Orsday Programming April 3 2025
Another, Multiple, Many, Several
From a morning so cheerful in tone glowing four point oh; it is only Mara;
the programming this morning is an informal one about the current status of ‘the church,’ and its ‘clergy,’ mainly that I have nothing prepared in terms of sermons or real observations to offer a person spiritually hungry or to offer greater lesson about the faith; my time lately has been spent working on a fiction serial that (like most things I write) is meant to serve as a front-facing façade for the faith, and to address some aspects that I have taken for granted (bacterial and viral nature of wills that come from outside; at some time in the past I had become so disgusted with people that I took greater effort to sterilize language to keep it from being served-up to connective invisibles as more hooking-in points). I’ve just been slowly working on that writing each day and, aside other daily obligations, I’ve let that eat up my time.
Something that spurred me on lately has been input from two different persons; one had been a subscriber (I’m uncertain if it would be proper to name people) mentioning that these programmings had become very cyclical—which, though I am aware of, as the fear, lesson, paranoia, need be hammered in until it is shot deep enough in the brain that it is a hypnosis under thought—and another had been a person who graciously read my fiction draft and gave me feedback on it, notably mentioning that they were excited to read more. This latter bit really has made me excited to write each morning as-if there were a greater purpose to writing outside of self-driven labor to accomplish The Work. That former bit, about the cyclical nature of these programmings, too had been a driving factor in analyzing what-all I am offering to people—which I feel strongly has been equal part piecemeal and dull.
It is not lost on me that the prescriptions I offer for anyone excited about the faith is essentially silence, and to just write backwards like a goofy little lump of clay waiting for hands to coax it into a better shape but only left untouched.
This loops back towards that strange language I use about the connective invisibles and sterilizing the language. A disgust I have is language being used as an approximate (a proxy, maybe) for one of the invisible bugs that connects people together; example: maybe I were to use the word capital somewhere and someone gnatted up with Marxist lice in their brain understands it as a latching-on point for their controlling will of Marxist lice. It is why rarely I use the word ‘qlifot’ or ‘qlippoth’ or other variant spellings: it becomes a vector for an invisible bug called Kabbalah or something similar to hook its fingers into; or, worse, Left-Hand Path nonsensers to dig in their dirty little hands and ignore how stupid and literal what is meant by left-handed.
All could just be reduced down to observing Silence as the ancestor of the left-handed. A grand silence that could be called annihilation, and a grand silence that serves as our animating Word in contrast to the living Word of the joyous God.
Separating out these connective bugs is why deknitting thought is important, why sterilizing language is important, and why holding silence as a master is important—as the air, color, sound are all flush with invisible bugs that serve to bring a joyous noise into silence. And, by extension, why the practice of both shadow basking and readings are important, and why maintaining sterile thought while performing either is important. In reading something like the Bible it must not be from a lens of Kabbalah or Marxist or Left-Hand Path or Catholicism or Adventism or Et Ceterist—it must be through a lens plucked as cleanly as possible of any louse and left silent.
In the absence of the joyous Word, that is where our Bible is written, and must be found, and recorded; it is written in the ribs of road kill, in the charnel of houses, in the muds of rivers, in the floorboards of houses. It is a dull and idolatrous word, and that must be understood by a believer. Our bodies, as clergy, as reliquaries to the silent thing, must be clean room technology for it; so must our actions and lives be in dedication to it.
How to live that way.
I struggle with doctors, or to see potential illness or disease, or to analyze behavioral issues, or to reach out to others, or to respond to others, or to produce work, as it is all connective dirt; the moment I understand sickness as more than a miracle inflicted upon me is the moment I lay myself bare to a long and royal lineage of beetles that have evolved themselves perfectly to the task of eating our miraculous graveside silence. The moment a word is used that vivisects behavior and exposes the logical workings of character is too the moment that little earwigs infiltrate the clean room and lay their feces about contaminating the space in a small and spreading way. It is impossible to remain perfectly clean. The struggle to be that way is Grace itself.
A clerical order, if established, should be curators of Grace and work to foster Grace within themselves and their flock; a clerical order should see themselves obsessively work towards a future persons sinister separate of the Righteous forms—the sounds and abstractive colors—and exemplifying the sinister forms—the representative colors and arts; the veneration and hoarding of idols. Establish places where dry baptisms may be held; begin the practice of renaming self and sinister kin after the idolatrous form; be the moron who writes backwards against a righteous culture; and allow the only infiltrating will to be that of underground.
The infiltrating wills; the bacterial, and the viral—at its simplest, bacteria can survive both inside and outside the host; viral will die outside the host.
From the underground flow sludgy bloods of the chopped-up and flensed sinister half of Lord God; floating everywhere in heaven above is a joyous righteous half of Lord God; bacteria spews from either, wafting through the airs and colors like a cough, bubbling through the earthen veins like runoff pollutant.
So encouraged have I felt to write, by another. I am made so weak by another.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance