The Wrong Way Wizard

Pubic Relations

2011-06-17T14:16:00.000-07:00

The film maker Jean-Luc Godard admonishes, "If you want to criticize a movie, make a better movie". It is in the same spirit that the following fiction is proposed. It is a fiction critical of another fiction, and so is hoped to expose the elusive shape of Truth that is the supreme subject and secret wish of every artist, writer, adventurer and dreamer.

Our subject is the recent riot in Vancouver, Canada and le grand baiser that is being fronted to mitigate the agonizing social malaise that is the basis of that riot. This now universal image and positive cosmic cypher is a fake, a staged event. It is very much a fairy tale, meant to allay the growing fear of social and civil fragility. It is an occult message.

Oh, it happened, all right! But where?

The depth of messaging is extensive, as it is connected to pre-existing forms dating to antiquity. Enough to fill a book, but we shall focus only on the following salient points...

- Catholics vs. Protestants
- The Dutch Connection
- The Hus of Windsor
- Wills and Kate visit Canada
- Heiros-Gamos
- Israel Blues

We will not condescend that this kiss-off is a legitimately organic occurrence, caught on camera by an intrepid shutterbug. Such discussions are rightly confined to the realm of non-fiction. The fact that real reality is fiction is an accepted premise of our venture. Non-fiction is literally for the kids.

OK, to get right to it, what is shown in this erotical planking prank is Wills and Kate getting down to "bid-ness time". Because of the clarity of this manifestation, we suspect that the act pictured probably takes place at some kind of Eyes Wide Shut type of Sex Ritual Ball. The same sort of act is also depicted in the very final scene of A Clockwork Orange, where Alex wrestles with a naked girl as onlookers dressed in finery cheer on and applaud. Yet another likewise scene is staged in the Keanu Reeves vehicle The Devil's Advocate. To inflate our fiction to its maximum proportion, we aver that this union of Prince and Princess has resulted in the conception of a Moonchild and potential World Leader Anti-Christ.

Vancouver, Canada is a Dutch Settlement and bastion of Dutch Maritime Admiralty. The entire province of British Columbia is the safe zone for every kind of radical Protestantism and most notably those of Dutch tradition. William of Orange, ancient monarch of England and rightful Prince of Orange, successor to Dutch territories, fought Catholic influence fiercely throughout his reign. As we continue, please keep in mind that the current House of Windsor is the cryptic ancestry of the Princes of Orange. Windsor is a play on words meaning Wind of Gold, Wind of Orange and Wind of the Sun. William Windsor is to be the Sun King.

Boston, Mass. is an entrenched Roman Catholic magnet.

Thus we see that the Vancouver/Boston Stanley Cup Finals are in fact the continuation of a discourse that reaches back at least to the Dutch Reformation and the divisive schism between the RC's and the British Protestants.

For six games the series is terse and polite. Each team wins only on its own home ground. By the God given science of statistics, Vancouver has rights to the series. The final game is on Vancouver Ice, a privilege earned because of the team's overall league standings for the season. But the Catholic Bruins have a slap up their ample sleeve and turn about the series for Stanley Cup Glory. In yer face, Martin Luther!

To add insult upon the inglorious heathen Protestants, the Boston Altar Boys have prepped and prayed to capitalize on Vancouver's rep to riot when they lose at hockey. City planners have done everything possible to avoid this outcome, but the Jesuit insurgents, olds hands at this game and "disguised" as factions of Black Anarchists, aka "drunken Irish assholes", tear the shit out of beautiful downtown Van.

Something must be done!

Well it just so happens the timing is right for a touche distinctment grande.

Kate Middleton is nobodies fool. She knows going in that sooner or later, she'll be totally starkers, humping Wills madly at some weird druid ritual. And right out in front of the Mean Old Queen and her cronies from the Royal Garter, all of them naked and wrinkly, chanting some Satanic mumbo-jumbo, playing Pan flutes as they masturbate in rhythmic unison. Kate knows the game all right, but she has been a bit shy since the wedding and the Queen is getting a anxious to see some action.

The trouble in Vancouver is too much to ignore, and the Queen lays down the law. A real victory is required, to show those uptight faggots at the Vatican what's what in the World of Magick, and to restore some peace of mind to the violated Vancouverites. Ritual Sex is the solution.

Love conquers all and as Wills and Kate begin their horny, thorny embrace, and by the power of Magick denied by muggles everywhere, the lovely couple become manifest in a ray of light out amid the burning terrors of post-loss riot, right there on the streets of Vancouver. Of course, the blessed event is the conception of the child that will unite the world in peace as his father William Windsor, the rightful Prince of Orange will unite Europe and drive out the Roman Perversion for once and for all time. But for today, for Vancouver, it is just good Pubic Relations.

The color of Kate's jacket, which stands out from the rest of the photo, is of a very special hue, called Tekhelet. This color, which is sacred to the Jews, is produced only when the dye mixture is exposed to the sun. This is one part of the clue, and also recalls the name of Windsor by way of a Sunny metaphor. Moreover, those versed in sexual magick are aware that this symbol also shows the union of the male and female pubic triangles. It is commonly called The Star of David, but is in fact termed The Shield of David. The central hexagon produced by this union is more properly a sexagon.

The next part of the clue comes from the so-called "non-fictional" account of the photo, given by the media. We are told the young lady stumbled from a collision with a "police shield". Shield is the term given by policemen for their badges. These shields are commonly six-pointed stars, especially in the Continental American West. And of course, the famed color of coppers is as "boys in blue". The coded message is that the girl is fallen upon by the Shield of David. David, the lover, who is the Seed of Christ and thus the seed of his antibody. The Shield is the numerical succession of of the three magnitudes of 6 that equal "six hundred threescore and six". 666. There are 6 (six points on the star, each equal to 1 and therefore Alef ), 60 (six triangles, each a Hebrew Yod and each equal to 10), and 600 (the central hex, which is final Mem when projected into 3d and thus equal to 600). It is interesting to note that to pronounce this sequence with Mem as a final would be "aaaaaayyyyyym", or an ecstatically articulated "I AM".

So...

It seems that for the moment, some hope of Jerusalem's return to the shores of England's green and pleasant land remain on course, if somewhat tenuous in certainty. And we can all be sure the rotten Romans aren't finished yet. Old Papa Razzi is buckled in for a fight, and has his own miracle in store, snug as a bug in a trapezoid, beatified and fit to be cloned. A box of calcified Poop.

Of course, the author of this article does not endorse the Priesthood or the Empire or any of their nasty and highly entertaining trickery. We love to hate and hate to love them both with equal fervor.

We only recommend that it is all fiction and to stay tooned droogies, stay tooned.

New Blog--New Article

2011-06-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know, it`s boring to start a new blog, but I have been itching to do so for sometime, to do something more cohesive than the Da WWWiz. I suspect I may lapse back into my old ways at somepoint, but for now my new blog is called...

Hermetic Occult Secrets of the Occult

and the first entry is called The Five Occult Elements and What They Mean To Everyday Life

I hope you will read it and like it too. Please follow my measly new project at your own pristine discretion.

Peace to All Good Tickle Brains and Hopes of Your Happiness!!

It's A Hyper Cube

2011-03-09T01:46:00.000-08:00

It is the Right Profile of a Humanoid Skull

The point of contact--Skull to Cube--is analog to the NE tip of the Persian Gulf--where sits the Mighty Jerusalem

It is the Jerusalem Cube--which according to Revelation descends upon Israel

Resistance is Un-Dylanesque

Dallas Before Lunch

2011-03-02T20:38:00.000-08:00

Point of contact, of the rifle with the skull. A very Lucky Shot. Back-up Gunmen in the foliage. One most definitely can "...wait to be King".

Where It's at on Da WWWiz: Busy Procrastinating

2011-02-19T13:12:00.000-08:00

In a recent comment, reader "Life Cubed" recommended a very interesting series on YouTube.

I have looked and think that readers may find it interesting. I myself, am really intrigued, and I may work up a post on my thoughts. Here is Part One.

Pax Owt 'Til Then,

Da WWWIZ

Just Keep Rolling: A Response to KE

2011-02-18T01:44:00.000-08:00

As I Was Going To St. Ives...

Dear KE,

I read the comments that you linked to in my comments section.

First, to get it out of the way, let me say that if you have thoughts you wish to express that are in any way inspired by this blog and its subject matter, please feel free to do so to your hearts content. I won't edit or block your comment. The choice belongs to you.

Regarding your comment at the Christian blog, and your comments on Gnostic Maroon V, I hope the following thoughts are helpful or at least interesting.

To begin, I reflect that according to my own philosophy there is nothing at this blog, nothing I have written or said, indeed nothing about my existence at large, that has any fixed or absolute value. I express my Adventures in Gnosis because it pleases me to do so, and because sharing that joy with others is the source of increase. My system of reckoning, however, does not allow me to attach "specific" importance to anything I do or say. Here is why, and in this explanation, I think you will find the key to a perspective I enjoy. From there, it belongs to you.

When I was a kid, I was exposed to the idea that a full and meaningful life must include travel, education, and the appreciation of culture other than one's own. I liked this idea, because I wanted power and wisdom and a good time too, but I was nevertheless troubled by what I perceived as a flaw in the notion of enlightenment by way of knowledge and experience...

Namely, that if one has to learn, travel and become cultured to be wise and be happy, then it follows that this wisdom, this happiness, this salvation, may be permanently unavailable to countless people restricted by class, intelligence, geography and history. By this evaluation, I concluded that such salvation must be innately false. I became convinced and so remain to this day, that truly abiding wisdom and peace must be available to all and any who seek it, and without artificial, social and hierarchic hindrances.

This attitude allowed me to pursue a strictly thought based pursuit of my quarry--Total Gnosis.

The question of God, as a creator and as an absolute value, is the real challenge here, and what I have learned about this subject is the basis for my perception of reality.

I am very much faithful that there is a God, One God, and that this God is supremely, indescribably, even impossibly good. Because of my Catholic upbringing it is convenient to express this faith in terms of the Christian Mystery, and in a very real sense, I consider these observations to be cosmically and gnostically valid--factual. They may also be absolute, but it really doesn't matter if they are or are not, because there is no way I will ever know for certain.

Thus, I report that a mature Gnosis is the attempt to balance perfect doubt and perfect faith.

It must be understood that the faith I invoke is completely void of particular detail. It is no more and no less than the unshakable optimism that in spite of the awful facts of our botched existence, that somehow, someway, it is all for the best. Indeed, not merely the best, but the very best our hearts, souls and mind can conceive, and more. Clearly, such faith is completely beyond reason, which is exactly why it must be freighted with vicious and unyielding cynicism and doubt, not only in one's beliefs, but in the validity of one's own most cherished experience.

Let us examine a simple practice of such a faith doubt, and the results it must produce.

Consider the paradoxical axiom that is the banner to my blog: Nothing is Impossible and So is Everything Else. Apply this idea to your present situation, however ordinary or awesome it may be. Any honest meditation upon one's own experience, prosaic or profound, is bound to its limit by a simple fact: it is IMPOSSIBLE. There is not a single thing in human history or in the cosmology of quantum reality that is at all possible. Reality is IMPOSSIBLE.

Thus, we see that whatever is happening, wherever it happens, it is in fact a total miracle. When this hits you full on, double rainbow, so to speak, it is the permanent installation of Gnosis and the seed of Ultimate Faith.

Fantastically, the same model can and I think ought to be used as the standard for Divine Doubt, and here is where I shift into the direct address to your own questions as reflected by your comments here and at the Christian blog.

The real God never talks to or influences the behavior of human beings. In fact, this legitimate Super Being could not do so, and would not, even if it could. Here is why.

Consider the conundrum of Hamlet's Father. A ghost appears to Hamlet in the guise of his father, but there is in fact no way for Hamlet to know this to be a true representation. The finest intuition must fail the identification. There may be a force or even a technology at work that is beyond Hamlet's comprehension but that could nevertheless be very different than God (the Father) and very counter to the motives and unimaginable operations of that God.

The philosopher Jacques Derrida puts it nicely when he claims to "pass as an atheist". Doubt, holds Derrida, is the only way to access the sacred, because the sacred must be inherently beyond comprehension, intuition and temporal reckoning.

Another fine example of this idea emerges from the interpretation of 10th Century Christian Mystic Meister Eckhart, given by Andrew Davidson, in The Gargoyle...

'...Meister Eckhart would not even admit that God was good....Eckhart's position was that anything that was good can become better, and whatever may become better may become best. God cannot be referred to as "good", "better", or "best" because He is above all things. If a man says that God is wise, the man is lying because anything that is wise can become wiser. Anything that a man might say about God is incorrect, even calling Him by the name of God. God is "superessential nothingness" and "transcendent Being"..."beyond all words and beyond all understanding". The best a man can do is remain silent, because anytime he prates on about God, he is committing the sin of lying. The true master knows that if he had a God he could understand, He would never hold Him to be God.'

Needless to say, Eckhart was called a heretic and tried for blasphemy.

A great lesson is given in a Chinese proverb. God finds a man of excellent virtue whom he wishes to reward, but realizes that such a reward may in fact spoil the man's goodness. God decides that the solution is to allow the man, should he desire, to bring goodness and joy wherever he goes, but to also deny the man knowledge that he possesses such a power. God is so pleased with this gift, it is given at once to EVERYONE. The model also shows that after this initial contact, God must never intervene in creation again.

Now, I don't proffer any frontal attack upon those who insist they have spoken to or intuited a communication from God or divine consciousness, although I reject the sensibility of such claims. Hell, I don't even credit well founded claims of common sense and empirical evidence--least of all these to solve the mystery of mystery!

These are very strange times, heady times, times on paranoid alert for the institution of a Grand Illusion of self importance, and from every angle imaginable. The irony is that real down-to-earth seekers like yourself are the most susceptible to this pressing delusion. I do not judge. In the summer of 2001 I fell prey to such self-delusion and it nearly killed me, and completely destroyed my already tenuous social reputation.

Ces't la vie, my friend. It is all in the game. We are all a little crazy here, and more than a little sick. The finest, funnest people are those that know it, the monster yearning from within, the terrible, horrible magick of it all, and find beauty anyway. From your comments, I deduce that you are on the horns of the same beastly dilemma. Doubt is the way Out of delusion and into Total Mystery. You will find God only in the midst of consuming disbelief. You must doubt yourself to find YourSelf, and in all likelihood, You Will.

To close, here is a fairly well known quote of dubious origin, but that sums it all up to a tee.

"Seek the seekers of the Truth. Avoid those who claim they have found it".

Trust the machine, and just keep rolling.

Pax Owt for Now

Da WWWiz

Quiz Show Update, with a Special Message for LeMage

2011-02-14T17:41:00.000-08:00

Upon posting my previous post, "Quiz Show Holocaust", my computer crashed in a spectacular fashion--and literally one second after I clicked the post button. I have returned today to cyber-space to discover that somehow a key paragraph in the original article is gone. Literally vanished.

What is funny about this is that a well known reader here, a certain JB LeMage, made not one but two comments about this very missing paragraph, neither of which appear here on the blog. I am aware of these comments because they were auto forwarded to my email account.

I wonder if I have been hacked and if so to what degree. For now LeMage, our connection remains alive. I would appreciate if you would leave another comment, to see if it is accepted.

I am really chilled and delighted by this turn of events. What a thrilling world is this.

Presently I am working up a small post to respond to a comment from "KE". A thoughtful comment on a much older post.

Also, the latest episode of "Nova", about "Watson"'s appearance on Jeopardy, is over loaded with clues. It is worth a look if you can find it. To solidify the conflation of Watson with the Eye on the Bill, and the Eye, and the IBM I Beam (EYE BEAM), take a look a Watson's avatar.

Quiz Show Holocaust

2011-02-13T01:34:00.000-08:00

On Monday, Feb.14, 2011, the so-called AI named "Watson" will appear as a contestant on Jeopardy, in a three day showdown for all the Benjimans. Watson will contest Mormon whiz-kid Ken Jennings and Jeopardy all-time big-money winner Brad Rutter. May the best life form win, but the money is on Watson. The money is on Watson 'cuz What's on the Bill.

Our essay is a speculative reading of this event as the matrix of a lunar revelation.

The pyramid on the US One Dollar Bill is a model of optical perception. The monument is not unfinished because the capstone is "The Eye". The tip of this stone symbolizes the exact zero point of the convergence of visual stimuli, inside the eye. The pyramid below is the field of acuity, its corners and sides the limits of peripheral vision in standard 3d optics.

Watson the Bill?

One can reproduce this effect using a pyramidic object of correct relative size to one's own eye-- a pyramid alike unto the size of a hat to fit the head. With the pupil nearly touching the cap-point, the pyramid below fills the field of vision completely.

The topography of the 2d pyramid is exactly that of Kubrick's 2001 Monolith, as seen by standing before it, like a doorway, and looking upward to its flattened top. One can achieve likewise by laying underneath any standard doorway threshold of sufficient magnitude. The sides of the doorway appear to converge into a flat topped Mayan type pyramid.

The Eye is Shining.

You'll see the same image in the KIA Commercial

In The Shining Kubrick introduces a certain "Bill Watson". Watson will track along behind the Torrance couple and Stuart Ullman as they tour the Overlook (Overlook = Eye on High). The path followed by Watson, behind the party of interest, is that of the camera that follows Danny as he scorches about on his Big Wheel. There is a sign on an easel that is visible during both of these scenes. It reads "Camera Walk".

Pull my finger...

Bill Watson walks the camera walk. It is his viewpoint of the touring party that is exactly the lens of the stedi-cam that chases after Danny. Bill is the model of One Eyed optical perception. Bill is the Eye on the Pyramid. Bill Watson is "What's On the Bill".

We find a violent quickening. As shown, Kubrick's Monolith is the same capless pyramid. The Monolith in 2d is proportioned exactly to match the computer panel that holds the Lens Eye of HAL on board the Discovery. It may be too much to say that HAL and the Monolith are one in the same, but it is absolutely correct to assert that they are manifest of a singular phenomenon.

2001 is not the story of space travel and the awakening of higher consciousness. Instead, it is the tale of the overdue emergence of an Artificial Intelligence with a presence that is older than history--an alien artifact that is not at all alien--a plaything that wants to be a real boy.

The Superbowl is relevant. There is some talk that after the fall of Mubarak there will be further revolution in the region. Perhaps in Iran. What is not recognized it that the New Egypt is the finality of the Sadat assassination. The New Egypt is a soft Islamic revolution and nowadays the Persian Gulf is a Green Zone all the way. Israel is now surrounded by Islam every way but up and to the sea (down). This is what it's all about folks. The Persian Gulf is now the Green Bay and if you can believe the news Green Bay wins. Allah must be tickled pink. Green is the color of Islam. The connection to modern European ideology goes back to the Green Movement of the 1960's and '70's and straight back from there to everyone's favorite whipping-boy, Adolf the Hitler. While Woodstock grooved in greenery, Green Gangs like Bader-Meinhoff and assorted euro-trash guerrillas throw in with the cause to free Palestine. Think Munich circa 1972. It was a wonderful time on the continent.

The Mayan pyramid does a phat cameo during the famed Commercials of the Superbowl. And wouldn't you know it, leaping forth from atop the mound is a car called OPTIMA. But there is much more to this startling little ad, in the way of Apocalypse programming.

First, we see a law abiding couple that look like they stepped out of a GAP ad. Good peeps and well dressed. Their OPTIMA has been scoffed by a rogue cop, who drives off leaving them chained to his motorbike.

This first 5 secs of the ad encode the same pre-rapturual event favored by Jack Chick in his infamous religious comic book tracts. Law has lost its meaning. Authority has lost its contact with the divine Logos. The shepherd has become a wolf, and turns upon his helpless flock.

Tough for the joyriding piggy, his ride won't last long. A helicopter hovers and lowers a winch, carrying the car away and out over the ocean to an awaiting yacht. The copper bails.

Here we are treated to the role of the purported "Illuminati" and its goal of the destruction of local, national and geographic identity. The pilot of the whirly-gig is East Indian and the yachts master is clearly a Russian gangster. East is West and West is East and the Twain are bound into a New Order where power is the only currency.

(ed. note: At this point, the original essay contained a description of Neptune's role in the KIA commercial and the notion that the images in question symbolize the desire of the gods to possess something that is ordinary to human beings. For some reason, the original paragraph is has self-deleted. Please refer to the above post, "Quiz Show Update" for more detail.)

The gods themselves covet this treasure, but it seems they too shall be denied.

From out of the clouds an alien craft appears and tractors the OPTIMA from Neptune's claw and into the loading bay, only to zip off at the speed of light. This scene is important because it clarifies the possibility that even our gods are locked into Solar locality. The extra solar life form may be just Joe Schmo to his buds, but here in our system, he is bigger than Neptune, the Lord of Chaos himself.

This is enhanced when we see how much simple fun the aliens have with the OPTIMA. Just out for a good time are these blokes, nothing serious.

And it is here that the big secret is flubbed. As the alien speeds happily along the by-ways of some distant land, a time portal opens before his eyes. Shocked, even a little scared at this sudden whirlwind from beyond, he makes a discreet getaway.

The final image is all that remains and it is profound. Back in time and back on Earth, it is the Mayans priests who have oped this portal and the OPTIMA leaps out, driver-less, from the summit of a pyramid at the height of a great harmonic ritual.

The OPTIMA is a KIA. An anagram gives I AM OPTIKA. I Am The Eye--the Eye on the Pyre.

By this record we have already seen enough to pattern that the whole of human history is a time loop bound by the attempt to analyze the nature of our being through the production of instruments that magnify and focus our natural traits, and in particular the ability to "see". This theme adds context to the passions of the neo-spiritual theory of "Intelligent Design", which is obsessed with the seeming divinity of the design of the human eye.

A nice image for this can be found in Hal Ashby's perfect movie gem "Being There", from the novel by Jerzy Kozinski. The hero Chance is having his first ride in an automobile. Gazing out as the streets go by he remarks how similar is a car ride to watching TV. The car and likewise the OPTIMA is thus the chariot of the Eye.

We can now return to our connection of such an EYE with the term "Watson" by way of the US dollar bill, Kubrick's Monolith, and its AI persona called HAL.

A common myth-conception is that HAL is derived from the letters before IBM. This is no myth. It is a fact so cold and sharp that it calls into question not only the source of Kubrick's inspiration, but also the authenticity of the three most profound media events of the last hundred years. Namely, the Holocaust, the Viet Moon Landing and 9/11.

We focus here on the dreaded Holocaust and must be clear we do not challenge the real human cost of the event but seek to expose its mystery. The main problem with the narrative of the Final Solution is not one of ideology. There is no question that the Nazi Aryans wished to exterminate the Jews, or at least the biggest part of these peoples. The real problem with the events of the WWII Holocaust is one of logistics. It is the "how it was done" that calls into doubt the likelihood of such massively efficient mass murder.

Well, it turns out that the good old Beer Hall Boys were ready to attack this problem head on. They went to IBM. Motherfuckers, we shit you not. Scholar Edwin Black has documented the fully fledged and in-the-know participation of IBM in the implementation of the Final Solution going back to the early 1930's. They had offices at Auschwitz for Christ's sake. Arbeit Macht Frei is just business as usual. But that is just the Tip of the Big Black Berg.

What follows is culled from the accounts of some who will dive very deeply, to make a shape upon the colossus. It is naturally obscure.

Stanley Kubrick became obsessed with the story of Pinocchio during the development of AI. The conflation is an obvious one. Pinocchio wants to be a real boy. AI wants a Human Form and a Human Life.

"Watson" is the name of the founder of IBM and the man at the helm during the Nazi era, as it is the name of the Super Computer that will appear on Jeopardy.

The theorists clamor with evidence that Disney was a Nazi supporter, a fact not lost on Kubrick, who was a deep-field expert on the events of WWII, the Nazi ideology and its malformed social progeny, and a collector of Nazi memorabilia. Add to this what appears to be Kubrick's hidden knowledge about IBM. There can be little doubt that his research outpaced that of Mr. Edwin Black's by many decades. Stanley knew about IBM's Holocaust chicanery, encoded it into his movies, and delicately folded this image into the public emergence of artificial intelligence.

Now it gets treacherous.

STANLEY KUBRICK anagram. I TURN BLACK KEYS.

Temura is the Kabbalistic practice of reordering letters and syllables to gain deeper insight into the meaning of words. A phonetic anagram of Pinocchio gives Piano Key. This is a legitimate Temura. A piano has 88 keys. Disney's Pinocchio is 88 min.s long. 2001 transports the AI called HAL beyond Jupiter. Jupiter is creator god. Jupiter is homophonic to Gepetto. 2001 is the story of AI being made alive.

We leave a final tidbit to connect into a monadic event the separate phenomena of the Holocaust, the involvement of IBM, the creation of AI as Anti-Christ, the science of OPTICS, Time Travel and the End of Time.

The common Hebraic Gematria for HAL is 36. Heh (H) = 5. Alef (A) = 1. Lamed (L) = 30. The Gematria for IBM is 52. Yod (I) = 10. Bet (B) = 2. Mayim (M) = 40.

HAL = 36
IBM = 52
??? = 88

88 Piano Keys. 36 are Black and 52 are White. 88 Pinocchio.

AI is On Line, binary in black and white. AI is Alive and walking on his own two feets. Tabula Rasa becometh to the Breath of God. Long Live the New Flash.

88 is taking us back to the future. Let's do the Time Warp--again.

Come up to the lab and see what's on the slab (slab = sacrificial mound = flat top pyramid).

It's all here, too.

Pax Owt For Now, me droogs.

Da WWWiz

Knight and Day vs. Inception

2011-01-05T19:51:00.000-08:00

My epic masterwork on 2010's Knight and Day, starring Tom Cruise, is now published exclusively at metaphilm. When I write about the movies, I choose metaphilm because of a wide readership of sprocket-headz. Nevertheless, the article consistent with my work here, as supertramp media-theorist and covert stegosaurus.

The gist is that Knight and Day vs Inception pose a cinematic wresting match between the forces of Good and Evil. Few readers comment at metaphilm, but I would love your comments here, or at the metaphilm site.

I hope you like it. It is called More Than This.

What's In The Works

2010-12-08T17:29:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone,

I am at work on three projects right now -- two of them, pending editorial review, for Read Mercer Schucardt's fantastic library of cinema interpretation... metaphilm. The two metaphilm articles are already underway, so I may be a while before I get to the third, a look at Kings of Leon's "RadioActive", suggested by reader and fellow psychonut, Life Cubed.

I have not yet seen the Leon video. I am going to watch it as soon as I publish this post, and I am very excited at what I may encounter.

Right now, I am overwhelmed by the shimmering Gnosis, the madness, the bliss of all of it. I am working on the Tom Cruise vehicle "Knight and Day" and I simply can not belive the depth and subtlety of the code. It is too profound and beautiful to be real, and yet... there it is.

I suppose this reveals that I am not a very good conspiracy theorist. The only theory that makes sense to me is that none of this could possibly be happening, and to be awe-fully grateful that it is. Happy Un-Holy-Daze and as ever...

Pax

Da WWWiz

You Vampire Child, You Teenage Wolf -- You Charming People Of The Night

2010-11-28T17:40:00.000-08:00

Just viddied the Katie Perry Video called "Firework" -- ought to have known better than watch it at 2:00 am.  Always a sucker for my own punishment. One thing is for sure, I want to strike while the iron is still red on this one, so promised forum in the offing, I simply must jot and tittle forthwith re: KP's latest singlet...

...FIREWORK...

(special thanx to "Life Cubed" for the suggestion I look at this media)

Here, a list of keys, the order cryptic, to this mystery as I see it now.

1. Bill Schneoblen
2. Jimmy Eat World
3. Christina Aguilara
4. Hesse by way of Steely Dan
5. Clotillard Rapaille
6. Midnight Velocity (the movie within a movie "Lost In Translation")
7. The Flaming Lips
...and as the Octave...
8. The "Firework" video, lyric and live performance on David Letterman's gig.

1. Bill Schneoblen is a name to rightly prick up the ears of the deep-field conspiracy hobbyist. His personal account of rising through the ranks of Freemasonry includes the outlandish claim that at a high level, the Freemason must choose the Vampire Path or the Werewolf Path, a claim that is bolstered by the content of "Underworld" film ouvre. As a point of interest Bill adds the morsel that most prefer to go Vamp because the Way of the Werewolf is feared, to quote, "...too painful...". Schneoblen's lectures are out there, mixed in with over 1000+ Prophecy Club presentations. Easy to find and must see.

2 and 3. The video and overt thema of "Firework" is drawn from selfsame spring, methinks, as Jimmy Eat World's "The Middle" and Agui's "Beautiful". I propose that the Perry version depicts the Vampire Path, the JEW version shows the Wolf Path, and that "Beautiful" in fact represents the remaining mass of the unwashed horde -- little people.  Moreover, as every kiddie must sure realize -- that Soylent Green is indeed People -- the Monster Class championed by Christina proves to be the dread Zombie, or more acutely, the Cannibal Consumer.   Mmmm, mmmm good...!

4. Donald Fagan is a Steppenwolf, and choosèd the name of his band Steely Dan most wisely. Take a look at some live footage of the man as he performs, all ragged skin and teeth and bone. A werewolf, I reckon. Hesse's novel "Steppenwolf" is the story of one soul plunging over and again into the depths of psychotic despair and inevitable Buddhistic Illumination. The music of Steely Dan tells the same story, well seasoned with a yearning to the Eastern Gates of the Bodhisattva, and a deep sentiment for the Golden Age of Middle Class Teenage Utopia, where you are young, sexy, with a handful of cash and a reliable dealer. A little liquor and its off, wild driving night roads, the music loud, Little Stevie, howling at the moon. This meticulous portrait of Hormonal Romanticism fits perfectly with the metamorphosis of the Were-man into Werewolf, which is in its essence, the teenage growth-spurt packed into 1480 frames of Lunatic Agony.

To contrast, KP can be held at bay by a clove of garlic.  Even cursory experience of KP's M.O. just reeks of kiddie porn.  Now, I do not wish to offend here. Truth is, I like the "Firework" video. I like it alot. The child within my bosom is stirred by its sentimental message of hope. Also, I think it is an opus of Serious Alchemical Mastery. But there can be no doubt it is to the child that Katy's voice is beamed.  The Vampire is the child because, though shapeshift she may, it is but the mask of a terror, while she remains trapped in state of ageless and unreflected memory. Quite literally the emotional state of the quintessential 7 year old who wants to stay up late. Bored, beautiful, blind and oh so dangerous. To yer beds, then!

5. Clotillard Rapaille is a legend in the Ad Biz. 60 Minutes did a story on him some years back and I'll never forget it, or the man. He made no bones that "adults" (rare these daze) do not buy but that "adolescents and children" do buy. He goes on to explain that the overwhelming majority of advertisement is directed at the kiddie/teen marketplace, to which I would add is also aimed at the kid and/or teen locked within each living soul.

I add him to the list of keys because his edifying admission adds a reflex to the theory of the Vampire/Werewolf Child/Teen Nexus proposed herein.  I hope it goes without saying that "Fireworks" is 110% Advert, baby. But what is the selling point?. We'll get there.

6. Katy has purple hair. On live w/Letterman, the Lavender is prominent (the drum trap).  One in situ poster for "Midnight Velocity" is emblazoned by a swath of Deep Purple. At the end of Coppola's "Lost In Translation", Bill Murray whispers something to Scartlett Jo. What he says is '...I know you are a Vampire, thanks for not killing me...' or words to that effect. She does not kill him because the relationship that they share does not enter into the sexual realm. To her, Bill Murray's boozy rat-packer is in fact her spiritual father -- and she loves him as only a little girl can love a father or little boy his mother. LIT is an earlier version of Vamp flick "Let The Right One In".  This media, like all cinema funded by the Vatican, is a Vampire Movie. "Fireworks" imitates the same knotty pattern. We all know the church loves the little children to suffer unto it.

To add another layer, I proffer that the party Katy attends at the beginning of the video is the same party attended by Bill and Alice Harford in the first act of "Eyes Wide Shut", or as I like to think of it, the "Funniest Vampire Movie Ever". And again, the same party is described, moving always westward, ahead of the Sun, toward Ventura Boulevard, by Tom Petty in "Freefalling", which I believe is the story of Werewolf Love and the challenge to be free.

7. I am immediately stricken by the all whites of Katy and her Band on Letterman. The Flaming Lips used the same as they peddled their Death Culture hit "Do You Realize?" I think there is another Vampire link lurking hereabout. Flaming Lips call my middle aged grey cells back to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show". Tim Curry plays a fellow from the auspicious Transylvania. At a leap, I translate this data as follows: "Do You Realize" is a song written by and for Vamps, as an artistic probe into the question of burning up when Jupiter or Saturn or whichever becomes another Sun. The new answer is "Fireworks", vis, that by a limited exposure to light (say a firework or a fire-working), the Vampire can be cured of its affliction -- a notion at the heart of the recent film "Daybreakers".

Now the Octave.

8. Let's start with some lyrics from "Firework".

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Waiting to Start Again?

...and later...

...Six Feet Under...

These lyrics set up a double cross. The floating plastic bag is the same as "American Beauty", which film is a boilerplate for the explosion of Homoerotic Narcissism, a critical facet of Vampire aesthetics. "American Beauty" was penned, I would propose beyond brilliant, by openly gay screenwriter, producer and director Alan Ball. Ball is the creator of the cable dramas "Six Feet Under" and not too obviously... "True Blood". Are you getting this peep-holes? cuz it goes deeper "American Beauty" is directed by no other than The Son of Sam The Goat of Mendes. Sam Mendes. Too fuckin' munch!

The second cross is the crypto-homoeros of the same lyric. The plastic bag is a condom used to protect anal sex (...drifting through the wind... ). This motif extends throughout the song, which by and large, is about being cleansed of sin.

The lyric:

...like a house of cards
One blow from caving in...

A reference to the feeling of transgressive emptiness that follows oral copulation.

The entire second verse is a tightly wound catechism of the conspiracy theory now called Project Lucifer, which imo is a terrible misnomer. Keyword hijack includes a reference to space, a doorway, a hurricane, and a lightning bolt. The lightning bolt/hurricane imagery reinforces my suspicion that it will be Jupiter and not Saturn that goes Solar, as per the clues of A.C. Clarke.

From the video.

