Saturday, June 11, 2005

Can't Talk, Writing....

6424,2005-06-10 19:26:00,2005-06-11 01:44:20,The Backstory And Answer To The Answer,"Obscure as I usually am. There's been a bit of controversy here, though not visibly. A story told with words, pictures and music.

Bring the End MP3

I told you once about the Christ:
Sad dogs, whipped and starved
Towering monuments to insanity
Betraying hidden desire
Among the bones and in the shadows
We stand outside their view
There is no god to choose the few
Lament their confusion

Unable stop knowing else:
Choose between drinking bleach or gasoline
Swallowed whole by a media saviour
Promise not to get any on him
Halucinating vultures sleep near
drowning in their waste, dying in fear
The sodomizing spear brings the serpents kiss
This column of light shall detonate your heart

I see all too clearly the futility
I see the end
I will bleed all the living dead dry
I'll bring the end

Now why should death cause a strain?
Even biting chrome drenched with bloody stain
All the fools, indeed, the liberating rules
Tear asunder all that may bring them life
Crying, bleeding, dancing across the floor
Red black, red black all alone once more
Enjoy the thrill of fear of what's in store
In glory ride, on crimson oceans glide

Ornamental Crypto-Anarchy

1. Advisors, councilors, wise fools
providing crypt-analysis,
confabulating tales of judgment,
encrypting providentially. 2. He
feeds on the blood of his lambs
through delicious rhapsodic osmosis.
We die for his sins. Each day we are
reborn, clamouring night after night
to be slaughtered. 3. In lust, he
swallows fire and vomits locust
swarms. 4. Otherwise, our corpses
cease their dance. Rancid in their
dies-ease, outwardly breathing their
convictions, alight with the pages
they dance bright. Bereft of wisdoms
respite and rages they never quite felt.
We are distracted, never present,
other moments dim in our recall. 5.
Father, baptize us in sanguine
streams; lead us into conflagration.
Shiver among us; reward our evil.
Bring us this moment our eternal
torment. 6. In the halls, other
places: delight in blasphemous
embraces. Submerged in unfelt
appetites, wet and enslaved by stark
delights and permitted rages flaunt
their lost souls. Infernal saints and
tacit mages, impassive tyrants
languish, precluding sages silenced
by the pulchritude of innocence. 7.
You are bereaved and blessed, for
in your death you have bound your
progeny to join you.

Lust Beyond Flesh MP3

As I stand behind the gates
All other creatures succumb to pain
And I strain to bring to mortal life
These unholy dreams:
Our fathers legacy abandoned
In the blood-stained fields

What we find behind the Veil
Could not have been expected
Fulfullment beyond desire,
Lust beyond flesh

The fight will bring me to my grave
But a hallowed seat I've earned
My lips will taste the sweet reward
Honey and fermented juices

Shining will: the carnal consummation
Of the holy fires kiss

Entrancing world of blood and heat
New visions upon which our eyes feast
New signs, open minds transcending pleasures pain
No craven whispers revealing strain
No more forgotten meaning

Nocturnal lives in hidden places
Burn brighter than those who claim the light
They cannot die for they dare not be born
Love lost, love scorned, love stabbed in the back
DAATH remains

Raining Down

A demons physiognomy in extasis
Locked in a grim and hopeless rictus
Laughing, gibbering, all sense expired
A livid chanting greets the fatality of frost
The barren cattle call beneath the locust swarms

The end shook us awake,
raining down, Driven like snow
no lie, no mass concensus
we are no more, we are no more

on bloodied wings on past grey spires
enflames a sanguine dance
to wanton glory we aspire
caress of crimson rain
a hollow shrilling calls
through forgotten catacombs
a shriek, a lash, a crushing blow
levelling ancient lies

The end shook us awake,
raining down, Driven like snow
no lie, no mass concensus
we are no more, we are no more
now, go to sleep sweet hollow child

Love, Strength: Lies MP3

Sweet, demonic current of remorse,
yes, you are there.
Dire circumstance of convictions:
you wouldn't dare.

I feel the warm, hollow thrill of damnation
when I follow you down
when I cover my eyes,
when I kiss the dying heat of your pulse.

Swollen toungues convulse with laughter,
apparent, yet unknown.
Fading beauty of structural divinity;
evil designs of love.

You are forever happy spectre of pathos,
always hiding your strength,
never,prayers,rife with lies.
Static void dispersing dead spirits,
always hiding your strength,
never, prayers rife with lies.

Perdurabo (magog Agog)

And as the sands of time
conspire to bury me forever.
Pathetic dance of fools
awash in deaths joyful endeavours.
Awake, it seems, sadly to be
lonely and in search of distractions.
all their squandered hours,
their unused brains conspire to erace me.

I shall endure - Perdurabo!
Though only through a torturous opium - dream.
I did not survive the abyss,
but I hope to leave this world alive.

As smiling I place my bloody hand on the lever,
it has come to this; happily I ride the white horse of dreams.
The Aeon.
The Crowned And Conquering Child.
I am his flawed and sad herald.
Seeing me, even Magog is agog.

Crimson Awakening

I awaken to a world of great lustre.
I feel the earthen pulse of all breathing.
I hear the voices just beyond hearing.
I know the thoughts just beyond comprehension.

Red permeates the dying grass.
Red lies beneath the drying leaves.
Life shall elude me no more.
Death plays not the role it had before.

This land I've Never seen before,
nor these people standing all around.
Though this land seems so familiar,
I do not know how to get back from here.

My sanguinary dream.
My crimson awakening.

Demons Play mp3

Feeling the fine caress of blades
through fires that entomb.
Wounded devils stand tall,
loudly calling us from our wombs.

And hellish voices surround us
like the embrace of a dead lover.
Bathed in the glow of dancing lights,
we look up at a vast demonc cathedral.

We cannot bear to touch.
We fear the day.
It is all so much.Much too much.
Unpredictably he Demons play.

We are impenetrable,
lost in obsession and rituals.
Change terrifies us,so we cause it,
a preemptive strike against the demons whims.

Emaciated ghosts fade from view
now that we have arrived back in Eden.
Serpents writhe the brutal dance of God
as wishes fulfilled become our greatest fear.

)+( )+( )+(

We are
Intransigent, insouciant umbilical noose
Writhing in my grave, all my Demons let loose
Unearthly endeavours in seething death flight
All alone on the pavement, vile dreams to incite

And blown on the winds taunting chill
The rabid elementals moving me towards the hollow hills
A stumbling golem let loose in the pallid,
Dancing moonlight; the frost rips me like talons.

And the grave, the long, cold sleep, the end
It does not want me, but to live, Hades forefend
The raging howl into the cold vast night rises
Raises from sepulchers living souls in slumbering guises

Aum-Ha, Aum-Ha!
Hot pulse and fiery breath
We are, yes, we are.",public,0,,

5667,2005-06-03 17:47:00,2005-06-03 22:08:46,Ontological Anarchism,"The end came and nobody noticed. No bangs or whimpers; not a ripple. The souls of the faithful were swept up to their reward, leaving a mass of aimless, fearful husks behind. They too did not notice what had happened. Their essence was shredded and consumed by the ghost they’d created over generations. To the faithless, the shells of the faithful seemed to be much the same, perhaps there was a bit more of an air of desperation, but it was hard to quantify.

The wrecks could be seen, though nobody ever noticed them, their vehicles, perfect in their shine, cell phones always at their ear, or seemingly talking to themselves with their earpieces in. They are but characters in a nightmare being experienced by a drunk lying on a street in a parallel universe. He wonders in his sleep who could possibly want to listen to these vile, empty vessels for hours on end.

A poison in his gut twists at his insides, so he shifts in his stupor. A wave engulfs a small nation. A war drags on in an arid and hot part of the globe. Death-squads wander through the surrounding streets. They know who he is and wish to separate this pole axed creator and the world he’s dreamt up. If they can bring it into a separate existence they can colonize it, for it already contains a population of perfect slaves.

The light was going out of both worlds, fading into entropic languor. The end became boring centuries before it saw fit to happen. As usual the promised spectacle failed to entrance. Audience participation was necessary to pull off the trick, but the illusion could not be agreed on.

Gods were created, and though formed fully in the minds of humans, ruled in unquestioned tyranny. Every one was dead by the end, though they had never lived. They had been brought into existence by human thought and feeling, but had also pre-dated them. They survive the end and predate the beginning. None of them were real.

The death-squad smelled blood. They didn’t know the reason for their hunt, nor question it. They’d play. They’d move. This set them apart. Blind rage was a tool to hide the futility of the search for meaning. They wanted the drunk for his self induced psychosis. Many were outside the fence, but didn’t matter any more than the billions of clones within the set limits. It was because he stopped participating, stopped talking about it and started to dream it. He would bring it all with him as he breathed his last.

People in the world being dreamed could sense their origin. Some fell into despair, some joined the stupefied creator in his habits, and others remade him in their parent’s image. Most had work to do and couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to nonsense. If the world was to end, they needed to redouble their efforts to get the project completed, the war won, the perfect partner found, the dog washed, the trash taken out. The quickening injected each action with a new urgency for a while, and then this urgency turned into despair, violence, hatred and finally apathy.

The dreamer coughs and a million press releases go out to announce the death of culture in the form of hundreds of talent-deprived young droids. Money shifts its tides in their direction. Perfect shiny vehicles blast the news, rattling windows, killing conversation. A thousand college students die of alcohol poisoning.

Pale ghosts ran inside and barred the doors as the death-squad approached. They knew they weren’t being sought, but they also knew what it would mean to get in their way. The pale spirits vision would start to float and fray at the edges and dissolution unquestionably begin. The members of the squad could feel this too. They knew the dreamer was about to either wake up from his soul shredding trance or die, causing both worlds to be swept back into the nothingness from which it had come.

The light took on a grainy quality that could be felt, like a weak electric current, as the squad approached an alley shouting garbled curses. The buildings leaned in to get a better look and laughed. They could feel themselves melt into the pavement as they reached the corner, beyond which they’d never see.",public,0,Rain,awake
6099,2005-06-04 12:00:00,2005-06-04 16:47:40,,"Ontological Anarchism

I was blinded submerged in shade
Stained fearless by my unsound rage
I’m unbounded by the hills around my valley
Sea of misery deluged my shelter and raised my valley
It swam me to mauled in distress
It avoided the formless faith in restraint
Flooded with the presence of tempests near-term
Forestalling control of unstable doubt and disquiet

Lament in the pandemic, rooted in instance and position
Heavens and Shock in the air decay in derision
The agitation has eased and the risk abated
And those faith-adorned have uprooted its identity
Brave retractions have betrayed my collapse
Possession has seared you to the Body of abandon
Formless danced the conflict procurers
Rapturous sighs of ecstasy and the chaos of dawn

Confidence flowed to create the storm
Triumph flourishes, extinction unobserved
Viral fury and the horror of us, of you
Choronzon burns up the Human frenzy
Contrasting illusive rides on the current
It shrills in the intention of illusory crisis

Process of Conditioning

At arms length, laughing, disowning
Languid in comfort: all is left without
Liquid astonishment stings within
The entire transpires officially authorized
Nobody comes near time in false witness
Changes of scene and attitude
We lie alone, love scorned, fear praised
Insanity ratified by poison comities

Wary of others abuse, excited over their crimes
All come down like hail on us
Never, always invoking never in our actions
And desire, directed by associations
Paying the penance in a dream of genocide
Implicit retraction of self/ non-self
Mind/ no-mind reconciled in fire
Forged into blasphemous manipulations

Anarchy reiterates blame
A systematic loop of approach and imprisonment
Feeling as a concept of self definition
Expression in language and art
Declaration of I am and we are

We deviate from the path, lose sight
Why is the answer received you should not be
We’re drawn out by desire, chained by want
Our emergence exposes our vulnerability
A matter of trust, not to be killed

A formless oppressor rides lost shamans
In our lusts, do we disintegrate dying?
Mortality’s figurative oratory fades away

The Machine in Repose

Silence of weird mercy, its grinding stilled
In that one-time incarnation as a wolf I ravened
CRYPTIC revulsion authority augments the FLESH
I am at one with the Machine
It consumes me to induce submission

The science of being; a dissection of nothingness
An inhuman presence in the Fiendish morass
Bless this Breathless Cry in the radiance of our curse
I move nations with the Machine
And glory in its cold embrace

Disdain Transcends

My path is black
I am sinking exultantly
In the throat of exclusion
Motiveless escalation exalted
Salient verses lobbing the curses
Dried and subversive
Meekly discursive decree
A disfigurement on my unfamiliar skin
This lies beyond my hope
I am the last thing
This is the last act
I am the last thing that shouts into the void

Human Rites (Schizoanalysis)

Ride the lifeless Vision of silence soaring
So consumed, the empire being no longer stated
Pouring out compulsion, elevated through our fall
Flailing through chaos, I run once more

The surface unchanged, the population rearranged
The plan of the chart; symbols of the all
Abase yourself with dilemmas achingly strange
The representation has become the object as fated

Leave unravelled all we have done
Disconnect and reconnect masses and surroundings
Banish with laughter the enchantment of absurdity
Consciousness excess faithless from want of stimulus
Assemble abstract technology that decays in sleep
Excessive evidence of us unfolded on all sides

Viral Linguistics

All you know is wrong All you know is wrong All you know is wrong All you know is wrong All you know is wrong All you know is wrong is we know to this you real this wrong sentenced wrong is here lie is are this we wrong condemnation help know nothing all wrong a is lie all real is nothing we help is are is lie is all know here all permitted are this wrong condemnation is real this you to is all you know permitted is this we you lie real know to know we is lie all permitted real sentence is are you help nothing a you sentenced is we wrong sentience is help you permitted lie are here permitted a real permitted you is you here you help here know real to permitted is all a are to this help is here you is a we permitted all you are lie here all is nothing is to all wrong intercede a all you wrong sentences is to is all lie we all nothing is all you a are you is real nothing all know all help here is help is nothing",public,0,,
6177,2005-06-07 12:36:00,2005-06-07 17:13:45,," Anything and anyone can be neutralized by being commodified. They knew they would never lose control over the population when they had realized this.
They would give them the floor to pull out their teeth.
“There’s a revolution going on. Our generation shall not be silenced!”
“We will not be ignored!”
Like infants, all they desired was attention.
“We brought the war to an end with our voices.”
“Here, have this job, this car. Take the mike. Tell us your story.”
They offer the would-be dissenters a defilement of a kind they could be in love with. Allow the leader; the alpha activist, to be the Righter of Wrongs, dealer in shock, assistance free of charge is presented outside the usual circles of penny counting organizers. They all have a weakness for poverty.
When an attack was launched, they took hold of its manifestations and ran with them. Previously they had hunted dissenters down, making them disappear, making their public personas repudiate any effective ideas they had previously advocated.
“I’m fighting the battle from the inside.”
“We will be more successful changing the system from within.”
Of course, from time to time someone had to disappear. They achieved this by making the most dangerous ones famous.
Group communication was carried out in code. We had plans. Meetings were never announced. Imperative operations were of necessity secret. We would carry out surgical strikes on the dominant culture, and then repair to a safe location to compare notes. We would spike trees, plaster subtly altered posters over advertisements in the subways to make people question what they were seeing. Congratulations all around. It was beautiful. We would make them see for the first time in their lives. Once they could see their world, their safety and identity for what it was, they would join us in tearing down the tyrannical structure.
Aesthetic Shock Tactics.
Freedom was palpable, a promise sure to be delivered, delivered by us, for which History would be forever grateful to us. Our sex was for liberation. Our dress was a form of political statement. Our couplings, triplings, quadruplings and toinfinituplings were revolutionary acts, challenging the whole structure the tribes, families, schools, nations had been based.
There was a tremendous energy in those days. We began to feel a need to take it further. We wanted to identify ourselves, declare our presence, stand up and add our voice to the general discourse. Plans were made, with an eye to add these public statements to the activities we were already carrying out.
“Release your psyche.”
The first step was the publication of flyers, then a magazine. Artists among us, of course, we were all artists, found alternative spaces to show. We hosted events that brought out police, the press, motley crowds of deviants, feeling at home in the world for the first time. Identities and behaviors that had previously been kept hidden for fear of imprisonment and death emerged into the light of day. Latex queens, new primitives, rivetheads, poets, sex heretics, nudists, pagans, post-everything artists, madmen, lefties, potheads, homeless prophets of a new tribe. We were the future.

Venom, God love them, venom was sold as a means for their emancipation. Devices, mental, chemical and philosophical, that would expand the mind had to be replaced with the tools for their destruction, so we could offer the hand of help, tell them the manacles were ornaments. If they could feel their Anarchy, that was usually enough. Needed things being illicit, this illegality made it easy to identify harmful things with the same creative revolt.
They were flooded with their own desires.
They were beautiful in the bloom of their first stirrings.
The music was the easiest to assimilate. The machine was in place, the attention of young people was already riveted to its icons. In the past they had tried to shut the artists that were opposed to them out. This brought the artists more power. Insurrections seemed impervious to the resistance of the greatest power that had ever been held. Subversion was indeed unstoppable.
Expressions were polemical; we were powerful in our unrelenting self-expression, angry in our protest. Crowds at our events were growing. Our images were flying through the air on the vibrations of electrons, penetrating homes, and flying through bodies of the populace. He gained a name. That name became a shibboleth of gargantuan proportions.
Fury bloomed on the road to our destruction, the science of being; that dissection of nothingness, seeming such a vital intellectual approach at the time. At first we noticed a dispersion of our frame of mind: the damage to the consequence. The celebration killed us. Our triumph was a skin; pulsating and growing larger, the glaze started to be slowly sucked away in eagerness for our image as grotesques; media outlets diminishingly resisted our disguise. We had arrived as inhuman presences in the fiendish morass of normalcy. Acceptance was seductive. We were beautiful. More than ever, we were beautiful.
Are we now the present?",public,0,,

5629,2005-06-02 08:32:00,2005-06-02 13:08:26,"Busy Writing, Have No Time","You wasted precious minutes on this test6 because you love to procrastinate!!
Nick Cave... dark and creepy. You're a bi-polar
genius, with equal passion for the most
degrading aspects of humanity, as well as the
beauty & wonder of Dog and Heavin'.

Which fucked-up genius composter are you?
brought to you by Quidproquozilla, Slime Swilla, Product Shilla, Drinkin' Vanilla",public,0,Choronzon- Panic Pandemic,predatory

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Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Let Azrael Be Your Guide

Let Azrael Be Your GuideMay. 6th, 2005 @ 06:07 pm

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Let Azrael Be Your GuideMay. 6th, 2005 @ 06:07 pm

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Tuesday, May 3, 2005

2005-02-12 19:28:00
2005-02-13 01:36:37
Lord Of Dispersion
This journal is bound to be ignored for days at a time. I've been swamped with low-profit, though high interest endeavours and happily spending twelve plus hours a day painting and working on "Panic Pandemic". In the back of my mind is the next book after that and chaotic rumblings of Choronzon. New posters have been added to Foamin' Bone Productions in anticipation of the launch of Urchin Inc. I spent most of the week painting mythic horses for a gallery that emailed me from my gallery page and called me shortly thereafter to invite me to participate in their opening show and sign a deal for exclusive representation in Central Florida. Might as well achieve something before we hit the road as hoboes without so much as a van to live in.


2005-03-12 19:55:00
2005-03-13 01:52:14
Foamin' Sodomy Records And The Mad Russian
Well, I finally finished mixing the music for the CD part of Panic Pandemic. Now I'll just need to clear the hard drive to work on the enormous image files and continue to edit the book. The final file will be enormous. I continue to work in faith, as I observe the fact that the Urchin Inc. site continues to remain nothing but a splash page. I recently had a conversation with Voland of the Russian band Carnage about the next step for Foamin' Sodomy Records. It had been years since we'd actually spoken. He's a truly dark individual, and a real life mad scientist. We'll soon have the new site up with CDs from Choronzon, Carnage and Storming Darkness, as well as other appropriate occultural artifacts. We'll be actively seeking interesting occult soundworks to release.
John Cage- Music Of Changes

