when you aren’t here
I steal all the pillows and fart like a pack mule
I cling desperately to the fragile skin of my #FirstWorldProblems
or else run sighing into the arms of deep, dark thoughts
when I don’t hear from you
the Furies take wing
and wrap piano wire a million times around my tender breast
tugging gently through the seconds
just enough to make it pink with the capillary blood
yearning to escape and heal the anticipated wound
I like it better when you’re here
but sometimes I like it even more when you’re not
when the chickadee in your dear heart’s cage
becomes something unheimlich and there’s nothing I can do
I haven’t got the words
to ease this hylozoist creation that lives behind your eyes
at their most haunted
The most I can do is let you breathe free
in an elsewhere place that isn’t full of awkward familial snares
keep myself busy
and try to remind myself to say I don’t mind
(but I really do)

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What follows is the account left by the long deceased(?) friend Maxwell Vandimntz you may know him as “MVZTruthseer1974”. Max was checked into a mental institute for his beliefs and persecuted for refusing to lie about the bizarre instance he experienced while investigating the mysterious HAARP system and its effect on weather. For those who don’t know the HAARP the official claim is that it is going to be used by scientist to “study” the “ionosphere” but we are all but certain that the device is going to be come used as global weapon to control masses. And we can only deduce from Max’s report that the computer controlling the WMD has already gained advanced level 5 sentience and we can only assume the government has lost control over it. We could be wrong, but we think Max’s final report (left in the mad houses restroom to be discovered by an undercover agent from our staff,) speaks for its self.

——————————

I woke up that day staring at the skies through the open sky light above my bed. There was a gentle ping reminding me of emails in my inbox. I rolled out of my bed and began to crunch through the cheese puff carpet I recently had laid down. I still say I could taste the cheese through my feet. I sat down at my computer pulled up Outlook Express and read. I read for hours until I felt I fully understand what the world was telling me. The word was that the HAARP was afoot again and causing trouble for all man kind. But of course the government would never tell you that.

It had been along time since I whiffed something that smelled so strongly of a cover up. My teeth were set, my claws were sharpened but I needed more. I then turned to the trusty info bank and opened Internet Explorer and voyaged into the grand masterscape of knowledge. As I explored I found brethren who had also caught the foul stink of government lies and were now on the hunt for the truth. It was happening. IT was real. But didn’t have enough evidence. I needed to get my hands on a HAARP conspiracy chart that my internet clan had collaborated together to make. But against all odds, it seemed that my bank account was empty, and Amazon’s is a cruel mistress. So forlornly I put the chart onto my wish list and hopped that maybe one of my brothers in truth would purchase it for me.

Discouraged as I was, I was in no shape to report the truth. Disappointment filled my mind and clouded my inescapable eye of truth. Night came swiftly in my morose state and I restlessly drifted to sleep face towards the night sky. The full moon reflecting a ghoulish hue from my castle made of pee filled mountain dew bottles. I was restless that night tossing and turning. I thought it from my unstated hunger for answers but now I suspect it was the reptilian artifact I had purchased a year ago from eBay that was trying to warn me of impending danger.

That morning I woke sore and irritable. No dinging from the computer and no unopened bottles of FBI grade Gatorade. I didn’t want to move. I just wanted to waste away or at least astral project to someplace better. I don’t remember how long I laid there. Eventually hunger overcame my malaise and I reached over to my nightstand and retrieved a dried and chewy substance which I thought was jerky and began to chew. I still don’t know… I was… am, a very messy man. It could very well have been a the aborigine hallucinogen I got from a shaman convention in 67. Nevertheless, after I ate I got a visitor. Dressed in black and had the devils eyes. His words were spoken softly and distorted. Memory has failed me but I distinctly remember the tall entity asking,

“What would you ask of me that would be rid your current displeasure”
I replied dreamily, “I want a HAARP chart so that I may uncloud my mind and expose the truuuuth”

After I had spoken my peace to the strange visitor, darkness overwhelmed me. When I came to, I heard the welcoming ding coming from my terminal. I quickly jumped to my feet and tried not to fall over from the blood rushing to my head and sudden cheese flavor overload. I check the door still locked from the inside. Then quick like lightening I leap over my Mt. Dew castle and plopped down into my chair. Pulled up my email. And lo and behold, it happened!

Whether it was the dark visitor or one of my brothers of conspiracy Amazon had emailed me to tell me that my HAARP chart was in the mail and would be arriving at my home tomorrow. Excited and invigorated I began my flurry of words. Carefully crafting questions ready to be suited towards whatever end the chart may tell me. Sweat flung from my brow as my head snapped from the sheer power of my ideas. My fingers began to bruise as the keyboard turns to concrete and each finger a chisel chipping away at the lies surrounding the mystery of the HAARP. The afternoon passed without my notice. Sleep wrapped me in a victorious embrace knowing that tomorrow I will be able to show the world definitely the things The Man doesn‘t want us to know. That night I slept the sleep of the just.

The sharp crack of the door bell pulsed through my body like a solid hit of hi-grade cocaine. My excitement shaking my body so hard I chortled phlegm instead of what would of surely been a effervescent squeal. It must have been the coughing fit right after said chortle that gave me time to remind myself that I needed to put cloths on otherwise I surely would of answered the door stark naked. It had been three years since I put anything resembling pants on and two years since I had even opened the door. The exchange happened quietly and quickly. And as soon as the door shut I quickly began to tear at the paper and opened the box. I was unprepared for what I found.

Peeking its head out of the foam peanuts was a bright red Speak and Spell. Clearly printed words on its digital screen, fresh keys that made a satisfying clicking noise and the smell of newly cut plastic the thing had been made recently.

I took it out carefully and examined it (after searching the box three times). It must have been a mistake, but I couldn’t believe that. Refused! It had to be a test. A test of my desire for truth, for freedom! I pressed the ‘ON’ button. It rumbled and bleeped to life.

“WELCOME” it chocked out.

I typed in “HELLO”

“HELLOOOOO”

I didn’t know what to say so I cautiously typed
“HAARP CHART?”

“CHAAAAAART?” it garbled in response.

I was frightened. As any man should be, considering a child’s Speak and Spell just asked me a question! But it had to be real. It must of happened! I remember the conversation so vividly.

I responded, “YES CHART. HAARP CHART.”

“NO. NO. CHART. I AM THE HAARP”

I thought I was crazy at first. But the more I think about it the more it makes sense. So simple, so …. Unnoticeable. Perfectly hidden. I asked out loud
“What …. What do you do?”

I could hardly believe I was interrogating a toy. What if it doesn’t want to tell me anything? What do I do? Start pulling out its letters with a pair of pliers? It answered in its cold voice
“I CONTROOOOOL THE WEATHER. CREATE THE SPIRAL OF CONTROL. CREAT CONTROL OF HUMAN RACE. HUMAN RACE OBEY THE SPIRAL OF THE HAARP. HAARP IS HAARP OF FAAAAAATE”

I broke then, I will admit. My mind and sense of reason left me. I threw the device against the wall in a rage. Bumped up and down on it. Crushing it beneath my feet into the carpet. It even tasted evil.

I heard it call out a series of beeps and I saw through the skylight the clouds gathering and the device began to glow bright red. I cowered against the wall as it hovered above the ground. As it broke through the skylight I broke through the door. Running into the streets screaming and pointing at the sky. From then on it’s a blur. I must of came in contact with the corrupt police force and they put me in here. This house of the mad. No one believes me, and what I saw with my eye of truth. They say they found nothing in my apartment except a floor covered in cheese puffs and bottles of excrement. But perhaps you will my brothers, perhaps when you find this I will be gone from this evil place. The HAARP is still out there. It is waiting, watching, and biddings its time till it expands the all mighty spiral of destiny from sea to shining sea.

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This first card was challenging. Back on the 13^th, when I first set down my intentions for this project, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do. I spent the next ten days reading things, assimilating concepts, arguing with myself, and cutting up magazines with the thought of doing a “real” art project using physical materials.

Even when I sat down and admitted to myself that I was not going to find what I wanted in the piles of magazines to create something meaningful, nor would my drawing fulfill my vision, I encountered uncertainty and hesitance. What was the most important thing I could say or depict on this card? Did the image mean the most, or would words be the order of the day?

Ultimately I ended up with something that I feel as though I’m happy with. There is still a lot to learn about this card, and I may revisit and revise it as I understand more about the intimacies of meaning contained within this set of gnostic guideposts.

Click the image to download the full size PDF version of this card. Note: It is a 1.9mb file!

Tarot and Qabalah: A Two-Fold Guidebook

At first glance, scholars of the Tarot and its relationship with the Qabalah may rush to correct my association here. In the Golden Dawn’s depiction of the Sephiroth[img], The Hanged Man corresponds to the path leading between Geburah and Hod. I am using the reformed Tree as outlined by Donald Tyson in the essay The Gate of Daath1. In this essay he outlines changes to the positioning and numbering of the paths based on the idea that Yesod is the only realistic path into the tree from Malkuth2, as well as establishing the need for paths connecting Binah-Chesed and Chokmah-Geburah3. (He has not published the diagram for this tree on his site, nor did I find another image elsewhere. Out of respect for the publisher’s request at the beginning of the book, I will not reproduce this diagram here unless I am given permission.) This corrects the Tree for the notion that the moon (Yesod) has always been the gateway to higher planes of consciousness, as well as creating the “x marks the spot” location for Daath on the upper portion of the Tree, similar to the positioning of Tiphareth below. Although this may realistically change many of the associations, I am currently running under the assumption that since The Hanged Man maintains position as corresponding with Path 23, that the tables provided by 7774 still hold true.

Getting to the card itself, I opted here for a two panel system, very much in line with the iconic layout provided by long-running CCG, Magic: The Gathering5. Looking again at their layout, I can already see areas in which I can improve the structure of my cards to convey more information more cleanly, but results of these thoughts will be explored another time.

The top panel is an image which I feel befits the original artistic depiction of the card. The caption provided by the artist is equally fitting and moving.

I can wait…
… says the little voice.
I close my eyes, try falling asleep, try not seeing him, his pesky presence. Try not hearing his never-ending questions.
Who says I have to answer EVERY question? Who says it has to be NOW? And why me? I am falling behind, at best of times feeling like I am about to catch up. But most of my time – I am just repaying old debts.
The spotlight dims and darkness descends. Precious sleep.
But should I wake up, without omission, here he is! Ta-dah!!!!! The little powerful voice and his army of questions.
“Not now”, I say.
“I can wait” he says, from his timeless space.

From the original flickr photo page.

This story unknowingly ties perfectly into the concepts fueling The Hanged Man, regardless of which side of the Tree you are exploring. It is characterized by Ordeal, by rite of passage and confrontation of that which would rip asunder our assumptions. On the back side of the tree, this would mean blindly surrendering to ignorance. On the front side, it is a willful sacrifice of old beliefs, resulting in enlightenment. Tiphareth is sort of a mid-way point in the tree, still exalted in its own right, but by no means the end of the journey. This route (on the front side) bypasses Tiphareth entirely, though I would argue that its enlightening end results are brimming with Tipharethic energies. Likewise on the night side of the Tree, The Hanged Man catapults himself headlong into the Abyss, bypassing any attempt for reform or redemption that is offered by Daath’s position at the center of the criss-crossing paths that makeup the middle of the upper tree.

Characters Fitting This Card

Here I outline a few characters – fictional, mythological, and otherwise – whose stories have examples of the transitional energy of The Hanged Man. It’s a fairly small and obvious collection. I’d love to come up with a few more examples of both the day and night sides of the tree.

1. Cecil (Final Fantasy 4)
• Although he was victorious in many ways as a Dark Knight, he couldn’t fulfill his quest until he learned to be merciful and accept the ways of the Paladin. This is a very overt example of ordeal leading into redemption, and enlightenment.6
2. Odin
• In return for hanging upon Yggdrasil for nine nights, Odin received the knowledge of runes7. A clear example of the concepts at work in The Hanged Man.
3. Jesus Christ
• Directly noted in the correspondence tables of 777, Jesus is possibly the quintessential archetype for sacrifice resulting in ascension to higher power.
4. Any Death-Rebirth Deity
• As argued here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life-death-rebirth_deity, citing Jung’s claim that death and rebirth are archetypal processes. A theory supported by other researchers of myth.
5. Ikari Shinji (Neon Genesis Evangelion)
• Rife with gnostic symbolism and modern angst, Evangelion can and will burst your mind at the seams with all the concepts it tries to throw at you. At the end, Ikari Shinji is submitted to sacrifice and is reborn in a strange new world. I submit that his case would be a good example of the Qlippothic journey into dark supernal Binah, as his was always a path of despair and denial.

Final Thoughts

There is so much to learn here. I barely scratched the surface of the correspondences, especially the intense association with water and watery deities and concepts. Lotuses, nymphs, and the lord Poseidon all by the wayside while I figure out what it all means. The animal associations present their own puzzle: what do eagles, snakes, scorpions, beetles, lobsters, and wolves have to do with The Hanged Man?

What will the next card be? I have no idea. I will not draw another card until after this is published and another day dawns. When will it be published here? Again, it depends on the card and candidly on my life in general. Until then, I invite comment and question!

Resources:
1. Tyson, Donald The Gate of Daath, Howlings (Scarlet Imprint, 2008) 133.
2. Ibid, 129-130
3. Ibid, 131
4. Crowley, Aleister, 777 vel Prolegomena Symbolica Ad Systemam Sceptico Mysticae (courtesy hermetic.com, PDF)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_the_Gathering for general history & images or the Getting Started Guide on Wizards of the Coast’s site for a full breakdown of how a card is constructed.
6. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Final_Fantasy_IV#cite_note-14 or FF IV original (Japanese) & English script: Mt.Ordeals
7. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yggdrasil#H.C3.A1vam.C3.A1l

Supplementary Resources:
http://www.servantsofthelight.org/QBL/Paths/23_mem.html An HTML table rendering of all the data of line 23 of 777.

