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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Louche Lad's LiveJournal:
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|Friday, January 18th, 2019|
|Uncle John's Banned
If Neil Gaiman wasn't formally extant in 1991, Clive Barker would have needed to invent him, I realize as I encounter apocalyptic pre-pre-Raphaelite John Martin (1789-1854) for the second time in three days in the paperback IMAJICA introduction. Once is an accident. Two bears a charge. A chime chimes three times -- but the sense that Barker prefigures everything useful in the last three decades of Gaiman's career is harder to shake.
The difference is that Barker is struggling with gnostic mysteries behind narrative, incarnation, anguish. Barker at this stage wants a personal relationship with Jesus the Magician, that adorably '90s word made flesh, forbidden and rejected knowledge suddenly gushing from the rock of history after generations in the desert. I could slide a little further into self parody and note the Moses with horns, but instead will simply admit that you were in my dream driving circles around me.
I was one failed funding round away from a creative role in the IMAJICA roleplaying game. This would've been incredibly awkward because I didn't know the property and had less than perfect resonance with it at the time, but the guys who bought the card game license were eager to reach for a little relative legitimacy. I had impeccable references. We were all the only kids in blazers at that party, which was something of a leitmotif then. I wonder if they knew they were a couple at the time but I'm probably the naive one.
Here in our timeline of course the card crash wiped them out and there was never a game book, absolving me of the need to do more than skim Barker's "fantasy" period. I mostly knew him from the bootleg ritual films, Salome / Forbidden looping in a corner monitor before giving way to JOY or 8Transmission8 . . . which reminds me, I covet that rare 'zine where the ante starts at GBP 120 unless you know the guy I do, but realistically it will not be useful. It's only urgent because I can feel it calling through me to be reunited with its cousins. I don't think so.
But I was new in New York and so drunk with possibility and poverty I thought I'd walk back to downtown Brooklyn from LGA. I made it all the way into Astoria before conceding the point. Reading the first few pages again tonight I'm most struck with the humanity of the early passages, the way he sets up uncanny situations through practically pantomime characters, finely drawn but distorted for easy digestion like something out of a Scott McCloud treatise. His abiding love for London, a very different city in those days.
Is that what will distinguish them, the black leather jacket boys? Neil will never write about London, his whole career is a flight from the place. Barker carries it in him, a kind of Spitting Image London with strategic holes to reach your hands through and manipulate the world around it. We've seen that London, empire of the Cardinal and the Corpse. This is not its story.
But those other worlds parallel to that London, these "dominions" populated by angels, heroes and grotesques . . . that was going to be our game. Would have been a nightmare to develop, I'm happy to have dodged the bullet on that one. We can read it in heaven. Reading between the lines Hans ended up with cancer and had his upper digestive tract removed. He's a chef now. Sean is elusive. Where is this going? All the angels are terrible. Barker grapples with modalities, the ratios of trauma and sin. The missed communication, unrequited love. I'd forgotten all that.
|Friday, January 11th, 2019|
|The Sunsets Were Purple And Red And Yellow And On Fire
The sky above the portland was the color of a networked television with the channel box unplugged, an endless blue like a phosphene hallucination, prisoner's cinema. What are the other cinemas, really? That's a question that's coming forward as we start grappling with the work of Laura Mulvey and Peter Wollen, neither of whom are making movies any more in a conventional sense. Early abstractions and the late ones.
I like the constant recombinant nature of it, shuffling and dealing endless hands of weather until you find something else to do. A sky like the long now chimes, a regular drone of little hits like a gamelan tuning up (takes a village) and then every so often when you're paying attention a lot of the bells ring at once. "What are days for? To wake us up, to put between the endless nights."
There's a sky made of language. The surviving B-52s won't tell me why they were asked to play the Nova Convention or what they learned there, which makes me think it was a Ricky thing, computers and hot tamales. You can map every psychic detective and spiritualist campground across the terminal art deco era. ("Weird Tales Magazine: occult and mystic tales, tales of the supernatural, ghost stories, tales of spirit return, tales of psychic phenomena, etc. Editor Farnsworth Wright.") We've talked elsewhere about the dreams that died to fertilize the genres we have now, what spectres haunt first fandom, the songs they wrote to sing in the long afternoon before the dogs died out and they gave up on the plants, the terrifying carnivorous architecture too big for us now. Four legs in the morning.
But that's still just shuffling weather. Track the books they had available, purchase the libraries and deal them out again. Watch the concepts and the lore flicker and flare. Tumblers in the combination lock, chimes in the long now. Once you pull off the escape, where do you go? Remember here when you are there. It's just the sight of the back of your own head.
|Wednesday, January 9th, 2019|
|Friday, January 4th, 2019|
|When We Imagine Sappho "Sufferin'," What Exactly Does That Mean?
We're all chasing Russell Eigenblick these days; for me this often takes the form of trying to find the iconographic sources behind his card in the fairy tarot, the red-headed emperor who reached too far across the river for those delicious sausages and drowned under the weight of his own armor. As the author notes, the conventional fool has neither horse nor sausage, armor nor brook. What he has is a lemniscate to indicate that cliffs and dogs and inattention are endless, like in an especially innovative Winsor McCay concoction looping back on itself, half twist optional.
(I'm also interested in tracing the Rackham image with the little mushroom people. I do not believe it exists under the title "By The Way.")
So someone in our house has started reading The Alienist again and we're back in the Old New-York. I think of the failed Winters Tale movie, competing brownstone mythologies, the ongoing ridiculous grind of the deluxe Little Big like waiting for the parousia or the literal "monster" at the end of that book, the end of history, what thee greyhounds of thee future tell us: Every thing must go.
Maybe it's the year of the goddess of justice. I go looking for images of her in the Met archive, ark of the Old New-York, the guys that won "roughly 108 years ago" on a sliding aeonic scale.
She shows up with 49 sisters and a clone, an amazon nymph army. Rouse the river and pull down the Telmarite bridges under the weight of your vines. They're a kind of trading cards.
Obviously they have their uses and their deficits. Diversity would always be welcome but the typical user will undoubtedly fixate on six or seven at best, letting the others kind of blur together. I myself am fond of Minerva with her haircut and we can all love the irrepressible Fauna and Thalia pulling off that dude's face. Surprise! Comedy!
Build for them an island to inhabit. Set them in their motions. The saga unfolds.
Marston's contribution to the intellectual property is already in the public domain for key markets. Let 10000 amazon enclaves bloom. Memory tells us one thing. Only gold can stay.
Consider the original intents: artistic, initiatic, commercial. The primary market had a limited viewpoint that this vantage dilates only slightly. They're little cards, close to actual size on your screen. Distance makes them small like a bundle of muñeca quitapena. The aperture encourages the action to continue outside your vision. They don't talk to you. They're distinguished largely by tools, hobbies, avocational apparatus like stigmata of a reverse martyrdom. This must be how they live. They transgress easy distinctions between production and leisure. They invite us into new economies if only we can find a way through the peephole to set foot on their island.
Antigotham. Antimasonry. The project is so large it overwhelms the morning. There are tantalizing irregularities, two Melpomenes in the Met collection, strange souvenir of another gilded age. Use it. Use the Met collection in its entirety.
I was always struck as a child by the strange case of the two Mark Helprins, the political hack on the Sunday chat shows and the ostensibly fantastic novelist writing the urban apocalypse, white horses running across a city of fire. There was no difference. Bonfire of the vanities on the horizon, Blondie shoots, men and Cindy Sherman twitching in the cities, the second coming of Lou Reed. Magic + Loss.
We've solved for Superman too. Krypton is Abyssinia. Different immigrant's song.
|Thursday, December 27th, 2018|
|Winds in the West
Despite passively stalking Eigenblick for years now it's been ages since I skipped into the section where he holds his rally full of "bottomless wrath and pity," when the thing starts to swing on its own motion like global menopause or a child's vision of the Stone. The ace of spades reversed, Grand Central Station finally running the right way around. The declaration of a kind of war. Read Patti Smith for Ariel Hawksquill throughout:She walked back through the vast arching hall of the Terminus no wiser this time than when she had come, and more troubled. The hundreds who hurried there, eddying around the shrinelike clock in the center and washing up in waves against the ticket booths, seemed distracted, hard-pressed, uncertain of their fates: but whether more so than on any other day she wasn’t sure. She looked up: grown faint with age and long watching, the Zodiac painted in gold marched biaswise across the night-blue dome, pricked out with tiny lights, many of them extinguished. Her steps slowed, her mouth fell open; she turned, staring, unable to believe what she saw.
The Zodiac ran the proper way across the dome from east to west.
