Orsday Programming November 26 2024

Meowing, Cursing, Crushing, Barking

In the days between my last writing and this present, my life had fallen apart in slight and destructive ways.

For my reader I would assume no confidence needed to explain that my faith already had been fragile from pits dug by how worldly I keep myself—I am a believer not wholly committed to giving the self to obedience in the complete raw; if a beggar were to ask for two dollars, I would never surrender my comfort or give my all, and likely I would suffer myself only the minimum, or less, or nothing, to the beggar—so, too has been my faith.

For my church, and for that awful thing underground to which steals my prayers each morning, I have professed utter obedience and cessation of personal thought and want, and lived only in worldly fashions in accord to my personal thought and wants; perhaps it started far-ago with my upbringing and fear of the other from neglect and outcasting—but, too in accord with faith, those explanations spit in the fact of my etiquette to faith and its poultice affect upon the logics and ‘contices’ that life offers us: my past should not exist in any importance upon my present, as all those memories and persons from which they attach themselves to are in kind nothing but tormenting illusions that control my behavior, and that confuse me. The faith and its etiquette professes these inoculations against logic-illusion as being one of the secret mysteries of chiral division: our heads have been poisoned by a lifelong air and sunlight polluted by right-handed factories constantly spewing smoke in ways often more subtle than not: consider how stupid it is that scissors go clunky in the left-hand and how that simple mechanic causes a splinter fine thought that the left-hand can not operate, and is of poorer mechanic.

My feelings for the faith, already pitted with mine errors, had only suffered more damages through that terrible hour spent in the bedroom of Asmodeus where Galactus in his many portraits stared absently down upon us as-if either of us were glass arachnids tangled together and only visible through the distortions we caused through our transparencies. Everything seemed dirty then, in a filth unique to seeing Human as beast, when she had demanded to do our renewals together; of course: this already was in breach of etiquette as the privacy of faith only weathers in these polluted airs, and despite the faith professed by either myself or Asmodeus, we each have gazes hot and feverish with the right-handed smog from a brain spent boiling with poison since birth (I would echo to my reader the importance of the church brainwashing a youth to keep its freshly laundered mind from being spoiled with the bleeding colors of the righteous wash).

The reasons she offered were just prattle that dimmed before the immense light of her want, I could tell; her desire was only to impose upon me something painfully fleshy and in the earthy dirts we are pulled from: I was just skin and flesh and sweat, and in my error of breaching her etiquette, it seemed she wished me to be pulled down through each hastily constructed floor our time spent in church and abiding by etiquette had granted us both distance from the earthen muck we thought separate from. No, we were just profaning our skin—was the only truth behind her telling me that “she loved me,” and the only sentiment behind her casual treatment of me in the weeks followed: I was just another profaned pound of skin as any of the other sisters, brothers, of the congregation. Galactus ate me up in that eerie room.

That strike upon my faith led to further distancing from the church.

I had lied in the following weeks to my pastor about attending his bonfire—it was truth that I wished to go; he stopped me after every service, in the time between my leaving and the congregations retreat to the niches for prayer and studies, and asked if I would attend, “I plan on it,” and if I needed a ride, “oh no, I can drive,” and I would mention attentively that I “am set for everything but I might need help with a lawn chair” (you had to bring your own food and seating, lest you sit on some felled stump or log found in the pastors farm). The only truth was a want to go, and that truth was lost in the greater fear I had to converse with any of the other congregates or to alter my precious schedule that I adhere to daily; a simple fear of eating incorrectly foods, in the wrong environment, at the wrong time—but still greater just the fear of others.

I mention another damage, I felt myself falling further into a paranoia regarding the pastor, the device, and the abundant life executive building wherein the two apparently had met; in the day immediately discovering that meeting—and on a return trip from staking out the building, and reading about the history of the ‘abundant life’ group—a man had approached me at Publix and spoke to me about his service as a Russian interpreter for the US military. He told me about learning the language. We exchanged few Russian words based off what I remembered from my studying. I asked him about his time in Ukraine and his favorite foods. He told me about his wife, and her businesses owned in Ocala, and their wealth and interest in the arts—and religion. He confided that he bought and owned a shred of the Dead Seas Scroll and kept it here in Leesburg. He kept me there talking for forty minutes, wistfully wishing that he could keep me further and talk to me further so’s that I might end up in the parking lot with him, and out to lunch with him. The affect this had on me was few-fold: I wanted him to give me money; I was in disbelief that Leesburg should hold any sort of religious artifact; I was strangely afraid of the man for how his appearance coincided with my paranoias over actors within religion.

At the same time I had become even more cognizant of the blue vehicles that floated by me out on walks; the cars would always slow down to pass me and disappear down corners, halting for unusual lengths of time off the side of the road for me to pass them, continue on, turn down corners, then slowly circle around, or be waiting down on a different street with seemingly no coherency with the direction they had previously been traveling (they would turn left, then be on a street further down as if they had circled back and gone right instead).

It was on the ride home from Publix, after talking with the Russian interpreter, and while thinking on how all these threads knit themselves together, that Sister Turpentine texted me four times in a row. I’d been afraid to check, and never did, instead opting to turn my phone off and bury it—it was a beast of the earth and should return to the earth and let its secrets melt away in-to soil in return, and be left to seep its electricities downwards like some lunatic battery.

