Graphic meditations on time and domestication from 2014.
‘Death needs TIME for what it kills to grow in’ ~William S. Burroughs
The domination of both our reality (social) and reality (geography) by white men is intended to facilitate the ongoing domestication of the human animal, our selves, our families, our communities and all other life in this space. This is done for the profit and benefit of a few. ‘They’ are those who can operate globally and, for the most part, who do so in their own interest and in so doing perpetuate the domination of their world-view. Domestication is dependent on perpetuating indoctrination through education and normalization, on fostering dependence on external resources that necessitate continued participation for survival, and on maintaining conflict between people through the counter-intuitive and divisive social systems of race and class.
Our de-evolution from unMEDIAted human animals to consumer cogs in designed environments is, in part, dependent up a unification of our concept of TIME and the repression of organic or indigenous calendar systems. Our economy is based upon time being linear or ‘running in a straight line’, from the past to the future. Our biological and intuitive patterns are intentionally tuned to a human-made system and away from more organic ones. Cutting this root connection to the natural world serves as a means to normalize and regulate our minds and bodies towards patterns of consumption.
It is TIME to consider once again trusting ourselves and our instincts.
RESPECTFULLY IN:VOK:ING ALL PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE MEMBERS AND ALLIES VARIOUS HANDS, LOCAL 23, DETROIT CHAPTER – DETROIT PROMETHEAN SOCIETY – DETROIT AREA DEPROGRAMMING ALLIANCE & SPIRITUAL WARRIORS OF ALL DENOMINATIONS FOR INTENTIONAL, NON-HIERARCHICAL,COLLECTIVE RESISTANCE THAT RECOGNIZES THE POWERS AT PLAY & WHAT IS REALLY AT STAKE
FACT CHECK: WE LIVE IN A MAGICKAL UNIVERSE
THE GEOGRAPHIC AREA CURRENTLY KNOWN AS DETROIT IS, HAS BEEN & WILL BE SACRED GROUND. The matrix, the grid, which many will recognize as the tree and the pillars, used here is an attempt to mediate the energy that thrives here into systems of control, consumption and death. DETROIT IS A SPIRITUAL BATTLEFIELD, you know this in your bones.
Proposal: Let us, together and apart, continue the historical practice of many groups and individuals here, to do ritual, say prayers, chant and throw curses to shift power. The vision that was planted in my brain still remains. Hesse’s “For Madwomen Only” remixed. If I were to put all my heart and my all being into the struggle at hand it would look and feel something like this.
This is my expression of the voice that silently wakes me every morning at 3am. I inuit that some of you know this voice. This is a call to the madwomen, shamen, mutants, healers, prophets, clerics, street sorcerers and medicine women. If nothing else, this, maybe more than anything else, this will scare the shit out of them. If they are still men, in the middle of the night it will creep up on them. It scares me. I’m not at my strongest, in some ways I’m more broken than I’ve ever been. Maybe that’s the sweet spot.
Maybe this is where I share what I know more than I have, without the veneer. I’ve studied the Book of Job and the story of Faust for the majority of my time here. If, in fact, God and the Devil play dice with the universe, I intuit that people of both faith and science are invited to influence the roll with our thoughts, actions and deeds.
THE VISION THAT WAS PLANTED IN MY BRAIN STILL REMAINS.
FOR MADWOMEN ONLY
IF I WERE TO PUT ALL MY HEART AND MY ALL BEING INTO THE STRUGGLE AT HAND IT WOULD LOOK AND FEEL SOMETHING LIKE THIS. THIS IS MY EXPRESSION OF THE VOICE THAT SILENTLY WAKES ME EVERY MORNING AT 3AM. I’VE SENT THIS TO YOU BECAUSE I INTUIT YOU KNOW THAT VOICE. THIS IS A CALL TO THE MADWOMEN, SHAMEN, MUTANTS, HEALERS, PROPHETS, CLERICS, STREET SORCERERS AND MEDICINE WOMEN.
THE SIGN SAID THE WORDS OF THE PROPHETS WERE WRITTEN ON THE WALLS I SAY THEY ARE WRITTEN IN OUR DNA. WE ARE INFINITE BEINGS HAVING A FINITE EXPERIENCE THAT WE IS DETERMINED BY OUR LIVES. THIS IS NOT OUR CITY, BUT WE ARE ITS CARE TAKERS AND WE MUST STAND UP TO PROTECT IT.
The Anathema of the Red Dwarf;
A Sermon to the Hypocrites of Detroit
A poetic drama in seven parts based upon a conversation overheard, August 2013
The Call
The Magician/Fool: I call upon Le Nain Rouge, my friend, the scourge of the land, to rise up with us and reclaim THIS land, for people, animal, vegetable, mineral, for those who came long before and will come, amen. The settlers have returned to settle the score, take back the isle, the water, and so much more. I fear their souls as my own.
Of course they designed not to know that this IS their intention, only the handful who are directing the show, the one’s with the dough, are in the know. it is not their intention, they’re cleaning the place up. The problem, my old accomplice, is that they are using your name, to move forward their lot, I know that you know they’ve been burning you yearly, a state sanctioned festive riot of fire and glut.
They’ve mangled your story, and marketed everything from beer to bacon with your name. What is worse, they’ve linked you with something I’ve yet to understand, they have rendered you in serve to the ruler of this, your own land. I know not to trust you, I know the score, this is not the first time I’ve stood at your door. We all are children of this white plague, but I think at this time there are more than enough things upon which we agree, not to take up the cause and dispose this lunacy.
Nain, my old friend, I ken you’ve spoken through me time and again. My vitriol, my spite, my fear in the night, my mother, my father, my brothers and sisters, along with their lovers. I do not know my own power lost friends. Nain, you are a slice of the fire, the Promethean light, that stings and sings in me, what do you say to my proposal today?
Can you speak to the people, speak in a way they can all understand, the white and the black, all the manufactured pawns in this multi- fronted attack? I know you’ll be harsh, pointed in fact, by no means do I wish to censor your ballast, but ask that you keep it well rounded and not spare anyone venom and their moment in the light of your night.
This is a new Poem in the TIMEFIX series. (My attempts at PKD, before reading his works.) If you’re lucky enough to still have the scars, you hero… dig out your goggles, get some tape or string or something, and strap ’em on.
Note: My life is the disclaimer. My successes, other’s failures, some folk want/need to be turned up, some folks want/need to be turned way down. Pretty complex architecture on the want/need border for most of us these days.
While I’ll be held accountable to the tune of offering preflight support through this poem, and possible banter upon return, I must point out that this is a Mind Fuck and if you elect to hit play you, whatever your motives, you are willfully entering into realms I have absolutely no influence in.
Put frankly, if it gets deep, no one is going to be able to wade out and get your ass because your coordinates will be dictated by the timing of your breath, the speed of your internet connection, the varied neurological distance between your decision to hit the link and your hand. I would also suggest influence from the location of the sun and moon, your level of hydration and mood or emotional/energetic state.
So, all that to say, there’s a great deal going on that will influence whether this is a blissed-out industrial angelic choir or demonic dystopian cacophony. I try not to judge though, maybe today is the day I need a demonic cacophony to see what I need to see. I don’t like to lead, but my personal Mind Fuck sweet-spot, where I gain the most in the way of insight, is the quite tangible dance between the two.
Archival:
This is a RE-Creation of the ritualized experiments I performed on myself with cassette decks and cd player ‘boom boxes’, a handful of buzzing TV’s and a hand-crafted freestanding Dreamachine. I smile, a little tongue in cheek, when I share that many of these experiments were played out in an underground ‘bunker’, an unfinished sauna in what could be considered an abandoned suburban Bloomfield garage. The people who lived there seem ghosts to me now, the depression so deep, we never cut the grass or went into the garage. My rig is probably still there, rust and mold. I’ll never forget how the room used to fill with water and/or fire.
These are not and will always be ‘new’ ideas. I have no idea where the line can be drawn between my influences and my original expressions. I still intuit that my influences practiced and held the same perspective. This round of experiments was deeply influenced by my exposure to William S. Burroughs, Bryon Gysin and their ilk, through vengefully purchasing an LP by an unknown to me band called Throbbing Gristle. As much as I oft deplore that my entrance is through consumption, therein lies the birth of my personal culture war. While it surpassed it’s vitriolic intention, I didn’t care for the LP musically. I was in the midst of a fall from new wave into punk and, shudder, goth, and quite frankly the noise that came out of my speakers freaked me out quite a bit. Yet somehow it resonated with me, it only took my OCD mind a short amount of time to connect to their influences which included many of the folk I was researching in an attempt at the self-guided mental surgery that this poem documents. I know in some realms it still exists, so forgive the nostalgia, but I used a very different means of gathering information back in the day that required leg work. I’d sell plasma to raise the funds to get a rare book shipped from overseas, all the while praying that it wasn’t shite. I’d get rides out to U of M without means of getting home so that I could spend days in their half-floor stacks, pouring through books attempting to make a map of the stuff the Surrealists were channeling.
The RE-Created Experiment:
Sit down comfortably, breathe mindfully, put on your headset and/or turn it up a bit,- open these three links, one each time you exhale, sit back, close your eyes and keep breathing mindfully. thanks for playing and good luck. You’re getting one small piece of pretty massively detailed system that I designed for self-guided mental surgery.
Zos Kia / Coil Here to Here (Double-Headed Secret), Transparent, 1984
Boyd Rice and Frank Tovey, Easy Listening for the Hard of Hearing, 1984
Chris and Cosey, Haunted Heroes, Techno Primitiv, 1985
Written in 2013, recorded in the family temple.
A banishing of sorts and call for clarity in writing and self expression. Music: Bloom – ‘Divine Users’
T6
This AM
I write for me
not for
him
her
sun
moon
mother
father
in-law
infinite repressed
but now,
me
she
he,
warrior
monk
fool father
always to be
Two-bit
illusion of infirmary
psychosis of sin
original
or third-hand
discarded undainties exposed finally
as the smell coming from the
woodshed
This am I
write for me
not for
bullies
banks
or movements building
all-weather friends
enamored and amused
abused by my train-wreck obscurities
Trite notions
if I did not
I –
I would not be grasping
for conspiracy,
for meaning
for calm and chaos
rooted
in the same breath,
breathe
This I am
write for me
for ancestry and progeny
for father land
mother sky
for crystals below
and above
me – a conduit,
I see
The span of 40 years
behind
before
me cycles
lines
dimensions un-folding
in
up-
on
themselves
I am this
write for me
Graphic meditations on time and domestication from 2014.
Operation Mind Fuck #173
Written in 2013, recorded in the family temple.