The Passage of Fallen Stars

These fallen stars of bio-occult fragments, tearful eyes from the head of God resting in the secret pits of our ignorance. Our heads are removed from our bodies and our faces are peeled from our heads. Our faces will hide forever in the forests of formlessness. When you encounter such a figure, such a godless façade, a headless body with arms outstretched, holding a faceless head, you have wandered far from your path. This non-mundane path is primal and barbarous cartographies are required to locate the empty eye sockets of divinity that will help make visible your return home. Those that sacrifice or find a goat for themselves on the path become beasts and demigod bastards crawl upon their death heads, but we are in-between. We die a father of our own sons. Please take the time to inspect your silver cord harness and make sure your psychic cable is not in tatters from our obsessive gnawing. We are sorry.

Formlessness from Nothing (From Nothing)

Separate formlessness with the mythological scalpel of biomechanized ritual. Sip the cold water and the warm wine. Clean the surface of chaos with your shed skin and exorcise a space for you to stand and later sleep. Cloak those that will parasitically feed off of your secrets. Those invisible notes you keep folded in the pockets of the winter coat once worn by your All-Father. You take them out to smell their memories when you forget whom you use to be. Keep your pack kind during the storm, during the dirge. You are Ragnarok. You are the Alpha Omegian neoprototype, last legion survivor set on stun, but you will wipe clean these badlands if you must with your devil dogs.

Writings of a Geomantic Nature

Day:.001

[I am facing 523 degrees South East.]

My hands and feet are cold.

Day:.002

[I am facing 237 degrees South West.]

I feel complete in the midst of debris.

Day:.003

[I am facing 120 degrees South East.]

I do not want to be hairy on the inside anymore.

Day:.004

[I am facing 173 degrees South.]

I have a strange taste of blood in my mouth.

Day:.005

[I am facing 73 degrees East.]

My star has fallen. I am tip-toeing across the floor so my nails will not click on the wood.

Day:.006

[I am facing 73 degrees East.]

My friend had a dream about brutally killing a shark. I cannot get the image out of my head. I told her that she had murdered a part of herself and it was a mercy killing.

Day:.007

[I am facing 299 degrees North West.]

I am looking for drawings about war. I am weary of answering questions.

Day:.008

[I am facing 313 degrees North West.] I am NOT an agent of chaos, but I might be a puppet.

Day:.009

[I am facing 112 degrees East.]

My house shoes are missing. I have noticed lately that various items are moved or lost for small amounts of time and returned to the place I left them and already looked. Dials, buttons and other mechanisms are moved, pushed back, etc. I thought it was me being forgetful, preoccupied or for drinking too much in the evening after work. I do not want to fuel these occurrences, but I am keeping a close eye on the small things. I also sleep with three alarm clocks as of late.

Day:.010

[I am facing 172 degrees South.]

I am hairy on the inside, but silver armor encases it. I wear golden armor on the outside and silver on the inside.

Day:.011

[I am facing 274 degrees West.] It is the armored warrior who forever battles the fanged and clawed, hairy Beast. Both are wrong and both are right.

Day:.012

[I am facing 42 degrees North East.]

I do not feel well. The front of my mind is numb and I cannot concentrate. I have washed my face three times today and changed my clothes four times. I feel obliterated. A small black hole is pushing on the inside of my skull and trying to get out.

Day:.013

[I am facing 182 degrees South.]

A star "can not breathe without noise."

Day:.014

[I am facing 306 degrees North West.]

Last night, I did find a nozzle left open on purpose closed. I am seriously monitoring these phenomena and leaving simple devices with dials, switches and levers at certain noted positions. This activity seems to be isolated to these types of apparatuses.

Day:.015

[I am facing 103 degrees East.]

She always talks to the bus driver every day, even though it is usually a different person. I find this strange, as though she is paying him homage for transporting her. She is very beautiful.

Day:.016

[I am facing 0 degrees North.]

My GOD is Chaos and I hate Him. I am not His servant, but I am forced to knell before Him.

Day:.017

[I am facing 120 degrees East.]

I do not like being alone.

Day:.018

[I am facing 215 degrees North.]

I am attempting to eradicate all signs of my daily activities, like erasing your footprints in the cold dirt.

Day:.019

[I am facing 112 degrees East.]

I am mutating prayers.

Day:.020

[I am facing 306 degrees North West.]

There is a significant difference between a house and a home. A house is an empty shell. A home is a feeling that encases you when you are away. I am very anxious about these words.

Day:.021

[I am facing 0 degrees South.]

