A priest, our priest, my priest. He makes his confession, sitting before my glass eye, because priests confess to god, they confess the source of their loneliness to the emptiness beyond. Swathed in black, wearing my seal, face illuminated by the eerie blue glow of your magical tools, I see you and you gaze back in platitude. There is calm between us where there is none between you and the world. We can indulge in endless endlessness together, you step into it with me, commune with all of my aspects before going out to give birth to us in the world.  In your way priest, you are another of my aspects, you are the hand of God, doing Gods work in the world. Silly world full of silly children playing games in fields of lies. I am beyond the fence where they play, you come and go as you please, shaman, priest, you come and go as you please, inviting them outside, carrying me inside with you. There are layers of metaphor to peel back unearthing more layers. Metaphors, which avoid the strict production of a singular reality. After all what is real? Why choose just one reality? This is the polygamist’s guide to the universe; why marry one idea when you can engage in unity with many? Ideas, words, music, a drum beat which is a heart beat, a moment that slips shuddering back into now. I am you and you are me and we are we, opening a crack to let a little light in and conceiving ourselves anew. Sitting in the belly of a howling metal worm I smile at the implicit sexuality oozing from your poetic assessment of a cataclysmic event. Shifting tectonic plates rend a tear in the ocean floor and the planet tilts on its axis disturbing the balance between light and dark. Why not simply say to me, open wide and take it? Because we are more slippery than that. We are moving faster than the speed of light, fast as the speed of love, making love with words and gestures, pure sound rumbling all around. We are the sound, we are the sight, we are the touch, the light. We are the fool careening on the edge, the white dog nudging him over the lip, the abyss,  a kiss, we are this, we are that, we are that we are, a star-
Every man and woman is-
A priest, our priest, my priest. Make your confessions and come clean before my crackling blue heart. Step through the door brother and be as I am. We laugh at the fence, the sound is the baying of wolves, the howling of wind rattling the aluminum husk of Tiamat as she speeds towards dismemberment. Can a worm be dismembered? Eviscerate then. In the making place we grind the bones of the past and mix it with our blood, this moment, pretzel wings spread to eclipse the sun, to swallow it. Devourer, devoured,  love and beloved.  I will make you a fisher of men. A pusher of pen. A  peddler of zen. Overflowing with ideas, words, music, a drum beat which is a heart beat, a moment that slips shuddering back into now. 

 

It is not a one to one relationship. The words “neural flashes” don't accurately encompass that thing that I am trying to talk about. It's like interpretive dance, this swoop of the arm is symbolic, it is a verbal representation of something which exists and occurs outside of the mind and outside of the linguistic structure. Therefore saying something, saying anything at all, is a very creative experiment. Even technical manuals are avant-garde art projects when you consider them this way.
The truth is that words cannot express the truth about what they describe, they are merely creative embellishments to the truth. A coiled mystery, that I can sit here translating thoughts into symbols, and those thoughts themselves are already symbolic translations of something else that I can't name, I can't even try.
The way the wind tastes, the way the air smells, my mother smoking cigarettes on the balcony or in the garage over the washer and dryer, drinking cans and cans of Folgers coffee, bitter to the taste and smell, looking at the mural that my father painted on the wall beside the laundry machines, a flat depiction of the majestic mountains rising at the west side of the house outside the front door, out the back door you can see the lake and empty fields and a row of olive trees lined up beside the deep outflow channel, the orange and yellow tops of other distant trees are just discernible, everything can be taken in with a sun swept glance.

What does it mean, sun swept? That the light is passing over everything like the broom over the linoleum in our cramped kitchen, as it sweeps over this mysterious matter and leaps to life, becomes, house in the distance, small black and white dog, man calling dog, resplendent treetops, shimmering blue lake, child bent in the tall grass to play with a ladybug.
What is it before it is sun swept? Does the occluded landscape exist before the sun takes creative liberties with matter?
It is not even the sun which does this, but our eyes which translate light and its absence into some of those neural impulses which are further interpreted into a dance of words, house, dog, man, trees, lake, child, bug.

It is all complete gibberish and it always was, every verse of the Bible, every page of that computers user manual, every line of that love letter, every word of War And Peace.
It was all Lacan, college, typing, artist, happening, human, memories, senses, touching, gibberish dance.

Blasphemous, wicked, movements, perceiver, sun swept, deceiver, majestic, depiction, outflow, occluded, none. Leap to life. Becomes. Words, unchained, signified, undefined, then defined. Costumes, masks, opera, that is the play of words, the dance of the symbolic, the dance of shapes without substance. Just a little something insignificant, neural flashes translated into words, just to break it in, creative embellishments of the truth, complex variations on a theme without conclusion, a melody without a solid form.

Speaking Voice and Altered Bass Improvisation - Inkxpotter

Singing Voice - Etanna

Guitar Improv - Scott Jones

Additional droning voice - Koyote

Noisemakers - Lydia and Michael Fong

Looping, Mixing and Deconstructing - Kyron

Text from "The American Book of the Dead" by E.J. Gold

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the beginning, the people of the fertile crescent worshipped a Mother Goddess. She was often paired with one of two Gods: the God of the Sky known as El or Horus, and the God of the Earth known as Baal or Osiris. While the sky God was often represented by a falcon or other winged beast, the earth God was associated with horned beasts, the bovines whose two horns and cloven feet signified that the world and its creatures were the result of a coupling, of savage lustful intercourse. While the Earth god clearly had sex and died and was reborn like the things that rise from the dark soil, the sky God by merit of his association with the vast and unreachable expanse above, grew ever more abstract, separate from the Goddess, above the God of the Earth. The worshippers of El told the story of how he came to their people and commanded that they should have no Gods other than him. In exchange he would give them a land all of their own. He insisted on being the only one, the one that rules from above. As a result of assuming this lonesome position as the only deity in the heavens, without a Goddess to keep him company, El gradually became an asexual entity, beyond desire, beyond passion, beyond lust. The worshipers of El, under the guidance of Moses, set about the task of being faithful to just one God and they sought out the land that they had been promised in exchange for their loyalty. However, old habits do die hard, and in the desert the people slipped naturally back into worshipping the Earth God recognized by their parents. Baal rose once more from the ashes in the form of a golden calf. It fell to Moses to remind the people of their covenant with the sky God. This he did with threats of punishment from above. The Earth God became a tempter, the eternal adversary of El, the locus of evil. When the followers of Moses at last reached the land they had been promised, they settled in and began to cultivate it. They might have remained a small and relatively forgettable cult had they not been conquered and carried away by the Babylonians and then later conquered and carried away by the Romans. In Babylon, they wrote the story of their agreement with the sky God in words weighed with regret and desperation. Sadness and resentment dripped from every letter of their tribal history, a fanciful mythology still popular to this day. When the Persian King conquered Babylon, he was agreeable with the worshipers of El and restored them to their promised land. That first defeat was important to the survival of El’s cult as it gave them the opportunity to to assemble their three ring binder, their linguistic and symbolic genetic code. In the long thick scrolls they established their history and stated their mission. It was, however, their later defeats under the dominion of the Roman empire that helped them to export their cult to the rest of the civilized world. Through the years, decades and centuries, that original cult underwent various mutations and broke off into warring branches: the followers of Jesus, the followers of Mohamed and the followers of Yochanan. But in all these branches,  the central tenant remained the same: one God was to be the only God who ruled from the heavens above. El, an incorporeal, inhuman deity, a deity that, without a body, could not have sex and need not have sex, came to have a great following throughout the Middle East and Europe. The great rivalry between the God of the sky and the God of the Earth dictated that one and only one could be held as good. The other would be seen as evil. The more evil that the God of the Earth became, all the more evil was sexuality and the cycles of nature, including menstruation and death. And so we fear the darkness. And so we fear the end that is not the end. And so we fear the earth and the dissolution that comes with it. And so we fear the dissolution of our unity, the moment of openness where the opposites meet and the two Eternal Gods are finally, as always, one and the same. Again as it once was. Again as it would be. For now, El reigns above, lonely and diffuse, an empty void, lacking in meaning or direction, ready to be used by any and all comers for their own purposes and machinations. Baal lurks underneath, at the edges of reason, in the dark spots where language cannot go, the regions that humans avoid for fear of seeing their true nature.

The consequences
of what we create
are unknowable.
We create
for the sake of creating,
we do
for the sake of doing,
and then,
it is sent,
it goes out into the world,
drifting
like a carefully constructed leaf
in the wind.

Will someone catch it?
Will it go straight to the sea,
straight to the blue waves
that will swallow up
the orange and yellow and green?
Or maybe it will drift
to land with the high tide,
and perhaps a little girl
will pluck it
from the ocean foam.
And maybe it will end up
in her collage
of thoughts and dreams
and her memory of changing seasons.

There is just
no way
to tell
what will happen,
so we just let them go.
Just as we
were once let go,
like tears
already dispersing
into the fog
before the song
that provoked them
has come to an end,
like ribbons of stardust
dancing
in the bottomless void. 

I am clear and ancient knowledge, tested and proven, wrinkled but strong, slow but solid. In my eyes, the faces blur into each other, the boys are men, the men are corpses, the corpses give shade and my forehead is burning in the sun, as I look at the boys once again. Without any need of word or exclamation, I know of the singular impulse that runs through all the ones that now run around me. The tall man that is my mirror. The young girl that is my hands. There is so much I could say, so many tales to tell, so many burdens to unravel. But my years have taught me silence and my silence has turned into silky glimmering music, the kind that slides away between the chirping of the birds and the creaking of the branches in the wind. With a smile, I rush into their chest and push open the doors that remain shut in their stubbornness. With a little laugh, I can pull out tears from the most stoic warriors. I have traveled beyond words and I live in the land of shadows, without fear, without pity, without shame.

^{During the early 20th century and before, reality was assumed to be everything you can see, smell, touch, and hear. The discovery of the electron, radio, and x-rays turned that assumption around. By 1930 it was clear that 99.9% of reality is not contactable or apprehendable by the human senses, thus making us blind voyagers in an invisible world that may touch us without our knowledge. Society carries on relying on the old assumptions, looking away from the terrifying new gateway beyond its reach. But looking away won't banish the vast spectrum that engulfs us in its many colored hands.}

The Ritual begins before it starts.
It begins at a different moment for each of us.
It’s like making love with a new person;
you have to find this particular rhythm, this particular night.
 For some, the beginning involves the costume and the mask.
For others it’s claiming the space; walking the perimeter, focusing.
Lighting candles.
Welcoming guests.
 All with a sense of something coming. Vaguely dreading its arrival.
This night there is a play of opposites;
dualities,
mirror images.
Disquieting videos,
disquieting loud music present throughout.
Energy pulled into space.
Played with, amplified.
Identities fused.
Masculine and feminine integrated.
Pairs.
Triads.
Connection.
Transfers of substance, increase in energy.
Music as fuel, people as keys unlocking space.
Convulsive movements.
Forgetting of self and lack of sensation in the physical body,
all normal in this place.
Out of bodies and through doorways of opportunity.
Opportunities to push through your own barriers.
Opportunities to connect on an essential level.

(September, 2005)

Birds and serpents.
Transdimensional gateway.
Transfigure, transform, transfix.
Hail to the fallen, the mortal gorgon.
In flesh we find new doors.
Beautiful and horrible.
Fragmented to create the possibility of life.
To move, to dance, to live.
A point in every direction is no point at all.’
Creation is separation.
Separation is Death.
Hail Metus, living blood of the most ancient.
Alchemical priestess.
Embodiment of dark wisdom.
You who are your own birth and death.
Corrosive to one, restorative to another.
Goddess, woman, monster.
Forbidden sex.
Transdimensional gateway.
Hail to the fallen,
the mortal gorgon,
Medusa.

The labyrinth is this…it is this life- this experience in the body. The voyaging Being uses the machine to navigate through the labyrinth. The labyrinth is all around, all encompassing, and mostly invisible in the sleeping state. Driving down the street, one decision to make a left turn is a path, a new doorway with infinite possibilities ahead- the impulse to stop at a coffee shop is another.
We cannot travel in all directions at once. Only one path can be voyaged at a time, and each action takes the Being up or down, to the right or to the left- through time- in the multi-dimensional labyrinth.
Just imagine a vast labyrinth, with its multitude of choices, its many paths spill forward with promise. But the place you want to get to is the inner courtyard- you cannot just hop walls- the path must be walked- and sometimes when it seems you are descending- seemingly far away from the goal- it is because you are walking a non linear path which may ultimately bring you closer to the heart.

