Loading...

AnnaCzereda's blog



Today, my auntie told me a diabolical story she read in some shitty tabloid newspaper. It’s a true story, she said, and of course, I believe her. I don’t remember the title but the story illustrates in the best way the sinister spirit. So here it is:


There was once a man, called Johnny, who spent many years in prison for killing his wife. Not that he didn’t love her. In fact, he loved her so much that he got terribly jealous. One day, thinking she betrayed him with another man, in the surge of emotions, he smashed her head with a hammer. When he realized the horror of his deed, he wept and moaned but it was to late. His wife was dead and he found himself behind the bars. In prison he was so kind and humble that he was released earlier for good behavior.


When he came back home, he became a nature lover. He fed hungry birds in winter and started keeping hens. He also cared for stray dogs. But he had one favorite pet he loved fiercely; a little, nearly miniature cock, he called “Lilipucik”, which is a Polish diminutive name for a midget.


One winter morning, on his way to work, he met a homeless man. He was so hungry and looked so miserable that Johnny took pity on him and decided to take him to his home. The homeless man was really grateful and did all the work around the house. Every day, Johnny came back home, there was a hot meal waiting for him.


You know what I long for? – Johnny said to the homeless man – a good hot chicken soup. Kill one hen and cook the soup for me.


So the homeless man got up in the early morning, took an axe and started wondering which hen is most suitable for his benefactor’s dinner. Suddenly, he noticed a tiny thin cock staggering in the yard. Meh – he said to himself – this cock will be dead in no time. Why waste its meat?


And he chopped off Lilipucik’s head.


Johnny came back home and at the doorstep he felt the delicious smell of a soup. Oh how horrified he was when he saw his beloved little cock boiling in the pot! He didn’t listen to the homeless man’s feeble explanations, he wept and shouted at him. “What did you do?! How could you kill my Lilipucik?!” He threw his things out of the house and told him to go away.


The homeless guy shrugged his shoulders, thought the man was crazy, and went his way. Meanwhile, Johnny stopped weeping, looked again at the pot and felt his own head getting hot with surging fury. He took the axe, still stained with Lilipucik’s blood, got on his bike and followed the homeless guy. Finally, he reached him.


You know what it is? – he said showing him the axe – It’s the same axe you killed my little cock with. My dear Lilipucik, whom I loved so much. Now this very axe will chop off your head.


And he smashed the homeless man in the head.


A few months later, Johnny stands before the court.


It’s your second crime, your second murder – the judge says – you deserve the life sentence. Do you have anything to say in your defense?


It was love, Your Honor. – Johnny says – I did it all for love. I loved my wife so much that I killed her. And I loved my cock so much that I killed the motherfucker who dared to take his life. Without my little cock, life is worthless to me.


Bye my Lilipucik. Bye.


And little Johnny, totally devastated, rots in his cell.

* This is an extended reply to AK's discussion. I wanted to post it in the forums but, since the whole thread magically disappeared, I will post it here. It's not something definitive, just food for further discussion.




The Mind, that broods o’er guilty woes,

Is like the Scorpion girt by fire;

In circle narrowing as it glows,

The flames around their captive close,

Till inly search’d by thousand throes,

And maddening in her ire,

One sad and sole relief she knows,

The sting she nourish’d for her foes,

Whose venom never yet was vain,

Gives but one pang and cures all pain,

And darts into her desperate brain:

So do the dark in soul expire,

Or live like Scorpion girt by fire;

So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,

Unfit for earth, undoom’d for heaven,

Darkness above, despair beneath,

Around it flame, within it death!


Honor, according to and as defined by the sinister-numen, is a specific code of personal behavior and conduct, and the practical means whereby we can live in an evolved way, consistent with the sinister perspective, and aims, of our Sinister Way. Thus, personal honor is how we can change, and control, ourselves



This blog is a response to a friend who asked what the hell (pun intended) the very notion of personal or kindred honor has to do with the Devil. If one’s aim is to break the taboos imposed by the society, then shouldn’t one break one’s own rules? Go against one’s principles? Behind it there is a flawed belief that those who call themselves Satanists or Niners are somehow different from other people, that their minds work differently.


What Lord Byron describes in “Giaur” is nothing else than Hell in its purest form; the state of the mind tormented by perpetual guilt, the fires of remorse that can never be quenched. Is there the torment more painful than guilt? You can get over it but what if you cannot? It’s the matter of integrity. It’s not only having strong moral principles but also your self-image being whole, integrated, undivided. It’s easier to go against the morals imposed by the society, which you don’t agree with, because they don’t hurt your self-image. Going against your own principles, on the other hand, disintegrates your self-image, leading to the feelings of guilt and shame. It’s all relative and depends on how important your own principles are to you. Does it make sense to go against the self just to see how it feels? What if you can’t put together the broken mirror?


Now, moving on to this cloak-and-dagger troll club called the ONA, let’s pretend for a moment and for the sake of this blog that it is all for real, that there are some sinister tribes out there culling people and what not. The code of honor is something that binds people together. How can you have a well-functioning tribe if its members don’t share the same set of core values? How can you trust someone if they are not loyal to you? The focus is on self-control, putting the Tradition before giving vent to your compulsions. This is where guilt and shame kick in. If you act dishonorably, you can either be shamed by others or flog yourself for your own failure. Obeying the ethics is a way to avoid the pain of guilt.


The reason for the ethics behind “culling” is basically the same. Without the ethics, it would be plain murder. It’s easier to kill someone if they are first dehumanized and shown as worthless scum. If you are led to believe that you help the evolution of mankind by removing the undesirable elements, it’s even more comforting. The aim is to combat guilt that can prove to be destructive. It’s hard to be defiant if you are devoured by remorse.


That doesn’t sound very *Satanic*, I know. Anyway, the dirty work is not for Adepts, but it’s something reserved for the pawns. Is it really all about defiance and crossing one’s limits? Or is it rather about understanding how we are all emotionally wired, behind all the lies we tell ourselves? Empathy in its darkest sense is nothing else than understanding the human nature, manipulating and exploiting it to your own advantage. If the Devil is the accuser, then his job will be trying to awaken in you the creepy feelings of guilt and self-contempt. What’s the better way of paralyzing one’s enemy if not by the poisonous sting of remorse?



So more bullshit from Facebook. The latest news from the official Church of Satan page made me lolololololol. Some gallery owner was temporarily suspended from Facebook for posting William Mortensen art, including the pictures of the nudes, which the Facebook team considered indecent and diligently removed them from the guy’s page. There would be nothing extraordinary in it as the Facebook moderation policy is rather shitty if it wasn’t for the guy’s reaction.


The incident has been covered on Disinfo, Lexicon Magazine, Church of Satan News Page and the official Facebook pages. Surely, having your stuff removed from Facebook and being banned for a week is such an important event in your life that one at least should dedicate an article and an interview to that. So here there comes the freaking comedy:


Satan, Totalitarianism in America, and how an Art Gallery got Banned from Facebook.


The article begins with stating the relevant Facebook Terms of Service:


“We remove photographs of people displaying genitals or focusing in on fully exposed buttocks. We also restrict some images of female breasts if they include the nipple…


Lol, do the table and piano legs have to be covered too? Moving on…


…but we always allow photos of women actively engaged in breastfeeding or showing breasts with post-mastectomy scarring. We also allow photographs of paintings, sculptures, and other art that depicts nude figures.”


It seems Facebook team of dumbasses doesn’t know what qualifies as art. It’s not the first time the gallerist is banned from Facebook and his Mortensen pictures removed. I only wonder why he keeps posting that stuff over and over again knowing that it will be removed. However, it’s more interesting what he goes on to say in the interview:


It’s completely totalitarian in my view.  How crazy that a corporation sets the moral standard and acts as judge and jury and executioner, this is not in the interest of it’s users.  This is the part that really bothers me, the implications of  handing over what is in it’s spirit and essence a right  protected and guaranteed as constitutional Amendment to Facebook via a user agreement…


He’s referring to the Sixth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States. Which reads:


In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.


I laughed my ass off. Of course, every Facebook denizen has a right to a public and fairly objective trial before being banned. I only wonder who should serve as the jury? Moderators? Facebook denizens? Who should be the judge? Zuckerberg himself?


So, what i am annoyed with, and question highly is where does Facebook get it’s sense of self entitlement, to the extent that it can conduct it’s operations in contradiction to a constitutional amendment?  Does it think it’s user base is SO DEPENDED UPON IT THAT IT WILL GIVE UP CONSTITUTION RIGHTS TO STAY WITHIN THE SOCIAL NETWORK?


So… Banned from Facebook? Here is a simple solution to your problem, people:


Sue the motherfuckers!


They have no right to restrict your freedom of speech, which is guaranteed by the Constitution. Posting the pictures of bare buttocks wherever and whenever you want is your basic human right, which you should defend till you drop dead. If Facebook doesn’t want to give you a fair trial, go to the court of law, hire a lawyer no matter the price and fight for your freedom. Don’t give up cuz the State is on your side, taking care to enhance your civil liberties especially now that the Islamic terrorist bastards are threatening our beloved democracy.




Today’s news gave me a laugh. A nearly seventy-year-old sexual maniac decided to prey on young female students at the university in Poznań. He put on smart clothes, took a suitcase and introduced himself as a professor of anthropology doing a scientific research. He led naive girls one by one to a secluded place, gave them a survey to complete and then asked them to gradually undress themselves so that he could measure their muscle temperature. Each of the confused girls eagerly took off her clothes and let the bogus professor meticulously examine her naked body. The professor then wrote down the “results” in his papers and kindly thanked the girls for their contribution to the development of science.


