Die geheimen Tagebücher von einer verderbten Existenz

Behind these gates you will hear my thoughts screaming like nerves under the sun and feel my emotion laughing to the empty ether.
Welcome Dear Wanderer, make yourself at home.
The road is long and tortuous and I hope you enjoy yourself.

Fraternally Yours,
Poison Creeper

Friday, 25 December 2009

Lydia Lunch/Exene Cervenka from Rude Hieroglyphics

I am sick to death of sudo alternative lifestylers; who just have to get pierced and tattooed for instant credibility, yet somehow still manage to buy the lie, get married move to the suburb and then????.. breed?????

Now, I can assure you there are no wedding rings on my hands, there are certainly no stretch marks on my belly or on my thighs for shitting out a watermelon;

I mean as a new vanity item, I mean someone to love me in my old age, I mean someone to love the way I was never loved, someone to take care of you, you know that unconditional love, you know, someone who?s probably gonna grow up to hate your fucking guts, after you have spent the entire life swages just to feed clothes and house the little fucking shit and you know what ? Can you blame the kids for hating their parents most of you still hate your fucking parents, living or dead!

And both of my parents are dead and I still fucking hate them because afterall they are the ones that brought me into this endless holocaust of human suffering.

And you know the next war, in this country, unfortunately I don?t have much faith that is gonna be civil or a sexual war I think it?s gonna be a generational war, I think it?s gonna be all the babies of all the babies having babies who are gonna grow up in an environment so overrun of violence and hatred and prejudice that war is just gonna be second nature.

Killing is gonna be done out of convenience or boredom and family values as practiced by my favourite american folk heroes: the Menendez brothers

It?s what is gonna come down at the dinner tables when there isn?t enough food to feed the hungry little leeches that should have never been born in the first fucking place.

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

Today - the End of the Elder Month for the Celts

The moon is perhaps humankind's oldest form of marking time. According to some scholars, the Celts used a Lunar Calendar that consisted of 13 months, each 28 days in length. Each month of the Celtic Lunar calendar bears the name of a tree, which also stands for one of the consonants in the Celtic 'tree alphabet'. There are basically two different versions of this Lunar calendar: the Beth-Luis-Nion (which begins on the Winter Solstice) and the Beth-Luis-Fearn (which begins on Samhain). I work with the Beth-Luis-Nion simply because it seems to work the best for my style of Witchcraft.

Beth-Luis-Nion version of The Celtic Tree calendar
B - Beth, the Birch Month (December 24th - January 20th)
L - Luis, the Rowan Month (January 21st - February 17th)
N - Nion, the Ash month (February 18th - March 17th)
F - Fearn, the Alder Month (March 18th - April 14th)
S - Saille, the Willow Month (April 15th - May 12th)
H - Huath, the Hawthorn Month (May 13th - June 9th)
D - Duir, the Oak Month (Jun 10th - July 7th)
T - Tinne, the Holly Month (July 8th - August 4th)
C - Coll, the Hazel Month (August 5th - September 1st)
M - Muin, the Vine Month (September 2nd - September 29th)
G - Gort, the Ivy Month (September 30th - October 27th
Ng - Ngetal, the Reed Month (October 28th - November 24th)
R - Ruis, the Elder Month (November 25th - December 23rd)
The five vowels I, A, O, U, and E have corresponding tree names to the nights of the solstices and equinoxes:

I - Idho, the Night of the Yew, Winter Solstice Eve
A - Ailm, the Night of the Silver Fir, Winter Solstice
* - Herb too sacred to have a Celtic name, the Night of Mistletoe, Day after Winter Solstice
O - Onn, the Night of the Gorse Bush, Spring Equinox
U - Ura, the Night of the Heather, Summer Solstice
E - Eadha, the Night of the White Poplar, Alban Elfed or Autumnal Equinox
Birch, 1st Moon of the Celtic Year - (Dec 24 - Jan 21)
Rowan, 2nd Moon of the Celtic Year - (Jan 22 - Feb 18)
Ash, 3rd Moon of the Celtic Year - (Feb 18 - March 17)
Alder, 4th Moon of the Celtic Year - (March 18 - April 14)
Willow, 5th Moon of the Celtic Year - (April 15 - May 12)
Hawthorn, 6th Moon of the Celtic Year - (May 13 - June 9)
Oak, 7th Moon of the Celtic Year - (June 10 - July 7)
Holly, 8th Moon of the Celtic Year - (July 8 - Aug 4)
Hazel, 9th Moon of the Celtic Year - (Aug 5 - Sept 1)
Vine, 10th Moon of the Celtic Year - (Sept 2 - Sept 29)
Ivy, 11th Moon of the Celtic Year - (Sept 30 - Oct 27)
Reed, 12th Moon of the Celtic Year - (Oct 28 - Nov 24)
Elder, 13th Moon of the Celtic Year - (Nov 25 - Dec 23)
Furze, Tree of the Spring Equinox (Aprox. March 20)
Heather, Tree of the Summer Solstice (Aprox. June 20)
Poplar, Tree of the Fall Equinox - (Aprox. September 22)
Yew, Tree of the day before the Winter Solstice (Aprox. December 21)
Fir, Tree of the day of the Winter Solstice
Mistletoe, Tree of the day after the Winter Solstice (Aprox. December 23)
Year of Moons, Season of Trees by Pattalee Glass-Koentop
Tree Medicine Tree Magic by Ellen Evert Hopman
A Druid's Herbal by Ellen Evert Hopman
Celtic Astrology by Helena Paterson
Glamoury - Magic of the Celtic Green World by Steve Blamires
The Book of Druidry by Ross Nichols

from: http://www.dutchie.org/Tracy/tree.html

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

The Three Beggars - From Antichrist the Film - hints and informations

Nature is actually one of the main characters here, with the aforementioned deer symbolising fertility mixed with death (the clue is her dead young bambi hanging from her vulva): the fox symbolising lucidity and tasked with warning of the rule of chaos - "CHAOS RULES!" he shouts at one point; and then there’s the crow, potentially riffing on the regeneration mythos of The Crow (great film) transfiguring death through decomposition and stubborn clinging to life.

The film unfolds in a series of titled chapters – ‘Grief’ is the first and follows the crushing repercussions of the parents trying (and failing in her case) to come to terms with the grief. Fortunately, or not so actually, the father is a psychotherapist who wants to try his hand at therapy on his wife… Not necessarily a good idea…

This leads to the chapter – ‘Pain’ (Chaos Reigns) where go back to the cabin in the woods where she went to write her thesis on the way that the church has traditionally victimised women – especially those who they deemed overly sexual or powerful (witches?).

The chapters – ‘Despair’ (Gynocide) and – ‘The Three Beggars’ wrap up this veritable freak show in a swirling descent into madness with graphic violence. You’ll squirm, you’ll cringe and possibly like one viewer in the screening I saw this at shout “You’ve got to be F88king joking!” This isn’t a feel good or easy film to watch – most of what you might have heard about the self mutilation and general hardcore grimness is warranted, is it overkill? Is the director simply trying to see how far you can go on screen? Quite possibly…

Perhaps reading The Three Beggars, by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), in full will help your comprehension of the film – so here it is:

"Though to my feathers in the wet,
I have stood here from break of day.
I have not found a thing to eat,
For only rubbish comes my way.
Am I to live on lebeen-lone?'
Muttered the old crane of Gort.
"For all my pains on lebeen-lone?'

King Guaire walked amid his court
The palace-yard and river-side
And there to three old beggars said,
"You that have wandered far and wide
Can ravel out what's in my head.
Do men who least desire get most,
Or get the most who most desire?'
A beggar said, "They get the most
Whom man or devil cannot tire,
And what could make their muscles taut
Unless desire had made them so?'
But Guaire laughed with secret thought,
"If that be true as it seems true,
One of you three is a rich man,
For he shall have a thousand pounds
Who is first asleep, if but he can
Sleep before the third noon sounds."
And thereon, merry as a bird
With his old thoughts, King Guaire went
From river-side and palace-yard
And left them to their argument.
"And if I win,' one beggar said,
'Though I am old I shall persuade
A pretty girl to share my bed';
The second: "I shall learn a trade';
The third: "I'll hurry' to the course
Among the other gentlemen,
And lay it all upon a horse';
The second: "I have thought again:
A farmer has more dignity.'
One to another sighed and cried:
The exorbitant dreams of beggary.
That idleness had borne to pride,
Sang through their teeth from noon to noon;
And when the sccond twilight brought
The frenzy of the beggars' moon
None closed his blood-shot eyes but sought
To keep his fellows from their sleep;
All shouted till their anger grew
And they were whirling in a heap.

They mauled and bit the whole night through;
They mauled and bit till the day shone;
They mauled and bit through all that day
And till another night had gone,
Or if they made a moment's stay
They sat upon their heels to rail,,
And when old Guaire came and stood
Before the three to end this tale,
They were commingling lice and blood
"Time's up,' he cried, and all the three
With blood-shot eyes upon him stared.
"Time's up,' he eried, and all the three
Fell down upon the dust and snored.

`Maybe I shall be lucky yet,
Now they are silent,' said the crane.
`Though to my feathers in the wet
I've stood as I were made of stone
And seen the rubbish run about,
It's certain there are trout somewhere
And maybe I shall take a trout
but I do not seem to care.'

More on the Original Post HERE

Confessions of a Nihilist by William Starr Moake

Confessions of a Nihilist
by William Starr Moake



My father was a hypocrite. When I turned eight, he made a big show of promising never to use physical punishment with me again. He said I was too old to be spanked like a small child. Two years later, after I broke some windows in a garage I thought was abandoned, he kicked me down a flight of stairs. I was so frightened I pissed my pants. He called me a criminal, but of course he was the one who had committed the crime of child abuse. From that point on, I despised him.

The last time I saw him was the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. I had gone through a bitter divorce and was just out of Air Force boot camp when he invited me to visit him and his new wife, Ruth, whom I had never met. I don't know why I went. My father had spent World War II taking certain jobs that exempted him from the draft, but when I balked at the notion of going to Vietnam, he had refused to help me flee to Canada.

"If you don't want to serve your country," he had told me, "then you're no son of mine."

I soon realized the visit was a mistake. My father forced me to wear my uniform and paraded me around town like a proud patriot. I felt like a fool because I hated the Vietnam war. The night of the moon walk my father got very drunk after Ruth went to bed and started harassing me about my recent divorce.

"What happened to your marriage?" he asked. "Weren't you man enough to keep it going?"

He had been married five times, and he knew very well that I divorced my wife because she was unfaithful. When he bragged about seducing a teenage neighbor girl, I couldn't take any more, and something snapped inside me. The next morning before he woke, I told Ruth about his philandering and packed my things to leave. I was backing my car out of the driveway when my father rushed out of the house to stop me.

"You stabbed me in the back," he said incredulously.

"You asked for it," I said and drove away.

After he got sick a few years later, the old hypocrite wrote to tell me that he had found religion and intended to become a preacher. He hadn't seen the inside of a church in fifty years and had spent his entire life ridiculing religion, but now that he was facing his own mortality, he wanted to believe that he had become a religious man. He was so deeply self-deluded it was laughable. When he died, I refused to attend his funeral. Some day I intend to return to my home town and piss on his grave. I only wish he could see me doing it.

My mother was a simple, uneducated woman who always seemed on the verge of hysteria. I loved her as much as a son can love such a mother. She lived in constant fear of what "respectable" people thought of her, not realizing they weren't any better than she was. When she was dying of cancer, she confessed to me that she had never liked herself. I felt like crying when I heard this pathetic admission.

As Nietzsche wrote, what child has not had cause to weep over its parents? I'm glad that I didn't have any children when I was married. In fact, I am the end of two family lines?a curious outcome that I often think about. In my darker moments, I see my life as the culmination of a failed experiment in human genetics. But ninety-eight percent of all species that ever lived on earth are extinct, and if we believe the doomsday scenario advanced by an increasing number of scientists, an asteroid or comet will likewise extinguish human existence sooner or later. It is only a matter of time.

Science has replaced religion in explaining reality, but it is leading mankind down a primrose path. It portrays the universe as unimaginably violent and essentially meaningless. This is bound to have social repercussions. In a film I saw recently, a woman on a crime rampage points a gun at her head when she's trapped by police. She remarks that the universe began with a big bang and pulls the trigger. This was fiction, but the same type of tragedy occurs daily in the real world as the hidden message of science penetrates the collective unconscious of the human race.

I think I was born a nihilist. Of course, the public image of a nihilist is a ridiculous stereotype: rebel without a cause, mad bomber, etc. I am a rebel only in my mind, and I have never purposely injured anyone. In my daily life I lead a quiet existence and conform to most of the idiotic expectations of my fellow man. As one sociologist observed, mores develop a life of their own. Few people actually agree with them, but each person thinks that everyone else does. Thus, a false perception perpetuates a system of rules that practically no one believes in. The origin of human society can be traced to this and other absurdities. Nihilism is the only tenable philosophy that explains the insanity of the modern world. Nihilism declares that nothing has meaning because everything is a lie. This is a message that the average person does not want to hear. It tends to evoke disturbing emotions like uncertainty and fear, and most are too cowardly to accept such a radical truth.

But the truth is all around us, if we only take the time to look honestly. We live in the bloodiest era of human history, and yet people still speak of progress as if they were amnesiacs. I once knew a man who had been a bombardier in World War II. I liked him because he was intelligent, possessed a lively sense of humor and appeared to be compassionate. Recalling his war experiences, he made a startling confession to me. One day his bomber was returning to base with a full bomb load since the target had been obscured by overcast cloud conditions. Landing with bombs still aboard represented an unnecessary risk, and this would also tell the commanding officer that they had failed in their mission. Usually in such a circumstance, they waited until they were over open ocean to discard the bombs. But on this particular day they were flying over one of the Solomon islands when the pilot gave orders to drop the bombs on a native village. The villagers were allies who had helped Americans drive Japanese troops off of the island. Scores of Melanesian people were presumably killed when the bombs destroyed the village.

"Why did you do it?" I asked my friend.

"I don't know," he said. "I guess I was a little crazy."

I think he was wrong in his self-assessment. I'm convinced that any psychiatrist would diagnose him as a well-adjusted individual, and therein lies the horror of our situation. In the modern world we have reached the point where a perfectly normal man can commit an unthinkable atrocity. The Germans were a normal people when they murdered millions of helpless Jews. Contrary to popular myth, war is not a special set of circumstances that alters behavior. The idea of normality is misleading since it excludes the dark side of human nature. All modern people are potential monsters precisely because they live in a condition of denial unknown in the simpler societies of the past.

I think it is necessary to lose your mind in order to grasp the truth about reality. As more than one writer has noted, modern man lives in constant fear of a future catastrophe, oblivious to the fact that the worst has already happened. We fear an unconscious memory of the fall of man. We have lost our humanity, but also the knowledge of this loss. As a result, we live like mad termites, blindly consuming the environment that makes our existence possible. In a fugue state author Philip K. Dick gained the insight that the Roman Empire never ended. It merely shifted locations in space and time and is now called America.

A symptom of our insanity can be found in our attitudes about sexuality. In the modern world sex masquerades as everything except what it really is?a natural function of the human body like eating and excretion. Sex has become a mishmash of romantic delusion, religious prohibition that begs to be violated, stereotyped role playing and the basis of a war between men and women. The typical person is secretly terrified of sex and at the same time compulsively drawn to it for all the wrong reasons. Think of having such feelings about urination and you will see how absurdly far we have strayed from our roots in the animal kingdom.

Sexuality is also a mystery that once served as the foundation of a nature religion. Modern science attempts to explain away the mystery in terms of survival of the species or the glue that holds society together, but this is utter nonsense. No man ever engaged in sex with posterity on his mind. In sexual matters modern people are children groping in the dark and making crude jokes to conceal their ignorance. Only a few writers of the last two centuries have shed light upon the mystery, as if it were not worthy of exploration. D. H. Lawrence understood sexuality as a bridge between people that went far beyond the scope of the conscious mind. His best novel was banned as pornography for portraying sexual relations with an innocent honesty.

For a nihilist like me, overcoming boredom is the supreme challenge. Suicide is always a temptation, and I invent both mental and physical games to keep myself occupied. One cerebral game I often play is called "What If?" For instance, what if reincarnation was real, but karma was not? This is an interesting question because it fits nihilist philosophy and has some rather brazen implications. The inventors of the idea of reincarnation, ancient Hindu and Buddhist thinkers, were careful to saddle it with the notion of karma: behavior had a consequence in future lives. The founders of the Judeo-Christian and Muslim religions had the same motive in creating heaven and hell.

But what if rebirth was a random process that had nothing to do with our actions? What if we could live an exemplary life and still be reborn as a cockroach? Or practice every sort of evil and enjoy a privileged human existence in our next incarnation? Even worse, what if we were doomed to endlessly return as every form of life from a virus to a human? Nietzsche envisioned such a possibility in his theory of eternal recurrence, which holds that everything that can happen has already happened an infinite number of times and will continue repeating forever.

One might wonder what kind of human society could be built on the principle of random reincarnation. Would chaos and anarchy result when people saw no future reward or punishment for actions in their present lives? Oddly enough, we inhabit such a society. Despite a widespread pretense of religious belief, the vast majority of people usually behave as if they had no concern for karma, heaven or hell. They only worry about punishment in this life since we have the police to deal with blatant acts. If it is not a prison offense, they will cheat, lie and swindle their fellow man with no regard for consequences in a future incarnation or afterlife. This is a common practice in business as well as personal relationships. In my entire life I have known only a few people who possessed the courage and intelligence to create their own morality, independent of religious dogma.

I count myself among them.


For the past three months I have been fascinated by a particular woman who was a stranger the first time I saw her. She was sitting at a bus stop I used only occasionally, and I found myself staring at her. It was a windy day, and her auburn hair seemed to dance around her lovely face. Although she was young and attractive, she was far from the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And yet there something special about her that intrigued me at once?an exquisite but indefinable quality that I had encountered before. I experienced the mysterious force of attraction that a man feels towards only a very few of the women he sees. It was not lust?she was rather flat-chested and a little too thin to inspire sexual fantasy. I was reminded of the time I saw an advertisement for jeans on television. My eyes were riveted on one of the several female models who happened to be the least sexy or beautiful of the group.

Why is a man instinctively drawn to a woman whose physical appearance is much less than perfect? Many joke about "sexual chemistry" as if men and women react to each other like laboratory rats. But I am convinced there is a kind of irresistable beauty deeper than the skin but detectable at first glance.

I decided to play one of my games, using the woman at the bus stop as my unwitting subject. In my mind I named her Miss X, after noticing that she wore no wedding ring. While we waited for the bus, I examined her in brief glimpses so I wouldn't appear to be gawking. She had brown hair and blue eyes and looked to be in her mid to late twenties. She wore a dark blue skirt and white blouse and carried a leather handbag. Her makeup was minimal, and she had long slender fingers with neatly-trimmed, unpolished nails. She nervously moved her feet around inside the pumps she wore as if they didn't fit comfortably. She licked her lips and smiled at the older woman sitting next to her on the bench.

When her bus arrived, I got on and took a seat beside her, curious to learn where she was going. I detected the faint odor of a delightful perfume. As we rode in silence, her arm brushed against mine and I felt something akin to a mild electric shock. A moment later I closed my eyes and tried to picture her face. The swaying movement of the bus must have caused me to drift off, for I was suddenly awakened by her voice.

"Excuse me, this is my stop."

She had a remarkably deep voice for a young woman. I stood up and looked outside.

"Mine too," I said.

I followed her into a mall and lagged behind to see her enter a shoe store. I walked to a patio restaurant that had a clear view of the shoe store and ordered a cup of coffee. From the table where I sat sipping the coffee, I could see Miss X talking to an older bald man who wore glasses. In the next few minutes, I found out what I wanted to know. Miss X was not a customer at the store. She worked there as a sales clerk in the ladies shoes department.

That was the beginning of my game with Miss X. As I mentioned before, I need such games to keep myself occupied. Otherwise, my mind seems to implode, and I sink into despair and thoughts of suicide. I have never actually tried to kill myself, but the possibility is always lurking in the background. If I ever abandoned my games, I think I might lose control. I have a recurring nightmare about tornados. In the nightmare I am standing at the window of a house, looking out over flat terrain. I see a funnel cloud form and drop to the ground, hurling trees and other debris in all directions. It starts to move in the direction of the house, and I experience stark panic. I run to the bathroom and crouch in a fetal position just as the tornado crashes into the house with a deafening sound. Walls fly outward, and I am airborn. I wake up with a gasp, my heart pounding like a hammer in my chest.

One afternoon I followed Miss X to her apartment when she walked home from the bus stop, careful to not let her notice me. The apartment building was four storeys tall and located in a pleasant neighborhood, surrounded by tree-lined parks and schools. I discovered later that she lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor. While I was playing detective, I could have learned her name, but I chose not to. I thought the game would be more fun if she remained the anonymous Miss X in my mind. I found a park bench that had a good view of her apartment windows, and some evenings I sat there watching her whenever I could catch a glimpse. She seemed to follow a fairly strict routine after work. She cooked her own supper and ate at the kitchen table. Then she watched television for a couple hours. After that she read books or magazines while listening to music. When she went to bed, generally around eleven, I walked to my apartment instead of taking the bus. It was a long walk, but I always felt exhilarated, and I enjoyed the exercise.

I gradually realized that Miss X lived a lonely existence similar to my own, and I began to feel a certain kinship with her. Only once did I see her go out on a date from her apartment. The fellow showed no class, picking her up in front of the apartment building in an ugly old car. I wondered why she didn't date more often. Perhaps she was divorced like me or had suffered some other romantic disappointment. Curiously, she didn't seem to have any close girlfriends, which I surmised from the fact that she seldom used her home phone. I also guessed that her family either did not live in the city, or else she maintained no close ties with them. Miss X appeared to be adrift and alone, and I couldn't help but think she was unhappy.

Eventually, I decided to risk direct contact with Miss X. I went to the shoe store one afternoon and pretended I wanted to buy a pair of shoes for my sister. I was relieved when Miss X didn't seem to recognize me.

"It's a birthday gift," I told her.

"What sort of shoes are you looking for?" she asked.

Although I had never seen her smoke a cigarette, she had the husky voice of a smoker.

"I know nothing about women's shoes," I admitted. "Dress shoes I suppose."

"What size does your sister wear?"

I looked down at her feet. "The same size as you," I said.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a faint smile. "Are you sure?"

I suddenly felt very nervous. "My sister can always exchange them if they're the wrong size, can't she?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then show me something you would like in your size," I said, recovering my composure.

She left the display room and returned a minute later with a pair of dark blue high-heels.

"These are a little expensive, but I think they are very attractive," she said.

"I'll take them," I said.

This time she smiled broadly, showing perfect white teeth. "I wish I had more customers like you," she said.

"Can you gift wrap them?"

"I'm sorry, we don't do gift wrapping here. But I'll show you where you can have it done."

"That will be fine," I said. I was grateful to be able to spend a little more time with her.

After I paid for the shoes, Miss X led me out of the store. She placed one hand on my shoulder (which startled me) and pointed with the index finger of her other hand.

"You see the red sign at the end of the walkway? That store will gift wrap your package for a small charge."

"Thank you," I said, staring into her eyes. "You've been very helpful."

"You're welcome," she said, lifting her hand off my shoulder to brush her hair back.

As I walked away, I could hardly feel my feet touch the floor because I knew she was watching me. For a moment it seemed as if the game had been reversed: she was the observer and I was Mister X. When I turned at the red sign, I looked back to see her still standing outside the shoe store. I waved, and she went inside. I had the box of shoes gift wrapped and took them to my apartment.

I wished I could give her the pair of shoes as a gift, but I knew that would spoil the game. As much as I was fascinated by Miss X, I had no intention of becoming her suitor. Chasing a woman until she caught me wasn't my kind of game. I preferred to live alone and observe the absurdities of life from a safe distance.


One Sunday afternoon I followed Miss X from her apartment to a large discount store downtown. I sat in the rear of the bus, hoping she wouldn't notice me during the ride. At the store I trailed behind until she got into an elevator, and then I had to run to make it inside before the doors closed. Two other people got off on the second floor and we were suddenly alone in the elevator. Miss X cocked her head to take a close look at me.

"I remember you," she said.

Without warning, she punched the button to stop the elevator.

"What are you doing?" I asked, startled.

"Have you been following me?"

I felt dizzy when I spoke. "Yes."

"Why?" She looked puzzled, not angry or frightened.

"I'm curious about you," I said honestly.

To my surprise, I detected the hint of a smile on her face.

"What do you want to know?"

"Are you unhappy?"

"What makes you think I'm unhappy?"

"You live alone and you don't date much." The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could think.

"You seem to know a lot about me," she remarked calmly, leaning back against the wall.

"I've been studying you for quite some time."

"Because you're curious about me."


"Am I supposed to be flattered by all this attention?"

"I don't believe in flattery," I said. "The truth is you struck me as an interesting woman the first time I saw you."


"I don't know exactly why. I haven't figured it out yet."

She touched her tongue to her upper lip. "I'm not looking for a boyfriend, if that's what this is about."

"I'm not either."

She grinned at my joke and pushed the button for her floor. "This has been a very strange conversation," she said. "What's your name?"

"I don't know your name," I said.

"You don't?"

"It's not important to me."

The door opened, and we both left the elevator. She walked a few steps, stopped and turned around.

"You're not going to follow me, are you?"

I hadn't moved since we left the elevator. "No, I'm going straight home."

"Where do you live?"

"Six-fifteen Robinson Avenue, apartment two-one-two. It's my real address in case you want to write it down."

"Why should I do that?" She had a puzzled look on her face again.

"Aren't you a little afraid of me?"

"No," she said softly.

As I watched Miss X turn and walk away, I smiled because I was impressed by her cool composure in a situation that would have rattled most women. Of course, I knew she had nothing to worry about from me, but I wondered how she had managed to convince herself that I was no threat. She must have trusted her intuition, which was a rare quality in itself.

I decided to continue the game in spite of her knowing about me. I wasn't prepared to call it quits yet. The rules would have to be adjusted, but I could imagine certain new twists that would keep the game amusing. My first move was to buy a pair of binoculars so I could watch Miss X more closely in her apartment. I didn't intend to spy on her while she was undressing or taking a shower since my interest was strictly non-sexual. I only wanted to know more about this fascinating young woman and perhaps form a Platonic relationship if possible.


Oscar Wilde observed that the only thing worse than not getting what you want is getting what you want. One evening as I sat on the park bench, watching Miss X with the binoculars, I noticed her peer out of the apartment window in my direction. A few minutes later she emerged from the front door of the building and crossed the street to the park. She was dressed in cutoff jeans and a loose-fitting blouse and I hid the binoculars in my pocket before she took a seat at the far end of the bench.

"It's hot tonight, isn't it?" she said, trying to appear casual.

"You have air conditioning in your apartment," I pointed out.

"I forgot, you know everything about me."

"Not everything."

"Do you come here often?"

"It's a nice park, especially at night."

"Aren't there any parks in your neighborhood?"

"I like this one," I said.

"I assume those shoes you bought weren't really for your sister."

"I don't have a sister."

"Were they for your girlfriend?"

I turned to face her. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking of giving them to you as a gift."

She leaned forward and stared at the ground. "I can't accept a gift from you," she said.

"Why not?"

She looked up at me. "I don't even know your name."

"Names don't matter," I said. "You could think of me as Mister X, your anonymous shoe benefactor."

She smiled for the first time. "You're a very strange man."

"I know I am."

"I'm not sure what to make of you. Can you give me a little help?"

"If I told you where I was born, what high school I attended, how I got along with my parents and so forth?would that make you feel more comfortable?"

"Yes, I think it would."

"Well, it's all very boring," I said. "You'll have to take my word for it."

"Don't you think your past is important?"

"The past is an illusion and the future is a dream. Here and now is the only reality."

"I wish I could believe that," she said wistfully.

I slid closer to her on the park bench. "What happened to you?"

