It’s rare that I decide to comment on political matters, or politics in general. I find the entire subject fraught with philosophical dead ends and sand pits. Politics deals with handling the issues of large numbers of people by trying to make decisions that effect the masses while pleasing as many of them as possible. In short, a Sysiphean task of mind-bogglingly awful proportions that no one will ever do “right” no matter how great or wise they may be.
At the end of the day “Republican” and “Democrat” are just words. Just ideologies of people whose decisions may effect systems that do directly effect our lives, but do not run our lives any more than we allow them to do so. It’s the beauteous terror of what is still more or less a free country that our success, or failure, is still mostly within our own hands, and the hands of those we trust most. If those hands you trust most are those belonging to strangers in the national government, you should be prepared at any time for disappointment.
That said, I am now and always will be a cruel advocate for self-sufficiency and not living beyond one’s means. This does not mean separatism, rigorous self-denial, working one’s self to death, etc are the best or only options. That kind of pessimism comes from the blissful, privileged innocence in which most of us were raised.
The short version of that is: Fuck the system, take care of you and yours and things will probably turn out ok.
Despite my recent splurge on a new phone, and my recent decision to maintain my technicolor hair professionally, there are many aspects of my life related to spending and saving money that I don’t share. Most of those things consist of ways I cut corners, entire categories of Things I Simply Don’t Do Because They Cost Too Much(tm), and my recent commitment to agressive debt reduction and budgeting.
All that said, here are some articles from a terrific blog about getting a freaking grip on the root of all evil.
And an idea that I am getting more excited about the more I think about it: Buying into a local farm for fresh produce, eggs, meat, and dairy all year. (Or at least all spring, summer and fall!)
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.
Something I have learned over the past decade is that every investigative hero requires the correct and proper equipment. One thing they require is a sensible bag to store manuscripts and treasures in. Indiana Jones had his modified gas mask bag. Dean Corso from “The Ninth Gate” had his canvas satchel. Spider Jerusalem had his leather book bag. Currently I use a Megatokyo bag shoulder bag or a Burton snowboarding rucksack depending on what I’m doing. Both have served me well and see many wonderful sights. When I was first exposed to the Mythos I don’t know what my bag was. I would have been at school and just started doing my GCSEs. I believe that I used a cheap nasty messenger bag at the time.
My first exposure to the Cthulhu Mythos was rather appropriately took place outside of a library. Somehow talk drifted to the Necronomicon. A goth kid from the sixth form had bought a copy of it into school. “This is a famous book of occult bad ass,” was how it was described to me. No word or mention of Mr Lovecraft or of the books fictional origins. Sadly for my fifteen year old self a little research soon uncovered the books falseness.
Many people though still think that the Necronomicon is a real book. The copy that the acquaintance in the sixth form had was undoubtedly now a copy of the Simon Necronomicon. But first the fictional history of the book.
First mention of the book appears in the 1921 story “The Hound” (published 1924) as a book written by the “Mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred who was mentioned in a story written one year earlier called “The Nameless City”. The Necronomicon itself is mentioned in no less then five of Lovecraft’s Mythos stories. With references made to the tome in “At the Mountains of Madness” and “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward” among other stories.
In the 1921 story “The Nameless City” the rhyming couplet by Abdul Alhazred is given at two points in the text. This couplet appears in “The Call of Cthulhu” from 1928, it is identified as a quotation from the Necronomicon. The couplet is the one at the top of the essay. Some description of the text is given in “The Dunwich Horror” with the book being often described as bound in leather and having metal clasps to keep the large book’s pages safe from damage.
The authenticity of the Necronomicon has been in question since the time of Lovecraft with the author often being asked about the book. His answer was always that it was an invention of his own. In a letter to letter to Robert Bloch in July 1933 he clearly writes: “As for the “Necronomicon”—this month’s triple use of such allusions is bringing me in an unusual number of inquiries concerning the real nature & obtainability of Alhazred’s, Eibon’s, & von Junzt’s works. In each case I am frankly confessing the fakery involved.”
But still rumors of the books authenticity persist. These rumors helped by various differing editions of the Necronomicon being published in the years since Lovecrafts death. One of these the Simon Necronomicon mentioned above was released in 1977 by Schlangekraft, Inc. in a limited edition of 666. The book was later released in paperback and has never been out of print since. Unfortunately I’ve never read the Simon Necronomicon. So I can only give a quick digest of the information on Wikipedia. But it might be of interest if anyone wants to read further into the subject after.
