"What I'm dealing with is so vast and great that it can't be called the truth. It's above the truth." - Sun Ra

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Remembering my 2012 Galactic Alignment Euphoria, Non-Duality, Quetzlcoatl Visions, Cult Leadership, and Inevitable Fever

Or at any rate compiled.

It was November, 2012, the History Channel was alive with pre-apocalyptic visions for Dec. 21, 2012. It marked the end of the Mayan calendar. I had been doing deep meditation after work every day with a light-sound machine triggered to an Amazon shaman chant in preparation. One afternoon shortly before the election (or after) a voice told me that if I was ready to let go of all judgment, to 'recuse myself from the bench' of judging all things as good or bad (as if all things--or anything--needed my judgment or were influenced by it, surely that we think things do is the greatest and most prevalent of human follies!), then  all would be revealed, my sins would be lifted, and I could sneak into paradise offered by the galactic alignment of 2012. Then, Obama won a second term, and all the slowly gathering dread we were feeling should we get stuck with a zealot like Mitt Romney (oops- a judgment!) fell away... The conjunction of all these factors opened me up to a kind of non-duality I'd only experienced in glimpses in years past. It was a euphoria beyond an opposite. There was no 'crash' from this high - no bad or good side, all was sideless --if that makes any sense.

For around the next seven weeks, I lived a sainted life - swore off masturbation, anger, meat, and sugar - started eating lots of fresh fruit and vegetables and blessing everyone and everything, mindful of my tendency to do the opposite (realizing our language's preference to 'damn' things rather than 'praising' them - as if the devil was working our lazy language habits.) This wore off when I realized my body was failing me under the limits of a vegan diet, also when the apocalypse never came, and later when I got a massive flu that laid me up for a solid week. When the fever broke, my galactic alignment euphoria was gone - a message was left in the psychic zone where it was stored - it read (translated): "we harvested your soul energy; don't try to get it back- just go back to your old life of duality and unconscious semi-contentment OR ELSE we'll come back and take the rest too- love, the Archons." 

Now that enough time has passed it's not as painful to recall, I present the sum total of my writing at the time for what its worth, may it inspire or at least confound in a not unpleasant manner.

The Preliminary High:

A Hole in Me Pocket: Beetles, EST, YELLOW SUBMARINE (11/13/2012)
CinemArchetype 19: The Holy Madman (11/10/2012)
Claire Forlani Drinks Dewars; Carrie Matheson, Andrzej Zulawski's SZAMANKA (1996) and Angela Chase (11/04/12)

In conjunction with all this, a whole elaborate fusion of (semi-fake) cult and guerrilla theater sprang fully formed to my brain, beamed down if you will, replete with elaborate costumes and staging all of which I had access to via working at Pratt Institute. However, plans were scrapped when, beginning around mid-Feb 2013, I had a massive fever - which kept me crazy and bedridden for over a week. When my fever finally broke, the whole plan, the impetus, the will, the drive, to continue with this project was gone, along with my illumination and everything else. Was it celestial Archons 'harvesting' the energy garnered by my cosmically aligned awakening, riding its tail like the space vampires of the great 1985 film LIFEFORCE? or just a case of weakened immune system due to trying to live totally vegan after a lifetime of meat eating here in a giant Nordic Viking body? Why can't it be both, and more? Either way, I give you the complete rise and fall of this illuminated state, from the first breakthroughs to the first few posts after my massive fever, to a final essay for the Weeklings. I'll be honest, some of it I can't even bring myself to read or see (such as the videos - which I've never watched since the day I made them). I do like the Quetzlcoatl Sutra, though.

Guidebook: Stage of Envelopment (11/28/12)
This means SWAR: Preliminary Guideline and Council to the Elderless (11/21/12)
Tarot of Swar of the Saints (11/13/12)
Welcome to the First Best-Dressed Feeling of Your Life (11/13/12)

Official Cult Literature (poetry and psalms)
The Vortex of Reticence and Reprisal (12/14/12)
Secrets of Quantum Immortality (12/2/12)
The Tao of Tailbiting (11/27/12)
The Long Dark Knight of the Soul (11/18/12)
The Quetzcoatl Sutra (11/14/12)
Dentist Buzzing Meditations 
+ God's Own Marksman) (belatedly released)

Video: (11/25/12)

Drug of Choice: 4:44 LAST DAY ON EARTH (12/17/12)
The Psychedelic Scrooge Satori (Dec. 12, 2012)
Yes, Virginia, the World DID End Yesterday (Dec. 22, 2012)
A TREE FALLS IN BROOKLYN + Bright Lights + Swar of the Saints 
+ SIMON OF THE DESERT (11/20/12)
The I Ching answers questions about THE MASTER (11/27/2012)

