More Pide

My name is Janson. You can call me Jason. I run a supernatural detective agency. We investigate  the Conspiracy, the phenomena of which has many names and states, so in that I’m different from my fraternal twin, the Rhebothate Starr, trail raider of nntall Arizona and the west much more concrete. Concrete work though is something we all aspire to. The extra mundane you can hardly say exists, cannibals in neighborhoods, churches that advertise trips to the heavenlies.  Secret suspect orgs with weird names that even if we know what they are we don’t. And then  the usual mountains of dust, we have in common, but no  trails you can see unless you imagine them, no dudes to pillory, unless you think yourself one, and no ghost writer to translate any of this either like the infamous Eagin, the man whose name is initials who writes anonymous pseudonymous essays and travel accounts under so many names Outlook’s Microsoft canceled his accounts. No loss there. The always want backup info reluctant to be given. So even if I wanted to get down the agenda in a table of contents, it doesn’t necessarily have an order, a logic, the supernatural being off the wall..

So if you ask how I got mys tart it was nothing, I moved into a couple of neighboroods one at a time ten years apart, one where they were builfing a freeway and the other which look civilized but turned out a little odd. So experience made me do it and inclination too I just seem to end up in these places at the end of things, a catalyst and then I’m gone. That’s why I never fix up the houses I live in beyond the outset. Figuring when it’s done I go, so to prolong, get some longevity to the thing, better to leave it rough.  In the making, in the raw. This is going to seem like theHarvard case study method, which are supposed to add up to something, lke how to run a company like a good mba, but to me, here, the proof is in the pudding, so try not to get it on lyour chin. If I say society and religion and bawderized science inside a garden overgrown with ironwood and bauhina, rosemary and willow you see the contradiction in the style, which is perfectly illustrated in both my sister and me who considered herself a Mennonite assassin. Her rides and he fame of her rides in the grand canyon were some years ago now, not that I can tell you what she’s up to, I got my own horse to ride, for if she read Whitbread and Russell math on horseback, I read Wittgenstein, who edited them not that anyboy cares either way except being always at the end of things gave a sympathy for the ends, so him carrying tolstloy gospels ain his posket all over Russia and in the preison camp in Italy, and hiding out as a schoolmaster in Norway, that the just hanging in a cabin to hear his own thoguhts appeals to me as much as logmaan in the nazi camp listening to a bird. Birds indeed, flocks of doves and mockers in morning song are what I know as I walk the streets before dawn and join in. try it some time. Not a lot of traffic then.

Wbut what is realer than the supernat is the real, young or old in another country, crammed in a station wagon with 10 people and their luggage traveling hairpin turns up mountain with all thir bandannas and cultivations. What kind of world is it imagined here with giants and gods but no ghosts, like the real is unreal but the unreal is unreal, no ghosts, what kind of world with ghosts and shadows and lurkers on threshholds and fears? See that’s the diff between me and Rheb she’s just sarcastic about it, holds a good world view, the alienated bebops besides the soaps and the clicks. None of which exists for me. I real right, ready to put the gods sto death. Say you’re not supposed to kill the god. kill the giant, kill the god, what say gov the congress.

There are three Pied Cow states for writers, the one we’re in the now, the middle state, and the Antwerp which we get up in night to write down, and the one we miss, we don’t get up and don’t even remember the Antwerp. In the time of Antwerp we know it as second nature, take for granted we know it, but after we write it down, like this statenent here, it seems a little commonplace, but it is the best we will get. The proof is the third Pied Cow state that denies the first exists. It goes without saying that the great sanity is sobriety, for Antwerp is quite fantastic enough in the normal natural attained by discipline and if tampered with by drugs, alcohol, disappears or is mutated. Antwerp is like the mind on pot, but instead of being insipid like pot, is deep and profound. Pied Cow I, the third state. Oley Mt in the orig is the first. There is a fourth state worse than Pied that is like enslavement, which is the constant reference to your phone messages  and there is  fifth where you are in a cult. A putative state above the first, above the booley antwerk of the called supernal, of which nothing is known, is like Blake, Boehme, etc., beneath which all the 5^th states subsist.  My narrative postion is like Dante passing through hell and observing not participating in it. He is not ecstatic but rational, even if his writing partakes of a style of absurdity, compression, affinity of reference, quotation which cannot help itself for there is a deeper state than the rational, the aesthetic, the value, which is the aim point in a style, the thing to reach, the perfect sentence.

But the journey starts in Antwerp. We just wake up there but are still asleep, just a little awake. We don’t know how we got there but we leave soon enough to the desk to write whatever we can of it. Then we stop. Collect, over and over these accounts until they form some pattersns, which we make them into, where things can be both symbol and fact, the girl in the white dress who speaks in tongues is real and a symbol of  desire to seakin tongues.