The book claims in it’s introduction that it is a translation of the Greek Necronomicon. The content of the book is mostly based on Sumerian mythology with attempts to tie various entities in Mesopotamian mythology to correspondent entities in Lovecraft’s Mythos. Eh, what else is there to say? It’s black magic bullshit with curses and summons written in a mix of English and ancient Sumerian. With warnings all over the book claiming it’s danger. The back cover saying that this book is “the most potent and potentially, the most dangerous Black Book know to the Western world.”
Whatever the truth is and I suspect that the truth is fictional. The Necronomicon has a place in pop culture like no other book. With references to the book appearing in the Evil Dead film series, web comic Megatokyo and Terry Pratchett’s Discworld book “Moving Pictures”.
Will.
Next a journey into the occult underground of The Invisibles and Chaos Magic.
Pages of obvious interest:
The H.P. Lovecraft.com page about the Necronomicon, contains further information about the Necronomicon.
The bathroom was a terrible place to be. All the stall doors were slightly ajar and the terrible placement of the typical office fluorescent lighting gave the shadows life that they certainly wouldn’t have possessed on their own. I kept turning back in terror from what I assumed was a malevolent face in the handicapped stall. The wall by the sink provided me something to look at to occupy my mind, but this too became a source of vile fascination. Whether the talk was all in my mind or if there was someone there I do not know. Kindly and reassuring it spoke to me of demons, and angels, and paths to power sometimes being fraught with dangerous-looking things. There was no need to worry though of course, not if you were prepared. Read the rest of this entry »
I think I’ve been listening to too much Röyksopp lately. For context, I’ve found myself highly enamored of a certain track off their album The Understanding called “What Else Is There?“. It features vocals provided by Karin Dreijer Andersson from an electronica duo called The Knife (whose album Silent Shout has also been on repeat a lot for me) and I have fallen in love with her unique and expressive voice.
That being said, on the with the description. I was in this housing area, all cheap houses, run down and small. Looking on from a short distance, I saw a huge explosion rip through 3 or 4 of the buildings, seemingly at random. I looked to my companions (who defy description right now, just some people, I can’t remember) and ran towards the damage. I’ve dreamt almost this same thing before, I know it. Sudden fire in run down houses, or an explosion followed by fire. It was chewing up the old, dry buildings.
Then it all reset. Same place, no explosion, none of that. I rode in the mind of someone sneaking through these projects, tiptoeing by back doors and noticing as they all swung open by themselves. Screen doors, all, and cats of different kinds peering out from kitchens or living rooms. Sometimes there were people within, all walking away, not noticing that the door was open. The creeping person was a thief and although no entry was made into any of these houses, the big black bag s/he carried filled up. A small rip showed a blue and white striped piece of terry cloth sticking out. Perhaps the dishes wrapped in the towel to prevent noise? Who knows?
Finally coming to an unremarkable house near the end of the rows, the thief enters and discovers an old man and a fluffy white cat. There’s a moment of mutual surprise, then the cat makes a mad dash for the open door, and the thief follows, trying to track it down through these houses while still remaining silent and unseen, still carrying the full bag. The cat dashes under buildings built off the ground, and finally the thief is able to cut it off at an awkward turn near a wall and snatches the beast up, dragging it back to its master.
There’s a short conversation after that, and the old man says he’s not going to rat out the thief. The thief cautions that there may be some dangerous activity.
Cut to a group of about five or six people. Storm clouds are high, thready, and getting darker, turning the sky to a psilocybin vision of broadly patterned marble. The people are holding onto what appears to be the female end of extention cords, which are all tangled together and tied to a central location, looking to be pipes coming out of one of the houses. They stretch the cords into the road, fanning out in an uneven manner over about a 180° area. A stroke of lightning comes down slowly, almost like a weighted streamer: straight down, but wavering in the air. It is viewed from the eyes of one of the group before it hits them. The power goes through the cords and infuses the others. One by one they begin shouting, calling down the lightning on themselves, despite the presence of others on the scene insisting they stop (but too afraid to act).
There was only one left, hesitant, stupid, afraid of the lightning. The others had disappeared, disintegrated or wandered off or something. The one left walked away. It may have come back to the explosion at that point but I don’t recall.
Other points which are unclear to me now:
Pulling a large revolver on someone who wanted to come into a house where I lived. It was large and dull and akward.
Yelling and throwing things at a group of young, grinning hooligans who heaped things in the middle of the yard and doused it in gasoline, intending to set fire to the whole property
Counciling a very angry young man, sharing tales with him. We were both in Civil War era dress. I slowly went from persuading him to stay, to comforting, to seducing. Anything to distract him from this blind fury.
A master/husband type figure appearing during the “seduction” phase, unperturbed by the scenario.
Also, for your convenience here are the lyrics to “What Else Is There?”
It was me on that road
But you couldn’t see me
Too many lights out, but nowhere near here
It was me on that road
Still you couldn’t see me
And then flashlights and explosions
Roads end getting nearer
We cover distance but not together
I am the storm I an the wonder
And the flashlights nightmares
And sudden explosions
I don’t know what more to ask for
I was given just one wish
It’s about you and the sun
A morning run
The story of my maker
What I have and what I ache for
I’ve got a golden ear
I cut and I spear
And what else is there
Roads and getting nearer
We cover distance still not together
If I am the storm if I am the wonder
Will I have a flashlights nightmares
And sudden explosions
There’s no room where I can go and
You?ve got secrets too
I don’t know what more to ask for
I was given just one wish
Note: These are just what I found online, I know there is a verse or two missing and maybe a few lines wrong. Care to help me flesh that out?
A clear and flagrant disrespect for all things was extruded from the two young men chatting back and forth on the mostly empty train car and left the air palpably unclean. Crisp suits, slick and greasy hair, shifty bright eyes, and utter animal stupidity were readily apparent upon a quick glance. Typical upper-class white boys with no sense of purpose beyond where their dicks will be by the end of the night or who they can roll under the bus to get the next raise. No love except the long-since-abandoned love for mother, and a lust for money and the status associated with it that they assume is love. Read the rest of this entry »
Tales written for discerning young ladies with a keen admiration of the manliness of the male half of the species, this volume deals with heart-pounding tales of men performing stunning feats of self-surgery and suffering such injuries as would surely destroy men of lesser manliness. Yet never fear! For these manly men always get the better of every trial and tribulation that comes their way! Read on for more exciting stories of the manliness of men!
Mark was a willowy, handsome young lad, with shoulder length flaxen hair which he brushed into his pale, rosy-cheeked face often to cover his sparkling, glassy blue eyes in impish defiance of social mores.
One fine summer’s day he sat on his back porch, clad in his favorite jean shorts. This in and of itself was nothing significant. Yet the story behind his reason for sitting thus when there was action, adventure and, yes, even danger to be had out in the wide world is indeed a stirring tale.
Being as clever and crafty as he was, Mark had made these shorts himself when his favorite pants finally ripped so significantly that his girlfriend at the time had insisted with the venom only a lifelong student of modern fashions could that he do away with them. Yet young Mark would not be denied pants so well-worn that they had become something akin to a companion. Indeed, many was the week which had passed without him parting with them long enough even to wash them. He simply couldn’t bear to part with these pants! No, this was a man of deep concerns in his life who simply would not give up the familiar comforts of the threadbare pockets, nor the subtle sophistication which came with the various inked designs which turned the faded denim into a black and blue patina which echoed his triumphant past’s loves, hopes, and outstanding feats of stunning bravery. It was as grave a sin as asking an honored crusader to part with the finely wrought chain mail which had saved him from savage and ignominious death through countless battles with fierce and pitiless Moors and Turks!
So passionate had our young Mark been when confronted with the possibility of losing this treasure, he had snatched up a sizable blade from the kitchen counter in heated desire for swift yet just resolution to this disgraceful feud between aesthetic schools of thought, and with such fervor did he hack away at the offending lower portion of his beloved jeans that it caused him several injuries. Indeed, he was not mindful of such lacerations! An impassioned and bold man such as this could have no room for outward manifestations of pain when there was a battle of wit and craft at hand.
