The Captain Will Be Your Guide

Airwaves

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 19:37:06 -0400

I blew my mind with televsion and nicotine. Just a lucid dream dripping into reality.

Some sort of concrete lucidity in my transitive gravity; as if American youth is some sort of depravity.

Thursday Contemplations

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 18:12:05 -0400

I feel as if something has been lost to time. A diamond of purity transformed to coal and shoveled into a factory furnace to evaporate into a black steam which strangles the sky and blots out the sun casting a cold paughl over the earth where the plants the world wears wither and the ashes play in the mist of clog the oceans.

oh but the purity. the philosophers of old used to say that all was once god. a unity that we all seek to reach again. we are separated from our father. Is this the gem?

Or is god division? Is division divinity? Perhaps the temple is right… There is god now, or he is growing. Evolution. sex. birth. division. spineless amoeba splits and growths. This is god. Creation after all… Isnt that what god is about? Isnt that the purity of everything?

So what is it then? Which one is god? The man with the bloody crown said we cannot serve two masters… thus which god is the devil? The God of Division and Creation? OR the God of Unity and Oneness?

Luckily i am a man who thrives on contradiction and thus i serve my deity… Contradiction. The god that is a division of opposing ideas, but these ideas cannot disagree unless they are in union together. Ha! What a world i live in.

Nothing taste like jazz and cigarettes.

History of a Light

Wed, 26 Oct 2011 19:33:06 -0400

The oasis holds me in the hours past dusk. I suck upon my bitter diviner sage. The well has sucked me in. I am pull so low into this other world and stare out at the dead building across from the park

There is nothing inside. a hotel which may or may not have held some important figures or memories. No one knows, and it seems that no one seems to ask and even if they do they never seek. i am guilty of neglecting this edifice story too.

But ontop of it still blinks a red light. a simple spell which wards away airbourne dizaster.

This light. being and is-ness. blink, blink. blink. so lonely on top of it all. what does it see? nothing. what does it do? blink. It does not know its purpose yet it constantly fufills it. Programmed by god, a simple mechanism with so much meaning… so much behind it reaching into the histories for its existence. on equal footing with me.

or maybe i’m just high.

Opera. Alone. Purity.

Tue, 25 Oct 2011 19:38:06 -0400

I sit in the park smoking my shamanistic herbs, a dim incense to attract the long lost fairies and nymphs that used to skatter thru tree tops far back in our past.

There walks the woman again. I must say, this woman is a real as flesh and blood, complete in actuality. I know this for i have heard her song before. She walks thru the city park at night with her roller cart of unknown items dragged behind her. She sings beautiful opera. She grasp my attention and my curiosity. But she is so unlike my usuall muses (a buisness slave or a free man without a home). She i dressed well but not so well as to imply wealth.

Opera sung with boldness that shows no fear of the norms of the invisible shepherd. Opera sung with out the vain attempts at catching attention. Purity.

Midwakenings of ambivalent Ambience

Mon, 24 Oct 2011 19:38:06 -0400

Sitting in the center of small circles scribed softly in the sands of my simple sanctuary, I meditate upon the fluttering visions and endless pools of subconscious midwakenings of a modern mind. Anachronistic impulses pulse through my still heart, Envigorating the emptiness, calming the static.

Floating, eroding. Growing, imploding.

Vast remote gaps between each note of ambiance reaches my temporary eclipse and sinks in so deep that the sliver around me glistens like a child’s curiosity. Each colliding symmetry plays like an orchestra in harmony… Plays like cymbols falling down the steps of an old home… Feels like the spilling purple from a sunset in the desert.

And I can barely comprehend why the mist clouds my view. Almost as if to say that the words themselves have a flavor if spoken, or the passion itself, smells like the rain.

Such a temporary glimpse at the Always. Pitter patter of piano.

(e)Motion Sikcness

Mon, 03 Oct 2011 21:27:06 -0400

There is more to come.
Hours of existence trickling off my fingertips into the endless pool of your dull eyes.

Sit and listen, and become smitten with the green humming of something far older than your novel being.

It is in this moment that all sickness comes. An intoxication or infection of nausea, springing from the fact that all the chains that bound you stable, have not only snapped loose, but never existed at all.

Such a moment of levity has caused you to float from these passions of mundane earthly existence, and envelopes you in the swelled-up lobes of your dopamine laden skull fragments.

Mark today the day that infatuation inflated the heavens with disaster. For it is freedom which lays murder to order. It is the Will that caused the dreamer of yesteryear to abandon the riverbank and build a bank; and the dreamer of modern times to burn down the banks and fish-up the river banks.

Nothing is sacred when all things are god.

Erotisophy

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 21:26:05 -0400

I saw god today. Sitting on top of the bank skyscrapper. He watched the buses crawll on the city street below.

Many people looked at their feet… and their watches… and their phone… and their fingers.

God took no notice of them. They didnt even realize god was above them.

A homeless meth addict screams about the end of this world. But it already ended when Zeus was closed up in the center of a once flat world.

How did enamorment die?

The Ivory Halls

Fri, 30 Sep 2011 02:02:35 -0400

My mind is such a small area. Literally only a couple dozen inches in circumference. So small that even those sitting next to me cannot even know the contents inside. Yet so much bigger than I can ever delve. A paradox to be sure.

Insomnia Among Mary

Fri, 30 Sep 2011 01:54:19 -0400

Some times I feel like leaving… Like walking away to where I recognize nothing. This utter change of scenery. Its so cliché, so trite. A feeble attempt at rebirth. All the wood’s mans have wandered out and throw it away. “How Noble!” One says. “How Cowardly!” Says another.

Yet I never know which is true, or which is the path I should take. I believe I was sitting with Mary the other night. For some reason I went to her to comfort the devils running around my attic but she only made them start crying.

Verily, I saith unto the way laid out for all men individuals. At ones birth, they are the way they are meant to be. But the goal is for them to become to opposite. This is the journey of life. To strip all the purity from the innocent baby: To wash clean the soul of the wicked child. To make the courageous: humbled and to make the lowly: a warrior.

What kind of divine comedy is this! Surely it cannot be this easy of a concept yet the most difficult of all paths. That in itself tells me it is true. But I hold one grand truth: That any truth I hear, is aging until it dies.

Nothing I believe can be true. This is what I believe.

Anyway, Mary is quiet the poet. “Such a beautiful worded statement.”

What a mess those words can lay.

Fill The Bucket

Sun, 25 Sep 2011 22:51:54 -0400

This shall be my vainest attempt at self indulgence. Self indulgence. Ha, such wit. The word has never stuck me like this before. I indulge in myself like a wino indulgence on his namesake. So drunk on my own creative juices dripping from the coconut I carry upon my shoulders.

Past scribblings read by scrabbling readers. Light headed dizziness caught into the gulliver. Ah, this high. My first addiction. The seekers only true buzz, that catch of a wispy headrush. That waspy vibration of inebriation. From my own work! How divine. How wonderful.

I first found my fix from long dead poets, preachers, philosophers, and all other perverayors of the pertainent profession. Have I risen to their stature? So well grown that at this peak I can feel the height of my own fumes?

Or perhaps they were my chemicals all along… Things brought in by senses, absorbed by bioavailability and away I go.

Surely a seeker/wanderer/madman like myself can-never compare himself to a seeker like Sid, a wander like the Pied Cow, or a madman like Misour.

These men may to have only lived in the shadows of far greater giants on wisdom. Each generation trickling a little concentrated nectar to the fertile soil below. Or perhaps the future holds blossoms from roots long ago lain by humble thinkers. Or perhaps they are a rare yellow flower in a feild of weeds and plains, only noticed by those drinkers of acid who stare aimlessly thru pink glasses at the transevolving visions of a world influences by fungus.

Rotting or growing, shifting, or sitting in meditation. I may never know. And this be simply a drop in a bucket of unknown unknowns that one day will tip and drown me.

Wakefulness

Sun, 25 Sep 2011 21:42:28 -0400

This morning I awoke. Dreams. These far stretching landscapes of subjective creations of a human god. We all experience them, then why does no one profess them? Are they secrets? Surely not, for secrets are told far more than truths.

Then why are these glimpses into the ivory temples never spoke among the laity? Long ago I thought of awakening the people to their dreams. But once again, I learned I am no prophet, no preacher, no teacher… Only a wanderer.

Thus I find other dreams when I walk aimlessly under the sun. May the oceans of Nu seek you and fill your cup. So saith Samael.

The Purpose Of This Blog

Sun, 25 Sep 2011 21:34:00 -0400

This blog is a surrealistic look at everything i experience, written through the eyes of Samuel Samael. Small bits of time that inspire serenity and contemplation.

Much of this is “narcisitic humor”, purposeful spelling errors, hidden allusions, long flowing streams of consciousness and abrupt absurdities.

This blog is meant for me. If you enjoy, cool, even better.