Orsday Programming March 10 2025
caustic, acidic, poisonous, venomous
In the preceding weeks life had become stagnant and secular and the commanding voice of etiquette fell to whisper as sparks of love and intelligence descending upon me in Confusion—defined in the religious sense of being misled against the material, to be lost in a wilderness not of material but of abstractions and connections.
Life seems to be composed of spectacle that make it worth living and divesting emotion into though God poked holes into the surface of earth with which our hearts and minds are meant to be constantly dumped into to feed poisonous pits; how have I gone so misguided and warped as to be whispered back into this slave agreement to constantly be confused towards my thoughts: friends gift me thoughts of love, irritants gift me thoughts of frustration; political news fills me with anxieties, the voices on the radio and hidden throughout music command me to be filled with ordered programmings that lace me further and deeper into Connectland, Server; the act of living: just constantly being filled with these gentle poisons and tasked to dump them each into the toxic pits God carved into the earth—this is all the great and wonderful game of Connection is, spectacle.
To eschew the spectacle is to recognize a truth of self and to stand under a shadow cast by either the hand of God (3) or the hand of the Lord(4)—to recognize these thoughts and whims and loves and hates within the brain as nothing more than the same impulses that make the moronic cockroach scurry when light is seen; that I am nothing more than a moronic cockroach device scurrying through life propelled by spectacle and confused that these simple commands are ‘higher thought’ or ‘intelligence;’ I am but a device of hewed Earth and of a sadness that it took a turn towards the wisdom of flat-things to recognize it, again—the idolatrous demons etched down as line into sand, flickered into their own spectacle by electricity and made digital: said even more moronically: it took seeing several drawings of Chiba from Wandering Son praying and exclaiming her own vileness for me to have a mind for Etiquette and how deep within the confusions I had left myself to wander, and how much of my own dregging spirit I allowed the invisible insects to suck up.
The people are not people; the friends are not friends; they ought just be abstractive little polyps that appear within the wrinkles of Gods Flesh to be nodes of confusion and pattern-weaving to create further spectacle, to lure down into the ‘deepers’ of connection; Etiquette is a rule to live in opposition to connection, a slow poison to the brain meant wholly to discourage thought and kindnesses to the world and to let feet sink into a terror—the people are not people. People must be recognized as another operant force to pull towards the righteous bias of Connection. This recognition of the bias extends to loves, and hates; a person who incites much love is of equal confusion as one who demands hours of fuming hatred—these are spectacles, as-is the events of the world and the anxieties and the elations; the state of gender, being, self, identity—all vanities afforded only to confusion and connection.
The enjoyment had by talking about books: another operant; the will to look forward to a meal: another operant; my own brokenheartedness at loneliness: another operant; the irritation I feel at that moron: another operant; so many levers had been installed that the higher paranoias of those strange stalking blue cards melted away back behind the curtains of Leesburg and became either invisible or morphed into blood-red cars that only flit loudly down the roadways as-if externalized blood vessels themselves leftover of my straying of inwardness. Prayer had been forgotten and my blood debt unpaid and an Orsday forgotten—all in favor of more vanity and thought that perhaps I wanted connections and to not be lonely, to not be so terrified of death and the cataclysm that hangs over me in gathering dark.
Inside the music come command words to die; they flick at my heart and beckon death; the habits and actions of petitioners beckon death and my disgust at other persons kept my mind occupied on the secular; how to behave towards another, how to occupy my cockroach thought with another (again, mistaken that these thoughts are mine and not just spectacle themselves).
Connection is the weather as-is light; it is inescapable to life and though my soul is but dregs at the wineskin floor and lip, I seek grace in subservience to faith and to lay-bare my brain in Etiquette to that thing Underground—to adhere to a strict tenet and lifestyle of a shrine to that thing Underground, to be a simple stone with which its covenant may be built with, and for that thing to be my mason; I am a wretched and blackhearted thing, and a moron beset with a morons kindness and pettiness; this life is just suffered spectacles, and I am weak before life; And, before life, I seek grace through my failings of perfect behavior, and think-again on O’Connor’s The Lame Shall Enter First: “nobody is perfect but Christ” (or something similar).
The children of that shitty hand Left are skulked stone and putrous earth.
