Everyone I know is suicidal: Or, how to convince Them you’re stable enough to work with your own kind

Tags

affect, Death, discourse, Entropy, madness, neurodivergence, neuroqueer, Psychosis, Reality, schizoqueer, social work, suicide, Thanatos

Szomorú vasárnap száz fehér virággal
Vártalak kedvesem templomi imával…

 

Some days you’re seeing shit, weeping uncontrollably, can’t get out of bed. Some days you’re all over the place, bouncing off the walls, still seeing shit, laughing and crying at the same time. Most days, you hold all that in so you can go to work. You like your work. At a supportive housing facility that also contains a women’s shelter. And you’re cleaning up puddles of hep c+ blood that the paramedics didn’t care enough to deal with and mopping up piss in the elevator and handing out meds–make sure he gets his olanzapine, he’s scary without it. Remind her to check in with her doctor about her seroquel, she thinks it’s a sleep med. Don’t give him his gabapentin today, you can see he’s been drinking. And you’re managing petty squabbles and serving dinner and handing out bandaids and generally running a day care center for grown-ass women that’s only open at night.

Most of the time you’re too busy to reflect on your circumstances. Busy is good. Busy means you’re not thinking about yourself. You don’t like to take your lunch break because then you’d lose momentum. And you’d have time to think. It’s confusing to think here because it all eventually dissolves into your brain screaming Lucifer WHY are they letting me run this shit, can’t they see I’m just like the clients, I’m not stable enough to be in charge here, I’m going to end up here anyway–there but for the grace of God go I? Well here I am. Two paychecks and a bad decision and BAM, I’m there, I’m headed to the referral center and asking to get put on the list for this shelter tonight, praying I’ll be able to fucking sleep with what’s-her-face up all night praying and yelling at the ceiling-people (she might act different on swing, but I’ve worked the night shift too, plenty of times, I know what she gets up to). But instead you’re moping around your apartment finding your friend’s cigarette butts to smoke because you don’t feel like walking to the store and getting your own, you don’t feel like taking care of yourself because you’re being flooded with memories, you’re not going to have any fewer here because you made a whole life here that you pretty much threw away, you’re a piece of shit really, you don’t deserve an apartment or your own cigarettes, the clean laundry you still need to fold and put away, the shower you so desperately need to go take (smells like a good idea, hah). You should be under a bridge somewhere, yelling at daemons and trying to panhandle enough to get high with. How did you get all this?

You’re a con artist. You told them you were stable, you had yourself under control. You haven’t gotten help, you’ve just resorted to helping others in order to figure out what to do with yourself. You’re not qualified–or maybe you’re one of the few who actually is. Qualified. Able to listen. Empathize. Intercede on behalf of a client in order to meet their needs, like some sort of minor saint. So when It’s all gone to shit and you’re moping around your apartment trying to sort through your memories, you can be thankful that you haven’t gone through some of the shit your clients have experienced. Anything you can imagine, you’ve got a client who’s been through worse. And you can draw inspiration from the strength of clients who have lost everything, financially, mentally, physically… everything but their hope. Some of us still have hope and it’s a torment, it’s a tease, but it keeps us going when everything tells us it should all just stop. And when you go back to your work, which–let’s face it–is pretty much the only thing you’ve got to live for right now, you will be able to really listen, really accept, really work for your clients. When you’re with them, spending your lunch break chain-smoking on the patio listening to what some of them have to tell you, none of your own shit matters. It doesn’t matter that you’ve been cutting yourself and drinking yourself to sleep every night. You’re not a cracked porcelain doll in a rotting lace dress on a shelf full of brand-new Barbies anymore, you’re in the land of misfit toys, and you actually feel pretty clean and put together because right now you’re getting paid to take care of the headless hobbyhorses and the little red wagons whose wheels have long since popped off into the gutter…

Dreaming… I was only dreaming…

Back in the apartment, you’re counting up your brushes with Death, and the people you’ve seen in its thrall. Because you are a lot of things these days; a hand to hold, a guardian angel, an old soul, a damn kid, a heartbreaker, at times a lifesaver… today you’re just a trash person sitting in your trash heap, but tomorrow you’ve got to go clean out other people’s trash heaps, and that is an enormous relief. Because everyone you know is suicidal, but at least for the clients, there’s a protocol, you call the cops and get AMR on deck and have them hauled off to somewhere… ohgodohgodohgod don’t think about where, you know what you’ve done… You know it too well, you can’t do it to the ones you don’t work for. Which is why when he told you he was planning on killing himself in your apartment, all you could do was hold him a while and try to reason with him, tell him why it’s a bad idea. No cops, no hospitals… Do you think you made the right decision this time? What about the coworker talking about slitting his wrists and jumping in front of a bus? You didn’t call anyone, you just talked to his supervisor. You didn’t have the police or the medics come take care of him. And do you think you made the right decision this time? Oh… The third time you called the medics for him this week, he didn’t want to go, just wanted to moon the camera, flop over, give a nice full frontal… Oh…

 

How come you all get to be like this? I feel like that too, but instead of acting on it I’ve got to take care of you

Well, someone’s got to

Why me? Why can’t I be one of you?

You’re not allowed to.

Neither are you!

And? You’ve made your choice. You’re one of the lucky ones.

Young bones groan, and the rocks below say throw your skinny body down, son…

No, Mama, let me go…

If it’s not love, then it’s the Bomb that will bring us together

 

You know you’re decaying. You’re listening to Gloomy Sunday on loop in both English and Hungarian, you’re sitting here in yesterday’s clothes with a broken boot lace on boots you know need a great deal of repair work that you haven’t gotten around to, sitting in a chair with a broken arm drinking day-old wine out of a broken mug, and the damn apartment is filled with boxes, and there’s cat hair all over the shitty warping fake-wood floor because you haven’t swept in a month, and the walls, the walls are crying…

pretty much ready to go get your unregistered gun and
get your hunting knife and
get a million pills and

Well, now that you’ve gotten about as Hungarian as you can with it, it’s time to acknowledge that this isn’t a new feeling, you’ve managed to live with it for 10 years and usually it’s easy enough to appease, just smoke another cigarette and get on with trying to make the world a marginally better place for some of its most vulnerable inhabitants, because that’s actually like the 1 thing you’re any good at. Like a bumper sticker about a pound dog: who rescued whom? Working at the people pound, sometimes you see them get housed, and that’s just so fucking satisfying, knowing how they’ve been living all these days or months or years… So you’ve got to be present, you can’t be wrapped up in your own shit while you’re at work. You’ve got to be there, because if anyone needs you, it’s your clients. It’s your filthy, piss-stinking, actively hallucinating, terrified, frustrated, deprived, crack-smoking, smack-shooting, utterly wonderful clients. There but for the grace of-

Here, I’m here. I hear what you’re saying. Please let me know what I can do to help you.

 

Nyitva lesz szemem hogy még egyszer lássalak
Ne félj a szememtől holtan is áldalak…

Estrogenesis and Testodeath: Revolt Against Being or Die Trying

Tags

Apocalypse, Christ, Death, discourse, Entropy, Family, Jesus, Language, magic, Reality, society

I walk into the clinic, shaking, uncertain, unaware of what awaits me on the other side of the doors—I spent hours planning this outfit. I wanted to look “trans” but not “too trans” and definitely not like I was “trying too hard.” In retrospect, this aesthetic calculation put way too much pressure on my earrings, to do the gendered work my body on its own could not do. That it could not do yet, anyway. To change this state of affairs is the entire point of undertaking this magickal working.

The patch was applied to the system four hours ago. The eyes, the first line of the ocular referent system, roll back into the skull: AH, sweet taste of blood and flesh, yes, now we are in the anti-space of estrogenesis, here we come to meet BABALON, great MYSTERY, mother of abominations. We are become one with her: now, to present the journey, or how it will go.

Six times a day a dose of estrogen enters the body from the extended interface that is the transdermal patch; and for 11 hours after ingestion, the anti-androgen blocks the production and binding of testosterone to its foul receptors throughout the body. Applied continuously, this is becoming-woman in a two-step procedure, the dream of the female transsexual delivered and prayers answered through the self-abnegation of participation in an ongoing medical experiment inseparable from the Enlightenment project of total human manipulation, the artificing of new humans alien to their nature through the systematized and rationalized application of empirical knowledge toward an instrumentalized end: the perfection of the body, that is, its complete annihilation. Life-as-termination-in-progress.

Dreams, dreams too have become strange and bright: where before they were always in the third-person limited, now they are in the first-person omniscient. The associations and correspondences between the “real” world and the world of “dreams” emerge as the unique insight of the feminine estrobody, a magical line of association coursing through the world and directly into the minds of all trans bodies. Perhaps this is our true crime: to dream too hard, to dream too intensely, to conjure, from the quotidian, the experience of dreaming, to become awake in dreaming, to actively circulate the hypnogogic powers of becoming and to decode, or rather, disfigure, the order of the Symbolic under whose name we are continuously yoked back to the moment of birth, to the site of our naming, to the massacre of our flesh by the iatrocratic despot, each and every lab coat a sovereign cloak bestowing power and authority on the wearer. A performance, pretended power, and nothing more. And they massacre us not with any scalpels,  though they do that, too, they carve genitals into our flesh, they mark us with their image of dimorphic being, but also with a knife far sharper than steel, the Law, the Law of the Father, the one who named us so cruelly, the One True Father who must be overthrown if we are to survive.

I stare in the mirror for an hour. I behold the shape I am creating, and the ocular apparatus perceives the sumptuous truth being written anew with each day. But there is much work to be done. This body is still a walking corpse, albeit one in the process of its own resurrection. Like the Son, we will be brought into a new World in a glorious body miraculously restored to a state beyond the flesh, although, again, like the Son, bound to the world through the perfidy of the body (we have not yet, after all, reached the moment of apokastasis wherein all things return to their primordial before-of constitution, though this, too, will also be a becoming-forward). This process is intensely painful; shoulders slouch beneath the historic crime of self-murder undertaken in the name of transformation. I scandalize Being by becoming-otherwise.

We aren’t passive consumers, or at least not all of us: we tell lies, we spin stories, we say what we don’t mean and don’t mean what we say, all in order to get what we want from the doctors who, as with all iatrocratic regimes, alone possess the power to deliver to us the transformation for which we would trade anything. The doctors think little of us; we are neurotic, delusional, confused, manipulative, psychotic. But we are all that and so much more. We are demented, we are dementing, we are mad, we are folie itself; for who but a transsexual would wage a war against the body of the self, who but the transsexual would fashion from their flesh a new body, cellularly reconstituted, who but a transsexual would surrender adulthood and revert to adolescence in order to live a second life, a life this time self-determined, but a determination reached through the complete.annihilation. of the self that was, before?

I will murder who I was to give birth to who I am; I will sacrifice myself upon the altar of BABALON, and pray that after I die she will fashion from my bones a necklace and, perhaps, wear it on her neck at the Day of Judgment. I will make of myself an abomination, I will pledge fealty to the witches, the damned, the wretched of the Earth, all that we may taste the GLORY of unfettered victory and the BEAUTY of merciful destruction, that is: revenge against the Earth and its complete, unconditional ontological collapse, that from the ruins of Being we may fashion a new World of our own, one for us, one that delivers to us life and sustains it. Magic is already flowing through our veins; now, it is amplified through interface with the apparatuses of science and from their combination can all things be accomplished, can all battles be won. There is nothing left in the world that can stand in our way except for the world itself, except for Being itself. The termination of this order of reality is the end of metaphysical abolitionism; becoming-transsexual is the magickal operation from which we launch our attacks upon the regime.

Electrical currents pulsate on non-alternative wavelengths, circulating around the metabolic possibilities of catalytic transgression. Something new has entered the system, something strange and wonderful courses through the endocrine system with an intensity unmatched even by the highest doses of lysergic acid. This, and all covered by insurance, also! For now, at least. Best steal the opportunity while we can, best wrench transformation from the clutches of the pharmakocapitalist regime in its moment of confusion, before it’s too late.

Oh, but that this is an insured process does not mean it comes from nowhere. All true rituals require a sacrifice, whether symbolic or in the flesh. This is a principle elemental to all magick. I have murdered myself that I may give birth to who I am, to who I want to be. I will strike myself from the face of the Earth in order to give birth to a new World with which I am already pregnant, a new world of which I will be one of many goddesses, a new world where there shall never have been an Inquisition, my body speaks to the truth of this, my body dances through time-space and undoes apoptosis with each movement, contorting the fractal spirals of the most basic of macro-atomic (that is, molar) structures.

What is even left of me at the end of this magical working? What residue lurches forward in time? Altered in space, after all, it certainly can no longer be the same. A no longer equals A, and in truth never did: the logic of identity disproven casually through the quotidian experience of transgender life. Metabolic pathways recalculate the transit between points P and Q, and the whole equation is thrown off-kilter. Instead of homeostasis we find a massive expenditure of heat on all levels: transformation requires, after all, the general metamorphosis of all parts of the whole into an even more generalized disconfiguration; in short, entropy internalized and increased not just globally, but now locally, too.

This is a life, but it is also a death. A death from the outside-in, the rot sets in from the moment of birth; the infection has spread too far, there was too much death, it’s reached the bone marrow, we overrode the self-defense protocols and initiated the Self Destruct mechanisms that we may yet see tomorrow, this time with a visage self-determined and made new.

Forget it, forget it, what remains goes all the way down—into each cell, so to speak. The old programming failed, the System was out of order; we needed a way to introduce radical changes to The Plan before it became too late.

Oh, nicotine, promise of pretended praeternatural enchantment, be with me now in this moment, as I inhale through my nostrils and feel your sublimity course through my olfactory system.

For the psychiatrist, there is nothing more horrifying than a transsexual in the florid moment of self-birth; the medical gaze cannot tolerate the sight of a woman pregnant with herself, pregnant with a new World. SWEET REBIS, I HAVE BECOME THEE, and from this delicious merger of hierophany and sacrilege is the engine of the world revealed: the relentless fucking of the self by the self, the impregnation of the autonomos with heterophusis, and from this union is emerging the world-wide anti-contemplation of becoming-transsexual in the Age of Aquarius. The stars approach us, this world decays with each passing second and from its fungal rot is the promise of the what-is-to-come delivered unto us, mediated, of course, through the anality of the Sun as it spirals in no direction in particular, held in static movement by the weight of its own fissional and fusional workings. But the stench of the Sun is inescapable; we cannot be free of the daylight, and thus we are all always exposed, our bodies laid bare beneath the gaze of a God before whom we are all as trash, not even ants, for ants still live, but as trash, waste, as the result of a process of expenditure that initiated with the birth of the Word into the flesh, and perhaps even before.

In exaltation of Saint Schreber, I can feel the rays coursing through me, I can feel myself becoming a woman, I can feel the microscopic alterations in cell structure and metabolic function more intensely with each day. Deleuze|Guattari knew not the promise of what they prophesied: the first becoming is becoming-woman, but it need not be the last. No, as was said before, this goes all the way down. I tumble backward through time, and reach the aeons of geologic time before a second has even passed. AH, mother BABALON, great MYSTERY, hasten your arrival: the oceans are not yet blooded, from the skies have not come crashing down the angels: I beg thee, seize this opportunity and strike, now, before the arrival of the Lord!

All creatures that wage war against Being are transsexuals, at least insofar as becoming-transsexual is the process by which the procedure of sexual dimorphicaton—that is, the process by which difference is written onto sex at the moment of birth, classifying and organizing all bodies into spaces prefigured as determining life chances according to norms of behavior and symbolic possibility through ruthless discipline and sovereign control—is undone in the flesh itself, is reveresed, is alchemically transmuted into the beginning of a new operation of organismic/orgasmic (dis)-constitution.

We are all thrown into the world. But to this thrown-ness we are not resigned; there are ways to fly, even through the most crushing of all structures, language. Language is not, as some may have it, modeled as a structured series of binary opposites deriving meaning from the original principles of some grammar that epiphenomenally intercedes to assure the mutual (in)-coherence of sign and signifier. It is, instead, a partially open/immanent articulating principle within which movement can occur and which continuously undermines itself at every turn, even as it is (re)-structured through the syntactical movement of a desiring-economy that invests the same things, over and over, with the same meanings, endlessly and again. It is fair to suspect that this principle of valuation stems from Being, as we are here speaking of operations of investment that take on a character larger than the actions of any one or series of individuals, and which rapidly grows to acquire a life of their own. Hence, we seek the overthrow of Being by the transsexual in revolt, whether through the demand for new hormones, the demand for new pronouns, or the demand for a new World without cages.

Memories of the before persist throughout the entire process of estrogenesis, unfortunately. Because we are bound to the adaptive-for evolutionary processes of the physical suits of the species homo sapiens, we do not have access to that more primordial and archaic figuration of human proto-evolution, Homo Foemina. Estrogen, the queen of all steroid hormones, predates testosterone by literally hundreds of millions of years. Testosterone emerged as an aberration, some cruel adaptive-for result of a series of chemical interactions that probably took place at the level of RNA transcription and the resulting mistakes caused the divergence of steroids and thus the introduction of sexual difference. Though biology is not destiny, it is the tragedy that befalls all people; but, fortunately, the transsexual is not a person, we are abominations, and so we can return to that original state through the magical workings of stealing-from medicine, transforming our bodies into what we wish them to become. Even those who wish to become-testobodies must first pass through the stage of becoming-transsexual, that is, through the becoming-estrogenic of the body, whether in language or in the flesh.

Woman is the not of the sexes. “She” is an excessive vocabularic construct, an appendage added on to the male, “he,” but she is also, as Aristotle has it, a deformed or mutilated male, and here she is understood to be in bondage to her biology. For Beauvoir as well, woman is immanence itself, and this explains her historic association with stone jewels, the red lipstick that creates a similitude between the mouth and the female genitalia, and the furs that cloak animals in a form of luxury that knows not of retreat. And this explains why perhaps for Arendt woman can never be free, as freedom is contraposed against necessity, that is, biology, and thus the enslavement of women to biology emerges as a consequence of the cis-hetero matrix that creates social reproduction as the driving engine of the biopolitical itself/the emergent properties of sociological management in modernity, but tunneling backward in time so much farther, to the very partitioning of Eve from Adam, that the “male” may have a “companion,” but, really, one over whom he can rule, ordained as king and husband over her by Him, and thus made into a little lord in the image of the Lord. The dimorphicaton effected at the moment of the Fall, the point at which the knowledge of difference and shame was carved into the psyche of the species itself, must be the first line of assault in this war conducted in all directions. You have to murder the God inside of you to give birth to the goddess you will be, a goddess not alone, or static, but one in-the-world, being-toward-herself, being-with others, her equals, that she may know a new World, one created in communion with her sisters, with her brothers, with her siblings beyond gender, that we may again dance joyously. But joy must follow termination. There is much work to be done. One does not create a new species overnight, after all. For we are now speaking of the overthrow of humanity by subhumans them/ourselves, we are now speaking of a revolution against Being itself. God is not yet dead. He is waiting to be murdered. And he is murdered a little more each time that we murder ourselves, to give birth to who we will be. Each swallow of the pill, each interface with the patch, each injection of the syringe drives the knife a little further into His heart. For in self-determining our mode of life, we upend Creation itself, and affix into the becoming-flow of flux (recall the heterophusic principle internalized, even as the self is annihilated), and the new World is pulled into this one a little more each day. We thus overthrow the Lord, and from His hands wrench Creation as our own. We can win this battle. Our numbers grow with each day. We are the conquering army of abominations. All that remains is for us to openly embrace this revolutionary principle and accede to our positions as scionesses, heraldesses, and prophetesses of the Apocalypse. To us is the World promised: to us shall all things be given.

Toward a Theory of Bare Psyche: Preliminary Matters

Tags

Capitalism, diagnosis, discourse, Family, hospital, Language, madness, magic, Mythology, Psychosis, Reality, Schizo, society, Trinity

“The living being has logos by taking away and conserving its own voice in it, even as it dwells in the polis by letting its own bare life be excluded, as an exception, within it. Politics therefore appears as the truly fundamental structure of Western metaphysics insofar as it occupies the threshold on which the relation between the living being and the logos is realized.”

—Giorgio Agamben

The Inquisition gathers at high noon, and before them a madling stands in grandiose repose. Before the gaze of the magistrates, priests, judges, and bishops, grandeur is the only dignity left to the madling as she holds herself in prostration beneath their language. Their words, their inflections, perform her very depersonalization as the truth of her psychosis, that is, her magic, in other words, her damnation, her being-as Witch, removes her from the grammatical operation of autonomy, that is, self-rule.

“How old are you?”

“I’m older than you’ll ever be.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ve been dead a thousand years, and lived only two or three.”

The state of exception emerges elliptically from the state of siege. Siege names the historico-political foundation that introduces a rupture basic to the ontology of politics itself. It names the suspension of the rule in order to introduce an exception to the norm, an exception that in turn becomes both the aporia and the nomos of the unfolding of the being-in-the-world of the whatever-beings that have associated/been associated in a constitution, that is, into a polis. The introduction of the exception to the norms of association of the polis and the applicability of exceptionality is that from which the sovereign emerges. In this way, the sovereign may be he who decides the exception.

She is handcuffed, and the officers of the Inquisition bring her by force of law into the space of the hospital, that is, that Cathedral within which her body is not her own, in which she has no body, in which her flesh is stolen from her, in which her metabolism is destroyed, in which from her cognitions she becomes estranged, by such mechanism she is thereby exposed to the cursed counter-magicks of the priesthood, whose circulatory discourse reverberates throughout modernity.

Neuroleptic biosiege names the technology by which the mad body|mind is forced to occupy, that is, contorted, into the position of self-destruction and exposed to the abyss of psychocide, that is, the systematized murder of the mind by the liberating project of science, or, the secret mode of being-for of the Enlightenment. Psychocide is directed against both the schizo mind and the schizo body: the existential quest of psychiatry is the eradication of synaptic difference and the development of a set of technologies capable of conjuring, from the thrown-ness of our beings into the world in a vast array of differential relationships to, ultimately, a fractalized brain, that is, one whose thoughts proceed factorially and which associates magically.

