The Spear Of Longinus

There is a correlation between the spear of Longinus and the Holy Grail and the penis and the vagina.
Whenever the grail is mentioned I am reminded of the idea that references to the "holy grail" may be references to the womb of Mary Magdalene. It's part of the idea that the Merovingian princes were the descendants of Christ and that "the cup that held Christ's blood" could be a subtle reference to her.
If the grail is the cup that held Christ’s blood, then the spear itself would be Christ, "the anointed one", tearing into matter, penetrating the physical. Just as the spear dips into the body of Jesus, the mythological Jesus Christ is the God that dipped into the body of a man(or woman.) This dipping is the anointing itself.
Rumor is that the ancient kings were anointed by the transformed menstrual substances of the "Goddesses". We can take those goddesses or Anunaki queens to be metaphors for the material, matter, mother, Mary.
To be anointed is to penetrate the physical realm. The kings passing the spear from one generation to the next is symbolic of their Kingship. A king, in the old world sense, is a descendant of God. He is God embodied on earth. He is the spear thrust into the womb of the world. He is the anointed one. It is interesting that even modern monarchs of the British Empire continue to be anointed with Holy oil as part of their coronation ceremonies.
In Evangelion, the spear is thrust out into space and enters orbit around the moon. I would see this as a reversal of this concept. Rather than a being of the higher dimensions penetrating the lower dimensions, in Evangelion it is a being from the lower dimensions penetrating the higher realm. In a sense this would make unit zero the antichrist.
"Antichrist" is the English translation of the original Greek Aντίχριστος. It is made up of two root words, αντί + Χριστός (anti + Christos). "Αντί" can mean not only “against” and “opposite of”, but also “in place of", The Antichrist would then be the one who is in place of the anointed one.
Interesting then, that within the world of Evangelion, Rei, the pilot of unit zero, is a replica of some kind, a place holder for the spirit that moves the body of the Eva. She is also, at that moment when she retrieves the spear and thrusts it toward the moon, replacing Shinji who might be considered to be the actual Christ.
He has just physically become one with his Eva, the spear in the side of the beast, making him the anointed one.

The First Bite

The rulers, high and far from where clay men can see, took counsel with one another and said:

"Come, let us cause a deep sleep to fall upon Adam. Let us cause Adam to fall upon a deep sleep."

And he slept as if the night was never changing, like black was the only color.

Now the deep sleep that they "caused to fall upon him," is Ignorance, for it is darkness without bursts of sound and night without stars.

They opened his side like a living woman. Like a living woman they opened his side and they built up his side with some flesh in place of her, in place of her they built up his side with flesh, and Adam came to be endowed only with soul.

And the spirit-endowed woman came to him and spoke softly with him, saying:

"Arise, Adam."

And when he saw her, he said:

"It is you who have given me life; you will be called, 'mother of the living,’ for it is she who is my mother. It is she who is the physician, and the woman, and she who has given birth."

Then the authorities came up to their Adam, the man they had created with mud and clay and breath. When they saw his female counterpart speaking with him, they became agitated with great bursts of heat that flowed through them, pulsing with desire that called itself anger. They became enamored of her, wishing themselves inside her, seeking a great hole in her flesh as they had done with Adam. They said to one another:

"Come, let us sow our seed in her!"

And they pursued her. Into madness and the abyss they pursued her, into the jungles of twisting vines that form the mind, through the labyrinth that they created. And she laughed at them for their witlessness and their blindness; and in their fierce clutches, in the dark pit where there was no light, she became a thick tree and left before them her shadowy reflection resembling herself; and they defiled it foully, filling its cavernous knots with warm seed. They defiled the stamp of her voice, so that by the form they had modeled, together with their own image, they made themselves liable to condemnation.

Then the female spiritual principle came in the snake from the tree which she had become in their clutches. The snake, red and black and shiny. The snake, the instructor, taught them, saying:

"What did he say to you? Was it, 'from every tree in the garden shall you eat; yet - from the tree of recognizing good and evil do not eat'?"

The carnal woman, said:

"Not only did he say 'do not eat', but even, 'do not touch it; for the day you eat from it, with death you are going to die.'"

And the snake, the instructor, said:

"With death you shall not die; for it was out of jealousy that he said this to you. Rather, your eyes shall open and you shall come to be like gods, recognizing evil and good."

And the female instructing principle was taken away from the snake, and she left it behind, merely a thing of the earth, one more shed skin.

