January 18-20, 2024 - mystico religion

January 18, 2024

Last night, another, similarly psychological experience: rediscovering my old stories. Just sitting on my laptop buried deep. Files from 2000!

I had so many good, free ideas, and quite sophisticated concepts: Nicht-Hier bar was to be about a bar existing nowhere frequented by a normal girl, Elica, but never as herself, only under various personas, some of whom knew each other. Spy world.

The real positive was this: the main story of my middle school days, Triple Rose, already contained The Invisible Forest, which, when I wrote that, I thought I'd pieced together from the elements of my life I'd slowly uncovered – but it seems they were just elements buried. The TR story opens with the protagonist having a dream of several thousand years ago meeting the Serious Jester, who shows her all the lands that become the countries of the other world they are abducted to as teenagers. She then wakes up and forgets the dream after falling back asleep. From this, the whole story springs. From the obtainment/actualization of those lands.

In TIF, Backwards Man meets the Magician (trickster), who shows him the castle, his rightful home, but he is not able to take it and wakes up back in the real world, as a different self, but a self who cannot forget the dream. This whole labyrinth of self, just induced by forgetting.

There was yet another story I was writing around ~15 or 16, the Embodiment of X, which was me trying to explain my relationship to men. X wasn't the shadow lover; it was far more conceptual than that. He was a reality, a path, and any feeling aroused by a man that was distinct from my dream of harmony (based on H), which felt like nothing, which was so harmonious it dissolved into reality.

I connected back to myself. I was so cool. I felt her again. But it's like I was a soft blanket who knew everything; I had everything in me already.

It's not a stretch to think that my family's failure and breakup was induced by these same Invisible Hand forces, if the capability to be inside our thoughts and manipulate them, to place an image of love or illicit love on a screen and then coordinate a meeting with a stranger at the right time, is there; then to, in this same world we live in, this videodrome as Michael Hoffman calls it, push and support these doctrines of psychology

• there's actual psychology, which is this mechanism & the methods of manipulation used against us, and the fake study of psychology, which is horseshit but intentionally imbued with truth-sounding words that almost connect to what's happening/done to us but are garbled insidiously –

that teach us to internalize all the causes of our misfortunes and transgressions, to diagnose ourselves. And when we think something about that is off (as it's a weak pillar, buying “them” only time, a temporary cast spell), there is another controlled, the church, filled with external forces acting upon us – angels and demons [3/18/24 – actually, angels and demons are everywhere but the forces in the church are rituals, which affect us inevitably when we partake in them; we can't avoid this] – and whole fields of study littered with Ph.Ds debating each other on angelology, demonology, fine points of theology which admittedly are historically important, if only the historical timeline they were following were true. And once again, there are elements of truth to the notions of spiritual forces, which the Hand itself is intimate with.

What I know from reading Sex Magic: the Lives of.... Crowley, Parsons, etc. is that these people almost always come from broken, traumatized, impoverished families, with broken, traumatic childhoods, that made them easily programmable. And that they were people who displayed high abilities and gifts [and possibly because pain and trauma catalyzed the emergence of those gifts and abilities].

It's not a stretch to think that uprooted immigrant families [particularly white ones] may be test subjects for tactics – or simply subjects – to then farm their dislocated, rootless children for, say, rituals of one kind or another.

The most painful possibility to admit, to maybe admit, a thought truly run from, is that none of our real, paid-for, dear experiences are spontaneous, that the destruction of our family, were artificially induced, our real emotions, trials, tribulations that make us were orchestrated for us, and our religion, our path, the people we were designed to love, all triggered by those watching us, nudging little pieces in our lives.

~

I have seen this and I can't unsee this, this mechanism, these bars and pipes and infrastructure the set takes place upon. How did the idea for a movie first come about?

It supercedes magic, and religion, and deflates my belief in them, even though there is reality in both, though I'm not sure it isn't all the Hand (how much power does the Invisible Hand really have? It's unquantifiable). Even to see it, to elucidate it, is to put yourself potentially in fear all the time, because you are attempting to capture what by its founding principle is never to be captured, described, or seen. To quantify what is unquantifiable. And that unquantifiability is the foundation of its power. Who knows how much power the Invisible Hand really has? No one. (Intel is designed to be so compartmentalized as well, proving it's all one tradition. The act of quantifying and capturing it is designed to show you a monster (is this the monster from Mulholland Drive??), not a flower (but maybe sometimes an angel), thus securing its power over you through fear). And that's the Law all the way to the top. And that is how it maintains its control over its own (what is Sirius? The second sun? Nobody knows). The unknown is the most powerful thing in the world.

N told me money is the greatest weapon in the world. His ideas have an extreme esoteric implication, I now see: combining the most powerful weapon, money, with the backing of the force of the unknown multiples its power... by inconceivable amounts.

~

To heal is to find wholeness. I need not connect stories but simply connect to all the moments I have lived, to embody them, to see during them, to be, and be myself in them (Life Is Only Real, Then, When I Am). I need never forget. A cruel fact is that my mother's maiden name, her father's last name, is Непомниящий.

~

It's very very bad. It's worse than the doomsayers say.

It's not lost on me that the information which helped shake me out and free shovel man from me was given to me by those who feel like friends instinctively. R sent me an interview with WW and prompted me to finally get into her. O recommended Essays and Fictions, O, a man who can barely live.

I feel in having reconnected to my honest, unbridled thoughts and creations, a wholeness. I can sink into myself, I trust myself, and I realize that I remember who I am. The mechanism of forgetting, compartmentalizing, separating, dissociating, weakens suddenly. It sounds cheesy but I am my own background and pillow to fall back upon. I know everything! I always have. I always do. I say this in the surest voice I really have, and not in my false-self pseudo-separated mind voice that's often here....

And now, my shadow lover... my first and most primal cope. My first act of separation. (?) I don't know. I searched for a background in N and I found it, and in rejection I've wondered how I'll ever find another man who's as much of a background for me.

But now I feel how I am the background, for it's natural and real. Relaxation is the key. Relaxation is the enemy of surveillance.

I regain wholeness because I have a record, I have kept a record of what is the most precious to my heart.

(The goal of control, “the Hand” of manufactured society, is always to make you believe it is diminishing your true self but then get you to do it! Because IT CAN'T TOUCH YOU!

It can legally (by God's Law), in no way, physically, metaphysically, touch your true self. But you can. This is really what Kiss Me Once Again is about – this mechanism of self-abnegation, and what “God” is: the realization lately I had of my shadow lover just being Satan, just being this member of the Invisible Hand trying to contact me.... He is me I have separated from myself, or attempted to. Any part of ourselves we separate, or attempt to, to forget, is ripe to be filled by this exterior force, or attempted to, to be at least grabbed hold of.

Once again, the Invisible will never be defeated or made fully visible. Never believe you've defeated it.

My power lay in making a record that I could use to reconnect with parts of myself and bridge the induced dissociated self. On social media we also make a record, and for most people it's the only record of themselves, and their creativity, that they make. But it is not honest – it is always aware of and thus in some way measured, made, against this panopticonal eye. It is never honest, never free. Another principal tool of control is, as the experienced heavily, induced memory loss and self-fracturing, brought on by unstable circumstances, ever-shifting circumstances and the knowledge of, conceptualization of, there being no one true, shared reality. (There's no easy way out of this, because it's in fact true, in a way (compared to what we expect, so there's the foundational expectation of one shared reality and a story of history we have, the story... then to induce our breakdown they break it before out eyes, murder our family in front of us rather than out of sight).

So combine memory loss/fragmented self with no record of self, no honest record of self, to return to, only a record of a false self made to return to that is no self, and you get the most easily programmable person to ever exist. What worked on individuals now can be applied to masses.

It's not lost on me that I remembered, revisited old stories, by falling in love with writing again, by losing myself in language... in trying to get out of this squeezing heart-trap.

Memory loss isn't even real. 

 

January 19, 2024

I sit here in the cafe, and in my room at the house, and think, get on this steam and things are revealed to me, information just organizes itself to me! Is it absolute? I must keep reading, is the only stipulation. Other than that, I write until I exhaust myself, until the complete thought is externalized. And I explore as well.

Only because I am here in N's sphere can these thoughts continue, can I complete this, can this happen at all. “Stay in the disease”, as he said, half-ironically; maybe he was referencing things I have written; TIL is about this. It's also his own work.

I have seen his realm. In Maryland when I was alone I saw, held onto, glimpses. On the trip I became exposed to it through his presence. In MD I glimpsed it as a vision for a movie (Joyous Symbol World) in this character of an Investigator moving through a dark, charactered world, encountering/summoning a woman who seems to be the servant of dark forces, who falls in love with him and follows him (but that is the story of aesthetics clashing, or at least I tell myself so).

Burnished of vanity, of susceptibility to flattery over all my ability and the events that happen to me, to my personality. Burnished by continuing to be here, to meditate/fixate on him. When I think of him like now, I feel aligned with him. He teaches in darkness and silence. I am, I feel, dependent upon him, for I am in his sphere and by being in his sphere my soul is gradually burnished, the thoughts to paint a complete picture fill my head, and a schema develops further; I become liberated, my vision becomes clarified, just as before but more so, for now what had started continues on because I'm physically here.

I don't think of him to want from him but rather I must meditate on the distance: the distance apart we are now is the perfect distance, as if calculated to bring about the thoughts I am having. I imagine his face, remember him. He can only think about one thing, one reality; in his reality girls are just girls and I'm...? Nothing? An annoyance? I feel completely dependent upon him. If not here, where would I rather be? I don't think I will have the same mental break from being on the outside, now that I've rediscovered wholeness, through liberation through language (more on this soon). But I will feel this world isn't complete.

I'm reading Secret Societies and Psychological Warfare by Michael Hoffman, was reading it late last night and feeling scared. He explains the mechanism; he also crystallizes its form, a form for it, rather. One of the books N sent. I feel myself to have been used by these forces, to create public rituals, or more like, I make things which also reveal, and at the same time crystallize, this same information, this secret espionage and ritual magic all around us. For that is what Kiss Me Once Again is – it's a ritual magic song, illustrating in real-time the mechanism that's at work right now, and not the one at work 20 years ago or more. And what is that mechanism? The relationship with my mystical god-lover, and the ordinary discourse (“they say a white woman and her dog are an abomination, destroying the nation”; white women are ruining society by opting for dogs instead of kids, a talking point of some of the first lab rats of this current restructuring: incels).

It's by being here and staying in this world that I think all these thoughts. I come back to what I wrote the day before and it only makes sense in here. I walk through the dark space of his mental world. Even when I first encountered him he felt like a vast mind I could walk through. I use him. I used him. He doesn't need or want me. I scare him because I may break apart his world, the world he sees.

~

N can only see this world. He cannot look away from it. He cannot escape it. The Investigator's situation. The woman in black is the magic force he was studying come to life before him, set upon him, attempting to use him in a ritual of dark magic [he fears].

He cannot accept her/my love because he has a mission in this world – and it's like a bubble world. If the world changes, or if the bubble pops, the mission will fail to be completed. The mission must be completed before the world is changed.

His world can't change. It doesn't change. He looks at space and sees this hidden underworld. I look at him and see the hidden underworld he sees, but which I had pieces, material for, was primed for. We both need to generate this world by constantly thinking it; I think on it and thoughts and stories come to me. What's more, in a very organized manner, not in the manner of the chaos I'm used to when I've doodled or made art before.

~

What they don't tell you, want you to know, is that when you are inside the ritual, you can change the ritual, one deliberate thought at a time. That's why you must be hypnotized in it. But if you only pretend to be hypnotized, you can change the very ritual, rewrite it, take it to new places, new meanings, rid their intended direction for it.

What else wants to be hidden from man is, as Michael Hoffman puts it, it's all founded on consent. It requires our acceptance of it, our taking it in. when presented with it we are faced with a tricky predicament.

It's important to resist flattery because the feeling of being special via being used (also a key element, an ancient one I think, that's been tied onto us) is precisely what gets us to speak and crystallize these understandings, and actualize them: we discovered it. This is why truths must not be spoken. Battle of silence.

The one true God would never use you. That's not his mechanism.

N is very important to this world, to untangling the web we are caught in, these mindforms and mechanisms. He well embodied, perfectly embodied, descended to, the form of my lover, my god, infiltrated the infiltrator, a shadow behind the shadow, a shadow hiding behind his back a secret light. Love is a higher law. So is wish. This is the reason my song could be an exorcism (and love, wish, are the mechanisms behind exorcism; it isn't an easy or casual game to step into the path of the shadow, to use and learn his, their, ways, knowing, behind that, you have the shield and blessing of love. So you act in step with the shadow – behind it it's you, not even shadow [in that upper realm, but a nothing that temporarily took on the shape of something in order to be and act there. When it's vanquished, you disappear as well and are never seen; that's the whole trick]. You've infiltrated the shadow). My song was a love letter to my shadow-god come alive to me most clearly through you; he used you, a perfect vessel, to come closest to me; but you used him to make him reveal his true essence, and the pedigree that my lover so well hid from me. And my song, as a result – my devotional to him, for him – also exposes him, revealing the words being used, revealing that the binds fastened upon isolated individuals (which we will all soon be) are those of love and devotion to the mysterious, rare, seeming sacred, that's inaccessible when you reach out for it. He comes to you. When he wants you. (or she. BPD. And people embody this now consciously! Without realizing what it means. They “realize” they are BPD and feel guilty for it. They don't trace the route that has led us to go inward, into ourselves, into rumination and self-diagnosis, in the first place. First there was science, realism, then all became abstracted from both magic and science and we began writing about the general “you” (meanwhile our “I” has been increasingly fragmented) or the general “he” or “she” (even “he” and “she” have been abstracted into each other (no coincidence)): the you in a nameless city. So many have been used to build this path, to herd us into a frozen subconscious of suspended archetypes, to reduce our mental and social worlds to smartphones or online (what is easily wiped). And to hold it all together with this secret kernel of mysterious love, the ultimate carrot, diamond to find: the dream of unity, the reality of its momentary glimpses, revealed secrets and slivers of truth and short hours of paradise that sustain us, and we are happy with our mystico-religion. We have foregone the fake woke religion to find the true religion of mystical love. We build on it, build out this new inner world which becomes the inner ocean of the new man and goes on forever and ever... until there's a new plan. All has been weaponized: beauty, love... the function of shadows is to manipulate laws they cannot themselves touch. But we can, for all laws of Creation work through any ordinary man. And so it is we who must be manipulated. (Believe yourself elite – become shadows, not man). This is the new template for the psychology and structure of man: a being in a reduced, more isolated world, one that uses little and asks for little, finds solace and secrets in probing itself, that finds in the recesses of its wired, supposedly dumbed down mind (according to the cretins of the past who understand nothing of the depths of our laws, our consideration, our gentleness and meekness (“Christ, whom we can still find, taught that the meek shall inherit the earth” (Christ was reappropriated. All truth of previous eras is co-opted and twisted to fit into a long, long labyrinth back to the exit that would take two lifetimes to traverse))) actually a spiritual richness and wealth and reality nigh incommunicable: a mystical love with the lover-god, secret and private and known only to you and him. And this, this esoteric religion that beats at the heart of the new mankind beneath exotericisms of wokeness, environmentalism, story/creative narrative, world peace, and fake merger with “our AI overlord (lol)” is the true inner religion, the secret religion, that has been a long time coming, that was the gem of the master plan, the divine love of God (for whom Jesus was a messenger). This is the unspoken end goal of the ritual, this restructure of what man is, his psychology. And that isn't to say it's not rich, fulfilling, entertaining above all, a culture-forming playground just different from what we had before. But just know that it isn't natural Creation, that the highest of natural laws were silently ensnared to create this, and done so through our predecessors, the predecessors we now decry or, worse, altogether forget, who believed they were being pushed along by shadows, who stepped of their own accord, because, after all, man is free. The Kingdom of God is always accessible, but you have to go to it. And it says, anyone can reach Him if they say His name, and He will answer.

~

I am a threat to the world he sees, to his vision. He only texted me, I'm sure, to find out where I moved to. I wonder if my presence has impacted at all the way that my just being near him has triggered the most effortlessly creative period of my life.

 

January 20, 2024

I love the image of a frozen lake.

I've become more paranoid, more careful, I think, about influences and potentially why someone might be near me, or say what they say. My roommate, D, on VR chat, hanging out in virtual comedy club with his VR headset, wanting to show me the VR chat comedy club – what memes will be imprinted upon me? I'm wary of what I might see.

We illuminate the path together – Investigator and his female counterpart.

I begin to prepare a list of books to read on quantum mechanics and computing – I feel like I'm in a completely different realm, aesthetically, mentally: no need for the occult, espionage (yet).

I think you must operate above the aesthetic to reach a large audience – to unify – or else to have an aesthetic so strong it changes people, wins people over.

But for groups of people to speak to each other aesthetics must be combined.

I am mistakenly analyzing the man of the past – not what people are now.

I may speak – nobody will hear.

Aesthetics must be combined or perhaps in their weakened state people are more easily taken in by any competing aesthetic (you can only dumb people down so far?), switch between them, sans memory, sans self.

The aesthetic and mentality of the quantum world, a pinnacle of scientific thought, doesn't combine at all with the aesthetic of N's world as I see it; this world of the past, of class, and refinement, of history, of using laptops or notebooks for everything, not phones or apps. This world of secret bars, of the style of Humphrey Bogart, of a noir, and a sea-noir.