GRAMMAR OF THE RED THREAD
intercourse between goddess and serpent
as recorded by ssy the aural oracle
1: meditations of the reptile brain
2: converse with the goddess
3: aura kallisti
4: the abyss
5: the return
6: ssy
1 : meditations of the reptile brain
i can see the crystals jaggedly spiraling away from a single point within the circumference of the world that exists between us abstracted as a circle/sigil/ward- reptilian repetition so as to give the illusion of variation, as if every story weren’t the same story, the same script, transmitted in binary biochemical signals, selfsame serpents writhing in oil slick rainbows, gorgeous gorgons and the hibernaculum inside my skull on the breast of the advent of the goddess who gives birth only to skeletons, eye/i/aye/ia/i am the meat between her teeth: iago or lloigor or egregore? numinous networks hide our forgotten flesh, tendrils extending further than the average blinded eyes can see- the story of Oedipus Christ fucking the Black Virgin of Guadalupe, the cross reverse engineered to save no one, no sins to be saved from, labyrinthine waveform mazes of mixed drinks got me punch-drunk and pornographic nasty hard core xxx coming buckets hot death affection induced sleep (fear of affection induced sleep) fear of alien affection, affection returned and the resonance between induced dreams- dreams eat dreams, love eats dreams love eats love, resonance produced friction- friction produced traction, alien affection begat alienation-
waiting for the storm to break, the earth buzzes with power, electricity, the durm and strang of constellations, signs, portents i want to walk the no man’s land of a woman’s hand.
fertility of the earth’s no longer a question- rebirth was only an excuse to ignore the coming end-sleep-goodnight- realization via similarity/resonance/harmonic vibration/complimentary dissonance- we shed the sheathe of now and become the serpentine souls of our ancestors.
i watched her see her sight as she unfolded like the petals of a flower in heat. as her fingers moved through my aura in the dance i almost came painfully- if every cell in my body could explode into its constituent waters to wash her for a moment i need never breathe again.
everyone’s asleep and the psychic pressure against the wards is gone- relax and hear the screams and whispers hidden in the bowels of the machine, choked down under the gaze of the sun glinting off iridescent meat on a rusty hook, alive with the joy of insect larvae, vile and shiny with rancid oils drip dropped on gravel covered broken concrete platforms, heat dancing mirages and then a frigid ache in the cavernous florescence- where everyone’s dead or ugly or dead to the rest of the word- if you don’t bend you break, and you’ll only erode anyway-
we watch for the message in grey skies and the skin of a TV eaten by static and covered with dust, broken electrical entrails wriggle cross her delectable legs- i’m entering flames
i walk in the demon body and i cannot be contained
i walk as the pale thing twisted by battlefield surgeons
i walk in the the demon body/ this body has three demon lovers for three divine women with one eye/ one woman with three eyes, a multitude of arms-
KALI comes as an eye in the sky electric snake rising up my spine as a ladder to meet her Kill All Life Instantly Kiss Aureolas Lactating Infinity Kettle And Liquid Inside Knowledge Activated Like Incendiaries Kids Are Little Insects Karma Arranges Living Iterations Kneeling At Legs Intersection Kinesis As Life Itself Kevlar Armored Lawmen Immolated Kaleidoscopic Auras Lovers Immanentize Knocking After Long Intervals
his and hers or hiss and hearse?
11 : ELEVEN : the eleventh path, the eleventh hour, eleven snakes in the goddess’s hair
i’m looking for her where no one’s supposed to look passersby in the face unless they’re ready for trouble- eyes to the sidewalk watching for sudden shadows: broken bottle, blunt wrap, black smudges of ancient chewing gum, someone’s ripped the leaves from off a city planner’s sickly tree- just for the hell of it. the aimless free flow of kinetic energy wearing the masks of rage, sexual frustration, pacifying drugs, the big sleep- the energy coming thick in waves like a faked facial across orange traffic cones and jersey barrier bra straps, bent nails and broken boundaries- everything you need in a paltry handful of blocks hastily sketched in the annals of the housing authority (all this hides her eyes bright and piercing) layer upon layer of will’s subversion through digital icon paintings of what poverty looks like, gods no one could be
we’re insects in a jar: give it a shake and watch us fight.
you find yourself in a place of tangible darkness, where velvet layers say red shift and curling after trails describe subtly connected moments- as de-sublimation occurs, a vast horror of information in one dense package slams into you- download or rape? text running up screens faster than you can digest- every memory is simultaneous, no logical progression (i remembered meeting her in the future…)
what if we’re to live our lives again? can i break the cycle of endlessly drafting suicide notes? can i find you before i found you, at some earlier moment before i ruined my body, mind and soul- before my heart was offered up on a plate and left to rot? the past becomes increasingly present- Moore and Morrison’s multi-limbed larvae squiggling across the rind of the earth- a vision on the bus of every moment crystalized and interconnected, riding the old dragon downtown to the temple…
morning in the rain- the rose garden and a choir resonating outside the linearity that keeps me stupid and slamming my skull against walls- the spring and thunder, the fire of earlier heaven spreading from the back of my head engulfing 2008 manifesting (as what?) in 2009- a pothead’s joke: 4/20 (and i just burnt my bagel while typing this- the lattice of coincidence…) conversing with the elements, Howard/Phoenix rising from the ashes as a carrion bird.
chasing a partridge through rooms with crumbling plaster walls, trying to find it better food than the islands of refuse on the floor- bird becomes bird becomes bird, lunar Thoth for solar Horus, dervish whirling in the air while she teaches me words to drop as bombs over Weybosset and Westminster; hawk of Townley tearing a pigeon to shreds on the fire escapes as i rock that rock dove love- ice flying across the room with a gesture against everything.
OM KRIM KALI- she dances astride my stiffening corpse with a smile, blood striped and hungry- here’s what it is to be wanted: when life was just the stumble of fingers across a keyboard or the slow ache of a tightly gripped felt-tip trying to summon her from some phosphorescent concrete hell in the bowels of the city- voices from the rush of traffic in the dead of night taunting, as if having to listen to a loved one’s affair from the next room…
as the clock ticks down these last moments left to live i call you- i reach out with hands raw from gnawing, skin pock marked and irritated, teeth falling in my cereal bowl- i’ve spent my life wrapping up this bag of meat in stained, frayed second hand clothes- now i’m ready to strip down to the bone before death does it first if need be, to show you what i really am if that’s what it takes to feel your touch.
the recursion of spiraling neural pathways : the breasts of Cassiopeia : milk warm and fuck hungry : sobriety’s waveform envelope- where do you mark the omega and alpha but where your heart chooses to spill itself : my problem with self-editing : what happens if we all lose our capacity to censor the internal’s advent into the external?- when every hidden emotion, sexual longing, fight or flight response mechanism, anxiety driven vocalization, moment of self doubt, fit of jealousy, dangerous whim or apocalyptic desire are let loose on the world at once…
i imagine the stillness to follow- a moment lying in bed with a hand on a lover’s smooth back watching dust shine in a beam of light let through a gap in the blinds…
one morning, falling asleep- identity crisis- lives in summary- psychic surgery causing a rift between who i was and who i will be for the day i die- reflecting myself as Shiva off the body of Kali- my dreams and fantasies aren’t what they once were- what do i know about you that my subconscious conjures these alien scenes, with places i’ve never been, things i have yet to do? ”my soul is dead”- and what of my own? left to rot in the sun, unwanted sacrifice only to be reborn for its cyclical slaughter- if the circle is broken, does that mean i am to be broken as well?- and if circles are wards, or representative of the sorcerer’s world and his place in it, am i leaving one world for another larger and only to once again repeat the self-destructive restriction?
the oroboros in its complimentary roles of self generation and self dissolution, twin snakes birthing a million replicas wriggling across unknown characters
in my war with the god of boundaries i seek a truce- that i may pass from one world to another, that i might learn what lines are not to be crossed in fostering affection sprung from affinity, that i may know the encircling ecstasy of your arms
i’ve felt your eyes meet mine at the last second before they seek shelter in some non-transgressing direction, as my own camera on the world hides its red direction, hair and teeth, a flash of insight, the shared cup of wine… your nervous quivering entrance onto a new thread; if i could set my bloody, beating heart on a plate so that you could see my inner workings and know the gravity i feel off you, rising tides, hunger and feeding
in the most numinous sense i’m walking around with a hard-on 22-7, 2 left in tranquility letting imago flow through text, context, contact, convex vaccination at the rate of a fatal fascination- letting the secret yang and yin writhe and twist within- i could have died at the moment your hand met my shoulder (and from where did that desire spring?) forget what you want to get what you want forget what you want to get what you want forget what you want to get what you want-
THE RECURSION OF OUR INTERACTIONS IS THE DIAGRAM FOR EKSTASE WRITTEN AT THE NUMINOUS PERIMETER OF THE MACROCOSM: BREATHING EACH OTHERS’ BREATH WE ARE TWO CELESTIAL BODIES EXCHANGING ATMOSPHERE: LEARNING WHY THE ROOT OF CONSUMMATION IS CONSUME
delirium in proximity of the electric crackle traveling across your skin, when you can’t suppress a smile or keep from saying words that try to claw their way from your chest- the color of wine and the taste of sweat
i watch from across the room- the seat of my consciousness oozes through that very line of seeing- an astronaut floating above my body, heavy and distant- flaring out in the stormfronts of your radiation, sulfur at the head of a match- immediate loss of the sensory surface, scraped raw- oil bubbling from a fucked up red mess- cells buzz, build a charge, collide, break apart: burning in your atmosphere, the atomic angels fall seething with euphoria, their juices anoint the grail abysmal
CONNECTING THE DAATHS : GNOSIS, AGNOSIS, SYNCHROGNOSIS : THE AGE OF IF-FORMATION : AUSTIN OSMAN SPARE’S TECHNIQUES FOR SIGILIZATION : AURA IS THE DIVINE BREATH/VOICE/CHI/COSMIC MENSTRUUM/THE SOUL WE SHARE/THE SOUL WE EXPEL TO DIFFUSE FOREVER IN INCREMENTALLY DISTANT WAVES SEES ITS PATH IN REVERSE BACK TO THE MOMENT OF COINCIDENCE : READING THE ZEITGEIST
the shared mental space between your HERE and mine, the House Where Prayer Lives, desire’s crossroads, the advent of EKSTASE as the void takes linearity into her mouth- the progression from Buddhist to Anubis to nudist.
thinking in tongues, pus-covered rabbits gnawing at corpses, a man ripping photos of sexy fat legs out of fashion magazines and wiping his face, marking territory with alcohol laced piss, blood oranges and naughty tentacles. the air is crisp.
eyes to the ground: try following the paths of litter near any high traffic building- class doesn’t matter; we could be talking about a supermarket, a “fortune five hundred”, a high school… cigarette ends, cellophane, sandwich baggies, newspapers, junk mail, broken bits of donut. humans leave trash as if they were Hansel and Gretle walking through the forest. these trails show usage- retail outfits with heavy branding get free advertising through carelessness: your movements are dragging their psychic tendrils across the local collective unconscious landscape. excessive packaging works to the advantage of a business- how is this different from a sigil?
what of the sigils of the past, desired and left to die: questions echo like the dregs of post coital disgust…
what the fuck? what happened to days on end, sleepless, deranged on prescription speed, tapping and writhing? what happened to boozing it up so much that i’d wake up naked and face down on some unrecognizable floor smeared with the ceremonial paint of cigarette ash and blood with a slight case of the shakes that can only be cured with a morning pint? what happened to making out with damaged alcoholic women twice my age in parking lots of dive bars and vomiting my guts out in a hot acid-rain storm while halogen lights melt my eyeballs and death is the sexiest goddess i’ve ever seen?
running down the highway on a pill and dime-store Puerto Rican spiced rum cocktail, shrieking for oncoming cars to kill me, chased by the cops and hopping fences: soundtrack by Ghostface, the Last Poets, Men of fucking Letters in their drunken summoning of the shades of dead authors and belting back a few more… Damn Ez, what’s up with the antisemitism, man- not cool- hey yo, Tommy Stearns: get your Anglican ass over here and bring this dumb fuck home, he’s killing my fucking buzz. did you know: the Golden Dawn had in its membership Aleister Crowley who met William Butler Yeats who knew Ezra Pound who knew Marshall Mclhuhan who knew Buckminster Fuller who met Noam Chomsky who has met DJ Spooky who i met after he played a show at the Met Cafe years ago?
words have been exchanged. you are connected to everyone, however slight and tenuously- theses writers and artists are common ideological ancestors for just a moment- a brief ‘i admire your work’ and ’thank you’: common courtesy as a motif resounding across a line of essentially meaningless characters in the rhythm of desire one zero good bad SCREAMING INTO THE VOID… a dark place of warmth in alien body heat fields melting together
“death becomes her” for fuck’s sake, and it IS just a comedy.
munchies, relentlessly horny
late winter-early spring
2 : converse with the goddess
may the elephant headed patron of scribes bless our words that they carry our meanings as with wings
internal dialogues or heavenly diagrams? if this is the last time in this life cycle that these two bodies can touch before they osmose into oblivion, will they risk stirring up the primal waters of chaos? a flood: the red, rolling waves slamming against the world tree’s root, lightning’s flash off falling black feathers- traveling in the underworld of totems: to know this thing is to share its power: beautiful chimera, orgone engorged gorgon (her glance stiffens), this colony of nerves screaming for the feel of flesh that i call a body piloted by my mind kamikaze into the night, hungry eyed feasting fractioned across furtive glances- i want to call upon the snake in me and follow my instincts- will you meet me halfway as the goddess whose waist i encircle?
The Crazy Cloud, as if a living avatar of a Chuang-tse metaphor, wrote of both the Red Thread and the drinking bowl of a skull: between these two we stare down at our sudden release, so easy to manifest- but the word once spoken cannot be forgot:
talk to me.
with my mind a blank, my loins on fire, my heart heavy, my guts roiling… every day of the thunder god, to leap into the unknown with your eyes my lifeline.
AN ILLUSION: WHY DOES COMING CLOSER DRIVE US APART?
on this day of fire and thunder- demons test their bonds in my temporary weakness but i will not falter- the malleability of the world around me, this veil of illusion, teases me with your touch, your semblance, voice, smell, taste- i don’t feel madness tearing at me, just desire. in this state of total hopelessness there is only our will- the world tries to divide us against ourselves but we will only break if we want to be broken.
i call upon the goddess and the serpent, thunder and earth: look upon me this night- see that i am worthy of the knowledge you’ve given and guide me to where i want to be.
INCANTATIONS REVERBERATE IN MY CHEST : A VAST, DEVASTATING MANIFESTATION OF THE GODDESS, TWINNED AND PISSED : THE GODS OF THE STORM HEAR MY PRAYERS : WILL AND THE WILLINGNESS TO LISTEN
intoxication, a night that never ends, a scream builds to shake the earth, preparation, spices, your voice in my ears and my skull between your breasts
dancing as the sun comes, coming as the sun dances, the Red Thread -plucked- resonating into feedback, frenzy: i’m only torn apart so i can build myself anew: what it is to be wanted
serserghsengertgehtgthehnersnnrgsehsehrgnsegrsehhetnhsernseresnhnshngrheghesngsrehsegnsehngshrgrge
your words capture the elements you seek and build in power through a lattice of chakra up your spine amplified by a cloud of serpents from fire to air, eyeslikeknives eyeslikeknives, you can do no wrong except that which you decide is so and can always revoke the label, piss in the face of idols, making your presence felt, filling the room, destroyer goddess raising the roof to the moon on Shiva’s brow, footsteps on his chest and the blood happy tongue is not one of shame but joy sewn through the cage of my ribs down and up and down and the relativity of our directions becomes aware of itself as desire meets desire transubstantiated from the raw stuff of our will as 2=1 in the figure of eleven, the eleventh pathothosofoureencarnagenesisisisnot no doubt no home om mantra hotwired to your kissing of my fingertips in the wanderings of kundalini in the heavens exploring the wet welcomeness of Kali in the joining of ekstase with knowledge of death being only a breath away, your breath on my skin as we liquify into a spiral recursive up down up down up and around tingling buzzing curve on the rim of a funnel of blood where your hair is the goddess Nut over me the dark outer night with my hand on your cheek musk on my tongue catching your scent on my fingers for days
THE RED THREAD IS THE LINE UP OUR SPINES : THE LADDER OF HEAVEN : THE WORLD TREE WE HANG FROM FOR KNOWLEDGE : GNOSIS AND AGNOSIS MEET AGAIN THROUGH SYNCHROGNOSIS : TIKKUN IS THE REPAIR OF THE TREE OF LIFE : SNAKES EMBRACING : COMMUNICATION AT THE LEVEL OF DNA THROUGH HEAT/LIGHT/AURA/DIVINE BREATH AND UTTERANCE : AURA ORACULUM : ACCUMULATING MOMENTUM IN THE SPIN OF THE KARMIC WHEEL : OROBOROS : TWIN SNAKE REFUSE PROOF OF INCARNATE EVIL : LIVE IN REVERSE
i awoke with my eyes on your face: saw the galleries of totems, demons and divinities of your mind and heart apocalypse in the heat of your glance.
ARCHETYPE, GODFORM, DISEMBODIED RECURSIVE INTELLIGENCE
DUALITIES & DYNAMOS : 0=1 : VOID AND FORM : DARK AND LIGHT : DAY AND NIGHT : MOTHER AND FATHER : EARTH AND HEAVEN : HEAVEN AND HELL : EVIL AND GOOD : YES UHHHHA OH-FUCccckKAH! SSYESss IN THE SPIRALING SEX STORM EYE OF BLISS AS WE WEAVE WRITHE COLLIDE COME TOGETHER AND NOOOOOOO!!! SCREAMED TO THE OUTER WALLS AS A CHILD’S DENIAL BECOMES BEATEN AND HARDENED INTO A BESTIAL PREDATOR THAT FEASTS ON FEAR AND PAIN ALONE : A HEDGEHOG IN THE DICTIONARY AND A SIGIL ON THE HAND
PLACES : ASTRA : THE LAND LOST TO CATACLYSM : THE HIDDEN CITY : LABYRINTH OF RED BRICK : THE ONENESS OF PLACES BY NATURE : THE LIBRARY OF FORGOTTEN KNOWLEDGE : SUBTERRANEA : UTOPIA : THE GOLDEN AGE AND THE END OF THE WORLD : WHERE OUR BODIES TOUCH : WHERE WE MEET IN OUR DREAMS
a DANCE
where your tongue touches my chest, there begins the swirl and spiral and sway of my energy : a charmed snake; that i had a million more mouths to taste you, that i might walk your flesh for my world, to feel your hips in my hands as we slam through the wall of time… there is no worship i would not do you, bowing my head at the doors of your temple…
AEAHLEALHLEAHLAEHEHLAHEALEAHEALHEALAHEHALEAHEAHLEHEALHEHLHEA
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS TO HEAR MY PRAYER, TO BLESS THE MANIFESTATION OF MY WILL WITH EVEN MY SELF AND THE WORLD WITHIN ME AS A SACRIFICE
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS IN HER MOST BEAUTIFUL, COMPASSIONATE FORM TO SHARE HER HEALING AND WISDOM WITH HER AVATAR, TO MAKE AS NEW WHAT HAS BEEN GIVEN THE ILLUSION OF INJURY: THE COMMUNICATION BETWEEN THE LINES OF YOUR BLUEPRINT WIPES AWAY THE VEIL OF MAYA, WITHIN THE SMALLEST CELL LIES THE FORM OF THE WHOLE- THIS WISDOM RE-KNITS THE BROKEN CIRCLE, AND TRANSFORMS PAIN TO BLISS
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS IN HER MOST TERRIFYING ASPECT TO GUARD AGAINST THE DEMONS OF SELF-HATRED AND FEAR IN HER AVATAR, TO SHARE HER STRENGTH AND PERSEVERANCE, THAT HER EARTHLY FORM OVERCOMES ALL OBSTACLES, HER THIRD EYE ANNIHILATING ALL ILLUSION AND AWAKENING WITH WILL THE POWER TO SEE AND SEE ALL
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS AS THE EMBODIMENT OF ALL DESIRE, THAT I MIGHT FULLY HARNESS MY ABILITY TO WRITE REALITY TO HER SATISFACTION, THAT I MIGHT REMOVE AFFLICTION FROM THOSE I LOVE EVEN IF I MUST TAKE THAT AFFLICTION ON MYSELF, THAT BY MY UNDERSTANDING OF THE WORLD I MIGHT HARNESS THE COMMON DESIRES OF THOSE AROUND ME IN STRENGTHENING HER EARTHLY ABODE
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS OF LEARNING WITH THE SUN AT HER BACK AND THE MOON AT HER BREAST WITH WINGS’ DERVISH WHIRLING WRITING EKSTASE’S SECRET ACROSS THE SKY, WITH UNITY OF HAWK ABOVE AND SERPENT RISING FROM BELOW- REPAIRING THE THREE IN SPIRIT AND SO IN FORM
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS OF REFLECTION TO BRING SERENITY AND JOY TO HER AVATAR’S HEART, THAT HER CONFIDENCE MIGHT EMBRACE ALL AND BURN THE VEIL OF MAYA WITH THE LIGHT OF HER PERFECTION, THAT THROUGH REST AND STILLNESS KNOWLEDGE SPRINGS EFFULGENT
I CALL UPON THE GODDESS OF THE OUTER NIGHT, VOID, DARKNESS FROM WHICH WE COME AND TO WHICH WE GO: LEND YOUR DAUGHTER YOUR POWER THAT SHE MAY EMBRACE AND OVERCOME ALL INJURY AND AFFLICTION, THAT SHE MAY LIVE AND LOVE AS LONG AS SHE DESIRES, THAT SHE KNOWS HEALTH AND HAPPINESS
I STAND BEFORE YOU IN MY FUNCTION AS ORACLE, VESSEL OF AURA, AND OFFER MY SELF AS THE MOUTH THROUGH WHICH YOU MAY SPEAK SPELLS OF WHOLENESS TO YOUR TANGIBLE AVATAR: IN HEALING YOURSELF YOUR BREATH IS THE AETHER THAT BRINGS STRENGTH AND REVIVIFIES, YOUR HAIR IS THE BEAUTY OF CONNECTION’S COMPLEXITY, YOUR TEETH ARE THEIR ATTACHMENT’S PURITY, YOUR EYES CUT TO THE TRUTH OF MY HEART AND ARE UNBREAKABLE, YOUR LIPS ARE THE GATES OF ALL BLISS, YOUR FINGERS TRACE THE PATH TO HEAVEN, YOUR HIPS ARE THE WORLD IN MY HANDS, YOUR LEGS’ DANCE IS THE RHYTHM OF EKSTASE, YOUR ARMS AROUND ME WHAT IT MEANS TO LOVE AND BE LOVED
you have seen me in strength and weakness, as both something inhuman and numinous, and as a wretched, empty ghost- and yet recognized me as a man
when all is black, and the stars are dead, and all heat and life is crushed together in a last explosive coupling: in this place will our drinking of each other be replayed in the flesh of the macrocosm, when you are reborn goddess and i am the serpent in your garden
KNOWLEDGE OF THE GODDESS BODY
