Birds Open the 1 Preexistent Sphere
The following comments were addressed to a number of people as well as
posted in a variety of forums. Yet even with such "accidental" comments-first
written as a joke, perhaps, or tossed off on the edge of sleep-there is always
an essay lurking somewhere in my mind, as in the basement of a derelict museum.
Free at last from the crate of its imprisonment, and fed with a crust of
young essay is determined to be strong. In defiance of the "objectifying
eye"-with its tendency to turn Eros into Thanatos; with its tendency to turn
feats of archetypal memory into fossils-the guardian genius behind the essay
struggles to be heard. Again, he fights for his right to spontaneous
"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon
the world", wrote Yeats. Worlds and yet still other worlds collide, shattering
all certainties and dismantling the museum; as each atom plays its designated
role. Shock "takes from our eyes the day of our return"-however much the one
sphere is transparent. It is possible that I have said these things a great
many times before.
earth astronauts and the "betrayal" of the sphere
"Are you mad at the human goblins? Face of the pufferfish."-Issa, 1813
Hi Amy (George),
You wrote, "The eschatology is
essentially this: Each stage of the journey, first from innocence to experience
and then through purgation to higher innocence, is denoted by a different type
of clown: The fool is in innocence; the clown in experience; the stooge in
purgatory; and finally, in higher innocence, where the soul is reunited with
the flesh, the stooge becomes the joker, the mischievous man-sprite that became
George in his dream. These four stages in the evolution of the archetypal
clown-fool, clown, stooge and joker-form a bridge from Eden to Paradise."
I don't believe that I have ever
come across this particular 4-fold division before-Fool, Clown, Stooge and Joker.
I am familiar with the individual terms, of course, and there are many "4-fold"
divisions of the cosmos or the psyche, as Jung so industriously records; but I
have not, if memory serves me, come across this particular one. It is a
fascinating and highly original schema. As always, your work "provokes."
What you are proposing is,
essentially, a kind of "Trickster Cosmology."-Silly rabbit, tricks are for
About a week ago, I listened to
an interview with Linda Moulton Howe, the award-winning investigative reporter
and documentary film maker. In it, she asks such entirely reasonable questions
as-and I paraphrase-"If these "Alien "Visitors" are in fact benevolent, as so
many New Age wishful thinkers would claim, then why do they go to such lengths
to hide their actions and their true agenda from us? In cosmic engineering, as
in human government, is secrecy ever a good sign, or does it most often
indicate that something fishy is going on? It should be clear to even the most
casual of observers that our planet is in crisis. Why would "friends" not share
their encyclopedic knowledge-if such it is-and not freely give the technology
that might save us from ourselves?"
Well, because we are living in a
"Trickster Cosmos", in which Tricksters are in charge. Stage props make it
difficult to see from one dimension to another. Invisible beings have many
objects and arcane symbols up their sleeves. Because what we call "Life" is
what the Ancients knew as "Death." Because no one has actually hidden the
knowledge that we are looking for; it is spread around us, like the sky.
Because, with a piece of string and a board, all "crop circles" have been
manufactured by the drunken Englishmen Doug and Dave.
Because space itself is not other
than a projection-out and down-by means of which geometers have declared war on
the vacuum. Because the gods themselves are not exempt from drunkenness. It
makes little difference if alcohol or magic is the intoxicant of choice; junk
DNA is the result. Because, by the alternate versions of our Selves, each
action and event on Earth has been scheduled in advance. Spoken forth first "ex
nihilo," the trick turns on the speaker; the laws of physics are then made to
correspond to the almost opaque nonsense of the conjuration. Because space
supports the feet of the one preexistent body-whose head has been cut off.
Because "Nature loves to hide"-as
Heraclitus says in Fragment 123. Because "The hidden harmony is
better than the obvious"-as he says in Fragment 54. Because "The lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither
speaks nor conceals, but gives signs"-as he says in Fragment 93. Because "The
sun is the breadth of a man's foot"-as he says in Fragment 3. Because "The
fairest universe is but a heap of rubbish piled up at random"-as he says in Fragment
Because "The name of the bow is life, but its work is death"-as he says
in Fragment 48. Because "Every beast is driven to pasture by a blow"-as he says
in Fragment 11. Because "It would not be better if things happened to men just
as they wish"-as he says in Fragment 110. Because "Sea water is at once very pure
and very foul: it is drinkable and healthful for fishes, but undrinkable and
deadly for men."-as he says in Fragment 61. Because "It is death to souls to
become water, and it is death to water to become earth. Conversely, water comes
into existence out of earth, and souls out of water"-as he says in Fragment 36.