Non-Apocalypse Depression; Fever:
2012 is a Memory: No Apocalypse, No Aloha (1/4/12)
Bust through your Program! Archons, Laura Eisenhower and the Blood Fountain Antennae (2/8/12)
Flo - The Great and Powerful, and the Ludovico Flu: THE GREAT ZIEGFELD -2/16/13
The Archons Got Me (3/27/13)

Looking Back at the End of the World (The Weeklings - 12/19/13)

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

The 'Remembered' Primal Scene and the Inquisitor's Lash

If you worry all the time, God thinks you don't trust Him as a parent. Dads should put their children at ease. The kids should fear only truly fear one thing - His wrath. When they love him but fear his wrath they don't stray from the fold for they feel protected there. But even then, in the dark depths of their Mordor basement subconscious, everything is topsy-turvy, so that dad they so adore by day--that peerless God of love and light whose wrath is easily avoided by being good--is a devil of darkness and evil for whom no amount of goodness will suffice. His hugs and head pats distort into sexual molestation and abuse; his carefree protective spirit morphs into ritualized endangerment and evil laughter. These things are inescapable as one can't will away the distortion in one's reflection on a pond after a frog jumps in. Closing your eyes does no good. The waves have you pegged. Serial killers are born when they identify with the rippled reflection when they become what they fear.

In HAXAN: WITCHCRAFT THROUGH THE AGES we see several medieval women of various ages and class strata tortured by the clergy into revealing the sabbaths they attended, naming names and citing abusers, leaving us to wonder if these confessions are real, just lies to get the torture over with, or some kind of primordial unconscious shared memory kicked loose by prolonged agonies. Maybe if you torture any person long enough, they'll 'remember' the witches sabbaths they attended, the torture itself will create the sabbath from the ether; they will name onto you the persons there and who did or didn't kiss the arse of Lucifer. Hypnotize a kid deep enough they'll remember some kind of occult basement ritual involving all sorts of sexually depraved initiations (sex with parents and neighbors and demonic chanting robes); hypnotize an adult and they'll remember going aboard a space craft and being probed by aliens. Either way, maybe it's the same innate response, the primordial color bars, like the video from Heywood Floyd that pops onto the monitors to explain the Jupiter mission after HAL is taken apart (the mechanical equivalent of hypnosis) in 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY.

The question arises: is it all the same psychic phenomenon? Does prolonged trauma and psychic intensity suspend conscious discernment between truth and illusion, dream and waking, and thus triggering either FMS (False Memory Syndrome) or some kind of vivid sleep paralysis reflection of the current scene being endured (i.e. the hypnotist or inquisitor being reflected as Lucifer) or that aforementioned primal extended trauma in the delivery room and then the baby ward behind the glass? Does it kick loose the barriers put there around our minds, the way a sandcastle hems in a piece of the ocean suddenly kicked open by a bored child as the tide rolls over it?

The "remembered" Satanic rituals in the Middle Ages occurred in the deep woods, which at the time were still full of strange monsters, especially in the dead of night.  If you lived in the deep woods just getting up to go the outhouses at three AM was probably the scariest thing in the world. still largely unexplored and perfect for the unconscious's projection of itself. By contrast, for modern rituals, in the suburbs, it's always the parents' basement. My therapist told me that when we were doing dream analysis - the basement is always the unconscious. So now anytime your dream takes you to a basement, you know where you are.

Hold that "thought" for a moment dear listener... but you can't. It's already gone, until lifetimes from now someone tortures or hypnotizes it out of you.

I've come to some bizarre conclusions about the way differentiation of self occurs - the 'break' from total unification with the oceanic Mother/I AM beyond space and time. Wanna hear 'em? Maybe I can first explain via this collage:

Keep it in mind while you consider the delivery room where you were born and initially, painfully, differentiated. Consider the total darkness of the womb with closed eyes, and then opening them with a painful spank on the ass the immediate intake of air into the lungs like kickstarting a lawn mower, kicking a wonky TV. Remember the utter dependency, feeling of paralysis as limbs first begin to move, the various nurses arms, varying from sweet and nurturing to robotic and callous. Adults get all misty about it, but artists remember all too well the adjustment period from oh sweet nothing to a world of wipes and shots and shitting and--especially if you were born in the 60s-70s-- when breast feeding was considered unhealthy--being bottle-fed. No breast action ever; instead being forced to sleep in dark rooms with rows of other infants, each of you sequestered from the others by plastic or glass trays. This was considered preferential; meanwhile giant parents and masked nurses loomed over you like moai, peering through the glass, feeding you powdered formula from plastic bottles while they smoked unfiltered Luckies and exhaled in your face. Once in a while a very big nurse, meaner than the others, grabs you, roughly, and gives you some painful shot or demeaning diaper change, with all the nurturing care of a tired surly underpaid fast food worker.

Eventually, hey, it all works out. You get out of there and get to go 'home' with a crib (a new kind of cage) all your own - a nice mobile above it. You get a playpen, toys, stairs to climb like Everest. But oh man what a scary start. That infant care room is so cold and rough we endeavor to forget it as soon as possible; it's the original trauma, and it creates a kind of instant PTSD amnesia. Maybe we try at first to recall where we were before we got stuck in the roach trap womb, what important papers we never got to finish before the other guy shot us, or goodbyes never said because the roof collapsed or the killers got away because we were dead before we could identify them.... but unless we were experiencing stress high enough that our PTSD continues past this amnesiac barrier, we don't remember that trauma, the soul carries over only when it can fit on the head of a pin. Anything too traumatic might stick to our soul like chunks of flypaper, leaving us to scream with terrible nightmares of burning up in our fighter planes over Midway.

It's the same thing really, as Manchurian Candidate Monarch 7 programming (1). The trauma of delivery is duplicated, the orienting into a new identity compressed.

So do the math: masked figures, obscure chanting (medical jargon, foreign language?), pain, degradation, parents, aliens, giants. demons, arse-kissing and degrading ass related issues. lien anal probing = rectal thermometers = molestation = giant mean nurses = Satanic ritual. it all fits, man, like Freud fits into the drooling infant's crib.

Rather than try to insist aliens or Satanists are real or not, I prefer to take the Schrodinger's Cat approach - which is to study the phenomena of myth in these cases, for in 'knowing' for sure the aliens, or the Monarch mind control subjects, or Satanic basement pedophile cult networks in your neighborhood, etc. are real or not, the myth, the paranoia, dissipates, becomes either shame (how could you be naive enough to believe) or depression (good god the world is one evil cesspool). But when we don't know it's pure myth, a creeping dread tempered by doubt.

So instead of picking a side, think along those lines, the fluidity of the Schrodinger's Cat box, the in-between state is what gives these myths their hypnotic power. I only reserve judgement for those who would try to debunk too hard and vehemently, as if any doubt or open-ended phenomenon is their personal enemy, for they are like the audience member at the movies who--rather than get into the story and enjoy it--has to loudly scoff at how fake everything is, ruining it for everyone else. In the end, perhaps, this is the only way we can  contemplate such things. Just believing in magic might somehow will it into being - maybe the church understood that, they knew reality was not concrete, but ever fluid and leaking in all four directions.

As humans stuck in one mind, trapped in space/time, it's futile to try and separate the real from the imagined, the 'cover memory' vs. the dream symbolism as per Freud. The sabbaths recalled under church torture in the Inquisition, the ritual Satanic abuse at an institutional level 'remembered' by hypnotized children, and the sex power trips of higher dimensional reptilian alien beings inhabiting the bodies of powerful figures in world orders. and the primal scene of the "child being beaten" scenario in Freudian infantile sexuality - and the mysteries of adult initiation - the enigmatic terror and excitement of those childhood mysteries surviving into adulthood, kept alive through the magic of paranoia.

The old saying 'just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you' might well be reverse-engineered to mean that if you're paranoid they WILL be out to get you. Whoever 'they' are, they can somehow sense your senses sensing them. Your paranoia might be like a magnet, the way a person across the street senses you looking at them and turns to see you too --neither of you ever turn to look usually until that one moment.

Notice the men in black sometime, and suddenly they're everywhere. Ignore them and they disappear. Stare at them and they know you know and, suddenly, without a word, you're on their list. Unless you forget about it, and tell no one. Those you'd tell would only think you were crazy, anyway. How do you know you're off the list? When you stop worrying you are. It's not like it's going to get around the workplace or school. Your thoughts are your own; your vilest subconscious distortions are kept deep in the dungeon. Or are they? Someone is always listening. Only a fool believes they can't be fooled by their own perceptions. The ruler of your own unconscious, the unconscious's own ego (anima), is not always your friend. It depends on how well you treat her. Give her an artistic outlet, or sufficient sleep to whip up wild dream canvasses, give her a voice, a hole in the floor, and listen to her whispers, and she'll be your ally. Bottle her up and lock her in chains and she'll flood you with nightmares, and hysterical symptoms, until you see witches everywhere, and they devour you.

Eventually torture, fever blows open a hole in the floor. But hey, it's not your fault. You don't even know her.

1. presuming that exists in reality blah blah

Monday, January 9, 2017

Splice like the Wind

(pieces of this were orginally published elsewhere)

Science is a hypocrite. It preaches Darwin while sabotaging natural selection, working hard to ensure all our lazy breeders survive, right down to the most miserable of mutants. In short, science closes its one good eye and refuses to pay the consequences for its obscene benevolence. Never pausing in its ceaseless promotion of longevity, science gradually renders the world uninhabitable via overpopulation and a bankrupt social welfare/Medicare system. As they extend the lives of the elderly and prevent hideous burn victims, screaming crack babies, and comatose vegetables from the blissful death awaiting them like a nervous lover, science vehemently denies death its chance to truly heal the sick... planet.

In eradicating all viruses science turns us into a virus... it's only a matter of time before Earth wises up and sees a doctor about getting rid of us.

Take the theories on the origin of humanity: the Darwinian vs. the Creationism. Science says man was the result of chemicals swimming together for billions of years. Christian crazies say God created man from the dust of the stars, just two ways of saying the same thing! Why argue?!

Instead of man's origin let's talk about art: Van Gogh's "Starry Night" for example: Darwinsim would say Van Gogh didn't paint 'Starry Night' and it's not a picture of the night sky but merely a piece of stretched linen canvas heaped with different colored pigment applied via a brush operated by a half-ape Dutch schizophrenic. If Darwinists had their way, the painting would be attributable to the brush and the pigments, not the man. Come see the opening of the new 'Windsor 2" horsehair bristle! Man, that brush can paint. Creationism takes the opposite approach: Van Gogh couldn't have used a brush because he is a 'true' master - He created the work in seven days, hands-off, with his mind. It's not just a brush - it was never a brush. If he used a brush then somehow it wouldn't be 'divine.'

These are the sorts of art collectors who, for example, might get mad if their kid draws on the wall but has Twombly and Basquiat works 'worth' more than his kid's entire future college education two times over on the same wall - in fact if the kid scribbled something on the Twombly in pencil, the dad might not even notice.

TWOMBLY: This sells for more than your house

Take western medicine's initial response to the Chinese practice of acupuncture: only after decades of proven effectiveness are western hospitals allowing it into their buildings. Since western science isn't quite sure how it works they can't admit it does or they have to change their whole concept of the human body. Chinese medicine sees the body in terms of energy flow, chi, instead of western science's concept of the body as a series of organs connected to each other in a Rube Goldberg-like system.

Similarly, while science can admit life on other planets is all but a certainty and that our own technological evolution is limitless, alien visitation in the past is absurd. Scientists can create new life forms but the idea that someone created the scientists in the same manner is, to them, contemptible.

On the other hand, the Christians rear back at the idea that God might think in DNA, and dream time into existence via a matrix-like universal intelligence that permeates the galaxy. No, God is a person and don't ask them how they arrived at the idea of Him creating the world in seven days and seven nights without a spinning orb moving in a rotation around the sun to measure it in the first place. Right? Now, exhale, and then INHERIT THE WIND! That's the big argument reveal that cracks it wide open, Pollock!

A few years ago I was visiting a urologist for prostate trouble and I asked him about pumpkin seeds and stinging nettle and saw palmetto all the various herbal remedies I'd read about for prostates and he said "well, I am not allowed to say they work, but, I do take them myself," and he slipped me an email address to an expensive mix of the three. He couldn't ---due to his AMA bullshit oath, say they worked, but he knew they did, so bam. (PS - I never did get them, cuz I'm too damn cheap). Thank god (small 'g' cuz they'd want it that way) for those doctors who find ways around their profession's inflexible standards, to slip patients what actually works, regardless of whether or not it can proven via our current understanding of the body. Unless it can make the pharmaceutical industry a profit the medical industry won't bother with the enormous expense of proving an herb works to heal the body...so if no one can patent it, it can't work, because no one has confirmed it via clinical trials. And no one will pay for the trials if they can't patent it. Great logic, dad. That was the big argument I had with my father, a Merck market research analyst and pharmaceutical graduate when I was preaching the gospel of...what was I into then... ginko biloba? I can't remember... the memory one.

All of which leads up to SPLICE (2009).

SPLICE dares us to believe a weird-looking mutant couple (Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley), with Williamsburg hipster loft furnishings, are genius gene splicers. That seems rather wrong, even if we do see them on the cover of Wired, it doesn't convince us (nor does it ever in real life), nor do the interestingly-lit barns and basements where they keep their little Frankenstein kitten daughter-scorpion-hybrid. It's all a little too well-under lit and perfectly colored in dark greens and reds and perfectly stressed/aged furniture and inherited grandma afghans (see top).

But what does work on a believability chart is the sudden shift in the monster from CGI scorpion-kitten to human cat-eyed actress (Scorpio model Delphine Chaneac) whom they name 'Dren.' Both elements--the CGI and the actress-- deliver a knock-eyed performance that in its way reverses the switch from Jeff Goldblum to animatronic Brundlefy in David Cronenberg's remake of THE FLY.

Scenes of Dren leaping to and fro from the rafters, her scorpio tail like a monkey, work like a clinical trial-tested charm. Less effective however is all the tough corporate acting going on in the boardrooms as douche bag manager David Hewlitt spews testesterone-addled threats about closing down the program if the hipster duo doesn't produce results, then admonishes them about breaking Christian fundamentalist-enforced protocol using human genes in conjunction with animals. Make up ya mind, Hewlitt. Besides, you'll blow a gasket with all this 'playing both sides of the fence' scenery chewing.

I personally feel those concerned Christians should take a moment to protect not just the human hybrids but all hybrids, even if they're 10% cooked from animal DNA or CGI. Those bizarre bloody worm monsters the couple create early on seem like a mess of Franken-pain. Science should have to keep all these things opiated or else not make them at all. The cruelty with which even these supposedly hip scientists treat animals shows that on a certain elementary level they are worse than children torturing scorpions in THE WILD BUNCH. We can only hope a stray bullet takes one or both of them out and they keel over into the thriving mound of red ants.

The second round of horror comes with Sarah Polley's cruel treatment of Dren once they have to get her out of the lab. Locking her up in the barn, taking away her kitty, refusing to let her fly, run, swim, and crawl free, Polley's a real c--nt. When Dren's back butterfly bat wings sprout they look like tattoos from Red Dragon or Girl with the Dragon Tattoo come to life (or the tattoos that come to life in Elektra if anyone else saw that besides me), and with her bald head and alien eyes, Dren's a bit like Britney Spears or Sinead O'Connor.

O'Connor, as we may recall, got flak by drawing attention to the innate cold cruelty to children perpetrated by organized human power, in her case the Catholic church instead of biotechnological science, but the vibe is the same and in the end the real villain of the piece is Sarah Polley herself, dead-eyed determined to show the world that she can be as mean as Joan Crawford is to adopted daughter Christina.. as illustrated in MOMMIE DEAREST (1981).

c. Sofia Mauro
The bald head of Dren also conjures chemo, enhancing the idea of scientific torture and deprivation in the name of extending our lives even a hair longer. It may be too little too late, but at least the mad scientist genre has finally found its most worthy villain, a female scientist who, like St. Joan of San Antone herself, figures out a way to get around the messy laws of adoption and child protective services so she can torture, control, manage and stifle her daughter to her heart's content. Forget it Jake, it's science. There's no animal or human rights for a being that's neither. For a fucking scientist like Polley that's music to the ear.

Meanwhile, for the empathic amongst us, even a drawing of a screaming mouth can send us writhing to the floor in sympathy. Is that something admirable, or just a bid for attention gone seriously awry?

PS - 1-9-6
I got off topic, fuck it. There never was a topic. The topic was always death  - we avoid it too much for our own good. When I was at my peak of convergence 2012 enlightenment I stopped thinking these things, the population control anxieties, and started loving all creatures. My God/Alien/higher power told me I was 'recused from the bench' - meaning I didn't have to worry about it, 'they' had it taken care of. My job, they said, was to love all life as if it were my own children. And I was able to do that, even unto people I'd normally sneer at as I hustled past them on the street. All God's children glowed rosy and angelic.

Then... the cosmic alignment ended. I got super sick and woke up with all my chi absconded with by demonic harvesters, like ghost conductors whisking all our ticket stubs off the chair tops at the arrival of the last stop.

OR - I had a manic episode that lasted two months and was triggered via expectation of apocalypse; in other words, I had a nice messianic complex incident (I have one every three years, it seems) and then got sick from messing my diet up trying to be a vegan.

I'm a Pisces, so I don't believe in astrology, but I know it's true. If you get the inherent paradox of that statement, then you know what it is to be a 'mutable' sign. One fish swims in the mystical ether, the other smiles to itself and accepts it all might be a lot of hippie nonsense. The problem is, America can't relegate itself to the same harmonious dichotomy. America needs to be a Pisces and embrace its own duality. Maybe we can all agree that some higher power some of us choose to call God created man but he used apes as a jumping off point, as the paint and canvas if you will, to make his masterpiece, and maybe both the typical Christian idea of God and the atheists' idea of the Christian's idea are very shallow and outdated images. Maybe the God we first imagined as bored Sunday schoolers staring out the window isn't correct but that doesn't mean there is no God.

