March 1st

i end up wondering where i’ve been, what i’ve been doing… these questions are the basic building blocks to the unanswerable ‘who am i?’

it’s not just drugs that make me blank- although weed and alcohol have certainly played their part in burning the seat of my consciousness out, they’re not as vital to the process of forgetting as sheer repetition: the rinse and repeat of going to work every day, hanging out at the same places, eating the same things- the unendurable sameness of every moment spent alone pissing down the proverbial drain.

the high moments- feeling a lover’s lips leave a trail of kisses down my chest, finishing a song, reading a good book- the moments that make me hunger for more are vibrant  lifelines i cling to so fiercely that i sometimes fear burning out the faculty for bliss- the electrical pulse from nerve to nerve to neuron blowing the whole motherboard out- fizz, crackle, pop and hiss, smoke snaking away from that one time only glimpse through the door of heaven when i should have just stepped on in.

i am a chronic writer of letters- i scrawl and type away my life until i have nothing to write about but the writing itself- despairing the postmodernity of self observance- Jung mapped the unconscious but Heisenberg  laid the groundwork for the neurotic mind’s exploration of its own self-consciousness- grasping at an elusive enemy and always a second too late- they’ve moved on to a new iteration before you’ve had time to understand the old.

i recently remixed the 2nd MOL album ‘let prayers carry on and words fall like rain’, originally recorded in 2002. my lyrics at the time were centered around a hopeless and damaging infatuation with a woman completely incapable of ever wanting or loving me. for a long period i avoided listening to this album because i wanted to forget the spiritual sickness i fostered back then- the short circuiting of my own will with a hairshirt of prudery, the over-emotional melodrama and idol worship of someone that was just a fucked up human being like everyone else… the shame and regret i feel about that time in my life are no longer based on guilt over the bullshit i put others through, just the throwing away of my own precious time for no good reason- the great blank fugue state gap running across years and years. i remember but i don’t- any ‘happiness’ i had back then was entirely of my own mental reconstruction and never shared with anyone else- and those fictional happy moments became avoidances, mental repression- small blossoming voids that merged and ate my youth. i’m 30 now, but i feel so much frigging younger mentally- so little experienced at living compared to my peers after that self-imposed prison sentence.

i’ll be talking about the past with someone i am close to that i met in the years since- and i’ll feel a kind of sorrow that we missed the opportunity to meet each other at an earlier moment, to have more time together- but that feeling passes with the sure knowledge that the ordeals i put myself through were vital to being who i am now, even if i can’t say for certain who this current incarnation of myself is. i just know i’m capable of liking myself, of feeling affection for and from someone else beyond the black hole of solipsism, of drinking deep of the present moment and paying no mind to the past or the future… and no matter how bad my seeming amnesial episodes get, i won’t forget those things.

March 3rd

a night of vivid and strange dreams: surprisingly uncomfortable and turned off while watching a young friend play lipstick lesbian picture phone porn games (i must be getting old); mugged and beaten for my money and pants in my own home while waiting for a mover’s truck; a trip to Nigeria- taking part in some sort of dance ritual with a sexual subtext, hanging out with the ghost of Fela Kuti, women crush aphrodisiac beans into a paste for a strong psychedelic aphrodisiac drink; my lover, dressed in a vermillion dress, visits me at a shifting amalgamation of the houses i’ve lived in- the big dumb cat from downstairs gets in the apartment and causes trouble

at a bar last night talking about the shift in the earth’s axis due to the quake in Chile- it brings back memories of my father scaring the shit out of me when i was a small child talking about the end of the world- “the world’s magnetic poles’ll shift- here comes the tidal wave!” he’d tell me that one day the rumble of planes flying low over our house on the way to the airport might just actually be a giant wave coming to crush and drown me… fun guy my father.

and honestly i am a bit disturbed by the implications of this quake- if a butterfly flapping its wings can be seen as linked to a hurricane in the chaotic flux of connections around us- how much more so a devastating geological event and its future repercussions.

march 8th

yesterday’s entry was not to be- wrote what i thought was a rather profound meditation on sex and the void in an ‘enhanced’ state, but it seems the title of this journal has had an influence on its content.

been rather lax in my writing here… absorbed in research on two figures of the previous century that inform the practice of magic in this one: Austin Osman Spare and Aleister Crowley. i’ve read the works and biographical material of both gentleman much in the past, but am now giving them intense attention for an as yet unnamed project in which i will be engaging myself over the course of the next year.

