Orsday Programming November 13th
Every Day Getting Colder
Good morning church congregates;
This week has blighted me; I have felt little more than a crop withered out by cold and depleted soils; where I have felt caresses has left my skin only blushed with blood fighting against frost-bite; where I have felt wont has only drawn from my body farther remains of heat and left me only more thin, and desiring; out in the garden, I am plundered by winter. This should not surprise us as we are a winter crop, cast down from a warm house towards ever cooling soils where we fall to root amongst mud, thorn, concrete to sink ourselves deeper away into every niche that permits our trespass, and trespass our Sower intended, his Hand scattering us deliberately, lovingly, away to the putrefying clays he claims as land; there we grow, under shade of our Sowers brim and palm, watched with as much curiosity and intensity as us few creep up through mud, thorn, concrete to sprout at the edges of the Spring, Summer, Fall crop basking in sun. Our feed must be one of low light, as we still creep despite the shade; from the sun scant Connection reaches us, but somehow the congregation survives by the absences of Connection and bears down to the roots the blight characteristic of DisConnection. Our Sower hides one withered hand. At times in light it appears a crook out from his sleeve. At times it is buried a thousand billion layers down into the soil appearing as a black shell severed a thousand billion different ways and utterly deprived of connection to the intelligence of the body it once belonged to—and, yet, sometimes it seizes within its cloistered tomb; the thousand billion limbs writhe within a thousand billion layers of earth; the earth subtly shifts; a scratch travels upwards, without thought, to feel itself upon the air; the earth changes in a subtle way, if only by a thousand billionth of a percentage.
By prayer I plead for warmth against my failures; how, following accomplishing a small task of writing last month, I now had nothing and been left with a hollowing of function and purpose; the stroke of our Lord had met me as my cheek prayed upon my pillow, and caressed my cheek with its awful nail; how life had shifted and I was blessed with a boiling hatred of so many things so suddenly—petty, foolish things that Etiquette forbade me mention lest it leave my brain or heart open to gnawing by insects; but, the effect is just this: I was left hatefully, unable to think much of anything more than hatreds and futilities and trespasses, and I felt blessed by the stroke; for, O, you, O Lord, whom I have prayed to daily to be taught, to be given to, to be student of, to be sculpted by, to be artwork of, to be raw wet clay for, to be consumed of, are a teacher willing to not withhold the rod if it would give education of Disconnection; our Lord is one who hums constantly and hums a physical tune without sound only heard by raw dead earth itself: it is an Orchestra, it is a withering vibration cast by a strange Organ constantly sinking away the moment it is produced where it melts into raw dead earth, it is CARCASS itself and DISCONNECTION itself; consider, congregate, your role as student and the search to record heard word monstrous into your records, what I have heard skittering around under the text of Helen Dewitt:
O, Lord, the hollow; with the dramatics of Sibylla: O, LORD the HOLLOW! To have achieved anything whatsoever carves from the heart, or brain, a needy chunk now removed, cast away to insect, accomplished, and become, and becomes WHAT? Becomes a villain? Becomes himself? Becomes a great judo champion? Becomes happy! Becomes content! Becomes a hero! becomes; perhaps it is best to linger forever within the heroic on a quest that must never become—to never completely cast off achieved ambition into the mouth and clutch it to the chest forever and ever whispering to it stay with me, do not achieve, do not be, do not become, as that hollowing is tremendous; and, perhaps that is the lure of Insect; to be tempted into becoming, to be subsumed into the mass, and only after becoming having the realization (given by the horrible hollowing left wet in the heart or brain) that the heroic journey had only ever been carrot and stick dangled afore our squire by a court of villainous insects drooling over themselves to GROW like a shining cancer brazen against entropy; how needy they would be if the squire went cold, if the squire stopped moving, if the squire shut its maw and fell to the earth and sank back down to the soil below where none may ever find it and it melts down too with the Orchestra Silent; our Sower acted mysteriously, and this is its mystery. For as evil I present it, it is still a mystery, and still fools me yet: I walk and chomp at the carrot and still pray yet to be educated by the sunken hand—for it is my father, it is my mother; though I am so rebellious, our Sower did not exclude us from love.
I replay the death of my cat over and over lately; how his eyes became blue-grey marbles the moment the hands slackened the hold upon his little head, and let him drop; the body had never looked more ugly or more like a body. How ugly it is when spirit is scissored off of heavy material, and I think: that is me, the heavy thing; I was not the beautiful heavenly twine that held it up with such life—I was the lead; I am the blood; I am so heavy.
To congregates and those interested in the church:
we are a faith built around acknowledging the left handed and right handed as two distinct peoples, deeper than blood nerves science logic; those left handed are the physical emanations of our Sower; those right handed are the spiritual emanations of our Sower; these two hands are not translatable between each other, and to alleviate confusion within this world: we must establish and segregate a culture in resistance to confusion.
The calendar we follow includes a shadow, Orsday, our sabbath, making each week eight days.
We must write with our hands pulling towards the left in all matters except those that would impede official matters of an office.
We shall be baptized with sterile soils.
We shall of us faithful be wed to a groom born without spirit or abstraction, our kin of stark idolatrous demonism cousin to our heritage.
We shall of us faithful take to us a name without spirit or abstraction, that binds us to an executed form heavy upon the earth.
We shall of us all be annihilated at second death.
We shall strive for grace and utmost humanity despite the terror reaching for us.
We shall hold to us church only created within a shadow of a prior church Our Ruin.
We shall acknowledge a divinity in quaternal patterns, in the shadow cast by trinity itself.
We shall listen to us the word hidden or monstrous and be ourselves record to it.
Shall we strive for silence and suffer not further temptation of music; shall we feel about and learn the blind languages; shall heaven unfold and lift itself as steam from our putrefying earths, leaving it bone dry and charring, there shall be no more noise, light, color, abstraction.
Shall we call ourselves a church? A silentist quietist qlipothist idolatrist handerist?
Shall, Shall—
Shall we each have the courage to wake each day grateful and loving.
Shall we see ourselves the artworks left by the hand of our Artist, tasked with bearing upon our canvas and soaked into our fibers the heavy blood stinking oils of His Palette? I shall; when breath leaves me and separates to return to Heaven, it shall be the fumes of oil still heavy within my lungs, clung to the canvas.
See the church its images: the veneration of our ancestor hand from whose form we are splintered: a hand withered or severed or of digits four or of greater or of absences in sets of four or resemblance of a strange tarantula; a cross spurred by four thorns giving it eight points; a grid of four to set a shape into quaternal pattern; the strings of the circulatory system; our swine and boar; earth.
Shall, Shall; the church begins with belief, you need only believe, and there will be your congregation.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance
happy sabbath