Dreams of lavishness and libertinism bring many men and women down to the clutches of despair, but there are often reasons for this. Few but not very few people choose this actively. No child dreams of it. There are certain deranged specimens of human life altogether alien to the concepts of honor and ethic we ecumenically share, but they are few and far between. Most of the victims of hedonism are just that – victims. They fell on the slippery slope down inferno. And they swallowed Satan's bait. The idealization of hedonistic immoderation as a means of balance to the oppressive psycho-spiritual implications incumbent to human freedom is understandable an approach, though deeply sinister, wrong to the core. To become the cistern of human sin, to drink from oneself freely and without temperance, and to receive the holy water of an unholy faith. To host feasts of indulgence and self-pleasure and to give way to Mammon and to devils and satyrs and fauns! What a debauchery, what as shame. To feel great without paying the proper price or sacrifice! That is the true vice of man – now, then and forever. Human beings suck and taste the marrow of freedom, but spit it out and opt for prison instead. And that is what I, on sadder days, want to do as well. To become disgusting and weak but for a moment! Just for a moment. But I know that a moment of sin turns into an eternity of sin with the blink of an eye. Like a fly to the spider's web you stick to it. Unfortunately, many people can not confront the problem properly, and they lose to it. You become incarnate the spirit of lazy, uncultured gluttony, and you give unto yourself the spoiled self-coddling privileges, the Narcissistic arrogance of trying to ignore what should not be ignored!

If enlightenment meant tulips and sunshine, then everyone would be enlightened, but everyone is not. If hard work was easy, it wouldn't be called hard. If the human spirit was weak in itself, we wouldn't conceptualize strength as an ideal universal. If the meaning of existence means "follow your bliss", I do not want to be here anymore. Bliss is a dead end. Meaning is the pathway forward. Meaning, power, beauty and the Glory of God. To hell with your hedonism and bulwark ideologies. Crawl through the gutter! There is knowledge in dirt and grime, too. The accomplished human is happy, yes, but only as a secondary effect of being accomplished. Happiness can not precede accomplishment. Bliss is a dead end. I promise that. And if you don't believe me – try it. Pursue "happiness" for ten years and see where you find yourself. If enlightenment meant bliss and pleasure, everyone would be enlightened. Because it would be so easy. Why are not everyone happy, then? Where is that utopia? Why is there atrocity, resentment, murder, rape, madness, angst and the harrowing, millenial accumulation of evil and filth in this world? Because bliss and pleasure will not set your free – it will entrap. I say again: if hard work was easy, it wouldn't be hard. The search for meaning goes through many dimlit caverns, believe that! And there is religious truth in the very shadow you try to banish and evict from your heart futily! God is surely a terror for the feeble-minded. That is why he pretends God does not exist. Easier that way, perhaps. However, it is an existential and spiritual falsity, a human error, a self-imposed indemnity, this ever-search for carnal and sensual satisfaction and of material acquisition. And to that I can only leer mockingly. I have no respect for it, because God commands it not, never.

 These trees gleam with strangeness... I am no longer at home. The insight strikes me, I horripilate, my skin goes cold and sensitive. I let go a heavy breath, a sigh, a short smile. I look up – God smiles too. My steps are heavier than yesterday and the air feels denser. Colder, damper. I chip more and more in order to take breaths and it becomes more frightening with each and every one, as if I am ascendant to some great and mountainous plateau. The air filters through the grossness of my palate and becomes distilled of its natural freshness; it is alchemized to green and pungent vapor. A cloud of some black, sullied neon forms in the strained breathings of exhaled air and the hairs on my arm bristle in the morning cold. The ground is frozen in wreaths of hoarfrost and the sudden, strange drop of temperature from yesterday is baffling to my senses, and in the wake of this thought I shiver in body and mind. There is an uncanny atmosphere, an ambiance of natural Nordic melancholy convolving these woodlands now, a dismal fogginess, a foreboding imminence startling and unsettling, and the landscapes have shifted accordingly, along the lines of these, my eerie impressions. The terrain is churlish now – hundreds of robust roots, stumpy and sinuous and like serpents fleeing a scolding earth penetrate the frost-bitten soil and reach like murky antennas towards a bitter sky exploded with a matted, lifeless, sullen coloring...

digging up old shit, re-visiting, adding...

gothic crenelations in iron and bronze

fall from a blood-and-chrome sky

the steel and concrete of skyscrapers

buckling under weights invisible, incalculable...

the heaven ruins in tumult !

bedevilled be the sky with Satans !

imps of night and funeral

dig the Zephyr barrow

and in moonshine golden, silvery

they entomb the memory of it all

respectfully.

behind the aether-stone-gate

an ancient, occult masonry

locks the secret, the shame, within

a hundred feet of solid rock.

something shines in the sky !

a hope unpregnant with truth

and full to the brim instead

with lies.

like the false sun you may witness

in the leering smile of a rapist.

and the souls of thieves and murderers

twinkle like impostor-stars

on a beautiful cosmic canvas, exhausted,

Stockholm-syndromed,

backgrounding...

the spleen of the sky is punctured

and ushered is another age.

between pillars of concrete and plastic

vapor the red hot smoke, it bellows.

over gardens of asphalt and asbestos

the nuclear fallout lands, covers.

and like shingles rashing hellfiery

on the child's skin of innocence

is our ever-sinly nature

a hideousness from which we can not hide.

like a black death of tongues in our mouths

it penetrates all of our defensive mechanisms

with the very words we, ourselves, try to speak.

and hurt by anonymity in depravation,

we became forgetters of our own origin.

everywhere i look !

oakwood carvings and idols

burn or melt or cry tears of blood !

to the sound and smell of downfall

an orchestral conduction sublime

echoes the sweet, sweet soundtrack

of Eschaton !

in thick ponds of amphibians

the lizard's sludge, black, boils

with reptilian spite; bubbles of evil air

break surface tension !

wenches ululate the songs of Night,

thirsty for a petrichor diluvian

impossible as that is to acquire

in a brave new world, a sewer-world

like this one...

 

the modern idea is the idea of unconditional self-love and self-acceptance. and i simply can not imagine a more nihilistic, more depressive, more anti-human idea than that! 

without the gold of growth we are but filth and pigs; losers.  

hedonistic nihilism inflamed the young sores of old mother europe.

the strife to become better became ridiculed, lost and abandoned in the absence of the power it fed from.

no more battles 

no more blood

no more devotion

no more sacrifice

just gluttonies, lusts, addictions and the ever excess! birthing a boredom in existence!

never before was boredom the bane of man, until now...

 the cover of a fantasy blazebirth hall-worship bm band i "had" some years ago

 retarded autistic traits emerged back in the day, some days

the painting is by Karl Wilhelm Diefenbach. 

 

its all coming together, aug 10, 2022 im done forever

“They fail to account for the underlying tectonics of history when imagining and utopianizing the future, and they scoff and spit at the librares, these irredivivous accumulations of the wisdoms! Why can they not cede that tradition is multi-dimensional? Tradition has been a tool of oppression, it is true, but as well the very wheel which turns the tide of time and anchors it to history; to our historiography. We pin down the human condition by trapping it under the heavy weights of history as if trapping a bird in cage as to let it scream from therein. Yes – tradition is multi-dimensional. Tradition – in many respects oppressive, gruelling and insensitive to the eyes and ears of modern man and to man of history alike – is of fundamental importance to everything we call and feel holy, and it encapsules what is worthy of defense until no man stands. And your pitiful attempts at philosophizing away the existential absolute of such a notion is dangerously stupid. Tradition is a hammer and there are plenty of heads to crush and there are plenty of nails to nail as well. Tradition is an essentially human behavior and a deduction of man's conditioning in material-scientific reality and as well beyond it. On the matter of what is beyond it, much and almost none can be said; that mystery devours all.”

“I strongly doubt that the majority, by the simple fact that it is a majority, can direct human society with brilliance and greatness over sustained periods of time. I think there is an immutable and ultimately – for the individual – beneficial inequality in the world, an inequality that appears as mysterious and esoteric in nature as it appears immutably defaulted. And I would say: inequality does not necessitate the solidification of it; it can also, in principal, allude to the mobility and fluidity of its hierarchies. It can very well propose that the individual has some level of mobility across spectrums of possibility and success, and that this mobility is indeed cherished and applauded as a very function of inequality; a well-serving mechanism of it, a feature – not an error.“

I banish Titivillus from this text I so have verily penned in the glory of God! Now and forever, begone, O wicked devil of deceit, corruptor of the Noble Word, poisoner of the Logos-Well...

 Blessed be the freedom which God gave me. Blessed be my pen. And I praise: blessed be the Virgin, the saints and all the winged angels as I track my thoughts in an ink as honest as black it is! Praise now the Lord.

Fragmina verborum Titivillus colligit horum quibus die mille vicibus se sarcinat ille

In an anonymous fifteenth-century English devotional treatise, Myroure of Oure Ladye,  Titivillus introduced himself thus (I.xx.54): "I am a poure dyuel, and my name ys Tytyvyllus ... I muste eche day ... brynge my master a thousande pokes full of faylynges, and of neglygences in syllables and wordes."

I am overcome with emotion and the girls smile. They thaw an hoarfrost of being within me I did not even knew existed, and umbelliferous flowers unfold their petals beautifully deep in the valves of my heart. No longer I feel angst and skepticism, amotivation and dejection... I feel protected by a presence and I am not alone – spirits whirl around me and I have become pregnant with the contents of mushroom-clouds absconding with the smog of personality, my own explosion! My feet feel very heavy and for the first time I reckon that the two sisters seem weary, tired and distraught as well. It is basically the first time they rest to any significant extent. It has not happened before. Surely, they have exercised the Nikean stamina through these inhospitable woodlands!

 

“For has not God proclaimed, as the first of many principles, and above all other moral or spiritual values in creation, the freedom, devotion, strength, mercy, honor, truth, bravery, justice and wisdom with which we properly map our own existential predispositions and the reality in which they have to function? And did not God tell us that there is nothing besides these values one ought to guard with such ire and anxiety? That there is nothing in creation of which one should be a stronger, more splenorous guardian? Because, what attacks it are demons of Mammon and the Grand Duke Belial and all Enochian Watchers, and they are in deranged union with one-another, and they conspire against everything that is good... they ride the steppe under similar vexillology and with the same standards of sin and vice clutched in their rat hands... and behind them follow their many-pronged armies, auxiliaries, slaves and others forms and shapes of scum they have managed to conscript into their filthy, Godless ranks – either through seduction, false promise, terror, evil threats or some guileful, cunning combination of them all!”

“But we never engaged with those packs of sinners and derelicts”, the other sister said proudly. She coughed in her hand, some passion-blood had shot out, she did not care – she wiped it with her right middle-finger in a line just above the base of the nose upwards the forehead and her hair. She put her hands to the ground and arose in mystical feline posture, discharging some aural mist or some paranormal effluence in the short meanwhile. The animals fled, the birds chirped nervously and a blackening of the sky descended above, all over.

“We would never associate with the Mammon-folk…”

She looked me in the eye.

“We are the Zorza."

 

 

The idea that, as long as you circumcise, follow some basic rituals, call yourself a good Muslim, a good Jew or Christian, bathe correctly, dress correctly and is cautious with certain foodstuffs, you should be okay, is a stupid one.

This idea is theologically invalid and it defaces the true nature of religion. These are behaviors, taboos, conventions, social rules. This is culture – not religion. Surely it is religious culture, but it is not religiosity, spirituality. It is not Religion. The way I see it, culture rests upon religion; not only as some cyst or some malign overgrowth, no, but rather as a moss of the ages sleeping on the bedrock beneath; a high and green grass coming out of it, or a meadow of both beautiful and ugly flowers sprawling from the soil primordial... Often somewhat symbiotic this relationship has been, but far from always (especially Muslim societies as a general and some bygone eras of Christendom – as well as contemporary American perversions of Christianity – comes to thought). In direct words, God does not care about the details. As an example, it is feasible to say that the Books of Levicitus is penned by human hands, and also steered to a large degree by subconscious human motivations. How, when and where you eat supper or go about your personal hygiene is not necessarily a theological concern but rather a socio-cultural one, I would think... – yes, that is it. This is my frank and well-grounded belief. If I was in love with someone I would encourage that person to seek for the God within. But I am not in love with the world, so instead I scream: stop the petty bullshit! You are making politics and tribalism out of it... God never commands these trivial, worldly, petty materialistic pursuits... – you do! Your family does. Your culture and your community does. And sometimes even the state will meddle with it (historically mostly, but it continues with ravenous persistence to this very day – especially, again, in Muslim societies). Just be honest with this, and afterwards, the great work can finally get going for real. I would say personally that I do not think God is or is not a fan of circumcision and is or is not grossed out by menstruation. Do not paint the Holiness with your petty human bullshit. These are human cultural projections, which are, technically speaking, completely irreligious in core and in essence. God is not human and therefore not of human nature. Thus, any attempt or impulse of psychologizing God is truly a mistake and theologically it is an extremly costly one. This false religion is, so to speak, "anthropo-psychologizing" God; or, in any case, it attempts it. True religion however, in contrast, obscures God, mystifies Him, cloaks Him righteously, and respects this incomprehensible nature of the Divine, and embellishes that with beautiful metaphor, shrouds him in poem and art, and weeps for his grandiose return and wisdom in revelation.

