Defiant Hirsutism


“The arrows of song through Hell cease to hurtle.

Away to the passionate gardens of Greece,

Where the thrush is awake, and the voice of the turtle

Is soft in the amorous places of peace.”


Oh, sweet ephebe. Are you cold? Are your toes warm?

I walk upright citizen but in my dreams, I run on all fours, swift and steadily clumsy.  Stacked buxom and epicurean in ample bosom.

Slight shelf formed in the concave curve of lower spine conjuncting with the lift of rounded, stood and lit cheeks.

Callipygian ass. Firm round mammæ. Slight ripple of a stubborn tummy covering my unused womb where I metaphysically minister to the devotees calling themselves Moira’s Nudes.

Rosebud. Ease into the garden.

Come and let us attend the Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz.

I tried to read the instructive booklet, fuzzy beast, but it was a bit confusing.

Something about the feminine and masculine now unified sharing a new womb, the regenerative apparatus giving both the capacity for pregnancy, both allegorically and through magical realism.

The poet didn’t eff his lady.

the lady tried to give him her body. Her Desire. you laughed. and prioritized your spiritual needs.

Her Love craves to be obtainable, tactile, nourishing, fun, wild and feral yet warm and protective.

Her love exceeds her desire/s.

Her love sacrifices her desires to enkindle the flame.

She who was Wittgenstein’s Mistress

read you clear now.

Do you read me: your desire came before your love.

How I howl.


Wave patterns

Recall how good it is to lay on down?


Me too.

Hot, red plasma circulates with my blood cells.

Mouth goes dry; becomes difficult to swallow; breath rages ragged through opened throat.

It’s drawn to me smoothly, in swooping slides, over every atmospheric inch.

How I howl at the peals of divided bells.

I feel loose energy collect within my solar plexus.

Drawn, it smoothly slides to me, from every atmospheric inch.

The knots in my muscles, of my shoulders, and of their blades, tied tautly by ligaments and tendons, loosen.

Flowing like an Atlantic trade wind current.

Centralizing into two, respective, congealed spheres of non-corporeal matter.

Aflush and blushed at being

caught while not

upon my toes and ready,

to repel your compelling compulsion.

I turn my face until mostly obscured.

Setting in: slight, wide-eyed, grin


WTF is Light?

Light is not matter as much as it is energy or a form of energy. Matter consists of atoms.  Light possesses photons; and these photons can possess some of the properties of matter. For example, they are always moving and when they move, they can exert a (usually very small) force on an object (like moving matter can).  Light is actually electromagnetic radiation.  Moving electric charge or moving electrons (electric current) causes a magnetic field, and a changing magnetic field creates an electric current or electric field.

So changing magnetic and electric fields interact with each other and produce an electromagnetic wave composed of two parts: (1) a magnetic field and (2) an electric field.

Electromagnetic radiation has many forms: visible light spectrum, UV rays, radio and x-ray waves.

Please see this website for more information.

“Lights are of two kinds: a light having no rays and radiant light.” Muhyi ad-Din Ibn ‘Arabi.

As for light that has no rays, it is the light within, where self-disclosure takes place without rays. Then its brightness does not go outside of itself, and the viewer perceives it with utmost clarity and lucidity. But, when meanings are embodied outside itself, and become manifest in shapes and measures, they assume forms.

“Witnessing only takes place when two lights come together.” Muhyi ad-Din Ibn ‘Arabi quoted from Chittick The Sufi Path of Knowledge.

“A light upon a light.” Qur’an XXIV:35

“It is not the light that one sees that is important, it is the way that this light awakens our realization that is important.” p78 Hazrat Inayat Khan


Breathwork and Attunement Practices

The Sufi tradition practices a personalized method of aspiring to study the alchemical arts.  Raised as a member of a Methodist church as a youngster, I became disillusioned with organized religions during my teenage years.  Studying physical/medical anthropological at university, I came to realize that the practice of Academia faculty seemed quite similar to religious institutions.  I grew disillusioned seeing how much more interest professors appeared to put towards their own research. Perhaps, these are burdens imposed on them by the administration. PhD candidates and grad students served as substitute teachers and ghostwriters.

Coming from the Dirty South, the debate between religion and science gets a little extra hairy.  Scientists were speaking with the same pomp and pretense and puffery as those they were accusing of being ignorant.  University professors preoccupied with needing to make tenure. University professors who made tenure and should have retired long ago.  I then investigated the esoteric, hermetic groups and loved their texts and mythos, but I do not like secrets.

Sometimes the appearance of a secret is more alarming than the content of the secret itself.

I came across several wonderful texts by Sufi writers over the last three years.  What resounded most for me was the simplicity of the practices recommended.  There is no dogma to be institutionalized, no one forces their thoughts on others, but neither do they fear engaging in a lively discussion.  These practices are so wildly simple. They made such a substantial difference in my life over the last year that I wanted to share some broad strokes.


Four fundamental models of breathing correspond to four fundamental alchemical processes.

Consider each mode of breath as a re-attunement to the world around you.

Perform each mode of breath three to five times before moving to the next breath.

Each mode of breath begins on the exhalation.

The rhythm of breathing must be natural. No retention of breath.

(i) Filtering: exhale through your nose/inhale through your nose. EARTH. Yellow Square. Taurus sigil. North.

(ii) Liquifying: exhale through your mouth/inhale through your nose. WATER. Silver Crescent. Scorpio sigil. West.

(iii) Burnishing: exhale through nose/inhale through your mouth. FIRE. Red Triangle. Leo sigil. South.

(iv) Distilling: exhale through your mouth/inhale through your mouth. AIR. Blue circle. Aquarius sigil. East.

On breathing, think to yourself: I am turning within; withdrawing from any external environment and into myself.  I am drawing the environment into myself to convert and transmute it.

Between inhalations and exhalations, suspend any thoughts other than preparing to resume your breath. Note that there will be a rest, a tacet/tacit pause in between the inhalation and exhalation & again between the exhalation and the inhalation. Feel that slight pause and think only of preparing to change the direction of your breath.

“Sense the emergence in yourself of something new–not the way you ingest the environment–but something that lay in wait within you and that emerges when catalyzed by its counterpart in the environment.  We are recurrently reborn” (p40).

The Ecstasy Beyond Knowing: A Manual of Meditation
Book by Inayat Khan
Try to prolong the exhalation further and further on each breath.
When exhaling, first contract the abdomen, then the chest.
When inhaling, first dilate the abdomen, then the chest.
Imagine that you are nothing but energy/life fields coalescing and cascading. 
(i) static magnetic field
(ii) electromagnetic field that derives from the dynamic nature of of body functions (like mitosis)
(iii) gravitational field you might feel in an elevator in motion
(iv) chi force: experienced when shifting one’s concentration from chakra to chakra.
(v) etheric body that pulses with your breath
               Per, Oxford English Concise (OED), ETHER: DIETHYL ETHER, for example*.
(vi) the aura (bioluminecense)
(vii) celestial body
              Per, the OED: positioned in or relating to sky/outer space.
Consider the arrow of time (horizontal vector) and the transcendental dimension.
Consider the way we extrapolate between two vantage points–confess further dimensionality on our consciousness.
Consider your personal vantage point and the antipodal divine point of view.
Sufi’s endeavor to bring the divine viewpoint to light by Experience rather than Conception.
“Divinity is human perfection and humanity is divine limitation,” Hazrat Inayat Khan
Our breath reflects the ebb and flow of the divine breath.
Sufism validates what is gained in the existential state, the dervishes endeavor to explore the manner in which this timeless state flows into the process of becoming (p57). Note that on page 30, “process of becoming” is used to describe the first of two dimensions we consider in time–the arrow of time and its vectors.
Imagine a Pendulum 
When a pendulum is displaced sideways from its resting, equilibrium position, it is subject to a restoring force due to gravity that will accelerate it back toward the equilibrium position. When released, the restoring force acting on the pendulum’s mass causes it to oscillate about the equilibrium position, swinging back and forth.
The time for one complete cycle, a left swing and a right swing, is called a period. The period depends on the length of the pendulum and also a slight degree on the amplitude, the width of the pendulum’s swing.
“What seems to be coming and going is really the result of becoming and manifesting. When the owner of ‘waqt’ (instant of time) comes into possession of hal (that is: it becomes a permanent state) he is no more subject to change, and is made steadfast in his state.”  p58 Abu’l – Hasan al-Hujwiri

*I was unfamiliar with what ‘ether’ meant, so I figured I’d include it here: 1. a pleasant smelling, volatile, highly flammable liquid used as an anesthetic and as a solvent 2. Chemistry any organic compound with an oxygen atom linking two alkyl groups 3. (also aetherChiefly literary the clear sky; the upper regions of air beyond the clouds. 4. (also aetherPhysics, historical a substance formerly postulated to permeate all space and to transmit light.
ORIGIN ME: from OFr., or via L. from Gk aithêr ‘upper air’, from the base of aithein ‘burn, shine’.
ethereal: 1. extremely delicate and light, in a way that seems not to be of this world 2. chemistry (of a solution) having diethyl ether as a solvent.


The line is not: You pay for what you get.

The steganographia is not the encryption is not the transcryption,

Nor is it the ostensible coding.


The poison is the dose.

The doz>s>e is the poison.

The map is not the region.

“Here I do have a theory: Perhaps we got across because we sailed on the ocean and not on a map.”


Thor Heyerdahl

DOUBLEDAY publishing

Page (ostensibly) 341 aka M(42)

Imagine that ( x ) = x in subSCRIPT

Here you find (sub)SCrypçione

The lyric is: you get what you pay for.



“Eff abstinent. I want you to be obstinate for me,” he said.

“If it cannot be with guns, they will do it with chains/aws/ & stones,” he said.

Rejoinder: “You become a chimp from being a chump, when í substitite an i for a u.” I think Abraham Lincoln said that. Giggle.

Rerejoinder: “We turn o to a and from a crone comes the crane.”

Anyone watched Suspiria yet?


Leavi-N. Home

The degree and uninterrupted time span within which í was able to play soft c has been a rare gift. Perhaps, myopia causes my inabiity to not see the potential to play soft c more frequently. Perhaps, í can only play soft c for /a/ certain kind/s of love(r)s. Perhaps, soft c is the sacred me.

