Words Of Wisdom

Lunatic fringe
I know you’re out there
You’re in hiding
And you hold your meetings
We can hear you coming
We know what you’re after
We’re wise to you this time
We won’t let you kill the laughter.

Lunatic fringe
In the twilight’s last gleaming
This is open season
But you won’t get too far
We know you’ve got to blame someone
For your own confusion
But we’re on guard this time
Against your final solution

We can hear you coming (We can hear you coming)
No you’re not going to win this time
We can hear the footsteps (We can hear the footsteps)
Way out along the walkway
Lunatic fringe
We know you’re out there
But in these new dark ages
There will still be light

An eye for an eye
Well before you go under
Can you feel the resistance?
Can you feel the thunder?


Put the light to the wick(ed) and the whole candle goes into metldown.

Something happened. Somethng SNAPPED. Just now. Did anyalone hear it? Hope is a thin thing, a mere manohfullamental whyre – and one good SSSSWIPE mite been enough to tear it as-under and sling it hence. Midnight isn’t the dark night of the solo, no matter what they say – Fitz was right about sugjesting that it feels more like a very LOOOOOOOONNNNNNGGGGG three Hey Him. Looking forward for a light that isn’t aphereing in the sky, a dawn that isint donning. Maybe this will be it, right, the day the Sun de-sides. Fuck you, I’m not coming out toplay today.

And the dark is out there. No matter how the light shines in here, it’s ALWAYS NIGHT OUT THERE. It’s warm, but only in here – and no matter what you can’t stop thinking and pondering and worrying and fearing the Dark and the Cold. The darkness comprehended it not, but take the Muzzies; they don’t worry about COMPREHENDING what they don’t understand, they prefer to destroy it. And some Goddamn FOOL is getting up and going to the door and they’re about to let It in, let the Darkness in, to freeze us, to put out all our lights, to split that last sthred of hope. Mine’s cut clean, howbout yores. Snow and sleet and anything that’ll freeeeeze or drowwwwn. They’re letting it in, a bit at a time. THAT’s how the light is re-parting us, because nobody bothers to rage against the dying anymore. A little Darkness hier, a little aber THERE, and the whole world woinds up bloind and Leute-less. THE LIGHT IS GOING OUT. and somewhere down the road the man waits with his rucksack full of bloody fingers / up the street the scimitars are being sharperend / at four thrifty on a tuesday afternew the man whips a cigmund in the gutter and spots a site / and the everlastingaze blinks for a split second but it’s just barely enough for the mushroom to sneak through / my heart is trans-unfixed with the black obsidian pain of something I dassn’t name because it hasn’t a name of its own, not really / and the twine of the world has begun to go unraveled, vertical losign touch with horizontal, woof being warped and vice versa / underneath the wheels lie the skulls of every sacrifice made to appease a backasswards moongod that drinks manblood / and the uglies are building up, but not within us, the parasites are real and in the world and they’re going to reproduce their virus if it kills them / or us / and here comes the end can you see it coming like i can?


Now what?

Eric Berne, the creator of the Transactional school of psychoanalysis, mapped quite clearly the dangerous mindfield of parasitic thought in his books Games People Play and What Do You Say After You Say Hello? Having encountered these books before reading Gagdad’s theories on mind parasites, I now realize what exactly Berne did that I found useful — he was identifying and classifying all the patterns that make up those parasites. He not only explicated the structure of (•), but figuring out what all those •••s are. The games make up the script by which you live.

My own personal theory is that since the first step toward O is brushing off your excessive •, the first increment of the first step is figuring out exactly what your own parasites are — what games you’re playing — and erasing them from the script.

This is just a short list. See if you recognize a parasite of your own:
Why Does This Always Happen To Me? = self-fulfilling prophecy
Let’s You And Him Fight = love triangle
See What You Made Me Do = when you screw something up, blame the person who distracted you; eventually that idiot will learn to leave you alone
Wooden Leg = using your disadvantages to gain leniency for your mistakes; “What do you expect of a guy who’s alcoholic/crippled/mentally ill?”
Now I Gotcha You Son Of A Bitch = when someone screws you over, you have carte blanche to exact revenge, no matter how disproportionate the reaction

I think
my essencial problem is that
I wound up trying to indemnatize the Eschaton –
a long with all the utther liftniks who taled me
that Ewwtopia ainsoph art ago
– but who wants to be perfixed, anywhy?
One gets entramped
(whyle look in around this big cosmos
too rapidly to take in
that it couldn’t Be anyother way
and still allow us two ex-ist,
which fits my deafintuition of “perfect”)
in the no-shun that the youniverse is
some thing to be chased,
that you can hunt down the abstracked
and marshal the generalized –
but it’s naught so easy
moving from the unriversal
to the spaceiffic
without buying a map and renting a van.
The real whirl’d only lux flawed
because, like a jewel,
we see something bigger
refractured in its factsets.
And we don’t buy precious stones,
especially not the third one from the Sun,
because we love these jewels per say
(unless there’s something unaw’dd about us),
but we’ll buy it
out of affection for the One who gets to where it.

The universe,
against odds of about 1 in 10^123,
grows more complex minute by minute
over a near-infinity of minutes.
And at some point
about 21,024,000,000 minutes ago
it crossed the line into
an irreducible complexity
(no going back, in other words),
because for the first time
something came to be in that universe
that was capable of looking around
and saying OMGDudeWTFLOL
the universe is now
capable of seeing itself
and uttering the almighty “Huh??”

“…Whenever a massacre of Armenians is reported from Asia Minor, everyone assumes that it has been carried out “under orders” from somewhere or another. No one seems to think that there are people who might like to kill their neighbours now and then.”
— H H “Saki” Munro, “Filboid Studge”

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