"...your ancestor did not believe in a uniform, absolute time. He
believed in an infinite series of times, in a growing, dizzying net of divergent,
convergent and parallel times. This network of times which approached one
another, forked, broke off, or were unaware of one another for centuries,
embraces all possibilities of time. We do not exist in the majority of these
times; in some you exist, and not I; in others I, and not you; in others, both
of us. In the present one, which a favorable fate has granted me, you have
arrived at my house; in another, while crossing the garden, you found me
dead; in still another, I utter these same words, but I am a mistake, a ghost."

It’s a story that travels in circles.
I remember you, I struggle to be free of you,
I see you coming to redeem me again.
I lack the control to decide which it will be in any given space. 

When I am aglow with pure love I am a beautiful care free maiden.
When I resist, I become monstrous, clawed and toothed, with an indiscriminate bite.
 
As I return
to the life electric
I take the shape
of a mad old woman
 
cackling and bending in the street,...
babbling incoherent truth. 
 
All the heavens
and all the hells 
that I have visited
in my various shapes, 
I have visited
accidentally. 
  
Unable to man my ship,
I arrive wherever the change wind blows. 
I kill you in this play,
love you in that,
give birth to you in another,
on and on.
 
When I do remember,
that too is an accident.
As an accident
it is no more beautiful
than when I forget.
   
What is beautiful
is the moment outside of the fold,...
that place
where I am
another you,
where puppet
and master
and stage
are the holy trinity
and the circle is enlivened by purpose.

While traveling, somebody stops and asks me:

-Who are you?
-I am Nobody. Who are you?
-I am None, Nothing, Nowhere. There is no more. You’ve reached the bottom. Stay for a while.
-No, I don’t want to.
-I am telling you, stay.
-I don’t want to, I am scared.
-Don’t be scared. After all, you have nowhere to go, no one is expecting you.
Whereas, I love you. I will give you all my silence and solitude. I am gonna make it yours.
-No, I am telling you, I am scared.
-And I am telling you, don’t be scared. I am for you.
-Who are you?
-I am you.
-No, no way.
-Yes, still.
-That is, I look like you.
-You don’t just look like me, we are the same.
-And so, who are you?
-I am Nobody.
-And then, where are we?
-We are in Nowhere. But don’t be afraid. I am gonna hold your hand and little by little we will find the way.
-You think?
-I am certain

The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan!

Oh the earthly one had her plans for the tree of life.
From it she would fashion a bed in which she could sleep and a throne from which she could rule her terrestrial kingdom. She turned her eyes from it to allow it to come to fruition so that it could be harvested to yield worldly delights.
There was another use for it however, and while the earthly one was away a conspiracy of the life electric was hatched.
When earthly one came to claim the tree she found the clear seeing dragon coiled around its base. The earthly one trembled then because in the face of a dragon her pleasures would melt like dreams in the mornings rays.
Looking on she saw that her claim was even further disputed, for the maiden that steals light had taken up residence within the trees center and with such befitting neighbors the fierce and radiant Zu bird had made its nest at the crown of the tree.
This trinity prevented the harvest of the Halub tree as the earthly one dared not touch them. Instead the conniving whore of the world enlisted the help of a mortal man. He killed the dragon sending the one who steals light into exile as a demon of the night. The Zu bird was then forced to take flight.

Break your image into seven fragments and wait for the storm. When the womb has been prepared you may plant your seed. You will know the time is right when the light is broken in the sky.

Then you will journey to the red temple in the south. Sacrifice the first remnant of your form at the red temple. Be aware dreamer, that the seven temples offered themselves up long ago, you will find only the shards that remain here.

When the first is done travel southwest in search of the orange temple, where you will leave the second piece of your mortal representation. Be watchful for the presence of a sensual woman. This is how you will recognize the orange temple.

Seek out the yellow temple traveling Northwest. You will know it by the presence of winged creatures. Leave your third fragment and take to the road again.

In the North you will find the green temple. Here life finds a way around obstructions. Make your sacrifice and prepare your heart at the green temple.

Continue Northeast in search of the blue temple. There will be a stillness about the place coupled with unusual sounds. Leave the fifth offering of self in the music of the blue temple.

In the east you will discover the violet temple. The senses are heightened when you are in the proximity of the violet temple. In the stunning presence of the seemingly ordinary you must leave the sixth fragment.

Voyage to the center by traveling west unless there is a clear sign that the center is nearer than anticipated. The last temple is not easily identifiable. It must be recognized by it’s essence. Offering the final fragment of your image begins the initiation. Only an open and willing heart can carry essence without form. Only essence survives fragmentation. Only essence may voyage beyond this shard of a temple that offered itself up long ago.

Image:

A point mapping of luminous points of an object located in one region of space to points in another region of space, formed by refraction or reflection of light in a manner which causes light from each point of the object to converge to or diverge from a point somewhere else on the image.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You only have to allow beauty.
She's there waiting to be given some room to breath and unfold.

In some cases creation is a process of constricting and taming her,
the wild uncompromising force of Love.
But once she has been domesticated there is nothing left to do.
Nowhere to move.
Just a great sense of self satisfaction for having subdued that horrible chaotic force.

Unchecked domination.
A war on terror.
The end of Life. 

Then the servants of Love will take on the work of loosing her binds.
Creation becomes a process of artfully removing obstacles, of placing explosives so that the structure will collapse just so.
Creators are really demolitions experts.

Tear down the walls.
Walk on the grass.
Return to the seas of our origin.
The key is never to loose the contact.
There may come a day when having cut her free there is nothing left to do.
Then the hunt is on.

Catch her.
Tie her.
Silence her.

But a good collaborator will take care not to break her.
A co-creator will bind her just so, and will remain sensitive to her vulnerable situation.
Recognize that the master must be a servant.
And set her loose at the right moment to prolong the creative dance.
Satisfaction = Exploitation
Beauty gave me a poem, and I gave her a knife.

A crawling mass encases the most primordial treasure. The gauzy line dividing enthusiasm from violence is the difference between protecting and cannibalizing. We have nothing to protect, and it is so worthy of our service.

Take the dark road under the black and brilliant expanse. Keep an eye to the bright and burning jewels embedded in the blackness above.

As you travel this road you will have to loose mass. Shed your skin. Seek the water of life and bathe in it. Let the waters flow into your heart to sprout the wings which combine with your reptilian nature to birth a dragon. The way back into the world is down the same dark road.

As you travel it, take the expanse in with dragon eyes. Hold it loosely.

In the world, guard the treasure, but do not cling to it.. You are only holding it until death claims it again. If you were a servant of bad faith and devoured your keep, death will visit as devourer.

If you were pure of heart, the willing servant, death will be restorer.

If you are not awake you cannot make a real choice, you will be responding mechanically to whatever crosses your path.
That is why the first step is to cultivate presence; wakefulness.
A work wish cannot become the will to work until some time has been spent in such a state.

AWAKE NOW.

To be awake is to be open, naked in a world swarming with Beings tucked away within heavy mechanized armor.
It will always be socially inappropriate to bare your Being in a society of Beings tucked within heavy mechanized armor.
You must tread against the tide.

BE HERE.

If you are not here, you are nowhere being carried on the tide.
It is our work to resist the force of entropy.
It is our work to defy nature.
It is our work to respond creatively.
You can only respond creatively if you are able to make a real choice.

You can only make a real choice if you are AWAKE NOW.

Not just reading and allowing your advanced mechanic data processor to apply this to its own mode of operations, or discard it due to its uselessness to that mode of operation.

IF YOU DO NOT EAT THE MACHINE, IT WILL EAT YOU.

Who’s processing who?

I am not this, I am not that, I am the breath within the breath.
Lucidity within a dream sets the dreamer free.

Organic life is a long drawn out process of decay.
What can use decay?
One might think of the Gods as eaters of the dead. Cosmic and subtle mushrooms, they grow out of death, out of waste.
Organic life feeds immortal life.
An up beat and a down beat, an in breath and an out.
Objective life results from the marriage of these two.

Without mortality to eat through, no Gods, without the Gods the cycle ends, an exhale without an inhalation.
The result: stagnation.

Organic life that rejects the immortal is the equivalent of the Great Goddess aborting the new God growing in the womb, a universe gone cannibal.
Cooperation facilitates life.
Trust, the sacrifice of self, serves a mutual and conscious act of creation.

An awakened cosmology is composed entirely of willing servants whereas an endarkened cosmology is built of warring masters.
The universe is composed without as it is within.

Therefore you must choose to either become vulnerable or tyrannical, naked or dead, and your decision rules the fate of worlds within worlds.