Here is the Moist Centre, the Secret Hot Cave, wherein the Union is brought about:
"On a moonlight night in the winter of 1835 the carriage of Marie TAGLIONI was halted by a Russian highwayman
NO!WAIT!Before we continue, there are certain fields of data that have to be ploughed. The red and white roses in the enamel vase, for example. May the Force be with you! I might warn you that it is full of Correggio traps and in the interstices a silkworm is spinning itself into a corner of the omniverse.
Brahms is there too. Descending like Christ from the Cross.
Let us project onto these infinite spaces, in full laser-rama colour (with praying mantis wings sewn to the rose petals of light) Mystic Marriages of Saint Catherine and/or whatever Saint you wish to trump up for the exercise.
Or loose your 'self’ in the scarlet on gold brocade of Van der Weyden. Or peregrinate amongst the portraits of Ingres. Then we ask our 'selves’ (which are now depicted, firstly in the School of Athens by Raphael, and later in the Apotheosis of Homer, by Ingres), if, these very same 'selves' are on the Tree of Jesse, or the Tree of the Sephira Yetsirah, or even perhaps, on the Christmas Tree.
Haydn, tried em.BUT TO C
Marie Taglioni was halted by a Russian highwayman, and that enchanting creature commanded to dance for this audience of one upon a panthers skin spread over the snow beneath the stars. From this actuality arose the legend that to keep alive the memory of this adventure so precious to her TAGLIONI formed the habit of placing a piece of artificial ice in her jewel casket or dressing table where, melting among the sparkling stones, there was evoked a hint of the atmosphere of the starlit heavens over the ice-covered landscape.
Queen Guru, on a late summer afternoon, questioned this "actuality".
OBJECT. 1940. Her robe is stained with butter from the lamps of
Swayambunath and Ash from Benares. A Cup the size of the Sky would
not contain my love for her.
The spider in Through a Glass Darkly Bergman.
Then there is also the Medium, who sees the Egyptian tomb, in the Valley of the Kings; a crumbling desert cliff face - with a dark entrance, and a silver thread leading into the gloom. Here I touch one of the deepest centres of my being, a dream that used to scare the shit out of me as a child. An infinite indigo expanse with a silver thread across this space, and I am screaming "Please, 0 Lord, do not let it break! Don't let it break." The Medium continues by tracing this thread down the passage - until it ends in the Silver Pen held by the High Priestess, sitting in her robes and writing. And she is none other than Queen Guru.
The Web then depends on the Weaver. Eliade on Ropes and Puppets.
All the stones have been set upon a background of Byzantine brocade, each jewel marking the descent of a series of Sri Yantra triangles, falling in cascades to the navel. The dress itself, or should we say the main matrix on which all of this is set, is umber Anjou velvet - salvaged from the Inquisition and Madame le Guillotine.
Each Crystal speaks with its Magus Voice.
Premontary. Queen Guru as Rock Opera. So, the Kiss between Ganesh Baba and the Galactic Empress — was one way of seeing all Sentient Beings as Being in Reality, Dwellers In Great Mandala Palaces.
Once again — when Divine, Sacred and Radiant Mother Tara shows her face — is it also a facet, is it one "department" of the Phenomena Show. CENTAURUS? White Horse, thoughts of Space and Time: Hexagram 22 with Six in the Fourth Place (Page 92): The Shambhala Stone.
The Rock is also the Perigran in Mount Analogue; Chinese knots in frost dry hydrangeas before the black velvet, candle between, marble ball —and claws in Caucasian snow with copper candle—sticks.
The Rock Opera is also the Stone Opera, or in alchemical terms; The Philosophers Stone; OPERA equals The Great Work — Throne in the Clouds is placed in the Centre of a Six Pointed Star — Blazing ice—blue Star, but the Throne is empty — and before It; a Youth of Great Beauty, sixteen years of age, kneels in adoration. His skin is like white milk marble, he wears a Head-band of the purest Silver. He is naked except for A GIRDLE OF WHITE SILK.
Before the generated heat of burning books,Queen Guru initiates a new lover. Who is he? What does he remind her of? In the midst of a metaphysical crisis (meta-crisis) the beauty of that caramel flesh merely emerged as a computed cipher. Exquisite neck.
Hacking through the conceptual clutter, slicing layers of thought debris, cleaving to the bone, she carves out a golden brocade rose on the velvet night. She fights:
Genetic propaganda — sperm tests/which are merely a vast effort to monitor / discover and stop the chromosomes and DNA structure of any incoming Super—Being. CONSIDERATIONS OF META—PROGRAMMABILITY; Lonely eyes in (Jool—eye!)
frontiers of being, acres, kilos and a Queen to rule the outer edges; a dark royalty, She of the Book of Enoch, the cave and the stone are her companions, the fire her door to alchemy, her bath of liquid gold; (Dance yourself Dizzy!) Tonight they’re taking turns on the heat. The new Phoenix, the place and time is right, hidden lion devours Unicorn. (on satellite of course?) or transmitted via the silver dream machine?
Pavel Tchelitchew. Hide and Seek. CACHE’ CACHE’. 1940—42. (For:
dimensional inter—penetration. Also biological charts.)
The Hunters, had set a trap, and this Trap was the Womb of the Virgin into which our Lord Unicorn was tempted to enter. Knowledge of this event was released, and three Trap-Inspectors, called the Three Wise Men — set out to Welcome the Unicorn Lord into this World.
Our Lord Unicorn is actually a gTerma construct. sHe was tempted to enter a Space which had been prepared Aeons ago. This Space was a buried Treasure, hidden in the dark slime of Samsara. As evolved patterns shifted and aligned into predestined order —this Sacred Space came into syncronization with the Womb of the Virgin. It was at this point alone, on the Higher Transmission (from Via Lucis) that the Trap became effective! Thus the Hunters use both Space and Time as Their Snares.
The Jewels on the Gifts of the Magi are now the jewels on the Dress of Q.G.
Her black rhinestone bracelet glittering in the light of the dragon lamp as she writes:
NOTES ON CIRCUS:(1) TEMENOS — the area where maximum concentration of stored energies (of the Collective Mind) are focalised ( or; generated from storage to projection.)
Further bric—a—brac. Kusha Grass seeds on the Kosmik Komiks. Close—ups. Costumes. Cosmogenetic history. The meeting of the Magi. Total DNA recall. Poltical meta— plot pattern. Cosmic constipation. Yes. she must return to the dead dog and the lice and the insects on the Hill with the Electro—magnetic Castle —SWAYAMBUNATH.
INFINITE BUT SELF—ENCLOSED UNIVERSE
INTERCHANGE—ABILITY OF MATTER AND ENERGY
ORDERS AND DEGREES OF INFINITY
ZEROS OF DIFFERENT MAGNITUDE
INSIDE THE SUN
CONTRACTING LARGE SUNS
The Blind Swimmer: Max Ernst.
(Developement of a Centre.)
And bells to proclaim the going: (or was it her ‘360’ Systems Frequency Shifter?)
We sing the Bodies Electric.
In Cuzco she stayed near the Passageway of the Seven Serpents. Here she met the youth who mentioned that only in Africa the White Cobra is to be found. Q.G. remembers dreaming of a dangerous transit between two White Cobras.
She would contemplate the effects of extra—planetary consciousness while putting on her black Automatic Mascara. Her thoughts moved on to non—Euclidian Geometry as she applied her Golden Beige Moisturising Make Up; and by the time she applied her Totally Transparent Finishing Face Powder, she would be musing over Riemann’s Geometry of an N—dimensional space.
A hand made calabash bag, painted Pillar Box Red and highly varnished —embellished with pink plastic roses —completed the ensemble. Queen Guru wore a Zen of Blazing Gold Brocade — her head shaven and eyebrows plucked or burnt off a la Nagasaki.Perhaps a little tiara and neck choaker of diamonds are a girls’ best friend. Her day is divided into two identities — a drag cabaret artiste and a Guru —this fusion activates hatred from the Dark Cult and her Martyrdom takes place.
MAN RAY: OBJECT TO BE DESTROYED. (1964. Metronome and paper.)
Awake 0 Light Blazing Heart
She uttered these words from the dark heat of that room. Spoken from a foundation of old linen.
Words. The stained wrappings of a resurrection freshly manifested, embalmed in computer printout.
All 49 Transformations of VIRA are projected in the viewing Room of Via Lucis. Each textural code is attended to, data banks emanate a flood of symbols. Macro and microcosmic details telescoped into focus. Matta; for wetness.
‘Cause I’ve seen Blue Skies, through the tears in my eyes and I realize I’m going home.
The Legend was about a meta—programmatic war fought over a Lurex Dress encrusted with 108 Jewels. We should pause here to elaborate. Queen Guru, the darling of Zone Nine is the only Magus permitted to wear this Dress, a garment which, dear Reader, dare I word this:
could be said, in a manner of speaking, to be (wait for it) a form of Transmission Station, sending out fragments of data on the 108 Major Incarnations of Queen Guru. (An Incarnation of ALAYA in All) (Remember? The Ultimate Storage System Computer: T.U.S.S.C.?) We have to educate you as the story advances. We, the Watchers, and the Hunters and the Magi, and in particular, the One, known as CHIMERA. This glorious Lurex Dress, worn by Queen Guru, has been programmed over the Centuries by Via Lucis. The fabric, the fibres thereof and even the very atomic structure of the fibres — all have been preprogrammed to release through SEEDS from Via Lucis in particular and ALAYA in general — which are sown instantly into receptive minds or activated by Time Lapse Action. The Dress is not created by human hands. It is a Garment with a History. And a psychic war is being fought to activate the full programme embedded within its jewels/crystals. As Kryptonite removes the power of Superman and The Heel was the weak spot of Achilles: so there is one vunerable area where Queen Guru may not wear this Garment:
THE UNITED NATIONS BUILDING. Zone 9: i.e. The Sage/Arcana 9;
Cosmic Consciousness/Peak Frequency. Images of fire, bombs, Supermarkets and chemical factories or fire.
Video—phone: Who is She? May we \venerate her ashes, bones, destroyed city; flying through pitch black space, a shudder of disintegrating wings, dried horse glue and ICARUS plunger dynamite terrorism
BOX OFFICE ATTRACTIONS
I can teach you Gnosis.You know, sis? Strap your self into the Lotus and take a Lick of Life!
The Bardo Thodol — the Greatest Index of them All!
Bird in Space/Fish. Brancusi.
The Law of Correspondence. Well, what of it? Just contemplate the beauty of the whole trip.
Intentional language is from the Hemisphere that Knows but does not Speak! With razors and assorted instruments of self— castigation She tries to release the ruby streams of Her flesh. This is the terrible answer to soft love. Queen Guru wears a Thai silk catsuit in dazzling white/plus turban. Small Mother of Pearl ear—rings. She enters through the glass and illusion foyer of the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art (or M.0.M.A.) as We affectionately call it. Today, late heat of summer, has been set aside to gather certain information. She pauses before the work of a Marcel Duchamp "NETWORK OF STOPPAGES": 1914; to compute and compare this painting with meta— cartographic circuits and maps, subway charts. And then, before the botanical chart altered with gouche in 1920 by Max Ernst and entitled:
THE GRAMINEOUS BICYCLE GARNISHED WITH BELLS THE DAPPLED FIRE DAMPS AND THE ECHINODERM? BENDING THE SPINE TO LOOK FOR CARESSES, she brings out a small golden notebook and writes. A quick reference to her powder compact mirror indicates that she is being observed in this process of documentation. Zone 5 again. And further confirmation is obtained from the highlight on the backs of the black ants in Salvador Dalis’ THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY. But the ripest piece of information came from the Jewel Casket of Marie Taglioni. ( Is this for the reason that Joseph Cornell uses the Power Key Jewel/Crystal in this exquisite Box? We will never know!) Queen Guru must pass out of her present form to reincarnate elsewhere. India perhaps. Her final duties, of this sequence are to complete the Lurex Dress War — in New York, (additional note: yes: the 108th Crystal is in Taglionis’ Jewel Casket! Confirmed in Virgo.) and to open a new etheric circuit between New York and The Province. The link is CIRCUS — and the Holy Ring Master is METASEXUAL. This is the Love Affair — the Element of Romance.
The 39 LASHES. Unguents, perfumes, ointments, incenses.
Jean Harlow and Raquel Welch. Sealed Caskets. The Chakra on Page ISIS UNVEILED; the Second Volume/decibels.
A dream of two men. Beautiful dark boy; empty room, a hell of bad taste. Two men sun—bathing in fairy—garden, a potter and a philosopher. A mother and her two daughters. Two thick Germanic types trying to break down a wall in a disco — with an electric drill and a 14 pound sledge—hammer. The long envelopes.
My father killed the spider.* The blacks killed the puff-adder. The horror of doctored information. Breaking a painting in four. Going mad! Photostating.
Balls, said the Queen. If I had them I’d be King!
The 27th bar of the Overture of Mozarts’ "Don Giovanni" gives us a picture shown vibrationally by Hans Jenny of Basle. This is the picture that Queen Guru "reads" while you were standing on a Diamond and I was sitting on a Lotus with putrefaction between us and at Her Feet.
Among my belongings:
Silicon chips. The Dress ..... which eventually through a series of inner revelations — he has to take to the Ruined Power Point of "CIRCUS" and place it in the Central Core. Thus, 107 Other Magi —manifest magically and create the Seed Transmission for the Age of Scorpio.
My 13 Stations of Transformation are woven to the Nine Grand Primary Archetypes, and the Ninety—Nine Secondary Archetypes, creating in all 108 Sacred Themes, 108 Incarnations, a statement so basement.
Some of the Gravel has been badly eroded and I find myself unable to read the images that are projected. It is as if the information has such delicate nuances that the conscious mind is gently caressed. I thus decided to resort to meditation — in the hope that revelations may bring the material into closer focus. Many of the imprints seem to express patterns of behaviour which are now totally extinct in the neo-human psyche. This is the Final Stage - White Haired.
The 13 Stations of MEM: Good Hope, Truth; The Triple Gem; Salt as in Scorpio; The Stars; The Holy Donkey; Roses of the Philosophers; Round Tree, Rotundum; Summerland, Aquarius; The Crystal Mountain; The Potters Field; The Dog Star; Dionysus; and The White Trees. As ALEPH they are collectively the Unum Est Vas and as SCHIN they are The 21.
I am now aware that the silicon Gravel is NOT data debris. All the information gained through my terminal — and from contemplation —has now formed into 108 compartments. It becomes obvious that I am the one to be programmed! And the connection is very close, in fact it seems to balance on my proximity to the Province, and to CIRCUS.
Cargo cults, native rituals of renewal in California, androgynous rites of Australian aborigines, legends of God and the Devil in Bulgaria, Cosmic Cords, Light myths of Tibet, Simeon the New Theologian, the madness of Valhala, Pythagoras (107) the Vedic ASVAMEDA, escatological nudism in Melanasia, the Marafi, Hindu luminous theophanies, Chinese techniques of the Mystic Light, Nicolas of Cusa, the Flaming Monks, puppets of the Gods, the Ebonites, Al Hallaj (161) the Gospel According to the Egyptians, the desert Fathers (what would one be doing with a crystal?) Code X of Khenoboskian, a Gnostic Library Book which includes a translation into the Sa’idic dialect of ‘Epistle of Eugnostus the Blessed. PISTIS /REBIS.
My fingers move over your skin of silk, my tears are woven into your being.
Two deserts are moistened by the orgasm that flows from my eyes.
She’s just a Guru in drag. A metaphysical fag, apocalyptic hag.
These days, reconstitution commences almost immediately. Naturally, the focal therapeutic symbol is the ancient Tree which grows by the river. There, next to the ruins of an old village, where Egyptian geese now nest in the rock pools once bright with the silks of the washer-women, a suitable setting for renewal was available. The wind in the wild reeds formed a background mystery-musical sound track.
The images that presently dominate the screen are those of metalic decay — a military aircraft graveyard with weeds growing amongst the twisted debris. Where the city once stood a wide variety of indiginous flora has reestablished itself. Overhead the silver ships pass across the blue sky.
I have made a simple dwelling from dead wood that the river has given to me. A grass roof. To the South, the skeletal arm of the Province stretches out to sea. Almost as if an invisible magnetic barrier exists, no human feet ever dare to walk there. The past is too immense and the accumulations of energy too intense. It is said that the Magi sometimes meet there on the Inner Planes of Via Lucis, but in correspondence to the site of CIRCUS. Perhaps.
Here, in my isolation by the river — It is obvious that I shall have to eventually plug in again. Many lifetimes have taught me patience — and when the time is ripe, I am sure the Encounters will begin. The Province is ruled by the Matriarch. She has utterly gone beyond, attaining to what we term the Rainbow body. She is rarely seen, prefering to shape-shift into forms so varigated and thus appear to those in need of the Test. On Wesak Full Moon she enters the Bhumi Levels and the Convocation of the Magi draw from her emanations at this time. I have forgotten the picture. I have also forgotten the fragrance.
like an astronaut in his capsule the foetus floats in its amniotic sac with the villi of the placenta around it like a radiant wreath; the nebulae and constellations in this firmanent are formed by cells from the maternal blood and salt crystals in the foetal waters.
les dignitaires carousel, the whole body feels so light it wants to fly; fabrics cling, hang, float, fly, curve sexily into the body of cloud around you, within a pentangular spider web of simple string, a visual feast of colours and cloth and spot lighting reflecting off the shining surfaces sheer brilliance sparkled up with diamonds as big as the Ritz, and as fake as a South Sea Bubble, filtering through mysterious gauzes crepe de chine, sunrise glow sleeked along the cheekbones, the adventures of energy, networks of de lux highways, clustered with paillettes and seed pearls. elegaic inscription, the great piece of turf, moles and warts are gently removed. fracturing structures, ideology, your little red veins, fake ruby ear-rings, and existence beyond 'its' materiality. ‘Day by Day…. they take some brain away. photographs.
with such determination and Army suitcase she captures images of bleeding cliffs and horses and gass masks and Euripides and severed head and all of those trips, the Machine. Pied Piper Mad Hatter, auric fissures, Regent Palace Hotel. "What an Opus", she screamed. "Q Piss, Priapus, Adonis and Company." Lingua Franca; Linga Franenstein.
