اربعة

On the origin of species...

"I believe that the human brain may be capable of perceiving the nature of true-reality, what some might refer to as God, but I am doubtful that we as a species are evolved enough to utilize this capacity. I will make allowances for the possibility that some individuals, through random evolutionary mutation, are born with an innately greater ability to perceive true-reality, but contend that even if this is the case, the limits of human language prevent one from conceptualizing such perceptions in words, and attempts to do so invariably lead to intellectual oppression through the destructive tendancies of religious dogmatism, and are thus, in effect, counter-productive to the goal of perceiving true-reality in the first place. I will also make allowances for the possibility of psycho-active chemicals activating the portions of the brain that enable one to make such perceptions, though whether psycho-active chemicals actually allow one to perceive true-reality, or merely mimic the effects of doing so is presently indeterminate."

"Natural selection dictates that as a species we evolved, over monumental passages of time, from increasingly simple and primative forms of life, and this goes for our sensory capabilities as well. At some point in our evolutionary history, our ancestors were without the benefit of the senses that we rely upon in order to effectively perceive our reality, the senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch. In all of these instances, the human brain had the evolve these abilities. For an Amoeba floating in a pool of primordial ooze, the concept of sense-perception does not exist, and having never known the ability to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch the environment, such a lifeform does not miss, nor can it even conceive of an environment any different to that which it has known it's entire lifespan. It would be naive to assume that the human species has reached the end of evolution, that we can perceive all there is to perceive, especially when logic dictates that the human-animal necessarily remain ignorant of anything beyond our limited biological capacities."

"What separates the human-animal from established evolutionary tendencies is the unique ability of the human-animal to affect their environment, to affect their own evolution. We have reached a point, not the necessarily end of evolution, but a point where we can choose, as a society, to mitigate the effects of the environment upon our evolution. This means that we have reached the point where we can now choose to continue, or embrace, the course of biological evolution, or we can choose to resist biological evolution, through manipulating the degree to which the human-animal is forced to reckon with the natural environment."

"As such, the inability of the human-animal to perceive the nature of true-reality must necessarily be seen as only a temporary-condition in terms of our biological evolution. There is no reason to assume that the limits of what we can perceive through recourse to our sensory organs are congruent to the limits of true-reality. To do so would be equivalent to the man who, born deaf, assumes reality itself is without sound. However, only once the human-animal, as a society, begins to foster and encourage a dialog with the unknown will there ever be the possibility of developing the necessary physical apparatus to effectively perceive that which exists beyond the temporary limits of human perception."

Mujo Seppo, or, The True Japanesing

There are thousands of eyes on the tips of the fingers,
There are thousands of eyes of right Dharma,
There are thousands of eyes in the ears,
There are thousands of eyes on the tip of the tongue,
There are thousands of eyes on the tip of the mind,
There are thousands of eyes of the thoroughly realized mind,
There are thousands of eyes of the thoroughly realized body,
There are thousands of eyes on top of a stick,
There are thousands of eyes in the moment before the body,
There are thousands of eyes in the moment before the mind,
There are thousands of eyes of death in death,
There are thousands of eyes of liveliness in liveliness,
There are thousands of eyes of the self,
There are thousands of eyes of the external world,
There are thousands of eyes in the concrete place of eyes,
There are thousands of eyes of learning in practice,
There are thousands of eyes aligned vertically,
And there are thousands of eyes aligned horizontally.

TALENT TALENT

TALENT TALENT
STREET TALENT
STET TALEN

I love policeman

The analysis indicates that the author of http://qadutu.blogspot.com is of the type:

ISTP - The Mechanics

The independent and problem-solving type. They are especially attuned to the demands of the moment are masters of responding to challenges that arise spontaneously. They generally prefer to think things out for themselves and often avoid inter-personal conflicts.

The Mechanics enjoy working together with other independent and highly skilled people and often like seek fun and action both in their work and personal life. They enjoy adventure and risk such as in driving race cars or working as policemen and firefighters.

US Embassy in Tehran

Fun facts

It has been 20 months and I still have nightmares. Faith that is directed outward, away from ourselves is like a fire hose pointed away from the fire. La valeur d'une blanche est le double de la valeur d'une noire.

Note on success

A sure outward sign of success in spellcraft is artistic viability. Does your "spell" constitute an artistically worthwhile performance? Is it a handsome piece of calligraphy? Is it a well-crafted poem? Would someone feel that way without any sense whatsoever of an explicit intent lying beneath it?

Fortunately for most of us, it's worth learning to shoot even if you don't start out as Annie Oakley. Even hack performances provide some benefit. Just don't take that as an excuse to stand still.

Why serve evil gods (pt. 1)

Trained from birth to perceive only the overtly negative results of diabolism, idol worship, and the service of evil gods, most do not think to ask the question posed by today's post title. Demons are "worshipped" out of insanity, naïvety, or sheer misanthropy. There is no "why" of "devil worship."

Well, let's not turn a blind eye to those negative results, because they can be some negative fucking results. But don't forget about the benefits. Gods that demand extreme acts are usually the only ones that can be relied on for assistance. Well... better the other way around. Some gods that demand extreme acts are just plain shits.

But the numen of Dionysus is kindly. Let no ill be said of this terrifying and wonderful god. That just wouldn't be right. ᾄδετε τὸν Ἴακχον ὅνπερ οἱ μεμυημένοι δι' ἀγορᾶς, ἐὰν πείθησθε γ' ἐμοί.

It is a very bad idea to habitually invoke a god without making an effort to get to know its personality or, worse, not so much as acknowledging its individuality. Take for instance the routine ecstatic practice of using mind-altering drugs. Well, very bad idea not to enter into a relationship with a drug, because a drug will shit sure enter into a relationship with you. Worst idea: regard all drugs indifferently as "drugs" and allot yourself the culturally prescribed dose of the most socially acceptable drug—invariably this will be the most expensive and soul-destroying of drugs. In any case, failing to recognize the individual character of any geistig experience like drug use is like refusing to acknowledge a messy, inconsiderate guest sleeping at your house.

The drug gods are almost universally worshipped but are acknowledged by few.

More from Western Lands

What an excellent book this is. Here is a passage with some good, practical advice to expand on what our esteemed ħkʰárwə was saying:

Black magic operates most effectively in preconscious, marginal areas. Casual curses are the most effective. If someone has reason to expect a psychic attack, an excellent move is to make oneself as visible as possible to the person or persons from whom the attack is anticipated, since conscious attacks on a target that engages one's attention are rarely effective and frequently backfire.

This strategy is especially indicated for critics. Leave your name in the phone book, attack writers on radio shows, anything to keep your image clearly in the foreground of enemy attention. Best of all, engage the writer in public refutation by outrageous misrepresentation and falsifications. For example, here is a critic on a writer who has spent six years on a book: "This slovenly potpourri, obviously thrown together in a few weeks."

A rule that is almost always valid: never refute or answer a critic, no matter how preposterous the criticism may be. Do not let the critic teach you the cloth, as they say in bullfighting circles. Never charge the cloth, even if the critic resorts to actual misquotation.

Writing prejudicial, off-putting reviews is a precise exercise in applied black magic. The reviewer can draw free-floating, disagreeable associations to a book by implying that the book is completely unimportant without saying exactly why, and carefully avoiding any clear images that would capture the reader's full attention.

This procedure is based on scientific evidence: Poetzel's Law states that dream imagery excludes conscious perception in favor of preconscious perceptions. And Freud's hypothesis that the neutral character of preconscious perception permits it to serve as a cover for material that would not otherwise escape the dream censor, so that unpleasant affect is attracted to preconscious perception. There is, in fact, a fifty-seven percent correlation between preconscious recall and peak unpleasantness. Charles Fischer says that dreams have a tendency to take up the unimportant details of waking life.

There are other tricks: the use of generalities like "the man in the street" and the editorial "we" to establish a rapport of disapproval with the reader and at the same time to create a mental lacuna under cover of an insubstantial and unspecified "we." And the technique of the misunderstood word: pack a review with obscure words that send the reader to the dictionary. Soon the reader will feel a vague, slightly queasy revulsion for whatever is under discussion.

Birthday

From The Western Lands (William S. Burroughs, 1987):

August 16, 1984, Thursday

The sheer nightmare horror of my position, of all human positions, waiting for some lunatics or conspirators going to ride out on the blast like a surfboard to explode the atoms we are all made of. A lucky survivor, blind, stumbling about in my ruined house, hungry mewling cats underfoot. How about that, Kim? Kill your dogs and cats. Repeat. Kill your dogs and cats. The boiled eggs were just right. Debonair heartless Kim striking histrionic poses on the buckling deck of a doomed planet . . . reflecting a flawed unbearable boy image in an empty mirror. Radiant Kim, the fearless ostrich, escape child of a frightened old man. Anybody isn't frightened now simply lacks imagination. Is there any escape? Of course. A miracle. Leave the details to Joe.

follow-up

* ħkʰárwə poses whorishly

A sound way to learn about the laws of narrativity is to read novels and read them carefully. To some extent this is self-defeating, though, unless your goal is to be bookish and hermetic (and, let's face it, you're turning to magic for help with things that you can't quite conquer by rational means, like fortune and sex, so this is probably not the case—would that it were, however, since bookish hermeticism is a richly rewarding lifestyle).

* ħkʰárwə takes a puff of a herbal jazz cigarette

Well, just trust me when I say it works. You can get as creepily detailed with it as you like. Try it and see(, scientists). Make sure you do it with sincerity, naturally (not to say credulity).

The best possible thing is to record your experiences in detail and revisit them every two or three weeks. Also, your dreams are experiences, too.

message for the younguns

Look, magic doesn't have to be this big song and dance with robes and warbly rhyming couplets and shit. It follows from one simple principle: our world is meaningful and not just apparently so. The trick is: make it make sense that things happen for you.

You cannot fake this any more than you can fake a meal (to paraphrase Hassan i Sabbah). The unfortunate thing is that you are never the only person telling your story. The upshot: everyone loves a strange twist. "He was always so quiet, so reserved."

So none of this sounds especially "magical"—well, rightly so: "magic" is freedom from nihilism, and that's all. ... well, let's clarify that. It's the freedom afforded by a certain species of nihilism.

"Why," skeptics balk, "do so-called magicians not make their livelihood off lottos?"—this arises from a basic confusion over the nature of the world we inhabit. The lives of lottery-winners explain the situation adequately.

None of this is to say that the traditional techniques of ritual magic are not effective. Again the question: does it make sense that this would work? Does it make sense that Kubaba should manifest herself when I intone such-and-such a Luwian incantation? To secular atheists and all their irony: clearly no. (Exceptions exist, but these are not generally predictable.)

This is clearly in violation of many "control methods"—the scientific method, for instance. This is admittedly unfortunate but follows from the essential separation of science not from religion but from art.

Now, children, clearly the time has come for practical advice. Well now... despite the relentless efforts of the mainstream to neuter sex, sex magic remains the most effective practice. (This is certainly true for readers of this blog.) Confirmation is close at hand. I will not tell you how to do it because you do not need to be told how to do it. Think this over: what can you do that a sexual climax (including an autoerotic climax) could conceivably power?

Then decide: I don't have sex anymore; I cast spells.

letter from the editor

Heard today

Okay, I'm not saying you *should* kill him, but if you did, could you lend me a little slice of that fatwā dolla—that fat wād of cash, as it were?

<grisom> I can't tell yous how disappointed I am that "gideous" is not a word.
<tezcatlipoca> Hey, umu, why can't we simply make gideous a word? What would such a word mean, in English?
* umunmutamku arrives in a puff of faggy smoke
<umunmutamku> Well! Let's start from our model-word.
<umunmutamku> It would appear that 'hideous' started out as ME hidous < Old French hidos < hisdos (the further Latin affinities are very unlikely-sounding); the changeover to -eous is owed to some 16th-century wave of analogical refashionings that produced unetymological words like 'courteous' (for curteis < OF curteis < L -ēnsem), 'righteous' (for the phonological outcome of rightwise), etc.
<umunmutamku> So all we really need here is a plausible source of the root gid-, be it native English or French.
<umunmutamku> Luckily, we seem to have a good candidate in OE gidiʒ 'giddy', apparently etymologically *gudīgo- 'possessed by a god'. So we should be imagining a pretentious 16th-century refashioning to gideous, which, given the semantics of the word around that time, would have to mean 'intoxicated, vertiginous, insane'.
<tezcatlipoca> huzzah! You 'intoxicated, vertiginous, insane' prostitute!

Historia Francorum

Bishop Namatius: You gideous prostitute, is it not enough that you infect other places with every imaginable sort of foulness, without your defiling the throne consecrated to the Lord by sitting your revolting body down on it? Leave the house of God this instant and stop polluting it with your presence! Satan: Since you give me the title of prostitute, I will see that you yourself are constantly harassed with sexual desire.

Last night's unpleasant dreams included: the Smashing Pumpkins were playing in Edmonton, but for some reason they completely bailed out, and the Dangereus had to pretend to be them in performance. At least that's how it seemed in retrospect. At the time, it was just like: shit, for some reason they've got me playing James Iha's guitar parts. I've never even listened to the Smashing Pumpkins. I sure don't know how to play the guitar. I bumbled through one song playing a bunch of random notes really quietly, and then I and [Tezcatlipoca] (yeah, you were there too) went backstage to confer about something before the next one. I had a microphone that I was nervously fiddling with, not realizing it was connected to the sound system, so the entire audience heard my nervous heavy breathing and mumbled complaints. We came back out and the entire audience had left except for a bunch of naïvely smiling grannies sitting in the front few rows (who clearly had no idea that this is not what a rock concert was supposed to sound like). I looked around in dismay. Then I decided to propose to the rest of the band: to hell with this Smashing Pumpkins shit! We could either play a really godawful SP concert or a really *awesome* Dangereus show. Strangely, boys, you were pretty hard to convince. Somehow before we played I ended up answering a question from a woman in one of the front rows: she wanted to know whether our music was "dangerous" because we were just sort of making it up and thus at great personal risk of fucking it up or something. Disturbed that she seemed to be familiar with our band's appellation and debut album, I asked her why she chose that particular word—but then I noticed it was [the ex-girlfriend of former Dangereu Garga Wash].

Some ways to write The Knowledge in Arabic script

WAY BEST WAY

I have never been able to quite get the hang of the laam+meem ligature. But this is the general idea.

FOREIGNERS ARE VERY CAREFUL

careful careful not to use ligatures if they do not have to.

Serialization

The following is a selection from the unpublished work, "The Hope Hammer (The Hammer of Hope" (n.b. if you want the footnotes, you'll have to buy the damn book) *** This is an aggressive neighbor bash, this is a knapsack full of hash, this is a fortune million dollar ring, this fortune will a million dollars bring, this subject will verb the object[1], and noun will adjective verb, all over my face, in the plainest English in the place. We are all just like new parishioners, will will we will pray for here, will will stay we will stay, for here. Humidity, glass, clear water, falling water, cross the moonlit sky, across the polish city guy, through the mud, and on the sidewalks, and all the time like the present, this is for all the birthdays I missed. This is for a year of lost pre-valentines. I was staring at the mailbox, sitting on the corner across the street. It’s the same colour as the newspaper stand, the mailbox, I often wondering what the future, if anyone has ever, or ever wanted to just “accidently” think the mailbox was a newspaper stand, and place their stories, and money, into the newspapers… no one will get your letter Fernando. I don’t mean to pick at or on or at him, but he is always there. Screeching out his name with this fingernails along a chalkboard, his future of stock-residing, will surely account to nothing to account with his food-service career. Where people come, and pay him to fuck like a banana would fuck, and come on him for pesos of oh precious pesos, pesos and iron. It’s all back to land again isn’t it Fernando? I know your plans you are watching this white-bred world, waiting for the debt to crush the society, for it’s back to break, and you will be the new nobility now, wont you? But the world isn’t ending Fernando, and you just bought the wrong paper. It’s an easy enough mistake to make, the illegal hashbarns across the streets, the brightly lit café, like of my dreams, is lost inside the street corner, where only my ears, and eyes, and my mailboxes and flies, can discern you, throughout the hubbub, through the cometwebs of feet, and crawling critters all up their legs, these feet, accorded so much space, but travelling so far. Making love with the dust, as it settles in their moisturized cracks in their feetsies, and treatsies, and to adorn this sweet tenor, this nectar is all that is awaiting for you, on this bloomy street corner, of my minds eye. I pray for quiet and solitude, and multi-generational somber dues. A trample wire, of legitimacy, a cracked corrupt and crazy walk in the part, this sparky little end of sin, this mushroom blood, this sonic, this bandaid, this true structured tomb, I guard you with my eyes, my ears, my mailbox and my tears (a newspaper stand—I named her tears, after my sister) a true zealot if ever there one was. So much for this crane bow of good insurance,[2] a liquid, liquay, liquay, liquaqa, period staple. A lost of pinfulal painful in my nevers nerves in my lefts, legs, Transistor failing, reception required. This is not a TV Scramble. Over and out.

thankz and hugs

Apply within

Reject drəguuātā and all the spurious old father figures. Fear not 𒉺𒀊𒊏𒀀𒋫𒅈 in service to Tlaelcuani and 𒀸 𒀭𒌓 shining nocturnally in Hell. All those unafraid of the silence are invited to join us behind the veil.