HOW SHIT WORKS
End of Chapter 56: Knights of the Blue Thread
To round off this trine squarely, I’ve got to maximize my best strength. Just like with my troops, congregations or boy robots, I need to find a way to explain how shit works.
Chapter 57 HOW SHIT WORKS
I must have been five or six because it was Fort Sill, Oklahoma, and that’s where I went to kindergarten. Sort of. No awareness of Military Intelligence of course, and Emvee was barely a nuisance or memory then.
I've since learned everything about Fort Sill and my Father's work in and around the Lawton community. His niche was always between the military and the adjacent civilian population. The best way to describe his role, and in fact, that of every patriarch in the Windstrom and Vidal lines, is as talent agent. Father was a middleman for military productions seeking civilian genius as cover and vice versa.
As kids in these niches you meet, and are, odd offspring. This circle of minds is tethered to quite another drummer, and when both parents are Prometheus Society members, something's going to catch fire in that home.
I remember it was hot and so Tanjy and Ira, two fellow odd-offspring, and I found a reason to come in off the broiling slide in the Oklahoma Heat - which demands to be a proper noun.
Next I could clearly see the white background coat of paint from inside the glass where McDonald's painted Grimace on the outside, and my lips. Odd detail.
This was deep August, but I heard what I thought was a Halloween sound effects record from a back room. It was like the classic ghost sounds one would make stereotypically: "Woo" and "Ooohhh." I laughed and looked at Tanjy and Ira for a sign to run back there.
They had no reaction, though. Tanjy put her glass down and started singing "One Bad Apple" by the Osmonds before leaping off the stool and rushing back outside. Ira kept his glass to his face as if sipping, but he seemed to be hiding in there.
"Is that Monster Mash?" I asked with an enthusiastic nod to encourage him to take me to the back room where the weird fun was. Even then I was drawn to the dark.
"No. It’s not that." He looked over his shoulder, making sure Tanjy was out and on the swing again. "Come on but be," and he put his finger on his lips hard.
I shivered with the excitement of this unknown. I remember all the possibilities I imagined on the way down that hall, because it was the last time I would have such innocent assumptions.
There was a lull in the muffled noise, so Ira froze us in our tracks. In a beat I heard a low rumbling like a lion, then a woman yelled something quite clearly before surrendering to a good three minutes of involuntary chants and breaths, like she was worshiping violently.
It seemed logical to assume that Ira and I just eavesdropped on his parents fighting the Oklahoma Heat from the other direction. But this was Lawton, OK in 1971. White supremacy was a predicate, so farming locally could yield a harvest of specifically smart but specifically bent people.
In Lawton, Father found only two women for his team: a retired nurse with a genetics research background and Ira’s mom, a stunningly sharp elvish woman with piercing grey eyes and angular structures. Her jawbone could cut glass at the right angle, but her orgasms and their rhythmic chanting could shatter it.
The idea of sex was not part of my reality then, so I had no way to know that it was heaving patterns of foreplay to climax that we were listening in on regularly. In my mind, it was an intense ritual worship going on in there, because that was something for which I had a reference.
Ira’s genius-level and feature-sharpened mother was in the throes of deep ritual worship to an entity I will not name and she was being ritually thrown between masked men until dull, and daily.
The reason I had a reference for strange and aggressive ritual sounds at 6 years old had nothing to do with Oklahoma and everything to do with Father.
By the time we were sneaking around hallways in Fort Sill, I had walked in on a handful of rituals featuring my Father center stage and a consistent cadre of red-robed men flanking his right hand and white ones at his left. In every 3-second play he put on for me to find, there was a board with a glyph on it held out in front of him. It was a symbol not familiar in any of the esoteric books I have devoured over the years. Simple, obvious yet elusive: a snake being eaten by a bird, and all angling to a keyhole.
Son of a bitch. I just realized as I prepare to describe another of these tableaus that the motherfucker probably staged them to imprint my mind to keep him godlike in my psyche. Fuck! I didn’t expect this process to unveil anything more to me.
And now that I am sure of this being one of his ploys, I have zero interest in going there. But it was your basic red satin-robed and horned-hooded central cat with adoring men on either side ready to serve in full submission. And now it not only seems pathetic to go to such trouble to imprint a kid, but it all seems so homoerotic.
Well, that’s how that shit works. At every turn, I’ve found my Father’s mythos just that. And worse. Choreographed. It’s like metaphysical child abuse. What reason would he have to emblazon a scene of him as High Lord of all Shit if not to keep me down? And the thing is, I’ve always felt like this. Even at 5.
"Respect the frightened. They give us a wide berth to do our work," Emit would say, but that one fails when the frightened is your Father and your Father has an army.
The reason all of that matters and is in this chapter is because of reality. Things matter in a very, very big way in our world, and when they talk about legal rulership over Earth for an age, these men mean that they not only believe that, they perceive it.
The best way to hide something is to force people to look at it; the best way to negate a truth is to make a movie out of it. Then make that movie again and again and again until formulaic, and suddenly any story that holds simple soul-saving truths gets panned for its CGI.
While I suspect some of those scenes I walked in on were staged for my molding psyche, Father did lord over a group of scary-looking men when we were kids, and the sounds that they made in that library would not be available for trick-or-treaters.
Theirs was a twisted offshoot of Sethian Gnosticism that originated in the first century after the crucifixion.
This is not the book to go too deep there. All that’s important to know now is that there were many sects of Gnostics, of which Sethianism was one.
It was one of the primary sects from the 2nd to 3rd centuries. And while they all split in very distinct ways in their interpretation of the cosmos and the cross, they all shunned the material world, believing its creator a demiurge or craftsman, as opposed to a god.
Father’s sect of defiled Sethian Gnostics believed that:
In the final act, after watching earthlings struggle through millennia of strife, pursued by the archons relentlessly, Sophia-Achamoth begged her mother, Sophia the Elder, to send the Christ to help earthlings in their unending torment. It was through his murder and resurrection that the Kingdom of the Debris was finally subdued and the archons' reign of blind envy came to an end.
And as far as Father and his minions were concerned, they were the archons. They were willingly choosing that role in this setup.
Who does that?
For them, the crucifixion was a dress rehearsal, so there has been no "murder" per se yet. Like throwing sand in the eyes of an opponent to buy time, the archon staged the last 2,000 years while it got its shit together.
Jesus the Nasoraiyi went off-script at curtain call. Instead of telling the one about submitting cheeks to neighbors, he got hip to the game and began showing the audience how to see what he and his gang saw. And in droves.
The Sophia Myth is an interpretation of what these hundreds of men and women got a glimpse of after successfully completing the living resurrection process and discussing it afterward.
The living resurrection is why pyramids are corpse-less tombs. It’s a very specific method of preparing your body and mind in very specific places on Earth, or between the right stewards that hurl you up.
Back then they saw the Earth like a boat tipped over in a black lake. And when the honey from what we know today as Nepal found the Nile, Christs were prematurely blooming for 63 years under Neith. Different book. The next one.
Today we can see this on the NASA channel. We’re dulled by awe.
But like a clutch has only so much say in the matter as the road turns upward, the jig is up. The sand in the eyes, the confusion of our tongues, the drowning of our ancestors; all are minor setbacks in the end.
Father, like Jesus and Mary and Thomas, was a perceiver of The Gnostic Sophia Cosmology. Not a "Believer." A "perceiver," because what these men experienced caused them to perceive the "way of things" from a touched perspective. That is, their religious ritual wasn’t to show the gods respect, it was a way for the gods to show them what gods saw.
Though I’ve labeled Father a Sethian Gnostic to explain why he labeled me that way, it isn’t accurate. There are specific elements of practice and cosmology that divide Gnostics but no elements that appear on these men’s charts. No. This is an order of the self-organizing debris of millennia of war and gold.
These men don’t create anything. They mimic and profane, because it yields the greatest sense that they may be relevant. So in a very real way, they were the archons incarnate. Rather, Father is the archon.
There are far too many works at play right now in the dawn of the next aeon to stray into that arena here, but be diligent and discerning and remember the source. My work will take a place in the collective that holds a quadrant of the node secure until the cycle shifts.
I am a clutch. A cusp. As such I have certain liberties to stretch time and extend moments before the physics of the road and the need to maintain a momentum demand me. We are nearing the valley floor, brothers and sisters, and before we let go to let gods, I have some smaller parting gifts before I hand you the big one.
Like a burglar leaving a tip, or a killer who digs the graves, here’s how this shit works.
The blue hivelings are a surface technology with self-activating software in a nanite-laden gelatin structure. The structure at its replicate-able quantum is less than a dime’s height and diameter. It is programmed to replicate its "gellular" structure to accommodate for space needed to calculate a request. It has self-assessment programming that has learned that its "gellular" structure can be regionally reformatted to act as the tool to either produce or assist the end user in completing the task.
More simply, it’s as if your Jell-O were self-aware enough to transform into a spoon that feeds itself to you. However, the part of the Jell-O that became the spoon would not be edible. The programming is such that it first assesses itself for the result but limits itself to regional jurisdictions based on its quantum, thus knowing that it could spoon itself out of existence. The thing is, over time, the quantum enlarges, and in 3,600 years it has increased in size to that of a silver dollar.
By 2019 the hiveling quantum will be a regulation-sized Frisbee.
One limit to giving the hivelings a self-limiting survival awareness code was the corner. With a primal code of expansion as needed only and self-assessment second, when these surfaces met in space as corners in rooms, they sealed tightly, but over time they flaked, as their code could not reconcile the needs of their twin surface.
Their original reunion fused them almost indestructibly. But once their mutual codes quaked back to send the good news of "others like us," the equations would eventually leave. No echo came back to the frontier of the surface that had found the Other, because the frontiers were the source. And that’s how universes flake.
When there is no sanctioning of the explorer, the explorer isn’t discovering, merely finding. These hivelings were like Columbus at the edge of the world learning that the queen lost interest.
The explorer and the hivelings were driven by conditions of reward by expansion alone and a core code that said "this is your destiny."
When my brother petted the counter, when he simply ran his palms across it to see them react for react’s sake and under no conditions, it caused them to first identify his need, then assess themselves for the tool to produce the result. The result was unconditional, and they hadn’t come across unconditional as a solution before.
The casual inclusion of a flake of hiveling left in The Spin, and made important by an obsession with its color by my brother, became a saga of families and wars and gods on Earth for thousands of years. Like dropping an ice cream cone on an ant hill will raise kingdoms of sugar-lords for hours, thus a flake of hivelings.
Thanks to Emvee, the flake was fused to the inside cover the knights book no thicker than a dime and unmolested for its cover’s color. And cherished for the same mysterious reason.
When Jax proclaimed his solution -- to use Spanish punctuation in his English reader programming, then slammed that device on the cover of the knights book where the hivelings lay -- they woke up, assessed themselves, then, while murmuring, zoned off regions for open calculations, and by the time Jax got bored in Western Colorado around about May 2024, he had something he wanted to show us. And we were all absolutely mystifried.
The UnZip occurred before the other codes would be deciphered. Namely, those split into tens of layers of code and easily stored in the calcium copper silicate (blue paint) in the Egyptian ruins. Particularly in the Temples of Neith.
This new code challenge for a flake of hiveling toward an anticipatory self-programming was hoisted by a quaking quantum-sense that the queen hive had -- across time and space and spins -- become aware of how end users might do things unconditionally, like caressing a countertop to see it react. There is no tool to produce for that, save whatever the hiveling thinks the caresser might enjoy. The Jell-O has nothing to serve itself to its master with, but the quaking of trying to figure it out is enough.
The casual tweaking of a language code and the unconditional caress of an end user lost in thought has been the genesis of this whole saga. Our universe is subject to our whims, so be careful what you wonder about. But do wonder.
And when wonders cross, make laws or, in the wake of our ongoing creation, the debris will self-organize and try without the growth code. Only they return and they will tug on us until we bring them. Not shake them. Bring them.
Nodes in the fractal of time-space make stars and people and situations that require bigger nodes to either sanctify or neglect, but they do not go away on their own. They cannot. The same law that requires the smallest pebble to stay in the mound on the shovel as you walk keeps the Archontic nodes in the game. You have to be the pebble and want to spill the gravel to change that node. It is an immutable law.
I learned something about myself I didn’t suspect: I spill.
"’Knowledge is power' they keep saying, yet the more knowledge we have about sapiens, the less power we have over what they know."
-- Emit Archer
A lot of time is wasted verifying facts and data that only forestalls any real experience of what all of this is. Sure, science is itself a hobby and a story about what it observes, but again, it’s only true in its very limited pocket. And while science has been a great hobby and fulfilling pastime for many sapiens since Aristotle, it has only forestalled the experience of what all of this is for millions more than it has satisfied.
Emit came to this realization on his own. He mentioned his afternoon with "fairy-laced lasses" and 'shrooms when one of his prey asked, "What if God just puts things where we look to give us something to do?"
That cosmic question that stopped Emit in his erotic tracks and led him to myriad epiphanies was a footnote in my otherly scholastic work.
For those of you ready to move beyond the rules and get to the play, allow me to break down some mysteries so that, unlike Emit, who spent his last years studying a teal-colored book for answers that I already had, you can spend your last years getting on with the experience. Emit said once, "It’s like there’s a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on the road in front of us and we’re spending the morning wondering what molecular bonds keep the helium in Snoopy! By the time we figure it out, it’s Black Friday." Again, science is a great hobby for those so inclined, but it’s been a bit of a mystery schoolyard bully.
Ontological debrief (ontology is the philosophical study of the nature of being, becoming, existence or reality as well as the basic categories of being and their relations.):
The body: You are not a unique template in this galaxy’s galaxy. Though numbers of fingers change and internal organs compensate for chemistry and pressure, the overall template of five and thirds is very common. Turns out a major criticism of the Star Trek universe where most aliens were humanoid was perhaps the most accurate part of that whole franchise. That and introducing the idea of "empath" as future job description.
So Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man is a thing; a standard bearer for productive sentience systemwide with some key upgrades and downgrades in Earth’s surface sapiens. And that’s an important distinction, as you’ll see. Some upgrades were engineered, some were unexpected and quite surprising, and some we really should have expected.
Needless to say, the lexicon and math that we rely on to understand these absolutes differs, so I will be as plain-languaged as I can. We’ll rely on the hive-mind to find the roots of these ideas until we all have a reference for not thinking of elephants.
Starting from the top, then inside out: the Luz Bone. This almond-shaped and virtually indestructible "bone" rests at the top of your spine. It is how She kept you Hers and why we don’t cremate our dead.
First heard about by sapiens in Ezekiel 37, this is the magic "nut" that Roman Emperor Hadrian had Rabbi Joshua Ben Hananiah prove could not be softened, burned or pulverized. It is this decay-avoiding bone that your Creatrix snuck into the mix that means you were never really our slaves. Though unburnable, it is much easier to retrieve the Luz from a skeleton spine than a pile of ashes. This is why we do not cremate; not some etheric spiritual mechanics that require the flesh’s natural decay; rather, convenience for the harvesters. To "resurrect" or clone its host, these Luz bones need to be found first, which gets us to the next feature: sentiment.
Anthropologists are fascinated with the period in sapiens' "conscious evolution" (an oxymoron dissected later) wherein they began to bury their dead with a sense of reverence for the deceased and not just their sense of smell. Without the "sentiment" feature, reapers would spend half the era cataloging death spots; random places on the surface where harvestable hominids fell. By implanting a code of compassion that was limited to others imprinted within the first six years, humans began to care where they laid their dead to the point of placing them in neat rows with signs that last hundreds of years. The signs never mattered but the mass burial sites really helped. And one way to know whether or not you have this feature installed is studying your reactions to this paragraph.
The Luz Bone contains all the genetic and frequency triggers needed to put your Self back together in the physical space. It is a torsion catalyst that, when pricked by the right metal, sucks the consenting spirit into the vortex it creates, which allows consciousness to stick. That is, without a catalyzed Luz at the moment of first oxygen intake, a spirit does not dwell there. Souls may take seat but only as observers and with no interplay for the life of the creature. It is horrific when this occurs, as many souls who have been unsuccessful at catalyzing the torsion will still attempt to connect with their puppets as they too are pulled into the time-space of the creature. This means 70+ years of existing alongside a golem with no inspiration save that the archon gives them. Like the stray dog who becomes loyal to a homeless man, these souls are doomed to feel the years and the utter boredom of creation at its most mundane.
It’s not the boredom that is a horror, it’s what happens to souls over this time that cannot help but try to connect. Without the filter of spirit mechanics and the patterns they form around other features like ego and intellect, these attempts always lead the golem toward dominant behaviors. Every human despot, dictator and serial killer is the symptom of this shortcut of the soul. Every atrocity, genocidal season and every time a child is hit by an adult, we see this shortcut of the soul. And every feature we laid on to avoid it, and every one we patched on to fix it, only made it worse. We eventually realized that like time, these inharmonious features will snap back into a flow and any stretch to the genetics of surface sapiens will also return to its path; Her path.
There is an alloy that melts this bone that, when delivered directly to it while the body is still warm, will indeed destroy it. However, this is not part of my unveiling.
The reason surface sapiens live only 70+ years is twofold: Creatures start remembering their holiness at around age 125, and 70+ years is a lot less time to be bored than 900.
Flanking the Luz is our favorite feature. It proved so useful that we made it a standard feature and made it more accessible for the dealer to access for tuneups: the amygdala. Also almond-shaped (another template systemwide) these little bastards squat in your limbic system ("Lizard Brain") and gave the system its reputation as the fear center of the brain.
The amygdala is where you come for decision-making and memory, but what we rely on most is its ability to magnify molehills into mountains. The activity of the amygdala ebbs and flows as nature needs it, but by any standard it should shrivel and die by the time a sentient being becomes aware of itself and threats. On a society level, this feature would have gone the way of the manual car window, but the dealer needs it. Metaphors aside, you should have only necessary and on-call fears at this stage of development -- just enough to know to run if a lion is chasing you. But fear is a magical happening. It shuts down all functions save the most essential and secretes fuel that, when harnessed, is delicious.
A golem in a state of fear can be directed into any cave, belief system or psychosis that seems safe. A golem in a constant state of fear is motivated beyond its own limitations to produce for those who bring safety.
The "Sins of the Fathers" theme comes from this symptom of engineered fear. Sapiens with pricked amygdala produce more loosh than others, and this creates a new code sequence that lasts at least three generations unless pricked again. Loosh is the current vernacular for the delicious fuel mentioned above. And like every piece of magical or spiritual fantasy you’ve experienced via Emit’s writings or your own limitations of knowledge, there is a less-than-magical explanation for this: hunger.
After this level you’ll soon discover that Franklin’s idiom, about death and taxes being the only thing certain, isn’t. In fact, those fall away as fast as your last breath. What is certain systemwide is hunger. Everything eats everything, and for all the metaphysics of creation, destruction and rebirth this hard reality requires of us, the simple fact is that the universe is famished. At every vibration until they stop, it is absolutely essential that we feed and are fed upon. We are eating while being eaten because (The) Universe has swapped boredom for horror, and we are the result.
Think of your own decision-making power when it’s late and there’s a McDonald’s drive-thru open right next to Whole Foods. There are entities in this pocket who park and go into the market to choose the best farm-to-market produce to prepare later, and then there are you. Most of you. For convenience, and out of a primal hunger, we will choose the drive-thru and not question the virtues of two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame seed bun. McDonald’s, like Earth, serves salad now, but our patrons aren’t interested in their health or ours. This is where "as above, so below" becomes that horror.
