inhale inhale you're the victim

I’ve only told a few people about this time in my life. A brief segue between smoking weed and
graduating to hard drugs in high school found me sitting in a basement with a few friends, fellow
burnouts, stoners...what had appeared in the dimness to be a paper bag assumed to contain strong
drink made its way around the rotation but when it was handed to me it felt empty. I peered inside
and the intense smell of gasoline assaulted my face, fumes rising from a soaked wad of paper towels
at the bottom.

“Uhhh…”

“Just put your face in and breathe in and out really deeply dude, you’ll get pretty wasted.”

A lot of harder drug users will sort of sink to whatever level is available to them in terms of intoxicants
in order to keep normality at bay, and I was to prove no different. Our main weed guy was busted
several days earlier and we were as dry as a bone. Being 15 with no income does not make it
easy to acquire alcohol. We had yet to become aware of the thriving crystal meth scene lurking
behind every curtain in our town (though that would come hard and fast later). A group of older kids a
year earlier had taught my friends how to huff paint from a breadbag, and they reveled in the ease
with which they could get profoundly stoned using things commonly found in any garage. I looked
at the bag for a second and in retrospect it is my experience that at that moment of truth for anyone
that goes with such a chemical approach there is an extremely short list of thoughts that go through
one’s mind, and they’re all terrible, empty, lonely, lost thoughts. One hit from the bag is enough to
diagnose someone with depression, anxiety, trauma.

Anyway.

What kind of story would this be if I’d said no thanks and that was that? Of course I was eager
to feel anything that was not my normal feelings or to feel nothing, to feel literally any deviation
at all. Breathe deep, molecules begin to buzz, time ceases to exist. Who knows how much was
actually inhaled that night, considering the trip lasts around 10 minutes but we were tripping all
night and into the next day without sleep. Blink once and it is 8 pm, blink again and it is 6:45 pm,
blink again and it’s noon the next day, erratically time travelling. Full blown apocalyptic end-times
hallucinations, gods, angels, and speaking in tongues. Multiple high speed oscillations between
life and death that I wouldn’t recognize as “ego death” until psychedelics years later. Elves, aliens,
insects, alien elvish insects. Ghosts and demons. Ultradimensional conversations with mutating
starling-swarms of disembodied voices. Complete dissociation while my body was still active and
interacting with the world. Extremely negative interactions.

One of the friends dragged us outside at some point, and told us a story about finding a
crate of actual dynamite near an abandoned railroad line that was a half mile from the
house when he was like 9. In my fried state I believed he’d told us he had the dynamite
right then and was going to blow up the house, me, the school, I was growing more and more
paranoid and frantic that it would be up to me to prevent a terrorist attack. It was later related
to me that out of nowhere I began attacking one of the others and yelling disconnected
gibberish, fought my way upstairs where the parents were sleeping while yelling about a bomb,
let both dogs out of the house into the woods and tried to start the adults’ car (it was a manual
transmission so luckily I couldn’t)....somehow none of this woke anyone, and around 2 that
morning a friend brough us some weed and I calmed down a little, though everything was
mostly blur and glitch. The next morning we left (driving, with milk jug full of gas to huff in the
car) and it had snowed a little. We took a curve too fast and swerved into the other lane badly
and then fishtailed almost off the road, right as a cop car went by….it had its lights flashing,
was going very fast the other way and did not stop for us….another mile up the road and the
driver blew through a stop sign and nearly hit a small child, screeching to a halt so close to him
that we couldn’t see him over the hood. The kid was sitting with his legs a foot underneath the
car, eyeballs an inch from the bumper. Driver tells the kid to never speak a word of this or we’ll
run him over for real next time and picks him up and plants him on the sidewalk and we drove off…..

Of course this did not put me off further experiences with inhalants, and the experiences got far
weirder and more stressful. Was probably huffing gas, paint, or ether once or twice a week for
maybe 6 months, and continued to occasionally use computer duster for another 6 months as we’d
convinced ourselves it was cleaner, whether or not that is the case...I began to think about how to
express some of the stranger chemical experiences recently after a discussion about putting
together a book about bad trips. I’ve had more than my fair share, and a lot of them involve
drugs that aren’t anywhere near psychedelics, unknown research chems, chems that are typically
incredible harmful to humans and not intended to be anywhere near our insides...I guess I feel it
necessary to record these experiences and experiments for several as-yet-unknown reasons.

Posterity? :D

Thought what better place to store these particular ramblings than here, where no one reads?

(Von Neumann-)Chained to (Pleromatic) Uncertainty

In the essay Pleromatica, Gabriel Catren’s “phenoumenoudelic scene” in which we are to conceive existence is the product of a series of un-groundings, from the Copernican suspension of Earth to the //relativistic crisis of the spatiotemporal background.// As these un-groundings individually undermine previously supposed //fixed god-given structure[s]// and //aprioristic motionless Ur-frames//, this chain of underminings is the maximally general subset of the arsenal of neuronihilistic gestures that may be applied to thought in order to shear away misconceptions regarding the experiential field of an endophysical observer. Here we further intensify the un-grounding and remove the ultimate Ur-referinertial-frame: the sociocultural image of closed-individuality that occults and obscures intuitive awareness of a universal and impersonal field of experience: the zero-point energy state of quantum mechanics, the supersymmetry of string theory, the Hindu’s anatman, the Gnostic pleroma, the Platonic ideal form-world, the Sufi “Black Mind” of Allah, the mystical state of “union with God”, among others, are theophysical metaphors for a non-oriented, non-performable, yet permissible state of being we will join Catren in calling the pleromatica. In the pleromatica the concept of an “Ur-frame” is sublimated into an un-framing process: //the transmutation of the immobile Ur-frame into an ark continuously going under - the coming of the one and only number that cannot be any other.//.

We label this state non-performable because acts of differentiation cause decoherence of this “substrate”, this pleromatica that is constantly, spontaneously, attempting differentiation. This provides a glimpse into understanding why it has proven so resistant to instrumental measurement as the choice of observational frame of reference is itself a differentiation. We label it non-oriented because it does not inertially or conceptually index any frames of reference, rather being achieved by iterated negations and integrations on almost any neurotheoretical axis. In other words, this state is achieved by collapsing inertial, cognitive, sensory, or linguistic frames of reference, or the protogeometric compression and integration of disparate signals into more general or universal categorical schemes. Borrowing a note from Nick Sousanis, we refer to such an anti-gesture as a flattening of the experiential field.

In the brain, the thalamus performs a colossal number of iterations per second of an operation that may be identical to a "Heisenberg cut" on the undifferentiated flow of incoming signal that seem to be almost entirely arbitrary determinations of differentiation between observer and observed, between figure and ground, between object and signifier (Von Neumann chain/Von Neumann-Wigner interpretation). The local binding problem in this view is contextually incomplete, as everything begins “bound” in a unitary signal and we cut into the flow in order to abstract. Every isomorphic cut reifies the seeming persistence of objects, and the unitary experience of “everyday human consciousness” is nothing more than the temporal persistence of the intersection of all these cuts constantly being made in the pleromatica. What masquerades as the binding problem is what may be thought of as harmonic overtones of the Bayesian basin of attraction generated from carving out so many of these cuts in identical shapes over time. This correlates well with the knowledge that the outer layer of the thalamus, the thalamic reticular nuclei (TRN), is a group of neurons responsible for aligning several multimodal topographical mappings from corticothalamic feedback, ascertaining a coarse unity, a “fuzzily logical” overlapping of maps (maps of present, past, and expected future cuts) from across every functional network that has a thalamic projection. The local binding problem is solved within the TRN and its own feedback loop of neuronal projection linking the “supervisory attentional system” to this function. This suggests that freedom from this individualized and idiosyncratic matrix of correlation is challenging because the human-type “matrix” exhibits a strong gravitation toward the singular, possibly even disregarding *substantial* elements of the foundational signal that do not correspond to the singular as superfluous to immediate experience, cutting them out in a bandwidth-saving gesture. Following Catren further, he claims that //the transcendental a priori structures of human experience are a posteriori products of the immanental natural dynamics of the impersonal field//, that the //human transcendental type, far from being characterized by some sort of pre-phenoumenal necessity, results from a contingent local subjectivization of the experiential field itself.// These local subjectivizations are “excitations” of the field, excitations whose structure defines particular frames of subjectivity. According to this line of reasoning, the human mode is just one of any number of potential subjective modes //according to which the field of impersonal experience locally [...] frames its narcissistic self-experience.//

A phenoumenodelic experience - any experience that //involves a shift of the very transcendental structure that renders a transcendent experience possible// - is an unfurling of the pleromatica out of the hyper-enfolded stratifications of a typical human-type structure’s knotwork of frame-cuts. In the phenoumenodelic experience we expose the noumenal threaded through every phenomena and find a symmetry between inner and outer: imaginative world-building takes on robust sensory characteristics and may be perceived as “real”, while outer experience is shown to be generated in a highly similar imaginative gesture as more and more mediation qua reference-frames is stripped away. At the deepest extreme of these experiences, we “transcend transcendence” onto the immanent //void-plane of zero-intensity//, a frameless brain state of high-dimensional network symmetry between inner and outer models that has been maximized via a flattening of the inner and outer experience into a single continuous field with no observable divide. This is accomplished in a total deactivation of the TRN and the thalamus, preventing the differentiation of incoming signal by eliminating the node at which the “Heisenberg cut” is performed. This causes every functional network to receive a copy of the whole signal rather than only receiving the slices of the signal it would normally process, flooding the cortex and reducing available bandwidth for the construction of a self-model in direct correlation with the reduction in mediative frames qua cognition of individually differentiated sensory signals. We may from here, assert the “witnessing” of the annihilation of the “self-as-observer”, a “death” of the self-model that drags with it the entangled world of our mediated simulation. This “death” removes the unitary observer from the field of awareness which uncovers the raw signal-field out of which we carve a “reality.” This prrovides a strong argument in favor of the Many-Worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics by showing in an intuitive fashion that classical reality is entirely perspectival and results from ignoring information about the exact state of the environment. Aldous Huxley’s “reducing valve” model of consciousness was an idealization of the Heisenberg cut concept, and leads us out of this technical-terrorism and back into our primary inquiry, mechanisms for widening and even removing this “valve.”

spontaneous riff on something that came up in real-world

////apologies for the awful punctuation-abuse, you're a smart kid, figure it out! Also be excited,100th post/15,000th unique visitor today!////




I have no idea if free will or determinism or some combination or diagonalization thereof is an accurate depiction of agency in this world. “I make no hypotheses,” I merely find hard determinism the most generous and equitable ethical model to take upon myself, as refusing to acknowledge agency on any level leads me toward behaviour that generates compassion for every act, even dangerous, stupid, suicidal, psychopathic, sociopathic acts, as a case of ignorance to be pitied or overcome through knowledge rather than the common assumptions of blame, intent, upbringing or nature etc etc etc. “For the good of all sentient beings,” the bodhisattva vow is made only by those capable of understanding a conceptual space in which we claim that almost no one knows that the “environment” of culture and consensus meatspace reality is not only a persistent illusion but an incredibly dangerous and harmful one, one that takes on a conceptual framework claiming that there is no such thing as agency and that to assign agency is to misunderstand the ideal-realist assertion (backed up by certain novel cognitive and physical theories) that all sentient beings (in truth, all sentience) are a single physically conjoined manifold of points with no “real” referent (no single word or even phrase in any language i am familiar with decribes this manifold accurately without referring to religion or metaphysics, though an apophatic logic gives us a far more interesting framework for these non-descriptions) and no signifier capable of intimating the theory that we are entirely moved by forces beyond our knowledge or control that does not place us in the hands of god.

Rather than agential motion through a space, the most we may be able to hope for is to organically accrete enough information [on/in]to our entity through stochastic motion through the pleromatic “superliquid” such that we become able to conceptually model/mimic (developing the antenna/tuning speculation) these forces and “surf” the quantum probability waves (mentat : naive mind) into more conducive zones of existence. To think of this process (“existing”) as easy or difficult may be the wrong linguistic mode to describe the system, rather approaching it in a fashion that acknowledges how [[a complex entity will find the system complex, and a simple entity will perceive it as simplistic]] is more appropriate, as the “world” is a multimodal user interface - a user’s reality is in fact a highly idiosyncratic interface between the entity and itself.

Equality is quickly discovered to be only “complete” when all points are equally alienated from the original manifold (despite the fact that this alienation in a very real sense does little more than generate a new manifold, it is actually the knowledge that one can generate novel manifolds of experience or shear away cognitive manifolds regardless of any form of status in the world, wealth, disability, etc that is the key to this knowledge, not gestures toward alienation-free existences), as every alienated point, upon alienation, seems to suddenly develop a compulsion to reduce alienation in the world (whether through actions designed to reduce suffering or actions designed to impose suffering on those that would generate suffering in the world(this is frequently problematized by an entity’s desire to impose suffering on those that generated their particular (real or perceived) sufferings)). This is obviously also problematic because alienation-prevention is not a safe strategy to *end* alienation, but in fact works negentropically to hold the manifold in stasis - generating a more and more pathological drive toward demanding the end of alienation through action as the pressure of the flow of the real builds behind this false or illusory stasis. In the grand Xenofem tradition, we may not be able to eliminate alienation, but we may be able to maximally alienate everything into a categorically isomorphic equality.

SPMP 4: "Free paperclips for everyone!"

some riff-raff...ignore this...just doing some notes for something….many passes with the sharpening stone for all these ideas needs to happen one day when I don’t feel so harried…. #decelerate….

Returning to my earlier thoughts on a shift from “Cathedral-State” governance to a “Cathedralibrary” system, I’m reminded of a statement from XS blog post titled nRx for Dummies: //the prospects for neoreactionary consensus – for a neoreactionary thing – depend upon disintegration. If we’re compelled to share a post-Cathedral state, we’ll kill each other. - http://www.xenosystems.net/neoreaction-for-dummies/ // It is the disintegration referred to here that I wish to view through a xenofeminist lens in the sense that a homogeneous and “complete” alienation can itself be metasystematized in the overlapping of A) an archive that has been overhauled to curate perspectival timelines rather than such a loose and amorphous concept as information, B) a blockchain-esque state structure that uses the ledger system to archive entire historico-geometric sets of ID-entities: their ramifications, fracturings, and integrations rather than a default individual numerical single-frame coding by a state that does not take into consideration its potential for alteration and fragmentation, and C) a paper-clip maximizer-type  AI programmed to maximize the archival and curation of these shifts, skynetically ending the info-lineage of any identity that overcodes another and recording theviolation for posterity. The single-frame identity linearizes, shearing off mutations and alterations that do not conform to the normativity of the over-frame or supra-frame, the dissolution-paradigm encourages mutations and alterations and safeguards them in hyperreal metabubbles of (virtual?) reality.

The progressive incursion/convergence of big data-mining, identity- and state-dissolution (both practices and entropic physical laws), and surveillance-media-social-state construction must at some point give way either to a 1)  permanent perfect archive, not only of current information but also in what ways this information has changed over time; or to a 2) pure fractal overload that alienates the system itself from its own informatic flows, generating a remarkable self-similarity to neural processing in which frames of contextual reference spontaneously emerge as metareality or hyperreality which must be successfully navigated in order to reach the topological reality underlying the illusory covering-image. These frames are entities, the cathedralibrary is the global cog-narrative “Universal Form” cf. Giordano Bruno’s conception of God.

Within these perspectival frames the same navigatory tools used in psychonautics can potentially be extended into archive-space as non-space becomes as relevant as info-space in terms of topological organization, allowing one to track the shape of the edge, “learning what it is that we do not know” and engaging a category-theoretic appropriation of this pattern-tracking to make highly educated guesses as to what is missing in any given frame, toroidally compressing potential #2 into potential #1 over time.

further mirror mazery

(Whatever you do, don't listen to the sound)

//When the entire brain is opened into this involute infinity of zero-input, all memory is "viewed" from a higher spatial dimension, providing the god's-eye, rhizomatic observer-less point of view on the librarynth of Self/Knowledge, exposing its construction - exposing zero, the gap, as the stable centrality supporting the infinitely generative multidimensionality of consciousness. In laying zero as this mobile foundationless foundation, the central gap whose tendrils extend out infinitely as every gap, pre- post- and during Being is shown to be interconnected, Ø proves hyperscalar, dimensionless, rather than simply a starting point or as some abstract linear position eternally pre-beginning and out of range of phenomenal experience. Zero becomes interchangeable with the Sartrean perfect witness as this tracking-of-emptiness becomes a permanent ungrounding process of divorcing from preconceived ideals and habits - a mechanism for practicing the "undocking," so to speak, from ideology, culture, or self. A precision nihilism at the level of neural correlates to sense perception - where "passive nihilism is zero religion, active nihilism is the religion of zero."27 This reconfiguration easily overturns dualisms that would suggest anything other than Ø=∞, and indexes again that Ø represents a fundamental field of creative relation interpenetrating all things, as darkness has always been prior to light. - me, Proto-neuronihilism //

memoriae moriendi

Because I don't like to let this thing sit still for tooo long, but I'm also too busy to write anything super new, here is a flash bit from this thing I'm working on now, a little totally unedited first draft taste of the chapter I'm writing right now for something super secret, but if you've read through past entries you'll recognize a little maybe.

the first few paragraphs from a chapter titled The Art of the Memory of Death in Three Nested Sets

:::::::::

In Jean Cocteau's 1950 film Orphée, an improbable set of events lead a confused but tragically egoic poet on a counterintuitive journey through the underworld and back via mirror portals. Hounded by an uncompromising love for a Death which he claims for himself that propels him further and further from ordinary reality and its concerns, he ignores several warnings before missing and being partly responsible for the death of his pregnant wife, Eurydice. Death begins acting erratically when exposing herself to Time for this game, eventually being forced to sacrifice herself (in)to a mysterious further void for her own love of the poet, reflecting her own power onto herself to give her love more Time in life. The principle of Time and Void as reflective structures grows, a fulcrum-doubling, a crystalline nucleation from the future imposing its multi-faceted surface onto all past maps. Death as the strangest, strongest attractor in the circuit of life - but also given, and aggressively so. The pilgrimage toward the realm of separation marks the initiatory impulse of the monihilastic, the one who must “see for himself” the alone into the unknown the alone with the alone, the neuromancer tailing a white whaling rabbit past the mirror’s edge. However, the singular selfish soul seeds the field with disharmonious obsession, perceives only obstacles to knowledge, and is repaid in multiform dissolution of the attached identities. Oscillation between worlds is not their coinciding and bifurcation of the perspective is impossible under such circumstances. 

//“I am letting you into the secret of all secrets, mirrors are gates through which death comes and goes. Look at yourself in a mirror all your life and you'll see death at work like bees in a hive of glass.” -Heurtebise, Orphée//

A pair of focal attributes of Orpheus’ journey position the opening of our maze in a disastrous frame while indexing the trajectory of the penetration: the feminine, seen as a radically other and eventually identified with Death, is ignored, shunned, and avoided, presented as confusing and annoying like the buzzing of flies around the corpse of the protagonist’s great work - a work culled from a mysterious radio signal that fascinates Orpheus, unaware that they are in fact signals from the underworld/Death/the feminine itself. These signals are erratic, obscure, and drive Orpheus to obsession, representing the poet’s inability or unwillingness to accept the trinity of poetry, love, and death’s inseparability from the suffering made material of the world-space. French philosopher Michel de Certeau in various works has outlined a ruleset for “manners of speaking” the mystical function - one of them being a turn towards others’ texts while disclaiming one’s own - that we will use as part of a template for analyzing the works in this chapter in order to examine my contention that mystical death experiences are pervasive, that their primary neural function is an amplification and bifurcation of a geometrical perspective on the world-model, and that this bifurcation is the key to, among other things, an animus-alchemy of transmutation - a system for provoking evolution from discrete “closed individualism” viewpoints of binaryism/dualism into a unified flexible wholeness of perspective. This transmutation exhibits a fractal self-similarity to a growth beyond gender-dualism, which is why I choose to present particularly male art in this zone - to analyse clear metaphallegoric threads weaving this separation; to examine the gesture from ego-laden solipsistic penetration and “rational” negativity toward a communally-submissive union with the impenetrable unspeakable. The creative act contains all information about creation : any examination of the creative act can begin anywhere, for it consistently leads back to the voidmouth of pure unification, back to the immanent field.  

//Yet this train's whistle!

The wails of a lifetime were gathered in it from other nights in other slumbering years; the howl of moon-dreamed dogs, the seep of river-cold winds through January porch screens which stopped the blood, a thousand fire sirens weeping, or worse! the outgone shreds of breath, the protests of a billion people dead or dying, not wanting to be dead, their groans, their sighs, burst over the earth! - Bradbury, SWTWC//

The carnival train speeding into the small unnamed town in Bradbury’s Something Wicked drills through the sleeping boundaries of naïveté //clamouring, banging three different hymns mixed and lost, maybe not there at all// and initiates the bifurcation of entities that had never considered the possibility of their separation.  Jim and Will exist in one breath, are said to run as one unit, “mirror images”; but their birth, mere minutes apart, set the tone for their inexhaustible difference - Time’s chaotic generation and wilding force leaving its trace even on the smallest of scales. Yin and yang, birth a minute prior to the halloween-midnight dividing line leaves Will Halloway blonde and clean, pious, while Jim Nightshade is born a minute after, and called black-hat by Will’s father: the true protagonist of the story, Charles, the town librarian: 

//'You need a white-hat or a black-hat book?'

'Hats?' said Will.

'Well, Jim - ' they perambulated, Dad running his fingers along the book spines - 'he wears the black ten-gallon hats and reads books to fit. Middle name's Moriarty, right, Jim? Any day now he'll move up from Fu Manchu to Machiavelli here - medium-size dark fedora. Or over along to Dr Faustus - extra large black Stetson. That leaves the white-hat boys to you, Will. Here's Gandhi. Next door is St Thomas. And on the next level, well…Buddha.' - RB, SWTWC//

The text and the boys’ relationship resonates with duelling dualisms, binary gravities with centrifugal force - the generation of multiperspective begins with the simple oppositional negation of all givens, and one discovers, inside its oneness, a pair. Containing this pair, is the relation - the gap mutates the pairing entities into a one that is defined by the space between - there is no two: two is the one of united voidings, a pair of ones are not a two but instead the singular relation sinking into the emptiness between: a pair of ones make a one that is a zero: and Ø=∞. The negative potential in the gap is precisely where the autumn people of the carnival strike - the emptiness of non-knowing, of trust and faith’s lacking, of dreams and dreads held secret out of shame is the space of energetic expansion on which they feed, for it is precisely (in Heideggerian terms) //where danger is, that sublating power grows//. The carnival creatures exist on the vibrational signatures of idle selfish fantasy, feigned and real narcissism, and longing. They are seen as monstrous and inhuman by the boys, freshly planted in the fear and anxiety and excitement of the unknown. Great care is taken to portray them as exemplars of the frailty of the “human, all-too human” though, and as such are never truly monster, never wholly Other, never separate from the world they all once sought escape from. Charles particularly refuses the devolution into dualism and Other-ing, remembering that //if faces were judged, the freaks were no worse than many he'd seen slipping from the library late nights in his long career//. 

Charles, while playing a seemingly menial role of librarian/janitor/supporting character/too-old white voice to match white hair, develops in a wicked arc over the course of the story. From a man painfully re-living youthful memories in a dusty labyrinth of Time to a gnostic warrior taking on the world’s demons, Mr Halloway generates the motive force of the bodhisattva, the spiritual guide-structure of identification with the librarynth. As the boys’ paths diverge harder when pressed by the Dark, fear of and obsession with Time drive the wedge into their gap. Charles, prepared even beyond his reckoning by his own intimacy with such feelings of passive nihilism and active desire, performs the Bodhisattva’s Vow - performs the Tao - and fights without fighting, reasons with laughter and care in addition to hard-won knowledge, gathers fraying threads of individual egotisms fracturing under the weight of past and future sins in the unificatory gesture of a pitiless, desire-less, open love for all beings. This gesture is a negation of his own nihilism, encoded in the bindu point of separation - the speed at which age fractures the relationship between he and his son becomes the impetus for bridging the gulf of all ages: between Jim and Will, between he and Will, between knowledges past and the now. His refusal of the tainted gift of Time is the ultimate negation, the prima facie evidence of amor fati, the satori-marked disavowal of the self. 

it moved : it breathed

couple pages from a book we
just finished
forthcoming forthcoming
titled
terminal obscurity
encryptopoetics[]sigiletics

reminder : you have zero events today

A mistake is lost to time, encoded hard coded for you forever and never amen
And to every one else?
A passing joke, a glitch.
That you could laugh at too
If you weren't mourning what was lost to that moment.

The lost information in that miss-take is the Tao. The miss-step following the piss-take is the Tao.

The sigh, the hesitation when you THINK the true answer before you speak the filtered concept is the Tao.

The way that can be told is not the way.
It has to be FELT.
Not emotionally, ie: "feelings", but through the utter cessation of the bodily remnants of mind (the difference between feelings and FEELING. Feelings can be hurt, because pain is an illusion and emotion is distorted memory. SENSORIAL FEELING is the natural state of true existence and the basic function that makes NAVIGATION possible in any dimension for any entity-you feel, so you can orient, so you can think spatially if nothing else). As in, no words can fully express the impact of the Real, to even attempt to describe the event in simple words degrades the memory and generates anxiety and false consciousness because of the failures of others to understand your depth of explanation(because your explanation-signal will be distorted by emotional response to the event).

Images are always better than words
I think 1000 images before I can utter a word in the morning
1000x1000 words worth of thought before I can manage coffee
And my words are small, infinitesimal, singular atoms within the free flowing world-current that is my thought.

John C Lilly - Programming and Metaprogramming in the Human Biocomputer

 Pure self is not-interjecting the energy of YOU into the false construct of self, the energy that animates it and generates the illusion. Selflessness is the generative force of YOUness projecting away from your bodily artifact, energising the communal structure at the expense of the self-structure. LOVE is selfless or it isn't love; the self is not love as long as it isn't not-ing.
Tied in knots yet? Because this is yoga, too.
That the "lost" is the Tao gives the inherent proof that Nothing is Ever Lost. Trusting in the spiral to eternally return meaningful content to your attention (it is the Tao's "job" to present you with the truth in infinite disguises, after all), this trust in the Way to eternally puzzle you into submission is the slayer of guilt. The slayer of worry, the slayer of the shame of forgetfulness, the driver of disciplined open-ness. Faith. Pretty simple thing, despite its difficulty.

nΩtes on the deliverance øf a new friEND : decelerator

I've been accused of taking things personally, "too serious" says the trickster!

but Death is my Dance, Death is my Game

tragic is my comedy

and with a grin and gallows humour I blow my trombones

haunting hunting trills on ribcage xylophones

a smiling skull sighing out a groaning moaning poem

to annihilate your dreams of Home.

