The Jade Teddybear

The jade industry is a crying shame.
Mining huge slabs of British Columbian Jade
Loading it onto ships and sending it to China
Where communist slaves mill small teddybears
From the billion-year-old adamantine pillars.
The teddybears, which cost 35$ are then sold over eBay
To Philistine slaves in America for Valentine's day.

He will present this to her in lieu of a real gift
And she will be well pleased because she would rather
Have the money after he croaks anyway
Which could be any day now.
Leaving nothing but a rich beautiful fifty-year-old widow.
And she will be his gift to society at large
The outcome of his seventy hour work weeks
The sum of his ethical stupidity and spiritual inadequacy.

The saddest part is that the jade is lost to the future. Perhaps in millions of years, the Earth will turn again, and again there will be giant slabs of jade in what used to be British Columbia.

Philistines cannot have good art because they can’t tell the difference. A Philistine cannot value art differently than its monetizable value. This is the outcome of a society comprised of the ethical slaves of Philistinism: The supplier must do unethical things to meet the unethical demands of the consumer. There is a clockwork. A fatality. An if/then logic to the Satanic service of our appetites. The jade teddybear is a symbol of bourgeoise frugality and stupidity. Its a symbol of bad taste. There are millions of them—all alike. Each milled from the same lifeless stone.

Wolves at the Door

I built my cabin from logs of new spruce. At the foot of 

the mountain and the edge of the wood.  Not too far 

from a gurgling brook. I can look at it shine in the light of 

the moon.  Perched on top of the richest land I can find. 

The year is eighteen and thirty-nine. 

I came from Ohio across three states, but here in

Missouri my soul snagged its thread. It’s the Adirondike 

mountains I can’t get across. The summer gets hot but 

the winter comes quick. Build a strong warm cabin 

before the snow comes thick. 

It was the last of October when I first heard her voice. 

Like the peal of a trumpet from the top of the hill. 

I heard his reply from miles away and it gave my spine a 

chill. The she-wolf came down to give me a call.  About 

my cabin she paced round and round.

I stood in my cabin with my musket in hand and heard 

her footfalls on the ground outside. I could hear her 

snarl. I could hear her breath, but else I could not 

perceive.  “Wolf,” I said, “I’ve got no hospitality for you. 

I’ll give you nothing but a ball of my lead.”

Cause there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Well I stuck my musket through the slot and I shot blind. 

Through the whole valley was heard the report. But when 

it echoed back her voice came through.  “In a fortnight’s 

time I’ll win you true. In these hills with me you’ll run and 

remember this place no more.”

Cause there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Those days they came and weeks they went, and God 

can tell how they were spent.  In trepidation and in infirm 

mind the days grew short and cold.  On the fourteenth 

night the sun went down and a carpet of snow lay 

packed on the ground. 

And there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door.

The moon was high when she led them down. I could 

see it shining in her eyes. At her full stride she came 

down the slope. She lead a pack of twenty. They made a 

circle around my cabin and they came a-caroling. A choir 

in full regalia.

And there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door. 

They sang me a song and they sang it well. To hear them 

howl it thrilled my soul and to see their jaws a snappin’.  I 

lost my mind in fear and awe. Some fur cropped out all 

over my arms and when I reached behind, the tail I found 

was my own and I was astounded.

And there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door.

And when their song had come to an end it raised 

the hair on the back of my neck and my skin began to crawl. 

The she-wolf said, “Boy, did you rightly doubt me? We 

came here to make you our own and we’re not going to 

leave without thee.”

And there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door. 

There comes a time when each must say good-bye to 

his domestic comforts. The soul must run across those 

mountains under the light of the moon. It must raise its 

voice like never before and quit its habitation. I can never 

forget that She-wolf or the night she freed me. 

And there were wolves. Wolves at the door. 

Wolves. Wolves at the door. 

The Ugly Alphabet

Where can my eyeballs go to hide from these letters
This Satanic alphabet imposing its own structure
These figures aren’t lovely
My mind is troubled in the attempt
To bend them to an erotic purpose.

Unlike their facile Hebrew counterparts
That Swedenborg once found to be impenetrable
Only pulled their skirts up an inch
And still he was driven mad by their beauty
They left him raving naked through the town at midnight..

Aphorisms Vol. 1

Too much wisdom and not enough wit.
Much too Frank and not enough Gaul.

The problem with reading books
Written by people who thought they were smart
Is that you might become one of them.

If you’re not a book reader or music listener
Then you don’t understand what it means
To store up treasures in eternity.

Ridicule her who hates mathematics,
Embrace her who hates science.

The concept of wasting time is only relevant
To those trying to achieve something.

When the devil wrote the bible
He caused his own revival
And now he is cursed to forever attend church.

The poet sings but the prophet cries.
The poet sings but the prophet cries.
The poet sings but the prophet cries.

Prayer:
If I am to meet a Jew, let him be a pious Jew.
And if I am to meet a Muslim, let him be an impious Muslim.

Evil is an upside-down pyramid scheme and Satan is at the bottom of it.

Let him with the ethics of a reptile become one.

Satanic Ethics Vol. 2: Witches, Werewolves, and Vampires

Christianity is not mysterious to me. Nor is it mysterious to the people who have read John Toland’s book “Christianity Not Mysterious,” published in 1702. I wonder how many of us there are. The once crowded hall of book readers has emptied out somewhat lately, and I wonder truly how many of us could access the work if we even cared to. When I call people illiterate, and I often do, that is what I mean: They lack the capacity to read books. I believe there are many people who have read the KJB cover to cover twice and still are not capable of understanding the book in its cultural and historical context. These illiterates should perhaps have the bible taken away from them, as well as all the other books they can’t or won’t read. These people might wound themselves by reading the bible. They are like children playing with their father’s tools.  (For example, an illiterate bible reader may believe that the point of Christianity is to perpetuate the lifestyle and ethics of the ancient Hebrews to all times and places when exactly the opposite is true.)
Christianity is not primarily supernatural, and the ethics of Christianity are not otherworldly but are of great practical use. Christianity is a system of ethics which opposes the Satanic ethics of the world at large. The practitioner of Christian ethics works to make himself unexploitable by the practitioner of Satanic ethics (also called Philistine ethics).  By using the example and the teachings in word and deed of Jesus Christ, we Christians can resist the efforts of the Satanist to abuse us, to enslave us, and to devalue our humanity.
The twin ethics of Puritanism and Philistinism are the tools of the Satanic practitioner. He uses these tools to become the usurer, the slaver, and the accuser of humanity (Satan is the accuser of this world, but Jesus Christ is the advocate of humanity before the judgment throne of God). The practitioner of Satanic ethics at base despises humanity.  Satanic ritual witchcraft is the primary method that the Satanist uses to perfect his Satanic ethic. A Satan worshiper worships himself in an effort to elevate himself above humanity. It is the challenge of the Christian to value humanity even at its most debased and perverse. 

WITCHES:
Our English word witchcraft, in essence, means ‘wise power.’ It is not generally evil for people to develop and use their wise powers, nor is it unchristian to do so. Witchcraft is far older than either Christianity or Satanism. Throughout the centuries, many witches all over the globe have used their wise powers to heal and perform mental and spiritual therapy.  All Doctors, lawyers, judges, and priests have as their progenitor the African Witch Doctor. All the ecclesiastical trees waving their heavy arms in the sky come directly from the simple relationship between the witch and the people. There has always been and will always be a demand for this wise power among the uninitiated oceans of humanity.  However, a witch, who is a person who has developed these wise powers, can turn against humanity and become Satanic. A Satanic witch exploits humanity instead of serving humanity. There are also many who are born into Satanic witchcraft, and who inherit the tradition of Satanism along with their wise powers. I believe the tradition of Satanic witchcraft among the Jews goes back to their time of slavery in Egypt. Of course, there are accounts of witches and magicians among both Egyptian and Hebrew sources. Most Jews worship God. Some Jews are Satanists and are living servants of the Satanic ethic of human exploitation.  This Philistine exploitation of humanity is as prevalent today among the professional classes as it ever was in the past. Many of today's doctors, lawyers, judges, and priests are invested in the evil exploitation of humanity.

WEREWOLVES:
Practitioners of wise-craft have their own ethics and there are two rules which are the traditional means to tell if a witch has become Satanic. A practitioner is forbidden from A) enriching himself unnecessarily and B) extending his life unnaturally. When a witch does these two forbidden things (they go hand in hand), he is said to become a werewolf. An aware wolf is a person who takes advantage of asleep sheep.  You don’t want to be an asleep sheep. You might get taken advantage of by an aware wolf. This parlance goes back at least 500 years and perhaps much farther.  Does this type of werewolf have anything to do with the lycanthropy we are familiar with in popular culture? There are sources both Christian and classical as well as recent eye-witness accounts that claim the existence of dog-headed men. St. Christopher himself was supposed to have been a man with a dog’s head.  I’m not sure this is relatable to the witchy werewolves I’m describing here.
I don’t know very much about Werewolves, but I believe there is a conscious effort to produce a popular culture that would ridicule notions of their existence. Werewolves are real. There are people invested in pulling the wool over the eyes of the sheep.

VAMPIRES:
A vampire is a person who drinks human blood to extend his life unnaturally.  Vampirism is currently fashionable among the wealthy elites of many nations, and there is current private medical research into the health benefits and increased longevity attributed to the drinking of human blood. When a practitioner has become opaque to the divine vision of a natural life and death, he may decide to drink human blood. By doing so, he steals the vitality of another human for his own use.  The act of drinking human blood is Satanic ritual witchcraft and those uninitiated who indulge in the practice unwittingly become Satanic witches. The most famous vampire in history is Countess Elizabeth Báthory, who drank and bathed in the blood of an estimated 500 peasant girls before her bad habits could be curtailed.  She murdered them to benefit her own health and beauty. She was one who purified her Satanic ethic through the means of Satanic ritual witchcraft.

This Dojo Does Not Exist

Arguing is a funny game. The winner gets nothing, the loser can improve his ideas if he will. As the combatants face each other, each adopts the posture that most fits his style. The first man swings the finely honed sword of Romantic Idealism and the second blocks with the jaded shield of Enlightenment Rationalism.  And then the rationalist slips a touch by mentioning Descartes. Now he’s left himself open to a counter discussion of Bishop Berkeley, and if he doesn’t know his Baxter he may not be able to keep his balance.  In truth, the rationalist was hoping for an early knockout and now may be fighting out of his depth. His legs are jelly. Does he have reserve forces to call upon? He distracts his opponent by spinning to Spinoza.  Then he lands his own combination of Bacon and Locke to his opponent's midsection.
To his credit, the idealist is still standing as the bell rings. He has felt his opponents best punches, but how should he respond? Should he take up his traditional Platonic posture, knowing full well the position is drawn, or dare he advance his center to Blake and Coleridge, perhaps tempting his opponent to fight on unfamiliar ground? Getting one’s opponent out of his prepared books is a great strategy.
In truth, there are no judges. Each of the fighters is keeping score for himself.  This Dojo does not exist, but here is the centerpiece of their argument: The Rationalist knows that knowledge is acquisitive and that the knowledge of one generation is built upon the knowledge of the previous generations. Therefore, the best ideas are the newest ones. Only the current philosopher could have the perspective that he enjoys. Modernity was not possible for the philosophers of the past, and that is why the ideas of the past do not fully suit the present.
On the other hand, the idealist knows that all ideas are eternal, and to him, it seems that the progress of the generations, in which the rationalist is so secure, is actually generational decay. The wisdom of each successive generation only gets farther from its original source. Knowledge is not acquisitive, and wisdom is instantaneous in the mind of the wise. In the moment of wisdom, the wise person is taking part in ancient knowledge.  He is interacting with eternity. He is timeless.
Both of these historical conceptions are lies. History is not a line, but a circle. Revolution doesn’t mean something new is about to happen, it means something old is coming back around again. Its incumbent upon the combatants to choose a point of origin somewhere on the circle which would otherwise be arbitrary. Each must frame his narrative from his selected point of origin, and it is the true challenge of the philosopher to make his story make sense to himself—to tell himself a story he can believe. A philosopher never quite believes the story he is telling himself.

Two Mice Fell Into A Pail Of Cream

              The two mice took advantage of the garage door being left open. They both scampered under as the door was shutting. Later, as they were trying to open a box of instant mash potatoes in the overhead cupboard, they would be thrown headlong into a waiting bucket of fresh cream.  It was then, in that situation of imminent mortality, that the true difference in their characters was revealed.  

The first mouse, having examined at length the ethics and philosophy of the ancient Taoists and being accustomed primarily to a contemplative and literary mode, quickly mastered himself. After a brief struggle and a couple of spasms, he was able to peacefully drown.  Next, he was deposited onto a leaf where he grew for ten days, hatching out then as a remarkable caterpillar he munched his way through the lazy summertime.  Finally, as autumn fell, he built a cocoon and in the spring he broke free from it.  He had transformed himself into a monarch butterfly and he took place in the ecstasy that only monarch butterflies know as they fly thousands of miles across mountain ranges and over inland seas. 

            The second mouse did not benefit from the rich inner life that had so tremendously helped the first mouse. He had no education and knew no ethic other than the struggle to survive. When he fell into the bucket of cream he panicked. There is no other way to say it. He had no mentality in that situation, but his instinct took over and he began to kick and struggle with his paws and through the process of struggling to keep his nose above the surface of the frothy cream, he…as we all well know…churned the cream into butter and was thereby able to climb out of the bucket. 

           There the second mouse found himself. He was covered all over with butter on the kitchen floor of a strange house wondering what he should do next. That’s when the second mouse first noticed the cat.  Now, a cat has no ethics that he is aware of--he is not a mouse-a-tarian--he is no respecter of mice. And, he is much larger than a mouse and faster and has better agility. Also, he has claws and teeth. 

           The second mouse certainly was a mouse of ill fortune. Perhaps if he would have had the slightest bit of Greek education, he would have known that in climbing out of the bucket, he had defied the fate that the Gods had proportioned for him. It is an act of hubris to take one’s fate into his own hands. This hubris, this insolence of not dying, is what it is about mice that cats most despise and punish. Next, the cat batted the mouse around and tossed the mouse up into the air. He came down with a fat plop on the ground. Then the cat put his paw heavily on the mouse’s back and squeezed the air out of him until he lost consciousness.  A minute later the mouse regained consciousness coughing and sputtering only to find himself back in front of the cat, who was enjoying himself tremendously.  The cat then repeated this process one hundred times and each time it seemed funnier to him than the last, until, after the one hundred and first time, which was not quite as funny, the cat decided to let the mouse try to run away. When the mouse tried to drag itself to safety the cat let him go a few feet and then he stuck one claw through the end of the mouse’s tail and drug him back into the middle of the floor.  

          “Why are you doing this to me,” said the mouse.  

          “My People,” purred the cat, “Love me and are dedicated to my every comfort.  They feed me twice a day with a treat in between, and to tell the truth, I am not much hungry for a mouse at this time.  In fact, I find you quite disgusting and repulsive.  You, Mr. mouse, provide the only entertainment in what is otherwise a sanitary and boring existence. Why do you think I caused the garage door to remain open by flicking my tail underneath it? Not that I want company so much as I desire a plaything.  Besides, look at me. Look how much smarter, faster, more beautiful, and more desirable I am than you are.  You are a flea-bitten dirty infestation, and I, sir, am an adored long-haired cat of high breading. Therefore, I have the privilege of treating you and your kind in any way that I desire, according to my whim.”

          As the cat was involved in this discourse a woman entered through the front door. She walked into the kitchen and discovered the ruined pail of creamy butter. She saw the cat brutalizing the exhausted and bloodied mouse. She cursed her stupid husband who had left a bucket of cream to spoil on the kitchen floor. She screamed. The cat jumped. The woman grabbed a sticky mouse trap from the cupboard and as the mouse was trying to drag itself to safety, she stuck the trap on the mouse’s back and threw it in the waste basket. Then she fished the drowned mouse out of the pail with a spatula and threw him into the waste basket as well. Next, she took the trash out to the curb with the second mouse still barely living inside of it.  

           At this point, the second mouse understood the futility of his struggle. He was stuck fast to the trap from his tail to his head. His forelegs splayed out. A plastic milk jug ring pressed irritatingly into his scalp. He oozed blood from several wounds. To make matters worse he was forced to gaze into the beatific face of the departed first mouse, who had benefited so tremendously from his classical education and extra-biblical literacy. The departed first mouse’s face beamed with buttery joy. 

         As fate would have it, the garbage bag was black and this was a hot day. In the heat of the afternoon sun, the temperature of the garbage bag increased and the odors congealed. Those vapors, which would have been poisonous to us, were to the mouse both salutary and medicinal. It was as though he had sucked vinegar from a sponge. He started to trip like he was on acid. He opened his third eye and he felt his soul expand as one will in his dire extremity.  He came to understand that pain is the ultimate psychedelic. And as he was in this state of rapturous resignation, he didn’t notice the sun going down and the trash panda that roamed the neighborhood at that hour.  The trash panda could smell the buttery carcass of the first mouse. He chattered happily to himself as as he knocked over the trash can. He used his little hands to rip open the black plastic trash bag. He quickly discovered the buttery and delicious carcass of the first mouse and popped him into his mouth. The trash panda was truly thankful to receive the body of first mouse. He said a brief prayer of thanksgiving to the god of trash pandas. 

           Just then a raven noticed the second mouse stuck fast to the trap. He said, “Caw,” to the trash panda which startled him into a quick retreat. Then he began to poke and rip at the second mouse, but he couldn’t remove him from the sticky trap. Next, the raven began to pluck and pull at the guts of the second mouse. And soon the mouses guts were all strewn about while the raven plucked out his bloody organs. 

          “Am I to be disemboweled endlessly after the fashion of some perpetual Promethean punishment?” asked the mouse.

         Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”

My Soul Goes to Vegas

       When I close my eyes and my head hits the pillow, my soul travels out of my body drifting up into the salty sea air above my house in Vallejo, CA.  My soul then drifts south following highway 29. My soul arrives at the Oakland airport and quickly boards a flight to Vegas. Once in flight, my soul escapes the fuselage and drifts along in the wake of the plane. It looks down over the snowcapped Sierras that glisten in the light of the full moon. The plane descends into McCarran airport but my soul continues breezing above the strip toward downtown Las Vegas, Nevada. My thirsty soul wishes it could get two ice cold Budweisers for five bucks in front of the Bellagio but it doesn’t want to land on the strip. It would take forever to get a cab. 

My soul spends a lot of time walking around the Charleston arts district. It sees many homeless people and a lot of people who aren’t fairing well, despite the US government and it’s constitution. It sees drunks begging for change and getting it. It sees one black kid walking around with a roll of foil, a lighter, and the shaft of a pen. My soul can’t tell if he’s trying to sell foillies or if he’s openly freebasing cocaine on the street. My soul thinks this neighborhood is getting a little rough but continues its journey to the Golden Nugget Casino and Hotel. Once inside my soul can finally be at rest. Still thirsty for beer, it feels for its wallet but the wallet is not there.  

          Then my soul remembers what happened last night at the sports book. When all the free throws bounced the wrong way and the cynical Satanic basketball referees took control and enforced Satan’s wishes upon the outcomes of the college basketball games. Nothing left but a pocket full of drink tokens. My soul goes up to the bar next to the poker room and offers two tokens for a cold draft of Modelo and my soul is finally able to quench it’s parched and dusty throat with the golden libation. My soul reflects that the trip appears to have been a success. Beer in hand, my soul joins the carousel of souls meandering about the casino. It goes to the sports book and looks at the overnight board. My soul intently gazes at this board for a long time, but none of the numbers calls out to my soul.

Finally, my soul heads back around to the poker room where our Tulpa has been grinding perpetually for days on end. He is still up and he gives my soul two black chips. Yes!  What would we do without our Tulpa grinding away at poker? Eighty-four hours ago he started playing with three hundred dollars and now he has a couple of grand in chips and who knows how many hundreds are tucked underneath his stack. 

           You’ve got to love the poker action at the Golden Nugget.  

          “It’s like no place else.” says our Tulpa. He only takes a break on Saturday afternoon because that’s when the Veterans of Foreign Wars guys play. My soul does not want our Tulpa to get cut apart by these gentlemen who are aged beyond the care of money and whose only delight is in crushing the unsuspecting tourist who happens upon the table.  

           My soul goes to the cage and cashes in the two black chips. My soul remembers to go back and tip the bartender 2 bucks.  That’s when my soul begins to feel itself fade. It needs to go to the buffet so that it can transubstantiate some food matter into the stuff of spirit. As it rides the escalator up to the buffet my soul reflects that even when it is down at the casino, it is always up at the buffet.  After a substantial meal including real soul food, my soul pours its beer into a plastic cup and walks out onto Fremont St.  

           My soul goes out to many people that it sees out on Fremont St. and touches them. It goes between them and through them. My soul goes out to body performers and homeless people. Veterans. Tourists holding hands just trying to figure out what this place is about. The mentally deranged. The hopelessly drunk.  People holding signs that say: Fuck You! 

And that’s when I feel my soul start to expand. When it gets like this, there is little that can be done to remedy the situation. My soul gets larger and larger.  Its heels lift off the ground and it drifts upward toward the awning that covers the street.  And still, it expands and opens rising above the whole city until its face is superimposed over the whole scene and it sees the morning sunlight on the mountains to the east.