artislav mel: responder

responder 1:5

2009-12-03T00:46:00.001-08:00

Another Kind of Smoke

The transgression of theater and therefore of human thought and dreams of purple super-trouper lights are gonna find you shining like the sun - in three stages.

T - Tragedy
H - History
C - Comedy

Our Play:

From beyond Uranus we tumble into the world of Time and Times, and unto the Solar Deity. For now, as we hurtle toward the Earth and yon, look - as we go by - look at the Great Wanderers in the Sky.

Dramatis Personae:

Up just ahead is Saturn, its mighty rings the symbol of the binding walls of Time itself. Saturn is The Hotel California. The Letter B. The note Ti (natural) - most common in the music of 1500 to 1800 CE. A probability engine striving for the utmost unification of all transfinite events. Within its icy core, the Akasha: the library of all that has happened is happening and can happen yet, at least for the Time Being. Some call Saturn God, but this is only because they have no idea what God might be, and so must give the name Almighty to the greatest mechanism they can imagine.

Outside of Saturn is beyond Time. Dispatches from this distant shore are unreliable and garbled - non-linear and illogical - and so we call Saturn Seven, as 7 is the most complex of the integral primes and implies the impossibility of the hyperdoxical and super-infinite 8 reaching outside its limits.

Look there, that tiny dot. It is the Majestic Jupiter and will soon grow to fill the limits of our peripheral acuity. Big-Bigger-Biggest. As we draw nigh, you will note a sinewy cable of star-dust that stretches back toward Saturn. The Aural-Optic Nerves. Jupiter, you see is an Eyeball Earhole which operates as both viewer, audience and projector of the Cosmic Melodrama.

It is grossly improper to imagine a sexual orientation to the persona of Jupiter, which is the pitfall of all religious thought throughout history and to this very day. Jupiter is not a fountain-phallus, you Theocrats, nor a tender-teat-for-suckling, o yea Pagans, but an EYE. Your eye. That is All.

Because this is a lonely eye, it sees and projects in 2d, from 5 directions: directly, from left, from right, from above, from below. The secrets of Jupiter can be easily divined by the cinephile, the painter, the tarot occultist, the practiced photographer and the Euclidean Geometer, and in audio by the actor, dancer and acoustic engineer.

In music, Jupiter is the chord that is sometimes called a 'sus' chord or 'sub dominant add four'. It is formed by the notes Do-Fa-Ti (flat) and is common in blues, folk, jazz, country and rock music. This particular combination or progression of tones has the quality of suspension, which is why music of this genre is often played into a fade out over vamp, as opposed to the resolution of the key common to the classical genres.

Numerically, Jupiter is 12, 21 and 42. These numbers are quite normally placid, balanced and playfully funny. The essence of Joviality, Poetic Justice and the Suspension of disbelief called Faith.

Coming up is Mars. The Rising Red Sun. Mars is Christ as he ascends from the Cross, which is simply a metaphor for anti-gravity. The usual dignity of Mars (and Venus) has been confounded by tome after tome of deliberately confusing literature. Mars is but one half of a pair of stereoscopic woof-lenses designed to produce the illusion of the 3rd dimension and sound - an illusion called Elo. Venus is its opposite, implying the Crucified Christ as Gravity and Death. It's just that easy.

As stated, there has been much trickery in regard to the specific orientation of Mars vs. Venus.

Here is the corrected tale of the tape:

Mars: Peace, Eternity, Anti-Gravity, Vipassana Submission, Left Eye and Ear and Hand (freedom), Right Brain, the number 5, the note Sol, the Man Alive, Gimme Five.

Venus: Calamity, Mortailty, Gravity, Homoepathic Paganism, Right Ear and Eye and Hand (law), Left Brain, the number 6, the note La, Sex and Death, Six Feet Under.

These forces work in perfect harmony as the twin serpents of the caduceus, as the platform, the stage and rigging of the Great Cosmic Theater of Electro-Orgasma-Plasma we call good the ol' planet Oit.

A cursory word about Earth and the Moon. These bodies are not Wanderers, not Planets. The Earth is a Hologram and the Moon is the internal emblem of the lens that focuses the image field into the false sphere of curved space. In the fullest sense, the Earth and Moon are the product of the co-ordinated efforts of the Great Planetary Spheres - the product, and not more.

Mercury is tricky. Sometimes called the Thrice Great, Mercury has no real personality at all, not because it is a Zero, but because it defies any label except quick. The secret nature of Mercury is that of a high-speed processor. To enter the sun, one must pass through Mercury much as one must pay a toll at a gate or buy a ticket for a movie. Mercury is all business, and for this reason is sometimes called the Thief. Its power is transmuted and extracted from exterior sources.

In music Mercury is the Octave, a note in perfect harmony with Do, the first note of the scale. This happenstance is the basis of the confusion of Mercury with the personality of the Magician and the Number 8.

And at last, our blue souls glowing, we plunge into the Sun, which we find not a great body, but a tiny point, merely imaginary, the core of the self, where billions upon billions pour themselves into sacrifice for the implication of a light and heat that does not exist, into the dulcet harmony of Do Re and Me, the first, second and third notes of the scale, and forever outward whence we come on ripples of consecrated bliss.

It is here, after our first journey from the noumenon, the outreaches of Uranus, and into the core of the Self - the Sun - that we are given to consider that which reaches past Saturn and beyond the measure of Time and Space.

For many, this frontier demands a recap of the Life of a Time, a Time Line, and such travelers, as all have been past, must re-incorporate into the linear streams of Akasha and back into the Sun. This journey can be repeated as often as wished, and usually is. Trouble is, these curtain calls have the sublime tendency of enhancing the performer until he or she threatens to become, let's say, bigger than Time. Such infamy is impolite, and the refined soul will exeunt stage left to avoid the loss of their discreet personality into a larger archetype.

It is such maturity alone that allows entrance through the Gates of Uranus, Uranus the Comedian and true Magician of the Super 8, who bars the passage of anything sacred, and into the Violet Essence of the real mystic, but one of an ecclesia of artists that share just two qualities among them: that of an altogether unique self identity and a taste for lowbrow humor...

...or as some like to call it Comedia Ultraismo - the Old Ultra Violets. Comedy is difficult and difficult comedy is somehow funnier with each new examination. As an example of my own expertise - that of a mere acolyte - I proffer the notion that certain films and novels, notorious for their reputation of profundity and moral import, are in fact resplendent baroque farce and best discussed in the shithouse over a schwitz. Kubrick, T.S. Eliot, Fellini and Joyce, and Tolle (a personal fav) are fine examplars. Francis Bacon is supreme for shaking a spear.

For the fettered souls we leave behind, within Karma, which is Space, and Dogma, which is Time, the story of the sovereign self cycles glumly repetitious in the Theater of The Tragi-Hysterical just as Megan Follows. To refresh our humors and to last, we recall the Tragedy of Human Suffering and History of Human Striving.

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Bacon's funniest, is crypto-tragic, because its content implies the inferiority of the mortal. The joke is on you, for when the intellect, the academic, the poet, and the poser laugh at the Comedy, it is a laugh of self-deprecation, of self-pity, of self-loathing. Laughter yes, but circumscribed by the ineluctable distance between the mortal and the heavily advertised divine.

To the young mind, the tragic mind, the mind without sufficient evidence of pattern, All is Tragedy and its laughter is a callow, hollow ruse without a memory.

The transition to History promises growth, but wilts upon the vine. The Tempest, the sole Baconian opus that can not be specifically classed as Tragedy, History or Comedy and with pretension to the 'mystic self', is the favorite muse of the Historically Grateful Dunderhead. Our lives, we are told, are dust - a touch...

...of gray, no more to say. To know this is to plunge with 'the fervor of necessity' into the Mercantile Operation of the Alchemical Wedding, which aims to ensure immortality through the line of our seminal genesis and work product. To become, in simple terms, a businessman - and get down to business.

On first blush, such pursuit seduces the aging mind with the promise of dignity and the social honors that come with. But, and precisely at the moment of pattern recognition, which is simultaneous with the inner birth of the sovereign self, the Historical model shatters. Caliban Sees Himself. Caliban Sees Nothing.

The moment is defined astronomically as a threshold on the souls journey away from the Sun Sacrifice and back into the Akasha, when it sees Jupiter, shall we say Eye to Eye, which is the extreme moment of self awareness inside of Time. It is to look into one's own third-eye, and go blind at once.

The preferred response is to re-juvenate into the Tragic mode, and return to the Sun.

Yet in this place, a few brave souls face at last the Leap of Laughter which I conclude is the only technique to cross the Abyss of Da'ath and into perfect light - and this Leap is A Leap of Faith. Faith not of a Dogma or of a System but instead the cheerful and optimistic Faith in Oneself - Oneself on the Edge of Nothing.

Now, the comedian reads Hamlet and finds neither a Tragedy, nor even a specific story worth repeating, but a Colossal Cluster of Crazed Comic Corkscrews, Fugal Frolics and Bawdy Bathroom Phoney Bones. The whole she-bang of it is a one liner and when staged properly oughtta quite literally rib-tickle its audience to death.

- LOLOTF, OMG, I'm Dead!
- Haha! What? U2!
- 2B or not 2B, WTF?
- Tubey or not Tubey?
- I prefer rice.
- I feel ya.
- I missed her potato head.
- Alas, Yorick. Porridge.

OK. Corny I know, but as stated, Comedy is Difficult. So, can you forgive a fumble in the light of my promise that All of It is a Joke? A Great Cosmic Whoopee Cushion, so sublime that once you get the punch you will start to laugh, stopping only to cry, until at last released of the ballast of your tears you begin to chuckle from the bottom of your soul. Without the slightest fear of heresy at Comedy so Absurd it can only be called Divine.

T or H or C, my hidden friend, it is up to only thee.
The Comedy at History's end is good enough for me.

Also, a little reefer does wonders, I am told.

But then again, what do I know... I'm just Mark LeClair - and may have slighted the Moon.

responder 1:4

2009-11-28T22:32:00.000-08:00

The tintinabulation of the spheres
Seems tickle-ing within my wicked ears
O surely it is but a dream
A green and gleaming mountain stream
Glissando crossing xylophonic stone
Silver demons in my eye alone
Send my salt and ashes to the sea
Saving only smoke and me

- Soda Pop Fats, Minneapolis circa 1887

Lighter Than Smoke

Away these last weeks, trying to break out of my head, I return to The Ol' Sync Hole to the ringing of a mighty sync and on the brink.

Indras Net, in his sync-work, manages to mirror the events of my own life with striking accuracy.

On the eve of IN's recent post, I was holed up in a Super 8 motel room with my spirit guide, Azazel Fennrar. We got drunk on rum, mushroom tea, and plenty of Drum Original Rollie Tobacco, which I like to call REDRUM. We were in a town called Drumheller (Hell Murder), working on the design details of our Time Machine.

To chill, we took in two films which I am now delighted to recall concern the use of tobacco as a thematic meme: Ghost Rider and Dead Man.

Later, in the cool morning, Zaz and I shared a Holy Moment in a place called Horseshoe Canyon and I flashed on Waking Life. Zaz's drawings for our Time Machine look alot like the folded paper divining toy from WL's opening sequence.

On the road, we listened to Alan Watts and the first random lecture was A Happy Death.

Zaz dropped me off at about 11:30 am, and I went straight to bed with the TV on Encore Avenue (a kind of Canadian TCM). Time After Time, with Malcolm MacDowell and David Warner. I feel politely dazzled on my post mushroom-hangover buzz, and fall asleep. Feeling and falling, I dream quite vividly I am being eaten alive by worms.

I must also note that when Zaz and I meet, we call it Shining, after our groundbreaking work unraveling the Kubrick masterpiece, an opus with conspicuous use of tobacco and Amer-Indo imagery.

Now, a biograph: your pal Artislav Mel is a chain-smoker. One hand rolled unfiltered after another, and each down to the nubbin. In the morning, when I brush my fangs, I also pumice the golden patina of weed from my fingers - a stain which many find more offensive than the fireplace perfume of my dud's that follows me like Pigpen's cloud. It is my custom to go to bed at the precise moment I no longer wish to smoke.

As a smoker, yer old AM is right up there with Nabokov or Kubrick or Bette Davis. I ain't just name dropping, because I think that smoking is, in some sense, a function of what I like to call sink-think. Sink-think has more than a few famous names. Properly it is called synesthesia, which is the hallmark of Vlad's lyricism. The Sub-Geniuses call it excremeditation. Bach explains it in Edifying Thoughts. In alchemy it may be called Azoth. In Valis, PKD (a smoker) describes the process somewhat in reverse, as golden droplets of light descending to illumine a miasma of total emptiness and to my mind, Poe explains it likewise in Descent Into The Maelstrom. I choose Sink-Think for its punitive value, and because of its relevance to my spectral mentor Stanley Kubrick, who is essentially a bathroom Joker and midnight Black Bram's Toker.

Smoking serves as the ritual of sink-think, exactly because of its famously relaxative benefits. Just as earlier Zen turns the third eye toward the sex, the Sink-Thinker descends past the sexual quagmire of the Sixth Sepulchur and into the Seventh Heaven of Anal Bliss. Sex and the Genetic de-Genesis is a conundrum with no solution - a conundrum devised to insinuate the infernal cycle of nature as a superior to the total self. To surpass this threshold we must open the crown with our assholes intact. The irony of this model is at a fine edge in the neo-buddhistics of Chopra, Oprah and most wonderfully Eckhart Tolle. Tolle espouses illumination by the celebrated contemplation of the flower. The flower (ewige Blumenkraft) is the supreme image of sexual beauty and the murderous sick-sickle cyclic nature. In the flower, which grows forth from the freshly killed living sexual sacrifice, the Buddha sees only despair.

And so it is for the sink-thinker and the smoker. The physio-logic and hyper-doxical product of smoking is ASH (Latin creme; excrement - out of ash), which is the complete mortification of the material essence. When the body is burned away, and burned again, it is akin to the crushing of all life at the bottom of a pestle. Ergo, the insufflation of tobacco is the supreme spiritual and alchemical working. The remaining product is not manure but salted ash, from which only the purest spirit can ascend beyond the logos and be one without form.

Down to Earth and the writing is on the wall. We appear to be on the brink of eschaton, but remain too afraid to cross the abyss just yet. Porn and juveneille sexuality are a giveaway. The mainstream porn industry is ugly and evil. And I am told that the teen-age goodnight kiss has been usurped by oral sex. The source of this degradation is anal tension. The divine mind has been barred passage beyond the sexual and into the anal - a process fundamental to the proper development of adult conciousness. Basic cable provides anatomically explicit porn and yet treats normal anal function with a distant artistry on the level of a Shakespearian sonnet. Adam Lambert's harmless queer kiss on the AMA's takes America to the red line. The American hold-outs just aren't ready to accept the Sphere of Total Self Love into the light of day, and they aren't the only ones. All government, religion and capital commererce depend upon the attenuation of arrested anal development, which is analog to enforced mortality with the supreme self as its subject.

And so it's 9/11 all over again, in the privy council courtroom. Illegal imprisonment and torture. NIMBY. The persecution of the aged, infirm, poor and the mentally ill (who, not too coincidentally, love tobacco).

Folks everywhere are ready to tear out their assholes. It seems as if the shit is gonna get heavy, good people. But don't worry, when it's time to burn... nothing is lighter than smoke.

Part Two: Atonement

To begin, an elegance of maths. You don't have to be a genius to follow the drift of Stan Tenen. Sooner or later he gets round and explains that letters and logograms of many languages and number systems seem to imitate the contortions of a smoke ring as it rises toward the ether. Tenen, whose main field is the Hebrew Alef-Bet, compares this 'ring' to the 'two-toroid', or 'hollow donut'.

The special importance to our discussion: the comparison to the meditation of smoking, which appears the most efficacious method of observing the two-torus as it twists into itself and expands at last into a spheroid cloud.

I will try to clarify the following themes.

- The Externalization of Secret Dogma (as per a comment from Tox Mundi)
- The persecution of the habit of smoking (west of Jerusalem)
- Major Toth
- The Kingdom of Satan: If you are reading this, you could be home by now! Condo's from $666,000
- Some Other Stuff

The Externalization of Secret Dogma

In comments from Lighter Than Smoke I muse...

Great and dark forces are working over time to conflate the anal with the sexual, to, in a sense, make the asshole into a sex object and reintegrate the cosmic mind into the stupid cycle of nature that it is now practically illegal to speak against in a direct voice.

Tox Mundi asks...

if that's true then why is hollywood cranking out 17 pkd-inspired sciflicks perannum? or do they fall under the qualifier?

This question ignites a direct hit. The rejoinder asks the initiate to consider that the New Age is nothing of the sort, and that the current synchroid fascination, the much adored ascension of consciousness, is only a walk around the block. An attempt to commercialize, to 'square off' the transfinite self as a subset of the Maya, under the name of the ever loving Disney we're all in this together Hakuna Matata bullshit cycle of Life and Death Green House Mass Gas Passer most often abbrieviated as The One.

The Confucion, Zen and Taoist schools each report this so-called One as a the pernicious myth of Maya - only to have their teachings warped into doctrinal patterns and used as lithographic plates for education of mass peoples, and in particular, stupid white men.

The externailaztion of secret teaching is busted as a flim-flam - a con. Nowadaze, one must don the threadbare mantle of socially accepted spirutal knowledge or else. The Sacred has become Sacrosanct and this is why these words you read are dangerous and virtually unlawful unless parsed by a master such as myself. The individual, you see, is on the verge of its complete assassination. It is quite the more acceptable to belong to a group of any type at all, than it is to profess one's sovreign self.

Forcing masses of peoples into sub-sets of the Maya has been a 6000 year process - a process on the verge of its Magnificent Realization. The secret dogma has been held at bay as Satan's Ace in the Hole - played now with such panache as to grab the most difficult resistors of His plan: those who believe themselves to be generally and/or non-dogmatically moral and who, in the light of pseudo-sacred self-importance, demand reflexive morality from others.

The overstimulated Golden Rule is an excellent paradox.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

We ask in this 'golden' light: what is the self to do if that which some or many others wish for themselves, another does not wish? The Golden Rule is exposed as passive social Darwinism.

The correct rule is the Iron Rule and is not paradoxical, but Ironic, as it proceeds forth from the Age of Iron which is symbolized by the golden head of King Nebuchnazzar.

Don't do unto others, unless of course, they ask you, and then, if you like, do only as they ask. Do not be affronted by the behavior of others. We do not live in an enclosure, but a trans-finite paradise. Have faith - there is always room to polish your own bowl.

Which leads nicely into our next question...

The persecution of the habit of smoking

To begin, please read...

Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker

Whene'er I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away
My thoughts, as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.

Like me this pipe, so fragrant burning,
Is made of naught but earthen clay;
To earth I too shall be returning,
And cannot halt my slow decay.
My well used pipe, now cracked and broken,
Of mortal life is but a token.

No stain, the pipe's hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death's call I must harken
My body, too, all pale will grow.
To black beneath the sod 'twill turn,
Likewise the pipe, if oft it burn.

Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then instantaneously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
'Til naught but ash is left to see.
Man's fame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.

How oft it happens when one's smoking,
The tamper's missing from it's shelf,
And one goes with one's finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell
How hot must be the pains of Hell!

Thus o'er my pipe in contemplation
Of such things - I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation,
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, at sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.

Johann Sebastian Bach - 1725 (1685-1750)

It is here that we can explain the titular pun Atonement/At-One-Meant.

A question to the reader: are you aware that Oriental and Indo-Asian Races, including Amer-Inds, suffer comparative to the Caucasian, little ill effect from the use of tobacco? Geriatric Scientest and Bio-Sphere doctor, Ray Walford, in his massive study 'The China Health Project' gives the best reasoning for this disparity: the diet.

Now, please join me in an oblique interpreation of the term diet.

From the philosophic, intellectual, even scientific perspective that 'All is Maya is as One', we must adopt a subtle interpretation of the precise nature of food. Within the matrix everything is a consumer property. Everything is being consumed. All we see, hear, touch, taste, smell, breathe, think, eat, excrete, all is Maya and is simultaneously consuming and being consumed. In the Maya, everything is food.

The model instructs the self-same as of the now corrupted Roman School of Light: we are cannibals and must atone.

One must consider the 6000 year history of modern civilization as the passage of the Sun in One Day across the sky.

The Morning of this Day, which exists outside of Time, before the motion of the Sun has even started, is A Golden Age of Peace. It is best described in popular parlance as The Lost Horizon. Within the Maya it is only a fable. At the moment the Sun begins its journey, reality begins to degrade into an infernal cycle of self-digestion and regurgitation. There is a mighty struggle of 4000 years, in which the Light of Reason rages against the approaching whatcomesaround goesaround of karmic nihilism. This battle is lost forever the moment 2000 gone years, when our Sun crosses Jerusalem and Christ is Crux-eye-Fried and served up to zoomanity as an immortal chicken-satay.

The conundrum for the Western Soul is to atone for this crusty botch of sin, which is programmed by the cereal series of sacrifice and is therefore the burden of omnivore and 6th level vegan alike. The exacting nature of this paradox is the need for the Westerner to compensate for that which we consumed in our serial glory of manifest destiny... namely, The Continent of the Americas.

The gift of the Native Amer-Indians to the White Man, of Tobacco, is the means for this Atonement, which depending upon the level of sin, can be ritual or habitual. For a Honky like me, to smoke is to Atone for the sins of my father, which is the cannabilistic genocide of a race of peaceful nomads.

I pray you recall the excellent example of Kubrick's The Shining, familiar to all of us, which is essentially of comedy of Thomist atonement. Jack and Danny discuss cannabilism on the drive up to The Overlook. Wendy and Danny are seen in the shadow of the Calumet (Peace Pipe). All three spend much of their time together in a blue haze of Virginia's finest blends.

For the Torrances, the ritual is a complete success. Wendy who is Isis, an Earth Mother every bit as cruel as her male diameter, will see herself in the mirror and get a rude awakening long overdue. She and Danny slide back down the Sidewinder, to alow Danny to play his Jesus games all over again - but with refinement. As for Jack, he is the only one who hears the highest voice of the Sovreign Self (g-d), and like a mensch, he attempts to confine the cancerous American family where it belongs. He is rewarded with a paradise.

Jack is the Biblical Abraham, who worships God through ritual atonement and burnt offering. This particular dude is smart enough to see far into the future of his race and looks to put an end to it but quick. He fails only because his Supreme Self allows Satan to fulfill the evil destiny of Will. The kid gets away and Abe wins his Godhead. Jack Torrance and his character is a perfect analog to corrected yoga vipassana. I will defend this notion with much alacrity with reference to the opus, if I am asked.

For now, we see the Satanic necessity of marginalizing the smoker, along with any other dangling dudes of derring-do that defy the conventional form.

To be at one with the Maya - which is the aim of the New Age and proponents like The Green Movement, the Neo-Buddhists and Ecumenists - is to prevail the False Western Self westward, across the Pacific, to utterly Westernize the Eastern School, which is then fed back to the Empirical Cannibal like carnivorous pablum. All forms of atonement are to be forbidden through this process which is unveiled on Aug. 6 1945 and realized globally when Eckhart Tolle settles in Vancouver.

And so we find to our consternation, that all of the good people are looking for their light Eastward, through the Western Gate, creating the fractalated fugues of faraway fancy adorned as sacred knowledge of Tao or Zen or What Have you.

The Western soul, must, and I say absolutely must, return his burden to the East through Jerusalem and the Cross of Christ, which is the Only Stargate to the Palm Garden, before he can contemplate the difficult serenity of Eastern Promises.

To go west beyond Vancouver is dangerous, O My Brothers and Sisters - Behold the Major!!!

Major Toth

Compare the images, and who has eyes will see the flower on his hand. One thing is for damned sure... he doesn't smoke.

The Kingdom of Satan (you are here)

This can be a bit thorny. To circumvent a certain brand of real critik, I will make a small apology. I am not a Christian, or a Christ. Nor do I wish to embrace these twins of Hodge and Podge - one or the other. Instead, I am simply a scholastic Thomist who understands that one must endure the ritual of ones specific culture before any passage through a Strange Gate. You may compare my viewpoint to that of Alan Watts, who was very clear he was not a Zen Buddhist, but rather that he propsed a perpsective educated by the Zen school.

As a Zen Thomist, here is my perspective. The sacrificial murder of Christ is the beginning of Western Empiric Cannabilism. This push westward would hound, pillage and finally overturn first the mediterranian and then the American nomadic cultures. At the brink of the collapse of this Empire comes its master stroke: the eminent domain of pan-pacific pseudo-wisdom superimposed onto the hold out vestiges of Western self-dignity - an event known widely as Ecumenism or by the vile misnomer, Pluralism.

A funny proof comes from the immortal chain smoker Hermann Hesse, in his Der Glasperlenspiel, also called The Glass Bead Game. It is easy to discover that many who enjoy the synchroid past-time fancy themselves players of this 'great game' - direct references are found at many synch blogs. There is a comment on this very site in which a certain player of reknown is praised for his divine ability to 'create synchs'. The balderdash is found in the bald fact that Hesse's comic masterpiece is an ironic critique of the 'game' and not a celebration of it. Hesse forsees the downfall of civilization in the imposed hierarchy of an elite class of philosophers.

Look in the mirror and say it ain't so. For who among us has not paraded in Confucious's New Clothes from time to time. The New Humility is decked-out in Combat Fatigues. A bunch of spiritual hate mongers are we - and must atone. I aver that our salvation comes only through such atonement, through Christ who is the sole path into The Lost Horizon from lands that are Westward of Jerusalem. We must journey to the east, beyond Golgotha, and if we can not travel there, we must offer up our smoke.

The Western Soul must At-One, so have a smoke and mote it done.

Some Other Stuff

Appendix (from yoga.com) - Vipassana: Vipassana is the oldest of Buddhist meditation practices. The method comes directly from the Sitipatthana Sutta, a discourse attributed to Buddha himself. Vipassana is a direct and gradual cultivation of mindfulness or awareness. It proceeds piece by piece over a period of years. The student's attention is carefully directed to an intense examination of certain aspects of his own existence. The meditator is trained to notice more and more of his own flowing life experience.

responder 1:3

2009-10-29T01:01:00.000-07:00

You Are Here

by Bongo Iscariot (make me a channel of yer badass-ness...)

The caduceus paints a thousand worlds. Thousand is an ineffable number, kin to the Arabic convention of 72. Innumerable. The Shield of Mercury is a manifold - a complete picture of the transfinite paradoxi-cosmos and threefold illusion of Infinity.

- something happened (code)
- something is happening (threshold)
- something is going to happen (certainty)

Please note that of these values, only certainty is concrete.

The past, whatever it is, operates as code, beneath perception. The simple metaphor is the impossible conundrum of recorded history. There can be little doubt that something happened - but there is no agreement about what. So, to investigate history through post print media and oral tradition is divine analog to the amateur user examining an unfamiliar source code or hardware. Such an investigation is quit in dismay, flounders, or becomes the foundation of a new program and demonstrates that a meaningful appreciation of the events of history trend the pupil into the realm of social programmer as Guru, Scientist or Statesman.

The threshold of the now is equally elusive, and we are grateful to the proverbial thousand monkeys typing for an apt parallel - a zillion kids playing Super Mario. The monstrous past is the throbbing nexus of code: the hardware/software as design and product. Heaven and Logos, paper and typewriter, NES and game cartridge. The zillion kids are the mad monks that ignite the design into simultaneous glory - all the game playing - all at once. Omni Code Hyper Flash.

To play a video game (or read or type) is precisely the same as to pray. The desired result is that the book being read (in ardent prayer) the babble being typed (in sufi abandon) the game being pwned (in android bliss) will at one moment become the focus of a comprehensive devotion. Thus realized, the hidden code emerges as a spontaneously conscious and self reliant monad. Eden itself.

The side effect of meditation is not stasis and extinction but explosion. Union with the eternally fashionable now does not provide the advertised result of self-immolation. When truly reached, the Now State, which is Utopia, shatters the environment with the emergence of code and internalizes that code as elastic schizoid yoga-gnosis. Very simply, to meditate (extinguish the self into the One), which is also to mediate (achieve total Media awareness), is to perfectly flatter the moment of supreme beginning - when God first thought of God and burst into a river of glimmering stardust.

This much is certainty. The Artist is Bornless. All that ever happened hasn't happened yet. All that ever happened is The Future. Bring it on Baby.

The Numbers

The triple fallacy can be nicely described by a three number sequence. We stress this trio is not linear, nor a linear spiral but rather spiral and non-linear, hinting at the perpetual expansion of an infinite number of impossibly tightly packed coils out into solid space.

The sequence is -1, 0, 1, and replicates a series of modalities.

(-1, 0, 1)
(0, 1, 2)
(1, 2, 3), etc, ad infinitus cantorum.

Each mode has a unique value, but is also a perfect transposition of the original monad -1, 0, 1.

Monad

-1 is code, the unknown past and cypher to the total user.
0 is threshold. Now - the total user is internalized into the negative monad as part of its code. Death. The raindrop falls into the sea.
1 is certainty. Tomorrow - because the total user can not dismantle its uniqueness - bleeding, blending and binding into every corner of creation dreams will dare to go. The sea is but a raindrop. Boundless Bliss.

Dyad

The second mode (0, 1, 2) is the model of phallo-centric exegesis and paternal Godhead.

0 is the Almighty as the Code of Torah.
1 is the emergence of the Tree of Life and the Eden that surrounds it as the threshold, or platform.
2 is Adam, Eve and all subsequent degeneration. Certainty. God knows - it happened.

Nevertheless, the dyad is still dependent on the original model.

0 is -1. The code (Torah) is indecipherable.
1 is 0. The threshold (knowledge) is ineffable.
2 is 1. We are certainly One People in Death (to be born of sexual union is to die).

This second mode is as high as any group mind can climb. All races, creeds and communes, all sub-environments are defined within the boundary of 0, 1, 2 - which is called Reality or Doubt.

Trinity

The third spiral (1, 2, 3) is the Maternal Matrix - the Material World - and is already beyond Death.

1 is the code - cosmic oneness that impossibly integrates an ecclesia of atypical monads.
2 is the threshold - the Matrix. Something with an outside that all are somehow safe within.
3 is the inevitable and persistent struggle for balance between these forces and their special passions.

In mystery, the Trinity is the mode of the Roman Empire and of Catholicism - which is the only system of thought that proposes the equal sacrifice of man and woman, child and mother, alike. The Roman Method has no group alliance, no nationality or ethic. It is religion in the purest essence - the honest apprehension of what has happened and what must happen.

Pagan cyclic systems demand sacrifice because they fail to mediate doubt. This is not purjorative. Gaia and nature based sentiment is childish - it doesn't have enough history to mandate an adult attitude toward the past.

Consider the Mayan fascination. These days, the Mayans are celebrated for their super-advanced maths, with little or no regard for the brutal juveneillia that is their ruination. They are brilliant, but what is the need these nature loving midget Einsteins of yore feel so deeply to motivate their killing maths?

The need to mitigate their own evil.

The Pagan mind is ever fleeing its own murderous past. This denial runs so deep that the horrors of paganism are ritually celebrated to this day as a form of beauty and widely promoted as the sole source of sacred knowledge. Ugh! What a crusty botch is our Nature.

The clear religious mind, the factual mind, the Thomist mind, heralds the passing of the individual from supreme inchoate monad (-1, 0, 1) through natural pagan stupidity (0, 1, 2) and into Immortal Gnostic Trinity (1, 2, 3) and onward. The continued popular insistence of natural divinity is a hallmark of Thomist tolerance, which knows the Natural world is illusory, harmless and finally prosaic. Not at all divine. Even the Church is perceived as but a side effect of Trinity, a kind of unnecessary evil that serves as threshold of a teaching designed to exact nothing less than absolute freedom from within.

The Roman Christian is not an astrotheologic subject, but a literal, Material Astronomy Domine - resurrected into Christ, loved by the Mother and absolved the indignity of Law toward a perfect Light.

Fuckin' eh.

2001: A Space Audio I See

In stark contrast to his social heritage, Stanley Kubrick made a mighty effort to elucidate the Eternal Roman Trinity and to assure of its reliability.

Our first example is the institution of Law at The Dawn of Man and defines the monad -1, 0, 1.

-1 - the Monolith as code (HAL is the Monolith).
0 - the proto-ape as threshold (Bowman, who enters the 0 point is the First Monkey touching the -1 void).
1 - Evolution as certainty (The Star Child is HAL as Proto-Self. The Cosmic Christ is not a genetic realization but an industrial apology).

Kubrick explains: Law is the after image of Murder. Mankind begins at the moment of the first murder and subsequent social behavior and human advancement apes this action from behind the mask of its Laws.

When the killer monkey throws his new tool in the rage of original sin, we are treated to both the extension of shame as media and the infamous leap of faith that is the first demand of its salvation. The tool of murder becomes the word of law becomes the growth of its media into space and beyond the infinite. Yet, in the Light of Beauty, this act is not merely a continuation of sin but also one of deepest regret and contrition. Bad Monkey is sorry. Sorry he ever touched that negative void and made his hand unto an instrument of Death. Dreadfully sorry that he killed his friend - with whom he will forever self identify. And so he builds a world to stand upon, a cosmos to dream in and at last a technology - to resurrect his forgotten victim at the End of Time and be forgiven his transgression of Love.

Wow.

Big As All Outdoors

In his next work, Kubrick details the anthropomorphic life arc of the Son of Man with profound pathos and humor. Clockwork's Alex de Large is a real human. He is not evil at all, simply free. Free to realize his dual nature without oral shame or literary guilt because he accepts as fact the Murder of Christ.

0 - Authority as code (The Author is Book. Book is Law. The 0 value of Law is summed up by the axiomatic ignorance is not an excuse. One can not know the Law - the 0 code - but one is accountable anyhow).
1 - Society as threshold (Social programming, by way of Skinner/Brodsky, intimates that All are One under Law).
2 - Alex as certainty (The behavioral model will always fail to integrate the inherent duality of man - The Jungian Thing).

In his next film, O Lucky Man!, ACO's Alex, Malcolm McDowell, is forever being coshed on the noggin. The final thumping is delivered when director Lindsay Anderson slaps Malcolm/Alex in the temple with a book. This graft is the master key to the complexity of ACO - and explains why Kubrick eliminated the resolution of the novel, much to the consternation of its regressive author Anthony Burgess.

The droog's assault on the drunkard is a direct response to the filth of nature as excremental decay and death - typified as paternal nostalgia. Later, when the old bugger and his cronies turn tables on Alex, the re-emergence of pagan history as the New Age is described. For Alex, this come-uppance is a temporary indignity, just as the New Age Movement (as unraveled by Zeitgeist, Wicca or Neo-Orientalism) is but the death burble of Nature as it succumbs to the individual will of the Aquarian Warrior.

The rape of the writer and his wife is also a responsive mechanism - this time against authority and its material industry - the book. Think of it like this. Suppose you discover you are the literary figment of a twisted, burned out figurehead of Law and trapped inside the moldy pages of his paltry design. Whoever you may be, man woman or child, any reaction short of Alex's is sub-humanoid.

The expurgation of Burgess's finale, which excused him to disavow the film, is an exercise in infidelity. The literary Alex mellows out and blends into the scenery of history as a family man of standard moral coding. Kubrick understood that this ending identified Burgess, within his book, as the stand in for not only the savaged writer, but all of Alex's victims. Kubrick allows Cinem-Alex to become himself once and again, without regard for a past, a history, a Gordian knot, a murder and even his own death in a great fall.

ACO is not one whit of social commentary. It is pure Menippean Satire.

Fuck it me droogies, let's go for a drive.

The Shine Winder

Koffee klatch Kubby buffs are hip to the rumor that he was unhappy with his next picture, Barry Lyndon, but have little notion why. BL is - after all - a goddam beautiful film.

Trouble is its too good. Barry Lyndon encrypts its gleaming trinity into a baroque fugue with tongue so deep in cheek few deduce that it's a movie about the extreme present and not the past of its pastoral pictography.

In The Shining, Stan corrects this trouble something fierce.

1 - Shining, which is the personality of Danny Torrance, is the Self as code (The Star Child is shining, but what is it? What is its power and purpose?)
2 - Wendy is threshold Isis, the illusory image of Material Essence.
3 - Mind War. The battle, at the Overlook, between Mother and Child.

The are more than a few clues to indicate that the events of The Shining take place within Winnefrid Torrance and her wild image-ination. She likes to read and watch TV, often at the same time. At his interview, Irish Jack tells Ullman how much wifey loves her stories just as his image lap-dissolves into the cover of The Catcher in the Rye.

And as for the little snot Doc, he is the vengeance of Apollo against his banally ignorant mother. Danny's problem: how can his beloved mom tolerate the malignant Character of Caretaker Jack, the Saturnian demiurge? Danny, who is entirely oral/anal, can not yet grasp that the past can not be flushed away but must be accepted, nurtured and loved, regardless of internal consequence. The action of The Shining is the struggle Danny makes to break the bonds of Oedipal determinism and reconcile his forsaking father. A father who is but an expression of the Mother-Son dialectic. A tennis ball. A broom. Alone and finally, gone.

St. Francis of A Sue Me, Why Don'tcha

At long last, a thousand words and evermore, we see the hyper-dox in its Triple Majesty. The Shining is the Shield of Mercury on a wing. Dancing the spiral at the speed of thought. The speed of quicksilver darkness and delight, purple in the candle light.

Danny Torrance: killer. Droog Alex, Pvt. Joker: killers. Redrum Barry, HAL 9000, me and maybe you too: stone killers to the boiling core. Less than Zero but Something. Nothing and Everything at Once. Everything and Everything Else. The Paradox. The Doctor. Doc. A regular Momma's Boy.

We are the future. The shambling visage of development too long arrested.

To find us, stand outside the maze of dreams. Stand and gaze upon the map of our desiring, the terrible territory of time, where all are lost in pantomime.

Just look inside. Just one look and...

responder 1:2

2009-10-24T14:31:00.000-07:00

Is Everything We See Or Seem...

Right at the get go, we are challenged. Our discovery will not be a polite after dinner stroll, or an enchanting mountain moonlight hike, but instead a full on critical assault of the terrific precipice that is Burn After Reading.

We set away into a journey through twilight fields of purple mountains majesty. Our account - both technical and wild - is a kind of hyper-real inventory of a static edifice of Art. We choose Art as our Parnassus because Art is something we can count on. History is an unreliable resource. Too much bad blood, even between brothers. Contrarily, a static work of Art, like a painting, poem, or movie, is generally the same every time you look at it. It can be trusted.

In BAR we trust.

Spooled into the story are the elusive threads of a many a real mystery, a psychic mind war, and cinematic leitmotif so diabolical and fine the poor mind wobbles like a wonky Weeble. Here, the Devil is mos def in the details. Really - the Devil. The Devil and The End of the World as We Know It.

The reader must co-ordinate a variety of paraphernalia that fall mainly into two categories. Art and Reality.

Here is a list of Art we will discuss.

- Born Free
- The Exorcist
- The French Connection I and II
- The Parallax View
- The Ninth Gate
- Rosemary's Babootchka
- Raising Arizona
- The Ripliad Novels
- Bond on Film
- Pulp Fiction
- Catcher in the Rye
- ???

And the Real Estate.

- Mind Control
- Son of Sam
- Smiley Face Killings
- Kennedy Tragedies
- Illicit Drug Trade
- ??? (something terrible)

Art and Reality. Art as potency. Reality as action, or perhaps more properly, as motion. The links between these two standards are not proposed as proof, they are simply described. Indeed, if there is the tatter of a truth it is only that we live inside a spiral of mandelbrot nightmares. A stairwell to nowhere in the Underlook Hotel.

Belly up to the Monkey Dave's Bar. Lloyd is serving on the house, all night long.

BAR

Thema 1.0

Burn After Reading is an Akasha of Satanic Horrors. Dark Alchemy. Ritual Murder. Mind Control and Mind War. Multiple entendre. As Art, it is the practice of an Alchemy with the audience its subject. A refiners fire. Or is it something less tangible, to clarify an awful and shimmering truth hidden before our very eyes? We must opt for the latter. For the Ladder. To watch for what rises.

Now, here is no two-step, but a fairly massive quadrille. A Persian carpet of fine design. To begin we
separate the threads with an inverse index. Inversa-dex 1.0 - each entry a puzzle piece toward our magickal solution. This index is not comprehensive, but it is the glue that supports the pattern of our mosaic. Taken individually, these points may seem tangential, obscure or even irrelevant. Don't be fooled. Just soldier on. It all comes together - big time.

Inversa-dex 1.0

- The Focus Features Placard: a gaggle of blue and yellow lens flare orbs. Pollen on the breeze. Focus Features is FF and in turn 66. Over the placard there is the sound of an intermittent buzzer. The buzzer sounds 6 times (the last as the card fades), and we have our first of a myriad 666 inside the honeycomb of BAR.

The credits are a GoogleEarth sequence and encode a phi spiral. 1.618 and it's reciprocal .618, divided by the integer One. Zoom in and fall to Earth. We (you, me) are the One, the viewer, and like sand through the hourglass, we tumble into the Labyrinth of Time - CIA Headquarters, Langley, Va. The process is reversed over the closing credits when the hourglass is upended to carom again into outer space.

- The Exorcist like BAR, has a setting in Georgetown. But it opens as Father Merrin discovers a sinister idol at an archaeology dig in North Africa. The thrumming tribal drum music that follows his movements could easily replace the credit music from BAR. Moreover, Friedken mixed the sound of an angry beehive at low audio into The Exorcist, as a subconscious scare tactic. The Coens pull the same trick. In the sound of the hallowed halls of the CIA, a stir of hardware humming provides the same buzz. As you listen you may differ, but consider this: at Ozzie's demotion, Agent Olson (who is analog to Agent Smith of The Matrix) is a Mormon. Brigham Young chose the beehive as his personal coat of arms. The beehive is a lattice of hexagons (666). The colors of Brigham Young University are blue and yellow. Focus Features = Blue and Yellow Orbs = Buzzing Sound = Bees = The Exorcist = 666 = Mormonism. It's all in thar.

- In Palmer's office, there is a head and shoulders photo on the wall at Ozzie Cox's right (Ozzie: John Malkovich) . The cinematic frame cuts out at the top of the neck, decapitating the image. The theme is reinforced by Ozzie's drinking problem and his admonition that Katie 'hang on to (her) hat'. The term drinking is articulated to emphasize the phonetic Dryn King, which is ye olde English for Drowning King. Ozzie also over emphasizes the salt in assault. The ground theme is the Alchemical Process called The Drowning of the King. We reveal a nexus. Drowning = Decapitation = Castration/Circumcision = Ritual and Elemental Alchemy.

- The Turtle, The Mammoth and the Goat: over heard at the dinner party. Ozzie serves the chevre. Ozzie is therefore serving himself. Ozzie is a goat as Oz is Hebrew for Goat.

Later Ozzie is called 'the turtle' by Katie's Lawyer. Crowley has a mnemonic for recall of the Kaballistic Tree of Life. It is called the turtle and the elephant.

The top six sephira form a hexagon, or turtle. The bottom four, in a Y configuration, is the face and trunk of an elephant. Because BAR inflates Ozzie as both a Goat and a Turtle, we can superimpose Goat over Elephant as The Tree of Life. The goat rides the shoulders of a mammoth. The Dems over the G.O.P. And most of all, Satan on the back of a God. Speechless.

- Over cocktails, Harry Pfararr (George Clooney) worries about his food allergies, which parallel the Jewish dietary code (the cheese stands alone - mold, yeast, malice). Harry chokes on his mouthful of chevre and regales that he could go into anaphylactic shock. The same allergic shock is suffered by bee sting and can kill. In Occult Signs and Symbols, Rudolph Steiner teaches that the throat (chakra, choker) and the human voice correspond, exactly to the buzzing of the bee. Harry=Choke=Shock=Bee. Suffocation/Strangulation/Decapitation of the Drone.

Notice as Harry fumbles his hors d' oeuvre. A red pepper falls to the floor. The pepper (pee-pee) is the circumcised foreskin and also infers the opening sequence of Alan J. Pakula's The Parallax View. A waiter in red jacket falls from the Space Needle in Seattle. The poor guy is a patsy, chased to his death for an assassination he didn't commit. Director Pakula will later lose his head in a car crash on the L.I.E.

Harry drops an NLP: He calls his wife's series of books 'Oliver the Cat That Lives in the Rotunda'. The correct title is ... Who Lives in the Rotunda... The error encodes a mystery to be solved.

- The actress cast as Sandy Pfarrar (Elizabeth Marvel) is a lead pipe cinch for dame thespian Jane Alexander. Look here at the two women. Look hard, as we'll talk to them later.

- Bene-Fit: Ozzie at last has a moment alone to tell his bitch goddess wife Dr. Katie (Tilda Swinton) that he has abandon his post. She presses him '...will there be a pension or severance...?'. Osiris, Ozzie. The severed penis (PENSIon). When Ozzie explains he must reject his old bosses 'benefits', he vigorously scratches his right arm. His brand is itching. His maker's mark. The Mark of Cain. Vaccination scar and RFID chip.

- The Cruel Sea: There are a footlocker of naval references in BAR. We touch on two. The first is analog to The Ripliad of Patricia Highsmith. The Talented Mr. Ripley had a penchant for the poopdeck, learning to sail and raise Cain on the open sea. Malkovich is Ripley in Calvani's Ripley's Game. More to come.

For now, do you remember the old TV yarn called Ironside? Ironside was in a wheel chair, just like Ozzie's dad. He was crippled by a bullet to his spine, received while he stood on the deck of a small yacht. Old Ironsides is the nickname of the the battle worn battleship USS Constitution, which was a sailboat, christened Old Ironsides in a short poem by Oliver (the cat) Wendell Holmes (who lives in the rotunda).

Ozzie's dad is the literal US Constitution. He is reduced to empty headed figurehead. A millstone around the neck of the new America. He is also the non-existent or deceased demiurge. Ozzie's seafaring spiel is Christ on the Cross. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Dad does not answer because he can't. There is no father. God is dead and with Him the Rights of Man. But is it commentary or propaganda?

In King's English, Ozzie is especially fussy about his diction of foreign colloquialisms. Memoir is Mem-Wa as Ozzie has it. There is a stack of subtlety in this high-falootin' attitude. Mem is the Hebrew letter that also means water. In Hebrew the letters also have a verb/noun meaning as well. Mem is Water. So Mem-Wa becomes Memory Water or the Waters of Memory. Ozzie's says his memoir might be explosive and as he does three buildings, one short-squat and two towering, materialize on the distant shoreline. 2,1,7 WTC.

The whole sailing voyage is very Proustian. Memory. Remembering the past. And Ozzie's term book is not banal. He is talking about the book. The Ninth Gate/Water Gate/Memory Gate/Aquarian A-Bomb Inferno. Explosive is the mother of all understatements.

- Katie's first consult with her lawyer Terkharian (J.R. Horne) is foamy brew of punnery.

Pull Together/Turn Around. Osirian ritual magick.

Reform(f-o-r)/Forwarned/Fore Armed/Four Armed. 444. The many limbs of Shiva the Destroyer - dear Katie Cox. And the turtle that might 'pull in it's head'? This turtle is the solar lizard king, his hexagonal shield on his shell. Ozzie has a frog on his living-room lamp stand. Ozzie/Malkovich/Ripley/Reptile/Turtle.

- In BAR, Lawyers have an animal familiar. Owls. Terkahrian the Turkey has a wise old way about him. Very parochial. And look at the great golden bird that watches Harry from its perch on the bridge abutment. His stalker, we will learn - is an agent for a law firm.

- Ate Seconds: Ass is pronounced as Oz in the Baltic region. Ozzie is a Horse's Ass, being broken. There is a bronze of a bronco and breaker, at Katie's lawyer's digs. The rider wears a hat. The rider is Katie. She wants to break the horse. '66, for our purpose, is the year of the Horse. With Katie as Isis there is an anlog to Miss O'Shaughnessy (Mary Astor) from Huston's The Maltese Falcon. In Falcon, horse images gallop everywhere. Brigid O'Shaugnessy - BOS. Mary Astor, Falcon's BOS, is of ancient English blood. So is Tilda Swinton. Dr. Katie is the BOSS, as Ozzie learns the hard way.

- Hmmonym: in his lazy-boy, Ozzie dictates his memories, into a hand held monolith. Who does he name? George Cannon? George Cannon was a Mormon. A very powerful Mormon, and big swinging dick in the golden age of American politics. Ozzie hates Mormons, so WTF!? Turns out he's talking about George Kennan, draftee of the Marshall Plan and Kennedy Balkan attache.

- Family Fool: Downstairs on the phone, Ozzie says Katie's is the 5719 number. These numbers total Twenty Two.

Next we hear and see Ozzie's favorite telly, The Family Feud (FF = 66) with host Richard Karn. We learn by association through the quiz show answers that Katie is married (to Ozzie), has a boy friend (Harry) and is pregnant (it's Ozzie's) though she don't know it. The boy child Horus slouches toward Bethlehem. Ozzie must be rubbed out, like the doomed daddies in Ira Levin's Boys from Brazil. Harry is to be the cuckold stand in Joseph to Katie's sacred unborn godboy.

It gets delicate here. 22 (5719) is also TT. Twenty-Twenty with zero's out. Well, actor Richard Karn, our host on The Feud, also starred in sitcom Home Improvement and the show within a show called Tool Time. Tool Time is a double cross. Tool is Ozzie's missing dick and Time is the sacrificial ritual of Time, performed on the giant battery that is the Temple of Solomon. Ozzie is always getting hammered. Katie, at lunch with Harry, will ruefully aver '...I do not hammer...'. In the Home Improvement pilot Tool Time was called Hammer Time, but changed cuz-a MC Hammer. Hammer Time is Tool Time. For Katie it's about penis envy.

- In Ozzie's grotto, Katie copies his files onto a Green jewel box (CD Case/Green Witch).

A golf club traces across Katie's skull as she burns the disk. We have an immediate hunch. Swinton's wiki and its pay dirt. In '96, she did a video for a band called Orbital. Track Title: The Box. Box in a Box (TV). Look at the video. Notice a prominent MM code right away. Mem means Water but also Box. Box of Water.

Later in the video, Tilda romps in a salvo of golf balls.

Add the Kennedy Connection. Ozzie Cox is a wanna-bee Kennedy if ever there was one. He will be shot in the head, as is JFK. Ozzie's basement nook just smacks of Hyannisport self-import. Sailing. State secrets. Sporting Gear. Home sweet home. But its the golf club that drives it long. We are being clued into details of the murder of Martha Moxley by Kennedy satellite Michael Skakel (guilty, if youz buy da newz).

Here is the string: Ozzie mixes a drink. A Cuba Libra with M-ount Gay Ru-M. M thru M. This is the very first spirit ever ordered by the literary James Bond, in Casino Royale (more on ice and chilling).

Please keep in mind the special color combination of the label and cap of the MGR bottle. Red and Gold.

He watches the TV (Tube, Cube, Box). Katie's condition is described on TV, 'in the box' (married, boy friend, preggo). Tilda is in 'The Box' (video). K-K-K-Katie uses a Green jewel box as a golf club - in camera - circumscribes her fontanelle. The lunatic is on the green. Martha Moxley's brains were clubbed out by a 9 Iron. In a town called Greenwich, Connect-i-cut. Martha's initials are M-E-M. Could this be some kinda Sixth Sense revenge from beyond the grave? Or even more grave?

- There are seven limes on Ozzie's note to Katie, which she reads while Harry jogs. Harry runs five regular, but later will run five and a deuce. He means 5.2, but Seven leaps to the inner mind. Seven Miles. Seven Limes. Green Limes. Green Miles. Keep it in mind.

- Schmalz: The hen party at Linda's nip-and-tucker consult is all about the fat. Chicken fat is a staple element in Jewish home cooking. Because this fat is to be carved from Linda's carcass, we get a sample of the half-baked myth that Mystic Hebrews are also ritual cannibals.

Bullshit.

- Hardbodies is a pun on rigor mortis.

- Love Me Doo: at the PC in Hardbodies, Linda goes to a horny hook-up site. BeWithMe DC.com. Bee/Buzz/Hum. DC/Direct Current. Turn-ons and turn-offs. Alan has hair 'plugs'. The Chubby Chinese girl talks 'hooked up'.

Pederasty Profile: The profile beneath AlanM's is for the cherubic red head CoolHandTodd.

First is the Coen's Oh Brother Where Art Thou, which is openly influenced by Cool Hand Luke. CHL stars Paul Newman as Luke and George Kennedy (Red Leary of Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, Monolith climber Ben Bowman in The Eiger Sanction). George Kennedy/George Kennan/Red Head.

Both Todd's suit and his stated location of Alexandria, Virginia imply magic. The suit is gray on Todd's right and blue on his left. The A and V of his home address is two arrows, pointing up and down. From Keter to Malkut. As above so below. Todd is a Magician, but his magic is not of the outward kind. Rather it is cheerful, tremulous psychic self defense.

Above Todd circles AlanM, who's real name is Rosacker. Alan is the real Sorcerer, although I don't think he deserves the appellation. Alan is a coprophaegic necromuncher. He is the blind demiurge called Samael. Turned on by kids and turkish taffy - making him a homosexual predator pedophile. Rosaker means rose-hacker. Alan collects brand new pennies. He is a fucking priest. Altar boy Todd cowers below. Poor numskull thinks he's magic but he is really a self-abuser - Todd is a cuddly lovable jerk-off. He has chosen beyond debate the most dangerous profession: comedy. So much repressed pain and loneliness he can only laugh these days. Todd has self identified with his rapist ritual pope. He wants to show 'em real magic back.

The scales of discernment tip to the side of cruelty. Next to Cool Hand's profile is a Be With Me digital watermark. A smiley face in a triangle. The smiley face is an alchemical caput mortuum (dead head), from the process 'Dryn King'. The Smiley Face victims are young men, usually drunk, who are discovered drowned.

These videos are not very literate, but the dick work is first rate. He is called THEhoundedFEW. Look at as much of his stuff as you can stand to, or just trust the string.

The Smiley Face Killers/Caput Mortuum/Red Head/Dead Head/Drowning/Hanging/Lakes/Bodies of Young Men/Chad in the Chesapeake/Catholic Alchemy.

- Ay-zhen Ay-gent: On the phone with her HMO, Linda says 'agent' but is frustrated. The robo-operator can't understand her high pitched whine. Agent/Phone/The Matrix Movies. Also, 'agent' on a replayed squelch becomes 'Asian'. It's already cliche that many of our consumer information calls are routed to Asian trunk lines.

- Alan and Linda do the wango-tango. Asian, a screwball comedy, and home for an empty fuck. Alan doesn't even take his glasses off. Coming Up Daisy. CUD. Linda is a cow, and as we later discover, cows chew their daisies twice. Linda rifles through Alan's wallet and finds a honey-doo list, and we digress...

Look in on Todd Field's Little Children. There is a BAR problem. The Prom King (Patrick Watson) can not pass his bar exam. He can't pass the bar because he is backed up. He is stalled in the anal phase of Freudian development theory. And LC has a 'blue yellow' scent, too - a strong one. The Prom King's kid (at anal threshold) is hung up on a blue and yeller jester's cap, which he refuses to 'take off' (the big boom is ready to release, but willn't drop).

Patricia Highsmith's The Ripliad is the story of the shape-shifting shadow called Tom Ripley. In The Talented Mr. Ripley, Tom eggs into the life and finally the identity of one Dicky Greenleaf, by pretending he attended Princeton. Malkovich is Ripley in Calvani's Ripley's Game. At the BAR, Ozzie learns over a drink that he has been offered up to the Russians. In Ripley's Game, Tom (Malkovich) is stalked by killers from the Russian Vors (Mafia).

This Russian bar set-up is a quick juxtapose from Chad's diplomatic inquiry '...do you have a men's room...?'.

In The Talented..., Ripley works as a washroom attendant at a bar for rich businessmen. At the bar in BAR, Ozzie gets served because he admits he is a Princeton alum. His contact asks Ozzie '...you aren't becoming a poof...?'. Highsmith's Ripley is often deconstructed as repressed in the anal stages. Poof is the explosion of the bomb, the BAR that must be passed.

We can now explain Alan's chore list:
       Please Pick Up
       Plunge
       Honey Nut
       Cheerios

P-P-U-P-H-N-C.

As a primer for anal self-reliance, the list is a straight flush. 'You gotta stay regular if you want to be happy'

The list reads Pee-Poo-Pee - Aitch-En-Cee (agency).

And this scene slides nicely into...

- Manolo's find (right there on the floor there - just lying there), which is telegraphed, by Chad (Brad Pitt) as 'The Shit'. Manolo, the lowly custodian, stepped in it.

MM Echoes: Linda is on hold to the music of Modest Mussorgsky and complains to Ted that her HMO is Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse was not Disney's first whistling willy. Before Mickey came Oswald the Rabbit. Ozzie Rabbit (Rabbit/Goat/Democrat/Baphomet/Kennedy/MM/Marilyn Monroe/Lee Harvey Oswald the Rabbit Warren Commission).

Deep Shit. Sig Int Shit. CIA Shit. Don't step in it.

- Ted (Richard Jenkins) is 14 years a Greek Orthodox Priest. G.O.P. Is 14 years the memory of an elephant?

- Monkey Dave's Bar

       Monkey Bar Dave's
       Dave's Monkey Bar (holy fuck!)
       Dave's Bar Monkey
       Bar Monkey Dave's
       Bar Dave's Monkey

Monolithic.

The BAR is the Monolith. In Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the Kubrick Monolith becomes a chocolate bar.

- Electric Oranges: Chad at Linda's place has A Clockwork Orange kinda tang. The Orange painted wall mirror. Chad finds OJ in Linda's fridge. He needs to charge up. The clock ticks. Listen for it.

Chad says '...plugged in to the intelligence community...'. High Speed Cable. Linda doesn't have a computer, or a man. She is not 'plugged in' or 'hooked up'.

- In the next few moments Chad will use the term Samaritan, make a connection, and describe Ozzie as 'pretty high'.

Ozzie's fussy diction provides The French Enunciation Sex Change Connection: Eric Stoltz does a turn as heroin dealer Lance in Pulp Fiction. Red Headed Lance wears a Fernando Rey-ish goatee. In BAR, Chad wants a good Samaritan's due reward. Samarataine is the first big word game in The French Connection I, seen in massive red lettering on the awning of a Marseilles street edifice. Chad calls Ozzie and makes the connection. Ozzie corrects Chad's enunciation of the term rapport. '...rah-poh-er you moron, rah-poh-er...' he screeches. The proper pronunciation, from the French. This is oblique, so slide on over slinky into the final chase of The French Connection II. Rey's heroin kingpin Charnier is killed by a gunshot from the unlikely marksman Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman). Charnier, on board a sail boat near the shore line, is hit, falls and dies in the water - a similar fate to the aforementioned Ironside. The drug trade riff is expounded In Krap-kin's office. Chad describes Ozzie as '...high-up (high)...' Linda says '...this is just a taste...' and taps the disk before sliding it across Krap-kin's desk. Pure cinematic drug-culture cliche. The identical taste, tap and slide appears in myriad drug-themed movies. In the French Connection, le drouge she is Heroin, no? Heroin is aka Horse - so we imply Ozzie/Horse/Horse's Ass/Mule/Drug Mule.

Heroin is often muled in a balloon that is inserted into the rectum or swallowed. Either way, it comes out of the ass (Gym Customer to Chad: '...something snapped in my ass...'). Heroin is Heroine. BAR's twin heroines, Linda and Katie will both give Ozzie a pain in the ass.

Here's the thing. FC II was directed by one John Frankenheimer. BAR's Linda Litsky swears she is all woman and no Frankenstein. '...so you don't want a sex change?...', asks her jocular doc. Well, if you can nose out my French Connection Truffle...

For your consideration: Pulp's goateed drug lord Lance has a girlfriend, played by actress Rosanna Arquette of the notorious Arquette Clan. One sister is Alexsis Arquette (A is A). Alex used to be a bro', but engendered a transition.

Linda says '...I've gone just about as far as I can go with this body...' and 'cock-a-mamey' Ted says to Linda (about Harry) '...he could be one of those guys who prowl the internet...'. Linda responds '...well, so am I...'. Heart Broken Ted moans '...you're changing, Linda...'

Penis envy is represented in its diameter. Men become women becoming men. The anal rape of a man by a woman is a perfect reversal. To cornhole a dude, a woman would have to wear a 'strap-on'. Strap On backward is No Parts.

B-oris k-AR-loff/Sex-Change/Frankenstein/Frankenheimer/Frank in a Stein/Frank in a Hymen.

Linda? Alexis?

And who needs reminding: Alexis Arquette's little bro David (Dude) is married to Courtney Cox.

Dancing in the Dark.

- Trans-gender Pronoun-bender: later on at Linda's place, she and Chad-Brad make a Plan. It is here that we might suggest to differentiate between commentary and semi-liminal propaganda, over which the viewer has small defense. Swiveling around. Chad says, about Ozzie '...it doesn't look like SHE's gonna play ball...'. NLP dude, and the P is for Programming. Next and again about Ozzie, Chad puts a special lilt into the pronoun HE.

Chad's 'she' is meant to mean 'Katie' (Swinton), from whose image and dialogue we have just cut, and right on the reel change too. She is the source of the disk. She is the one stirring up the shit. Ozzie's mem-wa is headed for the remainder bin, until Katie back-doors him in the basement. To cement this contact, Linda says to Chad, '...we have to show him who's BOSS...'

Linda continues '...we caught him with his dick in a big fat wringer, with us in the driver's seat...'. Atrocious multiple entendre. The wringer is an anus, but Ozzie isn't the one doing the fucking. Katie is the fucker. Katie is the hammer. Chad and Linda's best laid plans are in fact a sketch of the Freudian Electra Complex, which is the origin of the theory of penis envy. Katie Cox plays out the female fantasy fuck of return attrition. Katie will fuck the male race up the ass, and she ain't bringin' no Astroglide, nee-ther.

Vengence is mine, sayeth the Scarlet Whore of Babalon. Good money all says: never doubt it.

- Here is the ???: the second scene at Katie's Lawyer. We will look at this scene lastmost (better get your shades).

- Harry to Katie: '...we have all the time in the world...'.

Wow is this a ton of tuna! Such is the title of the love song that closes On Her Majesties Secret Service. Novel '63, Movie '69. The magick 6. Bond is MI6, the 6th Bond movie, 6 years from page to screen. This 666 may seem opaque, but look closer and find the after image of laser directed mind control.

OHMSS stars George Lazenby as Bond. Lazenby/Laserbeam. Rm's Baby was released in '68 and is set in '66. OHMSS is embroidered tightly into the fabric of the 666 motif. The film ends as Bond's new wife (Diana Rigg) is murdered by Blofeld as he escapes in a passing car. The simulacrum is the finale of Chinatown, where Evelyn Mulwray ( Fay Dunaway) is shot by her slobbering violator, daddy Noah Cross (John Huston).

Fay Dunaway/Fading Away. Diana Rigg/Die in a Rig.

Laser directed fuckin' mind control.

Big step. Chapman and Hinkley were Manchurian Candidates. The Flag of China is Red and Yellow. Just like The Catcher in the Rye (Rice) cover - lugged by more than one post mortem star (hang on, sloopy).

Just look at the wiki image of old Lazer-beam!

The sticker on the windshield of Chad's car reads 12/08 meaning Dec 2008 expiry. But taken as a month and day this is Dec 8. Dec 8 is the papal fixation of the Annunciation of Immaculate Mary (AIM), when Mary was impregnated with the so-called Christ. Mary is a Rose, so flowers as Rose Mary. 12/8 is a Rosemary's Baby sync. Now as you may already know, Rosemary's Baby was filmed on location at the Dakota Building, a Manhattan Project on Manhattan Island. Lennon was murdered under the exact same archway where walk in Rosemary and her Guy in the opening scene of RB. X marks the spot, on Dec 8 1980.

A Turtle on an Elephant's Back.

You better watch out Jack... we all shine on.

Catcher in the Rye: For several decades, American paperback issues of Catcher in the Rye had an all red cover with golden lettering.

Compare the Rooster on the Pillar (on the book's spine) to the Carriage on the Mountain.

On his mortal stake-out from his car, Chad and his environs are in muted browns. The only primaries are his red tie and the yellow parking permit. This color match is re-enforced when Katie's red sedan is seen through Chad's windshield, obscured in part by the parking pass.

Mark David Chapman carried a copy of CITR to his rendezvous with destiny. His gun was in the other pocket. John Hinkley also schlepped Salinger's sordid romp, and cited it as the inspiration to kill Reagan. This detailing is muchos importantos.

Catcher/Red and Yellow/Mind Controlled Murder/Reagan/Lennon/The Dakota/Rosemary's Baby/Catholic Annunciation Alchemy/Dec 8/Anti-Christ...

All in twenty seconds of BAR.

For the musical. 12/8 is a time signature marked in four groups of three eighth-notes. 3333. Thirty Three and a Third. Three T's. Three Hebrew Tav's. Three crosses on Golgotha. The sacrificial murder of the messiah. Alpha and Omega. Round and round she goes, like a record baby. 33 1/3 is the turntable speed for an LP (Long Play).

- Harry's mechanical bull ride is Babe the Blue Ox. Harry is Paul Bunyan, handy man. A complication. The Biblical analog of Bunyan is Samson.

Harry is Samson: He is strong, he is a lover. He trims his hair for Delilah (Katie or Linda or Sandy). He is always jawing his bone, sexually and verbally. His Big Blue Buick is tagged 721-F5E. GBA-FEE. The Hebraic Gimel is kin to the English letter C. CBA-FEE. Cab-Fee. Keep this fair in mind.

Babe the Blue Ox: The Hebrew tensive is the more logical Blue Ox Babe. The gematria of Blue Ox Babe is 277. Gematria is the Hebrew science of number/letters and is not to be confused with numerology. In ancient Hebrew there are no numbers. Only letter strings that equal total sums. I won't break it down but here are the key correspondences. 277: Enormous Champion/Treasurer (Harry is with Treasury)/Bombed (specific past tense)/Shining/Warning.

The Son of Sam was aka The .44 Caliber Killer. His weapon was a Charter Arms Bull Dog Revolver. CAB.

His final 2 kills in '77. 2/77.

277 = 16 which is 4 x 4. .44 Caliber. Moreover, the Hardbodies St. Address of 1665, when divided by 6, is 277 and 1/2. Fractionally 555/2. Five-five-five over Two. I hear bells! Blue Ox Babe/277.5/277 points 5/The Charter Arms Bulldog (CAB) has 5 chambers.

277 points 5. 555/2. Three 5's is 15. XV. 555 over Two, or as I like to call it, Tea for Three.

Another critical cue is that in gematria, BOB also equals Marathon. In Marathon Man (MM), Dustin Hoffman plays Babe. Running always running. Running on bridges. Just like Harry.

- Wall Hangings: The pictures on the walls of Ozzie's deep brown hoochin' haunt are of slaves and native amer-inds. Just follow... Ozzie Cox he took an axe and gave old Teddy forty whacks. His fate has a chilling reminder: Oz's ticket is punched and he goes comatose. He is a frickin' thawed out Jack Torrance (Nicholson: The Shining). In a limited sense Blakemore's The Family of Man scores a hit.

And Ozzie's confident is called Hal! Hal is thespioned by Brian O'Neill who has a band (rock band) called Minus Ted. Hal/Floyd/Lloyd (BAR-tender)/Ozzie's BAR-bar/Minus Ted (does Ozzie think Ted might represent a Russian agency? Greek and Cyrillic are kin of letterin') Jenkins plays a Russian Sleeper Agent in Little Nikita/2001: Floyd discusses Clavius with the Russkies/Shining Jack gets served at the Bar - so does Ozzie/Minus Ted - Minus The Head/Wounded Head/Kennedy/Catholic Alchemy.

Could it be a Revenge of the Jew code?

Here's how it plays: Ozzie is Aryan ('...I'm bigger, you fuckers, I'm better, I'm back...') and doesn't know it - per se. He must be exterminated to uphold the eternal damnation of the indo-european and teutonic races. But Ozzie escapes in the womb of his vampire wife, Katie/Rosemary. As The Shining closes Wendy and Danny make on the lam down the Sidewinder. The final image shows a crucifxial sign post in the mist (screen right). Mother and Child are marked by their bloodline. Their desertion is a false oasis. Now we can decode The Shining's deleted scene, of Danny and Wendy in Hospital. The common Hebrew word for Hospital is Beth. Beth-Bayt-House of God. Christ may save you from the Wrath of God but you always come-to in the hospital, the hotel-dieu, the house. Lost forever in the game. The house always wins - well, almost always.

- Chad goes in through Ozzie's basement door. Ozzie gets bummed again.

Chad in his red tie, stands in a plumb line beneath a water pipe. Chad, who almost never wears a tie, seems tense. He cracks his neck decidedly to the right. Chad is hanging himself. Upstairs in the bedroom closet. Chad again stands beneath a horizontal support - the closet clothes hanger (bar).

The bedroom closet: haunting ground of the sex game called autoerotic asphyxiation. In Trainspotting, Renton describes heroin as better than '...10,000 orgasms'. Such result is also the ardent aim of auto-eros strangulation. Hutchins and David Carradine both used heroin. Both came-to-a-head in the closet, so to speak.

As we later learn, Chad's body will be dumped in a lake, fished out and burned. Hanged/Beheaded/Drowned/Burned. In her Jomba Juice Jive, Linda's con invokes the elements. Chad, at her behest, descends into the furnace of the Alchemist and gets lead instead of gold.

Linda and Chad are Hansel and Gretel and Katie is the mean old witch. Katie's recipe is a cauldron of transformation. Chad gives all he can give so his sister can live (get a new body). All America's choked up inside.

Watch the viddie. Self Sacrifice. Suicide. Strangulation. Heroin Injection. Eddie's sister, Mary Louise, needed an operation... Chad and Linda. Eddie and Mary Louise. Osiris and Isis (although but one pair from out of many trumps). Chad is Linda's victim as Ozzie will be Katie's. It is almost as if what is happening is that the frames of film on the reel somehow bleed their codes into other frames that they touch. Thin film interference. Picture upon picture. Movie within movie.

- Harry always runs at least 5 miles. Today he will run 5.2. Harry calls it five-and-a-deuce. Five and Two is Seven. Seven Miles. Seven Limes. And it is just because he takes this run and heads quickly back to 160 Olive St. that Harry catches Chad in the closet and plugs him in the mugsy. It looks as if seven miles is some sort of execution code. Seven Green Miles (Limes). Stephen King/The Red King/Alchemy/Execution/Drowning/Water/Electricity/Electrocution (victims are baptized with a sponge to aid conductivity).

Wes Craven's Shocker also comes to mind. Begins with an electrocution and ends in a lake.

Zowie-Wowie.

- Before he blows out Chad's brains (if Chad has any) Harry sings Born Free. The movie and the song Born Free is unleashed upon humanity in Jun '66. 666. The day of the 22nd. Rosemary's Baby is born free on film Jun 28 '66. Day One of the Year One and but 6 days after Elsa the lion slouches eastward for Bethlehem. 1966 is the gematria for the Hebrew curled as in curled up in the womb. Me oh my.

- Kalima 2, we learn from Palmer (David Rasche) is the CIA's man inside the Russian Embassy. Kali-ma is the chant of Thuggie cultists. Kali is Sanskrit for black. Palmer is reporting on the death of Chad, who is also Mr. Black (Chad's nom d'espion). Chad's body is to be burned. Kali is the Goddess of Cremation.

- As discussed, Ozzie's ship board ship-shape-up is a pretty blatant Nazi symbology. It could easily be taken as a razzberry at the Nazi's. Nevertheless, we detect a Boys from Brazil motif. In TBFB all the boys fathers are civil servants like Ozzie and must be killed. Is BAR a widget in this murderous mechanism, and designed to create predictively programmed dead beat dads - unemployed bums and suicide cases? Much easier than mass assassination, don't you think?

The Day After The Hardy Boys from Brazil emerges. The early Hardy Boys books, like David Lean's movie Oliver Twist, were later purged of overt racial stereotyping. Boy-oy-oing!

So, let's say the HB's are in fact a metaphor for eugenic psy-engineering...

The Day After Tomorrow is a 1994 novel with motifs found tattooed all over the Inglorious Basterds, which is the first openly cinemax-troverted Revenge of the Jew. In TDAT, two young blue-bred brothers are being groomed and curried as the next Fuhrer. Say no more, cuz the book is a fuckin' riot, but these two bro's are the Hardy Boys. The HB's, like Tin-tin and Snowy, is Nazi Eugenic Manchu Program-paganda Extravaganza, and long predates the WWII.

- Before Harry T-bones the scheister's private dick, we get our most appealing look at Harry's plate, which we decode as CAB-Fee. CAB-Fee is an ultra-pun. A dog barks in the offing of Harry's rundown. Samson, Son of Sam. Ruff-ruff. Kill your neighbors.

As Harry takes to the mill wheel, the Shamus plays pinball as he tries to free his car and make a getaway. Initiated by Harry and we are between the Pillars of Dagon. See Samson pushing them away with all his might. Notice the color combo of the street front condos. Red and Gold. A Ruby Ray.

When the kid-dick says '...yes, it's a law firm...' it's to the tune of a schoolyard taunt. Nah-Nah-nuh-Nah-Nah! And this-away the burden of Christ is revealed. The Sins of Man, to be visited upon the Son of Man, must be enacted by the Son of Man - Son of Sam. It isn't enough to merely punish Christ for defying God. He must be framed-up as the Guilty Party of All Sin. And with subtlety that is Beauty Incarnate. Christ is Prometheus, and golly is God royally pissed.

The Shamus to Harry: '...Jesus, grow up man, it happens to every-body...'. Harry will later say to Linda, on the promenade '...I realize that no one is immortal...'. Translated for the hoi-polloi: Christ is a liar. There is no eternal life, no resurrection. Christ is Immortal/Christ is No One (Jasper Noone - the Khrist-ly Killer of Eastwood's Bloodwork)/Christ is a Serial Killer/Save Our Souls.

- Here's where is gets a wee touch creepy, ladies and joyms.

My copy of BAR was scored from a street front table at an all-night viddy store in Chinatown and has the cigarette burns intact.

Burwell's cheery Seattle Fanfare closes with the tinkle of a bell (triangle). The sound is bright and clear and is timed precisely with the burn at the end of the 2nd reel. The 3rd reel starter flares over Sandy like the Great Gazoo, just as she says the word asleep. It's fucking hip-gnosis. Ja-heee-zuss! And some how braided into the Samson/Son of Sam/Sultan of Salad/SOS motif. We might infer that Seattle is a kind of Sodom or Gemorrah - peopled perhaps by cultists of a kind distasteful to God?

And we're back: Good Morning (Mourning) Seattle. A Proustian inversion of Bush and his Pet Goat. Sandy reads'...asleep for three minutes...' at the start of reel 3. Bell (a bell rings in the projection booth), Book (Point of Order Oliver) and Ken Doll Candle (TV Broadcaster).

Hollywood/Holly-wand/WitchCraft.

Here's a hoot in the holler: Oliver the Cat Who Lives in the Rotunda. OTCWLITR. What do you see? The gematria for OTCWLITR is 354. Many fruitful corollaries, but here's a nice one. 354 = Assassin, Slayer, Murderer, Butcher. This is a mind control trigger and it's a wicked fuckin' curve ball. Recall Dirty Harry Pfarrar out for the P.I. on Olive Street. The barking dog. The Red and Yellow Manchu Trigger? Lawyers as Owls. O-liver W-endeL Holmes.

Sandy reads from Oliver the Cat. Point of Order Oliver.

The Owl serves the Law just as he serves-up the Law. He delivers the summons and codifies the social program. He launders money and washes brains.

Let's look again at the string OTCWLITR. The word OWL is readily visible. What remains is TCITR. The Catcher In The Rye. (!!!) I mean can this be for rizzle ma nizzle dizzle!? To bring the junk to shore, The POOO cover is lighted to first appear Red and Gold, surrounded by a sea of blue. China, the Great Red Dragon of Dawn, rides the waves of tranquility. In the flat un-shadowed light the Red and Golden becomes Red and White. The Rising Sun. Japan. The gleaming sun in the GMSeattle cryon is displayed on a JVC digital TV. Japan Video Corp.

With two you get eggroll.

- Anagram 'KHEX Seattle' and a certain term leaps out. Theta. Theta is the 8th letter of the Greek Alphabet and equals 8 in Hebrew gematria. Ritual circumcision, Mitzvah Bar-One, is performed on the eight day of life. In Jewish Mysticism Theta is the signature of a 'circling eagle'. Fah Rizz!

The anagrams are: Thetas Ex Elk/Theta Elk Sex/Theta Ex's Elk. Elks are a branch of freemasonry.

8/Theta/Circling Eagle/Russian Berkut/Berkowitz,nee Falco/Son of Sam/Sultan of Salad/S.O.S.

The letter Theta looks like an I-Beam/Bar inside a circle. The Ego, trapped in an Eggo. A Winged Serpent waiting to be hatched. My goodness, Junebug!

- There is a runner on Ozzie's shipboard TV, as he rifles his mail. Corso is Latin (Roman/Christian/Nazi) for Runner. Like Ozzie, The Ninth Gate's Corso (Johnny Depp) doesn't know he is branded by his birth. As a runner he is the symbol for all who might hope to flee the Revenge of the Jew. T9thG openly romanticizes this process, as a trap for the fool's fascination. Corso says '...well I'll be damned...' and knows good and well the road he has chosen. After all, what else is there to do but burn a while.

- Ozzie's New Keys = Nuke Keys/Nookies/Nuke Ease/Anal Ease. Look at the light standards on Ozzie's pier. Are they missiles?

- The Brain of J: Ozzie descries 'a league of morons'. Pure cyanide. It is a metaphrase of A Confederacy of Dunces, the post suicidal triumph of John Kennedy Toole of New Orleans. That's right. John Kennedy Toole. I suspect he could, were he to chime in, explain a bit about Hurricane Katrina.

Maybe Katie Cox knows.

- And at last... our ???: from the second scene at Katie's Lawyer.

Tim Buk 2: Katie's grandfatherly divorce attorney bubbles about his recent attendance at a Kennedy Center Honor Ceremony. He drops a few names. One is that of Jane Alexander, DC based actress and Kennedy Honoree.

In Raising Arizona, H.I. (Nicholas Cage) is born the day after Kennedy is killed in Dallas. Terkharian regales his tales the day after the Kennedy Honors. Jane Alexander, his client and dead ringer on a stinger for Harry's wife Sandra (Liz Marvel) was the big star of the post-apocalyptic PBS Drama Testament, which was timed to coincide with the CBS mini-series The Day After, another post nuke melodrama.

If you don't see the resemblance between the ladies, have yer peepers checked.

Now, you may need to change your Huggies, because here at last comes the cornerstone.

Testament was directed by Lynne Littman. Lyn_ Lit_. Linda Litsky - Lynn Littman.

Are you getting this?

Thema 1.1

Reality is an after-image. The kaleidoscopic counterpoint of an alchemical war that rages in a million dreaming minds. Much of madness, more of sin, and horror the soul of the plot. Horror - and by all accounts, some quality merchandise.

A confession. When I - your humble narrator Artislav Mel - when I developed this theory, I was sure it was a unique discovery. Without the least chagrin I report to have learned that it is all laid out by Mcluhan, or Joyce, or Huston, or Polanski, or Kubrick,
or Bob... the list goes on.

Here it is through my eyes. The Satanic Nyarlhotep is unleashed from the Pentagon-acle as the consequence of Fat Man and Little Boy - '45. The Global Star Wars Stage is set in '63, designed by the very Architect of Time as the exo-structure of Hell. Dr Strangelove and/or Failsafe document the destruction of life on earth, triggered by a heretofore unknown Soviet doomsday device. The power of this device is not against biology but rather full scale reality itself, and ever since that sunny day it's Apocalypse Now and Again. The mem's of the mega-dead at the moment of the flash - and all the bitter dreams what come on along behind. I know that ain't all of it - but I have seen the plasma strike and glow - and I know.

Lightspeed baby. Truckin' through time as the war rages out beyond Uranus, and slips the surly bonds of Earth toward the Plutonian Shore. The blue and yellow cover says it all. Time War.

Time is all we've got. Let's make the worst of it.

responder 1:1

2009-10-21T00:55:00.000-07:00

Cold Cream Fusion

Could it be
Yes it could
Something's comin'
Something good...

pg. 4 down

responder 1:0

2009-10-18T01:37:00.000-07:00

The Hideaway - An Evening with M: Native American Iconographer

by Lyndon Johnson-LeMat, Thomist Monkey's Uncle

The lecture happens in an abandon bowery circuit-church in the Pigalle, void of its pews and all but the out of reachy-est iconia. A relic of the post-modern decline in the religious subjugation of proletarian Europe - already the old news of generations gone.
Inside, the squinted glare of a white hot winter twilight shafts through vaulted windows and into dancing whorls of gray and dusty death. On the dais there is no altar, just a lectern, a microphone, and a few metal chairs.

Over to a sidewall is a great teak sacristy - scarred, scuffed, stripped of its commission and demoted into low service as a buffet-stand. There squats a dented urn of hot chocolate, a stack of styros and three trays of bread'n'butter samwhiches, each with its own toothpick pennant declaring the loyalty of its specific viande.

- Good Gracious! (as a draw my cup of chaud and admire the furniture) I do believe I've found my three-handled moss-covered family gredunza!

- Huh!? (the lady beside me, Mrs. Grifas, a corpulent wiccan love-soulja, glowing patchouli as she drivels over her many options to chew).

She doesn't get me. Just smirks and makes way with a chicken salad, her goiter flipping about like a mighty scrotal sack at her throat. Looking back at yours truly like I'm insane. She's right, of course, I am insane. Madly mad and drunk on cinnabar. So is Mrs. Grifas and the rest. All the best people are, you know. 100 proof.

And we all come here. Here in the guts of the Paris ghetto, to Le Club American. Fortuity and sympathy. To hear tales and talk of Art and Society in our fargone fatherland - Canada - the cosmic home base of civilized pseudo-psychosis, for which we are a distant guard. Membership in LCA is free. Tonight we get our money's worth.

I. Peddle to the Middle

Choosing a candy colored folding chair, in the corner I dig in, light up a Gitane to mellow my hot chocolate, and wait for the show to begin. I scan the etherized patient body through a haze of yellow smoke. There are about 22 regular members tonight. Yawn muttly crew if ever there was. A gaggle of newbies - androids I calls 'em - sniffing hither and thither for the scent of a protocol, not sure why they are here, peering into every pair of eyes.

Upon the dais is our moderator, Dr. Zosha Murfislaw. Sitting next to her the speaker. The chatter settles as folks asseyez and pretty soon Murfislaw introduces him - a hoary, friendly looking hobbit of a man called M.

- lah de dah (says Dr. Z)... he's a Haida hum dee haw... hybrid culture, Haida Manga, blahblah, et cetera, peter cetera, art-blah, environs meant round blend of blah and coiff of sherbet...

I am tuning it out already. Balancing the squelch into the hidden wave, the ground pattern - and I've got it sussed. For me, the Good Ship Haida-Pop as already run aground and Captain M is logged at sea. Now I'm no psychic here - but I know what I know. I know, cuz although I'm trying to be in the moment and give this bonhomme a bon ami, I am in fact thinking about my mother.

My Mother and the Grand Oedipal Sexpialidoscious Purple Apocalyptic Intrigue. Boy-oh-boy-ar-dee! Here's the thing. It happens in a flash
up in the attic, but is framed in a frankenstein design both rich and fine
and way downtown.

Sometime prior to his introduction, our speaker's slide show cycles haplessly through its contents at least thrice.

The ground event is: hypnotic repetition. Must---not---sleep!

Kafka emerges through the tactile as a group of inept apparatchiks grapple in an endless fog for control of so strange the mystic-medium - the sybiline software - but fail to halt the millwheel of flashing images before our eyes. I might laugh if it weren't so goddam dentist-chair dull.

Questions: Why has M failed to master the new medium on his own time, and save his audience such a pitiless overture? Lacking this ability, why does he permit the folly persist on into the theater of the stupefying? Such rubber impotence is not a desirable image for an Artist. An Artist would take it in hand...

... ... the message is: M is an absent minded professor - cuddly, lovable, non-threatening and wise. Not an Artist at all. Artists clarify. Artists confound. Artists amuse. Artists enrage. They do not bore!

Hence we sense there must be more.

Ah yes, the ground event is: politics and social engineering by the sub-textual and probably semi-conscious use of passive hypnosis. Hypnosis of a hidden bias.

- (And then Mother in my ear)... watch it sonny! You're nobody's boss. Eat your Alpha-ghetti's you little shithead.

               (I'm two only years old). And every spoonful spells... behave... obey...
                                               follow... pray... And every bowl a pyramid of law.


II. Mom I Fearest

Now, my Mother is no ordinary woman. A Double Agent for the KGB. 222 IQ. Concert Violinist of World Renown. Lover to Norman Mailer; Castro and Guevera (at about the same time); Arthur Rimbaud and Marlene Dietrich (at exactly the same time!). Rear Admiral in the U.S. Navy, CMH, WW's I and II.

She says she'd love to tell me more but that she'd have to kill me.

Don't get me wrong here. Mom and I enjoy a warm and happy home in our garret near the Sacre Coeur, in le City deLight. One may liken us to an expat Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson, with me in the latter role, as I do all the cooking and what not.

And yet, my upbringing is another story. A single mum on the lam from Oswald Mosley's private hit squad, Mother knows enough to teach the hard tack and forge her sonny into an Artist. An Artist will survive,
says she. She wants me to survive.

There is a little poem Mom whispers me but once when I am three or four, to be followed by a forced reading aloud of Orwell's 1984...

Where e'er it is that you might see -
All is Art and Hierarchy.
The Artist makes a noble feat
To see the two shall never meet.

'Tis you my child that I entreat -
You see the two shall never meet!

Yeah, Mom schooled my ass but good. The proof is in the pudding.

III. The Pudding

- I am an artist and a free man (M begins, and sidetracks at once into native amer-ind sub-politics).

Cha-ching!

Not at all vexed to be denied my helping of Art for a spare bowl of Social Malady. In fact the soup tastes fine - as I had it from the get go that tonight's supper was gonna be a sales pitch. A pitch with no product. A pitch that passes understanding and into the mindscape as a billboard eyesore. Here's the shy: it isn't enough to plead for the action of the common man nowadays. Instead, one must Mary Kay Nod the subject into pink submission to the meme. The material - the body of the argument - is irrelevant, because the subject once programmed becomes a walking talking party member for the cause. And they don't even know it.

M stages a polarity. One man, some unnamed schlub, a janitor on minimum wage we are told, sends 20 bucks to the cause - weekly, mind you - for a decade or more. Water rises to the eye. Another fellow, a Haida Heavy Hitter, throws a $70,000 get well bash for a man he nearly killed while driving under the influence. The dude lost his leg, but hey, it's all good. They threw him a party.

Now M is no fool. He knows well the members of are LCA are remarkably if not tragically insolvent and a long way from the wooded maze of his personal beef. He must reinforce the connection to his cause, and here like fireworks comes the fanfare for the common man. The working man and his kin of skin. Decent folk and free from sin. Sigh.

And then the price tag. Responsibility and obligation are the burden of the free man, says he. Who inside dare not agree? I know someone.

Finally, the acid test.

- (the flavor of M's rap)... and what about those asterix and obelisks that stand in the Cirque de Bastille, or in London Town, or Washington D.C.? Do they mean the same as they do standing in Egypt of Old... ?

Like doggies in the rear view window wobble no! - the heads of newbies all. A good 74% of the usual suspects also seem to agree in kind. Delicious.

- ... of course not (M presses in). To the Victor go the spoils. Stolen as they are these monuments are the symbols of power. The power of those in control of the common man... ad nauseum de lecto...

More head shaking and polite despair.

I refrain from leaping out my chair and crying... just what do you think they mean in Egypt, anyhow? Crackers? Rhino's Horns? A Punch and Judy Show? Instead I hold my tongue delirious, baffled by nirvana, and listen as M unravels the proud zigarraut of Haida Hierarchy so close to his tell-tale, tall-tale heart,
and absolutely oblivious to his own...

IV. ... Bull Papa

A staggering fallacy and softly knock-knock joke.

- (M edifies)... we Native American Indians never called ourselves Indians. Indian comes from the Latin In Deo, meaning In God. During the French Revolution, the Graceful Savage - the Indian - was paraded as a model of supreme natural spiritualism for political blahblah et cetera, hall and oates much better than chicago cetera, blah...

The fallacy: a conspicuous mis-interpretation of the etymology of the term Indian. Long before the events M describes as his source, the Teutonic seat of the Roman Empire - the so-called First Reich - coined the term In Deo as the empirical label for the descendants of the Pandavas of the Great Bharat (Bharat = Sanskrit for Noble House of India). This appellation was awarded not for the Godliness of the Indian nation, but rather in admiration of the national caste and purity of its bloodlines. Tsk, tsk.

And later, detailing one of his already telegraphed slides, M teases us with the misspelt totem miniature (seen here as Min-a-ture).

Synapses fire ecstatically, reverberating in my brain. My third eye listens in...

A boarding school mnemonic device: Knock knock? Who's there? Little Ol' Theseus. Little Ol' Theseus who? Little Ol' Theseus in Mino-ture.

And thus implodes the post Piscean heroic archetype into shambles at the feet of Christ. There are no heroes in this electric landscape. The hero is the hobgoblin of a grieving mind. We killed The Hero in the Chair, and brought Him back in a crash-cart hallelujah defibrillator passover to to save us in return, for which He is much obliged, I understand.

The Labyrinth of Minos which is the Temple of Solomon is the Minotaur. Bull within and Bull without. The pagan maze of Satan. No one has to go inside who has no bone to pick. Theseus killed the Bull. Christ destroyed the Temple. Fucking pulverized it! It is accomplished, bro. Chill out why don't you.

Oh sure, I dig the vibe - your culture and its traditions are important to you and worth fighting for. I, on the other hand, am in the catbird seat. The by-product of a heritage turned against itself and its own blood for the good of the Son of Man: the shining soul who is the golden child of God in every man and woman.

The Sovereign Self - In Hell, where all of us are naked.

All of Us.

X. The Holy Office

Shoes scuffle like applause in the apres glow. Coats are shouldered and watches checked and rechecked. The newbies all, and a good 65% of the usual suspects in kind, glom onto M like tiny rainbow orbs of dew - dancing in pearly shafts of moonlight light bulb that slant in through the vaulted frames on high.

Questions?

- Will you sign my book?
- Thank you, sir, I was inspired.
- You met the Llama?
- Yes I met him.
- What about Apollo Frere?
- Apollo who?
- Do you have a light. madamoiselle?

An Orphic spiral oboe fugue - some distant, fading choir of lost children. Ever fading into silence. An aurora of oil slick stick folks all
decked up in their Sunday threads. Invisible.

It's 22hrs moins dix. Mom ought to be awake by now. Up for the night. Strong sweet tea, a Davidoff or two (grace of a trusted contact from her spy days), and her beloved Mahler 45's on the RCA. We'll play double solitaire 'til dawn. Good company. Or maybe I'll sneak away and zazie dans le metro on over to Saint Michel and watch the tourists until midnight mass at Our Lady. I'll go to mass, not for the religion, but to shake the man's hand. The man, or dame, or kid next to me. Shake a hand and know the good news, that we are saved, and gonna be all right somehow.

As I go, I stop inside the doorway and light another cigarette. In a daze of yellow opium reverie, I am looking back through the mingling voices and my eyes lock with another man's eyes. The eyes of a hoary, friendly looking hobbit, peering into me so deep and longing for the scantest proof of life, not sure why he is here, and lost at last in a crowd of alibis.

Outside in a soft winter rain, the loamy aromas of the Pigalle, rich with the spices of Araby and all the mystery of its boundless pleasures, linger but a moment on my breath and expand into nebulous contentment.

Paths Inglorious lead but through the Gate. And as I begin to disappear...

...so distantly I turn to view
the shamblings of that motley crew,
those souls that hate the strength that mine has,
steeled in the school of old Aquinas...

... and I am gone.

for K. +++

LJ LeM. - Paris, 1975. pg. 3 down pg. 5 up

preface 0:2

2009-10-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

Tyranno-Thesaurus Rex!

Let me be brief. pg. 2 down pg. 4 up

preface 0:1

2009-10-16T12:39:00.000-07:00

Many Best Oh Manifesto

School: Rhizo-mystick-ism, forthwith named simply Rhizome (spoken: rise, oh me!). Rhizome bugles in concerted contrapunct to the school of Synchro-Mysticism, progeny of Jake Kotze's Brave New World Hors d'Ouvre. Rhizome is the internalization and implosion of mysticism by the ravenous consumption of the synchronistic meme, resurr-rectifying the glimmering mystic persona from the murky depths of Neptune and into the cool chianti of Plutonian Sundown.

Plainly - mysticism and its synchroid fascination is the after image of the udder outing of the self into the imaginary One - the One now venerated as a global fiat by the Hakuna Matata Disney It's A Small World and We're All in this Together, version 666.

Synchronicity is young, kids. It is youth trapped within the saturnine architecture called Time. Within this mechanism the individual is posed as a widget or gizmo that works to serve and must remain the property of a static clockwork environment for the good of the Awful All.

Rhizome is a spry geriatric, old boy. Where a Synchromystic organizes the detailed cosmos into a focal point called Self = One, Rhizome is the full-min-ation of this model through mystic indulgence, digestion and feel good excre-meditation. Thus wise imploded, one may flower into ecclesium eternum infernal. The image is that of the rhizome-cloud - a mulitplicity of uni-qualities and the perfect balance of The Trans-infinite = Zero - somewhere, everywhere and altogether without feathers.

The Utopian Nowhere.

The Rhizome Cloud

Poetry, Music, Laughter and All the Electric Grapes you can eat!

Rhizome Wise-Rhyme

If you have a noodle and the shadow of a doubt

The smallest hesitation as to what it's all about

A 'know it all equation' or a 'never know it, nowt!'

Then when you meet the Buddha, do not kill Him - Chill Him Out

Hands Up! pg. 1 down pg. 3 up

preface 0:0

2009-10-14T13:33:00.000-07:00

I Love Purple Much Better Than Orange

The Blue Pill is Bluesy Monday - haunted, taunted and most wanted. The Red Pill is Red Meat - hounded, pounded and grounded. Take the Purple Pill and get Tuned, Mooned and Marooned.

I - Artislav Mel - and I alone have eaten of the Android Meme.
I am neither here nor there. Look upon me in repair!
To Become Breath - Deployer of Whorls!
For whosoever bereave-eth in Me shall munch the Everlasting Lunch, Soup and Salad Bar ($13.99 w/coffee).

Goodly Dreams and Gently Streams, Oh Yea Mad and Purple Malt Mustachios! All It Ever Is Be Better Yet. pg. 2 up