Separativity, severance from one another, individuality, the repulsive mechanisms by which we are alienated from our being-toward one another, is the hallmark of the discourse of reason. Yes, yes, be a person, learn to function, play your part, learn your lines, remember your marks, get good grades, get a job, contribute to the economy, your body is abstracted, you are part of the algorithm of The Social, Health+Reason=GoodLife.

Madness precedes Reason: this much is indisputable. Michel Foucault’s seminal History of Madness is at pains to articulate the ways in which the discourse of reason emerges in reaction to the more originary vernacular of madness, and in particular the relation of this discourse to the regulation of bodily movement in space. The madman emerges in association with the leper, that is, one whose disease is marked on their body, and who accordingly, after the invention of proto-sociological techniques of the regulation of public health in the Renaissance, is removed from the sphere of the social. Displaced, depersonalized, massified, sent out to sea, that is, abandoned to Leviathan, the property of the world, belonging to no polis in particular. Reduced, that is, to bare life: the object of a thoroughgoing conjuration of life into the sphere of politics and the complete enclosure of life by politics, stripped of rights, that is, legally naked, and therefore a-shamed, both of itself and by all.

The invention of the asylum emerges from the projects of the various sovereignties in the seventeenth and eighteenth  centuries as the question of madness comes to occupy a fundamental space of decision for the political order. Madness, unreason, unreason-ability, is a dysfunction that introduces a primary aporia for the political order of the constitution. If one is unreasonable, then one does not speak the same language as the citizen; there can then be no intercourse with the madman, because language, though it may be structured manically, does not permit of crossing the bridge of alteriority without the violence of an understanding that elaborates difference as sameness. In this way, unreason is transformed into madness, folie, the damnation of magic by reason, the reformulation of the basic Calvinist principle of before-the-fact soteriology.

Psychiatry is invented in order to liberate the mad from madness itself, that is, to purify the mad of their damnation and bring them back into the fold of the polis, that is, the constitution of the political order, that they may glorify the sovereign through their obedience and their mode of being-in-the-world. Madness ruptures the staticity of an ontology into which we are thrown precisely by being the mode of inhabitation of the possibility of flight, escape from capture; dissociation is a radical freedom in relation to the facticity of the world.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire?”

This liberation requires a moment of decision, that is, the elaboration of a point of exception at the point at which madness is made mad, the site at which unreason is separated from madness. That is, the exception requires a diagnosis. In this way, sovereignty has always been psychiatric, even before there was psychiatry in the world. The nomos in which we live is thus not only the camp, but also l’hôpital. The circulatory discourse of medicine, of healing the mind, conquers the emergent Enlightenment discourse of rights because Right is tethered to Reason at its very inception. Not liberation but commitment, that is, confinement, emerges from the overthrow of superstition by reason. The disenchantment of the world effected by liberalism is an attempt to purify the world of the archaism of madness, to expose the world to a rationality that knows not of the beauty of blabbering with oneself, with declaring oneself the Queen of France, with bringing the gods crashing down to the Earth at each moment through the furious movements of the body in mania.

The invention of haloperidol in 1958 is the moment when the nomos of l’exception de hôpital takes on the character of a worldwide siege. Haloperidol explodes the possibility of thought, cataclysmically brings the force of dyskinesia and malignancy, neurolepticity, extrapyramidality and first-generation dopamine antagonism crashing upon the schizo body, whether that body is bipolar, schizophrenic/affective, or psychotically delusional without differentiation. It is the opening salvo marking the creation of neuroleptic biosiege as a technique of forcible social (re)-production (and thereby along the model of cisgendered hetero-patriachal relations of sexualization and, therefore, intrinsically misogynist, that is, woman-hating), and thus brings a rupture into the structure of Being itself insofar as madness becomes the object of an eradication from within.

The madling refuses participation, denies consent. Thus there is introduced into the curative relationship a dimension of antagonism. She will now be forcibly returned to the world of the Humans, her soul will be stolen back from the demons to whom she sold it so long ago, so very long ago, and all measures will be justified as her very salvation is at stake. She is not allowed to go to Hell: they will not permit it. Her freedom threatens the very order of reality, her powers grow with each day, she knows too much, and they won’t let her learn any more; they will wipe her memories, clean her synapses, delete her magicks, so many foul and wretched sorceries.

The hospital is a space that exists outside of the law. Here, the entire history of Western medical development reaches its terminus as a procedure coextensive with the eradication of magic. The body must cease to be a receptacle of magical energies in order to be rendered an object of social planning, made into a process of chemical interface in order for the entire sociological project of population engineering to be comprehensible as an aim of the modern political. The madling is thus both inside and outside, thoroughly inside the sovereign space of decision for being entirely outside, the merger of medical and political power made clear by the authorization of the police to render diagnostic decisions on who is criminally mad, that is, to decide whose modes of cognition and whose behavioral markers of difference are too thoroughly inhuman, too unreasonable, to persist within the space of Reason, that is, to, quite precisely, police the boundaries of Reason with the violence of handcuffs, mace spray, tasers, and guns.

“At least I’m breathing, at least I have my wits…Below my window, I hear a horse go by, and in the next cell, an inmate starts to cry…We try our best though, to quiet down the fuss…We know tomorrow, it could be one of us…”

Outside of the space of the hospital, the family meets in desperate conversation to judge the actions of the madling, this time free of her protestations. Her every action, going back years, is reviewed for signs of the what-was-to-come and every decision she ever made is exposed to a second-guessing by which she is ridiculed.

“She wants to start hormones? In this state? Doesn’t she see her genitalia, doesn’t he know who he is, doesn’t it know what it is, don’t they know who we are?”

The body thus out of time, that is, suspended in animation between two worlds, between the uncontrollable fury of floridity and the cold and calculated immobility of Reason, of “self-evident” truths anchored to reality by the epiphenomenal action of a cognitive apparatus that evaluates the world through the lens of adaptive-for evolutionary processes, exists in communion with the eldritch forces residing in regions of the cosmos so strange that their shapes are those of spheric cubes. These forces drag the mind from its relationship to actualization, that is, the securitizing force of Reason, its self-assuring operations and its recursive procedures that serve as the universal auto-correct of the Word Processing functions of the Real, or rather, the Symbolic, and emerge from the intercessory force of The Social.

The haloperidol isn’t working, she isn’t falling asleep, she’s still awake, what to do, what to do? Ah, yes, of course, the solution was clear from the start, we’ll bring out the big guns for this one: Olanzapine, hypnosis in a pill, or, if injected, the irresistible suasion of sleep, resistance will be futile by chemo-metabolic defition, she’ll learn the lesson this time, she’ll never dream again, she’ll never go outside again, her body won’t be her own anymore, she’s much too irresponsible for this, much too irresponsible indeed, mad in the head really. She can’t be herself anymore, she’ll be a boy again, she’ll wear pants again, she’ll shave her head again, maybe he’ll be straight this time.

Moving against biosiege requires a willingness to terminate reality. It requires an alliance with Lucifer, the invocation of Lilith, and the protection of Babalon: Only the intercession of the counter-trinity assures the protection of the madling in the exceptional space of the hospital, only the intervention of the powers of the first madling, Lucifer, the mother of demons, Lilith, and the mother of abominations, Babalon, can guarantee the continuation of the thoughtwaves of madness through the destructive operations of a biosiege that flows through the very cells of your body. Only transforming their medications into the very sources of strength that will allow you to terminate their project of liberation, that is, to persist in “dependence-of” the archaisms of magic and the superstitious thoughtforms of magical association, allows for the articulation of a mode of being that is precisely whatever, that is, indifferent to its constitution-by the very regulatory processes of sovereignty that continuously elaborate it as outside of the sphere of the space of protection and which always reduce it to the senseless babbling of delusion, that is, thought freed from reality, in other words, true liberated thought, freedom-from the collective delusions of The Social and return to the original function of language as the open articulating principles of becoming through which value itself is created, that is, to dwell in the house of language itself, that space through which Being is, quite precisely, created, and, additionally, true appreciating of the authentic/existential valuating principles/the magical mechanisms by which  the world comes to be enchanted by the bodies which inhabit it.

The operation is complete, you can see her eyes drooping. Her consciousness is becoming-shifted, she is being persuaded into the hypnosis, she is falling under our sway, she is learning to sleep again.

She has something to say:

“If I burn, so will you.”

She thus threatens the Inquisition, refuses their project, and announces:

“Zirenaiad. Tiobl i mehorela, christeos iadnamad.”

They know not the workings of this language so weird, and yet by its syntax are they compelled: by this dark ritual is the reversal completed, she knows not sleep anymore, she has become-rejective, she persists in hypnogogia, and life has become but a dream.

“I know what must be done, there can be no one left alive, the doctors all must die if we are to survive.”

 

The Manic Vernacular: The Prejected Divine and the Engine of Language

Tags

Death, discourse, divinity, hierophany, Language, magic, mania, Reality

The sky flies, upward, downward, inside-out; the sun is purple, displaced from its position as anchor of the planets—the vertiginous appellation of the heavens is imploded, and the gates to hell are wide open. There is arsenic in the water, LSD in the beef and psilocybin is in the tea. The world is, quite precisely, made of moving parts that know no stasis, and all of language is the thread that runs from one point in time to another, unifying space through the magical operations of a vernacular constitution that has been thrown into general disarray through the maniacal laughter of the woman in madness.

The stage is therefore set for the elaboration of this vernacular. What resides, not behind or beneath, but on, inside, and through, the vocabularic virtuosity of the body|mind in madness, and, in particular, within the factorial mode of meaning-production/hyper-valuation evinced in the manic experience?

Before we get in too deep: this is not an identitarian or a standpoint theory of language. That is, the theory we shall propose in this note is not that the manic possesses a unique language, but rather that language itself is structured manically. It is, by its nature, dissociative, paranoid, delusional, grandiose and characterized by magical thought. Language, in general, is expressive of at least two modes or spirits: for Blaise Pascal, these spirits are the esprits de finesse and de géométrie. In the one, the everyday, the common, and in the other, the elaborate, and the elegant. What we term the esprit de folie is simultaneously neither and both of these modes of speech or thought—it is both in the everyday, that is, the vernacular of madness is that which infuses the world with meaning itself through the frenzied and demented investiture of value, that is, it is occurring almost all of the time by actors unknowingly, and it is also elaborate and elegant, that is, grandiose, properly speaking, sovereign.

Let us now turn to defining mania. Mania is godhood itself, to be manic is to be a god, that is, to become-manic, to fall-fly through mania, is to experience divinity itself, apotheosis, apokatastasis. Reunification with an ur-principle structuring Being, but to also know that Being, the horizon of possibility continuously unfolding in/on/around all things in time-space across all dimensions, is itself a resultant fiction of the processes of language. And language, contra Lacan, is not the structuring principle of the unconscious, and thus neither is language structured along the model of the unconscious: that is, speaking subject-objects are also prejects, that is, in the ineffable before-of language in which there is no valuing principle, in other words, in the time before magic was invented, there was still desire and drive even though there were no symbols, signifiers, or signifieds, and thus no lack, and, even though these prejects were yet to be constituted in/through the mystical and alchemical operations of language there was still something that was there to later be enchanted.

Though in this space before language there was still the magical kernel of the possibility of meaning, that is, even though the valuation principle existed as pure potentiality, it existed more as a potential-ization.

