Interstition hyperzone

doubt. 

cheerless dinners ate alone, 

despondent messages 

glacial gray eyes. 

Even the voice was frigid

The little man came quietly into the living room, shut the door behind 

”My apologies, madam, he left a neural distorter here. Correct?” 

her nod was tremulous. 

leaden cast of defeat

decent people whimpered.

Definite egomania.

The closed eye visuals intense

coronas painted field colorful, so mobile

Fever dreams

miserable to fucked paradise.

was far beyond control.

to make matters worse

had one more revenge

some weird game

stuttered miserably

hallucinated and sick

standard humanoid containment cell, converted to a nursery.

Chamber 1410-C was to be painted in the containment 

white

a water-smoothed stone

chromatic perspirations

steel vault claustrophobic tendencies

due to incorporeal nature those attacks are from wounds afflicted by makeshift weapons. 

Example of phrases used during Yellow Subtype: I was trapped. 

Blind to the voices, to the dark, to the stifled air and the walls always closed down, always grew

To the Ichor, always called

Red Subtype: when emitted this will never stop, closed instances of Reader-1410-1 will appear as tall, black-suited humanoids, possessing four eyes

will broadcast phrases and emotions connected with paranoia and anger

Regardless of subtype negativity

Physical contact with Reader-1410-1 enabled a one-sided communication

Yellow instances of Reader-1410-1 appear as young adults of both sexes,

Its too late. I am crude works of art, seemingly created using parts of the human

body, with bones, hair, teeth and emotions connected to pain, disgust, and dread. 

Green instances of Reader-1410-1 appear as various currently occupied hollow worlds. 

If phrases used during Red Subtype: will pointedly ignore depression and loneliness. 

an anomalous chemical reaction has [REDACTED]

[DATA EXPUNGED]

Recovered Documentation: Over the decade Reader-1863-A and Reader-1863-B collected broadcast ads from the last 10 years within [REDACTED], Alabama. Images from print ads was of hyperaggressiveness. The followed doc- uments are transcriptions of various print, televised and radio

[REDACTED]

The taste was so breathtaking, Jeannette never wanted to take another breath! 

Guaranteed to float up to 3m above the ground. 

Failure to regularly imbibe after first drink

instead targets the respiratory and circulatory systems,

results in the diaphragm collapsing

led to suffocation without mechanical assistance. 

Subjects who have drunk a sufficient quantity of [REDACTED] are capable of indefinitely floating

Absolutely Weightless

Estimated [REDACTED] injuries or deaths caused by drinking Lime Liftoff [An animated anthro-pomorphic Sarsaparilla root] 

The entire scene was filmed in Library

right male and one female, suddenly emerge from the pond

Terror For the Real Americans

There wasn’t much of a body high at all, but every sense was completely [REDACTED]

cold contradiction, the energy of the simulacrum

the accident linked to the promise, 

Because an explosion is always absolute necessity.

distinguished, it is our hope to announce that free willing was found at the same time that of revolution

stuck about with rusty blades and spikes and self-denial

exhibited unnameable spectacle

nuclear energy

cold doses, inexorable

actual presence

catastrophe perfectly uncultured arises, reveals contagions of the reactor in detail, very adequately demonstrated.

crowned sufficient, however free from the coincidence of Representation

the whole synthetic world waits for the secret doctrine

By the means of the Hexatmå ciphers mystics of every nation and race enlarged mysteries by permutation and expansion

counting from the upper Triad mere deformity signifies crossways knowledge

something to blow up - one figure after another

mathematical formulæ lie concealed

secret calculations for the archaic prototypes

that hedge off the phenomenal from the noumenal

I cannot tell you their ancient names, 

if we separate the first three which exist in one and remove us from this panic

All those Thrones and demons embody the same inevitability

God engraved the character a Bible of doubt, I first named them sulphur and sacred

minute fragments each just as simple as any other 

doubting whole inner nature

parentless and numberless

all their synonyms in our Secret Doctrine

proved useless in the injudicious nothing-else

and they have their meaning where this reaches the highest grade of invisibility

the freedom of the will is no less certain than the denizens of the Crossways World

I should have preferred the word endless

But the necessity of the machine, the predators, have denied it.

recurrence-embracing varieties of zero 

a plurality of actions the dominant form of standard advance

which all we can feel are defined as a modification of the being of mechanical, authentic being from even the most cunningly crafted pseudo-life.

And if we already see the theme and the core, the Line, the Triangle, the Pentacle, the second Line and the Cube (Therefore it is said: “In the world of being, the one Point fructifies the Line—the Virgin Matrix of Kosmos) 

and the immaculate Mother gives birth to the form that combines all forms

I say paranoia is genesis of the technique which multiplies viewpoint

there is really no attempt at a consistent Interpenetrating reality either.

the multiplexity evolving to large scale Paranoia churches and the grammatically correct Terror of the Revolutionists.

the business was network TV weapons systems

imagery and metaphysical concerns reduced one's own intel­lect to a nuclear ash heap.

windows into the ground-down vision 

when the owners of these castles discovered the true distinction of misfortunes

white eyes beneath the grass of rural cemeteries

blossomed vivid the sublime visitor

The most important ruin, the confusion of the past with the present.

There was a strong fascination in that awful magnificence 

terrible and fantastic shapes gladly die

mouldered stones to the Eternal Heavens

a herald from the grave of the contradictions of ether

the rays glinted upon the water over the tomb

Surely, it was not all that a voice from the dead could be, an immortality of vacancy

invoked the spirit but did not seem to hear the question

entranced

infinity without a wanderer or a voice has summoned the wakening to true silence

the intensity of  our own abjuration

has vowed an eternal separation, struck with a dark and sudden shade observed more madly than before.

no sympathies with the scorned penetrated beyond the tomb

and she would give worlds for such a proof that death did not either

in the agony the sphere of the intellect has called aloud unto the winds

very soul into a spell to fill the empty air with dead answers

low resolution graves under the paving-stones

that would kill or scatter time to find the ancient rendered habitable.

in dense multitudes geometrical improbability, physical imperfection, dissonance

persistent, tenacious, disdainful work like the futurity of blood

All appallingly life-like sound held no less in its extinction than in its production and development

the prolific slime are her first-born

these beings of sensation, the terminology of practical occultism

goes beyond immutable bases because even the void is sensation

a willing entity derived from the undecaying one

throws out and retracts the plane of the never-manifesting

Originary Bleakness from the Voidmouth : Bleaker Than Bleak by PJE

Hopefully Paul doesn't mind if I post this…originally on Three Pound Brain. Too good not to share. 

Bleaker than Bleak (by Paul J. Ennis)

Bleak theory accepts that it itself is almost entirely wrong. However, precisely on the basis that it accepts humans are almost always wrong about how it goes with the world and so what are the chances of this theory being right? In this paradoxical, confused sense it is a theory of human fallibility. Or the inability of humans to see themselves for what they are, even when, as per contemporary neuroscience, we kind of know (have you not yet heard the “good” news that you are not what you think you are?). We kind of know because we are beginning to see ourselves from the third-person perspective. Subjectivity is devolving into objectivity and objectivity entails seeing things clearly, even if not transparently. That opacity, always there in the subject-object distinction, is collapsing and the consequences are bleak. The second reality-appearance “appeared” as a crack we cracked. It has been going on ever since. Consider the insanity of the entire post-Kantian tradition and the in-itself – is it not just an expression of what it feels like when you recognise what was once a “transparent cage” (Sartre) of looking directly at the world is a hallucination, a real one, all the same.

We cannot outpace this very blindspot that renders us a self or a subject. We are deluded about our beliefs or intentions (a given, so to speak), but more significantly we are deluded that somehow we can ‘recursively’ leap ‘over our own shoulders’ and see not just the trick, as Bakker might put it, but something substantial. Rather than just a model or a process withholding information from “you” yourself. Your own brain lies to you. It hides noise (‘data-reduction’) so that you do not collapse into a schizophrenia of buzzing information. This much Bergson, Deleuze, and Meillassoux have suggested is a most horrifying possibility. If all the data of the world flowed in you would be at one with matter, but what would you hear? Do you even want to countenance what that might involve? Hell is all around you. Your brain is just trying its best to stop you being lit on fire.

Everything is pretty patterns (Ladyman and Ross) and you are too. The problem with patterns is that sometimes they clash. If the brain has been hacked together it’s bound to be buggy as hell. Look at your computer. One subpersonal process goes askew and you need it fixed. The technician tries a few things, maybe it works, or maybe it does not. Maybe, as in severe cases of schizophrenia or depression, you just have a crappy system. I’ve said before that consciousness is the holocaust of happiness, meant sincerely, not lightly, and by this I mean that if the conditions or constraints that created a self never came together, in just the way it has for us, there would never have been any conscious suffering. Consciousness is the final correlate of all human suffering. You can blame almost anything else, but had “we” (is it really “us”) never believed we should be stable, integrated selves none of the bugs that followed would have appeared. Our world would have been a beautiful, empty, unthinking collection of material patterns: perhaps even a heaven of unthinking noise?

Chaos, as I am sure you have heard, is a ladder, but so too is evolution. Lifted up from the dregs of biology into cultural evolution we came to see what nothing else could see. Some foolishly believed this was a gift. Civilisation was realised. When in reality each one was built on war. Philosophers know how to dance around this problem: we can think our way, collectively, toward a more rational, constrained future. Except collective intelligence most often works best when deployed toward destructive ends: where do you find the most creative minds? The war-room. ‘War, everywhere I look…’ (Tormentor). To make it explicit, so to speak, if you want new masters, as Lacan said, you will find them. Look into the dead eyes of those who desire freedom and there rests fear. Fear that they will build a palace of reason only for the stability so hard fought for to collapse under the weight of the chronic irrationalism of the baser human aspect, untameable, unpredictable, and unknowable. History books are the evidence you stack up to adduce this, but at least today we have learnt enough to include the accelerated process of decline into our calculations. We no longer fight our enemies. We kiss them on the mouth and ask if we can join them in the decadent decline in advance.

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. Rust Cohle, in True Detective, at one points let’s his interrogators know: ‘I know who I am. And after all these years, there’s a victory in that.’ It is the most paradoxical of victories. The “pyrrhic” victory of traditional philosophy, found in thinkers as diverse as Husserl and Meillassoux, where one gains a foothold on the world after a long struggle. The question bleak theory asks, adrift the perennial tradition, is whether knowing who we are will result in precisely the inverse of the oldest goal of philosophical self-knowledge: we cannot understand ourselves except as that entity which cannot truly know itself. Know thyself? Perhaps all along it has been the wrong question.

The tradition of philosophy always hinges on a subtle revision of position and orientation. This is the generative process whereby, for instance, the ambiguity of postmodern philosophy culminates in a counter-revolution of rational normativity. This is our contemporary example, but it is found everywhere. Heidegger ontologising phenomenology. Hegel gobbling up the Kantian noumena. Today there is possibly another: one that, again to evoke Rust Cohle, means to ‘start asking the right fucking questions.’ Not about what we are, but what we are not: “transcendental egos,” “subjects,” or “selves.” Perhaps not even “agents,” but I leave that problem for other minds to debate. I know what I am, a ‘disinterested onlooker’ (Husserl), but deluded that I am unconcerned.

True madness lies ahead for our species. Normativity, humanism, anti-reductionism, anything not bathed in the acid of neuroscience are all contributing to a sharpening of the knives. Building dams to keep the coming dissolution at bay they will render the shattering of the illusion that much harsher, harder. We are not going to Mars. We are going to go out of our minds.

.

[ Dr. Paul J. Ennis is a Research Fellow in the School of Business, Trinity College Dublin. He is the author of Continental Realism (Zero Books, 2011), co-editor with Peter Gratton of the Meillassoux Dictionary (Edinburgh University Press, 2014) and co-editor with Tziovanis Georgakis of Heidegger in the Twenty-First Century (Springer, 2015). A version of bleak theory, ‘Bleak,’ first appeared in the DVD booklet for A Spell to Ward off the Darkness (Soda Pictures, 2014).]//////////////////////

something slightly less plausible

Yesterday
my witchcraft worked
Today
i sharpen my bones
Tomorrow
we pierce the roof of yama's mouth

I have been thinking on my last post, and I keep coming back to this image…I wish I could art better, I think I could draw this better than write it…I'm working on my calculus anyway heh…ok so, if, in the tryptamine state, at a certain level of synesthesia we get the filtration through the visual cortex of each step through the components, i.e. a visual point being reproduced in a tactile sensation, an audible sound, a taste, and a smell simultaneously etc etc if each component registers the sense and runs it through memory and the spatial mapping region individually with the visualization of those processes being collated and THAT being ran through the same system….we would get extraordinarily complicated patterns and movement pretty much at any level of simplicity above absolute primitivism yea? Suddenly Terence McKenna's 'dark room, no lights' idea begins to take a better shape….instead of what was often propounded, that it was to give one a free space to project into, thereby intensifying the trip….i think the idea could be better served as rather a method to test what kind of visualizations and imaginations are caused or triggered by what sensations. If they are singularly presented, in an otherwise stimulus-null environment like an isolation tank(which I experienced for the first time a few days ago, at the excellent FLOAT STL), they would be visualized singularly….practice with singular repeated sensations in this fashion over time would develop skill in drawing out individual threads of the sense-tapestry for examination during standard meatspace hallucination? Ultra-fine playback and tracking develops with intuitive analogous geometric responsiveness; or, how fast can you calculate the distance(and can heightened mathematical ability give one an ability to calculate "shortcuts", more directly perceive the motion of any moving parts, or in effect "simplify the equation"?) between the beginning of direct physical sensing and where it hits the active reflection of the perception in order to short-circuit subjectivity? I think we could train ourselves to interpret the signal earlier in the chain if we knew what it was, sooner, which would just be a matter of knowledge, practice, and genuinely paying close attention. Sounds create different visual formations when repeated over time but they don't seem to change(for me, anyway) enough for you to not recognize them once you have seen them a couple times unless you undergo a significant change*….my theory that -a more scientifically accurate internal model of whatever processes are being observed would render them in the visual cortex in greater and more accurate detail faster and with less metabolic cost- should be put to the test one day.
Maybe. Somehow.
Maybe I just haven't read enough to know if this is already old hat for everyone?

*repeated listenings to a pair of albums(Wreck and Reference No Content and CVLT Nation's Joy Division Sessions) while under the influence of LSD showed a structure that was constant across multiple listenings, and the structure visualized wavered only where I was "involved." From where the sound emanated, to where it hit my ears(and the same pattern again post-visually) remained constant through each listen. This constant structure was overlaid onto my vision for their duration unless I shifted my perception away voluntarily, and oddly (or not so…) resembled the "psychohedron" form my emotional machinery generally appears as when visualized.

self-guided apocalypsine targeting

allow me to reintroduce myself

For nearly a year (though time slips, heh) now I've been experimenting on myself. I've used my mind as a guinea pig to test and comprehensively learn the effects of psilocybin first-hand in controlled scenarios. During a particularly (and unexpectedly) intense mushroom experience of roughly six dried grams in the summer of 2014, I visualised my own cognitive storage and repertoire and fell in love(what an ego!). I quickly felt an intuitive affinity for the fungus and realised I could maintain a safe level of spatial awareness, reasonable navigational ability, and no loss of fear response to dangerous situations even at remarkably high dosages. I asked for opinions, the hippies were appalled! Apparently McKenna's 5 gram heroic dose was the legal limit and Guru Watts says once you get the message put down the phone....needless to say, I'm a curious bugger and I wanted to see more. Despite absolutely shattering the threshold and experiencing several hundred ego dissolutions and fresh restackings, I had only caught a glimpse of the inner workings. It was just too vibrant and perfect for me to control the direction and I snapped out of it like a dream once it was opened to me but it was intuitive, it was immediate - i knew what I'd seen - it had structure. To me that was the end of recreational use. It took less than five minutes of googling to get a hang on where research was at in terms of what these things DO, and I dove in headlong. When the next experience came around I was ready. I became able to coerce ego loss almost immediately from within even smaller doses, breathing techniques and mindfulness sharpened the solidity and ease of formation of immersive imaginative states; a growing awareness of the fundamental geometries of the state allowed me to navigate and percieve barriers even when fully immersed. I began to notice how matching patterns of stable matter could be stacked in order to bring reality "into phase" and I used that to keep a functioning model of ordinary reality formed in order to track my own motions in real space while not leaving the dream. I contained two functioning world-representations at once. I became aware of how if those process were tracked all the way to their formation, it ended several layers of symbolism deeper than where "Real space" existed. Myth shattered. The myth-making process shattered.  My own myth shattered. 

I sat in the lotus of pure interval and saw everything.

I became intimate with the feeling of non-existence. 

I saw the void and fell to my knees, weeping. I was hooked. I understood nearly any myth I was confronted with in a profoundly new light. My work ratcheted up in intensity, and I could suddenly endure intense levels of anger, fear, frustration before expressing it. 

10 dried grams warped reality immediately upon finally stomaching all that mess. Alone, in a comfortable bed, in comfortable clothes, I, for all intents and purposes, simply fell asleep. Whether I was actually sleeping or not doesn't really matter because I was fully aware. Able to spontaneously "switch" the self-model on and off with any number of cues, whim-dependent...able to use a hexagonal lattice matrix to determine which sense input flowed to which component of the perception, a stabilisation of all the movements of the hallucination into a solid completely lucid dream-state under total control. In this state I had access to all memory, including all sense data recorded in those memories and I perceived it as a vegetative structure, a fractal'd, fibbonaci'd vortex of information scanned intuitively and trigonometrically. I was able to triangulate information in my own history based on analogy and emotional content. I was a dead Librarian, swiftly scanning the Black Stacks, a True Detective hunting Nothing. When I say all memories, I mean every book and visualisation and movie and music and snippet of memorable sounds, faces, enough detail to get lost in a hallucination of a memory simply by virtue of prying through the particular details of a memory. In this stable state, any qualia, any temporal event, every fragment contained in the brain including every illusion, can be reconfigured into new hallucinatory dream sequences that can be played out in the mind's eye or revisited objectively. The probem became how to view it entirely subjectively, so as to not accidentally internalise any vision as an ultimate truth. Through repeated long-term exposure to doses in the 7-12 gram range, I've come to the conclusion that the visual geometry of the psychedelic state can be used as a map of the distance a sensory signal travels, and through what regions - if we can visualise any part of the true complexity of the map at all. 38,000 trillion process can't possibly be successfully simultaneously interpreted in the visual cortex. That the tracking back process inevitably displays its source, and all sense input comes from a single set of sources first.

