The God of This World

There is a school of thought, I believe it’s called Gnosticism, wherein the God of this decaying, dying material plane is seen as mad, and we, the individuated conscious monads are trapped, as it were, in his nightmare. The True God, being perfect, CANNOT have any intercession with the material plane, as that God is in a state of perfection beyond the material. Until we find the enlightenment of transcendent knowingness, we cannot, as it were, “Go Back to Godhead.” Until then, we continue, as Buddha said, “to reenter the womb,” to stay mired in physical reality, which is the stuff that, cyclically. always sickens, decays and dies. The world of Maya, the Illusion.

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It is Snowing Thinly in the Yard

it is snowing thinly in the yard.

Go in the door, and the place is large and cavernous, haunted, and only the television in the back room seems to be working. I hear a bitchy voice, outside, which is “Emily”; and I know she has come to scrounge or scavenge, just as I. Out front, it is muddy, and Granpa sits in a little scoot-chair, pointing to an airplane up in the sky. It is suddenly 1917, and he has regressed to the point of infancy. In the yard, over a puddle, a gaggle of women surround a dispatch runner trying to fix a motorbike. He has on a flight cap, goggles, is extremely thin, and possesses three amazing tusk-like front teeth–could almost be false. Actually, most likely they are.

Then, on the set of Ken Russell’s Gothic. Sitting with the cast in a castle room, and someone somewhere in a room beyond, a ruined room, is weeping. I say “that one annoys me” to the assembled, but move forward through space and who knows time with my drawing pad.

And begin to draw, and even the mountains look good and natural as I move into a new technique.

And it is a weeping woman ULALUME, “La Llorona,” I suppose. But next, we have the Monster laid out on his surgery table, and a whorish slut walks like slippery dung from a duck’s ass down the length of the table; and I think, “Russell’s camera captures everything organically, making no value judgments as it pulls back and lets her slow-motion saunter sexily slide (she is wearing white hose, panties and garter, and what seems a sweater, with flowing curls and not much else) down the length and breadth of the viewers subconscious.” Russell.

Lastly, at a counter in a dimly-lit area of the villa that is, apparently, a sort of modern clinic. Shelley tosses a burning fireball at me, who am Renfield, and I slap it back as Byron, a hulking, cloth-masked character who is playing at being the Monster chases me into a waiting lavatory and I awake thinking of the “Ode to Joy” and Carl Panzram. The End.

Reality

Reality is built upon consensus, which is shared illusion. If you could get enough people to agree that the sky is green and the grass is blue, it would become generally accepted that this was so. Furthermore, if the television and print media, movies, radio and electronic media trumpeted this fact as the generally agreed-upon “norm” all day every day, day in and day out, you would find precious few people willing to disagree with it, despite the best evidence of their own eyes. Anyone that dared do so would be considered an outcast, heretic or “witch,” and would be perceived as a threat to the survival of the whole. They would be isolated, unpersoned or destroyed.

The Other, Other (Other) White Meat

In the ancient Greek story of Tantalus, the ancient Greek Tantalus invited all the ancient Greek gods to what, we must assume, was a dinner comprised of dishes eaten exclusively by ancient Greeks. because he was full of piss and vinegar (or, to be more literary perhaps, what Poe would signify as the “Imp of the Perverse”), the merry jokester killed, cooked and served his little son Pelops to his guests. (By comparison, the hairy Hebraic patriarch Abraham, in the Old Testament, was instructed by God to sacrifice his son Isaac. He was finally stopped by a visiting angel and invited to sacrifice a goat instead…Actually, that is probably not a relevant comparison.)

The Gods themselves would taste none of what they knew, intuitively, was a hideous cannibal repast. All save for Deter, whose daughter Persephone was being held captive in Hades by Hades. Or maybe they actually called the realm Tartarus, perchance. I’m not certain.

Demeter was so preoccupied in her vast grief that she nibbled a little bit of the ill-starred Pelops’ arm. Zeus, so enraged at this effrontery, decided he must punish Tantalus in a rather maddeninlgy surreal fashion.

Confined to an eternity in Hell, Tantalus was suspended above a body of water that would, forever, recede just out of reach before he could slake his thirst.
Above him, succulent fruit would grow from a tree, always just out of his reach, so that he might stare at it, smell it, and hunger after it, forever and ever–and yet never be able to grab it and assuage his grumbling, cannibalistic tummy.

But, the fellow did cook and serve his own son for dinner, you will say. What sort of punishment would be fitting for such an abominable, atrocious crime?

“Served him Right!”
Katherine Knight of Sydney, Australia, was jailed in Oct 2001. Why? you might ask. Well, Kathy, who worked as a laborer at a slaughterhouse, was a wee bit upset with her boyfriend, a drug addict that wanted out of the relationship out of a sense of, apparent, domestic terror stemming from his violent mama-san.

After calmly explaining herself via a home video recording, Katherine departed to her boyfriend’s bungalow and, finding his passed-out due to overdosing, perhaps conveniently, on junk, chopped off his head and various other needed appendages. She then flayed the luckless sonofabitch and hung his skin in the hall.

She then prepared three bowls of hot and spicy daddy soup for his three unsuspecting chilluns…

It is said that the investigating officers, some of them, were in “mandatory therapy.”

Not the first occurrence of this sort of thing, of course. A schizophrenic killer named Radzkowski cooked and served pieces of a girlfriend to homeless vagrants in Central Park, NYC. He commented, ‘”It tastes pretty good!”

He served her RIGHT, one supposes.

Now, we’re off for a bit of a nosh.

Bon appetit!

(Source: “True Vampires” by Sondra London)

Censorship

If someone is trying to censor information, a book or a website, or if they have to pass a LAW to restrict what you say, it is usually because it is evidence of the censor’s perfidy, or culpability in wrongdoing. The hypocrite strikes you, then wails in the courtyard of public opinion about how righteous, how utterly moral and upstanding his position as a “pillar of society” and final arbiter of what is right and wrong, good and evil, truly is. All the time you are reeling from his blow, but expected to cower, subservient to his interests and whims.

The Cat’s Meow

There’s no accounting for taste, apparently. Not to a hungry four-year-old boy, such as young Robert Radu of Comanesti, Romania.

When the tender tyke took ill, it didn’t take long for Mama to figure out what, precisely, had left him with a bellyache. Note to readers: you won’t like the mental image.

Of the family feline she frankly found fur, and finally a few funny femurs. (Do cat’s have femurs? Not certain, but we wanted so very, very badly to continue our alliteration. Alas, no dice. we make no bones about our literary shortcomings.)

She found some kitty remains, to put it succinctly.

The doctors didn’t believe her until they pumped the nauseated lad’s little tummy. Yes, indeed, they agreed, he had swallowed the family pet in an orgy of cruel and sadistic bloodletting. (We must assume most other children would have been sated with peanut butter and jelly.)

He left behind only the fur and bones.

Addendum: We were tempted, for the sake of humor, to name this little snippet after a common vulgarity involving the double entendre of a soft, furry kitty being eaten, and a particular sexual practice. In short, we almost titled it: “Eating a Little…”

Oh, nevermind.

(Source: “True Vampires” by Sondra London)

Eraserhead (1977)

Eraserhead

Spent the wee hours this morning watching Eraserhead on You Tube, projected against a background of shifting, animated stars. I suppose the uploader did that to get around the copyright restriction. The film reminds me of my life twenty years ago, starting university in Muncie, walking around through old buildings and rooming houses, bars; buildings where you can still feel the tired, worn-out but undeniably real energy of another era. Little Chicago, 1928, or even 1898. You can still feel the shuffling, forlorn footsteps of old ghosts, lost on their way to the Light, forever perambulating their musty, nocturnal hallways and empty, dust-choked rooms, in search of an exit. If you listen closely, you can hear their murmuring sobs, their old, tired, petty arguments and passing thoughts repeated endlessly, the music of their lives flowing down the frequency fields of space, trapped in the walls, as if the very environment were a vast, brick-and-mortar tape recording device. But, I wax too poetic for four in the morning. C’est la vie.

Eraserhead “In Heaven”