Landing BRUPPBACHER
Contents
BRUPPBACHER
Landing
Kerf
Call from a house in Jerusalem
Step to the Bridge Nous Delphica
Brubaker Going out of Jerusalem on the M1
Landing Bruppbacher Breubach, Breubache, Breuback, Breubacke, Brubach, Bruback, Brubacher
If you ask how I got in the position of driving these asses across a moildering bridge, trying to get to the land on the other side of supernatural forces, beings and lands, this record of adaptions is like the first settling of old Philadelphia by the mystics of the Wissahickon. They lived in caves where the Creek passed through a gorge to merge with the Schuylkill River then into the Delaware and then to the sea. This series of transfers by water resembles their transfers of culture from the old they abandoned for the new they knew nothing of. Who could know anything of these myths? The Odyssey of Homer was a handbook for them. They founded that Society of the Woman in the Wilderness, thinking the world would end by 1694. The world has ended countless times before and since, but viola, it appears again.
This new world inhabited by monsters of the Odyssey no one could see was further handicapped because unlike Kelpius and Homer it had no heroes of Truth or Helen of Troy. Descendants into hell are confused as to the scruples they thought they were reliving. In the beginning these obtuse recommendations excitedly questioned each others nerve. But the five microcosms did not notice believers then. Since the mystics were predominant certain extreme oddities of topography were involved. The majority in that town patterned their lives and homes after the sea monster that came up and got Laocoon. They saw it in the stars and in the cosmos, if not actually in the sea, casting omens of earth and fire and trying to foretell the future, for all the good it did. They sacrificed to Poseidon right out of the Greek, so though they believed a child born pure and innocent it was not scrupled to live among tens of millions out of the womb. These contrasted with the Harbor Seal Baptists who began speaking along the jetties and walks, parading with their eyes closed. Long after their audience had gone they kept up their antiphonies, anointed themselves elders in a Council of Watchers to oppose intrusion of this nemesis from the sky as much as Leviathan from the mystic sea.
Is it possible to have a novel without a character other than ourselves, the en masse collective of the world where certain mythological conflicts overwhelm? Not to spell them out New Philadelphia was such a colony, like an out post in Harlem or on Hadrian’s Wall, inhabited by refugees of that old world confronted in the new not so much by nature but by myth.
There are many ways to offend those who have not seen the cracks radiating from the center of this hypothesis. Divergences perceptible as the shape Ohio once implode fissures like Tycho in the Moon, which colony craterlets, orbits of phyllotaxis became proof of being. Some finite intelligence was at work, occurring passim, then a priori, which became a rendezvous-proving rule that circled down to those who descend, crossings seen in meeting-places along the canals.
To call them canals is a faux pa of the planned obsolescence of intelligence that once ruled the world. Like thinking the world flat or mistaking rivers for canals, spheroid for flat, these cracks, taken alone, were not seen any more than they could see Gilgamesh held captive below the Euphrates Beltway or the dug tracks or underground trains connecting their Beltway temples.
This *Stockholm-Munchhausen mosaic of tribes caught between the coasts of present-day fabulous and history displaced other processes of being. After exposure that Secret mind could produce these impulses on its own to gurgle full spoken the words. A huge intestine of money governed in Secret with its primitive media nerves, multilayered in a newfound gut had a brain stimulating the tribes with “wow pulses.” It would digest money, excrete money to and from to conceal the one cell organism known as Mammon-Oranus,
We designate all services here as accessible. It took only 300 years to undo the empiric world to nothing but rods and cones. The last disassociates could only remember paintings on adobe walls transferred to canvas the way giant forms transferred to the thought of the age. What’s it look like if you’re a rock wall. A giant? A fat monk? I don’t want to say.
Deserters who were disloyal at best, rebellious at worst, were recaptured, treated with drugs and reintegrated back. The odd fights with EU made this outpost. Nothing so dramatic as fortification of mind
those practical seizings of the moment to intuit a method.
Something about the universe changed, they thought.
The faith to apprehend without wonder.
I began to paint them to illustrate. It was as if the rebellion had been cast into rock colonies of hunchbacks. The Hunchback sat in his chair, knee to the left, shoulders right. Let’s count. There’s a face, nose, cheek, a brow over the eyes, arm hung down. When you begin to see these beings preserved in the wood grain doors, joined side by side at the shoulder, as if they were praying, or at least looking down, the premise of the ineffable gone from flesh to stone, heads, shoulders, one, two, three wearing long coats. I guess the other is a girl. That guy’s got an arm around her. Don’t have a name for her yet. This world must simply be done, which is going too far maybe into nature. Other worlds are analogous, badgers and dwarves, tortoise and yarrow. Waking trees and visible naiads, fauns and satyrs, dwarfs and giant gods, centaurs. Amateurs thrown into wars of angels. Abyss against the saints, blood moons and their coming King. Elbows, an arm behind the back, and down, another behind. Three corner colonial hats on top of rocks triangulating. A whole herringbone crowd of airy creatures between earth and moon, finally comprehended with reason, being in proportion superior to the world as if somebody left them, 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. The charm is that life goes on.
2.
It takes a long time for Plantagenets to go over thoughts military, an organized force, not a colony. You would not believe cyclops hidden in a cliff among a whole visible intercourse of beings. How do you think the rocks got there anyway? These are windows into the intelligence that seeks to rule, to replace the natural ancient existence with human hybrids invoked by corporation and government.
I woke on the mid line between sea and land, a decompression of bends and chokes. Beached lungs, oxygen entering, the tongue spoke after awhile that it was sea without end, that once before water was not wet. Before water, no seas. Some myth unconscious we don't name. To have a thing but not know it, contract a frost of shape, cracked skin, stout limb, a sapling circulating beneath.
ELF long distance wave propagations wire their antennas a mile across a network of cable-shaped umbrellas. These symbols come friendly to those on the dirt floor of the firehouse at the school. Enchantment hits in the 3 Hz to 30 Hz range and in VLF from 30 Hz to 300 kHz, which explains a bit. Among hand crank engines and hoses and under the stage of imagination, vibrations broadcast this reality engineered at different frequencies. In the basement, pitch and musty events cover dreams of sailing a glider down stairs lined with boots and cigars, changing brainwaves in octaves.
The well across from the school gushed oil against the window pane. Wavelengths flowed the curvature of mountain ranges. There was a cave at the back of a hill with white scorpions, where Gwen towers and ground waves touched. Standing near an ELF gives you burns, no escaping short mob bursts. Mob Excess Deterrent Used Silent Audio (MEDUSA) gets the bugs out.
Canoeing down the ELF signals, the upper reaches of winter ice joined the effluent factory scum. Bordering the river, steam rose from the white foam. Factory after factory storm drains made elaborate branches. I walked miles up their concrete tunnels, smaller and smaller until some sphincter trickled at the foot. Frozen creeks in winter flooded to skating rinks. The flood felled tree trunks, overran wrecked train cars of black metal. I walked the D-Wave to shoot out insulators on the power lines. Shoot out the cameras and microphones, spy cameras, geo phones, grid surveillance lamps. Against illumination, like the Esquilache Mutiny in Madrid, 1766, 4400 streetlamps burning oil twelve feet high, of iron and glass, smashed in protest, illumination resist. Disconnect the phase-lock stronger than the Schumann Resonance.
3. Shockwave the skull black and white
I did my topography along the tracks, fastened torpedoes to heavy rocks dropped to explode. Two tracks of freights, the engine smoke unscrubbed. White was black as soot where the freights went up. Coal undermined the ground seams with tunnels and roads. Oil stained the ground from its pumping. Fires raged up the hill of rhododendrons to the slag. Iron rails, creosote ties, spikes, rock rail beds, polluted creeks, black metal overturned are where I got my start. The blessing that prevented development. Fire axes, mats. Jack in the Pulpit in the springs, never taken out after wrecks.
This is not the nothing of the sound of ducts in a cube, but the doors and windows tell. This is nothing heard and not. The Nothing includes the not, the no that's not, the cold that's not, not measured by what, the soul for either good or ill that’s not, the nothing, no, the nothing that is an unwhelming stretch.
Flares of imagination, torpedoes jimmied from the metal shacks picked up beside the trains, strapped to a rock, dropped from twenty feet to explode below a bridge. Humman brainwaves phase-locked. Synchronized multiple frequencies of the entrained. Up in the slap holes of miners' fresh green pits a hundred feet below, freight trains boil black soot over all.
Ultra-High Frequency inaudible waves broadcast directly subconscious. Fires in the ground a hundred feet above the hill, fought by boys and men amid giant standing waves of focus, induced earthquakes, aiming points crossed to electrical stimulation of synthetic moisture polarizing the sun’s hyperspace EM into the river of force, manipulated into a belief system reaching critical mass.
Sides too slippery to climb for fear of not climbing out, BrainSpeak, subliminal programming, Silent Sound Spread Spectrum -SSSS - Present ‘reality’ at 435 MHz, redesigned transmit from 400-450 Mhz. 32 Metronomes play this social order.
Warning: coded, subjugated, prioritized alters layered in personalities in the social whole serve every entry. None should be believed. All should be believed.
4.
In the adagio, freedom of the known harbors such thoughts. If you live with people who don't want electric doubts against the Unknown remain in Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and the Great Basin unwashed. Ohio had long since gone down the archives. Cast offs were sown, fallen, buried in a harvest against the civil, against wilderness, the scab-shriveled mold and the armyworm around its base during the day. They spent winter as a pupa in the soil.
Hardened topographies of the natural reinhabit species. Civilized boots back the Good up to the edge before it slides down the hill. Roads wind a little and then the truck backed up with all the bodies in mind, piling up fox, bear, seal, hawk, coyote, horse, starts to come apart from the unmaking. Glue back 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.
Don’t they have names for them all, the samurai behind the back, one elbow down, who 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. "This man and woman were the most profoundly beautiful ancestors before."
5.
They are not of one mind these conquerors of DNA whose imperial control suggests they are. There is debate in the coffee houses of base as to how humanely to treat the sub race, whether as an amphibian of both worlds, combatant in water, or colonist at home on land. Boat hulls tie up close. Escaped light believes. One if by land two if by sea.
It's as if the Russians knew. That's why they wanted the patent for world gridlines. Black science being what it is, planetary configurations of gravity and time tunnels in hyperspace, Moscow built a time portal in Afghanistan not so different from Washington’s dig of Gilgamesh mutated on the beltway. UK agents mutated fifteen different dimensions.
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 her, looking down, praying. 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.
Consciousness is a scene of huge depth, atmosphere, ionosphere, magnetosphere, 1000 feet above and below surface, and then below the surface, continents, plates and lava streams. The human a submersible between. All of the other documents on this site are meant to explore the staging. It looks like it's going to be an Altered Sky today with more Weather Wars, unwritten as yet, with local outbursts of tomography and atmospherics under the assumption that boasting and self assurance is linear and two dimensions, practically speaking, and has still not happened. So literature and furniture are not so different, and thought one piece of two, although it will be denied.
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.
6.
The caves, known intimately where a trough of water-drips overflow, are no photograph but memory extant, only one record. The exploration was printed Easter Sunday, written then. The imagination of cave psychologies quite filled the entrance, with a thin layer of hard earth on top and loose soil further down. Realization comes with shale below. Creeks under factories and further down where tombstone letters held on by wax fall off like identities, even if titanium caskets last, cemeteries fail. Swept in the discovery, who is blind and deaf like the one committed to me, blind like the servant of the LORD said Elijah in the dark fire, breathing mountain air, "you have seen many things, but paid no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing."
Does it come clearer if we regard the writing under writing of parchment in short supply, bleached out or not, overwritten in a different text and ink?
New writing on top of ancient texts, lists of things, entertainments, scraped off, remove the old precepts of the past retold.
Telling beneath, repeating it again, told and retold in night, everything is built on top. You may transfer your will to extend it.
You're going to say you've been praying all these years for this and we are finally in a diaphanous corona of the moment of brightness, the moment of birth. Two voices translate what the mouthpiece transfigures, the originary unspeakable words. Consonants and vowels together separate a thought that fails. It falls to words, as if bears wrote bestiaries of themselves, minus the memory.
The ineffable declaring Name back and forth like a violin whirls the forces.
Winter in jeopardy, snow, accidents of stone, lightning phrases of fire.
This desired contradiction, not the external shapes of language, possesses a world without shape and time that lives in pure praise, whose bones of epigrams wash their aspirants ashore.
Rome puzzled how to attach the sins of the world to the child, forced acts enveloping, where nature in each case made its nemesis. Its Truth came an octave later with the globe replacing the Name, a 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 lebensraum. Mental biological frontiers possessed with nightmares, Wagner made real... art prophesied Weimar, a Going Out of Business sign hung over the world.
We are sidetracked by the staging. This does not explain itself any more than a current in a river or a bird. I prefer the river. Go to sleep and you wake up in the data base of the naif. If only you could teach it they say. They should give it time and believe. We watch ourselves while we watch the news broadcast in all its channels. Standing behind the events, tragic misdemeanors and felonies.
Every single opinion in the world is wrong.
And the collective is worse.
Its entire purpose is to absorb the attention of the many layer audience. So the government, science, the networks, the actors on what they call the stage, the audience, history, philosophy are skins, none primary than another, except of course in the fantasy the stages project.
Causes of quantum superposition spray the transfer. Many riders feel 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, 1) 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 and 2) proponents who hid their mad intentions under a show of balance, order and strength more easily believed.
7.
Colonists ride the torrent of these 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 but are 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 States. We colonists are of different minds 1) not to acknowledge the collective, 2) or 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 the timpani. Reverse the 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. Dead meat of food.
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.
8.
My first work was to obscure these 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 that the words are futile. I am very busy. The sand is busy. By the time you read this, fires will be burning trees into sentences.
9.
It becomes necessary to know big things and small, rich and poor in their own nature of knowing, to love barrierless, allowing space in the beginning and at end incomplete, to complete the work that achieves the gift.
It sounds like a poem.
The axiom of this denies all its shortcomings while practicing them. One imagines protocols professionally known, consumed and filled with prejudice, left and right, no matter what the text. It’s a flat surfaced earth of no border, compressed, controlled, but enough of that.
If you have learned to read this, then the people in a car right here look like a bigger one and a little buddy born. This one, see his face? Ficino burned the commentary on Lucretius to ashes 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’ll feel when Bercilak takes up his severed head again? Government theologues brought these invisibles in, put toddlers among the rocks to disguise them. Read extinction 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.
But these are our circumstances.
There are drone-kinds. Remember it is a name for the worker bee, not procreation or creatio, that lives in the hive to fulfill the dictates of "higher" mind. Not to demean bees, or take them as symbolic of ourselves. Bestiaries of the human world have been replaced with the neighbors shouting shibboleths of pop, exercised sports, a series of stagings mutually inclusive of just one thing: the stage, the actors. Meanwhile puppets pull.
Call From A House in Jerusalem
A Bridge to Pass to Countries
That Do Not Exist
Crossing
Some say it’s a bridge of iron and steel but it’s a bridge to build the world that comes on swift as a car slams or legs flow to the pavement where he stands at midnight with false papers, commanded to walk. To participate, suffer, sacrifice, feel pain
A bridge. A bridge no steel could bend and break, some say was a bridge of old lang syne. Up on that bridge with Brubreak, everything meaning that is not, is not, therefore not. This bridge went over inhabitants below where every body molecules swam data in common. Brubaker's hand for instance, that got stung and I feel the pain in the same place, in the same body as pilots who bomb cities feel in the deaths below and fall to their faces in the Ludwig sea. I promise you this has a shrewd smell. Bones are in embryo at birth, but they last a long way. Where have those not penetrated?
Through the bound cable strands the cordage telepathy of wires runs this bridge of fire. Look at it now in the abstract, a span of light and flame burning. Anyone who dares can laugh or say these colonials need more nitrogen in their diet, or that phosphorus explains it, as if microbiologists who disappeared from their labs were killed for their phosphorus to light, like photophosphoric mice, coal mines. They lit the lab of the mind. Laughers say the flying warehouses are microwaves big and small, over and under. Even Rune Floberghagen with the latest patent of Teslacles in his pocket of the Buckminster Fuller world grids and the big waves and warehouses, the Eastland patents and Ossoff’s Cathie’s fifteen dimensions of alternate convections to the pole. Don’t take your mind off the prize people, which is how to get through the Bridge to the other side. There Burbreak meets Brubake. But not in tradition. In and around the coal mines we must also bear.
The bridge from here to there is not a bridge to the stars. More likely from Boston to Philadelphia and New York we have it on the good authority of Brupper Franz, another fellow of the tale. Neither is it the balcony around Saturn where onlookers like Benjamin play scrabble unseen. Someone everywhere had a part of our body in common down there. But gravel and stone will wash away so dance over them my Laddie.
We’d bring in Columbus in the upper case of this cracked throat crowing empire. "Timing, timing" made its exercise fly by. Mr. O'Gorman and even Barry Holstead said these were all Invention, and Balboa and Cortez, buried more times than them all, but never rose again, not yet, "no matter what facts are prevented in this amnesia, or where or when they can be, all announcements and analysis of the party line, if the ears are cut short, the tail will be cut long.”
These whereabouts, being unseen, will bend and break and ceaselessly rebuild, which creates as many insolubles as possible and always aggravates the existing. When Mistress Wren sent her Queen to Spain, that woman of sin let her in. If you savor knaves, the basic Nova *technoique trained in Sweden, then this tolerance brings in money to Jack Poot, another member of the pancake empire. We shall, we must give semblance to the jack boot empire of pancake all, Balboa, Loyola as its seneschal, help put on the boots you see, get’em dressed for action. All this will come clean when the account clears.
I was myself the sample and the sampler of these insupportable acts. But there it stands, as naked as a dozen or more events to which a child is unthinkably exposed, like standing at midnight with forged papers, ordered to walk the bridge, and only by that singular grace, that had it not appeared would end before we began, but always accompanied these rescues at the last end. We want to know what symbolic acts mean because they swim in our consciousness by day then dive back down again at night until they stop and new contend. The bridge, the bench in the Panama City airport.
Brupper stands still. He is not moving. What was there to move for? The whole earth below was noise.
When the doors of the warehouse open refugees fly out, indexed to the right piece of paper. They make exit. The spontaneous saint is asked whether Sir, may I not set sail with you? Figures under the bridge float far away, but then the warehouses sail in the air. Some make melodious rhyme out of their smokestacks. Others smoke birds unlike any birds we know. The air is filled with warehouses.
If the noise bothers you, you miniaturize it. Poof! Wear it round your neck as an instant where everything revolves, earth, space, planets and plain lives as simultaneous as breath in myriads of spirals divided like hairs of a head Brupper wore them that day that they were wearing him, the many Adam planets quick wig, worn on the ball of a bead strung round the man’s neck, as the universe extended, arrived, eyes remembering half dreams while the bridge waved through its corded bound cable strands the telepathy of wires, one bridge of fire.
Attempts to demilitarize the bridge had little effect. War on war makes war. Sonic weapons fired continually at the flying warehouses microed them, and flying right beside with other notables like Breuegels, lifted the fifth seal. St. Peter and Hieronymus It was a good place to view the air. While saying these exist we would hope to prove they do not.
The bridge is like that game two players form with uplift arms.
All others pass through in a line, each holding to the shoulders of the one in front and hurrying, fearing they will be caught by the descending arms, but the game ends in a tug of war. Pass through!
This bridge of many forms cannot be built by ordinary means. Terrance Mckenna is buried at the foot of pier with a candle in his nose and piece of bread in his hand, food and light so the guardian would watch to keep it from falling. This merry work is imperfectly done, for the bridge collapsed. We was going o'er and heard the crack run through the town of Universal Amplitude and its natural sway. Other refinements were depatterning and amnesia to placate the river beneath. A feedback loop played over and over to drug those nuts to crack. Sensory deprivation at the Society for the Investigation of London kicked into placate.
Forth, we wake.
All these marked the Colonist's step over this bespelder'd floor. All is One had given them eggs to sell. Body electric, piezo EM rad fitted loose clothing with nano bots that charged when they walk, harvesting eyelids and venous return, arterial pulse and footsteps. That's how the bridge was kept from falling. But it was not built to last. Some say it’s a bridge of iron and steel to cross but it’s a bridge to build the world. To participate, suffer, sacrifice, feel pain with those named, that come on swift as a car slams or legs flow to the pavement where he stands at midnight with false papers, commanded to walk.
In the figural presence of a salvific lure they discern.
We wake up on this side of the bridge and are told to walk. It connects what was with what will be. The world makes up its doctrines to explain. We wake to families bound to the land and to each other in gens. Doctrines like reincarnation keep us in line. You got what you get because you deserve it --even if you don’t know and you’ll keep on getting it too, so stay in line. March. That holds the people up, the earth in line so they don’t kick against the pricks, but there are two p’s in people that stand there with their arms outstretched under which we walk or run.
Made to stay in line and bury themselves themselves, reincarnation is the greatest prison of all. Walk the bridge, turn around and walk the bridge, turn around and walk the bridge. But if the bridge had some purpose, to see through its veil all the floating cloud inventions of karma, houses, burlesques and carnival corporations and cell phones to worship the gods, what need for exploitation? Were the purpose of the bridge to take it over and defeat the gods in league with the governments, kings and princes, senators and presidents special candy bits cuddled and tended delights so the army could ferret out and mine the Neanderthal. This Renaissance, waukrife mi laddie, took some sleep as the wisdom of crowds waved their vibrational nodes. It was synchronous lateral excitation. Two objects touch, vibrate to increase and suddenly we're dry from trinking.
It was raining a little when the lightning struck. In that area the dead from the rays, the average per year, fatalities added, hit by lightning so they could no longer do anything, which people you know, altogether 55 and 60 million, rising to more than 70 while the moon gives light. A 21-year-old and a man of 58 had to be hospitalized in that province-- Truth, elevating commodity through entertainment, whistled in the dark. I saw a fishpond on fire.
The Seraphim Collection
Both of us faces in wireless connection between two bodies feel in the head when the other bit, multiplied by billions. Of course we are baffled between the saying and the said. That the saying must bear a said, but the saying is the fact before the face and I do not simply remain there contemplating it, I respond to. We are survived dilettantes of each other’s states, beings that inhabit huge warehouses and industrial residences of stores and passages of exiles, unguarded ingress and egress above, and below the main stories, huge posters of spiritual resistance.
That first house was a huge clapboard in the colony with the Seraphim Collection. The apartments where the paintings housed were three stories up, unfinished, rickety, dangerous with catwalks to traverse. The house had never been properly finished, just enough so it wouldn’t get too wet in the rain. Visited many times these venues had never improved much. The Seraphim Collection crammed in pieces and crocked together. Crowds milled shoulders to pass without apology, name tags missing. Many times larger and abandoned after visits, mon pere, je m'accuse, people cram into small spaces to share a dream yard of roofed parking lots and shacks, never improved, locked or unlocked.
If you kiss me you must kiss me twice.
Occupied by vagrants, migrants, gypsies, tenants, homeless, squatters, working men, blacksmiths, artists who had set up tables under the eaves, the shops turned into a bazaar. Rumors rife as the numbers swelled, various authorities demanded documentation.
The big black briefcase of open doors closed for good. Papers of these refugees for Escape, indexed to the right piece of paper, enabled exit. Discern that figural presence of a salvific lure, another huge warehouse unsecured. Sir, may I not sail with you?
Changing directions of this industrial earth, a frog he would a-wooing go.
I went down to see and smell, ended up on my belly cutting black bags out of the bridge wall, scissoring out red insulation drip from the Wailing, prying out cracks between concrete, metal and wood. Sometimes mice droppings would fall out after the smell, mouse or rot musk as I push up, balance, ease down a yard, feet sticking out among stones. Sighs of breath get me up like a blast, not thinking at all to dismantle the word and image machine. By now you feel it too. You must; my pain is my pain and your pain is yours and ours.
I thank God that ye have tarried so long
Now set each of you on to row his hand
And we will shortly follow.
The Man Who Disappeared
Three times I've changed his name. Five prognostics of the ancient Tzu gave the Sage man and Superior man an abstracted mist. Not the red lantern shining through fog, but fog. Not withdrawn into time and place of an Imperial Court far away. Twenty seven different wigs in The Land That Appeared, then Disappeared, then Reappeared, cannot be seen. It is a place of orpheans certified. They say your love and the silver rays will surely bring you home, that like men gone to plough so far from the present, this history turned to myth. So travel and touch by risking all.
Riddledy ro,
the supernatural receding fabulous.
Archaic open wide.
The actions of silence in the face of the spirit, not
separate but primal took the Heavenly man by the left leg, not separate from
the Spirit man or the truth of the Perfect man, and threw him down the stairs.
The Man who disappeared unable to speak, applied fire and nuts, not the absence of thought,--yet without speech where is thought? The music of the dance resolved this new world driving. When the cracks began finishing out the golden age of ten thousand faces before the surge, fantastic, the imperial court, the government of heaven attained its earth again. Which did not last long for peace in the midst of war. There are many holes in a skimmer, especially adrenalin relics of this future which speak prophetically to anyone who stakes all upon the throw.
In all versions the arm with the sword reaches up. Versions of history also depend on who tells it, whether from inside the belly or outside where armadoes of carracks ballast its nose. Were it not vexed to break in two it took all the following years to understand why. And that is what I told you. Now listed as Missing are the bow-wows making sound.
I would not for a Guinea evoke sympathy and ironic portion for this appeal. The hen of victimhood gets pushed around, but how many chickens have you got? Oddly retranslatable a new chick hatched out along with a weakling Rabbit and Kark the Half Horse. Steel bands and button pushers think an easy thing for horns and satanic consequences to unveil the clock of the myth of return. Conscripted time says dance what ye done mon friend, which mechanism the job specialization of hell mass produces cogs in the factories of Sudetenland and Parkersburg. As a hard mole mounts above the moon, an insurance adjustor blames Idyllaus Oklahamas. That changes the state, the modern mechanized notserve.
To compliment this mystic tinkling at the knee we study Mysteries for truth to higher and lower worlds. I won't make a stew of this writing if it weren’t metaphysical. “Sothli if a strongere comynge above overcome him, he schal tak a wey alle his armeris, in which he tristide, and schal dele abrood his spuylis." When the man in linen with the writing kit appears, "the mark on my forehead of those who grieve and lament over all the detestable things" ----I Mark those lives chosen, redeemed and forfeit before the beginning of the world knew the beginning and end of armaments the Word and the Name, the Blood, the baptism, the Branch, the deliverance, praise, breath, coming armor. Israel went into battle with harps and a song.
The energy barrier of the Wall, which separates Gloster from the planes caught in the middle of a freeway at rush hour, adds to the unseen. An engineer with his finger in Foxy's dike deconstructs the human form., A mirror psychiatrist calls the merrie Mouse on the Hill good, validates the twin. The telos purpose of earth, not mass migration, reports all the toys in the backyard for a last day puddy ride.
Need to shape shift? Pynchon said in ‘73: "Laszlo Jamf decreases to zero the stimulus he conditioned on Tyrone Slothrop as an infant, but "there can still be a silent extinction beyond the zero." In the twenty years before high carillon, Pynchon Nazi transferred hook and line to every western governed in disguise.
In the early implants of fictitious Buggeteers and Prawns, the five wills of Master Humanity, sir, by your leave, make swall. You may say in defense of anthropos science and good technological subversion and conversion of natives for social, political, commercial ends that anyway these "Indians" need to shed their skins, so biosraum and other psychic saus-ageish good can come.
The best little donkey that ever was born in Russia and Europe, Babylon and Rome.
Egypt and Sumer reexhibited the gods.
How do you go from free scientific inquiry to mind control annihilation? What has my poor prisoner done? America was ready for empire by gentle means or none.
Wudna I wollup him?
Stuff him wi' nuts,
make him go up wit 'is
teal half cock'd.
Cowslip and shad blow, said one to the other, if you don't walk I must bother. So launched the pursuit of the psychic state even less conditioned than a mind wipe. Can we build it up again? Build with iron and steel. Build Brooklyn with silver and gold?
To tolerate brainwashing in a system fosters tolerance by the mouth. To perpetuate the struggle, create destructive tolerance, form benevolent neutrality toward the culture of dingle donk. Encore.
Under the bridge,
under the wall,
there is a pit,
there is a cave!
Rowley Powley pudding and pie,
when you join a colony, retire by the pool.
With silk and satin by the light of Lethe town,
lava and cool, for it's difficult to get in.
Those spelunkers line up to chance the Dulce. They rappel down comfortable dark holes of Anthropocene' epochs amid the horns of the moon. Then they reach up from the ground. London Bridge must be rebuilt you warn. Fly away Jack, fly away Jill. The Colony converts the will.
Happily enough this seems as good a time as any to admit to the discourse on invisibility had yesterday with one who argued that if invisible he would just feel around until he found it out. Well put, master, if your one sense is all you lose to blindness and not them all, for then would they all desert you and disappear. Some say the orc was once an elf that was tortured into existence and mortality. But none is mortal as a man, he is the only mortal.
Spontaneous Saint Get Away on the E09
Here goes my lord with a jock itch and my lady all a trot.
And there sits Lord Mayor Chomsky, the Cannibal with thorns in his nose.
We walk past monuments of ourselves and pretend they are someone else.
Ginsburg, Garcia, Kesey, and Leary kiss their heroic sins and chant like ducks. The whole point of illumination was to dress up. Spontaneous saints galloped by untouched. Brass heart was frank. Water and air were in chains. Birds flew to their kennels. Air buried in ear. All the ages made direct assault upon the troths of haycock and its luminous charms. Then John and Elijah told of the approaching Return. They would meet like calves released from a stall who would trample into ash the many tales told by them all.
Ziccoty, diccoty,
one cast beyond
The cat's in a flurry,
Elijah’s to come,
Take the todoelem!
spatula and all
take it by force,
we forever live.
How the particular appeals, as opposed to this transparent ground. At least four people died by lightning strikes. All they had to do was offer a screen to cover retreat from the colony...travel arrangements had been made, then blow the place up behind. Offer a body forever. For this they sold their sons, come weal, come woe, sold out the unborn. Wasn't that a dentie coo, Garden of Delight? Kitty Bairdie immortality is pretty much beyond words so we make up none, add faces and places and clothes and seas and any manner of likeness. We explore the world and forget ourselves, give it away for kissing, for clapping, for loving, for proving all thrown back and the outer world, the gifts of life...what's left, not the party lines, we go our way without. A man returning after years of absence would know the place with his eyes closed by the beat, but it wouldn't matter he imagined.
He was a moidert ass that heard the one clap. People are left to wonder how they know to kick the usurper off its throne. Life among the culpable, sorry to admit, always blames another because it blames itself.
Three children slid onto the ice, Freedom, and the twins, Mock and Throw.
Two grains of sand lay together in a bed, one was taken and the other one left.
The culpable fasts for the death of these deares, and the inculpable penetrates to the stars. One person in the crowd runs on, a second comes up from the deep. The navy called out a carrier group as they all fall in.
How could you know when you spend every day chasing the thing you sleep beside and see in the world in front of you a tail in the sky, and smell in the air?
The ducks in the river are swimming away. Teach them at home! Twice Noah, Daniel, Job, the wise King of Tyre, symbol of that star. It's like you precede them when you follow and live in a fall of Jerusalem that leads captive those who know.
They know, they know. To speak of the first to doubt the foi de loi Langnedoc jars of post exilic oil, I told him he should burn the grate before he cooks his silver spoon.
He wrote of colley birds and a juniper tree, lions and tigers lying beneath that turned into a sudden bear in verse and a mountain made good without knowing where, deep yearning speech that in the heart alone beat, language flowing clear as a bear. Hawks screamed in their suddenness, over a base of wind: “to you who hurt with immensity, whose parts fly off in air, ask a question at the edge of the egg, what happens, what is the worst?” The worst is not to live.
But its crowded beneath a bear that opens its mouth. The tail is cedar, the bones are subway tubes, a wilderness subway. But if you pierce the nose, make waves as deep as hair, make a treaty, beg, lie down upon this row of shields with a well-worn deck of undersides, the bear comes out.
Moss
Red
Shadows
Leaves dust Slate
Fat
Brim
Cedars
Hook
Hawk
Beak
White coat
Instant
Hung
Rock Feet
2. A man going down the road saw the trees burst into flame. This was their speech that he could understand like any animal, that lived in the ground, “all of us are burning and you are too.” Ruins from this song and dance of tabrets and pipes killed stiff those who walk among stones of fire, among blue clothes and embroidered promises of abundant azure pure spirituality, so finicky conceived, merchants of all sorts, blue as Tarshish ships, who dressed in blue to turn the spit. They delivered their gorgeous hands to bruise her tit of Maccabean notes. They took away her nose and ears, epigonous redactions of text, cut-up layers.
Here's my awl and wax and thread.
Redux my head.
Save the Build
Being saved from the end of the world is a technicality. Save the earth? Exercise the power, Sons! Jin and Faery run up and down Group dreaming. The planes gape wide-mouth pixie dust, beat down on Captain Beefheart's Mother Ship. Infrapsychic incursion myth waddles into fact. Cracks at the end of every precessional cycle twiddle on. Pipkin and Pop reincarnation hierarchies of the Humble-dum Medieval Renaissance Club not in Aristotle.
Think how huge you imagine the cavity in your tooth when the dentist is drilling.
It is time to consider the inevitable rupture and collapse of empire. Some branch of physics makes it plain. Superposition. Illiterate states in verse, possible selves in the billions, if single life doth grieve.
Chirrup the drigs,
the drakes and drack,
red-shonckes roninge
and chickle shack.
Where all the choices made and not made lead you to set up your sail to row forth, row out of this head bound chip in the heel. You thought it was the head, but it's the heel.
You should find in the shoe of the genome back to stone your immigration status, financial records and inconsequential bios.
Alternative histories speculate an endless wheelbarrow of white chickens. But if someone can assure you I feel the visual image to be two inches behind the bridge of my nose?" Or, "I feel in my hand that the water is three feet under ground," this history is censored for national security. A ship shall thou soon make. It explains the war being lost along side winning the war-lost worlds. Oh no said the sparrow I won't make a stew.
Such platitudes deny the Trojan tale. Who'll make the shroud to hide this great hand of the unknown cause. Oh do not ask, now is a good time to appreciate diversity. His giblets make a nice pie too. Let us go and make our visit.
The thrush will sing,
the bull will pull the bell.
Meanwhile on Zen Thule, Whitehead and Russell say, DIVERSITY IS NEGATION. Our Jerusalem of Whitman not Dario, Washington, Solomon, Roosevelt made war on the dogs for their money, Albert and Bertie said.
Fidell-didell, tooteloo
alternative histories all true.
Ask the cuckoo and the stork, feedle three the cheek.
Maybelline and Jack race to their pueblos to take the oath.
Oh! What comes to blessed in the sight of all creatures yet alive?
Who knows but the words come out of the ground, bitter and clean, made so clean it makes us see woman smooth water, pine cold air, old road, campground, cottonwoods, bear.
Brubaker Going Out
To get out you have to go over the bridge
between gravitationally-bound clusters connecting these systems during
their radiative life along the entire extension of the magnetic field.
The east shore of Lake Zurich has a wild brook that flows from the mountains. A bridge over the brook is named Brugg-Bach, Bridge-Brook, so his name is given before ever he knew. We account it after. Don’t they say You have to know the beginning and the end before you appreciate the middle?
Near the brook is an old house of Bruggbacher like the nearby village, the g changed to a p, made “Bruppbacher” which became Brubaker and Brubacher and Bruppbacher and Brubacher and Brubpacher all the Bruppbachers got out. Over the bridge, went someplace else. So psychiatric patients renamed themselves for disease. Let'em argue with the passengers. Multitudes were falling from trucks in Calcutta, and in Ca Ching, ca ching New York, ca ching in London, the dish jumped off the table. Odd poems came from this like, “thou must barn thy mouse and thrash the shoe to read” just like the spoon in a book went somewhere that no one reads, where you go when escape is made.
Dis
is da een 'at bruk da barn,
Dis is da een still at da corn.
GET
OUT OF THE CITY KNEE.
LEAVE FOOT,
HENCE ARM AND LEG.
The Moo Hicky
Brubaker means bridge.
The great flood beneath Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and Great Basin washed away. Ohio
long got booted, back the hill. Roads wind around these cliffs where the butter
truck pulls up piled with bodies of fox. Yes I have seen it!, and On market day
with eggs to sell you live toward knowing and the north wind blows. That bridge covered all the magnetic
spectrum,
Disaster
is an experiment of hawk, coyote, horse and seal. a metadata harvest of the
future trip. The fifth dimension of existence is capstone event. It's not what
happened, but how the story tells its dimensions. Actors set a stage for
effects. The future is what will happen in the fifth. The sixth extends. Hegel
has to play a part but then you knew we were training him.
With the face, the brow, the nose among hunchbacks came a vision of faery heads
to illustrate the speech. This was Brubaker's rose-preparing Fut. No need
consider stone like even if black and white topographies, tunnels and roads,
undermined by coal and oil fueled. We lived beside the tracks. Those who know
the future pretty well stay out of the mines. Whose name is this, this name and
this, tracks the staging of this news.
Behind the broadcast event every opinion is wrong. The single-celled actors play to the drone. In mutual relation to each other peeled like onions, drones rule the channels. The worker bee fulfills a "higher" power, queen and hive. Bestiaries have done the natural the symbolic of our lives. We saw drones among the neighbors spouting zapoliths, none more primary except in fantasy the stages project. to demean means we take them shibboleths, audient History.
I
cannot find a shoe to fit the mouth, but turned the spit to pull my fingers
out.
The pot has swallowed up and a wee crannie ladle broke different minds Undrape!
Undrape! from the barn.
A twiddler twiddling a twist
Thimbikin broke the barn,
Pinnikin stole the corn.
Spiritual tuff and wad unpack,
Portions of spirit undone..
For this cause they hid the mass effects.
1) was he a black man who rode a black horse?