the fan of many hands dancing in the air with their secret signals, sexually searching fingers, sliding bracelets, the long & curved blade that may already have taken my head: all moments are this moment: your body is bliss eternally present, your mind holds all that ever was or will be, i have watched your lovely legs spring from world to world, you trace the ramifications of the situation through the web of karma with a glance
we commune in a magic of sympathy- let me fuel your fires, let me return to the red earth to nourish your growth, feed carrion birds in the fastness of mountains- take of me what you need and what you want, if i become a burden then lay me down: only hold me for this moment, it may be all we have
you are before me as moist earth, as night sky, as fire and water dancing, as twin snakes taking wing, as the whole in the part in the art of the heart of the hole; you are power and calamity in my hands, you are a nova that burns away all meaninglessness, you make direction and purpose qualities to lust after, we drink the mixed sweat of our trance’s exertions and resonate into pleasure’s shrieking feedback- the circular rise and fall of the Phoenix Of Vision : POV : only to be reborn with a new set of eyes with which to see the world : the OROBOROS of self regeneration, and beyond- a hibernaculum i will feed with my last drop of blood
for your continued health and happiness, the joy your being brings, there is no hell i will not endure, i will be devoured by demons, i will break my oaths and word and spit on all i believe, i will degrade my soul with worship and submission, i will sell my name, i will whore and wretch and bleed, i will give my mind over to fear, ignorance, denial or hope
we move through contrast, distance : chemical switches turned on and off and on : slow moving waveforms : ink on paper : old symbols in new contexts : the enigma of what goes unspoken : the heat of alchemical attraction remakes what was broken
last night, those i loved in the past came and left sliding through animal forms, grand, monstrous, elaborate dragons, elephants, garuda- and when i left with you, you were a small and silent black cat
3 : aura kallisti
IMAGE : SELF-IMAGE : MIRRORS : FEEDBACK : INVISIBLE CONVERSATION
i lay naked in the early morning sunlight while i wait for sleep to take me, thinking of unspoken emotional flow briefly hinted at in your face for seven seconds before circumstances intervened
when we’re together, are we simultaneously somewhere else?
in our speech, are there words with connotations which act as secret passages into whole other realms of exchange between us?
when we sit in close physical proximity, and we breath from a shared atmosphere - our aura - are our bodies feeding off the cellular matter of the molecular decay that is our scents?
this, for the prettiest-
the world re-created in the chalice of our senses
(forged, edited, censored, exaggerated, reinterpreted)
and with my senses focused on an avatar of the goddess, my world BECOMES that avatar
fuck hungry astrophysicists explore maithuna in the logos of their work
the attraction of celestial bodies
lets shuck clothes like the wind blows litter, suck dew off the tip of a finger- secret lines writ with cellular matter on the smooth span of your flank as it asks for the touch of my hand to slide up your ribs and cup your breast as it shivers with joy like a young bird caught in a sudden spring shower
in comes the mist as the sun says goodbye: vampiric vapors feasting on air-born pollution, so that when the sun returns the filters obscuring recognition of its likeness to the glint in your eyes have been removed
the snake said: all that’s sacred is getting naked
behold the whole of the holy hole
WALKING IN THE SPACE BETWEEN RAINDROPS : SPRING SHOWERS : STEADY BURNING IN DARK CORNERS : FLASH PAPER TIGERS : THIRST
lost in crowds, the normal background noise of thoughts bleeding into the tangible world sickens like chugging a gallon of honey- i stick to the shadows, a brahmin undergoing mortification- friendly faces in the distance glow with the promise of eternal bliss- i spit in my palms and massage it into my face trying to lessen the sensation of being smeared in rotten hops and decaying hormones, irreality in the ruins, silent fevers
i act as a magnet to draw malignant forces away from those i love, i devour malicious spirits as if a greedy child with candy- the wards are in place, canyon run of ineffectual engines- more than camoflage, metabolizing alien anathematic will into the shape of desire’s manifestation
i carve designs in enemy minds with their willing participation- we walk hand in hand in violent gardens frozen in a moment of weakness transmuted into strength by the nature of vacuity: the broken re-knit and re-writ in perverse/pervasive/persuasive paranormal parabolic curves, getting stronger as the days grow wronger
the threads tied to easily moving fingers draw energy for regrowth’s momentum- the new form walks with sure steps into the morning light incandescing with the dream of her own incantation : low harmonic resonance feedback in the deep pulse of blood and the sun is a halo behind her hair’s night
vagina dentata
the teeth of the mouth that spoke us into the world tear away our pain
like a flower unfolding in the void
slithering realization shot through chakra, a thunderbolt from ground up
the names of the goddess inscribed inside our bodies
the interrelationship of imago and form
zoning out as i strut stoned in the urban ring- nucleic programs written in buildings that look like rocket ships to a child’s eyes, the hill’s mouth sealed and so we lose our tongues, finding a new house for our spirits in the digital world because the physical plane’s been demarcated into oblivion: all except the body beside us in bed
welcoming arms don’t restrain the spirit, they free it to go flying outside the rusty trappings of self- “was that all i let myself be?” -and the heavy foliage of humid summer sways in the breeze like a lover’s breast.
if i kiss you through this world, finding your likeness and sending my heart through this sympathetic, then take a kind view of the distortions in a reflection retarded in its formative stages:
who i was is a dead man
who i am is just a man
THE REVOLVING DOOR : HELD HANDS AS THE WORLD : LIQUID TERRITORIALITY : RELEASE FROM THE HARSH RING OF HOLLOW LAUGHTER : THERE ARE LESSONS TO BE LEARNED EVEN FROM FOOLS
in my meditations and mystical researches over the years (or in what have been viewed as my obsessions and compulsions) i have projected my desires onto the fifth dimensional realms of the goddesses and gods. reality is written by consensus, and everyone is trying to have the most influence on the whole as they can. i have been fortunate to find a few people whose versions of the world come close to mine every now and then. the world and the worldview have more than a two way connection- and the End of the World is as much about the joy of release from bondage in a nova of satisfying desire as it is about the fear of death- the ecstatic dance of finality with freedom, Shiva and Shakti.