God is there, absolutely He is, with His eye omnipresent, ever seeking, ever staring into, and through, the hearts of men! And in there God sets up His court; our actions, our words, our strife and our character becoming subject of trial and Divine acumen. But understand that it happens not in some human way... For metaphor and poetry is the language of God on earth. God does not answer, and He is not to be directly spoken to. God has no personality, no self-awareness, no agency in the material world! Only we do. God is something else altogether. God is ever-quiet, merely being there. Silent, yes, but indeed there, and for the honest pilgrim of the soul to discover - to harness power from; to float into; to get possessed by and without rope nor torch fall into!

Yes! In false religion, everything is about what God does, what God wants, what God thinks, what God condemns and what God commands... I think the element of subordination and servitude becomes perverted in many worldly cultures. Many folk allow themselves seduction into that bondage, which has become a corrupted bondage; it allows its brethren a kind of passive delight, a banquet of irresponsibility on the floor supine, with fat bellies and weak hearts, gasping like beasts for deep nasal breaths as they stuff their mouths with a bland sludge of capitulation and existential inertia. I consider myself deeply religious but I reject the premise that we are slaves under Christ or under any other deity or prophet. Adoration does not mean cowering, cringing subservience, and humility is not a term to describe a passive, crippling form of self-loathing. Worship is not synonymous with resignation, and to fear God is to love God and to promise to make the ultimately best of life one can possibly achieve. Some people love the aspects of psycho-spiritual dependence that religion can, regrettably, provide - some people tend to their dogma like dogs in leashes to masters. And while I am very big on the humility and respect, and the notion of sacrality in this mundane existence, the awe of Mary's grace and the adoration of Holier matters, I can not live my life thinking of myself a slave. I understand the notion, but I must reject it. I want to be a soldier, not a slave, of God. I want to build a magnificent physique holding in, thwarting a great deluge of heart and soul roaring, tumbling, clashing therein... crushing waves of creativity held back only by bulwarks – of will and of grace and of muscle! The true, personal religion begins with human agency – an act of faith which leads to an act of will, or vice versa. You can not be religious without going through yourself upward. The true religion benights the wisdoms it hold, because they are ever-benighted, not because of some self-aware and falsely pretentious obscurantism, no, but because we are simply not sensibly nor spiritually equipped to directly deal with it.

 Over a matter of minutes, I become delirious with excitement. An unfolding force of life, doped with a pregabalineous upsurge. A roar of drugs. A line is sometimes hard to draw between nausea and ecstasy. As I lose myself in these meditations, I forget to note my environs – I am becoming ecstatic.

Hand in hand I have leapt over small rivers and climbed hillocks with the beautiful woman, the old and wise yet young and hungry mystical woman inside me, anima. I have called her Vasilisa and En'heduanna and Mary Magdalene... and I have called her Chhinnamasta and Queen Anu, and Christine de Pizan and Saint Hildegard, and Serey Sothea and Yanka Dyagileva, Mira Bai, and Edith and Semiramis and Tomyris... they have all gazed with me from the crenelated terrace out over the steppes! And we have walked out there, down there, in the unexplored and dangerous sub-terrains of fiery human passion…

Did not Lalleshwari, ferocious Lal Ded, the wolfess in the shroud of a woman, tear the modest rags off her body and give her away thoughtlessly to the burning woodlands, the nigrescent horizon, the terror of the unknown, having renounced the fixed marriage of her honor-obsessive family, having suffered under patriarchal suppression like a some hound, having warded off beatings and attacks of sexual desecration and attempts of such, since childhood? Did not En'heduanna, the high priestess cry and wail at the thought and sight of Lugalbanda destroying her temple at Ur? Or Edith, the southern spruce alone in a forest of the bittermost firs, how she fought off the imps of disease and scathing critique with the diamond shield and sword of poetry, stubbornly, passionately... as did Lakhsmibai with her imperialist invaders! And so shall I, with the power of the spirit of Queen Anu!