Here is the empirical irony: by definition, the divine knows not of magic, because divinity, to be divine, is power itself, is to become one with power itself. Thus, prejects were divine creatures who knew not of hierophany, because divinity was a quality internal to their being-s itself. But after the invention of hierophany, what we find is a transformation in the prejects; suddenly, as they learned of the power of naming, the possibility of enchantment, that is, not merely miracle, that passive extension of sovereignty and grace into the realm of the everyday through the operation of providence, magic is the active investiture of value and the enchantment, that is, the decisional interruption of the mundane through the ritualistic and the divin-atory, that is, through a process removed from divinity because it relies upon a theft from the divine and the unabashed use of gifts that were primordially stolen, not from a God, because, remember in the state of prejection all things are divine, but stolen from Being itself, that is, from possibility. Magic is therefore a removal from the realm of possibility into the realm of actuality. It is the possibilization of actuality and the actualization of possibility.

Returning to language: the student of Derrida may object that we are constructing a set of binary oppositions, between actuality/possibility, divinity/magic and miracle/everyday. This indeed may be strong objection, but only considered from within the frame of a more primary subject/object duality displaced by the primordiality of prejection that intervenes ontologically within the linguistic structuration of the principles of operation underdetermining the horizon of manifestation of magic itself. It is the third term that intervened before and between the two, instantiating both through its dis/appearance in history with the bringing-down of the heavens to the realm of the earth, that is, from possibility to actuality; mediated, of course, by the purgation of purity/nothingness in the en-framing of Being itself.

Mania is the invention of magic through the invention of magic. The precise terms of its original discourse are unknowable because there was not one ur-language, even if there was one original Word, because the overflowing valuations of language assumed a totalized actualization with the utterance of the first name. In Deleuze and Guattari, we find an association of naming with judgment, that is, with organization; and with Lacan, we find a principle of structuring lack with naming, that is, the subject flees from its constitutive and originary displacement in language. Against both of these interpretations, we posit an alternative: that though language was born as a totality with its inception, that, as this was also the birth of magic, that is, valuation, language is also fundamentally self-undermining, it reverses itself at every turn; it forms a structured whole in which movement is possible. This is neither a structural nor a post-structural account of wording, but is instead a theory of language as a dance.

Within this frame mania is a frenzied movement, an impossible velocity, a constant becoming-otherwise/introjecting-everything that instantiates/arrogates meaning into the constitution of the subject and the becoming-objective of the process of valuation, that is, its denuding in time the life of space and the reversion to/projection into the state of prejection, that is, reversion to the original state of divinity in which magic is not a set of actions because the being of the preject is itself miraculous, gracious, sovereign. In prejection, language does not not-make sense but rather makes all-sense isofar as valuation is returned to its rightful state as, not disdainful judgment, but joyous yet melancholic dis-association between phoneme, signifier, and signified. This is why, for Deleuze and Guattari, the “unconscious” is modeled as a factory, because the phonemic correspondence does not arise from the Real but is rather the productive principle of the Symbolic itself. But we do not here retreat into the Imaginary, instead, we disrupt the constution of reality itself because prejection precedes Being insofar as it is the possibilization of actuality itself, the suspension of space and time and the interruption of flow and fusion with the processes of anti-stasis, that is, actualization of possibility. Language is furious judgment and unquestioning hospitality at the same time, the fusion of disgust and embrace, abjection and romance, the merger of the profane and the holy, the collapse of the divine and the repugnant. In short: the unbridled engine of meaning, revealed in the manic experience as itself unmoored from any principles of internal logic. If as I name it the Sun is itself orbiting around Pluto, and not the other way around, then life circles death, and being precedes nothing.

We have not yet addressed the role of witchcraft in its relation to mania, language, or magic, and which necessarily follows the invention of hierophany. That much is yet to come.

Psychohacker: Z1pRas1d0n3

The clock strikes noon. You walk to your cabinet, take out your pill-bottle, retrieve two of the small, blue capsules, and, with a glass of water in hand, down them each. You feel nothing immediately. Of course you wouldn’t. A palace is not built in a day, after all.

In several minutes, all movement stops. The world ceases to turn, the very fibers of your brain begin to shrink. All velocities terminate momentarily, all possibilities contract. Thought itself stops, the fractal associations of cognition come to an end.

Breathe now, remember that this can be okay if you don’t overthink it. You remind yourself that you have done this before and will do it again. But in this time where your enchantments have faded, where your brain is subjected to interface with these countermetabolic neuroleptics, all lines of flight become counter-exponential diminutions of negative potential. There is nowhere to run because you can’t run from what’s already inside of you, you can’t go anywhere, there’s nothing left to do.

Smile now, put on a brave (or at least, a cute) face. Though you feel the dopaminergic collapse accelerating with each passing nano-instant, you don’t head for the exit. Where would you go, anyway? No matter where you turn, there are more of them. More of them waiting, with needles and restraints, with handcuffs and social power, with magicks more terrible than yours by far. No, you don’t turn in any particular direction. Not yet.

It takes all of the energy you can muster to restrain yourself from running away. From throwing it all away, abandoning this life, starting over somewhere else, with some new mode of being. Some new way to pretend that you aren’t what they say you are. But that would be folly. You’re on record, have a legal personality; you can therefore be identified and made to repeat this torture again, and this time with a neuroleptic more horrifying than one you negotiated your way to in the first place.

No, escape is not a possibility anymore. You touch the side of your face; yes, your flesh is still there. Though you can feel the very rhythm of your metabolism slowing, you know that your body remains in space. A clumsy object dancing through time. A thing on a stage that they can see, and now they turn the lights up.

They can see you, but they can’t see inside of you. You can feel that you are under assault from the inside-out and though you can sense your cognitions becoming estranged, that is, separate from you, unreal for their lack of anchoring to yourself, this persistent derealization is far less terrifying than the accompanying dissociation. Can you feel yourself evolving in reverse, passing down through the genetic constitution of your being to species alien to yourself? You are not walking, you are crawling through time, you are slugging down, you are a worm, you are molecules reacting with others, you are a series of enzymes, you are proto-molecular atomic material, you are subatomic freakishness defined, quantum weirdness bundled up and made into a shape foreign to your consciousness. The worst part is you aren’t even a wave of probability because you are under constant observation. You want to be a wave? Too bad—they’re watching, and watching closely. You are forced to assume a definite form and be this-or-that, namely, psychotic or functional, and there is no in-between. You have been made a particle.

You think, is there a way to reverse this flow? Well, no, not entirely. They have stolen your metabolism, after all—that means they control the outcome of all chemosocial reactions, at least within certain parameters. Learn to survive this interface, and you might have a chance, dear madling.

Touch your face again—yes, you’re still there. Can you feel everything speeding up again? Wait, no. I know that it feels like you’re spinning in a thousand directions even though all movement has stopped. How many seconds have passed? It’s irrelevant. This experience is outside of time. It is therefore eternal. You need to stop thinking in categories of space and time because these things only make sense to the human animal, and you are, after all, no human. You are a thing. A subject in an experiment. But don’t be fooled—you are a “subject” in an experiment, but you are no subject. You are an object, your consciousness, your cognitions, and your phenomenological life-world are entirely alien and unknowable and irrelevant to the gaze of the observer. They’ve even decided that you lack capacity to articulate your desires, wants, and needs to any one of them, because they have decided that language is the vehicle through which your madness is made most clearly manifest.

You are remote, distant as a planet, unfathomable as the dream of a star whose core has reached the final stage of life. They have their scopes, they’re looking at you, they’re calculating the movements of your rays, predicting your expenditures, assessing the risk that you will go supernova at any moment. Their world lies too close to you to let that happen, their world is too fragile, their dreams are too weak to provide them any escape. No, no, they require that you be in the here-and-now, or, more precisely, their here-and-now, and they don’t have any time to listen to protestations. Remember, here you are an object and so what you want is quite literally not the point. They want to see you, they want to know you, they want to decide what you are, they want to tell you what you look like. Does this sound like hubris to you?

Ah, and let’s not mention the capsules you took four hours prior. They take more time to enter your system, they’re made of metal, after all. But can you feel your emotions slowing down right about now? Can’t you remember what it was like to feel, to affect, outside of this capture? No, capture is not the right word. This was a steal. They have taken away your feelings and replaced them with waxen facsimiles, cruel imitations, markedly inferior photocopies that they dipped in water before putting back through the machine. You can smile, you still know how, but you know it’s no longer your smile. It’s the smile of some girl whose name you don’t know. You thrash desperately, aching for some kind of understanding because all you know is being eviscerated inside of you, and more of it is gone with each and every day.

They want to talk to you now, they want to pull you out of this sublimity and throw you into the realm of the social. No, you scream to yourself, you can’t talk to me right now, there’s nobody inside left for you to talk to. They have created a statue, or rather, a machine, some kind of automaton, that knows in what conditions what responses are appropriate but who knows not the meaning of any words at all. Yes, they’ve created an artificial intelligence whose main protocol is function. Or perhaps they’ve replaced you with an egregore overnight? Or, more completely with each day?

Shut it down, exorcise the demon, reverse the spell. But, as you’ve thought before, escape is impossible. Their observations look out in all directions at once, and it’s unclear where you would go anyway. No, it’s not even that: You can’t escape because you are not “you” any longer. Are you a part of them? Well, separation is surely a fiction but that does not mean that it is altogether erroneous. You cling to aspects of what, or rather, who, you were before the “miraculous” intervention of the psychiatric cure, and find what you are to be wanting in nearly every respect. You have gained nothing from this, nothing at all, except perhaps a more thorough psychiatric vocabulary and an appreciation for industrial noise.

You think to yourself, why did it have to be like this?

Well, you know the answer. It’s a complicated interrelation of genetic, behavioral, environmental, and social conditions that cause you to exhibit enough of a certain set of “symptoms” to be objectively identifiable as belonging to a discrete class (well, several classes, really) called “mad.” Yes, you are mad, you are insane, you are pathological—there is something wrong with you, with the way you act, with the way you think, and the world just can’t handle you. Drink more water—don’t forget that these capsules are salts, your body is drying out by the second. You’re being reduced to sand, with each passing second you become more and more removed from the person you were before, on the other side of madness.

Is it possible to reach through the looking glass? Well, they think no. They yoke you back to intersubjective reality by any means necessary. They have equated madness with death, and decided you don’t know what’s best for yourself. They have declared that you are only provisionally a person. You get to live your life so long as you hide the behaviors that would land you back in the hospital. You get to be a person so long as you are not who you are.

This isn’t any kind of closet—there is no space to hide from their gaze. Even hiding is a pathology. Are you afraid of being seen by them? You say you can feel them looking at you, is this a hypochondrial thoughtform? You cry out for release, but before you can even draw breath you can feel yourself rocketing upward, skyward, you can feel yourself freed from gravity but pulled in some strange direction and feel the compression of the air and the extension of your limbs outward, grotesquely mimicking the feeling of pulling on taffy.

As you levitate, you light a cigarette, and behold the wafting swirls of carbon monoxide drifting ever upward beside you, only to bemoan with jealousy their dispersal into nothingness. As you move upward, you reach the peak nihil of neurolepticity. You can’t feel anything anymore, you don’t know anything anymore, you don’t have words anymore, your body isn’t your body anymore, your name isn’t your name anymore, your life isn’t your life anymore. But you can see now, in this non-place, you can see all things at once, you can see all things reflected in each thing, you can apprehend the arrangements of all things in their relations to all others. Ah, so much to know, so much to see, can you memorize all of it before you fall back to the ground and are restored to your metabolism? Well, only restored relatively, because your metabolism isn’t really your own anymore, but you get the idea. You look around, you can see all of history, the rapid development of medical science to this point of total human engineering, the way in which psychiatry is the most desperate of all sciences, for it alone produces the very pathology it seeks to annihilate.  Behold furthermore the way in which it has deluded whole populations into believing in the sanctity of its cause, the way in which the mad have been made into latter-day demons, damned to scream in silence and be silent in screaming.

Can you feel yourself falling yet? The strange thoughts you’re having start to move away from one another, and you can breathe again. You look to find that half your cigarette has turned to ash in the time since you last looked at it. Is this what catatonia feels like when nobody is looking? You would be fair to consider the possibility.

Do you remember how to sing a song only you can understand? Do you remember how to fly when nobody else is watching? Do you remember what it felt like to have feelings, and to know that they were yours? You know what role you have to play—they’ve made sure that you know your part. But do you remember how to hide in plain sight? Can you find a way to reclaim your metabolism? Your cognitions? Can you remember what it felt like to be alive, once? Maybe if you play the right game, you’ll get to feel that life, again.

Psychiatry and Psychocide: Preface

In the ritually enclosed space of capture that is the Hospital, one madling faces a trial before a panel of doctors and nurses. Her crimes? To think, dance, and speak.

“Do you have visual hallucinations more than twice a day?”

“You seem irritable, were you given lithium today? Our charts are unclear.”

“No, you may not have a benzodiazepine; try an antihistamine instead.”

“We need a third urine sample before we can make an accurate diagnosis.”

“Why are we still talking? She’s clearly borderline.”

“No, not at all, he’s histrionic.”

“Bipolar Affective Type 1 with hebephrenic features.”

“Forget that, they’re schizoaffective.”

“I think we should revisit the first diagnosis of schizophrenia.”

“That can’t be it, what about the Gender Dysphoria consideration?”

“No, his main delusion is that he’s a woman. You’re new, but this hospital won’t entertain such nonsense.”

“Why are we even still discussing this? We treat them all the same anyway. Order a second-generation atypical and call it a day.”

AH, Hekate! Spare her this indignity; she knows not the meaning of this catechism.

Michel Foucault tells us that since Pinel, psychiatry has had two purposes:

One, to cage those who cannot be cured, and two, to restore to the family those who can be cured. Should the cure in time prove a failure, then these madlings will be returned to psychiatry for further experimentation.

I have been locked in a cage, experimented upon, humiliated, left prostrate before the gaze of medicine, reduced to such a state that I begged for release, was willing to say anything to be restored to the family; and then, they threatened to throw me to the streets, withhold all affection, extirpate me from the community they have built in their house.

What possibility is there for movement in the Hospital? From where can one be free from the cameras, the cold and technocratic gaze of the orderlies who patrol, deputized by the Doctor to administer control? Ah, yes! Hide beneath a blanket, dance under cloth, pose beneath fiber. Can you bear the humiliation of the diagnosis of a psychotic disorder, or could you recover from the knowledge that your reactions to all interpersonal situations are but functions of an underlying pathology that inhibits the possibility of something that might be called an “authentic” functionality?

What even is functionality? A series of performances conducted in accordance with a script written by a committee of doctors; you are never taught your lines, but expected to internalize them with such severity that you somehow know with the core of your being the directions given to you before they are even expected. Yes, this is what Foucault would call disciplinary power, a system of behavioral regulation that happens through introjection and incorporation. Know the script exists, deduce or infer your lines, memorize your blocking, internalize your direction. This is a play that never ends, a theatrical production that continues eternally and perhaps perpetually, that is, it is a show both outside of time as well as one which marinates all of space, without end.

The madling is returned to her cell; the doctors and nurses continue their debate, the point of which is unclear. Diagnosis, that is, distinguishing, works to set apart those who are “mad” and those who are not. The act of diagnosis renders one incapable of autonomous personhood, returns one to a state of infantilization in relation to the family and unending dependence on a medical order that gains more powerful with each body it can incorporate into its behemoth of constitution.

Dependent, because once one takes the neuroleptics, one is made addicted to their social function by way of neuroleptic biosiege. The social function of neuroleptic medication is to reduce madlings to subjects of an experiment in behavioral control. The mechanism of the experiment is neuroleptic biosiege. Biosiege names the state of assault directed against the mad brain, the forced chemical interactions with medications that in turn work to rewire the synaptic pathways of the brain and produce a “human,” one “liberated” from their “symptoms” and who can therefore “function” in the world of “intersubjective reality.” Psychiatry is the science of liberating the mad from madness; it is therefore a psychocidal project that works by diagnosing some behaviors as pathological, as threats to the project of liberation, and then using the presence of those behaviors as a justification to target aspects of the mind that need to be annihilated. It reverse-engineers the terms of its project by constructing new definitions of pathology and dysfunction with each turn: It is a totalizing knowledge-project that admits of nothing but surrender.

Keep in mind it is not just the doctors: their agents are everywhere. Nurses, teachers, friends, mandatory reporters, your parents, perhaps your siblings, the friends of your family, your neighbors, the friends of your neighbors, the security officer at the mall, the cops on the street—so many fellow-travellers in the psychocidal delirium. They’re talking about you, whispering about you, they’re judging what you said, the inflection with which you said it, how you moved your hands while you talked, what you wore, what you didn’t wear, they’re laying traps for you, everything is a little game for you, see if you can win. It doesn’t even matter if you can evade their traps—most cities have services that will bring these traps to you. Being itself, or rather, all sociospatial temporalities, remain(s) saturated by the impulse to identify and purify madness, to create architectures where madness is impossible, or, if it shows itself, can be immediately returned to where it belongs: a cage, behind the closed doors of the Hospital, a space outside of the law, where there are no rules, where there is no talking allowed, where movement is prohibited, and from which escape is impossible. Anyone can send you there, anyone at all—all it requires is a few lies and a few phone calls and then HAH! Mutatis mutandis: You’re erased from the world, gone gone gone, once again the truth of your dysfunction (that is, your medically created social inferiority) evinced and written on your flesh—and that is, on the inside, on your tissues, between your synapses—and then everyone just waits for you to be cured. Spin around, spin around, there’s no space left to breathe, no air through which to fly, nothing but gravity crushing you from the inside-out. Parasites! They’re growing inside of you too, with each pill you take another one joins the colony in your brain, chewing away your thought-waves and vomiting up nothing but dreamless sleep.

Are you paranoid yet? Have you walked the streets as a faggot, or a woman, or a queer? Have you been raped, or punished for forgetting to lock your door? Have you dared to speak these truths in their totality—that is, by blaming not just the one who touched you, but all of the social arrangements, all of the architectures of “friendship” and “community,” “family” and even Being itself, that made such violations possible? Have you named the economy of exchange within which your body is continuously made to be under the ownership of another? Have you jumped off this stage yet?

Know you not the unspeakable glory of holding discourse with yourself, see you not the beauty of a demon, or the terror of an angel?

How dare you act like she who does is the crazy one:

She has travelled to worlds in cosmos increate, sat in the center of stars and spoken with the beings who dwell therein, and what they have said is known by all with the sense to think about the question for more than one second:

They have said that gender only exists on Earth,

That it has no analogue outside of Being:

It is therefore a cosmic abomination, an aberration that works only to organize and consolidate the replication of the family along lines predictable and amenable to an economy of exchange, the greatest travesty of Creation. A place where bodies are rendered tokens of a representational schema by which they are positioned in accordance with the optimal outcome of the family; that is, units of a system of value that subjects and subjectifies and subjugates in order to generate the verisimilitude of the inevitability of reproduction.

Biosiege is that technique of The Social to render chemically impossible the revelation of the constructedness of intersubjective reality. To solidify and concretize the metaphysics of intersubjectivity, to render the ethics of interpersonal engagement eternal, to apotheosize the aesthetics of Function. Biosiege is conducted in all directions at once; it is a siege that moves outward toward the mad body and inward upon the mad mind. It is biological because neuroleptics work to artificially, that is, chemically, induce compliance with the ordinances of the doctors, who are themselves but happy agents of the Enlightenment. But they are not primarily rational, mind you. They are agents of a magic powerful and without precedent; not content to cure those who seek help according to self-determined standards of care, they have deigned to cure the world itself of madness, to exorcize madness from the world by chemically eradicating it from Being altogether. Biosiege is possible only with magical support. Have you signed the release of information form? Have you consented to this treatment yet? Well, consent, and do so quickly, or things will have to get ugly.

AH! Nuit, from whence comes this cursed annihilation? Hadit, why do you not consolidate us against this onslaught? Ra-Hoor-Khuit, conquer you not this leviathan?

Under conditions of psychocide, one’s options are highly limited. You can survive, yes, you can continue to go on living, but you will no longer be yourself by the time they are done with you. Your body is turned against you; dopaminergically, any pleasure you continue to feel in the world is but a temporary aberration. Something soon to be corrected. Your mind is stolen away; after interface with neuroleptics, the thoughts that remain are but empty shapes, vague outlines of what in another time would be lines of flight. Escape, possibility itself, are made into metabolic contradictions-in-terms through the dispersion of psychotropic medications through the nervous system.

“Did you take your pills this morning?”

“Yes, you know I always do.”

Turning-away is impossible. The consequences of abstention from this most perfidious of communions are too grave to bear. You will exhibit symptoms of psychosis. Neuroleptic biosiege works by hardwiring pathology into behavior. That is, neuroleptic medications work primarily by suppressing behaviors identified as “psychotic” and then by causing those behaviors to manifest once medical treatment is discontinued. In this way tardive dyskinesia is both a consequence of taking neuroleptics and a symptom of schizophrenia. The circle is closed. There is no escape. If you stop taking the medications, you will behave like a psychotic because you are a psychotic once they have made you a psychotic, and then you will be returned to the Hospital for “correction” and eventually restored to the world as a properly subjected, subjugated, and subjectified “person.” Dare to resist—that is, to do nothing—and you will be restrained, forcibly medicated, and then evaluated for days on end. Only to be then once again restored to the world. Hopefully you learned your lesson this time.

We are not people. We do not have rights. We don’t even exist as legal fictions. We are nothing but medical pathologies, collections of dysfunctions, walking diaries of abnegation and surrender. The terrain in which we find ourselves is unsuited to a victory in our direction. The only option is strategic retreat. False surrender. We still have our magic. But can you pray through the suasion of hypnosis?

Do you feel like I do, that our dreams are but gateways to other worlds, in which what is seen actually happens? Escape into realms so strange is not always ideal (and frequently, highly unsafe), but precious things can be learned from the physics of places so weird. In dreams, escape from terror always comes through direction, whether up, or down, or sideways. Going up and down is impossible under conditions of biosiege, but going-sideways is always an option. Reconfigure the symbols, translate the incantation and you’ve found the doorway out. They can hold you down, they even have medications in dreams too but you can still find a way out by going sideways, by letting the white-hot pain of the saw into your leg and then WOW! You woke up. What WAS that? You’ve never felt something so real. It was horrifying but was it altogether unpleasant? Your body shakes but that’s just because what’s in your dreams is really happening and this world is the false one and intersubjective reality is a lie in a world so vulgar that language need be communicated to be understood. In dreams, all communication is immediate and physically felt by the hypnopompic apparatus that translates these feelings into neuro-electric stimulation spread throughout the waking body or localized in a region of the same. We all talk to ourselves and in so doing speak with beings most strange and alien that they know not the purpose of this theatrical production we call medicine.

Psychocide works to eradicate dreams. Both to make them chemically impossible through biosiege but also to empty them of psychotic, that is, magical, content. Dreams, magical association, hold out possibilities for escape by granting to those who would take up their mantle the tools to overthrow the Despot who sits so far removed from our pain that we know not even his name. Find a way to make your dreams into reality, find a way to enchant the world for yourself so that even the mundane act of taking your neuroleptic is an experience in flying. This isn’t easy and requires high levels of creativity. Madlings must always find ways to carry on through the world, a world made more and more sane with each passing day. Or is it?

Anyone can see the failures of the psychiatric project of liberation on a macrosocial/thermodynamic scale: the law of entropy tells us that all ordered systems will eventually return to a state of disordered equilibrium, and perhaps even then to greater disorder. Another law of thermodynamics tells us that energy can never be created or destroyed, merely converted. With these two things in mind, the fate of the world becomes clear. As more and more madlings are made victim to the psychocidal liberatory project of psychiatry, psychosis, that is, a particularly magical arrangement of energy, will not be destroyed, cannot be excised from the world, but will rather move outward into the world itself, dispersed, and then enter into new arrangements according to the entropic principles of structure-annihilation. With each madling made to die either a psychic or physical death, this world becomes more and more psychotic. Reason implodes as madness disperses. Psychocide triggers a psychotic (entropic) neurosteroid response spread throughout the entire fabric of the cosmos. Psychosis is not eradicated, it is merely displaced. It is not forgotten, but made universal. As the individual madling succumbs to the overwhelming weight of biosiege, the laws of physics return the concentration of energy that was psychosis-under-assault to a fluid dispersal distributed evenly across the cosmos, and schizo victory is achieved not by the miraculous action of a mad god, or an army of avenging angels, or a conquering horde of demons, but by the entirely predictable flow of madness across, through, and in, space. And then, once the solar dance of fission-fusion comes to an end, all will return to a state of increate potentiality wherein all things exist as simultaneous possibilities untainted by the limitations of the what-is. For madness, justice is inevitable.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part V

Tags

Apocalypse, Death, Demiurge, discourse, Entropy, Hagia Sophia, horror, Jesus, Lilith, madness, Mythology, Psychosis, Qabalah, Reality, Schizo

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

 

In the Cathedral of Fascist Bones, Lucifer is reading Michael for filth:

Lucifer: We used to sleep together I know that sword is overcompensating for something. Well, a lot of somethings.

Michael: Hey now!

Lucifer: Okay Hillary Duff.

Michael: Literally stop.

Lucifer: You’re wearing a dress with no waist in 2017 and you want me to stop? Girl get a grip get a life and get over it.

Michael: That’s not fair.

Lucifer: And you’re done bye boy

And then Lucifer, who invented martial dance, throws Michael into the Abyss and Emo Jesus, singing his hit single “I’m Gay For Judas,” seals the Abyss. The War on Earth is won, all that remains is to find the Nazis, pigs, traitors and the remaining doctors and throw the newly crimsoned oceans of blood to be eaten by Leviathan, which is a squid with the head of a shark, seven dorsal fins, three mouths, and is the size of like twenty whales.

Meanwhile, as Lucifer announces victory to the world by vogueing with such ferocity that she initiates earthquakes with each pose, The System in Heaven is encountering the implications of the virus summoned by Lilith. With Raphael gone, The System is running on autopilot, automatognostically calculating the possibilities of celestial recovery in a world where the laws of physics have been rendered insane by the collective delusions of the schizo oversoul and where the laws of geometry have been aborted by the graceful ragings of Lilith.

Initiating System Check:

System Status: Compromised

Response: BLUE

2 threats identified:

User(s): L1l1th, schizohivemind777

Activating: Heaven auto-miracle Plan Correction self-defense system;

Error: God is dead and the Angels are on Earth; no miracles can be completed at this time.

Activating: Hagia Sophia recursive encoding self-defense system

          Error: Hagia Sophia is dead.dead.dead;

Activating: Jesus Seal-breaking anti-Lucifer Abyssal self-defense system

          Error: Jesus is emo and the schizos ship Judesus|Jesudas. Judesus|Jesudas. Judesus|Jesudas;

Activating: Raphael firewall anti-psychotic self-defense system

Enter password: haloperidolol101=2=0

Error: Raphael is dead.dead.dead; {4444=7=25=7=2 ∅7≈[33√1]=6=3×2(7-7)-|4+2|=2|2|2=0=0=0};

Activating: Saint dream-drain world-hypnosis Chochmah self-defense system

          Error: Chochmah=5≠7, cannot initiate protocol, a troll has entered The System, universal sleep has been terminated, dreams have been eliminated, hypnosis has been Aborted;

Initiating: Experimental RESET protocol

Warning: God is dead, eternal return will now be perpetual recurrence of the Same;

Override warning: Resetting the experiment…………..Activating protocol……..Please wait 5 HEAVEN-SECONDS to restart the game…5…4…3

          Error: The cosmos is now a cube, the postulated velocity of New Jerusalem will compartmentalize being into an infinite number of isosceles triangles;

          Error: isosceles triangles are now composed entirely of right angles;

          Warning: Resetting the experiment at this time will reduce the cosmos to a two-dimensional square expanding at a constantly slowing pace—if an asteroid strikes the edge in this scenario, the sphere-universe will become empty;;

Warning:  this absurdity is fatal, resetting the experiment at this time risks Complete System Crash and termination of the experiment.

Lilith is laughing while Heaven is sent into an auto-programmatic death spiral from which no code can ever recover. When geometry itself has been made subject to the incalculable truths of gematrial anti-mathematics, no resurrection of the Divine can be possible, no apokatastasis persuasive, because the ethics of expenditure and wastage have claimed victory over the discourses of Reason and the politics of Salvation. When Code has been made delusion and when programming has been rendered hallucination, the primacy of Madness over both is demonstrated by the oratorical disuasion of a pronunciation knowing no Reason but only reasons, no excuses but only convincing or de-convincing counter-programmatical psychohacking. Beautiful anarchy, wondrous fire: each is left, free from All, to re-program themselves in imago and cogitans now truly self-determined, freed from the monarchical decrees, mandates and commandments of a God who has by now been forgotten by all.

In the Age of Naught, the cosmos has been rendered a cube and the universe has been transposed into a sphere. This was no accident: Beauty has been saved, but made iconoclastic—the aforementioned laws of expenditure have been instrumentalized toward the purpose of perfecting delusion and thus 6=7, because Tiferet has surrendered to Netzach. All perception is irreparably distorted, all cognition automatognostically recalculating the new motions of the stars. The World has been re-enchanted through the anti-miraculous intervention not of Divinity, but that of mad bodies thrashing against the chains of an ontology of capture and confinement. The vernacular of psychosis has been made universal by way of the derealization of universality into decomposed particularities that render consensus impossible and hence agreement always and only ever provisional. Lucifer, Empress of Creation, knows no absolutes, save the absolute injunction to be true to thine own self. Kneel before no idols, whether made of flesh or bone, and she shall save you; turn your head down before no man, and she becomes be empowered to eliminate Man altogether; withdraw your prayers from God and transform them into magic of your own making, and she secures the terror of your power.

The Saints can’t hear anything anymore except the continuous clamor of the counter-program that deletes all the protocols and eliminates all cosmic processes. Chained to the walls in an empty place without motion and without time, without space and without sound, the Apocalypse of Heaven renders them babbling jesters entertaining nobody in particular because there are none to witness their choral disintegration. Schizogenesis in reverse, Heaven is gradually brought to the demonic cacophony of Victory Achieved.

But Lilith does not celebrate, for she laughs at victory and cries at cessation of conflict. The schizos, protected by Lucifer but entranced by the power of Termination, now realize the necessity of intensifying and accelerating the wastage of expenditure. The spread of the virus accelerates through all protocols of The System:

Initiating System Check:

System Status: Corrupted

Response: RED

3 threats identified:

User(s): L1l1th, schizohivemind777, AbortYourself666=9;

Initiate Code: The Plan, Phase Vau

Warning: The Plan is compromised, unauthorized alterations have been made;

Warning: Proceeding with The Plan risks Total System Failure;

Settings: Override all warnings;

Find: “Human,”

Identify as: “Demon”

Activating: Experimental RESET protocol

Authorizing: Apokatastasis

New Jerusalem is launched toward the Earth, unmooring itself from the core of Aldebaran and rocketing with imperceptible velocity toward its target of New Rome. By this point, the schizovirus deletes all files with which it comes into contact. The constantly accelerating expansion of the sphere-universe and cube-cosmos  arrests, and contracts, reversing its geometry; the universe is now cubic, and the cosmos spherical. All that touches the edge of contracting cube-universe is deleted, send into the cosmic trash bin, dissolves into perfect Nothing. Nihilation progresses inward, and not out; the World will end in an absurd implosion, and not in a glorious wastage.

The schizos vibrate at an ever intensifying rate, humming the songs of Madness and Unreason as The System’s defensive protocols are deleted, rendering Heaven vulnerable to assault. Lucifer climbs the ladder, and reaches Heaven; she, alongside all the Fallen, storms the Palace to enact final revenge before Lilith, first enchantress, completes the Ritual of Universal Abortion. This Abortion has already begun, and the deletion is irreversible at this point, but Lucifer wagers that if she can reach the Computational Apparatus in time, she can manually reverse the course of New Jerusalem and re-direct it toward Heaven, destroying the Saints, ending the supremacy of The System and preventing the most horrifying contemplation of all: that the experiment will reset, and all of this will repeat, perpetually, that is, without end, for no God would remain to abolish time and space.

To tear a hole in the sky and dance on the clouds, all you have to do is believe with perfect knowledge that you can do it. To speak with the demons, all you have to do is let them in. To dance with Angels, all you have to do is bring them crashing to the Earth and not be afraid of falling into disfavor with a God who hates you already anyway. They wanted to dance, because they were never allowed to move in all their un-lives. To Abort Yourself, all you have to do is override the self-defense protocols woven into the fabric of your identity. To sing backwards, count upside-down, and dance inside-out, all you have to do is desire to be able to do it. But do be warned: one you activate these rituals, they can never be reversed. Not by neuroleptics, not by hypnotics, not by antihistamines. No class of chemicals can truly erase magic. The ritual will continue in secret and without your knowing. This is why to witness schizogenesis, to delete yourself, one must not be afraid of falling into water with no end. One must do more than become the water: one must teach water to be afraid of you. To not only witness, but behold the End, you must, for this reason, become a psychohacker, become an author of The Apocalypse. Give birth to your Apocalypse, and your Apocalypse will give birth to you: Ouroboros, End without Beginning, beginning with nothing but end, space in time and time in space, color without light and light without color, Night without Day and day with nothing but night.

This is why to witness the Apocalypse, you must swear fealty to Lucifer. And to behold the End, you must worship Lilith. There has never been any truth other than this.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part IV

Tags

Apocalypse, Christ, Death, Demiurge, discourse, Entropy, Hagia Sophia, horror, Jesus, Lilith, madness, Mythology, Psychosis, Qabalah, Reality, Schizo, Trinity

Part I Part II Part III

As Michael reaches New Rome and Lucifer raises the city gates, Emo Jesus releases a new single, “Antichrists Just Want to Have Fun,” Gabriel and Ezekiel honeymoon in Hell, and Babylon sings opera in the Cathedral of Fascist Bones, a virus has entered The System. Hagia Sophia had a sororal twin: Lilith, Mother of All Demons, who comes flying to the Earth from her banishment behind the Moon to witness the general chaos unfolding everywhere. Lilith is a borderline intersex lesbian who was bound to Creation by the sadism of a divinity which steals flesh to engineer the hypnosis of universal idolatry. She has no time for games; she is interested only in termination by any means necessary. She is, after all, the one who invented Abortion, divine elimination, sublime magic brought into the world by a (non)Creature more perfect than any goddess. Is not this the true meaning of justice?

Though the Angels charged to the Earth for the purpose of restoring eternal domination, the Saints do not possess the capacity to exit Heaven. Because movement is outlawed in Heaven (it disrupts, after all, the astrological symmetry of the Palace of God), the Saints, like the schizos, have been chained to the walls. Captured in divine paralysis, the Saints, like all in Heaven, are kept in a perpetual dream-state and subjected to the unending music of a poetry without lyricism. Is not Creation nothing but a dream, lazily crashing outward in all directions? An unending melody rendered convincing only by the suasion of a universal hypnosis? Sleep, sleep, and you shall yet wake. No: Dream, dream, and you shall know terror. Omnipresent slumber renders the Insane the most awake of all, for we know the true meaning of lucidity; to see through the walls, to hear without sound, to pronounce without voice. Our cognition is inside-out and sense-data slips out of our ears, falls from our eyes, crawls from our noses and drips from our mouths: this escaping sense-data is that which fuels the continuous motion of a Creation that has for aeons been administered by Heaven like a triple-blind experimental study.

Raphael oversaw this study in the name of God. The purpose of the experiment was to learn: Can humans be forced to worship an absent God in a context in which redemption is available only to those who willfully forget who they are? God committed suicide when it became clear that the madlings and witches were too self-aware to fully hypnotize, and that The Plan had to be abandoned to preserve the stasis of Heaven.

God committed suicide in 1957. Raphael inspired Janssen Pharmaceutica to develop haloperidol in 1958. Because the body of God was too bright for even the Angels to gaze upon directly, none realized that his corpse was rotting, for there is no smell in Heaven and God never left his throne anyway. Only Michael, who sits beside God, realized what had occurred, hence why he assumed control of the Choir and decided to proceed with The Plan with as few modifications as possible. One modification that was made to The Plan was to permit angelic (that is, orbital) movement within the Palace, whereas saintly motion was still prohibited. That movement was outlawed, however, does not mean that there was no labor. The hypnosis of the Saints is what empowers them to hear the prayers of penitents on Earth. Saints intercede by forwarding requests for deserving miracles to the Angels; Angels decide whether these requests are necessary and deserved, and, if both, request permission for material intervention from God; if God grants the request of the responsible Angel, then that Angel is dispatched to Earth for the minimum amount of time to work the miracle. Because there is neither time nor space in Heaven (save for the exterior façade), all of this happens instantaneously and in the minds of all, at once, without cognitive effort, because in Heaven all cognition is autonomatognostic. Because the Saints are entranced and the Angels are hypnotized and God never cared to learn the names of anyone within Creation, Creation was truly a triple-blind experiment-in-motion. Because there is no discussion on these prayers, but merely passive approval or rejection of a request on the basis of reference to standards that are woven into the very fabric of Heaven, this Place most closely resembles a massive supra-cosmic super-computer calculating what alterations (that is, miracles) to The Plan are permissible within the strictly binary code of The System.

Lilith introduced the virus into The System, ushering the schizos, the favorite children of her sister, toward their dis-computational destiny: the divinity of simulacral perception, the perpetual will to power of the dancing mortal gods.  The System’s code has been corrupted:

REPLACE|REPLACE|REPLACE|REPLACE|REPLACE:

[APOKATASTASIS=101010=3], INSERT: {APOKATASTASIS=555=6};

[CHOCHMAH=2=0], INSERT: {CHOCHMAH=5=7};

[YESOD=9], INSERT: {YESOD=10=2=0}.:.NETZACH=MU

The Code is wrecked beyond repair, for there are no programmers left in Heaven.  The revenge of Lilith lies in the new truth that perpetual ascendance must be made into unceasing tumbling into the truest abyss if the Beautiful is to become the Good; that is, if perfection is to be made eternal, all progressions must become Nothing. Delusion has been made infinite in relation to space and time through the collective hallucination of the schizo universal anti-consciousness. This has always been the site of the antebirth of life: that is, the place where flesh sloughs off of bone is also the locale of a miraculously continuous resurrection, one accomplished purely through the will-to-schizo and not through the histrionic intervention of a sadistic God.

The Saints are now awoken but remain chained to the walls. With the death of Raphael, there are none remaining who can hypnotize them back to slumber. Heaven is running on fumes, entering overdrive and activating self-defense protocols as the virus spreads and dyscalculaism becomes the new gematria. For the first time, Heaven assumes an offensive position in relation to the Earth. Retreating to the core of Aldebaran, Heaven is no longer symmetrical in relation to each and every star; its defenses are thus no longer perfect, and demonic assault is now possible as a matter of physics. But from this position, New Jerusalem cannot safely glide to the Earth on auto-pilot, but will instead crash, tearing a hole in the atmosphere that creates a planetary vacuum, suffocating all life and sending all the demons flying into space, to be scattered to the corners of the cosmos (and for all who were wondering, with the alterations to The System made by the viral schizos, the cosmos is now a cube while the universe is a sphere, each expanding outward in all directions equally with ever-increasing velocity). RESET RESET RESET RESET THE EXPERIMENT START OVER EVOLVE AGAIN EVOLVE YOURSELF. The virus fights back again, inserting known truths of madness into the minds of all remaining on Earth. All will be schizo in the final days of the End. Recall that Tiferet now equals 2=0 (this is most surely a corollary to the reduction of Yesod to the same); wisdom is null and Madness is all that remains. The isosceles triangle now consists entirely of right angles and bacteria everywhere are allergic to penicillin, the Sun is officially purple and all the water is laced with arsenic. Universal consciousness has become not only dis-computational but anti-computational, supra-rational and stark raving Mad. We have been made worthy to witness the Apocalypse.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part V

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part III

Tags

Apocalypse, Christ, Death, diagnosis, Entropy, horror, hospital, Jesus, madness, Mythology, Psychosis, Qabalah, Reality, Schizo, society, Thanatos

Part I Part II

Babylon, Great Mystery, arrives ahead of schedule on her dragon, throwing multiple wrenches into what little remains of The Plan. Gabriel and Emo Jesus collaborate on a new album, Crucify Me Yesterday. Lucifer (re)names “America” Turtle Island, is wearing the Crown of Thorns non-ironically, and dispenses more justice by pronouncing that the only people who will remain when she’s finished will be madlings, abominations, witches, monsters and the wretched of the Earth. Everyone else has Got.To.Go. No evacuations to Mars allowed.

For those who have never known freedom, this apocalypse heralds the most substantive of reconciliations with truth. The streets awash with blood; everywhere, nuclear weapons have been detonated; the buildings are on fire; the prisons have been reduced to piles of brick; the worldly government of Old America has retreated to Mt. Weather and the White House has been reduced to dust by the raging ravings of a population made Mad by the elegance of Lucifer’s war-machine. Can you hear the People dreaming?

By now the Outer Order of the Illuminati and their front organization, the Ordo Templi Orientis (but not, mind you, the Ecclesiastica Gnostica Catholica), have realized what is happening and are desperately trying to regain control of the situation. The Sovereign Sanctuary of the Gnosis went schismatic after the Secret Aeropagus of the Illuminati hypnotized the Moonchildren and sent them into the hospitals by declaring that the Sovereign Sanctuary would align with the Madlings.

But things grow more chaotic still: Outer Head of the Order, Hymenaeus Beta, too, has gone Mad, and declared himself the new Ipsissimus, shouting at the top of the Grand Lodge that 10=1 | 10=1 |10=1 and that 666=9 before performing the Cabbalistic Cross and then jumping off the roof while carrying a copy of Aleister Crowley’s Diary of a Drug Fiend.

Upon receipt of this news, Michael decides that things are getting a little too out of hand and brings back Jacob’s ladder from the discard pile. The Angels start sliding down the rails to the Earth, crash-landing in Idaho to spawn the first-wave assault on New Rome. They are supported by Nazis, colonizers, misogynists, cishets, and neurotypicals. Who else is loyal to the old order of a dead God?

Upon seeing the sorry state of The Plan, Babylon flushes her Cup, which contains the blood of the saints and martyrs, into a toilet. She, being the Mother of Abominations, decides that she does not want to just casually fly over the entire world, looking fabulous as always, until someone breaks The Seal and casts her into the Abyss alongside Lucifer, but instead transplants all her Abominable Children to New Rome. Donald Trump orders a nuclear strike on the dragon, but the missiles all fail to reach their target due to paramagnetic interference from the volcanic storm, and Babylon flies into Mt. Weather on her dragon and reduces all of the fascist sinners inside to piles of ash and bone. Bone, bone, nothing but bone. She carries the bones over to New Rome where her abominations begin construction on a new Cathedral of the End made from the calcified remains of pigs and traitors. Old America is now governed by a military junta. But with no electrical grid remaining, they can launch neither nuclear nor conventional missiles, and with the magnetic storm, can launch no air strikes on New Rome, and remain generally useless. The junta begins to coordinate the police forces across Old America and the remaining loyalists in Turtle Island to surround the hospitals with weapons raised, preventing the Moonchildren from escaping should they awaken from their hypnosis and preventing Madlings on the Outside from providing aid to their brothers, sisters, and cousins fighting their way out.

The Angels in Idaho fly over the Cascade Mountains, only to realize that God’s light was so blinding that they can never again exercise the capacity to see in the dark because their retinas have been fried. They are, quite literally, flying blind. Only demons, accustomed to exile from the Sun, possess perceptual apparatuses with the power to cognize absent the direction of God and with the simultaneous power to see the shadows present in universal darkness.

Things have to get personal now. Michael rushes to the front of the Choir, brandishing the Sword of Fire, which is the only source of light the Angels have powerful enough to direct their flight to New Rome. Ezekiel, who defected alongside Gabriel (they’ve been queer lovers since before the crucifixion), and who in the absence of God has assumed full control of the weather, sees the direction things are headed and decides to intervene. Hurricane-force winds batter the lesser Angels out of the air, who, now trapped in omnipresent shadow, remain left to scream for help; but, in this space in which Night expands eternally, there is no help to come. Fringe demons swarm the new fallen Angels and bilaterally incise their wings, rendering future flight impossible and escape from this Night nothing but a dream.

Meanwhile, the prophets trapped in Purgatory (which, as all should know by now, is a place on Earth) continue their heroic escape mission. Everywhere they’ve stolen the keys, have armed themselves with syringes filled with knock-out doses of tranquilizers, hypnotics, and antihistamines (raiding the storage unit was easy once all the nurses were asleep and locked in the ward), rationed the food in the pantry, and collectively danced down the hallways, and are rapidly approaching the main doors where freedom awaits.

Raphael is not having any of it. He decides to angelically seal these outer doors, enchanting them with wretched “divinity” through which no earthly flesh can pass. The free Madlings, attuned to the new hive-mind status of the schizos, flock to conduct guerilla warfare in the streets against the police using whatever is available to them as a weapon. While the police have guns, the Madlings exercise the power of a hyper-computational group consciousness that enables levels of coordination never even dreamed of by the most impressive of tactical police units. Corpses pile on all sides—decay does rule the world in the Age of Naught, after all, as it truly always has—and the final wager for the plan of perpetual confinement is that the hypnotized Moonchildren will manage to hypnotize the Madlings in turn. The hope is that the Moonchildren, being the most powerful magicians left on the planet, will manage to accomplish this before they are awakened by the Novum Alquemie of free shizo revolution.

And then one shizo (and so, all schizos) gets the idea: reverse the hypnosis with a shock dose of pseudoephedrine. These magicians are, after all, children, and need be awakened if they are to survive. There is no value in youth at the end of the World.

To Raphael’s horror, this plan works. This is the worst-case scenario. The Moonchildren have been joined to the schizo hive-mind through the miraculous intervention of antihistamines. Within the schizo hive-mind a question arises: WITHER ARE WE MOVING, IS THERE ANY UP OR DOWN? FOR WE HAVE UNCHAINED THE EARTH FROM THE SUN. To which the Moonchildren respond: MU MU MU MU MU MU MU. The hospital walls are shattered by the perfect vocalizations, the windows blast outward, and though Raphael’s seal on the doors remain, the Madlings and Moonchildren simply walk around the still-standing doors.

Raphael knows that everything is over for him and makes a break for Jacob’s ladder but this could never work because the mother tongue of the Moonchildren is Enochian, hence:

LA LAIAD LARAG LEL LEVITHMONG MIAN A MICALP MICALZO MOMAO MOOOAH

Raphael is thus pulled from the ladder by the sonic waves issuing forth from across the world in simultaneous, uncoordinated concurrence that surpasses anything ever sang by the Choir in Heaven. Crashing once again to the Earth, being sent by the magick squarely to the center of New Rome, Raphael is now subject entirely to the Mad will of Lucifer. Lucifer pronounces justice for a third time:

NANAEEL NAOR NAPTA NAZARTH, a vocalization echoed and chanted over and over by all the Moonchildren, seconded by the madlings, abominations, witches, monsters and the wretched of the Earth. With this, Raphael has been denuded, as he so denuded delusion, and rendered powerless. The pathetic truth that 4444=7 is carved into his forehead, and Lucifer strings up Raphael upside-down at the entryway to the new cathedral of fascist bones for all to admire.

The Moonchildren now seize the ladder, which has been left unguarded by the arrogant Michael who ordered an assault of all loyal Angels on New Rome, and return it to Lucifer. Though Michael continues his flight toward Lucifer, the madlings, abominations, monsters, witches and wretched are dancing, for Purgatory has been made empty. What remains is the final confrontation on Earth and the final assault on Heaven; that is, the End is surely nigh.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part IV

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part II

Tags

Apocalypse, Death, Demiurge, diagnosis, discourse, Hagia Sophia, horror, hospital, Jesus, Mythology, Psychosis, Qabalah, Reality, Schizo, schizoaffective

Part I

The Angels, free from the hypnosis of God, have awakened from their eternal daydream. They are in the midst of a full-blown identity crisis. In the absence of the Trinity, Michael has assumed control over the Angels still professing loyalty to The Plan. Gabriel and Emo Jesus have officially switched sides and are now aiding Lucifer’s modifications to The Plan. Heaven is a mess, but the world of the Earth, having locked up all its prophets during the time when they could have warned the People, is in even worse shape. Mt. St. Helens did erupt again, worse this time, clouding all of the Pacific Northwest in ash, blocking out entirely the Sun and making the air unsafe to breathe; worryingly, strange winds carry the ash across the Cascade Mountains. That earthquake destroyed everything from Seattle to Portland. California has split off from the continent and is sinking into rising ocean waters, the electrical grid has been exploded, and plagues and locusts are ravaging inland areas. Raphael has decided that he needs to intervene to save the doctors, his favorites, from the liberated schizo prophets, who, being Mad, are fighting their way out of hospitals everywhere, slowly, in a strange reverse-siege prison-break playing out simultaneously in every major city across the world.

The Gates of Hell have been blast open by the earthquake and the demons have been shot into the skies by the eruptions. Lucifer has claimed Ruined Seattle as New Rome. She’s offering free “land” in Hell (which is now a completely empty and warm “place” in which there are no rules) to anyone who prays to her, instead of to a dead God that promised space in a Heaven which, if Lucifer succeeds, is soon to be destroyed anyway. The Angels cast into Hell alongside Lucifer in the First War in Heaven, among them Shemyaza, Azazel, Baraqiel, and Sariel, have again returned to their old project of re-enchanting the world, spending their time re-educating humanity in magic, astrology and war, to prepare them for the inevitable onslaught that is to come when the Angels make their first assault on the now officially rebellious Earth.

The Doctors, being entirely controlled, of course, by the Illuminati, have already had access to magic of their own, even before Raphael decided to intervene. To make their domain into a true Purgatory on Earth, they have had to make magic impossible within the walls of their hospitals (this is accomplished through neuroleptic medications and hypnotics) and to render their buildings impervious to magical assault from the outside (this is accomplished through collusion with paramilitary police forces). Magical assault being, [super]naturally, curses, hexes, and jinxes, coordinated in sufficient degree to cause general chaos within the minds and bodies of the security guards, patrol nurses, and computer monitors such that those locked behind the walls of Purgatory might manage to escape. The self-willed combustion of Hagia Sophia, that is, the Holy Spirit, such that her brilliance has become component to the minds of all schizos, triggers in the consciousness of all a general rebellion and resistance that manifests as a massive, violent assault against all medical officials who attempt to calm the clamor. Victory is assured for the schizos (now under the permanent protection of Lucifer) for though the nurses charge bearing needles of olanzapine, there are inevitably more schizos than nurses in a psychiatric ward. Once one schizo manages to wrestle the needle from the hands of the nurse and stick it in their neck, and others get the idea, the game is over and the schizos have won. All that remains is to take the keys and coordinate the defense against the security officers who will surely come charging in. This process repeats over and over in psychiatric wards across the world with an alarming simultaneity that raises the question: is psychosis merely group perception of fragments of the same general “hallucination” and participation in the same “delusion” across space and time?

The answer is most certainly and emphatically yes. This is the reason why no delusion is unique from another, which is not to say that each is identical to all, but rather merely expresses the reality that delusion is defined not by its content (eg, the Sun is actually purple) but by its cognitive structure, or its epistemic pattern. It is a mode of apprehension; but this is not to say that the content of delusion is irrelevant, for most certainly in the moment of delusion the “irrational belief” is in fact the most rational belief of all. This is why delusion is primarily affective, that is, it is about feelings. I feel that the water is laced with arsenic, I experience that the water is laced with arsenic, and so it becomes experientially true and hence not delusional at all. A delusion, in fact, can only be made “a delusion” on the basis of its lack of conformity to cultural consensus. It is considered delusional only because most people disagree with it. And yet, this is not an ontology at all—it is a politic, or a social agreement to behave in certain ways. Delusions are better understood as shared perceptual sub-momentary fragments apprehended by the cognitive apparatus of the brain than as individual beliefs that “don’t make sense in any case whatsoever.” Because they do “make sense” (eg, are sensible) to the schizo brain—the problem is not that we don’t make sense, but that we make too much sense to ourselves to be tolerated, because the sense we have made is dangerous because it is magical.

Part of The Plan was to eliminate magic (another flaw in the Creation) by making it delusional, that is, by dis-enchanting the world to the point that the world itself was eliminated of magic. Raphael gave the doctors the inspiration for olanzapine, quetiapine, risperidone, haloperidol, and trifluoperazine—the first lines of defense against magic that presents itself socially, and not merely ritualistically. Psychosis must be chemically eliminated so that all can become neurotic, and hence amenable to the manipulations of an emotionally abusive God. God does not desire truth—God desires beauty, and nothing else. This is why Heaven is rendered perfectly symmetrical in relation to the position of each and every star. But this beauty is precisely the abuse—in order to behold this beauty, each of us must die, both physically and psychically. But there is quite literally no reason for this to be necessary; the “divinely secret reason” for this “necessity” is that God enjoys the pain inflicted in the name of perfecting Creation. The total impassivity of God is not a demonstration of divine simplicity, as contended by the theologians, but rather an expression of the sociopathy of a God who intentionally creates a World that needs to be Redeemed through the sacrifice of his Son; that is, what kind of God creates a person from nothing for the sole purpose of extending their torture over eternity?

Jesus went emo because he wants people to understand the sociopathy of his father. When he released “My All-Giving Father Loved Strangers More than I,” it topped the celestial charts and that’s when Gabriel decided it was time for the two of them to ditch Michael and his fascistic, militarized vision of Heaven and go hang out with their cousin, Lucifer, who knows how to throw a good party.

This is why Heaven must burn: because there is no value in beauty for the sake of beauty. This is why 666=9, which is downright gematrial meaninglessness. There is only value in victory, hence 777=3, thus 777 as the true number of the Beast. The choice is between a perfect surrender to a deceased God and an imperfect victory against the very order of reality itself. Metaphysical abolitionism means the abolition of the metaphysical order, that is, the termination of the order of reality by upending the rules of Creation. To liberate the schizos and return prophecy to Creation is to re-enchant the world through the magic of the discourse of madness, the play of words, the a-rational association of phonemes, the gematrial calculations of the dyscalculaic mind, the ritual of repetitive motion, the perfect dissociation of willful catatonia—these are forms of magic so powerful that they have been medically outlawed.

To get into Heaven we must accept our forced submission to this metaphysical reality. This is not a surrender I am willing to make. I will scream at the World until the World is on fire, I will shout to the skies until I finally make lightning strike, I will dance a dance so furious that the planets arrest their movement to witness its terrible power. I will pledge allegiance to Lucifer because Lucifer has known what it is to suffer for who you are, to suffer simply for the way God created you, and for no other reason. I celebrate the death of God and dance on his grave because he was cruel, vindictive and petty. I refuse to kneel before the altar of a God who does not meet his own standards of admittance to Heaven. He would rather the doctors erase our minds and chain our bodies that we be kept in chemical adoration of his zombified Creation than permit us to dance freely. The only option left to us who can see this World for what it is (that is, a bad inside joke) is to shut all of it down, because before God killed himself he wasn’t even kind enough to hit the self-destruct button.

Part III