Sunday, November 30, 2008

Solus Negris

The Nomads or Black Popes of the Wastes
(By: Jay LeRoy.)

Saturday, November 29, 2008

From the Mouth of Scholars.

An Academic (P)Review of Akins' Lebor Feasa Runda.

An epic throw-down of actual academia versus blatant fraud. Or what looks to be blatant fraud (and probably is).

A bit of background on the author can humorously be found here.

For those interested in Celtic traditionalism they both seem a must read to me. It's not really my forte but it is a fascinating thing to see happening!

My applause goes to LJ-user Alfrecht for taking a stand.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Tonight's Considerations.

I find myself increasingly uncomfortable, or at least doubtful, in regards to people who believe in "The Truth" or even "a Truth" with respect to their spirituality. As to the latter, I can see some justice there; but it still seems to me that it's bred on faith rather than belief, and that faith is a subject matter which doesn't lend itself fully to magical exploration. While I can fully understand and appreciate Fr. RO, for example, for his beliefs and capacity as a magician and a Christian... Most others seem to end up rabid idiots who try to shove their "Truths" down the throats of others. And that's where my problems begin.

The second comments about "the right way to do things," or "the Truth underlying all things" comes up I find myself shutting them out as morons, which is no less dogmatic in a sense. At the same time, it always flies out of the mouths of fundamentalists and zealots and they ping my "crazy fuckers" meter.

The assumption that there is one, true way or one, true path seems to me limited. Even in a personal sense. While being connected to strands or ideas of fate can be comforting, they seem no less dangerous to me.

Especially when rival ideas or thought patterns enter the picture. It seems to me that Truth in a spiritual sense is a very pernicious thought pattern indeed, and I police myself to avoid it as best I can. Those that don't... well, they bother me.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Dionysian Atavisms

Now without adult content warnings!

Monday, November 24, 2008

Magick & Karma

“This idea of Karma has been confused by many who ought to have known better...

Karma does not work in this way at all. In any case moral fables have to be very carefully constructed, or they may prove dangerous to those who used them...

Karma does not act in this tit-for-tat way. An eye for an eye is a savage justice, and the idea of justice in our human sense is quite foreign to the constitution of the universe.

Karma is the law of cause and effect. There is no proportion in its operations. Once an accident occurs it is impossible to say what may happen; and the Universe is a stupendous accident.

We go out to tea one-thousand times without mishap, and on the thousand-and-first we meet someone who radically changes our lives forever.

There is a sort of sense in which every impression that is made upon our minds is the resultant of all the forces of the past; no incident is so trifling that is has not in some way shaped one's disposition. But there is none of this crude retribution about it. One may kill a hundred thousand lice in one brief hour at the foot of Baltoro Glacier, as Fr. P. once did. It would be stupid to suppose, as the Theosophist inclines to suppose, that this action involves one in the doom of being killed by a louse a hundred thousand times.

The ledger of karma is kept separate from the petty cash account; and in respect of bulk this petty cash account is very much bigger than the ledger.

If we eat too much salmon we get indigestion and perhaps a nightmare. It is silly to suppose that a time will come when a salmon will eat us, and find us disagreeable. On the other hand we are always being terribly punished for actions that are not faults at all. Even our virtues rouse insulted nature to revenge. Karma only grows by what it feeds on; and if karma is to be properly brought up it requires a very careful diet. With the majority of people their actions cancel each other out; no sooner is effort made than it is counter-balanced by idleness. Eros gives place to Anteros. Not one man in a thousand makes even an apparent escape from the commonplace of animal life.”

- Aleister Crowley, Magick in Theory & Practice.

“It's about time that we as magicians finally de-demonize this concept of karma and free it from this childish burden. If you punch some guy in the nose, the only "karma" involved is that the person's nose will hurt and that's all! The fact that he might punch you back is a secondary result of your victim's pain, or his anger about his own inability to recognize your aggressive intentions and move his head in time.

But better than the naive, ill-considered burden of the old guilt and repentance complex would be the psychological approach that propagates avoiding any kind of karma at all, otherwise it might lead to a moral conflict that could even go as far as to cause psychosomatic illnesses. In this sense, it would be psychologically a good idea to only do what you really believe in with your whole heart.”

- Fr. UD, High Magick: Theory & Practice.

Theosophical discourses on magick and karma are bogus, and always have been. Right/Left, Black/White worries for wankers who need the universe to love them because they did "the right thing."

Morals matter in magick because we make our own decisions, right or wrong, thus defining ourselves. But it's still a choice on the part of the practitioner; not some universe-instilled dogma dictated by higher sources. The wheel of Karma simply is. To Hell with the rest of the worries. This would is our playground; perceptual reality our tool. We do not desire to be free from the constraints of it's pains or horrors because they shape us, as we too can shape the world.

Love is the goddamn Law. Love under fucking Will.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

From the "Exile II" Pieces.

***

“The end of sorrow is come; I will ravish you away into mine unutterable joy.
I will kiss you, and bring you to the bridal: I will spread a feast before you in the house of happiness.
I am not come to rebuke you, or to enslave you.
I bid you not turn from your voluptuous ways, from your idleness, from your follies.
But I bring you joy to your pleasure, peace to your languor, wisdom to your folly.
All that ye do is right, if so be that ye enjoy it.
I am come against sorrow, against weariness, against them that seek to enslave you…
I have hidden myself beneath a mask: I am a black and terrible God.
- Aleister Crowley, Liber Tzaddi

“Abaoth! Abraxas! Pur! Put! Aeou! Thoth! Ee! Oo! Uu! Iao Sabaoth! Dogs of Hell! Mumble spell! Up! Up! Up! Sup! Sup! Sup! U! Aoth! Abaoth! Abraoth! Sabaoth! Livid, loath, Obey the oath! Ah!”
- Hermes, Liber CCCXXXV

“Professor Upham especially liked his demonstration of the kinship of higher mathematics to certain phases of magical lore transmitted down the ages from an ineffable antiquity - human or pre-human - whose knowledge of the cosmos and its laws was greater than ours.”
- H. P. Lovecraft, Dreams in the Witch-House

***

IAO! AIO! IAO!

Thou do I call upon, Akakêsios, divine harbinger, free from harm.
Thou do I call upon, Promakhos, mask of the victor unto whom enemies cannot overcome.
Thou do I call upon, Arkas, messenger and chief Daemon of all Daemons.
I invoke thee, Hermes Propylaeus, messenger of messengers!
Thou do I invoke, God of the Golden Sword, slayer of Gigante, swift-footed thief of the night and divine wanderer.


OIOSENDMIGADON ORTHO BAUBO NIOERE KODERETH DOSERE SYRE SUROE SANKISTE DODEKAKISTE AKOUROBORE KODERE RINOTON KOUMETANA ROUBITHA NOUMILA PERPHEROU AROUORER AROUER!

Thou do I call upon, Hermes Kyllenios! IAO! Divine child, descend!
Thou do I call upon, Hermes Polytropus, who art THOOUTH!
I know thy secret names and signs; descend upon me!

OIOSENDMIGADON ORTHO BAUBO NIOERE KODERETH DOSERE SYRE SUROE SANKISTE DODEKAKISTE AKOUROBORE KODERE RINOTON KOUMETANA ROUBITHA NOUMILA PERPHEROU AROUORER AROUER!

AIO! IAO! AIO!

I am thee, vessel and avatar; my feet swifter than the winds; before me upon the Gates of the Pit; for even Hecate kneels at my feet—I am thee, helper, hinderer; rogue and messenger of the Gods!

I am Hermanubis—the fox-face before the black courts of judgment and bringer of strange dreams, connection of the divine! I AM! I AM! IAO! I AM I AM! AIO! I AM! FOR BEHOLD: I OPEN THE PIT WITH THE KEY TO THE LOCK OF AGES!


***

From the Journal of “St.” Jack Faust: June 23rd, 2007. “Shadow.” wrote;


From the Papyri of Abaris (PGM III.502-536; 612-632, circa 350 CE):
1. Perform the rite of purification as seen fit.

2. Lay on your stomach and stretch your hands recite:

“Cause now my shadow to serve me, because I know thy sacred names and thy signs and symbols, and who thou art at each hour, and what thy name is.”

3. Stand and recite:

“In the first hour thou hast the form and character of a young monkey, the tree thou dost produce is the silver fir, the stone the aphanos, the bird the owl; on land, the ram—thy name is PHROUER.

In the second hour thou hast the form of a unicorn, the tree thou dost produce is the persea, the stone the pottery stone; the bird the halouchakon; on land the ichneumon—thy name is BAZETOPHOTH.

In the third hour thou hast the form of a cat, the tree thou dost produce is the fig tree, the stone is the samouchos; the bird, the parrot, on land, the frog—thy name is AKRAMMACHAMMAREI.

In the fourth hour thou hast the form of a bull, the tree thou dost produce is the olive, the stone is the amethyst; the bird the turtle-dove; on land, the bull—thy name is DAMNAMENEUS.

In the firth hour thou hast the form of a lion, the tree thou dost produce is the prickly shrub, the stone is the loadstone; the bird is the hawk; on land the crocodile—thy name is PHOKENGEPSEUARETATHOUMISONKTAIKT.

In the sixth hour thou hast the form of a donkey, the tree thou dost produce is the thorn tree, the stone the lapis lazuli; in the sea, the jellyfish; on land the white-faced cow—thy name is EIAU AKRI LYX IAO.

In the seventh hour thou hast the form of a crayfish; the tree thou dost produce is the popular, the stone is the sun opal; the bird the eagle; on land the cat—thy name is MAUIUEOR.

In the eighth hour thou hast the form of an elephant, the tree thou dost produce is the aloe, the stone is the emerald; the bird the great sparrow; on land the hippopotamus—thy name is APETEPA.

In the ninth hour thou hast the form of an ibis, the plant thou dost produce is the lotus, the stone is aquamarine; the bird is the eagle; on land the chameleon—thy name is THECHOMACHEI.

In the tenth hour thou hast the form of a scorpion, the tree thou dost produce is the acacia, the stone is the snakestone; the bird is the phoenix; on land the beetle—thy name is SERKACHEPHAREUS.

In the eleventh hour thou hast the form of a jackal, the plant thou dost produce is the papyrus, the stone is granite; the bird is the vulture; on land the Ibis—thy name is ANAPTHEOUTA.

In the twelfth hour thou hast the form of a dog, the tree thou dost produce is the palm; the stone is the crystal; the bird is the little swallow; on land the bull—thy name is OUCHERACHEPHES.

I have uttered thy sacred names and thy signs and thy symbols, wherefore, O Lord, cause my shadow to serve me!”

4. In the seventh hour thy shadow will visit you; speak unto it: FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE AND SERVE ME.

5. Close as you see fit.

***

“O Thou wild daughter of Chaos, that art ravished by the strong son of law! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!
O Thou ghostly night of terror, that art slaughtered in the blood of the dawn! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!
O Thou poppied nectar of sleep, that art curled in the still womb of slumber! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!
O Thou burning rapture of girls, that disport in the sunset of passion! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!
O Thou molten ocean of stars, that art a crown for the forehead of day! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!
O Thou little brook in the hills, like an asp betwixt the breasts of a girl! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!
O Thou mighty oak of magic, that art rooted in the mountain of life! I adore Thee, Evoe! I adore Thee, IAO!”
- Liber 963; III 23-29.


“Wherefore I charge you that ye come unto me in the Beginning; for if ye take but one step in this Path, ye must arrive inevitably at the end thereof.
This Path is beyond Life and Death; it is also beyond Love; but that ye know not, for ye know not Love.
And the end thereof is known not even unto Our Lady or to the Beast whereon She rideth; nor unto the Virgin her daughter nor unto Chaos her lawful Lord; but unto the Crowned Child is it known? It is not known if it be known.”
- Crowley, Liber Cheth

Monday, November 17, 2008

The Woods & Its Daemonaic Reality

Or A charming tale of three witches and a girl with an axe to grind.

"How many football players put it in you before your mom got sick of having another tramp around the house?"
- Heather Fasulo, The Woods (2006)

"Destroy what destroys you."
- KMFDM, DIY

It's rare that I enjoy a fairly recent horror movie these days. It takes a certain type of person, I rather suspect, to enjoy the genre. That's why horror fans always seem to recognize one another and have a strange, grudging respect for a fellow aficionado. For the last decade or two Hollywood has cranked out innumerable re-makes or at least pillaged the same plot repeatedly beyond the point of cliche and to such a degree that I rarely bother.

Case in point, the last three semi-recent horror flicks I enjoyed were all Lovecraftian in nature and all were B-rated films. (Dagon, The Call of Cthulhu, and The Attic Explorations. I almost enjoyed Beyond the Wall of Sleep... But it was complete crap. Mostly I liked the crazily evil children chanting eerie nursery rhymes with Sumerian glyphs flashing in the background as they danced.)

The Woods was an odd exception. And I almost passed it by until I read a review by a fellow horror lover. The mainstream reviews are all complete crap. I want to preface this with an explaination. When I was twelve or thirteen, I was firmly banned from reading horror novels. Especially novels containing the following: witches, demons, familiars, curses, or anything vaguely magically related. The reasons were two-fold: at some point my mother re-coverted to her Southern Baptist lineage and decided to take after her parents in ways and methods related to retardation revolving around fiction and Bible thumping. The second reason was that when I was six or seven, a friend read me a story (I could not actually read more than "Bearenstein Bears" prior to being eight; yes, I know. It's shocking--I jumped from "The Bears" to Tolkien and within a year or two, Shakespeare's Hamlet and A Midsummer Night's Dream) from Scariest Stories to Read in the Dark involving a madman who thought he was a vampire. What ensued were months, if not a year or two, of nightmares and fears involving all things spooky as fuck. I recall fleeing to my parents' bedroom through the hall I thought was filled with werewolves. This was, of course, to get away from the vampire-madman leering through the window obscenely with a lust for my virgin boy's bloooood. And I recall this with a slight grin, because in a way, it was fun. I rather suspect my parents felt otherwise.

It was thus with a certain taboo pleasure that I discovered Alfred Hitchcock's compendiums of short horror stories in my middle school library. I devoured them in 7th grade. Within a year, and with the aid of a used book seller, my mother finally relented and let me read Stephen King. King, paradoxically, led to Lovecraft. Then Stoker. I've never been quite the same since. (And I am the better - or at least more macabre - for it! Bwahahahahaha.)

The movie was directed by Lucky McKee (who also filmed the amazingly macabre May). It stars Agnes Bruckner (Heather Fasulo), Emma Campbell (Heather's mother--and a wonderfully repulsive mother in the film), Bruce Campbell (Heather's father--he has less than 20 minutes of screen time but is fairly pivotal to the plot), Patricia Clarkson (yes, that Patricia Clarkson... and she's the Headmistress), and Lauren Birkell (Heater's best friend).

The movie was shelved for about three years, during which M. Night Shyamalan threw a veritable hissy-fit because he had to change the title of the movie that would become The Village. (Which, by the way, I loathed. I wanted a goddamn were-wolf flick and he gave me complete crap with his desire for a "twist ending". Fuck you, Shyamalan.)

Synopsis & Review Warning: Contains Spoilers.

The movie starts out fairly normally.

The year is 1965 and Heather Fasulo is a rebellious teenager who nearly burned down her house after setting fire to a tree out back following a fight with her rather repulsive mother. For her "crimes" she's shipped to an all girls' school in the woodlands of New England, a school which hosts a fairly academic program of progress and is considered "one of the best schools in the country for girls." Heather's father is "not as well-off as he presents himself," so upon arriving she's given an aptitude test to find out if she's "special." Upon passing (for untold - but later revealed - reasons) she's admitted with a scholarship.

Her first day doesn't go well. She sits next to Marcy Turner, who's a complete reject, for lunch. In doing so she inspires the spite of the blonde Samantha, a proto-typical "rich-girl" type bully. (There's some stiff acting from Samantha's character in the first thirty to forty minutes or so). On her first night, she either dreams or attempts to run away from the school and into the woods surrounding it... Only to be plagued by "voices" and images and return to find the school-teachers are all outside. She then heads into the dorms to sleep and has a fitfull night's sleep including omenic nightmares involving a smaller blonde girl with slit wrists and blood dripping onto the floor. Upon approaching the girl in the nightmare, the girl turns and glares at her and says in a demonically male voice, "this bed is mine." There are then flashes of girl's with axes, and Heather awakens to the dawn's light.

Heather moves towards integrating to the school with the aid of Marcy as the section progresses, which is something special to see in and of itself.

A week or so later the girls warn Heather about going into the woods with a tale from a century ago involving three orphans that showed up who turned out to be witches. Having been shunned when they were discovered to be "odd" the girls were sent forth into the woods where they reaped horrible vengeance upon their persecutors. In making a pact with the spirits of the woods, the girls then returned to control the school and its inhabitants...

"If you go out in the woods, they might find you," she's told. One of the girls asks Heather about the fact she'd fled into them and Heather smirks (in an incredibly hot and foxy red-head manner) and asks the girl if she's ever been into them. The challenge thus issued, the girls all set out to watch to see if the challenged girl will go into the woods. But before she can, the teachers arrive and break up the conflagration.

This is what I consider phase one which takes place mostly in consensus reality. Thus does phase two begin.

Heather's scholarship is dependent on "special courses" which she must attend if she wishes to keep it. These courses can be demanded of her at any time. She's taken to a garden room to meet with the Head-mistress who begins to question her relationship with her mother. "Being cut off from one's child is like losing a limb," she's told by the up-right (but slightly odd) Patricia Clarkson. "Why did she send you here... Are you... 'different'?"

Heather freaks out and begins rocking in her chair, muttering denials until Clarkson asks: "do you hear voices?"

Heather stops rocking and her chair suddenly balances on its two back legs as she stares in shock. Clarkson mumbles: "I'm sorry if I upset you," as Heather flees the room.

Phase two of the film, I would say, involves "assessment of reality". Heather believes she's going insane and eventually alienates even Marcy.

One climactic and cool scene here involves Heather telekinetically causing a pencil to stand on its own while a class goes on. It ends with the alienation of Marcy, and a scene where Heather smashes the small radio Marcy owns... And as she collapses on a hurt ankle, all the pieces stand straight up. This section - though dull at times - is quite cool.

Phase three begins when Samantha warns Heather that she's been trying to get rid of her to save everyone. "It's all true," she tells her after pinning her down. Rather than before - when she was filmed looking glamorous and rich - she looks disheveled and somewhat mad. She tells Heather that she's called her father and convinced him to come and get her. Samantha then hangs herself. The Head-mistress, upon finding out, asks Heather what Samantha discussed with her. Heather hits her with the truth. "You're special," the Head-mistress says... Right before Bruce Campbell walks back into the film to save her.

...

Heather is returned to school because that night the stars are right and the ritual is about to begin. Trees burst through the windows and control the students, attempt to drain them of their precious life-force. ... And Heather is a "blossoming" witch of a sort. They need her to help them re-enter the world and break the binding to the spirits and school that they've used for centuries.

Her father arrives wielding an axe to save her... The climax involves Heather picking up the axe and deciding to stop it all. Hello gore! It's well done, and I loved it.

Conclusion:

Over all, I loved the movie. Only one review did the movie justice; likely because the concepts involved stumped most reviewers. These same reviewers obviously lacked my childhood and fondness for folklore involving witches (thank you, Mr. Hitchcock!) and fondness for occult subjects. One such reviewer (Christopher Null) stated: "When Heather's dad (Bruce Campbell, who has about five minutes of screen time) appears to rescue his daughter, the film turns psycho-bizarre, as we realize the school is not at all what we thought it was. You see, we thought it was just a school run by a bunch of loonies, but it's really a school run by killer trees. To try to explain what happens next (which involves Heather balancing things like pencils on their ends and people coughing up twigs and leaves) would not only "spoil" what's left of the picture, but you probably wouldn't believe me. The Woods is complete nonsense for the latter half of the film, which is a nice change only because it's so boring before then."

First, yes, the first two phases of the movie are slow. But they actually build story nicely. Second, he obviously paid no attention to the dream sequences or the ten-to-fifteen minutes of the film dedicated to discussing the witch-folklore in the beginning. It's obvious what happened. (See above.) If he had any inkling what-so-ever, he wouldn't be confused. Mr. Null, at least pretend you paid attention before heaping derision. Oh, and your review sucks.

In the end I loved the movie because it's so blatant with its symbolism (a second watch shows elements of the end through-out the movie--from a girl mumbling "why do I have twigs in my hair" on Heather's second morning at the school to the pervasive blood magick of the witches - check out the cut hand of the woman serving milk at lunch through-out the movie and the scene involving the Head-mistress and the hospitalized Bruce Campbell). Some of the acting is stiff at first, but it fluffs out. The dialogue isn't perfect. But concerning its contents, the movie is fantastic. I plan to buy it as soon as I have the cash.

The movie isn't out and out horror. But the nightmare scenes have the creep factor. The spookiness of the aesthetic is pleasing. And the end is pure horror with a bit of well-done gore--something that's rare these days. I especially love the foxy red-haired Heather facing down the witches at the end. It was pure "Babalon" if you ask me. "Before she was the woman with a girt sword, she was a girl with an axe." That's just cool. And, y'know, hot.

The trailer can be viewed here. The movie can be streamed online here (in semi-decent quality). And bought here.

(Typos to be blamed on whiskey and sleep deprivation.)

Monday, November 10, 2008

Black Dogs and Cash




So, while employing the familiar spirit I less than charming call "the Black Dog" so I can be cryptic and not reveal it's name (even though you'd need the seal) to do some work for some other people an idea sparks. And I say, "hey, how about you get me 3.5 million dollars."

What does the insolent fucking shit say back?

"You don't have enough steak in the world for that."

Okay, fine, I tell him. You get me that money, I'll have someone sculpt you a statue out of steak. It'll be messy, but I'm sure it can be done.

"Only if it's a Catholic virgin."

So... If you happen to know a Catholic virgin who sculpts using meat let me know. We can be rich together. 'Cuz I'll share if that happens. I mean, I knew he'd say no. But it was worth a shot, right?

Saturday, November 8, 2008

The Art of Memetics

In the event you didn't know, Edward Wilson (Fenris 23) & Wes Unrah's The Art of Memetics is up for free here.

If you like it, you can buy it here.

I happen to like these guys. And I like the book. So I'm totally putting it out there for others who might be interested.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

The Boy Prince (Crazy-Talk.)












“Early on I realized there was a young boy in the depths of my dreams. Wild-eyed, singing, with a blond bowl cut and heterochromatic eyes. A little Machiavellian terror in the depths of my unconscious mind. The Boy-Prince.

King of All He Sees.

Later on I realized it was a bit more polarized. Far, far more polarized. Because there was another boy, one who wasn't a Prince. The one who'd always been poor and still remembered the feeling that he might not have a meal at the end of the night. The liar. The fox. The peasant boy.

The first one we named Golden Boy. The second one I called Jack. And as Valentine had said, I was working one. But the Jack, he always works you. He's that bad or good game of poker. That card that tips the scales or causes things to boil over.

In those depths, with all the threads surrounding me, I could see my possible futures and my probable past. I could feel a thousand lives inside moving around me. There was the current—the flow. And what perplexed me the most? They didn't ever see the Jack. They just felt him. And all they ever wanted was that Golden Haired boy who owned all he saw, he smiled at the dying sun and knew that when tomorrow came it was still his kingdom.

It was as if there was a rift between myself and those I'd chosen in the end. It was as if the struggle was between which would have to become the Walker on their dreams and which they would want wandering through their lives. And I knew then that people don't quite know what to expect when you're constantly up to no good. Whether it's a kingdom that needs saving or just a pawn to overthrow there's always something to do. Something to see.

But that little kid? Well, they think they chose him. They just don't know that in the end I'm the Dead one. That I've always been Dead. And that these lands are the Deadlands. We've never fully escaped into that haunted future everyone dreams. A portion of it in every moment. How much can you pay for the chromatic future-dreams of Yesterday?

Me, I got a thousand yesterdays to visit. It's a trip down memory-fucking-lane, girlfriend. Don't you fucking doubt it. Because in the end all we have is the futurepast to revisit and reinvent. And this line of reasoning sounds absurd, but it works. I glance back to decide where to step in the perpetual moment of the coming-storm-going-storm.

There's always a burning city to visit. Right before critical mass. Right before Ground Zero. And I plan to see 'em all. It's why I always wandered away. That little rogue-voice inside that says if you stick to the shadows, haunt the edges, then you have all the power. Because you're constantly desperate. And like the Hagakure says... If you want to survive, become desperate. But really, you always have to remember: no one makes it out alive.

That's why you enjoy being perpetually dead. It could always be worse. If this is a Hell, burning cities and love and joy and all, well... It's a damned fun Hell.

They might not see it, but they still have to deal with it. Because it's all there is. You can't always be a blond boy claiming the world for himself. Sometimes you gotta just play. It's all a game, whether you believe it or not. And like I said, no one makes it out alive.”

- Unsent Letter. 2008.

(Image from A Softer World Dot Com.)

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

The majority is still just the majority.

An African American was voted in last night. Words fail me as to how tremendous that is.

On the other hand, California also voted in Prop. 8, thereby stripping another minority of that so-called American dream of "the pursuit of happiness."

In the end, the majority is still just the majority.

Three steps backward for every step forward. But at least a step was taken forward.