Impossible. It had always been one of her favorite jokes about this mad City that its grand center was watched over by a Zodiac that was backwards, the mistake of a star-ignorant muralist, or some sly pun on his star-crossed City. She had wondered what reversals might happen if—with proper preparation—one were to walk backwards through the Terminus beneath this backwards cosmos, but propriety had always kept her from trying it.
But look now. Here was the ram in his right place, and the hindquarterless bull, the twins and the crab, King Lion and the virgin and the double-panned scales. The poised scorpion next, with red Antares in his sting; the centaur with his bow, the fish-tailed goat, the man with the water-jug. And the two fishes bow-tied at the tails. The crowds flowed around her where she stood gawking, flowed without pause as they did around any fixed object in their path. Her looking upward was infectious, as in the hoary trick; others looked upward too, searching briefly, but, unable to see the impossible thing she saw, hurried on.
The ram, the bull, the twins… She struggled to retain her memory that they had been otherwise, had not always had this order, for they looked as old and immutable as the stars they pictured. She grew afraid. A Change: and what other changes would she find, out on the streets; what others lay in the to-come, yet to be manifested? What anyway was Russell Eigenblick doing to the world; and why on earth was she sure that it was Russell Eigenblick who was Somehow at fault? A sweet baritone bell struck, and echoed around her as she stared, not loud but clear, calm as though possessed of the secret: the Terminus clock, ringing the small time of the hour.
|Thursday, December 20th, 2018|
|Provenance & Its Continuation
Like most slick moderns with a good overcoat, I don't actually read books anymore. I don't even prefer good literary criticism. My current bibliomantic obsession is the tertiary literature, the old-school print catalogues and cheap photocopy-and-staple price lists. That way, you get the writer's ideas as well as the critic's thinking and a diachronic sense of the evolving market around the books themselves. In rare cases you can watch individual copies flicker across the decades to show up in collections today or even present themselves once again available at the right price. Sometimes the price goes up, sometimes it comes down.
The goal here is simple. Construct an artificial mind and fill it with a given book list and you double your processing power like you were Les Paul cloning Mary through some electronic audio miracle. Do it as many times as you like. Watch the perspectives form in response to the resources available, the constraints as well as the unexpected imponderables that solidify at a certain time and place where you are not like Norton the prisoner of London. Paths of alien desire that reveal the limitations of your own sentimental education.
Albion Drive E84ET. Let's take the Sinclair project as our demonstration. We were Perecians when you were coming up so I was mocked when I uncovered you with wonder at the Dartmouth bookstore 23 years ago give or take a month. You were that guy doing strange things with sacred architecture, tracking strange eddies in the wabe. Alan Moore's master. It turned out later that my friends were mistaken and the person they were rolling their eyes at was Iain Banks!
I followed you in parallel after that, like Freud chasing Nietzsche or Fred and Ginger, shadowing your moves always exactly one knight's move away and a little behind. The contacts accumulated like geiger hits, hit the right number and tear the photographic tab to certify when the dose has become irreversible. Eventually your aura resolves into a clear shape of influence. I can see your shadow on these Alan Moore interviews, sometimes bringing Kathy Acker or "the cool" Robin Cook or the sinister Peter Whitehead along for the ride. Solve for Steve Moore, solve for David J, you become a dot product, a locus solus he orbits.
We run out of Alan Moore and you remain elusive.
Your book lists provide the quantum inputs required to calculate at least one vector of your journey through time. You pick titles, keep some and let the rest go, provided of course you can get a reasonable price. What you keep is a work in progress. What you let go reveals what catches your interest and fails to hold it, and how much money that failure is worth.
Sometimes you're alone and the titles circulate for years, discounted until they vanish from your sight. Sometimes others share your interest and the titles are gone in a blink. It isn't the titles that are shuffling across the shelf. It's consciousness.
Collections come to you, Derek Jarman's books, Kathy Acker's. An embarrassingly inscribed Gaiman, your "great good friend" who still hasn't figured out how to spell your name correctly. You gravitate toward genres and the categories drift like continents. You love trash, rejected literature, forgotten literature. Comedy. The underclass. Crime, never genteel enough to bring into the drawing room nor geeky enough to attract the noisy collectors in their masses. The beats. Poetry. Erotica. Curiosa. File "cyberpunk" under drug literature.
What accumulates is not you but an approximation, a mathematical abstraction that plays your role under the right conditions, a stock character to pull out to advance the plot.
And it isn't just you. We have been accumulating vast quantities of book lists. Recommended reading from countercultural figures, the equivalent of a syllabus of influence. Specialized catalogues of the occult, science fiction, fantasy, decadent literature. Pick the right stores and track the particles in their clouds, each opening up into its own bibliography in turn. Raising invisible armies.
I think of the original Provenance, that occult classic of book collecting. How he tracked his intellectual trajectory, published the results as a kind of beacon and then recorded additional acquisitions in a manuscript his sons bicker over now, the "continuation." This is like that but recombinant, open across parallel lives, other modalities. Go into the right store with the right cash and the right pair of eyes, come out with these titles. Be born in the right decade, develop the right taste.
The alchemical literature with its chains of influence, game of telephone. Psychic discoveries from behind the iron curtain, secret wars waged in translation. It's all psychogeography longitudinally and psychohistory up and down the axis. Of course some titles are so vanishingly rare they're practically fictitious. Track them too. The first of those is the hardest. So baby let the games begin. Just something for the spare moments.
|Wednesday, December 19th, 2018|
|Thursday, October 18th, 2018|
|Thursday, October 4th, 2018|
|Tuesday, September 4th, 2018|
We undoubtedly have someone here to thank for this pearl washed up from the shores of a vanished world. It's extraordinary. The ambition shining through what would otherwise be a humble manifestation. Almost exactly 51 years ago the Straight had really only just gotten going a few months previously -- factor out a few dry runs and benefits, the first "real" show was July 21 and the big bookings ran to mid-September before a two-week pause. That's where Anger stepped in with his circus.
In some ways the equinox show looked backward through the Straight's still-recent uplift to its earliest incarnation on the pivot from live vaudeville to silver screens, opening as it did just four years after the quake and another two out from the apocalypse. The mimes and topical comedians and exotic slide show and cabaret Anger assembled added up to an Edwardian flashback opening doors back to 1910, year of Alan Moore's "Century" and the Disney Mary Poppins, granny takes a trip as we slide across generations like the delirious time-warping dance climax of the Zatoichi remake. Lace cuffs and velvet jackets liberated from forgotten trunks and estate sales, Bobby Beausoleil's outrageous hat and boots.
Apparently the place itself was a kind of "powerhouse" of ropes and pulleys and curtains setting up transitions like a gigantic primitive analog dreamachine that seats 1,300, a mechanism worthy of a wizard behind the scenes. Pay no attention! Baum himself was active at the time, perhaps the bootleg 1910 Wizard actualy played there. The Oz book for that year was Emerald City. They called San Francisco the Emerald City in those days. Robert Duncan and Jess circulated in secret.
It was apparently a mess. The Charlatans didn't even play. I'm negotiating for a copy of the light show. The original Lucifer Rising, of course, vanished. Separately I look at the official organization and its rot and as always I see a mirror. Let it go.
So where does this take us? We pay this back to the future. It's actually simpler than it looked. We take a little time to learn to listen to Coldplay and Radiohead unironically, as the sincere expression of comfort to a generation of children caught in an early frost, a blanket on the ground to keep the root stock alive. And we get some boxes shipped. Thanks for all of it.
|Sunday, August 26th, 2018|
|Wednesday, July 11th, 2018|
|Message in a Bottle II (XXI)
Sweet validation on what's been discussed elsewhere, that thing about building a dollhouse 1987-8 in order to drop a VHS copy of Naqoyqatsi in there and blow their little doll minds. The same dynamics as opening deep heaven but given the technology available arguably easier. "Suggest holiness to the holy" but drop your rock from Krypton near the kindly couple and all will reap the rewards. See you soon. I just collected a partner stake in another thing so beyond these stolen moments I have literally zero time. But it is good to see that we are now nose to nose with the cutting edge.
|Tuesday, June 5th, 2018|
|What Of The Night?
This is now the year of Coleridge. Let the William Blake go another cycle.
|Tuesday, March 27th, 2018|
|Wednesday, February 14th, 2018|
|Valentine and Lent: Alan Moore on David Lindsay
So when the VIX was fighting the falconer's strap I naturally steered into the gyre and grabbed a copy of the Savoy Voyage to Arcturus while it was available. Remarkably I wasn't alone. There were at least two more of us moving simultaneously. I don't know their motives. Since I already have access to Ballantine paperbacks with the magnificent Bob Pepper art I didn't need the book for itself. I needed to see what Alan Moore had to say about it and I wanted to share those observations -- whatever they were, sight unseen -- with you. Here it is.
