Saturday, November 29, 2008

Something I Saw, Scrying into a Glass Slide

I don’t particularly like criticizing Americans- or any nation, for that matter. However, if I am going to do it, this is the blog for it; “Reflections in a Petri Dish.” Maybe I should have called it “Smears on a Glass Slide.” Maybe that’s a future blog for the heavy artillery.

I don’t like criticizing in general. I don’t like sounding like a scold. We are all prone to it. Curbing your tongue is a high art. I realize I do a lot of it at Smoking Mirrors blog but if you look at the geo-political landscape today, there isn’t much to strike up the band for. In my mind it isn’t criticism as much as it is the act of putting up cautionary highway signs and warning about who is really doing the things you are beguiled and motivated into blaming on someone else ...and we’ll be talking about the interesting, third party provocation of a conflict between Pakistan and India, later on.

This is the cultural blog however and before I get into today’s shining example of contemporary culture, let me say that it takes a certain amount of low brow proliferation to make possible the violent depravities of the time. As Hillary likes to say, “It takes a village.” Yes, it takes a village. It takes a village of idiots. One idiot won’t do.

Yesterday in Long Island, a collection of idiots trampled a man to death; caused a pregnant woman to miscarry and injured several other members of the idiot’s brigade outside a shopopolis of shit. Wal-Mart is a fine example of American culture and so too are these rampaging swine; gathered outside a feeder pipe of useless, plastic crap.

Not only did they achieve the results already mentioned but they kept right on going and, in a feeding frenzy, they grabbed all the useless substitutes for love that caught their beady little red eyes and made as high a pile as they could manage in the shopping cart under the shadow of their looming bellies which hung into the child seat beneath the cart handles. Then they raced to checkout counters, indifferent to whatever they had accomplished on entering; their minds already fixed on the next act of pig enterprise.

They riot outside chain link fences, like drunken soccer yobs, hoping they will get one of the $250. Laptops that you need fingers, not hooves, to operate. They send their sons and daughters to die in corporate wars against nations that are framed for the offense they are seeking retribution for. They morph their children into a country filled with Pillsbury doughboys and girls who can’t think or read or run. They are proud Americans. They had their Thanksgiving dinner without any thanks and then they went out and showed each other what they were made of. You can see what they are made of in the pork ‘n Styrofoam section of the meat locker at Food R Us.

I’ve watched them in their drunken brawls outside of sporting events and bars. I’ve watched them move like packs of wild dogs through the parks and subway systems. I’ve seen them at the country clubs and beaches. I’ve watched them fall from two feet to four and change like a werewolf under a blood red moon. I’ve seen them singing their tedious hymns to their anthropomorphic Gods while the minister delivers the corporate line from the corporation Jesus out of the corporation approved Bible.

In my travels I have seen them outside the restaurants and theaters and seen the infra-red heat of their ‘contents under pressure’ sexual anger looking for something to fight or fuck or eat. Their eyes are as glazed as the donuts that they order by the dozens as an appetizer before the main feast.

The contents are under pressure because one cowboy in a black hat tells them copulation is a sin while another cowboy in a red hat shows them videos of Desperate Housewives and Jerry Springer specials. Another cowboy in a blue hat sings about Heaven in the sky and the cowboy at the front in the yellow hat holds up pictures of Heaven on Earth and they follow him through the chutes and on to the killing floor; trampling their fellows to be the first in line.

They paint makeup on their sad, tired faces and it really does look like lipstick on a pig. They do the same to their children and then sell them to the corporation pimps because they are going to be stars. It has to be done a certain way. It has to have the corporate seal and then it’s all legal and appropriate... not like the guy in the car outside the elementary school or the guy with dream dust in the parking lot. There’s no room for entrepreneurs. They have to be wearing the corporation jacket with the emblem over the pocket. Then they can fuck your children and sell you bad dope and alcohol to kill your will and you’re just that glad that they picked you. Then they parade you in front of the world and they laugh at you and knock you down and piss on you and everybody laughs, including the next guy in line.

It’s all Jesus in hotpants leaning into a curbside, car window. It’s twenty-four hour asparmate Mozart in the elevator from Hell. It’s Einstein playing Wheel of Fortune and Martin Luther King hosting Let’s Make a Deal. “Come on Down!” “It’s finger-licking good.” Get yourself a season ticket to the Kentucky Fried Cremora-toriums.

The greatest country in the world is blind drunk and vomiting in the alley. The Land of the Free is on its knees and torsioned up in bondage gear with a gag reflex, ping pong ball in its mouth and a vibrating butt plug in its ass on national TV. It’s the Home of the Brave, hiding in the subway tunnels from the 2:05 Beelzebub Express. It’s One Nation under ZOG with ketchup and mustard for all. It’s a lie and that’s what burns you and makes you want to kill because you’re not going to look at it... no, you’re not going to look at it. You’re going to paint a big smiley face on the 25 foot pitcher of Kool-Aid and get yourself a Big Gulp container.

It’s a crying shame but it’s only those who want no part of it who can see how deep the misery runs and how much deeper it can go. There’s some small movement out on the fringe. You can see small parties and individuals packing it in and heading for the exits. They know that the next stampede is almost due.

If this were a metaphor, I would say that those who led you here to the gates of Hell knew where they were headed all along. They were always going there. The payoff is that they get to do more to you there than they got to do to you here and it’s better to be a prison guard than a prisoner. It’s better to be the whipper than the whipped. Sure, it takes a certain temperament but they got that. They got that.

On and on it goes and where it stops nobody knows. On it goes into Boschian nightmare. On it goes into Clive Barker’s bad dreams. On you go... chasing the Sony PlayStations and RockStar 3’s. You do it all for Love. You trample your fellows to buy useless crap for the people you want to love- if love didn’t require so much- in the hope that they will love you too. But they know you don’t love them. You can’t fake love for very long and you certainly can’t buy it and they’ll turn on you and let you know that sooner or later and you’ll wind up in a dark room listening to “Tears of a Clown” over and over and over again... alone.

Your children and your friends know that you don’t love them and you know that they don’t love you. It’s all an air-kissing masquerade in a bad manners production of a wasted life. Materialism doesn’t satisfy the hunger for human understanding and natural affection, prostituted and destroyed by a raging buck fever for worthless goods in place of the one thing you were too cheap to provide and which cost you nothing but the vulnerability and sacrifice of delivery. Real love has been buried under a landfill of garbage that is the headstone over the shallow grave of the people you might have been and never were.

Visible sings: The Sacred and The Profane by Les Visible♫ Nothing More ♫
'Nothing More' is track no. 5 of 13 on Visible's 2007 album 'The Sacred and The Profane'
Lyrics (pops up)

The Sacred and The Profane by Les Visible

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Something We Saw on a Mountain Path

I have a friend who lives in Bulgaria and I went to visit him a while back. He lives in the Stara Planina. My friend is an alchemist of sorts. I might also call him a curious collector and a person around which ordinary things can take on entirely new dimensions of appearance sometimes. Anyone who has read Pantanjali’s Yoga Aphorisms would understand how this could be possible although they might not be able to do it themselves.

Certain mountainous areas in the Balkan Mountains are famous for mysterious characters and tales about brotherhoods and such. Peter Dunov lived there as did his disciple Mikhael Aivanhov before he went to France.

My friend, let’s call him Gregor, took me for a walk one afternoon. First we went through dense scrub which gave way to a kind of dwarf pine and then into massive arrangements of rock with scattered foliage that was made possible by collections of dirt that has traveled on the air and over time collected in depressions and after that, seeds followed in the same way.

At one point we came upon something lying on the ground which looked like it could be phlegm from a traveling rock troll who had been through there the night before. It could have been something that leaked from an industrial container or it might have been any number of things; something that had been eaten and which proved to be unsuitable to the digestion. There were a couple of suitable rocks very near this item and Gregor said we should sit there a moment and study this phenomena.

There we sat, neither of us saying anything. That strange thing that sometimes happens around Gregor started to happen and this congealed substance began to move like some small creature shifting in its sleep. It was a subtle thing. Maybe it was moving and maybe it wasn’t. It was changing too. The color deepened and the color changed as well. To begin with it had appeared to be a combination of muddy browns and degrees of red with some yellow and patches of white. Then the red became black and the yellow turned brown. Then the brown became yellow again.

It was just a patch of something unattractive. Some of it was wet and some of it looked crusty. As I studied it I kept getting the sensation that I had seen that shape before. It was hauntingly familiar. I was thinking that it was so familiar that I was going to be mentally kicking myself when I finally discovered what it was reminding me of. This is the sort of thing that happens around Gregor. Sometimes, something gets revealed that you probably would not have seen and other times, something you would have caught right off gets veiled.

I should mention here that although I’ve had these experiences with Gregor before and there would have been no chemical reason for it, there were also times when he fixed me something from his collection of teas and I would find myself crossing from this terra ordinaire into some dreamscape. Such was not the case on this afternoon.

“Give it time.” Gregor said. “It will come to you.” This is another thing he did with some frequency; show up in my thoughts. When I am on psychedelics I can do this. I can read minds because, at those times, I am well aware that there is only one mind so that mental conversations pass through my head in a way that is similar to how physical conversation passes into my ears. Gregor seems to be able to do this all the time although he never comments on it much. He doesn’t say much at the best of times and you can’t get a straight answer out of him about anything. It’s maddening on occasion because you know that he could give a simple and illuminating answer to some mysterious complexity but he never does. He almost always answers a question with another question.

Now this makes me think about the technology of the one mind and how, since Gregor is in my mind when he asks me a question, the answer is there too and... as it’s one mind it’s there for any of us to discover.

“It’s a little frustrating.” I said. “It’s one of those things that should be obvious and I can’t make the connection. I’ve gone from wondering what it is to wondering about the shape. It’s the shape that’s puzzling me.”

“Look deeper.” he said. “Look into it.”

I did this and ...this splatter, whatever it was, began to increase in size until I could see tiny forms moving in the mix. Some of them were absorbing others. A time would come when one of the objects would expand to absorb everything and there would be only a single color and then it would break up again into some large number of pulsating items. When it was like this there was a great deal of movement as if someone had flattened an anthill. When some large form was absorbing the other larger forms, that had also been absorbing others, the movement became much slower. When the largest item became the only item there was a period of no movement at all.

It was during a moment when the most recent, single object had broken up again that it came to me. I was looking at a near perfect representation of the United States. What I said was, “Where’s Canada?” We both laughed. I was laughing quite hard. It seemed really funny to me.

Gregor asked, “Do you think it would have looked or acted different if it had been Australia or somewhere else?” “Probably not.” I replied. “It’s feeding on itself isn’t it? It’s feeding on itself but it’s still there and there’s still the same amount of it as always.”

“Would you have expected it to be different?”

“I guess not but... that’s the thing, isn’t it? It doesn’t really go anywhere and it doesn’t disappear just because it consumed itself. It’s that serpent with the tail thing. Life, the culture especially, is sort of like a ravenous, chemical sludge. Out here in the raw materials section there’s a pristine and endless waiting to occur. This is like a pottery shop waiting to happen and then someone makes a pot and they mix some ingredients in the pot and then it gets poured out on the ground and the components of the mix start to devour each other. We’re just bacteria aren’t we?”

“Wouldn’t it depend on whether you were down there or sitting here?” Gregor got up after he said this and we walked on until we came to the place where the mountain had fallen away and tumbled for many hundreds of feet to the valley below. There was a large village there which had been built only a few hundred yards from where this portion of the mountain had completed its fall. I looked at the village and thought about the pulsating stain we had left behind us. The village looked quiet and welcoming from this distance. I said, “I guess it depends on how big it gets... how viral it becomes.”

Gregor didn’t say anything for awhile. Then he said, “Wouldn’t that be a parallel to just about anything? ...your own life... the amount of things in it and how they react with each other... the contents of your house... your mind or your heart. They might be very crowded and busy and then again the front door could be hanging from one hinge and there could be only a single chair by a window that looks out on something like this.” He gestured at the scene below. I could hear a dog barking, very faint and far away. Was the dog barking at us?

Neither of us said anything further and after awhile we turned around and went back the way we had come. When we got to the place where that mysterious substance had been it wasn’t there any more.

Visible sings: Color Ball by Les Visible♫ I'm Coming Back ♫
'I'm Coming Back' is track no. 4 of 12 on Visible's 2007 album 'Color Ball'
Lyrics (pops up)

Color Ball by Les Visible

Thursday, November 13, 2008

The Art of the Possible on the Brink of Upheaval

Greetings and salutations on this fine Italian morning. I thought we’d move away from all this talk about the New World Order; Zio-Krays and Gallo’s, PC-Nazis, Schmoo epidemics, Biblical plagues and all the other looming evils and uncertainties that have turned the world into a chiaroscuro Wellbutrin-junkie world and look into some of the more positive things that are being worked on around the world.

This year, I’ve got a bumper olive crop since nearly all 76 of my trees are producing at the same time. My almond trees were also outstanding as well. I have had to lay out around 500 meters of net five meters wide to catch them all. I think that’s a lot of olives. My various succulent efforts are booming and blooming and I hope to have them become a major feature of the landscape in time. I am in love with succulents and never knew there were so many until I got into it.

Most people know that I am very interested in The Devic Realm and I had some conversations with my local entities about the situation where I live and you can form your own conclusions about the reality of the affair but it’s there to be seen that I’m getting more olives than one might ordinarily expect when I haven’t done anything to my trees. There are other surprises as well but I won’t be going into them today. Some of you may be familiar with Findhorn and what they accomplished there. I’m not going to comment on this particular organization or what might be the state of it today. We all know what happens when fame and notice, encounter money and influence.

In any case, there’s something to making contact with the invisible entities that labor in the natural world. What we call angels and other cultures and religions know by other names are only the highest entities from The Devic Realm. There are many other groups and types. You might know what gnomes, sylphs, salamanders and naiads are and you might not but they are employed like the dwarves in Time Bandits to engage in certain activities demanded of them by The Supreme Being.

What are called 'fairies' and 'elves' are also residents of The Devic Realm.

The agencies of The Devic Realm are quite curious about human beings, however, most of the time we behave like rampaging, destructive demons and they are not going to come around under those circumstances. I’m just throwing this out because I think some people might be curious about Nature’s helpers and a little inquiry can sometimes open windows of perception in your day to day.

Mostly I want to talk about the new technologies and to mention Jacque Fresco and encourage you to see the movie, The Future by Design. I have the highest admiration for Jacque and Roxanne and the work they do. In my communications with them they have proven to be every bit as remarkable as human beings as they are innovators for humanities future. This is the key element I look for when I encounter anyone who has been made famous for any reason... are they also a human being. If not, my interest in them ends.

Presently I am looking at a lot of different modalities to take my little hectare and this little house off the grid. I’ve seen some real breakthroughs of late such as spray on solar cells, the new super solar panels and this little item of entrepreneurial ingenuity. I’ve looked at geo-thermal and wind turbine systems. There’s a lot out there and once again, I’m probably not going to get out of seventh grade because I’m almost all right brain. Conceptually I get a lot of things and the intuition is a marvel. I’ve found that you can supercharge the intuition; maybe it’s better to say that you can greatly enhance access by the practice of certain repetitive efforts; more on that at another time... but... but... I’m a technical and mechanical Luddite and best left to simpler chores like chain-sawing firewood, digging holes and constructing planters and washing the dishes. I can do some simple household repairs and I can build some simple, interesting structures but that’s about it.

What I really need are friends who have this end of the equation down. That is why I love the idea of a community of diversely talented individuals who are also, ‘human beings’ and with whom one can accomplish all sorts of wonderful things for the benefit of the group. Unfortunately for me... now in Expatria, I don’t run into this much and my reclusive nature doesn’t facilitate running across many people but I suspect I wouldn’t be talking about this if there weren’t a reason that leads to some sort of change in the dynamic.

Recently I’ve had some freakishly positive encounters with individuals who possess specialized knowledge that looks like it is going to solve several long standing problems I have had in the area of supply and demand and in the area of making what I do a lot more professional than I have been able to accomplish. The world may be temporarily turning to shit but there are a lot of good things going on and I would rather focus on those when I can; surely I do in my personal life because most of what Smoking Mirrors talks about doesn’t have much actual impact on me except in the spiritual and metaphysical sense.

I’ve brought this up before and you should know that the primary intention of my blogs was to facilitate it... I’ve discussed this concept of a community before. Susanne and I are not tied to Italy over the long term. At the same time, I would say that where I am in Italy is a better than average location for a community and the people are genuine and hospitable in a way that has all but vanished from contemporary life. The idea of a community in several locations is also good and allows for varieties of creative possibilities.

So... the purpose of this blog entry is to encourage the readers to chime in with their thoughts on the matter. I would venture to say that among the readers here we could generate a prosperous and productive living situation pretty easily since there are some very sharp minds and multi-talented individuals coming around here. The key is to remain human and avoid the nasty self-interest and petty ego demanding that seems to proliferate more than one would like. We need to leave certain things at the door and not mind too much when life shows us our approach needs modification and to be willing to change so as to more richly enhance our lives and the lives of our companions.

Basically, I’d just like us to think about this and maybe have a little to say and see what comes about in the mix. It is certain that the old world is on its way out. It is a combination of damaged systems and wasted energy, rife with greed and appetite; not to mention, bad food and lifestyles. We can do better. It may be that we create a virtual community or one where people come in and out as time and circumstance permits. Whatever the result might be it will be better than what we have seen and better than what is recycling away.

So... let’s see what you come up with.

Visible sings: 911 was an Inside Job by Les Visible♫ Something Good (is Coming Soon) ♫
'Something Good (is Coming Soon)' is track no. 10 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'

Lyrics (pops up)

911 was an Inside Job by Les Visible

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Somewhere over the Rainbow Lies the Land of the Khmer Rouge

When I look at the world and all of the injustices that need to be adjusted, the lack of ‘One hundred percent authentic!’, ‘accept no substitutes!’ universal gay marriage isn’t what immediately comes to mind.

I’ve gotten no small measure of amusement from Ms’s Etheridge and DeGeneres and company bewailing their oppressed state. Etheridge isn’t going to pay her taxes, or so she says. Of course, that’s about as likely as Alex Baldwin relocating to Europe or the AMA/Pharmaceutical combine promoting good health instead of working to destroy it to increase business.

Along with Zionism, I consider political correctness to be one of the most pernicious viruses on the planet. I shouldn’t have to point out that the places where political correctness most flourished was in revolutionary France, in Red China and among the Khmer Rouge. Political Correctness is cultural fascism. Fascism doesn’t have just one set of clothes. It is as likely to show up in a school room as it is at a family dinner table.

I’ve known a lot of gay people in my life and I never have yet met one who wanted to get married. It sort of destroys the bohemian aspect of the thing. Like with so many movements that want to legitimize their idea of what’s real, as soon as money gets involved you’ve got the scientific and academic community wondering if their new book tour on the gay gene is going to result in a call from Mr., Nobel Prize or one of his siblings.

PETA is another example of this sort of thing. The basic idea is a good one. I’ve no argument with it. I love animals and it breaks my heart to see how they are treated but... you add money, a public relations firm and sympathetic appeal and some more money and the next thing you know the anti-smoking people are in on it and then there’s a law that says you can’t smoke in your house because it’s bad for your dog.

Then there are the Vegans who say that eating honey is stealing from the bees and that cow’s milk is stealing from the calves. There are people who want to marry their pets and then there’s NAMBLA which says that, “eight is too late.” You’ve got voodoo gurus who have sex with their followers and then sue people who point out inconsistencies in their teachings. You’ve got Scientology and K-Mart Kabala who indenture and brain wash people and then hire lawyers to go after the people who point it out.

I’m guessing that gay people in general have got it a great deal better than the Native Americans do. You hear all kinds of arguments about benefits and tax situations where gays are discriminated against because they don’t have the same legal rights as heterosexual married couples have. The bottom line is that that is bullshit... gays like most of the rest of the well-funded political correctness movements are more than equal. The same goes for the public placement of all the menorahs and other Hebrew symbols when measured against the suppression of Christian symbology and the centuries old names of the celebrations of Christianity. The same goes for the rights of witches and pagans and no doubt werewolves as well.

The fact of the matter is that the collective will of the people should prevail over the special interests of well funded minority interests. Unfortunately, much of the time, that has not been the case lately.

It should be no problem for bars and restaurants to have closed off smoking sections but that is not enough for the anti-smoking fascists. They don’t want a reasonable solution. They want their solution and every success serves to push their agenda forward to ever more and more absurd demands.

It’s not just the gay marriage thing that sets off ‘the people’ and causes backlash and protest. It’s all the other things having to do with what kindergarten and primary school children are taught and what points of view are forced upon impressionable minds before they have any chance of getting to a place where they can make up their own. If you want to see political correctness taken to the height of absurdity you have only to look at what is going on in England which also has the highest concentration of spy cameras on the planet. There’s a connection here and you shouldn’t need me to point it out. You also shouldn’t need me to point out that these spy cameras have had very little effect on the crimes they are supposed to prevent.

I don’t have the time and space here to list the incredible amount of demands and the incredible amount of insidious activities that ‘certain members’ of the gay community are up to. It’s not just gay marriage and it’s not just about equal rights. It’s about more than equal and privileged status. It’s about the attempt to supplant and replace the thing it contends against. Take the time and trouble to google some of the things going on in academic and scientific circles if you don’t mind having the shit scared out of you.

The thing is that one thing leads to another. One freedom gained leads to another freedom desired. Then there’s the hypocrisy of it all. Alcohol kills more people and destroys more lives than tobacco ever will but alcohol is cool. Marijuana is illegal because it makes you think. Alcohol is legal because it makes you stupid.

The gay movement, like so many movements eventually comes up against the limit of what the majority of the community will accept. That’s just how it is. The majority of the people don’t want certain aspects of the gay agenda legitimized although they are perfectly fine with many aspects which operate unhindered as this is being written. If gay marriage were legalized it would immediately be forgotten and it would be onward to the next demand. That’s just how it is.

The truth is that the world is insane. Sometimes it’s a great deal more nuts than at other times. Insanity seems to be the most epidemic in the times when materialism is most prevalent. Behind the scenes are thousands of professionals’ hotwiring realities to make them look like what they are not. Then, in come the lawyers and lobbyists who couldn’t care less about the subject at hand but only about the paycheck at the end of the road.

This is why humanity fascinates me. I can sit and watch it go by for hours and hours. They’re like millions of dogs chasing their tails. They get some idea in their mind that has to do with something they want and they can rationalize anything in the pursuit of it. Nobody understands why no one understands them. No one understands why everyone is only interested in themselves just like they are. No one gets why it’s not okay for them to push their way through a crowd of people pushing their way through a crowd toward a fly infested latrine trench where they can get all giddy about the bouquet of their more memorable contributions, now aging beautifully before them.

I don’t really care one way or the other about gay marriage. It’s just not important. I’m not interested in what Vegans think about bees or the fact that non-smokers think there might be a people who live beneath the Earth’s surfaces who are smoking and who shouldn’t be. I’m going to do what I want to do anyway and I’ll go right on doing it because I’m not doing it in your face. I’m not standing on a street corner with a couple of lines of Ketamine and a microphone demanding that you recognize my right to do it. There’s a point there.

The constant shrill insistence on public recognition and compliance with your petulant and childish dress up games in your imaginary world of appearances sooner or later meets up with an archetypal parent force. It might be society and it might be the law. Freedom isn’t license and you could spend a good long time looking for someone who could explain to you what freedom really is instead of explaining to you that freedom is just another way of saying, “get the fuck out of my way.”

Visible and The Critical List: Not Politically Correct by Les Visible and The Critical List♫ Big God and Mr. Fate ♫
'Big God and Mr. Fate' is track no. 3 of 12 on Visible and The Critical List's 1992 album
'Not Politically Correct'

About this song (pops up)

Not Politically Correct by Les Visible and The Critical List

Friday, November 07, 2008

Madonna, the Whore of Babylon Lite

Given that Obama sold out before he is even on the shelf, I’d rather not talk about it at the moment but I do want to write something and since this is Petri Dish, I thought I’d talk about one of the biggest mucus smears to ever come down the pike and that is Madonna. There are some very interesting connections to Madonna and most of the nasty shit that we have had to endure these last however many years and I’m going to go into that a bit. First, because it is Madonna, I want to link a tune, my Love Song for Madonna (is it a tune?) at this point instead of at the end of the piece sorta to set the mood.

Okay... you’ve listened to it or you haven’t listened to it and you probably get the idea that I don’t like Madonna and you would be right. Regular readers at Visible Origami may be a little distressed to find that the virtual Saint Visible of the Internet is no kind of saint at all. Readers at Smoking Mirrors won’t think about it.

Now, everyone know that Madonna is a slut and a whore for personal gain who likes to flaunt her love for material things and just generally promote herself constantly by using all of the timeless buzz topics of sex and money and sex and money. You have to give her credit for being good at it and never going broke under-estimating the tastes of the hoi poloi. The reason you really have to give her credit is that she is not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination which is why all the make-up and lights are so important... she looks like a dominatrix who operates out of a Berlin leather club. Her calves are fatter than Rush Limbaugh’s head. She can’t sing. She can’t write. She can’t dance and when she does she most resembles one of those lumberjacks log rolling. And... she really, really can’t act or direct. I’m not sure what she does well but it is probably the way she markets herself like she was Coca Cola that heats up in a rotating dildo and then spits out like a Cobra at everyone in reach.

She’s been smart about this. She knows how much money the gay crowd has and so she went the fag hag route big time. Early on in her career she used to pull Latino boys into her limo and did things with them because she could and she did it the way a junkie shoots smack.

She got married here and there and finally she got married for real and then it was time to manufacture another persona and that would be the ‘spiritual’ Madonna so, with a calculation dripping with irony she embraced the Wal-Mart Kabala of Philip Berg and they went on a rampage of selling official red strings at twenty-five dollars a pop at Target stores and who knows where else; selling Kabala water blessed by real estate scammers, selling... selling and selling and... recruiting. So then Madonna looked around and said to herself, “Who are the most clueless celebrities on the planet?” Then she roped them in and they started wearing red strings too. Just for your information, these red strings have all the charm and occult power of the red string on a Tampax in aftermath. I can’t believe I said that but I did.

Now... I know a little about Kabala. I’ve read all of the main books and many of the books associated with that science and put some time into Gematria and related subjects over the course of a number of years. This is a science that requires full left brain focus; I am major right brain oriented which is why I don’t bother with this science any more. It requires a genius level intellect and various aptitudes that few possess. It’s no big deal though to the world’s biggest hack dilettante to become a Kabala Reiki master after 3 weekends and a wake-up.

Well... Madonna married a film director and got a house in England and got called Madge and got pretty universally despised by the residents but... Madonna has a Kevlar mind-persona defense system so, no biggie. I’ll close this end of the diatribe by saying that very, very few people can get anywhere near the real meaning of the mystical Kabala and that there are two Kabala’s. The one Madonna/Berg are involved in is the black magic end or promoting self-interest through manipulation of astral energies. You can read plenty about Berg’s Kabala here

It’s understood that there will be people who will say, “Hey wait a minute, Madonna did one good song once”; as if that legitimizes the shit-Tsunami of her body of work. It’s like when people tell me that there’s good rap out there. There are probably some intelligent people in Alabama but do you really want to wade through the rest of them in the effort to find them?

This is known as a rant. Therefore it is not going to be measured and circumspect or wind up with the writer and the readers engaging in a laying on of hands and singing Cumbaya at the end. To understand the state of a culture one has only to observe the icons of that culture and the degree of their pervasiveness. Everything is connected to everything so... you take a Madonna and a Warhol; you grab a bunch of Mouseketeers and reality shows, you lasso in a handful of talk radio Nimrods and Gerry Springer clones, you flood the land with Big Box stores and polystyrene condos and you’ve got a country/world tailor made for George W. Bush and everyone who helped to make it that way is in on the operation, either consciously or accidentally on purpose.

All of the collective efforts of those who manipulated those who went on to manipulate others made the world the way it is and set the stage for what occurs and what waits in the wings. In the process they marginalized and/or perverted anyone and everyone who might have been, or was trying to, tell the truth or set a good example.

Someone decides that they want to make a lot of money. They invest in a company that has a subsidiary that manufactures munitions that are used to murder people who have the misfortune to be living on land desired by people without conscience or scruple. Somewhere... the person who wanted to make money in any way they could, also had their finger on the trigger of the bullet that went through the baby’s head. Everyone who bought into the gratuitous lies of polished speakers who promised what they had no intention of delivering bears some measure of responsibility for what did get delivered by supporting the liars whose real intentions were rape and murder.

All of the so-called artists who wrote songs that made people stupid; that promoted lifestyles that destroyed people, that produced any form of art that made life more confused or uglier than it was, that fabricated art, lathered up with prurient intent because, “that’s what sells baby”, that whored out their work and their souls for temporary gain at the expense of everyone else has a part in the time and conditions we find ourselves in.

What’s the solution? I think that’s a personal affair. This isn’t about solutions. This is about pointing the finger while giving the finger for the sole purpose of personal catharsis like sweating out last nights binge with a good run or making a donation to any political party via the porcelain donation bowl in your bathroom.

There are a number of things that affect the quality of life and they are cynically manipulated by business and political interests to create a hospitable climate for the sort of things one can investigate on a Petri dish or a glass slide. In the meantime they are lauded by a public which they hold in utter contempt and which they treat contemptibly in everything they say and do while simultaneously they and the public cast to the wayside every good thing that might have comforted or saved their ass on down the line.

The bestial treatment that Madonna has given to the divine feminine principle and the callous disregard for all sacred archetypes that is handed out in every day by all of the posturing pimps and whores who preen at their reflections in the still waters of the waste treatment center are a wonder to behold. The critical analysis of what is recognizably shit by the pretentious twits that define or add meaning to that which needs no definition and which has no meaning other than Onanistic self-indulgence is amazing; “What the artist is attempting to say can only be understood within the context of a heterogeneous alphabet of discreet and contained elements which bespeak congeners of Chinese boxes disappearing up a Whiffenpoof’s ass.”

There’s not much point to this and certainly no great change is expected in the teeming riot of dark effluents which exemplifies the creative expressions of our times but I feel a lot better for having said it and that’s got to be worth something, if only to me.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Some Further Discoursing on the Ketamine Posting

Well now... there have been quite some comments on this last blog entry and quite some comments on the subject at my other blogs and quite some email exchanges and some of them none too friendly. There seems to be an assumption here by a small group of people that I work for them and that I have to write and comport myself according to their desires and their ‘idea’ of who I am and who I should be. Let me clarify that for those of you who feel that I am something to be molded by you so that I am half-Boy Scout, half Mormon and half carrot.

My father, brutal authoritarian that he was, could not break my spirit no matter how many times he beat me into the ground with his fists and his feet and whatever was handy. The United States Military could not break my spirit no matter how much they tried. The American prison system and criminally insane holding facilities could not break my spirit no matter how hard they tried. Control freak girlfriends could not do it. Life and several long and difficult periods could not do it. I may have been somewhat accidentally molded in my defiance of and reaction to these forces but all any of them did was to convince me that they were wrong and whatever may yet come in whatever form is going to have as little success as they did. It is foolish for a reader to yell at me and think it’s going to do much of anything except to reveal them as a person with poor diplomatic skills and bad judgment.

Some people have decided that they would talk to me as if they were the Buddha and as if they actually inhabited that state of consciousness. However... the Buddha didn’t behave in this fashion and he ‘is’ the Buddha. Some people decided they could assume things about me based on zero contact or evidence of anything in my life besides what I say here and which is not me anyway; when I write something here I seldom know what it’s going to be. I wind up reading it as if someone else wrote it. Though what I am and what I do (or channel) cannot be separated, it would be foolish to think that the entirety of me is revealed in what you read here. It is most distressing to have people say unequivocally that, based on their own subjective experiences they know all there is to know about my experiences and to do it in an accusatory and arrogant manner.

Occasionally some people feel that I have let them down by not being precisely their projection of what they want me to be and think I am. I am a work in progress. I have flaws and I make errors. I will say that as soon as I recognize an error I set about correcting it and I have no problem admitting I am wrong and my track record on that speaks for itself. However, I am not at that level where I can see my errors ‘before’ I commit them in all cases. By the same token, no one here can assume that they know when I am in error when they are treating with something that takes place far from them and they know none of the details and haven’t even ever met me. They certainly haven’t walked a mile in my moccasins. But this doesn’t stop them. They are certain they are right... for all the good it does them.

If I think something is right for me to do, I’m going to do it and I don’t care what laws are made against it. The laws made against it are the children of industries that want you to swallow their crap instead of something that works. These laws are engineered by people who manufacture products far more toxic than anything that I take. And no one is going to tell me what to do. I don’t like being pushed around and I’m not going to be. I also don’t care if some reader goes off in a snit because I didn’t agree immediately to take their advice and apologize for not already being aware of their greater knowledge on all things than my own. I’m not paid for this except for the occasional donation and no one who has donated has so far complained and that’s good (grin). I’m not for sale. I’m not a whore. I will not be bent to anyone’s will but the almighty and that is automatic. I don’t belong to a religion or a political party. I don’t work for anyone and I won’t unless it’s free and unhindered. I suffered through my life to get to this place and I’m not surrendering it to the will of some uninformed stranger at a distance.

People come here because they like what I do. It informs them or entertains them or something and I’m gladdened by it. I don’t take it to mean I’m anything special and you won’t catch me acting like it should you meet me. I don’t try to hide my behaviors or attractions and I don’t play the guru game or try to pass myself off as someone with a far away look of wisdom in his eye. I do have certain connections and I am an initiate of a certain brotherhood but that’s not something that I could or would go into at any of these blogs. What any of it may mean is still unknown to me and it won’t get me a cup of coffee at the local diner.

This is a take it or leave it scene. If you don’t like it... there’s the door. If you do like it... welcome. No one has the right to demand that I be anything but myself and no one has the right to interfere or push their demands on me. Experience and my very present teacher will see that I learn what I need to know and I suspect that would be that I don’t know anything at all and that’s fine with me.

I don’t take drugs for recreational purposes though I can assure you I have. I’ve done it all and in large, large amounts and I am in very good shape. I haven’t seen a doctor at all except for a broken leg in decades. I don’t go to doctors. I don’t follow the world’s advice on anything. That’s how it is. The drugs I do take I take for specific reasons and that’s my business. I don’t tell people they shouldn’t daily imbibe in the worst poison, alcohol. I don’t tell them not to take legal pharmaceuticals which are dangerous and often useless. I don't tell other people how to braid their hair or spend their free time; please extend to me that same courtesy. Those of you concerned about the impact of mushrooms or Ayahuasca or Ketamine on my “brilliant mind” and ‘trusted reputation” should be advised that I’ve been doing drugs for a long time and if I was going to damage my facilities it would have happened a long time ago when the substances were far more likely to make it happen. I will say that alcohol had the worst impact on me and I can also say that I am now able to take it or leave it... I seldom use it because it’s just not helpful.

Please don’t give advice from a distance and please don’t assume what happened to you happens to me. Do not insist, as one correspondent did that you are me. That’s absurd. Surely we are all one but remember that the personality you are speaking from is not the all one... it’s a fragment... a temporary pose that will be discarded like a fingernail clipping or body hair. Don’t talk to me as if you are the font of ageless wisdom. You’re not. Ageless wisdom doesn’t talk like that and in this respect I do know what I’m talking about because I have invisible friends. Once again, this doesn’t make me the second coming. I’m just me. I’m easy to get along with. I post your criticisms and your praise and I don’t take either one seriously except maybe the criticism when I feel it applies. The praise I send on to the one responsible and deserving of it. My errors are my own. My accomplishments do not belong to me. And I’m not just saying this. I believe it.

Don’t expect things from me that are unreasonable. Don’t tell me what to do. Of course you can do this but it won’t do any good. If you want my attention, speak with the awareness that automatically compels your audience. And don’t insist that you’re right about what you are saying to the point that you begin to get insulting and act like a spoiled child who can’t make someone do what they want. I know that you don’t know what you are talking about. I wish you did.

Anyway, I hope this is a useful piece and if not that... at least amusing or entertaining. Now you can go back to whatever you were doing (grin). I’ll close with a real life song about a temporary girlfriend from Hell. It didn’t last long and it didn’t hurt at all which, I think, pissed her off more than anything in a long time. I said to her near the end, “You want to destroy me, don’t you?” “Yes.” She replied.

Visible sings: Bad Dogs and Barbed Wire by Les Visible♫ Bad Dogs and Barbed Wire ♫

Thursday, September 04, 2008

And so on and so on and so forth

Sometimes I suffer from crushing depression. It’s linked to my childhood... my karma; the state of the world vis a vis the state of my mind. The truth is that I don’t know. For me it isn’t so much about feeling low and rotten but more of a listless indifference to participation in events with others. It is why I increasingly spend more and more of my time alone. There are other reasons for this but this is one of them.

It can be accurately assumed that I have experimented with all manner of substances to remedy this condition and until a short while ago I can say that that has proven a miserable failure as well as harmful and destructive on occasion. It can be said that this is why I drank to excess for awhile. Each of these scenarios would require a book to explicate and I’m not going to do that. Doing this is more than I want to do but I do owe the reader an explanation for my absence and it can be correctly said that I listen to my critics as much as my supporters and take both contributions to heart inasmuch as they correspond with what I am aware of internally; something neither my critics or supporters have access to except through what the powers of their observation grant them.

In some cases I can be pretty insightful and I have been blessed with some talent in some areas. I know by virtue of irrefutable evidence of supernatural experience that I am partially awakened. This is a blessing and a curse. It’s like spending too long in a bus station. I know about the towns behind me on my route and I know something of the towns ahead but getting out of the bus station requires information that I don’t completely possess. I know I will be moving on to the next town and according to information that has come to me, that is going to happen sooner rather than later. But... I am where I am now for reasons well understood by my guide and little understood by me.

My primary interest in life is the metaphysical and The Devic Realm. You could say that I live with these things all day long and when I sleep as well. The serenity of my existence; what there is of that- is directly connected to how completely I am contemplating the real as opposed to the unreal. This is one reason that I don’t particularly enjoy writing the Smoking Mirrors blog. I don’t care much about what goes on in the world except for the suffering that occurs and in the majority of cases that is self-inflicted. This I know far, far better than I did before.

So, I enjoy writing at Visible Origami and I enjoy the satisfaction it gives me. Smoking Mirrors is a useful effort I think and like everything in this world... it will experience far more success than Visible Origami because it relates more to what people are familiar with in their every day; what they focus on. For what I think that gets you, you can just read Visible Origami essays.

As I mentioned in the beginning, I have had little success treating my condition until recently when by accident, curiosity or, more likely... invisible assistance, I was moved to try Ketamine. I had known about it for a long time but it just didn’t call out to me. I had been curious about it and liked some of the things I had heard. At the same time, its primary use is as an animal tranquilizer and I didn’t compute that I was going to gain spiritual insight from it. I could not have been more wrong.

For those of you who do not know anything about Ketamine, John Lily of dolphin fame took it consistently for decades and lived (I believe into his 90’s). I know people who knew him personally and well and by all accounts he was a good man and did remarkable work. From what I now know about Ketamine I believe it had no small effect on his efforts.

Big game hunters used to use it to help them lie motionless for hours in the bush. It seems to me that people are affected differently by it depending on their level of awareness. I have been able to experience face to face meetings with spiritual masters that have left the physical plane... the practice of a unique yoga that just showed up... a complete absence of depression and all of its effects... a reversal of any number of bad habits and the complete absence of them... it revolutionized my existence.

The only negative was a lack of motor skills for a couple of hours after using it. There are no other negatives that I have encountered and I certainly did it long and consistently enough to notice. When it comes to using chemicals I would be called a professional simply by the sheer weight of my experiences... not to mention the quantity of items. The real evidence of that is that I am still here and in better shape than most anyone I encounter in my age group. So... I would know.

Everything that I was doing was improved considerably by my use of Ketamine. It is a great friend to me and sorely missed at the moment. What I am about to tell you indicates that I have something of a selfish nature and a childish side to my behavior. I can’t possibly tell you all the details of what happened but I can give you an outline and whether you understand why I have been as I have you will at least have the information to speculate... judge and/or understand.

I can readily get Ketamine from a fellow who can supply me with most anything but who is quite expensive even when compared to others in his line of work. He charges me ten times what I might expect (or wish) to pay given that the item is dirt cheap to begin with. Yes... it’s illegal but so are many things that are none of the government’s business and that matters not a whit to me although I can see where it would affect the cost somewhat.

I left the area where this fellow lives and have tried to acquire it at a reasonable price which led to this person, asnowynightn_nyv@yahoo.com ripping me off for four hundred dollars and then laughing at me about it. I had it sent to me from a trusted source and it has not arrived. I’ve had a number of difficult events happen connected to these events while also passing through several of the most horrendous weeks of my life. This would have happened anyway but I wouldn’t have even noticed it with the Ketamine. So it made me angry and I decided that I wasn’t going to create anything anymore. If that’s how the universe wants to play the game then I’m not in (or is it ‘on’’?) the game any more.

I realize that this looks childish and petulant and I’ve no justification for it except to say that you are not me. Meanwhile... I have consistently labored for a significant portion of my life doing what I do for free and not complaining about it. I have endured some good amount of hardship from being the person who does these things for free and in fact I even have to pay for the opportunity to do it. It actually costs me in coin of the realm and in other costs just to do what I do and I don’t complain about that. I’ve a limit to the abuse and sacrifice that I will accept in the process of doing something for free.

Before anyone decides to tell me that it’s all part of my growth etc or provide me with spiritual platitudes... I’m aware of all that. I write about it all the time. I’m also in certain kinds of danger from myself if I don’t have a few fundamental things which... sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t and only one of them is Ketamine.

In any case... I’m going to go write a Smoking Mirrors after this and link back here so that anyone who wants to see this can see it and take it for what its worth etc. I’m hopeful I will eventually encounter someone who can help me obtain this item at a reasonable fee. I’m hoping one of my readers is a sympathetic veterinarian (grin). I’m certain that someone who reads me knows someone who knows someone and maybe that will lead to something. You can imagine how important this is to me just by the fact that I am writing about it. This may be neither smart nor useful but I’m doing it.

It shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s undetectable in the mail and not a bulky item. Some people like the liquid but I prefer the powder and, as I said... it immediately and effectively removes from me a condition that has plagued me for a long time. I certainly deserve it and it’s got no drawbacks or long term liabilities. Conditions may vary according to the user I am sure but for me it has made life new... rich and rewarding and I just didn’t feel like pounding the pavement (metaphorically) day after day as I have been doing... for less than nothing; at least that is how it looked to me and the grievous difficulty of these last weeks has rather amplified my state. That’s passing now which is a mercy; some sort of temporary astrological smash and grab, I suspect.

Well, let’s go write that Smoking Mirrors post... there’s a lot to talk about.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

The Whine; Chapter Six

Chapter Six

I don’t know if things changed after the death of the plumber. It may be that I just became much more aware of certain elements. I understand that the human mind filters out an astonishing amount of sensory data. There’s a condition called ‘accommodation’, where even the sound of a jackhammer outside your window can disappear from your hearing as you go through your day. There’s a lot of accommodation that goes on in a place like New York City. That accommodation is not just sensory but also emotional as well. People become hardened to things. I don’t suppose they have any choice. Rudeness becomes the reflex action for one whose space is too often pressed on and invaded.

I could not live in a city. The whine that magnetizes me is woven into a thunder of fury in these places. I am taken through special preparations when I go somewhere with such a concentration of human misery. It is not simply dealing with the howling cacophony. I have found that the measures I take for the extraction of a predator become far more extreme in such an environment. It’s as if that terrible orchestra is playing through me and there are times when I lose consciousness of myself in the event. Afterwards it appears as if a force of nature had come unhinged. But immediately thereafter I am all concentration and detail.

As I’ve said, some other intelligence is resident in me. I can feel the clear and certain understanding of all that I must do and it is automatic. I am also personally detached- even when passionately involved, then and always after. I do not feel responsible. I am not sorry. It is like being the hand of God.

In the nineteenth century in India there was a group of men who worshipped the goddess Kali. She is a particular archetype that symbolizes all consuming Time. She is often depicted as black with a red lolling tongue and a garland of skulls about her neck. In one of her several hands is a cup of blood, in the other a large knife. These men were called Thuggees and they went about the countryside killing in the name of Kali. It was a form of worship. There was a taboo against the spilling of blood so they strangled their victims with silk scarves in which a rupee was fixed. It was said that some of them had magical powers conferred upon them by the goddess. They were very difficult to catch.

In the twelfth century in Persia there was a man named Hassan I Sabbah. He was also called the Old Man of the Mountains. The word ‘assassin’ comes from his name. He would intoxicate his followers with hashish and then lead them into a beautiful garden filled with lovely women and all manner of food and drink. This, he said, waited for them in paradise should any of them die in his service. He once commanded forty of his men to march off a high battlement as an example of the loyalty he enjoyed. He had men in every kingdom in the East. At any time they might strike out and kill the ruler or anyone else. He was feared everywhere. They say he had powers too. That seems to have been true.

There are other examples of curious men, women and groups such as this. I mention them because it seems that this might be the case with me as well. This is what I would like to find out.

After the death of the plumber I returned to my routines, attending school, interacting with my parents in the awkward and formal manner that was our custom. But now I became able to pick out sounds that I had not heard before. I sometimes saw things in a state of hyper reality. I could hear conversations at a distance. I could see things with astonishing clarity. By example; once I was sitting by the pool as a dragonfly buzzed about. It was turquoise with emerald wings. In a particular moment it hovered in the air before me and I saw this dragonfly in its essence. Time stopped and a vast flow of information passed from the dragonfly into me. I ‘knew’ this dragonfly. I could see every feature of its countenance. I could see the spaces between its wing beats. Then, without warning or prelude, I became the dragonfly. The power and freedom that I felt are indescribable. Nothing has ever approached this experience. I had other similar experiences over time but this was the first. I don’t know for how long I was the dragonfly. At some point I was once again sitting by the pool with no idea of how I had been returned to myself. No great time seemed to have passed. It was the same part of the day. It might have been an hour. It might have been seconds. I have learned that time is an extraordinarily subjective and relative thing.

I have come to understand that one of the greatest tragedies in life is the common sense of time shared by people in their routines. It is a prison of increments. At a certain point there is nothing new in their lives. It is just a repetition of patterns.

Very often, I had dreams that would continue from night to night. I cannot say how it is for others. I only know what I have heard and read. By comparison with this information, I would say that my dreams are of another kind altogether. In my dreams the events are as clear and real as they are in my waking state. Sometimes, I am in realms that bear little resemblance to life on this planet. Seldom do I walk in dark places, though it does occur. And always in these rare ‘dark’ dreams, I am hunting someone. Always in these dreams, I will eventually terminate them. What is most unusual about this is that it is always just as it is when I perform the service in my corporeal self. There are the preparations, the search and contact, the inquiry and conversation period and then the finale. Am I working even when I sleep?

I have heard that murderers are often pursued by furies. I have heard that their conscience can give them no peace. Some of them take their own lives. But I always feel as if I am watching something occur and even though I know that I am involved, it never feels that way.

Let me tell you about the next person I killed. With one later exception this was the last time I killed someone that I had previously met and the only other time I was personally involved before the fact. After this they were strangers. I’ve mentioned that I wasn’t very social at my school. I can’t say I had any real friends. There were people that I knew and I did things with them. Early on I recognized the value of fitting in and having the appearance of normalcy. So, no doubt there were people who thought they were friends of mine; people with whom I shared the appearance of camaraderie...but that was just something I did. I went to parties and some school functions. I drank and I smoked and I took drugs because that’s what everyone else did. And there were occasions when I forgot all about how strange I was and got lost in the moment. I never feel that way now and sometimes I miss it. I am always aware of myself and everyone around me. I always know where I am. I always know what I’m going to do next...with the single exception of when The Whine appears. At those times, as I have said, it doesn’t matter what I know. Whatever knows is intimately aware of me. I am in the passenger seat.

In my senior year I met a boy named Frank. Frank’s parents were rich too. Frank, unlike most of our associates, was not a smug, overbearing asshole. I could hang out with Frank and not find myself being constantly annoyed. Frank wanted to go to Australia and hang out with the Aborigines. I don’t know if he ever did manage it. He went on to college in California and I didn’t see much of him after that. This isn’t about Frank anyway. I mention Frank by way of introducing Colette. Colette lived near Frank and they had known each other since they were small. So when Frank had a party at his house Colette would usually come over. Frank had a lot of parties because his parents, like mine, were often abroad. In Frank’s house there were enough servants to take care of any mess that might happen. Frank was usually pretty good at not inviting any of the real trouble makers. Like me he didn’t make problems for his parents so they left him pretty much alone.

Colette was a lovely girl. At sixteen she had a haunting beauty, enhanced by a shy introspection. I rarely saw her smile but when she did she could take your breath away. She had raven black hair and blue eyes. I liked Colette and would spend my time with her when I was over at one of Frank’s parties and sometimes we would meet in a park or take a walk in town. It didn’t happen often. I got the impression that her parents kept her close to home. Half the time she couldn’t make it to Frank’s parties even though they lived close by one another. I never knew Colette to have a boyfriend. I believe I might have been the closest thing to that.

The first indication I got that there might be problems in Colette’s life was from a passing comment made by Frank. I had said that she seemed sad most of the time. Frank said, “Yeah, all is not right there.” When I asked him what he meant, he just shrugged and said; “If I knew maybe I could do something about it. Her family is strange.”

As time passed I became very close with Colette, though we did not manage to have sex. She was very conflicted about it and I didn’t press the issue. We would touch each other, intimately on occasion, and it was enough for me most of the time, to sit quietly with her and enjoy her presence. She couldn’t go out much. She said that her father wanted her at home. I finally met her father one night when he came by Frank’s to look for her. Colette and I were sitting on the porch swing overlooking the garden when he came up out of the darkness upon us.

“Ah Colette, there you are.”

Her father was a big man. He’d obviously been an athlete in his day. Now he was carrying an extra 30 pounds and had the florid complexion of a future stroke victim. This latter effect was enhanced by the fact that he had had a few somewhere before he arrived. His hair was curly and unmanageable and he used some sort of pomade to keep it down on his scalp. The face was moon shaped and of a dough like consistency. It was the face of a man who looked fat long before he was fat. He had button eyes and a broad nose. It looked as if it had been pressed back into his face with force. There was not much chin but a great deal of neck. I imagined he would never be comfortable with his collar buttoned underneath his tie. This night he was wearing brushed cotton slacks with a Hawaiian shirt. He wore round glasses with a very thin gold rim and the porch light reflecting from their polished surface made it quite difficult to catch anything from his eyes. I felt Colette jump beside me as he appeared in our view.

“Dad”! She exclaimed. I heard her voice catch. “We’re getting some air from the cigarette smoke.

He chuckled, artificially. “We do have to look out for our lungs.” This was someone who immediately made me uncomfortable. It had nothing to do with his daughter sitting beside me. It was obvious that all we had been doing was sitting. Yet I felt an intense scrutiny upon me, so much so that the hairs on my arm stood up.

“You’re a friend of Colette’s?” He asked me. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“This is Bill”, Colette replied. “He’s a friend of Frank’s from school.

“How ya doin Bill.”? He extended his hand and I took it. The hand was slightly moist as if it had recently held a drink, which I don’t doubt it had. Otherwise it was fleshy and cool, much like he was, with the warm bonhomie overlaying the reduced temperature beneath. “I’m Mitch, Colette’s daddy.”

I can still vividly remember that night and the exchange between us. I may have mentioned how very good my memory is. I remember clearly the growing unease I felt under his eyes. This was mixed with a definite but undefined impatience and the sense that he was more intoxicated than he appeared to be. He was wearing some kind of cologne that seemed to emphasize the alcohol in the air.

“Well now Colette”, his head swiveled toward her. “Your mom’s been looking for you. She finally sent me out into the neighborhood.”

There was no question that Colette was very uneasy. I could feel her conflicted state. At this time in my life I had very little understanding of the complexities of human emotion. Everything that I did know had come to me through books and the few things that I had experienced so far. Books can give a very accurate description of many conditions. What books cannot do is transmit visceral experience. I’ve learned an enormous amount from books but when it comes to the knowledge of life itself, I only know so much. Even though I had already killed and had sex, I was still an uncertain youth. So much occurred within me that I had not had the time needed for integration. Later I would be able to read volumes from the feelings that moved in the air around me. On this occasion, I could feel but I could not interpret. I remembered Frank’s words. “All is not right there.”

Colette was quiet for a moment and then she said, “I thought Mother went to her card game?”

Mitch nodded in a diffident manner, the light flashing from his glasses and dancing on the rims, “That she did Sweetie but something she had at dinner apparently backed up on her and she had to come straight home. She’s been sick several times already and she wants you to come and look after her.” He shrugged, “you know how useless I am in these situations.”

I felt it stronger now and I could identify it. There was fear coming off of Colette, fear and something else I could not identify. There was a sour smell hovering beneath the sweetness of Colette, a feral scent. I felt myself shift in my seat.

Mitch had his hand extended toward her and in this same moment turned to me and said. “I’m sorry to be taking Colette away from you. Perhaps she can return if her mother recovers a bit.” He smiled without warmth and I could feel his will draw Colette from her seat. She turned to me as she arose. I will never forget the look in her eyes. The sense of utter loss struck me to the core. I was rendered mute by the impact of her eyes on mine. I must have mumbled something as I also got to my feet. Once Colette was standing it was no time at all before Mitch had her down the porch stairs and they were away.

I could hear their voices trailing. Then, just moments later, that condition of paranormal hearing kicked in. I could hear them as if they were but a few feet away. This was not so developed then as it is now. I heard as if the words were ocean waves coming to the shore. There would be a brief moment of clear audio and then it would recede to incomprehensible murmurs; ebb and flow.

“Honey, you know how I feel I...”

“is wrong Dad. I’m breaking up inside I...”

“only for tonight, you’re my...”

Then she was softly weeping, no words following, just the sense of desolate resignation and from him an odious, comforting drone of meaningless endearments.

As I listened a terrible anger uncoiled in my chest. I had not apprehended the entirety of the outrage. Indeed at that time I am not sure I connected the reality of the event coming or the events preceding. It was more a sense of danger and violation without aspect. I felt a blanketing evil without definable form. I felt this evil touching me and burning me. The Whine began to sound. I was on my feet before I knew it and I found myself descending those same steps they had taken minutes before. It is strange that I did not know where Colette lived. We had always arranged our meetings over the telephone and I was dissuaded from ever picking her up but I could track their progress as a trained animal could track a scent. As I went, I felt myself morphing from within. It reminded me of the transformation of a werewolf in films I had seen. I could almost feel myself drop to the ground; my body extending and moving into a tireless, tracking lope, though no such thing actually occurred.

The air rippled with the echo of their voices as I turned into the street. I continued for several blocks until I found myself outside a metal gate that barred entrance to the driveway and house beyond. I could see a portion of the house from where I stood, it was a large Tudor mansion; the downstairs lights were leaking through the windows and pushing the shadows back from the lawn. Without thought I reached to the top rail of the gate and vaulted over it with no effort at all. I landed in a crouch in the driveway on the further side and moved toward the house.

I felt then, as I have often felt in future times, a sense of personal invisibility. There is a force that keeps my form hidden until it is meant to be revealed. We shall see in coming events how this has allowed me access to locations that would have been denied me were I not in possession of this power. Soon I was at the house and as I came around to the back, I found myself confronted by a large Belgian shepherd. He stood motionless in front of me. The light from the house made his eyes glow red. As is so often the case with me in these moments, I felt no alarm, no fear. We stood quietly for a brief interval and then I extended my hand. The dog moved forward passing under my touch and brushed against my leg and then stopped. I scratched his back and looked up at the second story of the house.

The moment is difficult to describe. Through my hand I felt the dog’s thoughts pass into me. It appears that there is a place where the animal kingdom and the human realm touch, a place where information can be exchanged. There was a sympathetic transfer between us concerning Colette. The dog was Mitch’s dog, a dog trained for the protection of the house and its occupants. Had I been anyone else, our meeting would have had another result entirely. I could feel in the dog’s mind that the dog saw me as a larger, bigger, smarter dog. I was higher up in the pecking order and the puppy aspect of the dog responded to the alpha male status of my being. The dog did not see me as human at all. I cannot put into words what the dog thought of me. I can remember exactly in my mind how it was and feel exactly what the dog felt but I cannot express it in words. It would be the same if I were to attempt to describe an alien landscape where the colors and shapes bore no resemblance to anything on Earth. There is quite simply, nothing to relate it to by comparison.

The dog trotted off into the night. I did not see the dog again. I continued around the house and then stopped at the next corner. From above me I could hear the conversation between Colette and her father. I could hear the murmur of his voice and her gentle weeping. I could feel in my mind Mitch’s excitement at her tears. I could hear the rustle of clothing and the soft abrasion of skin on skin.

The rage that now began to emerge in my chest was so much greater than I had felt before. I could hardly contain it. I felt a new intelligence move within me and take the rage in hand. It turned me about and led me past the swimming pool, the cabana and then quickly up the trunk of a large maple tree and into the branches above. I could hear the sound of that dark activity taking place in the room across the way. There was a low light in the room and I could see into it from my vantage point now several meters above it. There were the combined forms of Colette and her father. Her father’s body moved rhythmically above her. I could see Colette’s despairing face as she turned her head to the window. It seemed then and it seems now that our eyes actually met, though she could not have seen me from that distance, into the trees and through the covering darkness of the night. A mute plea of awful desperation passed across the space between us. I turned my head and disappeared within myself for a time.

When I returned the room was dark. I knew that Colette was still there, no longer weeping but staring into the darkness above her head. Her father had departed and gone to his den. I could see him in my mind, drinking a Scotch and remembering the pleasure of his recent conquest. His fingers stroked the blotter on his desk. I could hear a film projector whirring. I could feel the part of him that was engaged in the activity upon the screen. None of the perceptions that I possessed in such moments has ever seemed strange to me. I have never found myself in an objective state, analyzing the how and the why of it all. They are just a part of me. I could just as well look at my hand and wonder how it came to be upon my wrist. No one makes such speculations. It is just a natural extension of the arm. Just as we accept that we can see. We have always seen. There is no miracle there.

I dropped from the tree to the ground and moved toward the house. I felt myself fill with determination and purpose. The anger was there but it was a controlled flame. It might flash, it might roar for a moment like the fire inside an incinerator, but it was contained. Riding above the anger was a keen sense of purpose, a sense of distances and the passages across them, a sense of the nature of the event to come.

The majority of my clients have no question concerning their activities. It is this, I believe, that contributes to their passing more than any other factor. It may be that the soul of the client questions. I am of the belief that no matter how evil anyone might be, there can never be a time when the light of the soul is not present; if the soul, as we understand it, exists. Even if the contact is as remote as the distance between the stars in space, the connection is there, the soul is there, if the soul exists. It must be so. There is no animation, no life except that this connection exists.

I am of two minds always when I consider these things. There is what I know, or have reasoned to be possible and there is what I have read and heard. Often there is a disparity between them. Much of what I have read and heard seems like nonsense to me. The meaning given to words in the common parlance often applies fantastic and distant meaning to things that are void of ordinary substance. If it’s not made of dirt and blood; plastic, metal... something the senses can touch... then it is too often the fruit of an undisciplined imagination. This world abounds in superstition and rumor. It is what makes the gods of religion seem so absurd. We live in a world of blind men groping elephants.


When I think of Jesus and other teachers of humanity I think of this. I believe that they have some deep and profound knowledge of something that is the source of their boundless compassion and understanding. I do not possess this knowledge. It may be that it is not germane to my work and might even be a hindrance. I am another aspect of the whole. We are all aspects of the whole. This is something that I do understand and even in the fire of reclaiming the client to another place it is something that I know. Even in the rage that might flower in awesome aspect, I know this. I am returning the client to the whole, for the good of the whole. How could anyone argue with that?

When I am in my state, when I am in this transcendence there seems to be no barrier that can stand before me. Doors, bars, locks, alarms all give way or fail to start at my touch. It is not that I tear the door from its hinges; although I assure you I can. There is seldom any warning of my approach unless it is necessary to the entire scenario of the client’s transition. Does some as yet unknown energy pass from my hand to the schematic of the doors essence? I could not tell you. I remember thinking once how like the classic profile of the boogeyman I am. The boogeyman can get in anywhere. The boogeyman can’t be stopped. The boogeyman can’t be killed. The boogeyman is going to kill you. The boogeyman is not going to kill you though before he scares the living shit out of you and he is going to kill you in some unpleasant way; some way that you are not going to like at all. I laughed out loud the first time I thought of this. You see, I do not think of myself as the boogeyman at all. I am not Michael Myers come fresh from the institution, or Jason in the hockey mask. It is the pure unstoppable, automaton feature of these imaginary beings that I believe is their most frightening aspect. And I have to ask myself, do these cartoon monsters come from some real persons and events that travel in parallel with ordinary life? Are they somewhat based on me? Am I one more manifestation of a group of men (are there women too?) who have come down the ages, men of whom the passing years have whispered? The evidence of these men’s passing exists...but the men themselves have never been seen by one who has survived. Is it from the activities of men like myself that the legends of the boogeyman and werewolves and vampires have come? I can assure you that some of the scenes I leave behind are very reminiscent of the tales told of these mythic creatures.

Very soon I was standing behind this man in his study. The light from the projector flickered. Colette was on the screen, Colette at the age of 12 perhaps, nude and frightened, staring in hopeful desperation into the camera lens.

I said, “I suppose it’s a big part of it, the fear.”

Mitch spun around in his chair; his face was a mix of outrage, anger and fear.

“What are you doing in my house?” He demanded. “Scout!” he called. I knew it was the dog he was calling.

“Scout won’t come.” I said. Now there was more fear in his eyes. He moved suddenly toward his desk and pulled open a drawer.

I grasped his wrist, arresting his progress completely. He struggled to free himself but only succeeded in moving his body around his wrist. His wrist did not move. I pulled him to his feet and led him out of the door. Sensing that he was about to scream, I spun him about and closed his mouth with my hand. I walked him down the hallway and opened the door that I knew led to the basement.

We entered into a combination family playroom and work shop. There was a pool table and a bar, a pinball machine and a home entertainment center with a large comfortable sectional arranged around it. A connecting door led to the workroom. It was the work room I was interested in so I led Mitch into that area and proceeded to duct tape him to the captains’ chair that sat at a long worktable. During this process Mitch began screaming at me. I was no longer concerned with the noise factor as I knew that the entire basement area was soundproofed from the levels above; so began my first actual interrogation.

I asked Mitch about why he felt that he had the right to behave as he did. He proceeded from telling me it was none of my business, to the fact that he could not help himself and as he saw me choosing tools and laying them on the table before me, to saying that he needed help, that he would get help and then begging for his life.

I told him that this was the time for him to consider his real reasons for his actions because he would have no further opportunity to talk to anyone.

“What are you going to do!” he screamed, struggling so violently that he tipped the chair over. I caught it on the way down and righted it.

“I am going to introduce you to yourself and then I am going to set you free. I am hoping before you go that you will see how wrong your actions were and will not take their seeds with you.”

“What? What? What are you talking about?” he looked at me in a crafty way then and said. “You’re just a kid. You can’t intend to hurt me. This is like a lesson right? This is something you got up to with my daughter. You want me to stop? I’ll stop.”

I looked at him and nodded. “You will indeed stop. Your daughter knows nothing about this though. I’m not even sure why I’m doing it. But I am sure it needs to be done.”

“What are you going to do? You’re crazy...” and then he began screaming for help as loudly as he could manage.

I said, “You know the screaming isn’t going to help. You made sure of that when you had it remodeled, just before you started bringing Colette down here. And Colette isn’t the only one is she?”

At this he looked into my eyes and said, “Who are you? How do you know these things?” I could see that he was becoming very unsettled about possibilities he had never considered before. At the same time, a train of images...a series of vignettes about this man’s life were passing through my mind. I had to stop in my preparations in order to follow them. I saw this man’s life rush before me and for a time I was unaware of my surroundings, unaware of anything but the passing of the images.

How can I describe what I saw? I cannot. When it was done though, I knew something about mankind in an area other than any I had been familiar with before. Nothing like this had happened with the plumber. I saw for the first time that there were aliens living under the human skin. There were life forms for which no moral limiter existed; men in whom conscience had never been known. In all of what I saw there was no sign of remorse. There was no thought that wrong had been done. There was only fear for what might happen and a desperate searching for release, for some saving event. Release he would have...

I don’t think it is necessary for me to go into the graphic details of what happened next, nothing would be gained except an appeal to the darker, prurient nature of certain readers. I have no way of knowing if such people will ever read this but I can militate against that feature of my confessional.

He was found the next day but not by Colette. I called her that morning and we went off for a breakfast in town.

I have wondered why so many of my clients have been guilty of crimes against young people. Quite a portion of them are in some way connected to acts of sexual battery and other torments of the young. I get the impression that a large majority of the world’s ills stem from just such behavior. The world is teeming with those victimized in an unprotected state. Later these victims go on to carry out similar acts upon others. It is like some infection that passes plague-like through all cultures and nations. Long ago perhaps there were some few evils that occurred for the first time in the dawn of the world. They were then passed on in an ever widening circle until no person was left untouched in some way by them. Maybe my job is to eliminate the Typhoid Mary’s from whose minds the idea of such activities broadcast into the minds of the unknowing and unwary.

Perhaps all crimes connect somehow to the crime of savaging innocence. I have often noted how epidemic this behavior is among the wealthy and powerful. In many large cities of the world, men and women in high positions in government and law enforcement engage in secret bacchanals with children of every age. On occasion large scandals will manifest and a few small fish will be thrown into the pot while the more powerful malefactors escape to continue as before. Only a few years ago there was such a thing that ran from Omaha to the White House. Once again, a few small fish ...and the more powerful, to this day, continue. I know this.

In my studies of the hidden side of life I encountered the process where seed impressions are deposited into the virgin subconscious for the purpose of creating the physical manifestations of an idea contained in the seed. This virgin matter, this fresh parchment of innocence is pierced; inscribed upon, parted, split or what have you. Then this virgin matter makes of itself the form that the seed contains the promise of within itself. It is one of the essential processes of applied magic. Could it be that in the infernal realms of the human mind some parody of this is carried out in the actual rape and violation of the physical body of virgin kids? Is this a sacrament of the low orders? Whatever the case may be, such practices are far more prevalent than the world suspects.

The newspapers described it as a horrific torture murder. The police said the scene was indescribable; the work of a twisted, demented, psychopathic personality. I can see how it would look that way. But these men do not know what I know...nor do they know the purpose of that which Mitch endured. They do not know that evil needs be wrung from the bones of a man...or evil may replicate further. When I am near completion of an event, I can see the evil crouching, waiting...with nowhere left to hide or to go. In that moment I can take the evil into my hands and fill my hands with fire and burn that evil to nothing away. I do not know where this fire comes from, or where it goes after. It disappears with the fuel...and in every case, I have been able to hold this evil forth before the eyes of the client...no matter how close to death they may be, enough of their attention remains for this. There is a mystical transfiguration that occurs in that moment that I will not even attempt to desecrate by way of explanation with words.

I listen to a woman on the radio. I read her column in the newspaper. It’s a big city paper. Her name is Natalie Parmer. You may have heard of her, she’s a syndicated columnist, not in a big way yet but on her way. She says many uncanny things. Lately it has seemed as if she was speaking directly to me...and lately I have been thinking that I should speak to her as well. Oh, I don’t think I would go to see her but I might write her. Lately it has been growing in my mind that I might send her what I have written so far. It seems that she knows something, something about me. It is as if she were talking to me alone. Maybe I will send her these writings and see if there is something she can tell me. She may not even know that she possesses answers, yet those answers may be in her.

Saturday, July 05, 2008

The Whine; Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Euphonious Richard Wrathsmelter; CEO of World Commerce Bank, majority owner of Titan Oil and complete or majority owner of various international media, rolled over on the black satin sheets of his enormous custom made bed and stared upward at the baroque cacophony of his bedroom ceiling. The lids of his eyes lay in their customary half closed position, giving them the appearance of lizard’s eyes. This was a genetic trait in the Wrathsmelter line, occasionally skipping a generation here and there. Euphonious had them in full. He also possessed the rough shock of thick sandy hair, the wide jaw and cherubic lips that were all Wrathsmelter traits. At seventy he maintained the body of a man two decades younger; a wide barrel house frame precisely six feet and one inch long, also a Wrathsmelter standard.

Euphonious did not have to look at the clock to know that it was within minutes of 6:00 AM. It was the time at which he had awakened throughout his adult life, no matter when he had gone to bed.

He let his left hand move across the surface of the bed until it contacted another body some eighteen inches away. Idly, he let his fingers play over the softness of it. A smile of remembered pleasure briefly danced across his face. No time for any more of that now. It was a new day and, as always, there was much to do; an empire to maintain, fortunes to make and to ruin.

Euphonious turned his head and looked for a moment on the sleeping form of the young boy. The boy had been procured for him by the same service that attended to all of his sensual needs. They delivered and Euphonious enjoyed and paid the bill. The boy’s enjoyment wasn’t a consideration but it was understood by Euphonious that it must be as great as his own. It was his considered belief that everyone enjoyed things as he did, while they were in his company. He believed that his will to pleasure over arched all other individual impetus and that the pleasure transferred, just as he believed in any business encounter that his will would guide the intentions of all others, whether it was known or not, whether it was resisted or not.

In his life he had never met with any resistance that lasted. He had been disciplined in his youth but that was long ago and not a thing that he resented upon reflection. Such things had contributed to the man he was today. Over time, there had been many who had sought to oppose him, had hated him. He dealt with them as his father had dealt with the Second World War widows who assumed that the World Commerce Bank would show understanding concerning the mortgages on the homes of fallen soldiers. Foreclosures were the cream in the Wrathsmelter coffee.

On those occasions when the overwhelming influence of the Wrathsmelter name, fortune and alliances were not enough to dissuade some importunate competitor or ideological zealot, there would be recourse to other methods of suasion. Euphonious was a practical man and unfettered by any ghost of conscience. What was necessary was done. Many bodies lined the tracks upon which the Wrathsmelter train traveled and many, many more bodies rested in far-flung locations, brought to the long dirt nap by Wrathsmelter policies or Wrathsmelter actions.

Ten years previous, over five thousand people died in Malaysia, poisoned by an industrial accident. Thousands more were injured and disabled. Many thousands of birth defects followed. Wrathsmelter lawyers exonerated the corporation of all responsibilities, proving by convolution and baksheesh that the fault lay with the country’s environmental regulatory agency. In its usual manner Wrathsmelter Inc. made a generous donation to the people of the locality, none of which ever found its way to a single recipient.

In the mind of Euphonious Wrathsmelter these people were ciphers. At the time he had even reflected upon the event as ‘coincidentally auspicious birth control’ to a small group of aides. Euphonious was a monster of Leviathan proportion, made all the more so by the fact that he considered himself a reasonable man upon whom hard choices were often forced. His catch phrase, “the greatest good for the greatest number of people” seemed to cover every possible event. When he smiled and his brilliant white teeth flashed over the voluptuous lips, he seemed to be part televangelist, part avuncular elder statesman and part Lucifer. As fearsome as he could be he also had that special ability to put people at their ease. All the calculated ministrations of the true sociopath were at his command.

Tinkling chimes drew Wrathsmelter out his reverie and his eyes moved toward the door some fifty feet from the bed. The door opened and in came his manservant Loki, bearing a silver coffee service and a large quantity of newspapers that he placed on a nearby table. It was Wrathsmelter’s daily custom to scan the news media in various formats for one hour over his coffee upon arising. For this purpose a large plasma screen TV also hung on the wall opposite the table.

“Good morning Sir.” Loki whispered as he arranged the items on the table.

“And a good morning to you, Loki.” Wrathsmelter replied as he escaped the bed and moved naked toward the leather armchair that awaited him.

Finishing his activities Loki looked pointedly at the bed’s remaining occupant. “Shall I remove the charm?” Wrathsmelter always referred to his temporary love interests as ‘charms’. This was a carry over from his childhood when Charms was the name of his favorite sweet.

“Yes, of course Loki.” Wrathsmelter did not even turn his head as he switched on the television.

Loki moved toward the bed and scooped the young boy up in his massive arms, laying him over his left shoulder like a sack of grain. The boy was not dead but deeply asleep. It was part of the event for Wrathsmelter’s children to be dosed with specific narcotics. This provided a greater flexibility on their part and simultaneously enhanced and deadened the sensory input of certain painful moments that were unavoidable in the process of their encounter with Euphonious. The present chemical blend was the result of trial and error. It had actually resulted in the deaths of two boys in the initial exploratory efforts. It was remarkable in the amount of energy it gave its recipient...as well as a heightening of the tactile sense. However, after the conclusion of the night’s ritual it left the consumer exhausted.

“Will that be all Sir?” Loki stood at bedside with his huge right hand covering the entirety of the boys’ calves.

“For the moment, Loki”

Loki turned and moved silently across the room to its opposite end and then through a parting of the walls which closed softly behind him. An ingenious craftsman had designed this exit which dropped back from the corner molding and then slid aside to reveal a staircase that descended to a hidden basement room. This room was Loki’s lair. Another exit from the room led through a similar construct into the basement proper. Had Loki wanted privacy, or even known what it was, he’d have been delighted.

Wrathsmelter watched Loki move away. He nodded his head in recognition of the foresight that had caused him to arrange for his release from prison, well in advance of the conclusion of his sentence. Wrathsmelter had encountered Loki during a tour of Greenhaven Penitentiary in upstate New York. This was during an ostensible fact finding mission on prison conditions, which was nothing of the kind. Wrathsmelter was a member of the Board of Prisons, a seemingly charitable extension of his persona into community service. In fact, Wrathsmelter recruited from the prison system and had a number of ex-convicts in his employ. The terrible irony was that Wrathsmelter was made to look good to powerful New York liberal interests, when in fact he employed these men to continue in their former professions. The visit on which he found Loki was in reality part of an inquiry into the feasibility of entering the private prison industry. Accountants and tame industry experts had accompanied Wrathsmelter. Later, there were news items concerning Wrathsmelter’s ongoing interest in prison rehabilitation and reform. A year later, ground was being broken on the first of a series Wrathsmelter prison complexes due in various states. Wrathsmelter intended to apply the McDonald’s formula to the prison industry.

“After a long time, seeking changes that the states have been unable to provide, I have found, once again, if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself. It is past time for business to apply itself more pervasively in the area of social concerns.” is what Wrathsmelter said afterwards.

He spotted Loki working in the kitchen area of the prison. Their eyes had met and there was that transfer of understanding that passes between men of shared perversions. After that Wrathsmelter had noticed his size. Loki was a freak. He was nearly seven feet tall and weighed over three hundred pounds, all proportionally distributed on a hulking apelike form. Loki was an example of that genetic type who never had to exercise to achieve a great muscular profile. He was born that way, a nightmare rarely seen in modern times. He was truly simian in aspect with a huge shelf of forehead thrust forward over deep set feral eyes. He had a wide flat nose with the nostrils prominently exposed and huge bulbous lips through which large horsy teeth protruded. The jaw was extended and flat and gave him the appearance of a demented Jay Leno.

Wrathsmelter had gone to considerable expense in the remaking of Loki. There had been the large cash payouts for his release, plastic surgery for a cleft palate and over a year of laborious training to bring Loki to the point that he could manage Wrathsmelter’s morning needs as well as certain other singular duties. To the casual observer it was another example of Wrathsmelter’s philanthropic bent. Not hardly.

Loki was in prison for the rape and murder of several young boys he had encountered while they were camping in the Adirondacks. He had dispatched a scoutmaster as well. It took over three years for Wrathsmelter to negotiate his release from prison where he was serving life without the possibility of parole. First there was the necessity of finding new evidence, combined with the discovery of legal mistakes at his trial. Then there was the new trial at which Loki was found to be mentally incompetent. Then there was the remanding to the state mental institution and the application of cutting edge psychiatric techniques and finally, the cure and the release into Wrathsmelter’s custody. There was in fact, no cure. Loki was still Loki and ever would be. But now he was Wrathsmelter’s Loki, someone who could be relied on to serve his master and who could be perfectly contained by the gifts of the master’s leavings. Add to this Loki’s formidable abilities as a bodyguard and his willingness to do anything that was asked of him and you had, as Wrathsmelter would put it; “A damn good investment.”

The man who had previously done Loki’s job had not shared Loki’s predispositions. There had come a time when he considered what it might profit him to give up his master for financial reward. The emissary of a rival interest had approached him, the emissary of a man who would have some greater portion of the goods controlled by Wrathsmelter. Wrathsmelter’s predilections were not unknown in certain circles. Invariably these things find their way to the attention of others. A man of real power can always protect himself against such ineffectual efforts as those presented by law enforcement and the press. That is, unless that man be truly compromised and the videotape or the several redoubtable witnesses and the victim be accessible to the right and equally powerful interests.

This man came close to pulling it off. It was only due to Wrathsmelter’s policy of checks and balances that discovery of this man’s intentions had precluded the damning event. Wrathsmelter had everyone who worked for him watched. He even had the watchers watched to some degree. Wrathsmelter operated in all things like the true paranoid. So, for the entire careful step by step, it was in the end, to no avail. The man suddenly vanished without a trace and that was the end of the matter.It was through the same hidden door where Loki had recently disappeared that Loki’s predecessor had gone one final time long years ago.

Enemies of Wrathsmelter thought they had some measure of the man. They did not know him at all. No man is capable of measuring the bottomless depths of those who bear no resemblance to humanity beyond the appearance of form. There are those who move among us that are as alien to our understanding as is a lawnmower to an Amazonian headhunter. We can know that someone is evil but in some cases we can never know to what degree unless we ourselves become like them.

As Wrathsmelter poured over the newspapers before him and separately interpreted the companion traffic from the TV, a third part of his mind wondered at the extraordinary fate that had granted him so much opportunity to fulfill his every ambition and appetite over and over again. He paused for a moment and looked up at the carved ceiling as a radiant smile broke out upon his face.

Visible and The Critical List: La Vierge Sperme Danceur by Les Visible and The Critical List♫ Camouflage ♫
'Camouflage' is track no. 8 of 8 on Visible and The Critical List's 1987 album
'La Vierge Sperme Danceur'

About this song (pops up)

La Vierge Sperme Danceur by Les Visible and The Critical List

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