the secret to my steadily improving character and demeanor in the past few years has been a result of setting tasks before myself and losing my excess anxiety, neurotic overflow, destrudo and general insanity in the trance states my working methods depend on. i still fall, disperse, breakdown- my demons are no less potent, perhaps they are moreso now than ever- but i am able to come back to myself that much easier, with less need of assistance from others.

perhaps that last is inevitable from necessity alone: many of my friends have started to drift away and i have never been adept at making new accquaintances let alone achieving the burning spiritual, intellectual and emotional intensity that a few of my friends and me have had. the moment was here and where has it gone? does ‘time’ have an independent reality outside of that as a word with which we try to explain an aspect of our existence? i’m halfway convinced that the idea complexes revolving around the word time, and by extension all life’s future in death, are just fear reactions to what we are and what we will be: an illusionary grid of shrill phonetics and ideograms laid over something we can’t explain but spend all our lives screaming when to a majority of the moving particles in the universe we are completely inscrutable: semi-autonomous packets of matter based information, less conscious and more cogs in a process: we are merely the text messages of an unknowable goddess: and so i try to make it the most interesting, erotic and bst txt msge y’ll evr get lol…. the instinct to say as much as possible with minimum effort to speed up communication- YOU’VE GOT TO SLOW SHIT DOWN- and i mean right the fuck now, you’re always binding yourself to someone else’s schedule- even your own- take the clock or the phone or the job and all the limiting concepts of time your social order or a creator god force fucks you int the throat with and throw them out the fucking window- enjoy the moment you come together with another person for all it’s worth and fuck all else… i look at the void and we laugh

Marsh 99

the conservation of yr crowley gardening amyl… still twisted with magicians, reading for the past 12 hours, still questioning time as i gulp down skeptical biographies and grimy grimoires- a few new breakthroughs and serious deja vu. an idea for a ritual which might give me better perspective on the project. coincidences: thinking of re-reading the heroic epics and some guy on the bus has his head in a book on the Trojan War; walking to work listening to a song about a murderer AC was banned from lecturing on, thinking of a character in the story i intend to write being followed and suddenly i definitely hear and sense someone behind me- no one there, i turn back and two strange men drive by staring at me as if looking for trouble- a warning  to awake alertness in the face of imminent danger?; the same shit repeating from a previous life/version of my personality at a different place on the time space axis- but only superficially- chill, son. don’t repeat the past- be a heretic because a heretic can choose wise..

wahat’ssthngul vuldan:0 sp”’raid v.neintellkat.. sml vgnis

MARS XIII

TH KEYE TO THE INFERNAL AETHYRS

i know the way to hell- you will never forget it once you’ve been there: no fugue- a sheer attention to soul killing detail, constant post-modern auto-commentary

you that seek the path- the circle of inferno may be entered through your hand- a photograph, a touch, a text: what ominous portents you choose to read  unfold the flower of atrocity’s hungry petals viral reproduction through your various chakra

dead shells want to break open: i’m sick at the click and quiver of the queen’s court dress of insect wings: i want fresh flesh and mind melting into hot asymmetrical  ecstasies, ever willing to suck sameness and difference together

the key is the faculty for attention- look at a thing- some small phrase you might think is harmless: and it becomes a choir of angels whipping my face, maggot wriggling thought repetition, the thorns of the garden of analysis

i am ignorant in this.

PATRICK”S EVE

i am finding it harder to remember where i am and where i’ve been, but i never forget where i want to be. the image of desire must never take the place of its actualization- it must be kept at a distance, and viewing must be treated as sacred. when the spell is accomplished, destroy the icon and drink deep from the real.

patrick is the friend and avatar of the snake god- he charms, but is true in his seduction.

am i true? i doubt even my own motives. when did i stop thinking i was the worst creature to walk the earth? does that mean it’s time to start worrying?

i walked down the street to get some beer this evening- the lingering warmth in the air had me feeling out of sorts. spring comes in, green electricity emits from the grey shell that held it in the cold. it’s supposed to be the start of a cycle but i can’t be shaken from staring toward death. paraphrasing: “life’s a whore, death’s her fee”. i want to celebrate life, to feel joy at the existence of those i love- and to do this, i can’t help but see their end- it drives me to appreciate all the more the fleeting moments we have together for as long as they may last, spurred by fear i love all the stronger. it is the only way i can turn my weakness to strength, even if it makes me a shivering wreck. when accidents happen, or there’s a near miss, and i’m reminded of finality, i want to hold you to confirm that you’re still breathing your light steady rhythm, to feel the slow strong heartbeat sending its red message through the arms around me.

patrick, friend of snakes, hear the request of the snake within me- watch over your daughter, show her wisdom and affection, keep her safe and guide her to her happinness.