And the carnal woman took from the tree and ate; biting past red skin into sweet white flesh, and she gave to her husband as well as herself.

And these beings that possessed only a soul, ate. And their imperfection became apparent in their lack of knowledge; and they recognized that they were naked of the spiritual element, that they were bare. They took fig leaves and bound them upon their loins, hiding their raw form.

Thoughtfully, Beautifully

The problem is the music putting ideas into their heads, words not their own running in lines like trains along tracks, tracks all forged in the simple melodies of these songs. All of my thoughts have been cooked out of my head, my senses dulled by the sun blazing on and on. The people made in the music and baked in the sun lay around wondering vaguely how they came to be at the bottom of the valley. Dressing their dogs up and wearing the least possible amount of clothing themselves, these Southern Californians run on iced coffee and sex. These are the two lures that get them to race through the course like lanky long faced gray hounds after the rabbit. Is there a story in there somewhere? Or is it only a poem? A verse in the song that makes us, an incoherent stream of experience, one line of code, pure data in the form of color and sound. The sweet bitter taste of coffee and cinnamon, the scent of vanilla body wash rising from heated skin bronzing under the solar disc rolling overhead, Apollo driving his chariot over water and earth without compromise.
Why don’t we all sit together and make our own song? After all, we’ll all soon be bones or ash and it won’t matter where the broom was or who opened the window while the air conditioner was running. Such resentment because life hasn’t been made thoughtfully, beautifully, but has rather happened to us when we should have happened to it. A sword slicing through a piece of blue sky like a knife through lemon meringue pie, purposeful, unrelenting like the tap, tap, of a wood peckers bill into the trunk of a tree. Bit by bit, measure by measure, taken in careful steps laden with the intent to savor and cherish. That was the way to do it, but we schlepped through it, clinging to vague ideas, promises regarding tomorrow and other distant futures that could never arrive because the first steps would never be taken and someone else would be blamed for the inaction.
What is missing is not a something that can be held in sweaty hands. All we will ever need, the most glorious thing we could ever obtain is already here and we are closed to it, blind to the wealth that is real and irrevocable; this liberty that is mind, this river that is love and never ceases to flow.
The problem is the music putting ideas into their heads, words not their own, words that tell us what should be, what could be, but never what is. Where is the rejoicing? The explosion of self that is being all that I am in this moment with lungs and heart and brain pouring pure poetry and hands that can do. It is our hands that give us some unusual potential as makers. But what good are makers that take no action, that never make?
Creators that do not create are something else, listening to the lyric that someone else wrote as if it were absolute, this reality the only reality. These are consumers, the walking dead, with tiny dogs in purses and the urge to create subverted so that all they really need to get by is a jar of Vaseline and a stack of pornographic magazines, and ideally some one to stick it into or to take it from, words not their own running in lines like trains along tracks, senses dulled by the sun blazing on and on.
Whatever happened to the darkness, the womb where things are allowed to gestate and come to fruition? There is no room for creation in the endless prying light. All things skim by on the surface, racing towards the future on the tracks forged in the simple melodies of this popular song. When will we all meet in the darkness, within the depths below? Shall we really wait until there is nothing left of us but bone or ash? Is it then not too late to last and love? To persist and adore? Is it then not too late to sing our own song, to use our hands for something more challenging than instant gratification?
That song, the resentment in that voice, the sad helplessness of flesh trapped within the life unlived, sagging with age, the bitter threat to run away once again. Time runs out. All songs happen through time, all songs begin and end. It is the little flourishes in between that count the most.
Did we make it ours? Live up to our deepest nature as makers? Or did we let it rush by on those rails that were supplied by the manufacturer, let it rush by only to make bone and ash, bitter sweet taste of coffee and cinnamon, blue sky un-sliced?
It should have been made thoughtfully, beautifully, and without compromise. It should have been made in the dark. It should have been our own.

In Between

Something stuck in between worlds is lurking in the halls of dream. Something shapeless that takes shape, whatever shape is handy. Something that has been waiting through the abysmal lurching of time, growing colder and lonelier, now reaches out a twisted hand to grasp at something other than itself. Something warm to cling to. Something warm to crawl through, to devour slowly from the inside. A new shape to take with the force of Princes and warriors and beasts of the wild, those things beyond morality, those
things which take what they need without asking, without hesitation or remorse. Something that glides between the waking and the dreaming moment, a silent thief, a beggar, a suitor, a seducer. It offers you the cold run of eternity in exchange for the hot fleeting passion of a moment. “Let me have your moment.”, it begs, “And I will give you forever.” The stillness, the quiet, the darkness of eternity, for a glaring flash of heat and movement, a wild cacophonous dance through the temporary. If you take that twisted hand, if you take your place as one of death’s concubines, one of those many shapes it penetrates for a moment and is then left as cold and wanting of heat as ever, you join in that torpid waiting, the waiting of the spider for the next wriggling thing that may pass your way. You, now the something in between. You, now the emptiness. You, now the loneliness, the cold. You waiting through the abysmal lurching of time, waiting for some hot live other to submit to your ravenous kiss. Longing to inhabit that ephemeral world of the dream which melts under your caress like vapors of steam blown away by a wind. When you touch it, it becomes as you are, real, emptiness, vast and cold. Still you cannot be without it, you, neither wholly of one state or another, are doomed to lurk in the mist, taking whatever shape is available at the time. Seeking heat, seeking movement, seeking that which you lack, wriggling your way slowly, one conquest after another, through the world of shape, color and form like a worm through an apple. You cannot touch the mists without changing them, you cannot be without that touching, that taking. An eater of dreams, an eater of life, a shape shifting something making its way desperately through the myriad of forms as the infant wriggles through the birth canal, or the soldier over the charred and blood soaked battlefield. You will take what you need. That is the only law. You will be whatever you have become. You will struggle to exist and you will change shapes as necessary. You will be forever longing, forever reaching, forever struggling.

BOOM

All of that careful work, the seeds you gathered for the harvest, painstakingly filling your little gunny sack, careful to brush the dirt away and separate seed from stone and branch and refuse, all of that effort applied to accumulating and the accumulating itself leads to a precarious position. Each day you have made efforts to contain the energy of life, taking care not to raise your voice or titter and twirl like a squirrel on caffeine, abstaining from orgasm, and carefully taking measures to accumulate more, and more, and more. More fuel for the rocket ship, more fuel for your work, but it is so much more than you have ever had in your life, it is so much more than others going about their days and their lives have ever held in their sack. It is exciting, dizzying, tempting, difficult to bear. As the sack grows full, you wobble and weave under the weight, you are intoxicated by its volume. You may feel teeth chattering excitement, or you may feel as powerful as a Titan. If you indulge in sorrow then every seed will back you up with the power of plutonium. If anger comes a knocking and you try it on for size, then every drop of the energy you have accumulated may flow into the bulging veins of wrath. The seeds will apply themselves to whatever vice you apply yourself to, and the machine, the mechanism for harvesting will supply an endless array of dead end distractions on which you can blow your hard earned savings. The trouble, terrible trouble is that you must not only accumulate but apply the energy accumulated to a suitable task. All that fuel pooled together in a barrel is nothing special until you put it in the rocket, and the rocket is no good if it has no navigational system, no link to mission control. A moon launch would go horribly wrong if the computer running the mechanical functions of the ship suddenly feels it would be better to head for the sun or take a dip in the sea, because after all who the fuck needs mission control, I AM THE ROCKET. Naturally it leads to disaster. The operating system is not the rocket, it is part of the rocket just as mission control is not the rocket, but it is meant to be a part of the operation. A link between mission control and the operating system must be clearly established and maintained so that Mission Control can guide the rocket to uncharted territories. The energy accumulated for voyaging must be utilized properly for the voyage and not be allowed to pool up by that guy with the cigarette dangling from his lip glowering at the whole thing and muttering that space travel is not possible, and who gives a damn anyway, and someday I’ll be the one in charge, and BOOM!

