The madness rushed and eddied.
The current was so strong
Beyond thought or song.
Suction cup tentacle
Upon my forehead.
Cosmic octopus leering from the deep.
My mind turned to maelstrom.
Red light of fire dashing free.
Falling, falling, plunging.
What do you see?
He is dreaming
Dead.
H.P. Lovecraft was an enigmatic writer, who discovered, or created the Cthulu mythos. Some say his dark vision revealed the sermons of the Black Goo. It may well be that he had opened communication with that terrifying intelligence nonhuman. The Black Goo is very real, it has a power, and mankind is ignorantly unaware of what this means.
Black Goo is not just something simple. It isn't your neighbor who guzzles cheap beer and belches over football on the TV. Like all truly fundamental oases of reality the Goo has awareness, it has developed a form of mimicry, yet it never lost its essential purpose, which was to build, to manifest things.
Black Goo controls people, its arena of influence exists where the in-between places live, yet seem not to even exist. The in-between places, that cannot be thought of, cannot be described by number or equation. Never do they admit the rules so precious to modern thinking.
To have awareness is to be a subset of will. The degree to which one participates in the unchanging awareness is the demarcation for the person where they feel this to be true. It is an essence that moves without changing, a primordial impossibility in subject-object space, yet true.
Mr Lovecraft understood how reality is thought to function. His wordsmithing became a conundrum, the conditions he espoused have little foundation in what is defined today as normalcy. Lovecraftian imagination bends expectations, and easy conclusions, it stands form on its head, and questions appearance as the reliable method of relating to this world.
Shoggoth.
Dead but Dreaming leads us to another inevitable conclusion, that the source must be layered. Life and Manifestation arise naturally from the cosmic energy, thus when the living trace back far enough towards the Origin, they are beyond life, or manifestation. So to Dr. Wilhelm Reich, Orgone in its pure state is sentient. This is, as George Lucas posited the Living Force, which then must join the Cosmic Force as the Great Flower at the very core of creation to be fully complete.
The mighty modern brainwave muscles proclaimed that Dead but Dreaming was an impossible state. In their powerlifting through the great glowing Thought Beam they imagined themselves as the greatest disembodied egos loosely attached to a body, and thus somehow especially relevant. One wonders, if they ever understood Parmenides.
Parmenides is credited with saying that thought and what exists is interchangeable, so if one can think about something, that makes it real. What is real can be thought. Except for one thing, his real is not the phenomenal world. His thinking is not your standard everyday thinking.
This world, the one that modern mentality loves to say is the only physical reality, home of the egregore YHVH, and of your checklists, is just a mishmash of countless strange ignorances and Black Goo engendered illusions. Parmenides got this loud and clear through his conversation with the Goddess who took his hand, and showed him what is real and what is true.
People kind of overlook this little issue, that what is real, true, and what can be thought about transcends this physical world. The conditions given precedence by mortals are not based on anything eternal. They are the becomings, illusions, and opinions. They make no viable distinction between what is real, and what isn’t. One might say, by just taking a mental snapshot of modern thinking, that this is still so obviously the case.
What is actually real, what is actual being is thus far removed from standard subject-object thinking.
Dead but Dreaming.
Transcending the artificial barriers created by rigid modern thinking.
Mr. Lovecraft actually came upon a rather ingenious solution, he bridged the gap of that which is, and that which is not, through dreaming.
Rather than enshrining standard thinking as a link to the ultimate, or dismissing it entirely as the blathering of the permanently ignorant, Mr Lovecraft posed interesting juxtapositions and associations. Dreams have long been the mysterious impenetrable side of experience, endeavors which transcend simple write-off explanations, examples where psychological pontificating takes a back seat to prophecy.
Dreaming is where one can easily meet with the deceased, with talking animals and living powers that aren’t, nor have ever been incarnate. Dreaming takes the issue of the obvious waking division between what is alive or what is dead and rejects this conclusion of separation completely.
Thus the sentient power of the Black Goo.
Its an injection, a negation, a takeover of you.
Lovecraft asked the question, yet most simply enjoy the horror. It goes back to the age old description of the serpent as evil. Mankind piles all kinds of emotions and memories, loves and hates, wishes and thoughts upon the human place in regards to slithering snakes, and Cthulu.
Evil is something that everyone is an expert at. The word is thrown around like a Federal Reserve Note, yet nobody seems to know if its really a dollar or something completely, utterly else.
A Serpentine Form is one that undulates, which is what snakes do to move. They like to curl up in circles, they can swim, and all to often their fangs inject a deadly poison.
In nature a snake is living danger. They can hide in the most incredible of places, and should you step upon them you might live to regret it, or perhaps not.
The symbolism of the serpent is ancient. It was the serpent which cracked the cosmic egg to release time. Fafnir became the great poison spitting Wurm, guarding the immense hoard that was Andvari’s Gold.
So it was that in olden times, the great kings of the Northlands were the breakers of rings, and the haters of gold. They were free with their wealth, their generosity flowed outward to others like a gushing spring. Much to be admired, but of the serpent, and its dangerous, even evil proclivities, in keeping with Lovecraftian imagination we have the priest.
Fear not, dear reader, we speak not of Rabbis or the Clergy, of Imams or Opus Dei, nor any other social position installed and enshrined by abrahamic lusts for innocent children. A fact which is well documented.
No, we speak of ancient Gnostics and Witches, of Druids and Bards and those who lived and described a world long vanished beneath the corporate thing of fictitious, yet ever hungry entity.
Some say it was the Royal Navy, of long and storied history, who liberated the Black Goo from the bottom of the ocean so many decades ago.
Presstyr, the serpent, was also the priest, the one who ran head first into the many mysteries and survived. While in christian times, the last of the bards committed to paper and pen the half remembered stories, and the ancient histories, no one ever wrote that ancient lore, other than on stone, wood and bone…and of course, gold.
The qualities of gold are often to reside with the solar, the light of this world, an immense being, the Daughter of Night. She was set on her course by the Wolf chasing her closely, our Little Red Riding Hood on an epic scale.
How fascinating and undulating, the understanding of gold, guarded by a deadly serpent, who is also the holder of wisdom eternal. The Hero braved his fear, slew the terrible serpent, and roasted its heart as directed by the Smith for he alone to devour. Yet as is wont in this world a flaming bit of grease landed upon the Hero’s thumb, and in reaction to the action, stuck it onto his tongue to disperse this sting, only to find he suddenly understood the language of the birds.
By Oberon, what is this!?!
It Cant Be.
The heart of the lowly serpent, giving rise and the key to the communique of those flitting beings so remarkable and free? Ah what a mystery!
Somewhere beyond lies the pain of the true heart.
Not the Heart incarnate, magnificent tho it is.
Somewhere almost available to touch.
Golden Wheel Ignited with Red.
Behind all human dread.
Living Field.
It is said of certain initiates, that they describe within the greater human being a series of channels, pathways that the spirit travels, when she is awakened…Mistress Serpent Power. Some lead to what the All-Father described as a waxing, a growing in knowledge and understanding, but there are others that lead to a more dangerous path, one fraught with nightmare and suffering, and who is to say which one is truly better, or which is the fate of the Presstyr until he sets foot upon it clearly.
And in the modern world that proclaims its dominion by leering at the ruins of the past, the last Presstyr is now but a whisper upon nanoparticulate winds. The force of egregore has captured the mind of humanity described by Lovecraftian imagination as mere food. There is no longer any wisdom found within the damned halls of the sterile corporate fictious entities that rule everything.
And yet from no corner in particular is the whisper from nowhere. It promises nothing, it demands everything, it leaves you dying of thirst. And if you are lucky, or just cursed you might come to know it, slipping like a shadow through the wasteland.
One with the Mistress, Mistress Serpent. Beware her tresses, beware her fangs, yet if you, should you ever get to know her embrace, all you will ever want or truly long for, is to have her irresistable flame return.
Laughter...
Left everyone speechless with this one.