Orsday Programming July 5 2024
Dissolution, Disappointments, Despair, Devotion
FROM THE DESK OF MARA AT LEESBURG CENTRAL CHURCH OF COMMUNICATIONS AND DISTRIBUTION, UNDERGROUND, WRITTEN IN TONE GLOWING AND POSITIVE FOUR POINT ZERO INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM TONE SUNKEN AND NEGATIVE FOUR POINT ZERO,
Happy Orsday Sabbath to all those sank and splintered from the hand Sinister—may we be joined as close as joints and digits and finger-prints and share equally the burden of working into these earthy muds the Word Invisible, Monstrous, such that we were brothers and sisters beyond blood or logic, but fit together by the clay from which we were wrought and cursed. A hand of God equal though arthritic and severe;
here is the updated eighth-day calendar for this month, as organized by sister Violet:
funny enough: our fourth of July isn’t until tomorrow, but hopefully everyone had a good fourth;
for the programming today I would have liked to do some educating on the Exoteric life and the Exoteric person as we shall adhere here in material-basic, as those persons drawn from that thing underground—but my heart is not with that, and my prayers lately all have the same hasty color of expressing humility before O Qlifot and, from that humility, wishing to have more time alive here in this illusion to continue the work yet out of fear, and yet out of desire for my purpose to be wholly that of the arterial will, of the whispers of the circulatory will, of that strange pattern underground (all those terms have their meaning, I’m thinking of this because a person on tumblr asked me about an updated glossary—and all the bolded terms there are defined here in the May 18th Programming);
yet I’ve been without, and have felt a failing towards the wanting; from John 2:
3 And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine.
4 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? mine hour is not yet come.
5 His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.
6 And there were set there six waterpots of stone, after the manner of the purifying of the Jews, containing two or three firkins apiece.
7 Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled them up to the brim.
8 And he saith unto them, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bare it.
I’ve been sick the latter half of June and the same sickness seems to have crept into July with barely any pause; again I’ve been fearing death, and thinking perhaps the communication of Doomsday meant for that sixth month (even more humorous to die on the sixth than the seventh), and yet here I am still alive another month later, and still neurotic over my health and my perception towards 'you.’
‘You’ and that perception is a desire to not bind up communication over a desire for this church body to connect over sympathies and pains; ‘you’ and that perception is to flense from our shared body communication that circumvent the core message of the church: eliminating the confusions of chirality, the establishment of a clear identity of the left hand, the solemn acknowledgment of Annihilation to the bestial and earthen spirit, and the rooting of self towards the idolatrous though they were kindred to us.
But my thoughts are ate up despite, and my prayers all hint at a dissolution of my faith and values that I can’t quite hide without giving all my words a meaning of artifice; to hide my heart and reserve it for Qlifot and prayer may be virtuous, but may-be that virtue does not extend outwards if I express nothing but falsity;
the dissolutions: I crave relationships with the material-basic—error as, even in its best rationality as being ‘part of the Work to establishing chiral ground here within’ is naught but being pulled into confusions. The tenderness I feel for the Adventist church, for example, is little more than a lever with which connections are installed and confusions are afflicted to the heart: hearing them sing, hearing their prayers: abstract sins if any were.
I am afraid of this sickness being a sure sign of a sacred cancer growing quite happily within me. The duration and increasing ‘intensity’ of the symptoms has me reminded of a few people who, upon recognizing their symptoms, decided to leave it to chance and wait and when finally presented to a doctor: it had been too late, and the happy cancer had now been beyond its window for abortion. Equal parts of me wish to be in perfect obedience to faith and respect for these symptoms of life, cancer, and also to cherish this single instance of Sparking Mistake—the little glisten of spirit the left-handed are cursed with on the skin of our clay. I am reminded of Mariette in Mariette in Ecstasy pleading to her superior to not subject her ecstasies to the scrutiny of a doctor and to debase the miraculous to something clinical and logical and basic.
Yet is it not natural to be fearful of annihilation? Though the belief in second death is absolute: is the terror not as well absolute?
In quiet hours the thought races around in my head like a wheel: how had I once been so unafraid of annihilation and death: what pit had I been so deep in, was it either absolute no-way-out despair or was it absolute faith? And as the wheel spins: was it connecting with my Mom and with my Adventist Church that caused such mud and confusion that now my glowing faith in that thing Underground had dimmed with basic fears and longing to enjoy the light and airs of life?
I have gone so lonely and disconnected, though, in my personal life; while my faith had been at its most firm, when I had the mean and method of dying planned out and the notes written in advance: I had more relationships and was more open with people; yet: that closeness with God and Underground I established in Wilderness in those following months caused me to deknit all those vanities of vanities that I had confused for my identity, that I had confused for being important to my faith—and simplified me down to something both more lonely and more content.
Somehow, despite becoming more insular, I started loving this world even more; from Mark 5:
2 And when he was come out of the ship, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit,
3 Who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no man could bind him, no, not with chains:
4 Because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him.
5 And always, night and day, he was in the mountains, and in the tombs, crying, and cutting himself with stones.
6 But when he saw Jesus afar off, he ran and worshipped him,
7 And cried with a loud voice, and said, What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of the most high God? I adjure thee by God, that thou torment me not.
8 For he said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit.
Somehow, despite those dissolutions, I still end up praying and observing my vows on each Eighth day; no matter the logic or ‘sense’ I express, I am brought to my knees before a master Underground that both terrifies me and awes me each morning in prayers measured both in growing desperation and growing distance.
Even my pastor (my, how I say ‘my pastor’) with the Adventists takes vacations; this weekly programming has less to do with the values of the Exoteric Chirality or the Esoteric Chirality, and has less to do with a vague example of character that a practictioner ought to embody; it is an admission of weakness and confusion on my part, and perhaps: an admission that I need a break, and that my heart needs to rejoice in some manner.
This last bit I had thought good to do by observation of the Idolatrous: returning to drawing, returning to sketching; attempting to model and create and add more shells to the mound. To write more fictions and stories that are all polluted with the same patterened faith that I wish others to embody and understand; for the hands to become truly untranslatable but not unlovable towards each-other.
From Alice Munro’s Too Much Happiness,
“I don’t care. Listen. If you think I’m after your money, fine. I am after your money. Also I am after you. Don’t you want a different life? I’m not saying I love you, I don’t use stupid language. Or, I want to save you. You know you can only save yourself. So what is the point? I don’t usually try to get anywhere talking to people. I usually try to avoid personal relationships. I mean I do. I do avoid them.”
Relationships.
“Why are you trying not to smile?” he said. “Because I said ‘relationships’? That’s a cant word? I don’t fuss about my words.”
Sally said, “I was thinking of Jesus. ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’”
The look that leapt to his face was almost savage.
From the Demoniac, to the Christ, to the Woman: what have they to do with each-other?
What have Underground to do with me and my heart; or towards my beloved family born of those splinters scattered in the mud?
To the figure in Too Much Happiness neurotically avoiding relationships: what have any to do with that?
There is a time each must follow, and I’ll leave it at that for this week.
Take care of yourselves; and before this programming closes, I’d like to start linking resources that might be useful for ‘navigating the faith,’ and two that come to mind are:
if you have any suggestions to help flesh this out, or to help develop this ‘church,’ I would appreciate it—additionally: if any language is unclear to you, and you think would merit being part of the glossary.
Next Orsday is the 13th.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance