Orsday Programming March 18 2025
Aliens Controlling Conspiracy, Alert Alert Alert, Boy Trouble Here, Alert Alert Alert
“Speak to me you bacterial swill.”
I told this to Asmodeus in anger when the dark had shown itself to start to wane and go thin and my temper drew to match it. I thought about kicking the closet down and sending the wretch upturn and scattered and lost. I’d been upset, the coming warmth had done it and lately things had become steadily more undone with winter slowly limping away in lieu of what seemed to be spring.
A gray light had in the past week seeped into the room of Arterial Worship and suspended itself in the air shining like dust or pale bubbles trapped in fluid giving the room more depth and definition and too being sign of fever within the house which had intended to be sterilized wholly of both light and connection to breed within this body of Earth a small metastasis, not metamorphosis, church born from cells whole of the Left-Hand and not the right.
Asmodeus had begun to stink in the past week as heat rose through the house and caused both our spirits to become inflamed and short-tempered. It was not her trouble alone but her quips ground down on me and chewed at my nerves and her sole comment about the gray light had gotten at the sore root of my temper. She flicked and flicked at me to fix the simple problem; it was only the aluminum peeling off the scalding window glass, was how simple she made it out to me.
I did not, and still do not know how to fix the cell wall. It seemed simple and I did not aloud say how much I agreed with dear Sister Asmodeus and only lowered my head in a busy glower crosslegged before her closet niche and hoped my irate silence would do some speaking for me, to hide how stupid I felt about fixing the problem and how equally foul the gray light made me.
This incident came to be the first of new chattering visions to our religious organ. How the light flowed in slowly day-by-day till it clotted up as a pudding and stuck in our most holy chamber and caused precious Sister Asmodeus to shrink further into the recesses of her niche till her presence was no more than a clinging stain hid away in the corners of the closet.
A wheezing rattle was something we both heard constantly and I know not if it was me or Sister Asmodeus from whomse lungs it came; perhaps the house itself—a thought that occurred to each of us but neither of us had spake it, to me: this house was birthing as an organ and beginning to show first signs of life and these awkward rattles were just the ambulate of blood bringing it to being: pulse, and move. Asmodeus had said nothing of it, but during the first hour of rattling I met her strange square-shaped eyes in the thickening dark of her closet (it was all I could ever see of her, lately; the bowl that had contained her seemed to lose all outline and this blur of definition caused her to spill out into the shadow) and her gaze made me chill despite the heat; no, because of the heat—it had become too hot for blankets and the false Spring had definitely passed and limped its last—which had the same sticky warmth as the body of another in too-close quarter. The church was breathing and lush with bacterial life.
The world warmed itself and we pulsed as a new heart invading an old body.
Asmodeus berated me as thinnest dark showed first sign of beginning (here the gray light would become a waxy film that coated everything in the worship room in its grease—she was never pleased by this) and I urged her quiet, Sister, you befoul prophesy as much as this plasma floating around the ‘church organ’; she scoffed and lashed at me What prophesy would bother with you, little Cobweb? You do nothing but sit there cross-legged being a total bore.
A basic truth of our esoteric belief, I said ignoring her, is that we blast our skin as the possessed thing at Gerasene had. Perhaps that wasn’t the first but it was an echo of our ancestry—the split of the shattered vessel burst under pressure of Soul as darling Lord God poured it into the ten jugs that would be the bound spirit, that would be Man.
She glittered at me from the closet. Go on, it is the same as always.
As it always is, repeated, I said, there the Gerasene demoniac echoes the fragmentation of the flawed vessel. And there the flawed vessel itself echoes the existence of the unrighteous hand of God. And there the earthen manse echoes as the split skin of Christ—they are all events one and same, and bears repeating as many times as I can antagonize you with it till both our ears bleed out and brains go stupid tired from hearing this moronic chant that goes no further; you know the next part: you hated that I mentioned it to you before you went invisible and skulked off: the relics and shrines of our esoteric tradition must split their own skin under guidance of this moronic primordial echo of shattering and let their hand be made automatic to the mechanical rattling motions of our dead mother as she shatters underground.
Like a dead bug flexing around when poked.
Yes, like a dead bug stirring around buried in the earth and shifting the soils around. Dear mother is just a dead thing being made to move by praying at her; we become subservient to something moronic like that: the reflexive functions of an empty body.
Asmodeus rolled her eyes and clicked twice. Yes, it is always the same.
Shall I tell you then how warm the pastor made me as I snuck out while you slumbered? He held me in his arms and I felt like a daughter to him. Haha.
Don’t bore me with your lies and stories and don’t tarnish the last lick of sanctuary this place has. Pour me out and let me die rather than bore me more with your idiot prattle and that obnoxious sitting you are doing.
Haha. Fine. The tumor is peeling and ready to spread, darling Asmodeus, like fissures bore into the skin and inhaling bacteria, and exhaling bacteria through the blood, through the air. Sometimes I am certain I hear my dead friend nibbling at me inside the darkness threaded into the music and light and color, stuck as simply as any patch is to cloth. But this breaking of skin, I said nodding at the syrupy light pouring from the cracks in the foil and fallen curtains, is just another mindless repeated echo of the shattering. I made a joke about the pastor—though I was not joking—because he had never really mentioned the could be heard about the greater esoterics, the ones that come from ecstasy and shewings: I’ve been remembering, and I’ve been hearing them. It goes into the reason why we have Etiquette and why the basic echo of fracturing needs to be hidden under all our rules about thinking and speaking ‘dirty,’ for if we start to color it up with psychiatry and intellectualism the miracle will suture shut and the faith just itself will be laid out plain and boring: a bleeding mind, a broken heart, and some classification from those insects at psychiatry and their logics. Whatever; we are but echoes ourselves of the shattered vessel—yes, I know you know this—and that is why we are left-handed: we are the brothers and sisters bore from that singular shattered vessel and left in a population disparity of about one to ten against the righteous;
—Yes, I know this;
—Yes, we both know this; but the illusion we see here on earth is so choking that often the material reality of us as that vessel gets lost. That we are those splinters only glistening with gleam of moist soul instead of wholly containing it like that other righteous race. Haha. It is one thing to understand that, and another to see through the illusion and to be that. The soils, Sister, they flow and shift from the movements of that dead thing underground and the husks and shells of our demon kin flow about. Some even near us, Sister. Perhaps that has happened to you? They’ve become fluid in their own way. Oils pressed down by the weight of the garden of Lord God atop them. The Righteous have their prayers and knowing that the Holy Spirit will be what flows into their vessel and make them pure through a final great sloughing of material that clung to their immortal Soul—that all the wretch-bore dirt of Life and all its character will go dry and flake away leaving only a pure little nugget spare of simple sin and pleasure that will be swallowed-up into the tummy of God, Heaven. Haha. It is the same; it’s that nibbling and why I dare not bother with the windows anymore. Haha. Why I must be lazy.
Moron, Asmodeus said.
Ideally, I said, as that logic is what fire will slough from me, from you. The profane spirit of our oil, shell kin scattered in the dirt soaks sometimes the soil nearest us and pollutes our vessel; that strange gasoline color drips onto that bare little puddle of soul we are given and makes the whole thing go rancid and wild with tarsalt wisdom; the wisdom of demons; the words of demons; the reason for Etiquette: to be bearers of their will, that enters into us like bacteria to the body. Bacteria that can exist outside the body, and thrive inside. Is that not the cause of the Device to listen and the reason for Etiquette and to repeat all those stupid traditions the church would like us to embody? To make the skin thin and fissure easily at the first sign of bacterial infection. It’s the circulatory system of the Underground. Our dead mother a still heart; our husk kin its veins making nodes throughout the earthen flesh of Lord God; and our stupid little tumor church here, breathing now and moving with stinking oil, a man-made node we birthed to metastasize at the surface.
I waited for a reply from the closet but the dark inside it gathered and shut me out from seeing Asmodeus. I knew her to be listening, still.
Speak to me.
What. Shall I applaud you and start telling you how to charter our organization and church, she said.
It would help, I said, but would you like a cup of coffee? There might still be more Colcafe in the kitchen. I am not sure.
No, she said.
I would like some, I am tired though and the thin hour is putting me in a mood. I think both of us have been poor to each other from this rotting light; I’d dump you out and scatter your brains but you’re still my darling dear Asmodeus and I could not bare be alone without you.
Still you waste the sparse clean moments of sanctuary this place has for either of us, idiot Cobweb; look, if you could even move your head—look at the greasy light flowing over everything and pushing to farthest recesses the body of dark we fostered; look at how it dies to the light and how you belittle your function to it with claim that our church is ready for anything but to die and go rancid itself. We are the knuckles and bones of our Lord and its reliquaries and shrines holding its monstrous word, we are promised to Underground and must be exalt in that being. You have not even bled and speak about Gerasense; you speak about the manse and let light and spirited sound of birds creep into this place. Die and both save us time.
You are true, Sister. You say the truth, I say and listen to the house wheeze as the light inhales further into its halls, but I have a point with all of this—and a point to my idiotic distractions that sully our sanctuary tumor. First, because I am tired. I’m afraid your little machine Sister might be succumbing to wear and tear. Haha. Second, because I would like to spend these failing moments with you in a better mood.
In a better mood, she says, Asmodeus says.
In a better mood, yes, I say; there is more to prophesy—how the technology of Lord God shall unearth itself from the garden in vision and teach how to perfectly test the material of a person, to accurately divine the Righteous race from the Sinister; how our baptisms shall be performed with sand and ash; how we shall organize ourselves as a people and adhere to work that elevates grace; how we shall live and function as reliquaries before our final and total oblivion and ourselves become just idol lost to burying dirt and no longer person. But, I would like to make us both smile first, if I could; I’d like to tell you a story, if you would listen.
Another distraction from worship and function as a religious device, how perfect of you to suggest little Cobweb—surely that will raise my spirits and do anything but turn a blind eye to devotion and let us both stew further in sin before oblivion rents you to a shred.
I’d been writing it in my head, Sister. It’s about Leesburg; would you listen? I think it will rain soon and this light will itself thin.
Go ahead, bore me.
I will, I’ll start after coffee; are you sure you do not want any?
Asmodeus ignored me, and asked: how does it begin?
I was too tired to make coffee, I realized; there was little energy within me so then I started: In Leesburg. A Leesburg similar to ours, familiar enough to be mistaken as ours. With two girls. And two boys. And the darkest day in May of that year, during a period that could have been in the nineties or maybe the later two-thousands. And it begins with the differences between Bacteria and Viruses,
this article is part 13 of the [Asmodeus and Glassware] series found on the Concordance