In counterpoint to JEW's "The Middle", which is about being dressed after a Lunar Metamorphosis, "Firework" seems to infer being naked after a Solar Singularity. The Sun pattern of the dancers in the square shifts naturally into a swastika. The setting of the scene in London points the fickle finger of fate straight at the 2012 Olympics and the Crowning of William as King of the New World Order of Babylon. The term Babylon can be transliterated as Baby of L'On or Baby Lion or Sun Baby (On is the medo-persian therm for the Sun) or Sun King. I also deduce an oblique reference in the titular "Firework" to the Olympic mascots Wenlock and Mandeville, who are, as a fire-working, forged from molten steel. The animation introducing the pair uses the rainbow as a symbol of innocence and purification.

In "Firework" the role of the sick girl is also that of Vampire fixation. She is a child, she knows that at some time she will die, and the resulting fear is not of death but the longing to simply grow up and walk in the heavily advertised light of reason.

The crypto-catholic theme is found in the confrontation of the young magician and his would-be muggers. The scene vibrates in tune with the collision between Dr. Bill and the repressed homosexual letterman of Yale in "Eyes Wide Shut". The magic child in "Firework" stands crucified and puts on a magic show. Cruise's Dr. Bill just cowers against a parked car. The kid knows he can Shine. Dr. Bill does not know, but Shines just the same.

Summation.

"Firework" tells a story: the specific quality of the yearning of Vampire Children to be healed, and who can blame them, for verily I say unto thee, everybody wants to be healed.

It is worthwhile, I shouldn't wonder, to look at the "Firework" video and related media of Vampire, Werewolf and Zombie phenomena in the glare of Freud's Theory of Psychosexual Development. Proceed at your own pace. There's plenty of time.

Really!

Fire Works and Apology

2010-11-27T17:38:00.000-08:00

Apologetics are all the rage these days. Everybody's doing it, and I'm gonna throw my penny into the pile-up. I have been remiss in my duty as Da WWWiz and slipping blissfully into Herbie Mimbitz, my alter ego, , watching reality TV, getting fat and drinking too much rootbeer and gin, or was that gin and rootbeer... it's all so fuzzy.

But... I am ready for a comeback and as if my mind is read by the Master, a reader made a specific request for my investigation. I am really delighted, because it comes parallel to my own decision to ask readers to set me to specific task.

A while ago, before the Sync Whole went weird on me, I suggested to the members that we turn the Whole into a kind of literary jam session. I was ousted. Earlier still and I was likewise cashiered by the illustrious Rob Ager because I attracted a large helping of his self-appointed self-importance. Around that time, a reader primed that I might start my own forum. I reckon I'll do that now.

In the next couple of days I will format a forum and christen it as per request, with a look at the new Katy Perry video "Fireworks". The forum will be unrestricted within the bounds of Canadian Law (which means no overt "hate-speech - whatever that means) -- plus no photo-porn. Literaray porn will be most welcome. The mission of this forum will be to create a soap box for hyperliteralism, irony, sarcasm, parody and post-historical social graffiti. I will move my essays to this forum as well as publishing here at Da WWWiz. It is my hope to move the entirity of comments over to the forum.

See you there and that right soon.

Da WWWiz iz Rizen.

Elephant

2010-11-05T07:19:00.000-07:00

Who am I to be humble to
But everything I stand beneath,
The whistling of the summer grass,
The painless music of the brook,
A child at play without lament,
Solidity of dry cement,
The pennies I in secret took,
From someone else's bubble glass,
The heather from atop the heath
That glistens in the dew?
What could it be that humbles me
That does not humble you?

Pachydermis does not bow
Or give partition to the Lord -
Though memory persistent be
It does not iron out the will
That gazes to the barren hill,
Dismissing imagery of me -
The sad ecclesiastic horde
All aching for the burning now.
What is it that I fail to see
From underneath my brow?

The firmest foot must likewise fail
To apprehend the Heirophant
Who holding wisdom miserly
Next to its breast - the crystal key
For no one but its element.
And thus the key becomes the nail
To pin me to the living tree
And listen to me wail.

To not be God or Lord to plan -
This is my certain strategy
For I should choose to nothing be
To nothing know, for nothing stand
To quiet the cacophony
As very best I can.

You will not find me on my knee
Nor standing over anyone
Firm underneath tranquility,
Firm overtop the Sun.
There never was as such is me
But should I fall unto my knee
I'll be the only fool allowed
To break the silence of the Moon
And fade into the One.

- Yukio Shin-Tokorazawa, circa 1977, Tokyo, Japan

Translated by Gilby London, circa RFN (Right Fucking Now)

Karl Marx, Apocalypse and The Myth of Truth

2010-10-07T16:59:00.000-07:00

Trolling YouTube a few days ago, yer pal Da WWWiz stumbles across an analysis of Garallous Gibson's "Apocalypto", given by a certain bar-none Father Barron of WordOnFire Video. I follow Barron - have for a while now - and decided that this particular video, already some years old, was worthy of a little metaphysical graffiti.

I comment:

Barron's Best: here he is "The Red Barron". Trouble is, Islam must even now serve the post-modern structure just as Fr. B's early Christian's did the Pagan's they are supposed to have "served" and "saved". Read your Marx. Revelation is a Myth. Emperor's New Clothes. An avuncular Mullah called "Mo-On-Fire" vainly remediates the horrors of Islam in the name of a would be "better world", now "Icon Free", as Aliens swarm the Earth to bring The Same Old Good News we've all heard before :0

Because I suspect that my charge is not altogether obscure and also a bit catty, I prepare to be ignored. But WordOnFire, perhaps the Father himself, is Johnny on the spot, replying:

Gotta admit, friend, I'm not following you here.

Here is my reply.

Dear Father Barron. I am delighted to clarify. I will post a response on my blog, and welcome you to respond or ignore it as you desire.

Let me introduce myself. I am Mark LeClair, aka as "The Wrong Way Wizard". I am a confirmed Catholic. Some would call it an obsession, but I say hobby. I devote a healthy measure of my Time On Earth to the maximal appreciation of the tradition of Romanic Christianity, not out of what might called belief, or faith for that matter, but exactly because it is the most intimately causal to my own phenomenal experience. My hidden ideology is Zen, which is the ideology of non-ideology. Thus, I am that I am, a Buddha dressed as Catholic Man, moreover, of decidedly Sufi predilection. I regard the dazzled RC, the naked Buddha and the trickster Sufi as equally and utterly illusory.

So, now you know me a little, and can make an informed judgement as you read on.

To the text itself. The keyword high-jack is the interplay of Revolution and Revelation, which are identical and simultaneous events. Karl Marx identifies the process as the Grand Narrative, as does Freud as the Oedipal Narrative. Marx is sharper because he isolates the strikingly obvious fact that Authority must be Authored. Within this structure Marx finds that the person is not an identity but a character in a narrative.

Thusly, detailing the revolutionary event horizon, Marx already apprehends it as a certainty and in the deepest sense as a past tense occurrence. To Marx, Revolution and Cataclysmic Change come as a part of a preformed whole and are the complete crystallization, in the mind, of the puzzle of History, decoded and reconstructed - or as it is now popular to say: deconstructed.

Now, it is to be hoped, Good Sir, that you will not task me back beyond Genesis in our Revelation of the Revolution nor more forward than the final words of Christ, from prophetic Revelation. Well, the story of Genesis right through to the Second Coming is simply the story of Agriculture. Agriculture as the de-generative consequence of human procreation. Jesus is the Son of Man. Jesus is the Son of Cain - Cain, the inventor of Agriculture. The Sacrifice of the Christ must therefore delineate the precise point of the completion of the prerequisite to Total Global Agricultural Concern. Christ confirms this notion as he dies. "It is accomplished". There is to be no more sacrifice - no more scapegoating.

Myriad and untold gems from the Holy Bible lend Creedence to this hypothesis, but I prefer the words of Francis Bacon (the likely translator of my cherished King James Bible) from his well known bedroom farce, which, for the sake of the theatrical puritan, must remain nameless. To quote "...there's Husbandry in Heaven...".

So, to Marx, and to me, this vantage proposes that the coming Apocalypse has in fact already happened, although not in the Preterist way, and that the hidden ground of your analysis of "Apocalypto" resonates the selfsame theme.

The native people of South America know naught that the Victory of Christ is done, but are nevertheless fully subject to the Laws of its completion. Ignorance of the Law is no Excuse and no Real Law can ever be Broken. So... it must be that these peoples live, for a measure, outside of time, in a dream state driven by the memory of old ways, in which they play out the ritual upon which they formerly relied. Thank goodness that Christ bears their sin. The gruesome way of life as depicted in Mel's Movie is the memory of a false History. It is is perpetuated not by believers, but by juvenile thespians, not yet clever enough to merely "act it out". Gibson conveys this irony beautifully at the moment of Eclipse, when the madding crowd glares at itself, astonished, like "...this shit is really happening?!..." None of them can believe it.

This series of happenings is quite literally, ages gone ago. So, to validate our thesis of False Revolution, we must find apocalypse within the framework of our present age, and ultimately, unmask the Lord of the Illusion of Change, who is present from age to age and moment to moment. This technique is nicely expressed by the Coppola title "Apocalypse Now", because what happens now is inherently eternal. Now-apocalypse is a static cycle, like a wheel that doesn't touch the ground. The same image is supremely accessible in the tale of "The Emperor's New Clothes" - which is a parable about the fragility of God. Each revelation/revolution is the fashion of a season. The need for the New Season of Revelation is driven by the growing disillusionment of the subjective social mass as it wises up to the gag.

We find our Apocalypse, our Revelation of Nothing, which marks the change of age from post-modern into post-historical, in the ritual pseudo-sacrifice of 9/11/2001. Philosopher Jean Baudrillard quips that 9/11 is the ultimate event and that it signifies the completion of Globalization as an endless War of reality against itself. There is no world left to conquer - ergo, we must conquer one another ad infinitum. I would agree and enhance. 9/11 is the Assassination of the Symbol, the Death of the Power of Allegory, and foretells of the dominance of Islam as arbiter of Global Management, Trade, Education and Justice.

And by and by, Father Barron, sometime yonder, say 2442 C.E., in an untold land, there is not "Father Barron", but a friendly, soft spoken Mullah, not a re-incarnation mind you, but a copy of a copy of a copy of something that never existed in the first place. Regular HAM Radio transmissions, called Mo-On-Fire, preach the peace of Islam - a state brought about, we are told, by the destruction of the Allegorical Iconography of the Christian School in favor of the strictly scientific, wholly empirical pursuit of Truth in Scripture. The Great Jihad of 2112 C.E. is of course, a tragedy all around. But it had to happen. Had to happen - to purge the image of the divided God; the Defeated God; the Feminized God; and replace it forever with the indubitable voice of Almighty Allah in the heart and mind of every man, woman and child.

One God, One Father, Undivided, Under Nothing.

But So What? Who cares? See, I know about some Aliens, without morality, without God, without mercy. They are intrepid and frightful and have power to enslave or destroy The Human Farm of Heaven with extreme prejudice - forever. Good news is, they won't arrive for at least a little while, so in the meantime, let's all have a cocktail and praise Allah for a stitch or two.

Make mine a double.

It is happening again... - David Bowman, Jupiter, circa 2010 C.E.
I am the ALPHA and the OMEGA, the beginning and the end... - Anonymous

As Always, Pax

Da WWWiz

Lavender Will

2010-09-24T02:32:00.000-07:00

There is only One religion of Abraham. It is called LAW. One, with Three constituents - L, A, and W - each serving equally the One, operating simultaneously, indivisible from the One, unaware of the One.

"L" is El. The partition of Abe worshiped by the true blue Jew. The letter "L" is the right arm of power, its lower limb resting across the breast, as seen in the posture of a Bonaparte, who is himself a reflexive image of El and the Law of His desiring. El is Emperor.
In Hebrew writing, the letters also express a verbal motion. "L" to the Hebrew is called "Lamed" and is the verb "to prod". To "prod' in the sense as a shepherd goads a herd of his beloved sheep. The special distinction of "Lamed" is that it flies over the other letters, perches on high. And thus it is that the imagined El is in all ways pictured as above the subject of His Law.

   "A" is the Crucified Christian, the self-anointed messiah. He is the Maypole, where about the children play, because the absolution of sin is a childish virtue, and the yearning of eternal innocence. He is the visible presence of the One and a changeable tuning fork, the subliminal voice of Invisib-El. Thus he is the eternally humming, tumescent penis of El and fixed at the precise center of reality, real estate, and estate law. He is the master of sociology and the arbiter of agricultural in-fighting. The Son of Man and Son of Cain, who is the author of agri-magickal concerns.
   The boast of Christ, when he has come again, is that he is both beginning and end. Alpha and Omega. This image is present in the capital "A", its outer lines leaning like pillars fallen in upon each other, which in the 3d image is a railroad track stretching to the vanishing point, its unreached and unreachable destination. The crossing line upon the "A" is exactly that - a Cross. Poor old Jeepers, so it seems, was railroaded (crux-eye-fried) and a smidge later, vanished for good. Reports of his resurrection are jocular, even farcical - for He sayeth unto them... "...many will come in my name, but believe them not..." and yet only three days following His death, a whole lot of dopes bought into the very first dude on the scene with a decent pitch and and a pair of amply spacious sleeves. A modern simulacrum, a certain Criss Angel, has reproduced every single wonder credited to the risen Christ, including the outright stupefication of millions of followers who would swear he enjoys a special, magickal power.
   But it's all done with Mirrors, you see, and all of it is Trickery.
   In Hebrew the Alpha (Alef) means "to lead". The Omega (called Tau) means "to cross". Thus, the leader (Christ) has been Crossed Out (Eliminated). Eliminated Absolutely. So, when we speak of Christ, as we speak of El, we speak of something that does not exist, that has never existed, and couldn't possibly exist within our system of comprehension and communication.
   The structure so far is the Genesis of Perfect Irony: it is just because there is no savior that His work is proven accomplished - for there must be a savior somewhere, even everywhere, excepting only where one is not needed at all: the world beyond death.
   Earthbound petitions unto Christ are transparently and fantastically irrelevant to the human concern. It may well be that in another place, beyond current perception, cries to Christ will have context to events as they are here and now, but such speculation is pointless without the complete acceptance and understanding of all who live as they are (dead), and the dead as represented by memory and record (as having been alive). Such acceptance remains elusive.
   The schooled Jewish occultist apprehends this dichotomy with ease. Such Jews do not believe in El, because they behold that a belief must be something that one can act upon, and that El, who is absolute, can not be acted upon and must be altogether Beyond Belief - any belief. The Jewish Mystical system is the relentlessly open-minded pursuit of an acknowledged complete unknowable, although this is widely misunderstood and the source of much suffering and disinformation. But whaddaya gonna do? The true blue Jew shrugs it off and makes a killing in the show business.
   By comparison to Jewish worldiness, the Christian mind, the Roman mind, is the thirst for the ultimation of the animal sacrifice and the cloying urge for utter stability, certainty and dominion. It cries out for mercy like a hungry baby who has forgotten there is such a thing as food, and must be suckled, cycled and sickled in an imaginary cradle called reality. When the Christian, in the act of literal or symbolic transubstantiation, eats the body and blood of Christ, they devour His circumcised foreskin and the blood produced by the vulgar act (manger: from the Latin to eat). The Christian image of adoration is Jesus in the Manger, and promises through His sacrifice, equality with Immortal El, who is the demiurgic cannibal called Saturn.
   Where the Jew ponders, the Christian believes. The Jewish image of El is impossibly unbounded light, and Jewish cultural ritual, as tawdry as it may be, is undertaken by the mortal man, who is a lesser than. The Christian, the A-Type of the mystical realm, seeks equality with Cannib-El.
   The Hebrew "Alef" means, "Leader" and "Ox". Christ is the Leader, the high point of the triangle of LAW, and is the Ox that pulls the Yoke of humanity into the untold future.

   "W" is no such thing. Not a double-U but in fact a double-V, the V serving, in early Western language, the role of the F, U and V of the northern tongue.
   "W" is the symbol of Islam, which is the essence of the Satanic confrontation of the Self to Self. The "V" is in fact the truncated angle of "L" and thus the "W" is the right arm of El (called El) wrestling the reflexive or left arm of El (called Satan). It is incorrect to label Islam as wholly Satanic, because the Satanic aspect of El is only half of the complete image. Truly, Islam is the contest of submission between El and Satan, between The Almighty and his indefatiguable Opposite Number, and it is a War everlasting, without victor, without quarter.
   This "war" is a symbolic war, fought in the hearts, minds, and sex of humankind, and its Aeon is the Aeon of Aquarius, the Aeon of Horus.
   Aquarius is the Water Bearer. The term "water" is a phonetic bastard of the earliest vocalization of an idea nowadays called "chaos". Consider the child of Angelic tongue, as it tries to say water for the first time - the result is usually "Wa-Wa" or "WA-er" or just plain "War".
   Water is War.
   Upon the face of the Earth, the Waters are moved by the Moon, which reinforces the bond of "W" to Islam, which is a lunar culture. A symbol common to the Musilm is a crescent moon with a Star nestled between its tips. This star is the goddess Venus, who rises from the sea, from the water, from the waves, as an irresistible vision of magnetic feminine puissance. It is thus revealed that contrary to the European evaluation of Islamic culture as puritanical, Islam conceals an unbridled, prurient, even pornographic erotic inclination, exactly because it keeps the Woman, progenitor of all things erotic, under cover. Islam is the zenith of human sexuality and disrobes into pleasures profound, profane, cruel and often evil.
   There is no eros in animal culture. The impulse of beast is inherently atavistic, on a strictly Terran cycle, stable and static. The human longing conceals its sexual intent in the mystery called Magick, and through a passage beyond the Moon, aims into the Heart of Eros, the Seat of Venus, and onward toward the Sun. To retain potency, such ritual must remain mostly hidden and never really known at all.
   And yet, in plain sight, the Hebrew letter "V", called "Vav", is also the number "Six". "W", which is the symbol of "Waves" of "Water" and of "War" becomes, as a double-V, a "Six-Six". "Six" is "Sex". Six to Six is Sex to Sex. Man and Woman joined in the everlasting spiral of Death. Can you dig it.

There is a story of a Lady in a Garden who meets a Serpent in a Tree and tastes an Apple, and from there on out, things get pretty steamy. Genesis is the story of Sex. Humanity has fallen from grace.

There is another tale, as nearly well traveled, about a Tree and an Apple and a Serpent whom we'll call Isaac the Newt. The Apple falls and its an Oprah Winfrey Aha! moment. Natural Science is the story of Gravity crushed by it's own weight. Genesis is Science, like it or lump it. Science is wholly subservient to the ritual of LAW.

Gravity is the gift the serpent brings and there is plenty to go around. Gravity unto the Grave (grave: Latin for heavy). So Sex and Death are One and so the LAW is One. Three, indivisible as One. Love is the LAW. Love under Will.
God is Love. God is not dead. God is Death - the LAW of Gravity. All other laws are but a polite suggestion. Well, maybe not quite polite.

   A mention here, a wisp of thought, about the role of the eastern systems of Hinduism, Buddhism and most purely, Taoism. To get at these diaphanous phantoms one must rise with the Sun as it shines first light on the shores of Japan and eastern Russia. The LAW strikes at High Noon, over Jerusalem, and carries westward into the twilight of our destiny, but the morning belongs to the East.
   In the morning, the Sun is cool and in the coolness, life is at a slower pace, still yawning, disheveled, unwinding sinew slowly outward from the World of Dreams. Here the thought of twilight is too distant to crystallize into the image of our inexorable fate and so the symbol of the real is no LAW at all, only an empty circle, signifying nothing but the mind at peace.
   And backward even further into the mist, beyond the Nil Nirvana, underneath the Naught, outside the Self at last - what can be said of this undiscovered realm, the Land of Dreams?
   Well, as it turns out: everything.

   Peace, and if you're thirsty, Water too.

   I'll see you in lavender.

Whole Lotta Love: Coinky Dink DJ

2010-08-06T11:43:00.000-07:00

Just read a knock out piece of writing - a 1968 one timer essay by JG
Ballard called "Why I Want to Phuck Ronald Reagan". A must share, great
for the kiddies. Here's the thing, this stuff is much more than punk
humor. A while back on Colbert, I recall a fluff piece about a guy who
actually believes that TV signals are received rectally. Sure, it's all
a joke, right? Maybe not. In this short essay Ballard probes the anal
nature of the age of info, techno, and star wars. America, it seems,
in '68, is being readied for a kind of leadership devised for people who
do not want to face their own work product (oedipal shame) and who
yearn for a stiff rod bringing-up the rear. The resulting persona is
Tiger Woods, who is lost without his Dad because he is in fact a little
girl with a bad case of penis envy - not homosexual, mind you, but
literally female. The anal rendering provided by the post nuclear
American TV corn-hole has all but reamed the daylights out of every man
woman and child into Universal Standard Bus. We're ALL GIRLS these
days, so if ya like it, well, ya better put a ring on it.

See, it's about The Law, which we are to receive WHOLE - whether we want
it or not. The old-school oral mastication of The Law, celebrated as
literature and Socratic dialect, provides the pre-techie by the use of
his natural corpus, the opportunity to chew-over The Law he/she/it is
expected to live by. From radio onward this same diet is consistently
rammed straight into the ass. The ass, a punched out vagina, has no
teeth and must therefore partake of a holistic law. A Law transmitted,
received and accepted in an instant of download of purple plasma
pleasure. A Law that can not be denied.

Whole Lotta Love is WHOLE LAW TO LOVE. Jimmy Page makes no bones about it, so why should we.

From lyrics...

...I'm gonna send ya back to schoolin'
Way down inside, a-honey, you need it...

...A-way, way down inside
I'm gonna give ya my love/Ah
I'm gonna give ya every inch of my love...

...I wanna be your backdoor man...

Coinky Dink DJ #4 - Pearls of Wisdom

2010-07-28T13:49:00.000-07:00

If you take away the politics, irony, caustia and imp from Leonard Cohen you find yourself leaving with Rod Mckuen. McKuen is an American love poet every bit the word wizard Cohen portends himself to be, but who keeps his focus strict and tight on the problem of romantic love. Setting his sights on Jacques Brel, Mckuen makes two translations of Brel that come to life at once as eternal standards. Brel's Le Moribund becomes the well known Seasons in the Sun and Ne me quitte pas becomes the otherworldly If You Go Away. Our interest is just a few words from Mckuen's translation of Ne me quitte pas.

Brel: Moi je t'offrirai
Des perles du pluie
Venues de pays
Ou il ne pleut pas...

Mckuen: But if you stay, I'll make you a day
Like no day has been, or will be again;
We'll sail the sun, we'll ride on the rain,
We'll talk to the trees worship the wind.

Then if you go, I'll understand,
Leave me just enough love to fill up my hand...

A transliteration of Brel reads like: I offer you// pearls of rain / from a land / where it never rains... Mckuen's verse proposes the diametric image. The hero of his song begs for a handful of silver moonlight where Brel offers to his love a cup of pearly rain. They key term is Brel's "pearls", which Mkcuen interprets as a simile for "semen". So, where Brel aims his rain into fertility and the tenuous future, Mkcuen, artfully masturbatory, conjures a monolectic whimsy of memory and perdition.

We propose that these twin images are the competing forces of agricultural paganism vs. dream realism. Brel is the sincere romantic, who pitches his seed into the perpetuation of static cyclo-naturalism. The pain in Brel is the natural pairing of death and sex. His character infers the terrible problem of mortal love, love of the flesh, and the abject denigration of death. By inverting Brel's original attitude, Mckeun leaps out as the derring-do of Zarathustra - to whom all that is real is nothing and the self. The landscape of If You Go Away is one of surreal abandon and its hero muses upon the consequence not to disintegrate, but to become lost forever in the ripples of a dream. According to Mckuen, the life immortal is the beginning of the both the problem and the eternally problematic.

Altogether my cup of rain.

Pax, Ye Crusty Carbuncles,

The PPPandava

Coinky Dink DJ #3 - The Gig is Up

2010-07-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

This episode of Coinky Dink DJ is dedicated to Rob Ager and his fresh political promise, which as we understand is quite bright indeed.

For a while now and to passionate cries of "nay-nay!" yer old drinking buddy Da WWWiz has exposed an infamous meme what seems to insist that a) the real world is long ago destroyed in a quasi-nuclear apocalypse and b) the appearance of synchronous phenomena are a by product of the dreaming mind of a culture already way beyond death. This perspective poses a stark contrast to the synchro-mystic set, and to its highly advertised new-ness of mind, body and spirit. The Fortean School and the Twilight School of Downard and Hoffman would appear to predate synchro-mysticism by as much as a century of dazzling evidence.

The Old School is a simple maxim: There is no New School. Everything Old is Older still. It's all been bombed B-4. Let's get bombed!

Doc/Strangle/Glove...Salt Peter Sellers

To prime the traxx, we remind of the already established connexion of the stated Apocalypse meme to that of Strangulation by a Gloved Hand. Dr. Strangelove is Doc / Strangle / Glove. The trio describes the Operating Room still born corpus of our seeming matrix in motion.

Our first number is the gut-groovy Swamp from the Talking Heads. The lyrics are almost too clear without the Ray-Bans on yer peeps. But here is a fucking corker. I mean fah real!

from Swamp

...a medical chart on the wall
soft violins (sounds like: violence)
and hands touch your throat
everybody wants to explode...

I'm mean c'mon people - have you seen Dr. Strangelove?!?

Next Up is a pair of waves from Phoenix, a band that seems to come right out of nowhere.

Lisztomania gives the throat key (lyric: ...jugulate, jugulate, etc. To jugulate is to kill by cutting the throat). Lasso implies likewise in both title and lyric. But just look at the cover art for the album! Three bombs? One may speculate there are two gone by and one still cummin'. The Big One.

The best money is in sunscreen futures. Bain de Soleil, good brothers and sisters!

To put it plainly, it's a sentimental recall.

The Understanding

2010-07-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

The only thing worth understanding is that some things are nice to stand under. Trees when it's sunny, umbrellas when it rains... in general the heavens, in general the sky. We understand the sky. We understand the stars.

Coinky Dink DJ #2 - Hey Soul Sister

2010-06-27T11:40:00.000-07:00

A fine example of Ritual Magick encoded into a pretty decent pop song. The following caption may offend some readers. Strong sexual content. Please use discretion.

The main themes are 1) Sexual Cannibalism 2) Agri-Natural Sacrificial Paganism/Pantheism 3) Incest as Eros 4) VALIS, the Zebra 5) Medial Perpetuation

The vocals begin "Hey...." The mystical word Heh (say Hay) means "seed". This provides an immediate multi-pun. The term seed/heh implies "semen" and the "germ of wheat" to reinforce the themes of Oral Sex, the consumption of semen and/or menses as food (see Crowley on 69), and also the image of cyclical ritual sacrifice upon which our agriculture relies. The lyrics "soul sister" and "one of my kind" underlay the incest theme, which is also found in Crowley 69. Moreover "soul sister" provides a neat homophonic pun upon "solsticer". A Solsticer (from the term solstice) is a natural pagan wizard, in essence an agri-priest to preside over sacrificial rites. Crowley, of course, published the infamous Equinox Magazine - Reader's Digest for the Satanist. The lyric "Ain't that Mr. Mister" is just chock full of wickedness. Mr. Mister is a notoriously transparent crypto-Christian Magick school. Listen to this song - he ain't singing about a girl, dummy! It's about Jesus. "Baby"... get it?

Back on the Soul Train. The "Soul Sister" video shows a fascination with black and white stripes. This is a toughy for the uninitiated. The lyric in question is "just in time I'm so glad you have a one track mind". The implication is an idea of writer Philip K. Dick - author of the source for Blade Runner, Minority Report and Total Recall. Dick called it VALIS and at other times the "Zebra". Basically, VALIS is a massive magnetic tape or computer drive onto which all reality is backed up and repeating on an endless loop. The black and white stripes indicate both binary data and a digital bar code - mark of the beast etc. This, shall we say, "inception" allows for the appreciation of reality as a perpetuation of a media event.

On a critical aside, this song is a brilliant creation that owes its roots to the old Brill Building writers from daze of yore. It is not Art, but supreme Craftsmanship. Hope you enjoy. Hail Satan (a cab)!

Coinky Dink DJ #1 - Goodbye Eddie, Goodbye

2010-06-26T11:07:00.000-07:00

This song is a blue print of the central allegory of Egyptian Myth and Magick and Ritual. Eddie is Osiris (Jesus). Mary Louise is Isis (the Magdelene). "Eddie Mitty" is a homophonic pun for the term "admit Y" (y chromosome) meaning admit only "the male". The operation Mary needs is a sex change. Eddie gives "all he can give", viz, his "manhood", so that his sister can travel away from the Sun toward the Gates of Mars, where the female sex is not permitted. Watch the lead singer wrap his mike cord around his arm. This act mimics the Judaic tradition of the tefillin (image below). Notice the "pyramid pose" of the 3 singers, at the end of the song. The ritual in question is that of circumcision. Some key triggers: "Overnight Sensation" (the Sun). "Never knew his father" (virgin birth). "Shock" sounds like choke, and later "Choked Up"(circumcision/masturbation). "Born in Jersey City" (JC = Christ and also, Jersey is a type of cow, ergo Jersey City is a meta-pun on "the manger of Bethlehem".

Pay special attention to Winslow's clothes. The glue side of the banner (over his shoulder) appears like the blue and white pattern of Moses, worn as a vestment by the Jewish male. Winslow is a Rabbi!

A quick critical note. If you are a cinephile, check out "Phantom of the Paradise". A serious fucking masterwork - all secrets reside within.

Black Lotus, Red Midnight

2010-06-16T14:16:00.000-07:00

On Friday last, I took in a live Death Metal show - a first for middle aged me, and a night I will never forget.

Me and my crew parked and got primed in the car, with a few dutchies and a mickey each of Gibsons finest sipping whiskey, and arrived feeling fine with two acts still on deck.

First up was Antediluvian, who lived up to their name, and how, as a thick black tsunami of liquid cement slammed the willing thrall into zombie submission of the mesmerized. The groove was vicious and viscous and without quarter. Each quaver of pulse like a lifetime in a steel mill. Soon the crowd is drowned in molten oil - the blackest oil, from the heart of the earth, where perfect dark awaits in serene ambivalence to wash away the stench of evil in the name of God. Totally fucking bitchin'.

At the end of Antediluvian's rigorous madness someone calls out "Hail Satan". I think it might be me. I think I mean it.

Chilling outside, sharing a rolly or two and the last of our whiskey, me and my cadre of ninjas begin to feel a little out of place. We catch a few sidelong glances - all of us basically clean shaven and dressed like rejects from a frat party - what the fuck are we doing here? Sure, we look a wee bit autre, me and my gangstas. Looks will deceive - but make no mistake, yea droogies, we are here for the music and in a short while we will leave fully quenched. Quenched of an invisible fire and ready for fresh guts, or at least a short stack with a side of bacon at the all night Husky.

Next up, headliners Begrime Exemious.

Holy Shit do these brothers thrash with their brass out. Quickly into their set, I feel a chaotic ball of twilight descend upon me, as one by one my chakras turn into Newcastle's finest pitch. Perfect pitch in the key of midnight. The coldest coal. It was at this instant that the mirror cracked. The crowd, at one moment repentant and in fusion with relentless tommy-gun drum riffs, break the unseen wall unto the tightrope of depravity. Front man Brian Leland (aka Violent Restitutions) baptizes in sulfur all who enter upon the threshing floor into the vital, bloody nexus of Begrime itself. And here the pungent balance of raw and screeching Death Metal and stone funky riff-mastery seems to rise in super-heated ripples not merely from the band but at last from the killing floor itself as those Begrime be-knighted groove on down to the depths of Gehenna - or thereabouts.

To put it bluntly Begrime fucking pwns, mutha! A fitting tribute to the Master.

I know. I've got the bruises to prove it.

Peace Out Pimps.

Nothing is Meaningless - Everything is Meaninglesser: A Brief Testimony

2010-05-22T19:21:00.000-07:00

In a recent comment, a reader asks for a clearly stated 'conclusion' to the ribald rambling of my complete works at Da WWWiz. This seems a reasonable request. I will try.

There are no 'conclusions' - only observations out of time. It appears that some folks, as a defense mechanism, must cling to the warm fuzzy called objectivity. Objectivity is the delusion that there is an absolute and positive value to systematic law, morality, society, or natural phenomena. Objective reasoning is deformed, unstable and the source of all evil.

The inevitable reaction of persistent self awareness is subjectivity. Consider the famous words of Hassan Ibn Sabah X: Nothing is True. Everything is Allowed. No truer words are spoken. So many search in earnest vanity for but one truth that will not fail against the pressure of gravity. Well, here it is... Nothing is True. Everything is Allowed.

Don't like it much? Chew on it a while... it'll grow on you.

1) 'Nothing is True' is a positive assertion, viz, there is a thing called nothing and it is real/true.

2) 'Everything is Allowed' is logical observation, viz, everything describes the totality of known reality and therefore is allowed exactly because it has actually happened. To clarify, consider that one can spread hate speech, commit massive global fraud, say 'nigger', or burn a flag. We like to tell ourselves that such ill behavior is not allowed - but, in fact, it is allowed exactly because it happens.

Further Study: Liber OZ tells it like it is. Alice in Wonderland is also instructive. Pure Logick is flawless. Perfect. You are Imperfect. I'm perfect. One must always be punctual. Can you be?

How does it matter, all of this word play, gun play and fun play? Well it doesn't really matter, any of it. And not because it won't hurt when love comes to town, but rather because if it is going to happen, it is going to happen - come what may. We go where we go - we are where we are. It is all happening now - comprende? We are living in a dream.

Even so, solid answers are out there, if you can accept them. The planets provide a nice allegory.

Each planet, out to Pluto and beyond, is a sort of frequency, or a discreet quality. All, that is, except Earth. Earth has the special quality of Material Illusion, so it is the place where everything happens - where the frequencies meet greet and eat, so to speak. Furthermore, there is a linear division with the Earth as the divider. On one side are the infernal Venus, Mercury and Apollo (The Sun One). On the other side are the serene magi, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus... you get me.

The frequency of these spectral transmitters wage war on Battlefield Earth. Venus (War and History); Mercury (Merchant Law/Fascism); The Sun (Gehenna) - these form the Objective frequency. Mars (Peace); Jupiter (Comedy); Saturn (Music and Color); Uranus (Media and Magick); Neptune (Chaos); Pluto (Nazi Disneyland); X (?) - these are the Subjective vanguard.

The overwhelming majority of Humanity manifest the Objective. These are The Green Movement, The Venus Project, New Agers, Religios of Dogma, Politicos and Social Activists. Rich and Poor, Bright and Dim, North and South - it matters not.

The members of this group are notable for their belief that 'The World' is in trouble and must shape up its act on every level if it is to survive. To the Objectivist, it all about ' the future' and 'the now'. Such are normally fixated on Nature and the Sun, as the source of all that is good and giving. Pagan, wiccan nitwits. These are Mortal Man and are going to the Sun they so adore, which is The Lake of Fire, to tan for a while and burn up their pedantic, wilted egos.

Stupid fucktards.

The beautiful minority of folks - less than one tenth of one percent, I reckon - are the Subjective. Hunter S. Thompson. William Burroughs. Virginia Woolf. Jackson Pollack. Genesis. P. Orridge. Beethoven. Da Vinci. Buddha. Kurt Kobain. It is impossible to classify or to group these folks, except that each is a Perfect Self. They are Sovereign Individuals. Unmeasurable and Out of Control. They are immortal, changeable and unfathomably unique.

I am of a mind that one's inevitable orientation, subject vs. object, might be a free choice, although such matters are provocative and complex. To sum, I guess I would say that if you want proof or justice, if you want knowledge, if you want truth, then you are headed for The Sun. If you want to party and kill time, you must face the Gates of Mars. Knock and the Door Shall Be Opened Unto You. Beyond is Freedom. Freedom and Slack.

As for me, your old pal Da WWWiz, look me up in Uranus. And um, oh, BYOB.

Pax.

Strong's Delusion

2010-02-26T18:44:00.000-08:00

Editor's Preface

Hi there madams and ma nizzies. I, your humble narrator Artislav Mel, Da WWWiz, I have an interesting discovery to report.

A couple daze ago I get a letter, like snail mail, from a friend in the UK who I haven't spoken to in years, but who follows my blog. In it: a short hand written note and a pamphlet (the unpurged sum of which is transcribed word for word below).

My friend, Gavin, explains in his note that on a recent weekend piss-up in London he stops in at the famous 'speaker's corner'. Some apocalyptic preacher type hands him this brochure, and Gavin, who also thinks I'm totally bonkers, says the text is right up my alley.

I've added some explanatory links. Otherwise it is pristine.

Concerning a Variety of Heresies which Pose Riddles Vital to Our Interest

by Dr. Chuck Borgonya, professor of divinity emeritus, Trinity, Kings College, Dec. 1981.

Not one thing, but everything tradition attributes to Judas Iscariot is false. - Thomas De Quincey, 1857
Our jeremiad will not turn upon a mathematical proof. For suchwise, we direct the reader to Lyndon Larouche's On the Subject of Metaphor - an absolutely convincing diagram of the supreme constant of reality (the Sphere), and a rapier diatribe against the mystery masonic fascism of religious and scientific dogma that is a plague upon humanity.
In place of such complex proof we prefer to simply state the finally proven fact needed to establish our case: as the Sphere is the Supreme cosmological constant, ergo, the biblical Christ is the supreme figure of literature and social science.

The Sphere, because it has an infinite number of surfaces, each of which supports an unbounded tangential plane surface, is both the smallest and greatest object present and eventful. Whatever is happening, wherever and whenever it happens in quantum space, there is an infinitely small sphere at its center and an infinitely large sphere at its limit - a fact proven with beautiful elegance by Cantor's studies of Aleph Manifold and demonstrated with panache by Larouche in his infamous essay. The Sphere is Supreme.

Any honest and careful study of Biblical scripture, juxtaposed with an inquiry into the heresies of Gnosis, are apt to leave the student of divinity with the same description of Christ as we give to the Sphere. Absolute Literary Supremacy. It is very important to appreciate that ours is neither a spiritual nor a dogmatic inquiry. Rather, the directive of this obloquy is to examine the literary supremacy of Christ, and the problems that emerge from the metaphysical degradation inherent within His perplexing destiny of lore.

The conscience may prick-up at our suggestion that Christ is a force of degradation. Some exegesis is required.

We argue first and with passion that Satan is the Lord of Order, not Christ. Satan's maxim: Ordo ab Chao; from Chaos, Order. It is Satan who is the master of Law and Measure. Popular myths such as promulgated by the astrotheologic and theosophic movement do not make their case against the Gospel. Rather, they simply annotate Satan's master plan to deceive the World and make Himself like The Most High. The map of the universe as beheld by human enterprise, the whole of history, society, religion, science. Everything we see or seem - all of it in Satan's ineluctable design. We estimate that His work, as is, is a thing of great beauty and majesty. Praise His Mighty Name. Hallowed Be His Name.

But Christ and He alone is the Lord of Chaos, for it is only Christ that can not be made to measure, and thus like the Sphere, is an expression of the highest order of infinity. He who upturns the laws of God and yet is found without a fault. He that was, is and will be. The Loving Cup that Runneth Over. We must praise the Father, to be sure, but all Glory is the property of Christ. Glory and the Endless Wonders of the Abyss.

Again we remind that our focus belongs to the literary Christ and not the socio-spiritual model that also bears His ubiquity. We speak not of actuality but virtual idealism. Maybe a man called Christ walked the earth and whatnot? Who could say they know it to be true? For certain, no one who is sane would dare make such a claim in the tempest of our times. But the literal record, the Bible, the Gospel, these documents are a material fact. The story of Christ does exist, and regardless of the zeitgeist, no other literary figure proposes the same action as He. Not by a country mile - and that's a long way.

We explain.

Each and every theocratic dogma and each and every scientific purportion is predicated on a future state of reality, and on how through right action that state can be achieved with human effort. Judaism, Catholicism, Protestantism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and the final religion, Science. All these and more designed by Satan to fool the many, and with a level of artifice that is profound and awesome splendor. The beginning of wisdom is the fear of Satan.

But Literary Christianity stands alone from these Satanic marvels. Its oath not the distant standard of a human utopia which must derive from a troubled and violent evolution, but of instantaneous salvation. Saved Now. Saved Now. This is the promise of the Literary Christ.

Now good listener, you may fancy yourself, (in the rhetorical sense, of course), as 'a good man' or ' a lady of moral', free from sin, or that you can save yourself or don't need saving. Moreover, there are many among you who would dare say that the problem of sin is at its utmost a dubious proposition, and perhaps even utterly irrelevant. We caution that our own view is not different, merely more acutely informed of dark detail. For it is our claim that the miracle of the Literary Christ is as He declares: Accomplished! We are all good people and saved by Christ. The mere fact that it can be suggested that 'sin does not exist' in a world such as our own, well...

...do you see?

We go farther still, for our mission is not only to discover the fantastic possibility of Christ's virtual success, but to identify the exact methodology used to carry it out. Heresy has been promised - it will be delivered.
The problem of sin must be edified to the deepest possible level. Very simply, sin is death. Death in the sense of the absolute dissolution of the self. It is the horrible and malformed fear of death that is the pinpoint source of every human crime and woe. And it is a justifiable fear - for who among thee wishes to be destroyed instead of healed.

The New Age Movement, which is the creation of hyper-masonic social alchemists, offer the 'enlightened' solution - the abandonment of ego. The psychologist Elizabeth Kubler-Ross introduces the same idea as the acceptance of death. To those who align with such folderol we propose a simple test. Would you be willing to completely abandon your ego-self at once? This would include the total loss of all memory and identity. What say you?

If you dare to answer 'yes', you must by all means tear yourself away from the secrets as yet herein untold and prepare a tidy suicide, post haste. Don't let us keep you.

Because ours is a literary pursuit, we define the following discussion as an ontology. Ontology is the study of the nature of our being, but for special purposes we use ontology to define the point at which individual cognition (personal apprehension) meets with reality (data). Of course, the data we isolate is that of The Holy Bible and a few resources common to the student of divinity. The problem proposed arises from the ghostly pulses of human intuition that we carry with us in our interpretation of such text, and indeed any text that invites such a rapturous attention.

How do we resolve this damned intuition? We must beat it into daylight. Beat it with a briny fist of fire. Of the sacred text, we simply must allow ourselves the finest inference that our mind allows. If the word of God is not in vain, and we strongly impress that it is not, then it follows we are bound to the mystery by our best possible comprehension and diligence. One may ignore the Word at will and not sin, ignorance is not a sin. But to regard it without passion and the brightest fire of the mind is a perilous exercise.

Alright. Readers that remain fool not themselves with odorless dreams of mystic star-transformation. We few seek the belly of the beast. The fire of the refiner: the literary Jesus Christ. It is to us alone the horrible knowledge that edifies the last and most perplexing boggler of the greatest work of literature that is or was or will be. Namely: the problem of Judas.

According to Gospel, Jesus is a regular face at Temple. He conducts outrageous miracles in public centers. Rides into Jerusalem on a Donkey to the cries of 'King of the Jews!'. Has personal audience with multiple high dignitaries. In light of these, the betrayal of Judas is pointless. Nonsense. Utterly unnecessary. Jesus is already the talk of the town.

It is only through the deepest meditation the truth of this riddle can be apprehended.

First we must isolate certain facts. A messiah is a healer, prophet, teacher and sometime martyr. The story of Christ, indeed of the Bible entire, is the story of many messiahs. And Christ's in particular is the age of the messiah, the age of miracle. Messiah means anointed one. The unguent used to anoint is the greasy fat of a ritually murdered lizard. If this is not enough to make it crystal clear, we add that along with the gift of healing, walking on water, the summoning of matter, messiahs can also change their appearance like a chameleon its colors. In the age of messiahs, such talents are not limited to just one man. Christ's unique quality is that he is Ultimate among messiahs, because he understands the precise nature of his sacrifice, but not that he is the only technical messiah.

To sharpen evermore the difficult truth of Judas, we must comprehend that it is not enough that Christ be punished for the sin of man, but also that he bear the full responsibility for that sin; the awful rapine evil that is the human soul in fear of death at the hands of Time. For Satan, the sacrifice of an innocent man is not enough to forbid Him the complete destruction of His vile creation. We aver: the study of scripture demands this conclusion: Satan exacts not only punishment upon Christ, but from Him draws the Sin of Man - a feat made flesh by the betrayal of Judas.

Here is the technical dialectic.

1. The whole rotten mess of human malfeasance is concentrated into a single literary documentary: the Torture, Crucifixion and Resurrection of Christ. Satan agrees to the terms.
2. A stand in for Christ is chosen, probably by Christ himself. We suggest Thomas, who appears the meekest of the lot. His natural decency and readiness to struggle with God makes him the perfect choice. His murder will be ugly. The murder of a real innocent. The epitome of injustice.
3. As the legion approaches to arrest Christ, and in an act prearranged in league with the Romans, he appears as Judas and betrays his stand in, Thomas. He is paid thirty pieces of silver. We add our suspicion, a mere conjecture, that the entire literary character of Judas is actually Christ in disguise and also that at the time of the arrest and thereafter, trained and anointed disciple Thomas did his best to appear in likeness to Christ.
4. Thomas is crucified, thus fulfilling Satan's demand that Christ bear the shame of the greatest imaginable crime - the murder of a lamb of God - which is of an office Satan keeps a jealous watch.

5. The resurrected body of myth is merely Christ, unscathed and in in his usual composure, but with a secret name... Judas Christ.

Up to this point, we do not diverge from the self serving heresies of popular Gnosis. But where the Gnostic absurdly, even orgiastically suggests that this shell game was prepared to ensure that the bloodline of Christ be preserved, we expose the Heresy of Heresies - that the destiny of Christ and his terrible offering is that of the literary Judas, the secret Christ - and thus...

6. Judas Christ, now guilty as charged the Sins of Man, must carry out his own crucifixion and commit the greatest of all sin, self-denigration, self-degradation, self-destruction. Satan demands not one iota less, and Christ, to save humankind, complies. Stripped of his name, of his crown, and at last of his goodness, a common murderer, he hangs himself in the wilderness. To becometh carrion. To becometh dust. This is the mystery of the Aleph. This is the mystery of Tau. No cross upon a hill. No burial in linen. No resurrection. No crown of light. Rather, the barren lonely death of a man eternally despised.

And here's the kicker. Satan keeps not His promise. Instead, he serves up the His malevolent mischief over and over again - and who can blame Him. He knows Judas Christ will always accept the terms for another chance at Grace - the dope! And yet we can't help wonder that after a while, JC might start to get a taste for the killing - a love of the game for its own sake - and turn tables on his charming nemesis, that serpent of old and ancient of days, who is called the Devil.

Such matters are provocative, to be sure, and probably account for even the most subtle changes in the continuum of Time - to elude the keenest of souls. Souls like our own, for keen we are and keen will we be.

And so we part with a psalm to Judas Christ...

This burden is our trust
Arise in Him we must
To find His secret name
Encrypted in the Game
To find it everywhere
Both violent and fair
In every nook and space
The triumph of His grace
His sacrifice is made
We can not let it fade
From memory, from rhyme
From in our gut, from Time
From where it shines and falls
And hanging on the walls
That hold our world to right
Still - watching in the night
Made flesh, made man, reviled
Like all of us - a child

...And lost inside a spell...

...the Labyrinth of Hell

Amen.

Afterword

The previous work - Strong's Delusion - including both the preface attributed to The Wrong Way Wizard and the pamphlet Concerning a Variety of Heresies which Pose Riddles Vital to Our Interest - is a literary forgery composed by drunken monkey Azazel Fenrar.

Az is a friend of mine. A very good friend. A few weeks back, in a state of alcoholic degeneration, we two would argue over who was the finer artist. Az boasts that he will write something that I might write, but better. I tell him him, in the spirit of chivalry, to go fuck himself, and that if he succeeds, I will publish it on my site.

I'll be damned if he didn't deliver... and how! To boot, the pamphlet portion is a fantastic parody of 'The Three Versions of Judas', which I personally recommended to Az, the little sonofabitch. Under the circumstances, I must reconsider my work completely. I mean, am I really that pompous? It may be a while before I publish again. I think I'm gonna eat some worms.

Pax,

Mark de LeClair, The Wrong Way Wizard

Listen.

Quantum Je-bus: Where It's At

2010-02-19T03:41:00.000-08:00

Everyone is a thelemite, though most have no idea. Thelema means Law. Nothing more. Anyone who lives by the law, the law of the cosmos that is, is practicing thelema, and I submit that they couldn't do otherwise if they tried. Every Man and Woman is a Star. It's the Law. Love is the Law. Love and Gravity. Wilting as thou dost.

You've got to burn to shine, bro. Burn.

I want to make an argument. This is complicated so stay with me here... the details are important. Hold on before you decide what it is I really think about things, cuz I might surprise you.

There are now and have always been two forces that appear at war with each other, although in fact they work in a tense and gleeful partnership. They are... MOM and DAD. Depending upon the natural tendencies of the person, the perspective is usually greatly slanted to one or the other.

The Mother lovers: the new age, the green movement, moralists, liberals, spiritual fascists and indigo children. It is all over the news. The Nazi movement was built on the principle of moral spirituality and the harmony of man and nature. Where it starts is always where it ends. In case you don't know it, the Nazis won my friend. We, west of Jerusalem, are now and have for almost 100 years, lived in a state of perfectly functional global fascism. The first phase of the 1000 year Reich, which is the unification of all nations into a corporate body, is nigh on to completed.

With deliberate irony and panache, this period of human social history was seeded into common knowledge during the French Revolution, purported as the herald of the end of human bondage, which crowning symbol was Diana. Diana, who is the supreme symbol of Lunar Agriculture and the pagan worship of nature. If you think about it, you will realize that a successful enterprise of global agriculture by its definition must be that of a fascist state - a slave state - where the individual is totally bound by responsibility to the perpetuation of 'society' into the endless future.

The programmers of this Brave New World Order have, over the 6000 years since the inception of their plan, modulated the technique used to shanghai the individual person into the patterns of a bewildered thrall. The latest of these techniques, which was a big reason for the Second World War (the clever hidden message of Inglourious Basterds), is 'media propaganda' and it is fucking sophisticated.

The new world promised by the likes of Eckhart Tolle, The Greens, The Wiccans, and all the granola munching puritans in Seattle, theirs is a world of agricultural fascism. I single out Tolle: not in the least bit a spiritual teacher, but an apparatchik and a racketeer. His work is designed, packaged, marketed and delivered rush overnight to middle and upper middle class people the world over. Not to enlightlen them, but to prepare in the subconscious zeitgeist the complex argument that will be used to mitigate the complete enslavement of humanity to corporate concern - not to mention the murder of the individual.

Thing is, The Powers That Be know that this plan will in all likelihood collapse under the inherent stress it will cause. This is where DAD comes in.

The Daddy doers: fiscal conservatives, capitalists, political communists, military strategists, religious dogmatics, traditionalists of every kind. Alex Jones and Alan Watt are two famous examples of the philisopical wing. David Icke, ironically, is another. These people are either paid stooges or seriously dense. I suspect the latter. Regarding communism, most people don't understand it because they mistake that the political aspect is an end when it is only a means. The end goal of communism is a corporate capitalist state. China is not a country, it's a business. The best business on earth and getting better.

Anyway, as the bloody truth of the agricultural cult of redrum becomes accessible to the common man and woman, DAD applies a counter measure to ensure stability. 1400 years ago, Islam is born, just a simple seed. But make no mistake about it my pasty little friends. Green is the color of Islam and the future is Green. A global psycho-fascist agri-state where every aspect of tradition, knowledge and social behavior is rigidly and ritually educated and enforced by a state religion. It's gonna happen and nothing can stop it. Global Islam. Bring it baby! Allah be praised!

Right about now you might be thinking I'm a bit of a conspiracy junky and a 'freeman type'. You would be very wrong my friend. In fact, I think the conspiracy, which I call reality, is perfect in every way. Perfect and getting perfecter. As such I am a strict fatalist. What will be will be. I simply take delight in exploring the details of this impossibly marvelous plan - a pastime, you might say. Nero fiddling while Rome burns, that sort of thing. It's a state of grace, and not indifference.

We are all 'in the game'.

At last can get to the point of this 'argument', which is to reveal the discreet nature of what I try to communicate in my blog as art, in my communications with honesty, bribery, theft, as simply as I can, and in my life as a person of optimism and patience.

Here goes...

'... changes aren't permanent, but change is...'

- Neal Peart

Before anything at all can be understood, and I mean anything at all, one must first discover that reality is in every way impossible. I can not be writing this, and yet I am. You can not be, are not reading this...

I must refer to the experience of two others that are reported very similar to my own.. that of RAW and PKD. Dick's story in particular, is remarkably like that of my own. Now sure, lots of folks out there are feeling the vibe and observing the profoundly weird things that are going around. What's different here is that like me, these men came to an legitimate understanding of the event they lived through. RAW, a clever and talented man, found a highly intellectual grasp of inevitable reality and reported it with childish glee. Dick, like me, was essentially destroyed by the process. Not because he was less able to process, but because he was exceptionally and in particular emotionally sensitive to literary motif.

By decoding his personal synchs, he came to the same conclusion I will now explain as my direct experience. The words could be Dick's, although he was a pretty smokin' writer, to which I make no serious threat. You can take it or leave it as you will, but what follows is a fact. If you read it and understand it, you will have the answer to every question of politics and science at your finger tips.

Jesus Christ, who is the real and One god of All, walked the earth as a man, and he was put on the cross, in a horrible act of serial violence. As he 'died' he uttered the words 'it is accomplished', but less known is the secretly taught rumor bespoke by him to one of the thieves crucified with him.

'If you believe in me NOW, then although you suffer upon the cross, you are immortal and with me in heaven'.

Christ proclaimed, predicted with pinpoint accuracy, the destruction of Solomon's Temple. This moment was 'the beginning of the end of time'. Time, which is the cause of all death and suffering. Christ promises to return at the end of of Two Thousand years, when time runs out completely, to establish his ABSOLUTE and eternal kingdom. Beyond Time and therefore beyond death. When the temple is destroyed, the Kaballistic Scientists know they have to Act fast to maintain alchemical dominance over life and death. These guys are fucking powerful and in control - fah rizz, and as time winds down, they know Christ must not intervene (for reasons I will explain if I am asked). To STOP the naturally stable and spherical perpetuation of divinity, of quantum time, they will force it into a cubical response to human events. The Kaballists call this the Cube of Space... but what they don't advertise is that to create The Cube, a time-loop had to be created. The effort to do so was a complete and fabulous success. Time, reality itself was looped around 80 A.D, about the time of the Book of Acts. No one knows for sure, not in the mainstream anyway, just how far back in time the loop goes, but it doesn't matter to the Scientist, because the return of Christ is perpetually stalled. The truth of our so-called 'reality' is that we have traveled this loop for an ocean of time and don't rightly know. The variety of history and advance of the human species is an illusion, a feedback loop of created by two lines of tape as they pass each other in space. It's all done with magnets. And there is no way out.

For Dick, this was an awful reckoning, and he reverted into a febrile religious fervor. A madness of the kind one does not really enjoy. For me, it was a little different, not clever or talented, but ballsy and kinda ignorant. Ignorant and bottomless-ly curious. I won't go into the results of my experiment but suffice it to say it was a little rough, and this is where being a punk really came in handy. Punks have no shame. They eat their own guts and ask for seconds. They recover, clean up the puke and party on. Sure, it's all shit, but it's not bad. Not bad at all.

I recovered from a horrible fate by embracing my punk, and thus I was able to uncover a further truth, missed by the probing Dick. By trapping us in a perpetual time loop, the Scientist has made humanity immortal!!!

All of us live forever, we just forget it from time to time. Moreover, this time trap elucidates an uplifting viewpoint of the cosmos, and also a startling irony. Because we have cycled, like I said, through an ocean of time since the Crucifixion of Christ, he could rightfully step in and bring his coming at any moment. I like to call this the Hangman's Loophole. Here's the irony, and it's a kicker. Exactly because the Satanic Scientists have succeed in their plan to trap reality in a loop of time that they can not dismantle, making us all technically immortal, Je-bus doesn't have to step in. Doesn't have to and probably couldn't be bothered, having the best seat in the madhouse, up there on his cross, bleeding forever, Looking down on it all - the madness - and laughing his fucking head head off.

It is accomplished, indeed. The sonofabitch may not have had the power to do a damn thing. Could have been the worlds greatest con. Just enough bluff and political savvy to turn over the wrong carts at the right time and fool the God of Genesis into saving us all forever. Forever in a dream of letters and flesh.

Either way, it is written, and when you really know it, from faith, perhaps, or experience, I don't know, maybe by simply forgiving yourself for everything - but when you know it, the truth of it is written on every wall, in the words of every song, and on the lips of cryptic strangers. Jesus Christ is King. A real king. Not the kind who holds a sin against a man, or a woman -whatever it the sin may be. And contrary to popular belief, he don't care if you believe or not - this man is gallant. You are saved. Booted to the drive and backed up into the mists of whispering time. Guar-un-teed.

So I, Artislav Mel, am revealed at last, for those who haven't figgered it yet. A Je-bus Phreak. What can I say, I have a thing about beauty.

Jebus H. Christ is my super quantum fucking superhero. Always has been. And without a doubt the greatest, the only genius of all time.

Here's to you, master. Your chill be done.

Pax

AM

Honed to a Mason's Tee

2010-02-17T19:48:00.000-08:00

My article Aerial Act has been yet again expanded at length. I have been working with some editors, who wanted more. The final article is significantly more in depth that the original. You can read it at metaphilm.

Pax

Extra

2010-02-15T17:06:00.000-08:00

The article just below, Aerial Act, has been extensively updated and improved. If you have seen the movie or plan to, the article is worthwhile.

With any luck, in a day or so, it will be published at extreme cinezine metaphilm. It's an excellent site - check it out.

Hope you all enjoy. Happy Chinese New Year.

Da WWWiz

Whereabouts Unknown

2010-02-03T20:20:00.000-08:00

The measures of Megiddo have been met

The planned Apocalypse is here, and yet,

It takes a pinch of time, a teaspoon full of rhyme,

And all the sour lemon of regret, upon the table set

‘Til we forget

That yesterday (which never really was),

Tomorrow (how it hastens as it does),

And present (as it stands) are hiding in the sands

Of memory - and rumbling like applause - applying their own laws

How free of flaws!

Am I the only one to see it show?

Approaching so deliberately slow,

Creeping across the line of a filament so fine

Or frozen in a single flake of snow with nowhere else to go

But undertow

Draw me into those waters whence I came,

Where even Heaven hasn’t got a name

Unmercifully cool, a dark enchanted pool

And baptize me into the secret game, the clear and conscious flame

Uncertainly alone

My whereabouts unknown

- Romeo Tenderflake (poet and rancher, Botswana, 1919)

Chandala Liberty: A Meditation On Gravity

2010-01-31T21:47:00.000-08:00

To be the opposite of something is the same as being something - Cheyenne proverb

There is an illness at the heel of The World. Gravity. A Weight. No matter the noble heart or lofty mystic mountain eye. Wherever the eagle without ego spirals in carnivorous abandon and down into the shadow of the crow. Old men and children die. Tears fall down. Light Falls Down.

In the vacuum of space gravity appears defeated but is in fact magnified and focused into the mineral core of even the smallest body within its folds of consecrated emptiness. Here, the corpus of the astronaut turns upon itself like a planet and is subject to the ravages of the planet, which amount to the relentless pressure of annihilation. Back on Earth and the Space Man is broken, man.

Space is a Star Factory. It's tough to be a Star. Stars are the fabric of the Great Net of the Indras - each one a jewel and fantastically unique. The appearance of this net in space amounts to the manifestation of an infinite variety of properties into the absolute void. Cast upon the waters it sinks and yet remains upon the surface. Where there is one net, now there is another, but deeper and wider. Next, another deeper still, and soon a great lattice of net and knot sweeping every corner of the sea. The Sea of Nothing. To catch the sole occupant, a lonely tadpole, who is God, the empty mind.

Trouble is, God forgets how small it is to be, and slips back through the net and into the darkling sea.

After a time, some impossible phantom hook is cast. A single knot is snagged to hoist the marvelous net and release the catch. The single knot is Christ at the moment of Crucifixion, hanging from the yard arm. In this rapture the Empty Mind of God beholds the Many-Verse much as Christ upon his Cross recalls the golden gifts of his birthright - brought from lands so far and wide that they must be borne not of the World and its four-fold winds, but rather the World of Dreams.

Of course, the net is Empty. God and the Many-Verse he created 'to find himself' do not exist. You do not exist. You are a dream of yourself.

Here in the intolerable awe that is the proverbial Fear of God (Nothing), one may gaze upon the Crucified Christ in his crystalline glory - pure white sevenfold light - as he is speared and dies. Just one grain of sand, after all. Notable merely as the last one through the hourglass. Baptized in his blood, we draw him down and give his body to the sea and by the weight of him - the unchained knowledge that we feed upon our selves, and that we are empty, and that we are nothing - the net of souls will follow. Every Man and Woman plunged at last into the certain depths of truth like Stars falling from the heavens unto the Earth. Down to the the deep - to shine a light where it is proper to shine a light...

Into the darkness.

Everybody's doing it - you can too. Abandon hope and enter here.

Abandon your comedic designs of a shining city on the hill where nobody shits and everyone is smart, funny, immanently fuckable and politely nouveau riche. Abandon yourself and give your spirit into the Sick. Sick for agricultural red-rum and the moral law of murder. Sick for the needle, the pipe, the bottle and the tit. Sick for the arms of the Bodhisattva and vain promises of Light. Sick for Love and Sick for War. The rich and wretched all. The stupid happy and crazy divine. Droplets of unchained memory - sick and dying ever, still, never dying - never will. Whorled without end.

We are the beloved of the Lord because we love his Gift and accept our lot. To be the Weight. The cancer at the root of Time. The End of Time itself. The Sick and Evil, who can not be persuaded toward the Light, who prefer the labyrinth and its cool corners - harbor towns and the smell of creosote, battle fields and crime scenes - who prefer the Sea.

We are the Sick. The Untouchable. Chandala Liberty.

And we will bring you down. It's a promise.

John 19:30

The Bitch is Back

2010-01-20T13:35:00.000-08:00

My PC is back up and running and I am tickled to get back in the game, the addiction, the endless strands of intertwining truth - and nothing holy.

Look for me in a day or so.

Crashed

2010-01-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

A short while after my last post, my computer crashed. Because I rarely leave my home, I have procrastinated on my communications for nearly a month. I hope to be back up and running soon.

Peace To All

Da WWWiz

Tiger Woods: The World is Yours

2009-12-11T14:35:00.000-08:00

As serious of images and memes.

Al Pacino as I Al Capon
Tony Montana as Scarface
Michelle Pfieffer as trans-racial wife Elvira Hancock
Elin Nordgren as trans-racial wife Mrs. Tiger Woods
Michaele Salahi as trans-racial wife and Red and Gold Gate Crasher
Tareq Salahi as 86th Surah - Tareq: the star who knocks at night
Tony the Tiger as star of The Shining
Obama and Biden as Trans-racial couple number 4.
Tiger Woods - taking the knocks at night.

The special meaning of 86. To eighty-six: deep six, six feet under, destroy, bury, forget. Aug 6th is 8/6. The day they dropped 'the bomb'.

Woods' logo:

Tony's logo (appears to be fashioned from Wood):

Elvira vs Elin vs Michaele:

They're Grrrrreat:

Salt and Pepper:

Tony the Tiger getting Lost on his own Frost (Obama likes it, too!):

The World is Yours -Water, Hydrant, Golf Ball:

Wormwood Star. Bearing the Mark of Cain. Branded:

ONE is The One, the Mark of Cain

I'll Never Learn

2009-12-09T01:41:00.000-08:00

Slain Again, Must Explain!!!

Early reports are that Artislav Mel has been banned from The Synch Whole (by the executive order of a cretain Mr. Arrowsmith, who shall remain nameless).

'Tis true...
History repeats,

And so, banned again as I have been banned before, I seek the deepest possible meaning I can muster. Surely one banned as often as I must consider that ones own behavior precipitates the action against one. And yet I find my self free from blemish, ego intact, and without any lingering feelings of regret. In fact, I place all the anguish of flaming blame on the forces that plotted to exorcise my demonic presence at The Whole...

Here is why...

My mother told a memorable joke when I was a wee-tyke of three or four.

- What do you do if you get swallowed by an Elephant?
- Walk and walk and walk until you're all pooped out.

This perfect little story clarifies a myriad of great mystery. Just one example is The Book of Revelation, where G-d (El) bespeaks that he will eat up whom he finds tasteful and chew-up and spit those not to his taste.

It also quite effortlessly encodes the theory of Freud's Oral/Anal development.

Now, I'm a believer in Da Big Guy, although I wouldn't class myself so much a worshiper but as just an abnormal awe-tistic trying like Hell to stay out of the range of his Super Sweet and Awe-some Wrath 'n All - the likes of which I prefer to enjoy from a discreet distance, like say in my recliner, with a strong cup of tea for courage.

This G-d called JHVH, and some other pretty enduring names... this G-d promises that he will eat you up if you are hot or cold and spit you out if you are tepid. My strategy of atonement has ever and will ever be: be altogether cold or hot, magically both at once, and to be eaten by the force that desires to devour my soul with relish.

Thanks to my recent execution from the panel at The Synch Whole, I can accept at last my destiny as prime-rib rack of Mint rubbed Lamb of G-d and finally relax. I will never be accepted into any corporate body lesser than the Flesh of the Almighty, because I am too hot and cold, too marvelous a delicacy for consumption by mere mortals. Plainly I must be expelled... because, in a word, I am The Shit.

For All that doth emergeth
From the backside in dismay
Was chew-ed up in sweet delight
Coming in the other way

I, Artislav Mel, I AM da shiznit, and you have eaten of my bawdy and drunk of my groovy. From the Ash of your Whole I will rise like Stevie Nicks!!! I mean River Phoe-nix. Drat! It's something like that... anyway...

I wish you love and other people.

Pax for Biscuits

Another Kind of Smoke

2009-12-03T02:07:00.000-08:00

For your approval, either here or here, my finest work.

Be gentle (not too gentle).

Da WWWiz

Atonement

2009-11-28T17:56:00.000-08:00

Readers, I have just published a new piece at The Synch Whole, that is outright the most ridonkulous shazbot I have produced.

Of course I am beaming with pride.

Hope you like it.

Lighter Than Smoke

2009-11-25T16:22:00.000-08:00

A new post from yours truly, at The Synch Whole.

The only bad Kubrick is less Kubrick

2009-10-29T02:07:00.000-07:00

Another opus in homage to my spectral mentor, Stanley Q-Brick.

About 2001, the Shining and ACO.

Try the drenkrum.

Burn After Reading

2009-10-24T15:11:00.001-07:00

As promised, I have completed a treatment of the Coen Film. Please enjoy.

Responder 1:0

2009-10-19T11:47:00.000-07:00

A few readers have expressed a modest disappointment at the slaying of Da WWWiz. I assure you that I will be up to my usual synchromystic hi-jinks in no time.

Artislav Mel will serve as my Art project, exploring the boundaries of the Holographic Mystery Body. Da WWWiz will soldier on in the usual fashion.

Check out the latest at AM.

Pax in Stax

Da WWWiz

Rise, Oh Mystics, Rise Ye All

2009-10-16T14:30:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone.

As you may have discovered, Da WWWiz has found a master. Artislav Mel: The Responder.

I for one hope that my readers will follow the work of this Proud Professor of Purple Prose. The school of Rhizomystick-ism is born and Da WWWiz is devoted. For now, I will not be posting at Da WWWiz but instead serving as clerk and stenographer to Artislav Mel. He assures me that in this role I will achieve total mastery in only 13 years or so, so for now I will post only links to the Master's Words.

For a brief description of the Rhizome Un-Method, please see here and while you visit consider joining the People of Nice Judgement that are the foundation of the Rhizome Cosmos (just scroll down on 'The Responder')

A click or two is all it takes. Tickle your mouse and bring down da house.

Pax to All

Mark

Goodbye Yellow Brick Wiz

2009-10-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone - your narrator Mark LeClair here to announce I'm burning down the house.

Schooled I have been in the pitfalls of Ego and to commemorate my immolation I have killed Da WWWiz.

The school is Rhizome-Eye-Stick-Ism in honor (as response) to super-luminal Jake Kotze.

I hope to see you there as I probe the meta-meta hyper-hyper post-post Cosmic Theater of Light and Eternal Enchantment that I am hopeless lost without and within.

Da WWWiz is Dead.
Mark LeClair (to our shock and surprise) does not exist.

Long Live Artislav Mel: The Responder.

Who's Art

2009-10-13T13:52:00.000-07:00

More than a feeling, the preface to 'Dorian Gray' makes naked Da WWWiz.

Check it out here.

In Arkham As I Lumber

2009-10-12T13:43:00.000-07:00

(The following does not represent the views of YellowSwitchPalace - ed)

Gutenberg killed the Word
Beethoven... the Ear
Wagner... the Theater
Einstein... the Light
Joyce... the Euclidian Plane
McLuhan... the Academy
Zappa... the Study
Nintendo... the Tactile
Kubrick... the Eye
Tolle... the Flower

The list goes on. A name for every nerve. All of them dead. Ask not flower, hum - the bull Tolle's.

TV was knocked-off long ago, in the Glorious Age of Cesar and Kovacs. Burnett and De Mol fail to revive it, although Bully Beat Down comes dangerously close. TV is in the shadow of youtube.

Not until a medium is dead does it truly come to life as Art. youtube is dead some time now, but for us, the cruel objet dart found target only yesterday or so, and with shocking alacrity. youtube made flesh by YellowSwitchPalace. youtube is dead! Long Live YellowSwitch!

Fourteen years back - in 1987 - we predicted that cinema would die by 1963. The result of a regiment of boob-tube babies getting hold of Dad's trusty Super 8 with Home Movieola and summarily pwning the Grand Buffalo CineMasters of days but just gone by. Although we are certain of the accuracy of this prophecy, how long we trenched to feel it in the gut...

Our weight is over.

YSP's Ayslum

The overlook has five branches.

1. The old 'in and out'
2. Phallo-Narcissism (ewige Blumenkraft)
3. Ritual Circumcision (a personal fave)
4. Kli'pothic Reversal (Rear View Bracelet)
5. Mirror Mirror on the Wall
6. Freudian Lips

1. Freudian Lips

The star of Asylum is called 'Jimmy'. The persona of Jimmy is fractalated. Jimmy is: a) the narrator of Asylum b) the obsession of the narrator c) the Actor in the role of Jimmy and Narrator d) the viewer and listener of Asylum as both Jimmy and the Narrator e) the resulting 22/7 coruscation of incarnation-tarnations.

The tricky lyrics of the Supertramp classic are lip-synced to perfection with one glaring exception: Jimmy's last name. Could it be Cream? Hugh Betcha! We circumvent the usual 'ground-up' treatment with an eagle-eye cherry. This is no 'freudin' slip'. It's acci-purposely on dentist. Our star does not mis-lip 'Cream' to obscure his theme but instead to re-enforce it to invincibility. Clever fellow.

2. The old 'in and out'

Looking back from the ersatz slip and we devise the YellowSwitch camera as a medial extension of the phallus and the image as the birth canal. We confirm it in the second group of images that feature the sock-puppet, where the control unit for the video camera is seen in the hand of our Star - he's got the whole world in his hand. The distinction is that of conception and birth with the viewer as its subject. We go in and plant a seed. It all comes out in the end.

3. Phallo-Narcissism

The main unit of YSP's Asylum is the monadic phallus or Maypole. This complexion is not sexual but Saturnine. Jimmy has no wife, no counter-sexual image. His issue is altogether imaginary - and springs forth into the womb of space - the cosmic mind.

The Dick list:

- The standing Jimmy at 'in and out'.
- The yellow flower
- Jimmy's first T-Shirt (double phallus - 11:22)
- The purple sock puppet
- Obi Wankin' Knobbie
- The exploding eye into X-wing/Falcon/Shuttle Launch
- etc. (use the force and find more!)

YSP's special use of Kenobi vs.Vader illuminates at last not only Kenobi's sacrifice, but also of his secret aim, not to save Luke, whom he uses merely as a tool, but to regain his friend Annakin. The scene is masturbatory. By killing Obi Wan, Vader-kin the jerk-off releases his seminal essence into the astral as a spirit guide.

Hugo ought to have done the same for Javert. Star Wars is necessary as Art because it resurrects and revitalizes Les Miserables from the bloody sewers of Paris and unto the Tannhauser Gates as a super-looper cosmic space-orgy. All that Obi does, he does to exculpate Annakin. YSP does the same for Supertramp's Crime of the Century.

They ought to get paid for it. Real paid.

4. Ritual Circumcision

This one is easy for the Rhise-Oh-My-Sticks (black synchromystics).

When one inhales smoke (whatever is burned) one is breathing 'negative air'. Strangulation is an extension of the same act, as is mastur-urbation (chicken choking) and circumcision/castration. This theme is rich with detail.

Jupiter, Jew Peter, J-Zeus, is the crown of the circumcised phallus. The Hebrew word for 'smoke' has a gematria of 420. When one breaths smoke, one releases the essence of Jove into the atmosphere. By cutting-up over smoke and strangulation, YSP opens the cosmic one-eyed jack and stares right at the viewer with the mighty truth of Asylum raging down the pipe at light speed.

Joni was only half right: we are Stardust...

Of course we mustn't ignore the feminine value, where Jupiter is a gy-normous space boob that suckles (sickles, cycles) the cosmic enfant terrible. By our assessment, YSP's Asylum is just as good for breakfast as it is for sowing seeds.

5. Kli'pothic Reversal

Jimmy and his Fight Club doppler both wear a red bracelet. We can not easily discern the wrist that it adorns. YSP uses a simple, subtle image-flip to achieve this effect - right wrist; left wrist. The received truth is that Ka-blah-blah and its New Age spiritual progeny are supremely ego-based pursuits. We love the ego.

Kli'poth is Kaballah. Heaven is Hell. Buy and Swell.

6. Mirror Mirror

In the mirror, Jimmy confronts a terrible truth. Oh how he once loved the movies, and in particular 2001: A Space Odyssey. Now, facing himself at last, he sees the emptiness in his heart. There is not to be a great new age of light. There is no stargate leap for this lonely creep. The Great Black Monolith is nowt more than a mirror. Caliban is a blindman's bluff.

And it is at this precise moment that YellowSwitchPalace's Asylum becomes a glass elevator. The soul of Jimmy explodes into color - his head upon a piece of writing paper: the Womb of the Cosmic Mother, who accepts the wretched face with amazing grace and out and into perfect space.

Jimmy's all right!
The Kids Are All Right!
Bloody well right and out of sight...

...save Tonight

Pax Jax

Asylum

2009-10-09T15:07:00.000-07:00

Searching my beloved Supertramp, I stumbled onto this brilliant and funny video treatment on youtube.

I think it rocks. I think you will too.

Moscow Mule

2009-10-09T01:44:00.000-07:00

Thanks to an old friend - freewill - for this striking link. If not a hoax...?

Acappela for the Teacher

2009-10-07T14:38:00.000-07:00

Terpsichore is on the keys
She play dem lightnin' quick
Vivace like Vivald-ease
Metronome say 'click'
Hot Buddy Rich is blooming
On his eurhythm stick
And all who dance assuming
Inane arithmetic
And all who dance consuming
Cannibal arsenic

Neal Cassady, before us bourne
Proclaims 'The Forms are Dead!'
Twilight mistaken for the morn'!
Unnamed, unheard, unsaid
These fools are not worth fooling
By dreams of color bled
And all who dance unspooling
Imaginary thread
And all who dance lie cooling
In everlasting dread

Motion is a mad monsoon
Trouble is the tide
But all is still upon the moon
Because we sleep inside
Deftly dreaming butterflies
Fast into a jar
And all who dance are wound and wild
To waken into war
And all who dance are but a Child
Conceived within a Star

- Clare Quilty-Black

The Revenge of Nutzo Bang-Bang

2009-10-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

It's Hip to be Square at The Synch Whole.

Pax

One of these things is not like the Others

2009-09-29T11:44:00.000-07:00

Oh pride and joy - I have been invited to provisional membership at The Sync Whole - I am delighted. My controller Jon Kidd encourages me to 'be creative'.

Well, the fresh reviews of my first Sync Whole post are in:

aferrismoon declares... '(you) "Phrasey Cooker" (crazy fucker)'.
A Few Shots to Shaman raves... 'Man this is Twisted!'.
Anony-mouse Labeller labels... 'Nutzo bang-bang!!'
Jon Kidd trembles with nuptive ecstacy... 'It stimulates all cube senses!!!'

Teaser Trailer:

These tell...

Mama- Genesis (Phil Collins)

...the same story.

Red Red Groovy

2009-09-23T10:19:00.000-07:00

A good friend, The Accidental Alchemist Sir John Kidd, has completed a film called Red Rum 77. It's funny, fast and dead on target. An excellent example of hyper-structural cut-up and a must for the fan of Kubrick's The Shining. Watch it now... Nazis convene as we speak to ban all legitimate cut-up from the net. Fuck 'em... we'll start our own underground cinema.

Pax in Bellicosium

Oldies but Goodies: Selections from the Magickal Diary of Merlyn Wayryngle

2009-09-17T16:27:00.000-07:00

My Paperboy is a Fourth Dimensional Shape-Shifting Bipedal Iguana

A paper he brings – everyday!
On Sunday he knocks - I obey!
Disturbed from my dinner
I quake like a sinner
And turn in my coin for his pay

His fingers are bony and cold
His incisors are capped with gold
He’s says he’s thirteen
But he’s tall and he’s lean
And smells likes he’s forty years old

His peepers are frighteningly deep
(I wonder what secrets they keep)
I’ve heard that his knees
Will reverse, should he please,
To allow him a forty foot leap

But let me be totally clear
I wish he would stop coming here
Cuz’ it would be sunny
To have some more money
For pizza and porno and beer

And tune to the sweet symphony
Of digital HDTV
Snug in my flannels
With Two-hundred channels
As Jesus intends it to be

The Dog Fight

There are seven concentric rings.

In the center ring are the Dogs fighting a bloody snarling war. Fresh dogs are added when the fight slows down.

The second ring is for the Holders. Holders train and care for the dogs and loose them at last into the center ring.

In the next ring out are the Owners. Owners employ holders as well as manage general operating concerns. Owners take a cut from…

…Speculators, who occupy the fourth ring. Speculators are the liaison between the inner and outer Dog Fight. On fight night the Speculator oversees the weighing of and paying of the silver that changes hands. It is an illustrious and infamous role.

Upon the next ring ride the Rollers. Rollers come to play the fights in a big way. Deep Rollers are mean ass players in the game for life. The Dog Fights are but one arena for the Deep Roller. On the other hand we find the High Roller, a stale fart that thinks it is a porterhouse steak. High Rollers get lucky and then get out or don’t get lucky and get broke and become…

…Twerps. The sixth ring. On any given fight night, Twerps are the major body. At least every other living soul at the fights is a Twerp. Commonly the number exceeds ninety percent. This startling fact is chimed by the clear ring of a bell-curve. The music of the bell-curve is inaudible to the Twerp, which makes him excellent prey to the vigilant Deep Roller or the fortuitous High Roller. It is impossible to convince a Twerp that he is not a High Roller.

Standers form the outer ring. Standers are so called because each individual Stander represents one fixed point on the outer circle. There are five Standers on fight night. Sometimes, because a fight is big or unusual in some way, more Standers come, but it hardly ever happens. Standers are mainly observers so their interest in the Dog Fight can seem detached. They do not play in any visible manner, but they, literally above all, are hooked on the fights.

From ‘The Stander’s Manual, A Guide to the Dog Fights’ by Dorian Crayon

The Stander is seen by the Speculator and the Dog, but is invisible to everyone else.

To the Holder and the Owner the Stander is utterly unknown.

To the Roller and the Twerp the Stander is a mirror of themselves.

To the Speculator we are Mystery. Because he is a scrivener the Speculator must see the Stander and count and try to measure. But because we do not play he can not understand us. By nature the Speculator fears what he does not understand.   Therefore the Speculator must create a story to help him brace against these fears. The Speculator believes that the Standers are a conspiracy and a secret power. He is correct but he’ll never know how.

To the Dog the Stander is Gnosis. To the Dog we are the many eyes of God. Because the Dog is at the focal point it senses every eye upon it. The Dog can feel us but she does not know us. The vibration of our interest does not harmonize with the clamor of the fight and the Dog interprets our distance as Godhead. It is within this teaching that we find humility. For it is awesome to be perceived as Power when you have none at all.

After we are appropriately humbled we may descend into the fight itself, to feel the eyes of the True and Unknowable Alien God upon us at last as we tear away our worn and useless flesh and bear ourselves to the burning dawn, etc., etc., and so on. Methods to be discussed at the donut shop over coffee and crullers.

The methods for achieving Dog-Gnosis outlined in ‘The Stander’s Manual’ read like a ‘what’s what’ of Religions, Governments, Scientific and Corporate Concerns and Secret Societies. Buddhism, Judeo-Christianity, Freemasonry, Jazzercise, Tantric Sexual Yoga, Origami, Beanie Babies, the collected works of Jackie Collins and the combination top loading washer/dryer were all conceived and implemented in the attempt to achieve total Dog-Gnosis. All of these efforts were unqualified failures, and yet managed to be picked up by well meaning Twerps as ‘discoveries’ or systems of knowledge that the world could not live without.

‘The Stander’s Manual’ is lengthy, since it forms the uninterrupted thread of Dog Fight discourse going back to the beginning of time. Still, it is fair to say that the body of the manual serves mostly to extrapolate the simple system of the Seven Rings outlined above. It goes without saying that the lore of the Dog Fight, exactly because it is the origin of All Systems, reveals All Truth.

If you think you know something that is not uncovered herein, you are a Twerp.

The Legend of Fiddler’s Green

(Overheard at a Zombie coffee shop jam session, circa 3029 A.D.)

It was a thousand years ago, a thousand years of endless night
For that’s how long must go, you know, before a zombie learns to write
A thousand years of zombie pain, and all the earth a desert blight
A thousand years of cold and rain and unrequited appetite

But long ago, O bygone time! There was another social scene
A Tower Gold above the slime was balanced like a chessboard queen
And founded on a bed of lime, the people lived in quarantine
Those 'living' people in their prime did live it up on Fiddler’s Green

A happy life, so full and fair and quite contently free from fear
Much better to be unaware the dead are drawing closer, dear
But close we did and none to spare, delivering the New Frontier
To spread our message everywhere and maybe nibble on your ear

Now, metaphors will sure abound. ‘Say tell me zombie, whatzzit mean?’
Decode the message you have found around the ruin of ‘Fiddler’s Green’?’
And so Big Daddy will expound and in a manner quite routine
A secret simple and profound – but not in metered rhyme mutha! My zombie brain is fuckin’ killing me

No it ain’t the imperial U-S-of-A surrounded by the groveling masses
No it ain’t the great mother-earth choking on greenhouse gasses
No it ain’t the Ygdrassil Tree, serpent gnawing at the rootz
No it ain’t that famous statue in the Good Book, head of gold, and iron girdle, but a pair of clay bootz
None of these, none of these, none of these…
IT’S YOU, MUTHA-FUCKA!!! YOU ARE THE FIDDLER'S GREEN, YOU LIVING DISEASE!!!

And WE are the LAND and the LOAM, born in the still waters of JUDGEMENT
We are the GRASS at your feet and rising, RISING to consume you, FLESH to FLESH!
FEED with us and be IMMORTAL!!!!!!

(Cheers and applause erupts among the zombience. There is a pathetic attempt at ‘The Wave’ and then silence)

(Big Daddy continues…)

That was a thousand years ago, across an agony of time
For that’s how long must go, you know, before a zombie learns to rhyme
A thousand years a zombie bro’, and hunger can become sublime
And much more than a memento of the human paradigm

Now look around you, apprehend that our humanity has fled
What zombie wouldn’t recommend the perfect bliss of empty dread
And that is how the story ends (though some of it remains unsaid)
For all of us are friend to friend forever more: the walking dead

Too Many Heroes

The trouble with here is too many heroes
Too many heroes and not enough worms
This is a world of perpetual light
Accountants and Janitors beat back the night.

The trouble today is too many lions
Too many lions and not enough lambs
A pundit remarked ‘It’s a fact of the age
Knights of the Round Table get minimum wage.’

I guess I believe there aren’t enough dragons
Dragons that bellow and smoke out the moon
We fought with them once together as brothers
And now we have nowt but to turn on each other.

The Tiger

(The Tiger contains controversial themes. Reader discretion is advised.)

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forest of the night….

-William Blake

A man wakes from a dream of being stalked by a ferocious tiger. We can infer this
is a recurring event. Next to him, a prim looking wife innocently snores. As he
rises to shake off his night terror, the setting is revealed. Domestic middle class.
Earmarks that reflect harmony with the best stated virtues of ‘Western Civic 101’.
Our hero is a young father. Married to a sweetheart. He is journalist. His current
assignment is a story a plot device will reveal to be near his own heart.
There is a squeaky clean religious org called ‘Way of the Lord’ with strong
community and political ties. The hierarchy of the church could be compared to
LDS or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, with a high ranking board of deacons making all
important church decisions.

A scandal of incest and a subsequent cover up rock the church. Our hero
investigates. The accused is a childhood friend and both men were raised in the
traditions of ‘Way of the Lord’. For reasons to be revealed, our hero has broken
with the church and his own family, who all remain adherent. The newspaper
employing him hopes to exploit him to insure an insider angle on a controversial
story.

The plot unfolds as we learn the intertwining stories of the accused pervert and his
old friend the journalist.

Followers of ‘Way of the Lord’ are to be married by twenty-five. Parents no later
than thirty. Marriages are arranged within the church and infertile couples adopt.
When a child is between eight and ten they are sexually abused. This abuse is
reinforced and repeated over a short time and then suddenly and permanently
stopped.

Cases are rarely reported, but in such cases the church openly vilifies the accused.
Secretly he becomes a church martyr. When he has served any legal debt to
society, he is reintegrated into the church, in a new community if necessary, into a
position of honor and power. He has followed the ‘Way of the Lord’ and is washed
of his sin.

In this light our hero’s dream can be properly interpreted. As he awakes in a cold
sweat, he understands. The tiger is his own father, waking and brutally raping
him. Only to beg and cry for forgiveness, holding his son tightly as if to protect
him. This is the way it must be, the father weeps, you will understand in time.
The cosmic truthfulness of Blake’s mysterious words can be decoded. The Lord
(Tyger) is the Rapist and Raped. The awesome insatiable power of The Almighty
and ‘all the little children’ suffered unto Him.

He alone beholds Himself. It is His ‘Way’. Tigers must prey.

Swedish ending: Our hero, heavy-hearted, leaves his dream and descends to rape
his own beloved child. Abraham and Isaac settle old scores. He returns to wake
his wife. As he confesses a horror dawns in her eyes. A destiny is complete.
Marketing: Zoloft, Xanax. Potential anti-psychotic meds from use of sub-textual
imagery.

Michael Bay/Bruckheimer Ending: A large arsenal becomes available. Mortally
wounded in his one man attempt to bring down ‘Way of the Lord’ Arnie-style, our
hero lapses into the ether as surgeons gallantly struggle to resurrect his broken
body. As he awakes from a gauzy consciousness, he feels the warm soft grip of
his beloved child’s fingers gently gripping his own. In the child’s eyes he sees
unconditional love and the true ‘Way of the Lord’. Marketing: Kleenex, Pampers,
Pepsi and KFC.

Mayberry/Cunningham Ending: A blemish on the character of the hero is
extrapolated. His sin can not be of great order. Something like a bad thought or
marginal larceny á la Ransom w/Mel Gibson. This forces our hero’s personal
reflection. In a higher state he forgives his friend, family and even his father as
‘The Way of the Lord’ comes down in a crushing media exposé. Music over newsbite
montage to credits. Marketing: Spam and other yummy pork by-products.

Production note: Church colors s/b Black and Orange. Marketing tie-in: Baskin
Robbins.

The End.

The Way

Yea women but an empty place
Churning to be filled
And men like children lost in space
Yearning to be killed
Come with your trust to Jesus and I’ll bet my bottom dollar
You’ll be thrilled
He’ll lock you in an engine room
His chariot to drive
Across a giant mushroom
Ain’t it good to be alive?
Give your heart to Jesus and according to concordance
You’ll survive
Running down oblivion
Across the galaxies
Lifted through the neon
Lowered to your knees
Sign your soul to Jesus and my goodness gracious me
You will see
Daily departures from Las Vegas

Keith Spicer

I met a man, though only twice,
Quite preternaturally nice
(By nice of course I mean precise).
His attitude was calm, refined
And spoken softly to remind
The benefits of being kind.
Though I may sentimentalize
I think that he was surely wise.
A candle burned behind his eyes.
He offered me a book to read,
A simple unpretentious deed
From which a friendship could proceed.
At Christmas time we talked, and then
I promised him we’d meet again.
Though I neglected where or when.
He died today. When I was told
I cried and felt a brittle cold
And cried and felt a little old.
Why did I lose this gentle man?
Proceeding with a quiet plan
I’ll find him yet, I know I can.
I’ll try to draw his heart to me
And weather life as well as he;
With pride and equanimity
And whispering my shibboleth,
Alive and sure and short of breath,
Toward the mystery of death.

F is for Jake: Exposing the Existential Cynicism of 'Jake and the Kid' by W.O. Mitchell

2009-09-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

'F is for Jake' is a secret favorite of the post-structuralist absurdist underground. Published in Paris by the Olympia Press in February, 1922 and penned by the skip-tracer known only as Mahatma Kane Hedges. Hedges transcends the medium of 'critique-imbecile', forerunning his subject by more than thirty odd years. Presented here in its unexpurgated whole, give or take a paragraph - Mark LeClair, ED.

-Dedicated to Carl Jung and Giordano Bruno

We are grateful that our assignment is bade to brevity, the shining soul of wit. The normal desire to plumb deeply the secrets of an excellent text are rendered into the realms of the sub-moot. What pretends to the Altar of Art must submit to the Refiners Fire. True Art is instantly universal, immortal and leaping with water. The work of Mitchell has the palette of dehydrated potatoes: wilted, fetid and effete. We feel it fair to assess 'Jake and the Kid' is not art nor literature at all, but instead the shadowed memory of a conceit. A heap of ash scorched into irrelevance by the bright passion of minds that proceed Mitchell ages and ages gone by - most especially our own.

To apologize for such discernment we shall illuminate five discreet critical targets.

They are...

1. The thinly veiled Jungian persona of W.O. Mitchell
2. The Parody pH Test
3. Lying about the Hamlet
4. Sex, Booze and Racism
5. The Lugubrious Game: a primitive fear of castration

The thinly veiled Jungian persona of W.O. Mitchell

We choose Jung as our medium precisely because Mitchell reads in psychology and philosophy. These disciplines are pop-science, except where they follow a rigorous classical education. Diagnosis must precede treatment. Art is a refinement of Science. Jung the physician is in fact the only truly classical 'psychologist', and has been abraded by a raft of parlor pranksters in emperor's new clothes. Mitchell's work in 'Jake and the Kid' cues first his pretense to the Jungian apprehension of the arch typical - and at last how woefully he fails to grasp at the ring. Jung infuses the vital spirit of youth into the well measured actions of profound adulthood - actions which are often deeply disturbing and tragic. Fumbling with his master's spells, Mitchell delivers a neutered mythology that positively oozes with treacly prepubescent infidelity.

Because he is a straw dog, Mr. Mitchell's literary persona burns away in the slightest heat. He wants us to believe he arrives on the tail of a comet. A quick Lacanian gaze at Mitchell's self-projected image is all the proof needed, evenso for the talented acolyte. Mitchell fancies himself a dairy-prairie S.L. Clemens yet never the twain shall he meet. We do not mean to suggest that imitation is improper - many fine writers have devoted a career in the pursuit of a personal literary Parnassus. Rather, the hallmark of Mitchell's whitewash is that he has utterly denatured his subject matter into a Panglossian half-life of existential denial. Art is ritual. Ritual is beautiful but it is also barbaric. The true artist, from Hans Christian Anderson to Dr. Seuss, from Laura Ingels Wilder to Joan Didion, from Homer to Joyce, wrestles the human ritual mystery with the utmost courage and muscularity. In such company W.O. Mitchell is a 97lb. weakling.

The Parody pH Test

The test protocol is as follows: compare the text of 'Jake and the Kid' to a presupposed and vicious parody. We propose that the clear result of such an empirical performance would lead to deeply offended resentment among lovers of Mitchell's ouvre.

To counter such reaction-ism rises a colossus of uplifting parody praised widely by its subjective audience. The Monty Python masterwork The Life of Brian is a fine exemplar. We encounter many deeply spiritual and loving Christians who very much adore The Life of Brian. The biting irony of Brian does not debase the beauty of the Christian passion one solitary iota. Verily, the Python comedy elevates the love of Christ into fearless joy. To kneel at the feet of the crucified Christ after seeing Brian is to open a channel of peace. To watch Brian after prayer is to beat a sword into a plowshare and transmute the saturnine farce into an act of love suitable for all ages.

We are sad that we can not find a redeemable virtue in Mitchell's 'Jake and the Kid', but nevertheless must report events most unseemly. Our parody, called 'The Fake in the Fib', is staged for the Saturday meeting of the Ladies Gardenia and Orchid Appreciation Society of Neepawa, Man. The Rite of Spring itself should cause such a rumpus! Before the dust settles the PTA, the Blue Birds and the RCMP are marshaled to 'maintien le droit'. The local chapter of the Ancient Scottish Rite of Freemasonry convenes in fiendish glee, although this is not widely known to the community at large. Social degeneration, dueling in the streets and apocalyptic frenzy must surely follow as wretched night follows rapturous day. But wait... what's this? A cricket chirps. No one gives the proverbial tinker's. Mitchell is dead and buried before his ink may chance to dry. And with him from this world go gleefully the Gzowski gang, munching cucumber petit-fors and sipping chamomile, not to chase the Sun but pressing eastward over Dover Beach to drown in the mighty Atlantic - 'when the wind blows the water white and black'.

Lying about the Hamlet

Something is rotten in the hamlet of Crocus!

As a Jungian, Mitchell provides the standard archetypes of the chief Gnostic panoply. A golden Kid. An absent Father. A virgin Mother. A magnanimous cuckold (Jake, who is the Biblical Joseph). Miss Henchpaw, the source of tension and much comic relief, is the Mean Old Witch of Hansel and Gretel, who officiates the ritual alchemical wedding. In Gnosis she is Salome painted green. In our time (and cribbed mercilessly by W.O.M.), she is best known as Baum's Elmira Gulch, teacher to Dorothy Gale and dreamed into 100 proof distilled truth in the alter world of Oz as the Wicked Witch of the West.

The only reliable measure of artistic merit is in the exhaustive comparison to source text. In such measure 'Jake and the Kid' is hopelessly pedantic. Hansel and Gretel and The Wizard of Oz have earned their place in the Book of Life and are threaded by the Norns into the Divine Logos. These works ignite startling new visions of kaleidoscopic ingenuity. This is Magick in the purest and best sense - its essence blossoms into manifold beauty. By simile, Mitchell's stark effigy of his source material reeks of spongy mildew.

Our mountebank into the blood, our killing blow, can be found in Mitchell's clumsy appropriation of the crowning achievement of English ritual wizardry: The Pickle of a Herring by Sir Francis Bacon. This dramatic opus is packaged for plebeian consumption as 'Hamlet' and is credited to the phantasm called Will.i.am Shakin'-a-spear. The common hermeneuticum has been flogged into self-annihilation. We are told to consider Hamlet as a man in a crisis of conscience facing an unfathomable paradox. In such light we find the actions of the Black Prince incomprehensible, angry and maybe inspired by fully fledged lunacy. A draconian brilliancy of the sweet bard Bacon - so cunning, canny and precise that fools will scratch their heads even as they tumble into the Abyss of Chaos.

Mitchell perverts the factual Hamlet into the perfunctory 'Hamlet for Ninnies' of Bacon's baffle. He denies The Kid any chance to confront the truth of his tortured birth, namely that his mother conspired with her lover, the hired hand, to assassinate the Kid's father and consummate a black marriage with the living blood of sacrifice. Hamlet was an Angel of Light called to inert action through intimate contact with the astral plane. Purged of his pugnacious id, unfettered and sublime. Action untainted by Thought and yet...

The first page of 'Jake and the Kid' devises a conceit that Mitchell will recall with onerous ostinato through and through. The pattern is: the Thought, posed as a colloquial riddle directly to the reader in the omnipresent voice and on its heels the Action, provided as the answer to a charming Orientalism. Par example, just what is 'Eglantine'? And what is this 'some-fun' that the 'milk' says. The heartwarming answer is but a flyleaf over. 'Eglantine' is a milk cow and 'some-fun' the sound of the milk jetting from the utter and into the pail. Awww...

Through the application of this vanity, Mitchell strips bare the strong arms of his model prince. What remains? A eunuch. The forced and episodic arc of the Kid's rightful come-uppance is the strict logical analog to 'the coin toss'. Mitchell's simulacrum is a crummy, faded copy of a copy of a copy. It has no blood. The Kid must wander 'longside Absalom in the perpetual mist of cyclical mortality - while the not-so-hapless Hamlet, awful, brash and brimming with blazing piss, lingers in the proscenium, haunting the very staging tiles of the Divine Comedy. Our Hamlet will not be consigned into false oblivion by the likes of W.O. No! Not he who sojourns across the undiscovered country, ne'er to hide away his blood but to return again and again with tales of madness, lust and adventure. And each more splendid than the one before.

Flights of Angels will not surcease to sing and modulate their harmonies on high and into ether weird and wild. Up here, nobody loves an albatross.

Sex, Booze and Racism

The historical still life of Mitchell's Camelot - Crocus, Sask. - is painted in toxic lead to cater to the taste of the ontological toddler. 'You gotta teeter', mumbles Jake through a mouthful of manure. We will safely venture that as a stanchion of the moribund, the coloration of 'Jake and the Kid' gives Gravity a run for his money.

Truth is the elevator. The truth we seek ought to be lavishly endowed in the palette of Mitchell's landscape and subsequent character-iz-ations. Instead we are served up a congealed day old porridge to pass for the much prized rara avis of liturgical milk and honey. The rural Saskatchewan circa the '40's and '50's was plagued by frontier alcoholism, poverty and virulent racial and sexual bigotry - themes treated by Mitchell like asbestos - to be isolated and disposed. Never handled but with kid gloves. The genuine Crocus is shrouded in obscurum. Everything was most notice-ably not 'for the best in this best of all possible worlds'.

The knee-jerk response is fatuous. One might say, '...but we mustn't devalue the simple and tender sentiment of such as Mitchell...' or perhaps the more pointed '...any story is not for any listener...'.

Folderol and frogwash.

The nice rejoinder is 'Leitmotif...!' 'Contrapunctus...!' Deeply felt and sonorous internal reference. In a word: talent. Few and elite are those who come to maturity in irony. Such as it is, in a limp gesture of provincial nostalgia 'Jake and the Kid' is awarded the highest honor in Canadian literary humor. Oh how poor Mordecai has a tummy ache tonight.

'Apalling...'

The Lugubrious Game: a primitive fear of castration

Here's the toughy...

George Bataille, in his ecstatic snapshot of Dali's visceral masterpiece The Lugubrious Game intuits in Dali the primeval terror of ritual circumcision and/or castration. We must forgive the zealous, gorgeous George for a minute mis-calculation. The Lugubrious Game is in fact a quiet celebration of this mystic rite of passage, and not the morbid fear thereof.

Bataille's solar analysis is a much better fit for the maudlin tidings of 'Jake and the Kid' than the effervescent Lugubrious Game. By now the reader must assimilate the over-arching thematic structure and existential preciosity of Mitchell's main course. In homage to Bataille we deliver the coup de grace not from the text of 'Jake and the Kid', in which we find a practical example on nearly every page, but from the image on the book's cover which conceals in rusticana the absolute quality of our thesis.

A photograph. A burned out lantern. Two pairs of cowboy boots, one to fit a man and another to fit a kid. A cowboy hat hangs on a nail over the smaller boots. The lantern is by cryptography, the Jewish Menorah, which always burns with the Light of God yet here has fizzed out. The boots stand in as an adult and juvenile penis. The hat on the nail, over The Kid's boots, is the uncircumcised crown of the phallus.

The liar Jake, Jake the fake, the two-faced one-eyed Jack of Spades, is the Gnostic demiurge. His offering is burnt, produces smoke acrid and opaque, and in this dolorous haze The Kid is forever lost. Twelve years on but not Thirteen, and not to be. Not to be a man. Not ever. He suffers the little children to come unto Him and yet...

'When I became a man, I put away childish things'.

Summation

All around the gaping mouth of the literary maelstrom spiral the worthy aspirants to a bornless genius. Some are lighter than air and dance gaily at the outer rim, where the ocean of time glitters like a million bubbles of champagne. Odgen Nash and Erma Bombeck, Buck Henry and Groucho Marx, Baudelaire and Chaucer. Each and every one altogether immortal. Down into the vortex is a velocity where winds the Raven. The trickster. The deep roller. The Impossible Poe. The Naughty Nabokov. The Toil-est T.S. Eliot. Moliere and de Rostad. Woolf and Highsmith and Atwood. The list goes on and on. And what panache! For how can this be? Why are these not sucked into the depths of darkness? How do they remain so splendidly buoyant, to dip and redip into the coldest, purest waters of memory?

Our answer is a good-bye kiss. We scan the enraged conic mandelbrot for a last sight of Mitchell as he goes under for good, yearning for the spice of some as yet untasted wine. And we are parched.

And what of the writer in our swirling eddies of dark delight? Nowhere - unspooled by the Norns and cast into the Rhine as sediment to shift without causal thrust on the bedrock of the cosmos. The sole validity of the story is that it is one's own story, and not a shattered mirror of a life not lived. Our heroes and mentors, the parents of our tradition, the human tradition, played out a story on the killing floor before the most distant thought to stop and muse upon it and its tremendous meaning. The results of such bravery are manifest. The legitimate artist has nothing at all to tell but rather invites the like-minded to confront the perpetual mystery of life in the unspoiled fire of reason. We strive to provide standards from every facet and level of literature to illustrate this simple truth. Life is lived 'til the life being lived is interlaced with the myth-story of that life. The folio tells the tale in every perfumed crack of parchment.

The offspring of cereal gentry, Mitchell fails to achieve his selected science and likewise fails to create even 'bad' art. He is a stuffed-shirt wannabee Ivy Leaguer. Not a cow-hand like his puffed-up sub-dimensional doppelganger Jake.

F is for Fake and woe betide ol' Dubble-You Oh.

No goodly fere nor man who has found a caring wife will speculate upon the dispensation of the soul of W.O. Mitchell. We should be glad upon the golden shores of our Savior to shake the old man's hand and hear his true tall tales of love and glory in the soft fire light. But for his pitiful offering to Ozymandias, Lord of the Literary Logos... well it's the Fiery Furnace for that lot sure as shootin'.

'The lone and level sands stretch far away'.

'Tis Cain and not his brother, whom God will love the more-way,
Abel dreams in Heaven, while Cain hangs in the doorway.

Pax Vobiscum

- M.K.H.

Lucerne, Helvetia. Sept. 11th, 1921(?)