The question obviously disturbed her. "I don't know what you mean."

"Why does an attractive, intelligent young woman live alone, work at a dead-end job and date crass men when she dates at all?"

She leaned back and folded her arms. "You want me to explain my life when you won't tell me anything about yourself? That doesn't seem fair."

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger," I argued.

She looked at me and hesitated for a moment before she spoke. "You might be right, come to think of it."

"Let me guess. Your husband divorced you for another woman and now you hate all men." I was being smug on purpose.

"I'm divorced, but that's not the problem."

"Then what is it?"

"I have terminal cancer," she blurted out.


"The doctors say I have less than a year left."

"I see." It was a feeble acknowledgement, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

She brushed a tear away. "I wish I had the courage to kill myself," she sighed.

I wanted to tell her that nothing ever dies, that we all come back to life in one form or another, but I couldn't speak. I felt paralyzed as a strange fear crept over me.

Miss X noticed the look on my face. "This isn't what you expected to hear, is it?"

"I don't know what I expected," I muttered.

"Let me ask you one question. Are you in love with me?"

"Yes." I couldn't bear to tell her the truth.

"I thought so," she said. "It looks like you chose the wrong girl."

She stood up and excused herself to leave.

"Don't you want to talk awhile longer?"

"No, I'm sleepy. The only time I can forget is when I sleep."

"I wish there was something I could say."

She looked at me and smiled sadly. "You don't have to say anything."

I watched her walk to the apartment building and go inside. A few minutes later the lights in her apartment went out.

On the long walk home I was lost in thought. I laughed bitterly at myself when I recognized the quality in Miss X that had fascinated me on an unconscious level. It was the looming presence of death, my old nemesis. Fate had played a cruel joke on both of us, and I realized the game was over.


A week or so later I was shocked when Miss X showed up at my apartment. I had been staying away from her deliberately, unable to deal with her tragic revelation.

"How did you find me?" I asked.

"You gave me your address," she said. "Don't you remember?"

I felt like an animal trapped in its lair, but I forced myself to be polite. "How are you?"

"I wanted to see where you lived," she said, looking around my apartment. "You're very neat for a man."

"It's a bad habit," I said.

"You haven't been following me lately, have you?"


"Why? Were you put off by what I told you?"

"I thought you wanted to be left alone," I offered as an excuse.

She gave me a keen look. "Actually, it was kind of reassuring to know you were watching me. Does that seem ridiculous to you?"

"I suppose not."

"I have a strong feeling that you understand my situation better than anyone."

She was dancing around the subject, attempting to put me at ease, but I was well aware of what she meant. I had begun to dread the possibility of this conversation the moment she told me she had terminal cancer.

"You shouldn't lose hope," I said. "You might have a spontaneous remission."

"I was in remission, but it didn't last very long."

"They could find a cure any time."

She shook her head. "I don't believe in miracles. And I don't want to suffer."

"Your doctors will give you something for pain."

"Morphine stops working after awhile," she said. "I could be in agony for months before I died."

I didn't want to prolong the suspense any further. "I'm sorry, I can't help you," I said bluntly.

"I was raised a Catholic," she said. "I can't do it myself."

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

She took my hand and caressed it. "Please think about it," she pleaded.

"You'll have to ask someone else."

She looked away, and I suppressed an impulse to kiss her.

"I thought you might be willing to help since you..." Her words trailed off and she stared vacantly ahead. "I'm so tired of going around in circles."

I offered her a soft drink.

"No, thank you," she said. "I have an appointment downtown. I'm sorry I bothered you."

I told her it was no bother, but in truth I was glad to see her leave.

The following Saturday I took the gift-wrapped shoes to Miss X's apartment. It wanted to give them to her as a peace offering, and I hoped that she would accept them in the spirit of friendship. I felt guilty about refusing her plea, and this irritated me because I considered guilt a pointless sentiment.

I knocked on Miss X's apartment door several times and received no response. I assumed she had gone out, and I propped the package against the door. As I was leaving, a middle-aged woman wearing hair curlers opened the door across the hall. She looked at the package and brought her hand to her mouth.

"You can't leave that here," she said.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"The girl who lived in the apartment is dead."

Hearing those words produced the strangest floating sensation in my stomach. "What did you say?"

"I found her Thursday morning," the woman recalled. "She tried to hang herself from a light fixture with a long piece of electric cord. But the fall from the chair didn't break her neck. She choked to death."

I stared at the hallway floor. I could see a distorted image of myself reflected in the polished tile squares.

"Did you know her well?" the woman asked.

I looked up at her. "Not really."

I leaned over and picked up the gift package.

"She was seriously ill, poor thing."

"Yes, I know."

"No one deserves to die like she did," the woman remarked.

In the lobby of the apartment building, I dropped the box of shoes into a trash can on my way to the street. It was a cloudy day, but I decided to risk getting wet and walk home since I was in no mood for a bus ride. For some reason I began to think of the death penalty issue. I used to be an opponent of the death penalty because I considered it a barbaric form of punishment. But eventually I realized that it was more barbaric to keep a man in prison for the rest of his life. Compared to the hellish conditions of prison, execution is a humane sentence. Whether reincarnation is random or shaped by one's karma, it is best for the murderer to be sent to his next life when his present existence becomes a horror. Even if reincarnation is a myth, and there is no afterlife, he is better off turned into dust as quickly as possible. Unlike most death penalty advocates, I don't feel vindictive in the slightest. Capital crime is a fact of modern life as unavoidable as air pollution or traffic jams.

Although I supported the idea of putting murderers out of their misery, I had paradoxically condemned the innocent Miss X to a fate worse than merely dying. Suicide is a curse upon life itself, casting a gloomy pall over everything that lives and dies naturally. Miss X didn't want to leave such a curse as her legacy, and she begged me to take the responsibility out of her hands. But I refused to help her, and later I cringed with shame when I recognized my true motives?squeamishness and fear of the law: bourgeois attitudes that I held in contempt. As it was, she died alone believing that she had stained her soul. On sleepless nights I am haunted by a vision of her dangling by an unbroken neck, eyes bulging with terror as she choked and her face turned blue.

I try to console myself with the fickle thought that perhaps I loved her after all. In my heart I know it is a wretched lie, but there are times when it seems quite plausible and even necessary?like believing in a merciful God despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. To occupy my time I read books and watch television and take long walks. When all else fails, I invent a new game and play it as though my life hangs in the balance.




The Magic of Language

Language and magic are so intertwined with each other that the phrase "magic word" entered the meme-scape of everyday culture long ago. Like magic itself, magic words or languages were considered to be "ancient artifacts" of a bygone era.

That the spoken word is an indispensable tool of magic is indisputable. The underlying reasons why this is so are not so clear cut, but that is beyond the scope of this monograph. I usually opt for the psychological explanation myself -- I recommend the works of Richard Bandler (originator of Neuro Linguistic Programming) for those interested in exploring that realm.

In the last ten years, the occult world has seen the introduction of a new magical tongue, arising from the vortex of Chaos Magic: Ouranian-Barbaric.

The Ouranian and Enochian

Ouranian-Barbaric is a received or channeled language, in that it's vocabulary has been formulated (and continues to be formulated) by persons in a gnostic trance, rather than by natural linguistic development processes (as in most common languages of the world) or as an intellectual construct (as in Tolkien's Elvish or Star Trek's Klingon.) It is in fact incorrect to even call it a language per se; linguists would define it as a jargon . As such, it has no inherent syntax, sentence structure or rules of tense, plural or possession. Every English word has a direct equivalent; words are not derived from other words. For example, the Ouranian word for "magic" is L EVIFITH, but the word for "magician" is BEJVAS.

It's most direct historical equivalent would be Enochian, the "Angelic" language that was developed by (some say revealed to) Dr. John Dee and Sir Edward Kelley of the court of Queen Elizabeth I. The Enochian language arose in scrying sessions conducted by these two magicians over the course of several years and led to the development of the Enochian system of magic.

Several claims have been made saying that Enochian is an actual language

, rather than a jargon. In the accompanying text to Laycock's Enochian Dictionary, the author, who spent many years studying the subject, tends not to support this claim, though there are a few limited instances where some words seem to be derivative of other words. There seems to be a structure of a kind, but this may be a result of the process by which it was "received": first a series of incomprehensible phrases were obtained, followed by an English "translation". The meanings of the various words were made by direct comparison of each complimentary text. Accordingly, the structure somewhat mirrors that of the English of the 16th century.

Some words end up with two or more Enochian equivalents derived from different texts, although many words show no consistency across various texts channeled at different times. Others reappear consistently across several texts; this in itself is evidence that the texts were received from a vantage point of expanded, magical intelligence. However, several Enochian words represent more than one English equivalent. Numerous corrections and insertions are evident in Dee's original manuscripts (still on file in the British Museum) indicating that at least some editing must have been performed after the fact.

In this writer's opinion, none of this need have any effect whatsoever on the effective use of any magical language. However, some magicians will spend amazing amounts of time and effort arguing the "authenticity" of Enochian and claiming lineage going back to Pre-Sanskrit India and even Atlantis. There is no reason for the Chaos Magician to be concerned with this monkey squabble. It is the process of using barbarous tongues that make them effective, not their historical lineage or lack thereof.

