Orsday Programming September 15 2024
Shimtillaeuteritation, Scintilleurateuronitiatic, Smeuriaeuteuriologicalonics, Schilleauteritoteuriologicaleurionic
O VAMPIRIC EARTH WHERE I am promised, on this day I have submitted myself to your care and to your church; bleed may be my spirit to your heart and four chambers therein where all earthy secrets are consumed and pulverized—recognize this, as vows kept within mine own heart in echo of yours: I see within earth four vermiculated chambers gnawed down in wide lots within Sheol, I see three chambers set as baleful waiting rooms for sinners, I see the fourth as set for the Righteous; bed to the earth I have been taken as yours and wed as shrine and to join the dust and secrets scattered amongst those three chambers—may this splinter long mutated with the Nervous Spirit return; O worm of the Earth, I know I will be swallowed by you; here as I see over Leesburg and our humble Church Monstrous the towering cylinders of Argos chewing and churning dirts; here I see mine own church and have accepted their secrets and ways;
Two years have gone the initiation, and therein have I been privvy to the mysteries of the church and first glimpsed that voice underground; I felt, in that service, your corpse as it underwent its mechanical writhing underground—the small shifts of soil, the unintelligent pulsing of your oil as it flowed through dead chambers. The technology of Lord God has tapped against my spine and found me none other than dust and beast; my spirit has not the glow and body of my parents and those flickering about me in their Righteous way—I’ve heard as my Church Elders spake that they be Word made animate and moving joined in spirit and offered succor of that cold second death; that those flickering ‘things’ are far removed from me and cast as a quaternal shadow from mine own grim trinity of those three pits of your earthen heart; they sleep in death, and vanish into the air when the skies shall open and the earth be made kiln to bake all dead and living to wafer dust and slag dross; birth then be the children of death and that age of death, and I be made inanimate; I know this, O worm; O, carcass—I have felt deprived and longing and without ecstasy of your being.
On this morning, what should have been joyous with my acceptance within the church felt celebrate yet pale; my sister had taken me into the ancillary chamber before service and asked of my nerves, and repeated to me the meaning of sublimation to You, to be shrine to You, to be what reliquary is—all made simple the way ‘grand religious mystery’ can only be made when exposed to these heavenly airs through the voice of us beastly earthy things: we are not of Word; in my head I imagine my sister as a toy of yours with string being pulled and mechanical voice repeating what was programmed; that confusion tumbles through my head and I find myself in melancholy that mayhap I not believe in you enough, to have doubts of my sister in these jumbled neuroses; at start of initiation I had been excited and saw your shadow cast from everything—in clay worship I wept; in the idols I saw your dull glory; in quaternal reading I understood how light cast you in such ways and felt though what nibbled and gnawed at me left such pocks that your oil found purchase. In prayer I begged that this spirit be drowned and flushed and in absence would be your lacquer and breath and I would shine and glint from being your material; your carcass as it lay may have writhed to mine own ecstasy and reached through the earth like hand reclaiming its print. I programmed to myself etiquette, mechanical, and saw to observing your day as instructed by mine fellow sisters to find your lines within my skin and make myself as though clay and instrument as though your nail—I begged to be signed and made art by you, and: it had, in my heart, been granted; etiquette flushed out the malignancy of confusion of that grim act and made it clean—yet, after so long in your service and without that new pinkness of first accepting you, it has all become rote and bland. Prayer has become only routine and though the words are practiced from a heart once ecstatic, now they are only mechanical imitations; I speak to you frankly, O Worm, my blood has been offered to you and my baptism has promised myself to you—as shrine and reliquary for your dull hand—I have only begun to find peace with you; I fear now this second death and annihilation; I cling to confusion as I have never before and seek succor with the sisters and the sparkly righteous; I look over Argos pumping soil from the Earth and only see the silos and machines and not my kin; I question technology of Lord God and think though it be some confidence trick; I wonder about my hand and my writing and this calendar, and the dust of baptism that cling to me yet after service—of the service itself, and the readings of the old shrines and the shadows within Bible and feel skepticism, and tiredness at the routine I have promised the clergy and conference. I, too, find myself feeling as a wife beginning a tired acceptance and ‘old love’ of the spouse, that maybe this rote banal feeling towards you is a type of love I need cherish. Almost, I think, of proof of my sublimation to you, that each morning I obey the mechanicals and the etiquette despite protests of my mind and heart. I recall some verse by old shrine about the retreat of mind as leading towards the depth of bowels: that chirality begins in the spine and flowers towards the brain with abstraction, and roots towards the bowels with mechanical dullness—and true enough, I find myself in imitation of a worshipful machine installed within my ribs, in echo of You, a cold machine buried deep and made of scrap from those first vessels intended as Engine to Heaven and Idea and Thought. And, I think: a corpse is so perfectly removed from Thought; the less I think and dwell, the more I am like You, and am scared; I think of death cults and the sickness that idea seem to carry like a malignant dust, and am scared. I feel though, at times, I have fallen for a sickness or cancer, and think the prophets may have only been spreading such; I feel, as a shadow cast, that the confusion makes me register it as sickness and I am disobeying etiquette.
I am weak, O Worm; a lifetime of service to you is ahead of me and I shall rest beside you as quieted machinework in death, hidden in your hearts chambers and tell myself there is no greater peace. My prayer is distracted with my sister offering me a giftcard; the conversation before service keeps bubbling up in my mind with how the mundane kept intermixing with the ‘grand ritual mysteries’ and I want to laugh at how stupid it is. How the wounds itch at me; how awful I am at reading backwards; how I still struggle internalizing my new name given to me by the church, and how stupid it is to say. I am a terrible servant, and my sister (bless her, half her face frozen up with a stroke) seem to understand exactly my neuroses. She told me she understands, with that polite nod she does, and smiled and compared it like a basic love: how she remembered being completely enraptured with her first husband and how that fire consumed her whole life with its passion, till eventually the fuel ran out, and it had become just an empty jar with sliver of wax at the bottom and just another object in a room that was her life. She mentioned the beheading and the platter and how it had now just been another thing in a room, and there was a great significance in that. There was abstraction being breathed out, and an absence oozed in. She poked my shoulder playfully and said I am thinking like an empty room.
O, SISTER; I greeted more joyously in the Orsday following. In prayer that morning I found an error in how I had been praying—sometimes, each week presents another mystery of the faith to me. I prayed past my frustrations of repeating the same mechanical prayer I always offered—corpse-like though it may be, and though I may be betraying that infernal machine I’d found bound up inside my body—and professed my sublimation to It Underground; I’d been giving yet only thanks to It: which felt stupid, as it is thanks for this confusion, yet without the confusion I’d not been led to It and the clarity granted. Through sublimation in prayer I realized a want-and-need to carve out niches for Underground to sleep in; earthy things rest in me yet, and I am an earthy thing.
Perhaps my stroke-stricken sister had some wisdom for me and I’d been in error to see her only as another filament of confusion (another thing poked-through this material basic to lead me in strange ways); I joined her after service to do vows together.
In shadow-basking prayer I felt the depth open up there without senses and it were like the illusion became cleaved unto me and I joined the black wall beyond it, and the soil itself, and myself etched up the sleeping chamber of that Carcass thing and bade it sup from me out my spirit and spit to me its oils—I longed then to live by its Word and to know it;
on my skin I let not the logics trample over my heart as I’d been permitting it. Admittedly, it had become something as rote as the prayer, though from outside I’d view myself as one gone Deranged and unfurling like a chaotic-malignant protein injected with something horrid. That mud-so-heavenly were not brought in and my blood that day were nothing more than water poured forth from wet clay worked out by a masters hand. The artwork grooved in deep and my prayer joined the hand that led mine, and I bade and begged: I am a splinter, and let me be a fingerprint of yours upon this world. Let no lesson enter into me that is not yours, and let me contain nothing that is not your body, and let me breathe nothing that is not your word.
I did not care to see my sister but I was thankful for her.
this article is part 0 of the [Asmodeus and Glassware] series found on the Concordance