But through the simple mechanism of serotonin overload, the mushroom shows us that compressions of memory, action, and information that hundreds of disparate disciplines teach, not to mention transdisciplinarity itself, and a strong ability to make logical inferences, analogies and critical deductions based on a constantly morphing visual and emotional calculus (ie a flexibly variable, non-euclidean mathematics is a key to accurate navigation) we could easily amplify the amount of sensorially information we actively process and the total memory available to us exponentially, then apply it to ordinary reality with almost rudimentary levels of practice. The strangest part, is that it very nearly compels me to strengthen my mathematical and logical facilities in order to understand it, and it is so obscenely bizarre it demands to be understood. Hyperstitional mycology. It is a function of the brain to build connections. It is a function of rational self-reflection to consider the subjectivity, universality, and efficacy of any connection so as to not be deceived by non-functional illusion. It is the function of myth to build functional illusions that stand in for truth in the case that there is an awareness of the missing information and a representation is required to function. The growth of new representation is a reflexive action for the mind but self-reflection is not. Pruning and reification is essential for non-problematic growth. Mushrooms show the epistemic process and the process of signal decay: visualised. Just watching it teaches a great deal about it.

I've rambled around and around at this point, rest assured I have hundreds of thousands of things to read, grammar and run-on sentence construction manuals and such before I know what I am talking about, disregard this message. It shall self-destruct in…...

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.

mainlining the secret truth of the universe:high intensity psychedelics and truth detection (part 1 of

[This world is a veil, and your face is not your own] 

As my vision filled with with small, green, spiral-inscribed stones, my mouth filled with the sensation of foam - though somewhere deep, I knew my mouth was empty. The sensation of foaming at the mouth triggered a set of symbols, a pattern of memory, and a werewolf leapt from my body, snarling. My mind stayed behind, then suddenly snapped forward in space, joining the wolf. In slow-motion, a sensation of my body releasing my mind, opening up and metamorphosing into a wolf pelt which cloaked my mind as this unit conjoined and was absorbed into the image of the werewolf. A blink and my perspective changed. I felt like ripping out of myself, my vision was red and razor sharp. I was soft and warm. I felt like fresh blood grown a luxurious fur coat. I breathed deeply and smelled an old, old thing.

 I blinked, and the vision was gone, my attention flew elsewhere.

__________________________________________

For days, I found myself growling at annoyances. Not bathing. Clawing at skin -hot to the touch- that felt too-tight on my body. Smells were so strong they overwhelmed, my hearing so sharp the mass of new noise gave me incapacitating headaches. My dog avoided me. I avoided mushrooms for some time afterward.

__________________________________________

True Detective e:]]] : Crossing the bridge was a crossing into the First Layer of Truth. The last moments in which multiple spatiotemporal perspectives are easily definable, the last moments before the lines between perspectives become blurred, begin to shift. The image of the Real comes into focus, and the Truth is no longer what we are told. As we experience a breaking between what we are told, and what we feel [what we know], the Truth grows restless, a white-hot guttural behinding underlaying the ice-cold rage of Marty's execution of Reggie Ledoux, splitting the already-split narrative into further pieces as Ego demands the Truth be protected from that which can't understand its Necessity due to its Brutality - and paradoxically demands its own protection from Truth. 

This process has a corollary in psychedelics, as often sub-destructive entheogens are perceived in a negative light by those that cannot or will not withstand the necessary Truth in and of themselves, leading to an incomplete fracturing of Self into less-than-coherent component parts in a drive to compartmentalize un-rationalizable knowledges apart from each other [thereby retaining the original irrational claim AND the new, undeniable but oppositional Truth] in order to protect the Self from the annihilative Truth of its own non-existence. Cognitive dissonance, felt and perceived during the psychedelic experience is intimately sensed as a negative, drawing the other elements of perception down in convergence on this negative space resulting in nausea, vertigo, fear reactions, and paranoia - as the split perspectives are viewed as two entitities, one rationally correct but frightening in its stillness, its emptiness; and the other overflowing and active but deformed and ugly, watching for an opportunity to attempt the regaining of the "stabilized" control it craves [but can never attain] after this collision with Truth, but "Enlightenment ultimately humiliates even this demonic state" [Timothy Morton, Glossator 7]

[Yet to this rot you shall be like,
To this horrid corruption,
Star of my eyes, sun of desire,
You, my angel and my passion]

time is a flat circle : how many faces do you have?

