The vat was pouring huge thirty, forty feet
tall storage tanks. Stillness and gravity paid attention to both sides. The illusion made sheets of purified cellulose steeped in
dried caustic, shredded into crumbs, aged and spun in acid baths. Stillstellung and power, sublimity, audacity. The contents? No better science than the Prison of Belief on HBO (2015). Not so different from the
seed offerings: the peels, shells and husks think they are something. The fallen angels
think they are something: the chaff that the wind drives away, which
first, in the therapy of ice and soul hides one face inside the
other thinks something. What's going
on in and by the vats is an attempt at exact remembrance before the
foundation of the world. The history-psychology of nations-- ravenous kings of England, Popes, America's
gigantic mind alter, where the front good guy toots a horn and
talks election while hordes of back guys do all the stuff the
front guys report in their upbeat exceptionalist consumed pop. The sons of God, whose election to that realm
was
unknown before, in the present seek there the poetic repetition, vision of the fathers. Silicone
Of corrupt cellulose one thing is certain, termites love it, but the world does not like to be called nothing. It thinks it is something. It thinks it is everything. There is no person in digital disassociated thinking; it is network. What is not is and what is is not. Hitler trading German scientists and armaments to Britain and the U.S. to prevent them going to Stalin in exchange for letting him escape. The Romans are ravenous. King Alfred is ravenous. Jung-Freud's room in its cabala invokes its own godhood of geometry. Archetypes are the apparatus to treat the sickness created by the system. Freud's study tells it all in an external paradigm, images of "hundreds of strange little gods...crowd of stone godlets...mobs and bevies...Freud wished to become a god...what the Sabbath and its emanations sought to suppress Freud meant to reveal, everything barbarous and dreadful and veiled and terror-bearing: the very tooth and claw...curiously named assistants or doubles of Satan, so Freud peopled the unconscious with the devils of Id, Ego and Superego, potent dancing ghosts who cavort unrecorded in our anatomies while we pretend they are not there...the student of the dream life--that subterranean grotto all drowned and darkling, torn with the fury of anguish and lust (Cynthia Ozick, From a Refugee's Notebook, 63-4). They are proud to act the beast.
Does it seem contradicted wounded healer? Poison cure offered. All a sham. The treatment is worse where people socialize their sins. But it doesn't work on them all, Bonhoeffer was a failure.
The vats are full of what become riboproteins and building blocks, the fluid substance out of which nothing is made. A thick sticky substance in the unmaskings of civilization, Jung, Freud, proto man, signal examples, fine words and believing come out of the mouth of Paula White holding hands with Charlie Rose and George Clooney, according to their doctrines of pax Romana, power, money, privilege, everything they say is powerful good and true, Howdy Doody people dressing up as Mighty Mouse and super chicken, from Billy Sunday sliding into home plate on stage to Charlie Rose pretending he's interviewing Khomeni, the Queen or the Pope up and down the fine ladder of aping reveals the other, Clarabel, the Peanut Gallery, apostles and apostlettes, a base image of the leaders of science, business and the arts. just used for other purposes. The younger serves the elder though. The vats contain this stuff to spin and if you keep exploring you find it out.
We ought to discriminate because nothing is always counterfeit. Inspiration to deceive, liberation to enslave. Whether it is the counterfeit of something you can guess.
America split between the real, which is unreal, and the unreal which is real, the world's largest innovator and supplier of drug foreign terrorist fighter flow, import and export, just like the opium wars of England against China except for multiple population benefits, crowd control, financing, furtherance of horror which ends with the Coen bros, agented plants pop, fx, amc, dvd and wii pop eating pop, eating the mind of its nation with gang sign cops and ops all the way down the Midway. We must go, so the further we have come. It's one thing to read about but another to see with your own eyes in the sky. We think seeing is believing, but that doesn't account for blindness.
Archetypes Chemtrails
Archetypes are like chemtrails that way, but more accepted in general. Jung chimeras make archetypes into sacred cows no one should touch, recast the demon of psychology into themselves. To say a chimera is unnatural is not enough. Has anybody accused Jung of faking his dreams? in the Red Book? Making them up to prove his point? Instead of that myth debunk he gets a psychic psychotic encounter with his daimon as a giant underground penis. That's the good news. The opposite of these fabrications is that they are smokescreens to hide something else, more smoke, but to expose the fabrications can be done, every member of the scientific board of directors. Jung's dreams are tarot readings abstracted, a Marvel Comics abstracted from tarot, its images, acts. His daimon is a possession the same as out of Shinto and Percival Lowell. Jung's love of alchemy, I Ching prove him a tool, a medium for the daimon, but this collective voice that gives the one utterance is not particular to him. Jung's unconscious is a series of tarot cartoons set alongside similar omens in national religions, a compendium of the counterfeit. His dissertation is a study of divination.
Imagine an entertainment. The Son and sons cherish life with all passion and laugh at the absurdity of their state. Blessed is the man. The car speeds downhill fast. I try to understand this as the wheels leave the ground. It planes out into air A cross road cut into the side of the hill serves as a launching pad. There is a green light. So crossing Conshohocken in Bala Cynwyd, on the way down to Levering Mill Circle, not quite while the car was in the air, though maybe it was, she asks my middle name. Don't ask a 17 year old such questions. It's Elijah I say. Does it matter in the end that sometime in May, within weeks I am struck by lightning, lit up for all the world to see, now look on the inside what I used to look on the out, but on the out what I used to look within? You see the job. Reversals happen with Elijah's name meaning El is Yah, to straighten it into English, and mirror the name Joel which means Yah is El, more than a sense of humor, because of the wheels.
So what's wrong with divination or the cabala? It's an attempt of a man to exercise power in the dimensions, in the occult, the afterlife in life? So what's wrong with aspiration to the divine? Are you kidding? What's wrong with any delusion. The more respected it is the more accepted. The joke is it's a waste of time and a degradation of the man. He becomes less not more by seeking to be more.To argue Jungian symbols are not universal goes against his evidence, but all Jung is back fill of depositions into ancient stories (of Ugartic monsters, Elimination Angels) that folklorists provided, themselves jaded and backfilled with apriori ions, Campbell et al included. As said of alchemy, " the irony of alchemical projection, as with any other type of shadow projection, is that the aim of illumination of the external world is perverted by the very process of projection" (Review of Grave Pawns),43. These address the
unconscious claimed to be seen in the Eleusinian basket when you
lifted the cloth covering the kiste. This was the revelation
of the world, the sacred chest, the kalathos. The interior here lights
blue green from within as the cloth is lifted. Indentations on the outside
by impression of dried nopal pads suggest pleating or weaving, dessicated
prickly pear spines applied with cholla skeleton. There is of course a theory that a mirror was placed inside and you took a drug, saw
yourself clouded like Batman in Batman I who lifts the cloth and sees a bat, which
must seen
ghastly when conformed to all those underground chambers of the
revelation of the world where the rites took place, the unconscious
receptacle of sin dressed up as idolatries in myth covered by a towel.
Idolatry is beautiful in the eyes of
sin, blue as Ishtar's gown where they pretend they are good to be good. That
towel cover is the plastic surgery over our eyes that even when we receive pain and
suffering and bless sin. Who shall deliver me from the bondage of this
death? The unconscious Lilith pretends to be beautiful as Paula White, whole and
healthy, wearing a million seductive faces, Isis, Ishtar and Lilith, a prostitute of
Ishtar. We haven’t overcome our sins, they overcome us. Every time
somebody thinks they defeat sin it morphs again. Lust becomes pride.
Lying becomes self deception. That is the revelation of the world.
Praise Him, Praise Him All You Little Children manifests the unconscious only ever known by looking
back. The insight belongs to the viewer, is not vested in the telling. Its
call and response has no a priori aesthetic, only such as appears in
coherence. He knows where he is going, but is not sure of his way. He knows by
going, hence he knows by doing, to praise in breath and prepare to wear
the Word as a living scroll within, literal handwritten boxes bound
on
the head and hand, on top of precepts retold that we ourselves are in
the Word
that underlies and surrounds what is said, a coat to give away what
transfers
by will, which you're going to say you've been praying all these years
to have,
and will. Herberger exhibits before this included Pity Pony, Out of Body
and
Out of Body II, Boxcar Named Desire and Corn, Rice and Bean Jar. The
Herberger entry process stipulates ten digital images. Those selected
make this pattern.
* Boomquats. Don't know where else to put this right now, so make it small. The death of the Uncon doesn't include the loss of breath and autonomic nervous systems. It does include the loss of falsity, deception, fear, powers of dominion. Not a utopia, it is called the Kingdom of God. Whether that's what it is or whether that's another ruse planted and interpreted by the Boomquats needs discerning. Boomquats are a name for Jung's Freud forces. Those forces are no more endemic to the human than sin. As sin is done, death dies, which you think a utopian dream, but it is not, assuredly not. The roar. the roar.
* Boomquats. Don't know where else to put this right now, so make it small. The death of the Uncon doesn't include the loss of breath and autonomic nervous systems. It does include the loss of falsity, deception, fear, powers of dominion. Not a utopia, it is called the Kingdom of God. Whether that's what it is or whether that's another ruse planted and interpreted by the Boomquats needs discerning. Boomquats are a name for Jung's Freud forces. Those forces are no more endemic to the human than sin. As sin is done, death dies, which you think a utopian dream, but it is not, assuredly not. The roar. the roar.
 |
| Demon effigies in Freud's Study |
Psychology is the ace up the sleeve of those masters of the human domain. Civilization is the quest for control, the few over the many. The sharp, Joseph Campbell, never made an undismissive remark. To apply the judgment to him that he does to himself and his hearers, that psychological service of the state, draw a straight line between Freud and Jung and their guinea pigs in hospitals and private labs. They call it medicine, science. It makes a good pun, controlling the human daimain, as if the human were demonic and therefore needed to be controlled. But now the need is upgraded to, Master it.
“Jung suggested investigating cases where it could be supposed that the archetypal layer of the unconscious is constellated*—following a serious accident, for instance, or in the midst of a conflict or divorce situation—by having people engage in a divinatory procedure: throwing the I Ching, laying the Tarot cards, consulting the Mexican divination calendar, having a transit horoscope or a geomantic reading done. If Jung’s hypothesis is accurate, the results of all these procedures should converge (Mary Greer Word Press).
In 1902, Jung published his dissertation “On the Psychology and Pathology of So-Called Occult Phenomena.”
What Jung would do with Napolean's penis. "Is the story about Napoleon’s penis true? Did Maggs really sell it?" [Facetious note: Jung's interpretation of a fireman sliding down his pole, back to the seminal vesicles, is one of the first instances of tantric sex in psychological literature, ie suppression of seminal fluid produces consciousness accordingly.]
Dreams correct lopsided consciousness, i.e. give their opposites to correct.
I'm saying that all quasi myth from Babylon, Rome, before and the cabala after is a counterfeit, a fraud, a chimera of true and false. You should ask, if so, then what is true, but you won't, since the myth view of symbolic man is unquestioned. It must be destroyed.
In the exploration of fantasies, fabrications, inventions, documents, factories of nothing, forgeries on a grand scale turned out endlessly, nothing rolls round its pneumatic and says, get in. The vats of nothing represent the instruction and the "compulsion to repeat" patterns mediated through time and understanding, held open of course by the belief in one's own sublimity. Recovery of origins is like prior instruction. Folk believe in precognition so why not? But what's in the vats does not match preincarnation. The Cauldron.
See beneath the copyist errors when glossators inquire in this cause of sorrow. After all, we bite to cover the pain. In her first therapy of the soul Freud's chow-chow saw through the surface these depths. A special eye sees beneath and thereafter seeks to remember, test witnesses, interrogate a hundred souls. The outer expression is gone, but the inner, detected by looking through the facade remains, nothing of the present but the past, "not joy," says K, "for that is always present" and how could it not be for sky and earth. "So individuals with exteriors as firm as a rock have safeguarded an eternally hidden life of sorrow." * These sorrows are spun in lives tainted against the women who made them: Kierkegaard who made a fetish of seduction, Freud who stopped marital relations in '95, Ruskin who fled the sight of his wife on their wedding night, just to prove that modern extremes have precedent for millions of men poisoned by ads for HGH in meat and milk. As if they sought to demote themselves to death, their mothers, wives into mythic degradations. Why is the entrance to life so shunned! Only the most careful observer can expect to reveal reflective sorrow of the surface into the depths. Saturn's ring casts shadows from its balcony of iron onto the inhabitants who take that air. The inner is visible from the outside if seen. Phantasmagorias of the interior, living rooms a hoax in the theater of the world.
Maybe I am trying to deceive you into being a Christian when in fact you cannot be and that God appeared to the world in the person of Jesus the Messiah to oppose all human truth. Now can I deceive you? Some apocalyptic sections of Joel are similar with Isaiah. The prophet demands that the trumpet be blown since the Day is coming, daily sacrifices to remember, test witnesses, interrogate souls. Edicts speak merely of The King. Let me give a short list the way a shepherd might take two legs out of the mouth of a bear or a piece of an ear. Their lies caused them to err, both fruits from above and the root beneath so that the only sign of courage at that time would be a warrior fleeing naked. What are all the rest doing? Imprisoned in sorrow. When a lion roars, when Yah Yahweh speaks, it's as if with the passengers, the stink of their camp comes up in their noses. Fleeing naked, the prudent keep silent at that time about how thought is made the morning darkness. Afterward they can say he wrote this afterward, not before, the glossators.
These thoughts will not penetrate the world impermeable membrane which lets nothing that is not itself into it. You can immerse in lust, take a drug, alcohol, and enter, be welcomed to an extent, that is to your death, but you must lose consciousness. So either you are in the world or not in the world. The two don't mix. Not an uncommon view. Lots think they are out of the world, stand against the world, who are its followers. Here's a clue, anyone not completely sober is disqualified to be out of the world. To be sober is not qualification however. That is more. In the meantime viscose fibers create the illusion of the world. Beside the tanks there is nothing but being, Dinglichkeit, thingness, materiality alone, a magnificent state, but without cognition. The vats are metaphor that make the world, explosive gasoline of world fiber made to burn. Ezekiel says they gave their jewels, gold and silver to make images of men, sacrificed their oil and flour and honey, crowns, earrings and their incense to it, then gave their children and burned them in oblations to the gods. Vats are the stuff that makes the world, but the world is a synthetic, not natural, which is what the man wears who sees these things, dressed in pure linen.
BEGIN Blue Superposition
If there were only a single ear that listening heard a footstep coming near
Neither he or I of whom I speak should be credited with the thoughts as related. The whole invisibility is just that and unknown. If we consider knowing is to be seen or touched or felt, these are matters of faith compared to that what monsieur understands. To be virtually complete is to understand rightly that what assumes in the human to be invisible, though present, fulfills the role of divinity towards the natural world, as though it were the role of heavenly and incompressible powers furnished as it were to us from the investigations we may look upon and be amazed. We may be its figment about which it speculates. Think this whimsy as you will, but this invisible power over mountain and plain, river and deer spells finititum to its counterpart of an invisible enemy to which the hero, the he and the I, would necessarily succumb were it not that all its sayings are just that, as fictions, unreal. The man god spoken of as a god in the philosophy of Kierkegaard seems patent as some Zeus who does what he will. No wonder all that remained to be described was the appearance of the invisible enemy to whom the hero succumbs.
Far away, from a distant street, in the baptism of forgetfulness I hear a man crying shrimps. I plunge everything experienced into the eternity of resemblance, remembrance, finite and contingent, forgotten and erased. excised warm bullion, whizz then click, insert flap, the optimal rate, jets trough which every twelfth meter was injected, decant illumanite conditioning
Who say I, sits on the throne of a god in the brandplucked heart of the seas
Live Shrimp. Picturing reality creates it. Psalm 22:21 where Young translated it - "Save me from the mouth of a lion: -- And -- from the horns of THE HIGH PLACES Thou hast answered me! Rhinocerots"
Psalm 92:10 Wycliffe 1395 - And myn horn schal be reisid as an vnicorn; and myn eelde in plenteuouse merci.