YBC - 7298. Maison des Fous. "House of Fools." 1st Movement. Shostakovitch 5th. March Sth.2080.
Tentative statements lead to the theme, which for this transformation is the mixing of Golden Glass and Piss, alchemical orgasm, Dorje Phagmo, as above, so below, eating shit on iced up Georgian estates.
I bend my head down, with my chin almost upon my chest, and with winter doves singing, dogs barking and the wind amongst the beeches as background music, I begin my metamorphosis.
Firstly, my skull expands and becomes that of a bison, the same that roamed the Siberian plains in ages gone by; but with overtones of the Minotaur. See Thesius and Ariadne. This skull is not covered in beastly hair, but is constructed out of jewels — ribs and veins of emerald and saphire, ruby and aquamarine
All the images surface from the depths and blow like dust before the windscreen.
There is no wind amongst the beeches, it is merely the movement of my mind — which is constant and has the quality of an army of ants, nothing can stop the inexorable march to some thematic conclusion. Visual codes flow through my blood and are exhausted into biological ciphers. Brain activity ceases and white light bleaches the black ants, now moving over the piano in a Salvador Dali version of a Stalin concerto by Raohmaninov.
It is the Ankh, the Anchor, the Moon and the Holy Scarab God. Khepera. All this, is the Golden Glass, the Piss is another story.
Draped. in Zoharic Aramaic, my Kabbalistic symbols cavort over the white silk paper page, accompanied by David., the Ocean of Truth shooting up morphine in a dark hospital dispensary, my father crying into the dish water, my mother in a wheel chair, dwarfs, unicorns in herds and exploding tractors. Traction, elasticity, tension and secret hiding places.
The Greek Connection. Rather similar to the French Connection, except a surprise here, if we can see meaning in the coleus of my Grandmother, the Veiled Crone archetype. Why should words be subject to censorship from that essentially mundane hemisphere? Maiden, Nymph, Crone. I light up a Papastratos cigarette under a tree in those forbidden gardens in Athens, Athena beware of Hermes—Aphrodite tonight. No, no a thousand. times no.
It is time for the largo and a bit of grief. After all the circus imagery.
My transformation is from Hope to the White Trees, 13 Stations in all, my 13 Stations of the Cross (read quarternity here ...) Good Hopie is the Heart, Truth is the Touchstone, inspiration is the big payoff. Wild basil on the hills above the Aegean. The blue sea crabs.
The dream landscape. The harlot dead on the carpet with details of her silver shoes amongst the broken glass, she being a 20th Century Fox version of the Whore of Babylon, the ritual lunar prostitute, murdered by a client.
O Woe! The charnel house of the Cemetry of the Holy Innocents. Nearby, the office of Nicolas Flamel. Dark umber velvet, great space and light. Paris in winter, the 12th Century.
EDIT FROM HERExxxxxxxxxxxxx
Information: By piercing the inner contents of her secret cellular life, Queen Guru entered the ranks of the autobiographerS. I must pay for my sins, she said. Queen Guru is reading a conversation between Mercurius and an alchemist in the "Dialogus" of Michael Sendivogius.
writing in shit here but it flows out with greased ease and spontaneously , words offered as a Testament to ignorance and bewilderment embedded in one old Queen. The search for the self—born Upaya has begun. Golden syrup and a Tarot card, an Indian film Star and a murdered Chinese sailor, a chocolate eclair and a mole; an old Singer sewing machine and Isadora Duncan. What, she asks are the links?
In Her Inner Form She was known as Queen Guru. In Her Secret Form; in Her Outer Form? On the heels of the day — a universe. You are the eyes of the world. The Fool on Swayaznbunath Hill. Rangjung
Rita — what a way to treat Her.
Red Light. confession cell, damask and Oil of Olay. Cathage and Rome. Painted Emperor. TRIUMPHANT. Ascend the White Way. the formless
who wishes to follow what is auto—destruct. Visions of Mother Kali: dirty needles, razor blade saznadhi, cause I wanted to dress just the same. Her tenderness, her Kashmiri ear—rings.
The Tower bursts decaying lamb—fruit into the Lapis Lazuli Throne Room. Trumpets and symbols, intergalactic network, threaded to your eyelashes. Fake of course. Cheap, fake faggot replica.
Painting Holiness on Her face, retreating into multi—mirrored
Rooms of Fantasy. Making embryo prints on the carpet. Queen
Guru is born, washed with tears and afterbirth; (Wish that
it never happened) Here She Comes
Down the shit chute:
VICTORY OF ANIMA.