Because "The thunderbolt pilots all things"-as he
says in Fragment 64.
Because "Paradox" is the only
universal language-a language that we have somehow "forgotten" how to speak.
Because at each turn we are being tested, and each act in the magic show is
26,000 years long.
Death picks apart the clockwork mechanism of the
Hi Stace (Tussel),
You wrote, "I have had
a most stressful few weeks- I can't even describe." and "I'm in
the process of, well, everything all at once."
It's an odd thing; since I have
been focused on spiritual development-and that is for the past 25 years or so-every
break-though, every period of great energy and insight and joy has been
followed by a period of great difficulty. This has been true not only
in my own life, but also in the
lives of just about everybody I know. Even when you guess that such a
period might be coming, it can still come as a shock; some part of the
subconscious protests that the exact opposite should be going on. We should be
allowed to savor our evolutionary accomplishments in peace.
What I am talking about is, of
course, not just the natural alternation between joy and sorrow, or the idea
that, in the course of things, bad fortune must always follow good. What I am
pointing towards rather is a kind of "karmic counterpoint": every
breakthrough is followed by an equal and opposite regression. Having accessed a
new breadth of energy, we then give ourselves permission to let things fall apart;
to finally exhale, and to re-experience those issues that we have not had
the resources to confront.
In a 1904 letter to his friend
Oskar Pollak, Kafka wrote, "Altogether, I think we ought to read only
books that bite and sting us. If the book we are reading doesn't shake us awake
like a blow on the skull, why bother reading it in the first place? So that it
can make us happy, as you put it? Good God, we'd be just as happy if we had no
books at all; books that make us happy we could, at a pinch, also write
ourselves. What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune,
like the death of someone we loved more than we love ourselves, that make us
feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence,
like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is
what I believe."
-If such a "book"
exists, perhaps it is unnecessary that a human should be the author; this book
may be the "Book of Fate." It may be written in a language that
we have not only forgotten how to read, but that, in our present state of
dissociation, we do not even recognize as a language.
Acts of genius leave scars; my glyphs divide the
one preexistent sphere
As regards "karmic counterpoint";
many years ago I had an "insight"-or perhaps "experience"-that overwhelmed me.
In a leap of imagination, I saw how any thought or emotion or action was in
actuality the division of a single primordial sphere. It was a zero-sum game.
All letters and numbers, also, were the relics of the permutations of this
In "The Shining", Jack Nicholson
plays Jack Torrance, a writer who fills thousands upon thousands of pages with
the words, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." So too, possessed by
an alternate version of the self, I filled many pages with my attempts to
diagram the occult history of the One.
10 numerals and 26 letters were
the elements of my conjuration; they were the now almost insignificant gods,
which an earlier race had somehow hidden in plain sight. They could be
superimposed to coagulate the black waters of the ocean.
Whenever we project an image into
existence-the "power of positive thinking"-we are not only creating the
"positive space" of the image that we project; we are also creating a "negative
space" that corresponds to it-a shadow that we go to some lengths not to see-as
well as rearranging all of the existing connections within the sphere. One
action sets 10,000 others in motion.
Like an item bought on credit, the "positive image"
can appear almost immediately before us; the "negative image" gets rerouted
through the dark and hallucinatory labyrinth of the sphere, to then reappear in
many an unexpected form. Thus there is always an "uncanny" aspect to each
action; to each work we produce, or system we design.
"Perfection"-if we can imagine this to be other
than a joke-must always relate back to the transparency of the sphere. Each
thing has a tendency to go haywire; since the "intent" that projects our
actions into form is always stranger and more multifaceted than we think.
In Illo Tempore-"At That Time"
1) You wrote,
"In that spirit, I will retell a dream from early childhood
as an example of how certain of my own otherworld initiations may have been
inscribed in the cocoon of "normal" remembered experience:
When I was quite young, perhaps five or
so, I had a vivid recurrent dream. Picture a hayloft about 20 feet square
(laterally) and maybe 10 feet tall, with gleaming golden hay stacked up toward
the ceiling all around the edges. The hay tapers off toward the middle of the
floor, eventually coming to the edge of an open circle about 18 inches in diameter
leading to the ground-quite a drop.
Get this: I'm in an egg. Not only do I
see the scene from outside, but I see it from inside the egg. So I'm at the
edge of the room, on top of the hay, when suddenly I start rolling down the
sloping hay. I accelerate and helplessly fall through the hole, dropping,
Then I'm waking up in bed breathing
hard, with the wobbly feeling in my stomach I get when driving fast over a
small country bridge and catching air. Kind of like that.
Seen against my other experiences with
non-human beings-whether extraterrestrial, interdimensional, or something else-the
hayloft dream seems allegorical. Perhaps as a child I was literally in an
egg-shaped craft, observing the curious, ovoid architecture. Perhaps this
imagery conveniently merged into a dream so that I, at age four or five, could
-I am reminded of the idea found among many ancient peoples-as far apart
as the Aborigines and the Greeks-that the landscapes that we see around us are
actually the solidified bodies of the gods. We may choose to see them as
"petrified", but perhaps they are just moving very slowly. For them perhaps,
vast arcs of time are proceeding at a normal pace, and they have never ceased
to be involved in their epic, world-creating activities.
Mount Etna, the still badly behaved Titans dream of pyroclastic flows.
different angle-I have often wondered if each of our significant memories is
not only an event but also a symbol and a kind of catalytic cue. Both of these
intuitions present us with a kind of ultimatum: that we must again remember who
we are. The world is still an "open book", and it is we who have "forgotten how
In "Birds of
a Feather and the Playthings of the 12," at the end of section 4, I wrote, "Every
stone became a Shakespeare. Energy grids copulated, crackling where their
currents met, as the whole night rang with the music of the spheres-again
audible. Trees ranted against the invention of the hieroglyph."-There have been
times when I can seem to hear all stories and all meanings superimposed. But
then I think: in that way madness lies! Oh well, I must take things step by
Evolution" is a useful construct, but perhaps we are "evolving" into an
archaic mode of consciousness. Again, we exit space; returning through a door
that we had long ago left open. At the table of the Transparent Ones a chair is
waiting for us to sit in it. Again, the Archaic Smile becomes clear, and we can
understand why the Ancients were so casual about death.
We may go "here" or go "there," and subject ourselves to any method of
destruction-for, at all times: there we are.
The human mouth is a kind of genetically engineered wound, from inside of
which the tongue has declared war on the Zodiac. We who were outside have
experienced the one sphere from the inside; we who were inside have experienced
the one sphere from the outside. It is our very imperfection that has made the
Great Year pregnant. At the tail-end of the cycle, we will be able to give
individual expression to what at first was an unbroken geometric form.
2) Robert Carneiro, in "Origin Myths", writes, "The
Warao of the Orinoco delta, on the other hand, believe men first lived in a
skyworld where the only animals were birds. Then one day a hunter shot a bird
with such force that his arrow pierced the ground of the skyworld and continued
to the earth below. Peering through the hole and seeing a rich land beneath
them, teeming with all manner of game, the hunter attached a long cotton rope
to a tree and lowered himself to earth. There he was ultimately joined by his
fellows, who finally decided to abandon the skyworld and settle permanently on
think that your dream may very well be a "screen memory", as they say. But I
believe what lies behind the screen image has been hidden for good reason; the
secrecy is not due to any sinister agenda, but rather to allow for maximum
freedom of movement as we carry out the tasks that we have volunteered to
perform. Our sense of origins does not really disappear; instead we have been
presented with a challenge-to find our own way in the dark, as we remember how
to navigate from one world to another.
My image of the
topology of creation is that of a 10-D torus-a kind of complex donut turning
through itself. The self is projected from the circumference down to the
maximum density of its embodiment at the center. What we see as "alien beings"
are really aspects of ourselves at other levels of manifestation. Of course, as
we know, the various aspects of one's Body/Mind do not always get along; and
fear can turn even the most commonplace of activities into a threat.
The Babylonian exile and subsequent
disinheritance of the Feet
You wrote, "I'm looking at Marduk and he's looking at me and we're both
looking at each other, repugnance clear on our faces and going, 'There's no
way…in all of creation….that THAT is an aspect of me.' "
-When I was younger, I liked my Feet. We were very close. We went
everywhere together. They possessed all of the Bronze Age virtues; they were
"beautiful and brave and generous," and pointed themselves recklessly towards
any challenge. I rewarded them with lots of exercise. Now that I am
middle-aged, however, I am beginning to wonder what I ever saw in them. Perhaps
our earlier rapport was just a byproduct of my naiveté; my happy memories are
the souvenirs of a time when I had not begun to suspect the depths of evil in
my feet have begun to cause me problems. I have a few toes that are twisted
under, and one toe that is twisted up. Except when at the beach, I keep them
carefully hidden under shoes and socks. Shoes being a necessity in the city, as
well as because of the increasing disobedience of my Feet, you would think that
my Feet would at least be grateful to my shoes, and extend to them some tiny
bit of cooperation-but NOOOO! They always have to give everyone and everything
around them a hard time.
Day by day, it becomes more
painful to even think back to the time of our blissful coexistence, and to our
celebration of each other's role within the larger realm of Nature; which I now
acknowledge to be "red in tooth and claw." Call me paranoid if you will, but I
have begun to suspect that my feet are actually agents of the Enemy. They are
little more than alien prostheses. From the far shore of my Body, they stare
with an opaque malevolence at the vast intelligence of my Head.
In hermetic praise of Feet
I hope do hope you realize that
this was written as a parable!-I can't quite tell. For better or for worse, I
love my feet.
You wrote, "It seems like there are teachers everywhere but what use are they
to those of us who do not get the lesson or even realize there was a lesson to
get?" And a while back you mentioned that you were experimenting with seeing
your children as your teachers.
Starting close to
home, I tried to find an example to further illustrate this idea. I didn't want
to say anything bad about my wife or my daughter or my pit bull-barky though
she sometimes is-so my feet seemed like a good place to start. They were the
primal units from which I could erect the web of my conjuration.
They were an example
of something near that has become inexplicably distant. If not granted the
respect that they deserve, they would be all too easy to demonize, as so many
have demonized our inter-dimensional helpers.
People speak of
Non-Duality, but then they say that of course we must demonize all but the
highest ranks of Aliens, and must regard as suspect every aspect of their
agenda. It is us or them. We have no choice but to disregard the paradoxical
insights that they offer. For they are Bad.
The centuries have
lent us great skill at projecting all of our own surgical detachment and forms
of anti-social behavior onto the Other; of which these particular "Aliens" are
only the most recent type-the manual laborers whom we have charged with the excavation
of the Reptile Brain. They are a screen on which to observe our fears; a
convenience of visualization.
It is August, 2009.
Autumn has sent harbingers whose breath chills the blood at daybreak. The
"cutters of the crop" have come, and we wonder at the ease with which our
metaphysics can be overthrown, and at just whose footprints look like geometric
Perhaps even the most
occult images of the Other are "generic"-the shadow of a shadow, the 10
billionth generation of a badly distorted copy; all are stand-ins for the
Glyphs can do no more
than remind us of the oceans that we have crossed. How strange is our capacity
to travel each day to the future, step by step, and even stranger that we think
of this god-like power as being no big thing; less common is to travel to the
past. There is much work left to do, as we take apart and tune the 10D V8
engine that we had once installed in the sphere-before our duplicates again
level the glass towers of the Empire.
-But back to my own feet;
without which I would be a less happy cosmonaut than I am.
Although my feet are
no longer as attractive as they were, they each day continue to do as much as
they are able-and for this I must extend to them my unconditional gratitude.
Mist rises from and illuminates the
"Crop Circles; An
invitation" strikes me as a fully "inhabited" essay; it is not just a
collection of opinions, with which I could agree or disagree, it is instead a
physical life form-like a poem-which is a living record of the many levels of
your action and experience within the world. In this, our prose styles are not
quite as different as they might seem. In contrast to the majority of posters
on the "Crop Circles" forum, who were presenting their prefabricated "views,"
what you were doing in your essay did not depend primarily upon the power of
your intellect; there is a physical aspect to your writing, as I have said, as
well as an intuitive aspect, and a sense of being at a particular Time/Space
intersection-at a "zero point" of energy, where your words possess the power to
create-which only continues to grow once a reader has come to terms with your
Memories gather where
your feet are planted on damp earth. A vertical force transposes every
autobiographical detail. In turn, your breath penetrates the technology of the
Ancients, whose inheritors draw closer to your mother's house in October, which
they watch. Clouds teach about geometry, as the rainbow goes where you go. Up
and down, as well as back and forth, there is altogether "too much
information"-TMI-whose flow will almost immediately cause you to forget. You
are "Amely," and/or you are not; you have never published an essay called "My
So-Called Quarter-Life Crisis." From a distance you will reactivate the last
clockwork bird on its branch.
But look at how easy
it is to get carried away! Please forgive my lapse into mythological thinking.
To me, intellectual
history is not really about ideas-as such, but rather about the dance of our
engagement with them, as we attempt to break through into the larger world for
which our ideas have all along been substitutes.
You wrote, "No crop circles now, of
course, but somehow that circus leaving town has revealed the true softness of
this landscape. Earth's ripe-bellied calm is very palpably felt when you stand
inside the circle of hills that surround the bowl of Avebury, the little
village that is a stone's throw (or should that be megalith toss) from my mum's
"The ever-changing weather
overhead is even more beautiful than a static crop circle, let me tell you."
"Anyway, each day here a new veil of love is placed on me by
this landscape. What is it doing to me? Why is it seducing me? Does England
…. want me? (Why is she looking
at me with those eyes?)"
To me, it all comes down to which
"landscape" we are talking about-for, as you indicate, there is not one "landscape";
there are many.
There is the actual landscape of
There is the landscape made of dreams,
which pulses beneath the actual landscape like the blood beneath the skin.
There is the landscape of your
childhood, now covered in a luminous fog.
There is the landscape in which
your mother and your father were all-powerful, and the landscape in which you
are now a parent to your mother.
There is the landscape that you
love and the landscape in which you are little more than a ghost.
There is the landscape of
invading factories-whose progress has been somehow frozen-the landscape of a
derelict Empire that will soon cease to exist.
There is the landscape of
Wiltshire in 2009 and the landscape of the megalith builders.
There is the landscape of black
passages and springs and the landscape of fresh hieroglyphs stamped into the
There is the landscape of endless
seasonal repetition-of spring buds and of autumn leaves.
There is the almost inhuman
landscape opened by the precession of the equinox-a mind-destroying landscape,
cruel and terrifying in its breadth.
There is the landscape whose scent
welcomes us and the landscape from whose activating genius we recoil-as from
the touch of an alien race.
There is the cursed and tragic
landscape that we hold close to our hearts.
There is the landscape crackling
with ecstatic energies that we fear.
There is the landscape made from
interlocking gears and the landscape of one starling on a branch.
There is the landscape as
revealed by the laws of science and the landscape as illuminated by the
There is the landscape of cold
stones and wet straw.
There is the landscape that is
like a symphony in 4 movements; each of which can be heard either sequentially
or at once.
There is the landscape across
whose surface we must walk-to get from point A to point B-and the landscape
that transports us like a vehicle.
There is the landscape conjured
up by momentary changes in the weather-a hallucinatory landscape, waiting to
fade back into the Void.
There is the landscape that was
made before the present world existed; which has never ceased to be as perfect
as it was.
There is the landscape that
exists on this side of the mirror.
There is the landscape whose
reverse side we have somehow learned to navigate-as once demanded by the gods,
and at a cost of not less than everything.
There is the landscape in which
you and your mother and your father are exactly the same age.
There is the landscape that you
There is the landscape that, for
years, you only distantly remembered.
There is the landscape to which,
after a long and labyrinthine journey, you have now returned.
The snake inside the atomic egg
Since the early 1990s, my work has
been premised on a simple but almost incomprehensible idea: that Space does not
exist, and that therefore it is unnecessary to travel from one place to
another. The human Body/ Mind is the one preexistent vessel; all worlds revolve
around and flow through the intersection at the center of the 10D Torus.
"All there is in the whole wide world is
PHOTOGRAPHS of PHOTOGRAPHS!!!"-cj moore
1) You wrote, "Normally I like the essays, books,
and speeches of Daniel Pinchbeck, but this time I am really disappointed. Every
filmmaker or photographer can explain in a very simple way what is happening in
these photographs of orbs.'
Flashlight, dirt, reflection, and then the mystery
is happening! Waste of time and energy-which should be invested in real
problems or interesting concerns…For example, German-users of realitysandwich
protest against GM corn(MON810) from Monsanto.
Sorry, but this childish theme was too much, so I
had to put this real hard fact of the GM corn problem against it."
-I too am "sorry"; it makes me sad to hear that you
are disappointed, but in what way is this Daniel Pinchbeck's fault? Yes, he is
no doubt one of the "co-creators" of "reality", but almost certainly he did not
invent the lead sunglasses you are wearing. Already, the meta-language of the
Bindu has invaded. Complex circles have been projected onto History, updating
the flat Earth.
Sir-as Krishnamurti might have said-please allow me
to ask one question: "Why do
you assume that orbs only appear in videos or in photographs?" Let us
reason-I have not yet seen a video or a photograph of you. To an orb, perhaps
your own existence is illusory. It is possible that you are also a kind of
genetically modified corn product; up to 97% of your DNA is junk; and you will
soon be banned by the German Ministry of Agriculture.
Prove us wrong! You must petition the orb that is
my vehicle to exist; as did I. Yogic tortures will initiate you into the arts
of stealth geometry. If it was good enough for me, it should be good enough for
Beginning, let's say, in 1990 and becoming less
frequent after 1996, whenever I would enter a high energy state-which during
that period was almost every day-as my immediate environment would begin to
vibrate like a network made of lightning, right there in front or above or in
back of me would be an orb. There was no escape, and no way to avoid dealing
with its long list of demands; with its transmission of faster-than-light
Two choices were available:
One could choose to stay beneath and on the outside
of the orb-there to be treated like a disobedient child. Or one could choose to
step into the center of the orb-there to be transported. Upending the flat
Earth, a flood of orgasmic energies made this choice the preferred one. Yet
always, there was an undertow of fear; as to whether, once having entered, it
would be possible to exit; as to how many arms it was permissible to have.
Perhaps it was no longer necessary to exist in only
one location. 8 arms were the classic number; more than 12 could become too
difficult to control. Paradoxically, one eye was more than enough.
Was I hallucinating? Well, no. I have complete
faith in my powers of direct perception, as you do in yours; I tend to notice
when a weapon has been aimed straight at my head.
To avoid death, I was allowed to step up or step
down the explosive flow of exploration; to add or subtract from the
transparency of the orb, by means of tempering the extent
of its superconductivity; but there was no way that
I could refuse to cooperate with its agenda. The orb was not in any way a
purely optical phenomenon. It was never clear to me if it existed in physical
or in psychic space, since it seemed to partake of both of these, and of
It was a messenger from the nonexistent databank of
the gods; the body of the primordial female/ male; the incarnation of the
ancient future; the sphere that preceded the dismemberment of the worlds.
Call it "Bindu" if you wish, or the "Eye of Ra", or
the "Telos", or the "Stone of the Philosophers." One thing, however, was made
absolutely clear: that I should regard it as the beginning and the end point of
2) "I was then at Honfleur and was getting bored.
So I resolutely brought in some camels there. That didn't seem to be called
for. Never mind. It was my idea. Besides, I put it into execution with the
greatest prudence. I introduced them first on the days of great crowds, on
Saturdays at the market place. The confusion became indescribable and the
tourists said, Oh, how it stinks! How dirty the people here are!' The smell
reached the port and began to outdo that of the shrimp. You emerged from the
crowd full of dust and the hairs of nobody knew what.
And at night you couldn't help hearing the pounding
of camels' feet when they were trying to cross the dykes, gong! gong! on the
metal and the joists!
The camel invasion took place with regularity and
Into every life some "pain" must fall-the pain of a
great cataclysm. It would first be necessary to remember not only "who" but
also "what" I was; and from whence I was thrown.
For there are powers that have moved the heavens to
destroy us-we, the innocent children of the corn; we ask only for the small
donation of your heart. For our enemies grow strong. Like the Hydra, their
paranoid theories even now sprout heads, by means of which they impugn our
metaphysical hygiene. There are even those who would argue that the Earth is
not really "flat." When any idiot can see with his/ her own eyes that it is!
Please exit to the left. You may well object that I
have grabbed you by the hair. Now a quick wash and then into the plasma-vortex
Things change-this is one of the central tenets of
Buddhism. As Henri Michaux, in his 1930 poem "Intervention", wrote, "In the old
days I had too much respect for nature. I put myself in front of things and
landscapes and let them alone. No more of that; now
INTERVENE."-Me too. It is perhaps useful that I should apologize in advance.
You may note in passing that I have taken off your
head, and that thus it could become more difficult to hear me. I seem driven to
contradict each position that I hold-even when I have killed you to enforce it.
Much thanks for acknowledging the logic of my argument.
Let me say this so simply that a child could
understand it-"The Earth is flat." This message must be repeated more than
once. Hear it echo! If you listen, then you might learn something. But there is
no escape for the GM corn-product from its file inside the cybernetic vault.
This message must be repeated more than once.
There are others, of course-let us call them the
"moderates"-who would argue for a more nuanced point of view; namely, that the
Earth was flat until 1972, the year that it was photographed with a 70MM
Hasselblad by the astronauts of Apollo 17. Laugh if you must, but only then did
the Earth become a fully 3-dimensional sphere. It was NASA that uploaded the
"blue marble" image into the still quite primitive data-banks of the race.
But enough said; it is time to act-if it is not
already too late, at least for you.
Resistance is futile; a full-scale revolution is
called for. Let us grant that the Earth is flat-but how strange is this type of
flatness, and how perfect; onto such a screen it has been possible to project
the most brain-destroyingly complex of our glyphs.
Together, let us reason-you are dead; it is we who
have the mobility. Taking 5200 years to cultivate, the growing season for the
"human crop" is short.
Dear Iny0urbrain and Ru
Please allow me to put on the
mask of the Trickster for a moment. I have been alive for 432,000 years, and
have finally come to understand a few things about Nature. Let us ask, "If all
of physics is a projection from the omnipotent depths of the Psyche, what then
constitutes a proof'?"
As you know, the principle of
Occam's Razor dictates that the simplest explanation is almost always the best
one. Faced with a world-wide phenomenon of staggering complexity, in which more
than 70 giant crop circles have appeared over the summer in the area of Wiltshire
alone, it would seem that the simplest explanation is "confession." Not
only does confession meet every standard of scientific rigor but it is also
good for the Soul.
wrote, "The first crop circles appeared in 1966 and the creators of the circles
eventually admitted crafting the hoax after recent tales of UFOs. Now that
digital space/flight imaging is more affordable and graphing software is
widespread, it's amazing that these human and computer crafted pieces of art
are thought of as anything more."
Ru Callendar, you
wrote, "I was particularly taken with one circle, a simple symbol that I saw in
a book…I had it tattooed on my shoulder blade. 12 years later I became very
close friends with someone, and a few months into our relationship the subject
of crop circles came up. He mentioned he had made one circle and well, you can
guess where this is going. The beauty of a dawn reveal of a new formation is
nothing to the look of astonishment on someone's face when a glyph they stamped
into corn over a decade before manifests on a friend's back."
Well, I "confess" to
creating the Shroud of Turin as well as to both designing and building the
Great Pyramid at Giza-I guess that clears that up! We can all rest easier now.
For, as I have demonstrated, these things have been now "debunked", and thus
are not really "mysteries" after all.
"Islands have appeared and
disappeared. (Santorini) was the center of an ancient religion where lyric
dances of a strict and heavy rhythm were performed, called Gymnopedia'."-A
Guide to Greece
Hello Ru Callendar,
You wrote, "The Shroud of Turin??
Thanks for your appreciation of
the finer points of etiquette. These days, so few among the living can be
bothered to say please.
In any case, as regards the
"Shroud of Turin"-I didn't think that it was fair to keep people guessing, or
to any longer deny my key part in the deception.
By means of photographic
telekinesis, perhaps Da Vinci has imprinted his own face on the Shroud-200
years before his birth? If so, it is odd that the coins placed upon the eyes
should date to the reign of Tiberius Caesar; as detected by a team of
researchers at NASA, and further analyzed by Andre Marion, professor at the
Ecole Superieure d"Optique.
But no, it was all along just
Someone has to translate the Language
of the Ancients into history, and one of the only ways to do so is through
It is also necessary to "separate
the wheat from the chaff"-not an agricultural concept by the way-as well as to
set into motion the Geometry of the Philosophers, as exemplified by the
theorems that I projected onto Wiltshire.
All in a day's work!
The right hand may not know what
the left hand is doing; it does not follow that the opposite is true. The left
hand may be aware of every action of the right, of what it will do in the past
and has done in the future, and of the marriage that will follow an apocalyptic
Soon-as you allow yourself to be
picked up and transported by my voice-you will discover that it is quite easy
to be dead. To oppose me is an insult to the one
Or not, as the case may be. The
safest bet is to actively do nothing.
Here Beauty becomes convulsive,
as was specified by Breton.
The music that assaults your
brain is vertical. Earth menstruates, dismantling all but the most gigantic of
my clocks. For thousands of years there are no horizontal signs. The once
electric fields are desolate. Quite suddenly, the signs are back.
My memory is that of the last man