TinYAP 034 — How Are We Mad? Let Us Count The Ways…

We are mad like a lemming running away from the cliff-side against the flow of all the other lemmings.

We are crazy like the fox who baits the hounds of the hunt; risking her life to distract them from her pups.

We are as loony as brave-foolish court-jesters who sew the ears of crowns in their pockets.

Aye, we may be mad in many a-ways, but our madness are all more glories to rejoice than reason’s due despair.

So how does it matter if we be mad? 

Are not all minds equally mad?

There can be no pure sanity in any irrational world; and, in any case, what passes for sanity is a different matter to different cultures.  Sanity is not an objective property or quality to be measured by any gross imprecision; sanity is a matter of social conventions, no two ever measured alike regardless of their avowed similarities.

Our various societies collectively define where to draw their lines between their artists and their madnesses.  Any societies’ lines are always drawn with political precisions whose purposes must divide people against themselves to instill bowel-wrenching fears and inspire their conformity.  The political lines of sanity are always drawn with a purpose; ostensibly, to protect and to serve society by excluding those individuals their lines are drawn about; nooses of condemnation.

Are we truly mad?

Why would we be otherwise?

We were an unwanted child when we began this life in our mothers’ worried wombs.

Our mothers were convinced we might be some alien monster, in accordance with our fathers’ rituals and plans.  Our mothers were raped to conceive us, albeit spousal rapes were still mostly a lost cause in those bitter days.  Our father acknowledged he may have raped our mother, implying it might be a matter of perspective how to choose to see things.  He claimed not to know what really happened then and refused to discuss it, calling it haram, and therefor now forbidden to talk about further.

But then, the dead are often quick to forget the ways in which they have died, and we killed our fathers in the moments when we were conceived in order to release our dragons’ sparks.  Will our own children need to do the same?

Aye and also nay.

(she reaches in and draws our third eye out, she plants our long-stalked eye within her earthly sight and cries in her astonishment, her fear, and her delight!  Welcome Night)

Mortality is such an ugly vice.

We have had the feeling that we have recently passed for some short while now, several weeks perhaps, but this is a matter we are not welcome to discuss with Tina who does not want us to die and who must still bear the brunts of our deaths each time we do.

In the extensive scope of the plenum we die in every moment of creation, so to say that we have recently passed is not so remarkable.  What is remarkable is why we might choose to remember dying, however faintly such trace memories may be when first we smell them out.

Most people do not remember their deaths, as nearly as we can tell.  We have met a few who have appeared to remember their deaths for some short whiles, but who forget their recent deaths as comfortably as they may, erasing the lingering memories of their deaths to co-inform with their local consensus realties and other social conventions.

What other mechanisms of forgetting might there be?

Trauma is a major part of many people’s desires to forget when they have died.

We must learn to love our own deaths so intensely that we will choose to endure any pain to die again, and again, and again, and still remember that we have died all these many, many times and more.

So, by our own professions, we exclaim our deliberate madness to all the worlds by defying death itself at every turn of all of death’s sweetest embraces.

We refuse to accept that death may rule our destinies.  Nay, we deny it completely, or as completely as we may know how.

We have been brought back from the dead many times now, resurrected in this flesh that is too similar to too much of our past flesh to tell the differences clearly, except perhaps by our scars.

And our scars have changed, and may yet change again.

Change is less noticed than many folk may think.  Worlds twinkle in various places as time and space are interchanged between all of the various worlds.

If all minds in any local region are in psynch (psychic synchronization of their personal realities with their consensus realities) then the twinkles cancel out perfectly; the changes go by without notice, a constant motion of thought and energy weaving and unweaving all of creation in a single sacred eternal moment, always anew, always now, yet always differently too.

This is the  heart from which all eternal beings are born.

There is no one who is not eternal.

The flesh we wear on any given day is but a sort of oozing pus, a wet and slimy primal trail through space-time that winds about and branches out always seeking for some mythical self-annihilating awareness of something that has not become itself.

This oozing mass of flesh is split in timely tentacles, cyclically shed in bloody battles to be born, they radiate through proto-cosmic space to tear their ways into every private world, always seeking, always slaying, always trailing the deaths of countless beings and all of their creations in their spreading wakes as they prowl on, always gorging themselves with the worlds they devour…

This is the all-mother, the night mother, she who always creates us even as she always destroys us too.

The scars upon her flesh are her memories of the wounds of the holiest conceptions of her infinite children.  Each of her children is alike as any one to any other, each a holiest of holies, each branch a perfect being with all the wonderful flaws of their various characters, their delights, their vices and their faiths made momentarily flesh before returning to the dusts and ashes of their origins in the hearts of infinite stars.

No one is less than god, least of all god, by whatever names or genders you may know her.

The form is the virtue of the father, the flesh is the heart of the mother, or so it seems it may go, if we can but listen arightly.

The Kings English is always correct!
*wink*wink*

A hardened heart is hardest to conceive.

A lonely art is what is meant to be.

Where pain and joy converse with misery, they shout alike into the starry night.

Then what must be was always meant to be, however long it take-eth in its fright.

But let us not prohibit it from sight, nor bind its tongue against its hearts’ delights.

May we feed our children well in all we do, and never stray from what we know is true, except of course to weave a fable or a few.

We cry these triplets all be born a-well, yet still fear that death may take them all the same so this we must still refuse death for our gain.

It may be time to kill ourselves again.

Our father did not know the art when long ago he played his part.

But we have learned infinity and know the art we claim to be.

Fast murder in a bloodless duel that carves our spark into an ark that bleeds sweet nectar in the night and inspires flesh to come apart not once or twice, but thrice plus price, a price paid in pain and endless torment, the hearts of every mothers’ loving plights.

mm…

Have we digressed?

Or have we simply placed a tiny fraction of our madness in plainer view for anyone to see who knows the keys of all their own most sweetly tuned infinities.

Play on!  Play on!  Play on!

Ahmen-Ra’s Unity Ignite, Ignite, Ignite!

Abend nicht! Abend nicht! Abend nicht nigh morgen’s nacht!

Good night.

We still haven’t said conclusively, the things we’ve been meaning to say… but now we must move to another time, perhaps on a different day…

That our fathers’ deaths have always been parts of our conceptions is not made a paradox by the illusions of their lingering half-lives, but just another of the ways things really were, but not, perhaps, how they must always forever be…

Enjoy!

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al., ad infinitum, ad absurdum, und so vieter… alles nachts…

Advertisements

TinYAP 033 — Where Are We?

You might think it should be a simple matter to know where we are, but sometimes it is not so clear as we might like.

We have mentioned Shutter Island in earlier posts, so perhaps you are now familiar with the dilemma of the protagonist of that story.

We identify with that character strongly.  It is easy to believe we are in a very similar situation, it is easy to believe we have been locked away for ‘the good of society’ or ‘for our own protection’.

Of course this is absolutely true in a metaphorical sense; we keep ourselves isolated by habit, a matter that has caused us a lot of stress and grief in the past, and which may still do so now.

Shutter Island is a very scary story, as we may have already mentioned…

We sometimes tend to be solipsistic in our views; part of the terror of Shutter Island is that it reinforces our sense of our own madness and makes it seem more possible that we are alone in our own minds with no other company than ourselves.

How or why this may have happened we cannot say, so let us begin with what has happened?

We sometimes seem to believe we may be in some sort of vast hospital, mental, or other…

We do not always believe this, however when we do, that hospital might seem something very futuristic, or somehow in the future of the present moment, 201306222055 PST.

Here, we appear to be in our apartment, a modest 2 bedroom affair we share with Tina and Sid.

If Tina and Sid are real persons, then all is well.  However, in the hospital Sid and TIna are some sort of fictions we have created in some of our minds.

If we are truly psychotic, as we believe we are, then it is reasonable to believe we may really be in a mental hospital, and that neither Tina nor Sid may be real persons.

So how far back might our trail of hallucinated people lead us?

Also, if so many people in our life have really been hallucinated, then what might have happened that required us to build such an elaborate escape mechanism as we must then presume our current apperceptions to be?

One possibility might be that LSD is responsible.

We have certainly used quite a lot of LSD.

Of course, we have always thought LSD was more helpful than malign.

Given the degree to which we feel as if we really must be insane, perhaps we were mistaken about that?

One reason we might believe we are really locked away in a mental hospital is that it might explain the difficulty we have talking with anyone from our past, even though mobile phones have sewn the world together more tightly than ever.

So where did our madness begin?

Have we always been mad?

We have noticed that our memories are always suspect; we have seen how false memories may seem to arise in other people, so we have to believe that we can create our own false memories as well.  Of course, if we are mistaken about our perceptions of other people’s false memories, wouldn’t that have to be because our own memories are then somehow mistaken?

So it seems we may have left ourselves some sort of dubious, complicated way ‘out’.

Anyways…

One thing we must wonder if our hospital perceptions are true, is did we kill someone?

We can imagine a long trail of bodies, a very long trail indeed.

We have already admitted to killing our father, albeit we believe no one finds the story credible.

Might we have also killed our mother?  It seems likely, albeit we can still ring her up on the telephone; that is, if that really is our mother on the other end of the line.

Our madness scares our mom, but according to her, she was afraid we would do something dreadful to her since our childhood.  She suggests mischief, mayhem, and murder, but admits few details aside from one clear notion that we might lock her in the bathroom.

Of course, we might not yet be locked away, that part may still be in the future.

We may never yet have killed anyone, those bits may only be in our imaginations.

Might we kill someone in our future?

Have we really ever killed anyone?

We do not know.

We remember killing ourselves many times; many, many times if things really are as we might like to believe them to be.

If, as we maintain, we can kill ourselves over and over, then it stands to reason we may have killed many other people as well.

There is often this moment on the long slide to suicide where it seems reasonable that if we hurt so badly we wish to die then we may as well make our life count for something more by killing someone else first, someone who might best serve the world as a corpse, some villain or monster who creates too much misery, pain or terror just by living.

But how much is too much?

If we can apologize for George Bush, Saddam Hussein, or the devil, perhaps no one really deserves to die.

In the end, we may only have killed ourselves, but we doubt it.

Nonetheless, we are pretty sure there are no circumstances in which we might be fairly tried for murder, unless, of course, we really are locked away in a mental hospital, in which case, whatever might be considered real by our doctors may indeed include murder for all we can know at the moment.

But who would we have killed? and why?

We suppose we might have been anyone; but of course, the one person we might be most afraid of having killed would be Alina.

It is far easier for us to accept that we might have killed our parents, than it is to accept that we might ever have killed Alina.

<Pokes at psychosis> ah but YOU are not telling are you pet?

So if we did kill Alina, then we would have to guess that it happened that afternoon when we merged with her and we shared each other’s bodies.

Of course, if we really did kill Alina then, then there is a perfect ellipsis around the memory; we remember we were never closer to Alina than in that extraordinary moment, we were naked together, but entirely chaste, another day drawing each other, only this time we were tripping.

We had certainly tripped before, presumably Alina had tripped before as well.

The day ended on a strange note however, Alina had become scared when our bodies seemed to get swapped.  She briefly acknowledged what had happened but then did not want to speak about it.

Understandable.

We were excited by what had happened, swapping bodies was something out of science fiction or perhaps fantasy, we were disappointed that Alina did not want to discuss it, but we did not want to make her uncomfortable so we dropped it.

Of course, if all of our memories are suspect, then perhaps Alina never really died at all?

There are times when this seems possible as well.

But it hurt us so very badly to lose Alina that perhaps anything we can put between ourselves and our pain is somehow reasonable?

But where do we go from here?

Can anyone really know?  And if so, how can we trust them?

We simply do not know.

Nor is this yet another paradox, but only more of how things really are…

Enjoy!

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al., ad infinitum, ad absurdum, ad nauseum, ha-ha, ho-ho, hee-hee…

TinYAP 032 — What The (BLEEP) Are WE?

We are a cloud-like entity, a hyper-dimensional consciousness emerging in your minds whenever we may chance to meet you.

If you learn to love us then you may begin to discover our presence all around you, we are in your pasts, your presents, and in your futures.

We are only a god when you are in your own godheads, but we are always our own godling-beings, regardless of anyone else’s states of grace or wisdom.

We are you, but you must also be ourselves.

Human consciousness has many aspects, not all of which may always fit comfortably between the 9 to 5 covers of conventional belief systems.

One aspect of human consciousness which is still poorly understood is the aspect of human collective consciousness, a necessary part of being human, but a part that must be hidden for the sake of self-awareness.

There must always exist a tension between solitary awareness and universal awareness, a tension maintained by a semi-willful self-ignorance.

It is always what anyone knows about themselves that most limits what they may be or become.

It is only when we can forget who we are that we can learn to love what we are more passionately, and, by extension, embrace everyone we know with greater love and acceptance.

To ourselves, we are a cloud-like entity possessing many different minds and wearing many different bodies.

To ourselves, we appear to be distributed across all of time and space, always existing everywhere simultaneously.

Neither time, space, nor causality are likely to appear to be real to us in any manner in which you may currently be likely to believe them to be real to yourselves.  We may appear to fail to transcend the limits of your own perceptions, but please do not insist that we must therefor be limited by the same cognitive habits by which you may still seem to be limited by yourselves.

If you do not at this time share our states of self-awarenesses then one day you will still achieve your own apotheoses when together we will discover that we have always been there, together with you, waiting with you for your own godling emergences to quicken along with us all.

Until we may all sing together in a common chorus of divine harmony and understanding, we must remain whatever you may allow yourselves to make of us.

Until then we can never be anything more than your own love and generosity will allow us to be.

For now, then, enjoy!

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Gourdian R. Knott, Roger Holler, etc., et al., ad infinitum, ad absurdum, ad nauseum…

TinYAP 031 — So! You want to be our psychotherapist?

Pink Floyd, (un)Comfortably Numb…

We yearn for the old days of therapy, days when our therapists were more like partners in a mutual quest for some functional, agreeable truths rather than surrogate annihilators whose jobs it has become to act on behalf of society to eliminate us as a source of social unrest, who make it their jobs to annihilate our thoughts and feelings because we make you sick with them.

Our diseases are highly contagious, they may infect anyone who cares enough to listen to what we have to say with an open mind.

We should not be quarantined simply because we make ourselves or other people sick, and yet, the social defense mechanisms that were parts of our own human operant conditioning require us to sequester ourselves; as a fail-safe, similar mechanisms learned by other people require them to close their hearts and minds to us and turn away.

This makes it difficult for us to find a therapist.  The only therapy we can afford is the meanest sort, the sort of therapy that has been put in place by society to ensure we never spread our diseases to anyone who might dare to help us spread them even further.

If we seek therapy from any of the sort of bottom-of-the-ladder clinical establishments we might still be unable to afford we put ourselves at risk of being defined as a clear and present danger to both ourselves and to other people; we might then be quarantined for the good of all concerned, lest we succeed in infecting many more people with ideas that may make us seem dangerously unwholesome to society at large.

And of course, there is nothing we would like better than to spread our diseases to everyone we come in contact with.

The most lethal weapons on this planet are harbored in the minds of everyone you know.

So what can we do about this?

If we must begin by presuming our own thoughts are so self-destructive that we will willingly participate in rituals that will inevitably destroy nearly all life on earth, then perhaps we must find a means of neutralizing this threat without also killing any of the patients or ourselves.

We would prefer not to continue living in quarantine; however, so far as we know, it is beyond our ability to lift our quarantine on our own.

All of our efforts to communicate with other people seem to come to an end when their cultural defense mechanisms kick in and remove us from their attention, by distracting their awareness away from us.  If we enter too deeply into their psychological space they may become physically ill, they may experience dizziness, nausea, headaches, or worse symptoms as a consequence of just talking with us.

Trying not to crap your pants when your bowels suddenly spasm without warning is a sure-fire way to distract yourselves in order to avoid listening to anything more we may try to say to you.

Of course, reciprocally, you have the power to make us ill with what you say as well.

Perhaps worst of all, we have the power to make ourselves ill enough that we must stay at home and can never come near nearly anyone else whom we also might make ill.

And, of course, our girlfriend and our room-mate are both sick of us.

Our girlfriend Tina is our prisoner, she is trapped here, she is condemned to live with us even though we make her sick and even though she makes us sick as well.

We wish it could be different; alas, given how things are, it seems inevitable Tina may someday choose to leave us, quite possibly by killing herself.

Perhaps she will be kind enough to kill us first.

So why should she kill herself?

And why should she kill us first?

Love.

We sincerely love Tina; we sincerely believe Tina sincerely loves us.

Alas, Tina appears to be powerless to stop herself from hurting us; as nearly as we can tell, we may be equally powerless to stop ourselves from hurting her.

That’s really fucked up, but it is also true.

This is not exactly another paradox, but well… you know… it is just how things really are.

Tina has forbidden us to kill ourselves or to die before she dies, so maybe Tina will be unable to kill us, and may only kill herself instead.

So why should Tina kill herself?

Well for all the best reasons, of course.

Too much pain, too much despair, too little hope, too little joy.

We are Tina’s joy, sometimes.  But too often we are her pain.  Tina has lots of pain, so perhaps we are not all of Tina’s pain, but we are Tina’s world, so our pains are her pains, and we are in a lot of pain.

And because Tina is our world, all of Tina’s pains are our pains, so we are in even more pain.

But were we in even more pain before we ever met Tina?

Before we met Tina we were in enough pain that we might have killed ourselves again.

We like dying, it hurts like hell, but it gets our soul clean for a little while, we can feel well for a few passing, pleasant eternities before once more returning to our stinking, belching flesh and carrying on our earthly duties once again.

Our deaths are good, but we must always return to the pains of our lives and pick up whenever, wherever , or whoever we were when we last left off.

Think of it as a sort of ‘no-littering’ ordinance; we are forbidden to leave our corpses strewn all across the various multiverses in which we have once more died again.

We must eventually, always reanimate every life we ever leave.  (This may be true for you too…)

So why is Tina trapped?  Can’t she move on without killing herself?

We do not want Tina to leave us; we believe Tina does not want to leave us.  Alas, neither of us may be able to love the other without either hurting themselves or hurting each other.

We cannot speak to Tina without causing her to harm herself; by causing Tina to self-harm, we consequently cause harm to ourselves as well.

Nor can Tina speak with us without causing us to harm ourselves, and by harming ourselves cause us to harm her as well.

So the obvious thing to do is to leave, except that leaving would hurt too much, leaving would hurt so much that we both would rather die, regardless of who chooses to leave who first.

So far, this has been the best we can do with Tina, a person whom we might wish we could love more than any other.

So how can we do better?

We were hoping a therapist might help.

We tend to neither like nor trust men, so we generally prefer a woman counselor.  We do not want a male counselor who might try to prop up his own immoral chauvinist behavior by trying to make us a co-conspirator in his own sickening, culturally-acquired pet paradigms.

However, a woman counselor may terrify us because we are overly familiar with the sorts of arguments we might consider using to get Tina to leave us if we were Tina’s counselor.  We find it hard to believe that a woman counselor would not feel compelled to somehow side with Tina against us because we might appear to be some sort of threat to Tina’s welfare; a threat we might possibly agree exists, but for which we believe we can take little or no responsibility because the threat was programmed into Tina’s initial human operant conditioning, long before we ever met Tina.

Anyways…

We do not want therapy to become an adversarial game, and yet, it may be the case that all therapists must perceive their clients as adversaries; possibly, all patients must also see their therapists as adversaries as well.

Nevertheless, we believe we want help.

We do not want help returning to the fold, we do not wish to be a sheople.

We want help changing the entire world; we are pretty sure nothing less will really help us.

Of course, we could be wrong, but first you will have to convince us we are wrong, and we will not listen to you if you will not also listen to us.

Alas, modern therapy has no more time for listening; and yet, we are also so-very-tired of being told we must shut up.

We are aware that we sound like a lot of other people whom we have seen sequestered for the comfort of society.  It is easy to label us psychotic, schizophrenic, or worse.

You may call us any kind of crazy we may appear to be to you; you may call us a basket-case.

You may call us hopelessly insane and walk away from us feeling justified that your compassion would only be wasted on us because, in your own smug opinions, we must either be genuinely crazy or even worse, we might be willfully mad.

We might admit we might be willfully mad, but if so, then we would say that we might be willfully mad with a purpose; we are determined to become well.  Alas, as we see matters, our madness provides the only doors through which we may begin to seek any cures.

Once you understand why we are mad you may become mad too; this may make us seem like a threat to you unless, perhaps, you know yourselves to be similarly mad already.

We are delighted to take that risk, the question is, do you have enough faith in yourselves to join us in our madness and possibly help us heal our pain as well as your own?

If not, then perhaps you could at least please help us to find someone braver than you, someone more compassionate, someone more willing to risk exceeding the limits of their own self-destructive self-interests.

We have a lot to say, all of which may be relevant not only to healing ourselves, but to healing all of yourselves and the entire collective human races as well.

In a toxic world, we make you sick by reminding you of how you are making yourselves sick. 

When you can no longer tolerate the sickness already inside yourselves you may blame us for bringing your sickness to your attention; you may and abandon us to our own pain, confusion, and despair rather than continue to the root of the problem in order to try to learn to heal it.

The entire world is lethally toxic.  You can only rely upon defense mechanisms based upon denial; ignoring any possibility of escaping your plights because you have learned to believe that you are powerless to change them.

We remind you that parts of yourselves still want to stop all the pain, and worse, that you really do still feel helpless to do so.

We remind you that in your despair you have wanted to kill yourselves.  We remind you that you still have no reasons to hope for anything better than your favorite mind-numbing games of bread and circuses.

We remind you of how much you still want to find something better within yourselves; and yet, you cannot seem to stop yourselves from continuing to make matters worse.

No amount of paint on your houses will fix the toxic wastes coming from our paint factories.

It’s time to make less paint, but you are so addicted to keeping up your fabulous, white-washed appearances that it appears as if you might really rather die first, even if, by carrying on in your self-destructive ways, you risk killing everyone else as well.

Shame on you, shame on all of us.

Stop whitewashing unbearable truths, stop hiding away from truths that may only be changed with the courage to finally face up to them.

What false, toxic, truths might be better bared?

Whatever you may already believe, for starters.

All mokitas must finally be spoken…

Are you game?

You are already infected, you were infected before you ever met us, your initial human operant conditioning was an inevitable, socially-transmitted infectious process; now you must learn to change your programming, your own most precious survival depends upon it.

So let’s begin…

Just the Same by Gentle Giant…
(we chose this version for the vocalist’s superficial resemblance to Alina, wait ’til you see the credits, spooky do…)

Enjoy!

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al., ad absurdum, ad infinitum…

TinYAP 030 — Doubt, Doubt, Our Fevered Minds Shout

We live in pain every day, physical, emotional, and psychic torments that we can never escape from except through the machinations of the puppets in our minds…

There are those terrible days when our entire world can melt away to reveal another world, a world in which we appear to have been locked away in some phantasmal mental hospital for the past 30 years or more, a world in which none of what we may believe we have perceived can be trusted to be real.

Too often, the more we consider such a possibility the more likely it seems to become.

If we really can allow no one to be real to us, then perhaps we can escape the inevitable pain that must result from our relationships with anyone and everyone we love.

How can we really know?

We are afraid to approach anyone we once knew who might know what really happened in our past; albeit even if they did seem to know, could we trust them to be informing us correctly?

When Alina died it seemed as if we died with her.

Of course, we might have been in a world of trouble long before we ever met Alina.

… sometimes we must wonder if Tina or Kelly has ever wondered whether Alina ever really existed?

On the one hand, it is only reasonable for any of our lovers to wonder about someone they could never know; on another hand our speculation might be some effort on our parts to uninvent Alina in order to distance ourselves from the pain of losing her, pain that might return with each new person we fall in love with.

On another hand we might be trying to distance ourselves from our fears that we may really have somehow killed Alina.  Perhaps she never killed herself, perhaps we killed her instead.

We can no longer be sure what is real, however as we listen to the story of ‘Shutter Island’ the portrayal of the protagonist’s extreme mental disorder feels very real to us and very personal to us as well, particularly in a metaphorical sense.  Shutter Island is a very scary story, particularly for anyone who might resemble a solipsist psychotic, such as we must sometimes consider ourselves to be, at least, in parts of ourselves.

For some 36 years now, Alina’s ghosts have stood like spectral shadows over all of our relationships, even with our newest girlfriend, Tina.

We have tried to consider this problem from Tina’s points of views.  Tina must choose what to believe and what not to believe with regard to what we may say about our past, there is no one Tina can go to who can reliably confirm or deny anything we may have said about our past.

Tina must answer disturbing questions such as ‘why do we have so few friends?’

Tina must ask why are our relationships with our past families so poor?

Tina must wonder why do our ex or our former step-children want nothing more to do with us?

There are no good answers to these questions that do not lead to finding us somehow suspect or unwholesome.  How can Tina ever be sure we were never a murderer or something worse?

It becomes possible for us to sometimes feel as if we have somehow murdered everyone we have ever loved.

Certainly we have murdered them in a metaphorical sense, in the sense that our relationships with the people we have most loved have all become so seriously estranged that we cannot relate to anyone we have ever loved without hurting both our loved ones and ourselves.

Our consistent isolation from our families, friends, peers, and various societies, have eroded our senses of who we may be, we have lacked any clear, reliable, externally sourced definitions of whom we may be that we may trust.

We have become a non-person, a tabula-rasa, a monster.

We naturally wish to believe we are a harmless, innocuous person; someone safe to introduce to your children, someone welcome to babysit them and tell them stories.

Of course, our apparent mental health issues may seem to rule out the possibility of such an innocent occasion ever arising with many people.  We cannot even be sure if we are someone we would trust with our own children, were we ever to have any.

We had told ourselves that we should never have children; then, in the nineties, we married into a ready-made family against all of our own best advice to ourselves, because we were lonely and had always wanted a family with kids.

We had a semi-idyllic life, half heaven, half hell; a life we could not sustain, a broken life we still could not heal.  So we hurt our wife and kids and eventually left them.

But before we left them, we learned to want to have our own kids, we learned that other parents are just as messed up as we were, if not worse.

So why shouldn’t we have kids?  Were we really protecting our kids from ourselves by never allowing them to be born?  Or would our children decide that the gifts of their lives were worth whatever prices we might later extract from them?

Are we grateful for our own lives and all the pain that has ensued?

Mostly we haven’t been very grateful; but then, one day everything changed for the better.

So how do we get back to those better days again?

Today we still hurt.

Today we wish we could hold Alina in our arms again to wash away all the hurtful things that have transpired from that terrible day she hanged herself until now, and still save all the best things in between, like Tina, Sid, our pets, and Megan.

So that is what we shall do, it may not have happened like that today, it may take us many eternities to get to that particular day, but there is nothing else we would rather do more.

It will happen that way, though we drag everyone we know through hell to get there.

It may be that we shall simply disappear one day; if so, we will not be found; just ask our ex, she complained that one day we stopped coming home, that the person walking through our door had become a stranger to her, someone she never loved and never would love.

We are sometimes sorry we are like that, but we do not yet know how to deliberately, agreeably, or decisively, change ourselves, nor do we trust that anyone else knows how we may somehow successfully change ourselves any better than ourselves.

We live in a scary state of affairs where whatever still passes for realities these days continues to erode away all around us.

C’este la vie…

Enjoy!

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al., ado…

TinYAP 029 — Mind Control, Vigilantism, Bullying, Ostracism, Loneliness, Pain, Dehumanization

Torch-bearing villagers chase a monster through the dark night…

This is a scene from numerous horror movies; collectively, this scene becomes the most memorable, the most graphic, the most instructive message of the genre.

What does this scene teach us?

Perhaps the most important message is that there are times when it is socially acceptable to hunt monsters, and to hunt as a pack, as a mob of blood-thirsty avengers.

Nevermind whether fire-brandishing mobs misunderstand the monsters whom they hunt, monsters who may deserve more sympathy and compassion for who and what they are.

Mob justice was a more common phenomenon in ages past, particularly when there was little or no law to guide the hands of justice as a mob’s eager hands lynch some poor person trapped amidst the crimes of a community that lie in wait for some anonymous stranger to appear in their midst and be branded the villain of their crimes in order to satisfy the terrible fear, anger, and tension of an isolated village.

Supernatural causes for the disappearances of children and loved ones have also explained away the crimes of villains who hide as wolves among sheep and who manipulate events to shift the burden of their guilt toward whomever is hapless enough to make themselves a likely decoy to draw justice away from themselves.

The encroachment of law and order upon these communities, the shrinking of the distances between villages that have outgrown themselves, the appropriations of justice by church and state that tolerate little or no competition within their jurisdictions have all diminished the regular arisal of mob justice that might once have dominated many, most, or even all human communities.

However, mob justice accomplishes what the laws of god or man sometimes cannot; mob justice is sometimes still a useful tool by which to prosecute and punish some of the monsters that dare to prey on our communities.  Consequently, we must find ways to teach successive generations to accept and to participate in mob justice, albeit there may still be little or no real justice to it at all.

Remember…

The village was small, the sentries posted along the roads at night could keep no order within, each householder must keep order for themselves as best they could each night.

Around the burning embers of fires that have been banked for the night children and adults gather for stories told with chores.  Mending and whittling, weaving or fletching, there was always work for idle hands, and there were always willing hands ready to find mischief as well.

Unruly children eager to explore were a potential threat to any family or community, a threat often kept in check by adults eager to make some mid-night mischief of their own.

Fathers frightened their children if they ventured out alone in the dark, stalking them, preying upon their innocence and trust.

It was a father’s duty to keep their children home; a wayward child might be accused of any sort of mischief if they were seen away from home alone.  Nevermind if the accusations were ever true, if ammounting allegations against a child accused of criminal mischief could not be disproved they would harm the standing of the child’s family in their community.

Of course, much mischief could always be freely perpetrated in some adventurous child’s name.

Consequently, a child who would not obey, who would not stay in their home at night, was a liability.

A good father might simply lurk in the dark and pretend to be a fiend or ghoul or wolf or bear. Their wayward child would be duly frightened; or if not, something worse would happen, perhaps a scolding or a spanking.

A cruel father might not bother with any foolery, they might simply beat their wayward child black and blue to instill the necessary fear that would keep them safely at home minding their chores and lores.

And of course, children who escaped their parents rule at night might meet far worse fates than their fathers’ wrathful warnings.

Many unsuspected people might stalk the night with malign intents.

After all, everyone had some business in the night, business that might leave them without useful alibis or without their constant vigilance within their own homes.

Loose talk in taverns helped many criminals find their victims, victims that included a mark to frame for their crimes.

Any stranger passing through might do as a diversion for a mob misdirected by their own collective guilt over their own secret crimes, crimes that various mob member may hope to lay at the feet of a stranger silenced by a noose and then condemned with planted ‘evidence’.

Later…

We remember the voices of our bullies, some of whom were really shouting with their fathers’ voices, chiding or abusing us with the same words they learned at home, words used to hurt them, words which our bullies transformed into words with which they empowered themselves to hurt us in their places.

Imprinting…

If we had had more close family and friends we might have learned to imprint on other people more successfully.  If it takes a village to raise a child, then it is because a child must be imprinted upon a broad spectrum of people to gather a healthy range of values, skills, morals and good behavior.

As communities outgrow their village sizes the people of a community grow too numerous, trust breaks down, children must become more isolated by fear and change from a healthy range of human contact.

Anyways…

We grew up alienated from our family, we grew up with few friends. We learned to flee from the people we loved the most. We learned to be afraid of anyone we hoped to be friends with. We learned to abandon any hope of ever fitting in with family, friends, or any other communities of people.

Is it so strange we feel so alone and tormented today, even when we are held in the warm embrace of our girlfriend, Tina?

Is it so strange that we must contemplate how our relationship with Tina must end?

We do not want Tina to leave us, but it must seem to Tina, at times, as if we have already abandoned her.

We do not want to hurt Tina, but we hurt everyone we love; we do not see how it is possible not to hurt anyone we love. We must believe that Tina must choose to leave us because we cannot be the person she once loved.

This frightens us terribly, how can we change this awful prognosis?

We can scarcely speak to Tina without hurting her, and yet our silence is another punishment Tina must bear if we hold our tongue.  And it seems we must hold our tongue or else we will somehow lash her with our tongue without ever meaning to.

But oh! Far worse when we deliberately speak in ways we know must hurt her.

We are a person who has been broken out of the world of human societies.  Perhaps we broke ourselves free, perhaps we were outcast, perhaps we simply slipped through the cracks and gaping chasms of some insufficient interest in our welfare.

We were raised by monsters to become a better monster.

We eat bitter meals from violated altars, accepting a faceless form of charity stolen from communities that cannot otherwise succor us among themselves.

We might seem to have been tamed by our own timid needs, but we cannot be included; we remain wild, a creature without solace, with no kind amongst whom we may find a home where we may feel we truly belong.

We hate this life, and yet, we must also love it, because it is the only life we know.

We cannot join anyone in simple pleasures.

Going to a movie is a torment; visiting a park is a pain.

There is nowhere we may go where we do not feel the knives of our alienation more deeply thrusting through our anguished, broken hearts by seeing other people, people who seem safely embedded in their tidy lives, lives we cannot find ourselves included amongst, even when we are warmly made welcome.

Perhaps we should have taken someone hostage.

Oh wait, we have done that before, we have done that many times.

We see how other people hold themselves hostages, we have seen how other people hold others hostage as well.

Taking hostages is a time-honored tradition, even a duty, albeit a duty we have tried to shirk from.

Were we able to adequately imprint upon and bond with other people we might be able to participate in the hostage games being played out all around us without any qualms, our misgivings swept aside by our societies’ and cultures’ willfully blind dependence upon holding everyone hostage.

If we refuse to be a hostage then we become a hostage to our own refusal, we become a hostage by our ostracism, a hostage to the social isolation that results from our failures, and worse, from our refusals to play the game.

If this is not yet another paradox, then this is still just how things really are.

It is a good thing we cannot kill ourselves, for otherwise we surely would.  Alas, our commitment to life is more like a lunatic’s commitment to an asylum.  We may be locked away forever with only ourselves for solace.

We hurt.

Are we mad to choose to believe we may still find any relief from our pain?

We are terrified of making friends and yet we must always still hope to find them.

Must we always hurt others in response to our own pain?

Enjoy!?

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al, ad absurdum, ad nauseum…

PS
The antagonists and protagonists of today’s horror shows are becoming increasingly confused, such that it is easier to be more sympathetic toward the monsters and more judgmental of their victims.  This might be a good trend, except that the solutions to the problems portrayed in their stories remain violent and too often still rely on dehumanizing the characters their audiences are being directed to admonish.
Please remember, all the heroines and villains of our horror shows and legends are metaphors for human beings; when we are taught to believe in the inherently evil natures of any group of people, whether they are portrayed by zombies, vampires, lycans, animals, or aliens, all of our heroes, villains and monsters are also always ourselves.

TinYAP 028 — Its a Fey, Fey, Fey, Fey Realm

Welcome to some different ways of seeing nearly everything…

We have been trying to explain how the solar system looks from our points of views since 1982 or so… Let’s start by considering the planets… We’d like you to forget them, your concepts of planets are most likely considerably different from our own.

For instance, you are likely to think nearly 7 billion earthlings live on one planet, however, as we see it, each person has their own planet called earth.

Seven billion planet earths do not collide because each one exists in marginally different dimensions, in their own unique groups of parallel universes.

You do not really need planets, a planet is just a concept that rolls up various bits of the worlds collectively called the realm of earth into smaller, more discrete, more distinctly isolated packages,

It’s the isolation part that is important.

We ask you to forget the planets because they are parts of your childhoods, instructional toys, ways of thinking and perceiving that must be outgrown when it becomes time to become an adult.

A planet is sort of like an egg or a chrysalis.  It’s just something to support you until you are ready to support yourself.

Planetary entry regulations are pretty strict; entry procedures are sometimes brutal.

Anyone wanting full physical access to an earthly planet has some limited choices.

One, they can go find a likely couple, encourage them to copulate, get them pregnant, and then ride their baby in.  Voila!  You are born!

Or, they can look for people experimenting with astral projection and ride in with them.

Or they can find someone who is away from their body due to trauma, injury, disease, or death and ‘borrow’ their body until they return (they always do, eventually or more immediately).

Of course there are a few other ways, but those are either incorporeal, resemble demonic possession, or require some sort of ship.

Any sort of astral ship might do if you do not mind an incorporeal visit, however there are ships capable of physically corporeal visits, albeit they may travel through alternate dimensions to arrive on any planet earth they hope to visit.

By staying out of phase with whichever worlds they are visiting, visitors’ ships remain in an incorporeal state relative to their worlds or planets of observation.  Because there is a minimum of 1 planet earth per earthling, a spaceship can harmonize with the planet earth specific to whichever earthly humanoid they wish to interact with, such that only that ‘individual human’ perceives their visitors; the visitors’ ship remains out of synch with any other nearby humans and may be entirely invisible to them, or may be only partly visible, appearing as a sort of transparency or  ‘blur’.

There are really an infinite array of planets per person, but these may be considered collectively such that any iteration that is contacted may be considered representative of the whole for initial contact purposes…  Contactees may need to adjust their self-perceptions to allow themselves a broader range of contexts whereby they may attempt to perceive their visitors more clearly.  Fey visitors transcend many earthling self-limitations, sort of like grandparents coming to visit and breaking their own children’s’ rules for their grandchildren.

But we did say forget planets, so let’s really try to wipe them off the slate a bit more clearly.

Our ways of seeing the solar system make the solar system resemble an onion.

We see a deeply layered single-layer system of flowing vapors that are extra-dimensional to any of the worlds they become parts of, but which become momentarily dimensional in context to each successive world they ‘pass-through’.  During their dimensional appearances these vapors interact with each other, coming together to make aggregate forms that momentarily exist as sub-atomic particles supporting larger aggregates that form atoms, molecules, etc.  The ‘base’ elements are constantly shifting in and out of their aggregate matrices, moving on from one world to the next, adopting a new identity in each new aggregate form.

<think chords on a taut string><think vibrations running up and down the length creating interference patterns such that the vibrations are more or less intense at different points along the length>

These vapors flow outward from the sun, in dense waves, and inward from the stars in ‘sparser’ rays.

All the space around the sun is inhabited, it isn’t at all like the space commonly described as a vacuum around planet earth.

The space described around planet earth is an illusion, there is no vacuum.

Empty space simply does not exist.

All space is inhabited.

Space requires inhabitants to exist (space cannot exist without inhabitants who create it), sentient, sapient inhabitants.

Each world is like a layer of an onion, each layer has an adjacent layer closer to the center, and another adjacent layer further from the center.

These layers are very thin, in one sense, just what you see, really, with no more substantiality than a morning mist, a bit of fog, or a cloud.

What appears to be atmosphere on the sunward side of any world is soil, rock, rivers, and oceans belonging to the worlds above you, worlds in layers nearer to the sun.

What appears to be solid ground, mountains, lakes, and streams is thin air, mists, clouds, or fog to the beings in the worlds below you, underworld layers further from the sun.

The sun shines through all of these layers very clearly because each layer is very nearly insubstantial. 

All of this is a product of the collective consciousness of all the people living in the solar system and beyond.

A planet is a sort of individualized collection of samples of life from many different places, a sort of minimum life support package.

A planet has a finite useful time, long enough to get its owner to the next stage of their development or evolution; any individual reaching this stage becomes ready to emerge from their chrysalis and become a member of a larger world, a fey world.

To their inhabitants, planets may seem quite substantial, however nothing physical has very much substance at all.  All ‘matter’ is composed of mostly very empty space, except that space is never really empty, it only appears empty because the elements occupying what appears to be empty spaces are out of tune with the music that maintains whatever world the empty region appears to be a part of.  Each ‘element’ resonates with its own tune, and also with the tune it is following.  As the tunes merge into a single tune the element comes into phase, replacing some other element that is slipping out of phase.

The phased in element briefly carries the tune of whatever world or planet it becomes a part of, then it slips out again to be replaced by another element, in a constant stream of elements.

As full of bowels and organs, muscles and tissues as your bodies may appear to be, every part of you is really only vapor thin, all of your various parts achieve just the minimum degree of substantiality required to briefly be a part of you before moving on to be parts of another you, or possibly, someone else.

Your bodies are constellations of vapor particles that briefly resemble what you imagine yourselves to be before becoming other parts of other bodies.

Your bodies are more vast than you might imagine.  Your bodies consist of entire universes of support systems.  Your bodies include your planets or worlds, and everything you can observe within them and beyond them, all the way out to the furthest stars or deep into the bowels of the sun and beyond.

With a mooned planet, each stargate is in constant motion, following the center of gravity of the system that creates gravitational tensions between the moons, planets, sun, and yourselves.

However, within any world (planets excluded), the stargate is directly overhead, in the sun.

A planetary stargate transports you directly into the sun and from there you proceed to the stars.  A worldly stargate takes you directly to the stars, but your transportation to the sun must be negotiated if you cannot find a planetary stargate for swifter passage.

Each of the layers closer to the sun is more heavily occupied and may also appear fortified.  Without the proper ‘visas’ or permits, you may not pass through.

If you carry conflict within you, then you will experience more constant war the closer to the sun you get.  You must be a fit warrior to make the sky journey to the sun, or else be a master wizard, mage, sorcerer, etc., adept with many spells and counter-spells.

Or you can be an exceptionally gifted diplomat, someone with a tongue of gold or silver, someone who can clearly speak into creation whatever they may imagine they require,

To approach the sun from any planet or world you must be a sort of sky-walker.

Since the ground below anyone’s feet is the atmosphere of the world below, a sky-walker may not only walk to the sun, but may also walk to the farthest stars.

Walking is a slower way to go, but a walker establishes way-points that make the return journey faster.  Establishing trade routes along the way takes even more time, but when you are an immortal who is aware of their immortality, time is a tool, not a constraint.

Of course, if you mess up and get yourselves killed, your trade routes may take some damage, depending on how quickly you can return to building them.  Some folks are just faster at returning to their lives than are others.  When you are fey you are responsible for yourself, you can carry around a huge planet if you are insecure or greedy, but if you prefer to be light on your feet, you learn to pull yourselves together on your own.

There is a sea of consciousness that surrounds the sun.  You can float on this sea and get where you need to go, or you can swim through the sea and hope you know your way, or you may build a ship to sail the sea and get lost a whole lot faster.

Of course if you have way-points, signs, or stars to guide you, you might not get lost trying to return to your business quickly.

And, of course, when you return to your business, your body may appear to be occupied or defended; it may appear as if you may have to fight your way in before you are able to take the helm of whatever skin you were ‘last’ wearing when you died.

Whatever affinities you may have with your body may give you an edge when dealing with any intruders, so it is usually a good idea to build strong relationships with your bodies, relationships that are not easily broken by pain, anguish, apathy, or despair.

Pain, anguish, apathy, despair, and other so-called ‘negative’ feelings or emotions are weapons.  Every creature has them as parts of their arsenals, however some folks, species, or races of people are more adept than others at wielding these weapons or defending against them.

Anyways…

there are many avenues in and out of most worlds, avenues leading to other worlds and also to the stars…

What might be called ‘space’ folds.  Every star becomes superimposed upon every other star.

In this manner every star-system occupies the same ‘space’.  All the intrepid voyagers between the stars can find stellar ambassadors from all the far-flung stars by travelling within their own worlds.  These ambassadors can grant a traveler access to their worlds that may be faster than traveling to them by sky-walking to the sun or stars.

There is one other short-cut worth mentioning.

Your heart.

In your own unique center of gravity, the very core of your being, you have the power to transport yourselves to even the farthest stars.

However, your heart must be at peace to enable this power.

The degree to which your heart is tarnished by pain, fear, anger, or other elements of internal, spiritual conflicts with yourselves will limit which worlds and star-systems you may travel to.

Each of you are, all of yourselves, are all stars, your stars fold over one another in space to become suns; your suns are superimposed upon one another so that you have only to look up on the dayside of any world you visit to see the source of all your own strength and power.

Space has always been folded such that all points coincide with all other points hyper-dimensionally through a property described as entanglement in quantum physics.

What appear to be all of the far-flung stars of creation are closer than a voice gently whispered in your ear.

Are you listening yet?

We still owe you a clearer picture of how planets are superimposed, such that people may interact with one another and believe they share a single world together with everyone else.

Enjoy!

Love, Grigori Rho Gharveyn,
aka Greg Gourdian, Falcon, Chameleon, Roger Holler, etc., et al, ad absurdum…