ASCENT:

ASCENT:

ACT ONE: Assembly.

My dream began today, at night. Several law-abiding citizens conspired to curb crime in the area by assembling at a University. I took a train to get there, though before long I found myself in the Parking Structure of the School. Night had fallen and my ride home had fled. As I ran about, chanting his name, I noticed that a vehicle appeared that had not been there( be)fore, as though summoned by my chanting. The car’s wheels were marked with Swastikas, and at the angle that they were parked it seemed impossible to say whether they were Hindu Swastikas or Nazi Swastikas. Beside me then appeared an Angel: a short, sultry female with probing, ponderous eyes and beams of light descending from her peak to her shoulders. She handed me a lock, insisting that it might be used to open the car. Yet I had no key.

ACT TWO: Break.

It was not long before the Black Widow had vanished and before me stood a man that looked like me, but he was dressed in Nazi Regalia. Instinctively, I asked him to hold the Lock for me whilst I went to the bathroom.

ACT THREE: The Day of Defeat.

The dream changed. I looked into the mirror and I saw the youth. The lock was in my pocket. I took from my pocket, from behind a series of badges and medals indicating Status in (or at) the Party, a Key. I opened the lock. Soon then I found myself behind the wheel of the car. It was my car. She had stolen the lock from me. Now I heard her, beating against the insides of the Trunk. I had won, but this place was not safe for Nazis. I took my leave.

ACT FOUR: As Above, so Below.

As I departed the Campus, I noticed Banner Celebrating the Day of Defeat: the day that Hitler killed Hitler. Soon it was that I became possessed of an idea:

To bury the captured alien in the Zen Garden at Balboa Park. Hopefully not too many patrons would be celebrating there. I was halfway across the Cabrillo Bridge when I was stopped by an oncoming funeral procession. The drivers of the Cadillacs got out, singing the song “Black Cadillacs” by Modest Mouse (my first favourite by the band). They were none other than the Assembly from the College. Shaking, I emerged. Behind me then I heard cop cars approaching.

Panicking, I jumped over the edge.

ACT FIVE: All Pokémon Go to Heaven.

As my Spirit ascended, I heard the News reporting my suicide: ‘like most great artists, he died young.’ It seems fitting, therefore, that I be warned, having turned twenty-seven.

The alien was released from the trunk and went on, with the help of her earlier conspirator, to become a sort of curiosity and messenger from the Next Dimension. At this point, I became the conspirator, again. We searched the abandoned car. At some point we discovered a Pokéball.

Aliana told me that, when we were ready,

We could open it,

And then we would Ascend.

Dm.A.A.

The Third Person:

The Third Person:

The simple version of the events is this: that our hero never fell into the trap of self-interest. Everything that he ever did he did because it was required of him. He did everything in his power to ferret out the wisdom of his teachers, only to be penalized by a “society” that proved itself fallen when it became aware of the power he’d unlocked. Eager to share this power with his fellow beings, that he might liberate them from their encultured chains, and so that they might be spared his fate, he sought repeatedly the fellowship of some non-human parasites who had once claimed to share his ambitions, only to be lied to time and time again when he was told they did not owe him anything. Yet their debt was the same as his, for it was a debt to the World. If they did not serve him, they leeched off of him, for any potential gone to waste is an affront to God and Man and a disadvantage to all of Humanity. He bore with them for a very long time, and yet they only reciprocated his kindnesses when he showed promise of success; his success was never THEIR ambition, and so he had allowed himself to be used by parasites and cowards who would allow their own weaknesses to become his failure. This never was an option to him; his entire life required vindication, as much as Humanity required Salvation. And he had forgiven Humanity time and time again for making it so difficult. But a parasite he could not forgive. He had done it a favour by reaching out to it; he had served Humanity by offering the evil ghouls that haunted Society a diversion from their debauchery. And at no point did his conscience fail to call upon the accumulated wisdom of the Ancients. Even now the ghosts of his fellow martyrs, fallen from this fallen World, haunt him, only to ultimately remind him that he had been neither foolish nor cowardly. And God will reward him with the one thing that he truly craves: retribution against those beings that hurt his Human Family.

Dm.A.A.

The Cure for Cancer:

The Cure for Cancer:

It seems peculiar that the one disease we cannot cure is Cancer, because all that that is can be defined as Rampant Growth. They say that Growth cannot be forced or accelerated, If it is to be genuine. Yet constantly the dogma that surrounds us seems to say: work harder!! We live by force, and perhaps that is why we cannot cure Cancer. Maybe that is how we got it in The First Place. One thing seems certain: we can only do so much by thinking like the Cancer Cells do. At some point or an other, if we are not to think like they WANT us to, we must outsmart them. And our bodies seem to be incredibly invested in that end. Perhaps they have something to say on the matter?

Dm.A.A.

COURT:

COURT:

This one was an odd one. In the dream the barista from the coffee house hooked up with the young man who worked there. His ex was banned from the establishment when the male barista filed a stalking lawsuit against her. Later, she had to appear before a Court of Law when he was found dead underneath the Cabrillo Bridge. Investigators wondered how he got UNDER the bridge, and not beside it. A specialist in aerodynamics insisted that the wind SKEWED his descent. At this point I realized that there might have been something else skewed as well. Within the pocket of the corpse was found a suicide note. Upon its back was a restraining order, but not against his ex, but rather against the barista. Apparently, she had neglected to mention that part, lying by omission and obscuring the lie in biased facts.

I’ve got to stop going to coffee shops. Lynch could not have MADE this stuff up.

When presented before a Judge, he argued that this case was TOO biased, but that he had seen worse cases of abuse wherein the facts themselves were unified in the plaintiff’s favour. The only trouble, he said, was when the plaintiff was himself the perpetraitor. He thanked us for bringing the evidence to him so soon. The last thing that the Court Wanted, he said, was for the plaintiff (or, should the victim prove a defendant, that) to self-incriminate falsely, only so as to appear credible and balanced, sane in what was actually an insane environment.

It must have been my visit to Balboa Park on Cinco de Mayo that prompted this. I was sure to observe a Moment of Silence when we past under that bridge. It’s not like I did not know Sean Hofmockel. But how this pertains to the girl from Starbucks still escapes me.

Dm.A.A.

BLISS:

BLISS:

There was one other crucial thing I realized, shortly after the museum. I had promised one of my teachers that I would be happy. Not that I would get good grades in college, get good pay at work, nor meet all the criteria that might qualify me for some materialistic standard of success. She only made me promise to be HAPPY. An other teacher that I had had once insisted that it was not happiness but Meaning that truly mattered. Yet she was even more severe in rejecting all of the materialistic values that consumer society is heir to. And this imbibed within me the suspicion that women, instinctively, do not TRULY care about your status in society. They are DRAWN to that happiness that comes FROM living meaningfully. Hence so many of them take up yogic practices rather early in life. And I thought of my family, and how I still wanted, in spite of everything, to be my parents’ child. I wanted them to prioritize me and my sister over everyone else, save for my dog. I wanted them to rejoice at my successes and to aid me in my times of struggle. I wanted unconditional love. And oddly enough I felt like, at long last, I had it.

And this dawned upon me: that all my feelings came from an Intelligent Source. My passions were neither good nor bad, but they were rights. Any thing that could be expressed beautifully, as in those paintings that I saw, was an end in and of itself, to be defended against the naysaying society. Society was an illusion; Art was Real. My family would protect that, now. So would friends.

Evil does not want me to be Happy. Evil cannot be happy FOR me, hence it must all ways express its interests in opposition to mine. What is convenient to me is all ways suspect; even if I had to crawl out of depraving depression and madness, only to save some one I loved from the same fate (or worse), evil would knock me down moments from fulfillment. That is why it pretends that my own convenience is not one of its priorities, by which my human fellows might measure their virtue, but rather the very incriminating factor against me. Evil would abuse that strain of martyrdom that wound me up down there in the first place, directing my self-sacrifice in its own favour. But why should I be happy for someone who can’t be happy for me? Once I’ve seen evidence for this, I do not need to lead evil by a good example; I know it will not follow. It is not the desire to be Happy, even when Happiness Matters, that is Evil, but rather the desire to seek a meaningless “happiness” at the expense of one’s fellows. Yet if others cannot be happy for me, and my joy must all ways by definition serve their sorrow, it is not my evil, but theirs.

So I rest assured that with all the Good Things that lie ahead, Joy and Bliss will be there, too. And Evil will not reach me. Rather than serving its crusade of misery I will allow my fellow empaths to feed off of my Plentiful Joy.

Dm.A.A.

Opium for the Masses:

In case you did not believe in Astrology:

Alasdair MacIntyre and Zac de la Rocha, both seminal figures in the new wave of Communism, despite their distinct backgrounds, communities, and styles of approaching the matter, share a birthday.

January 12.

Capricorn. (The Cardinal Earth Sign.)

Decan: Mercury.

Karl Marx was himself a Taurus (Fixed Earth Sign) with a Mercury Decan.

Mercury rules Communications. It follows logically that the three men (MacIntyre, Rocha, and Marx) are known more for their messages and activism than for fighting the battles they prophesied. This has called them into question on accounts of hypocrisy. Be that as it may, their message and facility with language is impeccable, so if they were civilians of a Communist Utopia they would preserve their integrity as teachers. They remain admired by many.

Dm.A.A.