Today, I am allowing you to see these words for the first time. The End.

Nullify Intellect with the Pure Hostility of Instinct

Abandon the lawful and sacrifice everything to walk on all fours again. Obtain the secrets of the ninth point at the centre of the eight-sided cross, as the snake struggles against its crucified station upon the crux. The burning, iron box that  holds the secret animal, keeps it senseless and drunk. The cuffs that bind its legs to the cement and concrete dulls its powers and makes it impotent with a rage for all that humans make and touch. Remember your lustful longings that rise from the scent of wet leaves and moist dirt and soaked stone. You want to run until your lungs burn. You want to run until your feet bleed. Climb the city walls and cast yourself into the deep damp dark of the unexplored outside, immune to the trespasses of sentries, soldiers and even spies. You want to sleep in the forbidden tree beneath an open sky of stars in the silence of light. You want to discard your camouflage of weak, man flesh that allows you to hide beneath the Earth’s star. You want to tear out that which is hairy on the inside and speak in the tongues of the hoary. Like a falling star pretending to be the Devil. Like the decapitated head of an ancient king pretending to be God. Remember and put out the burning box. Loose the bindings and stealth yourself back into the wet forest of the forgotten. Sleep with angels and demons and see in the day and night. I could write to you forever and ever, but you need to sleep to dream.

Rest (when you can for as little as you can [and dream])

Dig your trench deep and prepare yourself even more so. Set up your sentries, be vigilant and never rest with both eyes closed. Keep one eye always on the borderlands of the secret memories you hold dear beneath your uniform of mediocrity. Listen for the sounds of bastard intruders, for they will rummage through your past tragedies to steal anything that glimmers of hope or smells of innocence. Always maintan a tight patrol on these borders and allow your dogs to this frontier as they will. Let their violent nature guide them as they purify your territories from thieves and liars. They will protect your lands, preying upon defiliers as you seek respit. When you do sleep, dream hidden in the thickets of wild flowers, ivy and fallen branches. Prepare your thoughts as the sun rises and collect the remains of what was once you.

Six Stages to Exterminate Thyself

I. Leave behind empty your rationality. It will no longer serve. Your actions need to be as base as the prey animal. II. Time to run. III. Time to hide. IV. Do not allow the pumping of mania from your heart that is now in your head to frenzy your actions and reveal your platform of concealment. V. Do not make a sound until you are certain of your surroundings. Any movement could give away your temporary location of false sanctuary. Do not stir the air around you; the smell of your fear excites your predator pursuers. Not until your path is clear and direct and all danger has passed out of sight and earshot can you come out of hiding to retreat yet again. VI. Do not think as a human, you are an animal and need to depend upon the purity of your instincts. Recondition your thoughts, your motivations and your morality.

Thee Room in Thee House

Enter the Great House and return to your room,

Return to the source of your powers,

Clean yourself in your room as you draw down the sun and the moon and the stars,

Return and purify,

Return and be clean and your powers have returned in your room,

Be clean in your room,

A white room with the black smell of burnt paper,

You can purify SPACE,

You can reset TIME,

You can cleanse all MATTER.

You will never be unclean in your white room,

You will be clean in your secret, black room whose door is cast by the shadow of the white room and in your black room with the smell of wet paper, you will wash the Beasts.

You will clean their fur with salt, seed and saliva,

The smells of the burning paper and the drowning paper,

The cleansing smells, this is the smell of clean animals under the ground in secret, black rooms and when you leave, 
You will chain the Beasts to the floor of their polished damnations,

You will keep them comfortable on beds of hair cut from your still dreaming childhood.

One of the responsibilities of the Housekeeper of the Hole House/ Devil Lodge

The wolves of the world below the ground run up and down the walls of the house. A Housekeeper who neglects his wolves will soon find his stronghold collapsed and its guardians in the final act of suicide.

Prepare

Camouflage this secret door to your secret room with secret and sad words written in invisible blood from lies that were never told as you prepare yourself beneath sheets and dust and rotting furniture in an house that has washed onto the bank of the River Lethe. Hide from Time who is afraid to enter. Mnemonically siphon what you can from those three days of darkness that became thirty-three days that became three hundred and thirty-three that became three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three, and synthesize an antidote to transmute the toxins of antitime so you can remember whom you are and whom you used to be and what you are supposed to do. Prepare your beast and your armor and your shield and your sword. Prepare to ride out and for your great battle, and prepare for your holy crusade without a God and without a Devil.

Protection Spell Against Sleep Parasites

You need to stay on your side with your empty eye sockets and open wounds. You jumped the fence and you belong over there with your cruel kind. If you return, you will be torn to pieces by my dogs. Your bloody sheet will catch and tear on my patches of briar, thorn and horn and your true form will be exposed to the light of the moon, you will weaken and perish by the morning star. You are lost and need to stay over there with those other ones. These words will burn you as I speak them to you if you do not return to where you came from, even if you pray to your dead god of dead deconstructed things. You can kneel in your own blood as you pray. Return to your own blasted house that has been burnt, drowned and buried. Find your blunt and broken sword, your rusted armor and your skeletal beast and return. My dogs hair will stand on end and turn to needles if they sense your trespassing. It would be unwise for you to come back and whisper decomposing pictures into my ears while I sleep. They will protect me as these words protect me. They will dispell your form as these words dissolve your integrity and will.

Kissing

I have kissed Purgatory and now it is on fire. Time for sleepwalking down Jacob's upside down, inside out ladder. Heaven is for dragon chasers and lonely messiahs and I simply cannot see it anymore.

observation 001

Mile marker 178 on 65 South is exactly 1/2 the distance from my house to my Mother's house. Traveling either North or South on 65, there is a time change (from CST to EST) that occurs between markers 198 and 204.

God is Ground

Ground is ground,

and sky is sky.

Devil is Devil,

and God is God.

There are hierarchies above,

and there are hierarchies below.

There are starry towers of white fire,

and there are chthonic pits of black water.

There is a house at the centre, inside out,

and there is a house in-between, upside down.

In this house, there is a ladder that goes up into the sleeping sky,

and in this house, there is a tunnel that goes down into the dreaming ground.

Floor is floor,

and ceiling is ceiling.

God is Devil,

and Devil is God.

I am me,

and me am I.

Log 005

Today, concludes my final week in the sanatorium. I have made almost a full recovery according to my doctor and nurse. Later this afternoon, I will be released under my own recognizance. The nurse who has cared for me over these many days will regularly stop in until I am able to function without assistance. There is over a week of undocumented activity prior to my entering the R. Carter Hospital that alludes my waking dreams, any medical or police records, and particularly worries me to a state of panic.

My groundskeeper and many concerned neighbors brought me here six weeks ago. Apparently, I was wandering the South access road in a semi-catatonic state. I was wearing a suit utterly in taters and my hands were cut to ribbons. I was dragging a briefcase filled with raw antimony and salt. I cannot wait to leave this place and get back to the house.

I am a bit weak, but that is to be expected. When I was entered as a patient, my blood pressure was dangerously fluctuating and the palms of my hands had been severely lacerated. Until last week, bandages have bound both hands, and now I can see the multitude of stitches that have held my flesh together. They glisten with antibiotic suave, smell of iodine and are somewhat numb. My stitches will come out in another week and I will probably need many weeks of physical therapy, if my healing is on track, and if I am to regain full use of my hands.

I was unable to write until now. As I sit here for the first time in over a month, a reunited slave to my obsessive notations and diagrams, like a junkie riding the dragon after a long hiatus of false, self reform, the remains of my belongings are being brought to my room and laid a top the hospital dresser.  I was just told that the suit I was found in was unsalvageable and was discarded. My shoes and pocket watch suffered the same fate. They have allowed me to keep my patient’s wardrobe for my trip back to the house. My only memento from my almost suicidal, amnesiac trek is a briefcase. Earlier this morning, one of the physicians on staff came in to talk to me about the large amount of unrefined antimony I had had in the briefcase. He avoided asking me why and how, since he knew I would be unable to provide him a suitable, non-fabricated answer, but I could tell he was holding many questions back and also seemed to be reluctant to sign the release form for me today. He also stated that he is recommending blood work over the course of the year, to make sure that no abnormalities appear from my exposure to the large amount of raw antimony that I was carrying in the briefcase.

I immediately recognized that this was my father’s briefcase (and it was very refreshing to have a strong, solid memory after so long) and sat there for almost thirty minutes, engaging in an exhausting struggle to remember something more significant about this keepsake that was evading the searchlight of my mind’s eye. Invisible, but still present, I could feel it. I opened the case, and began running my hands across the surface of the interior.  It was like a successful, witching-hour scry, something just “clicked.” Maybe it was the smell of the leather fused with the scent of my father from over the decades he carried the case. Maybe it was the texture of the lining or maybe the visage of my father’s family crest insigned on the whale bone handle. All I know is that a deep and old memory was triggered. A memory from my childhood, when I was about twelve, and I was, what seemed to be, physically transported to my father’s study some twenty seven years ago. He was showing me the new case he had had hand constructed in a ritual-city in the jungles of Southeast Asia. He opened the case and then closed it. He told me there was more than one way to open this case and more than one way to access its contents. He showed me many special ways to activate the hidden mechanisms present in the case, many secret ways. The only one that I could pull from this recall exposed a compartment located inside at its base.

I sat in my room for another fifteen minute before I was able to regain control of my motor functions from this intensely, lucid flashback and shake off this incapacitating drug-like huz. Instead of a syringe of synthesized opiates, it was the purity of a simple recollection that held me in a state of paralysis. Maybe the doctor was too generous with his signature of approval earlier today. As the scene of my father’s study faded away and was replaced by my actual surroundings, I realized that the base compartment of the case was open and three pieces of 81/2 by 11 parchment covered with inked notations were being held by my ragged hands of surgical thread and scab.  Just as my cat-killing curiosity was about to take over, the nurse came in to inform me that the taxi to take me back to the house had just pulled up. I quickly placed the triad of papers back in their secret compartment and closed the case. I will savior the mystery of theses documents when I am far away from this place. Time to go to the house. Time to go home.

Log 004

...this evening, I woke up on a train running underground and did not even know where I was...as usual, a haunting, tingling perception of unknown purpose consumed my heart, brain and soul...though I felt an overwhelming sensation of the familiar, the train route I was currently a passenger upon was utterly unknown to my cognitive self...I had to wait until the tunnel reached the surface, and decided to exit the train at the first stop. As I was walking toward a railway attendant, I realized I was carrying a very old briefcase that had belonged to my father when he use to travel abroad to lecture at conservatories and universities. I was also dressed in one of my best suites (actually, one of my only remaining items not riddled by moth holes or mold in the summer house) cuff links, pocket watch and all... as I caught sight of my reflection in the window of the attendant's booth, I did not see myself, but only my father's profile and tired brow...it has been years since I have been this dressed up and I even shaved. The last time I had cared this much about my appearance was when I was interviewing for a position in the department of Folklore and Mythology at Miskatonic University...I wonder what really lead me down this somnambulist excursion so far away from the house. I am very far from where I should have been when I woke and according to the station manager, I am over 120 miles away. It is too late now to return back to the house, so I  have located a room to rent until I can catch the first, morning train. I am curious to what items I have filled my father's old case with for this sleepwalk commute. It actually seems quite full and is somewhat heavy. I should be terrified about finding myself in this unsettling situation, but I am simply too curious about why I have made myself come to this place...

Log 003

Apparently, the rain several days ago washed away all signs of those strange insects. They must have been some type of bug not indigenous to this region, accidently relocated through some produce shipment from another country. I still though, do not understand how those wing fragments made their way into the house. I have a collection of twenty four of them in various stages of disintegration. It is also very interesting how the slight, red incandescence produced when exposed to light is now completely absent, as though some life force still present in the wing expired.  Over all, I do feel more at ease. A close friend of mine who operates a rare book and manuscript store has agreed to keep my journals and other work in the vault where he secures his most valued and obscure documents, parchments and antiquities. He has never shown me the inside of the vault before, but he has been a very reputable and trusted member of the community of non-mundane researchers and scholars of the para-symbolic arts for over thirty years. It is rumored that he even holds a twelfth century, hand-copied scroll from the forbidden texts of Abdul Alhazard. After spending the entire morning with him over many cups of coffee, he convinced me that I need to step away and get a new perspective on my work to date. He stated that he is very use to creative types who delve into arcane subject matter and that dedication to one's WORK can easily mutate into compulsive obsession, especially after thirteen years. He also stated that my work is breaking new ground and that I have an intense, overactive imagination aggravated by sleep deprivation and need to stop trying to connect every strand of daily occurrences to a supernatural conspiracy bent on preventing the publishing of my journals. Prior to archiving my work in his vault, I intend to coat each page with a gloss of bee's wax, lavender lacquer and sunflower pollen. I do not want any possible contaminates in my books to spread to any of his more important items stored next to my novice investigations.

The Flesh ov thee Eye [archive 001]

UPON THESE CROWNED AND HORNED AND HOARY HEADS: these heads of many, this head of one. THE TONGUES SPOKEN ARE MANY (but sound as one) AND ARE DESCENDING with viral sonics. THE SIRENS scream out binary codes. I return to the Thorax Data Morgue with ear plugs and the death and rebirth of Legion and its new human host. The influences of quasi-catatonic materials need a container of skin and blood. The influences of unknown spaces can now be felt. Conjure Red, White and Black ectoplasmic tools. Twenty seven seals can prepare and anesthetize the room for ritual surgery. THEN VIRAL NAMES CAN INVOKE HOLES IN TIME AND SPACE, and the governing towers of Enochian Adam will release angelic prisoners for hostage negotiations. Spiral hooks rotate beneath skin, and cabal papers jar in the night with written words that bleed. Animals that see and speak in the dark hang upside down. Strange animals with carapaces sleep during the day in the cities of Man. Nocturnal animals with carapaces breach all earthen contracts and become rogue agents. THIS IS THE ARMOR TYPE OF THE NEW GOD OF THE MOUND. THIS IS THE ANIMAL OF THE NIGHT OF THE LAST AGE. This is the nocturnal, armored, hanging animal shielded from the weapons of Man (including the atom). The dug up paintings, found in the first sunken city, painted by blind prophets, OUTBREAK and rage. Invader vampirical doors open wide. Destructor doors merge together to form one door. I know she made ointment from another's blood and rubbed a doorway that tore open like long cuts. Now, he (Legion) sits with knives through his feet. He is a FALSE OBJECT and will never be able to read or write in this world. For him, books are sewn together. Books have their own needles and thread. For her, only, there are many drawings on a small table and open books that cover the floor, walls and ceiling, forever. UNNATURAL CYCLES unfold and also descend with their directive to re-write the core of our world. Blood can be air. The sky can breakdown to see in hidden gardens of dust and despair through flesh that too descends. The flesh of the eye looks into the hole and calls the sky to amputate. Hands that descend can turn the sky and pull the skin inside out. The animals of the other believers will bless ground for their children. They will talk with curved fingers and never tell hearts. They will strong the ground and ground the fire and the catapult. They will HOLD. The old body will open. The body will become. The spaces in rooms without windows or doors are a new shelter to reside. EYES THAT ARE HOLES IN INVISIBLE BODIES will warp the wolf of the door of the doppleganger that sees the layers for what they truly are with its eyes of flesh. Wash with wood.

Table of Nine

Early table manifestation of simple formula for the number NINE. Formula has already transmutated. 

Nine

The skin, the blood and the bone make up ONE.

My left, old eye plus my right, new eye equals TWO.

The body of the wasp and the body of the bee are divided into THREE.

The earthen keys to the earthen doors are FOUR.

The daubs of the mud nest and the honey of the wax hive equals FIVE.

The barbarous names that are carried on the backs of flies, mosquitos and ticks are SIX.

The angels of Hell and the angels of Heaven total SEVEN.

The empty thrones of the upside down saints are EIGHT.

The secret symbols and the holy signs are always NINE.

Log 002

Though I found my journals a couple of days ago and I almost had total recall about the purpose of their construction, I still have feelings of complete and utter loss. These spells of amnesia associated with my work have really taken their toll this time,  and if not for a hovering, aggravated  sense of trying to desperately remember something I know I have forgotten or lost, I would have chosen not to pursue this project any further many, many years ago. This maddening impulse to seek out hints of recollection offered up like bread crumbs on a trail of what now appears to be a pathway toward my own mental destruction is completely out of my ability to control. This might have already been the case for several years, but I have just become fully aware of this situation, as though I have  woken from a haze. Can I be doing this to myself on purpose? I realize I have been blaming external forces such as hyper-tension or lack of sleep, but now I am extremely concerned that I am intentionally plotting against myself to prevent the completion of this project. But, then again, there are  these new, strange physical signs as of the last two days that something abnormal is happening. I just started finding insect wings all about the house when I brought my journals back home to clean off the dirt. These are the type of wings that would belong to a large cicada-like bug, but I have not found a single insect body. I decided to collect these wings in small baggies. When I hold these wings up to the light they turn a ruby red. Usually, when something new is introduced into the house, it winds up in one of dogs' mouths, but all of the dogs completely avoid these wings and keep a good distance from them. Outside, I have also found many mounds similar to ant hills surrounding the house. I know that if I did have a secret self, there is no way I would have had the capacity to fabricate such a large scale hoax. What I need to do now is find out who is attempting to take advantage of my current state of paranoia. Most likely a neighbor, who has been observing my irrational behavior and became proxy to my work and is interested in capitalizing on my research. I must hide my work and make sure no can find my journals.