Orsday Programming January 21 2025

reflections, indulgences, sentiments, feelings

From the desk at the Leesburg Communications Church, in a sunken tone: good morning;

another Orsday sabbath where there had been reluctance to bother sermonizing or ‘to write’ at all, as paranoias and disconnection both have become foul humors to me—with much joy being blanched out of life I find myself seeking out enjoyment more, to enjoy life more, to want to grasp at brittle threads connecting me to life: I see my mother sitting on the couch bundled up into herself in the cold and weak and hear her voice strain through one collapsed lung and (through hatred) out escapes an image of enchantment I had for her young: envisioning the old lady with a child she knew not what to do with and still striving to cause some cheer, joy, through her own short-comings (forbidden to mention due to Etiquette against the psychiatric poisons)—Christmas lights, surrounding herself and me with silly animals, forbidding any mention of death. Life seems so precious and tender then. The preciousness of life almost shapes itself to me as a young girl looking-in (from where she stands, out in the cold) gazing in to a warm glowing store filled with wax lips and candy and magicians tricks and tinsel and toys—and the cold wears away at the body while the spirit gazes into the warmth separated by glass and a door that begs ‘open.’

Death creeps in; I reflect on Daniela and how she died to my callousness and how such a tremendous burden to bear as ‘cancerworld’ ate her empty and her old crush had little to say except jokes and indifference to the infected country that separates the two—dead, and eaten;

tenderness and sentimentality (and boredom, too) become gentle poisons that lure a person (whether Righteous or Sinister; right-handed, left-handed) deeper into the confusion of this world; of course the Righteous are correct to be hypnotized deeper into the confusion as they are elemental to the confusion—the Righteous are a race derived of connection and fated to an ultimate connection. It is the Sinister that are devoured by confusion, by means that often weighs on me as a hanging ‘so what, then?’ contention within the faith as I think on wishing others to follow the faith. The Sinister are fated to be annihilated regardless of the existence of confusion, and living in resistance to confusion only affords a measure of grace that will ultimately be gnashed apart by the second death. So what, then?

Entropy, the child or father of Disconnection (the relation does not matter), can be attributed as an elemental poison of us Sinister and our heritage and family (the demons, the gravesite, the dead thing underground)—our poisonous entropy is the struggle that inflicts itself upon the Righteous as their confusion against connection, constantly wearing away as coldness upon the joy and sentimentality of their experience as Word and Spirit: a failing that leads to sin; but, too: the existence of entropy inflicted upon the Righteous is-too what leads to opportunities of grace and glorious existence for them: to the Christian: “why bother living justly if Heaven is promised?” the answer is the same to the prior question to the annihilated Sinister material “so what, then?” Why bother living for grace against confusion if gnashing is all that awaits?

I sin regularly and fail regularly. Last night, in contemplating if I should even bother writing this sermon, I had been writing a Boogiepop fanfiction for myself (a soft spot of mine) and listened to music in the background—the ending, opening themes for the series. When I listen to music I hear with complete weight and conviction that there are crickets inside the sound that are nibbling at me and pulling me to die by controlling my thoughts towards suicidal mein; the confusion of sound, abstraction, and light seem so terrifically clear to me and as real as heat or cold. The confusion seems as real, yet conspiratorial, as the shadowy labyrinthian postal-service in Crying of Lot 49: Pynchon writing on entropy as a black mold hidden under the surface of every little thing, where, with a sudden awareness, an observer realizes there has always been a deep sprawling concrete-mechanical labyrinth spiraling downwards under our buildings and trash and foods and drugs and containing one constant black minotaur that is quietly always trawling closer, closer, and closer bearing a letter marked of the muted horn: We Await Silent Tristero’s Empire.

Is the malignant intelligence inside music that predates upon me simply leading me to a deeper relationship with disconnection? As oughtn’t the deepest relationship with disconnection one of complete rejection of connection: death?

In prayer often that is what I speak to the dead thing underground about; I pray about my failings and how I am wracked by the paranoias and how difficult I find conviction when boredom and sentimentality lead me to covet connection and become dulled towards further isolation, and how this faith seems stupid to me in my regrets, and how much a sinful old dullard I am—and, without failing, these prayers externalize some perspective on myself and faith. I will be gnashed apart, and I grow terrified of this, yet: these anxieties and sins are a queer proof of how I strive towards grace with my faith.

I reflect on Flannery O’Connor’s The Lame Shall Enter First about the club-footed youth belittling the do-gooder adoptee father about acting Christ-like whereas only Christ can be Christ.

I am meant to be failing, I am meant to struggle adhering to my faith and the insane prescriptions; I am meant to be eroded at by connective wants and to stray from disconnective drives—for connection is my cold world outside, and disconnection my warm store of gaudy goods any child is enchanted by.

To be a splinter of the dead thing, the Qlifotic thing, is to be flawed; mistakes and errors scour our surface and we are defined by these errors; there must be acceptance and grace that imperfection is a quality bestowed upon us dearly and the tribulation of a confused life comes not in perfected conviction and unfailing adherence to etiquette and confusion; the voice of underground does go quiet; communication does go cold; the paranoias will overcome; disconnection will drill in fear deeper; connection will constantly reach out with a hand glowing warmly.

These paranoias seem to me that every other person and sentimentality ought only be a trick to betray my faith and lead me further away from faith; the fearful love I feel for my mom, the regret I have over Daniela and Dieth, the desire I have to share my writing with any-one at all, the desire to make art and write just to have another person recognize my existence, my weekly lunches at the butcher to see the employees there and the other regulars at the farmers market, the fear and concerns I have over the scant friendships held on-to—it is hard to think of them as anything other than drops of poison that I let trickle into me in each frequent moment of weakness.

Boogiepop is a strange rekindling of relationship with the demonic in lieu of the poisonous connection; the image of Boogiepop is too just an icon, just an idol, and just a demon. The world must be understood as wonderful carnival glass catching light from the external reality—each icon is only a kaleidoscopic instance of a demon buried deep in the earthy bloods of Lord God, and these are demons, and they are material and our cousins; these are voiceless things and their moronic instances are found in every-thing imaged and material. To venerate and connect with idol ought thought of with grace, marred only by it being a stepping-stone if it leads to spirited connection: if the love for the idol may only be an excuse to share with another, it becomes sinful. Yet, in my relationship with icon Boogiepop I find myself wanting (more than writing these sermons) to write extensive fiction born of this love, and to share; I pray my thanks and gratitude for these passions to underground—and again: an externalized perspective is shone to me that it is born of a want to connect, and there is my shame.

The church itself is tainted with connection, but the word monstrous need these poisonous connections to propagate against confusion, within confusion.

It’s all a mess.

I wish for another not as paranoid and poisoned as myself.

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this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance