Open Source Resistance
Art is Resistance/Nine Inch Nails ARG
"You are all Dead..." Neil's words ring in my ears.
A reflection of a masked figure stares back at me through the empty lightless window of the closed 321 Coffee Shop. The gold face sets off hollow eyes with a fixed smirk that has been burned into my mind a thousand times...but now it is three dimensional and totally connected to the intense energy flowing in my body. Sweat collects under the mask... My body tense and the image is also as still as a statue. A few cars drive by and glance down the alley. I am actually glad when the hood and mask block most of the visibility...the reactions of horror while needed are not pretty to have focused on your person.
A dog and it's two feeders came walking around the corner as I looked up from the propaganda that I had offered on the stone table beside me. "Uh Ohhh" involuntarily uttered in a fear containing response of shock...as his eyes adjusted on the FACT that there was propaganda he was able to instantly relax. The female dog walker surmised the propaganda quickly and managed a mind protecting scowl.
There conversation died and they quickly departed out the other end of the alley...no doubt sharing hushed conversation about the oddness.
When I saw the cop car go racing by at a above usual speed I decided to split the scene. I had been at the meeting spot for a half an hour.
I ducked down the alley and made the quick change so that no one saw the transformation. A normal everyday freak came out of the alley with a backpack slung over his shoulder...the masked figure was gone.
Tension from The Year Zero is pounding me but I am committed to making a change...to Total Resistance...and I am riding the time fluz as it is focused down the narrow alley and collecting in the masked figure in the reflection. It is the contrast to the ultra mundane lazy sunny day that the bums and other citizens are commited to...it pales in light of the disaster decisions post Red Horse Vector.
Sorcery-Hakim Bey
THE UNIVERSE WANTS TO PLAY. Those who refuse out of dry spiritual greed & choose pure contemplation forfeit their humanity--those who refuse out of dull anguish, those who hesitate, lose their chance at divinity--those who mold themselves blind masks of Ideas & thrash around seeking some proof of their own solidity end by seeing out of dead men's eyes. Sorcery: the systematic cultivation of enhanced consciousness or non-ordinary awareness & its deployment in the world of deeds & objects to bring about desired results.
The incremental openings of perception gradually banish the false selves, our cacophonous ghosts--the "black magic" of envy & vendetta backfires because Desire cannot be forced. Where our knowledge of beauty harmonizes with the ludus naturae, sorcery begins.
No, not spoon-bending or horoscopy, not the Golden Dawn or make-believe shamanism, astral projection or the Satanic Mass--if it's mumbo jumbo you want go for the real stuff, banking, politics, social science--not that weak blavatskian crap.
Sorcery works at creating around itself a psychic/physical space or openings into a space of untrammeled expression-- the metamorphosis of quotidian place into angelic sphere. This involves the manipulation of symbols (which are also things) & of people (who are also symbolic)--the archetypes supply a vocabulary for this process & therefore are treated as if they were both real & unreal, like words. Imaginal Yoga.
The sorcerer is a Simple Realist: the world is real--but then so must consciousness be real since its effects are so tangible. The dullard finds even wine tasteless but the sorcerer can be intoxicated by the mere sight of water. Quality of perception defines the world of intoxication--but to sustain it & expand it to include others demands activity of a certain kind--sorcery. Sorcery breaks no law of nature because there is no Natural Law, only the spontaneity of natura naturans, the tao. Sorcery violates laws which seek to chain this flow-- priests, kings, hierophants, mystics, scientists & shopkeepers all brand the sorcerer enemy for threatening the power of their charade, the tensile strength of their illusory web.
A poem can act as a spell & vice versa--but sorcery refuses to be a metaphor for mere literature--it insists that symbols must cause events as well as private epiphanies. It is not a critique but a re-making. It rejects all eschatology & metaphysics of removal, all bleary nostalgia & strident futurismo, in favor of a paroxysm or seizure of presence.
Incense & crystal, dagger & sword, wand, robes, rum, cigars, candles, herbs like dried dreams--the virgin boy staring into a bowl of ink--wine & ganja, meat, yantras & gestures--rituals of pleasure, the garden of houris & sakis--the sorcerer climbs these snakes & ladders to a moment which is fully saturated with its own color, where mountains are mountains & trees are trees, where the body becomes all time, the beloved all space.
The tactics of ontological anarchism are rooted in this secret Art--the goals of ontological anarchism appear in its flowering. Chaos hexes its enemies & rewards its devotees...this strange yellowing pamphlet, pseudonymous & dust-stained, reveals all...send away for one split second of eternity.