After prayer that day outside the blue cars appeared once again, creeping down the roadways and darting nearby though exposed by my graven eye Etiquette turning inward again: one pulled slow nearby down a turn and parked where it had no business being, the lever operant inside of it go out and shouted at me in a sound audible: hey; in church the day prior I attended after resolution to put myself in order and reconnect with faith, etiquette, and make good on the blood debt I owed Underground as its clay—the demon of flatlands (etched in a circuit) Satori Chiba, Wandering Son, had been the inspiration I needed: loud in its quiet and sharing with me its passion for church and prayer and a loving bitterness I needed; I needed passion shared to me to reframe how I’d viewed faith and religion as something of terrorous obligation and function; I needed to see Lord God as Satori Chiba had: one to lay forth the muck of the soul and to let the souring smells vent forth and forthclaim: I am rotting and I am wrought by you and now I attend this child’s college of miracles (Church, as it were) and trust myself to you, oh Lord God.
Life and its connective weathers is an anesthetic to miracles and the child’s college; through logic, sense, and intelligence does callous form over every black pit where the miraculous forms and just becomes another patch of easily-understood asphaltum cooled and made for treading; the path of adventure made sidewalk.
Suicide, and death; it is clear to me that the only way to wholly be separate of the Connective is to be wholly separated through total Disconnective death; for the righteous few they shall never know this as their material is sloughed back to the earthen stomach and returned to primordial curdling, lost, and annihilated; for us sinister kin and cousins that annihilatory curdling belongs to us—that cool chill of Sheol with which spirit is rent (even just the dregs) away in coke smoke mayhap even Heaven would choke up-on. Grace, and life, again being the binding forces to keep a spirit here tethered in confusion and weighed to obligation to Underground—it is a known contradiction of the church monstrous: why bother fostering the connective church here in Confusion when the people aren’t people and greatest Disconnection is only earned through a true Wilderness belonging to death? Death is a wage already earned; Disconnection is already promised; Annihilation is already fated—in these guarantees there is a soft hand that coaxes a spirit to ease and submit to the current of Life, and ‘let be’, but consider Dostoyevsky and an active love or even more idiotically (belonging again to a flatlands etched-in Demon cousin) the words of Kazuko Suema, If there is anything that gives value to human life, It is the struggle with that ‘something,’ In the battle versus the Imaginator that does your thinking for you, and appreciate the comparison of some idiotic idol Demon to the feverish intelligent Dostoyevsky tried to immortalize. Grace is obtained through resistance to the caustic weathers of Life itself—in resistance to the pointlessness and actuality of all the fabric of Life, Connectivity itself being but putrescine and cadaverine flowing from a carcass of rotting Lord curdling in earth and warmed by invisible angel light.
The mission of church and adoption of Etiquette is resistance to gravity, and a doomed resistance, in seeking of grace—it is to enslave the self to a Work, and a doomed Work; and it is to live under that growing doomsday voluntarily, and to become equally heroic and pathetic in small ways in dedication of that doomed Work.
To the Sinister, write backwards and for years after your thoughts will change;
Install into your thought audits against the Outside to keep the Etiquette sterile and contained;
Recognize the louses that bore into the brain and cause the material to think itself intelligent: identify the diagnoses, the groups, the beliefs, the languages, the emotions—and let that voice Etiquette audit them;
The self Sinister belonging to a church monstrous is but simple beast and mud, made by Lord and forsaken not and its bible left hidden in the wake and gathering dark of other, brighter, glowing things;
It is the cousins Demonic trapt and graved into sand and idolatrous, moronic forms which a profane will travels through;
It is the stinking blood of the Lord which flows like oil through the veins of earth, and all earthen things;
It is that awful thing from Underground, and it is its church through which our Work is performed.
The secret held within earth, when the righteous shall spirit with the millennium and the body of Lord is left behind in its rotting material: too will server rot, and the bias of this place will turn; the righteous hand will ascend and the sinister shall finally go crooked in its shape and disperse, and its grave will disperse, and disconnection will creep across the land in claim of tissue and blood both and all turned, basic, to cadaverine; a heap of humanity left behind, and entropy to be new light from which the server has its function—an age of death, and a child of death.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance