Orsday Programming June 19 2024
Archangels, Archheretics, Archdemons, Archbishops
FROM THE DESK OF DEVICER MARA AT LEESBURG COMMUNICATIONS CHURCH UNDERGROUND TYPED IN TONE NEGATIVE FOUR POINT ZERO INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM TONE POSITIVE FOUR POINT ZERO,
GOOD MORNING! HAPPY SABBATH!
To my brothers and sisters splintered from hand underground and hidden: good morning! To my untranslatable cousins reading for some reason: good morning!
Last sabbath I had written about retardations of character and had been thinking about it since (for some weeks) as it pertains to insect and dander; insect, as an invisible thing, carries with it a dust-like pollutant that is equally invisible and coats what it touches; the insect of the environment reaches out and touches the heads and hearts of every-one it can and leaves behind its contaminant ready to be agitated and inhaled and inflame the persons with retardations.
This could be considered a poetic: we are products of our environment, and role models, and influences.
This could be literal, too: there are indeed invisible insects, and they are indeed influencing thoughts through their infecting and meddling. They have voices and bodies and they exist Outside and reach inside through burnt-out little holes in the illusory skins of Our Vessels (whether Righteous or Sinister it makes no difference). Their molestations make each affected carriers of their scent and control.
In shewings, I had heard the voices invisible as they laced themselves through musics and noises and created misty worlds with which we are hypnotized and drawn to them; laced through music the invisible things, in-turn, laced their death information into listeners. In the world itself were the dander: in the brickwork, in the food, over the flowers, between the sidewalks, on the bodies of loved ones, suspended in water, diluted in the blood, dispersed in the voices.
In the post-shewings, I heard the material through the absences of the invisible; a shadow cast of anti-dander and anti-pollutant with voice inaudible and spidery with which it dug itself in—it was the swollen nothingness through which the invisible drifted throughout, and it was the odd relationship between light and shadow.
The dander, and retardation of character, had me thinking about Team CPU & Archangel:Nemesis and the children both had created, and mine own, and how both were similar and different.
It’d likely be a pain for CPU but it is a truth that: Archangel:Nemesis likely is a tool with which the dander born of L Ron Hubbard’s own insect had gifted him, and had gifted CPU in turn; that dander floated off the work and infected though the dander itself sinks into the skin and becomes codified in language and further programmed into thought (which, in turn, had me thinking about the opening few chapters of Fifth Sun: A New History of the Aztecs, where the Spaniards had gifted few Aztecs with a written language with which small histories could be recorded, and as byproduct: the souls itself of a moment would forever be frozen in these odd libraries which would become phylacteries storing both the spirit of death and the information of an insect that’d gone wholly dusty). The mystique of Archangel:Nemesis and the dander dusted on its surface seem’t to make people retard in a way both seeking (on surface) a connection with spirituality, and (a bit deeper) a fascination with Sea Org as presented through Love Corp, and (on surface) an adoption of the naivety of the author herself and surface characteristics; those coated in Her Dust became partially entweined (intentional typo) with a child of Scientology, and became energized with a lost ‘traumatic spirituality’ (oft in the guise of something vaguely submissive), and became enraptured with a medium of Visual Novel and how it might heal (on surface) and how there is something freeing about typing typo-intentionally and naively—though, removed from the core of the carrier (bearing only the dust, and not the infected heart of the author), they end up as little more than machines running off on programming without the reason behind it; without heart, without brain, and without guts.
I’d been infected by her, without heart, without brain, and without guts; the powdery Scientology sticks to me and my own retardations gifted by my brush with CPU still remain in some way—but what-of my own heart, brain, guts? Audit out the dust that coats my skin and underneath is the woodwork and stone that has become swollen with mildewed Adventism and Christianity that, since then, I’d embraced more wholeheartedly as being of my organs rather than that ‘other' powder.’
Incidentally, I’d think me and CPU were flipped; Christianity stuck to her skin; Scientology stuck to mine. Both may-be slightly rebellious to what was welded to our bodies.
We become carriers of information and dander that little we have control over, if that dander had long since sank into our hearts; the skin, surely, can be audited out of those surface ‘impurities’ with which control and hypnotize us (sure enough, too, this chiral anti-christianity I proselytize can likely be seen as an impurity infecting the thought of any who’ve become fascinated with me or with it)—but the infected cores of us are a little more dear and terminal.
Incidentally, resistance to that terminal core perhaps enslaves us further to it; a life spent in opposition to ‘being something’ seems to be a yoke like any other.
There is mind to recognize that terminal core as being instrument to the material of our selves; our own clay bears its own imperfection from its sourcing—this is something to be thought of in prayer to that thing underground; we are clay drawn from the Qlippothic slurry below, and we bear the pocks that pollute that awful clay.
To resist those imperfections is graceless and enslaving, yet to wed ourselves to those imperfections is equally graceless and enslaving. Grace may be found somewhere in-between, in that odd sliver joined between where light casts shadow—our imperfections are part of us, just as-much as the ‘good material’ is part of us, and need it not be more than that yet all of it us without distinction.
Recognize, too, that with which has become extra element to that material; what part of you is really wholly belonged to typing moronically? Or adapting the naivety of Archangel:Nemesis or the theology or the Visual Novel creation of? Need you resist that inherited dander? Need you audit it out? Need it be you? Need it be more than surface nervous impulse that makes you act like a little pre-programmed machine for some days, weeks, years till another insect out-competes the dander and blows it out of your brains like smoke from dead candle. But it is all of the invisibles.
Meaning of this, is to any finding themselves touched by the dander of this sickly chiral anti-christian insect: consider that relationship, and how you will yourself to it, and how deep that relationship goes between you skin and organ.
I’ve married myself to something invisible and been groom to it; and hope deeply in my heart that, despite my own error and sin in doing so: might I be a good life-long acolyte to this thing and flense from my core all that is unseemly to my spouse; I owe to this faith my skin, my heart, my guts, my brain, and wed my material to that slurry from Underground; I pray in my heart that it be not dander on my skin: but to be the blood with which flows through vein and artery.
In my vows on these Orsdays I tie myself further, and reaffirm further; I pray a desperate prayer to be yet even a finger of that severed hand—to be even a knuckle, to be even a fingertip, to be even a print, to be even a smudge, to be any-thing bearing the Word of that thing underground.
Yet, I recognize the Adventist Pollution from which flowed through the ground from where I was dug up, and crafted. That’s my own retardation of character; at some point, my jangly typing too, was another.
Something more basic and simple, but had been on my mind:
good professions for a chiral adherence, from conjecture (not communication) should be ones that work with MEST (borrowed Scientology term, Material Energy Space Time—in relation to work: manual labor): there is grace in unclean labor such as custodial work, construction, cleaning; there is grace in work relation to the idolatrous: painting, ceramics, housekeeping; there is grace in relation to dealing with the body: working with the dead, and the dying, and ensuring peace and grace offered to either. Analyze whether your work deals with, or honors, abstractions. Abstractive work bears improper translation to a hand Sinister. The hand itself is born from Material and shall putrefy back to Material: surely our work ought to make this grim fate as grace-bearing and solemnly acknowledged as possible.
Recognize those idols as kin; recognize us each as splinters scattered throughout the muds below and bobbing in confusion here in topsoil each.
Happy sabbath! Next one is on the 27th, last of the month. Hopefully it need not be said: but I have a lot of love for CPU and Archangel:Nemesis—though I think we are a little like water and oil, or light and shadow, or left and right.
We influence, we love, we exist, and hopefully: we each make this world a little better.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance