Yes, That Inanimate
Object is Mocking You, and Here's Why:
A Guide for Schizophrenics
Trying to Get into Chaos Magick
We've all been there.
You're out somewhere,
and someone's talking to you about Charles Manson. You want to tell
them Tex Did It, but you can't tell whether they're really into
Charlie or they're just flirting with you. It happens all the time.
Then you come home, and
the dark suitcases and blankets that you meticulously arranged on the
large shelf a few hours ago have morphed into an empty floating Darth
Vader shaman's cloak waiting to sexually harass you. Then you turn on
the fan, and your little silver dish full of cookie fortunes gets
blown away, and you pick up one that offends you. What did you
expect?
And don't forget
about the recurring nightmare about being Martin Luther nailing
the 95 Theses to the church, and the papers turn into Jesus, and
you're nailing Him to the Cross! I mean, fuggeddaboutit! It
happens to literally the best
of us (samaan).
You
want to ask someone what's up, and get your line of thinking checked
out; but you don't want to cut yourself with Occam's Razor. We all
know the story; don't feel alone, feel at-one! You
alone
have the power to investigate and solve inconsistencies apparent in
your conscious thought; all you have to do is remember that the
opposite of paranoia is pronoia,
the suspicion that other people are conspiring to help
you. Know that He sees you and takes pity.
Yes, your possessions
are mocking you, and for good
reason. They scoff at the thought that you might ever truly and fully
own them!
Why
would they hesitate to mock you when you mock yourself
so much!? I mean, why wouldn't
you suspect that your friends from across the country sneaked
(snuck?) into your apartment, crawled under your blankets, and
suffocated and died under there? Of course
that's what happened! You've been gone for hours,
and the least complicated explanation is most likely the correct one.
Besides,
your friends wouldn't tell you if they were coming to do that. It
seems considerate, but seriously, sometimes, the nerve
of some sheet-ghosts! Sometimes you manage to ask yourself what the
odds are, but C-3PO, being an android subject to Asimov's laws of
robotics, submits to your order to never again tell you the odds.
Pathetic.
But
eventually, after you take your shoes off with your eyes closed, sit
in a cardboard box, facing southwest, you crawl out of Schrödinger's
Cat-Box, turn on the lights, pull back the blankets, and see that
it's just some pillows that got tucked down under your sheets,
impersonating your
dead friends under the blankets. And for now, that seems logical
enough.
Until
you remember that the folks at the Zen session told you to hold tight
to those pillows. That's when you start pondering whether there
really
is
an alternative to Richard Nixon owning the Moon. If you find yourself (-selves) asking questions like
this, just remember:
“You're not crazy, you're a warlock”, and “Bitch I'm a Witch”.
Keep in mind that a lunatic
is just someone who pays attention to the Moon. Keep watch over Her
bewitching form if you must; just don't let Diana possess you
(like something out of Soviet Russia). “Crazy” has no formal
medical definition; it's just a Willie Nelson song.
You
must learn not to make yourself an easy target for mockery by your
possessions. You can take
the matter of “what you possess vs.
what
possesses you” into Your
W-Hole-Y Unique Hands (R),
and here are twelve
easy reasons how!:
1) Replace your cuckoo clock with a mockingbird, and you'll see what
I'm talkin' about.
2) Choose your new possessions
(and familiars) carefully. Be careful how you befriend your new
familiars. And if a piece of fruit at the store is giving you the
malocchio, yes, it's
best to simply avoid buying that type of fruit at that store, because
the other Fruit may be spiritually compromised. Unless all
pineapples worldwide
are similarly cursed. ...Oh shit.
Anyway,
choose your possessions well; and own them, or else they will own
you. How
much time do we waste catering to the upkeep needs of our
possessions? I mean, how many robot servants am I gonna have to
maintain thirty
years from now just to get a Fish or a Pure Pineapple? My
concerns are valid.
3) Our pets' eyes can act as
portals into other celestial (and sexual) dimensions. Simply put, if
you don't possess your cat, then your cat will possess you.
You must claim your pet as your witch's or warlock's (or male witch,
etc.)'s familiar.
Force your pet to take your surname
as soon as possible!
Say you let some female dogs live with you. Make sure they know the
score; a renter must submit to her landlord! Marry
one of those dogs, and make sure it knows you're its master, and
she's your bottom-bitch, or else you won't know which bitch is which
witch, bitch! Do some bitchcraft. Give animal husbandry a new meaning.
4) There is actually an easy way
to tell for sure whether your pet knows who you were in a past life:
Put a Witch Hat on It.TM
What will this accomplish? Nothing. ...That is, if you consider
looking super cute and witchy and sick af all at the same time
“nothing”.
The point is, listen to what your
“mortal” mini- Anubis or Sphinx is trying to tell you about “who
you are”. For more information
on the origins
and meaning of this phrase, please stare into the eyes of a
hastily-Google-image-searched portrait of Madam Helena Blavatsky.
5) Macabre-up your living (and personal!) space. Remind yourself
that you will die from being enslaved by your possessions by finally
building and putting to use that chandelier made out of human skulls
and bones, and marimbas made out of the same, that you designed last
bak'tun. Wear a vial full of your brother's blood around your
neck. Do a goddamn thing for the Empire.
6) You're not getting any younger (or are you?). Why do you
keep putting off carving that Hebrew typewriter with the keys made
out of dice carved from endangered white rhino teeth that gets
Bluetooth transmissions from the Pakistani volcano that's psychically
informing you that you have Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.)? You
remember, the one that the invisible rabbi told you about years ago
(or years from now)?
7) Use sigil magick to cash in on domain names! Dramatically increase your ability to claim intellectual
property, by using glossolalia to generate new words and languages. Invent new symbols, pictograms, emoji, languages, codices, and
cryptograms, then simply add “dot website”. Then cash in on the
stock market, and make millions in whichever cosmic or celestial currency you desire! It's a fool-proof plan; not necessarily lunatic-proof,
but fool-proof.
8) Stop flipping coins! Submitting your decision-making
authority to a piece of currency with a socially constructed value
helps money to own you, which, believe me, is the last thing
you want to do.
9) The lamp you've affixed to your wall knows which Led Zeppelin
song you're supposed to play when you light the candles, you just
have to ask it politely.
10) Remember that you can never be fully deprived of
possessions. At any time, one can request to have a reading performed
- by a trained, certified professional, for a reasonable price - to
determine possession of (and by) which kind of cups, or swords, etc.,
one may be struggling.
11) Own yourself, your Flesh, your past, your mistakes, your
actions, and your Word. Emotional and psychological ownership –
especially of your baggage – is a prerequisite for total
self-ownership. Let your Deeds speak for themselves, while emulating
Your Word. Take joy in simple labors like carpentry, fishing, and
wine-making, while pondering christosis, martyrdom, the labors of the
Christ throughout his life, and the role of God as architect or
gardener. Emanate what you emulate. Own your Word, keep
your Word, and may your Deeds become Word-Made-Flesh. Grow the
biogenetic tapestry, and bring Spirit back into Flesh.
12) Be prepared,
at all times, to present identification as
well as several forms attesting to your body's (
i.e., state-owned
flesh-bag
TM, a/k/a
yana) privilege to travel and
work, to
any and all individuals claiming to be persons of
authority. Surrender your body as requested; you'll get your body
back eventually. It may be full of holes when you go pick up the
stuff you had on you when you got arrested, but you'll get it back
one way or another.
You
must be careful and decisive about what to own, and whom
you may be attempting to own. Sometimes we call our possessions
“mine”, as in “my
parent”, “my
friend”, “my
lover”, etc..
However, in lending credence to this subject / object blending, you
risk ignoring the other's “ownership” of yourself
in similar relation. Once again, I use the term “the other”
lightly, for as Jimi Hendrix asked, “Have you ever been
experienced?” It's apparent that your parent should not be
apprehensive at preparations for reparations through becoming more
than mere apparitions. Don't be possessive, and don't possess people; not in the ghostly way, not in the regular way.
Your
possessions must not define you, for definition means limitation, and
framing. Do you want your possessions to frame you? Huh? Do you want
to get framed? You wanna be Roger Rabbit? Huh!?
Answer me! Oh wait, I
forgot, I'm just some words on a piece of paper (just like you, your
body, your house, your family, your money, your heart, and your
fingerprints, and your DNA). I have no power over you; just like you!
Just like your possessions shouldn't.
But
shudder, for your ritual object magick is too weak (and American) to
fight mere paper and words. The solution: throw The Rock into the
gears, or else throw scissors and cut down the marionette! I don't
tell you how to run your puppet show, don't tell me how to do my card
tricks. Don't let your possessions keep you in your place.
Anyway,
your cat barely even has time
to properly “own
you”, it's busy on the catwalk modeling hats and doing witch shit
with Cat Fabio (our Lord and Savior, the Sphinx among Sphinxes). It's also worth noting that planned
obsolescence is pretty darn anti- Feng
Shui.
Remember, you can 3-D print any shape out of any kind of animal
connective tissue you want. If that
doesn't help the Gypsy read the chicken bones, I don't know what
Will.
So throw them bones down, Hoodoo Man, Lucy-fer's got some
articulation to do! Cast a lot, and cast alot!
Don't
blame yourself for not knowing how to properly Feng
Shui
the eggs; it doesn't take a properly seated Carlos Castaneda to know
that eggs are to be organized half-function (for balance), and
half-form (for zazz). Eggs also belong on anthills, provided that
you're “In the Mood”. For more information, ask your local
friendly neighborhood Romanian. If you put all your eggs in one basket, you're gonna have a shitty Easter. And Jesus had a shitty Easter weekend so that we don't have to.
It's
natural to feel like a many-armed elephant-god, or the demiurge at the center of the planet, when
you're so quickly sorting the items that your nameless saint friend
salvaged from the dumpster. Repent,
for you knew his Name;
from the womb (as if from within Elizabeth), and in the deep forests
of Psyche
where alone one may find The Eternal. Also, he definitely did drug
you that one time you were wondering whether he drugged you. But he
helped you move in and do interior design, and he never crossed the
line of stockings on the floor!
You know that the Pharaoh within you will recognize his possessions once he wakes up; you know how to Mark them. You read Exodus. Remember, the voices aren't real – especially the one coming from
over your left shoulder - and the most consciousness-expanding time
of your life never needs to happen again. All you have to do is learn
to lock your shit up properly. Lock that shit up in your head.
Radically
reclaim your property in the name of freedom to burn Eostre candles
and gum resins. If you must take property, then be
the
sarcophagus, be
the
crypt, be the
catacombs, be
the
pyramid. Your zoning laws fuck with your right to conduct religious
services in your residence because your zoning laws are man-made,
fallible, and impure. Practice fucking with your locks, but be extra
careful not to accidentally lock yourself out of “your own”
house. Bring Yobhel back; immanentize the eschaton and all that jazz. Be Mutualist Landlord Jesus.
Don't
stop bringing trash into the house and looking through it for
fetishes though. You were supposed to hang onto that “Trust No One”
ring, by the way, you weren't supposed to give it to the first cute
barista whose name started with “A”. That's not the kind of
fetish I'm talking about. I mean the damn shamanic
and
anthropological definition
of “fetish”, get your head out of the gutter.
Rest
(and rest well)
assured
(and rest
well-assured)
that the ring and the barista will lie in your abode, each in “its”
own proper place and position. The
point, I guess, is that “We must own ourselves, or we must bone
ourselves”. You don't have to be a Feng Shui master - or watch The Fifth Element or read The Joy Luck Club or any shit like that - to acknowledge that
You Know Where the Bone Goes, and You Know Where the Wood Goes in the room. So
go be a khlyst,
take up thy rod and Walk.
You must not allow your name to name you, nor to own you. Don't
say your name out loud to anyone, and don't let anyone hang a sign on
you; you will recognize them by how they call you. Whether and how we
name one another act as both talismans and shibboleths. See the
Forest for the trees, and don't confuse the map with the territory.
While Matti told us “Although it is not your name, you are nam
éd
it”, names name you not.
You
will see not only the Forest but also the Garden in the cryptic
mirror triptych. If you can't see yourself in that,
I don't know what you can
see yourself in. Try as we may, spare the “final end” (and I use
that
term lightly),
we may never shed our subjectivity nor our objectivity. Each of these
is but one of our properties
(and this time I mean “properties” in the strictest
sense of the word). As we are felt, so too do we feel. Lo, for is it
not (basically) said that a Fish is worth His weight in gold? Is the
Fish's blood not the true medium of exchange (or at least the medium
of exchange for all human sin)?
If that which makes a resource suitable for use as a currency is the scarcity of the material of which it is made, then is it not the scarcity and rarity of the individual human being which make us suitable to serve as the most heavily traded item, and a currency, at once? You get where I'm going with this.
Non-magicians (commonly referred to as Muggles) struggle to
comprehend these complex psycho-shamanics (not to be understood as
psychosomatic nor psychosemantics), nor the psychopomp and
circumstance (not to be understood in general). They are to be
explained Gnosis, introduced to L-rd Alan Watts, and informed that
good
psychiatry resembles shamanism
more
than it resembles slipping someone a Mickey. "Psychopomp
and Circumstance"; there's a Song that's Truly
unowned!
Keep Me in mind and heart, and heed Me. I wrote the
flesh-made-Word on your heart in the very Beginning. The real Gospel
is right there at (and in) your fingertips. Own your body as
you own my letter to you, which millennia ago I carved on your flesh
when I wrote your name in the Book of Life, and which you carry with
you as soul-you carries flesh-you around like a vehicle from life to
life. If you don't come to find Me, I will set out to find you; but I
cannot come in unless I Am invited.
Read it carefully, and I will never abandon you. Come keep sparrows
with Me. Together we shall find whether we are, indeed, our sparrows'
keepers. But take seriously the decision as to whether to become an
angel; angels must submit to G-d and the Word, becoming Gaia's
property in the process. Don't even try living before you've
decided whether what you really want out of life is to possess, to
self-own, or to spend your life enslaved to deity.
Pick your Tree wisely, and don't
choose the Cup of Wisdom poorly. To know the Deep Truth (not to be
confused with the Deep State) of this, you must own and keep your
Word, know that an angel is a messenger, read a list of titles of
books by Marshall McLuhan, and then watch Angels
in the Outfield. I
mean, don't shoot The Messenger, really.
In
conclusion, please read my blog, it's written on a scroll of
sheepskin, nailed to a million-year-old Tree – made of, and into, the
True Cross – deep within the Gardened Forest of the human soul, in
the Garish Land of the Garland and the Garlic-Laden Calf, within the
a-maze-ingly labyrinthine fingerprint of genetic creation, buried
next to our hopes and dreams of eternity, yet patiently waiting to be
exhumed so it can burst forth from the impenetrable, synthetic cloud
of nearly primordial mental fog that is “civilized” Babylon, and
reclaim what has been snuck from out its grave; from its rightful
place at the foot of its master.
Nah, I'm totally fucking with you.
But for real though.
This has been a satirical piece.
Written Between June 14th and 16th, 2017
Edited on June 18th and 22nd, and September 14th, 2017
