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.