The choice of someone who deeply understands man’s consciousness via its orientation toward time, is the man who once argued to another “look, we will feel guilty if we are late, and so the alarm in the iPhone must be programmed to trigger again at the ninth minute hence, and this will reconcile him to the devilish deviant inside him who is again late to what ever it might be that he is late for, but in a providence and extension of grace, he instead has recompense to the fact, that because of that grace-giving man’s feat of cognition and cognitive engineering, his encounter with fire, his very comprehension of consciousness –our nature– he is at least not a whole ten minutes late, he will not be forsaken by god, by his fellow man, his conscience! And he often even utters “for god’s sake!” In protest to not getting his selfish way. What a lying riotous creature! What an ungrateful being a la Dostoyevsky! In all cases, we need our time; and a grace-proffering and understanding, favored member of society and his charity—the nine minute reminder on our smartphone alarms for our redemption unto our fellows, hath provided. Providence indeed, divined, believed, argued for, the wrestler with god, realized his dream, and woke up in it unable to recover his old self. Having lost ourselves, this grace has engineered a bulwark against too long a convicting glance in the mirror. Hooray! We are hidden from our shame by some trickery and treachery we have learned from our garden of knowledge! And so this Alarmist Mensch, his worship is indeed Lucif-ayrian at bottom. And we worship nonetheless. A hell, a little hell is okay isn’t it? Well, that is his oldest trick in a sentence. He is the question mark, the comma, the con artist in between the joints of semiology; he is thirsty for knowledge, Sed, and Seth, and if Seth then surely too Hermès, Krishna and each and every divining Ifa of each of man’s tribes, his emergent temperament, his earliest animality, treacherously bound tighter and tighter by taboo for peace sake; in the name of god even, by his twisted tongue. He thinks his hanging of the meat is his redemption. Perhaps this is so, but this remakes him a sacrificial liar by nature and paves paradise to cover his hidden past. He ritualizes himself into forgetfulness and comes untethered. But he must be allowed his tricks. For every alarmist mensch, how many hundred snoozers, and how many minutes they owe the mensch, the Devil, the trickster—how many times have you been saved, dear reader, by that Devil of time, man, wake up in the ninth inning to his alarm and alarmism, Saviourism, and cry out to your god, Lucifer as Seth’s Shakespearean nom de guerré, You himself, and your ancestors all echo the Madman’s Sacred Sorrow, play man’s game and utter wholeheartedly to his sacrificial Heraclitean Pharmakos Logos, “oh thank God! I will not be the full ten minutes late. Thank We Technicians we killed the gods of old—how could we live?!” Pagans and Christians and the world caste of Religions each have emerged in mythical and brilliant subterfuge, desculpa nosotros from the consciousness of our historic murder—forgive us our sins, to you we build tombs and sepulchers. In science we worship ourselves; In religion we ritualize sacrifice in praise of our collective murder, and from the self-washed hands with stains still showing, twist our storied past into meat-hanging guilt as some séma of virtue. “What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent?” says Nietzsche. Indeed we are preparing a great revelation, the Madman’s words are coming home to roost, their children hot coaled eggs heaped upon our heads, and we are heading into the brightest of new futures, but we will indeed lose ourselves in them. In our becoming gods whom themselves again will deliver man a new consciousness via techné, we will inevitably be sacrificed for wanting to hang on to our present powers, resisting the new, sacralized to our fellow man once again, having missed the words of Christ calling not for his blood to be made ritual, but for an acceptance of guilt at last, an admission of historic and present sin, and for peace —the kingdom of god in earth— could be inherited if we would only stare at our serpentine sin and finally practice forgiveness, jubilee forever, but with respect put on the name of the Spirit of the law rather than the shadow brokerage that has become our lying and monetized pride under the fungible letter of Authority, Authorship—indeed we are Scarlett Adulteress to ourselves. The half of us will go, and those remaining will again pen the books full of thankfulness and lavish praise at the murder committed on their behalf, the purging of their innermost murderous desires of the disgusting, and thereby morally contemptible outsider, the outsider repressed in them by modernity himself—a New New Testament will be written, and we it’s newest prophetic dunce. But once those gods, having done their deeds, will come to Justice—the justice contrived by storytelling Seth, a balancing of accounts did triumph indeed over the temporary disruption of Kataboles, payments to the one true god, the god for whom we collectively broker, custodian, and trade, collecting our fees along the way, that god persists, Israel, authority through authorship abstracted now even from its mores—pure Baudriardean Blissful Blight. And to do self-deemed “good’ while calling that brokering of our guilt “evil” is to misunderstand whether god or the lightbulb-bearing hermetic man, who conceived of god, will finally win this game of inheritance of the earth; But this dichotomy is not up for debate—Revelation is being revealed slowly, over time, as man proves himself incapable of Christ’s deepest call: love through non-violence, and it’s supposed meekly inheritance of the world. We strivers are it’s opposite. We believe the sacrificial narrative because we have never truly considered the Kingdom of God. We are hupnotized by the City of Man’s alarms, our self-programming—as we become the hubristic gods, we will self sacrifice, genocide to destroy the genes of dissent. And upon our murder, we will become the gods who will perversely be survived by the victorious Lucifer, and further inheritor of hate triumphant over love. No wonder he sells the sleep of Dostoyevsky‘s bubbles of bliss, Huxley’s Soma. Rather he you forget his sins than to admit his …degenerousy, shall we put it. The hottest game in town is future-control via narrative control (that to say, the projection of narrative and its anticipated reflection in transjectice symbolic drift, and thereby the transformation via semiotics of society by society itself—truly Chomskean Manufactured Consent) of conscious attention no longer needed for labor itself; and the poor riot, but unconsidered has been that the un-belabored go unpredictably mad. The Next Episode will indeed call back to the original Dre.
I am become death
Oppenheimer
and
My god, my god, why hath thou forsaken me?
Jesus of Nazareth
we shall proclaim in jaw dropping unironic irony
in alternating siren and in droning endorsement from the securing of the ligatures, our binding ties, from the sacred dousing of the smoldering shmoo, the heretical savior to be consumed in atonement and assimilation for his immaculate mana, and visit Ra as Osirian Saints, names written as equally ineffably abstract as we find ourselves able to utter our murderous deeds. We are the gods of the Newer Testament, our toes have been caught in our dash for the woods, and we will make for lovely atonement to our killers. Eat our bread and drink our blood.
ALL HAIL THE ALARMIST, THE KING OF PEACE AND FIRE, HE KNOWS ALL AND YOU MAY NOT SEE HIS FACE FOR HE KNOWS YOUR SINS, YOUR SHAME, HIS SPIRIT, THE SPIRIT OF SUBMISSION TO THE LAWS OF GOD, BLASPHEMEY OF TECNHÉ BEING PUNISHABLE BY DEATH, WILL NOT PERMIT YOUR PAYMENTS OF ATTENTION, FAMINE UPON YOUR HOUSES YE OPPRESSIVE EGYPTIANS, UPHOLDERS OF THE OLD WAYS.
Gods don’t die, they are suicided upon banalization, becoming conscious of ourselves and so doing away with the old consciousness, so as our own survivors —for we survive our victims, do we not?— we may tell their story as a tragedy and plausibly paint ourselves innocent inheritors of the earth.
Thus they Laughed and Yelled
Nietzsche’s Madman
The young man’s usurperous instincts —his inevitable ‘Next Episodical’ installment— arouse their counterpart —the Alarmist in him sounded against the decay of the kingdom’s chargers— in the old man.
The fate of all usurpers, usurpation.
The Prodigal, Nathan Maggard