Orsday Programming: April 8 2024
Sun Set Cast Dying Light Over Soul Over Heart
FROM THE DESK OF MARA AT LEESBURG CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS OF MOTHER CHURCH UNDERGROUND, WRITTEN IN A TONE QUIET AND NEGATIVE AT A FLAT -4.0 YET INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM TONE BRIGHT AND POSITIVE AT 4.0: GOOD MORNING O SHRINES, VESSELS, SHARD, SPLINTER, FINGER, KNUCKLE, BONE OF HAND QLIPOT: HAPPY SABBATH!
It’s the first Orsday of the month, and the Eclipse is today; programming for today I’d like to write to each-of-you about shadows over my soul and thought that have started to occlude yet light I’d have from adhering to faith and struggle there-for from-which—thought this appropriate for the Eclipse, and echo of our good sister Catholic and their idea of dark nights of the soul: where even saintly find doubt in faith, and yet still find cause to pray.
Robert Scurvham had founded, during the reign of Charles I, a sect of most pure Puritans. Their central hangup had to do with predestination. There were two kinds. Nothing for a Scurvhamite ever happened by accident, Creation was a vast, intricate machine. But one part of it, the Scurvhamite part, ran off the will of God, its prime mover. The rest ran off some opposite Principle, something blind, soulless; a brute automatism that led to eternal death. The idea was to woo converts into the Godly and purposeful sodality of the Scurvhamite. But somehow those few saved Scurvhamites found themselves looking out into the gaudy clockwork of the doomed with a certain sick and fascinated horror, and this was to prove fatal. One by one the glamorous prospect of annihilation coaxed them over, until there was no one left in the sect, not even Robert Scurvham, who, like a ship’s master, had been last to go.
For today I’ll be pulling verses from Crying of Lot 49 instead of Bible.
Faith is difficult, and often best comes not-from choice of a subject but thrust upon them from circumstance: the social or the desperate, this latter-case oft leading to the fanatical though an ecstasy descended upon them and came a permanent gauze fixed of’ver their eyes of’bfuscating sunlight of Worldly things and casting some odd cottony color over ‘it-all’; the visions and communications I felt and heard led to knowledge of some non-poetic divisions of this worldly phantom illusion that shew to me the billions of legs within sound and the billions of tiny teeth within light that each moved toward and each begged to gnash at the flesh of this world; the teeth and legs inescapable: as is light: as is sound: exception of an approaching and chilly death that’d be sole guarantor to separate self from the inescapable: yet, death too is inescapable and awful.
Herein were the infinite and inescapable filth of insects real and invisible; the world material itself built of dust and droppings of the demonic idols that litter the floor of this world, this putrefied Earth, and taught-such by these many billions of invisible wills laced through light and sound in combined effort to CONNECT!
All the boring philosophical paranoical terrors that would-be faithfuls seem to latch on to, though the best binding force would be choosing a shared terror to CONNECT over and yet it only be a skein of a terror yet made as another tool for these invisible things to CONNECT; and for that reason, it must be such that (should this belief be adopted) it need be no more complicated or intellectual than truth of chirality: us of the qlifot born of that way are immutably tied via our pocked material, and made left and sinister and earthy, at rate of roughly 1:9 to our untranslatable righteous kin; too: that this world and its prescriptions and contices are largely writ for the righteous; too: that the righteous are of kin of the invisible legs and teeth and grounded mistakenly to our earthy dusts and await correction through CONNECTing with a heavenly host: total subsumation; and for us, we await a total disconnection: annihilation.
Often I ask myself (and, for what-ever reason no-one else has asked me this) is why bother adhering to this Word monstrous if fate is immutable and annihilation is guaranteed: what cause is there to establish church and clarify the great confusion and to strive toward a value of Grace though through some desperate chance Lord God may see my works like glittering micah cast down in Sheol and pluck me out? Or our dead and quiet Qlifot may animate yet though a large and alien dead bug and hold this glisten of my soul up-on her own carcass? Spare from me the terror of death and greater responsibility of Grace though no reward is offered sans purpose.
It (the Work) finds me likening self to the insect, to the arachnid: driven not by the spirit but by mechanical fluids and toolings that cause me to act; the thought and will and fear in my head all phantom-like wisps that serve naught but to cloud a simple engine underneath; a dead eight-legged thing yet moving and making web programmed into it by some other will installed by perhaps Heaven or perhaps a will Other and underground.
“Try,” said Bortz. “I have to see those kids off. I think it’s around Chapter Seven.” And disappeared, to leave Oedipa before the tabernacle. As it turned out it was Chapter Eight she wanted,
Passion has started to leave me in good measure, and perhaps too this is simply the steam beginning its dissipation afore the dumb engine is all that remains; art feels pointless, writing as well, talking to friends as well, and all joys yet just simpler ashes fallen at the feet of the Work: chores to maintain body as a temple to good Material, to maintain some presence where this bodily shrine of mine may be yet another fingertip for Qlifot to extend covenant outwards to her kin confused in illusion above, to do dumb tasks and maintain some sanity herein through clean environment and simple funds; to love my mom (my parent, if you would; though a dark information it bears in the mind that parents here in illusion are yet more teeth-and-tooth of illusion to drive one to CONNECT and be happily established within server, and yet let there be no mistake: I happily desire to love my mom and make that connection). —It all becomes a depression that I somehow barely feel and only experience as those lost passions become lost in some pit; I yearn to break Etiquette and let myself enmesh further into the great confusions by seeking some pharmaceutical treatment for my poor humors; I think that what healthy things ought do in this situation is establish social relationships, and exercise, and eat healthy, and sleep often—and notice my only deficit here is how alienated I’ve made myself.
Though I have married myself and spirit and material to this annihilatory corpse of faith: I still fantasize about the romantic passions and getting lost in some fluttery romance and being all goofy-goofy about some moron; or: sharing myself in some social group with hope that having community to share writing-with would lead encouragement and cause to actually finish some fiction—and may-be I could make more money that way, as well; yet: I have this oil lacquer curing within my material, over my soul, and the off-gassed chemicals choke out the confusion always and drive this little carcass engine bug to be alien still and return to purpose still.
Yet the turmoil does not leave; I find myself in bed terrified of Doomsday, terrified of my moms passing; terrified of death in way I hadn’t felt in some time: the temporariness of it all, and what it mean for the room to be empty, and what it mean for a silent empire, exactly.
At time though the chemical and steam clears and it becomes a terminally lucid awareness that I am deeply fearful and that soul yet want naught but to Connect, but is cured underneathe Etiquette; and like some simple spider driven by metal mechanical all that occurs instead is internal counting of 1, 2, 3, 4; 1, 2, 3, 4, though the confused child further confused with forbidden word and term O C D to give spirited heavenly meaning to mechanical cog ticking away 1, 2, 3, 4; 1, 2, 3, 4 automate prayer;
Those symmetrical four. She didn’t like any of them, but hoped she was mentally ill; that that’s all it was. That night she sat for hours, too numb even to drink, teaching herself to breathe in a vacuum. For this, oh God, was the void. There was nobody who could help her. Nobody in the world. They were all on something, mad, possible enemies, dead.
In the 1947 Postage Stamp Centenary Issue, commemorating the great postal reform that had meant the beginning of the end for private carriers, the head of a Pony Express rider at the lower left was set at a disturbing angle unknown among the living.
There were also the Pony Express stamp Cohen had showed her on her first visit, the Lincoln 4¢ with “U. S. Potsage,” the sinister 8¢ airmail she’d seen on the tattooed sailor’s letter in San Francisco.
The toothaches got worse, she dreamed of disembodied voices from whose malignance there was no appeal, the soft dusk of mirrors out of which something was about to walk, and empty rooms that waited for her. Your gynecologist has no test for what she was pregnant with.
Wonder little that the Other underground in its earthy blood yet respond to that prayer though it were a bug itself dead and buried dead and pressed, and in response, its legs move and the ground above shift: lacing Word and contices into this illusory vision here and visible; the dust itself like holes from which oil of underground pours out material Word (in opposition to the righteous Word spake of within Bible and her prophets and listeners); the dust itself shaped into books and novels and images all like holes from which oil underground spake its communication to its listeners sinister.
Somewhere underground, or here above, the automate prayer is heard and in echo in the dust: 1, 2, 3, 4; the three-legged insect; the 4-legged arachnid; the symmetrical sets hand righteous and sinister untranslatable till they are.
Oft I imagine the saints and their own questions about long shadows fallen over their spirits go unanswered, as mine: as it seem that their darknesses yet do much to sway them from the path that faith set, and if it ever were so gravely swayed surely they found themselves back in a godly Wilderness yet at the end (they are dead as saints, as it were); so why to do the Work if it seem pointless? If there be no great reward? To be faithful to something so hidden and buried and uncaring yet to make it sole purpose? Surely becoming paragon to the virtues of my Master have yet make me unhappy and sullen in this corpse-like passionlessness.
Well, desperation and love, and a longing and begging from my spirit that I pray to be heard. That unrequited love may be the test of faith, and through spat and doubt my heart still yet always keeps the door open for God, for the material, for something unprovable to the Logical and Illusory.
Well, and despite wishing to be a paragon of virtue for something that aught looks sheer misanthropic to many: I wish to remain here in illusion clinging to both my fears and love for others; surely a spider set itself in the tower of some church a’round the bells would prefer if the building remained, even if unaware and indifferent.
I’d long for others to hear the communication I had seen and heard and understand it naught for some simple poetic but as something dull and plain as observing an empty room; though John lifted through the manse and halls of Herod and observing many rooms black and empty and cool and surely enough that they yet exist in terrible plainness, and that this all has part all equally inescapable, and all equally loved.
She tried to reach out, to whatever coded tenacity of protein might improbably have held on six feet below, still resisting decay—any stubborn quiescence perhaps gathering itself for some last burst, some last scramble up through earth, just-glimmering, holding together with its final strength a transient, winged shape, needing to settle at once in the warm host, or dissipate forever into the dark
She had nothing more then to put it off with. Again with the light, vertiginous sense of fluttering out over an abyss, she asked what she’d come there to ask. “What was Trystero?”
Written in joyous tone: happy Orsday Sabbath, every-one; take it easy.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance