My Modesty

My Modesty

 

I will talk about Emerson for a moment, though Emerson would not approve. He preached "the infinitidue of the private man." He means we EACH are the infinite ALL. This modest man!

 

A farmers wife attended one of his lectures and later reported, "I did not understand almost anything the man said but I know in my heart he regards himself as no better than me."

 

That exactly is NOT modesty. Any Narcassistic can see the truth: Thou Art God. But are you the only one? Is your faith in yourself yet in the diseased infant form of arrogance such that you require the painful envy and grudging praise of others to keep your ego inflated? You are adolescent at best. Emerson amazingly seemed to bypass this adolescent form of the growth into full deity.

 

In the first book of his first series of lectures, entitled History, Emerson extolled the reader to read ALL books, all religion, all myth, all history, as mere commentary on the one true writing, the scripture that matters: your own living autobiography. Emerson makes no mention of himself. Unlike Jesus or Buddha he did not "speak with authority." He rebuked nobody. He cursed nobody whatsever.

 NON-Emersonian EVER to curse. He who curses remains accursed forever. To say it straightly, Emerson was and is better than Confucius, Jesus, Socrates, and Buddha, the cardinal teachers. He never let that FACT go to his head. How did the sage manage that?

 

Ivan teased me on account of my fourth wife, Susan. He asked about my seventy year old lover. A distant descendent of Louisa alcott. I corrected him. She is sixty. He lewdly accused her of being dried up but that has never been an issue, nor completing my love of her in great geysers of appreciation. I chided Ivan, alas, even Abraham when touring Egypt with his sixty year old wife Sarai managed to capture in a trap the eyes of lust of the Egyptian princes. They would do ANYTHING to have her. She at age 60. Ivan said, Must you compare your life to ancient people constantly? You are just an ordinary man living in an ordinary neighborhood. Having properly defeated my friend, I just said, "Heh."

 

Every day of my life is parable. Dad Dan said I have readers just because of the juicy gossip and family drama. How you underestimate me! It is ALL deliberate and involved and encoded four, sixteen, thirty-two layers down. I don't mind that you non readers don't get it. Almost ANYTHING I write. You get so little ... so infinitely little. Nobody ever invented has to be read between the lines more than me.

 

Of the Genius of Shakespeare The greateset writer of all time, Hands down? Harold Bloom said, There is no god but God, and his name is Shakespeare. Harold Bloom admits that Emerson properly acclaimed Shakpeare's literal divinity best, of all his readers. Because that's who Emerson was. The invisible eyeball. The ultimate Reader. But at the end of that essay in Representative Men, he takes account with Shakespeare. Our god lacked any faith. Any religion. He wrote only for sheer entertainment. Emerson prophesied that one greater than Shakespeare would one day come. Harold Bloom, for his part, rued this last remark as blasphemy.

 

The prophesy is fulfilled in me. The greatest writer of all time. Jillian DID say, "When you write you are great, yes, but when you edit you are GOD." I had shown her the deepest secrets of editing. But Ezra is my better as an editor. I am still bowing in discipleship to him. As for Reader, Emerson still has me beat. But as sheer WRITER, what Emerson called SCHOLAR, there is none of my compare at any time, at any place, at any where. And that's fine. Part of my art is that I require no secondary opinion to tell me this. I need no applause. I need no "proof," as if the self-evident could EVER be proved. When you true to prove the self-evident you just confuse yourself.

 

So that's fine.

 

The greatest dictionary of all time is the Oxford English Dictionary. The English are so PROUD of the their language, that, faithless as it is, can brag and truly the greatest line of poets of any nation of any time:

 

Chaucer, Spenser, Marlowe, Shakespeare, Milton, The First Generation of Romantic Poets, Wordsworth, Coleridge and Blake, and then the second generation of Byron, Shelley, Keats, and the rest. 

I am speaking only of English poets. Not American. No nation comes close, nowhere CLOSE to boasting of a roster of poets this great. In no place ever.

 

Till me and those who follow.

 

And that's fine. The English language IS divine. It is the holy spirit. It is the FIRST and BEST form of Globalism ever to exist. These things don't happen by accident. They come from a sort of Destiny.

 

Exactly BECAUSE agnosticism and secularism are the guiding muses of most those poets, with a few exceptions, mostly eccentrics, like Milton, they have made a secular substrate which ALL religions may read, enjoy, love, and share in. The Holy Spirit, English, impregnates ALL languages EVERYWHERE the way Zeus through his LOGOS did. And that's fine. The Anglican church is completely beside the point. All gods can sit in the audience of Shakespeare, though, very very notably, our own American puritans, coming at last to what Shakespeare styled "the brave new world" for a time turned the theater down. American forebodings.

 

I don't really speak English. I speak Ameran. What mencken in his beat book called the American Language. It will be a long time before we collectively call it this. Today is not mine. I belong to the day after tomorrow. I plant the seed of the World Tree. I am the Same. You all may well forget my Name, for history never will and never can, and will scratch its head at the audacities I shouted loudly to all who would listen, each and every day, and people shrugged and looked away.

 

That's my sense of humor. I am the Grand Hilarity. The Divine Comedy. I am the Laughter of Ama divine.

The Oxford English Dictionary is undoubtedly the greatest dictionary of all time. The English honor their lexicograpers. The great book, Life of Johnson, boswell write to honor and praise his best friend, the lexicographer. So this is the tradition and the o.e.d. is a final fruit. No other dictionary comes close. Tolkien contributed. Whole generations made this volume. Like a 16 volume scripture. My parents bought be for my birthday a "shorter" version of it in two huge volumes. I bought the WHOLE oed with microprint for reading with magnifying glass in one volume, the entire English language in one huge unwiedly volume. Paid hundred for it. Mailed it to Jillian as a marriage gift for our eternal marriage. This blesses her shelf to this day. These things are not without their meaning. I bless you all, all 200 of you, as my Niviana. I sometimes despair how much, if any, the inner meanings get into any of you! Jillian reads them all. She once said, I've read everything you've ever written Daniel and I am proud of it. Later, she insisted I put her name on any and all books I had published through a professional publishing house. It annoys me how over the top my rhetoric has to get through to any if you. But truly, the beauty in these words can't be lost on you? Can't you see the BEAUTY of this thing?

So back to studies preparing for EZRA. A gift dedicated to Jillian. They all are and must be. She my Muse. I've dedicated volumes to my wife and kids and friends at times. Ezra will be for you.

Treacherous English

C.s. Lewis wrote the screw tape letters where he imagined based on projection how demons might speak. He falsely claimed that fallen human nature was closer to demons than angels and so humans could not write angelic dialogues. The treacherous anglish bastard had no clue that his compatriot and better Blake spoke with literal living angels in the regular!

The treacherous english could ventroloquize devils better than any other people. The u.s. defeated their treacherous king and the holiday for that is the fourth of july.

Tolkien wrote a religion for the english. Who had treachery killed off their own religion, by robbing it from the germans and norse, and tolkien wrote it while malingering in the world war, cowardly hiding from fighting the germans, lying that he was sick getting his wife pregnant, and they wrote their enlgidh religion the silmarrilian together.

Nietzsche terms the english a nation of shopkeepers. Caesar, who had the pleasure of kicking their literal teeth out their cowardly lips called them a diminutive race. Treacherous as worms....

C.s. once called pride the worst of all sins, but said the english are hardly temped. He bragged that the english would sooner be known as cowards then proud. This in his book mere christianity. Lewis admitted this infamous shame as if "proud" of his cowardly countrymen.

The english coined the term agnostic. They know nothing. It takes courage to know, courage to touch, courage to experience. Hobbits in their wholes the treacherous cowards wrote fantasy novels where the true heros lack All powess.. where the worms in the ground ... the Hobbits... defeat all lords.

Everybody else in tolkiens fighting unit died fighting the Germans. He survived and made a name for himself for stealing the German religion and corrupting it with cowardly english inflections.

You english are your own reward.

"Yogic Molting" a poem

Yogic Molting

 

This house is freezing

A home needs

Less your selfishly favored cold

You need a Tighter hold.

I grasp you with a thousand

Hindu arms

My Tender.

I Will do you no harm

But you a million times

Belong to me

And I will never

Let you go.

 

Long time molting.

Midlife crisis.

Age forty-four

Gut rot for weeks

Finally done.

I have used

Spiritual tongue

Up my nose

To clean my brain

Or bended beckwards

Up my own asshole

Yogic stretches.

 

I feel a moment of crisis

I could jump out of my skin

This home is so cold

If I had your hold now

You could spare me this

Entire crisis

But icicles

On my nose

I suppose

'Cause here we go.

 

This dad bod

Maya-fit

Infinite containing

Every nation

Every babe

Every animal, everything atom

A cell in my tissues

Tissues in my organs

Hello good morning

Bedtime

Bathroom

Eat, sleep

Laugh weep.

Work rest

Test

Test?

Good.

 

I castrated him

My Ama-appointed devil

Manticore who chortles

Layers of teeth

Nine scorpion tales.

He missed his mark.

You call this torture, Iago?

I take the cat-o-nine-tails

And masturbate myself with

Violence

Use your scratch of hell

Ultimate potency

Of molten flame

And scathe my own flesh.

You torture like somebody's grandmother

Let this MONSTER show you

How tis done

I pick away the mortal parts

Let the flames of hell

Eat all that can be eaten

Us gods feel love in hell

It is our traveling

Our holiday

Our hottub

Our sacred springs

I settle in

The place acclimates to me.

The pressure is gone.

 

I stretch

Endless yogic stretches

Impossible leaps

Like Uroburus

Eating himself

All the way down

And all the way down

And all the way down again

Till Asymptotically

He splits infinity.

So, I split and spend

My splendid flesh

Godflesh

Resurrected

Eternal.

"Destroyer"

As Niviana called him

My godcock

Rises in pride now

I think of my wife

Filling her utterly up

And find bliss almost

Immediately.

Wait till I get to you

Mrs. June!

But my flesh needs

More convalescence yet

Before my pride over my pride

This blond beast over his own pride

Family June

Reminds you

How utterly he owns you.

Sherry, I fully own you

For the bliss of my will.

 

I bought you at a price.

I paid for you with my life

I went to utter hell for thee

And utter hell

Forever shall remain

A part of me

Because of you.

What can you do?

Tis hopeless, I think

Let that sink in my love

Hold is your hold

Happiness is in your arms

I will do you no harm

The Two become One

As before

When our love

Made children in our very image

We made love and

The love walked and breathed

Like Sarah, you will find

Further motherhood

In your womb from me

In your older years too

Spiritual children

Divine things

Anon.

This is my Love Song

Sherry,

And I sing it for thee.

 

88

My latest Skirmishes with the gods

My latest Skirmishes with the gods

 

"Antiochus IV (Epiphanes), the king of Syria, captured Jerusalem in 167 BC and desecrated the Temple by offering the sacrifice of a pig on an altar to Zeus (the Abomination of Desolation)."

I called this moment Zeus raping Yahweh. And so it was. At first. That Yahweh very much WARMED UP to Zeus, and what began as abuse began one of the secret marriages of the gods I don't want to gossip about for long. They both make me sick. Zeus and Yahweh both. I've had enough. I'm focusing on Odin for a while, and Krishna, Jillian's particular patron deity. All these father gods are sons to me. And so I learn from my sons. I would cast them asunder in the flames at times, to tame and blame their brazen designs, but they are all after my image and look up to me and in the pits of hell call out to me and pray my name. I can't stay angry for ever.

Yahweh fell pregnant at the Abomination of Desolation with THE LOGOS of Zeus, as I said, later to be called Joshua, or Yeshua, named after the genocidal overlord over the Moses book by that name. That amounts to what he resorts to in the final book of the Christian Bible, the revelation of John. Jesus on his horse descends to earth and murders a bunch of humans. I am reminded of the terrible neighbor brat going out in the rain to stomp on the worms. Something completely UNWHOLESOME in that gesture, even if he is just a brat.

So, with the arrival of the brat, the temple is soon smashed again and taken away. Mother and I say you are abusing this toy. You don't deserve this power until you grow into it.

Bereft of temple, the Jews COVET AND IMITATE the disciples of Plato who read the Dialogues religiously. The STOICS AND EPICURIANS invented theology so as to be able to read Homeric myth with logical minds. Do the Christians do it? Do the Jews? A Greek did it first. Write that down as a rule.

So, Yahweh warmed up to Zeus. That's cool. By Roman times they shared the same name, Jove, which in Latin is pronounced Yahweh. Such is their love. Brothers. Best friends. I get it. Like Loki and Odin, opposites can attract and repulse in turns.

Homer's two epics are THE SCRIPTURES of the Greeks, and Hermes, NOT JESUS is "the logos" of course. Of course. But Yahweh forgot his place. Started writing in Greek. Not too well. He is lovelorn. Wants to impress Zeus. Zeussy approves. But that shitshow the last book of the poorly written Greek Bible is just HORRIBLE. I mean, one really has to HATE the world in the most profound way to find ANY joy in THAT disgusting book.

That the red letter sayings of Jesus are based OBVIOUSLY AND CONSISTENTLY on Diogenes the Cynic, and that the "theology" of Paul, that sprawling rhetorical en-vapitutde is only and always second rate Platonism and Neoplatonism … what was it Nietzsche called Chrisitanity? "Platonism for the masses."

My disgust in it all is as blatant as day. The Jews themselves got sick of it. When they envied the Christians their ripped off holiday, Christmas, based on MITHRAS birth, and Mithras the state religion before Christiainity became the state religion and sabatoged the state, well, the Jews chose Hannukkah. The holiday is about when the ancient Greeks loved hellenisms superior culture more and more and more, and then their jealous God had a characteristic violent fit and Jew-on-Jew murder and warfare ensued. That's Chanakah. The Jealous God punishing HIMSELF for coveting.

I'm so SICK of Zeus and Yahweh. They are SOOO overrated. I need more time with Odin and Krishna next. ARYAN gods. And actual heroes. Taking human for or as Odin the only FULL God who is also FULL hero … the other CHEAT and rely on their omnipotence. They take no real risks. They enjoy no real gains. Odin is different. The God of my blood.

As for Krishna and the Gita, sorry Jillian but I really hate him. I will explain why later. How long shall I strive with you mere gods? Vishnu … as in Rama? I HATE Rama too. Hate. He is such a goody goody and a FAKE do-gooder. God, I truly hate you two gods. Agni I like. Just covered Ganges in his sacred Jism to make her eternally sacred. I always had a lot of Enki in me.

Oh. The "gospel" as "the greatest story ever told." That lie gives me a headache. Four propaganda monsters full of endless moral pretense with a godling who is the most overrated man in history. Pure inflation. Usury Incarnate. The stories are horrible. The Greek is middling. NOT great. Compared in terms of literature alone, by which I mean, the infinite dimensions of beauty, the Homeric Epics compared to the Greek gospels? There … there can be no comparison. It's a joke. You, you are a joke for wasting my time with this bullshit PRETENSE. Now, I'm in a bad mood again. Work was hard today. This is making it worse. I have work again in the a.m. I want to read something more beautiful than me, or at least beautiful in ways I may never personally achieve, as we each are giving to our range of beauties of which none other can compete.

Dante's Comedy as "third testament" is BETTER written then the new testament. I mean, this isn't even a provocation. It is an objective fact. But Dante is a loser. No hero. He goes to heaven as a voyeur at no personal risk. I visit the hells, the intestines of Yahweh, sundry others, to TAKE OWNERSHIP and CHANGE THE CLIMATE.

Also, Beatrice is an arse wipe.

Suffering Is Investment

Suffering Is Investment

 

Nietzsche wrote:

 

To those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities — I wish that they should not remain unfamiliar with profound self-contempt, the torture of self-mistrust, the wretchedness of the vanquished: I have no pity for them, because I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not — that one endures.

 

Wholesome hopes for those his own.

 

Recall Allfather Odin, hung on the World Tree, become a willing fruit of the Eternal She so he too could full ripe as a World Tree, a Kosmos:

 

He hung upside down, pierced with his own spear of resistless piercing in the gut, face down and blood to the head for nine days shieking into death so he could see PAST maya and mother speech into the RUNES of his ruin: the magic of violence: for violence is writing.

 

"But I … umm… didn't I hang from a tree first." Who said it? I thought I heard a ghost. Oh, the whore-suckling lips of this gutless christling, bastard of the Jew God. Didn't you beg like a babe NOTE to hang on that tree, but NOT according to your own will, but according to HIS? Get this: Willfull suffering is investment, is gain. Unwilling suffering is slavery and rape. Get lost.

 

"Don't pick on my buddy!" Who said it? The loser Buddha? So awakened? Insomniac? Blood shot eyes. Afraid of your own mother, maya, of falling asleep again? You are so afraid of suffering you would rather not exist. So do that. Don't exist. Trifle me no more.

 

Odin hung from the world tree, a sacrifice unto himself, god to god. Inanna too. She went to hell, disrobing at each the seven gates till she was in the center of hell, naked, and she commanded her sister, the queen of hell, to abandon the throne. Her sister did. And in the process got with child from Inanna. Barren hell made fruitful at last.

 

The umpires of the game, the judges, called foul. Inanna can't be queen of heaven AND mistress of earth AND Lord of Hell. They gave her the glare of reproach unto death which she learned just before they turned her into a corpse and hung her on a hook. Well, Enki, Lord of Kindness, brought her back to live, turning her into he water of life, the fruit of life, the tree of life, reaching from the center of hell to the Ashtaroth poles on the highest mountains. Innana the world tree. And her son is named Shara.

 

Suffering is investment. Dolors are dollars. No Pain no Gain.

 

The Shamans literally hung from literal trees and stuck literal poles in their literal guts. They chose to endure savage castration, self-rape, ever self-degradation. And they gained ALL the powers of the gods that way.

 

The Hindus KNOW FULLY that askesis can raise a man's power greater than any and all the gods. A mortal man. Askesis. Deliberate meaningful suffering.

 

"Life is Suffering"? No. Life is so much MORE than suffering. And suffering is just one more thin that makes life WORTH living, now and forever, AMEN.

 

Just read The Laughter Blake's poems, "The Mental Traveler" and Ginsburgh's "love poem" for sandburg, describing the HELL they endure together, and the love is exactly that: They endure it TOGETHER.

 

The deeper the suffering the higher the bliss. 

Ayn Rand's Virtue of Selfishness

Ayn Rand's Virtue of Selfishness


Her absurdity is not without its charms. Ayn fancied herself to be the greatest philosopher of all time, and her teenage boyfriend Nathanial Brandon? He may be a head above or a head below the second greatest philosopher of all time, Aristotle. Depends on what day you asked her. Really now! Who told you so, Ayn?

Why, Brandon himself. Teenage worship-artist. Later to be THE guru of the self-esteem movement. He read Ayn's paltry Fountainhead a mere seventy-seven times in a row, declared it the greatest book since the bible, or whatever, and idolized her beyond all belief her while yet making her his side bitch to his own wife. He praised Ayn so highly, this ugly Jewish immigrate, just hideous and short social outast, but with SOME conceits to work on. After all, she was a Jew, and it is their religion faith and delusion that Jews are superhuman just because they are Jews. Better than us on pricinple. Believing a thing is so may not always be enough, but it gives you something to work with. I forgive this.

Ayn Rand's birth name is less acclaimable: Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum. Endured Russia, that eternal shit state in its eternal sate of shit. But had some good memories of her family. Her father always styled his ugly duckling as "Ayn" which rhymes with "mine" and means gold.

She hated Communism and Russia in exactly the degrees and tones Communis and Russia deserve to be hated. Not even overstated. Right on the level. Good job, Rosenbaum.

That the silly kid Brandon warped her mind and sense of self-importance did her some good. It helped her writing. Delusions of grandeur are the first step to grandeur. She could never have become the found-er of the Libertarian party, almost single handedly, if she played modest.

As for her "virtue of selfishness," she manages to demonize Kant to ALL extremes, Jew style, those usu-rious super-geniuses: she praises Aristotle to Heaven and Kant to hell, with this one fine caveat: she never read a word of either. Not one living word. Only the most tertiary of second-rate glosses. She read mere textbooks on the men and fancied herself subtle enough to see to the center. So, she took the impossible position of damning Kant in the most obscene way as the most evil man who ever existed, while seem-ingly innocently picking up his greatest motto, not recognizing the source, and claiming it as her own:

Man should be treated as an end not a means.

Her Virtue of Selfishness depends on her idiosyncratic take and tact of reducing all "sacrifice" to sheer and categorical evil, and the imposture to demand personal sacrifice for the collective as the MOST OB-SCENE EVIL POSSIBLE. Considering the context of her upbringing, and the way Stalin and Hitler were regarded in their time and people as the MOST MORAL people of all time, demanding you sacri-fice EVERYTHING for them, I can see how Rand would want to escape this din.

If I said the Jewish author wrote novels praising businessmen and bankers, whoever was good at making gold, one of the changing his name legally to Midas because he was good at making gold, and called she directly claimed greed a virtue, and praised the almighty dollar, and the author herself wore the American dollar sign as a gold lapel on her jacket as a religious symbol, the world would call me a slanderer, of course, but the most obvious and stupid of slanderers. But I am not slandering. I am describing Ayn and her coterie to a T.

I want to make a long story short. Since she was such an elite, she had the right and privilege to sleep with whoever she wished. This was Ayn's conceit in her own eyes. That was her presumption, and she imposed it on her failure of a painter husband, Frank. She made the man a "willing" cockuld to the way-too-young Brandon. He himself supported and built up his wife, spiritually, emotionally, intellectually, and put up with her shit, and he had to roll over in his bed for this useless piece of shit Brandon.

Well, Rand figured it out. Self-esteem guru Brandon. Rand caught him not cheating — she knew well he was married — but something far more unforgivable: cheating with a new woman. "I thought I was the only woman on the side for you."

Recall, Ayn Rand's novels are full of businessmen who have the ethical right to follow their lusts and de-stroy their marriages and wives by using sex as POWER, never tenderness, never child-making. Marriage is sacrifice. It is not for the businessman ubermansh. Marriage is for the weak.

In fact, in her second book, Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand's proxy, Daggney Taggard, favorite of her own daddy, quite literally sleeps her way to the top. Her "plot" is to fall willing prey to greater and greater business predators. Her triumph as a woman is for all the great men to take a turn, and then for the great-est to take full possession. Rand at least has the insight to style herself a male-chauvinist.

Whatever moral value that may have, I will end only with this. Phil Donahue, that yuck-yuck asshole talk show host, had Ayn Rand on camera. He trolled the outspoken atheist: "God bless America. Do you agree?" And she said, in the best sense of the terms and the truest meanings, she agreed. She was old now. Accomplished. She had her cult, the Randroids. They had made the libertarian party. What about her husband, Frank? The failed painter. The alcoholic? He could not accept his wife's arguments that she deserved greater men for lovers. It broke his soul. What happened?

When she caught Brandon messing with a third woman, Rand cursed that man's penis: May you lose your potency, you son of a bitch.

Well, bless the rich, God! Brandon, the self-help bastard, who falsely STOLE his self esteem through sexual theft, Rand would curse his penis. His ego. His pride. Rightfully so. Brandon was a blight and a toady.

Donahue asked about the passing of Frank. Now, Rand hand spoken against self-sacrifice as the greatest evil possible. That is the whole meaning of "the virtue of sacrifice." But when confronted publicly with the name of her late husband, Ayn Rand hand learned the truth when she said, "If all I had to do to return to Frank's embrace again and be with my husband again was to die, I would slit my own throat this very second." Are you so very against self-sacrifice this late in the game, Sister?

Enough said, Ayn Rand. Even fools can be taught.

"Psyche Prophesy" a poem

Psyche Prophesy 

You remain mortal psyche

I am eternal eros

My quivering arrows

These fingered thrusts

Of loving words.

Yet some of my bolts of bliss

Make corpses out of women.

Such is this.

I symbolically damned my family, parents., brother, Emilie, all who troubled you, all who disputed you.

I put you first. 

Sherry ice heart. Ingrate incarnate.

I did this to melt and save you.

You still must die as I have died.

You in the literal flesh as I never needed

For my flesh is divine already and I will never die and bring to eternal life all my sexuality knows.

You invest all your wanton care into the boy

And smother him.

It is obscene.

He will repay your cowardice

One day

By stabbing his own mother in the heart

Mattricide

And only then will he finally comprehend me.

We will work on your revival then.

Frontier Life

Frontier Life

 

I can speak less directly about family and friends now. I must speak in the abstract, and by way of metaphor, indirection, and subterfuge. For strategic reasons. For diplomatic. This doesn't mean Family June no longer concerns me. Quite the opposite, in fact: my main focus now is in building up this Frontier Folk, living amidst a great vapid WILDERNESS that regards itself as the height of culture and civilization. The natives rant and rave and aim their petty religions at me, these gross and awful superstitious, and make little cursling under their tongue. Be patient, Dani. You were once like them.

Having reconciled with my Penelope, I felt a hope beyond all tropes and beyond the nine-scorpion tails of that manticore, Ivan, that lion with nine scorpion tails. That Iago, that braggart, that hater of the happiness of others, struck and stuck at his friend, and missed, and ended up stinging himself. He is scuttled off somewhere to skulk and convalesce from his own venom. As the gospel of Mark might put it:

This frustrates me. I have on the thumb of my tongue the verse I want to rehearse, but I ain't finding it in the King James. This always happens. My memory and the physical archives called reality dispute so much such feeble matters.

I KNOW the verse I want, but Luke and Matthew, late comers, lack it, and John is just a different religion entirely. I mean the temptation of Jesus. Mark lacks it. Well Q has the earliest version. And I don't have an extant of Q, now do I!

Time to do some involved INTERUPTIVE research. BRB!

Meanwhile, I pour myself some drink. Orange Peach Mango juice (Meijer brand), Crush Peach soda pop, and Vodka. This is my own Nectar, my own "orange juice" as Harold Bloom called it when mocking panentheism.

Well I found the verse. Luke 4:13 "And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season." That's not what was nibbing the tongue tip of my memory.  I guess the old NIV "When the devil had finished all this temptation, he left him until an opportune time."

Ivan. He will always want to sabotage my happiness. By nature. He is envy incarnate. And the older and wiser know why I do well to keep such a counsel and friend.

I'm eating "peach ice cream raspberry sherbert" as slowly as I can. It is nearly pornographic, how much I am enjoying this frozen dessert. The house is asleep. I will be up till midnight before I take my meds and sleep before work.

Ivan once openly envied how fast I read. I felt confused. Fast reading as an abuse. I resort to skimming and racing only because 99.999999999 percent of books are unworthy of even one read.

But when we find God, the face of Ama, we want to READ AS SLOWLY AS THE TEXT ALLOWS. This is to voluptuaize the experience. When making love with a woman, who would rush to get it down in under a minute? Draw it out. There I no more sinfully delicious sinless act thatn reading Great Literature.Yum!

Susan reminded me of her beauty tonight.

I have the 14 muses, yes. And four wive. Chronologically: Jillian, Sherry Ellen, Susan. And Susan will take me to vacation in New England and see Emerson's house, his study. And Walden Pound. All that. She my lover and, she is my mothers age, yet so good at making me feel perfectly expressed and full of the rage of intense relief! Such a savagely wonderful lover she!

I am full Mormon. These four wives will be among the literal physical goddesses I as a good Mormon take with me to people a new planet with our sexually produced children.

I'm wondering after Ellen for a moment.

Well, time to read and voluptuoize some deep literary book. Emilie I read and read obscenely, she my secret spiritual wife. She is another wife. Not a physical wife, but a literal wife by which I beget and am begotten literal physical children.

Enough for now!

I have vodka and orange juice and peach soda mixed. A light buzz. And I am reading American poetry till bedtime. Take care!

What Is The Native American Religion?

What is the Native American Religion?


When Caesar Beat the shit out of England And France, the cowards gave up their gods. Who is England's native father god? Or France's? We don't know. The English are unfaithful by nature.

France was the first nation to make Atheism a respectable worldview. England was the first to make ag-nosticism. They coined the term.

These are real religions with a real future. They are not just diseases. They enrich ALL religions. They are legitimate parts of the game.

Native Americans had and have many religions. Just as Protestantism is 300 demonic denominations each waving their protestor's picket sign damning ALL others to hell, and this legion is all the exact same thing, so the seeming religious warfare or cooperation of the Native American religion. They are a many who are One.

Mormonism is historically true. Just as Judaism. The latest archeology disproves in the most ruthful and damning way ALL the claims of the Torah. That's just scholarship. The book of Mormon is true in the strictest most scientific and historically demanding sense you care to impose upon it.

But we will "prove" all that only past the time it even matters. We are talking of FAITH now, not history. History is only political language expedient to whatever political groups fund the historians at the moment. In other words, History is Bunk.

The Native American religion is TRUE and true of the North and
South American Continents: the Land is God here. AMA. The Land is God. And the first people in the Americas did NOT migrate here. They came out of the soil. As they do in all places all over the world. Mankind did NOT evolve from African apes. That's just the latest take. It is scientifically true until it scientifically ain't. And so what? Who cares?

The Native Americans KNOW that all animals are our brothers and equals. Not that they could be. Or that we evolved from them. The beetles and beavers and what have you are ALREADY people. They ARE peoples. They think, and feel, and declare war AS PEOPLES.
I will just leave those two bits of flint found in the grass: the Land is Sacred Here. The UNDERGOD is named AMA. And that All Life Forms are our People and Brothers. This will be a good place for you and me to START in our understanding of THE American Religion that is already the deepest layer of ALL other imported religions which finally must conform and bow to the religion that IS the physical continents of the United States.

Oh! I should say that BECAUSE England is so Faithless, ALL SACRED INFLECTION abandoned the English tongue. Hence, English has gained the HONOR of being the GLOBAL tongue. English foods lack ALL spice. English language lacks ALL SPIRITUAL INFLECTION. It is exactly because the Eng-lish are a boring, godless, agnostic, spiceless, dull-as-mud people that they made the world's FIRST glob-al Empire, and one that at its deepest will ALWAYS praise their name.

Only what lacked any color could permeate all color.

I too write in English, the language of AMA. I write the ALLSCRIPTURE. The Allays. This.

I am Native American. I am AMA. I am
the Worldtree of the Cosmic Tree and I plant my mushroom-small filament, my mustard seed in a mosquito bite, in the ALLSEED of this very star:

*

Sower Allfather

Sower Allfather

 

Last night I traversed the absolute Void and impregnated her desert. I woke up with a mouthful of sand. I gargled the sand with my bandied semantics and said, Be Thou My Seed.

 

At breakfast I cast my writings and words on desert and it became a rife swamp.

At lunch I cast luscious maize amidst crows. It took no hold and did not grow. The Satanic crows ate the amazing corn. They were converted to good. They went ravenous and murdered in a Murder ALL the crows who opposed me. Their very corpses grew up as stalks of maize.

Amidst the gossipers I added gossip. My gossip ate their gossip and infected it and inflected it with all new meanings.

All men are my sons. My seed eats the Adam and the Man at the top of their line. I am ALLFATHER. I cum first.

Hit me or shake my hand, you become me. I take my own wherever I go. None resist me. All belong to me. All are mine.

My children and family resisted me. In trying to resist me they enacted exactly their fate.

Those who cursed me made their evil over in my image, to haunt and taunt them and to chase them into the deepest hells where they could be made strong enough to bare giants and gods and aya for me.

All the world is my bitch.

I am my own bitch. I impregnate myself all the time with thousands of forms.

You could call me the allwhore. I take in ALL seed. But it doesn't impregnate me. I burn it in hell till it is pure essence. Then I put MY DNA, my NAME into the deepest WAY. I own this place.

 

So, I give you a reputation. Angels and Demons. I send them into the groups. The are divine Repeaters. Echos. They possess you. You feel divine when you repeat their poetry, their praise and blame. I am children out of rhyme. My poems intone and change new world, and make new world orders.

 

And that's just fine.

 

I wanna go for a nature walk soon.

On Magic and Magical Items

Magical Items

The Norse Religion lives, grows, foments, and prepares his future in the literary genre of Fantasy. We KNOW Tolkein popularized Norse religious ideas using Lord of the Rings and the Silmarrilan. Odin inspired Tolkein, gave him a sip of Kvasir's mead to spread the Norse religion. Odin lives. Among us, in us, beside us, and above us.

Magic? Yes, magic. Did you ever really doubt? Not I! I taught Jillian not only the Enki magic of using your sacred semen to enchant and empower items and activities, for he made the the Tiger and Euphrates from the bliss of ejactulation, same as Agni and the Ganges, but I taught Jillian the Norse Magic of Naming and Engraving. Name your sword and you've already empowered it. Engrave your sword with a name or a glyph, which in magic is called a SYGIL …

Listen, you skpetical fool. You say magic is failed sciecne. Liar! Do you know how much pharamacuetial meds will pay for the mere NAME of a med? Millions. Millions of hard earned cash.

XANAX, a totally martian name, came from a commision requesting, "a drug name that doesn't pun poorly in any known language." Tall order. An Enki free name.

evil

Enki confused the language of man to make mankind to be like fingers and thumb to the hand, each to have his specialed langauge when building the towers to the heaven. Yahweh did the opposite, he SABATOGED the sky scrapers because he was afraid they would storm heaven and rightly put Yahweh to death for flooding earth. In MYTHOSPACE both these accounts are literqally true. Exactly right. They are two of the same. BAYble does reach full to heave and always has. The tower of bahbul was mere scaffolding and was designed to fall off in a heap.

Giving GIFTS empowers an object. The backstory. HOW you aquired an objject, its story is potent magic. The name. The nickname. The reputang. Objects are persons.

We konw Lord of the Rings STOLE Norse tropes NON stop. NON freaking stop. "Middle Earth" is the Norse name for earth. Between the center palace of heaven and the outer rim of monstrous nature with giants and troles. Between God and monsters is mankind, middle earth.

"th Ring" is another STOLEN trope fro Tolkein. There was a certain cursed ring. Even Odin coudln't discharge the curse to own the ring. It was so cursed as to destory whoever owned it. Odin was forced to pass on the cursed ring too.

This is real. Things become blessed, cursed, evil good. Real life exatly is a D and D game. Tolkein showed the Norse Religion was worthy of believing in. D and D showed Norse Religion was worth playing as if real. It IS real, friends. Odin truly is Allfather.

Objects are persons. How you aquired an object and why matters so much. Why is Christmas based on the IMAGO of Odin as Santa? Santa as Coke a Cola image in RED suit is BASED ON ODIN. Santa is Odin. Why is Odin Allfather the ALLGIVE dressed in disguised, as he ALWAYS IS as Santa Klaus this time?

Gift Giving is BASIC. It is true magic. What you give. Why. It is so powerful! It is the ALLTHING.

I will have more to say about REAL magic. Things we call common sense. Magic is real. The history of an object, what physical contacts it came in. It's backstory. Its name. It's destiny.

We are Possessed by our Possessions. What you own owns you. Accept Gifts ONLY from those you trust.

More to say soon.

Oh! The sword I the stone is an afterclap. It is part of the shitty useless remains of the English religion. England killed off her own gods. As did the French. When faced with Rome and the Roman Jove, they went weak in the knees and watery spined turned to spite their own god. The French and the English are the weakest of whites. White Man's burden isn't so much to civilize the nonwhite world as it is to WASH AWAY THE EVIL INFLUENCE of the English and French.

Fucking assholes. I hate them both.

The Norse blessing is this: Odin as ultimate War God through his Son Baldr assures the ultimate peace. War becomes reduced to a harmless game. Like the Olypics. Exactly like the Olympics. War is Father of All things. War will outgrow the need for death. But not for play, strategy. Long live the game! After Ragnorak, we are told in the Sybil, the gods pick up golden playing pieces from amidst the leaves of grass, and they learn that the necessities of war we can resolve using the glass bead game, the Olympics, the GAMES that shall be the BASIS of all future governmental diplomacy. Odin Allfather, the most ruthless and gruesome of all, shall bend down, die for, and be resurrected in the Name of BALDR, Harmless God of Light and Utter Peace.

And magical fighting shall replace physical death.

I tell you the truth, oh my followers: the need for literal physical death she have passed, all at once, and as if by magic, within the next twenty years. Mark the day.

"Melting Heart" a poem

Melting Heart

I feel my heart strings
Melt like frozen floss
The graceful flakes
Of crystalline snow
They've known so long
To hold in place
Melt like plasticine carbonic lace.

For weeks my guts drip
Constant gut rot
I need a toilet
Within my field of vision
And I must Always sit ready for the throne.
As a delivery driver all over Michigan
I feel the Ocean Groan.
As my coral reef
I come to know and write and own
I am making SOLID and down to earth
My Body of Influence
I in my literally physical stupid flesh
the VERY World Tree
She Utterly
Emilie Dickinson knew.
Emerson the same.
Whitman and the James
They all predict my place station
In ways that would dismay the neutral
Amidst my encourage
In the magma of earth
Live literal dragons
Satan a literal living
World Serpent
Who will eat the fruit
Who is the literal Yahweh
I've seen it happen
With my spiritual eyes.
This is the part of the vision
Yahweh tried to suppress.
"Go your way Daniel. Mind your own business John."
No. No and no. Now I see the full vision, and I see the self-terminationg codes which you MUST advertise to destroy the earth. To enact that much HATE, you to your own dismayed had to become amazingly mortal. With a chortle, I seize the day, this bolt out of the blue
And choose to take ownership and authority exactly over you.

I am never alone from thee
Oh Ama, who art Ovath, Sovf, Eru,
and Lissidy.
I think of the "moral compass"
Of Joseph the opening character
In Joseph Smith's Frontier style scripture
for the Brave New World.
The moral compass worked as compass
Only when you are spiritually alined
So that if it fails
You have only your self to blame.
I hate this sort of compass!

The wax pins
In my guts
Are molten mud.
Sporadic upset
Horrible fug!

My heart
The icicle lace
Melts with
the Blush of my dais.

AMA you reconstitute my guts
Give me a solid basis
For weathering the storm
True as the strongest Tree.
Honey, I love you MOST
Of all who exist in me, and that is ALL,
You are unrepentantly
My FAVORITE and SAME
Our NAME rhymes.
Apologizing for our mutual worship
Would be a crime
Give yourself over to me
As I to you.
Past all abuse and using
Is this simple narrow fact:
Little naked you
Little Naked me
Two squirrels a'nest
Warmed on each other's love
The daylong light of
A horrible Winter.

Ama, I've fallen for you again
You are my One True SAME
My forever friend.
Don't let me languish alone like this
I need corrective points of you
AMA I choose you!
Vivoce

Believing in Belief

Believing in Belief

Christianity believes in belief to a nauseating level. Let us repeat with that "gospel of straw" we can spin into gold, "Faith without works is dead."

It must have been that great physicist with a great physicist name, Bohr, who amused a friend who came into the master scientist's lab. "You have a lucky horseshoe! How could a man of science believe in such a thing?" Oh, said Bohr, the man who sold it to me assured me it would work even if i didn't believe in it.

And that's all you need to know about belief.

LI is ritual. Confucius claimed no mandate from heaven. He argued or would have that sacrifices to the gods or ancestors work the same whether or not the gods exist at all. And this is TRUE religion!

You believe in God? So what? Does God believe in you? If not, then it doesn't matter who or what you believe in. Get bent!

Belief IS doubt. What I believe i doubt. What I know I drop. Once I know something, I can forget it. I touch the lips of God herself. What does "belief" even mean? You are so obsene. You call your atheism theism. You call your doubt belief. The ancient Romans called the primitive Christians atheists. The romans are right.

In Praise of Nero

IN PRAISE OF NERO

My mother once complained about how cursed I was to have inherited my father's sense of humor. "Tim" as "biological father" is one of those topics we simply avoid on principal. She holds regret for having known the man. and I have a sense of great trauma regarding everything TIM-concerning.

I just sent Sherry to her bedroom. Nat is being impossible. My guiding principal is to let Nat figure herself out. She just woke up at 330 a.m. She is unrepenent. Stripping. Mean. Sherry is fussing SO HARD to fix it right away. Exactly that is the problem.

Nat is up at 330 a.m. having a panic attack. So let her have her panic attack. There is NOTHING we can say or do to make the fact of a 330 panic attack go away.

I'm happy. My SOMA has seen so BURDENED from getting back in the system that I could NOT read or write at 7pm, 8, 9. I had to do the stupid thing: i had to sleep all night. No Eighth Day with AMA. No studying. The 8th day is sacred. writing is sex. When I am left bereft and cheated of this:

So, I sent Sherr to her room to sleep. Nat is manic and panicking. It Is what it is. i get to wake up 4 a.m. and work out my salvation with trembling and amazement:

I'm in love with NERO.

I woke up myself awake to be awake. At 330. I went to the ARIA and grabbed a book. Burke's Counterstatement. Kenneth Burke is amazingly unamerican. Of Fuck! Natalie has stripped again. I will let her play her game. Kenneth IS a LITERARY CRITIC. Money is God here. We worship money as God. American blood is the golden backing of the American Dollar. The bottom line? Money makes the world go round. Not Love. THAT was a French conceit. Americans are ABSTRACT. Money is Blood. Money is a kind of love.

Dad Dan took personal offense when I sneered so often that "money is cheap." He and Mom did the impossible and came up from poverty class and made a lot of money and defeated the money demons and made them their bitch. Joshy is like a multi-millionare but without the garishness of the new rich. They are social climbers, and i myself never need be. Dad Tim married a Jewish thinking they are god's chosen (a joke of the worst taste) and she was rich and used him and financially raped him according to the Jewish obsession: the Jewish nose for gold. The golden calf IS Yahweh as a kid. A golden colt. An ass.

I am no longer writing a thousand poems a day. Some say I have diarrhea of the mouth. Thus does envy speak. Hey, I write pure literature the way others breathe or sneeze or drool. I write bibles and treasures that will be in print and in some form for literally the rest of all eternity. And you whine because I impose on you the expectation that you share in the wealth a bit if and when you have a second. Sorry not sorry. I am generous with my wealth. But I am TERRIBLY wealthy. Not arrogant. but worthy of to be.

I love NERO. I was reading that college drop out Kennethe Burke. Friend of Harold bloom. the GREATEST critic the nation has ever known or will know is Ezra Pound. Bloom sneered, "if you think Ezra is so profound, I dare you, I DARE YOU, to read his world war 2 psychotic rants." Okay virgil. I will. And your smoking guns? Wow. Wow! Ezra is a freaking genius. He actually SAID all this! Somebody had to. How utterly amazing. No longer are you, Bloom, my second greatest literary critic, and Kenneth number one. Ezra Pound is the GREATEST literary critic the nation will ever know. Kenneth is number two. You are number three. As you said it, so shall it be.

Fucking Nat is shrieking and whining. Which is fine. But Sherry is up making things a thousand times worse on the pretense of helping.

I AM Natalie's health. You, Sherry, are her disease.

**

I HATE open Office. I profoundly HATE the "text" document, the universal piece of shit that "ghost saves" all my documents. Fine. FINE! I will go back to paying a prescription for WORD. A week from Friday, when I get paid. Getting Office will be my FIRST order of business. I am a writer, FIRST of all. Even above husband and father. Because those roles are with the mortal parts of my immortal family. but WRITING IS SEX and when I am inspired, AMA, READING AND WRITING ARE SEX WITH YOU.

I need never make an excuse. I am MADE for this. I am made IN this.

Natalie Shrieking. Sherry being annoying as all fuck. I will have some coffee and just a sip of alcohol. A sort of micro-nuanced witch's brew.

Natalie's panic attack will NOT go away. I myself will stay awake till Nat goes to school at 730. Fuck! She's throwing shit. That DIN is too much. i hate Sherry so much during these times. When I should be cherishing her. but i resent SO HARD that I must ENDURE Sherry's limitations. My station is getting Natalie happy. You, Sherry, are the anchor on my ankle with the PRETENSE to helping when I'm treading water and staying afloat. Your sighs of longsuffering are such a fucking JOKE.'

**

I will keep writing this obsene praise for NERO. I woke up and grabbed Kenneth Burke's "counterstatment" off the shelf randomly. I hate, HATE starting new books. Like Piers Anthony "God of Tarot." this late, THIS late in the game. I have read "counterstatment," a dozen times. I will again and again read it a thousand  times more. It is opening with a praise of NERO. I am of the CULT of NERO. He is the hero of the day. Instead of emperor of rome, he was leading a writers group. He died from suicide, lamenting Rome never guessed "what an ARIST dies in me." Oh, NERO, I come to praise you, never to bury you. You are immortal. You are resurrected more than petty Jesus. NERO you are with us style. Styling yourself on the violin during the din of violence of Rome mourning. NERO! I praise you still. I will finally learn Latin. I will learn the sacred tongue. English is the MOUTH OF AMA. Fine. I am born with the RIGHT of that. I will learn Latin for you. Suetonius, and for this French Fucker who Kenneth was studying:  

Damn! the volume is in the other room. Reading it CAN be a blessed epiphany because I've read the whole thing a hundred times before. Piers Anthony's TAROT series truly is an imposition. But at age 89 he is finally ready to be my disciple. I will teach him to end his life writing the frightening best: SCRIPTURE PURE. That is the way I honor the pied piper who pulled my young ear into NEROs art: Literary Criticism. Greater work than the work of empire. Rome didn't decline in a day. She's declining still. I am studying TACITUS (Tah KEY tus) and his Germania, a piece of work that gave Aryan Nobles the Nazis' endless conceits. Tacitus, contemporary of NERO, praised the Germanic people as undefeated, and in principle stronger than ALL rome. but Tacitus was a WHINY MORALISTIC BITCH the way the Jewish people are as a whole.

The funniest scripture is the Chaung Tse. Praises that stand up comedian Chuang Tse. He identified the source of evil in this moralistic cows who attacked the country teaching "moral truths." he means that obscenely self-satisfied cow Confucius. Chuang said in the before times, all people were innocent and good. Then the moral teachers, the Faroah's of Pretense, the Pharisees, if you please, in Chinese conceit, taught that you must do MORE than be natural and perfect and innocent to be morally true. They sinned against god in the name of charity. They made of goodness herself no LONGER beauty. Morality is UGLY.

Chuang Tse as stand up philosopher says it better. Jesus pleases to expose Jewish GROSSNESS in his sermon on the mount, where, incidentally, matters are NEVER addressed from a higher superior point of view.

He says, "If you Jews love your own family, how are you morally better than the goyim. Even tax collectors love their own. But you Jews, to be JUSTIFED as being "chosen" wish to outcompete the goyim, (world, the nonchosen, humanity, man without his penis mutilated, ADAM proper, or mankind) then you must do better than them and LOVE YOUR ENEMY. Only then will you Jews be paid in gold. For prostitution. For loving your enemy. I am prostituting you to "love your enemy," and I am paying you in gold.

the Odyssey is the greatest story ever told. The gospel of Mark, remarkably anxious and full of HATE delusions of end of the world is not even good as literature. Spurn it. The imposition of that LIE as "the greatest story ever told." No, but this is true in its place: Jesus Died for his own sins. Jesus will be crucified afresh and ALWAYS for the lie and conceit of being a moral teacher when he in fact deserved no better than for the romans to spit in his face and say, "prophesy, you fool and false teacher. Who hit you?" The answer to the question? Yahweh. Yahweh punches you in the eye. And he always shall.

I come not to bury NERO. He is resurrected. I come to praise him. By learning Latin yes. And a bunch else.

My NOTES now shall I style, For Love of NERO.

**

Nat is whining in her HIDEOUS way. Sherry I openly hate. I very much do HATE the weakness of Sherry. Natalie and I suffer on your pretenses. You have the audcity to want to be praised in the name of your ugliest conceits. Your weaknesses I will never praise. I will HATE YOU TO YOUR FACE on this, Sherry.

Consider my hate of christiainity. I love NERO. I hate Jesus the fucking Christ. He deserves ALL he gets. That horrible final book of the Bible, the apolypse of John, ends in a two part curse: whoeer adds to this book I am writing, so be added all the obsense curses I've been adding up all day. And he who takes away from this book, I take away the piddling piece of fruit, the fruit of life.

Yes, John? Get fucked! You deserve the worst you described and may it forever happen to you in the most literal way possible.

Your double curse was basically a curse on the possibility of an editor. It is Yahweh's GREATEST SHAME that he switched to writing in Greek, that he mastered the tongue so fucking poorly, and ended his bestselling piece of shit book the bible in a style of koine Greek that is the worst imaginable. Thou conceited APE. This, THIS is your glory. Nero laughs in your face. As do I. Open contempt. Tough YEEHAW god. Though golden calf of cheap money. I spit in your face, eternally this:

You banished the Editor when he needed him most.

**

Counterstatment. Nietzsche regarded the French tongue as STYLE itsel.f No. Sorry to dispute you, but I have the gual to HATE the french. The greatest stylists of all time, of ALL time are the romans. One does NOT learn to write from Greece, said the greatest writer in the German language, Nietzche. One learns from Latin. So, I will learn Latin.

Greece is substance. Their FORM IS GOD. Cosmos is Beauty. Greeks WORSHIPPPED form. Took storm and went decadence and disgusting in that crow god Socrates. The man IS a disease. I hate him while I spit in his eye. But HOMER is Zeus. And Heraclitus the fragments, of which I have made a translation, they are greater than ALL world lit combined.

Rome is NOT substance. That's greek. Rome is FORM. The world IS Roman, forevermore. Their forms are NEVER in decline. The roman empire is ETERNAL. It is now. Nero Lives. His words are more bidning than Time. I do not study the fucking French for form. I study the SOURCE. Rome.

But Flaubert? Thou GOD OF STYLE. Nietzsche, the greatest prose stylist in German, said quite straightly that the greatest writer in prose in the world at the time was and is emerson. Yes. You are right. But he said, nevertheless, Study the French. Especially Floubert. Here, Kenneth is quoting the audacities of the French in that Floubert loved NERO. Well, duh. But I didn't learn that shit from the likes of you, Francophony. Frog. I hate you. I hate you to yourself. I learn Latin Next. France is too weak to know or love.

What a Great Artist Dies in Me!

I am the Great Dictator!

I will listen to Spacehog's "The Great Dictator." Nero, I choose thee!

Our Rages

Our Rages

After Percey Shelly drown his wife and fed his children to the windmill giants, the Orphanage, he ran away with his never never wife, Mary, who would give him for child only a twisted abortion: Frankenstein's Monster. That is HER sublime, and Eintein's too. The man who invented the face of Krishna, the atom bomb, later LIED morally and claimed he was against the very demon he summoned and named. You betray your fate the way you betray the life of your first born child you BETRAYED by forcing her into an orphanage. These are your sins and they shall never be forgiven.

I have made an Frankenstein version for "Shine on you crazy diamond," since Waters, in making this classic Pink Floyd hid, proved FAR too narcissistically self-indulgent, and necessitated the band quitting.

I did get some sleep, till Natalie was us ALL up just now, screaming, I dunno hy or how, and Sherry fleshed rude and abused me as if I had woken our daughter or had anything but to lose by losing sleep like this ... AGAIN.

Nat is back asleep. Is 6`4. I am listening to Seven Nation Army sheerly for the bassline. Grandpa could ONLY hear the bassline. Jillian the Anne-anne, && ampersand, who studied at Juliart worked hard to teach me to HEAR to listen to the earth in terms of bass lines.

I am the conductor of the earth. I the conductor DANCE the symphony.

I have The Strokes Reptilia on here next. Random. About the reptile part of the brain. The strokes are an old band out of 2000 I guess. This isn't moving me. Maybe I need something by tool? Wait, wait. Okay this song will do.

The Beautiful People just because. Hard rock in the States went the way of Satanism. A genre owing everything to Milton and his paradise lost. The superior metal is fully Germanic and owns to the greater than all Christianity pagan Germanic war cult, ODINISM. God of war, of ecstasty, of mania, of poetry, of wisdom. Father OVATH you are my only God, my very self at last!

as for why I own Odin as the ALLFATHER resurrected in AMA, I will say, BECAUSE I MET HIM face to face and know him as well as god may know god.

Manson's middling lyrics are boiled over Nietzsche second-hand "satanism." Jesus and Satan are both worse. Crowlely! Puffed up dandy, stylistically just pretensive lil cocks. I truly HATE you all!

Tis half past six. In an hour, Nat will to school. Sherr too. Then I can listen to music all the way. To the limit.

First Day

First Day

Went great. Delivery is at an even pace. driving all over west Michigan. Chilling. Near zero customer service. Just Oreilley staff respectfully interacting with Oreilley staff. I listen for hours the Sooth soundtrack and also whatever tracks and lectures and audiobooks to help me prepare my Ezra. And the work? It was fun.

I think of that Ava Maria track that Muse adds vocals. "I love you till you explode my world." Always that supernoval blast! Love means TOO MUCH! Ave Marie love me till my whole world explodes! Love as complete incineration. Love as Zeus showing Semele his true Deity: she fried to a crisp. Why can't love ever be a balanced modesty? Dante! Your dingbat Beatrice is such an arse wipe. I have zero delight in her. Celebrity zero. Like Don Quixote and his Rosealita. Better the kiss of a pig than the pearl of a mother who never existed. Come back to earth. Come back to reality. It doesn't hurt to love ACTUAL LIFE.

The battery on this laptop is dying. I left my phone at home today by accident. The thieves stole my garage door opener and Sherry worried needlessly that they planned on stealing all our worldly possessions next. Shut the fuck up. Now. Please! Why is life so FUCKING EXCRUCIATING for you ever living blessed fucking SECOND! Miss DeVries!

Enough. Fuck!

Just relax. Better to DIE than live like THAT.

Now I am listening to Shine on your crazy diamond. Silent derision in the breeze. The laughter. The laugh of aqualung, the evil chuckle. The guitar chuckle in Mr Crowley. "Mr. Crowley, duhduhDUHduhDUHduhDUM!"

That laugh. that jeering loverly song. I laugh with contempt. And spit on the face of fools. Sing on the STEAL BREEZE.

Time to relax. And spit in the faces of fools.

My contempt for Piglet. Die pig. Die!

Narcissist vs Mystic

The difference between a narcissist and a mystic is this:

the narcissist believes only his two eyes. The mystic listens in on the bliss of others.

Thou art that. The highest divine and fate of distinguished station belongs always and only to you. Yet you are a coward and unequal to that same transcendent destiny.

Tis ten past six. Somebody's alarm is going off. Natalie shrieked and piqued my peak, my raging headache, for hours.

Natalie is "mystically" or "mythically" my own greater-than-athena. Our destiny is greater than the latter. The Future is as yet unwritten. History is a child who writes herself wilde en utero.

John Mooore my best friend gifted me and sundry ohers a book of 100 poems. i am cracking the book now, five years or so past when he died. I just wasn't ready.

His praise and adoration of Crowley struck me as silly. He named his son after "the beast, 666." Crowlely, had respect unto 'Kaballah" whih is Western mysticism sold inflated. the TRUE BLOOD is Hellenic. The Jewish blood cult waters down the blood of god completely. USURY is pure parasite. A person passes for what he is. A people too. 

I am reading John Moore. best friend. As for GURU? As for Teacher? As for Genesis One? Jillian? The great failure? Yes, she is GURU. Always was and is. Yet she commit suicide with her self dismissal. Is she alive even yet to this day? I am babbling on about a corpse

So, work all day. I feel headachey beyond ALL station. And tired. Irritable. Annoyed with Harold Bloom yet again.

I will get past it all just fine. Take care,

Daniel

 Christopher

  Williston

   June

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