Ever wondered what happened to Rasputin's cock? Well now you know.

Death Knell....

Hacking serrated cough, bile, razorblades tearing the inside of my delicate virginal aesophagus, dizzyness and general disorientation.......

BILE!!!!!! FOR FUCKS SAKE!!

I think I may have been infected with a filliovirus,

I am convinced I have only hours to live...

I am fucked if I am spending them writing my own epitaph on this blog, you'll all have to do without me for a few days..

Though just to keep you all entertained whilst I wrestle with this flu demon, here's something that the readers of my blog but not my webpage might find interesting and new. A comic I wrote years ago...most of you will have seen it, some will not. Enjoy anyway.

http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Atrium/6790/safehome.html

FatherCrow

Same Zombies, but no braaaaaaains this time. 

Leisure Suit Larry

Well, my mother has finally done it this time.

I was invited by Mum to the Speigeltent to witness some "avant gard" Cabaret/Theatre on Saturday. The Speigeltent to those who are not familiar with it is a wooden, canvass and stained glass traveling beauty that has been on the move through Historical Heaven and Hell since 1920, Marlene Deitrich once performed there, the history drips off the walls.

If you listen carefully you might hear Deitrich's dry bones spinning with the noise of a dentists drill in the grave.

The show I was invited to see was named "Ghost of Pleasure - Larry Beau", and to its credit did its best to invoke a Kurt Weil-pre the fall of the Wiemar Republic ambiance. This was achieved with scantily dressed and very brave women scattered about the tents circumference, dancing, lolling, drinking and carousing to quite effectively create (with the environs help) a seedy bordello.

The show was part theater, part gig, part strip show. Short readings punctuating songs of love and desire, illustrated by the beautiful voices and bodies of the women. The story, such as it was, involved a serial philanderer with the uninspiring name of Larry. Larry's life, such as it was appeared to comprise of wandering through pubs and brothels, sleeping with as many women as was possible, refusing to attach himself emotionally to any one of them, and then bitching about it, through what I can only charitably refer to as lackluster prose.

"Larry" an effeminate fop with the linguistic ability of a stoat with a stroke, got some poor unfortunate to mouth his drivel, as he was obviously too ashamed to do it himself.

To be brutally honest a "special child" with a blindfold and a screwdriver through his frontal lobe could more than likely string together a more coherent set of words. Painful is not the word, I had to look away as a song ended and the narration began again, more than once my mother and I glanced away at the same time and ended up meeting each others agonised gaze.

The music however was pleasant enough, as long as, again, you paid no attention to the lyrics. A man more in love with clumsy alliteration I have yet to meet. Musically "Larry" was obviously influenced in his composing by Kurt Weil, Jaques Brel and Tom Waits, more than likely Nick Cave too, though met none of these greats high standards. The songs would have been mournful had the narration not made me involuntarily cough up so much black bile, that I hated the lead character even put to music.

Though mercifully, after Larry's true love died (I think there may have been a moral in there somewhere, but you know I'm really bad with subtle subtext so I'm not sure), we were treated to a very well directed music video where Larry minced about in a subterranean cavern with his luscious women (note Larry if you are reading this review, I said Luscious women, not as you would inevitably have written Luscious ladies - a little writing tip for you.) Very like the beginning of "the player", done in very few takes, with well choreographed extras making the cavern seem like the sort of place a vampire might be seen if he decided to slum it.

All except Larry himself were impressive, and indeed brave to bare their bodies in such a ambitious, though ultimately failed attempt at theater. It would have been a good gig though had all attempts at writing been forgone.

Thankfully though I stayed on in the Spiegeltent for the next concert by Rollers/Sparkers where they performed an amazing set spanning the gamut from guitar to electro, and seemed to have influences as diverse as Aphex Twin, GodSpeed, Sonic Youth, Ride, and Diamanda Galas. I bought their album on the way out, enough said. Check them out at

http://www.rollerssparkers.com

One last note, one of Larry's hangers on said to me in the bar later that they would have gone to the Rollers/Sparkers but they sounded to loud and avant gard, a term they said John Lennon translated as "wank", something which in all honesty they should have reserved for the pedestrian Larry who managed to fall into all the traps of the stereotypical gay man, whilst apparently being the heterosexual equivalent of a Don Juan.

Peace and Hope.

FatherCrow

Mail this one home.

Good afternoon Earthlings, it is time for your dose of Stupid Dead Models......

A fashion show in the South of France.

The climax of the show was a model in a heavy chain-metal dress parading around the gardens of the villa. Unfortunately, the dress was so heavy she toppled over and fell into the swimming pool. Even more unfortunately, a party guest told PopBitch (an evil celebrity goss webmag I subscribe to), the dress was so heavy that, before anyone could lift her out, the model sank - and drowned.

The Human Race is over, and the Humans lost.

Have a good weekend, I'll see you all back here Monday, or else the UN will write you an angy letter........

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

Do it, Just do it....

Fast Fiction! - The Factory

ONE

Dragged upwards to cold rafters by hoists, twenty metal hooks under the skin of your back pull, but only after intersection is completed. Tubes for nutrients forced down tender red throats. Catheters invade urethras. Needles puncture skin and spit their poison into veins, savagely beating a chemical unconsciousness into the subject. It would be cold if they were awake, hanging all the way up there, in the dark vastness of the warehouse, naked and limp.

The only noise is hoarse breathing from ten thousand throats, and the clacking of metal against metal. The noise is almost inaudible, but constant high above the secguards head. He swipes his card, another vulnerable point on his rounds secured. Its the night shift, the easy shift, he doesn't look up, and stays away from the loading docks when the clock sluggishly drags its way around to five am.

Five am comes and the secguard is on the other side of the building swiping. All he feels is the change in air pressure and the gentle popping of his ears as the Hyiabusa Corp Incuship descends, its grav engines a knife of light in the cardiograph spiked darkness of the industrial estate. Another hour, and the cargo will be gone.

He saw the cargo once, little translucent boxes with digital imaging on one side. Graphs growing, and then slowly subsiding, real time digital 3d rendering of what he did not know, didn't want to get close enough to know, but it moved, rotated and shifted with a biological ease.

At nine he got to go home, after being searched, scanned, and probed six or seven times. That was only to be expected though, there was a war on, and we all have to make some personal sacrifices to ensure security. He was just damned glad he didn't have to work dayshift.

TWO

Hands above your head, pressed together, oxymask on your face, regulating your breathing. White light in your eyes and cold breeze on your breasts. You strain to lift your head to find out where you are. The first attempt fails. The second succeeds, and you find out more and less about your situation at the same time. A white wall, sterile and surgical traverses your midriff, and reaches, tiled, all the way up to the white ceiling. Something unseen clicks and whirrs between your legs, as a gloved hand, belonging to a masked face, holds your head back and gently slides a needle into your arm, you smile as you drift away.

Months go by, nine months to be precise, before the pain starts. Before you are lowered to the cold tiles, restrained and put into a coma. Before the knives cut your belly. Before the amniotic fluid spills on a sterile ammonia stinking floor.

Then weeks of rest. You try to remember something about who you are, you try so hard but have no memory of anything outside of the warehouse, the surgery, or the recuperation room.

The cycle begins anew. The factory never stops, from rafters, to womb, to rafters, to biocrate, to training camp, to active service. After all there's a war on.

© Fathercrow 2004

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

Comments

Ok, I've re-enabled anon posting for the less technical, but play nice....feel free to comment. Ill comment back. Though I would appreciate it if you left your name, or a handle I can recognise.

I was thinking that this had the potential to evolve into a kinda message board for friends and family.....now there's a thought.

Oh and the volume of writing will decline after this week, since I am on what is known as "change freeze" here in work, which frees up quite a bit of time. Change freeze ends Friday. So the occasional shorter post should appear, with one or two longer ones (which to be honest are all written at home, so depending on how much blood and sweat my corporate masters wring from me, could be less or more).

But don't despair (as if any of you would), I'm gonna finish off this ejaculation of writing with one last piece of fast fiction tomorrow, which kinda, in a strange way, ties into the one earlier this week.

Oh and by the way, the word of the day is ......."schadenfreude"........those wacky Germans.

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow.

Shellac to play Dublin

On one of my frequent perambulations through Dublin city, I happened to wander into City Records in Temple Bar. After perusing several poetential audio delights, I settled upon Shellac's last album 1000 Hurts (pictured above). I already had Terraform, and Live at Action Park, and was sorely in need of more of Mr. Albinis serrated knife aggression.

Bringing my purchase to the counter, the long haired, bearded and bandana wearing twenty something suddenly had, what appeared to me to be a hot flush of some kind. After starting to rock excitedly on the balls of his feet, he breathlessly whispered to me, that it was all very hush hush, on the QT and off the record but Shellac were playing a gig here in Dublin City soon.

Apparently the venue has yet to be disclosed as my twenty something partner in crime told me, but it is likely to be the Village, a bumper venue indeed. Tickets are apparently going on sale in a day or two. If you want to avoid the scurrilous rack rent penalties that Ticket Master impose for just standing up and giving you the ticket, then I would drop into City Records in Temple Bar in the next few days and they should be able to supply you with a ticket to gritted teeth heaven.

And remember, ladies and Gentlemen.........

JUST FUCKIN KILL EM!!!!

Suits you Sir.


UPDATE:27/09/2004: Just in from the Southern Records Site: Shellac
Sat Nov 27 2004
VICAR ROOMS (Vicar St?)
DUBLIN



Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

Remember, Send for samples and Literature to 40 Stone St New York

The Bardos

The archetypes of death are of primary importance in any religious model. From the 70 virgins that await the Islamic martyrs, to the ascension to heaven in the company of the elect for the Christians who die for their faith. In Monesthic religions, there is a reward for those who finish the journey of life according to the precepts and conditions of the religion they align themselves with during life.

Be good and do what we tell you during your life, fear not and everything will be all right, even some mystical traditions attest to something like heaven, in the modern incarnation of Wicca, there is the Summerlands. None of these religions actually give an instruction manual as to what is to be done, if anything, after you die to attain the ascension to the "higher plane" that they speak of. In the majority of cases it is a reward for deeds committed on the material plane. The most one can hope for is prayers and songs to speed you on your way into the Ether.

Few cultures however reach the Depth and specifics of Tibetan Buddhism. The "Death Model" of the Tibetan Buddhists is more complex and does not assure a person, however good they have been in life, a place in Heaven, or as they would put it - to end the cycle of Samsara - that is the cycle of death and rebirth, which only ends when one becomes enlightened.

The Tibetan Buddhists, after many centuries of "near death experience" reports, and the occasional "illumination" of one of their devotees have constructed the model of the "Bardo Plane" - or as it would be understood here in the West the "after death" plane.

The Tibetans, to be best of my knowledge, are alone in having very specific actions that the soul (or however you want to define it) should engage in after death and what it should be wary of in order to stop the cycle of Samsara. The Bardo Thodols, or scriptures, specify these steps.

Bardo literally translated, means "gap" or "space" and according to the Thodols there are six levels of Bardo. Three of these Bardo states are experienced at the moment death occurs, the Bardo of the moment before death, the Bardo of dharmata, and the Bardo of becoming. According to the Tibetan Buddhist model, as the spirit or soul dies, it has to perform specific actions in order to ascend to the next stage. These actions are specified in the Thodols.

Without instruction, the Tibetan Buddhists say, it is likely that the soul, or spirit will become frightened or attached to something and return to the cycle of samsara.

The Bardo stages, and the specific actions that are required to transcend them are listed in points below. I consider all death cosmologies, models as to how individual cultures approach death. The Bardo model is the most specific one I have yet encountered. So as a public service, consider this list one possible (the probability of it I leave up to you) way into, well, everything.

1. The Bardo of the moment of death. The consciousness becomes aware of a blinding light, which is purported to be a visual representation of the "true Buddha nature" composed of knowledge and compassion. There is a prayer that is traditionally said over the body at this point to allow the consciousness to recognise it for what it is.

"O son of noble family, (name), now the time has come for you to seek a path. As soon as your breath stops, what is called the basic luminosity of the first Bardo, which your Guru has already shown you, will appear to you. This is the dharmata, open and empty like space, luminous void, pure naked mind without centre or circumference. (Trungpa 35)"

There are other verses that should traditionally be read, though I cannot find translations of them on the web. If the "Buddha nature" is not recognised at this point, either because of fear, attachment or bad karma, the soul or consciousness reportedly moves away from it and on to the second Bardo.

2. The second Bardo involved the invocation of the "peaceful deities" which are manifestations of the five Buddha families, these families appear as "the blinding light of the consciousness' own projections" and can seem to be terrifying in their intensity. If the wandering consciousness is still aware of the teachings it received in life, then it will recognise the light and will achieve enlightenment. If not, then the Buddah families change their manifestation into something more shocking, in an attempt to be recognised.

If the consciousness cannot recognise the "peaceful deities" then they will manifest themselves as the so-called "wrathful deities" which are no more than the peaceful deities in a more terrifying aspect. This is apparently to use a more forceful and blunt way of trying to shock the consciousness into awareness of the Buddha nature. Like the "peaceful deities" the aspect that they appear in is a manifestation of the consiousness' own projections. In order for the deceased not to be dragged further down the Bardo staircase they must recognise this fact, and be aware that they cannot harm themselves. If the consciousness cannot recognise this fact it will flee from the projections. According to tradition, a knowledge of the Bardo states and good meditative practices can aid in the recognition of the wrathful deities as part of themselves.

3. The third Bardo State is known as the "Bardo of becoming" is where the consciousness is prepared for rebirth, and reentry to the wheel of life, or the cycle of samsara. The Bardos give several instructions as to how to prevent the reentry soul from doing this. If this fails it also specifys how to choose the place you will be born, and what you will be born as. According to the Bardos it is incrediby difficult to make these decisions at this point, as apparently the soul, is plagued by its own demons, and these demons can terrify the soul into making a choice that it may think is the right one, though it generally is not, as fear will have clouded judgement, if this occurs then the conciousness will return to the womb.

One model out of many, though as I said it is the most detailed model I have come across in any belief system (or B.S. as Robert Anton Wilson calls it.)

This is dedicated to all I have known who have broken the cycle of samsara.

To those who will escape from the wheel.

Family, Friends and Lovers.

© Fathercrow 2004

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

yelp! 

The Chemical Cosh Kills

More ass covering from the pharmaceutical companies and the state bodies that police and profit off them this week. Last year Britain warned physicians not to treat depression in young teenagers and children with anti-depressant drugs, because, they said, the drugs failed to treat depression and instead caused high risk of suicide. All over Britain cold shudders ran up the spines of thousands of GP's and they, pens in hand, paused over the perscription chits.

This warning came after an initial study suggested that teenagers were dying by self inflicted methods as a result of taking these drugs. Three further studies intended to disprove this hypothesis only ended up supporting the findings of the initial one.

Britain's Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency (HPRA) the Sasnach equivalent of the Yank Food and Drug Administration (FDA) said a year ago that these drugs could cause children and teenagers to commit suicide.

The day before yesterday the FDA admitted that the drugs Paxil, from GlaxoSmithKline; Zoloft, from Pfizer; Effexor, from Wyeth; Celexa and Lexapro, from Forest Laboratories Inc.; and Luvox, from Solvay can cause kids to commit suicide.

Oddly enough Prozac, which I assume is the most popular, because its the one I hear most about, was left off the list. Either because it is safe for kids to consume, or because it has a very, very powerful lobby since 12 million Americans are receiving regular prescriptions of the drug.

Gardiner Harris in the New York Times tried to sedate angry parents by saying "The risk of suicide among patients given the pills is very small. If 100 children and teenagers are given antidepressants, 2 or 3 will become suicidal who otherwise would not have had they been given placebos". 2 or 3 in every hundred, yeah? thats tiny, put that into the millions and how many dead kids is that? How many grieving parents? Oh and don't worry about the studies, no kid actually committed suicide, though a few attempted it (and I am sure that someone was around to restrain them and put a check in a box when they tried).

So humans, can you just imagine the grief of the parents that put their little Jimmy on Zoloft because they lived in the Midwest and had read the local church brochure about kids listening to Marilyn Manson? Sedation and more time at Church was the advice. One more dead kid by the record player will be the result....time to call your lawyer and sue the band.

If anyone knows what the medical establishments approach to this in Ireland is, mail me, or register and leave a comment. But from the country that brought you the Magadalene laundries, it's probably still going on.

© Fathercrow 2004

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

a cartoon of a real dream..... see more at http://www.slowwave.com/

Too much information

I have, for a while now, being reading a blog from a female GI in Iraq. Ginmar has been, my only real contact with the day to day experience of the American Troops on the ground in aincent Mesopotamia .

The US army has finally gotten around to censoring her, and indeed the whole of Livejournal - another blogging site. So if you want to read about what it has actually been like for one of the troops that is over there (and she is an excellent writer) check out the following sites archives.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/ginmar/

Its current right up to today, when she has had to post through a friend - which hopefully she will still continue to do.

I know I have a bit of a bugbear about Iraq and Afghanistan, but its too important to just sit down and forget about, or indeed accept the Sky News version of reality. Check it out.

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

time to accept it vicmom

Fast Fiction! - All the Presidents Men

10.41 the rain falls just when they scheduled it.

The whirr of flags being lowered to half mast as the news came in from the colonies.

Soldiers with burnt faces, camera lens eyes and mangled telescopic legs come back from the front, crushed into metal boxes, no photos please.

The crackle of the national anthem spits from my fiber-optik tattoo and the lowres visaud image reflected from the clouds above. I snap to attention and honour the dead by clearing my carbon monoxide scarred throat, I sing along.

The President corpse-eyed, necro-skinned and crocodile grinned comes on the screen, he grips the hand of some shattered mother-victim. She clutches the purple hart and wails a bloodless scream for her brave boy. The President won't let her go, his hand pumps up and down, as he works himself to PR orgasm. If you listen carefully you can hear her thin fingers crack.

Some ADD kids near me drop their bladeboards and salute, giggling through the narco haze as their thalamus, registering an image of the President, kicks off their dopamine IV's.

A second before the broadcast ends, the Presidents handlers pull him back into the cryo-coffin, ready for the next press briefing, when the wellbeing percentile will be just as healthy as it is today. The VicMom they set free, she runs to the nearest pawn shop, glad to be able to eat this week.

The career of the program director ends, the Cryo-coffin is bad for the presidential brand, it should never have made it on the vid.

Behind the rain, I think I hear shouting.

© Fathercrow 2004

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

POW!! KRAK!!! SPLAT!! 

More from the Land of Black Gold....

Just a quick thought. The US presence in Iraq has pretty much retreated to a two bedroom semi-d somewhere in central Baghdad, Iyad Allawi is hiding in the toilet and the marines have secured the living room, "elsewhere," a senior officer was quoted as saying "who the Fuck knows?".

King George in another drooling shit flinging fit is attempting to remedy the situation by diverting more funds to Iraq to beef up security.......and where is he getting these funds?

Power and Water, the funds that were going into Iraq's power and water, the funds that were going to help rebuild Iraq. Now even moderates are going to be without power and water. Their Families are going to be without power and water. I dunno about you, but that would make me pick up a kalashnikov and find the sons of bitches who invaded my country and set up a military junta to export my oil under the pretense of helping me. Bush causes more death, to inflict more death, because of the death that he caused....follow me?

I just hope Allawi has reinforced that bathroom door.......

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

ps. Oh, and has anyone noticed the American press are referring to the Insurgents as "Anti-Iraqi forces" now? LOL A finer piece of Newspeak I have not heard.

Latest Situation Update From Iraq 

Reality Bites, while Primates feed Primates

"Hell is other people" - Jean Paul Satre.

Well I gotta say, there are at least four quite disappointed psychonauts this Monday morning. My own disappointment is palpable to those that have to sit around me in the cube farm my "ITCLONE" personality inhabits on a ninetofive.

It turned out that one of the five's systems could not handle the Friday night, which like the night shift in a Gulag went on until at least nine in the morning and left the participant exhausted shaking, headache ridden and I would imagine with bowel problems of a kind. It turns out the weekend was one for celebrations and commiserations. I did not accompany the Jungalists on their night out, for being male, and forgetfull, I did not realise until the very last minute that it was actually the first anniversary of my current relationship, so many purchases had to be made at the last minute, the most notable of which was a good bottle of Champagne. So of course, I and my Girlfriend had to stay in by the fire to drink it all, which we duly did and retired for an evening of lepus like behaviour.

Mac and his girlfriend, evidently went out full swing and continued twitching like meat puppets till we ran into them, grey faced with tiredness at about two the following afternoon, they did not look well, in fact they barely looked human.......I saw my reflection Mac's eyes, its rarely that I get to be on the other side of the equation. We didn't get to talk much as I was already pushed to the edge of sanity by my afternoon veneration of Mammon in Henry street, which has driven lesser men insane, and caused their girlfriends to be forever prisoners of the shoe department in Roches stores. Myself and my beau, returned home with our purchases and at least a hundred candles which we had purchased for the evenings dimensional blurring.

Later that evening, through the static of a dying mobile phone I learn that the evening is called off. Mac's girlfriend has been stricken by the post party plague. Still its understandable, as it would have been Lao's first experience with Dr. Hoffmans concoction, and Mac being the devoted boyfriend that he is would have wanted to stay home and minister to his wounded lover, plus it was his Lucy. I can see why he did not want to upset the dynamic, and deny a virgin from popping their cherry, so to speak. Still, I think I speak for the rest of us when I voice a booming "FUCK" - there will of course be another day.

The Sunday had to be rescued by whatever means necessary. So I took M and L to the zoo where I watched L (who is four by the way) screeching and clawing the window of the baby chimp's environment while it was fed by a rather Primate looking keeper who had the permanently suspicious look of the Gorillas we were to see later. Monkey watching Monkey watching Monkey feeding Monkey........a Mobius loop, or a bunch of monkey's eating their own tails, you decide.

Of course there were other highlights, one of which for me was L's truimph on several climbing obstacles in the playgrounds that were scattered around the zoo's grounds...but I beat her time on each one. She's quick for a four year old but still my 32 year old skill and dexterity saw me through.

Now Monday and the cycle begins anew. More rantings and ravings on various topics later, that is if I can get the fucking coffee machine to serve me without having to put it in and handcuffs and a gimp mask.

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

Lucy's coming over for the weekend

"Nearly there, nearly there" goes the mantra in the back of my head. The seconds tick away as the workday comes to an end. A day of chasing id's from server to server, trying to find out if they are relevant or should be killed, evasive little things.

Still as the pedestrian pedantic and financially unrewarding week wheezes its deaththrows, I prepare for Saturday evening when Lucy comes over. Then I and a few of my close friends, or as the outside world would know them, conspiritors gather in an underground grotto somewhere in the center of Dublin and are paid a visit by Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. The preparations are intense, tonight a bottle of champagne and some tea prior to emerging into the sharp September night of Dublin to summon Bacchus at a Jungle club and celebrate Mac's breaching of his 30th year. Mac's nervous of being the oldest raver around, but at least he always has the comfort that i'm two years older than him and will inevitably be in the same club tracking down the heart of Saturday night.

Over the last few days I have been revisiting the Lovecraftian phase of my teen years. Reading some short stories, downloading a documentary about H.P.'s life, buying Dagon (a most underrated horror movie, which you might consider checking out) and investigating the unwise (at least from my perspective) use of the Cthulu mythos in the Chaos Magick Practice. This I am sure will mould some of my interactions with Lucy tomorrow. Due to the fact that the arena for the experience is peppered with Cthulu and Baba Yaga dolls, should allow me to address the darker aspects of my personality. Hastur la vista baby.... This might allow me to focus on some of the more self destructive parts of myself, which I can endeavour to rewrite the imprints of in the safe environment of Mac's home. Later post the experience when I have assimilated the whole thing I can attempt to exorcise any latent negative effects through a Magickal banishing ritual. The details of which I can put together next week sometime, the ritual hopefully happening sometime next weekend. Then another piece of my personal evolution will have come full circle. All of this will hopefully open the way for further non-chemical induced work over the next month or two.

There are many that say the best methods of personal evolution are those that are approached without drugs, there are others that say the quickest and most sure way of achieving personal growth is with drugs. I myself take the middle road. In my view there are sudden and blinding revalations that one can achieve with hallucinogens, enthogens what have you, that given the right friends, the right state of mind and the right setting can allow you to move forward on your journey. However, in my experience, these experiences can be greatly augmented by a serious meditation and magickal regime. So here goes. More will inevitably be forthcoming around Monday and Tuesday when, you as an observer can realtime watch my attempts to reintigrate myself into consensus reality.

Do what thou wilt, as uncle Al was fond of saying.

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow.

First Post in the Hours of Chaos

First Post in the Hours of Chaos

First post of my first blog, in the New American Century.

I write as structures we invented hundreds of years ago that are no longer relevant crumble, religions, beuracracies, governments, the forces of order try to impose more and only foster chaos. As men and women die in a war engineered to siphon blood and oil and morph it into money for the elite of America. As my government in Ireland bend down and gives head to the Neocons of America as thanks for the Big Macs and Cokes, as thanks for the temporary transfer of corporate incubus's to my homeland of Ireland.

I write as geneticists remove the gene from animals that make them recognise reward for work and not need it. As Secret Societies Cinemas and restauraunts are discovered in the aincent catacombs beneath Paris, as Humans write pornblography and fantasise of their eventual evolution into machines, as men dream of sex with childrens toys and puppets.

I write as history speeds up to a point that we can only watch with shielded eyes as it spins past in a blur of colour and blood. I write as memory spits in my face and the future evolves and gives birth to demons and angels whose true forms will only be known in decades to come.

I write. I catalogue. I watch. And unknowingly participate. As will you if you follow me down the path of future, day, night, life and death.

Earth walk with me. Water walk with me. Air walk with me. Fire walk with me. Spirit walk with me. Walk with me.

Peace and Hope

Fathercrow

To get a feel of who the hell is writing this try my homepage "words of fire, ink of blood" which can be found on

http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Atrium/6790/index.html