Thursday, 30 March 2017

Rayn's Pathos


The sun is never been more welcome.

It is a strange interest we take in how we appear to one another.

I appeared to fizzle out when everyone else was just popping, as expected, into the business of living. So I was the runt of the litter and scooped safely to one side - irony on safely. My family never accepted me as a man and still don't - especially if by man we mean who and what I am by birth and by blood.







Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Axiom 927 - Our Language is Crucified


Our language is a fucked up and tortured as we are. 

Our language is our logic and our entire way of life, it is all our body and all our mind (all of our heaven and hell), our science and our religion; it is our nature and our world, our, conception, birth, life, death, and any Prospect of life after death or before it and how sensible we are of this or want to be and to what effect or genesis. Our language is the entire transformation and continuity of all that we are, were or will ever be.

Language is prenatal and postnatal. Language is terrestrial and celestial, cellular as psychological, as astronomical as it is allegorical, as mythical as it is historical and as poetical as scientific, of voice, story, memory, destiny, cause and effect, of stone and air, bone and blood, sun and star, sea and sky, autumn and winter, summer and spring, night and day, of dreaming and waking and most of all of life when all hope is gone.

And our language is tortured, crucified by a cybernetic-industrial society.


- Taken from Fucking Nonsense - A Living School










Tuesday, 28 March 2017

The Leaf


But a leaf were borne aloft the currents of a blind
Unthinking nature hardly nature; more a great machine
That tortured people with some understanding intertwined
A debt that would forever be exacted thus from thee
Who art the apple of mine eye a grave festooned with boughs
That take their roots the blood of moons and suns, of life anon
That altogether lives as much as passeth through our veins
And fingers limbs that swayed the winds of millions in the dawn
That sweeps over a world of wars, a child as she plays
The shapes of clouds and of our mouths the seasons as they fold
On one another life on life and wound on wound the strum
Celestial music speaking with our breathing thus the soul's
Career through all it sees or seems emboldened and enfeebled thus
What words from whom and these that brooded o'er the very deeps
And reaches of the human mind compliance and reward
What costs were borne and lost to form upon the world the keeps
A hail of that cursèd hell that owned what it could scorch
And place its torch atop the courts of nations said their vows
The music of the very lips from whence our young were born
Inheriting with all the ease a child formed the sounds
A laughter or a scream of silence left its home for war
Returning, changed, and hardly fit as if to prove them right
Who lorded over our first church (a home of heaven and the earth) a guilt of gold to make us fight.







Axiom 926 - Paradox of Personal Value



For the notion smuggled into the notion that one must be known and recognized for something is that nothing and no one can be valuable unless a human animal delights in it. 

Indeed, an ironic corollary of this inhuman and I might say violent argument is that if it were true then nothing could have much value at all.

That, dress it up, light some holy incense and lay all the flowers upon it that you will, you have to know that you are at the very swollen anus of civilization when an even modicum of respect for human intelligence (or any intelligence, for that matter) is considered irrelevant and even prohibited so that anyone can find any value in anything or to ever be valuable at all themselves. 

Those who labour labour under the delusion that they are being remunerated at all for their toil. They are not. Instead, in return for their labour even more labour is being exacted from them, even more labour, biological and psychological health, industry, agency, creativity and even divinity is being exacted from them and all their children and indeed from everyone around them by their very own labour and every way they labour under the delusion that they are being remunerated for it, degrees of delusion meted out in dollars, cents and, subsequently, unquestionable collusion.

- Taken from Fucking Nonsense - A Living School







Perhaps people are possessed of the need to be acknowledged, to live out what Ernest Becker might have called an "immortality delusion" by leaving some flag of the country that was their heroic journey through this dark wood we call the world. 

But that just seems pathetic to me, a sign of grave poverty. 

Indeed, the sun has been around for billions of years without anyone ascribing much value to it or him or her. Is the sun valuable?

For the notion smuggled into the notion that one must be known and recognized for something is that nothing and no one can be valuable unless a human animal delights in it.

Fucking nonsense. 

Indeed, an ironic corollary of this inhuman and I might say violent argument is that if it were true then nothing could have much value at all.

But this will not stop people from saying, even minutes after hearing me declare the sole tenet of my religion, that "You should write a book about that because people need to read that."

Do they?

And, if so, just what kind of people are they?

Not anyone I would care to lift open the cover, to tease out the flowery nectar of anything that I have written. That would defile my religion.

And I don't wish to be defiled. Thank you.

And yet, please do not despair at ever finding anything positive about these words, for I shall save you the angst.

We take this helpful axiom from this entire discussion:

That, dress it up, light some holy incense and lay all the flowers upon it that you will, you have to know that you are at the very swollen anus of civilization when an even modicum of respect for human intelligence (or any intelligence, for that matter) is considered irrelevant and even prohibited so that anyone can find any value in anything or to ever be valuable at all themselves. 

This paradoxical fallacy and, if I may say, my ingenious as self-evident axiomatic refutation of it (that something is only as valuable as human beings are aware of it) comes from our inherited working definition of life or intelligence that its locus is human life and human intelligence, even though it is patently obvious that our life and intelligence depends upon the life and intelligence of everything else in the cosmos. And by this logic, living logic, we may then return to the fact that it is as reasonable to assume that the life and intelligence of the cosmos is as valuable to our life and intelligence as our life and intelligence is to the cosmos.