It turned out that the guy “worked” at several universities and colleges in and near Poznań. When the girls decided to speak up, the police arrested the predator on the grounds of sexual abuse. Then, some psychologists commented on the whole affair; that we have a natural tendency to conform, that we usually trust and obey the authority, that the guy was very persuasive, that his professor disguise was like a magic spell, that the confused victim is easy to manipulate blah blah blah…


Or perhaps, the girls fancied some anal fisting and simply needed a good excuse.


When it feels its end approaching, it builds a nest with the finest aromatic woods, sets it on fire, and is consumed by the flames. From the pile of ashes, a new Phoenix arises, young and powerful. It then embalms the ashes of its predecessor in an egg of myrrh, and flies to the city of the Sun, Heliopolis, where it deposits the egg on the altar of the Sun God.



Shh honey. Everything is all right. He woke up shaking and drenched in sweat again. The same disturbing dream over and over again. He can’t swim, never been swimming, always afraid of water. Perhaps, this is why… He’s there, swimming with his wife, in a lake and suddenly something, he doesn’t know what, drags him down to the bottom of the lake, holding him down in an iron grasp. He’s struggling to free himself but in vain. Trying to call his wife but not a word can escape his mouth. That horrible feeling, suffocating, fighting for breath and then… all becomes dark.


I’m sure you’ll get this job. You deserve all the best. I’m so proud of you. He loved Elen. She always reassured him. Now, sitting in the company hall, he was trying to forget his nervousness. There were mirrors on both sides of the hall. Crazy. The boss is watching you, always. Mr Morris, please come in. What a pretty secretary Sir Richardson had. Long blonde hair, abundant breasts and a warm smile. And her legs…


Sir Richardson was explaining the details of the company in the most pedantic and boring manner and Mark was pretending to listen. He was in a too euphoric state to even try to focus on the boss’ monologue. So he did it. His dream became true. HR Manager, Phoenix Tobacco Company – that sounded really cool. This photo? It’s my grandfather. He built this little empire. And Sir Richardson began a long rant about the rather turbulent life of his grandpa, how he was selling cigarettes, went bankrupt during the Great Depression but he managed to get up and started selling cigarettes again. Excuse me? You will understand in time. Many of those smart-asses committed suicide but my grandfather never gave up. They thought they buried him in debts but he outsmarted them all. He was that sophisticated. He had this spark in him that couldn’t be extinguished. So he reinvented himself. The truly immortal men never die.


Are you staying late at work again? And she smiled cunningly, her long blonde hair tickling him as she bent down to kiss him. At least, this is what my wife thinks. And he laughed. Then, they drove to the same cosy motel and made love furiously. No no, he loved his wife. They’d been married for fifteen years. Enough for the routine to break into their lives. He would die for her, nevertheless, and for his daughter. The family was everything to him, honor and duty, but this… with Jane, it was just sex, an adventure, easy done, easy gone. How can I be sure you aren’t doing it with Sir Richardson? Her skin was white and soft like velvet. Don’t be stupid, she laughed, that old fat asshole sickens me, the mere look of him.


It’s time to initiate you into the heart of our business and Sir Richardson led him to the lift at the back of the building. They went a couple of storeys down into what looked like a large basement. The large iron doors opened and Mark saw a dimly lit small room decorated with draped dark blue material. A few of his colleagues were sitting behind the table covered with blue velvet cloth. Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen, Mark knows you don’t talk about an elephant in the room. And even if you do, nobody sane will believe you. And they all started laughing.


He became more and more frustrated with his job. He worked his ass off for the company but the boss seemed to appreciate his secretary more than him. She got a reward after a reward, a bonus after a bonus. He was damn sure she slept with the boss. They broke up with each other, no more passionate nights at the motel. He’d been feeling bad about it anyway. He was sure his wife didn’t suspect anything but he felt pangs of remorse. And he felt bad about being a part of a swindle and a… criminal. How the hell will he wriggle out of it now? Go to the police? They won’t believe him. No evidence. Another disgruntled former employee trying to shit-talk his boss, they will think. And, most important thing of all, won’t they be seeking revenge?


I’m not lying. I’m telling you. They eliminate competition. If smear campaign doesn’t help, they just kill these people, make it look like an accident or a suicide. It’s all decided in the basement, all draped in blue. They gather there and decide whom to, as they put it, pluck. We’ve already been there, Mr Morris. It’s a normal basement, no blue curtains, they store tobacco there. You don’t understand. I was there with them, took part in it, they cleaned up after themselves. I don’t know what to think of it, Mr Morris, we’ll look into it once again and give you protection just in case. But it won’t harm if you… Have you thought about talking to the psychiatrist?


Mark opened the door and heard sobbing. Honey what’s up? He asked as he took off his coat. The sobbing came from upstairs. He rushed upstairs, the door to their bedroom was left ajar. He opened it and gasped. He and Jane, naked at the motel… their photos… all over the walls. Ho… ho… honey… I…I…I will will explain. It’s not what you think. Elen please… How could you? She was sitting on their bed and sobbing. Who is this woman? How could you? How could you do this to me and our daughter?


It was snowing, beautiful winter  and Sir Richardson’s children were sitting round the Christmas tree, opening their presents when the workers found Mark’s body on the dumping ground. Suicide. He was fired from the job, his wife and daughter left him. He had nothing to live for. Poor chap.

*   *   *


All right. I finished. The written assignment for my doctor is ready. Poor woman is trying to get into the depths of my crazy mind and examine all the dark monsters there. She’s trying to sort it out, guess the reason for my self-loathing. Let her read it if she can make heads and tails of it. Each paragraph is a revelation, all *** of them. Let the bitch do the math. Yeah I know what you think, dear readers. You wonder how much of it is true, if anything. Keep wrapping your head around it.


Good morning said the dog walking a kid on a leash. Good morning I answered politely but couldn’t help chuckling. Yeah, it was the dog walking the kid, not the other way round. That damn dog was bigger than her, an eleven-year-old daughter of my neighbors who have just moved in. Totally irresponsible people. They should have bought a smaller dog. This one was too big. It was pulling the child behind itself. But why should I care? Not my business.


I returned to reading the newspaper. It was a beautiful sunny morning, just perfect for sitting on a bench in the park. It was just a bit too noisy for my taste though. Plenty of children running around and playing, neurotic parents calling and shouting at their kids. Total craziness.


Rex! Rex! Come back here! Rex! Rex! Come back! Come back! I looked around. The dog was running around the park with the leash hanging loose and the child was chasing it. Rex! Rex! Rex! Come back! Rex!


Those people are really funny, those who think they can walk the Beast on a leash. Sooner or later, the blessed day comes when the Beast gets out of hand. This is when it becomes beautiful. Chaos unbound, pure evil uncontrolled by anyone. It’s so amusing to see confusion and helplessness on their faces, or even anger, when it dawns on them they are no longer in control, when they see everything fall apart. They wish then they wouldn’t have started playing with fire. They wish they could turn the clock back but it’s too late…


Rex! Come back, Rex! Mommy! Mommy! Rex ran away! Mommy! And the child started crying. Like a puppet on the strings, I thought. It’s too late, my darling, too late…


Don’t worry she said and unzipped his trousers. James doesn’t know anything. Too stupid. He thinks I’m staying late at work. The loser can’t even find a job. I’m wasting my life with him. She was sitting on him and delicately caressing his breast with her tongue. You know how to satisfy your tigress. And she laughed and kept laughing louder and louder and louder…


I put my fingers in my ears but her laughter reverberated all round the room. I let the photos fall on the floor, the photos made by the private detective. She had been cheating on me for two years, fucking her colleague in a cheap motel. The nasty visions were passing rapidly through my mind. I must put myself together. Soon it will be over. I prepared myself for this for quite a long time. Everything will be all right. The doorbell rang.


Oh the dinner is ready! Oh James, how romantic! I took her coat and lighted the candles.


I watched her breathing while she was laying beside me. So peaceful and serene. I had put enough of sedatives in her drink. She looked self-confident as usual, even now, when she was sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was going to happen. I pressed the pillow against her face. I waited and watched how her life was slowly leaving her body…


She was always on top of me when we were making love. Always dominating at work, at home and in bed. Now there she was, submissive and obedient, bending unconditionally to my will.


Like a puppet on the strings, I whispered after I got off on her inert body.


It’s too late, honey. It’s too late.

Un peuple n’a qu’un ennemi dangereux, c’est son gouvernement.



Now for the LOOOOOOOOLZ the latest news from the O9A Cabaret:


The Law and The Police


I have some forty years experience of interaction with the police, from ordinary constables and detectives, to custody sergeants, to officers from specialist branches such as SO12, SO13, and crime squads. During that time, I have known far more good police officers than bad – corrupt – ones. Furthermore, I realized that most of those I came into contact with were good individuals, motivated by the best of intentions, who were trying to do their best, often under difficult circumstances, and often to help victims of dishonourable deeds, catch those responsible for such deeds, and/or prevent such deeds…


So the cops are no longer the guardians of the oppressive Magian System or the prime example of the Homo Hubris or whatever. Now, they are honorable individuals motivated by an instinct for honor and fairness, not by the cash they get, no, just no. A job of a policeman is like any other job. There is nothing honorable or dishonorable about it. You do what you are paid for.


In truth they, those officers, as one of them once said to me, were guided by what ‘was laid down’ and did not presume to or tried hard not to overstep their authority; guided as they were by the law, that accumulated received wisdom of what was and is good in society…


Yeah the law reflects the accumulated wisdom of what is good in a society, rather then the arbitrary whims of this or that government, riiiight. And sure, the police must act according to the rules, no matter how ridiculous.


…a law which (at least in Britain and so far as I know) saught to embody a respect for what was fair and which concept of fairness was and always has been (again, at least in Britain and so far as I know) untainted, uncorrupted, by any political ideology.


LMAO! This really made my day. The law has nothing to do with the politics. No fucking way! It’s not the politicians that make the law, no way.


Now I know, I understand, I appreciate, that for that reason – of so being mindful of the limits of their authority, of being guided by what had been laid down over decades – those people, those police officers, were far better individuals than the arrogant, the hubriatic, extremist I was…


Don’t worry. Cameron has a way to deal with the likes of you, soon… Which brings us back to:



Extremists – The Modern Boogeymen.


David Cameron has just announced his new counter-terrorism bill, which is directed against the so-called non-violent extremists; people who don’t even incite violence but simply have and express radical views or, to put it bluntly, the views that are not politically correct. Anyone who expresses views that the government views as extreme will have to apply for permission to post in newspapers or online. Those judged as extremists will have to submit their material to the police for approval before they can publish it. The groups and organizations seeking to undermine democracy will be banned. The bill targets mainly Islamic groups but it can also have a negative impact on National Socialists and any other group inconvenient to the government.


The new law will also ban the radicals from giving speeches and lectures at the universities. There are plans to draw the list of speakers banned from the universities. If such a list is created, the universities will have to obey and refuse entry to the unwelcome visitors. The point is to protect young people from being drawn to radicalism.


The criterion for inclusion in the list would be the holding and promoting of non-violent extremist views (violent extremism being already banned). So, quite naturally, my fellow dons and I have been asking ourselves what constitutes an ‘extremist’ view. After all, one man’s extremist is another man’s purveyor of common sense. And, in any case, ‘freedom of speech within the law’ means nothing if it does not encompass the freedom to articulate very unpopular views and if it does not uphold, unequivocally, the right to give offence.


If ‘non-violent extremists’ can’t express their views at universities, where can they?


Prince Charles is also worried about radicalization of young people. In his opinion, the crazy stuff on the internet is definitely to blame:


Young people in Britain are being radicalised at an “alarming” rate, the Prince of Wales has said… “This is one of the greatest worries, I think, and the extent to which this is happening is the alarming part, and particularly in a country like ours where you know the values we hold dear,” he said… “The frightening part is that people can be so radicalised either by contact with somebody else or via the internet, and the extraordinary amount of crazy stuff which is on the internet…”


This is just Great Britain but everywhere terrorism is used as a convenient scarecrow to convince gullible masses to give up more and more of their constitutional “rights” in the name of security. Hate speech is another scarecrow used to limit free speech in the name of democracy and tolerance.


Hmm… perhaps, this is the reason behind the latest O9A comedy/comedies; moron Camoron’s antics. But don’t be fooled, ladies and gentlemen, appearances are misleading. The rumor has it that one of Cameron’s trusted advisors is an O9A spy. The proposed referendum on British membership of the EU is actually his idea. The aim is to let the damn European Union fall apart and speed up the coming of the Empire of Vindex. The ooky spooky O9A tribes in Britain also plan to kidnap the Royal Baby and demand a huge ransom that will totally ruin the government budget.

I wanted to test people and see how easy it was to push their buttons… they fell into every little game that i started.



Recently, some douche joined the “sinister” facebook group spamming it with the bullshit and trolling the hell out of it. There would be nothing unusual about it (after all, there are plenty of such types in the cyber space) if it wasn’t for the reaction he caused. As much as I love the online arguments and flame-wars, this time I decided to sit back and watch. To each their own, but debating a person more ignorant than me doesn’t really turn me on. It’s a ROI thing. There is nothing to gain from such experience. You educate the stupid but learn nothing in exchange. There is also no satisfaction from winning the discussion. It’s like smashing a mouse against the wall.


But who am I to judge the kids playing in the sandbox, especially that I enjoy throwing sand myself? It’s all nice and dandy provided all kids have fun. This time only one kid had fun, the others… Well… here is a problem. The guy could have been banned, ignored, laughed off or responded to in a cold, pedantic and unemotional manner. Instead, the “sinister” types threw a tantrum, calling the guy names, telling him how much they hate him, crying he’s destroying the group and leaving one by one in the epic display of butthurt.


I nearly choked on my popcorn. It’s really funny to see the wannabe Satanists or sinister folks stand beside themselves with fury and show self-righteous indignation. And the guy… despite being weak in a fight on arguments, is a master of manipulation, knowing how and when to push people’s buttons. Because psychological warfare is a game to be played without any rules, except one; making your opponent leave the ring with the blood dripping from his nose or his sore butt. The arguments be damned.



Are our ideas and beliefs the fancy hats that we wear and change when the mood strikes us? Or are we like the fat chick trying to squeeze herself in a tight swimming costume? Sometimes, you’re trying too hard to fit in this or that identity label, this or that belief system, this or that peer group. Ideas and beliefs are the mere tools you use to progress and to expand your mind. The time comes when these ideas are no longer useful, you discard them and move on. Just like you throw away the old clothes. You are not your ideas or your beliefs. It would be a folly to cling desperately to an old party dress and scream “No, I won’t throw it away! It’s me! This dress is me!”


There is so much talk in Satanism about an adversary and herd-conformity, but one would be surprised how many people need the approval of others, the praise and respect of their peers and belonging to some exclusive and elitist club. It’s nicer and easier this way, because everyone, without exception, prefers praises to criticism. It’s very hard to thrive when confronted with opposition and loneliness. But how illusory are the temporary laurels you get from your fans.


Should I bend to your standards? Should I conform to your house rules? Should I satisfy your expectations? Yes, of course, as long as I live in your hotel/motel. But when I check out, damn you and your rules, and your expectations. Your hotel or motel is one of the many I’m passing by on my way home.



So coming back to our little motherfucker. He knew whom to troll; people who worship the tools, who think they are special snowflakes because of that, that they are the elite. If you worship a pentagram or an O9A sigil, then you can as well go to church and prostrate yourself before Jesus. Does it really matter where you sing your Hallelujah?


You bathe in the sunlight of spring,
While I’m forever stuck in this dreary autumn.
Like a flower that will never bloom,
Forever in this dreary autumn…


This dreadful emptiness,
The cold, cold world.
You slammed the door on me,
you locked me in the cold.



Every person in Lyra’s world has a daemon…it would be very strange for people to see someone without one. It’d be just as strange as seeing someone without a head. Someone without a daemon would be considered horribly mutated — missing something essential.




I’m at the train station when it suddenly dawns on me that I left my baggage at the hotel. I can’t come back home without my things. I rush to the hotel, hoping that I’ll just grasp my bags and manage to catch the train. I explain the matter to the receptionist, she takes a bunch of keys and I follow her upstairs. She opens the door and lets me in. I pick up my things, among them such important stuff as money, documents and an identity card and pack them to the suitcase. There are also some old useless newspapers, which I throw into a dustbin.


I’m just about to leave when I notice a small box on the shelf. I reach for it and open…


I can’t even find the proper words to describe how I feel when I open the mysterious box. There is an animal in the box, a chinchilla, thirsty and in agony. I took it with me on a holiday, put it aside and forgot about it. For three days I was having fun while it was locked in the dark box, suffering, without food and water. It bites me while I try to touch it. I’m crying when I’m holding it under the tap and it is drinking.



The same nasty tiresome dream, repeating itself over and over again. The details vary, but the message is the same. I discover something I forgot about, a nearly dead animal in pain, hungry, thirsty, neglected. The remorse I feel is overwhelming. I never felt like this in all my life. I feel so bad about myself and about what I did that I would prefer it were dead so that it wouldn’t remind me about my guilt.


I hope that one day I will find my poor suffering pet, my lost Self. I hope that one day I will learn what I’ve been doing wrong all my life. I’m sure I won’t like the revelation.

“You said you were a fairy princess
You said you were a shooting star
You said we’d go to Bora Bora
Now look at where the fuck we are”



Please, come in Mr Smith, said the doorman taking my coat and hat, Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Miss LaVie will see you in a moment. I looked around the shabby room bewildered. The golden chandeliers and Persian carpets, this is how it looked like in the advertisement. Dreamland. Let your dreams fly on wings. They must be fucking kidding me…


Thank you, I’d rather stand. I began pacing round the room. When she calls me in, I’ll be ready. Excuse me, when is Miss LaVie going to call me in? I asked the doorman after an hour passed. I have no idea, sir. Could you ask her? Of course, sir. He came back in a minute. Miss LaVie will see you in a moment, Mr Smith. Meanwhile, please make yourself comfortable. I was sitting in an armchair while the clock on the wall was counting hours. Its sound was getting louder and louder. Finally, I rushed into her room infuriated…


Oh Mr Smith. Welcome Mr smith! Here you are at last. I was waiting for you, thought you changed your mind, she said smiling. I… I… I…I’ve been here all the time, I stuttered confused. Never mind, I have a brilliant offer for you. Let me see… and she began searching through the papers on her desk. Fuck! Where did I put it? She looked in her drawer. No, not here, perhaps on the shelves… Finally, she came back to her desk. Mr Smith, I don’t know how to say it. So damn awkward. There’s been terrible misunderstanding. I’m so sorry, but but but…. I don’t have anything for you. Perhaps, if you dropped in next month…


You fucking stupid bitch.



I’m sitting alone in my quiet empty bedroom. My grey face is looking at me from the mirror. Once again the king is naked. I wanted you to tell me how great I am. I hoped you would comfort me and say I’m someone special, better than anyone else. You shut the door on me, you cruel life. You called me an average Joe, gave me an ordinary job, ordinary friends and common pastimes. You made me look like anyone else. I worked so hard; studies and three part-time jobs only to see my dreams shattered. Mirror mirror on the wall, how can I even look at you now?