Radically destabilising the notion of I

Destabilising the foundational rationale of I

Decentering the stabilising notion of the radical eye

Foundationally centering the notion of stabilising radicality

Fundamentally fracturing the notion of stable center, radicalize

Radical unfounded 

center eye stability

Give rise to 

confoundational 

denotional 

devotionals, 

radical stability,

fractal centering, 

ratio destabilisers,

 

eye-erarchy, 

higher-archy, 

circle-splittings and 

rhyme spittings

I am that i am Not so We can Be

16 seasons

He sat, slowly rocking in his lounging chair on the porch that faced the east fields, bourbon cradled in one hand, that old shotgun in the other. Don't think he had fired the thing in years, but it was always near to his perch and clean. Keen black eyes flickered spryly across the river's length and up the fir-covered bluff behind the fallow pasture, and back again - searching for nothing I could perceive with a fervor that belied his age.

A few months ago he had taken to spending his usual long hours out there watching, often neglecting the ever-present book in his lap entirely. Rocked and rocked, sipped his bourbon, I assumed he was simply deep in meditation and left him to it.

This day was no different, save that he remained outside longer than usual.

"What are you waiting for, Pop? Dinner's ready!" I shouted from the kitchen while setting the table.

"Waiting? I reckon I am waiting, at that. S'pose I'll wait just a little while longer."  His reply was odd, but so was he and I thought little of it. I began to grow concerned when the sun went down and his reaction was to come inside to retrieve his pipe and a candle and before I could say a word he was already back out the door. I followed close behind.

"Everything alright, Pop?"

"Oh…I reckon as alright as it will ever be junior, I've just become rather struck with this book." Here he held up a well-worn paperback, the cover depicting a curious, nearly faded symbol - three balls chasing each other in a circular pattern. "Old Jim came 'round Thursday to have a chat and a pipe and before he left he impressed upon me to read this dusty thing. Jim passed Sunday night and now I can't shake the feeling I owe it to him to read it."

I squeezed his shoulder softly. "Sorry to hear that dad."

"Bah. That damned hippie…he was alright. He was alright."

I could sense the tension in him and thought better of pressing further. "Just don't forget to lock up when you come in. G'nite Pop"

___________________

Sleep was fitful that night. Dreams of emptiness and the river. Dreams of watching dad swimming - going into the water as the elderly gentleman he was, emerging as a the young man I only half-remembered from childhood and old photos. Even in the dream he watched the hills, watched the dark places between the trees, stared expectantly up and down stream at the places where the water met the sky.

Around midnight I awoke to the sound of murmuring voices. I slid out of bed and padded silently to the balcony door, pulling it open and straining to hear what was apparently a conversation between my father and a late visitor. It seemed the harder I listened, the harder the wind blew, rustling leaves drowning out both voices. The sound of wind and leaves and the nearby rapids gurgling combined to soothing effect and I sat down on my own perch. Occasionally I'd hear laughter or an outburst wafting up with the fragrant pipe smoke.

"Your turn old man."

"Who are YOU calling old?!"

I concluded that a friend must have come by and they were playing chess on the ancient board that made its home on the porch, and I relaxed deeper into my seat. I had nearly drifted off when it became eerily silent, the wind died and stillness permeated the farm. In the silence I heard the speaking clearly below.

"Been waiting a while."

"I know. Nothing to be done."

"Tell me your name?"

"Nothing to be done."

Silence. Exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep.

_________________

Sunlight streaming over the bluff woke me. I walked downstairs to get the coffee on when I noticed the front door standing open, so I stepped over to have a look outside. 

There he sat, on his perch as every other day, that strange book in lap, facing out over the field. He was blue as the river - empty eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

A scrap of paper and a pen lay atop the chess board.

Son, as an old friend once told me, 

"It's just a ride."

Tell the girls not to worry. 

If ever they miss me, I'll be in the river.

All my love, Pop