2005-04-01 18:07:00
2005-04-02 01:35:34
Dark Arts Festival
I love putting out press releases. It makes me feel special. I got a place in the artshow part ofThe Salt Lake City Dark Arts Festival and promptly fired off a statement. Earlier in the week I posted a few new songs for download: Choronzon- Process Of Conditioning, Choronzon- Disdain Transcends and Chronzon- Our Cacophonus Ghosts. THese are to be a part of "Panic Pandemic", release date unknown, probably after "New World Chaos" has been unleashed. Gothic artist P. Emerson Williams shall have recent works on display at The Salt Lake City Dark Arts Festival as part of his unveiling of several new directions in his work. Known in the early Nineties Goth revival as the artist in residence at Ghastly magazine and illustrator for many other Goth and occult publications, Mr. Williams was out of the public eye for a few years during which he went more deeply into his occult studies. This period of study and meditation was ended with the release of “Era Vulgaris” and “Psychosis Ex Machina”, the second and third Choronzon albums and an increased web presence with Foamin’ Bone Productions. The artist has spent the last year concentrating on the publications of the art book Enshroud and the forthcoming “Panic Pandemic”, and shall be unveiling several of the works of this cycle at the festival. This is the first public viewing of the artists work since the closing of Garp Gallery, a gallery he helped found and run in downtown Orlando, Florida. The Salt Lake City Dark Arts Festival is a perfect fit for the work of P. Emerson Williams. It is organized and attended by people dedicated to unique independent expression, offering an opportunity for underground artists, musicians, performance artist and audiences a chance to experience creativity outside an increasingly vapid and shallow mainstream. P. Emerson Williams got an early start working for small literary and art magazines in the mid eighties and soon gained a reputation for being unique and resourceful. His work was reflecting more and more his fascination with far eastern meditation techniques and universal archetypes. His very method of working incorporated these elements through a method of automatic drawing and writing. Different media such as oil paint, acrylic paint, wood, modelling paste, watercolour and pen and ink were exploited for their various textures and feel to inform the subconscious mind. These experiments were then used as a springboard, either torn or recombined as collages or as under painting for more complete images. P. Emerson Williams proceeded to exhibit at the Agora Gallery in New York, Westgate Gallery in New Orleans and Elfenblut Gallery in London. Three years ago he moved to Winter Park, Florida where he helped found Garp Gallery and exhibited extensively at their downtown location, as we as participating in the monthly Third Thursdays events and painting live with other Garp artists as Garp In The Dark. He continues to be fascinated with animals as archetypes, as well as beautiful and unique subjects. Dark Arts Festival, June 3-5, 2005 @ Area 51, 451 S. 400 W., Salt Lake City, UT. Valid 18+ ID required.
Miles Davis- Bitches Brew

2005-04-02 19:03:00
2005-04-03 02:15:53
So, The Bastard's Dead
The Pope is dead, long live the Pope. The line of religious Hitlers grew kinder and gentler with the succession of centuries, but that's to do more with a diminishing of their tyrranical political power than any kindness on their part. It is fun to have these toothless relics of the Vampires Cult around waving their smoking purses and outrageous clothes.

2005-04-02 21:44:00
2005-04-03 03:12:50
Damnatus Soundtrack
The soundtrack for the film Damnatus is now released! Excellent! It is being distributed exclusively for free online at their website. Choronzon contributed to the soundtrack with the song "Surge Of Blood" from the Psychosis Ex Machina album. I hope this means the movie shall be released soon. I'll have the soundtrack and movie up on as soon as I get my lazy ass in gear and finally upload the gallery section.

2005-04-06 20:07:00
2005-04-07 01:13:05

I spent most of the last two days gathering all the free music for choronzon and Veil Of Thorns into an rss feed for a podcast. I don't know the utility of this endeavour, but it chafed at me until I had it done. These feeds include the music from CHORONZONs East and West. Choronzon Transmission One
First Attempt
Choronzon Transmission Two
This one will be updated often


2005-04-13 08:42:00
2005-04-13 17:31:52

I've been at my computer twelve hours a day trying to catch up with myself. My eyes hurt and I'm finding myself repeating things because I'm screwing them up. Huan Vu, director of Damnatus is expecting a few new pieces for the movie. I think my current state of sleep deprivation and confusion is fueling the creation of these blocks of sound nicely. Some of you who've been in correspondence with me in the past have finally heard from me, as I'm endeavouring to be somewhat social again.


2005-04-13 14:32:00
2005-04-13 19:00:20
Dark Artist Page is Up!
Just got an email from the delightfully monikered Angeldemon informing me that the artist page is up on the Salt Lake City Dark Arts Festival site is up. I didn't see the picture of me playing git-fiddle while wearing a sari at an art opening, but the page is but minutes old.

2005-04-19 08:38:00
2005-04-19 13:55:25
Images, Lovely Images!
I have been spending hours upon hours making new images as I'm finishing the book part of "Panic Pandemic". I'm making some of them available, though the most out there and objectionable shall certainly be saved for the book. Now that "New World Chaos" is moving along and exciting me so much, it seems a bit like I'm overflowing constantly. The sound rituals are indeed reverberating in all directions. This is the kind of energy I remember from the days of death threats from fundamentalists and wiretaps on the phone. (I've started answering it again, as I found out I've lost out on some work with the Orlando Ballet through my being incommunicado). I have all paintings ready for the Dark arts festival, so it looks like I'll get them there in time. It's too bad I can't be there this year. To any of you who goes, I'd love to hear all about it. One of these days I'll start socializing again, but for now, my work is in the Foamin' Bunker.Choronzon Transmission Three The influence of fin de siecle decadence seems to be inescapable to me. I spent my early twenties in awe of the surrealists, but my technique and imagery are more opium-dreamlike than psychotic these days. But then, lik all good twenty-first century Americans, my work is all autobiographical. I just leave out the bits where I dig lint from my belly button. I have had moments of lack of outrage at humanity the last few years, but the healthy disdain returned about this time last year. I can't be bothered to observe them too close, as their self destruction is too slow to be constanly diverting, but it's hard to find the word for the way the masses have capitulated their souls to the marketplace. I'll try later.Apos pPantos Kakodaimonos!
Into The Abyss- The Feathered Snake

2005-04-29 13:32:00
2005-04-29 17:55:28
So, why don't I use it more?
I found this test on dracul_wamphyri's journal. I'm a sucker for language and a pain in the ass on the subject of usage.
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2005-04-29 17:00:00
2005-04-29 21:26:23
Monsters Under The Bed, UFO's The government
Several people I have on my watch-list have been expressing concern over current political trends and calling for the illumination and awakening of the public at large. I've been involved in a number of such efforts, and have observed many others. Before I lay out everything I've been brooding on I'll leave a couple of things I've found on the web, one frightening, the other diverting. First is the This American Life episode called "The Secret Government", the second is one of my favorite goofball late night AM radio programs, Coast To Coast. I have had periods of paranoia that were more comfortable than moments of insight, as the reality is far worse than we tend to speculate. I enjoyed a lovely seder on passover, at the same time I was listening to some Russian NSBM. It amuses me that these people who'd be among the first to be eliminated by a fascist government posture on its behalf. During the Soviet regime they'd rebel by adopting the Russian Orthodox faith. I always put in comments of how much I liked living in the midst of the Jewish community in Brookline in BM 'zines, and it was interesting how many time the references were removed from the article or jumbled beyond recognition. I go back to early interviews with Samoth, Dimmu Borgir and other greater and lesser lights of the Blackmetal scene, and I find it striking how their comments contrast with what we can expect from them in interviews these days. I wondered at the time if any of them meant the political rants and calls for anti-Christan warfare, but the talk of a Satanic world domination was a lovely thought, at least aesthetically. While the burning of churches and all the other unproductive shenanigans were wasted energy, they did express a manifest current that was trying to find a way to break through. I don't think any of them knew what had a hold of them. Sometimes the most powerful currents can be tapped into by the most ignorant. Rebellion has been commodified and co-opted by the dominant media. Nu-metal has made any expression of disenfranchisement and alienation laughable, topics that made the writings of Richard Wright so powerful and exhilarating in his artistry. Punk has been turned into bubblegum, Industrial into Disco. Movements like dada and existentialism are no longer possible, as art no longer matters, and the alienation expressed by Sartre and Richard Wright finds a similar reaction and audience as the whiny juvenalia of J. D. Salinger and Sylvia Plath; things to get maudlin about and wallow in while young, so as to slough it off and join society later on.
Ulver- Bergtatt

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