2) was he a pig fiddling out -- thinking to be autonomous?
3) an old sow in a terrible swoon who thought that our minds are our own?
--- I dropped heavy stones on the bridge to explode them, fastened torpedoes to the undersides of little metal sheds that housed the pollution. Overturned bales of metal never taken from wrecks, slag piles that breathed iron rails and oil from the pumping fires of unscrubbed smoke, that later white, but now black soot. Jack pulpit hid in the springs. Creosote ties, spikes, rail rock made their beds. On the floor of the firehouse nation with fire axes and mats sat Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar of the north. Alejandro-Nabucodonosor! Ophelia was still silent. Apocalypse sat in his chair, glum, with a lump of a beating heart, but a right rock in its hand.
-of
a twister twisting a twist. who would not acknowledge the collective?
Held further down and written in stone creeks, the man tells all under the
factories of wax You can see him for what he is, filling in the entrance, a
thin layer of hard earth on top with loose soil further down in letters,
"You have seen many things, but pay no attention; your ears are open, but
you hear nothing."
Charley Wag ate the pudding and left the bag. I threw it in the water where no one dare find.
---The
amount of sleeping gas doubled on that town what we wrote and they thought. Let loose a thing to
decide the knowing unconscious many surprise. There's a continual Rapture In
Progress. To finish its romance the thing had to reach another world which
neither explains the current or a bird. I prefer the river. To go to sleep amd
wake up in the data base naif, if it must first be known. You could teach it to
pray this moment, intuit a method. Nothing about the universe had changed. We
hooked memory ports into the veins, to oscillate. They call that Homo Zap'em.
Hey Willie Winkle don’t cheep when seeds
are sown to make a kilowatt.
Poeop-ple of the fairy tales
save the pekldfille up and down,
saving in valleys below,
protect, pertect peoopel.
Children sliding down upon a place so thin, at last did fall and they all fell
in.
---Look at the faces below the skins, the pudding-pie ridges below the plateau
in mountain caves a topography of face,
a nose, the cheek, a brow that shades the eyes, one knee stuck out among
hunchbacks, joined. One's a girl, which guy has got an arm around her, looking
down, praying something around his shoes.
Shoulders, heads, one, two, three, long coats, hats on top, left on the rocks
like ten thousand flee. Brush off the cobwebs of sky. People who play with the
clouds of herringbone put them down. Some unborn eye hidden in a cliff, toddles
the rocks.
Another arm sticking out to brush cobwebs off of sky. You know what that is? A
Dilly dander bird on a fat roost monk. Don’t have names for them all, the
samurai behind the back, elbow down in a chair, knee to the left, shoulders
right, entities of Collective Mind.
Yes we had a picture up but it was the only thing on so we took it down. You can
assay it yourself by image search, but beware the eyes and the shine, the tilt
of head and hair. What depraved can come in the communities of hell. The
insensible loosed acceptance of the thing we all dread to know. Twitter in a
major element, Smart 9-11 biometric names, numbers.
This
is the one
that broke the barn,
that ate the corn.
I know the truth the fourth beast stomp, diverse. Teeth of iron and nails of
brass to break in pieces all residue with its feet where the other three were
slain. Yes when the four winds blow then goats stomp stars and then Leviathan
comes for the lettuce, a gigantic tadpole, followed by lexicographer, a
pestilent fellow
This great fish would seem to fail,
a great fish without a sail,
hauling pillars and high arched roof
ribs blunt and thunder-proof
follows to its whirlpool fall
that drinks up seas, and eats up all.
Jostle islands, shake firm rock
From its flail-finned and steel-beak locks.
***peertect du peoplez.
***
Possession renamed the users beneath the water as Ford families, Sony
people. Genuine interiority changed for commercial identity. This said,
we were doing well. UK planetary agents had mutated fifteen dimensions.
This is the one that ran away
and like the one that came to tea
it had a thing but did not know,
it did a thing it did not do.
The cock on the wood pile was blowing his horn.
Dis da een 'at ran awa' on,
dis da ' 'tell ya it a' on.
Who are you, up before your time? Little Horn! Alouette! Zip zapped its horn,
unzipped unseen. Undredged divots of lariet-like swings of pigment, loops and
swirls, where did they go? They go "in that day to where one shall
take up a parable against you with a doleful lamentation."
My tongue, every atom of blood form'd from this soil, this air, Poet of Body
and Soul, Guten noir.
oOOO OOOooo
Hope who you think I’m talkin to everyand.
Glossary
The psychic accompaniment to Taking Off is a series of melodic and harmonic signals forgot. Forget the meaning and hear the sound, forget the sound and hear, in other words slide down ultima Thule. Every sound on a spectrograph is visual we hear and but always with the subject that endows words with liberty, not pin them down to one meaning, the useful meaning, which makes us catch the train, pass the exam, text on the phone, the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most unteachable of all things fold their wings and die unless the truth they try to catch is many-sided, and they convey it by being themselves many-sided, flashing this way, then that. Thus they mean one thing to one person, another thing to another; are unintelligible to one generation, plain as a pikestaff to the next. Do you own a pikestaff? Because of this complexity that they survive. A word is not a single and separate entity, but part of other words, part of a sentence where we combine old words in new orders so that they survive because they do not live in dictionaries but in the mind, variously and strangely as people live, falling in love, mating together. They do not like being examined separately but hang together, in sentences, in paragraphs, sometimes for whole pages at a time, hate being useful, hate making money, hate being lectured about in public, hate anything that stamps them with one meaning or confines them to one attitude, for it is their nature to change. They also like to pause, become unconscious. One sentence in the bespelderd earth verse floor, entire languages at our beck and call, one sentence, a paragraph, whole pages-- CALL!.
from My Epigonist Woolk
StepS to the Bridge Nous Delphica
The good news after all the trumpets, judgments, seals, dragons, floods and mountains fall on that town is, it's still cookin'. Not to deceive, it is the whole world. The other part is the other part, unless you take down the wall. Newtown is outside the Gates. No word yet as to how close the nerds can come to this. Other inhabitants are fallen angels who survived the flood. That has to be the logic of survival of fire, to take a water analogy. Maybe the fallen had fins to survive the flood, maybe they could breathe under water. Maybe the fire and the rocks falling on the earth missed! There t'was a poundin and soundin just like visions of sugar plums when old Sodom and Dixie drove out. It takes a while to chew. A post-trib info manual for society that remains outside the walls and gates of THE HOLY CITY. "Blessed are they who wash their robes, who have the right to the tree of life and may enter the City by its gates, but outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters and everyone who loves and practices lies and falsehood" (Rev 22 14-15).RAISING HELL AT THE CAPITOL. THE CITIZENS TAKE OVER CONGRESS. WHAT DO THEY THINK THIS IS ANYWAY? There is a hell outside of heaven and STEP TO THE BRIDGE will take you there. Outside the New Jerusalem, an upper echelon of the place Dante went, are the infirm, spiritually challenged. Maybe the point is that any place outside heaven is hell. Step to the Bridge is a heads up for society remaining outside the walls and gates of that HOLY CITY of Revelation (22 15) when it comes down. Here is an information manual describing post-trib governance of the new rulers of the Reset Newtown, new era and new world: ]
There government and rulers continue to practice their progressive ways in print
The top worlds drawn on the bottom are three or four times as large in the middle. The number of colonies is 183, not counting suspicious invisibles at opposition. After the original 79, the majority north of the equator, 116 were not on first maps of either the dark regions or the light. All these sites had connections to tunnels below from the above ground. These tunnels reached to both coasts. When it came out that they were camouflaged as krill plants on the ocean competing with the whales this enabled them to make the celebrated bagoong. Large slabs stuck up out of ocean to drive the krill, which were larger than expected by the little people who worked them, if that can be said without profiling. They were not from anywhere exactly or anybody is. Mornings in the corkscrew. Some exceptions from a loss of surface occurred within the spirals.
I am not squandering words. We pray on Sunday for those at sea.
Those shrinks who cleanse Newtown and the effigy of Achilles Arch spread the myth that this colony has wings of cloud and fire. If so, we advise shooting those birds before they land. Leviathan Bay or LevBy sounds like Long Island off Montauk. When the Sun rises all wild Beasts hide themselves in their Holes. In the event of this vaticinium ex eventu, prophecy after the fact, history written as though it were prophecy, the old world was dying so new monsters grew. The thing about tentacles that reach through land and sea is they mimic pattern DNA. For more on this study Thoughts from Singing Birds, the paranoia mon amour that surrounds Alternative 3 of the Dictates.
We don’t mean whales here, for Maria pseudo-hirsuta was evolving. The eyes look west with dragon heads. Zillyzation needed Long Necks for this humor. Waiting to appear that Hydra seemed alive with moving heads, tongues lashing. Bigger than blue whales but invisible. Contoured and finned, masked and tusked, metallic surfaces scaled like a head of that state, reptilian don musk, Leviathan Pharaoh. Which is all mythological nonsense anyway? Is it beast government produced out of oil and gas, one of four beasts that come up from the sea, drilled and mined? Dragon mines the elements. Dragon crews for dragon gas. Such a state is liberty to those who measure their freedom by the subjection of others.
A female has vertical eyeballs like a frog which the international community must undertake every possible effort to end. “The shapeshifting capabilities of organism 46-B shaped itself into the form of a human diver. A 33 foot-long man-eater of extraordinary camouflage stalked our researchers. It disabled our radio, which we later learned, to our alarm, was intentional. “It is also able to paralyze prey from a distance of up to 150 feet by releasing its venom into the water. “Tragically my colleague and lifelong friend was killed this way. He tread water wearing a blissful smile as the organism approached him. Terror is a joint effort by Dante I, an eight legged tethered robot.
To obscure its mythic name in the Leviathan community
Who dares call it swimming in this Casanova's Colon? The epath of Leviathan of thrust faults and under land seizes, under, beneath, Behemoth above ↕ prospected by earth and under sea is news to any who imagine it swimming up aquifers and getting fracked. Creatures in a river impose on ourselves a temple that feels no sides. There is no freedom between yards of blubber imprisoned by events. Unaware of its own Leviathan movement, states and individuals swim in opposite directions without knowing. What is freedom when compelled one way by current while swimming as fast as it can in the other? Read the scientific papers on genetic machines, the last greatest covering globe. Scrutinists in this way show their absence. RockaBilloy history makes it a victim. Miners need our protection.
Leviathan has a greater following than Behemoth among these mystics. They make necklaces out of the scales. The brazen fins of wanton whales suggest other political types too, as do the shark teeth scattered over beaches. If a mouse could climb through an elephant's trunk to gnaw its brain, then a whole town country planet can be undermined by the proboscises of leviathaniasis. And whether Beo takes LevBy withal, to wear its spectacles, nose piercing through the snares within the ribs where dolphins swim, the mighty body falls.
King over the children of pride those sperm dress alike, ready to disperse such organs as the most rebellious body parts of Adam shamed. Illa parte magis regnat additamentum leviathan spawns abound in Janus, Luther or Mamet, prisoner or flesh, and lead all other parts to rebel beside water and on land. As serpents gripe and break the hot petcock from our sight, moving land and under sea, remember that banquet to be served. ╬Behemoth Apatosaurus or Argentinosaurus.
These were the torturers among our legislators and senators, those burgers of consensus: who had rigid views of identifying common ground and crafting strong consensus. It only remained for them to blur the last definition, what is the human. Could that air head speak it would say that the colonist like a mouse is meant by the Armed Forces to be an experiment to save itself.
2. Pantheon gods inaugurate in Water. At Old Town Leviathan-by-the-Sea, the picture is of a creature who boils the depths out of its mouth. Old Town has credentials therefore both as the Temple of Neptune and the port of Noah. Global romantics in Rome are not surprised that Nous Delphia is Troy. The horse enters the city. The city is burned. if Neptune hid the horse what hides in these? They call it a Trojan Priest who threw his spear against the Old Town polity of gods. One global temple of distortion, like some universe emperor of the despond kingdom who says all is well with ziv, even its discontent, until it's not. Sea serpents against. Figs as dates, dry head that cracks shall be lawful for any Athenian. Geologics spin over every proportion and property of the place. Figures swimming overboard can be seen under waves after ships have sailed as if they loose an anchor snared on a reef This presumes a vacant mind. upon this strange color with something of their own, pretty sure to approve. We might expect to meet a certain person, or an approaching figure that deceitfully took on his garb. The mere idea of this walking image makes an expectation to endow it with the attributes of a friend. This may happen truly as well as false. Mind familiars act.A very slight hint from the eye goes a long way in the brain of one naked, and no distance at all in the brain of the other. Ship channels dug into rivers like the Hudson enable Lev's passage further and further inland. Some covert arrangement seems to exist between ship channel captains and administrators of Leviathan and Co., meaning the fish itself. Why not call it a fish or a reptile of some sort which cooperates with the dredging to continue that progress started by bodies jetting up and down the rivers to zoom through glacial canyons miles out to sea. This churning happens as if there were racing and makes for weird weathers of mist inland on both sides, for there is more than one, else how do they breed, but leave that to the entomologists.
Speaking as the spirit of unknowing that human mind disports, if passage tombs could talk, or under bark organics and rock, volcanic ash, erosion deposition, reburied feldspar, fish streams under clay spines, would they dare say more than they heard? What they heard was ascribed beast government, four empires up from sea. The first a lion with eagle wings, lifted on two feet, like a man with a human heart, forfeitures of British Royal Lion and American Eagle with all democratic pretense. The second was a bear with three ribs in its mouth, Russia chomping the Baltic down. The third a leopard with four heads and chicken wings on its back, Germany and its Nazi survivals surmounted with France's national bird: the French army knife that came with a white flag. But the fourth beast unlike them all had no nation but covered the world, a beast for everyone that calls it fracking, fragging. The Baptists have a name for it in their Afligidos.
♥Archuleta is a case in point, not only land. Five caves honeycomb it and plenty of other visibles from the peaks do not reveal the magnificenza to be discovered under water. Those who keep their heads and chests above the tide of transverberation like some brute dolphins plunge the cliff-sheltered bay equivocate eye and wave together. Simple rectilinear, curvilinear pi, the mind sees, not the eye has tributaries to it.
As unsatisfactory an explanation as this is, and as impossible to comprehend, these warring parties occupied the waters and waterways of Nous Delphi. There is a further complication, that being that the account here is a translation from notes taken as these ideas unfolded, patch worked together, often with arbitrary custom, often being simply the last one that occurred, and then further condensed, as if the attempt were to achieve a kind of verbal alchemy, parts of words broken off, neologisms, other languages, homonyms substituted for nouns in an old century baroque style. It has been the custom for writers to pretend to be editors for some time, so it may not be entirely believed that this story really is a translation even if from the English. Why does English need to be translated from English? Simply because the original writing is unanimously judged incomprehensible and samples could readily be offered, there being above a hundred pages, but we fear that would only cause one to put down this account. Suffice it that this is part history, part mythology and that it has a didactic end implied withal, but figuring that out is a little beyond what the translator fairly believes should be attempted.
Mabinog colonists down by the water, hang with their backs to the land and gaze out to sea, the poems of Kiss embossed in holograms behind them at Dulce Port. They sit on jetties, reverie on Ocean Inhaesio, extasis, seeking the thing, not the thing's reason. Too new upon the land to even carry succubi in their hands, eyes open on keypads while their ears hear the roar, they wait in the smell of salt for leviathan. Think that sculptors and the piscine shapes of women know what goes? How many fishes in the deep blue sea? What’s the cause of simplicity in priests? The dilemmatic and problematic structure of virtue.
Of course leviathan undersea is curves and planes, as Heraclitus its prophet said, but on its surface, ever changing, nothing to be seen but storm between the clouds and waves, a cataract of fire that rose and sank again in the scaly folded crest above the waves. It reared on golden rocks in globes of fire, eyes that evaporated sea in smoke. Leviathan's forehead divided green & purple streaks, a tiger, its mouth and gills hung wide. Just above the illuminations of blood and foam was the fury of a spiritual existence advancing.
Eternal Father, strong to save, protect us from the restless wave. O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea.
Unchangeable or changeable in position, the colonies gradually emerge for some reason inherent in themselves, conspicuous with the visible development of the canali following the melting of the snow. Only when such melting has progressed can the colonies be seen, as if the moisture invigorates their air. For instance, our colony darkens considerably about eight miles up the Pisinemo Road near KiaHoaToak. Near Carrying Basket Mountain, known for its horsehair and yucca, beargrass, and martynia, come the tests of bathythermograph. hitty pitty within the wall.
When stone hits glass the breakage conforms to gravity and glass and reason covers her breasts. Only the tension in the freedom to act and crack unknowing reveals the submerged. Yes that is a little simple. Crack the stone, conceal the stone, railroad ties connote forced labor, famine stone denotes starvation and slavery. Of course I wept, tears ran from my eyes as if I were burning wood to make charcoal. of the mind where Dedalus heated onions in a pan. If these firings were apocalypses, then the pine would die in the fire! Believe that and read the Great Wall as a kiln opening that asks, what is the seventh seal? I hate to spoil the ending. Round as an apple, deep as a cup. The most peculiar case is the Ulysses, the other face of Judecca, of strange riddles in steady air, that put to rest natural causation. The regularity of the caves, uniform width, their systematic radiation exceeds any ordinary natural contrivance. What they are not helps to decipher what they are.
So if it can be borne that this tale is true, partly true, built out of truth and facts, but at the same time false in that the geography, the people, and exists only in the ether of someone's mind or fantasy, it is a lot like our lives. Enjambment maybe is its reason for being, an analogy of ourselves in transition between this world and the next, caught in forces we know little about but think we do. So as they used to say when the ships pulled in, or in the modern sense if you are caught by INS in a good mood at the airport, Welcome to Antarctica. Further likenesses of old and new occur in that the old was refuge from persecution of the European for those whose beliefs got them tortured and killed. Colonists fleeing persecution for its own sake brought their afflictions with them. It's always government and religion that people flee, and government can cover a multitude of sins, and religion. Freedom from these was the purpose of refuge, which should account suspicion on government. But while pilgrims in their fall from grace into grace have much to share with the pietist pilgrims olds, they do not share the externalization of hierarchy. Living in two worlds at once, overtly in the spiritual and physical they did not see directly into the spiritual as was required in the New. All the back places emerged and the robber as friend, was a nice way of saying the Adversary took all these forms in the physical and spiritual, but so also did the Friend. We use these euphemisms to soften the blow once vision has lifted.
To drink up a river, snort Jordan up its nose when the sun has seven times parched the whitened foam that gives up its beasts and falls to the whirlpool throat, interwoven and fused in the devoured and devouring world, and goats stomp stars and then the fourth beast, diverse from the others, whose teeth of iron and nails of brass devour and breaks in pieces all residue under its feet, where the other three were slain, even if they had their lives prolonged for a season, then Gabriel takes orders to end this indignation. A vision of daily sacrifice where the transgression of desolation gives both sanctuary and host to be trodden under foot. When these four winds of heaven blow it is time to sail, to take thee to ship on the tossing sea.