When Kafka's Amerika was first published in English in England in 1938, that spawned all the fascist image leftists foisted on the U.S., it was spelled America. The later American edition of 1946 had the k, after the German, one supposes. But whether the c or the k the issue here of the y or the i is an entirely different proposition, to state the obvious, inquiring into the personal and spiritual, not the social and political. I can't help citing the comment of Kafka's assault on the mysteries of existence in The Great Wall of China, to take it by force, indeed as the evangelist says, this is Elijah who was to come, "for from the days of John until now the Kingdom of Heaven has suffered violence and the violent take it by force" (Mt 11.12). What was said of John and Elijah of the appearing who may abide? Refiner, purifier changeless, and of this Return they go out and leap like calves released from the stall, trample the ashes under foot who take the kingdom of heaven by force, as opposed to some state supposed from Kierkegaard of a transparent grounding, viz., that "grace is not to be achieved through coercion nor through the renunciation of life" but by spontaneous and irresistible being, of the elemental process of life untouched by the contradiction between freedom and necessity" (311). That these are not personal truths as individuals but overarching existential ones-- troths of the whole race-- in Kafka's allegory of Investigations, the being there considered cannot speak, but that does not imply the absence of thought,-- but without speech where is thought, --all is resolved in the music of the dance, the actions are utterance inchoate of silence in the face of the spirit, not separate from the primal source, the Heavenly man not separate from the Spirit-like man or the truth of the Perfect man. Indeed there are five in the prognostics of the ancient Tzu (II, 214), with the Sagely man and the Superior man not withdrawn into time and place of an Imperial Court so far away it cannot be seen or traveled to without risking all, or touched, and likewise, so far from the present real that it is barely historical, indeed not even that, for its history has been turned into myth as the supernatural receded into the fabulous, the archaic, which explains I think our love and interest in the archaic and fabulous, if they speak of that real time and place where the imperial court is apprehended by our senses and the government of heaven attains its earth again and we recover them. For who does not long for peace in the midst of war? The relics of this future past spoken prophetically are heard by the one who stakes everything on the one throw, the one cast of faith into the beyond and to which and in which he forever after lives. How that appeals to me. Indeed to risk it all and not look back, loving the particular all the while but never surrendering that drink of the river of Thy pleasures, for with Thee is the fountain of life and in Thy light shall we see light (Ps 36).1.
First mark off every judgment and secret revealed, whether good or ill. The immediate memories of the mother pass to the child. That begins and before anything is known the child asserts memories of the mother as its first condition. That it knows, for its dreams are an intoxication, a parable of knowledge, to pass through what has been to experience the present as a waking world before the dream. Before the dream you would not doubt. You can know this yourself from your own mother and her mother, and from your grandmother. All others are second hand. The memories you know are felt not remembered. You allow the past to enter your life, the past beyond centuries. Jerusalem! Those transmitted become part of the fabric of the mind more than air and sun.
After the mother, the child is surrounded by a dark not understood. Childhood prayers mediate the dark, but the child also knows more sight and sound than the calloused grown self. We wrestle with or are blessed with these memories all our lives. As a people, as a world this is given nor are we hardly aware of anything else. You cannot know the nature of the individual child any more than you can know your own. It is revealed by time and acts, but still not known. life however in all its many aspects is completely without meaning apart from God. It can go a lot of different ways no matter what we intend as parents or children. It's not about value formation as they like to say either. It's about inner change. So it is a shock to say that the process of birth is tampered with. The population of the world tripled in my life time. Obesity rates tripled. This is taken for granted when it's not honed with platitudes from biology. We need to ask therefore about the puppy mills, which is to say what's wrong with "4 dogs, 2 females and two males always being bred several years now with health and behavior problems major...worst quality ever?"
Updike on Kafka:
laying down parallel or even contradictory tracks in search of his prey, and
content to leave his works in an "open" state like that of his Great
Wall -- their segments uncertainly linked, strange gaps left, ... Incompletion
is a quality of his work, a facet of its nobility...
It is interesting that of the last two women in Kafka's life
-- two who abetted the "reaching out" of his later, happier years--
Milena Jesenská-Pollak was his Czech translator and helped teach him Czech, and
Dora Dymant confirmed him in his exploratory Judaism including the study of
Hebrew. He wrote to Brod of the problems of German: "Only the dialects are
really alive, and except for them, only the most individual High German, while
all the rest, the linguistic middle ground, is nothing but embers which can
only be brought to a semblance of life when excessively lively Jewish hands
rummage through them."