Señor Coyote, I may not understand your dance (I'm not omniscient, even at my best)

but I understand the bee's dance

the tree's dance 

when the wind wilds the way

before a thunderstorm collapses the world and

sends you quivering cowering underneath my laughing leafing beard.

Your speed will be needed Little Brother, because

I am a fucking glacier

a bone-bleaching desert,

the deep ocean beyond sight of land

that ancient battlefield behind the tobacco farm out past the church

that glows godless spectral at 3am soul's midnight

as Valhalla spews forth ragged companies of all my

special sons and daughters

 I am

the deep down things of long-dead Gods and Outer Time

the swamping corpse of rivers dying

that hole in the world you can't define behind your eyes

labyrinthine wake-ing dreaming you can't divine and can't divide.

Señor Coyote, the raccoon has your magic,

and an opposable thumb,

and superior climbing ability,

and a willingness to sink to the sewer to survive,
My master lockpick when keys
are lost to lycanthropy

but if you seek to sneak me, searching, peeking for sneaking ankles to bite

the ash you'll taste in mouth is I, as We wheel and caw

contemplating murder.

Señor Coyote, I can feel your sneaking footsteps swift across my shoulders.

I hear you running over the ground down bones of a million of your brothers,

broken-backed by brighteyed wolves howling voids at starring skies,

by relentless Time, or stealth-perched panther's eyes.

come inside the crucible, the hurricane of Nature's Eye and learn to teach the I and I to Die.

Fundamental Bleakness of the Middle Way

Negate thyself.

Time is not a flat circle. Time is a decaying sine wave spiraling out. As such it implies a beginning and an end. What it does not postulate is that there is and will be only one sound, or even one sound at a time; nor does it admit of an easily definable moment of decay-completion. Zeno finally has his say in the dying waveform of deep-space transmission. A poisonous ritual calculus of inversings and negativity guides me to the brink of my own dead planet with universal mapping patterns designed to flow the way, but I turn around and miss every exit because being alone is the bleakest bleaking part of bleakness, and I can't seem to make that cut, nor do I particularly want to. My strange loop is definitively alone, a floating head in bleakspace. The part of me that can't be satisfied with purely electronic communication has its say in the part of me that attempts to drag others along for the show, and my willingness to abandon them for the cause when they prove unwilling or unable to see a value in whatever it is I am doing proves my fallibility in this respect. I may never be right, but I know wrong when I see what it drags behind, what its gravity collects. I may not yet have answers, but my questions get sharper in Real Time as humans systematically apply every answer extant to a problem for which no proper question has yet been asked. Our tenacity in gripping a plane of abstraction that exists primarily as hallucination is a benchmark of success for those that have never witnessed the visceral prying apart of the illusion. The blind, black, and infinite scream out from behind every true veil rent HOWEVER it is rent, and the loss of false optimism AND false pessimism is so devastating when the Truth is Told, as to render the subject unrecognizable. These acts of fundamental annihilation generate such a fear in the unsoiled that governments and laws and religious codes spring up like wildflowers in their wake, to guard against the possibility of a legitimate second coming. To say "I choose to turn my consciousness off." is too radical to be allowed, and to say "I choose to use my consciousness for what it COULD be, rather than what it has become." is too radical to be taken seriously. But to see the two statements as the same thing? 

I get no respite in my unlocking of any logics, every minute discovery introduces a new tumbler to pick, without fail, eternally. One would eventually get tired of lockpicking if all of life were locks, you say...but not if you are a locksmith, a thief, an engineer, a code-breaking detective-philosopher, a librarian, a mathematician, a mysterian, a seeker beyond the threshold, a professional fucking UNLOCKER. There is no radical connectedness in going behind the door: the alienation and illimitability DRIVES IT. "We are one" is for the hippie that did not go far enough to see we are NO ONE, ALL OF US.

[I know I should not speak like this. What a waste to spend your time reasoning about the impossibility of one day sticking the hook in and indexing some little part of reality that, Tetris-like, delivers temporary respite. Only, of course, here comes more bricks. As I feel, always in my very bones, what I know is coming, the far-off end (it is never close enough), bleak theory morphs into even and ever bleaker theory, sometimes just bleak, once bleaker than black, but now bleaker than bleak. -PJ Bleak Bleaker than Bleak]

And that's the good part. 

exacting space:enacting space

a little white noise and fluff

deep down things

-

Properly ignored, I thought I had demolished

You

O’ wizard, perched like an ill omen on all my crooked creations.