That is, it would take a really fucked up way of thinking to conceive of a necessary refutation of this fact, which is of course exactly what we have in the notion that something or someone is only as valuable as they are gazed upon by a bipedal animal with a penis or a vagina, what amounts to an wholly arbitrary concept routinely employed to dramatic psychological effect (for good or ill) by just about all human beings in the course of living out the "liberty" they presume to retain after having given it up (as evidenced by just just a vernacular of value) in order to take part in the orgy of value that we call civilization (the buying and selling of oneself), a people who subsequently lose the ability or will to calculate the actual costs of their exchange of their native intelligence for what presumes to save them from its atavistic or natural predators.

Only take the example of the marketing of a kind of book that permits religious people to coax other people to pay tribute to their religion by calling the books used for this purpose "Self-Help."

Our language is a fucked up and tortured as we are.


- Taken from Fucking Nonsense - A Living School









Fucking Nonsense - A Living School


Whenever I meet another person who likes to write (whether they consider themselves a bona fide writer or not), I always try to be very up front by informing them that in my religion, as I call it, we do not attempt to sell our writing or even much care if anyone reads it. 

Myself, I have written around forty books, not a single page of which has ever been read by a single human soul. And, if I have my way, nobody will ever read any of them. 

Nobody ever believes me and my hapless counterpart invariably attempts to encourage me to get my work into the world because "people need to hear it." 

What rubbish. 

Anyone who even needs to read any of my work will not be capable of understanding it anyway. For anyone who can understand it or make any sense of my work at all will only be able to because they are quite capable of figuring out the world (thinking) all by themselves.

But there is another strange irony about the imperative to make oneself known to the world. 

Perhaps people are possessed of the need to be acknowledged, to live out what Ernest Becker might have called an "immortality delusion" by leaving some flag of the country that was their heroic journey through this dark wood we call the world. 

But that just seems pathetic to me, a sign of grave poverty. 

Indeed, the sun has been around for billions of years without anyone ascribing much value to it or him or her. Is the sun valuable?

For the notion smuggled into the notion that one must be known and recognized for something is that nothing and no one can be valuable unless a human animal delights in it.

Fucking nonsense. 

Indeed, an ironic corollary of this inhuman and I might say violent argument is that if it were true then nothing could have much value at all.

But this will not stop people from saying, even minutes after hearing me declare the sole tenet of my religion, that "You should write a book about that because people need to read that."

Do they?

And, if so, just what kind of people are they?

Not anyone I would care to lift open the cover, to tease out the flowery nectar of anything that I have written. That would defile my religion.

And I don't wish to be defiled. Thank you.

And yet, please do not despair at ever finding anything positive about these words, for I shall save you the angst.

We take this helpful axiom from this entire discussion:

That, dress it up, light some holy incense and lay all the flowers upon it that you will, you have to know that you are at the very swollen anus of civilization when an even modicum of respect for human intelligence (or any intelligence, for that matter) is considered irrelevant and even prohibited so that anyone can find any value in anything or to ever be valuable at all themselves. 

[Let it be known that this previous paragraph would be right at home on the first page of every book that I have ever written or will ever write - and on every page after that. Let this be known and understood.]

This paradoxical fallacy and, if I may say, my ingenious as self-evident axiomatic refutation of it (that something is only as valuable as human beings are aware of it) comes from our inherited working definition of life or intelligence that its locus is human life and human intelligence, even though it is patently obvious that our life and intelligence depends upon the life and intelligence of everything else in the cosmos. And by this logic, living logic, we may then return to the fact that it is as reasonable to assume that the life and intelligence of the cosmos is as valuable to our life and intelligence as our life and intelligence is to the cosmos.

That is, it would take a really fucked up way of thinking to conceive of a necessary refutation of this fact, which is of course exactly what we have in the notion that something or someone is only as valuable as they are gazed upon by a bipedal animal with a penis or a vagina, what amounts to an wholly arbitrary concept routinely employed to dramatic psychological effect (for good or ill) by just about all human beings in the course of living out the "liberty" they presume to retain after having given it up (as evidenced by just just a vernacular of value) in order to take part in the orgy of value that we call civilization (the buying and selling of oneself), a people who subsequently lose the ability or will to calculate the actual costs of their exchange of their native intelligence for what presumes to save them from its atavistic or natural predators.

Only take the example of the marketing of a kind of book that permits religious people to coax other people to pay tribute to their religion by calling the books used for this purpose "Self-Help."

Our language is a fucked up and tortured as we are. 

Our language is our logic and our entire way of life, it is all our body and all our mind (all of our heaven and hell), our science and our religion; it is our nature and our world, our, conception, birth, life, death, and any Prospect of life after death or before it and how sensible we are of this or want to be and to what effect or genesis. Our language is the entire transformation and continuity of all that we are, were or will ever be.

Language is prenatal and postnatal. Language is terrestrial and celestial, cellular as psychological, as astronomical as it is allegorical, as mythical as it is historical and as poetical as scientific, of voice, story, memory, destiny, cause and effect, of stone and air, bone and blood, sun and star, sea and sky, autumn and winter, summer and spring, night and day, of dreaming and waking and most of all of life when all hope is gone.

And our language is tortured, crucified by a cybernetic-industrial society.


When I grew up, my family told me that if I did not "work for a living" then I would not be afforded any of the same kinds of courtesy afforded those who did "work for a living." They expressed themselves by routinely humiliating me, physically threatening me, assaulting me and finally mutilating my body, trying to have me incarcerated for complaining about it (which is why they mutilated me, because I objected to their violence toward me), and then gaining the collusion (which they did very easily) of the rest of my family, my doctors, my therapists and it seems just about everyone whom I have ever dared to consult with about my subsequently life-altering injuries, injuries which have sent me to hospital about 20 times in as many years. I have since been duly notified of the same by many people whom I have met, that if you do not work and look as though you can then you are not worthy of the same level of courtesy as everyone else - a courtesy I could live without and have for 43 years.

(Testaments as to the veracity of my words can be seen by merely examining how people respond to these ideas, whether they think them a good or bad use of one's time, and many of the same people who would be known as champions of human health and happiness, to put the finest possible point on how obvious and how astronomical a problem.)

Let us examine what it means to "work for a living" in terms of our language apparent and language not apparent, so that we can see how much we readily give up of our liberty in order to "be free:"

When you work for a living you contract with an employer (or a client, but let's keep it simple) to pay you for your commitment (and it is like being committed) to work set hours for set monetary remuneration. (It would be better if we were paid in trade)

However, the money that one is paid (the money one subsequently uses to buy food, lodging and entertainment etc.) is not really money; it is by every dollar a promise to pay; it is a DEBT used by the DEBTOR and creditor alike to help everyone remain in DEBT to the owners.

As I have said about the cybernetic algorithm, the predator and the prey are in the same people, every variation of whom are wholly symbiotic with one another.

In fact, that is all that legal currency can ever accomplish.

We are told that we will "make lots of money."

But in fact it is apparent to everyone and evidence of this is printed on the very notes of our "legal currency" that nobody can "make money."

The money is made and is owned by the owners.

This is no different than being paid with a thousand lashings a month, the only difference being that these lashings are smuggled into our lives in other less obvious ways.

So a person works for money that is really a DEBT that in turn makes life harder for EVERYONE, and this is seen as really good because it allows you to buy food and leverage wealth as a kind of stature or station in life that helps, in turn, to preserve or prop up one's sense of social acceptance or prestige, one's sense of self that goes to every kind of relationship that one would form, and in particular family relationships, relationships that act like the constellations of the developing mind and sex of the very children whom we love and hate so much with the almost total dearth of critically-proportional and so ethically-discriminating love worthy of our blood and theirs.

Except that nothing that you buy with this DEBT is yours and it confers upon the owner of the DEBT (you) the subsequent compulsion (natural to all religious debt, death, drug and blood cults) to foist just such a "liberty" and "responsibility" really glorified compulsion (smuggled into all confidence relationships on pain of degrading aspersions as to one's intelligence, character, motives, worth or fate) upon one's own young, upon the most vulnerable people in any society in a world as religious as scientifically kept poised upon a bloody if profitable brink of perpetual near collapse veritably at war with every natural instinct with which a child is born and to which we force our most vulnerable citizenry to conform under only the most Herculean duress, duress that could not possibly fail to stymie the courage and whole brain development of the most battle-hardened combat soldier, let alone that of a wee child of the only biologically-, psychologically-, and anatomically-correct god or goddess in all of human history - your mother and father and their mother and father, every organ of their blood a simulacrum if not wholly reciprocal organ of every organ of man and nature, heaven and earth.

Anything you buy with money you cannot possibly own but with a commensurate illusion that precludes you from thinking about any of this, even when prompted to do so.

Money is the most powerful religion, along with all the credit and economic systems with which we are subsequently baffled generation after generation as though anything we object to or any forum for our objection has any other purpose but to sate our chemical dependence upon pretending to have a say in the world, upon the masques of power that have been passed down for thousands of years, election after election, war after war, umbrage after umbrage of the weak, the impotent and the happily indignant if wholly symbiotic defenders of freedom.

And these same people say I should sell my work, people who have told me that you have to "sell yourself to be yourself."

People pay for their labour with their labour and with their child's labour in perpetuity. Stupid. That is the very definition of criminally insane.

In return, if you get a freedom it is the freedom to act as though you are shocked that the world is as barbaric as it is, your fellow man as stupid and inimitably barbaric and vicious as he and she really are.

- Also See Axiom 924 - Happiness and Creative Intelligence

I left or began leaving all these cults at around sixteen years of age, and I am still leaving them, using cults and cult psychology to help me all the way, for it is not without its uses.

As a testament to the range of influence of the cult of Money (of the (of the desiccating or Lunar trophic biological darkness of mind to which we have been reduced for arguably tens of thousands of years of our "enlightenment"), only look at all the produces of Money-based human education, medicine and industry, all of which serves among all of its other virtues, benefits and achievements as ever more popular charnel gardens for the empty minds and sickening bodies that are well to inhabit them as though at the very cutting edge of human progress and liberty and not at the very depths of the darkest age yet.

How does one live outside such a system of annihilation?

I don't know.

I don't care.

I don't work.

I have time to think.

And, having made such a choice from a very young age, a choice at the cost of everything that people think their work protects them or their children from (as it does, but only by killing the minds of their children aka bringing them down to your level as though this is some incredible achievement, which it is if it saves you or they from the approbation and social exile of the mass of a humanity whose greatest talent is murder, the most stupid, kind, hateful and intelligent animal on Earth), the world offers me an abundance of information as to the reason for my choice.  

Those who labour labour under the delusion that they are being remunerated at all for their toil. They are not. Instead, in return for their labour even more labour is being exacted from them, even more labour, biological and psychological health, industry, agency, creativity and even divinity is being exacted from them and all their children and indeed from everyone around them by their very own labour and every way they labour under the delusion that they are being remunerated for it, degrees of delusion meted out in dollars, cents and, subsequently, unquestionable collusion.






But a leaf were borne aloft the currents of a blind
Unthinking nature hardly nature; more a great machine
That tortured people with some understanding intertwined
A debt that would forever be exacted thus from thee
Who art the apple of mine eye a grave festooned with boughs
That take their roots the blood of moons and suns, of life anon
That altogether lives as much as passeth through our veins
And fingers limbs that swayed the winds of millions in the dawn
That sweeps over a world of wars, a child as she plays
The shapes of clouds and of our mouths the seasons as they fold
On one another life on life and wound on wound the strum
Celestial music speaking with our breathing thus the soul's
Career through all it sees or seems emboldened and enfeebled thus
What words from whom and these that brooded o'er the very deeps
And reaches of the human mind compliance and reward
What costs were borne and lost to form upon the world the keeps
A hail of that cursèd hell that owned what it could scorch
And place its torch atop the courts of nations said their vows
The music of the very lips from whence our young were born
Inheriting with all the ease a child formed the sounds
A laughter or a scream of silence left its home for war
Returning, changed, and hardly fit as if to prove them right
Who lorded over our first church (a home of heaven and the earth) a guilt of gold to make us fight.











Sunday, 26 March 2017

Axiom 925 - Happiness and Creative Intelligence (2)



"In the beginning of all things, wisdom and knowledge were with the animals; for Tuawa, the One Above, did not speak directly to man. He sent Animals to tell man that he showed himself through the beasts, and that from them, and from the stars and the sun and the moon, man should learn... for all things speak of Tuawa."

- Chief Letako-Lesa of the Pawnees Tribe
to Natalie Curtis, circa 1904 


The Indians' Book: An Offering by the American Indians of Indian Lore, Musical and Narrative, to Form a Record of the Songs and Legends of Their Race, New York, Harper Brothers, 1907, page 96.









Most of the things which I write about and even the whole reason for this blog is because of my having felt very uncomfortable for so many persistent factors (largely people factors) in my entire environment, so that I can explore the reason for this discomfort and what it has to say about my entire environment.

But I have never done this with the feeling that this would necessarily improve anything about the world or my environment.

In fact, most of the time doing this has forced me to shed my environment and many of the people in it with entire layers, I am sure, of my very own skin, of my very own mind (and maybe even theirs as well to lesser but not less poignant effect).

When I was about half the age I am now (43) I was driving back to my dad's house with my dad and we or I caught a glimpse of the mountains by early morning, lit up pink and shimmering by the light before the light of the rising sun in a deep blue sky over the land (not the city) in which I had spent most of my learning life and thought.

That awareness is with me now and has, with time and upon reflection, grown in my estimation as it always does when I see the mountains. This is the Spirit of God or the Spirit of the Great Mother to me. Enumerating all my discomfort will never and should never change the world and nor will any kind of sequence of letters and words ever sufficiently or exhaustively enumerate what is the Spirit of God or Great Mother.

It is enough for me to say that one is not God; one has no God within and the Universe is not and never will be the God or the Goddess. Rather we have moments where an image or a piece of our own minds are shorn from our mind by such incredible beauty and poignant experience (even trauma) that it becomes, by our own creation and nature, a kind of God or Goddess a sort of celestial memory and mirror in our mind and in the sky, one in and of our own voice and that of any great being (mother or father) to Whom we would direct it (they Whom we would have listen and be enlightened most heartily, saved most thankfully), in whose vast illimitable and as inimitably kind body would we sound our voice with all the life that springs from the earth and indeed from the concentric celestial spheres and organs of heaven and earth, body and soul as they bleed into one another in our minds and in our lives, in our blood and desire, grief and joy, never staying one form as we stay cloying to this illusion that we will in death as in life persist through every transformation, growth and even corruption of our lives.

Anyone could make up their own God or Goddess in poignant moments or from poignant moments in their lives and minds.

It makes no difference.

After millions of years nobody has any real knowledge of God or the Spirit of God and nobody ever could or will, or even need to.

Our gods are our own, and that is what makes them so incredibly important to us, so real and good and true, so ineffable and numinous, so luminous and separate, separated by as though every effort we could expel with however much emotion of all that we fear and love and hope, all that we doubt, hurt and cry, with all that we know and feel the delicate fragility of not only our lives but also our love and all that we love, knowing as we all do that it cannot last forever; not like this and maybe not at all lest the very stars and suns and moons carry our voice through the dark and ebullient forests of eternity where a one such as we will breathe or scent the air by some canticle of summer or winter, autumn or spring and start with boundless mirth along their merry way.

No. It cannot last forever. 

Except by the very howls that rage within us.

Except by the very nectar of words only as divine as rapt as they are inspired by the language of the sky, of the world and of the luminous celestial presence (a presence whose nearest incarnation were the very first objects of our love) in whose rapt amniotic waters we bathed in consummate grace a language or a song of knowledge as wholly eternal as each our very own, a song or a voice, a prayer or a cry as though the very impulse of every happiness that anybody could ever know or had ever known, their growth or growing pain having as little to do with some particular good or evil at eighty years of age as at eight.




Growing pains
Never used to be about
Some tree of good and evil
But rather about
Going somewhere
A little less evil
And a little more good,
A little less God
And a lot more refined
One might even say
A lot
More pure or profane
A combination of
Innocence and
Experience.






Pain and Joy are such a diverse country, really.

Who knows but that our deepest sorrow were illuminated by the joy of others, illuminating even their joy.

What then?

Are we to be interred but so perverse a coordination of heaven and earth, joy and sorrow?