In kajal, bangles and black velvet, I spit on your mediocre debauchery. She masturbates with mascara, bat bones, thorn garlands and violets for props. Meta—digital orgasm on cardboard boxes filled with maggot infested rump steaks and vegetarian cook books. She reads ‘The Cloud of Unknowing’ to relieve post auto—coital depression, progressing to goof-balls and barbies with the Dharmapada. And then — in a fit of ecstasy, she straps on a dildo, and dances to Johann Strauss on the Vaseline lubricated floors of the Palace of Versailles.
The video—phone extends a produle which she clasps between her pomegranite lips and sucks in the data in meta—picto— graphic forms; Reptilian ~COflS. Shampoo the cockpit.IBM felatio. Post terratorial en—soph. Ajna massage. Filthy
mother plucker. (I’m a vanguard woman, myself.) During her Arupa Period, Queen Guru created a Shrine
of dried bones and a shell, a dehydrated casket of locust body, all placed on white Benares silk. No "thing" else.
She walked her medieval incarnations in French satin
slippers of the 17th Century. Betrayals peeled off the Inner Projection Mechanism of Her Mind. She remembers Borgia and funerals, and sometimes a mountain peak, rising above an ocean of black serpents, ‘All and Each One; in Their Myriads, wearing a Bejeweled Crown.)
Queen Guru recovers from her short circuit ascension in an Ice Scream Palour, drinking milkshakes, cruel and long. The dregs are ashes blown over a lunar landscape, cash register GLORIA, Behind her, vast banks of T.V. sets, arch up in layers over the hills, looking like luminous tomb stones.True She is in the Graveyard of the Mind. Exhausted circuits are dismembered here. Conceptual corpses are used in vivesection experiments, and the still, atomic screams of all Spaceship Earths slaughtered animals and humans, telescopes int, the tinkling of her silver and pearl ear—rings.
Queen Guru sharpens the peak of a mountain with her switch—blade knife — and creates a tooth pick to clean her dentures. Belch and fart break. Black rags tormented by gales; born from the mother of pearl skies, bleached teeth grin approval, severed fingers fall, rain down on flesh earth — knuckles dry crackle. She draws water, but only brings a pitcher of blood from out of the darkness.
VIDEO—PHONE: "THE META+POLITICAL
CONSIDERATIONS ARE NECESSARY,AS THEY
ARE OFTEN THE UPAYA BY WHICH WE
EMBROIDER OR ENGINEER A PSYCHOLOGICAL
CONDITION —OR IN REVERSE — DE—ACTIVATE
OR DE—PROGRAMME A META+PSYCHOLOGICAL
Queen Guru creates anti—gravity beauty spots and holographic Grecian columns to assist Her progress. She dims the Ladder to Heav’~ in white ostrich plumes (for this from Above, Holy Light ‘BLAZES’ Down on Her. (from the Sacred Spotlights.)
You should be On by Now.
Queen Guru still felt the savage roots of nain digging into her being. Per beautiful limbs were exhausted with searching for the Absolute. Time alone heals the wounds inflicted by desire. But is this an answer in itself? Cr merely another retreat into unrealityI Q,ueen Guru wou’ld. loose contact with what we laiow as ‘form’. It ~.‘as this ability to transcend the limitations of her mortal condition that placed her in an historic context. The was, in essence a cosmo—gerietiC gamble, which paid off. Each delicate metaprograrnmatiC detail was wpven into an alchemical tapestry. And is was only the Ultimate Gui de Sac that generated this fusion
Through a series of Inner Revelations she eventuHj.lY came to the ruined Powe’ Point of The Provence, the seat of Circus and placed the Dress in the Central Core. Thus the 107 Magi manifested. magically and created the seed transmission for the Age of Scorpio.
The Jim Jones syndrome is moving closer to the albino insect that has just shed. its skin on the ceiling i.e. the pure transformations of tantra always shedding the skin — and LoL Yet another comes to devour the empty case, casket, bag of dried skin, body burning by the Bhagamati, burning at PashupainathL
The Pare i&ishna Sales Show, Children of God, T~oonies and so on —Eeyond Quality Labels, Truth and Spaciousness Flows On, past the Burning Gh’~ts of conceptual clutterfuckl. Does one become a non—Buddhist? Who can understand the Secret Namthar? The Biography of Sunyata?
Another label and. yet another label and so on.