As the body still holds fast beyond the threshold, even as I steal your wings in the dark, my flawing flying curses!

The diagonal dilemma diagramming the unlimited limit constrains until it is complete.

My body strains for dormancy

All rituals to dust and no consequence.

"My secret is no secret."

Quiet! I say, rasping black gaspings

Clasping my hand around the blade, drew muddied bloodied dripping magick back

"In the blood, yes, unconstrained but you pain us with your flailing!"

Hoarse exhalation magnifies incoherence.

Your eyes glowed white at the sight of the crucible.

"Sacramentum futuri, panem de excidium!"

I hear your weakness old one, your bones are dry

let my flooding melt you down.

"This swamp will rectify, the sludge an appropriate retort!"

Contain yourself, sorcerer, fool, explain yourself!

Triple septagram, polar coordinates calculated for catastrophe-capturing,

re-leashed to this permanent haunt, I will bind the way

You flaunt your freedom.

"And I hear your weakness, it speaks too soon,

Wrong directions grace your silver spoon!

Step outside your flat circle, miserable mortal automaton, the Challenge has been made."

The Voice

Crashed

from everywhere

"No chalk scratchings delimit this lesson.

I is Nothing: uncontained, your shadow flees

to the safety of my transience."

Eye stood firm, sweating sweet acid dissolving no body.

Subliminated in the cyclone of Blind Time.

His Instrument, of no more consequence than dust, I melt down

"Through sand you crawl, worm, till sand -for all- you learn."

Heated into glass in this blast furnace.

Vortexing and hexagramming, my funeral funnelled

back to me, I said

I see, I said,

I SEE!

never came back

-

I foraged through the forest but what I searched for was too dear to see from so near.

I had to climb up the tallest tree to see that

me and thee, we were free from underbrush politicking.

One rung up, one ring out, and light on our feet we reached

the puppet pulling his own strings

pulling every string

we plucked glacial melodies to harmonizing galaxies

pulling fated string theories, pandora's music box

erupted and the Wyrd became The Way

The Way became the Day, Day became the Night

The Darkness was voluptuous when the Light

from Luna shattered glassy waters.

Aya's daughters danced through prismed auroras of

Geometric infinitudes and emotional amplitudes

Tracing steps of every beginning's end

as every veiling rends.

 

sharpening animus

-

We went round and round

in a leaf like cupped hands carrying us to and fro

the old man shining brilliant on the water, after emerging from the clouds

Children with golden eyes racing over waves signalling thunderheads.

They stomped and chanted, entranced.

Showers of sparks gently bouncing from sweating shoulders as they danced around the fire.

I watched the dust rise from the rhythmic pounding of feet, slowly growing dizzy.

I sat at the side of the Winged Mother whose form swam in my eyes.

The river's teeth in the hands of the skincarver cut the sign of the raven into my brow.

I felt the wound begin to pulse in time with the dance and that is when I saw him.

Face shadowed under wolf-pelt, his eyes burned like a wicked whipping wind in the mountains.

A vision, some kind of poison dream.

He spiralled through the spinning

My vision twinning, thricing, splicing

I was icing, boiling, howling

crowing, crying, sighing, dying to

race this wolf over the flats,

Fire an arrow through its mask.

Pierce where no one dares to ask

dig my bones up from the past.

perpetua

-

upon solar approach

time has been eaten

new vector in flames

burning white jetroar

mainlining leonine vortices

hypercalculatory ebb and flow

and flux

and structuring of now and no

bending shadows to

frame the photo-

synthesis of symbiosis

I, plant, plant my feet in

deep below the plane of soil and

growth and life

grimoire geology

erosion technology

east of the altar

the white seemed holy

but black and green

held it aloft

  

The repairmen

-

He cracked the book, thumbed through in a casually erratic manner, slapped it shut. As well for him that he didn't take any notice of the contents.  "They're just using you. You need a clean fix, none of that slop. That shite'll turn you into a fucking bug."

###"Only my eyes."

"Only his eyes, he says, like he's takin' out the rubbish or pulling a bloody pie out the oven! You're quite optimistic, mate. "

###"The new mix is extremely specific."

"Well don't think you're gonna be comin' around scaring the kids when you start broadcasting in twelve dimensions. Difficult enough to understand you as it is."

###"They seem to understand me quite well."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

###"We've wasted enough time. Turn it on."

He pushed forward on the lever we had taken to calling the throttle and I felt the familiar warm pulse. The device whined. Time and Ego liquefied.