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The premise behind this project is very simple:

1. Choose a Tarot card (only shuffling for the first draw).
2. Dissect the visuals on the card and write down their most basic symbolic elements (from opinion/personal preference).
3. Look up details of that Tarot card from tarot books, 777 and other cross-cultural references.
4. Create a visual and/or written interpretation of the card.

The idea is part research project, part art project, part image-meme-in-the-making if stripped down to its most base elements (pick card, recreate card the way you see it).1

The deck I am using for my base of operations is The Robin Wood Tarot deck, put out by Llewellen publishers in 2002.2

Candidly, the Robin Wood is not my favorite deck in terms of art; I’d bite my own mother if it would get me a copy of the Yoshitaka Amano deck, but I adore his rich, Art Nouveau inspired work and that makes me rather biased. The Amano deck would actually be a poor choice for this endeavor, as the number cards within the suits are apparently expressed with a simple display of the number of each thing (cups, swords, etc), rather than full, symbolically significant art.3 The Robin Wood deck, on the other hand, is a much more suitable deck, inspired by the perennial Rider-Waite Deck published in 19104, although perhaps slightly more “modern” in its sensibilities.

I am currently at work on my first card, which I shall reveal if you ask me about it when I’m ready with a finished assessment and/or artistic recreation. Initially, I sought to impose strict deadlines for this work, yet I grossly underestimated the amount of information that has been layered into these cards over the centuries! Just working with only the base symbolism in the card could keep me very busy. Each card has a unique personality to be expressed through careful consideration of my reactions to it and available materials for creative reconstruction. This doesn’t even scratch the surface of the myriad readings to choose from in just the books I have available, especially since broad descriptions are given to help these cards display meaning when read in the intended context of a specific goal as well as their relation with other cards in a spread. Intentionally working with one card at a time means a lot of winnowing to get to the germ of the matter.

Furthermore, there are other unique challenges: Tarot interacts rather directly with several other systems of magick and philosophy, making the cross-referencing quite an in-depth affair. My extremely limited knowledge of Western Esoteric systems will prove to be my biggest stumbling block. This has been made clear while researching the first card for the series in 7775, Crowley’s seminal work providing rich tables of correspondences between systems of symbols used in different magick disciplines.

Though I will endeavor to research each card fully and provide serious thought and commentary to this effort, I do want to keep moving forward. What this means is that each article, each visual working (likely to be magazine-centric collage as I’ve a lot of material to work with) should likely be considered a work in progress, no matter how complete it may seem at the time of release. There’s likely to be more personal revelations and hand-written notes that simply don’t make it into this journal. These things may surface later as part of a larger effort to commit this project to print. Hail Eris!

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So those kids over at White Chapel, had a a delightful little idea: Group Fiction. You know the old threads on message boards were one person would start a story and the next person would right the next four words and so on? EX from them boys at Fast Karate:

GOKU1838471: Goku was walking and
Bigdooba: got a BJ from
KIDBOO: BY A PINK ELEPHANT LOL
GokuRAWKS: thats five words ROFL!
MikeReason: Well techinically lol is three words so its actually seven words
GokuRAWKS: FAG!

Sometimes it doesn’t work out too good, but the in this case it worked out rather well, and more importantly is actually amusing. So here it is uncut and archived for prosperity, I hope you have as much fun reading it as we all did writing it. Beware it is pretty dammed long.

The Hat Of War and Peace or THE NAZI TURTLE WHO WAS ACTUALLY A NAZI GENERAL ALSO A HUNCHBACK

By: Jess, Oldhat, VKlaus , Rootfireember, kpatrickglover, and the wonderful andrenavarro

Frank watched as the old man left the cafe, struggling with the door in the wind. It almost caught him and pulled him out, but he managed to maintain his balance and push the door closed. Just before he turned away, Frank realized that a rumpled gray fedora had blown into the room. He watched it as it tottered on edge and finally fell to the ground. It was a pleasant looking hat, full of character. It reminded him of the one he owned many years ago, before the war. But then, everything reminded him of life before the war.

They said war changed a man. They did not mention, in the infinite wisdom of generations past and hoarded scraps of wisdom, that it also changed everything it touched. Even something as simple as a hat skittering along the floor until it came to a stop. The simple object was more than a hat; it was a symbol of things loved and lost, and days long past.

It hadn’t been a hat, thirty years ago. It had been a helmet, with a hole in it, rolling down the hill until it hit a puddle of mud. The rain washed the blood off of it. On the top of the hill, dozens of soldiers were being massacred by mounted machine guns. It was a sight he’d have seared into his mind forever, but the helmet rolling down the hill was the strongest memory he had of it. Somehow, it was stronger than seeing dozens of people being mowed down because of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

While the helmet rolling down the hill with a hole in it was a symbol of the futility of the war, Frank’s own helmet was a symbol of strength and power. This was proven when Frank’s squadron infiltrated the base that held the horrible General Franz Kraustitt. Since 1941 the general had been heading horrible experiments on prisoners of war, animals and even his own men. He was a madman trying to play god who had to be stopped. Frank was the first one to find him and immediately the general fired at him. A stray bullet hit his wrist and his gun dropped to the ground.