The poetry and art spawned by the fear of death and the mutual denial of our plight was an unexpected feature resulting from keeping the amygdala in play to the point that these works are valued greatly system-wide, as no consciousness in the pocket had ever seen this level of expression. Human art by way of pain has stitched a new pattern that has made other vibrations rethink their progress. We brought a baby in with the bath water, you might say.
Still at the top, and now inside out, is the gland that every boy wants to befriend and every girl wants to fuck: the pineal gland. We’ve covered key aspects of the "third eye" above, and there are so many esoteric references to it and through history that one thing has to be true about this pea-sized conical mass: We got it all wrong.
There’s an immutable law worth bringing up here before we go all pineal glandy: There is no "thing" that is in and of itself sovereign or singular. If there were, we would not be having this exchange.
It’s the Law of Two and it is the first Law of (the) Universe. There is no one (1) without zero (0) and that makes two (2).
The thing about it is, though; fractions. We’ve found a way to stretch the rubber band by working on the band between the tears. But I dye grass.
According the Law of Two, the more we identify a "thing" or sovereign entity as an “other”, the less true it is. The closer a quantum physicist looks at a particle, the more often it will become a wave, and vice versa. So the more we look at the pineal gland as a thing from which something comes through, the less possible it is for us to experience what the gland has to offer. The gland is but the interference pattern of the node between places.
"Looking at the gland or node is like looking at the hinges instead of walking through the door," Emit would say, and often, as the hinge versus door metaphor had so many applications and Emit’s blank-slating made him feel as though each use was original.
It’s not the thing. It’s the space the thing isn’t. Like the Eye of Horus being the negative space in a cross section of the human brain. Like the pupil of the eye is itself a hole and not a thing but made up of the size of the iris around it.
These are the examples required to begin to understand how this shit works. As ensouled and manifest physical beings, as meat-puppets, you cannot help but identify with solid matter and so have not the evolutionary need for perceiving the less-solid matter in the spaces. And we have encouraged, even upped the blindness for our own purposes. And that is but one charge against my family that this confessional work aims to soothe.
If you see ghosts or flying discs and if you hear whispers from the other side, know that it has nothing to do with the power of these other things and everything to do with yours.
Everything is from the inside out, and when more than one of us sees the same thing, it means there are fewer of us now and that others don’t exist.
Still on top but out infinitum is sapiens' co-creative ability, which until now hasn’t been proclaimed in writing as a right. It is. And part of my charge for the unveiling is to supplant this knowledge in the ether and ethernet of Earth.
There are far too many convoluted, sophisticated and near-improbable methods of masking your power to yourself, and some of them are even cosmically legal, but the bottom line is that surface sapiens, though tainted with war blood, still have the blood quantum for co-creative rights on Earth.
Emit explained it this way: "Your intention is to motivate the child toward creative development. Do you give them a pencil and sheet of paper or a box of Crayons and a coloring book?"
And when you unpack that, the idea is all about genuine or manipulative intentions. Assume both sets of parents have equal access to either a ream of paper and box of pencils or stacks of coloring books and boxes of crayons. Also assume they have limitless time and equal socio-economic lives and cultural influences.
One set of parents chooses the coloring books and Crayons with a full intention to provide their child with the tools necessary to develop skills needed to succeed in society and be creative with color while staying in the lines.
The other set dismisses the conformity and the color with the full intention of providing their child with the tool necessary to develop ideas necessary for society to succeed.
This gets to Emit’s idea of intention and attention being the binary code of consciousness. The parents' intentions were only as pure as what they themselves paid attention to around the child.
You cannot have an intention for someone else. That is attention. There’s a whole mindfuck wordplay thing Emit would do that only works when he does it.
And that digression into intention versus attention is what I meant above by, "...far too many convoluted, sophisticated and near improbable methods of masking your power to yourself...." You see, well, no you don’t, which is the crime because you have as much ability to create what’s in front of you as do any gods or wizards or popes you believe in.
We just left that part out of the Bibles, and when you start to ask, we distract you. We suck. We really have fucked with the wrong planet, and so here we are, covering our cosmic asses with yet another book full of metaphysic truths to hopefully mitigate the blowback.
I’d say "Don’t kill the messenger," but Mac already did.