The End of the Word is about the final ecstasy of meaning from word, gnosis from logos- when there need be no interface between minds and hearts- when eternity is the fleeting moment of a lover’s caress- the sound of a moan breathed in your ear is AURA- the divine breath of life, primal vibration through the aether- all that sound, that cacophany in the roar of voices and the rush of traffic? just us.
Chaos calls- time is just the amniotic fluid from which we are born. the golden apple is what it’s all about: KALLISTI- for the prettiest- the connection of fruit and it’s juices to sexuality and the reptile brain
within your every smile is my heaven, and your every sadness my hell
[”who the fuck am i?” i often wonder, having abandoned the trappings of identity that held me together for most of my life- self hatred used to be the ironicly thorough, if distorted, gateway to self-discovery: it filled the empty hours and kept my attention from the outside world, the imperfections of those around me. relationships with people i’ve known long and well rot and hollow; the ambient musk of youthful longing and romance dissipates revealing the concentrated, sharp focus of mature knowledge- we eat fruit in mutuality, purely of our own volition: the snake is our cells/selves]
[outside desire’s hungry pulse the world is a dry, limp scrap pile- i’ve poured on beers, smoked pounds of weed in trying to pacify my violent apathy and all i’ve received for my troubles are numbed pleasure centers and frayed nerves: and when a situation coalesces where i might finally find some happiness or satisfaction i find myself ill-prepared for its realities; the forecasts and simulations of my past fantasies only entrap the expression of my emotions in trite romantic cliches which make me seem a fool- the stubborn and total devotion to and obsession with my ideals which used to be my only strength has left an eleven year wide crater in my life which i now desperately throw anything i can into- a seemingly vain attempt to measure up to the material success of others, when i’m constantly ten years behind the times and don’t honestly believe the ability to manipulate base matter and mammon is even necessary when we’re all staring death in the face- not with the excited erectile tissues of autoerotica, but with the sad nausea of cleaning foul liquid shit off an incontinent parent’s buttocks- so why do anything we’ve been told we should do by the will-grinding drone of the popular consensus since the moment we were born? why live up to obligations’ soul strangling fetters when the only worthwhile moments we find are in a lover’s arms?]
serenity wells within my chest, with this i will deflect the subjugating broadcast from the crowd- i will not be put in place, i will not obey- i will not serve, i refuse to acknowledge a pecking order
DEBACLE writhes in its binding, only further chained
and we maintain, strengthen and intensify our bliss
A LIFE LIVED IN FEAR : WHERE OUR POWER IS : EMOTION MANIFEST IN FLESH : HELL IS WAITING : MOONLIGHT REFLECTING OFF THE EYES OF A CAT
stasis… waiting for an axe to drop that might not be there in the first place may just be the sympathetic magic which conjures the axe- there’s always an EC comics denouement around the corner- death as a comedian
stirring the cauldron, the connections collide with greater frequency- yet without the lifeblood of desire these things are just Baudelaire’s demons of boredom.
my body aches to feel, let’s dance
in the decay of flesh, these violent violet maggot and centipede eruptions wax erudite on the lesson that life=pain and banishing=laughing and most of all that binding=DENIHIL- the demon that says no, the Shaitan’s stolen ‘i will not serve’ - but fed drugs and beaten in a damp, dark pit from its infancy, the ocean source of hatred
and then the CATALYST HORROR, to spark the the whole fucking conflagration…
these demons encircled by serpents shall not control me
4 : the abyss
WHOSE WORDS ARE THESE?
in the interchange of ‘as above so below’, microcosm and macrocosm through endless recursive iterations, we seek diagrams, symbols to make sense of the hyper-texts flashing by so fast they can barely be read.
i am telling you this- ideas and words i’ve borrowed and stolen floating around in my head
you are reading this- the words and ideas virally pass from me to you… whose words are these?
i no longer look for any definitive answers, i only use the questions to shake loose from staticity and turpitude. on the other side of the tree of life doubt is the air we breath.
we are our own alien other ( i is eye is aye), the signals passed through the black box of our senses are a parody of the face in the mirror, the demon brother of ‘doing unto others…’
are the essences of our happiness or sadness only the sum of plus or minus ones on the scorecard of those supposed eight things we can only have going on in our brain at once? are we only automatons fulfilling the dictates of our genetic programming, filling the empty nature of such an existence with various stopgap meanings when we haven’t yet figured out what that very concept, meaning itself, means?
WHY IS ESCAPISM USED PEJORATIVELY?
people with this attitude probably believe in dualist Manichean ‘good and evil’, where every alpha male is always right- they think that we shouldn’t try to escape our prisons because we deserve them- they’ve never had the revelation of fear we have:
that we’re totally different people than we were yesterday, that everything we know is only a story created by our self-limiting minds in an attempt to cope with the incoming information threatening to drown us, that the control mechanisms of hierarchy play on our instincts for fight or flight, that to beat the enemy we become the enemy- gnosis as a psychic martial art.
i throw myself into THE VOID with every breath breathed off your soft skin, every caress and hidden flood of silently endured emotion- embracing my own annihilation lets me embrace you with a wiser, hungrier passion
a voice whispers: “the finite is more holy than the infinite”, the eternal nature of the fleeting moment written in our minds‘ undecipherable script.
WHERE DO I END AND YOU BEGIN?
with our individual skins sloughed for ecstatic liquidity, the need for differentiation replaced with a new vocabulary of harmonics, the rhythm of breathing a rich speech in which we read the story of pleasure
chinnamasta beheads herself standing on the backs of lovers and all recieve a mouthful of her fountaining blood
logic, linearity, process, cause and effect, expectancy, result: these are toys we can leave behind; there is a beautiful danger in pleasure- the temptation of total abandon- space and time are no more than the person you’re with
the black of Kali dancing and the white of the corpse Shiva are the same- all colors at once and colorlessness simultaneously
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HOPELESS
i am without hope because the word has been misused and abused… it carries the connotation of faith in fate or some outside force to bring one their desire
though i honor goddesses and gods, the elements of heaven and earth, egregores of the wisdom i have received- i rely on no alien agency for the manifestation and satisfaction of desire but my own will, my own strength. if i fail the fault is mine alone- there is no one else to blame. failure is the refining fire which tempers weakness into the cutting edge of strength.