The Creation of the Secret Namthar, is not a flight from Egypt, nor an escape from the Fleshpots into a rarified sublimated space, or lack of space. It is a realm beyond ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ and evn beyond the burnings of the conceptual Grave Yard of the Mind. See Above and Below for Footnotes and Skynotes. Find, the Twelve 1~Iaga Tirthas and weep there, in an anti—clockwise manner of speakingL
Rather than join the nnie)Get~YOUrGundZOgschen Bandwagon ( which will grow in the slipstream) inhabited by sea—gulls and the W~E of your vision ( burn baby burn), She, who does not have the Illuminated Mind, of The Blade (as in IDakini) (see SKY and FLKTE) may put her bets on the CUP (as in INSPIRATION — IN—SPIRATUS)
Able to Resnofld.. Gone Fissofl. Excuse this word salad. Kali Yuga Newsweek Dark Age — needs much work with the Blade, Sword and Idi Amin cutting through torture (auto) apparatus. For all Sentient Beings, — YOU manifest as FUR1TST SPACE — further enhanced by the hint of personal suffering. YOU convince me, YAB, of your great Love and Compassion. I thrill to waves of Bodhicitta — vibartiofle.l waves — T.V. Data Naves — and Greet Grandmother Rarari waves to all her children and Grand ( as in Roxy) children and great—great grandchildren in the Valley below. Where have all the buffaloe gone?
Now that the Reapers are Sweeping the Ripe Fields, and their blades are going this way and that, glinting in the StTN — who are Those of the Left Rand who come along with their Kapala cups to catch the drops of Blood that fall from where the Wheat was severed from the barth?
The great Alchemist, Maria Prophetessa once said: ‘UPUM P~ST VAS’ which means, "The Vessel is One". And who knows, that the place Christ was crucified at was called GOLGOTHA, meaning "The Place of The Skull". "I" too have a Silver Bowl upon my Shrine, filled with cheap rice. It also my Skull Mind, the end of the road Bones ~nd Debris — not really knowing where to go next.
~h~jkR I LI~I7I5IIhIIIItI~lva uiIIaE5ru’I~ II ViM ~gIIIri1E1ILI Ii ..~ ill ii b ñ1~IMEJfr1I~
She was wearing: silk crepe de chine knickerbockerS, sequined stovepie pants with a white silk taffeta coat—dress with puffed sleeves. Frosted crystal seed pearl ear—drops with a pink—piped pure silk white wrap, black rhinestone bracelet, torn and shredded spotted camisole—srnip with a scalloped sequined hem, peacock green satin damask jump—suit, diagonally fastened and sashed with green cord and beads.
Make Up: Black Automatic Mascara — Golden Beige Moisturising Cream, with Totally Transparent Finishing Face Powder ( a powder deeply programmed with a mood modulator to activate Geometrical musings.) New Hollywood Poppy Protein Bare Blusher, Princess Galitzine 02 Velvemat Foundation and Blush—On Compact — or on certain occassions; O7L~. NO—SHOW Glazer. His eyes moved over the banks of wild flowers on her Eau de nil Georgette Dress —Three acres of sweet Parisian transvestite flesh, backdoor delivery, two—way traffic —DRIVE IT HOME, BABY MIMOS.
She changed into her Saint Laurent scarlet and gold—patterned satin jacket with quilted chocolate edging.
The singing has stopped. Bits and pieces of lurex and black velvet cover the table. She is designing baubles for the Masked Ball. Outside the yellowing fig tree, as image in landscape, has frozen into a high gloss photograph. The soft rain falls with her tears as she smokes a joint sitting on the ‘WELCOME’ grass mat by the kitchen door. Her mind, if we may be forgiven for making such a dualistic statement, is totally bleached. There is no colour or form on the internal display mechanism.The atoms of moisture bejewel her hair with a million tiny diamonds.
She has become, from the observers point of view, a
kitchen Burne—Jones, crying .
in the rain. Her flashbacks .
are not built of visual icons
of rememberance, but instead \. . -
consist entirely of clair— -k~O
sentient imprints, sensual k
fragments.The shape of a
delicate neck beneath gliding
fingers. The wetness, the
transmission of juice that
announces the termination, an
act of moisturizing which could be said to have its polarity in the detestable putrescene of M.K. Valdemar in the story by Edgar Allan Poe which she read amonst the cottons~t~%~.< and sewing debris surrounding the sewing machine — frozen into a mandala by the late afternoon sun, breaking out of dark rain—laden clouds. She considers the white clouds that Artemis
used to carry off the sacrificial first—born daughter of Agamemnon, the gentle and lovely Iphigenia. She compares this with the white caviar that covers her belly in front of the fire. A play called ‘CLYTEMNESTRA.’
a wizard wearing the best evening Dress of the Year, the Court Jester in stunning killer colours, Trickster robed brilliantly in jungle flowers, straped into ultra—sonic ear—phones, stippled over the palest, cloudiest chiffon, and Flashing, simultaneously between the Ridiculous and the Sublime. Nights with a lover. She adjusts her marcasite hair comb and moves into the kitchen to collect the earthernware jug full of well—water. Her wet feet on the marble floor. The blue circlet of gas flame. Ants on the bread board investigating smears of peach jam. A cigarette balanced on the tea pot.Telepathic situations. The ants remind her of the high—
lights on the backs of the ants in Dalis’ painting. The stoneware pot becomes ‘Painted Stone’ by Max Ernst. Emerging as resplendent as a Phoenix arising from the celluloid ash of a Cecil B. De Mule Biblical Epis, Queen Guru (against all odds) makes a comeback. Draping a Benares silk turban over her lice infested hair, slipping on a faded pair of peasant trousers and a strapless Black Racine jersey bodice she sets out into the night to perform rituals that her audience had long since thought she was incapable of firing in the electric tapestry of her mind. Down from the Dark Tower, the Edgar Allan Poe decompositions and permutations of nigredo ( so rich with the odour of sacred monkey shit produced by the whimpering beasts in the dark trees above) she descends onto the plains and the fruits which she knows ( as a footnote) she will never eat.
We have to generate absolute compassion. Buried beneath the slime of social waste matter, we have
unearthed variations of the Life of Queen Guru which are intensely shocking to our sensibilities. This is such a text, which though it has fragments of truth — is distorted almost beyond recognition.Miss Rizla Rolls
Royce. protest clouds, war pillars, bottles of plasma, trains carrying dope peddlars and Chinese War Lords. Blonde
Venus: after shedding the lice infested gorilla skin, the course mule skin, a young boy, with snow white skin emerges, rattlesnake and Hollywood spectacular sound effects, energy
overloads, leading to cliffs, sheer spaces, dropping into mellow Byzantine reveries, Russian landscapes, wind, solo sadness besides the serpentine wanderings, the confused yet victorious babble, great spines of
Sound rise up, confident — like proud ridges in the mind, to burst out in affirmation, (so many directions to this knowing) a bell seals the faith — road to the
infinite. SHE is the eternal "Woman during Wartime". Think on
this archetypal situation.
. List the women who have suffered in war. This
From the forgotten
— dges of the Silver creen, through worn
q Holy robes ,descending dried leaves,
grey feathered hems,
A variety of levels unfold and reveal new views into the internal landscape. Perhaps Queen Guru underwent her final transformation last night. I dreamt of her death, and she was brought into the Square Garden - wrapped in a thin grey Army blanket and laid out on a rough board. We could not bury her under the lemon trees, under the frangipani; the roots would not permit us to disturb them. Neither could we harm the beds of spring seedlings. Perhaps there was a place alongside the galvanized iron fence, the Eastern Fence, with the lone rooster on the other side dreaming of hens, above the scarlet dewlap, the black beady eyes. I consult my father - Where else can one turn to when the Anima dies within the Square Garden?
She lay in State in a dark workshop, a mechanical garage. I lift the Army blanket, her mouth is a dry, dark cave, full of lacework, fish bones, rubies and bleached turtle shells.
Later, I create a series of Requiem paintings for her. The first is very enigmatic. I have it before me. Standing behind the Chinese bowls filled with water, tea, All Bran Flakes and milk, behind the flowers with broken necks, the fruit and the Glastonbury Box.
I look but I am afraid of what I see, so many reflections of a network of processes. Where do I begin? Perhaps with what is most obvious. In ANACALYPSIS, ii., p. 234. (Godfrey Higgins) we see a diagram which is the Real foundation of this painting. I cannot reveal this structure, for it is so embedded in the work itself, that at least this initial mystery can be preserved. Suffice it to say, that it is surmounted with glory and made of cornelian, garnet, ruby or red glass, and is linked to the Mystic Initials H.A.B.
I have also painted the memory of wet loam under my bare feet, and the startling vision of the white tortoise shells, bleached by the sun and the rains. The tortoise shell chalice filled with glistening moist hearts, freshly butchered in the mechanical workshops of Man, hot red berries, singing rubies and a minature galaxy of white highlights harvested from the backs of black ants.
These are to be found in my Requiem Painting
(Yet there is still more.)
An invisible phalus hides behind the altar, and the glory. Its head has become a bone bowl filled with ivory sperm, white sometimes can be seen as a pearl blue lake, or the wings of an azure dragonfly. To be more precise, there is much of the insect in this Animus - Phallus-God thing. The Golden Goddess is now decaying on the board under the Army blanket.
(End of Part One.)
Edited version of Part One completed in Turin,
1st January 1985 — started in Kathinandu,June 1979.
[Printed: 15th February, 1988. Limited Edition: 50 copies.]