The easiest way to escape from oneself is to become someone else…


Bravo! Bravo! Bravo for our star! People are clapping their hands, cheering and throwing confetti. My Mistress is whispering praises to my ear. I’m everybody. I’m everything. I’m special. No gain without pain. I had to pay. The price was well… reasonable.



... One day the Emperor received a large package labeled "The Nightingale."

"This must be another book about my celebrated bird," he said. But it was not a book. In the box was a work of art, an artificial nightingale most like the real one except that it was encrusted with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. When it was wound, the artificial bird could sing one of the nightingale's songs while it wagged its glittering gold and silver tail. Round its neck hung a ribbon inscribed: "The Emperor of Japan's nightingale is a poor thing compared with that of the Emperor of China."...


"Now let's have them sing together. What a duet that will be," said the courtiers.

So they had to sing together, but it didn't turn out so well, for the real nightingale sang whatever came into his head while the imitation bird sang by rote.

"That's not the newcomer's fault," said the music master. "He keeps perfect time, just as I have taught him."


Then they had the imitation bird sing by itself. It met with the same success as the real nightingale, and besides it was much prettier to see, all sparkling like bracelets and breastpins. Three and thirty times it sang the selfsame song without tiring. The courtiers would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said the real nightingale should now have his turn. Where was he? No one had noticed him flying out the open window, back to his home in the green forest.

"But what made him do that?" said the Emperor.

All the courtiers slandered the nightingale, whom they called a most ungrateful wretch...

"You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all Your Imperial Majesty, with a real nightingale one never knows what to expect, but with this artificial bird everything goes according to plan.
"...
The real nightingale had been banished from the land...
(from "The Nightingale")


Can a bird sing only the song it knows? Or can it learn a new song? Many people sing the same old shit over and over again, usually the same old shit they were programmed with. Sometimes, they call it education. Education, as they mean it, is stuffing your mind with other people's ideas. So they leave their schools and mindlessly repeat the stuff they were taught.

Such minds rarely change even if they change the label. So you have former Christians replacing their God with a new god, be it science, experts or whatever. The same old song, the same old shit, the same old habits and the same mind bowing to the authority in the utmost display of conformity.

If you're not the author of the music and lyrics, then whose song are you singing? Sure as hell, it's not yours. Many would wish you to conform to their so-called standards, to sing what they want you to sing. A mechanical bird is more predictable and easier to control. It doesn't have moods. Would you sacrifice your freedom of thought for someone's approval?

The Chicken Yard



There is this saying "Sticking feathers up your butt doesn't make you a chicken." I would choose a less mediocre bird here, like a peacock or an eagle. A chicken can pretend to be an eagle or a peacock but the mask falls off when you ask the motherfucker to fly. It's a sad spectacle to watch.

Is a label important? What does changing a label mean without a change in your life, without getting rid of the stuff you were programmed with? There is a price to pay for living your life the way you want and for trying to think for yourself. That price is most often the disapproval of others and rejection. Sometimes, it can mean losing your friends, your job, even family and in some shitty circumstances even your life. However, if you swim with with the current, you'll never be a good swimmer.
"Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever." "And he has Brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has Brain." There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything."


Vision
Joana, the heroine of the movie "Agnosia", suffers from a peculiar illness. She's blind but not because she sees nothing but because she sees too much. Her mind has no filter and her little brain is constantly flooded with the stimuli it cannot process. As a result, she's in the state of permanent confusion, not able to recognize people and objects around her. One would think that if you see more, you're wiser. Not in the case of Joana, though. Her problematic "gift" cripples her, she cannot even walk properly. You can almost pity her when you see her crawling on the bathroom floor.

Her father produces unique lens for telescopes. Before he dies, he tells Joana his industrial secret. For her, it's only a string of meaningless numbers but it's a treasure for her father's enemies. When he dies, they use her deplorable condition to extract the secret from her. As Joana sees and doesn't see at the same time, she's not aware of the dangerous conspiracy  going around her. Her mind, preoccupied with the insignificant details, can't see the bigger picture, can't focus on what is the most important. As a result, her father's empire is taken over, her relationship with her fiance is destroyed and, finally, she dies shot at the steps to the cathedral.



Stratification
A petty mind is like a weapon in the hands of a madman. You can never know the day and the hour when it strikes but you can sense the approaching disaster. If you take a ride with a staggering drunkard, you can be damn sure it will be your last ride. The same is with someone who has his head up his ass. If you give in to your own delusions or the bullshit narratives of other people, you will have to pay, if not now, then in months, years or even decades.

You can delude yourself that you are a special snowflake, that you are better and smarter than others. If you can't see further than the end of your nose, if you can't predict the consequences of your actions, if you live only here and now, you are a mere pawn on that chessboard called life.

Wisdom
Some time ago, there was a big scandal in Poland that triggered a national debate about religious freedom, the rights of doctors and patients and democracy, in general. A respectable doctor refused to perform an abortion of a terminally ill child because of his Catholic views. That was hardly surprising, because he had a legal right to do this, however, he also had a legal obligation to send a woman to another doctor. He not only didn't do this but also lied to the woman that her child was healthy. When she finally learned her child was going to die, it was too late for an abortion. The doctor was punished but it hardly compensated for the woman's false hopes and her suffering while she watched her child die.

Many Catholics tried to make a martyr out of the doctor, saying that he was loyal to his Church, that he followed the rules of his faith, they quoted the pope and the Saints, and atheists, as usual, blamed the religion for close-mindedness of its adherents. It's a pity that the doctor forgot the most important imperative of his faith - to see God in another human being. Seeing "God" in another person is nothing more or less than simple human empathy, the ability to put yourself in another person's shoes, to feel what she feels, to understand what she thinks and how she may suffer.

There is a fundamental truth in the words "The kingdom of God is within you." If its religious meaning is put aside, then it simply means that the depth of your mind is the source of wisdom, the unconscious mind that is the dwelling of intuition and the deep empathic understanding of things.

The corruption of knowledge
Knowledge can be found in books and in the heads of other people. It's easy to lose wisdom in the stream of facts and insignificant details. Other people's ideas are like the noise which deafens you to the barely audible inner voice of wisdom. Studying will never replace experience and there can be no insight without being in tune with other people.

As there are many narrow paths to wisdom, there are also many highways to stupidity. Just like a cockroach infesting the poor and the luxurious kitchens, stupidity doesn't care about a religious label. Neither does it care about a social status or a university degree.

The swines and the pearls
It's been said many times that the nine Satanic sins are the sins against reality. They are punished neither by God nor the Devil, but by life. If you try to build castles in the sky, you risk that, eventually, you will be dragged down to face the desert of the real.

One of such sins is solipsism; deluding yourself that other people share your views and values, that they understand your more or less lofty ideas. Most people are mediocre and even if they appear to be intelligent, it's because their heads are full of other people's ideas. Talking to them is like throwing the pearls before the swines. If you try to be honest with them, if you open your heart, they will crucify you or, worse, drag you down to their level of petty and pathetic bullshit.

That some things should be left unsaid was well understood by women in the past, who locked their diaries in safe and secret places. It wasn't so much the fear of compromise as the awareness of the fact that most people are prone to passing judgements without even bothering to understand. Talking to such people is like talking to the wall. Whatever you say will fall on deaf ears.



While the wise look at the horizon, the fools sit on the beach counting the grains of sand. It's a prerogative of an idiot to take everything under his magnifying glass, to adhere to his religion, ideology or philosophy with an unshaken pedantic scrupulosity. In that way, the things that are really important get lost among the things that only appear to be important. Like T.S. Eliot wrote, we lose wisdom in knowledge and knowledge in information. Sometimes, reason can make us blind, like the poor Rabbit, like poor Joana and many others.
Disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy - the bankruptcy of a soul that expends too much in hope and expectation. - Eric Hoffer



There comes the time in your life when you realize it is impossible to put together the shattered glass or that the diamond you cherished for so long is only a piece of trash. You can hold the sham in your hand and still delude yourself it is a gem or accept the bitter truth and throw it away.

Disillusionment has many faces. Each will haunt your memory for days, months or even years and hurt like a knife stabbing your chest. Whenever your dreams are shattered, the part of you dies. The reality you must face is too often gloomy, unfriendly or even scary. This and the painful realization that you have been deluding yourself for so long.

When the guy you were in love with turns out to be someone else than a prince in the golden castle, when your dream job turns out to be a nightmare, when your friends reject you, when you lose your religion and when you see you're not as perfect as you thought you were, bafflement, bitter disappointment and remorse are likely to follow. How could I be so stupid? How could I be so blind? I was in love. I was totally enchanted. I trusted my friends. I thought I could do that. Perhaps, I disappointed my friends. I was not a good wife. I could be more attractive. I could do better...

Cold evaluation of yourself and others is definitely in order, though not before you bury your dreams and illusions and let the grief pass. They deserve the mourning like the dead children, because they were part of you. Then and only then can you move on.



Every wall is a door. The end of something is the new beginning, an opportunity to look inside. The God that can save you will come from the darkest depths of your mind, your inner voice, your real self, real, not imaginary, not illusory and that voice will lead you along the path, your own path of life. The feeble voice so often unheard because of the loud and persistent gabble of experts, religious leaders, authority figures and all those who think they know the best how you should live your own life.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.

Certain features and pages can only be viewed by registered users.

Join Now

Like and Share

Donate

This site is largely funded by donations. You can show your support by donating. Thanks. Every dollar helps.