Have we been so interred already?

Is this the birth of Spring?

This the genesis of our Mother and Father God?

Or their miserable end and ours, mere mortal flesh?

What of that?

This is either where we end this conversation or where we only just begin to scent the deeps of that firmament in whom we dwell, over whom we walk and upon whom we lay our final hour before the faces of our sons and daughters, friends and lovers, mothers and fathers, doctors and priests, before the face of the world that first gazed upon us rapt with our own face.

Thoughts are created. Divine books are read and revered.

Prayers are said and symbols are conceived and dissected, used and abused, born and transformed by countless hours descending down from the centuries.

What will be my last will and testament?

What will be yours?

What, indeed, but a voice restored to its primeval measures of Heaven and Earth, mother and father and child, measures and rivers of a blood that runs through here and hereafter like day to night and night to day an impulse taken up by every sex and desire, by every breadth of man and nature entirely, wholly unto the very banks by which we lean or kneel or lay with our sisters and brothers, with our children and grandchildren and their children and grandchildren spotting a minnow or delighting in the sonorous chorus of frogs, crickets and lazy summer breezes a living church hewed from the love, the blood, the sun and constellations of the suns of man across every breadth and boundless league of time and space, of age and change, hewed like our very graves from the pages of all our dreams come true and of the nightmare worlds that would weave their poison tongues around our even infant minds, bending every organ of this temple to misery and doom, producing tastes for little else.

For these banks are the banks that run through our ears and course through our blood; they burble through the vascular and celestial bellows of our brains, of our hands and face, moving our limbs like the water of a mighty stream upon whose very mists form a body and soul, a being born and a leaving being born behind like too much life pressing down into us and upon us, forcing a different if old kind of air through new lungs and indeed new eyes inheriting a wealth of memory and experience equal to the task.

I say this for my first father, for my first mother and for my family.

I say that there are words which can only be heard by twilight.

These words we spoke from before with every simple thing, that every simple thing an act of holiness that would wrap and be wrapped by the world in a swaddling cradle of purest memory, of purest blood, which is to say the very crowning substance of the Kingdom of  a Child, the Kingdom of Earth and Sky, of Mother and Father, of son and daughter, of gardens of Paradise riven with the Voice of Man, of Mother and God. 




Whole Trilogy


















Saturday, 25 March 2017

Axiom 924 - Happiness and Creative Intelligence


Conclusion of 

Axiom 923 - The Voice of Man

Is There Hope for the World?





Leaving aside the relatively effortless joys and pleasures of childhood, what we like to call our happiness requires that we make decisions that constitute great departures from anything that we have become accustomed to demanding of ourselves, particularly with respect to other people or social structures or both.

If the "course of true love never did run smooth," nor does the nature, trials and tribulations of human growth and certainly not under the rather apoplectic aegis of what has constituted most societies for arguably tens of thousands of years of what we have concluded is a rather less fortuitous exchange of credulity and safety, nature and reason than we might often be left with any occasion to question, except perhaps when we join in to the global chorus of "What the fuck are we thinking?" 

Spring is here after a long hard winter for many. And this Easter literally billions of presumably sane human beings will get a Christmas booster vaccination of religion by taking the beatific birth of the Christ child and publicly humiliating, torturing and murdering Him, the better to wash their troubled minds in the boundless springs of the "Blood of the Lamb."

And this is, may I remind you, no piddling religious cult.

It has sustained itself for over two thousand years. This likely why so many hundreds of millions of religious people have so much faith in it. It is hard to point to any other story quite that old, much less one that can right your relationship with an Heavenly Father where one would do as well to punch a nine inch rusty nail through the head than make the attempt to right one's relationship with a father or mother who would presume to make your life eternally guaranteed in the celestial real estate market in the sky by deferring to a God the Father whose love is as apt to offer one the balm of heavenly consolation as justify the wanton genocide of hundreds of millions of innocent people, instrumental in every wave of which heavenly slaughter were the kinds of minds who would see it as nothing that whole armies of so-called medical doctors have not a care about the primary source of whole human health and wealth - whole human food.

For such people the holy wafer at communion offers far more.

And so we must if reluctantly approach this altar and ask before the assembled masses the question on everybody's mind: Why?

Well, for starters, if you are a Catholic, some public executions are not so bad. They can even be divinely creative and moral when they involved the purest possible child. Since that is not you, you have to suffer. And if that were you, you would have to suffer.

So either way you have to suffer.

With logic like that I am surprised we are not all wearing kilts and sacrificing our first born to a raging orgy of incendiary stupidity every fortnight.

But religion had and has a higher purpose than even this:

Money. And, more specifically, debt.

Here is how it works.

1) You are hurt

2) Life is full of hurt

3) Life is full of hurt because you did something wrong

4) Religion is how you fix the wrong thing but not fixing anything but to whom you give all the responsibility for fixing it - which is not, as you may have guessed, you.

Even Christians hate church.

But they love the faith. Some even flatter themselves that they can make an adequate distinction between the structure of the church and the spirit of their faith. How commendable.

One Christian (an artist) went out of her way to let me know that her art is to glorified the Father and not what she called "His creation."

This is another artifact of many religions - nature is not a suitable form of their God or Gods, who is or who are transcendent to nature and indeed to all human concepts.

One might wonder as to how this God has any relevance to anyone at all and the answer is simple - faith.

It is an easy patter, really. And even as I write it and I see how easy it would be fall into it on quite a perpetual basis.