The world pulls the hard c from the Casio Tonebank keyboard that my soul plays. Howl (fka hell), í actually play hard c in order to appear as soft c or even middle c to others. Worlds harden me, but í remain able to scale c in three octaves. Soft, middle, and hard. If you do not know what í mean, you must be a true musician.

Í mean-to-say that i can still pluck three c notes. Not too shabby for a simple southern gal, but í manage my own expectations. If you can play your own note in more than one octave or scale, celebrate. Do not assume it will always be so.

If you cannot play your own note, do not despair. You may surprise yourself one day soon. One day can be today. You could be playing without hearing yourself. Perception of auditory feedback is a self-referential act. When you play too low or too high for human ears to perceive, remember, other creatures may hear your tonebank. Other creatures may bound over to you, to help or to to teach. Help and instruction can be but is not necessarily painless.

Just remember: an envelope stretches, a string resounds, alloys may be maleable.
Just(ly) remind yourself of your own elasticity.


Watch “Joni Mitchell – Black Crow W/Lyrics” on YouTube

No rights, pure homage.

A person mentioned this song recently.

It suits my day today.

Of course, there is always Joni song that suits any given day.




A dancing string is a strummed and fretted wire

Upon which I perform my own tightwire act.

Balance aloft on shakey footing.

There is no safety net should the string snap.

Freefalling into sound endlessly, a runaway elevator in an interminable shaft.

Heaven is in the drone of sounds in stereo


A hobbled high horse

Someone said to her, “get off your high horse.”

She recoiled into the obligatory southern american gal moment of embarrassment.

She winced twice because trying your best can hurt when you do not express your mind well.

Shame was dispensed heavily during her childhood domestication.

She used to ride a high horse up to her ivory tower.

They preferred her then.

Then the horse’s hooves were hacked off by wildlings. So she took to being (a) pedestrian and horse caretaker.

Humbled like the hobbled.

On occassion she would stand on her toes

Just to try and get closer to eye level with her contemporaries who still sat atop unhobbled mounts.

She must look nuts in the midst of the herd and hoard.

But, many of them allowed their high horses to be rode hard and put up wet.

And, though it appeared she was on toes to walk on the eggshells of her little life, she walked on toes to break her feet in, like a proper bolt of denim should be.

Her pride had been broken several times before, in nearly fatal, near death moments that the universe presented suddenly.

She woke from society’s dreams to find herself a strange bird in a strange land with the zen archer behind her, bow pulled taut and ready to wake her again.

Thankfully, as she now knew, she could handle embarrassing herself and rebuilding from scratch.

Hard work.

She wonders.

Do the people telling her to get off her phantom steed know that-

To her mind’sí-

They are equestrians of horses fifteen hands high themselves?

Moreover, did they know that it is okay to have high horses as well as to go it by dint of one’s own feet and breath too?

She could stay out of sight and out of mind, but she would still care for the horses of all, to the best of her ability.

Horses are put into boxes called stalls.

People are stalled by the prescriptive boxes placed around them by others.


Amazonian Dream

Antimony parsimony came in a dream.

Hoarding of elemental medicine in the loam of the gods.

Midden mounds dotting figures lying recumbent underground pushing forth the skin of the earth.

Ancient open secrets waiting for uncovered discovery.


Pole Stars@rest

The sun stayed high until nigh on midnight.

The moon became their noonday sun.

They lived in sleepy embraces, bare and pressed close.

They breathed the oxygen emitted from the pores of one another.

The musk of life making them happy and high.

She smiled as his breath changed, as his muscles spasm into a shallow sleep,

Like a sleeping pup let lie until twitching into dreams of chasing Ingpen white hares.


Priapys & Babble-on

Effie here. Hiya. Recovered notes from Parçiful are transcribed below. These are the earliest of journal entries that speak to her metaphysical confusion.

From VVönderland.

(Note: this is transcribed directly as it was found.)

She knew they were disappointed, angry perhaps, that she had not told them what they thought she knew. She was disappointed no one spoke directly to her. She was a strange bird. She shape shifted her appearance, she had odd eyes when lost in thought. She had been so sugary sweet for so long, people had come to expect it of her. Her family viewed it as unhappiness because she used to be so happy. Well, yeah, we all were once many things. She began remembering strange things. She began knowing things that were impossible for her to know. She carried memories of others that they could not remember. She overcame her disdain of silicon only to find the internet stranger than she remembered. But then again, maybe she had never used it.

We live in a pool of energy. Your consciousness is at once in your mind and all minds. Your attention is the key. You can live lives without memory if your consciousness was not there, not attuned.

She could not understand her own opinions on drug use, much less explicate a formal point of view. However, she started rattling off every synonym for sanctuary she could think of when she smoked, for a while. The idea that drug taking was a sacrifice for the sanctuary of others crossed her mind. A little self harm balancing the world of pain and sensation. Maybe that was backwards, maybe drug taking hurt other people.

Her senses might have been too highly attenuated. Too much fight or flight. She felt observed by Socratic circles. She felt like an A&R man who would get fired at any moment. She felt like she had been used again and again. She did not deny she was imperfect. She never claimed to be the perfect partner. She could turn codependent if she was not careful. She could retreat into her mind for weeks and leave her partner floundering alone.

She felt she had a special thing with words. Reading them. Sometimes, as she took notes, what she wrote read like someone else talking to her. But, what a crazy, unspeakable notion, the kind they call women crazy for asserting. She tried to speak of it to her father and sister, but it did not go well. She explained her thoughts on the magicians use of the mystics to N.

The mystics had been played, tooled with, used, and judged. Many people with mystic proclivities seemed unaware and frequently received diagnoses and medication that had little to do with an ailment. The magicians had a questionable stance regarding their right to use others. They knew this though and she had a strange intuition that she was new. Go figure. So, they were trying to level the playing field, but she could tell they were scared of her, of what she might say. Ludicrous. She would not be believed. No one would listen anyway.

She sent a single page email and was told that it was long. Made her right sad to hear. One page? If only she could figure out how to use effing memes to get the point across. What would these idiots do without their wifi?

She was over it. She had been ready to share and speak for ten years. Hopeful she could, in fact. But, now she was tired, alone. She did not care for what the world had become. She felt so old compared to her contemporaries. Their fun just was not hers. Once you read too much, there is no going back.


An honest question from an ignorant me.

Empiricism is the imperialistic prerogative…at least as my mind marks it, and, it does so pseudo-empirically.

But, my concern is: if the observation of an object of inquiry actually changes the behavior of the object itself, what can be said for the metaphysical methodological underpinnings of ‘social science’?

The most basic of examples may be found in the early writings of Margaret Mead. The locals sang a different tune to her than the true song by which they lived.


Watch “Portishead – Roseland New York City” on YouTube

No rights, pure homage

To the sexiest female vocalist out there. Triphop innovators transcribing electronica to orchestration.

This is how the young ‘uns learn of the classical instruments.

Try not to sway. Try not to nod in agreement with the dj cutting.

Young ladies: feel her power and use it to feel your own. We are beautiful without being half naked and shaking (make ’em earn those goods. Giggle.)


Up-Focus from TrainScotting

Í speak in harmonies scaling octavial heights.

Centurians guard my air. Í breathe angels. Í exhale fire. Í burnish with every breath.

Breathless, noiseless despite despots.

The rows planted in keystone symmetry; puzzling eyes ampersand I’s in motion,

Like two horses dying of thirst beside a fresh water stream. The query of the quarry destroyed their shodden hooves. Chipping like fingernails opening soda tab tops.

Lone pylons.

Radio and cellular towers feigned as trees and the refrain repeated from which none refrained.

A bridge over dry dirt.

Í let the bonsai tree grow over one hundred feet. Held fast, bent and hobbled by wire wrapping extended limbs like the necks of Nubian queens. Clutching with cruel vigor the extension as though the feet of geishas.

Incidentally, í never cared for hearing anecdotal evidence, yet í sure evidence anecdotes as offerings to others.

To live and die in the service industry: this is the new Dixieland. Bereft of prejudice.

Barely. The meek shall inherit your tips.

A gnarled bonsai branch slaps me in the forehead as if to say, “oh dear, how could you not remember?”

We watched the weather change three times in ten minutes. He seemed unsurprised. This surprised me.

The rapeseed fields burned yellow like a terranean sun. My eyes nedded shielding, but í looked on and stared at the faux-star. Í beat a path by following the doppleganger affected bleating of sheep. Little lambs of woolen and warm like cherubs. They whispered, “If you jump the stone fence on the horizon, you will freefall forever.”

Í said, “You cannot see the ocean below for your clouds.”

Í stood on the slanting stone stele before slipping into a slide, my leg [em]purpled on impact like the time í slipped on the hotel’s hardwood. Í had had to leave an entire continent to find a bit of breathing space. But, í do breathe more deeply than many.

Vapor fume whisps from my nose with each burnished breath.

Í am the dragon called serpent-bearer. He stays my hand, wrapped around my forearm. He hisses, hides, and hides me. Protectors and protectorates in one. We laugh together in snarling tangles. He hangs like a tentacle. He hangs me upside down by my ankle, correcting the orientation of my perspective.

We appear cruel to the uncruel.

We are cruel to the cruel. Humiliating them unmercifully through unwarranted kindness. Adoration melting cruelty.

My eyes go hard.

My lips narrow and purse while my kindness cuts ampersand maims.

The behemoth bonsai bursts into flames. I howl in feral pleasure.

Mine is water; fire, the serpent’s.

Diabolical excellence arouses

Making ire irie.

The awareness to insert [i] pro/e/duces accordingly.


Taken from the Three Lives: The Rainmaker p. 459

“…all that was beyond reality penetrated almost violently into the boy’s senses. And sense impressions are a deeper soil for growing memories than the best systems and analytic methods…Knecht had more to learn by his feet and hands, his eyes, skin, ears, and nose, than his intellect…No doubt they were really seeking the same ends as the science and technology of later centuries, but the went about it in an entirely different way. But one thing was utterly impossible for them: not in their most audacious moments would it have occurred to them to meet nature and the world of spirits without fear, let alone to feel superior to them. Such hubris was unthinkable, they could not have imagined having any other attitude but fear toward the forces of nature. The various systems of sacrifice kept fear at bay. A man who had been able to ennoble his fear by transforming part of it to awe had gained a great deal.”


Reading Hermit}One Leafe Left In A Study

I once thought to myself, in one of those moments of passing lucidity: Is the point of life to remember how to enjoy breathing? Is it the most basic pleasure?





Did you know the word “panic” does derive from Pan?  Look it up, might be buried deeper than a single dictionary.

Did you know that Freud posited that the idiosyncratic, neuroses afflicting individuals in society are a result of human civilization itself, not some inherent biology deficiency?

Involuntary loss of control over voluntary processes. Inability to breath.

Breathless. Is that not the quintessence of smoking, smoking anything, inhaling anything?

Taking in the air around you seems inane or futile. Breathing reaffirms life.

Music and speech force breath and leave breathless. Breathing through your nose,

closing your throat to prevent air slipping through

renders speechless.


Here are the things I’ve been thinking/reading over the last few years:

iPagan. Edited by Trevor Greenfield, 2018. Textbook for learning organizational & historical of “naturalist” sects.

The Glass Bead Game (Master Ludi). Hermann Hesse, 1990. Henry Holt

Foucault’s Pendulum. Umberto Eco, 1988. “A Helen and Kurt Wolff book.”

On Literature. Umberto Eco.

The Confessions of St. Augustine. find the Oxford version. Read it as though your narrator is being completely ironic. 

Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling

Kantian Reason

Bertrand Russell’s efforts to formalize systems

Sartre’s Being and Non-Being

Consider: Euclidean/Non-Euclidean Space ; Gödel’s sentence G ; a priori methods formalizing almost axiomatically ; the difference between linear/non-linear equations ; consider the different types of numbers and the number line ; consider the difference between permutations and combinations

Incompleteness: The Proof and Paradox of Kurt Gödel. Rebecca Goldstein 2005.

Gödel Escher Bach ; Metamathematical Themas ; Mind’sI. Douglas R. Hofstadter

Gödel’s Proof. Ernest Nagel, James R. Hofstadter, 2001

 A Mathematician’s Apology. G.H. Hardy, 1940

Introduction to Logic. Patrick Suppes, 1957

Short Stories: The Circular Ruins (Jorges Borges) ; The Beautiful Dream  (Hermann Hesse) ; The Dream of Poliphilius ; The Great God Pan Arthur Machen

Consider and draw the Sephirotic Tree.

Consider the nature of words and language: Use Don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements as introduction

Consider Parzifal (A.T. Hatto’s translation of Wolfram Von Eschenbach)

Danse Macabre. Stephen King.

Plato-Socrates: The Apology, Phaedo, Swan’s Song,

Random Rabbit Holes: the concept of godess/godheads, female and male sexuality/Hesperus is Phosphorus/a book’s copyright page, Odysseus, Ajax.

The Ecstasy Beyond Knowing: A Manual of Meditation. Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan, 2014.

The most interesting question that comes from all this reading, in my opinion: What is the subliminal symbolism of sexuality?





Notes on Bayadere Ballet (the word/s flow/z below like the lyriç of ballet.


Youtube allows us to see tons of art that we may not usually get exposed to.

Like, ballet for me. Alvin Ailey is one among many other state, city, and national ballets that are familiar to most us, in theory. When was the last time you watched a ballet start to finish? Never for me; until, I saw the above performance. Thanks to youtube.

The Balanchine tradition cannot help but be my personal fave.

It reminds me more of yoga poses, the breathwork, physicality and poise are enough to usually bring a tear or two, though it is a very uncynical thing to admit. It is also super brutal looking. The practice and repetition of the same basic movements over time enables this art to enliven through proper breathing to oxidize muscles while balancing precariously.

The European and western ballet companies cannot hold a candle to the art expressed by the Boshoi Ballet. Alchemy in action.

I wrote letters from the words in the opening/closing credits, the subtitlez,and the actual youtube info on my screen. It contained characters in another language.

A meditation for sure.



Watch “Blinker the Star – Top Of The Pops (Official Audio)” on YouTube

Howl, yes. Like reluctant headliners, look who is back on the scene?

Still clear and up to their resources. No doubt.

I hope they never change their attitude.

Their dog says that he will try anything, don’t you know.

Help ’em out.

They are kind enough to share on YouTube.

You can get more music here. Like their entire catalogue for $30.03. That has to be someone’s lucky number.


This goes out to the Wheeze L. Legg…. “kelis i hate you so much right now” on YouTube

‘Member how we loved this song as young un’s, sis o’ mine?

In your bedroom after moved into the back room. Door closed. Wilding out like idiots.

Being joyful to hear such a song,


Non-Western immortals of Mythos: INDRA (cite Am. Practical F.&W. ’43.)


Figures & Illustrations are never un-welcomed–i don’t care who you are.

Like, a phrase like “Get Outta tha Cab!!!”–can be good, nonclean and funny–don’t matter who, ya arse.

Note: with the Diagram to the right of Indra, I wonder, could the tool of induction be used along with the def. of induction coil such that even the most lay-of-laymen could ennoble the manifestation of the thing from the idea. Reach into the ether, pinch finger-to-thumb and make-manifest a machine from the immaterial?

Howl yeah, í reckon.



Illustrating Examples

En-courag-IngPen March hairz.


Hunter versus Predator (disambiguation from Funk & Wagnalls 1943)

Predator [no entry|no subentry]

*related entry predatory

*note the ‘derived from’ information (i.e. prædor).


Watch “MAD Dragon Sessions: Fly Golden Eagle “Horse’s Mouth”” on YouTube

Effing love this jam, album, and band.

And when nobody’s there to write it, I am gonna show you everything.

And i can feel it in the silence

Silence comes in willingly.

(Lyrics as my ears hear them. It has been brought to my attention that I often don’t get it right. I say rock n rollers can better enunciate if that is a problem.)



Watch “Joni Mitchell Wild Things Run Fast (1982)” on YouTube

For every album you can name by Joni Mitchell, I wager there are two and a half more albums per unit that you do not know. And, for every song, several variations: studio cuts, recorded live when she toured the album, recorded live years after, made to look as though filmed live.

And there are paintings for most too.

Found my worn Anthology of her Sheet Music copy-right 1983 Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.

Check it out cuz She’s Playing Real Good, For Free at her own digital domain.

Here is info on the title track of Wild Things Run Fast here.

A song of tradition and tribes.

Here are the lyrics…..

He came/she smiled.

She thought she had him tamed, but he was just as wild, eatin’ from her hand, at last.

Wild things run fast.

In the dark he could see the trap that wzs lyin’ in her sweet company,

eatin’ from her hand at last.

Wild thing run fast.

Winter beat the pines about.

He heard the heater cutting in and out

while she dreamed away.

In the night, it snowed:

Fast tracks in the powder white leading out to the road,

winding from her tender grasp.

Wild things run fast.

But wait? Did you hear it? My ears missed it entirely until I read the lyrics, saw these words, Backed-up the track (fka ‘rewound) and listened hard for it.

Uh. Sounds a lot like she is givin’ it back to tunesmith Chip Taylor’s Wild Thing (I think I love you), popularized by The Troggs, a band paving the way for garage rock, proto punk, and the lo-fi scene.

I forgot to mention, the tune-smith’s real name in James Wesley Voight, brother to actor Jon Voight, and apparently Angelina Jolie’s uncle as well.

Wild Thing has been coveredby The Jay Five, The Kingsmen, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Runaways, Chevy Chase, X, Sam Kinison, and Kermit the Frog, to name only a few.

Metamusic. Dig it much.


Deja-View of the Ingenue

She put on her armour but left off the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For the benefit of whom, she was unsure.

She looks at the græy sky and thinks of his eyes.
She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of his brogues.
Then his ankles.
Then his bluə-græy sky eyes.

And, her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
And, her eyes go soft and shine.
She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make on cue or command.

The neighbors open their door and a dog bounds to her: tail-shaking,welcome-waggin’ cometh. She relunctantly retrieves herself from her golden reverie.
And pulls her eyes sharp.


Not easy, is how she found it. Being tip-toer of labyrinths and garden mazes. This she enjoyed more than representing fertility allegorically. But, oh, howl she could howl for a good glass of wine or some potted green. Chaotic passion inside appeared smooth~like~silk to any outside observers.

Like Ariadne was abandoned, then beguiled to dreams only to then be slain, she knew what the men of the world did to spurious and impetuous women, gave them away or took them away to be locked-up. So, she measured her steps in eight counts, two sets of four paces per leg. And, she breathed in four ways with each way repeated three or five times. She acted the part.

She invariably met Bacchus in the woods. This time he believed his name was Dionysus. He never remembered meeting her until it was too late. She stopped insisting she knew him and played dumb.

“Yes, I do fancy wine, Dionysus, thank you kindly. Do you happen to fancy passion?”

She already knew the answer: yes, he did. Everytime and very much so. Ritual madness and religious-ecstacy made him high, high, high. So did speculation and grandstanding.

“I speak trances to even the cold-bloods.” She said this time, acting as Snake-charmer.

And, then and there did he again “give himself unto his Beloved in sleep”. Leaving her to live and die alone while he leapt through lucid dreams of curiosity mistaken as achievement or sometimes entitlement.

She had seen every tiara he gave her turned into one constellation or another in the night sky, intended as some magnanimous immortal display. Allegedly in her honor.

Blah blah blah. They were nothing more than the womanly model of the current apple in his mind’s eye. He made Stars to shine his light, reflect his ideal feminine quintessence of the moment. She served as a model for the perfect star. He often laughed that she mistook herself for a star when she was a simple model of one.

At first, it felt good. Then empty. Then oppressive. Then pathetic. Then, like an act she performed. Until then, she did not ought but drift like a swan on the blue. Silently. Waiting for him to meet her, love her, and then desire more than love, which would leave her to herself and her own devices.


“Eventually,” she said to No One,

“In the beginning, I left messages in the street.”

This won her the pleasure of being the mistress to the absentee No One man.

She was mistress to a man she had never met and Howl she loved him and knew his mind and body. Pleasures of pleasing and pleasuring.

She was married to the immortal man perpetually putting her on a petal-stool, but did not want for her pleasure or pleasing. He wanted a star, so he used her as a token paragon on a pedestal and sought pleasure and pleasing from every mistress he could render smitten.

But, she promised. She swore to fidelty. How was she to know that no one took sacred oaths literally? Now really, someone could have said something. She never laid with another man. But, the fiercesome pleasure she took from the No One man’s non-corporeal form, debased and debasing without even touching, felt Impeccable. Desperately patient for him; while good on her word, per se, to her Beloved; and Still effortlessly lovesome of the men. She only hated herself after all.

So what? She knew she must be somewhat immortal. She had died so many times, but immortality is lonely when your Beloved uses immortality to capture you both in the same circular ruins where there is no ’til death do us part because death always seems to be a sleep. At least, after the fact of dying, she only seemed to awaken from deep sleep in another place altogether.

It really got curiouser and curiouser. Did she mean “how curious” or “most curious”? Howl no, there was no superlative state of curiousness, just ever-increasing scales of what was curious and what was not. Deja-View pans over her.

She skipped the armour but put on the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For the benefit of whom, she was unsure.

She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of ankles in brogues.

And, her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
And, her eyes go soft and shine.

She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make on cue or command.

No door is opened but the Candor of a pure fool looks at her from another side. He is softened and demurred. Bashful, curious, deferential and incorrigible. She sees it in his eyes. Innocent of entitlement and pure of desire to achievement. He seemed impossibly young in spirit but she recalled meeting him when she was young in spirit. Now the Deja-View inverted.

Ingenue and Guileless.

She became an artless, ingenous gal instantly. Free from disguise and dissimilation, she is what she is. She is no mere actress of fain. Freed of herself at the sight of him.

He is artless too, and, candid, and frank. Strangely innocent.


The tonic was a keytone of ecstasy.

She is beside herself

And across from

A man always beside himself.

She wanted to pursue him relentlessly, meet him time and again in the woods.

She became silent.

A real dummy for the effulgent fool.

She became rekindled.


Pure Fool-ish

The aposiopesis that-

Be silent.

Breathe in through your nose. Now out again.

Breathe a’nosed ampersand your throat holds

your vocal chords

like the high hat gets grabbed after being struck.

Affecting a dinging dash, effectively curt-short.

My aprosexia caused the aposiopesis heard.

The quiet heard round the world.

A black star beheld.

Image captured and imagined.

Both facts of apropos material manifesting.

a priori.

Literally, from what is before.

a posteriori

Reasoning from facts and/or effect

to principles and/or cause

,í am in a state of chaos,

..like swans carried about as on a mirror pond..

}}}í drift(?) as if í have nowhere to rest{{{

Find a duck if you want to be followed and have followers.

Find a goose if you need something for your stew pot.

Allow swans their songs in the keynote of ecstasy.

Sung in silence for one who hears.

Become beside yourself; and admire the garden of live flowers

Petra Paas


“Poliphilo’s Dream”: rabbithole

This odd tale appears to coalesce within my mind with “the Chemical Wedding of/by Christian Rosenkreutz,” (Johannes Valentinus Andreae), “The Beautiful Dream,” (Hermann Hesse), “The Parabola of Madathanus,” as well as, but more peripherally “The Great God Pan” (Arthur Machen) and “The Circular Ruins” (Jorge Borges).

All of the first four texts i referenced require minutia in tracing.

So, if this looks tedious, it cuz it is. It is not craven or unnecessary. If you think it is, this ain’t your kind of reading materials (even though you have read them already in some incarnation or iteration).

Such endeavors are best suited to scratch & scrawl, not typing, for me.

I have rabbithole notes on all these i need to consolidate and smelt.

Kindly forgive the clumsiness of the initial compilation.

Try this if the slideshow does not load.

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12 April

She put on her armour but left off the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For whoms benefit she was not sure.

She looks at the græy sky and thinks of his eyes.
She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of his brogues.
Then his ankles.
Then his bluə-græy sky eyes.

Her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
Her eyes go soft and shine.
She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make herself. caNNot on cue.

A neighbor opens their door and a dog bounds to her. Tail wagging.
She relunctantly relieves herself of her reverie.
And pulls her eyes sharp.


Watch “ROBERTO BOLLE and Svetlana Zakharova ‘Giselle’ (3)” on YouTube

One more and i will desist.

Stunning extension and control.

A fave. Dancer and musical compisition- second to Stravinsky’s Firebird.

Shit is martial arts.


Watch “David Bowie & Trent Reznor 1995 Interview with Kurt Loder | MTV News” on YouTube

I have always loved Earthling. Particularly, I’m Afraid of Americans.

Bowie in vinyl/leather (?) will make you smile.

Also, Kurt Loder. WE LOVE YOU.


Hair of the Hare

A puppet suspended by pulleys, held fast and taught.

Taut over the sieved river.

The Ingpen hare paused, shook his fuzzy head, and picked his itch,

“Monkeys, huh. Too smart.”

Beginning to turn his croak,

He saw the red ball on the bound.

“Thank goodness, I found it again.”


The Third Install: Parçiful

Hello, Alice here. You may recall me if you have been following this tangled loop of a story. We have Parçiful, Effie, and myself. Effie, who will give up no more than the name Parçiful, is her younger sister. The gurls like to travel with me from time-too-time. And, Æ became familiar with them by dint of their fiery aunt. Please do not mention to her that we mentioned this to you. We heard you say: mention something/mention anything.

Æ serve as third party, omniscent narrator. Recall the point-of-views that narrators may take? Well, think of me as a dream sandman. Effie and our anti-hero tolerate me, when they realize Æ am around that is. Parçiful and Æ go way back. We met In-dreams. So, Æ like, from time-too-time, to read her. She is more written than real. Quite unjustly. Improper handling by the Knights-to-Nowhere. She is not a shy one. She was a frightened one. Her Tribe kindly asked her to split. Beat It. She is a Southern gal and so, delightfully obliging, thus: she obliged. Not anymore though. So, I feel sharing some excerts from her handwritten tale. Context. Although, all Æ will give up is what was observable. Lord knows what really happened. Her Tribe and Æ’s Tribe. Just as Æ never gave up everything to her, Æ must assume she never gave up everything to me.

Effie here. Hi.

ASIDE: his final sentence above is an assumption. No one must assume anything. One assumes for want of reassurance. For if she had actually given-everything up to begin with, it would be a hard cross forvÆ to bear. Idiots feel beholden, just as Parçiful did after accepting her at-the-time boyfriend’s plastic proposal. Thank god he left her. Well, left is not the right word. He dumped her and then continued to avail himself of her resources.


In elementary school years, petting myself to sleep at night, while wondering how the Sunday-school heaven could be fun & forever. I imagined a life of growing up to be destitute. Homeless. Well, at least how easily it seemingly could happen to anybody.

Vague intuitions of how feeling entitled leads to your own stripping……

Open secret x: ‘we cannot depend on our lovers to prove to us that we are not broken because, in some way, we all are. Wounded anyway.’

Perhaps the best we may hope-for is to see each other grow and grow together and take care of one another as well as we can-to see each other and touch each other and try not to harm what we see and touch. Maybe that’s not such a small, silly thing. Maybe it’s one of the biggest tasks we face on this earth.

A breath tantra of connection. Sitting on the ground together.

We are embarking on that which we carried wood to see. Because we still want to see.

I lived in words, work, dreams, and a group of four close buds. I felt freer, moore solid, since the cursed engagement ended. Time flew. The world inside me was expansive. I enjoyed being alone, with my own company. I did for me. Took care of myself. Did not miss having a partner. Did not need someone else. And, I saw how poorly í’d allowed my spirit to be treated. Í saw how í had slowly let fires inside myself burn-out. Almost glad they were smothered and stoked. It had become easier to not have fire in my belly when I was working asat at some terminal for ten hours a day. Then to come home and be fussed at for it. Particularly as my job was all me and my at-the-time boyfriend. Do not worry for him. He tagged along on my move across the country. Managed to get a great job. We were in NMexico when found out he had been hired in a lucrative company. So, when he was done with me, he had finally seemed to hve found himself. A good thing. A talented fellow who is not nearly as clever or smart as he thinks he is. Not by half. A decent, upright fellow and good citizen, regardless.

We neglected each other. Lies of omission. “No, everything is fine.” Secret addiction.

[Fig. I.1. Certain entries that Æ read are best communicated by pictures. There is no way to convey content on such things viz a viz pics]

WTF is a German Lodge Book?

Is it just the alchemical appartus comprising a story? An alchemical apparatus used to drive the plot, scaffold the structure, and act as a skeleton key to unlock meaning?

Such an apparatus drives the substance of letters and words towards catharsis. Our story-tech equipment enables a bunch of words to be read by an audience. The collection of words becomes greater than the sum of its parts. This is a non-linear phenomenon, akin to complexity theory.

Confluence. Convergence.

This is how the array of letters constituting the matrix of each page transmutates scrawlings into Art.

The reader undergoes the cathartic process like catalytic enzymes provoking biological reactions.

Mitigate versus Litigate



Transitive verb form (will/able to take both in/direct objects)

Make (a claim) the subject of a lawsuit; have a court contest about

Intransitive verb form (that does not take. a direct object.

Go to law; take legal proceedings

L.=Latin ; C(x) e.g. C17 = 17th century aka the 1600’s.

Weird, huh?

L. lītigo, dispute<līs, lītis, strife, quarrel.]

<L. litigatus, past participle of litigo, strive]

ORIGIN C17 (earlier (C16) as litigation): from L. litigat-, litigare ‘to dispute in a lawsuit’, from lis, lit- ‘lawsuit’


v.t. = transitive verb

v.t. make less severe, harsh, rigorous, or painful

Mitigation (n.) lessening; abatement; to render or become less harsh or painful; make or become milder; assuage



L. mītigo < mītis, mild, gentle.]

<mitis, mild, + ago, make.]

ORIGIN ME: L. mitigat-, mitigare ‘soften, alleviate.’

*derivations from 3 print dic.s. citation available upon request