This idea was put forward by Aleister Crowley in Magick In Theory And Practice (even though he also made a pitch for Enochian being a "genuine" language.) To quote from chapter IX:

"It is therefore not quite certain in what the efficacy of [barbarous] conjurations really lies. The peculiar mental excitement required may be aroused by the perception of the absurdity of the process, and the persistence in it, as when once Frater Perdurabo [Crowley] (at the end of his magical resources) recited "From Greenland's Icy Mountains" and obtained his result.

"It may be conceded in any case the long strings of formidable words which roar and moan through so many conjurations have a real effect in exalting the consciousness of the magician to the proper pitch -- that they should do so is no more extraordinary than music of any kind should do so." [Italics Crowley's]

The real purpose of barbarous incantations is to distract the conscious mind, keeping it occupied trying to make sense out of words it does not understand -- a slight-of-mind trick.

In most historical magic languages, there is a generally a dogma attached to "correctly" pronouncing the various words -- failure to do so supposedly can have dire consequences. But since there is rarely any consensus as to what constitutes "correct", we are left with a never-ending debate. To the Chaos Magician, correctness is not an issue; validity rests on results and nothing more. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted. It would seem that even the "old guard" types, such as Crowley quoted above, essentially agree.

With Enochian and the demonic names of the Goetia (The Lesser Key Of Solomon), the language has a historical source, giving it a a ura of "authenticity". This is all fine and good to a degree, as it can lend a sense of "rightness" to one's work. In my Enochian experiments, I utilize an induced obsession with getting each word pronounced "correctly" (which I define as being consistent with whatever pronunciation I originally decided was correct) as a meta-belief tool to empower the working. But I do not dogmatically insist that my version is the version.

However, Enochian lacks certain words that would make it mo re generally useful for the composition of magic rituals. For example, there is no word for "magic", or for the names of the Planets. To be fair, using it in such a way was not the intention of it's originators -- virtually the entire language was "received" as translation of the nineteen Enochian 'Keys', or incantations, each meant for a specific evocation process. There was little or no mention of using the language for anything but the recitation of the Keys. Aside from proper names of entities, the entire available vocabulary of Enochian consists of only those words to be found in the text of the Keys, with a few minor exceptions (such as the names of the "?thyrs".)

Enochian practitioners tend to be traditionalists and sticklers for "accuracy ", so that to them, any expansion of the vocabulary or application of the language for any purposes other than those put forth by Dee and Kelley borders on sacrilege. Various attempts to adapt Enochian to other uses -- i.e. to use it as a general purpose barbarous language -- such as Gerald Schueler's series of books on Enochian Magic are not considered 'canonical' by most practitioners of the system and are generally looked on with derision by "serious" Enochian scholars.

Barbarous Deconstructi on

Though Crowley and others acknowledged that it's the chanting of the "alien" language, and the psychological reactions conditioned into the magician by particular sounds, that gives barbarous tongues their magical effecy, occultists still re lied on contemporary reconstructions of "ancient" languages.

Using a jargon with consistent meanings for words allows one to utilize the mantra-like effect of repetition. Just babbling something that sounds word-like isn't the same thing. This mak es it different from glossolalia, or "speaking in tongues". Glossolalia is a hypnotic state where the speech center of the brain is accessed without conscious intervention and purpose. The resulting babble, while seeming to follow a sort of pattern, has n o inherent meaning. As an altered state it's a useful tool, but it doesn't allow for the capability to load certain words with a consistent and specific psychological effects.

What was needed was a set vocabulary of words bearing no resemblance to their English (or any other language) equivalents, arrived at by a magical "channeled" process. Thus the words themselves are charged sigils, and carry the "contagion" of magical power.

Ouranian-Barbaric was originally conceived by members of the B ritish Illuminates Of Thananteros (IOT), notably Peter Carroll and Ian Read. The idea was to create a new magical language, one not based on dubious historical accounts and faux "authenticity".

The bulk of the words contained in the existing O-B dictionary were devised by a procedure not unlike using a "talking board" (of which a Ouija? board is the most common example). The participants began with an invocation of the Godform of Ouranos (which is actually an alternate spelling of Uranus), the god associated with magic itself. The participants than set themselves spinning in tight circles until gnosis-by-dizziness was obtained, and a large hockey-puck like device was grasped and moved about a flat board covered with let ters while the English word and it's meaning were focused on.

The result was several hundred words covering a wide range of meanings. Ancient ideas like goddesses and elements mingled with words for Hiesenberg's Uncertainty Principle and Planck's Constant. They even slipped in a joke -- VULBUZO, which means, "Morning is not the magician's friend".

The one important "linguistic" element to constructing O-B syntax is that it is meant to be a "Venicular-Prime" language. V-Prime is a syntax cons isting only of "action" words -- there is no 'are' or 'to be'; there is no 'is'. All is what it does , not what it is.

Linguistic Evolution

With the IOT playing it's flash cards close to it's chest these days, most of the dissemination of O-B into the occult community has been at the hands of The AutonomatriX (AX) guild and various solo practitioners. It's available on several computer networks, including the Internet. The AX has been actively expanding the language, with their version obtainable from their World Wide Web page.

This brings up some important questions:

Who "owns" Ouranian-Barbaric? Though I am no trademark lawyer, it would seem to be impossible to register several hundred nonsensic al words as commercial trademarks, and to my knowledge, the IOT has pointedly ignored the existence of various reproductions.

But then who decides what is "official" Ouranian? The entire idea of official anything is generally anathema to Chaotes. W hat seems to be occurring, and this may be a first in the history of language, is that O-B is evolving, growing "organically", with it's various appendages finding interconnection and it's users finding concensus through the technology of computer networking.

Chaos magicians are collecting Ouranian words like postage stamps, or perhaps more like the obsequious "Magic: The Gathering"? cards. Regular announcements of new O-B words appear on Internet newsgroups and mailing lists dedicated to Chaos Magic, along the methods by which they were derived and ritual applications for them. New words generally arise because a need was being met for a particular purpose, and no pre-existing word was suitable.

Growing Your Own

Virtually any method of sortilege can be used to obtain an Ouranian word. There are published procedures for using scrabble letters, or one may use a commercially available Ouija? board in the same manner the originators did. What's important is that the words be derived while in a state of gnosis, or expanded magical consciousness.

The process is not unlike what Austin Osman Spare was describing as the "Alphabet of Desire". In Spare's version, a series of glyphs with strong emotional meanings is obtained while in gnostic trance derived by the same process as making sigils. Once again, that is a subject beyond this paper's scope. I refer the reader to Spare's works, as well as that of Carroll, Frater U.D., and Kenneth Grant.

The crucial element is that the resulting word is charged with the creator's magical intent. Then it functions in the same manner as a talisman, carrying it's meaning and power with it.

The networking of those persons whose will it is to expand the Ouranian-Barbaric vocabulary is of great importance, especially you hold to the "morophogenic field" paradigm put forth by Rupert Sheldrake and others as the operative function of paranormal phenomena (which I believe in on every third day, alternating with psychological relativism and blind faith in the gods.) The more people there are using a particular O-B word for the same purpose, the more magical power it accrues. Expect to see user's groups and WWW based repositories to arise in the near future (some have beg un already as of this writing.)

Ouranian-Barbaric is a perfect example of something arising to fill an evolutionary niche. When it's time had arrived, it arose and spread beyond even it's originators' vision, progulmated in a way that was virtually unheard of when it was first developed. It is also a living language, not an ancient and long-dead one. These facts may make it the most magical of magical languages ever known.


Sunday, 20 December 2009

Introduction to Alexander Berkman - Now and After: The ABC of Communist Anarchism

I want to tell you about Anarchism.
I want to tell you what Anarchism is, because I think it is well you should know it. Also because so little is known about it, and what is known is generally hearsay and mostly false.
I want to tell you about it, because I believe that Anarchism is the finest and biggest thing man has ever thought of; the only thing that can give you liberty and well-being, and bring peace and joy to the world.
I want to tell you about it in such plain and simple language that there will be no misunderstanding it. Big words and high sounding phrases serve only to confuse. Straight thinking means plain speaking.
But before I tell you what Anarchism is, I want to tell you what it is not.
That is necessary because so much falsehood has been spread about Anarchism. Even intelligent persons often have entirely wrong notions about it. Some people talk about Anarchism without knowing a thing about it. And some lie about Anarchism, because they don't want you to know the truth about it.
Anarchism has many enemies; they won't tell you the truth about it. Why Anarchism has enemies and who they are, you will see later, in the course of this story. Just now I can tell you that neither your political boss nor your employer, neither the capitalist nor the policeman will speak to you honestly about Anarchism. Most of them know nothing about it, and all of them hate it. Their newspapers and publications - the capitalistic press- are also against it.
Even most Socialists and Bolsheviks misrepresent Anarchism. True, the majority of them don't know any better. But those who do know better also often lie about Anarchism and speak of it as 'disorder and chaos'. You can see for yourself how dishonest they are in this: the greatest teachers of Socialism - Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels - had taught that Anarchism would come from Socialism. They said that we must first have Socialism, but that after Socialism there will be Anarchism, and that it would be a freer and more beautiful condition of society to live in than Socialism. Yet the Socialists, who swear by Marx and Engels, insist on calling Anarchism 'chaos and disorder', which shows you how ignorant or dishonest they are.
The Bolsheviks do the same, although their greatest teacher, Lenin, had said that Anarchism would follow Bolshevism, and that then it will be better and freer to live.
Therefore I must tell you, first of all, what Anarchism is not.
It is not bombs, disorder, or chaos.: It is not robbery and murder.
It is not a war of each against all.
It is not a return to barbarism or to the wild state of man.
Anarchism is the very opposite of all that.
Anarchism means that you should be free; that no one should enslave you, boss you, rob you, or impose upon you.
It means that you should be free to do the things you want to do; and that you should not be compelled to do what you don't want to do.
It means that you should have a chance to choose the kind of a life you want to live, and live it without anybody interfering.
It means that the next fellow should have the same freedom as you, that every one should have the same rights and liberties.
It means that all men are brothers, and that they should live like brothers, in peace and harmony.
That is to say, that there should be no war, no violence used by one set of men against another, no monopoly and no poverty, no oppression, no taking advantage of your fellow-man.
In short, Anarchism means a condition or society where all men and women are free, and where all enjoy equally the benefits of an ordered and sensible life.
'Can that be?' you ask;'and how?'
'Not before we all become angels,' your friend remarks.
Well, let us talk it over. Maybe I can show you that we can be decent and live as decent folks even without growing wings.