Thus we can revise the bullet points on the bones of religion:

1) Religion hurts you, especially children, penetrating so deep as to evacuate like a mushroom cloud just how this has happened into the very stratosphere of the hell into which you must descend if you commit apostasy, a euphemism for retaining like a trampled rose bush any surviving desire to grow your whole mind back.

2) Religion is quite painless after the initial insult of so debt-ravaged a Catholic cybernetic-industrial society - a society riven with arbitrary debt loads foisted upon every surviving form of human language and even cellular communication.

A credit card loan is what is known as an unsecured loan where only the credit car holder signs anything (so there is no legitimate contract) and the money borrowed is literally created out of thin air by a computer. Not only does the card holder pay the debt with labour whose remuneration (money) is also fiat debt loaned to the labourer at interest, while the signature with which this whole bizarre business is christened is worth more, arguably, than all the money in the world. The bill that card holders get is not a bill, in fact. It is a receipt for the money held in trust by the signature that of a collateral supplied by the body and mind of the signor, a body and mind that is secured where this "loan" is not by the birth certificate and one's name in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS.

It is same in international law. Treaties that are not in all capitals can be dissolved and TREATIES in all capitals cannot be. Recently England entered into the European Union by a TREATY that a national referendum called BREXIT (as in, Britian to exist the EU) was supposed to dissolve in order to protect their fair nation from being pilfered by a monstrous financial bureaucracy in Brussels. Except that just such a TREATY cannot be dissolved unless England is dissolved, which it now must be, unbeknownst to the British public, all of whom are convinced that freedom has once again prevailed.

This is the essence of the Hegelian dialectic: offering people two doors that go to the exact same destination while preserving their ineffable sense of having some stake in that destination, even though they themselves cannot possibly believe that they do without vouchsafing an illusion utterly at odds with every single experience they have ever actually sustained since birth, further necessitating a virtual psychology or psychosis (like Christianity) with which to prop up their surviving sense of normal or natural human liberty, a psychosis symbiotic with every torture of culture and industry to which they are to be subjected.

Everything is owned by the people who hold the debt (and the debtor, in this case) in a society riven with nothing else, a people whose every native agency and human capital is extracted (by their own industry, innovation, rebellion, education, medicine, temple and credulity) with an efficiency rivaled by no other machine (or God).

A credit card "contract" says, when deciphered by this secret decoder ring of magic, "Here are some of the debt credits - every one of which everyone will forever pay for with more and more of their own labour - with which all people are bound. Now give us even more of yourself because we own you anyway and repeat after me, 'I am free but really I am not free.'"


Watch George Carlin Expose The Illuminati (Illuminati Exposed) (2017)
3CreepyTV

https://youtu.be/HUKcZmnLfrY


Our doctors have little to no interest in the fact that your food is your medicine or that if you eat the wrong food, no amount of medicine is going to help you do anything but be a better cash cow for the owners of the medical and industrial establishment.

A doctor not connecting food to life is like a psychiatrist who has absolutely no room in their spacious education for the idea about the existence much less importance of a mother and father.

Which is entirely true.

But we still have to contend with the fact that just about every human being on earth ascribes nearly if not entirely God-like authority to the priests of their health, wealth, body, food and soul.

That has not changed in countless ages, and it is not going to.

Nobody ever comes out and tells us as children that anything that can be done to body and soul is done to body and soul, producing millions and millions of ostensibly civil and spiritual people with a taste for little else.

How can one be reasonably happy in such a world when the very canvas (the mind and every corresponding organ and impulse of sex, mind and cosmos) upon which we make our knowledge and story of the world and our family, when the very canvas upon which we resolve ourselves to our origins, to our utter dependence upon our mother and father (and the world to a great extent, one effectively wholly natural to a child and so to every virtual psycho-biology used to endure every corruption of this most primeval of trusts in blood and bone, one projected across every phase of our lives and every generation of our descendants) and to the either meaningless or purposeful vagaries of physical, emotional, sexual, mental and celestial human (and family) existence is polluted or poisoned with the veritably God-like influence of the coordinated and even uncoordinated vicissitudes of what amounts to an wholly psychopathic cybernetic corruption of the native human mind and its every heritage in and voice of truly living creative intelligence? 




Krishna, Allah, Christ and Baal
Muhammad, Vishnu, Gore Vidal
Wash that religion right out of your hair!
The death of God your only prayer.


~ Robbie Van














Appendix:

When it comes to credit of any kind (or services like gas, electric, cable, cell phone and the like) most people are understandably averse to getting anything for free or to reneging, or so they think, on their promise or "contract" to pay. Every month they see on their "bill" (which is really a receipt) the word PAYEE.

But you do not owe these people anything precisely because they own everything.

Nothing is bought. Nothing is "for free." Only borrowed, rented if you will from the people who own it all, including you, your body, your industry, your marriage, your home, your car, your inventions, your blood, your hope, your gods, your doctors, your churches, your schools, your courts, your ghouls, your priests, your healers, your wars, your health, your wealth and your children in perpetuity.

Feeling bad about ceasing to pay them comes from the Stockholm Syndrome, the symbiotic bondage with one's owners.


- See Fucking Nonsense - A Living School

In fact, this feeling, and any commensurate inability to comprehend the situation one is actually in as a born SINNER OR DEBTOR is perhaps the most stark indication of the situation one is actually in.

Ask any doctor or healer, for instance, if they can help you and they will always say Yes emphatically even though there is a wide girth of evidence to the contrary.

This means that any professional healers (or ones who went to a one month workshop to practice a "healing modality" of invasive treatments of vulnerable people, all without any regulatory body) are liars who have learned from experience to prey upon vulnerable people with minds whose ability to reason is as diminished as any competence they would attain to by any means but that of a delusional psychosis (virtual psychology natural to any chronic trauma and humiliation) that must remain the most effective "cure" or "medicine" in their proverbial bag of tricks, one whose effectiveness is greatly helped by the fact that anyone giving anyone any attention always makes people "feel better" when these people are primed by lives of quiet humiliation to feel good any way they can, from among whom rise up the healers and teachers and leaders of a world sincerely shocked that it is as bad as it is.









"In the beginning of all things, wisdom and knowledge were with the animals; for Tuawa, the One Above, did not speak directly to man. He sent Animals to tell man that he showed himself through the beasts, and that from them, and from the stars and the sun and the moon, man should learn... for all things speak of Tuawa

- Chief Letako-Lesa of the Pawnees Tribe
to Natalie Curtis, circa 1904 

The Indians' Book: An Offering by the American Indians of Indian Lore, Musical and Narrative, to Form a Record of the Songs and Legends of Their Race, New York, Harper Brothers, 1907, page 96.







Most of the things which I write about and even the whole reason for this blog is because of my having felt very uncomfortable for so many persistent factors (largely people factors) in my entire environment, so that I can explore the reason for this discomfort and what it has to say about my entire environment.

But I have never done this with the feeling that this would necessarily improve anything about the world or my environment.

In fact, most of the time doing this has forced me to shed my environment and many of the people in it with entire layers, I am sure, of my very own skin, of my very own mind (and maybe even theirs as well to lesser but not less poignant effect).

When I was about half the age I am now (43) I was driving back to my dad's house with my dad and we or I caught a glimpse of the mountains by early morning, lit up pink and shimmering by the light before the light of the rising sun in a deep blue sky over the land (not the city) in which I had spent most of my learning life and thought.

That awareness is with me now and has, with time and upon reflection, grown in my estimation as it always does when I see the mountains. This is the Spirit of God or the Spirit of the Great Mother to me. Enumerating all my discomfort will never and should never change the world and nor will any kind of sequence of letters and words ever sufficiently or exhaustively enumerate what is the Spirit of God or Great Mother.

It is enough for me to say that one is not God; one has no God within and the Universe is not and never will be the God or the Goddess. Rather we have moments where an image or a piece of our own mind's are shorn from our mind by such incredible beauty and poignant experience (even trauma) that it becomes, by our own creation and nature, a kind of God or Goddess that becomes a sort of celestial memory and mirror in our mind and in the sky, one in and of our own voice and that of any great being (mother or father) to Whom we would direct it (they Whom we would have listen and be enlightened most heartily, saved most thankfully), in whose vast illimitable and as illimitably kind body would we sound our voice with all the life that springs from the earth and indeed from the concentric celestial spheres and organs of heaven and earth, body and soul as they bleed into one another in our minds and in our lives, in our blood and desire, grief and joy, never staying one form as we stay cloying to this illusion that we will in death as in life persist through every transformation and change, growth and even corruption of our lives.

Anyone could make up their own God or Goddess in poignant moments or from poignant moments in their lives and minds.

It makes no difference.

After millions of years nobody has any real knowledge of God or the Spirit of God and nobody ever could or will, or even need to.

Our gods are our own, and that is what makes them so incredibly important to us, so real and good and true, so ineffable and numinous, so luminous and separate, separated by as though every effort we could expel with however much emotion of all that we fear and love and hope, all that we doubt, hurt and cry, with all that we know and feel the delicate fragility of not only our lives but also our love and all that we love, knowing as we all do that it cannot last forever; not like this and maybe not at all lest the very stars and suns and moons carry our voice through the dark and ebullient forests of eternity where a one such as will will breath or scent the air by some canticle of summer or winter, autumn or spring and start with boundless mirth along their merry way.

No. It cannot last forever. 

Except by the very howls that rage within us.

Except by the very nectar of words only as divine as rapt as they are inspired by the language of the sky, of the world and of the luminous celestial presence in whose rapt amniotic waters we bathed in consummate grace a language or a song of knowledge as wholly eternal as each our very own, a song or a voice, a prayer or a cry as though the very impulse of every happiness that anybody could ever know or had ever known.

Pain and Joy are such diverse country, really.

Whose knows but that our deepest sorrow were illuminated by the joy of others, illuminating even their joy.

What then?

Are we to be interred but so perverse a coordination of heaven and earth, joy and sorrow?

Have we been so interred already?

Is this the birth of Spring?

Is the genesis of our Mother and Father God?

Or their miserable end and ours, mere mortal flesh?

What of that?

This is either where we end this conversation or where we only just begin to scent the deeps of that firmament in whom we dwell, over whom we walk and upon whom we lay our final hour before the faces of our sons and daughters, friends and lovers, mothers and fathers, doctors and priests, before the face of the world that first gazed upon us rapt with our own face.

Thoughts are created. Divine books are read and revered.

Prayers are said and symbols are conceived and dissected, used and abused, born and transformed by countless hours descending down from the centuries.

What will be my last will and testament?

What will be yours?