Biological Creation

They used to tell the boys in the villages, in the places where the dark forests reached in behind the city walls to snag unattended children and little lambs and chickens, that it was a dark magick and should be feared. They didn’t need to be told, they saw the blood and it filled them with dread, a terrible sickness, a curse of some kind had come to claim their mothers and their sisters. They knew this. They never forgot it. Even when the moon was a silver sliver hanging in the darkened sky and the women were clean and the blood no longer flowed from between their legs, they knew that some dark magic lived there, they knew it, and they feared it and they longed to touch it. Only warriors, men who spilled blood in open fields and lived arm in arm with death and open wounds could consort with women without fear. Warriors and whores could keep each other in the truest company, forgiving of each others’ gruesome sins. Farmers and shepherds who spent all of their live long days in opposition to death could never love women like warriors did, and the wives of shepherds and farmers could never be women the way whores were, and the boys who were frightened by warnings and signs of blood would grow to be tillers of the land and herdsmen, while those who were unafraid would quarrel over women and love them and leave them and fight the wars of little lords in possession of crumbling estates, or they might seek out the alchemists and apothecaries of the wide world and learn some dark magick of their own. Women who weren’t whores and weren’t content to sweep the floor of a thatch cottage and milk a cow and birth one child after another and show no sign of enjoying lovemaking with their husbands… such women were witches, witches who sneaked beyond the city walls at night so that they could touch their dark magick in the wild places like the other wild things do, away from the eyes of the people who fear darkness and chaos and danger. They would whirl around bonfires and eat strange things and ride upon their broomsticks and love one of the old gods of the forest that couldn’t resist such a rumpus and then steal away back to their straw mattresses before the cock crowed and dawn glimmered golden with the promises of day. Then they would sweep the floor with eyelids half shut and milk the cows until they fell asleep leaning on their flanks, and they would hold still for their husbands at dusk but drink the potions that would prevent inception, and wait for their next gathering.

Spelunking With Papa Bear

"You’ve got to hi de hi, you’ve got to ho de ho, you’ve got to he de he de he, to get along with me!" The old man in the mountain, he wants one thing and the little lady she wants another, but the old man always gets his way because he’s bigger and his beard is longer. He just slaps his big feet around on the cave floor and asks: ”Whatcha gonna do now?" And in a lilting voice she wiggles her hips and says: "I’m gonna do the best I can."
So he chases her round and around through the twinning tunnels that twist through the mountains guts. They run over little bridges that hang over dark abysses, and down paths that grow narrower and narrower and sometimes disappear under pools where pale frogs croak and swim after glow-in-the-dark minnows. They run through hallways were fungi grow on the walls and turn their caps in their direction as they fly past. Just rubbing up against this fungal federation is enough to send the body into shock, it has so much to say in the language of light and so few people come down into the dark to rub it and lick it and listen to its incredible story.
The old man and the little woman squeeze their arms close to their bodies and rush by so that they won’t be drawn into a conversation that could take an eternity and change the course of evolution forever. Whoosh, they whiz through tunnels like hamsters scurrying through plastic tubes. She is always just a step or two ahead, barely defending her lead, and his big hand reaches out, groping the space between them, waiting for the moment to come when she will fall back into his hands.
On they go, deeper and deeper, down staircases that spiral into the earth’s core like a corkscrew. They swing over pits of molten lava and disappear down ramps of bright red adobe. Lucifer is pitching a shovel full of coal into the fire, his tail a-twitching. As they pass, he waves courteously, and grinning, he puts his back into it, heave ho, in goes coal and the flames dance up higher than ever, wiggling their indistinct hips and bosoms.
The heat is intense, and the old man is slowed down just a little bit more than the young woman, so she manages to put a few extra feet between them, but the sweat is running into her eyes and making her hair and dress cling to her body. Squish, with every step the perspiration that has pooled down in their socks is squeezed out under the pressure of a foot to leave little wet prints.
The heat slowly diminishes as they journey through a corridor that slopes steeply uphill. Neither can run at this point, both parties walk huffing and puffing, grabbing onto little roots that protrude from the dirt walls to prevent themselves from loosing their footing and tumbling backwards into the broiling flames behind them. Wheezing and hanging their heads between their legs, they catch their breath when the ground levels out and a colony of little brown rabbits hops by on its way to the surface, brushing up against their ankles as they go, strong bucks, plump does and downy soft little youngster all wrinkling their noses and twitching their ears.
The little woman doesn’t know it, but these rabbits work for the old man, so when she coos, "Oh how cute!”, and reaches down to pet them, they hold perfectly still and act as if they enjoy it, staring up with dewy little eyes that glisten in the darkness. Then, whoosh, the old man leaps forward and catches her by the hair. Still holding on tight, he uses his other hand to pull bunches of baby carrots from his bearskin smock and rewards the bunnies for a job well done. They giggle gleefully and hip hop away.
"Ooooh!" the little lady exclaims in an endearingly angry little voice, sweet on the surface, smoldering at the core. The old man drags her the rest of the way home, singing, "You’ve got to hi de hi, you’ve got to ho de ho, you’ve got to he de he de he, to get along with me!"

Dark Moon

Don’t you know? At the core, I’m still this little dual gendered blondie in short black dresses and you can see my panties when I bend over to help the little kids at the table. I’m still hot for girls that are hot for girls and hot for boys that wear dresses and swing on swings and girls that wear mustaches and men in tall black hats and anything tall and black in general with hair all over its body. I like things that want to go where they’re not supposed to go and go there anyway. Who says it’s not okay to crawl around the dark side of the moon with your panties off and a big black dog sniffing at your crack while the stars spin round and round singing "wheeeee!" and the fabric of the universe goes "crack!’ And the black man’s head splits open and wrigley green things come out and it isn’t clear whether they are many long separate wrigglies or all appendages of one hidden thing with wagging tentacles.
I still like the desert all hot and bare with broken Indians on the side of the road selling hot pink butterfly necklaces to people that pass by in white sedans on their way to some other place. I like cacti with their prickly hairs even though a little one bit me when I was just two years old. I said, "Can I pet you?" and it said "Yes." and I reached a soft trusting little finger down intending to be as gentle as possible, but it bit me anyway. My mother had warned me. Sadly I do so much that my mother would warn me against if only she knew there were such things to do. Luckily, for her peace of mind, she can’t imagine them, so she can’t worry about the things I do where no one can see, down in the cracks of all that gray matter tucked neatly under my scalp.
I’d like to be strangled to death some day. I know that I would be nice at first and then even though I want to be strangled, I’m sure that as my mechanical creation begins to realize that something must be done or its day is done, I imagine I’ll start to fight against my own will, wriggling and flopping like a long legged blonde fish.
I did have a boy once that one hot summer day come up into my bedroom where the curtains were drawn to keep out the sun. We were both a little wet so I dropped off my clothes right in front of him and I could see that he liked it and I put on something else while he watched and then I asked him if he would wear a soft pink dress I had in the closet and he did it. He wasn’t the kind of boy that I would have pictured doing it, not lithe with long hair and a penchant for wearing eye liner. No, he was husky and short haired with eyes that bulged out like those of a goldfish, and he had hair on his belly and on his back, but he put on that soft stretchy powder pink dress of mine and I liked it very, very much and no real boy has ever done that for me since.
There was a bearded lady though, that I used to fuck with a strap-on, and when I was away at work one day she took off all of her boy clothes, which she wore because she liked to fool everyone around her, and she put on my dress without asking me, and went into the bathroom and played with herself in front of the mirror and took pictures with her camera phone and then posted them on My Space for everyone to see. I checked my email at work and was pissed off when I saw those pictures posted since it was my dress and she hadn’t asked. The worst day ever with her was when she came home with her beard shaved off and her face all smooth and youthful and it scared me and I didn’t like it because she didn’t look like a devil anymore, but I tried not to freak out too much. However, I’m sure she thought that I acted funny and asked too many questions about it.
Nobody knows how I am exactly, and if you’re reading this, you might think that I’m some cool chic that wears lots of dark eye make-up and a lace up bodice, but I’m wearing a turtle neck sweater and a pink rabbit ear cap and even I forget most of the time just how queer I am while I try to make small talk with the soccer moms in front of the school. And I’m sure that if she read this, that soccer mom would feel all the skin on her body get all puckered up with goose pimples and a hot chill would run up through her middle and it would feel as if her heart were trying to fold in on itself and she would be afraid and wonder what kind of horrible person I am and what terrible things I might have done that I’m not mentioning.
But in reality, I’m probably one of the safest people she could be around, because everyone visits the dark side of the moon when they sleep, many sleep even as they walk, but they forget what goes on in the dark side or they pretend that they’ve never been. But I can see all of that junk in my trunk and run my fingers through it and watch it and pet it and then come back well informed about the dangers that lurk deep within, but some sleep walkers start to do things without noticing that they’re doing them, because the dark side wants to bubble over after they’ve kept a lid on it for so long.
Me, I just want to dance and sing and say crazy things and make crazy things in my own image and then disappear into the deep dank soil when my time is up and be remembered by the worms when they eat me and then fly through the void as a screeching streak of magenta. There may be more to it than I can imagine, but I won’t worry about it now.
For now, I tell you to listen up- if you are a boy you should try on a dress, and if you’re a girl you should stick your hand down another girls blouse, and if you’re a dog you should high tail it out of here before I think of something perverse for you to do (and stop reading blogs because it freaks people out when they come home and find their dog looking at porn on the internet and it’s even worse if they catch you researching metaphysics). I innocently stumbled upon some very dirty but harmless images on the web myself the other day, and now things occur to my imagination that never did before. So the same will start happening to you, (whether you’re a boy, a girl, or a dog) in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

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.

Experiment: Sexual Cycle

Obtain a pill box with a compartment for every day of the week. You will also need a bag of sunflower seeds and a package of raisins. You may decorate the pill box with paint, glue, sequins or anything else that will give it purposeful significance.
For the next week you will keep track of every time you become sexually aroused by placing a sunflower seed in the compartment which corresponds with the present day of the week. If you experience arousal three times on Monday, there should be three seeds in the compartment reserved for Monday. Every time you achieve orgasm you will place a raisin in the appropriate compartment. If you were aroused three times on Monday, and had an orgasm after becoming aroused each time, you will have three seeds and three raisins in the compartment designated for Monday.
If you were aroused in the morning but got up and dressed for the day without having an orgasm, then at lunch caught site of a lingerie billboard that excited you but returned to work without having had an orgasm and finally came home and saw something on TV that got you all heated up once more and you masturbated or engaged in sexual congress with another resulting in an orgasm, then you will have three sunflower seeds and one raisin in the compartment for that day.
Be honest and accurate. At the end of the week examine the contents of each compartment and compare the ratio of seeds to shriveled fruits for each day.

Take It Bitch

The Gods created mankind to labor on their behalf, manufacturing substances the Gods themselves were incapable of producing. But really, who is the servant and who is the master? It is a mutually beneficial relationship.
The magician and his golem must make their way to further their mutual existence. Creator and creator cannot be separate. The created serves as an extension of the original.
What in the hell are you doing with your life? Racing to the grave as if human existence is an all you can eat buffet? The main objective: gratify bestial cravings quickly before 70 short years lands you six feet under.
Is that all?
No don’t look for Daddy or even Mommy. The Gods aren’t here to take care of you. They are here to live in you, to devour you.
What? What am I talking about?
I’m talking about sex, baby. That’s right, sex from the abyss. Something unknowable, the opposite of your biological self with its pathetic shelf life, is seeking to penetrate you, change you, become one with you.
The way that you relate to other earthlings of the opposite gender illustrates your relationship with the divine.
Is it even a relationship?
Any relationship requires an open heart, a willingness to abandon identification with the perceived self.
Where there is love, there is no fear.
Were there is fear, well darling, that’s not love. Love is not a human emotion. It is liquid fire coursing through the veins of an enormous many tentacled state of being. Fear of death, fear of change, and the fear of pain, chain us to life as worms- crawling around in the dirt, afraid to face the sun and the fierce winged things.
But here, dear friend, is a reminder: you will die sooner than you think, you will change states nightly, and suffering is eternal.
My suggestion?
Get fucking used to it. These things alone are certain. Be a mad dog and face the inescapable. Take it like a good little bitch.

Alchemical Marriage

The creature from the deep needs a surface dweller to beget life.
Each lives an existence that is lacking, inhabiting one realm and powerless in another. If they may combine, the product would be a being that hails from both worlds; the eternal and the apparent.
What could such a prince do? One that is the embodiment of the union of spirit and flesh, the holy and the profane, would access a territory that we of mortal origins can scarcely fathom.
What lies beyond the horizon of the known?
Only the dragon born, one that is the serpent with wings, can come to know the kingdom. All others will be blind to it. They cannot see beyond the invisible boundaries that hold them in place, past the limitation of death. To that which can die, that which cannot will appear alien, monstrous, and unnatural. And yet, only the product of the marriage of opposites can offer progress and the furtherance of Real Life.

Experiment: Ad Infinitum

Place the tip of your tongue on the roof of your mouth just behind your front teeth.
Contract your perineum, the muscle located between the genitals and the anus. This may be achieved by contracting the anus itself.
Breathe through your nose and feel the energy flow through your body from crown to perineum then up your back to the crown again.
Technically the energy flows through your legs as well. After traveling down the front of your body to the perineum the current runs down the back of your legs, up the front of your legs to the perineum again and up your spine to the crown, like a figure eight.
Circulate the energy through your body in this way for a few moments daily, particularly when you are feeling sexually aroused.