So deep was his anguish at the mutilation of this jewel of his possessions that he hurled the remnants of the pants - along with the now crimson-stained blade - as far as his slim, tight-muscled arms could manage with a pained howl escaping his chest. Regrettably his then-girlfriend hadn’t the presence of mind to clear herself from the path of the flying objects, and suffered a nasty shock as sharpened metal pierced the drywall beside her head.
What woman can understand the true nature of such manly displays, when the depth of feeling must manifest itself in a true man’s course of action? Few can, and alas this was the last he ever saw of or heard from that young lady. Indeed, though he had won a victory over an intractable situation, she simply couldn’t understand the depth of his sincere heartbreak, nor his truer, sentimental nature. In his woeful mourning over losing both his love interest and a significant portion of his most treasured pants, he neglected to care for himself and the injuries he sustained during the confrontation.
As a result, he found himself sitting on the back porch of his home in a grim and pensive state. He had moments before prepared himself for the task which lay before him in that golden afternoon. The slanting sunlight pierced the smoky air around him and cast a beam better than a surgeon’s lamp on the site of his concern. One of the the wounds he had sustained during his heart wrenching episode of confrontational tailoring had taken a turn for the worse. Such a strong believer in independence was he that Mark was not employed and could not provide the sum necessary to visit a trained medical professional. Nor did he believe in such ridiculousness. As a true student of manliness he felt strongly that anything which could be accomplished by his own hand should be! Oft was he praised for such, and oft chided by those who did not understand. Nevertheless he was prepared for the task ahead of him. His anesthetic of choice was taking hold, calming him adequately for the work ahead.
The wound in question was a clean slice whose depth had allowed all manner of dirt in, and despite having been liberally (albeit indirectly and not deliberately) splashed with cleansing alcohol during the last two weeks it was now a very angry shade of red. The protective layer of dried blood was flecked with dirt and a clear fluid leaked from beneath it with only the slightest pressure. If it was painful to look at, it was surely more painful to actually have and feel, yet young Mark showed no pain or fear. With a trusty pocket knife in hand, he paused only once to take a deep breath and hold it in before exhaling in a great rush. A sagely expression came over him, making his heavy-lidded eyes seem cloudy and distant. With a dazzling quickness he sliced open the hardened surface of his grave injury and Oh! what happened then! A rush of milky fluid rushed forth, gleaming wetly under the light of the afternoon sun. Unfazed by such Mark quickly wiped it away and proceeded to squeeze with the all the somber detachment of a true warrior. Once the rupture in his smooth skin was running with the pure crimson of a clean cut, he wiped his hands off on the comforting cloth of his shortened jeans and simply sat. Clearly this quiet contemplation was his way of cleansing his spirit as well as the site of his bodily harm.
His phone rang and with all the unhurried grace of a seasoned general, Mark reached in his pocket, saw that the name on the phone simply said “Cunty Whore That Dumped Me” and thumbed the silencer with unperturbed ease.
This concludes our first installment of Heart-Pounding Tales of The Manliness of Men Vol. 1: Wound and Infection Treatment Stories! Won’t you join us next time for more thrilling, fascinating and stirring tales of manly men and their aplomb in the face of mortal wounding and dire infections?
Now here is a bit I haven’t done in quite some time! The Words To Know series had all but died. Tonight I feel like shaking the dust off, brushing away the cobwebs, and putting WTK to work once more. I’ve decided to go easy on the old girl, by featuring two terms, and peppering the descriptions with other delightful terms to incorporate into your vernacular. On we go!
Our first featured term is: Adroit - This is a handy way to turn a shocked and braindead exclamation of “Whoa! Skills!” into a pithybon mot. For example, when watching Sonny Chiba in the film The Street Fighter, one might be able to say something like “That was the most adroit instance of someone’s testicles being pulled off I think I’ve ever witnessed!” Not-work-safe clip below for those who may not have had the good fortune to see the whole film. (Which, by the way, I strongly recomend to anyone.)
Our second word for the day is: Obstreperous. Obstreperous is a fantastic word to use to describe someone’s putrescent offspring who have decided that it would be a fantastic time to start various types of boisterous carrying on (running, yelling, messing with others’ belongings, etc.) when you have just been sealed onto a several-hour flight. It certainly passes over in polite conversation a lot more readily than simply turning to your seat mate to comment that the plane’s younger passengers are in fact “little fucking assholes” who should, in fact, have a rigorous application of chloroform applied to them posthaste. To make such a comment could be considered maladroit - the opposite of our first featured word - due to its utter lack of tact. The child pictured below, though adorable, may be one of these children whom the label of “obstreperous” applies.
Or perhaps these three might be more prone to various hijinks.
Hope you enjoyed this edition of WTK as much as I did! (If you did, won’t you show some comment love?)
Last night and well into today has been a flight of extreme fantasy, not all of which was enjoyable, but all of which has left me thinking. Unfortunately I’ve waited too long to write this all down, so some details will inevitably be lost in the rapid cognition thought-shuffling of daily life.
At some point, I woke up and said “Ok, that’s it, no more Howlings before bedtime.” The series of dreams felt like a test. Felt like a warning as well. A test of my mental strength and a warning not to meddle carelessly in affairs which are far larger and more powerful than I have previously taken them to be. It’s true, all throughout the documentary by Poke Runyon, discussing the methods by which they employed the Goetic techniques to summon, and to scry, I (drunkenly) scoffed at the notion of some of the scraping and bowing, and alternately at the idea of binding and domineering these unseen spiritual forces. (It should be noted that while the Goetia is amply available[pdf], I have yet to read the work itself.) While reading Howlings, likewise I took a skeptical attitude towards some of the methodology, considering it to be somewhat overcautious and paranoid. Some have argued that the Goetic (among other) spirits are sovereign beings, and some have argued that these works are exercises in confronting one’s own inner labyrinth. (Think highly aware self-hypnosis and play acting as a form of therapy or mental/spiritual growth, if you will.) Either way, those that have studied these things have preached caution, and some have issued threatening warnings regarding the dangers of treating these things lightly and carelessly.
I have always been a skeptic of sorts, and perhaps a bit overeager and zealous when it comes to the thought of finding proofs to these claims and methods. Last night’s dreams felt like a deeply detailed experience designed to caution me against doing or saying things which may ultimately land me into very hot water.
Yet I digress, these dream logs aren’t intended for me to get into the whys and the wherefores, but to chronicle the dreams themselves for future reference and entertaining reading. Read the rest of this entry »
Case in point: People getting all up in arms about an Absolut print ad campaign depicting a large chunk of the southwest United States as being part of Mexico “In an Absolut World”.
Give me a break, people. What are you offended by, exactly? History? The fact of the matter is, the land depicted in the ad’s map did belong to Mexico at one point. Is the serious offense in suggesting that the United States’ fulfillment of Manifest Destiny is somehow fallible? Heaven forbid anyone challenge the conquest of the central portion of North America.
I understand people having immigration issues, to a point. Yet to get bent out of shape over a vodka company implying that it might be ideal if the borders had never changed? Honestly. Am I the only one who sees it that way? That it’s not suggesting Mexico “retake” that area, it’s not suggesting that Mexicans should “overrun” the southwest, or that illegal immigration is a good idea.
It was an ad, run in Mexico, for booze, that used a historical reference to highlight Mexico’s once grand territory in order to associate a feeling of pride in one’s country with their product. Ultimately, it’s highly unlikely that their goal was to stir up a world of shit for themselves. It was to sell vodka to more Mexicans. Instead what they’ve got is a smaller marketing department and threats of boycott.
I find the the outrage dredged up by the idea of a company wanting to push more product pretty offensive. The more anger is expressed over that, and the more lines are drawn between immigration issues and this ad, the more nasty arguments and anti-Mexican sentiment are going to rise. I understand the concept of maintaining solid borders, of national programs being available only to legitimate citizens (to an extent). What I don’t understand and absolutely don’t like is people disparaging an entire country full of people by taking a tongue-in-cheek advertisement by a company who is based out of an entirely different country (Sweden, according to the giant PDF with tiny print they put out) and blowing the intended meaning way out of proportion. It shows a lack of rationality and serves as another vocal demonstration of how reactionary, intolerant, and anti-intellectual Americans have managed to portray themselves as.
Tonight, I’m gonna buy a vodka tonic… with Absolut in it. What are you going to do?
Some kids play in the sandbox. We play in the.... litterbox??? The RKNet staff is pleased that you decided to stop by. Currently this is a multi-author project, with a rotating cast of totally kooky characters. Contact giania [at symbol] gmail [dot] com if you'd like to play here too.