What, indeed, but a voice restored to its primeval measures of Heaven and Earth, mother and father and child, measures and rivers of a blood that runs through here and hereafter like day to night and night to day an impulse taken up by every sex and desire, by every breadth of man and nature entirely, wholly unto the very banks by which we lean or kneel or lay with our sisters and brothers, with our children and grandchildren and their children and grandchildren spotting a minnow or delighting in the sonorous chorus of frogs, crickets and lazy summer breezes as living church hewed from the love, the blood, the sun and constellations of the suns of man across every breadth and boundless league of time and space, of age and change, hewed like our very graves from the pages of all our dreams come true and of the nightmare worlds that would weave their poison tongues around our even infant minds, bending every organ of this temple to misery and doom, producing tastes for little else.

For these banks are the banks that run through our ears and course through our blood; they burble through our the vascular and celestial bellows of our brains, of our hands and face, moving our limbs like the water of a mighty stream upon whose very mists form a body and soul, being born and a leaving being born behind like too much life pressing down into us and upon us, forcing a different if old kind of air through new lungs and indeed new eyes inheriting a wealth of memory and experience equal to the task.

I say this for my father and for my family.

I say that there are words which can only be heard by twilight.

These words we spoke from before with every simple thing that every simple thing an act of holiness that would wrap and be wrapped by the world in a cradle of purest memory, of purest blood, which is to say the very crowning substance of the Kingdom of  a Child, the Kingdom of Earth and Sky, of Mother and Father, of son and daughter, of gardens of Paradise riven with the Voice of Man, of Mother and God. 




Whole Trilogy














Friday, 24 March 2017

Is There Hope for the World?


Continued from

Axiom 923 - The Voice of Man 
 



Listen carefully and suspend your stalwart defense of Man for one moment when I say that there is no hope for this world.

Most of its whole population doesn't even believe that nature is something under the power of what they themselves would call their God's better angels and the rest don't care.

Both sets of people are equally to blame for the state of the world.

For tracing the career of the full range and scale of the genesis and effect of religious belief (most of which is not even considered religious by most ostensibly well educated or religious people) is non-existent.

It does not exist.

And it cannot exist.

For to accomplish even this small feat would require that one rid oneself of its effects. And that is, frankly, impossible for anyone who has any understanding (or wishes to claim to have any understanding) of the world or the human mind.

Most people could barely convince their own mothers, fathers or children to rely on vegetables for their medicine. And yet these same people are routinely flattered by the notion that they or any number of them can save the world from itself.

How fucked up is That?

Feet shuffle. Eyes are diverted up or down. We are left with nothing, really, to do. We are transported to or freed from all illusions that have in the past blinded us to our exact location at the very ontological fulcrum of our time and any time - to enjoy oneself or not to enjoy oneself.

For there are as many people saving the world as condemning it forever. And, what is more, these are largely the same people.

And these people will for many obvious and many not so obvious reasons more than likely seek to be or find themselves one way or the other in positions of astronomical and one might even say divine influence over the minds of extremely vulnerable people who will be invariably trained to have a biological need for this very kind of relationship to the very degree that even a very friendly vampire must from time to time feed upon human blood or the way an even very domesticated shark must eventually dine upon human flesh.

Man is a vicious animal.

Man is the most kind animal.

Man is the most stupid and the most intelligent.

In short, Man is completely out of his own mind. Two minds, actually, one the love child of the other that of the "most loving god" and the kind of guy for whom slaughtering an entire civilization of unarmed men, women and children is all that love really is to any truly contrite human being, a being who would, believe it or I shit you not, be far more inclined to beg forgiveness for being born than for going to war with their own young.

Now multiply this appetite by 7.5 billion people.

The product is what we call "The World."

And you are telling me that you know not only what to do about that but that you are actually performing actions and making choices which to your eye show evidence of doing something about this problem so big it might as well be the most substantial and divine God the world has ever truly known and felt from their head down to their toes for who knows tens of thousands of years, across every continent and in every culture? 

Okay. Well. You might be happy to know that that is quite normal. That is a completely normal response to such a world, a world that, nonetheless, would do anything not to speak the name of its God for fear of losing His full and unstinting support in dealing with the illness that is us.

I didn't say it.

You did.

Your parents should have dealt with this before you reached the age of majority, but they could not. Your parents' parents should have dealt with this before they reached their age of majority, but they could not and they did not.

And so on for however many generations one wishes to count.

For you sort of have to give it to any group of creatures who can be such efficient Olympians at curbing their appetite for anything approaching a healthy and vigorous enjoyment of their life and blood (one as exponentially powerful by numbers of people as the glorified evil to which they have so long resorted), so efficient that their most sensational and paranoid pastime is not to marinate in the hell which they have already created for themselves (a hell and its as tortured language that is not so bad because it is utterly separate from heaven but precisely because of how made of heaven and precisely because of how close to heaven it really is and, truly, must be in order to keep hell alive) but to terrorize one another with eschatological visions of this or that apocalypse to come as though it has not already made all of them its bitches. 

For we do not wage war with princes and principalities but with one another, for this is made rational because of just how much we have to fear from one another and so just how much we avoid naming this fear aloud for fear that we shall say the name of our God. 

Show me a Man or a Woman who does not fear Mankind and I will show you a Man or a Woman whom you would do well to fear but won't precisely because of what this might reveal about oneself.

Please share with me, thus, my incredible enjoyment (if that is our purpose in life) at the incredible and need we even say celestial irony that in writing in a so disparaging a manner about humanity (being anti-Man) I would be roundly convicted of doing something apart from and not precisely in keeping with the letter and spirit of the universal norm of every language on Earth and every pageant of human genesis and destiny, include as it must every organ of blood, brain, land, sea and sky that lay at our disposal or in our every arsenal of deadly weapons.



Concluded with Axiom 924 - Happiness and Creative Intelligence