It does reveal clues only you can find, then follows as if it knew where you were going, or where you were, should you be going. Individuals in that state bow down. A commonwealth is free to invade its own. It wants to be caught sneaking up behind. That's the freedom universe! Where people rule the subject slave.
The only exception to these dives below the surface seeking contact, soft kill, slow kill, silent kill, the perfect beast to cull the herd, synthetic telepathy, psi tech, Smirnoff patent, programmable black metal, or clams and oysters for delicacies, Leviathan is never seen in the harbors by its devotees and invitees who are all the more attentive to make up costumes for Lev Day. They Snake Dance through streets and practice frenzies as if it were not enough that they live in Leviathan homes and wear Leviathan clothes, worship the universe as children of pride what they have not seen, well rarely. Leviathan causes the depths to boil and out of his mouth go sparks of fire and burning torches. The picture is of a creature whose passing causes upheaval. Now look at Behemoth: "If a river rages, he is not alarmed; He is confident, though Jordan rushes to his mouth."
If you yourself live between the cultures of myth in the aquarium humane, Ossian on the grass, Pythagoras, Plotinus, do not grudge to find the same soul of the world in land and water, Behemoth and Leviathan. There is a herd of Behemoth upland, not the Nazi auroch transplants that escaped after GMO. More than reconstituted mastodons, this does not account the hulk landslides. Spotted and browned, earth into mine tailings and shards of dirt and rock, then tramp up the thousand mountains to forage trees. Behemoth has no natural enemies there unless you count lightning. Neither does it breed says myth, as if one only waits to meet its mate in leviathan. Higher up the lightning strikes are more frequent than polyploided escapes from labs, rats as big as cars, coyotes as big as parking garages. A sapling catches fire, hisses and drips and a thorn bush whoosh. Visible invisible combine in the colonies, if one can speak of managing Behemoth.
DNA altered genealogies, lists of foods, strange government camps, Blackbox and Red Rovers. universal surveillance state the digital version of every telephone call made to, from and within the U.S. since 2005 but to really get to the bottom to the infinite hydra head we go to Lake Volstok Then came a time when the stone cats envisaged faery heads upon us.
Tidal influence at Old Town reaches pretty far inland. Old Dame trots out some cold fish she got. Elders swing their censers as lamps. In the water light wolf to cub, curvilinear pi, the mind sees not the eye. The standoff between draggle and pickled pig intersperses submerged ruins with dreams, Antarctic voyages waking unconscious from the ground. I'd never seen a ship that sailed that wide. In the temples, labs and board room foreheads Ezekiel saw the visions of Elohim. Galloping Galloway, Rhetors of Neptune, look at your neck; there you will find the strap.
It's hard to locate settlements the dolphin mire among zephers. The new looks like the old. That government required ship lists and oaths of allegiance, when harbor sea captains began to slump over their water jars. Some believed they were living in the Odyssey of Homer and sought the madness of the sea joined by pietists in the settling of New Delphia, complete theologies of severance among themselves. Settlers are conscious of their mythological status.. The future trails in the present, then becomes the past. This kind of recurrency recurs again. New Delphia occupied a harbor like Rio, but in the north. These made space for their rituals in the harbor and along the beaches looking down from bluffs like the coasts of Catterline and Prouts Neck, slump shouldered sea mounts, white snow hills in the air. Swear by the Mareotic Lake! These required allegiance to Leviathan in their piscine theology. Whether moon, Mars or some fictitious place in the standoff of distortion and convention, to paraphrasts Old Town was a marine museum. A Greece emptied of its whales. A thousand springs flow into this ake against thought and forethought. Leviathan in its Mardi Gras trades in masks and scales. They build their huts like him as a home. So their idea of life could be complete. It's one thing to polyploid a cow three times life size, too big for a Mack truck. All these are shadows of the real work of quantum codes, cables and call signs, but this technology in the wild accounts for the giant size also of Behemoth, like a tetraployed elephant.
Because they had not seen the Lev their buildings took on shapes of eels, whales, squid, materia proxima, materia remota, materia ultima. These new mystical men prove the history of the Odyssey. As Behmists of the slabby mists might purl ecstatic chapters of perfection of crystal streams over rock and ledge, or balsam pine hid in the small caves of hillside with natural springs, Aurora hid in their language its universal matrix and Philologus esoteria prefigured. The great deliverance they felt was soon to be displayed. Not to deny fish mystics and Baptists worldwide, invisible storehouse of diverse mythmakers, that collective fiction that fathers early and later times to enable government, is followers virulent in self interest lept at the Behemoth dish while down at the other lept Leviathan, chief magistrate unlike any man today.
Brubaker Going Out of Jerusalem on the M1
The solecisms, spellings etc. are a way of speaking this reality
Several poderent asses, moiderent asses made a train across. The bridge itself is immaterial. The asses could speak and held a dialogue among themselves about the trek. This was fitting because all that traffic was motorized. A complete list of the motors included all the little articles of miscreant legend ordinarily seen. The asses could not be controlled by the machines whose presdisposition above was taken as chaos. Best to cross the bridge to cross. All sight and sound visible and heard in their proof sates, not after effect states of the warold, far below. Put one foot on the bridge and prove endless being into nothingness. That’s why he rides asses. Sentient beings, material among the wraiths. Pay no attention, eye has not seen or ear heard, cast down imaginations, bright ever thought, for the bridge is thought, and thoughts, all projected. Now in the second heaven, the one discovery of the not, the naughty not, the psychonaut, the parabot, long days and long the nights I kept this image from the mind.
The Bridge
Suspended from the bridge like a chandelier, which made big seem little and little big, wearing masks and jangling, advanced similitudes of control would flutter. We see these in some paintings described as insectoid businessmen. Harnessed and exalted to high status on the bridge with that old trick of Remus they hold their feathers on by adhesives once called tar but now polymer. The whole is suspended over the heads of those who traverse the bridge and those under. Two levels at least, two we can see anyway while standing on the first. What we think is a chandelier is in fact a moon suspended to revolve where crowds underneath look up to see the spectacle. Proper shock and awe is there, a twelve night clock at new year, days, months, the whole scene lit with the fire of its own flammable clothing, like rayon shirts burst into flame. To heighten the effect, turned round to face the angel, there is a sudden rush at the doors. Citizens above, below, the bigs hang in chains, if you want to know. You know what this portends.
The under bridge is filled with refugees, smoke and noise, waves of Eastland patents with rosters in a lab, and lines of important people. There are wheels in wheels. An effect is a cause that has gone before. The warehouses first reside in what we call The Briefcase. When the doors of the briefcase open all these refugees fly out like pieces of paper and exit to the warehouse. It follows that to those under the bridge the ones who float above seem far away. The melodious rhyme of warehouse smokestacks suggest also factories of some kind. Passage from the briefcase is like sailing in the air.
I was canoeing down the phase-locked signals, reaches of water cold as ice. Bordering factories rose from foam, made effluent the factory scum. Factory after factory of storm drains would elaborate. 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 wrecked cars and cubes of metal. I walked the tracks with a .22 to shoot out insulators on the power lines like some grandson against illumination in the Esquilache Mutiny. In Madrid in 1766, 4400 oil burning streetlamps twelve feet high of iron and glass were smashed in protest against illumination. Spy cameras, geo phones, grid illumined life surveillance lamps, cameras, microphones shoot out. Resistance to the collective is where ever you connect the Schumann Resonance.
Flares and torpedoes picked up beside the trains, strapped to a rock, dropped twenty feet down, explode below. Human brainwaves jimmied from the metal shacks, phase-locked to multiple frequencies of the entrained up in the slap hills, manipulate a belief system into critical mass. Freight trains boil black soot over it all. Giant holes from strip mine fresh pits swell green a hundred feet below. There was a path around the back of the hill to a cave of scorpions linked with a network of cables shaped like umbrellas.
A double strand of layers hangs the long thrones from the upper deck. Suspended over the deck seen by the villages on the ground, radium pyres flash beside the thrones in nightjars. These are the stars that light the wishes always rising. They could have been plum-trees that grew over rivers overhung with fruit to feed the gulls that circled in and out like wheels.
Gyres of immortal turpitude upside down glowed out of the eyes. Under their seats endless rows of commentary in every language were stacks from one end to the other. This was the reality that the thrones as rulers were creating. Their kings indulged this ferment by projecting it in riddles to the dreams below. This connect of feet and head is a counterfoil to think. The making was itself the beauty and falsehood of a dimension more spotted than Laban's sheep.
The images flow upward from down below too. The tribal folk along the river broadcst visions and sound of Home and Rome and Holmes. Songs and a state of mind, chartreuse clothing with yellow scarves, dandy hats impersonate the nightjar stars. The ones below impersonate the ones above on a two way up and down. The up and down is one, the down up and the up down one. High herons dive in projections of poems from the bridge, not over under either, but around and through with water birds and winged trees. On the hill shoulder, pears and parables of sun light descend to a rookery where Democracy makes love in her Sunkist hair and alabaster plain. Just the opposite of pure vacancy, the winds turn the mother of pearl to blue. No lands or sun or stars in the crowd sing of itself, House and Mouth.
The moon chained villages on the river in the ground below, once thought empirical, are thought designed, but don’t take my word for it, see yourself. The boots of the kings lie in contempt on the tomes of the books stacked like necks whose heads had been left in the trees. Book heads, nicely bound in leather, lay on the ground like Egyptian mummies at nice 7 degree angles too. Would that sleep of the mummy revive? The piezo electric of this EM rad made the body rad.
There is a time when the merry work is done and the bridge will collapse. If then we is all going o'er and hear a crack run through the towns like Paul Revere--a natural sway is coming! This is done to inculcate the soul river beneath depatterning. Universal amplitude had to found in children when sensory deprivation at the Society for the Investigation kicked in.
Flying like butterflies in fall about the heads and necks of the bridges darted swallows of different colors among them hawks and chickens and ducks, white, red and orange parrots thick as leaves in a wind. We only call them bridges because those who cruise the lobbies at the river mouth do, suspended from even greater reconstituted towers which fit the quantum structure both and never.
Beautiful puffed birds, everything that could be said of bobbling on one ungainly foot observes the algorhythm, divine gates concurrent with our sympathy that runs in waves. In case the analogy in plus, minus, both and maybe neither in quantum landscape profanes this wilderness, then either/or every hill will valley, every valley hill, and both maybe, not then phantom, invent numbering beyond where you stop, with every breath root for this quantum info to sell, as if that were.
Another faience model of this shabty recupense all should avoid holds that strangers in the hold of ships brought fantastic waterside constructions to build on land.
One question of our history concerns whether, when the bridge is destroyed, any record of these versions of history remain. At least there will be no new tomes as they are now constantly added. Are these to be preserved in some cloud? For otherwise how would we say that any of it is true, I mean like the bushy stems and roots clockwise on a face, doubled and doubled again until hands and fingers over all the earth. Eagles nests on road signs change into geometric symbols as we look. On the edge of a lake in high season we go down the high road to find an apartment where a woman gives us a fluffy, red, green, yellow, blue, white bird to ride on our shoulder as we walk. It is playful and likes to flip around for the day. In the end I wonder if all of us are guilty of trying to prepare people to live in a world we do not inhabit.
Brubaker is still waiting to see if the music can be heard. Two cases exist happily under different names. Editors have put some effort into dialogue, but are reluctant to start another. All this writing is in free fall and under revision, doubted as an expression, unless context makes it whole. If Bruk=er going out is a prequel that predates that included here, it would help to know what comes after. It is all simultaneous. Juggling the narrative is the same as saying we don't know our youth until our age. They are versions. We hope to get a glossary at the end.
An actor performing on a stage who can’t see the script, after life in life concludes the hardest thing to accept is terrestrial life, that a body matters apart from the thoughts while in it. Like it should be a pleasure center, ok. That it can perform work, ok. That it is a way to touch other bodies, ok. Center of emotion, feeling. That it is a locus for gratification of fame or success or an end in itself. Except in general, like war, there is no historical effect or event but it is all looked at both before the effect and after the event and the only matter was the choice, first to deny the world and second to comfort the prisoners, along with the effort to sustain life to work to find its purpose –provide an identity of children and grandchildren.
So that’s where we are on this side of the bridge. We wake up in the midst of a struggle older than ourselves being controlled by evil in an evil world that calls itself good. This is the day.
-- Thought is the bridge between the worlds of Speech—thought and faith. To abstract the simultaneous into a rotund illusion on the bridge where the thoughts fly with momentary precision and immediate perception of a constant dream apprehended with a butterfly net, and take the leavings of the net back to your space and past them in a notebook, or spread their wings with pins as an herbarium aviary ossuary of thought. The illusion is they fly, they fly and who ever dares will meet them in the bye and bye.
-----Reading this thought stream at odd moments of fatigue and coming in and out of sleep the terms energy, mass, information, spacetime, field, time, charge, plasma, wave, and others are NOT and do NOT qualify as physical objects. Coming in from the spontaneity, cha ching, three steps removed from what was apparent and unspeakable, here becomes the proposition that they erect statues in that place, in all the cites and hence the nations, which they stick with various afflictions, pins and needles as a simple ruse, and infect the streets and the citizens with their maladies so that London is not London all by itself but withal the tampering and predicament of the kings and powers of that place. Whether any of this is true cannot be said for it is triple translated, but that’s what it is in our world to us, in the three envelops, understanding that the envelop is one, two, and three quantums accelerated from each other and the depth of the third is beyond leaped by the fourth unspeakable, spontaneous and self evident there, but non existent here, except as a passing memory and fancy.
We wake up this side of The Bridge as an a priori and are told to walk. It connects what was with what is. The world makes up all doctrines to explain it. Most of us wake up in families bound to the land and to each other in a web of generations. We are born, live and die according to doctrines like reincarnation to keep us in line. You got what you get because you deserve it --even if you don’t know how and you’ll keep on getting it, so stay in line, they say. March. That holds most of the people of the earth in line so they don’t kick against the pricks, but there are two p’s in people.
Even with a good birth they stay in line and bury themselves in themselves not finding an alternative of being. Reincarnation is the greatest prison of all. Walk the bridge, turn around and walk the bridge, turn around and walk the bridge, but if the bridge had some other purpose, to see through its veil, all the floating clouds of existence, the inventions of karma, the houses and the fairs, the burlesques and the carnivals, the corporations and cell phones, the worship of gods, the slaughter of others and use for exploitation? What if the purpose of life, the purpose of the bridge is take it over, to defeat the gods? What if the gods are a tyranny, and their government is a tyranny to milk us like cows and then slaughter us for our adrenal glands after being stimulated with enough fear to spike the juice? What if the gods were in league with the governments? What if they made the governments, keep them as their favorite pets before they eat them too?
How many gods there are and what are their names is what the gods what you to know, to spend your whole life studying them and their philo-soophies. What if kings and princes, senators and presidents were special candy bits cuddled and tended as their delights before the bite? What if the gods were real and these forces they generate control the world as far as it goes? And what if the favored of the nations were taught that if they had talents and worked hard they too could be favored, as long as they went along with the program of milking all the others under them and having a bite to eat themselves? All they had to do was pretend to be beautiful, confident, powerful and they could fool the masses into their stalls at night to be milked. And they would even get to taste the fruit, the bitter fruit of what they do to them.
And what if this had been going on for thousands of years but that there was after all another force besides this evil which was so different from it that the evil could not understand it and feared the Good. The herds below the bridge thought the evil was the good, but the evil knew that the Good was the good. What goodness is then would be paramount, but could not be known by evil which would be constantly mistaking it for itself. What if the Good was patient? What if the Good saw the end from the beginning? For there must be an end of the world as there is an end of life. What if the Good saw that the principle of evil was a lower force, but still far above the governments, the gods and their herds? What if the Good decided to enter the very world of evil and subvert it, overthrow it, destroy it? How would the evil like that? So that’s where we are on this side of the bridge. We wake up in the midst of a struggle older than ourselves being controlled by evil in an evil world that calls itself good. This is the first day of the rest of your life.
Since the world might not like its own overthrow, what if the world said all these controls are for your good and without them you would fall into chaos. Our government is the producer of your advancement in the world and prosperity! Of course the world would lie. It is built on lie upon lie. All the world good is evil and now comes its overthrow. Hallelujah that you were born for such a time as this.
2. Happily enough this seems as good a time as any to admit to a discourse on invisibility had yesterday with one who argued that if invisible he would just feel around until he found it out. Well put, master, if your one sense is all you lose to blindness and not them all, for they would they all desert you and disappear.
Hey can I make you believe that every thing you believe is false and that there is a layer of reality you don’t believe that is true?
On the other side of the bridge our outpost was invisible. As much as ourselves. There were no characters, individuals, but numbers and letters. Resistance was a small event in the compounds. For where the continual play of our relations with the world were interrupted an anonymous state of being existed. In that situation Being was only possible when the world disappeared. Deserters from the other side knew all these stratagems. Supposed opposites were more disinformed military of a Pict Wall, a colony not so dramatic as Hadrian for our fortification of mind. In the race to faith those at war with the wild worlds of badger, tortoise and yarrow prophesied that world government theologues would order invisible supernatural intercourse to replace the natural. Bare topped flat rock provoked more thought, but travelers leave just to be leaving. They do not turn aside from their fatality. Without knowing why they say: "Let's go!” No wonder we were feared. It seemed to suit us.
The colonies emerged gradually for some reason inherent in themselves conspicuous with the visible development of the canals following the melting snow. Not until melting had progressed could colonies be seen, as if the moisture invigorated air. Ours darkens considerably about eight miles up Pisinemo Road near KiaHoaToak. Place makes the body, then makes the soul conscious. Place makes the man as a transformation of an event into a being. Place is breath, a base of the existent, Carrying Basket Mountain, known for its horsehair and yucca baskets, its bear grass and martynia, There, instead of writing we wrote the thought. Whether either mattered is a thing to decide. The first and middle stages of unknowing are not conscious, but consciousness can work a surprise. When time brings precognition there's a continual Rapture in Progress. Having no purpose, no goal, the thing had its finish, a romance to reach another world. Hiding away from all images and forms came to a forgetting and an unknowing.
The entire affair was an invention of a dozen generations. If I say they thought they might convince us to join them this means we were led by their tracks, but we had only ourselves to consult. This at least is what we were led to believe. The axioms deny all shortcomings in practice. Give it time and believe. In the border consciousness a scene of huge depth, 1000 feet and more above and below surface, atmosphere, ionosphere, magnetosphere, and then below continents, plates and lava streams submersible between. All documents on this site are meant to explore the staging of these worlds reported as literatures of fact. Each facility of the Futurist playbook translates to the new societies the fakta of a continent and an age apart from the original. The formalist theories of faktovivi bypass algorithmic controls to code hidden propitiatory work, read correctly. The first priority remains that of accentuated real material gathered either first hand or culled from documentary sources.
3. Here are excerpts from the diary.
-- fact must be reported free of rhetoric to be fact, but with irony to be truth.
-- awakening from sleep is like descent from a huge cyclone cloud above down the funnel of connect to the ground, but with decreasing intensity. Best done slowly from the moment of awareness detaching from the cloud but descending slowly to preserve awareness until landing, then making this note.
No comments:
Post a Comment