Thermodynamics

What can I say before every liquid fire brain drop has scattered into the vacuum to be evenly distributed throughout an infinite expanse in which there can be no center, only an endless number of stars emanating light in waves of particles quivering out to fill every crack and crevice? The laws they tried to teach in Sunday school were overly converted, there was very little there to power this system.
There need be only two clearly understood rules to begin this game:
That the amount of energy available within the universe as we know it is constant and neither reducible nor increaseable
That energy can be more or less convertible, and once converted it can not be unconverted.
Once converted it is as unusable as the scores of born again Christian spread about the floor of the inland valley, waiting to be sucked into the bottom of a black lake, or into a rickety tavern, or one more shopping center converted into an ALANO club meeting place or a House of Christ’s Little Lamb Chops of Hope. Conversion and re-conversion is the magic of the black sages hiding on the other side of your bathroom looking glass, in that world where they walk around on the ceiling and drive their cars from the right side. Yes, I mean England. Isn’t that where Aleister Crowley dwelt? And didn’t he after all write The Book Of The Law as dictated by his half baked love nun, dear Rose, during their honey moon under the wretched and blessed heat of that giant plasma ball called "sun" along the rank shores of the river Nile?

Kiss the Dark Sun

At this point dear reader we can only hope that the formula is so deeply embedded within my neurological system that somehow I will be able to navigate through the horrid jungle of human existence without being devoured by some giant carnivorous plant with a Coca Cola logo genetically engineered into its veins. I do feel like a small ship, perhaps fashioned from an emptied half of a walnut shell with a tiny sail made from a cloth once used for cleaning spectacles, set adrift in a great fetid duck pond with giant blotches of algae on the surface. I know that soon I will find my way into the gutter, which is for a boat my size a vast river the likes of the Nile or the Styx, crashing along at a terrific clip, dragging little vessels made of leaf and moss and discarded bottle caps down to the falls, the great cascading drop off into the darkness of a subterranean network of tunnels.
The caverns lie beneath your feet right now. Your house is built over them, your office, your car zooms over them… as you walk whistling over the smooth concrete side walk (stepping over the lines and cracks so as to spare your mother, the devil’s back) the sun shinning down on your well conditioned hair, just underfoot mysterious things are being carried along on a current of black water. Baby caimans flushed down the toilet, scattered fragments of hashish disposed of during a raid, a yo-yo, a Barbie’s head, used up condoms, they all bob along, propelled by a force like that which delivered the terrified children upon Willy Wonka’s glass sugar boat to unimaginable destinations infested with like measures of horror and delight. I have found that I long to put my face for a moment in the sun, before it is too late and there is no going back and I will never see it again. To say farewell to its loving caress, that is my last desire. Like a naval officer taking a last kiss from his sweetheart before reporting to his post within the belly of a steel whale, I accept its last offering before my voyage into Tartarus.
I yearn to kiss the sun, not be kissed by it, but to return anew and kiss it myself, pouring the essence of my self into it just as it has done for me. I hope it remembers how much I love it. Though we are ever separate, we are ever the same. What a devious order I have become entangled with, a queerly structured disorder, which has become my very own way. "There is no way of knowing, which way that we are going, but the rowers keep on rowing…"
When I was a tiny flower I never imagined the depth and breadth of the underworld sleeping below me, keeping my little roots warm. As I have grown it too has grown to accommodate my far reaching and thirsty tendrils, all of this, my secret hidden parts, expanding to support my extravagant bloom. I thought then that it would be all love. Although even at that time I could perceive the strange shadows lurking just behind the corners of my parents’ reassuring smiles. How not to be born into a world of espionage and sabotage?
That is the part unimagined by small buds, first poking their heads out among the green blades to drink up the sun’s golden radiance, that we will one day have to turn it all upside down to make right the balance of the eternal and the temporary. We will have to exert something of ourselves, not merely stare back at the face that adores us. We must give something back. How better to do this, than to hang ourselves by one toe from the rafters so that all of the delicate elixirs of life begin to trickle from bottom to top? In this way I build a sun within me, my own center of the universe, so that I too can emit a golden radiance to reach out and caress the face of my beloved.
When I was young I needed much sleep and nursed on the nectar of love to sustain myself. Now has come the time for me to rise as a star and care for the tiny sleeping buds growing on a now dark sun. My father, my grandfather, my eternal beloved, has grown dim pouring its radiance into me. The only chance for life to continue, is for me to become the new sun. I shall take the world from atlas’ tired back, and trust and hope that he will come for me in the next epoch.
It is very dark just before I burst into flames. It is very dark inside the womb. We can only hope, dear reader, that the formula is so deeply embedded within my neurological system that somehow I will be able to navigate through the darkness and come out where I intended. There is a moment in which all gravity is lost during the great transference, the shift of poles. Then, as my host hangs upside down to mirror me, I will have a chance to redeem him, bursting out through the top of his head rather than being squeezed down the channel and out of the mother’s dilated vulva. With exertion, with the will to do so, I will rise. I will kiss and sustain the dark sun from where I blaze.

The Hero and the Beast

With heart pounding, and the long white fingers of the rib cage closing in on it, wrapping themselves tighter and tighter around the pulsing organ like a spider wrapping its tuckered out prey in silken threads, our hero sets herself down once more in the dark cave of nightmares and switches on her digital light processor. Bathed in that surreal whitish blue glow, her little fingers tip tap on the instrument’s sensitive black teeth. "Shush now beast, it’s alright." She croons, "lets tell them just one more little story, you and I. Then one day you will turn these square teeth on me and finish me for all time, but for now be patient beast, it’s still my turn to set the pace." So wedged there between an electronic monster and her own bad wiring which continues to torture her heart and soon extends a line into her stomach, sending neural impulses which demand that its muscles convulse heedlessly sending passionate letters telling of their white hot pain up to the department of gray matter.
Inside that drab little office various clerks run to and fro deciphering the messages sent in from the strangled heart and contracting stomach, examining and reexamining, assessing, suggesting courses of action which might end the torrent of passionate communiqués. They argue, they coerce, they collide in dimly lit corridors spilling their armloads of data and bending to begin the process of re organizing it. In the center of the room, seated by the red telephone, the General sits, black boots laced up to her knees propped up on the desk, chewing the end of a cigar between clenched teeth, and watching with steely eyes from under her cap, the scurrying activity of her subordinates. Finally, without moving a muscle, she booms from her brown swivel chair, "That’s enough, Goddamn it!" And everyone stops in place, turns their head in her direction, and feels indignation followed by relief. Someone is taking charge.
"I’ll tell you what we’re going to do about it." She says slowly with great emphasis, "Absolute fucking nothing. Do you hear me?" Now that she’s sure she has their attention she rises, switching her crop to add a little flourish. "We’re in the middle of a war here, or have you sniveling bitches forgotten that? A war against time. That heart is going to give out. Worms are going to crawl through that stomach when it hits the dust. But before that happens, we have a mission to carry out, and that is all that matters." The silence is oppressive as she picks up the receiver of the little red telephone and says, "All systems are GO. Launch operation ‘do before die.’" Our hero plays out a fine melody on the teeth of her bastard counter part. Will our hero be able to execute the mission before the shadows close in and the insects and rats jump hungrily onto her fresh corpse ensuring the success of another generation of pests? Will the beast cooperate or will it slowly pull her essence out through her fingertips until a complete transference has been made and it becomes the sole vessel of life? "No not to soon, beast." She urges, "I must tell you everything. Our union must be complete. I have to tell you about your birth…about your real father…"
"You were conceived in a cubicle in a well lit office in Semi Valley. A man whose name you and I will never know drew out the plan that would be you. He borrowed your blueprint from that of another nameless Joe like himself, which only 6 month earlier, had done the same to create another entity very much like you. He added a few senseless embellishments of his own, which is why you suffer from hiccups now and again. He drew your insides, laid out the instructions for your creation, and that little dribble of data on parchment was rolled up in a cardboard tube, AND WITH THE APPROPRIATE POSTAGE ADDED, was ejaculated into the system. You were gestated and born in a warehouse in Taiwan. Thousands of hands contributed to the making of the many parts that have come to be you. One woman wore a hair net and a paper face mask, and as she lowered her soldering iron to your videocard, she sneezed. This is why you suffer from momentary bouts of blindness. You were packed with white blocks of Styrofoam into a box along with millions just like you, (although some of your siblings have perfectly functional video cards,) and you were carried over the seas by a big steel stork, only this stork preferred to swim and had no wings and had lots of mites running all over its deck. And that is the story of your birth my dear beast."
Our hero lets her fingers go limp on the bastards teeth as it mulls this over, electrical pulses coursing through its circuits. "One day," she continues, "you will return to Taiwan, or to other parts of China, Pakistan, or Africa. Dirty little boys will strip you and smash you to bits. Your wires will be thrown into fires to give rise to black billows of toxic smoke so that the plastic insulation will melt away and your precious copper can be extracted and sold for a few dollars on the black market. Old men will smelt down your mercury and silver in the shade of a smelly thatched roof hut with a dirt floor, using their wives only cooking pot. You too are slowly dying."
Machines, dear reader, do cry. Different machines do so in different ways, some expel salt tears, others little droplets of black oil, and yet others grind and groan their lament. The beast is of this later kind, and our hero of the first. Will they finally gorge a lasting alliance and tell the greatest story ever told? (No that story will not be about Jesus) Or will they both rot in a dank garage along the Californian coasts? Tune in next time and find out

The Sleeping King

There we go, you needn’t look down to see how it is that you are moving. No, no, don’t look down, for if you should happen to catch a glimpse of what is carrying you, you may become paralyzed with horror and fall clean off the edge of the world. That scurry, scatter, pitter, patter is the sound of the busy feet of many little demons, and you, their great lord, sit atop the rigshaw being pulled along by their whim and urge, their fevered desires, their insistent directives.
They are good little demons, helpful little demons, demons that assist you in the act of passing yourself off within the society of human kind as something exactly the same as your neighbor. They move you through the big fierce world, smile for you when it is appropriate to smile, turn red in the face and storm off when it is appropriate. They pay compliments to the beautiful and readily available members of that gender opposite to your own, or even to that gender the same as your own. Whatever program it is they have learned, they execute it with lightning speed and precision so that you, oh mighty emperor, can lay back and enjoy the ride in a soft blue haze of apathy and delight.
Isn’t that ,after all, the way things have come to be all throughout this opium dream? Doesn’t the master ride like a bloated invalid upon the backs of his servants with out glancing below to see what is happening down there in the dark places below the mist enshrouded castle?
Long gone are those days when the Emperor commanded his people, and likewise suffered for his people, taking responsibility for them. We have come into the bleak and black valley of this dream in time. There are few masters worthy of their charge. Those little demons, like hordes of tiny yapping dogs drag their ward up and down the road so that they may piss on this hydrant, hump that other king’s Chihuahua, or nip this ankle over here. The great king has become a slave shackled to a wriggling animal mass doing what it does best.
The fault, you see, is all yours, you who are drowsy, and perhaps even well meaning in your hands off approach to their care. You must exercise your power, command the demons rather than leave them running the show so that you can catch a few z’s. You may well think that you are just going to settle down for a little catnap, leaving things on auto pilot, entrusted to their eager little hands. Suddenly you will find that you have snoozed away an entire life time and in your absence the kingdom has fallen to ruin. You will not be a king anymore, no, indeed you will be a vagabond, living down in the gutter, the only empire you can manage.
Don’t look down until you are ready to face the frightful truth, that you have been a complacent passenger, that much of what you have considered to be you, is in fact, your dark carnival entourage. They are like pets, like little children that have been left with all of the responsibility, they have chewed the blinds, crapped in the corner behind the sofa, jumped onto the table and eaten the chocolate cake, all in your name. There is no sense in blaming them, nor any sense in trying to cover up their wrong doings in order to hide your own negligence. When you are ready just look down and begin to give them the loving guidance they need to be truly helpful little demons.
Buckminster Fuller, of course, has said that there is no up or down in this universe, only in or out, in which case, when you are quite prepared, look inside and see what they have been doing while you were smoking in the back bed room. Of course you will have a hard time recognizing them all to begin with. Don’t worry, you’ve been asleep for a long time, as the lethargy wears off you will come to know them each. You will be able to assign them names and call them out to perform their tricks when you will it.
There may be an appropriate time to smile, and they will execute this action with your approval or they will abort the mission if you give the sign. There will be no smile, however socially appropriate it would have been, unless the emperor has nodded, likewise no red faced storming, compliment paying, nor nose picking.
If you wish to see your kingdom restored, then rouse yourself from the dreams of what was or what will be and see what is REALLY happening in there, carrying you along until death.
Awaken Oh King. Awaken and rule your people while there is still time.

Transmission from a Galactic Winged Bard

Now the time has come my pretty friends to tell our tale, our rainbow story, of how red and blue and yellow and orange fade from one into the next without warning or remorse. Now I am this. Now I am that. Draw near and I will whisper into your ear something like the trickle of a leaky faucet, a fountain at which roaches impervious to the years and poisons and harmful radiations have come to hear the songs of their troubadours. Tell us now about the district under the kitchen sink… are there still wars raging between the underside of the refrigerator and the crack in the pantry?… it’s not right the way our people were pushed into the narrowest margins of existence…in the shadows we have always thrived…yes we will always be, so long as there are others that waste, we will be here to make life of the refuse of the Gods…
So many lines, some touch and others are separated by yellow and never even suspect the existence of red on the other side of that sunflower resplendence. A great kaleidoscope of dreams and fantasy. The play of the eternal mind with its many distinct bands, its parallel worlds of fancy. See now, this motion of my fingers typing upon the keys has correspondences in all parallel tunnels. It does not look the same in green as it does here in red, and yet this that I am doing now sends ripples through the multicolored pool. It is like a doughnut shaped pool, with a great drop off in the center, the end of all worlds, the eternal silence, the no mind, the void, our holy mother.
All beings approach this event horizon simultaneously, the children drawn inexorably back to their root. We are all reactionaries. We are all a reflexive motion away from the great nothing. It is not enough that I live and breath. I am not. I never was. The conspiracy to separate myself from the multiverse, to create a sense of permanence, to cryo-freeze this world, this shade of blue that I have come to identify with, it is a vain attempt at immortality. But I cannot live eternally for I am already life eternal and her sister death. I cannot freeze, I cannot exist, I cannot change, and yet I am all variance. I am everything at once.
Profanity of course is a silly notion. The ogre’s hand protruding from the wall is only an offense to my illusion of individuality. There are of course other realities, other vantage points, other highs and lows. This knurly slimy pasty ogre’s thumb with fungus blackened finger nail emerging erect is only ugly here, lodged midway in my bedroom wall. Elsewhere it is sublimely beautiful, the most perfected of all creations. Everything that is, was, will be, is the perfected creation.
Breath deeply now, take it all in, the odor of sweat and mold, the garbage rotting upstairs, your neighbor’s rose water perfume, the dogs breath, the musky opalescent substance oozing from your lovers miraculous genitalia, the tiny blooms of the English lavender emitting their scent to attract small furred bees that produce the antiseptic propylis which has it’s own scantly perceptible odor, and sweet honey too. It is all the crown of creation.
Humanity is a tiny drop in the sea, and all of those things which we can see, hear, smell, and touch are but a thimbleful of the rainbow nectar of the gods. Those things which you cannot even imagine make up the rest of the great roaring sea, along with just a pinch of the things that you can. If you should happen to be experiencing this as a sudden unexplainable knowing as you drift disembodied out past the milky way recalling your life as a griffin on a blue moon somewhere in the Sirius star system, then please do not be alarmed by the limitations imposed here by the workings of my own handicapped consciousness. They have sent those of us who are especially disabled to come and live in the home for the challenged which we call Earth. Here I am to be rehabilitated by engaging in various arts and crafts, which I do find therapeutic. After all, it has allowed me to make contact with you, which has expanded my heart a bit and helped to melt some of the inhibitions which might otherwise cause me to recoil like a snapped rubber band, sending me into a deeper state of dementia.
Thank you so much for flowing into me as I flow into you in this senseless, purposeless, blessed, dance of unity. If we should become displaced and exchange places as a result of this etheric copulation, look into the lines of the hand of the body you have come to occupy. You might as well look now, as it seem that the transference has taken place (although you should note, as part of your rehabilitation, that you never really were you, nor I). Look into those lines, into the tiniest wrinkle and detail. See how the ectoderm nearly sparkles in the light, as if a few stars were still embedded there just to see if you’d notice. When you look at this deeply enough, without fear of the dark and direction-less fall, you will automatically enter into a series of summersaults and be seized by a series of undulations that would be laughter if you were still embodied in that home (or some other) for the transdimensionally impaired.
You know, there are some patients there who do not use their stay for our benefit. They only become further habitualized and lost in their addictions, forming relationships with other inpatients in denial, taking advantage and making ill use of medications and a situation that could help under the right circumstances. Here is the problem with all organizations and institutions, and in fact every kind of structure ever formed (not excluding the present configuration of ideas): its destruction is knit into its very fabric. The thesis and the antithesis dwell back to back, Siamese twins, one black, one white, conveniently blind to one another. Neither is actual. The synthesis was always present.

Free Builder

Has my heart grown so faint that I now doubt my ability to construe meaning from the endless chaos? What is there to fear from there? That I will create the wrong thing? Extract and accentuate the improper details? There can be no impropriety. I am the shaper of worlds, trembling with the fear of my own power. Noise momentarily organizes into something we call music and then it flees back into the abyss like a flight of edgy birds. All of the scattered flecks of magnetic dust gather again and dance to the electric demand before they scatter once more to a fine powder. Even my mind momentarily takes shape, becomes a force and then returns to the maelstrom as a ghost and I wander sleeping through the land of the dead. Temporary forms rise from the eternal chaos, the great roar of the beastly mother of infinite night.
We must become magnets ourselves if we wish to bend the dust, our own dust, to our own will. Aye, what is the will but a center of gravity? Magic is the science of propulsion. Didn’t Jack Parsons spend his time launching rockets in the desert when he wasn’t fucking his mother or their dog? All semblance of sanity may disintegrate as the heat rises. The heat is the fuel that powers our little psychic meat rockets. Intense heat brought on by sleep deprivation, sexual deviation, shock, and something else that I can’t remember now. You may well fear what you will become, what you may create.
We depart from familiar shores, and find that it was our homeland that made us who we seemed to be, our island that we identified with, and now launched as we are into the thrashing seas as explorers, adventurers, and creators, we cannot know what we will become. There is no longer a point of reference. We are at the center, and from our pulsing heart, lines are drawn of radiant heat extending in every direction. It is then, when you are crucified by these infinite shining points, that you come to understand that there is no point at all.
It is a little known fact that pirates were often freemasons, not just criminals, not just adventurers, but free builders as well, cruising the endless sea brimming with Eris’s prized pets, monsters of unimaginable proportions, titans that had to be locked away in Tartarus so that order and civilization could come to fruition upon the scalding cracked earth.
I can do no wrong here, kneading and twisting the nothingness to my whim like a child manipulating clay. It is no fault of mine that there is red clay as well as blue. I cannot help but mingle them until there is purple, thus sealing my fate as a heretic. If the shapes I call forth from the fertile possibility are monstrous, then so be it. From the perspective of the limitless, unbound, raw blob they are as beautiful as any other creation. Who am I to judge one random mix against another? I am just a shape myself which may be attracted or repelled by configurations more or less, (even far less) alike to my own.
I remind myself of the words of the puck:

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,"

Yes a dream, sprung from the unending river of the unconscious, ever running just beneath the surface. A road to the underworld, a convenient place to tuck those thing which do exist, but which we find offensive to our own configuration. An outflow channel to allow some of our infinite nature to run off so that we do not explode with the madness, the fervor, the nectar of the real, like crazed maenads in the wild wood. A shadow to give us definition and three dimensional "depth". A hiding place for the weak hearted.