...a youthful disciple. Gustav Janouch, who composed the
hagiographic Conversations with Kafka, once raised with him the possibility
that his work was "a mirror of tomorrow." Kafka reportedly covered
his eyes with his hands and rocked back and forth, saying, "You are right.
You are certainly right. Probably that's why I can't finish anything. I am
afraid of the truth. . . One must be silent, if one can't give any help. . .
For that reason, all my scribbling is to be destroyed."
...Kafka lived and died in a relatively golden interim for European Jewry; but all three of his sisters were
to perish in the concentration camps.
But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again
quaint sea creatures fixed like jewels in the salt sea crown
carrying on eternal war since the world began
consider all this
After St. John
This is the place before and after escape. All effort to get out of the city, or country to someplace where multitudes are not falling beside trucks, in roads, the privileged pacing by in trains and armored vehicles. No need press against the window panes. Why they let any peasants in is due the master plan, peace and happiness for every man. Play your saxophone dear. All your own reflection in the glass is as much in other faces, hearts, carrying as much into the beyond, no point describing, as some hotel or warehouse station of mind turnings. These fourteenth century conclusions were the norm. He actually carried John Gower's Voice of One Crying in his pocket, if you want to know the name of the writer. We want to know the derailment in dark, light instead of details to the point of entrainment, as if fiction, the details of imbuement, as if description of misery warms the difference, the smells, sounds, crowds shuffling. Is he alone as the eye or the ear that hears what none can say, no passenger or refugee yet, before the fact, before the fall, if you like to put it that evacuees have escaped scaffolds. If you don't know what any of this means it hasn't happened yet. Ignorance is not prevention, explains his pocket Gower, filled with apprehension I shall sing of true dreams whose import disturbs the depths of my heart. May he whom the Isle of Patmos received in Apocalypse, and whose name I bear guide this work.
So his advice was to go captive. Like swimming underwater, fish in tanks to survive a war. Not waiting in Weimar to start, or the wonders of survival in a locker under Dresden, sense impressions of real bailing out over Paris, the upstart that can't hear the noise of its own approach, to deny vapor trails of its rockets, to deny chemtrails of a war where ghosts flee the Judean fields. Shouldn't we be doing something about it, run to the street, warn the others, empty the mind so the cupboard jars don't explode and launch commandos? The fall is not yet. You wake up on the coast of a storm and swim out where the sun is having a beautiful day walking in September among comets. King Ranch that overwhelmed the blue stem had nothing to say of captivity, shadows of herd grown great, full length wasted gods on pillows. There would be no common breakfasts or dressing without bodies, or cruets, crocks and casseroles in these fantasies of the collective cup, the mass corp. So say it for him, Jeremiah his St. John, over and over state the unobvious, gofernment pages torn out of this philosophy that burns in the grate. We're going to speak for him a new reality but without the acrylic intellect where inmates know they are incarcerate. They know their rations, their cells, their collective tiers, stripes or pink underwear, jostling in the yard with shanks and tools of kindness. Insert the ipad and cell phone and a desktop to flick the waves, power earplugs and GPS wandering.
Next person up to have memory wipe and get rejuvenalized straight, couplets drilled flat, doilies surrogate to live reprogrammed in the heaven applauding episodes that remove anxiety, dreams working late at night to raise eagles and wearing a heavy shirt, a large eagle lands on his shoulder of the life you must know, while a smaller female lands in his lap, profusion of eagles that find the carcass gathering, and a baby eagle snuggles into his fur, the mother preening, while the father with claws next to his neck looks out, as if each were to bring the unique text written burning in acts of precognition, warnings before the fact, with a large white dog or a coyote, a dumpster around the corner he can't see, but knows and if those, St John, de nada, his portals, that hold the blue prints, Kyrie Eleison, a cappella under the casement, emaciates come to call sinners not the righteous, light in the dark of Last Words: Babylon shall certainly come.
Joined to
Atlas in the marriage castle,
the Governor with stones around his thick
fingers,
stood
unstaunched with all idols where Saturn
shrines of chaste scorpions, cedar and sycamore
shrines of chaste scorpions, cedar and sycamore
.
Organic golden idol priests, shields of brass
three years piled by
apes and peacocks in forests
plucked up by roots, come down upon the heads
of Cherubim in parks
by molten pools.
