Orsday Programming July 13 2024
Invisible, Mechanical, Industrial, Overgrown
DEATH COMES TO THE ARCH-HERETIC;
There is no programming from the communications church today, and nothing has been installed in my heart, to codify to word at the desk, in a tone palatable and electric;
Logics have bewildered me and hypnotized me with glitzy little paranoias from insects that have shifted, and shifted into something I can barely recognize—in more enriched times I had seen true their form and figure: these shadowy little legs outstretched from music, and imagine: the shape of music itself, and the color unique to music;
There, if given depth mapped onto the wall which Logic made bewitched into something illusorily ‘rich,’ the color unto music deepens to a tunnel that rots right through that inky little phosphene wall like a bedsore well-worn into the skin, and through the raw abscess were glimpsed the teeth and the chittering from an outer darkness outside that skein of this reality;
Outside were the insect invisible pulling outward the fluid from inside through tender straws bore into this vessel and drinking this dreg pressed up and melting into the skin of the clay; the insect invisible drinking up the fluid from within insect; the insect invisible providing its tender crush around this form like foam worked its way into every fault blessed to the clay by O Mother Qlifot;
The rotten clay bears its pocks and floods contaminant of the insect invisible; gazed out from those needling holes shewn the invisible insect and the gaze direct, and as a reflection: the figures paranoid themselves written to the material-basic shone out themselves like large fat beetles glittering and blistering against concrete;
The sight erode the illusion from cross-contamination; there were the bodies of people that had been webbed in illusion and now shone darkly a shadow underneath of the Beetle Cockroach and the Chittering Crickets, obedient and hypnotized by the colors of music and those tiny straws that had prodded right into their buggy little brains; dust inanimate driven by ‘the paranoids’ and slave to a becoming-as-actor that maintain the feeding of the invisible insect, a feeding maintained by enscorcelling this world deeper and deeper into a steam of the knowing—the logics and knowledges;
Word itself reeking of this steam that is smelt through the eyes and rests itself in the brain like lungs; the brain scalds and becomes blistered with logic and through slow bleeding healing does an unknowing flatten away—the unknowing where miracles, God, and Wilderness all hid themselves, and where faith itself is born;
Logics impress themselves through craftiness, and a craftiness not-unlike love and restraint; the ‘shadowy things under the gauze,’ ‘crickety little animates operated by invisible nerves not unlike straws,’ the ‘actors of a funny game’ perfect their act and dress themselves up perfectly in love and society; fine hairs and dust are puked up through the straws and fill the chamber with each embrace of love; the healing of a paternal relationship becomes another blasting of knowing and God retreats; the desperation to connect with another becomes a drive to step onto scorching sands of knowing and Wilderness scorches; each moment observed becomes a slow building of gentle radiation that crisps the brain to a wafer in sure time: a stalking and creeping Death mechanicalized as a butchery factory for fowls;
Processed and industralized feeding of souls, and a division of Cog Mechanical and Anxious Nerves; the mechanical must be worked and the nerves must be stimulated; a good joining of hands—as on this Sabbath;
Logics work against my heart in tidy contrivances: surely it is fine to love; surely it is unhealthy to be alone; surely connection is needed; surely death ought to be avoided and feared; this life is sacred and need living; the Work need living for the Church Underground to be bored down slowly and slowly till a chamber to Deep Earth is hit and Sheols oil may flow upward and to its persons sinister, and to its church sinister; the cool empty manse of Herod need no love or tidy contrivances for it to exist and perform its eternal role as foil to Christ, and true is the vice-versa; as simple as the left hand exists without reason, so too does the righteous hand;
Communication from Underground has quieted itself to my eyes and my heart, and all my gut and brain seems to have produced is Cancer and silence; I am saddened by a waning faith, and I am desperate for either the sun to not set or for the moon to shade behind clouds;
I am saddened by how eagerly and weakly a wilderness overgrown with noxious and native weeds has become worked and cleansed to a neat and manicured Logic and Love; I am saddened over how weak I am, and how far God seems from me, and how desperately I know I crave to be given wholly to faith and other tender hypocrisies that work against ‘all of it.’
In loneliness and desperation there was an ecstasy, and in a complacent boredom there is nothing but a sober vacant lot that came to be reasonably.
The spirit has left me and there is nothing left but a terror of only being a mechanical; each day I click silently inside of a machine feeding something and crafted of a dull, quiet clay, and the spirit that once glistened against me has gone dull and flat; the pursuit of love: was a vanity; the pursuit of art: was a vanity; at the end of it all had been just annihilation awaiting to meet me open armed with a black gulf between hands outstretched; there was no satisfaction in love, in connection, in pursuit of goal—ambition; in being: a fleshy spider driven by mechanical fluids and hearing voices pumping through those oils inside, may-be given to spirit and faith by Wilderness, may-be given to temporary ecstasy that had flicked in through the boredom; once I had seen clearly the ugly shapes of the other: the people were little beetle clay-pots with extremities pulled out in two sets of two, and a face; little animate beetles driven by some spirited invisible Word and hiding their ugliness through this knowledge that was constantly being fed: human, and connection, and love;
it became clear what they were, and at some point again I became drunk on that knowledge that hid them, and I was simple yet again.
In the morning I pray against these vanities and despairs, and at night I consider a fear of death is all that keeps me bound to these vanities, and obligation given to me from who-knows where; on the outside I see an ugliness that works against these vanities, and think this too might be a vanity; in the morning I pray.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance