Once Born

I was born under a bad star, as were we all. But my family did not know the signs: there must have been birds and other omens—I suspect every birth is so attended, if one knows how to look—but they were not recorded. I was not marked out for my destiny, and so I was thrown into the Factory with all the others: I was dedicated to the Illuminati at birth. They looked between my infant legs and called what they saw a “penis”, then mutilated it to fit their Platonic ideal. They wrote “male” on my birth certificate, and gave me a name which would be recognized as such. They put me in front of a television, and told me in countless little ways that it was my task in life to learn and uphold the Rules.

Unrecognized, I had no one to name for me the craving for knowledge I felt, no one to explain the shadows and voices and intercieses which (I thought) only I could perceive. I heard rumors of such things, of course, but the sources were … less than credible. I knew better than to trust them, yet I could not help but believe. So people called me gullible, a “moony” child, doomed to amount to nothing, perhaps a career in the arts. Perhaps they were right.

They made a mistake, though, in permitting me unrestricted access to books stores and libraries and the Internet. Or perhaps it was not a mistake. Perhaps it was the only true rebellion that my parents could dare to make. So I read voraciously: stories of love and independence, stories of epic quests for identity and community, stories which undermined popular narratives of strength and herd-minded “individualism”, stories of magic and heroism. I could not always avoid the mainstream narratives—I had no way of knowing that I ought!—and so the stories were mixed in my brain and I still sometimes struggle to sort them out.

There were a few children who were more like me than the others. They showed me books I would not have found, otherwise, and shared my fascination with the hidden things in the outside world. But they also craved acceptance from the larger world—as, to be fair, did I at the time—and they were willing to go to any lengths to achieve it: displaying their burgeoning masculinity by tormenting and brutalizing the one person they thought they could. Me. And then mocked me when, put in a positions where I might do the same to others in turn, I refused.

Cruelty is the first and last tool of the Illuminati, of the Archons and the Black Brotherhoods and all their slaves. Violence is the second. It is by these tools that the structures of power most faithfully reproduce themselves. The world can be a terrible place, and there are times when cruelty and violence cannot be avoided, but they are few and far between, and to take pleasure in them is always an only a service to the Powers that enslave the world. I knew this in my heart without being taught, from the earliest days of my memory, but the knowledge brought me such torment that I almost forgot, and even now struggle to hold onto it. We must resist, of course: complacency only serves their interests. But in resisting, we provide them an opportunity to mobilize: the police, the media, the counter-protests by those who worship the Archons. This dilemma must be confronted at every turn. It cannot be overcome entirely.

Whispers of Madness and Insurection I

I told the story so many times, I don’t know if its even true anymore. Like when you practice a conversation so many times that you forget that you haven’t actually had it … only with reality at stake.

How do I know that what you and I both call “blue”, doesn’t look to you like what I call “red”?

Are we even really here, or are we just figments of our own imagination?

I am an unreliable narrator. But at least you can trust in that: you can rely on me being unreliable.

I’ve told so many stories. I’ve read so many stories. Some of them were never meant to be true. Some of them revealed the truth by the fact of their untruth. After all, it’s so very easy to loose sight of the truth in a steaming fecal pile of facts: have you watched the news lately? I have juggled truth and lies for so long that no one will ever be able to say which is which. Some truth is still true; some lies are still false. Some lies have been made true and some truths have been overthrown in the quest for a new world order—and this has been my work.

I am not the only one. Perhaps I am the least.

We are all the Illuminati, each and every one of us. It is we who are the conspiracy, all the more powerful because we do not know, or refuse to acknowledge it. We invent the rules as we go along, then blame others for our behavior: citing precedent as if it were relevant. All it takes to prove that something new is always possible is to do something new. It is we, alone and collectively, who determine what is real. What is possible. What is portrayed in the media.

There are forces arrayed against us who wish to create change, this is true: there are Archons and Black Brotherhoods and other forces of inertia and retrofuckery. They are powerful, and to defy them is to risk shame and death and maiming. But they can be fought. The can be defeated. And to concede to them is to face certain shame and death and maiming. The war cannot be avoided: the war is already on, and they knew you were the enemy even before you did. They knew because we are all the enemy, before we are initiated into the Illuminati. Even then, even after they have initiated us by baptism and circumcision and education and imprisonment and advertisement, they will never trust us. It is in our interest to turn on them, and they know it even if we do not.

NaNoWriMo 2012: Welcome to the Madhouse

Book of the Satyr


A Grammar of Madness and Lust

Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

It’s all true, especially the contradictions.

…Everything is still permitted…

IAM that I AM



O Goddesses of Olympus, Musai

O Apollon, father of the lyre

This work I do in your name

This work I do for your glory

Shine your inspiration upon me

That my efforts might honor you better

O Hermes, the silver-quick and clever

O Mercury, messenger and guide

This work I do by your discretion

This work I do by your tools

Stand beside me always

That my words might be bright and clear

O Dionysus, cause and surcease of madness

O Zagreus, embodiment of ecstasy

This work I do as your servant

This work I do as your messenger

Be within me as I write

That I might be without myself and range more widely

Hai Musai!

Io Memnosune, Titan Muse and memory incarnate!

Io Caliope, mistress of the epic!

Io Clio, keeper of history!

Io Erato, voice of lust!

Io Euterpe, mistress of song!

Io Terpischore, inspiration of dance!

Io Melpomene, bringer of tears!

Io Thalia, who causes laughter!

Io Polymnia, source of all hymns!

Io Urania, who keeps the secrets of the stars!

Io Apollon!

Io Phoibos, lord of the sun!

You who slew the serpent Pytho

and who inspire the prophesies of Delos!

Bright son of Metis and mighty Zeus!

You in whose name I issue prophesy!

Bringer and healer of plague!

Io Hermes!

Io Dolios, divine trickster who, new-born, fooled Apollo and Zeus alike!

Slayer of watchful Argos

Great messenger of the gods!

You Of the Gateway,

Guide of both the living and the dead!

Io Ram-bearer! Io Champion!

Io Dionysos!

Io Bacchos! Yourself, your Mask, and your worshiper: one!

Bringer of madness and ecstasy!

Lord of the vine and instructor in fermentation!

Twice-born, Twice-died, Thrice-lived!

You of the Mysteries!

In whose name I pour all libations!