Houses in pomegranates prophesied with guitars
Trombones the last
words of Iron drawn by seers,
six fingered and toed the dissected giants
oracles
shouting in the tops
of trees to greet them.
The faces of lion-like men devouring
stripped heads of strangers for messages,
mighty famous men, who set up in rooms
among plants by the lake of lions.
It's about escaping, never arriving at any state different from the one we fled. One society exchanged privileges with another for controls. Always the same for those on top. Salvation comes in miniature one ounce packs. Freedom comes in smaller dreams that belong to someone else. Elijah said to be unconscious when awake blew everything up. Jars of pickles exploded while he mulled why one kernel went off and when. What was his gift spreading over London, no news to Washington, its body parts more seriously spread along its Thames. Gofernment cordons it off, rebreeds it, feeds it. Gogernment opposes forces. Superpods digest men with fluorescent mucous from past war sacrifice, from all the wars against the natural, the self, the other, nothing gorgonment but wars, the war to end them all appeared. Elijah, the man with four last names, who had a desk in no building, no desk unless the count books with their spanking covers, books and plants, rue where he grew monarchs from chrysalis, checked every day the progress of the rotting sycamore twenty feet up where grew carpenter bees, big black buzzers to inhabit the cracks and fly the hollowed stump over perhaps every burrow dug by tortoises on a human September grazed lawn. So he had a hand in the populations of Gambel quail that took refuge. Salvation comes in miniatures.
In docudramas the trouble comes from women, men, groups, rivals, from the Freedom that makes known those who harbor such thoughts: "this man and woman were the most profoundly beautiful human." That if you live well toward knowing, laugh rivers with people who don't want electricity, whose doubts against the Unknown remains of Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and the Great Basin will not wash away, Ohio long since gone, what seeds do were gone, sown, fallen in a harvest raised against wilderness scab-shriveled mold and armyworm during day winter pupa in soil. Physical hardened topographies reinhabit internal species. Civilized boots back Good up to the edge down the hill. The road winds and then the truck, backed up and in, bodies in mind piling up fox, bear, seal, hawk, coyote, horse, start to come apart from the unmaking glued back skins, beaded ridges marred as if none, nameless, to look at the faces below, diminish 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. 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. That's the adagio.
If your mind was being controlled how would you know
If your mind was being controlled how would you know
If your mind was being controlled how really would it show
If your mind was being controlled how would you know
What do you want from me? She lay on the bed inhabiting meteorological circuits, sluicing an aural paranormal pancake dish, sacred chowder of the swamp experience broadcast to world packs. Depopulation syndromes, Ernst and Otmer Genomics, Franz Freud's Psychiatric conquest. Hegel initiate complication experiments in the Skinner Box, altered gunmen to cut holes in dog cheeks, volk thinning, illuminized Trojans light up the dark, giving and withholding stimuli without the visible defect.
They conversed at Ariel College with all the angels. A command psychiatrist induced infancy. Segmented mole shaping spectator belief implements of mental health, world cat-civ, hypnotic induction of psychopatisies dissolved into flowerine submission, the last occipitals of the narcopulsion. Lobe guaranteed bulbocapnine anthrosophy, occult germs of Margaret Mead 1,2,3, depatterned anectine seas, EA 1729, mortars, missile milk, burst and bust bright children of the sun. Malinmouseki, Bateson and Terry Garcia, permindex express dosages of no mind, implantable transponders of mystic peasantry, synthetic fiber viscose, spin-segmented polycentric night, integrated net aversion, sphincters spliced long lasting on the floor.
Good car in garage, eyelids stamped open, heads strapped in chairs, depatterning Daniel from KZs, IP tear, GOF torn in the big experiment, some sent to space, others into caves pretending its readyoactive monitor all the time from secret Hman domes! Daniel before him, Jeremiah, Elijah, and after St. John.
Probabilities of improbabilities 100%. Put it this way when tracking the
opposite of reality, call it appearance, expect to find not the
opposite but the unknown, wildly fantastic. That’s no reason to deny
the track in front of the eyes even if nobody else would say it is
there, not that they look, hardly that. So take the Direc sea, model of
the vacuum as an infinite sea of particles with negative energy as the starting point, something really interesting and track from there.
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