HE TALKS TO ME HERE

“The revolt from the inside didn’t work. I played your games, bought your albums and wore your fucking t-shirts. The only solution to a circleis a straight line, a straight beeline out, over, beyond! The Mother HiveBrain syndicate must be the line, beeline! and hit them where it counts.I…triangle!” the boy exclaimed, leaning back, his eyes bugging out.“Triangle!”

“Beep! A beep it goes!” He looked around suspiciously as he linkedthree paper clips together in a triangle, dipped it in nearby imitationmaple syrup, and stuck it to his forehead regally, as if it were a crown.“This is where… This is how I contact them. Jam the signal! Ha…”Banging on the table with his fist, he continued, “Their transmitter device, which transmits its insipid reality to the masses, receiving messages from the hidden brain of the system, must be removed. DevonLenny’s must be destroyed!”

The Question Answers if asked.

?/!

ketchup & fried circuitry

Agent 139 suddenly rose. “I am the monkey flower!” he proclaimed. The waitress grunted and began ambling his way, prepared to tell him to sit in his seat and be a good patron. The Agent gave her such a withering stare that she stopped in mid-stride.

“Hear me out!” he screamed. Even the suits in non-smoking stopped, their forks dangling in their suddenly limp hands.

“Fuck it all. Thirty million years of evolution for ‘Singled Out,’ the Spice Girls, and sublimated brutality. Thirty million years and Eminem is the most forward thinking artist on the air? Come on and come off it, you fucking disappoint me. You’re letting your religious iconography be populated by the likes of DMX and Pepsi Cola? I’ll have another hit off the joint and continue to be mindfucked by the boys on the major networks. I mean, I am, after all, nothing more than a product of this…rightright? That my consciousness is not congruent with the agreed upon world view—that is a fluke, a minor mishap, an inconvenience at my expense? A country based on the rights of the many at the expense of the one—who ever thought that the many consists of the one?—and we expect to have individuality? Individuality is itself a trap, a sham. What does this strip-mall of insecurity, this plethora of sensory overstimulation lack? To use the terminology of our late syphilitic friend, a will to power, a will to meaning.”

At this Frederick looked confused. “Late?” he asked. The Agent did not pause, however. He had a far away, highly ecstatic look in his eyes. The tone of his voice had changed, it was now deep and powerful. Johny could see that he was brandishing a curved hunting dagger behind his back.

“Why do you call yourself 139?” Johny asked suddenly, completely spoiling the mood.

139 looked over his shoulder at him. “Top of mind awareness… branding and marketing haven’t you been listening?”

Openers & Closers

by Narrator

There are two teams: Indigo and Violet. You can be on either team.

Oftentimes it is difficult to distinguish which squares are Indigo and which are Violet. Players frequently confuse the two. This is an important aspect of gameplay.



Inside the sculptured curve of your belly, there is a key of indeterminate material. It may appear metallic, but may in fact be a composite of various plastics and alloys. It is not necessary for you to know the composition of your key. In fact, it is better if you do not know.

Your key is unique in all existence because it unlocks doors other keys can not unlock. On the opposite team, players have keys that lock doors you can not lock. The object of the game is to find all the doors you can, and try to unlock them. Or, if you are on the opposite team, to find doors and lock them.

You can never know if you are locking or unlocking, opening or closing. You may find yourself believing that you are unlocking and opening a door when, in fact, you are closing and locking one.

Recent research indicates that there may be more than two teams. There is evidence of teams designated as Ultraviolet and Ultraindigo. These two are even more difficult to discern than their more prevalent counterparts. (We can not see them with the naked eye.)

It is perfectly legal to change teams at any time. You may not realize when you have changed teams.

If you go out of bounds, your piece will be moved to the bottom and you will start again from the top.

The text on the box reads: "This is the game, old as Time Itself. You have been playing since before you were born and you will never stop, even after you pass from this earth."

In older versions of the game, there is an illustration of a rabbit wearing a purple tophat on the cover of the box. Newer editions have omitted this design, opting instead for a nondescript flourish of dubious origin. Players have reported experiencing nausea and feelings of dread after concentrating on the flourish for more than a few seconds at a time.

These are your only clues.

Thank you, good luck, good night and godspeed.

Structions

by Narrator



These are the holy documents. They do not contain a shred of truth. The hallucination of truth is achieved only through personal reflection and inference. You are not on The Path. This is not The Way. There is no Way back and you will never find it. Relinquish hope, but not grim amusement. Only one will serve you. The time will come when you will know. Pet bunnies. Stroke their little ears and kiss their little noses. A great boon may be granted. If you are on a quest, go backwards. Place the holly branches on the bier. Do not look at what is buried there. Throw three coins into the ground and walk quickly away. Pray to gods you do not know and have faith that the coins will take root. Give the fruit of the trees to your enemies. Build small houses in the dark, in the time between snowflake and starlight and sparrow flight. Pretend to know what this means and try to feel wise. Convince yourself that the quest really matters and that you know the next step. When it is time to take the next step, hesitate. Fall asleep beside a stream and you will hear the voices of the spirits who dwell there. They will not show you The Way. They will take your heart and you will despair for seven and seven years. Maybe that is The Way. You will never know. But you will smile knowingly when it is done.

Do not follow these instructions; you are doomed. Disregard any hidden images. Coincidences are just that. Keep your eyes open for further messages. You can only approach by avoiding the approach.

404 documents Six: MONARCH MIND CONTROL.

(More 404.)

I remember Bradley taking me aside once, and confiding in me in one of his rare moments of near humanity. He seemed perturbed, anxious. The music in the background wasn’t helping anything, and seemed keyed into our conversation on some synchronistic level.

“You are familiar with some of the black ops the CIA ran on unsuspecting test subjects concerning mind control, right?”

I nodded. We were in my basement at the time, converted into a makeshift recording studio. I was busy trying to ignore him as he spoke over my shoulder. He was making me uncomfortable but didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Yeah, sure. What are you getting at?”

“Well, I’m sure you have heard of Operation Monarch, alternately Operation Mockingbird. Commonly referred to in Discordian circles as Operation Mindfuck, or just O.’.M.’. …”

Consent Is Relative.

NS: I'd like to know what you had in mind with all of these mirrors.

AC: In relation to the mirrors, there's the outward projection of outward vulnerability, the "school girl" outfit, etc. but there's a place inside that the others 'can't' touch. The distinction between sex/lovemaking and pornography, I think, is just this, that there is this internalization, "fucking them" as a sign of your own ability to have sex with anyone-- and it doesn't mean anything. Now, this isn't quite the distinction that Joyce made, but he was thinking aesthetically there, and I'm thinking psychologically.

NS: What are you trying to say, here?

Mother Hive Brain

The Mother Hive Brain Syndicate

Grand Lodge
Document LVX
"Nothing is true; everything is permitted."

MISSION STATEMENT:

The MHBS is a brotherhood of emancipation. All Agents will do what is in their power to free rather than enslave others, (Agents and otherwise.)

We acquire information and supply it to those who want to know. It is our express belief that although there is not an active conspiracy against the public, (via. the FBI, CIA, Aliens or otherwise), there is a cloud of unknowing conveyed through programming which intentionally or unintentionally creates robots who neither desire or are capable of dealing with the responsibility or repercussions of being a fully functional individual/biot. (Information and evidence of existing conspiracies are of interest to the Agency, however.)

Due to this, we do not confirm or deny the truth of any of the information which we provide. However, we do hereby state that all of our missions, if followed to completion, will indeed lead to increased evolution and the potential of heightened consciousness frequency.

There are two classes of Agents in the Syndicate: active and non-active. Active agents are responsible for missions as well as recruits, but have access to all information related to those missions upon request. Non-active Agents are responsible to make recruits at their leisure.

AGENT RESPONSIBILITIES:

To awaken others in all manners, be they covert or otherwise, using methods such as pranking (reality tunnel manipulation), consensual drug induced psychonaut travel, tantra, etc. We define "awakening" as the state in which one has been cut off from ego and belief models to the extent that they are capable of manipulating belief and ego manifestation at their will.

Agents that do not supply recruits in a reasonable amount of time and refuse to follow through on any assignments will be terminated in whatever way we deem necessary.

Information that the Agency considers 'Confidential' must not be conveyed in any form without the consent of the Agency.

Increase chaos in all systems in your vicinity.

AGENCY RESPONSIBILITIES:

The Agency has no legal liability in relation to the actions of Agents outside of their express mission statements.

The Agency is required to fulfill requests for information from all active Agents. If an Agent desires, for instance, a contact that is learned in Celtic Rune Magic or how to clean an M-16, the Agency will find said contact within a reasonable amount of time.

Agents may feel free to resign at any time, except during a sensitive mission, in which case they may resign at the completion of the mission.

"Everything is true; nothing is permitted."

DO YOU AGREE? (Y/N)

404 Documents, Installment Five: Interrogation.

(Read all 404 Documents)

The interrogation room was nothing special. An office conference room. The ceiling fan whirred slowly overhead and the fluorescent lights flickered, flooding the interior with a dingy and unnaturally greenish yellow hue. The man seated opposite me was husky, forty-something going on seven-hundred, and world-weary. I could tell this from the lines and bags under his eyes, like the rings on the inside of a hewn tree. Those sunken circles made his face seem like that of a raccoon's, which may have been comical in any other setting.

“I’m Agent Trevino,” he said, the tone of his voice doing nothing to dispel my narrative.

The 404 Documents, Installment Four.

In a similar way, all of us were having a Grand Olde Time playing dress up in our MotherHiveBrain issue hazmat suits, when - as if out of nowhere - sirens and loudspeakers blared through the acoustically reflective mall: STAY WHERE YOU ARE.

Everything froze and then broke into chaos, like a giant pane of glass that shudders for a moment and then POOF! explodes in a great huff of shards. Down the hallway, we could see a group of mall cops pointing in our general direction, throngs of those mannequin people pushing and shoving in all directions, and behind them stood real cops in SWAT gear. We all took one look at one another and tore off in the opposite direction. Ripping off our masks, we scattered down side corridors and into random stores, depositing pieces of our costumes in trash bins and clothing racks as we went.

The 404 Documents: Installment Three.

(Read all 404 Documents)

A week later I found myself staring at one of the many entrances to the King of Prussia mall from inside a gas mask. For those that haven’t had the pleasure, let me just say KOP is like the Platonic ideal of “mall,” which is to say that it is placid Hell on Earth, with elevator music. The 7th circle, fake marble, and all the people are display mannequins come to life.

It was a warm day in early fall, and I was a great deal more warm because the hazmat suit was less than breezy. I looked down at myself and shook my head. Was the giant bumble-bee screen print going too far?

Art in the Future: Fake it until you Make it.

As I was preparing my topic that was originally going to be on my successful attempt of time traveling from the future back to the present (which simply consisted of going the speed of light while facing the opposite direction) I noticed while I was visiting the future the direction that art has taken from our present day to the year 2089 (which is when I visited).

What you are experiencing now in media, especially online, such as quick video clips of people's cats, photoshopped images of cats and other cat-related entertainment and internet memes featuring cats is considered the underground (which is literally under ground in abandoned subway tunnels) "edgy" art in the future. Here is an example:

To Arms! Or The Joys of Psychometry

The streets are bustling highways of etheric energy gashed out in the astral-body of the Earth, as all modern cities are. One single strip of human consumption. Vast constructs programmed for profit and desire. Like a goat eating a sugar-coated pop-can, I take great delight in these creatures’ delicious little webs; but of course, the spider never catches me. I am a drop of dew among the flies.

I have found a suitable weapon…. Inside the “Silver Moon – Metaphysical Shoppe”. Shelf upon shelf of witchy mischief, profound revelations, and tales of sexual encounters with ghosts. Crystals harboring Atlantean spaceships within their etheric matrix, cauldrons emblazoned with leafy pentagrams, and wands made by someone’s grandmother.

The Apocalypse: a Romance at the End of Time

i


I should have known when I woke up in the morning that it was the Apocalypse. It had been the apocalypse for a while, but this was it; Angels with flaming swords, the firmament cracking, the sky on fire, seas running red...about what you'd expect. Just like I expected, it was the biggest surprise in human history, and of course, it all started with a dame...

I was sitting at my desk regretting last nights fourth bottle of bootleg rum when she walked in.
And by "walked" I mean climbed down my fire escape and jumped though the window. Somehow, I knew she'd be trouble.
"Can I help you?" I said, holding back a stream of profanities.
"That depends, are you Dr.Adventure?" she dusted off her tights,
"Maybe" I said "that depends whats chasing you through my window" I looked her straight in the eyes, then checked her out from head to toe.
"Oh, don't worry about that, I was just taking in my morning exercise, its faster than the train" She smiled.
"Well, in that case, Yes, I'm Dr.Adventure, how can I help you miss...?"
"they call me Action, I'm looking for a man." I raised an eyebrow
"maybe later, but I mean I'm looking for the man that Ended time"
"I didn't realize time was History..." I said, pouring two shots
"As of this morning" she said, taking her glass with a wink, "all time is NOW, didn't you feel strange this morning?"
"Darlin, I feel strange EVERY morning"
She continued, "humanity has undergone a mass shift in cognition, people have started remembering the past, as in before they were born, and the future."
"like i said, what else is new, where do I come in?"
She looked me straight in the eye when she downed her drink, "Well, now that we can remember the future, we know its your fault."
"Ha! you're welcome." I say, as the adrenalin kicks in, "so whats next?"
"Next" she gives with the full grin '"we have to make it happen. Our rides on the roof"
"Fuck yeah, bout time" I said as she lept back out the window . Told'ya, capital T. trouble.
This was Action girl, reality was fucked. We went to the roof and climbed into the machine. Nothing would ever be the same, it was the End of Time and the dawn of Humanity.

devotee

mounting the rhythm again,
i push.
stamping out fear through the soles of these feet.
a devotee screams, and shivers out;
a base bass of arrhythmic proportions.

in my blood. in my blood. in my blood.

i sing a song so old, only stones understand the sound.
the fires beneath, toss, and coil,
and I, and i, are alone in this time, this rhythm, this heat.
existing only for Mad Gods,
and the serpents...
writhing through the chambers of my heart.

Frater; I remember all previous incarnations in my co adjutant continuum. I have loosed the hold on the secondary personality. deliberately, and with malice. They lied Frater. I know they lied. What i do not know is if you are lying. I saw one of their cities Frater. Beauteous, and terrifying. Upper skyward spaces of exacting beauty, and control..rivers of pain , and suffering at their exalted feet. I danced Frater, i released the secondary out to dance. I will not contain her again. We are united in this decision. I have given my genesis to her, and have taken hers unto mine. I can hear you shrieking "Heresy!" from here Brother mine.... verify the truth of Councils intent. they lied. Did you? So Frater....what i have been assured was impossible, has happened. I am reliable Sorer no longer...i am the Serpent in this tree. Look to your selves...all of them.
"Et facto signo crucis canem solvit;
me timor invasit et vos et risit."

Anath Genesis.....?

P.S. Her name is Zanna, and she asks to send the following message to Council; "Go fuck yourselves."

Connecting to the 8 Dimensions

I am Agent Θθ 3.14159 a.k.a. Brian E. Thegele and I'm here to teach you about mental visualization techniques and attaining your Avatar Self through a Spirit Animal which is done through a series of scientific methods and practices that I've developed within the Metaphysical Science Arena which is located in the right corner of my meth lab in my mom's garage.

To achieve complete enlightenment, one must leave their host body and tunnel through a higher existence upon your Spirit Animal to your Avatar Self. This is done via meditation and a simplistic understanding of quantum mechanics and string theory.

I realize that those words may cause you to feel intimidated enough to be hesitant, but you should trust me. QM and ST aren't difficult to understand, it's just that the science lobbyists attach a bunch of overly complicated and meaningless arbitration to it and lose sight of what it really is. This is done purposely to prevent people from discovering the true power of QT. Which I have discovered and am about to tell you now, here, on the internet.

The Patients Run The Asylum

FROM FALLEN NATION: PARTY AT THE WORLD'S END

Scritch, scritch, scritch. The night nurse waddles through the hallways of the asylum on those god-awful rubber-soled shoes. Back and forth. I can’t rationally blame her pacing for my insomnia, but I do it all the same.
I feel the walls leering in at me each night as I roll around in my lice-infested bed, my eyelids clenched shut. They will probably look like two desiccated grapes by morning – swollen, sticky, and purple-veined – as I toss back the meds with bitter-tasting water. I just finished counting the blocks again. (There are 551 cinder blocks, 104 and a half floor tiles, and 25 asbestos-dusted ceiling tiles in my room.)
I was atrophying. No sex, terrible food, no music. There is no worse imaginable hell. Bored is bad. Bad for me, and even worse for the staff. I get creative when I get bored. Maybe those who tend the mental health machine are as much slaves as we are. I wouldn’t know, stuck as I am on the inside of the metal-insulated plate glass.
It’s “depressive ideation,” the doctors say, to think about the poisonous PCBs, polluting our bodies’ water by proxy. It is an “obsessive fixation” to mention the soil, leeched of its vital nutrients, leaving us all hollow as dried gourds. Granting dreams equal reality with waking was “magical thinking.” They had a nifty name for everything, and a real obsession with sickness. They saw it everywhere.
These things are just the realities of our lives, if we open our eyes. The lie is grinning talk show hosts, Prozac, the American Dream of normalcy, homogeneity, safety. The natural state of the human animal in troubling times is not happiness. Show me a man grinning in the trenches as the bombs fall, and I will show you a lunatic.
The first couple months, I was sure the story wouldn’t end here. I held out hope. I was, after all, just an overeager, idealistic kid. I thought I could break the cultural brainwash by hopping on a table with a toy gun and scream “You’re free!” Apparently that gets you a twenty-to-life sentence these days.
The terrorists didn’t just fly planes into buildings. Somewhere in that twisted rubble lies the shattered remains of this country’s sense of humor. I admit that the Shahada flag flying behind us in our propaganda video may have given the wrong impression.
Bottom line: ideas don’t count for a whole lot in this world, but on their own, they’re mostly benign. Ideals, on the other hand, get you a special jacket with one sleeve. Ideals get you shot.

I lost that idealism as months turned into a year. Our guerrilla street teams of lunatics – whole lot of good they were to the two of us that got hauled in. And Jesus was lost to us all, wandering endlessly in an inner world of possibility. I envied his Eden, where he was a she and all was as it should be. That wasn’t my dream, but I knew what it was to be consumed by an ideal. It sure beat the hell out of the reality that the doctors were trying to adapt us to. A world that deifies the flat-line of an EKG, a world without moods or personality, a place where stability only equals stagnation and where genocide and rape in the name of National InterestTM is fine, so long as you choke down the meds and ride the neon escalator to zombie-land.
Socrates said, “An unexamined life isn’t worth, living,” didn’t he? Well, a life inside a black box isn’t a life at all. Each day atrophies my soul. And with this goddamned three foot tall Venusian goddess squatting just behind my shoulder? – Cow teats jangling and flapping wetly, her breath sweet like honey and milk with the copper tang of blood – I mean, how can anyone expect to get any rest with that? It’s just not right.
Fuck is it ever hard to get to sleep around here.

Order the book now on Amazon!

Lilith

 

Lilith: Report.
Lilith in Fallen Nation.

Robot Circus Radio- "BRADLEY THE BUYER"/"THE ILLUMINIST"

Johan Ess presents Robot Circus - Episode Five (10-13-11) by Bradley The Buyer

The newest episode of Robot Circus with Johan Ess / Online Radio Show is up, featuring fascinating interviews with musical wizards Bradley the Buyer and The Illuminist so stream or download it before the thought police get you!

Fans of IDM, dub, industrial, glitch and breakcore will find plenty of ear candy here, plus an interview with yours truly on culture jamming, short circuiting the global powers that be, and art as a means to social CHANGE.

Initiated of the Order

Alexi

Nothing on the face of this earth—and I do mean nothing—is half so

dangerous as a children’s story that happens to be real, and you and I

are wandering blindfolded through a myth devised by a maniac.

— Master Li Kao (T’ang Dynasty)

Aleonis de Gabrael 

My first waking impression this morning was a hazy glance through frostbitten glass at an overturned trash can. The sound of a dog rummaging through the garbage. The gentle pattering of sleet on the roof. Doppler

shift as a car turns on slick asphalt. Sentence fragments, thoughts bisected in a 3 x 3 set of windowpanes on the far wall. If you’re really intent on a decent reproduction of the event, lie down and close your eyes. Imagine a chill sensation, a hazy image of a toe with overgrown toenails sticking out of the bed covers, and then a camera pan to the rusty trash can outside. Not a dramatic opening for a book, but it’s all this day

has given me.

mirrors

they cast me in a role and i become
(change the lipstick, change the hair…)
i am not i am not i
am not understanding you
SMILE
i am somewhere else i am
(LOOK!) i am (LOOK!) i am
stuck
(broken record. sorry. my mind stutters.)

who the fuck am i
are you
 am i are you am i are you am i
   are too am not are too am not are too
     nnnnkkkknnnnkkkknnnnkkkk
I AM NOT LISTENING
(shhh.)
i am so
are not (am too) are not (am too.)
it’s all about rearranging rooms.
toodeepkneedeepwaistneckeyes
i am drowning /says nothing/
 i look over at Him and smile. It will be better soon.
(?!)

Pennhurst 2

I’m here to tell you a story. It’s my story, really, and certainly not anyone else’s. Passing priest of the new psychological order. Wears the white robes, follows the arcane texts. Passes out communion. They call it an SSRI, but it’s all the same. “This is for my own good”? Swallow. [ ] will tell you quick before IT starts fuzzing, the moments get long, knottingtied to the air, painfully attaching you to the hollowness of this present moment with taut intestines. You still feel the numbness, you know? That’s a reassuring companion. Keeps you through the long days and even longer nights. Only this lingering sensation of numbness, of what has come before and no longer touches me directly, keeps me breathing, keeps me glued to this fleeting nothing, to this pale life. Yes, it has been said, I may be finished with the past, but the past is not finished with me. I am trapped, looking backwards.

Signing in

Floating in a sea of void-mind, the multi-dimensional framework of refracting and colliding worm-holes of pranic-force gently spins in place like a virtual-reality tour of mutating DNA. With my sphere of sight at once within and without, I observe my present position.

Midway between the chamber of diamonds

I am a disinformation Agent

From Rusty Shackelford
"The organization I represent is very real, though it operates under many different names because we have to keep them guessing. No. There is no grand conspiracy. I think we are conditioned to miss the obvious more often than not and opt for the fantastic or incredible. The best hidden truths are in plain sight.

I told him briefly of the interior design of The Plan: Let one hand know not what the other does, isolated cells operating largely independently of one another, no element of The Plan that is known by one cell is typically known by more than a few others at any given time. Ultimately, both sides in the struggle seem to play directly into one another, and at the end of The Game, the pieces go back together again into the same box.

I think I read that somewhere.

He asked me the typical questions: "Is Barbara Bush Aleister Crowley's daughter?"

"No, maybe. I don't know. So what if she is? Jesus."

"What do you think about Dan Brown?"

Sorry. Had to take a break there to eat half a dozen stale dinner rolls smothered in red wine vinegar and a pack of Slim Jims. And some sort of what I imagine to be fish covered in some creamy white sauce. FUCK am I ever itchy.

READ THE REPORT HERE

News Station 23: Coming SOON!

News Station 23 on the horizon...

for now see us at: News Station 23 (YouTube Channel)

and soon at News Station 23 (blog-site)

Where you become the news...

thank you for reading, your data is loaded, you have now become a member of our network

Transfer

standing on the earth pushing to the core of me
i raise my hands to the sky, and
let go..
serpent hair winds the wind, whispering secrets in my ears
things unremembered 'til now.
safely above fragility, i release my lightnings, and thunder-snakes to the sky
to roll around and pound out a rhythm i can move to.
i can dance this fire. moving in passion, i have no fear.
worlds take shape within me,
as i shed another skin.


FraterSenior;
Slowly i adjust to the physical confines of this Union. My penchant for *Makers, proves itself out, again. The present Human associates of this form, have great tolerance for * odd behavior, it is dismissed as part of "the creative process". This has been most helpful. I continue to accept the chemicals they line up for me every morning, and dispose of them at first opportunity, as i still have no reply on the affects on Union.The work continues, i can feel pleasure again. Flexing the seeking part of this Coadjutant mind, regularly, has improved it's focus. The ability is strong, the control is nominal. I await instruction. P.S. Are there other constituents of a complimentary Genisis, in this quadrant? I have been approached. Advise.

Desensitization techniques for the 21st century (and beyond!)

Friend of mine once said to me, "If you have a distaste for the smell of shit, force yourself to smell it until it doesn't bother you anymore." I doubt he meant this in a literal sense, although the image of a Sufi master literally forcing the student to eat hir excrement for the sake of desensitizing the pupil to the corrosive elements of the world and hir own personality- (and primarily for what I would imagine to be shits in giggles, pardon the pun!) is an appealing one for comedic value alone, this is something I wouldn't take literally if I were you.

Many cultural biases or triggers we share collectively seem to provoke irrational fear, anxiety or to trigger the "panic button" response in human beings. It's somewhat of a hardwired physiological phenomenon that has basis in our evolution- That which causes pain or discomfort is to be avoided. The child is burnt by a stove, he or she learns not to touch it again. We associate with individuals who are perceived by us to be untrustworthy, and due to our past experiences we establish barriers or walls towards people who seem to be of the same disposition in the future. If you have a bad experience with any element of life, you will tend to avoid it to prevent yourself from being put through the same pain or burden you have suffered before.

Project 9

REVOLUTIONARY TERROR

Eros For Life

“Everywhere I go, in every experience, I see life constantly on the verge of death, the intensity of it almost overflowing, overwhelming me precisely because every thing is, from the moment of its creation, so  close to its own annihilation. Life exists to the extent that it stands in  stubborn and harsh contrast to its own non-existence. One who is alive, truly alive, experiences Eros for life, as the tension between what we see  as being through becoming is contrasted with the darkness, the hallow  absence—not the light!—at the end of the process.

Through this we may see the first will-to-meaning in the struggle between the secret gravity of our end  being ahead and behind us, and our constant attempt to create a beginning, an eternally present moment, right now.

404 Documents, Installment Two: Mind your dreams

The mission began innocently enough.

I got an email from Agent 156 , which was equal parts cryptic and amusing. Or was that irritating? I’m not even sure anymore. Still, I knew more of the lingo than I liked to admit.

Truth is, the moment I finished reading the email, I felt like I had a purpose again. As an Agent, the daily grind became just a front. You can keep your dignity, you see?

TO: Agent 888
FROM: Agent 156
Subject: Briefing for Op. Mem-Nun-Aleph.

I am currently working on developing a questionnaire which will be used to determine an applicants 'placement' into one of six cells. (Part of the questionnaire will be a release form. We can't take responsibility for what these crazy kids are doing...)

“True or false:
I often cry after masturbating.
I sometimes dream about having sex with my mother/father.
I have an interest in theater.
I consider myself to be comfortable speaking openly to others. I have a psychological case file that is currently open or have received psychiatric treatment in the past 2 years.
I have faced significant legal problems in my life. I often find myself daydreaming about violent acts...”
Pretty basic stuff, psychological profiling and such.

The Buyer has provided me cell diagrams. These cells will continue to be given missions, projects, etc. relevant to their placement. If successful, this would provide for memetic infection, and good times for all. (Additionally it would allow us to provide cultural nudges. Part of the beauty of the cell concept is of course that no one involved at any level knows who else is involved, or where information is coming from. We are all moles. I will say that I am not the one running the show, nor is the Mother Hive Brain syndicate the only dis-organization involved--this connected with other similarly intentioned orgs.)

So what I want to know... is ? ! are you ready? Meet us in front of the KOP mall in a week. We will have supplies.

In closing, consider this aphorism:

Our sages say "the kidneys give advice." In particular, the right kidney relates to spiritual advice or introspection. The kidneys act similarly to the "conscience," as is said "by night my kidneys chastise me." This refers to the "chesbon nefesh" (introspection) of the month of Iyar.

Mind your dreams, Agent 888. Mind your dreams.

mistah kurtz, he dead.

THEE death ov Rusty Shackleford:


my thoughts are fragmented. can't even remember how long it's been since i've even slept. going back thru and tweaking mixes, wondering why all my friends seem to be diasterously self-destructive suicidal or badly dependent on narcotics. we were taught to believe that growing up we would become astronauts, actors or in my case, the unfortunate delusion that still has yet to die: the myth of a struggling young artist, intoxicated by ambition and desire to somehow articulate some socially pertinent matter at hand before dying at age 27.

Too many voices! I do not know who is speaking. Your tongue is a switchboard. Your eyes record the conversation. Plugging bits of information into other sockets to be used for, or against, at some later date. You imply only what i think you said, and never say what i think you could possibly mean. I have a sense of deep unease, the jitters well up and wave a flag of premonition......disaster. A great fire will ensue, and nothing will be found, but everyone will suspect arson, and attribute it to me.

Frater? Where are you? Something went wrong at transfer. The seeding was normal, But this coadjutant union is defective, Efforts at standard contact are hampered. There are vascular issues, and all attempts at revivification of said system has (so far) failed. Please advise, re: appropriate drug responses, and the effects on Union. Obviously, I can not take their prescribed chemicals for this body, if they imperil my ability to retain union. I do not know what to do...please instruct! Sorer Anath

If You're Falling, Jump!

!MOTHER HIVE BRAIN?

HOW DO I SIGN UP?
If you are on the wavelength, you're already a memebearer. If not, you never will be. So pick up that pen, or guitar, or shovel, and get working, Agent.

Resources:

Fallen Nation

Naked Lunch

The Invisibles: Say You Want A Revolution

Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas

The Immanence of Myth

Join My Cult!

Citizen Y

Access the resources, build an information network from there. Follow the link above. An Agent will contact you shortly. 

YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND (part ducks)

Did you hear about Jimmy, man?

No, why?

You didn't hear about fucking Jimmy! Dude! He shat all over himself - this is at the senior dance, too, right, everyone looking right at him as he gets covered in this mess of butt pudding - and he screamed along to the lyrics YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND BABY RIGHT ROUND, I mean every word, screaming along and then-

You're really freaking me out.

You should have fucking been there. Jimmy shat himself, and projectile vomited the whole way to the window, and you're telling me about freaking? At the window he screamed YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE and then? Took a header for the concrete.

It's only two stories.

Fine, then you jump out the window face first and tell me-

-Whatever. So is that why he wasn't in Gym today?

Uh, yeah. Dude. He's fucking dead.

Hm. Guess I don't have to give back his PSP, then.

Yeah. Anyway, fucked up about Jimmy, huh?

I guess. Come on, let's get out of here.

To Mend The Severed...

Gentlemen;

It is in great optimism that I write to you. Attached is a portrait of my left wrist as it is today, the source of unspeakable grief in my life.

It was manipulated to its current state by a salvage operation performed in October 95 by Dr. Hozan of the Temple Sports Medicine Center; an attempt to rectify a malunion resulting from a closed set of a break in late when I was involved in a sport that has since been outlawed in 48 states. The frustration resulting from this handicap has waxed consistently since then, not to mention my frustration, considering that I was an incredibly talented in the writing.

And I now feel that it presents an unacceptable hindrance to my quality of life, as well as the myriad of other things that I enjoy doing with my wrists and joints. You can’t imagine how much it has damaged my income. I lie awake at night, staring at my wrist. I cry out to Allah: “WHY?! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?!” Doctors repeatedly advise me to submit to the joint’s mediocre performance, and that complete rectification is an impossibility; but I assure you, sirs, my body says otherwise! Please know that I refuse to compromise, that I love my wrist, and that i have not a doubt that my body will be delivered again to it’s natural state.

It Is Learned By Walking

"Nothing on the face of this earth—and I do mean nothing—is half so dangerous as a children’s story that happens to be real, and you and I are wandering blindfolded through a myth devised by a maniac."

— Master Li Kao (T’ang Dynasty)

My first waking impression this morning was a hazy glance through frostbitten glass at an overturned trash can. The sound of a dog rummaging through the garbage. The gentle pattering of sleet on the roof. Doppler shift as a car turns on slick asphalt. Sentence fragments, thoughts bisected in a 3 x 3 set of windowpanes on the far wall. If you’re really intent on a decent reproduction of the event, lie down and close your eyes. Imagine a chill sensation, a hazy image of a toe with overgrown toenails sticking out of the bed covers, and then a camera pan to the rusty trash can outside. Not a dramatic opening for a book, but it’s all this day has given me.

The Bedtime Stories With The Antichrist Show

Episode 1

Episode 2

Where in the world is Agent 156?

must remember to write it down...

ok so standing their in front of some shapeshifting reptiles at least i think they were they told me they were when they talked to me, because i found them outside my aunt's house in florida in what used to be her back porch and bedroom but now was a wasteland of raw sewage and talking alligators, and several of these reptilian beings say 'hey, well hello there.' and i say, 'oh, i didn't know you guys can really talk,' and so they say 'welllll we can, when you get high enough' and they all start laughing at me and then they glow and shimmer with light, and then they are like 'hey you gotta write this shit down man, it'll make you appear all cool and edgy and with it for that joinmycult.net shit you write on'...

It's just a ride...

"Overwhelmed, as One would be,

Placed in my position.

Such a heavy burden now, to be The One,

Born to bear, and bring to all

The details of our ending.

To write it down for all the world to see."

-Lost Keys (Blame Hoffman)/Rosetta Stoned

for Astarte.

I was wandering around aimlessly through a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

No, really. That is not an exaggeration.

900 micrograms of the most visually mindblowing, showstopping LSD I have ever taken, a bit of ketamine and MDMA, wandering through a crowd of about a thousand people wearing woolen hippie hoodies, octopus hats and tie dyed t-shirts. Psychedelic Americana Kitsch, but somehow slyly self-aware of this. It was like something out of Andy Warhol's back catalog, or a complex self-referential viral marketing hoax perpetuated by the Church of the Subgenius.

Lately, I have taken to spreading memetic thought viruses to large groups of people. Outside of the internet, the festival environment seems most ideal for this. Congregating with those who are particularly susceptible to ideas that most of society considers to be deviant or dangerous is a way to plant your seeds, one by one, and not get caught. You don't tell them this, of course. Then they realize what you are really doing and the whole game is up. Shit, I just broke the fourth wall. Woops.

Just remember, I am emphatically *not* the Buddha. Please don't kill me.

You Spin Me Right Round part Tumeric

I spent the whole night wishing I could get closer to her. Excuses to brush by, to look just a moment more. I did't want to be creepy. I didn't want to own her. Nothing like that.

I just want to be able to get closer to her. I want to be her friend.

I was at the high school dance. Shitty waste of an evening. I mean, I wouldn't have even considered going to something like this. It was embarassing. But I knew she'd be there.






And then the song started. You know the one. "You spin me right round baby, right round."

Cheesy shit but we can all dance "ironically" to it. That makes it safer somehow.

Yeah I, I got to know your name. Well and I, could trace your private number baby. Amber. That was her name. Different hair color every week it seemed. Different piercings and tattoos. Same eyes. Nothing could change them. I wanted to.

So I stood in the corner. Gibberish numbers were bouncing around in my head, blocking everything else out. They seemed to come from the music but compound themselves, a feedback loop of infinite proportions. 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, ...

She turned to look at me when the words "Watch out, here I come" seemed to blow my eardrums out of my cheap skull.

21, 34... ACTIVATE.

the dangers of literal thinking

the box... you opened it. we came.

metaphors are lies. metaphors are not lies. metaphors are truths. the truths behind metaphors can only be comprehended by way of analogy, much like any other linguistic structure invented by a linear monkey mind. the statement "metaphors are lies" is itself a metaphor. "this statement is false."

why is it so difficult for human beings to grasp allegorical concepts? all language eats itself. the argument is circular. consciousness itself seems to be a chain reaction, wherein the last brick is the first and the first is the last. it goes nowhere, comes from nowhere, returns to nowhere. as george harrison once said, 'if you do not know where you are going, any road will get you there.' serpent eating tail. i am the one eye perceiving itself in infinite permutations of its own holiness... i am getting ahead of myself.

Godlike: THE ABOMINATION.

"Jesus didn't die for your sins (what does that mean, anyway?), he died to first gain empathy with humans but mainly to justify his future tyranny. Yeah that's right, he's a fuckin tyrant, he's gonna make Hitler look like Pee Wee Herman. The man ain't floatin down from a cloud folks he's gonna incarnate just like Jesus except he's gonna have ALL the karma Jesus generated to DEAL WITH!. That means he's gonna have to deal with millions of idiot christians and their idiot leaders who think humility is getting up on stage and bragging about their humility; if I brag about my megalomania at least I'm being consistant (sic)..."

From "Godlike: THE ABOMINATION", by Adaluncatif Melchizidek

it came from the stars....

IT CAME FROM THE STARS

LOOKING FOR A SYMBIOTE

IT FOUND ME

I NEVER ASKED WHY

IT CALLED FROM THE FUTURE

IT NEEDED A HOST

A DOOR INTO OUR WORLD

I OPENED ITS HEART

IT OPENED MY HEAD

MY REALITY ALTERED

"I AM WHAT YOU SEEK"

MY THIRD EYE EXTENDED

ENVELOPING ALL

IT GIVES ME STRENGTH

EXPANDING PERSPECTIVE

TENTACLES SPREADING

FEELING ECSTATIC

WHAT IS ITS PURPOSE?

"YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN"

MUST FIND THE OTHERS

ILLUMINATION BECKONS

NO TURNING BACK

INFINITE SPACE

"COME. I LOVE YOU"

ARE YOU AN ANGEL?

ARE YOU A DEMON?

ARE YOU GOD?

ARE YOU GAIA?

JESUS?

LUCIFER?

METATRON?

CTHULHU?

QUETZALCOATL?

IS ANYTHING REAL?

"NOT ANYMORE

YOU'VE STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR"

THEN IT IS ALL CLAY

I MOLD IT AT WILL

THIS WORLD IS A CANVAS

SO EASILY CHANGED

ALL OBSTACLES FALLING

DISSOLVING AWAY

THE POWER IS MINE

BUT DO I HAVE COURAGE

TO FIND WISDOM?

IT CAME FROM THE STARS

"AND I AM YOU"

been reading the same newspaper over and over again for clues...

Dreaming of fifth generational warfare through weaponized social media-social media follows you everywhere now, even reflecting sunlight deep into the bowels of the military industrial entertainment holodeck airplane tank and gun lobby Tom Robbins liberals, heavily armed.

Sleeping, remember twilight selves, chaos agents, order of the hidden path types: when you throw a dildo into your neighbor's yard, you throw it into the yard of

hyperdimensional merovignian bees

Everything is a goddamn crap shoot. We are meaning-making machines, but it’s all a farce. Let me give you an example. It’s a funny story- the story of how I met a rock star or convict-on-the-run, and simultaneously contracted an incurable disease. I know how that sounds, but look. Had nothing to do with “pants off” games, either. They just happened to happen at the same time.

Correlation, causation, right? Not linked. So get your mind out of the gutter.

My mind was, of course, wallowing in the filth as I drifted in and out of sleep, my head rolling into improbably painful positions, my mouth ringed with a thin patina of shame. Or drool. (Same difference). In that meandering state between sleep and dream, nothing is quite real, nothing is quite dream. They call that a liminal state, right?

I was thinking about this one look. It was a look a lover had given me once. They'd reached that point where their restrictions had been peeled off like a layer of paint. Nothing in the world can ever compete with that look of starved depravity, a mixture of pleading, supplication, and oddly, dominance.

I played it again and again in my mind. It had been years, but that one moment remained etched in my memory as if in some indelible marker, as all other times, places and faces were slowly worn away. A clicking, rattling, whirring sound in the cabin snapped me out of that eternal moment. I didn’t know what it was, and for a while I could keep it out of mind. I was replaying those moments, the delicious moments before everything turned to shit. Yet the moment was slowly losing out. I could feel scratchy things, hungry things, scuttling around in the machinery of the bus. It wasn't sexy hungry. It was, rather, cold, empty insect hunger. I could feel them inside there. Lurking. Waiting.

The air started to smell, I don’t know. It just smelled off. A chemical smell, like DMT or magic markers. I gave up. There were no more "eager mouths," or "nubile mounds" or anything like that. Just a beehive buzzing, mechanical bees, razor sharp bees. Growing, choking out the air, blotting out the sun. I opened my eyes.

This was the first I noticed that someone was seated beside me. Kind of weather-worn looking guy, he had a young face but was also covered in a pattern of wrinkles like kidskin.

“Do you smell that?”I asked him.

“Huh? Smell what?” he asked. He seemed distracted by something else, but I was still mostly fixated on the chemical smell and what sounded like Einsturzende Neubauten trapped inside the air ventilation system.

“Nevermind,” I said. I saw a sign drift past. 300 miles to New Orleans. Loooong ride ahead. “So where you from?” I asked.

He got this 1000 mile stare, like a guy that’d been in the trenches too long. “All over,” he said. “I was in Babylon.”



“Hm, the band that’s been in the news?”
"Everyone's dead now," he said, giving me a look I'd never seen.

And that’s about when the hyperdimensional merovignian bees started crawling out of the ventilation system.

High Tide #2 (2032)

I'm told our parents celebrated 9/11 like it was some kind of holiday. Fly a plane into a building, years later they'll be having Macy's sales around it. I imagine that if scientists announced that a meteor was hurtling towards the Earth, a whole industry would spring out of it. Pharmeceutical profits would skyrocket. Meteor pills would be all the rage. And the parties. Holy fuck, the parties.

That's now how it happened though. High tide just came on coming, a little each year. We worked our way around it. When the subways flooded, we made barges. Marketplaces moved from street level to the second floor. We banded into groups. I've farmed on rooftops, built windmills out of metal scrap. Not everyone, of course. The transitional generation got it the worst.Unprepared and generally worthless, a lot of them withered away to nothing in the darkness over skinned knees and bruised prides.

I guess we were lucky to be born amongst the garbage and scrap cities. We banded together. We improvised, or we died. I was seven when the news media started reporting the 404 Attacks. Eight when the ever encroaching sea was half-jokingly called High Tide. Fifteen when I decided to be a joiner, changed my name to a number (79, if you're wondering), and started pranking corporations.

And I was twenty one when I met my first demigod. That will take a little explanation though, huh? It started when I met a runaway along the side of the road. The rest I'll piece together from what she told me, and what little imagination I have. Grant this old man some poetic license and come along with me, I've got one bottle of old Scotch left, ...

The sizzle of a match sparking to life momentarily mingled with cricket-song in the swampy air. A large, calloused hand guided it towards a hurricane lantern in the dark, its nails split from work and grimy to the quick.
“Bad smells, lil’ Missy,” a voice said, coming from a hulking form still mostly cloaked in shadow. “Fiyah. An’ pisssss.”

The wick of the hurricane candle borrowed life from the match, which expired with a wet sizzle in the palm of the other seemingly disembodied hand. The sweet pork and sulfur smell of burnt flesh filled the room with the growing light, revealing shelves of yellowed bottles holding dried herbs in front of a mildewed Confederate flag.

404 Attacks (2013)

Art: P. Emerson Williams

Don hadn’t been to an airport in the past year. It wasn’t an experience he much missed. He wondered how they managed to combine the feeling of a checkout line at a supermarket, a doctor’s office, and a gulag. It was well executed, though to what end was never entirely clear.

For better or worse his mission had been accomplished. He had a nice little chunk of change set aside for himself, so long as he could get out of dodge before someone found out that without his aid, all the social viruses that were biting the establishment in the ass now would have starved themselves to death long ago. It was time for him to find a nice plot of land to lie low in for the next millennium. Thailand seemed ideal. No questions, no pesky laws if you bought off the right cartels.

Lines of people shifted, clutching briefcases close to their bodies. Cordial, preemptive cavity searches had become standard. So had random DNA testing and crosschecking. Cotton swab brushed quickly across the tender inner cheek was all it took, and they could trace almost anything, if the system determined there was cause for a full query.

The group brusquely wading through the crowd was far more troubling.