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?
20.3.07
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.)
17.3.07
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]
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]
10.3.07
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.
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.
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.
9.3.07
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)
5.3.07
Dancing with the Devil
yeah so this is to the Marcuses and the Deans, the Double-Ds and the Js:
(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...)
"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...
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...)
2.3.07
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...)
28.2.07
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.
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.
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?
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...