Friday, 18 December 2009

IO - Saturnalia !

Io Saturnalia! - Hurrah (for) Saturnalia!

Io Saturnalia!

Patria est communis omnium parens
Tanta molis erat Romanam condere gentem
Id est
Ventis secundis
Vir prudens non contra ventum mingit.

Hurrah (for) Saturnalia!

Our fatherland is the common parent of us all
Such a great task it was to found the Roman race
In other words
Go with the flow
A wise man does not urinate against the wind.

- Juan Ponce de Leon


"For how many years shall this festival abide! Never shall age destroy so holy a day! While the hills of Latium remain and father Tiber, while thy Rome stands and the Capitol thou hast restored to the world, it shall continue."
- Saturnalia

Around Christmas it's often difficult to separate commerce from religion. I want to do something different this year. Put up something other than a Christmas tree and creche to which the wooden wisemen move nearer each day. Maybe I'll wear a funny peaked cap, buy my friends beeswax candles -- useful gifts in the event of a power failure, let my son (as "Lord of Misrule") plan the day, and just maybe I'll celebrate it early... on December 17, the day of the Saturnalia.

The Saturnalia was originally celebrated in Ancient Rome for only a day, but it was so popular it soon it lasted a week, despite Augustus' efforts to reduce it to three days, and Caligula's, to five. Like our Christmas, this important holy day (feriae publicae) was for more than fun and games. Saturnalia was a time to honor the god of sowing, Saturn. But again, like our Christmas, it was also a festival day (dies festus) on which a public banquet was prepared. An effigy of the god was probably one of the guests.

The poet Catullus describes Saturnalia as the best of days. It was a time of celebration, visits to friends, and gift-giving, particularly of wax candles (cerei), and earthenware figurines (sigillaria). The best part of the Saturnalia (for slaves) was the temporary reversal of roles. Masters served meals to their slaves who were permitted the unaccustomed luxuries of leisure and gambling. Clothing was relaxed and included the peaked woollen cap that symbolized the freed slave, which looks an awful lot like Santa Claus's peaked red hat . A member of the familia (family plus slaves) was appointed Saturnalicius princeps, roughly, Lord of Misrule.

I'm not alone in my desire to do something... old.

Biblioteca Arcana and Nova Roma offer suggestions for turning December 17 into a celebration of Saturnalia.

Bringing trees indoors to decorate is a modern custom. Nova Roma suggests decorating outdoor trees with sun and star symbols, and using swathes of greenery over doorways, windows, and on people. But Nova Roma emphasizes that decorations are secondary to revelry, feasting, drinking, merry-making, pranks, and gift-giving of Saturnalia. If you can get your friends and neighbors in the spirit, wrangle a parade permit from your municipality so you can dance (like a Roman) in the street.

Biblioteca Arcana's suggestions are for celebrating the religious aspects of the Saturnalia and its two adjoining holidays, the Opalia for Saturn's wife, Ops, goddess of plenty, and the Consualia for Consus, "god of the storage bin." The site provides a complete ritual with an equipment list, information on preparation, location, timing, the banquet, and the conclusion.

Io Saturnalia!

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

"This is our beauty, of simplicity and severity of discipline, be free of whatever they teach, of whatever they preach; free yourself of their entrapments of their weapons of mass distraction, free yourself from the bondage of time and place and status for what peace do they give? What truth do they reveal? What lie do they live? Whose blood weeps from these wounds? Detach yourself! For there is a war deep in our hearts and that?s where all battles ought to be fought; come here, lower your eyes and surrender? [...] " from Formation in Flight - Rome

Monday, 7 December 2009

Like Lovers - Rome lyrics




















Sunday, 6 December 2009

TriORE - There’s A Smell To Life That Dies

TriORE - There’s A Smell To Life That Dies (live 21.11.09, Augsburg, Kantine, November Industrial Festival) www.myspace.com www.triore.de TriORE = Christian Erdmann (Triarii) + Tomas Pettersson (Ordo Rosarius Equilibrio)

There's A Smell To Life That Dies

Fear me not; I am one
Taste my soul; face the sun
Life will rise, like a spear
We are now; quench the fear
Fear me not; I am two
Touch yourself, who are you?
What came first, god or man?
Jesus came, in my hands

“Hear the sound of horses riding
Can you fell the thunder call?
Storm clouds gather in the distance
Soon the burning rain shall fall
Hear the sound of structures falling
Can you hear the dream that die?
Hear the song of people crying
There’s a smell to life that dies”

Fear me not; I am three
Man and beast; be conceived
Stars will fall, just like ash
Read the signs, on my back
Fear me not; I am four
Touch the flame; like before
Every man, is a star
Taste the sperm, of my heart


Friday, 4 December 2009

ILLFM setlist 03.12.09 - Tune out, Drop In ! @ The Others, StokeNewington

ILL FM Setlist 03.12.09

Clock DVA – Sonology Of Sex II
Crash Worship – Procession
Wertham – Antisocial N.1
Disciplina Urbana – Esprote Sangrento
Satori – Eruption
Sz Berlin - Zur Sicherung des Vormarsches des Sozialismus
Zaghurim – Shower Scene
Pimentola - Sairaus Ryömii Silmistäsi Sisään
Die Form – Enforced Sex
Mental Plastic Body Filler – Annoy ‘till I’m Happy
SPK – Baby Blue Eyes
Test Dept – Total State Machine
Laibach – Država
PTV – Unclean
Cabaret Voltaire – Wait and Shuffle
Chris and Cosey - Gardens of the Pure
H.N.A.S. - Was Wir Von Cassetten Halten 2 / Einen Tag In Jürjens Haut
Clock DVA - Velvet Realm
Swans – I am the Sun
Throbbing Gristle – Persuasion USA
Coil – It’s in my Blood
Kristus Kut – The Dancing Ones
Borghesia - Previše Tenzije
In Slaughter Natives – Punishdown
Astra Autisma – Forgive me…and forget Forever

Thursday, 3 December 2009

Brave Exhibition How Cold (R U ) Really? - Setlists -

DJ SpeakMarauder

- “Oublier” Trop Tard

- “My Own Way” Bunker Strasse

- “Film Noir” Theatre

- “Des Poils Sur Moi” Masoch

- “Radio War” Die Unbekannten

- “Today” Baroque Bordello

- “Wanda’s Loving Boy” Marquis De Sade

- “Nightfall” Mary Goes Round

DJ Poison Creeper

- “Business Business / Fragile Object” Cultural Decay

- “Don’t Eat Sweets” Mekano Set

- “What Are You Looking At?” R Stevie Moore

- “A Heart That Breaks” SPK

- “Flesh” A Split Second

- “Lesbische Voodoo Teenagers” Norma Loy

- “Cites Perdues” Neva

- “Unit” Logic System

- “If I’m Not A Killer” End of Data

- “No Escape” Cabaret Voltaire

- “Als Wärs Das Letzte Mal” Deutsch Amerikanischen Freundschaft

- “Pleurs Final” Bossa Luce

DJ Sass

- “Auf Dem Schwarzen Kanal” Conrad Schnitzler

- “A City” Love Motel

- “The Pimp” Syntax Erik

- “All Out Of Order” Nite Jewel

- “Under Your Spell” Desire

- “Echoes Fade” Poeme Electronique

- “Erde 80” Christof Glowalla

- “I See You” Craig Sibly

- “?” ABC

- “Love Caboose” Geneva Jacuzzi

- “Garlands” Cocteau Twins

DJ Pony Girl

- “Drache Und Baum” Neue Weltumfassende Resistance

- “No, Nothing, Never” Dark Day

- “Stranger” Clan of Xymox

- “Faceless” Frozen Autumn

- “Foregone” Sleep Museum

- “The Game” Linear Movement

- “The Seasons Are Sitting On Chairs” Arvid Tuba

- “Metal Field” S.P.K.

- “Helden Sterben Nie Allein” Tommi Stumpff

- “Je Suis Passee” Hard Corps

- “Ascent” Martial Canterel

- “Ersatz” Guerre Froide


- “Eyes of Glass” East Wall

- “Waiting for Reaction” Silent Signals

- “Come Back to Sahrah” End of Data

- “Electricity” Gertrud Stein

- “Never Seen” Absolute Body Control

- “Glowing in the Dark” Experimental Products

- “Hot Shot” Vive La Fete

- “Corre Corre” Medio Mutante

- “Miss Love” Nine Circles

- “Automatic 1” Absolute Body Control

- “In Times of Persistence, Pain” Sleep Museum

- “Non-senti” Xeno & Oaklander

- “Mercenaire Solitaire” Moderne

- “Five Faces” Linear Movement

- “Crash” Kas Product

- “Flesh Golem” The Golem

- “How Cold (R U)?” No Kisses

- “We Know How to Have Fun” ADULT

Friday, 27 November 2009

Dingsaller - Einsturzende Neubauten lyrics + translation [ from Silence is sexy]

?ber den Liebenden gibt es kein Gesetz
Unter den Liebenden z?hlt die Regel nicht
Wegen der Liebenden gibt es M?glichkeit
Und ohne die Liebenden lohnt die Suche nicht

[About the lovers, there is no law
Among the lovers, the rule does not count
Because of the lovers, there is possibility
And without the lovers is not worth the search]


?ber den Liebenden gibt es kein Gesetz
Unter den Liebenden ist die s?sse Bahn
Neben den Liebenden schmilzt das ewige Eis
aber ohne die Liebenden ist Scheitern programmiert
Du scheiterst heute, scheiterst morgen
scheiterst immer besser
Und irgendwann scheiterst du nicht

[About the lovers, there is no law
Among the lovers of the sweet path is
In addition to the lovers melt the permanent ice
but without the lovers is programmed to fail
You scheiterst today, tomorrow scheiterst
scheiterst always better
And sometime you do not scheiterst]

Dingsallerdingsallerdingsdingsaller Allerdings

Heute spielt Fortuna wieder Schach mit dir
spekuliert darauf das du die K?nigin verlierst
Du gehst in die Stadt und findest sie nicht
Es sieht so aus, du verlierst die Partie
Oder vielleicht sie endet mit Remis
Fortuna gibt selten nur Revanche
Besser ein Kuss vereitelt ihre Strategie

[Today, Fortune again play chess with you
speculated that the you lose the Queen
You go into town and they do not find
It looks like you lose the game
Or maybe it ends with a draw
Fortuna is rarely revenge
Better foiled a kiss its strategy]


?ber den Liebenden gibt es kein Gesetz
Unter den Liebenden z?hlt die Regel nicht
Hinter den Liebenden die Worte sind ger?umt
Ohne die Liebenden nur sprachlos flaches Land
Trotz blauer Flecke und Blessuren
Ich gebe euch hiermit neue Suren:
Exclusiv f?r die, f?r die nichts steht

[About the lovers, there is no law
Among the lovers, the rule does not count
Behind the lovers, the words are cleared
Without the lovers just speechless flat land
Despite bruises and injuries
I hereby give you new suras:
Exclusive for those for whom nothing is]


Thursday, 26 November 2009

A Legacy of Unrest

master, i praise you

i've come here to tame

the demands of the flesh

i've come to forget my name

we all thought that the moon

should be turned to blood

and that it's the worst thing

to want for one who comes not

but there's nothing left than to obey

all of their laws of wealth

always fighting on both sides

no denial, no denial

master, i serve you

and i serve the language

of failure and doubt

i've come to sell you my anguish

we all thought that the moon

should be turned to blood

and that it's the worst thing

to try to please and please not

but there's nothing left than to obey

all of their laws of wealth

always fighting on both sides

no denial, no denial

yes, there's nothing left than to obey

all of their laws of wealth

master, are you taking sides?

no denial, no denial

and it feels like spring again

we've sealed this feel again

though you tried to blind me

i still saw you blush

it feels like spring again

we've sealed this feel again

though you tried to blind me

though you tried to blind me

we do not pause, we do not rest

so do not speak, please do not test

my nerve like this, in a season like this

we do not pause, we do not rest

so do not speak, please do not test

my nerve like this, in a season like this

you tried to blind me

you tried to blind me...

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Feme Mirage - The Legendary Pink Dots lyrics

I rise from sleep, as a ray strokes my shoulder. Wishing to walk unveiled
to the world - my flesh on view. These things stand in our way - the cold
of the earth, the state of our minds. And the camouflage. The sticky
threads that communicate the meaningless in a thousand different ways. My
voice shuns your honey words on hour glass shapes. On the fragile, unreal,
objects of desire. The words don't flow, neither the feelings. No more ink
on wood to betray my thoughts. Just this - a cry on the dark side.

Thursday, 19 November 2009

Heaven is of Honey - Einsturzende Neubauten Lyrics

Heaven is of Honey
and kisses
How do I know?
How could I forget?

Heaven is in the making
a buildingsite
a possibillity
If there's a glimpse of it
In the little dance of tongues

As a reminder!

Heaven is all remembered
is an idea
for idiots
possessed by gods
that just waste space
and in case I wake up without a pen
I do not want to forget

Heaven is of Honey
and kisses
Royal Jelly
for the queenbee
in the center
How do I know?
How could I forget?

Kristus kut Netrelease - Free downloads of dark ritual/noise tracks - enjoy!

hi my darlings..

to brighten up the darkening days.. (for those below the equador, the lightening days) here some nice links to get some real nice music.

KISS OF THE BLACK QUEEN. 11 tracks. noise with tribal elements. with trance elements. and of course the famous dark ritual soundscapes that has become the trademark of KK.
released on a black cdr in an dvd box with full color artwork made by JM of the equilibrium mailorder.

just click on the picture below to get a direct link to Quartier23

if you are cheap and want some stuff for free...
1. THE MAMBO KISS. and yes that is a very romantic title i know... it was inspired by the feelings one can have when the heart wins it over the mind. somemoment where logic gets beaten by feeling.
logic is not always getting you anywhere. so this release is about getting free from logic. to get carried away by feelings.
for a free experience just click on the image below

2. -done in the same way- HAIL THE BLACK QUEEN. i recorded those two in the same period. HAIL THE BLACK QUEEN is more agressive. makes you tear down the walls while THE MAMBO KISS helps you to explore your innerself. just say one for the outer world and one for the inner world.
well try it my darlings...

and if you are searching for some soundtrack for your monofocal sex rituals



well go download and start your meditiation darlings
muchos lovos

Thursday, 12 November 2009

Odessa - Rome Lyrics

it is but a dated flower i bring to you

yes, it is but a violet glistening with dew

for in our hearts our love for you lies unrevealed

a stale romance and the solitude we share

have dragged you to the beach to find me there

every promise undone glittering in the sun

in the golden sway of violence

that morning you came and you stood in disbelief

in longing and shame - the presentiment of grief

to forgive and to define this treachery of mine

you took off your clothes in silence

this sweet blue secrecy, the demands of destiny

now who will serve your pleasure, who will serve your greed?

Now that the men you treasured belong to the fleet

and watch the morrow?s tide, that frail and beautiful bride

what a very strange season this is

from the tender axe of springtime, defying the snows

to the streaming summer?s hatchet she rose

now all covered with lime under an indifferent sky

we smother everything in kisses

will we know eternity? Will we forge a way to see?

Who will serve your pleasure, who will serve your greed?

Now that the men you treasured belong to the fleet

and watch the morrow?s tide, that frail and beautiful bride

what a very strange season this is

from the tender axe of springtime, defying the snows

to the streaming summer?s hatchet she rose

now all covered with lime under an indifferent sky

we smother everything in kisses

oh, we smother everything in kisses

Sorrow for letting someone else define you
Know who you are at every age
What impression am I making?
I see me as other people see me

There is no going back
I can't stop feeling now
I am not the same, I'm growing up again
I am not the same
I'm growing up again
There's no going back I can't stop feeling now

I had to fantasize
I was a princess, Mum and Dad were Queen and King
I ought to have what feeling?
I see me as other people see me

There is no going back
I can't stop feeling now
I am not the same, I'm growing up again
I am not the same
I'm growing up again
There's no going back I can't stop feeling now

Feeling now

There is no going back, and
I can't stop feeling now
I am not the same, I'm growing up again
I am not the same
I'm growing up again
There's no going back I can't stop feeling now

I had to fantasize
Just to survive
I was a famous artist
Everybody took me seriously

Even those who did
Never understood me
I had to fantasize
Just to survive

Femme Mirage - Legendary Pink Dots Lyrics

I rise from sleep, as a ray strokes my shoulder. Wishing to walk unveiled
to the world - my flesh on view. These things stand in our way - the cold
of the earth, the state of our minds. And the camouflage. The sticky
threads that communicate the meaningless in a thousand different ways. My
voice shuns your honey words on hour glass shapes. On the fragile, unreal,
objects of desire. The words don't flow, neither the feelings. No more ink
on wood to betray my thoughts. Just this - a cry on the dark side.

Bitter-Sweet The Venus In Fur Lyrics

Well, this is such a sad affair
I've opened up my heart so many times
But now it's closed

Oh my dear
Every salted tear
It wrings
Bitter-sweet applause

But when the show's in full swing
Every once in awhile
High stepping chorus lines
Mean I'm forgetting
Mein lullaby - liebchen

How rich in contrast
Love can be
Sometimes I'm quite amused
To see it twist and turn
To taste both sweet and dry
These vintage years
Lovers you consume, my friend
As others their wine

Nein - das ist nicht
Das ende der Welt
Gestrandet an Leben und Kunst
Und das spiel geht weiter
Wie man weiss
Noch viele 'schoum'....wiedersehen
(Translation of German lyrics:
No - this is not the end of the world
Stranded because of life and art
And the game goes on as you know
Schoum....see you)

And now, as you turn to leave
You try to force a smile
As if to compensate
Then you break down and cry

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Maanam Biography

The group Maanam was founded in 1975. In the beginning the band was made up of Marek Jackowski - guitars and Kora (Olga Jackowska) - vocals, as well as: the Greek Milo Kurtis and Welsh John Porter. Marek Jackowski and Kora continue today to be responsible for the music and lyrics of the band's almost entire repertoire. Up until 1979 the band played acoustic rock: from orientalising suits and ballads to acoustic (!) punk rock and new wave. In 1979 the band became electrified. Its composition was: Kora, Marek Jackowski, Ryszard Olesiński - guitars, Krzysztof Olesiński - bass guitar (meanwhile Bogdan Kowalewski played the bass guitar) and Paweł Markowski - percussion. In the 1980s Maanam was the first Polish rock band to achieve great fame in the country (for almost five years the band performed several hundred concerts per year in Poland's largest concerts halls). Maanam was the ice-breaker in paving the way for a new wave of Polish rock. In 1980, at the Polish Song Festival in Opole, Kora and Maanam shocked the Polish audience. The punk hits "Boskie Buenos" and "Żądza pieniądza" caused a mini revolution.
The big revolution of Solidarity and Polish rock were the most characteristic events of the '80s in Poland. The state record company stopped producing the band's first two albums "Maanam" and "O!" due to the lack of ... vinyl. The band also appeared in a very popular film "Wielka majówka" (1981, dir. K. Rogulski). Maanam produced a large number of superhits the most important of which include "Stoję stoję", "Oddech szczura", "Szare miraże", "Hamlet", "Żądza pieniądza", "Boskie Buenos", "Szał niebieskich ciał", "Karuzela marzeń", "O!", "Paranoja jest goła", "Nie poganiaj mnie", "To tylko tango", "Krakowski spleen", "Jestem kobietą", "Eksplozja", "Zdrada", "Raz-dwa, raz-dwa", "Lucciola", "Simple Story", "Lipstick on the Glass".
Since 1984 Maanam performs successfully in West Germany and Holland. The band's albums titled "Night Patrol", "Totalski No Problemski - Maanam In Concert" and "Wet Cat" reach those markets. Maanam also performs at festivals in Roskilde and Turku. They play at London's Marquee, and the video clip to the song "Sie ściemnia" is the first Polish clip to be released on the then international MTV channel.
From 1986 to 1991, the band breaks from performing to rest from work.

I crave For You - Of The Wand and the Moon Lyrics + track

I crave for you
And the incense of night
To bathe
In the flame of your light

Cold Pale in sorrow
In the tears that followed
The years that swallowed
The innocence of my love
I crave for you

Killing For Company - Swans Lyrics + Video

I couldn't stop myself
I knew I'd do it again
But I could heal myself,
If I could feel your skin
And if I comprehend this moment
I know we'll live again
And if I heal your wound
We will make love again
And now we're slipping through this millenium
We should feel sorry for the people
Can I kiss your skin?
And there's hunger in the desert.
And missiles in the sky
And every soul is interwoven
Before the wrong or right
I know we'll live again
Though it's just a feeling
I know we'll never end
I'll keep you company

Gal anda vldr gangla
Vldr rithanda vldr rinnanda
Vldr sitianda vldr signanda
Vldr faranda vldr fliughanda

Skal alt fyrna ok um doia

And so the dreams lies shattered once again
And I can hear the ravens call at night
And the path...abandoned...leading nowhere
An omen fulfilled
And I loathe the dark
And I curse the gods

You Make it Easy - Air Lyrics

" Never been here - How about you ? "
You smile at my answer,
You've given me the chance,
To be held and understood.

You leave me laughing without crying,
There's no use denying,
For many times I've tried,
Love has never felt as good.

Be it downtown or way up in the air,
When your heart's pounding,
You know that I'm aware.

You make it easy to watch the world with love,
You make it easy to let the past be done,
You make it easy.

How'd you do it ? How'd you find me ?
How did I find you ?
How can this be true ?
To be held and understood.

Keep it coming - no one's running
The lesson I'm learning
'Cause blessings are deserved
By the trust that always could

Be it downtown or way up in the air,
When your heart's pounding,
You know that I'm aware.

You make it easy to watch the world with love,
You make it easy to let the past be done,
You make it easy.

You make it easy to watch the world with love,
You make it easy to let the past be done,
You make it easy.

New star in the sky

My baby blue is a new star,
In the sky,
The world the world the world the world,
Just for you for nobody else.

Swords To Rust, Hearts To Dust - Rome Lyrics

we shall let our songs drown

the rattle of the train

and the roaring of the crowd

we shall wet our throat with sticky dark wine

and toast this blood wedding so fine

to new horizons! to a new dawn!

to a new and reckless generosity!

for this our land of the free

we shall win, die or betray and turn

swords to rust - hearts to dust

in vain to write our name

in blood and in flowers of flame

swords to rust - hearts to dust

all blind and gone astray

our envy green as may

all smothered in wild flowers

we break the windows to breathe

that golden dawn is ours

for tonight hesitation is on leave

to wear god down

to flatten him out

to pray to no other

parley with death

to bury the crown

to silence all lovers

we shall turn

swords to rust - hearts to dust

in vain to write our name

in blood and in flowers of flame

swords to rust - hearts to dust

all blind and gone astray

our envy green as may

schwerter zu rost ? herzen zu staub!

dennoch die schwerter halten

dennoch die herzen spalten

swords to rust - hearts to dust

in vain to write our name

in blood and in flowers of flame

swords to rust - hearts to dust

all blind and gone astray

our envy green as may

Tuesday, 10 November 2009



PTV are attempting to knit together thee fine lines ov shamanic initiation and voodoo invokation allegorically coded into western X-tian myth. TV itself becoums thee ceremony, thee language ov thee tribe. It becoums apparent that, cloaked in spurious messianic trivia, are ancient tantric rituals involving small death, limbo and resurrection that have now been literalised and usurped by a base language system named religion. Just as religion cloaks ancient knowledge and techniques, so Television cloaks its power to invoke thee lowest coumon denominator ov revelation. We see S&M sex as an imperfect butter inevitable outlet for instinctive drives for rites ov passage and initiation. We believe sexuality was always included in ancient mysteries and that Television is in itself a new secret language, thee language rooted in lighting, camera perfection, edits, so it remains hidden and emasculating. We intend to reinstate thee ability ov TV to empower and entrance thee viewer. To remove thee window and passibity, and re-enter thee world ov dreams beyond. We believe TV is a Modern alchemical weapon that can have a positive and cumulative effect upon Intuition. An image is NOT a product ov Nature, it is a word in a silent and invisible Language system. A projected word that has meaning. This projected image is a set ov scans (visible marks) with a particular shape that beoums meaningful only if they follow thee rules which apply to thee language. Normally these scans/marks have meaning only in thee accepted, socially agreed order, not in other permutations ov that order. If we change Individual image scans we get new meanings new reverberations ov this TV language system. Minute changes in thee ratio ov Sound/Image creates radical differences in perspective and emotional response. Thee focus ov retinal attention is crucial, hence our use ov neurophysiological theory in thee placing ov monitors etc... A single Image Scan becoums meaningful by following thee rules ov thee TV language system, and programmes take their meaning from their place within that system. Once we have learned and "normalised" a language, we tend to forget this, to suppose that meaning derives from its reference to THINGS in a Real World. Not so. TV images are not, in this sense, necessarily pictures ov reality, not doorways either. They are usually used as windows. PTV try to invest them with thee older tradition ov Thresholds.

A PTV Image Scan does not signify a general, accepted and fixed idea. It is allegorical, metaphorical, symbolical, and trivial simultaneously. Thee reverberation ov possibility is our goal. We feel that thee connection between image, form and object is arbitrary. PTV are not interested in formulating conventional programming, we are closer to sorcerers transmitting and receiving pagan invokations in order to SEE.

Thee process is thee product.

What a camera may record no longer represents reality, it is not objective. So thee Image Scan (Word) is essentially different from thee viewed thing itself. If you look at images long enough, they cease to exist as a visual message. They becoum electronic images in their own right and a new evaluation, rooted in thee unconscious develops. It is an old trance technique in almost all so-called "primitive" cultures. Thee intuition becoums master in a world ov no specific meaning. Thee place where all dreams meet. Thee rules ov coumbination are deliberately coumfounded in a linguistic, behavioural and linguistic permutation. By playing around with thee Language System rules or by deliberately contravening them, we thus generate a surplus ov meanings. All meanings are possible, butter their relationship with thee original, real situation becoums problematic.

We encourage thee viewer to search for shape in multi-linear layers ov response. When PTV use Image Scans, they mean what we, thee artists, meant as well. Thee one does not negate thee other, rather, this multiplicity IS thee invoking medium itself, rather than preconcieved notions ov a TV product. TV language becoums a public affair that nobody really controls. Yet our exposure to this language means we inhabit thee language as we would inhabit a place. We get trapped inside and in terms ov language.

The history ov an Image Scan can have a profound effect on it.

Not only do we inhabit TV Language, we also inherit it, and part ov our inheritance is thee dense and coumplex history ov assumptions, implications, prejudices and corruptions that derive form thee way TV has been used in thee past. This again mirrors to us thee oppressive nature ov all religion, and X-tianity in particular.

Thee parallel to established, acceptable religions, to S&M sexuality, to tribal rites ov passage, is clear and potent. If we remove thee tableau to reveal thee central keyu, thee storyboard becoums a Still Life, yet also a Real Life. A decoded allegory, a description by default ov thee actuality ov reinforcers in religion would have us surrender to.

Thee crystal itself, not thee refracted light.

Genesis/Paula P-Orridge Seattle April 1 1988