Episode 14

I still can’t honestly say I always know what the “Neo-Platonists” are talking about.

But - I suppose - the important thing is that now I recognize spirit as being only good.

All that other shit about hypostases is for minds not so wracked by poetry, I guess. I disordered mine at the behest of Rimbaud, attempted to reorder it through P.D. Ouspensky’s and Rodney Colin’s dissertations on higher dimensions, and now it’s just kind of hovering slightly above - sometimes below - the surface of the universal psyche.

But at least I don’t believe in evil spirits anymore. Evil can easily be explained via matter’s imperfection - and that’s enough for me.

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The archons aren’t Jews or Reptilians - or otherwise “interdimensional” villains.

Yeah - sometimes they make blood sacrifices to imaginary space deities but don’t worry too much about that because any powers they possess are psychological (not supernatural).

They’re psychopaths - for sure - plucked for their high IQs from the general populace or - if they’re exhibiting less than stellar intelligence - from established oligarchical families.

I’m not afraid of them metaphysically. They can’t touch my spirit. But I have to admit - sometimes I’m dismayed by the damage they inflict here in the physical realm.

I don’t have a plan for if (and when) they shut off “the grid” and billions of us are left to fend for ourselves.

I don’t know if I’d succumb to hunger and resort to cannibalism or not. I can say I wouldn’t, but I really have no idea what atrocities I’d be capable of if I was starving to death. I’d like to think that I’d just return willingly to the spirit realm but who knows? I’ve never even fasted.

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I’m glad I called my friend yesterday when I was in the midst of my “no comma” crisis.

I’d gotten too high and almost convinced myself that I didn’t need commas anymore, that - because my writing is primarily vocal - dashes were sufficient to indicate all varieties of punctuated pauses.

She’s more academic than me - in a good way - and she gave me some semiotic reasons not to abandon commas.

I was quite serious about it.

During our conversation - I was saying ridiculous shit like, “I wanna write for illiterate people”.

But you know what really stopped me in my tracks? When it dawned on me that I couldn’t call these prose poems anymore if I only used dashes. The comma helps qualify this as prose.

And I’m gonna have to live with that.

At least for today, I won’t go back and eliminate them from the book I plan to publish on Amazon (soon because the clock is ticking).

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I'm proud of myself.

I didn't tell the little girl taking a picture of the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island ferry about its true nature. She was there with her family, having a good time, eating American snacks.

I said “its” instead of “her” for 2 reasons:

1: not to cause confusion between whose true nature I’m referring to. Of course I mean the statue’s - not the little girl’s.

2: I don't know if the Statue of Liberty is a woman. I've read many different interpretations of its true identity.

3: It’s got nothing to do with liberty. Unless - by liberty - you mean imperialism.

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I’m gonna try to tell you like I just told my friend - (as if I could ever put real life into words)

I believe that our “dreams” are made up of an inner luminescent smoke emanating from a little star deep in the recesses of the “psyche” - whatever that is.

I can’t say the word “psyche” without reminding you that I don’t know what it is - and that hampers me as writer, but it makes me fun to hang out with when there’s nothing else to do because I can talk about anything.

Anyway - this inner smoke - I sometimes call astral light - but then I get embarrassed because I don’t want to be mistaken for a theosophist.

The other night - when I was almost asleep - I had one of those terrible realizations that one day I’ll die - and I was like yeah - I’ve read all this shit about the soul being immortal and I can personally say that I’ve encountered ghosts and spirits - etc - and I honestly - genuinely - mostly believe that I have a tutelary spirt, a genie, guiding me through this life - but still - one day I’m gonna die and if I’m wrong - if there really is no surviving essence of whatever it is that I am - then what? I’ll just be nothing for the rest of forever?

So, I sought my own soul, my own psyche. I looked inside and found a snaky ethereal entity coiled around my skeleton. It showed me its nature, to assuage my fears. Of course I can’t better describe the experience. If I could, I’d start a cult.

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Ruby died. Of course I’m sad. She was suffering for quite a few years now. I miss her already. We got really close - spent a lot of time together - during the “pandemic”.

Her husband and my mother both died from “AIDS” - so we had that bond. I don’t know if she ever quite fully believed me that viruses don’t exist - but she knew AZT was poison.

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I’m sure I’ve written this already - many times - but I always feel the need to justify why I write prose poems. While I was in the kitchen, it dawned on me (again) that I never take tomorrow for granted. I can never imagine actually having consecutive days, weeks, months, years, to work on one project. Even if - in my most manic moments - I can envision an entire work of episodic fiction, it’ll never come to fruition because I know I won’t finish it. I know I won’t finish it because I’d need faith in temporal stability. I’ve never had that.

I know I’m not the only one who had a chaotic childhood, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I had a chaotic childhood. I learned about death very early on, feared intensely for my mother because I saw her almost OD on heroin when I was 6 and well… what can I say? Of course it affected me.

But what can I do?

Listen to music? Make chocolate? Cut the sleeves off my t-shirts and dye them? Shut my laptop and do more domestic shit like vacuum, mop the kitchen floor, take a shower, lay down and watch basketball?

I’m stuck here for the time being. In this chair. I don’t want to gossip. I don’t want to rattle off any of my vague metaphysical opinions. I sure as hell don’t want to comment on the world war that’s brewing.

I have no trust in ‘the media’. I’ve already ascertained that matter’s imperfect and there’ll always be trouble until people can learn how to handle being ensouled. Until then, there’ll be false narratives and the hypnotized drones who fall for them.

There’s nothing I can do about it - I can only write for those in ‘the future’ who may be wondering if anyone in ‘the past’ was genuinely alive. I can tell you that I am. I’m alive. Today. And I’m not going out because it’s raining too hard and I have enough to eat for tonight.

I wish I had more interesting shit to talk about - but I’m currently rapt in non-discursive thought which may bring me closer to the ineffable but makes for boring literature. Sorry about that.

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There’s a battle raging inside me right now.

Should I read Damascius, watch basketball, or write about the raging battle inside me right now?

I was thinking about Damascius while I was vacuuming because - in the song that was playing - the singer said, ‘no one likes to be alone’.

My mind did what it always does, makes “no one” the name of someone and imagines that he likes to be alone.

I think a lot of the ancient pagan philosophers suffer from the same condition. They don’t allow nouns to represent nothingness.

There’s no such thing as “no one”.

Of course, when I speak colloquially, like everyone, I use such phrases such as “nobody does this”, “nobody likes that” - but I’m always conscious of how it distorts reality.

Did this realization start with Parmenides or is he just the earliest written evidence that there’s always been people like me who can’t accept the premise of an objective void?

Supposedly, even some of the Pythagoreans believed there was a void of space wherein existence occurs. But - most likely, they weren’t actually following Pythagoras’ teachings which is why Aristotle derisively referred to them as “so-called Pythagoreans”.

After refuting the void, we move on to refuting evil spirit - which is tricky because it’s easy then to mistakenly refute spirit altogether.

You get those arguments of “why would a good god permit suffering?”

Maybe suffering is equivalent to spiritual pullups? Maybe suffering is growth?

I’m not talking about torture. I’m not talking about slavery or “medical experimentation” - cruelty at the hands of others. God is not responsible for that.

Trust me - there is cosmic justice. There’s an afterlife - and cruelty and pollution are punished. Don’t ask me how I know this - it’s a secret.

Natural misfortune is a product of material being. Again, matter is imperfect. But without matter, we wouldn’t have this chance to reflect upon eternity. We’d have no reference. Matter was created - is created - at the last step of existence as an effluence, an art project.

We’re supposed to be maintaining this art project - not trying to figure out how to live forever. At least this is what I tell myself when I’m stoned enough to not fear death at all. When I’m numb enough to not feel the pain of embodiment.

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If anyone’s paying attention - they’ll notice that what I’m doing - artistically - is presenting myself as already doomed to obscurity.

As much as I’d love to achieve celebrity status - I won’t permit myself to spend an ounce of energy on trying to become “popular”.

In order to do that - I’d have to gossip or make a fool of myself. I want to be as honest as possible…

This doesn’t mean I have to tell my secrets.

I just have to describe my impressions regarding the most important issues of my time: the fraud that is molecular biology and the non-existence of evil spirits.

That was the bargain made.

That was the deal struck.

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I just read a few pages of Damascius and was audacious enough to think I could express in words what I thought/felt about it.

I’m probably not smart enough to be a true Platonist, which is fine. I’m a rational animist.

The most important realization is the soul - the spirit - first and foremost - everything after is anthropic mythology. Nobody knows the shape or structure of the universe. Nobody knows the nature of disembodied being. Nobody knows what happens when we die.

I’ve experienced my soul, felt the presence of ghosts. I’ve reasoned - with the help of some ancient pagan philosophers - namely Plotinus - that there’s no such thing as evil in the spirit realm. Even if that’s not exactly what he meant, that’s what I came away with and there’s no turning back now.

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I just finished editing Volume 1 of these prose poems. The first 12 episodes.

I was contemplating including episode 13, but I don’t want people to think I’m trying to be spooky.

In case you haven’t noticed, I publish each episode on a ‘new moon’.

There are 13 lunar phases in a year. Not 12. But… well I don’t know yet. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m doing with this ‘project’.

The spring Equinox already passed. That was the first anniversary of starting this, but I don’t know if I wanna get tied down to trying to balance the solar and lunar calendars. It seems impossible.

I think that’s the point, though. Imperfection.

The fact that there are approximately 13 lunar months in a solar year shows me that all this sublunar existence shit is imperfect on purpose. Probably to allow for introspection and compassion.