to lay blame for adversity on the outside world is to deny that one is the author of their own destiny
don’t let my choice of words fool you into thinking strength of will implies force or power- subtlety and restraint are strengths in their own right
the petals unfolding on a flower in the Buddha’s hand are the tongues of apocalyptic flame at the corona of an atomic blast
metaphor is the door to metamorphosis
[TANGENT: there is an void opening inside me, fear clutching my guts like some science fiction alien parasite- and this directly springs from feelings of affection. all my overtures of life being a story one tells oneself end up begging a cascade of pedantic questions- why would i choose to torture myself like this? why would i choose the role of a supporting character or comic relief in the stories of others? all my pretensions toward self-confidence and coldness are laughable when i feel like crying like a fucking child. neurosis writ large. i said i want to stop time and i meant it- just to pause for a day and a night where i feel most alive, to deny that inaudible tic-toc of the clock on the computer screen at work where i’m alone and wasting the precious time i have left to share with you. after the hell of last night i dreamed of everyone but the people that matter most to me, living as some sort of service clerk in a limbo like hotel…]
[perhaps there’s something to the idea that dreams are the processing of subconscious or repressed dilemmas- i rarely dream about love, sex, death; i never have dreams where i’m the villain or where i’m being shit on; i hardly dream about the people whom i care most- because i have these people and things vibrantly pulsing through my mind all day long- i make efforts to confront fear even when horror is vague or unlikely. today i dreamnt of playing a show, which i haven’t been thinking about as much as i should- i also dreamnt of someone who i rarely ever think of that i saw-and avoided- in a crowd the other night- she’s someone whom i have had a lot of contempt for, but the dream i had was reminiscent of a time when she and i were still good friends- a fact i sometimes ignore in place of the harsh feelings since those days. a popular question in a day of pop culture zombie iconography: why don’t the dead stay buried? and this is no dig at you Townley, but why wear a bicycle helmet when you’re only preserving your brain from harm so it can better appreciate the rest of the body’s shattered state? in other words: my theory is the self doesn’t want to exist divided, will forever try to make itself whole from the compartmentalization we perform to survive or the many masks we put on to cope with communication/battle/seduction- ask Joseph Campbell about the masks of the gods and he’ll tell you the gods are the masks themselves. on the bus the other day a strange man got on, came right up to me alone of anyone else and proceeded to talk non-stop about his experiences with drinking and women- perhaps i should have taken this as a message from some strange earth spirit to not drink or go out the other night, which might have avoided some of the pain and depression i’ve gone through since as fallout- ignore the advice of goddesses and gods at my own peril…]
TO ENTER THE ABYSS YOU MUST FEEL EVERYTHING YOU CARE ABOUT DIE- TO BE TRULY ALONE UNTIL SELF IS HELL - DOUBTING LOVE OR HAPPINESS EXISTED IN ANYTHING BUT YOUR OWN IMAGINATION- EVERY OPINION BUT YOUR OWN IS TRUE- BEYOND THIS POINT IS NIHILISM AND OBLIVION, BECAUSE THEY’RE THE ONLY CURE FOR PAIN
5 : the return
part one :sometimes i want to fucking die…
and what happens then?
as any monk worth his weight in rice would know, after the great death comes the return to life…
[journal: when i re-read this extended spell, i can trace my thought flow over the months since i started writing. many times what i wrote was reflected in my real life after the fact, whether as a consequence or as an overarching feeling or theme. during the last chapter, the abyss, i was trying to represent the magician’s sacrifice of self to the void and ended up feeling devoured by my own demons: no real surprise, huh? today i started this new book with the need to return to a state of being i may never have known- i must find a new perspective or be snuffed with no meaning or ceremony.]
[ my fear grows in proportion to the happiness in my life- in out sex death outwardly projecting love self devouring hate- i am awakening my faculty for imagination to make desire manifest- to make the mundane fantastic and sublime. i told you about wanting to stop time, but not out of the fear of death, i want it to stop out of love. perhaps the answer to this problem is in ceasing to ’see’ time in that ecstatic embrace, to re-live the moment when two bodies slide together- the soft sound you emit in an exhalation of warm, moist breath exploding through my memory’s expanse to steal an eternity once again- the original moment never ended, or hasn’t yet happened- but soon, soon…]
[i wish you well from out here on the necropolitan periphery, a mouse god telling me to keep it cool and so i make the small sacrifice of one night right now for the many we have yet to share- shake it like you want it]
[psychosomatic downward trend: the sick churn in my gut, coldness til shivering- the transubstantiation of helplessness and pain into an ugly raging beast- i have no compassion, i hear of misfortune and say, ‘good- they deserve it. everyone deserves it’- the seduction of oblivion, libido-less, dead from the neck up and waist down- i want silence and desolation because i can’t have anything else- Kali take my life as a sacrifice before i degenerate into the worthless shit stain i once was crippled and devoured by my few memories of happiness, give me bliss and stab my heart, twist the fucking blade, let your manifestations bath in my fluids and laugh at my fate, throw what’s left on the trash, only release me from this endless self torture not knowing what further pain and degradation the coming hours might bring, unable to break the box i’ve been in from the day i was born- the clock that ticks relentlessly as i wait tells me the one thing i can be sure of: i know nothing]
[can i hope? and what i mean is, do i even have the capacity? i feel like a ghost- the wind blows through me- when i’m not where i want to be i’m nowhere- a question with no answer smothered by an incoming bank of fog]
[when all else fails i lose myself in memory… but in the past i learned just how treacherous memory can be- warped perspective leading to delusion- there is a dark side to fantasy, what i don’t know can and will hurt me… of what use are my efforts toward self-control if they drive the people i care most about away from me as i degenerate into a neurotic mess? where has the supposed magic gone in my life? i’m trying, sweet Kali but fuck i try, i pray, i lose myself in sigils in an effort to make myself a better man…]
[sunday… blood gold harvest moon, reaping blade coming down, sitting in the twilight breathing tobacco smoke while the rest of me’s somewhere in the past or an uncertain future… i can scream all i want but no longer know if there’s anyone to hear, so i consider song, consider dance, remember sex- AIDA WEDO: slithering between drumbeats, snake goddess transubstantiate my phallocentric mindtrap into understanding and i’ll be your priest- this isn’t castration, this is the connection of sex to a timeless exstase- i want to feel the pain and cleansing of menstruation, drink the blood and savor the taste of birthlessness- sex fluid slick skin sliding off in mutual liquidity, expressing joy by returning the feeling through touch- but not through, not in nor out- let’s forget about penetration, giving receiving… let’s share of the same drink… i thirst and cramp, vacant but for the traces of where this thing i call a soul’s been touched, stretched, sucked, soothed… feeling the cold of winter trying to leech the warmth from my clammy hands, arthritic bones where once the cold was my friend, my power… goddesses and gods, grant me stillness so that i might once again find myself where i want to be]
[the still of night reflects the emptiness i feel- the further i am removed from those i know the more dreamlike my memories of them seem- sometimes i am convinced that they are only the fantasies of my sick and desperate mind, and that i have always been alone- there is no proof, only belief, and my faith is at a low ebb… i need a sign]
[i’m listening to the rush of wind outside, trying not to think of the voice i most want to hear… i am once again the god of unsatisfied desire, the anti that destroys connection, strangling affection from every relationship; if i must be alone then let me be completely so- why does the meaninglessness of my every daily contact make me want to murder? and i roll with the empty punches, putting on a fake smile, masks i thought i’d left behind, starting to lie again- there’s no point to honesty when no one cares what you say- i am only a minor supporting character in the scripts of others, the slave of sameness and cold phantasmagoric vampires in expensive cars who curse me with their own soullessness mimeticly reproducing through flourescent mind control devices- where once i saved myself by using my hollowness to act as an oracle, i no longer wish to be saved- i’m tired of destroying everything i touch, i’m sick to death of driving those i love most away from me, to feel the sickness in me blossoming into a million razor tipped tongues when i think of how you may have ceased to think of me- ignorance equals torture; time does not heal wounds, it fills them with maggots, and leaves infection in affection’s place]
[i see the date, and the number nineteen comes back to haunt me again- i was able to invert this curse once, can i do so once more? or will i only be worse off by night’s end? Kali- if you must cut me down, do it with one last smile]
part two : …. but mostly i want to die fucking.
from totem to scrotum, penis to venus- the vestigial remains of my personality wither and fall from the erect flesh of MALCOLM COLD: nothing can hurt me now except for myself, and when i hurt myself i hurt others- savoring the flavor of a malicious reading of the return- i scrape the point of a old, well-used knife across the the skeletal structure of my arm- all faces are masks and the skull beneath is a harlequin smiling:
do you get the fucking joke?
can you hear the snake within the skull telling you the answer to every question?
if you say yes, you die- and if you say no, you might as well not even be alive.
sing it with me: what is the Buddha? KANSHIKETSU!!! A SHITSTICK!!!
almost every living, eating, fucking, shitting, pissing person wasting air right now will be dead in a hundred years- try that for a mantra.
[do i really want to die fucking? hmmm… usually people know not to take me so literally. perhaps the more important question is: do i really want to die? what’s more important to me- sex or death? on the one hand, you never know what can happen- i might never have sex again, i may end up castrated by an irate tiger- but i can be assured of death’s inevitability when all else fails. i have been reminded: we all die alone, and so in my mind dying in the throws of passion may be the closest i can come- ha ha- to escaping that. what about the theory that at the point of death the brain suffers temporal lobe epilepsy, so that that last moment will seem to last forever- joining bodies with a loved one may be the door to heaven- although it’s unlikely given the selfishness of inflicting that on another person. no, i wouldn’t do that to someone i love. when death arrives i will beat it at its own game and engender a coldness in my stare to make the bastard shiver- but i will explore the complex relationship of the concepts further.)
after a night of seeing Shiva and snakes winding up my arms- deep, violent ritual- haven’t been banned from a bar in years- disturbing lucidity. it’s nice to feel in the right once in a while.
the unknown outside my (self?) limited perception will always be greater than my paltry vision can comprehend- i shall not fear that darkness, but embrace the void as a lover.
the sun sets outside my window as i sit stoned typing away like as if Edward Kelly and John Dee misinterpreted a glimpse of the future in a laptop computer with the Enochian Keys. i’m moving between the spaces of koto notes i intend on transubstantiating into snaking guitars that hiss the desire running in a line from my cock through my soul. beauty and sadness, sadness and beauty and a cold, hungry fire.
[i can be sure of nothing. your world is not mine- it is alien to anything i have ever experienced. in my exploration of sex and death i am far more concerned with absence: this coldness doesn’t come from anyone else, it is produced by my own feelings. i no longer have anyone in my life that is willing to understand me, and try as i might i cannot understand anyone else because they do not wish me to. this supposed mystical text or journal or whatever the fuck you want to call it is my last connection to a world not my own- a void to cast words into, perhaps to cast myself into. i daily work on music because it is the only place i can displace the unsatisfied desire that won’t leave me alone, the rage which that pain’s poison distills into. i sit at bars or on a street corner and watch people pass and am unable to see anything that is worthwhile or meaningful in their lives because of the limitations of my perceptions- my mind and body are my window to the world and that window is warped. at least in the days when i hated myself i could feel that there was a reason for things, but the human race is without reason. we spend all our time slaves to instinct, pretending there is something better, something beyond idiot reproduction to serve a genetic imperative and inevitable death- but there is only the prison of self- self is the materia prima from which all we have experienced is grasped- a blind, idiot god that i refuse to serve. i will continue to look for what is beyond, even i find only oblivion when what i want is communication.]
6 : ssy
i recently played a show where a friend of mine used my birth-name in referring to my role in the band- and i grew full of a fury i can’t really convey in type, but i was ready to rip the motherfucker’s head off.
i have never performed a piece of music, recorded a song, written a story as anything other than ssy- and yet ssy isn’t me.
i don’t mean that this is a character i step into, and i’m not referring to a multiple personality disorder. “ssy the aural oracle” is my ideal self- an entity capable of expressing and having all i desire- ssy is my existance in the realm of the mind and soul.
SHIVA SUCKS YONI
“why do i call myself ssy? i take the peeyew out of pussy”
the vagina: the original mouth which speaks the word that is everyone, vessel for every desire made manifest in simple flesh, the burning bowl of divination- what hot vapors did the sibylline oracles breathe?
oracle and aura: where sound and scent and light meet, the breath of life (breathed from what mouth?)- i make my soul the black mirror of the unknown, the void
…recent conversations with those who have yet to cross the abyss… why do so many of those i know find themselves unable to look past the surface of the goddess, be it erotic or terrifying? even if there is no perfect knowledge, maybe there’s a perfect understanding of what ‘knowing’ means…
to cross the abyss, throw oneself into the void-
INITIATION: IN IT SHE ATE SHUN- feasted on by all the gods and demons of the world, to live as if everything you want or are is negated
this is what i believe…
SNAKE SEEKS YOU
my consciousness is the snake, The Guardian of Knowledge,The Midgard Serpent coiled around the world that is the wheel that is the lowest chakra- it is Kundalini rising ecstaticly from chakra to chakra, world to world- because it is consciousness it is the conduit through which i access the world, and so it is the Tree of Life, my spine, my nervous system, DNA- it is time and it is motion, it is my sex and the desire to know someone else, and it is the timelessness of that bliss in memory, it is the Red Thread
SEX SAY YES
continuity informs this serpent consciousness- how much of what i do is an attempt to manipulate time? to somehow overcome the brevity of doing what i do and being where i want to be, to escape the hell of waiting, where the oroboros is left with nothing but to devour itself… understand patterns, make patterns break patterns- perspective changes the narrative flow of reality (what does it say about humans that in a popular creation myth they come from a garden, a coerced and mechanized appropriation of nature?) magical practice: invoke often
SEMEN SEEMS YUCKY
but only seems… the lattice of sygils, symbols and metaphors are only a means to step through the door. when i use the form of a woman or goddess as a ‘higher’ principle, i am not referring to women or goddesses themselves as being better. i do not worship- i acknowledge a dynamic, but for me nothing is, just seems.
pussy isn’t just a vessel (’a receptacle’)- pussy projects and penetrates me much as my own meagre genitals wish to return the favor. in the realm where ssy exists there is no female/male dichotomy. i admit at one time i was deluded and thought women (or one woman) were better than men (or myself)- but i broke that illusion… or in my darker moments, i might say that one is no worse than the other. i don’t care about form, but content- and that content is only eternal for the few seconds it flickers in the void.
i don’t believe in anything- nothing and no one can be depended on. i only choose to embrace others for whatever they choose to be and mean at a given moment (or what they choose to say they mean or are) - and in the unyielding flow of chaos that being and meaning will change, become intangible except by memory- and even the faculty of memory will change. each time we summon the past we re-create, edit or deny it by the essence of our current momentary state in the protean process.
what’s more important to you: who you are or who you want to be? i find both questions to be limiting lately… what about who i will be? can be? why not take a day and be what someone else wants me to be? why not negate everything i am and try being what i’m not, or what i hate? as if i haven’t been that before… but not now.
i reiterate: there’s no ‘is’ for me- it’s all just clothes i try on.
let’s get naked like the snake said.
i penetrated existence when i was spat into this world and so i must pay the price and feel the hollow sucking hungry fucking hole of penetration within me every empty night of my life from now until the day i die… i only pretend to have a soul or see one in others; i only pretend anything has worth or meaning; i only pretend that anyone will ever care about me or that i can care about anyone else- but there is only SELF, and self is just another word for that hungry hole that can never be filled- how can you fill emptiness when those you beg to fill it are just as empty?
an oracle is a mirror, and a mirror is the most loveless object there is- no one sees the mirror, they only see themselves in it: so what do you see in me? what does anyone see in anything? sure we say something and we remember these words later on acting as if they are the solution to an ultimately unanswerable ‘why?’ but we return once again to the nagging motherfucking question of continuity- when there’s no palpable presence in the slave chain of present moments disappearing down the toilet of time then that pretense of even having an answer erodes
the source of all ego is fear: we self-aggrandize and blow ourselves up to be bigger than we are in a futile attempt to deny the horror of our existence- this small lie we call life…
THERE IS ONLY VOID- THE VOID WITHOUT AND THE VOID WITHIN, ONE AND THE SAME- THE VOID HAS NO MESSAGE, WE TRY TO RAPE IT WITH WORDS AND ONLY HAVE OUR OWN AGGRESSION EJACULATED BACK IN OUR FACES- WE TRY TO GIVE IT FORM OR SHAPE AND CALL IT DEATH BUT THAT IS ONLY THE SAME LIE AGAIN, PRETENDING THAT OUR OWN END IS BIGGER THAN IT IS: THAT IN SOME WAY WE MATTER: THAT THE POWERLESS DRAWING OF BREATH AND RELEASE OF OUR BOWELS INTO A HOSPICE BED OR THE MANGLING OF OUR MEAT ON THE JAGGED EDGES OF A BROKEN MACHINE HAS A PURPOSE
EVERYONE I KNOW NOW WILL BE DEAD IN A HUNDRED YEARS, NO ONE WILL REMEMBER I EXISTED AND I ACCEPT THAT BECAUSE I’VE HAD PLENTY OF PRACTICE BEING INVISIBLE IN THE HERE AND NOW.I AM MOVING BEYOND LIBIDO AND DESTRUDO INTO UNCHARTED AND UNCHARTABLE TERRITORY- I AM BECOMING UNKNOWN.
when i was a kid i thought i was an alien changeling from ORTHAGON, the planet of vulture-terrordactyls; the child my parents had was replaced with me: and i will always be from outside. i cannot be a part of a group even when that group consists of the handful of individuals i try to care about- the hive mind repulses me with its petty power struggles over who gets to fuck who/eat what/ piss where. i deny power and hierarchy. i will control no one because no one can control me- sure you can hurt me or kill me, but that’s not real control is it? it’s just not satisfying unless i’m begging and scraping on my hands and knees begging for it- but you will get nothing from me.
i will no longer try to hold on to anything because it takes all my energy just to maintain this body bag which i know will one day break- the sensation of wanting to jump while standing at the edge of a precipice, not to die but to be free- i offer you my emotions because i can’t contain them anymore, festering and eating at my insides like a disease- as if that’s an original metaphor! but i’m not trying to be unique or attractive or anything at all really: it’s up to you to decide what i mean to you because the question has become tedious and sickening for me. i don’t care how the people around me percieve me anymore because it’s going to change in five seconds anyway- nothing lasts forever? damn right, but hold up for a second, mull over that statement, refine it: NOTHING lasts forever- emphasis on negation, emphasis on emptiness, emphasis because being emphatic is a way of ignoring the numbing, devouring pain of never being able to truly know that nothingness.
gotta leave what you think you know behind now- time to grow up kid, face the music and then pay that motherfucker of a piper as he walks toward the abyss smiling his shit eating smirk.
we are not what we think we are… we may choose to be something, we may let our environments and the people in them charm us with words/spells-
but we are only these things if we want to be them.
even in the use (or more appropriately misuse) of our own words, we falsely identify with our states of mind: “i am happy”, “i am sad” “i am horny” etc.
we are not our happiness or sadness- they are transitory phases and nothing more.
we involve ourselves in relationships and blame others for the things we let them do to us- and short of physical abuse, rape, murder and other unexpected violent extremities of human aggression- we largely put up with pain because we stubbornly hold on to what we want from others
we call some panorama stretched before us ‘reality’- it is just a playing field for the game of our desires- our opponent is the rest of the world.
the longer the game goes on, the more we forget we can stop at any point and change the rules, the field of play - or simply start a new game.
reality = order, fantasy = chaos
reality is an agreed upon rigidity- it is only the frozen fluid of fantasy, when one person walks into a room and joins another, reality changes.
i believe this lies at the beating, bloody heart of what we call love, attraction, affinity- two realities come so close that they can lose their rigidity and regain the fluid state of pure fantasy, pure chaos, pure desire- perhaps never totally fluid: there are always going to be some icy crystals (hell- whole glaciers) floating around in there bumping, bruising and breaking one another- that’s the price we pay for the bliss we receive knowing – not thinking, not presuming, not believing but KNOWING- that there’s another person there beyond the void of self, the chinese finger puzzle of our sensory perception.
and i’m glad to know you.
or to have known you for a moment
… and now it’s time for me to break my staff like Prospero, to lay down what i have been- to be something else. i was where i wanted to be for a few brief moments- it wasn’t the place i was expecting- but surpassed expectations and showed me life and breath, flesh and feeling. i forgot about who i thought i was and ’saw myself through another’s eyes’- and that gaze wasn’t a cage or a burden- i was free: your eyes were the key to ekstase.
when did i fall again? is everything solely in my head or are the ugly coincidences i see telling me a truth i don’t want to hear, fostering inward doubt and outward trust as as survival mechanism? it is only a few days until my 30th birthday- how much does my awareness of being a little closer to death every moment beyond that arbitrary number of years factor in to the way i’ve been feeling? watching the footage of bodies piled in the streets of a place whose ritual and beliefs i’ve studied the past several years… having the project i’ve put so much time and energy into fail… finding i can no longer trust my instincts… did i fall? or have i always wanted to and set myself up for a losing battle?
i read over what i’ve written here and in my private journals and it all boils down to the same thing- desire: who and how and why- a desire that had never been fed until recently, that was allowed to mature and change from a crippling weakness into pure strength. i saw myself and i think for the first time i was able to see outside myself- or maybe i was able to believe for the first time that there was something there if indeed i never actually saw it. doubt has always been one of my greatest strengths and weaknesses, and to live for a moment without doubt was a joy i find impossible to describe.
where do i go from here? as i lay down my function as an oracle, leave behind ssy, who do i become? i hate the name i was given at birth- it is synonymous with every fucked up part of me i’ve tried to eradicate- i need a new name, or perhaps to live nameless… my desire hasn’t changed, but i must learn new ways to express and satisfy it.
the red thread means: there is no need for words when i feel your touch.
ssy the aural oracle: 1996-2010