Orsday Programming January 29 2025

Quiet, Noise, Quiet, Quiet

From the desk at central communications church Leesburg, written in a tone so negative it can not be mistaken as positive:

Happy Orsday!

I fail the faith and make abomination of my claims and prayers and vows daily, and regularly; sin struck itself deep into my flesh as a thorn and remained lodged there in my heart piping through the fat with all that is spared grace and abundant of waste; no intellect or keenness comes from my edge and any attempt to work the steel finds the material pocked greater and shed more thin and brittle and the tool of the craftsman worn and the reputation of the craftsman tarnished and the soliciter lessened. A blip of a power-outage rent my notes and art for this day to shreds and came (humorously) after intentionally deciding naught to safeguard my effort—to be liberated of care and worry of fretting over every little thing: there is no need to back-up, for the concern is wasteful of my nerves and barest effort—and the devil laughs; I laughed with him.

In the walk after I was honked at by a red car who circled around and then stopped at a house ahead of me and left and stared; before then I had been thinking about where all the blue cars had vanished lately—their creeping had become quiet and of the same timidity cockroaches display when they’ve yet to flood the hidden spaces such that the next generation becomes emboldened and flows out into the above-ground and visible and well-illuminated; the blue cars just lazed in daylight as sparkling blue beetles left on lawns and tired (perhaps from the winter weather) of constantly stalking around the dirty Leesburg avenues; at night the blue cars glow with red eyes and idle and spew out their ash and still do not stalk; yet there is the red car.

The sermon again is too drenched in paranoias to offer anything meaningful to another; I mean to pass on ‘my week’ in its paranoias, to show where my heart is at. In the evenings and mornings I’d been driven passionately emotional from the invisibles polluting the air: they mind themselves subtle and seductive, laced finely through even the barest whisper and more grotesquely in musics that float through the stinking airs; all of that noise is invisible smoke and code inhaled into the brain and inflames the tissues to die. Choke and die; drown and die; mutilate and die; shred and die; they are code-words or programming language only made less-primitive than the brutal programming language of “knife” or “gun” by their ethereal nature of invisibility—yet just as clumsily they crash through the air-waves and bade themselves large tender wounds into the flesh of the brain and meat of the soul.

I had been wanting to die for most of the week from these phantoms; a disease that spreads itself aurally; my thoughts have not been coherent and etiquette has been debased by the worries of the self—the tender material; ashamed have I been with my head laid bare before Underground: where has my dedication and devotion to you gone, O Mother? Am I not a frail cobweb left in your cathedral and am I torn so asunder by not even another but by a frailer, yellow, wind? There has been so little reflection and adherence to the strict routine of Etiquette that often it seems my very clothes seem to have unspun through singular thread without my notice, and the unspooling has continued through my very nerves pulled through a hole so very small;

how simple a person I’ve become to be left so idiotic and desperate; this wretch slinks back to the comfort of idols Boogiepop and Final Fantasy XI and daydreams of fictions that all port to themselves just more language of the religion to separate it from myself: the protagonist of the Boogiepop fiction kills themselves and awakens back in Leesburg—as there is no escape—and from a strange idol in the closet comes an exchange to make covenant with me, my daughter; bear the silence of the church, my daughter; lay your body bare for seedbed of my tumor, my daughter; in exchange I will offer you no kindness, no accomplishment, and only the knowledge of fates; in the room adjacent the mom withers away playing Drakengard 2, herself planning to die a week later; the Playstation 2 hums on and the mom watches the opening cinematic in its entirety:

Love me, I want you to love me.

Square Enix.

War.

Lost Lives.

The fire that tears lovers apart.

The flames of war are ablaze once again.

[horrible horn music swells]

I repeat. Unleash your power for the glory of the Knights of the Seal.

I'm asking you to let me die.

My beauty--it is my sin.

Damn. I am hungry.

Ooo. What was that. That didn't even touch me.

I understand now. This is my destiny.

[horrible horn music swells to a fat rancidity]

You're kind and gentle, yet. Somewhat wild. That's why I.

I wish I could be a savior.

I'm glad I met you. Good-bye, Nowe.

I want to save you.

[See me grow wings and fly high, inaudible]

With all seals destroyed, the world will end. Or maybe it's a new beginning

It doesn't matter. We're going in.

You. The world would be better off without weaklings like you.

It's all wrong. Everything.

Let Manah go.

Please don't hate me.

You saw the truth yourself.

Is it over, Caim.

This will be our final battle. Let's go, Nowe.

[UI click]

A confusion besets itself into the flesh from the spirit; music agitates the spirit which agitates the flesh; the spirit desperates to unwed itself from the flesh to rejoin the heavenly spirit: death, die, separate, be annihilate; the horrible tools of heaven work themselves down upon the simple machines of earth—bodies themselves become mines opened into the earth, drilled and propped open by the Word, and worked free of their scant spirit by heavens thin molesting little fingers;

such is the confusion upon me; its manipulations prod through the illusion and warp the image all carnival-like in strange ways: the blue cars become red, people become talkative, music comes from the images, boogiepop becomes loaded with death information; the dreg clung at the edge of the drain is steadily loosened to fall into a sucking black pipe;

it is a worship of silence; it is the awful worship of silence and the terror exists elsewise in silences absences.

It all need be quiet.

---

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