Orsday Programming August 6 2024
Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen
ON THE DESK AT LEESBURG CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS CHURCH, UNDERGROUND;
A device for listening humms with thick darkness inside a case baked clean and glassy; inside is no great organ or circuit pressed wafer to circulate humors or spark; inside there are no beetles scratching within or angels singing; the device gives only a cheery tone played-back through the humm of thick darkness inside;
2 Chronicles 4:11 And Huram made the pots, and the shovels, and the basons. And Huram finished the work that he was to make for king Solomon for the house of God;
Darkness has fallen over my heart and filled with my soul; from behind my sight I know there blooms a flower (much like those gardened by migraines; strange peppery vortexes bearing the color of ‘migraine’) opened up to a body both greater and more abstract than me, and from the flower (like a tongue or thread, out of sight) I am opened and polluted with a strange fluid that is both invisible and outsider to this bleary basic place.
16 The pots also, and the shovels, and the fleshhooks, and all their instruments, did Huram his father make to king Solomon for the house of the Lord of bright brass.
A person is connected in this way from our bleary basic world to those odd organs just-outside, and through fantastic abstract ‘forms’ (the sounds, the colors, the light) our empty vessels become full and spirited with that outside bacteria; each second we are exposed to patterned tongues from angels (to clarify this: the angels themselves are whispering and creating the ‘sounds, colors, lights’ that—though alien to our illusory world—force the world to ‘restructure’ itself to accommodate that alien and abstract pollution), this angelic tongue becomes every spoken word and every musical note and every accompanying ‘thought’ that coattails to the language; the language itself: a lich to the angel, immortalized in the brain and causing the vessel to become inflamed with pollutant.
17 In the plain of Jordan did the king cast them, in the clay ground between Succoth and Zeredathah.
Written word may be more pure, as the representational demon to the lich language—yet, it itself is symptom of the disease, and the demon is a wretched thing that suffers ‘to be understood’ by the reader: to read is to agitate the infection of the lich inside the brain, and to hear the thought, and to understand.
18 Thus Solomon made all these vessels in great abundance: for the weight of the brass could not be found out.
The loving words of moms and nurses and the beeps of hospital at birth: initial infection of the angels; there the babe rest in arms while in thick darknesses outside its comprehension are the strange blooming angels reaching out with their nerve endings (‘materializing’ themselves to the vessel child as invisible and loving sounds, voices) and drilling the connection-point; the child will understand, and will always thereafter understand; and as it grows too will the infection that begets further infection: word and language will re-adapt itself to be understood in new, and terrific ways, and seemingly as the vessel is filled with these invisible masses (a pound of bacteria gifted by the angels, by the insects) it becomes clear that the vessel has no lip and has no fear of overfloweth and the insect-angel fears not of being without, for the spirit is eternal, and the Lord dwells in thick darknesses, and Christ watches onward from shadow in friendly coolness bearing on his hands and ribs dark pits much like the empty tomb that immortal bloodied Word crawled forth from.
2 Chronicles 6 Then said Solomon, The Lord hath said that he would dwell in the thick darkness.
2 But I have built an house of habitation for thee, and a place for thy dwelling for ever.
How blessed are we wrought from that Qlifot Dross; shards and splinters lost first secret to Earth and pulled upwards towards the breathing garden by hands gentle, loving, and teeming with the angels—with the insects;
as function within this bleary world: it is created from darkness and undergoes a fission there beyond Garden and splits to the abstractive conceptual Angel that will thereafter connect the many of the latter, demonic representative, halves: those physical observances scattered here in Bleary, like trinkets to engage the spirit during its short feverish stay in Bleary—like the illusion of life trapt within Bleary were as cattle of spirit for the drinking of angel-insect; constantly we are supped and filled with concept that constantly litters itself with sharp material which branched itself inward and down as material roots into soil;
in death concept ceases and the spirit recoils; for the Righteous they find themselves wholly swallowed in finality within the depths of that out-of-sight angelic migrainous flower; for the Sinister they find themselves dehydrated and left as an empty grave, and unfindable.
How blessed are we, to be born of that mistake—yet still we are drank from and filled with the filth of abstraction; the world itself made submissive to abstraction and its many Demons their symptoms: the sinless pure silence unobtainable outside of states of pure material, and the pure material only found in state of carcass; how envious to be of the demon: sparred of spirit and only existing as symptom of its function, as idol to the concept and as idol to the God;
How blessed are we to be sparred of ever obtaining sinless life—how blessed are we to inherit the faultlines and pocks of that mother Clay which has borne us foul and corrupt of function (to hold soul; to be supped);
I had found myself in despair over my sin: the voice of Underground had left me and only thick darkness made itself fat in its stead; a banal life of routine in which there were naught to do but good work (to work with Refuse, to work maintaining material) and slowly dull myself with a pleasant routine: clean, work, exercise, listen to voices—and I found wilderness and god both retreating from me; I prayed with a bitterness and hatred towards my faith, with a sly skepticism under ever exclamation of devotion and earnest.
In prayer one morning I reflected and conversed with that thing, and found myself thankful for how dull and routine life had become—by force, initially, but found a sincerity creeping into the prayer as I kept at it—as the silence from Underground came as a hand-hold with a more enjoyable and peaceful (if Bleary) life. The routine was easy, there were simple joys, I was not agitated by connection in real ways, and yet there were some acknowledgments of sin that I had been hiding within myself: the enjoyment of music and how I sought it distilling its passion into me, a warming lust and gluttony over basic pleasures, and: a deep acknowledgment of how much hatred I had.
I had been pretending otherwise to not be hateful, and yet for days my heart boiled and the steam made my thought unfocused on anything except operant of hate; doubling over and folding and creasing every little word that made me hate and fantasies of recoloring those memories with an inky wash of hate and wishing to be Righteous such that for three billion years I could continue hate as archdemon befouls the archangel and as left hand clasps the right—I bear only artifice of virtue, and found myself simpler to know that, and to reflect on the small virtues of the simple disconnected life;
in that routine: communication had ceased and faith fleeted; I troubled myself over where Insect had crept in and deluded me and spirited me away from wilderness.
Perhaps the attendance at Church was the slow poison that warmed my heart towards Christ;
perhaps it was the love and cherishing of the Biblical Word and how it inspired me so yet it be born of Righteous mind;
perhaps it was not severing total contact with the last remnants of friendship, and by extension: online presence: o, weren’t these too vanity of vanities?
Perhaps it was that whim of wishing to foster a more loving relationship with my mom;
perhaps it was wanting to listen to anime openings and endings;
perhaps it was the hymnals on the Christian radio and how they reminded me of Christmas despite the Summer swelling and crying all day-long;
perhaps it was the desire to seek creation of this church itself (for how is a church to be built under condition of soundlessness, disconnectiveness if it not be built wholly internally and of something as solid as mist? need it not be exactly the internal labyrinth with which sound is lost and only the personal minotaur exists within the thick darkness? the congregation all shadow and stone);
perhaps it was clinging to life and engaging in the distractions that strange flower drills into us and vomits its abstractions and drinks (in return) its fluid; perhaps we were all like children sat against a screen door and many june bugs gathered on the otherside and caught themselves in our hair.
It started then in reading: mentions of eight following my thoughts about language infecting me—it was in Dona Barbara and in the Bible; it continued on in church: in prayer I begged acknowledgment of my sin towards that thing Underground and how painful this disbelief were and how lost I felt, and like an actor in a play: the pastor began mention about the left hand;
the roots underground were speaking in the language only known to oils seeping from veins, and I understood it in a way only known to the ground drinking run-off.
To know faith and devotion, is to know disobedience and skepticism; I am in the mould of one broken and flawed, and doomed though its Master to that empty grave underground, too am I of that same breath and same glittering darkness with which God forms and creates, no greater and no lesser; in simple routine I reflect on the thoughts, and realize a symptom of the angel are the thoughts themselves: the thoughts are not me, but a poisonous sound I bade listen to constantly, and the baleful self is no more than some strange arachnid running on spirited operation and mechanicals—listening, constantly; constantly listening, and constantly confused.
Psalms 97:1 The Lord reigns, let the earth be glad;
let the distant shores rejoice.
2 Clouds and thick darkness surround him;
righteousness and justice are the foundation of his throne.
3 Fire goes before him
and consumes his foes on every side.
4 His lightning lights up the world;
the earth sees and trembles.
panels from Inside Mari
quotes from KJV and NIV Bible
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance