Evil Queens and Dwarves

I have little to say about the nature of dwarves or evil queens.  I have little to say. I say little.
In regards to dwarves, they are very little if you are bigger than they and quite large if you should happen to be smaller. Evil queens are generally old. That’s all. They want to be beautiful again, and powerful. They don’t care about love because they know better now. They want to be in charge.
Dwarves may sometimes be the servants of evil queens or sometimes they are her enemies. They are fickle folk that way. I imagine that if an evil queen showed up and cleaned their house they’d help her hunt down and kill that pesky maiden with the lips as red as blood and skin as pale as snow.
Evil queens are practitioners of magic. Put  simply, they are witches.
Good queens die in labor or mourn when their children are abducted, or die without mention of the cause. They are disposable.
A word about Kings. They often marry evil queens after their good queen dies. They are generally dupes, loosing their kingdom or wealth to dwarves, wandering soldiers, and evil queens (not to mention witches who never become queens). Only their sons are clever, though generally not as clever as wandering soldiers, millers’s sons, tailors, or talking cats.
Princesses are always fair and must choose between two possible additional virtues; being clever or being kind. (There is a strong possibility that clever princesses will end as evil queens one day.)
Two out of every four princesses  are destined to fall into a sleep like death. (They are usually the kind ones.)
Princes often need the help of  witches or dwarves to get anything done. Witches who help princes and princesses are usually called “good” witches. Nobody feels it’s necessary to call the dwarves “good” dwarves.
(From this one may deduce that the default setting of dwarves is neutral whereas witches are all wicked unless proven to be “good.”)
This is what I know of the nature of dwarves and evil queens. I have said little. I had little to say.

Les Iris

I had a poster of a Vincent van Gogh painting, les iris, when I was a freshman in high school. The colors were bright and easy to be absorbed into. It had been rolled in a tube so that its deepest desire now was to curl up once again and sleep in a dark cylindrical womb, but I crucified it mercilessly to the walls with four brass thumbtacks and lay on my day bed and stared into the green and brown and purple blue.
My father disliked it. He even told me that I would go crazy if I kept that poster in my room. Maybe he was right, or maybe the poster was a symptom rather than a cause of insanity, or maybe the poster was completely innocent and uninvolved with madness of any kind, or at least far less involved than my father himself.
But I did lay there and gaze at the poster in silence and through tears. Sometimes from the floor where I lay on the carpet by the door I tried not to breathe, willing my heart to stop beating, begging fate and pleading with my body for death while smelling the paint that made my walls and the door so bright white and seeing les iris shivering on the wall.
What else was on my walls? That poster had only two companions, a Greek orthodox wooden crucifix with a sad Jesus bleeding artistically, and a golden plaque with the lord’s prayer inscribed on its surface. My father may have asked me what I was doing with those on my wall too, because we were not Christians, or at least he was not, even though he had sent me to a Christian school so that I could get a taste of religion and morality.
Jesus was there because I found him in a strange store full of such artifacts and I had thought it was beautiful. I had never seen a Jesus like that before, a Jesus that looked as though he had come from a mosaic in a Byzantine cathedral. It was intriguing to me to see Jesus in a way that had never been presented to me. Christians in my little piece of American hell displayed and wore crosses, but you never saw Jesus dangling from that ornament.
This was the part that they were referring to and hiding with their clean crosses; the bloody man slowly dying while crucified. This was what they were really displaying around their necks and on their bumpers and from the brittle hillsides behind their trailers; the torture and suffering of a man, the death of the God who had a body.
The lord’s prayer had been a gift from my grandmother when I was small. She gave it to me when we moved into our first house. Now by merit of its age and its affiliation with someone soft and warm it had earned a place and glittered on my wall.
But by then, by the time les iris had become part of my surroundings, I did not believe that God could hear me or was listening, if it did exist. I did not talk to the long deceased Jesus, I would not allow myself the luxurious comfort of these fantasies.
I was alone and if there was anybody that could understand my plight, it was the Devil, if he existed. At that time, in the madness of les iris, when I did consider that Our Heavenly Father was waiting in heaven with his milky white and passive son, I was determined to rail against their regime. I was sympathetic to Lucifer.
I knew what it was like to be misunderstood, to fall from grace with the father. I knew what it was like to be demonized for one’s differences. I knew what it was like to love the trees and the wild things and prize them above the walls and rules of society. I knew what it was like to fall.
When I wasn’t hoping to die, when I had given up on taking my disfigured presence out of the world, then I prepared for battle. I sat on my bed facing les iris and wrote on notebook paper my arguments on the devil’s behalf. I wrote stories about those who were different than the rest of the flock or I read books about those who went on living despite their “wicked” natures. I delved into the squirming lines of the flowers and earth and green stems and convinced myself that I too should live, writhing and screaming if necessary, but live, rather than go the way of the sad pale withering Christ, good and nice to the last drop.

The Pure Being

The pure being, the no mind, the formless plain of pure knowledge belongs to the Dragon. This we call the awakened state.
To be an element within a dream world that stimulates lucidity is to be a force for evil. That which contributes to awakening goes against the nature of sleep. All spiritual work is evil, otherwise it is not spiritual work at all, but rather trickery.
It is in the best interest of the dream that the elements of the dream lack self awareness and presence. Therefore the dream will do its best to ensnare the awakened element, seduce it back into a peaceful or tormented slumber.
One awakened agent can disturb the entire dream to the point of ending it.
Engaging in spiritual work may bring about the end of the world. This happens eventually anyway, the end of the world that is, whether it is your fault or not. If you have worked well in one dream world and gathered enough presence you may continue in the next. If not, you evaporate with the rest of the dream.
Immortality has to be worked for, it is unnatural.
You won’t experience immortality as a result of being "good" and not disrupting the dream.
The meek will inherit the earth and rot there, six feet under. Meanwhile there is no rest for the wicked.
Resist the pull of sweet sister sleep and live evil.
If you don’t, someone else will, over and over and over again.

What is so “wicked” about playing records backwards?

Good and Evil are subject to the opinion of the majority.
Anything that moves against the current will be perceived as evil, as sinister.
The Sinister or Left Hand path is a movement against the tide of automatic organic life.

If the mechanical organic human creation is the equivalent of the Shakti current, then we would say it is positively charged. The otherworldly immortal presence would then be the Shiva current and would be negatively charged.

Positive and negative describe the way the electrical current flows from one polarity to the other, whether it is coming or going, attracting or repelling.
The use of these two terms must not be confused with morality of any kind.
Positive is not in this case a synonym for good, negative is not a synonym for evil.

You could say then that the Sinister way involves reversing the flow of electricity so that Shakti adores Shiva rather than letting him rain down upon her.