Share the Journey

Share your journeys, they say. Share the bane and pleasures of your lifelong journey, so that you are not caught alone in the webs of your mind. 

It helps, they say. Helps ends the endless thirst for more hunts. More taxidermy. More late night shoveling. 

Early morning regrets. 

Faces in the crowd. 

Latex gloves. 

Voices under my eyelids. 

Ad Nauseam

Fucking useless advises...

One’s Diatribe is Another’s Accolade

“There is nothing spontaneous or accidental about "rock." It is a product of classical studies of the ancient Phrygian terrorist cult of Satan-Dionysos, the model for the Roman Bacchic cults of similar characteristics. Crowley’s control of the "rock industry" has been documented by a team of [private] investigators, who have also noted, that in addition to the Satanist lyrics, Satanist messages embedded sublimely in rock recordings are a key feature of this subversive operation. 

The "rock rhythm" itself is copied from the old Dionysian-Bacchic cults. Even without the drugs and sexual orgies which are characteristic features of hard-core rock affairs, repeated, frequent, hours-long exposure to constant repetition of "rock rhythms" produces lasting, drug-like effects on the mind of the victim. Reducing sexual practices to the level of bestiality, is a crucial feature of Satanism in all historical periods studied, from Phrygian Cybele-Dionysos cult-period onward.”

Lyndon LaRouche

A Non-generic Groundswell

What could be more generic in the extreme, underground metal scene than references to blood

And yet, every now and then, you do stumble upon things that emanated such hard to cast aside, groundswell of anger and hatred, that really do last in your blood more than just a generic, teenage-angst of some early years dabbling in the underground.

I guess, for some of us, there’s nothing generic about feeling an affinity with the darker shades of consciousness.

Ontology

"I regard consciousness as fundamental. I regard matter as derivative from consciousness. We cannot get behind consciousness. Everything that we talk about, everything that we regard as existing, postulates consciousness."

Wonderful View XXX

Don't be shy, don't be remorseful, don't be worrisome,

Just be fain

Transition

From Oestre to a magickal egg-laying hare..You got to hand it to those Abrahamic religions, they sure do know how to twist and fuzz-out myths for their own agenda…

Like a lingering cloud of gasified lungs in the showers of concentration camps, forever hanging in transition

Abandoned

Saw a very interesting, sad, pale game yesterday. So sad, it actually looks as if the whole cosmos has vacated her bluish, dreamy eyes, even as life writhes to survive within that pale flesh.

I wonder if it's the hunter and assassin within that brought such sense of abandon.

Dark Cold Stars

Nature can say so much with so little words. 

A shimmering glance of the pale monsoon moon, for example, can whisper all the stories one needs to known about the nightshades, and the evergreen cold darkness that it breeds.

Summoning souls like stars gathering at the height of the dark night’s embrace…

Reap

I always know that the time is ripe for raping the seeds that I’ve sown for so many years when I see the night skies turned crimson last Samhain…

The forest is cleared of fogs and the talismans are shimmering with the old light, emanating deep from the evergreen heart of the night, calling me forth to reap what I’ve sown. 

Sometimes it feels as if each deep dark nooks and crannies of the forest is a summon to reap.

Prayers

Here’s what an a self-proclaimed insightful magus of the mundane realm told me once in a foggy bar stool evening: There is no need for any prayers, mantras, murmurs of parley and cajoling with denizens of horse shit realms that exists only in the beholder’s own weak, fearful, inconsistent mind. 

The only prayer useful to be pondered, the magus claimed, is the one from a few decades ago, when one is sober enough to perceive the ultimate truth: “I press her thigh and death smile”

Repeat after me: “I press her thigh and death smile” - “I press her thigh and death smile” - “I press the trigger and death smile”

Odd Faith

Is there anything that is not odd about faith that one could pass judgment unto others? Why is cutting up one’s own skin in homage to a perceived righteous leader, so much more disgraceful than anal probing altar boys every fucking weekend? 

Is murder better when it is about killing Muslims for Budha, Budhists for Yahweh, Christians for Satan, Satan for Allah? Or is murder just murder, with no need for reason or faith or any creatures to lay the responsibility on? 

Maybe the truth is a lot simpler than all that crap. Maybe faith, piety, or dedication to imaginary beings, are just for pussies.

Wonderful View XXIX

Ran aground on this untamed, barren, forlorn, and persistently hateful place decades ago, one starts to wonder if everybody was also ‘stirred’ to be here by some sort of universal enchantress?

A siren that coils and uncoils the titillating peak and pulses of the spear and cup, ensuring that even more and more shall ran aground, in this desolation… 

Good Sleep Bunny

I took the feathers of fluffy weather

Until it rains all the tears and cries 

Of a thousand feathers torn 

Off fluffy bunnies, kept in leather

Plucked and cast down the depths of filth 

An empty din of tatter 

Unknown by weather

The Perfect Balance

When time passes by, I do long for the fuzzy 70s. The time when that illusive balance of ‘defiance’ and ‘faith’ lingers so beautifully in art and music…

As fuzzy as the rapes at Woodstock, the pretty long hairs of Manson’s girls, the piled cadavers on Jim Jones’ happy little hippie town...

Wonderful View XXVIII

To lose or get lost is to be immersed in the thousands fold of conscious and subconscious realities…or so some say to me, in a bad acid-laden hunt, once upon a long, purplish, crimson night ago… 

Saintly Death

I used to dream of dying a heroic death. Defiant to the last gasp of breath. Clad in loincloth, armed with big-ass swords, axes, like Conan in the comics..Bathory and Manowar in the band photos…Defending justice, in self- righteous, brutal carnage.

Of course, one eventually grows up and realized heroism has no value other than in Hollywood. That violence and big weapons belongs to the sole monopoly of state apparatus on whom we can always rest our utmost trust and reliance for fairness, safeness and squeaky-cleanness….

No more needs for dying saints…we just need more saintly gadgets and applications to solve whatever little problems we have left in the world now…

Spirituality

One cannot stress enough the importance of vetted experience, for anyone professing proficiency in spiritual guidance…If you haven’t been to the darker paths you surely cannot talk about leading others to it.

Why are we, or some of us, so addicted on being lead, spiritually, intellectually, technologically, culturally, anyway? I suppose that deserves its own thread doesn’t it?

Optimism

Someone ask me once if I could ever be an optimist with such misanthropic view of life. Truly, it is interesting how some very unsettling and most intriguing questions, or conversational topics, could come up while you are out on a hunt, regardless of who brought up the questions/topics.

Since we continued talking about it at a ruin chosen before hand for proper homage to the hunting gods, I chose to reflect my thought on the surrounding circumstances. That in the face of structural decay, one could feel optimistic about a possible renovation of the structure, or of an inevitable destruction of the structure, both plausible in the future.

Surely, optimism is but a ‘function’ of each individual’s viewpoint is it not?  Just as music in its many genres/forms always appear to me as a reflection of the musicians’ true desire/heart. If the desire/heart is dark, so shall the music expression be dark.

If the heart/desire is misanthropic, so shall the ‘optimism’ be misanthropic.  

Teasers

I do like it when a fresh, bold approach to a certain familiar music genre teases my brain in such delightful ways, that one doesn’t even think too much anymore about who shall be the next game on the hunt. 

I’m sure my shrink will approve of this therapeutic approach of musical “teasers”…which also stop me and the knives in my heart from being constantly feeling ‘teased’ by her lovely legs, and disgusting jade-green brooch.

Pain

I gave you lust and genitalia so you can procreate

Spread across the planet with your kind

Master the land the sea and the skies

Spread wanton destruction on your scorched paths

For which you shall be grateful

And pay me by blood, in full

Children of pain and dying hopes