The shadows over my heart thereafter leaned thicker, and since some morning past near today I had decided, from bitterness, to stop praying to that thing Underground.

Despite my bitterness, I would like my reader to understand something about obedience and error; since I had heard Sister Human communicate to us the darkened meanings heard from Weil, I had myself read Weil, and reflected on her obedience to God (or Lord God, or just Lord to us of the lesser hand), and how she seemed a mechanical piece in utter motion to the great engine of Lord God. No matter how small a piece Weil played in the operation of the Lord God great engine, she was indeed a piece, and possessed greater emptiness of thought than I had been in learning for—this, I would teach a reader to be the true reason for Etiquette of our order.

As written by Dostoyevsky in the early chapters of The Brothers Karamazov, the role of the church elders there is to be organ in substitution of our own devilish engine:

What, then, is an elder? An elder is one who takes your soul, your will into his soul and into his will. Having chosen an elder, you renounce your will and give it to him under total obedience and with total self-renunciation. A man who dooms himself to this trial, this terrible school of life, does so voluntarily, in the hope that after the long trial he will achieve self-conquest, self-mastery to such a degree that he will, finally, through a whole life’s obedience, attain to perfect freedom—that is, freedom from himself—and avoid the lot of those who live their whole lives without finding themselves in themselves.

What, then, is Wilderness? At a time I had professed a period of ecstasy (and still believe this to be true) found some total isolation from my desires and from several connections which had been used to inflame me into neuroses—say, a constant desire to be in contact with another and to pour my feelings outward in some desperate need to be recognized and amongst—and the real ecstasy I had felt in this wild period of disconnection came in subtler means than the direct communication I had heard from Underground. More important than hearing the dark Word Monstrous that leads us sinister fingertips to our strange church is the shredding of learned behaviors of the righteous where, through healthy social connection, the sinister self is smeared across so indistinctly that there is naught left but the righteous solvent we’ve been bleached by. Disconnection was my elder, and my obedience to the church had been partial.

It makes perfect sense that my being currently undergoes a wracking from my simple material seizing from thinking it has a soul. I imagine my little clay vessel in the garden thrashing and thrashing in the dirt, like my buried cellphone maybe, crying out to an uncaring heaven that ‘I have a soul, please take me, please do not leave me to entropy, please do not let my mom die, please do not let me die, please I want to be forever, please do not let the dirt take me.’ And like a child run away, I return to my dark house and sulk to that thing Underground, and somehow pray despite willing myself a refusal to faith by bitterness.

The blue vehicles that thread themselves through the streets may be needles God knits through cloth to tie me sickly to an insanity; those ghastly memories of how sweat rolled down my neck and my lips pressed to that wound of Asmodeus, who sweat just as poorly and stank, and how the moment was not tender with anything but expectation and hesitation.

As our sacred Connection wavers, so too does reality, as it is only connection itself that binds us, and total severance to that divine Connection is what we worship as second death and promise—us beastly things will be Annihilated, and left without reality.

I fear return to the church, and still write in my binder the whispers; typical ones, to the earthy divisions of 1st Corinthians,

from 1 Cor 15:

³³ Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.

The Word Monstrous and the Word Righteous will not translate and will only lead to wretchedness by translation;

³⁹ All flesh is not the same flesh: but there is one kind of flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds.

⁴⁰ There are also celestial bodies, and bodies terrestrial: but the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another.

The children stood invisible apart from the hand Righteous of Lord God are of an earthen body separate the flesh of men; their flesh is a terrestrial one.

⁴⁷ The first man is of the earth, earthy; the second man is the Lord from heaven.

⁴⁸ As is the earthy, such are they also that are earthy: and as is the heavenly, such are they also that are heavenly.

⁴⁹ And as we have borne the image of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly.

⁵⁰ Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption.

The kin of first men, and that lot, were of earthy flesh and found grace through separate covenant not yet understood or spared by knowing the word Righteous through which it bore itself in graceful form as second man upon earth; these second men were not of earthy things and mixed in correct measure with that spirit of Heaven to which their fate is promised—their inheritance Eternity, by right; and the graven inheritance of the earthy progeny still stalking the putrefying muds of earth in lesser number: death, and its sting.

A dog I drew yesterday,

It is not something I could tie into reading from binder but felt more a constant whisper heard lately while thinking on my fears of entropy and being ‘lost in the manse’ of Herod—and the important relationship between the Baptist, Christ, and Herod, and the building where all of our divisions began and the shadows became stuck; the acephali church: the church with no head upon its shoulders;

that idea hangs heavy with me lately and in thinking on the meet between pastor and device—and the strange colloquial elders we have at our own church, and the severe elders of Russia that Dostoyevsky wrote about; Herod shouldn’t be described as a ‘sinister Christ,’ his building is more important than the man, and more important than either is the decapitation of the baptist. The decapitation itself is a type of baptism (I write this with imagined haughtiness, orating to a class with scientific precision without the intellect to back it up)—but a baptism to annoint the emptied body into a church of quiet mechanisms where no higher thought or abstraction fills it. The empty space upon the shoulders, the lack of intelligence, the lack of thought or guidance; the church should be led by those lacks.

—Would make for an inane congregation, I would imagine.

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this article is part 8 of the [Asmodeus and Glassware] series found on the Concordance