Apocalypse training. A Second of Omniscience

A Second of Omniscience

Rebellion was a small event in those compounds of the landscape. No Great Pict Wall, our outpost invisible in an invisible war. Deserters from the other side knew all the stratagems.  Recruited from marines, disloyal at best, rebellion at worst, recaptured, treated with drugs, counseled, integrated back into the Forces. We designate all services of the other side as one force, the odd ISIL along side EU, visibly on opposite sides, invisibly together. More disinformed seems to better suit this outpost, a military not a colony, nothing so dramatic as Hadrian, fortification of mind.

No wonder they feared.

It gets necessary to know big things and small, rich and poor their own nature of knowing, knowledge to loving barrierlessness, allowing, space in the beginning and at end incompleteness, complete with work that achieves the gift. Sounds like a poem, those practical seizings of the moment would intuit a method. Nothing about the universe has changed, unless it's the way it thunk.. That naive act of faith, to apprehend it, does so without wondering what does not explain itself any more than a current in a river or a bird. I prefer the river. Go to sleep, wake up in the data base of the naif, which would be the first lost if known. If only you could teach it they say. They should say give it time and believe. We are sidetracked by the staging of events in which, while we watch the news broadcast in all its channels, we watch ourselves. Standing behind the events we view them all as tragic misdemeanors if not felonies. Every single opinion in the world is wrong and has as its entire purpose to absorb the attention of the many layers of audience. So the government, science, the networks, the actors on what they call the stage, the audience, history, philosophy all stand in mutual relation to each other as the skins of an onion, none is more primary than another, except of course in the fantasy/reality the stages project. There the drones rule. There have been all kinds of drones. Remember it is a name for the worker bee, incapable of procreation, or creation, that lives in the hive only to fulfill the dictates of the "higher" power, the queen. This seems to demean bees if we take it as symbolic of ourselves, as all bestiaries have always done of the natural world.  We had seen drones among the neighbors spouting shibboleths of modern culture, meaning popular culture, people who get exercised about sports or fashion. Look from behind it or above it and it is all the same, a series of stagings where the levels are mutually inclusive of just the one thing: the stage, the actors. Meanwhile behind the scenes the puppet masters none of us see pull the string. Behind the puppet masters lies the one real thing, which is why I keep coming back to Prufrock, saying, "oh do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit." 

The axiom of this though denies all its shortcomings while practicing them. One imagines  accepted protocols  professionally known consumed and filled with mere prejudices, left and right, no matter, about the rest. It is a flat surfaced earth boasting no border, compressed, controlled, but enough of that. Consciousness is a scene of huge depth, atmosphere, ionosphere, magnetosphere, 1000 feet above and below the surface, and then below the surface, continents, plates and lava streams. The human is like a submersible between. All of the other documents on this site are meant to explore the staging of the worlds.  

Auto de fe:  It looks like it's going to be an Altered Sky today with more Weather Wars, unwritten as yet, with local outbursts of tomography, topography and atmospherics under the assumption that modern consciousness, for all its boasting and self assurance, is linear and two dimensional practically speaking, so literature and furniture are not so different, and thought is one piece of two, although it will be denied. This has still not happened.

It takes a long time living among Plantagenets to take them seriously. Their thoughts are like Cyclops hidden in a cliff. You would not believe that among the visible, invisible a man would oppose the intercourse of tutelary beings to prevent gods long extinct. How do you think these rocks got here anyway? These are all windows into artificial intelligence that seeks to rule the human hybrid, to replace natural ancient existence with spiritual beings invoked by corporations and government. It took only 300 years to undo the empiric universe into nothing but words as rods and cones, words of mind disassociates unremembered, unbelieved in the ear. At the last these paintings on adobe walls were transferred to canvas. Presumption transferred giant forms to the thought of the age. What’s it look like if you’re a rock giant? An outpost. A fat monk. I don’t want to tell you what this guy is doing.

If you learned to read like this then people in a car right here, a bigger one and a little buddy have been born. This one, see his face?  Ficino burned into ashes the commentary on Lucretius just because it depopulated the universe. Jehoiakim, king of Judah burned every page of the prophecy of Jeremiah that he should go willingly captive of Nebuchadnezzar into Babylon.  How do you think they all feel when  Bercilak takes up again his severed head. Government theologues brought these invisibles into politics, put toddlers among the rocks to disguise them. Read extinction of  invisible or visible. See that arm behind, sticking out? His buddy keeps birds near the coast. You would not believe that in the eye of a giant the whole purpose is manifest Platonic to the physical. 

The Hunchback sat in his chair, knee to the left, shoulders right. Let’s count. That’s the face, nose, cheek, a brow over the eyes, arm hangs down. I began to see beings in the wood grain of doors in doctor's offices, anywhere the grain was preserved, cuts joined side by side like the heads of faeries. Three in one, joined at the shoulder, gathered praying, looking down, the premise of the ineffable gone flesh. Heads, shoulders, one, two, three wearing long coats. I guess the other is a girl. The guy’s got his arm around her. I began to paint them to illustrate. Don’t have a name for her yet. The world must simply be done. This is going too far maybe into nature. Other worlds analogize, badgers and dwarves, tortoise and yarrow. Amateurs thrown into wars of angels. Waking trees and visible naiads, fauns and satyrs, dwarfs and giant gods, centaurs. The charm is that life goes on. Abyss against the saints, blood moons and their coming King. Elbows, arm behind the back, and down, another behind. Three corner colonial hats on top of rocks triangulating. The herringbone, a whole crowd of airy creatures between earth and moon, finally comprehended with reason, “being in proportion superior to the world  was how they ordered the extinction. Somebody left them. A baby bending over, buttocks sticking out. There’s his arm going down the thigh. He’s reaching over...and they say people that play with clouds are weird.

These are our circumstances. I was canoeing down the phase-locked ELF signals, the upper reaches of water cold as ice. Entrainment of bordering factories rose from white foam, made effluent from the factory scum steam.   Factory after factory of storm drains elaborate branches. I walked miles up the concrete tubes, which got smaller until some sphincter tinkled at the foot. Frozen creeks in winter flooded into skating rinks. The flood felled tree trunks, overran scrape train wreck cars and cubes of metal. I walked the tracks with a .22 to shoot insulators out on the power lines. Like some grandfather against illumination in the Esquilache Mutiny in Madrid in 1766, 4400 oil burning streetlamps twelve feet high of iron and glass, smashed in protest against illumination. Spy cameras, geo phones, grid illumined life surveillance lamps. Cameras, microphones shoot out. Resistance to the collective where ever you disconnect the Schumann Resonance, stronger than the Schumann Resonance,
Flares of imagination and torpedoes picked up beside the trains, or jimmied from the metal shacks, strapped to a rock, dropped from twenty feet to explode below a bridge. Human brainwaves synchronized,  phase-locked to multiple coherent frequencies of the entrained. Up in the slap hills holes from strip mines' fresh green pits swell a hundred feet below. Physical reality with the frequency  manipulated into a belief system reaching critical mass. Sides too slippery to climb for fear of not surviving the remainder, BrainSpeak, subliminal programming, Silent Sound Spread Spectrum -SSSS -  Present ‘reality’ said to operate at 435 MHz, redesigned a new reality with a series of thought forms transmitted from 400-450 Mhz.   Freight trains boiled black soot over it all.  Ultra-High Frequency broadcast waves planted inaudible messages directly in the subconscious. Fires in the ground ranged a hundred feet above the hill, fought by boys and men, giant standing waves of focus induced earthquakes, crossed from distant aiming points to create electrical stimulation of  synthetic moisture, polarizing the sun’s hyperspace EM river into the field of force. Where the oil well across from the two room school gushed against the window pane when they read the Palms, long, large wavelengths that follow the curvature of Earth flowed around mountain ranges. There was a path around the back of a hill to a cave with white scorpions, Gwen towers to ground waves, ELFs for long distance wave propagation, wire antennas a mile across, linked with a network of cables shaped like umbrellas.

These symbols come friendly to those on the dark red dirt floor of the firehouse at the school. Enchantment occurs in the 3 Hz to 30 Hz range and in VLF from 30 Hz to 300 kHz, which explains every bit of it.  Among hand crank engines and hoses, and under the stage of imagination, in the basement where pitch and musty events cover dreams of sailing a glider down stairs lined with boots and cigars, broadcast vibrations engineer this reality at different transmissions, changing brainwaves, which operate in octaves. No escaping it. Mob Excess Deterrent Used Silent Audio (MEDUSA) of short microwave pulses rapid heat tissue to cause a shockwave inside the skull. Touching or standing near an ELF antenna in the battlefield of elves, Iraq, causes severe burns like being inside a microwave. That's how to get the bugs out.  32 Metronomes shows what part you play in this social order. Warning: coded, subjugated, prioritized alters layered in personalities in the social whole. This proviso serves every entry. None should be believed. All should be believed.

I did my topographies along the tracks, fastening torpedoes to rocks below the  Creek, dropped heavy stones to explode them. This seemed fit. Oil stained the ground from its pumping. Fires raged up the hillside undermined below with coal seams dug out the ground black and white,  paintings with tunnels and roads from childhood near mines, early years when engine smoke was not scrubbed. The white was black as soot where the freights went up, two tracks, only freights, the blessing that prevented development. Jack in the julpit valleys with springs, rhododendrons above slag.  Iron rails, creosote ties, spikes, rail rock rail beds, hillsides, shed houses polluted creeks, bales of metal cubes overturned, never taken out after wrecks, dirt floors of firehouse hoses, fire axes, mats.

 They are not of one mind these conquerors of DNA whose imperial control suggests they are. In the coffee houses of base there is debate as to how humanely to treat the sub humarian, humane aquarium, an amphibian of both worlds, combatant in water, colonist at home on land. Boat hulls hid up close. Escaped light back believed. One if by land two if by sea. It's as if one or two Russians knew something. That's why they wanted the patent for  world gridlines. Black science being what it is, planetary configurations affect gravity and time tunnels in hyperspace. Moscow built a time portal in Afghanistan not so different from Washington’s effort to dig up Gilgamesh and mutate him on the beltway. UK intelligence agents all the time said they were in and could mutate fifteen different dimensions. Proponents hid their mad intentions under a show of balance, order and strength more easily believed.

I woke up on the mid line between sea and land. There was a decompression of bends and chokes, plumbed with beached lungs, oxygen entering. The tongue spoke after awhile that it was a sea without end, but once before the water was not wet, no currents, no boats or flood to ratchet out the stones. Before water at all points, no seas, compares to some  myth of an unconscious we don't name. So to have a thing but not know it, contract opaque a diamond frost of self formless shape, old trees, cracked skin, stout limb, a sapling circulating beneath. Does it come clearer if we regard the unimportant thing as a writing under writing where parchment in short supply, bleached out or not, is overwritten in a different text and ink? This new writing over top of ancient texts, only lists of things, entertainments, but when scraped off,  removed, the old precepts resonant with the past retell the telling of a thing beneath, repeating it again, told and retold and retold in night. Everything built on top of everything else which transfers by your will to extend it. You're going to say you've been praying all these years for this, and we ourselves in a diaphanous corona contracted at the moment of greatest brightness, the moment of birth, further contracted,  less understand the moment. Two voices translate an inner  inarticulate which the mouthpiece transfigures to originary unspeakable words, a kind of thought that failing falls to words, as if the bears write bestiaries of themselves. Mind you, minus the one extant memory. To recognize the ineffable turn, declaring the name back and forth like a violin whirling forces, winter in jeopardy, snow, accidents of stone, lightning phrases of fire produce this desired finished contradiction, point not to the external shapes that language describes, but to a world without shape and time that lives in pure praise, sparing the bones of epigrams, that wash with aspirants ashore.

The caves, known intimately where a trough of water drips overflow in waves, are no photographs but memory extant, with one record, Easter Sunday, printed in exploration written then. The imagination of caves, psychologies, ideas that "could quite well have filled in the entrance too, with a thin layer of hard earth on top and with loose soil further down...but that plan is impossible." Realization comes with speaking of shale, below creeks, under factories and further down where the tombstone letters are only held on by wax. Identities come off if the letters fall, for if titanium caskets last, cemeteries fail. Who doesn't know can say. Swept in the discovery, one said, "who is blind and deaf like the one committed to me, blind like the servant of the LORD." Elijah in dark fire, mountain breathing air, "you have seen many things, but paid no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing." This is not the nothing of the sound of ducts in a cube the doors and windows tell. This is not the nothing heard and not. The Nothing that is includes the not, the no that's not, the cold that's not, not measured by what you see, the soul for either good or ill that’s not, the nothing, no, this is the nothing that is, an overwhelming thing that life can stretch. If none then life the beautiful, ugly and true to the sick and departed, lame and thwarted, the depraved by standard, the blind deaf and dumb covenant. 

That's the adagio.  Freedom of the known makes us harbor such thoughts: "this man and woman were the most profoundly beautiful ancestors before." That if you live well toward knowing, laugh with rivers and people who don't want electricity, those doubts against the Unknown mirror the remains of Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and the Great Basin will not wash away. Ohio had long since gone with the archives. Forces required to cast off what seeds do were gone, being sown, fallen, buried in a harvest raised to the civil against wilderness, the scab-shriveled mold and the armyworm around the base during the day that spend winter as a pupa in the soil. Physical hardened  topographies of the natural  reinhabit internal species. Civilized boots back the Good up to the edge before it slides down the hill. The road winds around a little and then the truck, backed up and in, all the bodies in mind piling up, fox, bear, seal, hawk, coyote, horse, starts to come apart from the unmaking glued back together, skins, beaded ridges, marred as if they were none, nameless, to look at the faces below, diminish their groans of plateau, mountain and cave, a topography one can see. The face, the nose, the cheek, the brow that shades the eyes, one knee stuck out, arm down among hunchbacks, joined at the shoulder. One's a girl. The guy’s got an arm around her, looking down, praying something. Shoulders, heads, one, two, three long coats, hats on top, left on the rocks. Herringbone moving. Somebody hasn’t been born. People that play with clouds are weird. An eye hidden in a cliff,  toddlers in the rocks. The other arm sticking out, you know what that is? A bird on a roost or a fat monk.  Don’t have names for them all, the samurai behind the back, an elbow down sits in a chair, knee to the left, shoulders right, entities of Collective Mind. All is One Forbidden, and after enlightenment don't worry, opinion like weather forecasts, Ophelia silent in the roar.

Causes of quantum superposition each night spray the transfer. Many riders feet nausea. Sleeplessness, discoloration, dizziness, symptoms also of heavy metal poisoning. Sleepers walk in trance, relations only identical when their converses are. It’s not too much to say they turned up the drones. After the elections, up the waves. Every relation of converse, one noted, changed. The agenda a distant binary. Unsure what records were kept, written notes, tape recordings, hidden cameras, insisting on none but memory, there were two sources, our own, forced by persons we should call crimes against children, none which adults believe--you scare them into silence then disbelieve the city-nation in a world at large absorbed in air, part of the houses and world fortune empire, an anestheticide formed long before Rome puzzled how the sins of the world attach the child, forced acts enveloping, where nature in each case exaggerates its nemesis, truth an octave later with the globe replacing Nazi, a name change processed for no reason other than to serve the robots in a terrible dream where some catastrophe takes place in front of the eyes they are unable to prevent.  NO SHOUT AWOKE THE WORLD FROM the lebensraum. Mental biological frontiers bewitched with search for spiritual damnation, the Possessed and nightmares, Wagner made real... art prophesied Weimar, a Going Out of Business sign hung over the world.

Colonists ride the torrent of their myths, coherence too big to translate, ask advice when they don’t need it, never take it when they do. Scales grow out on arms taken as tattoos. The small and the great point the way, look another, a problem for bosses. Don’t say you don’t know it sounds paranoid as spacing GWEN transmitters 200 miles apart across the United States. We colonists are of different minds 1) not acknowledge the collective, 2) think we are autonomous, unique, 3) our minds are our own, which you can see for what it is, cave psychology filling in the entrance with a thin layer of hard earth on top with loose soil further down. Stone letters written below shale in creeks, under factories further down, held on by wax:  "You have seen many things, but pay no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing." Reverse timpani. Reverse bark edges, needle grass. Comfort ye annihilation. Colonists seek to convert darkness, the good of evil, the evil of good. The boy in the hood. The cow in the could. Diverse poetry, corona light birth. Every effort of control to domesticate freedom, the more we have, the less we understand. To have a thing but not  know it, do a thing but not do it. My first work was to obscure the landings. Like leaves blown into letters on the street, that spell things we do not want to know, I water and tramp the obvious. But word shells wash up. The sea paints pictures in the sand so fast words are futile. I am very busy.  The sand is obvious. By the time you read this fires will be burning trees into sentences. Guten noir.

In line with the habit of doing, not doing, thinking, not thinking, a zen prerogative, the four or five years I lived on Hungry Hill  made a vision of nature, birds, earth and fruit. I fixated on the wood grain of planed boards and considered photographs, wood cuts, pictures of a being that lived in the wood. Is it trapped there?  Not to take the fine point. As support I offer the only visit  made in those days to a psychologist, on behalf of another person. When the psychologist asked his trick question, a dilemma, he said of my answer, you may be the most healthy person I ever interviewed. Pataphysical enough?
 
The beings, elfs, faeries are literal ways the wood photosynthesizes sun and metabolizes water. Those little peaks and valleys array themselves to their growth. This is a solution to a problem you never thought existed of wood grain, countertops, doors. It's a good thing we don't use real wood any more,  avoid this confrontation with the natural. Nature is always saying things we don't want to hear, wood and stone cry out, triangulating as Bucky Fuller says,. So when I compare the sound of helicopters and planes to "the wounds of that symbol the rose... gliding to the lump of a beating heart," the refineries and factories paving a way to our own preparing future, there is no need to consider, even if they say it is upon us that we know. Ruben Dario calls Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar, that picture of the United States from the south, Alejandro-Nabucodonosor! Ophelia is silent about it. It makes you wonder who we can talk to at all.

My credentials are like the Fayette County Home, of Uniontown. Times were different.
If you have a sense of humor you’ll appreciate  the two summers, 15 and 16, I worked in a foundry washing the letters off of tombstones, which seemed suited for a soul, driving in the night at speed, not lost, destined some nights with four sons in  little birth hats who would float to my arms on a flood. Take them up two by two, two arms full! Sons and later, mountain lions. And tigers. Quadruple destiny is a way to figure the alternate realities of memory, if not reality, the road taken or not. I traded a teaching fellowship in Chile that would have seen the demise of Allende for semesters teaching in Fayetteville, NC, Dinty Moore land, and the passing of Dr. King, leading inexorably to the wide macadam of Texas. Those who know the future they make by staying within the lines are not the ones who walk the tracks at ten with a gun, outside the camp. Which is what I was doing for years, balancing on the rails of the Pennsylvania Railroad up from Scully's roundhouse, shooting out insulators. What's a kid doing?

Those who walk the underground see Traven, Dostoevsky, Faulkner, Solzhenitsyn. Of those it is said, "they sink a shaft far from the inhabited surface, they go down swinging to and fro, hanging by a rope" (Job 28.4, A. B. Traina). I operated a bath where the cast molds for grave stones were brought after casting to be cleaned. Whose name is this, this name and this, ask me I know them. After casting the names and dates in bronze metallic letters fastened to the layout with wax, the entire molds were brought to this superheated bath where I soaked them in hot treated water, wearing arm length rubber gloves, removed the letters and wire brushed the blanks. Then I would sort the letters to be recycled and load the blanks on a skid to be redesigned. All this was in a pretty uncircumcised Pittsburgh of Italian, Polish and French ethnic ways. I didn’t know then whether I was an ethnic or not. I felt generalized like a spaceman from Solaris, but I learned later I had been in space. More of that in its time. The next summer after those two, I worked for Container Corp in Manyunk cutting up skid loads of printed cartons of various kinds with a jackhammer with humorless and down trodden adults, the 3 to 11 shift. That’s what I did  before college. Scholarship players at camps in summer or playing tournaments were getting enriched, but which is which?