It's extraordinary, the kind of literate and expansive introduction every text craves and few, especially in our genres, ever get. While we could easily get similar high-flying thoughts from Harold Bloom on the book's "gnostic" situation, having Moore deliver the lecture grounds the discussion in the lower territories of genre. This is how you work within "fantasy" to create a space for Lindsay: Lindsay in communication with Moorcock, Lindsay in opposition to much of what the parisees consider the "Appendix N" canon, Lindsay within the Ballantine canon. Lindsay shining strangely colored light for the edification of the hippies, who were finally prepared to receive what he had to say. Lindsay engaged with concerns beyond where his books end up shelved, Lindsay betrayed by C.S. Lewis of all people, took the good stuff, ran, kept taking the good stuff in secret. That Hideous Strength came out when Lindsay was dead and couldn't even cheer to see someone, anyone actually read Devil's Tor.
And here's Moore waving the deep flags. It starts opening my eyes one increment wider on what's really going on with Moorcock's poisoned London in the Hawkmoon series with its beast legions and submerged Blakean deities. It rings the changes: imaginary lands, imaginary languages, the magic power of gobbledegook, the cruelty and release warring in the breast of genre creators in particular, whose people have fewer inherent dignities than their "literary" cousins born to something a little closer to sweet delight. Logres and Cornwall. It arrays people like Moorcock and Barker (both Barkers, Clive and M.A.R.) in opposition to the zero-sum conventions of an "Appendix N." Appendix Nightspore, school of night, school of visions. Farmer. Chalker. Wagner. Maybe it even makes a case for Vance as part of a larger project, but my jury on that one will need to deliberate a little longer.
Genre redeem'd as a mutant form. As the future and the immanent eternal. And now, our feature presentation. ( Collapse )
MARCH 3RD 2002
|Thursday, February 1st, 2018|
|Amuse Bouche (or: PKD Had A Sister)
The Aristasians are active again. This from the rare tract "An Introduction to the Madrian Faith: The Religion of the Goddess" by Madria Olga Lotar, posted here without comment or really even a close reading. More as soon as I get a chance.
THE last five thousand years and more have constituted the Kali Yuga, or the Age of Iron: the tail end of the great cycle of history of our present humanity. The first millennia of the Iron Age saw the decadence of the old matriarchies and the gradual encroachment of patriarchal and semi-patriarchal forms of society and religion. The gentle, ordered world, oriented towards beauty and the feminine principle was beginning to give way to a harsher way of life which would eventually lead to the violence and materialism of the modern world.
Large parts of the world remained untouched by these changes. Some did not even hear of patriarchy until many hundreds of years later. But in the eastern Mediterranean, the Middle East, India and China, semi-matriarchal and semi-patriarchal regimes vied with each other, producing almost every imaginable form of hybrid government and social order. The general drift of the tide was towards greater and greater patriarchy, with male sovereigns, men occupying most positions of authority; and war and armed force becoming increasingly a factor in human affairs.
It is a mistake to suppose( Collapse )
|Tuesday, December 26th, 2017|
|Tuesday, August 22nd, 2017|
|Un a Part: Mr Brightside ov Eden
If it's been a "whirlwind" summer the last month feels more like a full-fledged hekatomb, by which I mean a big barbeque I guess. No idea why the calendar got so accelerated. Maybe it's just inefficient effort as all the players overthink the gordian knot, energy getting vented equivalent to those shut-in gas flares lighting the Dakota shale so bright you can see it from space. I can't say I've personally been that productive in real terms . . . it feels like a bigger friction drag on the system as a whole. Well, Old MacDonald had a farm as the song goes so we just beat on against the current until the tide turns.
In the meantime I keep accumulating "access to tools" like some kind of post-Burning-Man spiritual successor to the Whole Earth Catalog, the one William Gibson wrote for an issue before it made the leap to digital-only updates. Oh the things we will see when the vaults open! But not yet. Now is still the time when we are out there consciously wheedling the guardians of the rare book markets, the unseen forces that arbitrate PROVENANCE.
I don't get everything all at once because I am cheap and my ambit is broad -- but we're getting close to 100% coverage. Rare Umberto Eco spins on what "the medieval" really means in an apocalyptic context, unavailable in English. Monographs on dream urban landscapes picked out in parquet on the backs of pews in Italian cathedral towns, indispensable for experiencing tarot architecture or de Chirico visions from interior angles. Ultra-traditionalist scouting manuals. Situationist punk zines, rumbling in the dark with the ghosts of gnostic thunder. Proceedings from philological conferences that have been going on in their magic mountains since the '30s, the fossil tracks of a world that died and never got the message. The self-published musings of the world's leading authority on belle de jour automata.
And of course the Temple of Psychick Youth materials, which are less about instrumentality at this point as expressing a narrative. We'll get to unbox those materials one of these days and reveal the contents to the world like some kind of seal in revelations. The French have been particularly kind, albeit characteristically eccentric.
The French also dropped a big piece of that "Legion of Super-Heroes" reinvention in my lap the other day. This is more on the fortean end but I always enjoy the effects of translation across empires and then back again, like a bird of fire released between two mirrors. One of them slips and renders A. Merritt as "Meyritt" and a door to old Vienna swings open to let the blue starlight in. They kept things we didn't, abandoned things we held onto, offer degrees of free movement that differ from what we have here.
Cabell dreamed of an alternative gnostic France. So did Clark Ashton Smith. Dunsany had one. C.L. Moore swung a sword across hers. Robert W. Chambers lived it. I spent the early '90s learning the (post)modern conjugations of these verbs and will never regret it. Or as the recent note explains (nom du pere!)
I don't know if I'd consider myself a real fan of the Doors (they aren't made, they're born) but I do like "Peace Frog." So next time we'll shine a little light on the long-term villains in the work of Alan Moore and Grant Morrison, the wreckers of creation, whether they are masks or mirrors. They go by "lloigor" both ways. They ran the Third Reich both ways. But for Moore there's always an erotic element, a hint of redemption or at least reunion possible, north and south. Whether they made us love them or we made them love us -- didn't wanna do it, as Al Jolson, Judy Garland, Lilian "Bill" Shelley and ONJ in Xanadu point out -- is a side question. The real story is how they built the urban century and tore it down. Metropolis. M. Mabuse. And then us little Babbitt types and petty cadres ripped the future out of their bony-knuckled grip, beating them to the moon.
(We theoretically have a special guest lined up who was actually at the memorial concert in Hyde Park and is willing to comment on Moore's take on the terminal '60s. Sympathy for the devil indeed! Take a memo, Turner!)
For Morrison, as we've seen, the angles are increasingly cruel as he retreats from the four-color page to luxuriate on the magazine rack: hurlants. The Gentry of his "Multiversity," like the malign ultra-terrestrials of the TOPY "Green Book" (true model for the Matrix movies), like to watch horror movies. I don't really. I tend to take my walks on the brightside.
"Just as The Process' flirtation with implied 'satanic' beliefs and other sensationalist mischief ended up biting them nastily, so TOPY's amusement with the darker aspects of humanity also backfired in a hauntingly similar way." Moore is friends with the rock band that was staying with the person who wrote that passage when the mansion caught fire and they all escaped with barely a haunted but slightly scorched chocolate bar to show for it. A Crumb "Devil Girl" bar -- "it's bad for you!" -- that Moore owns today. So let's see. This one is obviously progressing at the pace of dental work. Maybe that mansion is the world. Warm smell of colitas.
|Monday, August 7th, 2017|
|slide in 3 dimensions
A little busy -- like eye-bleedingly busy, I apologize to all within range of these words -- but we have a full agenda for the next time we're together. For one thing, I think I just figured out how to
reboot reincrudate the Legion of Super-Heroes, break the egg of the trademark while keeping their ineffably weird time-travel conceit intact. Who knows where or how fast that one goes.
Keep those pooches pink, ladies! LLL! Second, work in proximity to these discarded TOPY materials is useful but I have whole boxes I haven't had time to open up yet. Maybe you will be the one who scores the winning goal. Something is moving across 1990-2 even as we speak. alt.magick is alive. God is afoot.
Third, once again, the problem of pain in the late work of Alan Moore, as expressed through the twin uh peaks of the Painted Doll plot in Promethea and the more recent issue of Cinema Purgatorio where the film of steady state time gets fucked up. Ayesha and the Nazi pornographers are somewhere in the middle.
A few days ago I had the delightful experience of hanging around one of those shady online cantinas when a couple of punk kids banged in practically demanding to see our papers. When the dust cleared it was only like these 4-5 legendary
thelemites character actors standing in a circle of busted prop furniture and eyeing each other sidelong. I was by far the smallest among them, I don't know, call me the Robert Vaughn character, just trying to sit on my schemes at that banquette over to the side and keep my kid gloves clean. God moving over the face of the waters. Who knows where it goes this time, which I believe is a song title.
|Friday, July 21st, 2017|