If we enhance our conception of God to include all things and people, the higher consciousness of which the entirety of our known universe is its full reflection, then we lose our terror of death, and maybe science can stop being so short-sighted.

Then again, when I start to feel afraid I might actually die, I panic and pray and shuttle through the Kubler-Ross 7 like my bald head's on fire.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Nigel Kneale's THE STONE TAPES and PTSD-- Theories of Residual Haunting Energy

Now it's common parlance for a very apt theory for hauntings as residual psychic energy recorded within the crystals and other minerals within old stone walls (in castles, especially), this can explain why older edifices such as castles and crumbling old mansions tend to be haunted more than plywood domiciles (unless said domiciles are build near major power junctions or rivers or above mineral deposits, aquifers, etc.

And maybe at the moment of your death, if it's violent and sudden enough, your terror and confusion can be so great that the moment right before your death you can unleash such a firestorm of latent psychic energy that you can create a rupture in the time-space continuum, like an LP with a note hit on a track that's so sharp and discordant the vibration causes the needle to skip out of its groove, and leaves that portion of your psyche behind, split off from the rest of your aura, to replay the same last few seconds or minutes of your life over and over - every new scream in mortal terror like the first, until even with a new record on the turntable that loop is still there, screaming maybe only loud enough to be heard during moments of high charge in the air (lightning storms, a child reaching puberty, etc.)

Either way it's fascinating to consider - especially if you follow the whole past life recovery phenomenon, lately taking off due to children and their parents being able to track down their child's past life via the internet - even to go and visit their old life's family--total strangers--and recognize them all by name, know where secret treasure is buried, et al. The unifying factor for them all is a brutal sudden shock death - one example even fell during 9/11; another was on the Titanic; another a Russian soldier who died in WW2, another a Navy pilot who went down in the Pacific. In each it's the idea that PTSD is such a powerful force, such a 'skip' on the album that it causes a stone tape sort of repetition even if the subject is still alive, and if dead it carries over --recorded in the soul and carried over, so that when the new album is getting started on the turntable the ghost of the skipping stone tape is still skipping on repetition in the distance, audible during the space between the tracks (when the child is asleep). Only by parental acknowledgement of the truth of this past life, its authentication in documents and information the existence of which the child couldn't possibly have known beforehand, can the kid move on (as in the very touching tale of James Lenninger).


Friday, July 29, 2016

Gremlins from the Kremlin (Machine Elves!)

If you've ever encountered 'machine elves' in your 'travels' you may be like me and fall out of your chair when you run past a semi-obscure Warners cartoon from the 40s, "Gremlins from the Kremlin," which has one of their weirdest songs, and weirdest animation, very very salvia / DMT. Was that shit just in the wind or was there an interdimensional disruption created by all the carnage where machine elves, the titular gremlins, spilled out of the leaky collective unconscious into 3D space time? Either way, it's startling - not necessarily what they look like, but their marching order --note the way they dance in tightlocked formation from an infinite point into existence, as if one being skipping across time's hexagonal slices, like a reality CatScan Dancer. Yeah, you've seen 'em!

If not - study yonder prop: here

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Secret Dis/closure: WAVELENGTH (1983), and ROSWELL: THE UFO COVER-UP (1994)

It's always fascinating --even alarming--how few 'grey alien' science fiction films there are, making one wonder if there's any truth to the rumor that unless you're a big hitter like Spielberg, you better obscure your aliens appearance, and not make them too 'close to the truth' - the only ones who can do it without repercussion are the ones that don't try to be too realistic, and we wonder which came first, there's that rumor that the government took a picture of an actual alien and gave it to Toys R Us to make an alien doll with, an ingenious disinformation move as the real aliens would look just like the toy.

With the new Stranger Things on Netflix a kind of MK Ultra Truth reaching has begun, and maybe this movie is part of that disinformation campaign. If not for the box art and live witnesses (I found about this via The Secret Sun). If no other reason than Cherie Curie, the weird melancholic 'hushed' mood, and the Tangerine Dream music, this would be a winner. It's got more too.

Another one that seems very factual but never has been seen since it was out on--I think Showtime--inn the early 90s (I caught in a hotel room in NJ by accident). Having heard nothing/anything remotely involving a 'truth' to alien visitation up to that point, it was a pretty significant 'accident' in my life.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Terrifying Women Come in Twos

Only some lucky or maybe dead guys know about the weird pairs of alien women--they always go in pairs--hunting young men, or something.... if we take them up on their offer, we're never heard from again. Only those of us who've run the other way have stuck around to tell the tale. One of the few to get this just right is DECOYS (2004), a Canadian schlock film which uses the usual college freshman Night of the Creeps-style comedy to go with its pungent expose of the women predator phenom. I think they're related somehow to those kids with the black eyes who approach cars in the dead of night, to Bob and the dwarf in TWIN PEAKS, and so forth.

I know, you see... because I've wandered into the net of these weird twosomes before, three or four times over my long time partying career; always they were different women, always very unsusual in how sexually aggressive they were, how strange they acted, and how weirded out the guys who actually had sex with them were. Our freeloading charismatic grifter from the east, Scumby, shagged one and came out mere minutes later ashen, he said something was off about her body but never went into detail. He forgot about it; we forgot about it, blocked it out. What was up with these girls, wondered I? The last time I ran into them was at Earth Day after Scumby convinced me to take way too much acid - and man I was in a bad bad place; the prettier one (my one) came up to me and while everything else was weird anyway, including my reflection, she seemed like an image, like no attraction repulsion magnetism, but rather like a ghost vortex of desire- a beautiful hippy girl I can still remember her body, hair, the maroon color of her dress, but damned if I remember her face, or what about her sent me running in the opposite direction, apologizing over my shoulder - and me desperately single, horny and unhappy. I should have/ could have glommed right about that shit- but what the hell stopped me? What made her very allure seem like some dangerous trap?

What's weird is the schlub party guy is too weirded out by the hot girl in the bathroom - hey alien or no when a hot blonde chick attacks you in the bathroom it's rude to say no, but that's why DECOYS works, because guys are all talk - lord knows I was, but didn't know myself well enough to realize the con game I was running on myself. We all want to get with the right girl so bad and then some totally hot but something's off and we can't quite place it girl falls into our laps and starts mauling us and we're drunk enough maybe we can roll right into it before our defenses kick in.

But otherwise, something weird happens: we panic and run. It's the Lacanian objet petit a invading our orbit of desire; we're destabilized. It's like if the sun was our sexual longing for the right girl, that constant relentless ache where every moment not spend in the company of beautiful girls is like a knife in the heart twisting, the superego ranting in our brain about what losers we are, but then a beautiful girl suddenly lunges towards us, finally we'll get that desire but it's too soon, we're not ready, we panic, we run, and then coming out of it later, the superego moves from that fight or flight instinct to railing on us for being pussies and not going for it; it's almost like the superego did it n purpose, so it could beat us up extra hard about it later.

I don't know enough on this subject to make a judgment or hazard a guess as to what these women are all about, but when SNL recently did a sketch about a pair of blonde black-eyed aliens women at a speed dating party, I felt a pang of genuine uncanny terror. What is up with these pairs? Are they aliens, or just MONARCH 7 mind controled sex slave assassins who slipped their programming.


The weird irrational behavior of the two models in the opening party, for example, along with everything else that goes on, can be explained through the maze of the mind control theory, as they want to take him "over the rainbow," presumably a well-known code for the world that is shown to subjects of the practice, leaving them a way to explain all the bizarre things that seem to happening to them, THE WIZARD OF OZ being one of the source texts for this kind of conditioning:
"The Rainbow--with its seven colors has long had an occult significance of being a great spiritual hypnotic device. Constance Cumbey, in her book The Hidden Dangers of the Rainbow, which exposes the New Age Occult Movement, correctly writes, "The Rainbow (also called the Antahkarana [left] or Rainbow Bridge) (...) is used as a hypnotic device (p.261). 
"The Supreme Council of the 33rd" of Freemasonry has used the rainbow on the cover of their magazine. In a book teaching Druidism (as in Illuminati Druidism), The 21 Lessons of Meryln, the Rainbow is described as "A true sign of Magic...it exists in both worlds at once!" Elvira Gulch is a woman who owns 1/2 of the county where Dorothy lives in Kansas. She is shown later in the Land of Oz transformed as a witch.
Many of the Illuminati elite are rich and lead double lives. People who meet them at a ritual will see the dark side of these rich people. At the rituals, people are tranced from drugs, chanting, and mind control; they are "over the rainbow." - Fort Refuge

On the other hand, the two girls may be there to just set up the future problem between Bill and Alice, whose mutual attractiveness has surely caught them the attention of interested parties before, but like the single night of misadventure that opens A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, their marriage seems to begin at this party. (No one from Alex's violent misdeeds prior to the home invasion night gets revenge, for example.)

The figure who separates Bill and Alice originally, Nick Nightingale, has a name that symbolizes sleep (we always fall asleep alone no matter who is in our bed), and immediately after Bill is called away, Alice is hit on by her animus-representation, the Anton La Vey, and soon thereafter Bill gets drawn into a menage a trois any man would melt in his bones for. Now, in my book any good looking young couple is going to want to mingle and flirt and bask in the adoration of others at a party, and then they go home together and no harm done. What, are they supposed to just canoodle all night? Why even go to the party if not to strut? So why are they so cowed and confused by this attention they're receiving? Why does Alice seem to change into a different person, very coy, tranced out, and strange, the minute Anton approaches? Why are these girls so bizarre? Is that illuminated star by the door some psychic trigger to release their inhibitions, or is this just what really really good expensive champagne does?

In the end there's a weird symbiosis between the masked orgy Bill crashes and Alice's dream and the idea that Alice is actually the girl who dies (or 'has her brains fucked out' to use Sidney Pollack's vile terminology), begging the question: what is worse, a sex-saturated dream where you lose control and are violated every which way but which you are enjoying (she's the center of attention -- she 'belongs' there) or a sexual reality in which you are out of your depth?

As someone whose had a panic attack after being hit on by two spooky models at a 2006 Halloween party, I no longer envy and hate Dr. Bill the way I did when I first saw the film in 1999. I hadn't read Lacan then, and couldn't stand the fact that Bill's uncertain fog lets these two hotties slip away, and all the subsequent ones he loses, or even got them in the first place, or was so easily picked up the West Village streetwalker. I mean this isn't Atlantic City! But now I'm beaten down, broken on the wheel of time, like a scarecrow. If I had another encounter with those two spooky models I would still run away but wouldn't hate myself so much later. Why? Because now I've read up on EYES WIDE conspiracy mind control theorems.

Here's a detail I remember about those two girls who tried to pick me up but gave me a whopping panic attack instead (and this after I 'tested' my psychic powers by requesting in my deep meditation to pick up not one but two girls for a menage a trois that night)-- one was dressed as a dominatrix, the other wore a black bikini, had a perfect body, AND REPTILE EYES, though they were presumably contacts for her 'costume.' OR we were meant to assume so, just as we are meant to assume that all of the masks at the orgy in EYES hide human faces. Are reptile contact lenses on Halloween the perfect cover, allowing reptilian-human hybrids to show their real selves?
REPEAT FROM ABOVE (in the interest of derangement, I'm telling this story twice, as my dad began to do, like his grandfather before him, the same story over and over - for what it's worth.. I forgot I already wrote about it down here when I wrote about it up there, but... um.... it makes sense, since the women hunting in twos thing calls for it. As does my wry picture of THREE women (from DECOYS) as the top image. There's always time for deadpan self-satire.
If that's what that is...
Now that we're talking about it, I'm remembering a run in or two with another pair of spooky girls, hippie chicks (and one guy) up in Syracuse in 1987. They were gorgeous and way too sexually open for my prudish tastes, to the point I found myself backing up away from them and was not sure why, as I was hardly a virgin, or sober. I can barely remember what any of these two sets of girls looks like now, except that they were very sexy, and seemed possessed with eerie calm. If I did hook up with either set, would I even be alive today? And are all my subsequent peccadilloes just my long night of the soul trying to get revenge on womankind for making me feel all itchy and strange for my chickening out of these encounters? Were these girls even human? Was their whole mission just to seduce men and steal their DNA, and/or leave us with a lifetime of sexual anxiety that they could siphon off with their orgone harvesting matrixes?

My hippy house's resident freeloader Eric did sleep with one of those hippie chicks and was super weirded out afterwards. He told me that something about her vagina didn't look right, though he couldn't explain exactly what was so wrong about it....then again he's not a writer. One of them came onto me at an outdoor concert while I was tweaking out on way too much LSD and my dog acted all afraid of her and her beauty carved into me like talons; I could feel the emanating waves of open sexuality calling to me but I could see my mortal death as well. I heard myself muttering an incoherent apology and felt my legs carrying me away even as a part of me tried to take up her offer.

Plus, Bill getting called away before he can go 'over the rainbow' to deal with the OD seems to be implying those two girls meant shooting him up as well as whatever sexual stuff... and he may have wound up as comatose as she is. Even metaphorically it means he is spared the problems that plague a man beset upon by two hot women, a kind of all-encompassing panic-inducing mix of dread and desire that confound his ability to walk or think clearly (the awkward nervous banalities of their conversation reflects this kind of flushed disorientation). It is like a drug in and of itself, draining normal humdrum reality, the way, for example the music dies down and changes and the rest of the world becomes a blur when Maria and Tony's first spot one another in WEST SIDE STORY.