I have a will, but only enough to wish. That is all I can muster. My days are plagued and spotted by fits and starts. Inspiration comes but inconsistently–and I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a full court press of attention from the muse, anyhow. I experience flights of fancy so real; magnificence and magnification press and pulse red waves upon my forehead–not coincidentally the location of my (our) pineal gland–that vestigial third eye. We try to depict feelings like these in movies, and that we have the idea to do so is surely some indication of a real phenomenon, that pulsing wave effect that an idea sprung forth from the unconscious upon our consciousness imparts. That’s what EDM music is about, and meditation, too: drawing out the spirit of mother earth and father sky with the tribal drum beat and humming and Sufistic swirling; a reconnection to the weirdest of truths–we live not by bread alone.
And how wild a truth and hopeful a thing in a hope dimming, mechanically grossened world lubricated by industrial snake oil –entertainment to numb that pesky pineal gland (pesky to capitalism, I mean here)– instead of spiritual oil, human social fabric, emergent from within us all, then thereby comprising the warp and woof of us—us and the natural environment; thumping and swirling about in it, building that sacred, collectively embodied social memory.
Fabrication by other means are those belonging to modernity, manufactured by brand names like Moderna, in fact, whose slogans (‘songs of the dead’) siren us to sleep with lyrics and lyre made appealing to the dulled creatures, Apollo’s fifty sacrificial suckers cooked and hung by Trickster, ever at the crossroads of commerce.
Sheep (or cattle) with a prefrontal cortex are not sheep, but threats to the shepherd (the sheep-herder) leading lambs to slaughter; his exchange at the inhuman place, the market. And markets are indeed what modernity pursues: cold, calculating margins and colder margin makers; pineal glands fully capsized in pursuit of capital, oil, more oil. Run from the crossroads, kiddies. Your souls and hocks are at stake, and steak alike; the truth of Hermés (the trickster-god, not the fashion house–though it is a house quite aptly named for its turnings of taste, which I will likely address in some later writing) is in his pursuit of meat. Cannibals we are; we even eat our gods and call it sacrifice: a maze so confused by the pencil hijacked from the spirit by the hands of many men, its erasure marks make impossible the original boundaries–and that is indeed why we are the Hermeneutical hand: our blurriness, and likewise, why we yearn for a truth maker–a commander in chief so confident we can’t help but hear his tune, for ours is hopelessly muddled, ghosted marks upon our souls and winding hallways so grey that our fearfullest movies so reflect these bleak truths that we shutter to watch, and yet do, out of a deep sense of the need for it–Truth, no matter how bleak. Our roots have been erased and re-drawn, and we do not know which way is up. The magnets in the beaks of birds fascinate us, because the electromagnetics in us are turned –the fuck– off. We demean those few oracles among us ‘woo-woo’ for even trying to point a needle toward magnetic north. Colonized and lobotomized (‘scared by the lobo, the wolf’ as I read that word’s etymological roots) sheep need no shepherd–even his job has been replaced by one of those oiled machines of commerce. Jesus Christ, do we need a redeemer.
A painting emerges, a poem, a striking chord on my shit keyboard knockoff of piano sounds that hum so perfectly the notes of the real thing that they fall just flat–that feeling is better than no sound at all, but, in a way, represents the fakeness of the world to me so pervasively that feelings of disgust and often a mild rage seep out of its tiny speakers, and I pound that rage recursively back into its plastic keys. I’ve disrespected this instrument like a fatherless child disrespects his mother when a masculine presence stiffens no walled boundary around him from an early age. There are burn marks where my incense sticks have burned down: between the precarious E5 and F5 keys (precarious because they have no halftone between). And sometimes prose like this. Here, then gone in a flash too short and too dim to get an outline (like looking into the sun, then fluttering several blinks to see the lines of whatever you last traced in contrast to its fires); like hints from G-d, meant to remind and tease, but never deliver a fully fleshed out photo. A negative is quite the aptronym in regards to its valence to us.
Okay, that’s what I have to say today.