastness of the universal matrix, or a representation thereof. You only have to see it for a few seconds. Visualise the interstellar gulf, see the stars and galaxies spin and whirl and collapse and die; see the nebulae, the novae, the black holes, the clouds of incandescing gas spiralling down the sink-hole of the universe.

Speak – aloud or internally, it doesn't matter – but speak forcefully. "I summon the dark matter!" you can say. "I manifest dark matter! From the depths of the non-locality matrix, I call the dark matter!"

Before you, a dark egg starts forming, a floating purple-black form. See the dark matter pour from the vastness of the universe into this form floating before you.

Once you have felt the rush of dark matter in the arteries of the universe, you may turn back to more mundane things. Absorb the dark matter into your being, or allow it to disperse into your locality. Fold the universe carefully once you are finished with it. Look about you and breathe.

The process should take ten seconds, no more. You have begun the great work of summoning dark matter into our locality. Trust your intuition in these things. Dark matter actively seeks to infiltrate this reality. You will be provided with signs and instructions.

It has begun.

Good night

Sleep tight

If I feel like, I might

Dream I’m falling

While hidden elephant men are calling

And a great jungle crawling

With life. And insects chattering

Glints of moonlight pattering

Softly

Onto the canopy.

The sick II

On an endless night of nauseating desperate lonely lust (“the lonely lust of devildom”), a sneering voice spoke inside a sick man’s mind: “GOODNESS? Fuck that, it’s nothing to do with goodness, it’s a LACK OF COURAGE. You wouldn’t have the FORCEFULNESS to drag that unspeakable feminist bitch inside, tie her hands back with her bra and fuck her. I know you fantasize it. I know she does – she told me herself. I know her inside out – there’s no reason you’d want to ‘respect’ that hypocritical slut.”

Jack Cinammon, deranged, was on his knees in the corner of the tiny bathroom, head swimming, staring at the fungus whose folds billowed out of the rotten corner where the moisture pooled. A vagina, it was – Jack swayed as he leaned his face, brows knitted in absurd concentration, closer to it – a vagina swimming in and out of focus, a vagina with luxurious folds in rich cream and beige.

Jack sat on his heels and stared at it, stumped by the miraculousness and marvel of God’s creation, of this beautiful and nauseating creature – creature? a fungus was most definitely not a vegetable, Jack knew, or thought he knew, or perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps it was an aggregation of slime molds, an organism preparing to break apart into its component cells, each one of which would crawl off in a separate direction (some would devour each other) until it was time to gather together and meld again for purposes of reproduction.

“The sick is in your mind,” echoed a dismissive voice in a Russian accent.

Summoned from the deep

I’m on the inside of the circle, looking out.

Who called?

The starlight is cracked and smeared outside the perimeter,

Beings are present, but blurred.

Why am I trapped?

Why am I hungry?

The sick

Yesterday I heard the machine grinding in the depths of my ruined abdomen. It’s bolted to my spine and supported by wires riveted to the inside of my lower ribs. Sometimes it spurts corrosive waste through my bleeding rectum, to drip down my legs and burn open sores on the insides of my thighs.

I don’t even know what its function is. If I carefully pry open the cracks in my stomach I can see parts of it, cogs and wheels and valves and tubes, gurgling and grinding. I think it’s expanding, pushing steel cables down into my legs and up into my arms.

The two bones of my forearm are slowly moving apart. The flesh between them is stretching and will soon tear, and I can feel metal parts moving around inside. My hands are almost useless, now, and starting to turn blue and nerveless. What am I turning into?

Study hard, go to bed early, and rob banks on the weekends.

feral children have unwittingly invoked ancient alien war gods…

There are people you don’t want to let into your home. You don’t want to eat with them, you don’t want to give them anything, to speak with them or to know them. They will grasp onto anything that will give them even a little power over you. Dealers in ill-understood energies, they are. An incautious word, a toenail paring, a secret memory, the flavour and atmosphere of the space where you live – they collect these things like a child collects toys. You will find your energies being used in nefarious and furtive magics, your karmas entangled with foreign and alien ones.

You can shoot them in the belly and knees and leave them alive to suffer. But you don’t know if that’s the worst punishment you could give them. Maybe lying for months in hospital they will finally find peace of mind, come out changed men, having found the strength and happiness within. You wanted them to suffer, but you’ve enlightened them instead.

“Decide what you want, now. Because you’re going to get it.”

I chained my bike to a nearby bull elephant and went to score a rock of crack. When I got back someone had shot the elephant for its ivory and nicked the seat of my bike.

It sounds like a big angry machine, chewing on the souls of k heads, spitting them out to cower gibbering in the corners clutching the floors. The techno is alive. It will bring you things, bring you drugs, but it doesn’t like to be switched off. It wants your energy, it wants your mind.

and the kids, the empty-eyed kids looking from the gloomy warehouse corners...

still here, somewhere...

it's such another story, you've heard it all before...

drug-addicted, homeless with a luigi rossi shoulderbag and full telecommunications access... oh, how i love the future...

but some interesting stuff has been happening...

Demons drink from human skulls
And souls are up for trade
Take wine and drugs and join us in
The Devil's Masquerade...

Palestinian Graffiti

Okay, and it's my favourite Banksy yet:









That Banksy has been doing the subversive graffiti thing on the big apartheid security wall in Israel/occupied Palestine.

Hey, but that crazy Arofish guy did it first!

Anti-jokes

A man walks into a bar... yeah? So...

A man walks into a bar... He walks up to the bar and orders a drink. He is an alcoholic. His addiction to drink is slowly killing him, and destroying his wife, his family and all those who are dear to him. In a drunken stupor, once, he ran a red light and drove over a four-year-old schoolgirl. She survived, though only just, spending four months in a coma with a severely fractured skull. He didn't stop.

Haaaahahahahahahaaaahahaa!! Let's have another one!

There's an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scot, yeah?

So there's an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scot. They are queueing at the local Tesco. The Englishman picks up a TV listings magazine and leafs through it in a desultory manner while he waits with a trolly full of his family's weekly shopping. The Irishman is uncomfortably hot and restless, tapping his foot nervously and reading and re-reading the labels on the bottles of wine he is waiting to pay for. The Scot gets fed up of waiting, decides to buy his lunch-break sandwiches at Benjy's instead, puts his shopping down and leaves.

Haaahahahaaahahahahaaa!!!!

Fucking anti-humour.

Torture in the modern age

Picked up a New York Sun story via Google News in which Jose Padilla (alleged al-Qa'ida "dirty bomb" suspect) claims that the CIA dosed him with LSD to, presumably, help break him under interrogation - see here.

LSD was studied by the CIA as a possible "truth drug" during MK-ULTRA, without much success. But as a method of sheer chemical torture, it could be notably more successful. As a sensitiser, it could potentially make you feel really miserable, depending what sort of a set and setting you were subjected to.

Of course, there are worse things than LSD. As anyone who has read Bunker 13 will know, things like BZ: a deliriant guaranteed to give you a screaming psychotic nightmare trip, while chemically stimulating the pain receptors in your nervous system.

Oh yes: chemical torture. Too flesh-crawlingly terrifying to even contemplate.

Experts in coercive interrogation recommend (should you ever have to torture anyone for vital information) to avoid inflicting pain for as long as possible, as the fear of pain is often more potent than physical pain itself. Indeed, many people surprise themselves with how well they cope with pain, when it comes.

Imagine, instead, being placed in an immersion tank, floating in body-temperature saline and deprived of all sensory input whatsoever. You are, essentially, a "brain in a bath-tub"; consiousness floating in total darkness, total silence, total emptiness. Horror vacui. This, in itself, is enough to drive most people crazy. In a matter of a few hours or so.

But before they put you in there, you are injected with prolixin - developed as an anti-psychotic, this is something like being chemically flayed - and turbocurarine, which paralyses your body and denies you any outlet, through physical movement or flailing about, from the ghastly creeping torment and panic that is slowly drowning you. If necessary, of course, they will put a tube down your wind-pipe to keep you alive for the next few days.

The sadist genius of human beings knows no limit.

This is an unpleasant thing to think about, but almost certainly, someone somewhere is undergoing treatment like this, perhaps under the aegis of your government, busy fighting the great War on Terror.

[[realgem recommended reading]] Excellent and thoughtful article from Atlantic Monthly on the dark art of interrogation, speculating what Khalid Sheikh Muhammad may have gone through


... Or maybe they just gave him the LSD treatment...

"After 48 hours, the suspect cracked and began to reveal vital operational intelligence. It was established that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, and that there is no such thing as death. Further, evidence was gained which seems to bear out suspicions that life is only a dream, and that we are merely the imagination of ourselves..." [remember Bill Hicks...]

Asymmetric warfare

New addition to the sidebar blogroll: Global Guerillas. Fascinating and authoritatively-written open notebook on "4th generation warfare": encompassing explorations of emergence (in the sense of spontaneously self-organising systems - all this alliteration is unintentional, by the way), open-source and networks as metaphors applied to theories of guerilla warfare, and post-modern insurgency in the age of the internet.

Also gypsy-ass bad motherfucker Robert Young Pelton's website comebackalive.com - if you haven't heard of this man and his work, please to check out the website. Found by browsing on the Black Flag Cafe forums: "Hitler's Drugged Soldiers" - RYP quotes the full text of an article discussing German military use of drugs and alcohol under the Third Reich. (Excerpts:)

Many of the Wehrmacht's soldiers were high on Pervitin when they went into battle, in a Blitzkrieg fueled by speed. The German military was supplied with millions of methamphetamine tablets during the first half of 1940. The drugs were part of a plan to help pilots, sailors and infantry troops become capable of superhuman performance. The military leadership liberally dispensed such stimulants, but also alcohol and opiates, as long as it believed drugging and intoxicating troops could help it achieve victory over the Allies. But the Nazis were less than diligent in monitoring side-effects like drug addiction and a decline in moral standards... During the short period between April and July of 1940, more than 35 million tablets of Pervitin and Isophan [methamphetamine] were shipped to the German army and air force...

Franz Wertheim, a medical officer who was sent to a small village near the Western Wall on May 10, 1940, wrote the following account: "To help pass the time, we doctors experimented on ourselves. We would begin the day by drinking a water glass of cognac and taking two injections of morphine. We found cocaine to be useful at midday, and in the evening we would occasionally take Hyoskin," an alkaloid derived from some varieties of the nightshade plant that is used as a medication. Wertheim adds: "As a result, we were not always fully in command of our senses."

[and of course Hitler's prescribed daily methamphetamine shots and Goering's morphine addiction are well documented]

... indeed, we were feeling positively... asymmetric...

The God experiment

This god experiment is a good one. Walk around pretending that you're god. If you can do it, it will force you to take responsibility. For everything. Furthermore, since you are god, everything you have created is by definition good, even if you don't remember why you created it that way right at the moment. It is the best psychological experiment ever to conducted on yourself.

I am god. The little psychos kicked my ribs in and I was laughing and laughing because they didn't understand that it was really me kicking me. I pain hurt I love pain magnificent I keep walking, I walk over broken bottles, the pain kills a little more of you and then the scar tissue doesn't feel no more...

I am god... She walked away and I cried and I was her walking away ("I didn't realise til you walked away you had the perfect ass/Forgive me for not falling in love with your face or conversation" Leonard Cohen) and I was the tears and I was the smirking workman who had listened to our conversation standing on the corner.

I am god. Where I used to bow my head and hide my face, I now smile benignly on all my creation. Especially that Turkish girl in the short black dress. How do I know I'm god? When I take drugs, other people stop working.

But what happens when god gets stoned? He starts making silly jokes. Like "what goes boing boing boing BOOM!" It's a suicide bomber on a pogo stick, like you probably remember. Now the fucking dog is enthusiastically licking god's hand and offering its head to be scratched. God's scalp is itching, too. A strange depression fell over god at the Kings Cross end of Caledonian Road. He wondered what the fuck he had been thinking when he created it all.

This is not as difficult as it seems! Try it and you will understand. This text is merely to illustrate the idea.

Yes, god... you created that street full of vicious kids with empty eyes and iron bars. I use the word "mine" (as in "mine creation") a little sourly in this situation. "Whose is it all?" Shit, I don't know, I don't give a fuck, I always try...

try what? Distracted by some atrocious bullshit. God allowed himself to be distracted by himself. This could get really schizophrenic. Is the end of that sentence lost forever?

Nevermind that. I can see into the future now as well, though only about three seconds. This fellow here, he might be an important sorceror or initiate of hidden doctrines, however you would have it. It seems he can read god's mind. Of course god doesn't like this particularly.

God is a pathological optimist and adjusts his attitude accordingly.

The ceilings have eyes and so do the floors
And so do the faces nailed to the walls

PR and publicity review: Hezbollah, the Taliban and Gen. Musharraf

Found on Newsweek: PR tips from Hezbollah's publicity consultant.

(Also note the images of the front covers of the four separate Newsweek issues. Asia: "Losing Afghanistan". Latin America: "Losing Afghanistan". Europe: "Losing Afghanistan". US: "My life in pictures".)

Then we have videos from Afghanistan, from the communications department of Dadullah Akhund. I liked the music in the first one, but the second one is the fascinating one, where he's handing out slips of paper to suicide bomb volunteers. Look at that first boy, so pretty, and how he can't keep a straight face at the martyrdom video bit at the end where he's meant to be gesticulating at the camera angrily. Can you peer through someone's face into their mind?

Via MoorishGirl, Gen. Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan (YouTube) plugging his memoir on the Daily Show in the US. Interesting short interview. If you're interested in that sort of thing.

And something more lighthearted, from susiebright - magic striptease act from Ursula Martinez.

Addiction: a metaphor for everything

Is it time to expand our definition of "addiction"?

Scientific evidence suggests that we should. Apparently, illegal drugs only crudely imitate the more natural "highs" that most of us get from wholesome habits -- using internal chemistry to reinforce love of family, music, skill, beauty or country.

Is this why so many find it easy to "just say no" to drugs? Because we already know how to press the same buttons... inside our minds?

What follows is an open letter to scientists who could answer such questions. Especially the following:

Might some addictive mental states be doing as much harm to society as all the heroin, cocaine and crack on our streets, combined?

[...]

I want to zoom down to a particular emotional and psychological pathology. The phenomenon known as self-righteous indignation.

We all know self-righteous people. (And, if we are honest, many of us will admit having wallowed in this state ourselves, either occasionally or in frequent rhythm.) It is a familiar and rather normal human condition, supported -- even promulgated -- by messages in mass media.

While there are many drawbacks, self-righteousness can also be heady, seductive, and even... well... addictive. Any truly honest person will admit that the state feels good. The pleasure of knowing, with subjective certainty, that you are right and your opponents are deeply, despicably wrong.

Sanctimony, or a sense of righteous outrage, can feel so intense and delicious that many people actively seek to return to it, again and again. Moreover, as Westin et.al. have found, this trait crosses all boundaries of ideology.

Indeed, one could look at our present-day political landscape and argue that a relentless addiction to indignation may be one of the chief drivers of obstinate dogmatism and an inability to negotiate pragmatic solutions to a myriad modern problems. It may be the ultimate propellant behind the current "culture war."

If there is any underlying truth to such an assertion, then acquiring a deeper understanding of this one issue may help our civilization deal with countless others.

[full text here; An Open Letter to Researchers of Addiction, Brain Chemistry and Social Psychology from David Brin, Ph.D.]

"Take strange drugs and wines that foam..." Observe and see what forms of drunkenness assail thee...


(neglect not thy pranayama...)


take strange drugs and wines that foam...

horror vacui

(nothing more)

Hello seeking searching world

People end up here in various ways as is the wont with blogs and other gypsy-ass websites like this... Someone did a search on "ho [sic] much is heroin in Karachi" and sadly left without an answer (about £1 a gramme sort of thing). Some people have Googled "Rodney Anyanwu", and left disappointed that my two-part tale of the serial killer and the haunted house never got its concluding chapter (see archives if you're that interested... or easier is to Google the man's name, and I think realgem will be one of the first results.)

An interesting recent one is "putting crushed valium in a drink". Whoever you are, think hard about whatever it is you're planning to do (rohypnol or temazepam might do the trick better, but valium doesn't taste of much anything)... and do drop by again sometime...

English architecture

Consider: always baths and no showers. Consider floor to floor carpeting in bathrooms and kitchens. Consider not rinsing when washing dishes and letting them dry with soapy water on them. Yes, it's England. Consider tramping around inside with your shitty outside shoes on. These people are disgusting barbarians.

House-building has not advanced since the Victorian era. The Victorians were quiet people who were not into fat bass and therefore the sound insulation is atrocious. The drains or plumbing invariably have some sort of problems, and houses are poorly insulated against heat or more importantly, cold.

Apparently, through some accident of architectural acoustics, it is possible for the upstairs neighbours to hear everything that goes on in this room, and for me to sit in the bathroom and hear what is going on upstairs. Apparently this is so, as I received another late-night knock asking to keep the noise down. I wasn't making a noise and nor was anyone else. Or maybe my typing now is keeping them awake in bed.

I couldn't decide whether to be belligerent about it or sympathetic, so I asked: "Is it really that bad? Is the sound insulation seriously that bad?" The answer I got of yes seemed sincere. So did the "We can hear everything you're saying, we can hear the music as if it was in our room. We're trying to sleep, the kids have to get up at 7 - 7! - in the morning..." Shit, I've been waking at 5...

If that is literally true: that it is really possible to hear everything that is said in here in a normal voice... Goodness... You have been witness to some really scandalous stuff... You might as well have been reading realgem... No, better even...

If that is literally true... Well... I'm not saying anything illegal ever took place or was ever discussed, you dig? What, everything? You've heard... what exactly? Interesting proposition. You know about... that thing? and... that thing? and...

God. I wish I had such interesting neighbours. We'd have a lot in common.

Well, I do, but neighbours horizontally rather than vertically. They are wonderful people. All I ever hear from upstairs is some kid being told off. Repeatedly and at length.

I don't have curtains on my windows either, so I can always see the sky.

Tom Thumb's Tales

realgem likes. free travel stories! entertaining stories of interest to any adventurous writer or discerning blog-reader by a true gypsy-ass motherfucker... someone who is surely no stranger to the sensation of waking in a strange city in an alien land without anything but the clothes he wears and the blue flip-flops on his feet... (nor to cringing at the old writing he finds himself to have inexplicably done...)

click here or new link in the sidebar

writes better stories than i ever did of skulduggery heroin and squalor on the streets of delhi ('Jail story' here)... another from among the malung's weird gallery of acquaintances...

in practice it demonstrates that you have to be lucky to make a living as a writer, or then you have to live lucky and be a writer... and you probably still won't know why you keep doing it...

Khudi

blogger doesn't seem to support persian characters yet. this might have been better done with the scanner rather than the camera. hope you can read it.

this is a link to Khudi, Allama Iqbal's poem as adapted by Junoon and set to their "Sufi-rock". (I know people have criticised this version but you don't have to listen. It doesn't stream very well anyway.)


The first two powerful and often quoted lines can be rendered into English in many ways. like:

Endow thy will with such power

That at every turn of fate so it be

That God himself asks of his slave

"Tell me, what is it that pleases thee?" or my own loose:

Strengthen thy will with such power

That at every twist of fate

God himself asks of his slave

"Tell me: what is thy will?"

(Transliterated into English: khudi ko kar buland itna ke har taqdiir se pahle, khuda bande se khud puche: bataa, teri razaa kia hai?)

[And here I found another English-language rendering with:

Make yourself so strong that before writing your destiny, even God asks you “tell me, what is your desire?” (from here)]

Allama Iqbal is undisputedly considered the greatest poet of Pakistan / Muslim British India, writing in Urdu, Persian and English. His magnum opus was the Asrar-e-Khudi (Secrets of Self). Remaining firmly within the Muslim tradition, tending to the Sufi, his philosophy of khudi - self - or Will (in the Crowleyan sense) has echoes of Nietzsche and Goethe. He preferred writing in Persian and considered Rumi his greatest inspiration (the Persian/Afghan poet appears in some of his poems as some sort of muse or presence)...

Fantastico: Ayahuasca

Reportagem sobre a religao do Santo Daime, a igreja que usa a ayahuasca como uma bebida sagrada [[clique aqui para YouTube]]. O assiste aqui:



Eu tava muito satisfeito poder entender quasi tudo que o narrador falou, mas quando o cara da amazonia (o daimista de 43 anos) falou, nao entendi uma palavra exceto alguma coisa sobre divinidade universal. Nao sei se tem a ver com seu sotaque, o com os 43 anos da ayahuasca.

Tambem no Fantastico, o Barquinho e a estranha Uniao de Vegetal, [[aqui]] o aqui:


(Brazilian prime-time Globo broadcasts about the Church of Santo Daime and ayahuasca and other religious groups that use it. Scan through it even if you can't understand.)

And in the news...

An old friend of Dave's and mine from down Finsbury Park has been arrested on terrorism charges... See here at News of the World (NOTW doesn't maintain an article archive, so it's now linked to a blog that quotes the whole article, minus pictures) or see the man speak on SocialistWanker.com featured videos...

Some friends have been raving in a millionaire mansion and got themselves on the front page of the Standard... Good reporting from The Times, contrasted to the cheap sensationalism of "littered with broken glass and used syringes and needles" (there were none) of the Evening Standard...

And here is a local newspaper report of the house I knocked down with the power of my will (see scaling north face) , in the Islington Gazette...

FOUR men were lucky to escape with their lives when a former crackhouse and squatters' den collapsed without warning.

A thunder-like boom was heard and clouds of dust filled the air when the floors in the four-storey house suddenly came crashing down.

(Earlier on realgem, stories from the old house, when it was still standing: Squatting stories, or, the alchemist of Camden Road, a photo of the house, Squatting stories 2, or, sexual problems of the disabled, which has some of the house's history. Between the story of SPOD and our arrival there, the house had indeed been a crack house, in case you thought the people mentioned in the Islington Gazette article were us... Needles, crackpipes, condoms thick on the floor, with little junkie nests, filthy mattresses surrounded by drug detritus, in the corners of the rooms... That was a fuck of a cleaning job... Oh, it was civilised enough there, for a "squatter's den", and when we left, only my room was littered with the odd needle... Jan-May 2005, realgem was published from the nicest, most comfortable apartment on the top floor of that old house... I almost miss it, if it weren't for the people and the memories... The office furniture manager is hopefully referring to the previous occupants in the article, who were bad crack niggers who had taken it over from some homeless working girls... They were removed by armed police and the place bricked up to rot...

Yes, I do believe buildings pick up energies, and once you've pieced the story of the Camden Rd house together, you will understand when I say its aura was tainted... Paulette blames that house for how things fucked up between us, and to me, it meant this...)

New

I have improved and updated scaling the north face of reality, the ibogaine story...

doc o has a blog, finally... and i've added a few more blog links, plus a new publication...

temporary aversion to sitting at the keyboard... i'll be around...

The in-between states

The Tibetan Book of the Dead, so called, is known as the Bardo Thodol in Tibetan. An alternate translation of the title gives us something like the Book of Instructions for the In-between States.

Generally, that means death. Traditionally, 49 days pass between death and reincarnation in a new body, and the Bardo Thodol gives instructions on how to handle the in-between state and not be tempted by the illusory beautiful and hideous deities and visions.

But bardo need not occur at death. Other events may trigger it. At certain points in life, too, one may enter a bardo, an in-between state, when the linearity of consciousness slips, when the record jumps, when you have the opportunity to catch the right wave to a new level of frequency. To peel away one more layer from prime reality. (The alternative, then... is to drop back into the same programmed pattern.)

Emerging stripped clean, zeroed, nulled, emerging once more into physical reality and time and the surprising sensation of being alive and existing in time, I feel I may be in a bardo state. May Avalokiteshvara the Buddha of Compassion help me keep my mind on the true light, and bless all of you beautiful people. Aum Mani Padme Hum.

The little lessons of evolution

Cro-Magnon men swept out their caves. Neanderthal's didn't.

ummm.... what was the reason for doing this blogging thing again... ah... you see, i am learning everything anew, having only been alive a few days. but i have a hazy memory of it from a previous life and these things will hopefully come back to me.

ah yes, that was it, the words that started it all: If you are idle, be not solitary, and if you are solitary, be not idle, as dr j said.

i will be, hopefully, insh'allah, be publishing lots of writing soon. i may get another blogspot address for it. you people, whoever you are, who still keep checking here to see if there has been any movement, will doubtless be able to track it down... you clever people, you beautiful people, you who will never grow old...