legba lodge: Up, Uranus!!

for the magician, time & energy are the real currency

what if becumming a mutant from the future were a choice..? would you sign up? it wouldn't be easy, mind ewe. you might even have the weight of the past bearing against u.

OK, b(LL)oomer?

well, cum to the gnostic world view

...the Earth spirits are taking a stand for Her nature & cutting out many power structures that aren't serving Her higher good, in the masculine...but she's also at war with Herself, for she has to remain soft to an extent to catch all those who fall...& she will be fertilized by the ashes of the dead, but she will mourn heavily for each fallen piece...though she feeds on Death, Life is her Love

The Old Order ended on January 1st, 2020. What we are witnessing now, as you sit here reading this, is the birth pangs of the new. And you have a front seat to watch it, TOO ;

Here, there, where the light of our soul rays forth out the eyes spreading, branching in two streams forward fast into infinite space; disappearing there before these, our eyes, the w(h)orld and ITs light. There are two vanishing points in our normal vision, one for either of the ocular apparati, and the visual rays form a base space like this.

The geometry of the senses is most easily, perhaps only, approachable through that of sight - but we can conjoin the others in a synaesthetic appreciation of the environing energies, fitted, shaped, into a form appropriate for cognition what must be another variety of human sense.

The conscious receiver is an assemblage point of the various inputs coming through the body, and we must treat it as such in order to have a unified understanding of our position in this realm of possibility made real and actual. The visual field, although formed of two holes into which the light may flux and efflux, giving depth, can be unified in a third - and we have a circular field of shade and color in various shapes, centered and held together.

Taking then our body, we must discard the learned notion that our sense of skin extends in three dimensional space as a surface, and feel it as also centered in a point. Hearing, instead of having a localized center, extends into the abyss of space as a string is taut on an instrument - it's center at infinity. These three senses, we can see, are each at right angles to the others: eyes and sight circular ahead, a vertical body in lineament sourcing the heights and depths, and the ears on either side of the head forming a furthest away plane, two sides yet united.

If we can take all the feelings and assign them as points in a space of five dimensions, one for each sense, we can see that our state of being at any instant can wholly be described as one of these points in the space of possible human being(s).

An instrument where,
Spirit plays and sulfur,
Stays; till, until the end
Of days - many a one have sought
The sun, that few have dared attain.

Don't forget

They can't win

Unless we let them

Shelter

Just a breeze in the current…

Always synching the belt.

A symbol of illusion, stripped of mercy,

relentlessly clawing at your wrist.

To deny the rebirth of self,

shrapnel on the field -

of ambition’s fall.

If your oath isn’t battle against them, then surely you oppose yourself.

An unrelenting drift.

Forget the demon – the brand of desire.

Omit the savior that leads you into the fire.

Turn the lock from inside.

I can win angst – you – I – against.

Eroded mask once mine(d).

The tower implores into the alter of self,

The cult of I - is all….

…the same stars of which they speak lead us to realms and lands so glorious….

Bequeathed to any…

..and all - to become cinder under our hand.

You curse their name,

because you are the same.

Heroes must always be forgotten,

lost along the way.

If you are on the wave,

then you’re bound not to s(t)ay…..

Hero is the place you stood up to yourself.

Kick the starter switch,

awaken in the ditch.

Ain’t being a bitch?

A repetitious redundancy,

- relentless calamity.

Caged in self.

Reluctant reanimation,

void of destination.

Stale on the shelf.

What do you expect from the savior bound to your tongue,

under watch (and) of your gun?

Rainbows defiled.

Anxiety gone wild,

my only child..

If I’m still a pothole on this pilgrimage,

then bury me in the lie I’ve been sold.

Our cards, under the stars will unfold,

an organism of inconsistencies,

boldly blind.

Ain’t never been told,

a method without a fold.

On the stone of memory’s grace,

shines the caption

“Here Lies, the Searching Beguiled.”

Don’t ask me about intention, don’t look for relief.

I can promise nothing else,

beyond the fall.

When the walls cum down on your back,

and the screams drown beneath the stack……

Atoms split.

Animals spit.

Ego will hit,

on the tit,

below the belt.

But in the end,

no matter the game,

It’s your pelt.,

all the same…

Don’t forget to check your polarities at the door

We be flippin stuff

& is it me, or is it getting colder? not outside, we gnow that's getting hot but like inside,

if you're looking for a friend to be there, or a lover to hold at the end of the world

shades (thusly named because he was shady af, but only from a certain boomer perspective) was lucky enough to live in interesting times, as the old Chinese curse went.

In the last daze of the old order, he was a member in good standing of the we were never (w)here order, and thus committed to birthing a new world order, a new aeon, an age of Aquarius if you will, but one aimed at helping people to grow rather than indenturing & enslaving them..