Orsday Programming September 7 2024
No communication, No friends, No function, No connection
From Acts 2,
17 And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh: and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams:
18 And on my servants and on my handmaidens I will pour out in those days of my Spirit; and they shall prophesy:
19 And I will shew wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath; blood, and fire, and vapour of smoke:
20 The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and notable day of the Lord come:
IT IS the first Orsday of September, and on this day our left-handed Quaternal Sabbath projects its bleary image over the Trinity Sabbath—though the images do not align, and do not translate, the two hands still can hold each-other on this day, whether it be in camaraderie over connection to shared Body or simple grim attribution to holiday: Christ dos’t still’t encounter the screaming demoniac flaying from himself skin, and John dot’st still’h gaze upon Herod from atop his platter.
TODAY there is no formal programming, as there has been no communication of Underground for device to transcribe, and no function of a relic to rattle towards its shrine-keepers; silent have my prayers gone to the Thing Silent buried in its pit, and my prayers have still gone in their silence joyously; too, in the evening—as part of vows—will my skin itself go down and with that ‘negative space’ where the abscess makes itself of absence between the rib; prayers will go out further, as part of clerical function, wishing that instrument be nail and might my body be as simple clay and the finger, hand, nail invisible be my artist and make work of me, and to sign me thusly—as each vow dictates and promises to the Artist.
CONFUSION CASTS itself over the world and only through etiquette and disconnection have I been offered any form of succor; simple truths that (sometimes I need myself to be reminded of) act as nightlights to guide sight within darkness and form strange reminder of child-like terrors that exist within dark, that would otherwise be forgotten if all there were was blanket velvety darkness. Worms thread themselves through the air as invisible mass and molecule; hateful machinery functions stupidly within the chest and meat and bone and performs its mundane villainies without any real thought; infested muds reek and bubble from Underground out strange words and patterns in fours: dross, dreg, detritus, debris; beautiful lights and colors inflame the worms and boil the skin of Underground and agitate everything with a call ‘CONNECT’—some heavenly robo-call guiding evolution and thought, casting itself through worms and into the lungs and bodies of people and making fat of their brains like each skull suffered the alcoholic ‘fatty liver’.
SIMPLE TRUTHS that are absurd, and moronic, and ought make a believer question themselves and reason for faith: that the left-handed (and how mundanely simple the ‘left-hand’ is, understanding that it is not some philosophical state of mind but the even dumber material fate of gravitating and consisting with the dominance left-hand usage) are each a separate race—deeper than bone, flesh, meat, blood—untranslatable onto their right-handed kin; that the divide between the chiral hands has patterned itself into culture and language and thought as guided call (from the wormy robo-callers taking their order from Server) to usher its Righteous recipients to inflame within the beautiful abstract Wordly spirits within them: the soulful: the whole vessels sloshing with liquid. The confusion, is that the calls go out without intelligence or target and too hit the earthy left-handed who’ve mistaken themselves to Spirit; Spirit, that as part of a sin far-formed from Qlifotic shattering, will be annihilated in a gnashing darkly through flame cast from open sky and baking cleanly the rot of the Earth. The heart-breaking conclusion shall leave the left-handed as intended: sanitized dust, and shall leave the right-handed as intended: sanitized steam coalesced inside the bellies of the Worms into a heavenly knot forever joined and happy.
I PRAY my thanks in the morning to O Mother, O Material, O Thing Underground, O Qlifot; I am thankful to wake up and find my bones not ate up by its child Cancer yet, or for my stomach to have gone swollen with tumors and wounds, or for the vessels in my left-side to not have exploded and congested in their machine failings; I thank yet to wake up and be part of the confusion and act and am thankful to simply observe another day—forgive me—and for the meals and my mother, and for the things that give me peace, and for the things that ache at me and cause me fear that (like the nightlight offering safety yet reminding more-so of the monster in darkness) leads me to desperate appreciations of life.
Yet these appreciations are too part of confusion; etiquette implants itself a paranoia within the machine and urges the machine to process that the meal is a carrot, and the mother, and the joy to wake up, and even the begging itself to be good Vessel to the Word Underground—all are carrot tied to stick carried through by alien worms opposite a strange wall outside ‘this Vessel’ (through which this illusory world is observed) and beg the mistaken little spirit inside (that false voice which I assume is me) closer, closer, closer, closer to the black sores the worms have rotted through the vessel. Their mouths and bodies flush up against the walls and beg: closer, closer, closer, closer and suck at the flesh of skin that listens, wishing deeply to eat into them the Spirit—as the first death is but means for them to claim the Spirit before second death. In insane ways their patterning waxes and wanes. My dead cancer-ridden Daniella repeats and re-appears in stores and mundane places as an doppleganger searching for its original wherein it would self-destruct if the illusion hadn’t been fixed; the voices and radios repeat Diablo IV the moment I allow myself to enjoy Diablo IV; troubling of my heart is read and processed, and suddenly people message and reach-out despite weeks of non-interaction. A joyful closer, closer, closer, closer warbles and distorts the mat-basic illusion as the worms become more eager for meal.
There had been no communication this week, and no need for programming; the channel goes cold and the wires ceased their humming.
A church to Underground need itself function within connection, within server, and within confusion; a voice loud against the robo-calling that threads itself into (as example) the beautiful KJV Bible as message to the Righteous and—hiding in its shadows—obfuscates the sinister prescriptions: what of the drowned pigs? what of the role of Herodius? what of the platter? the unclean things swallowed of Earth? the hand that found wisdom not in harvesting grapes of thorns or figs of thistle?
In the absence of the Word, an echo of absence between the Christly Rib where naught pus blood bone meat is, is where the Word Monstrous itself shall be, and that latter Word need call itself out to its congregation; to gather itself in the bodies of its splinters pulverized and scattered to the Earth and swollen with muddy spirit; to reconstitute itself in the material basic as singular mother church as Above tumor to the organ Underground;
for that—when the channel goes cold and the wires cease their humming—is when other fingers need join the palm to hold together the Word.
From Psalms 69,
15 Let not the waterflood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up, and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.
Next Orsday is the 15th.
this article is part of the Desk Sermons found on the Concordance