The Transfixed Man

The Unfolding Text - Episode 1651

He found the game baffling.

Not its rules, or the software running it. The computerised aspects were in fact infantile in their simplicity and transparent in their motivation.

Its catchpenny business model was readily understandable too.

What baffled him about the game was why anyone in their right mind would ever waste the time required to play it.

We have slipped a long way down the ladder, he thought.

Finally and with enormous misguided effort we have cured ourselves of the habit of education, and with it, any possibility of protecting our native intelligence. Having taken our mental safety for granted, we relaxed. And once we relaxed, and left the walls of sanity undefended, chaos intruded.

Chaos was smart, he realised; much smarter than the human race. Its means of conquest were presumably eightfold- he intuited that much both from its symbol – the Moorcock Cross with its eight arrows – and also from countervailing influences like the Seven Virtues plus God’s Grace, or the Eightfold Path of Buddhism. He wondered, as his booted feet crunched robotically across the dead muesli of gravel and wreckage in an abandoned lot, what the Seven Deadly Sins or Seven Monster Gods had added to them to complete their own negative entropic version of the Magic Eight. Was it Lucifer’s Evil? Or was it something no less grand but considerably more overlooked, like plain selfishness or the vague dissatisfaction with everything that seemed to plague the human worlds.

He walked on, perturbed, but no more so than usual.

As he entered the apartment he saw his girlfriend curled up on the couch, looking at something on her laptop. Walking around so he could see the screen as well he saw that she was playing an animated gif. In slightly pixelated but still clear form, a naked dark haired woman endlessly masturbated a naked man’s penis, the mechanical action rippling through its cycle jaggedly.

“Another busy day for you, then.”

“Fuck off.”

“OK.”

He trudged to the kitchen, got out the orange juice, and poured himself a tall glass. Drinking it he winced at its coldness.

“Before you start in on me, what have you done today that’s so fucking productive?”

“Worked, which was soul destroying. Then I came home, which is more soul destroying.”

“The only negativity here, is you.”

“Why are you looking at that porn?”

“Are you worried I’m making comparisons between that huge horse cock and your tiny dick?”

“I’m more worried that you’re beating the statistics saying most internet porn addicts are male, and that you’ve found a new way to fuck yourself up. You don’t need a new way.”

His girlfriend got up and carried her laptop through to their bedroom. Dropping the laptop on the bed she then closed the door on him and any further conversation.

This is not a healthy relationship, he thought. This is not a healthy place to be, and she is not a mentally healthy person. By staying here I am accepting that I too am mentally unhealthy.

His world was part of a larger whole, but even the full extent of that larger cosmos was pitifully small. He knew that the universe sold to the human race by the media was nothing more than the modern equivalent of the painted backdrops of the ancient snake oil salesman. It was not a difficult concept to embrace since everything that the part of the media which pretended to be honest purveyors of fact came out as a sludge of bright colours, computer generated images and grainy footage of violence and clowns. In that environment of emotional and mental toxic waste it seemed self-evident that the only truth would be either present accidentally or radiating as a sub-spatial level, trapped inside the hellish construct of the media like a dove lost in a ruined but brightly decorated building.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he wearily opened his satchel and took out his notebook. He opened the notebook to a page of notes written in spirals around the central image of a glyph he had seen in a vision and immediately painted in the middle of the page. Long familiarity with the notes allowed him to read the spiral as easily as if it were typed manuscript.

IS GRAFFITI A SECRET LANGUAGE, he read.

NOT WHAT THE MONSTERS WHO DEFACE THINGS COMMUNICATE BUT WHAT THEY AS INSENSATE ROBOTS PRODUCE-

His girlfriend opened the bedroom door and walked out. She was obviously dressed for the outside world. Without speaking she strode to the front door of the apartment and went through it, slamming it shut behind her.

GRAFFITI IS THE EXCRETION OF ORCS, he continued reading. THE ‘ARTISTS’ ARE MORONIC NO MATTER HOW TECHNICALLY GIFTED, AND THE TECHNIQUES IN FACT ARE NOT VERY ADVANCED. THEY HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON WITH CAVE ART. WHAT THEY RESEMBLE ARE THE MAGICAL SYMBOLS OF DEMONOLOGY. THEIR CONTENT MATCHES DIABOLIC THINGS TOO. IT IS THE DIABLERIE OR GRIMOIRE OF A REBRANDED LUCIFERIAN PATH. A NEW DARK AGE IS COMING IN WITH THE TIDE.

His job was demanding and required great technical aptitude, high education and quick thinking. He provided his employer all of that and more. Where he was sorely lacking was in his attention to his work and his willpower.

He had completely withdrawn his interest and his will from his job. He knew that this was dangerous. Mentally, he was clear on the intellectual plane that he was endangering his employment through withdrawing. Emotionally, he did not feel insecure however. The pleasure of his withdrawal outweighed the intellectual perception of threat. It was, he thought, exactly the same phenomenon that made fat people eat sweets and junk food, that made adulterers fuck diseased immoral whores instead of their loving loyal wives, and that made drug addicts smoke or stick needles in themselves or pop pills. Intellect, emotion, spirit and body at cross purposes with each other. Before we withdraw from an activity on the physical plane, he thought, we first withdraw our care and attention from our own mental vision of the future. We begin to dare to imagine a future radically at odds with what would be considered sane or normative.

This led him to think about the computer game again. It was a deranged activity, an addictive activity, and potentially an extremely dangerous and expensive pastime. He wondered if you could even call something that quickly becomes central to one’s life a pastime. Surely if it was so central, it wasn’t a hobby or something casual. What is in the centre of a life is the religion of that life, in his opinion.

Considering centralism as the test of religion led him to make many unfortunate comparisons for the rest of the evening.

A rabbit hopped around the private road that looped through the townhouse unit development. So dark chocolate brown as to be almost black furred, it jumped and flopped its way past the barren wastes characterising most of the front gardens of the townhouses. Some of the dead lawns were piled with obscure patterns of rocks, or infested with chaotic clumps of sturdy weeds like green radio antennae; others were little more than litterboxes for stray cats. Finally, the dark rabbit oriented like a compass on a lush green front garden.

This garden was not like any of the others. It was neat, tended, verdant and good. Waxen flowered succulents formed the outer border and then Agapanthus plants, tall and strong, with an overhanging but neatly trimmed plum tree and finally lined against the windows of the little house Port Wine Magnolias, a thick green hedge.

The rabbit hopped on to the curved concrete path leading to the front door, and stopped next to a small garden pool full of contented goldfish. The pool was fringed with Bergenias, and a Hosta with its fragrant white flowers formed a huge ball of juicy leaves and stalks at the southern end of the garden pond.

After the briefest pause the rabbit began to eat the Hosta.

...

“Well who was the good guy then?”

“Why does there have to be a good guy? Nazism was largely defeated by another equally evil totalitarian movement, Communism. The only reason Communism ever got better press than Nazism is that Communism was a Jewish creation and the media is 99% Jewish. Natural bias. Lots of struggles are not between good and evil but between two different sorts of evil.”

“Hence your earlier comment about mafia and cops, right?”

“Right. Police services are corrupt and inept. The only effort most of them put into anything goes towards illegal enrichment through pimping and drug dealing. If you don’t clean your shovel, then sooner or later there’s more shit on it than on the ground you’re scraping. And the act of scraping starts spreading shit instead of cleaning it up.”

Morasco looked back towards the train tracks as a freight train rumbled past.

“I’ve wasted my time in a lot of ways. My Tiles will never get the attention they deserve. But at least I tried.”

“You never know,” Eigen said to the older man. “History isn’t finished.”

“History is irrelevant,” Morasco retorted. “History’s just part of the theatre. The timetrack stretches on and on. That’s the only hope. Paraclete’s return is guaranteed if enough of what we call Time passes.”

Eigen didn’t know what to say to that, and so stayed silent as the trains thundered in the gathering darkness.

  1. History passes
  2. Morasco
  3. Eigen
  4. The Girl Made Out Of Butterflies

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10/6/2016 4:22:37 AM

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