There have only been a few times Frank felt the need for a miracle. This was not one of those times. Being in war changes a man, teaches him how to survive. After all General Kraustitt was only one man, a man with sever mental problems. He could handle this. But boy oh boy was he wrong.

As Frank sank deeper into the memories spurred so rudely by the lost fedora, a small turtle watched him carefully from across the room. No one paid much attention to the turtle sitting in the small plastic cage on the counter. It was unusual for the young girl to bring the creature to the cafe, but a closer inspection of the reptile confirmed that he was brown, boring and an otherwise unremarkable pet. The turtle was not inclined to do much to entertain his audience, as he was concentrating on Frank. Something, SOMETHING about the man seemed vaguely familiar. Unsettled somewhat by being unable to place the old man, the turtle’s good sense told him to stay quiet. Yet he wanted to know more. The man across the room seemed strangely intent upon watching the hat, and the turtle couldn’t help but remember a man wearing a similar fedora.

There had been experiments before the war, and during it upon beasts. Vivisection was the tip of the iceberg in those muddy years; though it was thought to be the origin of what some called hyper-intelligence in some animals. It was not; but most people seemed to prefer to think of abominable origins for animals that spoke and thought like men, instead of believing sentience in animals could have come from more natural origins. People wanted to be the smart ones. They were intimidated, and fearful of these strange animals among them. So the turtle kept his beak shut, kept his thoughts to himself.

Frank fought his way back from the memories, amazed how vivid they had been. It was like he was being pulled back through time, all because of that rumpled old hat. He pushed his coffee aside and stood up. The turtle watched him as he crossed the room, fear growing in its heart. He wanted to warn Frank not to touch the hat, that this was a bad thing, but thoughts don’t always equal words. Not in a turtle. So he simply watched as Frank picked up the hat, turned it around in his hand, then placed it lightly on top of his head. He wasn’t surprised when Frank vanished from the cafe, hat and all.

The turtle had made a promise to himself many years ago. To be precise, seventy years ago, before the human who “owned” him was even born. It had promised it would never, ever speak, even though the experiment had given it the ability to do so (albeit with a hideous accent), and in the lifespan of a turtle, picking up languages is no challenge. Still, the turtle knew what would happen if it dared to speak, like that time the human dropped him and he went “AAAOW FUCK”. Luckily the human was constantly on drugs, which made things easier to forget. But a cafe full of people… still, if the human continued to wear that damned hat, something horrible would happen.

When the green flashing in Frank’s eyes started to fade away, he looked at where the hat had taken him. He was surprised to see another H4-T. he hadn’t seen one of these devices since the war. It was a genius invention originally brought on by the Germans. Basically they would distribute the H4-Ts in hat stores in well known Jewish areas. hell, they’d even give them away. And once those hats were put on the wearers would be transported to a concentration camp. A lot even ended up in General Kraustitt’s base. But that couldn’t have happened now. Frank knew the general to be dead. He killed the man himself…

It was at this point Digressing Omnipotent Narrator thought to himself “what is the world coming to?! Teleportation hats talking turtles? Jesus H Christ (not me), all things have gone awry!” But he digresses and returns to the narrative, it which Frank looks around to see the old room where he put a bullet in the generals head. The faded blood stain still marked the wall. Nazis, not the tidiest of folk.

The turtle sighed. He had to get out of the cage, get to the man with the hat, and make sure nothing was undone that should not be undone. Escaping wouldn’t be too difficult, he thought. The human had been careless lately. She had left the top panel of the cage open, and all he had to do was get his claws in the air vents just below the lid. From there, he could pull himself up and out. Luckily, the human seemed to be engrossed in her french fries, so the turtle took this opportunity to sneak to the corner of the cage, stand on his tip-toes, and crawl atop the plastic prison that he lived in from day to day. He took a moment to savor the fresh air and the smells of the cafe. Then, faster than you could blink, he too was gone.

The turtle was quickly realizing what was at stake. Drastic measures would have to be taken. The ability to speak was only the first successful experiment (after five that failed very painfully). The second was the ability to hide in plain sight. The turtle walked into an alley and, sure nobody was seeing him, he started to grow. Suddenly it could stand on his hind legs, and the shell on his back became as soft as flesh, and his face grew a nose and the eyes widened. He was now… a hunchback.

No longer a turtle, General Krausititt’s started the long hike back to his office, where he knew Frank would be waiting. It was cold, but he knew it would be. He had lived this day before. He almost hadn’t survived it, but his scientists had got to him after the shot, before he bled out. The transformation was complicated, but quick. He bore Frank no ill will, he wasn’t looking for revenge. But he had no intention of taking another bullet. The timestream must be preserved, but some other way. He would not be turtlized again today.

Krausititt could feel the timestream pulling, trying to create a loop, to make what once was merely repeat itself ad nauseum. He’d had an assistant once, a rather dim jackal-creature that had warned him of such things…every five minutes. He’d taken heed of the warning, then ended the looping for the mad beast with a few well-aimed shots. Krausititt pursed his lips, and didn’t let his will waver; history would not repeat itself. It must not. The fate of the world depended on it. He had seen it.

It wasn’t until Kraustitt stepped in to the same room they were in all those years ago that things started to happen. Kraustitt managed to catch a surprised look from Frank before everything went blue for a moment. Suddenly it was 1944 again. Kraustitt was exactly where he was when Frank had stepped in. His first instinct was to reach for his gun, but he thought better of it. That would lead to Frank dropping his gun and then in a surprise move, getting it back and shooting him. Besides, he could see that Frank was hesitating. He knew that a change had happened. Keeping his gun in his holster, Kraustit smiled at Frank. “I suppose you want to know what’s going on, yes?” Frank’s eyes widened. “y..yes…” “Don’t worry. All will be explained in good time. Would you like some cocoa? Before your men got here we had a pot of it brewing.” Frank lowered his gun and started to walk towards Kraustitt, unaware that Klaus, the 7-foot sergeant-major built like a gorilla was slowly creeping behind him.

The veritable man-god grabbed him by his unsuspecting ears and hoisted him to the ceiling. “You see,” explained Krausitit, “You have been brought back into time to re thread history”. The rage was bulding in Franks face, pink an purple from pain and anger. “YOU SON OF A BITCH I’LL HAVE YOUR DISGUSTING ZOMBIE TURTLE HEAD FOR THIS! YOU CAN’T STOP ME!” SHOUTED Frank, “You are all demons, and god will rain vengeance upon your soul!” To which Krausitit replied. “No Frank, you are the demons”

and then Frank was a Zombie

THE END.

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First up on this WTK is the opposite of wealth. That term is “illth” and was coined by John Ruskin as a way of giving simple voice to the concept of possessing damage, discontent, or general ill health (physically, economically, spiritually, etc). In Ruskin’s case, and in several applications, this is largely applicable to the people (and actions by those people) who are generally considered wealthy.

Wealth, therefore, is ‘The possession of the valuable by the valiant’; and in considering it as a power existing in a nation, the two elements, the value of the thing, and the valour of its possessor, must be estimated together. Whence it appears that many of the persons commonly considered wealthy, are in reality no more wealthy than the locks of their own strong boxes are, they being inherently and eternally incapable of wealth; and operating for the nation, in an economical point of view, either as pools of dead water, and eddies in a stream (which, so long as the stream flows, are useless, or serve only to drown people, but may become of importance in a state of stagnation should the stream dry); or else, as dams in a river, of which the ultimate service depends not on the dam, but the miller; or else, as mere accidental stays and impediments, acting not as wealth, but (for we ought to have a correspondent term) as ‘illth,’ causing various devastation and trouble around them in all directions; or lastly, act not at all, but are merely animated conditions of delay, (no use being possible of anything they have until they are dead,) in which last condition they are nevertheless often useful as delays, and ‘impedimenta,’ (Unto this Last, 1860)

~ emphasis mine, quote boosted directly from the wikipedia article on illth

Here also is a much more concise description of the difference between wealth and illth from the late Robert Anton Wilson:

Wealth is best conceived as all the changes in the “natural” (prehuman) environment that are to the benefit of humanity and/or other life forms. A bridge that gets you across the river without your having to stop and build a raft is wealth in this sense. So is an airport. So is the furniture in your house. Think of ten other examples.

Illth, a term coined by John Ruskin, can be conceived as all the changes in the environment that are detrimental to humanity and/or to life itself. Weaponry, then, should be classed as illth, not wealth. Think of ten other examples.

~ from a very good article featuring several such concepts on nolanchart.com

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jb0v4ENtVhA

Here is, for example, Robert Kennedy Jr speaking about the illth generated during the previous President’s tenure in office. (via NewIlluminati)

During the course of of his speech(es), he mentions fairly regularly that the kind of environmental shenanigans that the Bush Administration was getting away with, that the corporate capitalists were/are getting away with, would not fly in a true free market capitalist system, which he seemed to convey with passion was generally self-regulating.

Which brings us to the next WTK term Laissez-faire Capitalism, coming from the the French for “let it be”, pronounced roughly as lah-zeh fair. It in this case referring to the market and its participants. (This was not coined The Beatles, though the general “laissez-faire” attitude appears to have perhaps had some influence on them.)

Generally speaking, the term means “let business run unrestricted by government interference”. While this is nice in theory, it of course produces a surfeit of unique challenges. Most of these challenges, this author would suspect, center around the need for a non-passive consumer base. As with any theory of business, government, and economy, there are a variety of different opinions on what exactly laissez-faire in the context of economic theory really means. The wikipedia article alone points to several branches of thought around the theory in general, and the theory as it relates directly to historical events or other philosophical standpoints.

To provide better context, it also helps to understand the basics of capitalism itself.

Capitalism is an economic system in which wealth, and the means of producing wealth, are privately owned.[1][2] Through capitalism, the land, labor, and capital are owned, operated, and traded, without force or fraud, by private individuals either singly or jointly,[3][4] and investments, distribution, income, production, pricing and supply of goods, commodities and services are determined by voluntary private decision in a market economy.

~ Note: There are no references attached to what appear to be footnote numbers in that definition. Which while irksome does allow me to link to the referring page on nolanchart.com, which has several articles from persons of differing opinion regarding the concept of capitalism in its various forms.

These are complicated ideas, fraught with intellectual and philosophical pitfalls. Perhaps the best phrase to concern yourself with? Laissez les bons temps rouler!

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A Long while ago, while sitting in my smoking chair blowing contemplatively erotic smoke rings into the air, I thought briefly about what it would be like to publicly gift my fellow gentle breed with my curiously wondrous and humorous tales and musings. The more I pondered about it, the more the thought smoke soaked into the satin night robe of my mind and stained it with a blurry grey smudge of a dream.

That night a fierce ambition was born and from near and far I searched for a proper stand to orate my thoughts into my fellow man. Many found me tiresome, some merely scoffed. Said, they had no time for such a verbose rambler of my sophisticated sort. However, I never weakened in my noble resolve and due to my strict obedience to my pure and admirable principles I was richly rewarded.

I was coaxed by a particularly virile comrade of mine to peer into his Intertronular Computation Mechanism and introduced me to the world wide web of lexicographical luxury known by the lay as the Blogsphere. It was here that I found a suitable home for my intrepid scripting of words.

So I petitioned the owners of several blogs offering my services and at long last I found a place that had use for me and my devilishly constructed sentences of verbose verbal excellence.

This place was named Random Kitty (A name that quite tickled my particular delights). Here I decided I would lay down my singular thoughts and perhaps make a little extra opium money. So with all the grace of a king I greet you all. My name is Klaus, and I will be injecting this blog with my invigorating literary skills. Its surely is a pleasure.

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1: Knock knock.
2. Who’s there?
1. The interrupting cow.
2. The interrupting co..1. MOO

I suppose it is worth noting that there are NSFW images and links here.

Oh, exploitable

Yesterday (September 13th, a day that will live in infamy for the next few weeks), during the MTV Music Video Awards: Kanye West made an ass of himself… again.

Here’s how it went down:
Taylor Swift won some manner of award on the 2009 VMAs for having a video that no one probably saw because MTV stopped playing music videos several years ago.
She arrived on stage to take the microphone to make her thank you speech.
Kanye West – proud non-reader of books – then invited himself onto the stage, took the microphone, and proceeded to inform the audience that Taylor would be allowed to finish, but Beyonce had one of the best music videos of all time.
While that may or may not be true, this has since sparked a rather large kerfluffle over what a massive, unrepentant douchebag West continues to be in the face of all rational thought.

More importantly, this has spawned a new image macro, and a less funny, but undoubtedly more popular, video featuring President Obama’s recent speech, and big to-do after a reporter spilled through Twitter (and later retracted) that Obama called West a jackass for interrupting Ms. Swift like that; the audio on that conversation has since leaked to the internet.

Without further ado: The Interrupting Kanye.

ULTRA MEGA IMPORTANT EDIT: VKlaus found the winner of the Kanye meme.

Another epic find! IsKanyeWestADouchebag.com – now with hot interruption action! :D

Kanye interrupting his own video

Kanye interrupting a dream

Kanye coitus interruptus

kanye interrupting the mega man select screen

kanye interrupting his own interruption

kayne interrupting beyonce video

kanye interrupting the kanye interrupting thread

Kanye interruptions unto infinity

Kanye interrupting the start of world war 1

Kanye interrupting Osama

Kanye West interrupting this tragic case of child abuse

Kanye Interrupting Trip to Mordor

Kanye Interrupting the moon landing

Whether or not this fledgling image macro becomes a full-fledged meme is hard to say. The event is so mainstream the enjoyment factor may be lulzkilled by media coverage burnout, resulting in premature death.

It’s already spread to twitter in the form of a user image overlay put out by twibbon which – while an appalling amalgam of words for cutesy trend purposes – is kind of an interesting tool. It allows you to sign up and “show your support” for a variety of causes or trends by the use of automatic user pic overlays. In this case, it’s a headshot of Kanye West with “Ima let u finish”, effectively blocking out the person’s userpic altogether.

And Colbert hopped on the let’s-make-fun-of-the-village-idiot wagon on Monday as well. Colbert uses his character’s over-inflated ego to counterpoint the absurdity of over-inflated ego, making his jab cast a much sharper relief on the utter ridiculousness of the entire situation. The thing I enjoyed most was that he actually focused on giving some props to the actual award winner, Taylor Swift, who really deserves far more attention than the assclown that interrupted her anyway.
(P.S. Speaking of Comedy Central, I totally beat CCInsider to this meme story by a good 3 hours. Just remember, you heard it here first, folks!)

A favorite site of mine, teefury.com, also got into the action yesterday when they debuted their one-off shirt: “I hated Kanye before hating Kanye was cool”. The truth of that was almost enough to make me break my “no slogans on shirts” rule. Soup.io user Amsterdam was smart enough to capture the design before the opportunity to buy the shirt was gone. (They do a different design every 24 hours, and ONLY for 24 hours.)

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In the very early morning in the fall of 1979 a particular beach along the Aegean Sea in Athens is nearly deserted. You have not yet slept, as your crew-mates have gotten ahold of your judgment once again, and you have been out all night. But you are alone now, and the soft pink horizon gives context to your solitude. You stroll the shoreline, smoking a cigarette, thinking of home and taking stock of the day ahead of you, when, in an instant, your life changes forever.

You are not hit with a meteor, nor are you shot in the back by an enemy, mauled by a wild dog, or swallowed whole by a shark. You do not have a heart attack, or a stroke or a spasm in your back that causes permanent paralysis and a slack jaw. You have no epiphany. What you do have, suddenly, is a woman.

Thin and birdlike, she balances on one leg to wash her feet in a tide-pool of cold salt water. She has not yet noticed you, and she goes about her washing as if she could be doing anything at all. There is nothing deliberate about her movements; it is as if she is simply an extension of the morning fog around her, supported each moment only by her flexibility to the changing whims of the air.

When she notices you she stops and lowers her foot so that when you approach her she is standing up to her knees in Mediterranean salt water. You begin to speak, though you can’t imagine now what you’d try to say, but she shakes her head. She is not Greek. You had already guessed by her fair skin.

Do you speak English? You fumble for the words. Your hands seem light, fluttering like dusty moths around your sunlit face as you try to explain: no, not really, just a little – a little English. She smiles slowly at you, at once thoughtful and amused, but not a bit wary. She says, “Maybe I should teach you.”

Twenty years from now, in a fit of defeat after being laid-off, you will tell her that you hate her. You will suffer and rage and, in private, you will cry. You will smoke too many cigarettes, drink too much bad American beer, and you will replay in your head, over and over again, how to tell your children that you are leaving; you are going back to Egypt.

Once, you even begin to pack your things, methodically filling up a large black suitcase. You iron and fold your shirts, trousers and even your socks; you pack your Koran, a photo album and your Aramis cologne. Then you venture into the damp basement to rummage through boxes of your old life, grasping at mementos to bring into your new one.

And while you are rummaging, you come across the notebooks. Dozens of them; the English alphabet over and over, tiny drawings to illustrate meaning, notes in the margins, letters, numbers, words and eventually sentences and paragraphs, her handwriting first, then yours below. And you remember her patience, her care, and you remember that she is as stuck as you are.

And you don’t leave. And you don’t hate her, that girl who washed her feet. What you hate is your American life – your small town in rural New Hampshire, your musty basement, your gray Pontiac sunbird with the CB radio; your polo shirts, nametag, cable TV, and, though you are now a Citizen, you have grown to hate Americans and the way they look at you.

Your hate makes you angry, but, after a while, it also makes you grateful. Those notebooks remind you that she too, your wife, lives the same (not really so terrible) life, and that she has never ever stopped trying.

And when you fall in love with her again (for, you’re beginning to realize, it happens over and over,) you will try to forget how you ever hated her and you will remember that first morning on the beaches of Athens when you began to know love.

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Rather than requesting anyone be truly creative, this meme asks you to gather three things, throw them through an image editor, and guffaw heartily at how oddly realistic they seem. Allow me to demonstrate:

Ronnie Schwartz - requisite to great undertakings

Kind of looks like something you’d find in the bargin bin, right? Well it is, in fact, a thrown together combination of stuff based on the following rules

1. Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random – The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. Click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 – The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. Visit http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/ – The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result.

It’s not so much a meme as an image macro, but that’s ok. It could still be worth some amusement factor if you happen upon the right combination of stuff. Or it could be just the icebreaker needed to really jump start that next big musical project. Found this checking out one of the sponsors on the side there, Darkside Dreamland.

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