This overhearing of sounds is in language, mostly English. It can echo something read or seen in recent hours that will play forth in fieords of its recall.

Fables of Pied Cow Now House

To be a writer the best you can do is overhear your own thoughts and then you will reap what you sow.

So   if the dreams are prosaic everyday things I’m doing, is that a sign of prose or poetry, for if they were fantastic they would be of things I’m not doing, poetic and fantastic unrealized

5/29/22 The peoples and comunities of Pied Cow do not know they are living in Pied Cow, that’s how universal it is, and they don’t know what the true import of their lives and acts really is from a standpoint of what is really going on. They do not recognize themselves.

  Incunables of the spirit, shipwrecks like Pide Cow where writing  exists not in in transcripts stored in vaults of the future past like dreams of Persian caliphs embroidered in cities navigated without traffic lights, all the electric gone off and sunken in lists so that it is a chance to get wherever we do but one copy carved into the gunnels of a boat, then receive unforeseen help from rooms  that at first have no doors

Robt Motherwell elegy, cows Upon return from Mexico Motherwell spent time developing his creative principle based on automatism: Rothko's art entered a transitional phase during the 1940s, where he experimented with mythological themes and Surrealism to express tragedy

Painting of an enemy that might be Bosch’s painting itself. Hostile pictures . were the art and artist became malicious forces as well, enmity nor amity, part and parcel of the pedeophilic kings and queens. Wonder cabinets, counter natural of the namable species that’s why all the masonic floor tiles are black and white.

A short biographical argument goes like this. Ownership of this
writing has been transferred to our corporation to loose it from the
pesky individuality that bites the side of our corporate deer. We
construct our team like any competitive bidding, for thoughts to
broadcast mass echoes of the corporate alpha forwards, the beta
step back, beta’s task to doubt, alpha to believe, all in tandam, left,
right, black and white, ohh.

peripheral counterworld :Not autonomous deities, sruggles in the divine realm, force of chaos held in check in the human struggle agains ta fallen creation that scourge the human and parse natural disasters from the mirror labyrinths of sheol from places of jurisdiction of cosmic evil, howlers and he-goats of the desert.

That this encompasses literally every subject promulgated by Media -government interests is hard to believe. that is, it is hard to believe that nothing of these should be believed. And keep reminding of that. Which is not to say these Media-gov sources don't mix in  quote from Milton, or a picture of the sea. The familiar justifies the lies told. The familiar is a cover for the lie. we have to turn to  Hieronymus Bosch to see, for he turns the world inside out. I mean instead of media he presents the world as a flatulent hair dresser spraying the ends of humanoid legs shod with wine jars, with inscrutable enigmas, which grotesque antagonisms occupy the whole of a great enchantment of vanities bundled in the world haystack on a wagon like a misshapen globe. The world orb  bobbing in the ocean sea is always comedic even in terms more likely to the present day, to show none of it is real, where sparks fly from mower and dog tags,  where tortoises roast worms. Provoked by incidents of dog rage neighbors with anti-hate signs on lawns are consumed with anti-hate rage. But the modern Bosch is the opposite of Hieronymus, instead of revealing a new worldliness of the enemy in the ordinary, the monstrous and the uncanny hid in the everyday, revelation is extinct except what where broadcast in the present Media-Gov Op, where the monstrous is only shown for rhetoric, for the ordinary is demythologized with commerce. The public mind anesthetized, stripped of pity and fear, digitally done, as much of this post.  The public mind anesthetized, stripped of pity and fear,  is now false in every instance. Here's one. Russia has been made the agency to invade Israel by the Intels subverting a whole segment of American evangelical religion. Those non religious sectors believe a secular version of this mission against Russia--which must mean that Russia is opposed to the Intels and that the Media-Op  forces are the Beast and Antis. In order to keep them further quiescent the Intels invented the rapture too, suggestively tied the Israel attack.  How many Americans believe that?

 Dragon that kepte the fayre Fountayne: and consulted with _Appollo_, they determined with theyr followers, and agreed to builde a Cittie, where the bellowing Heyffer should appoynte, wherevppon that countrey, euen to this daye carryeth the name of the bellowing of a Cowe _Europe_.

From desire to weariness to desire, live for when vision comes to weariness, like terrible lightning every movement in feeling or in thought, to prepare in the dark its own increasing clarity, confidence its own executioner.

 Iago is another agency man poruing doubt into Othello’s Hamlet father Bangquo’s ear in our case Earwicker’s ear and Claudius, Hameet’s uncle pours into his father’s ear, lots of poison there and if Baghdadi workeded for CIA, he “American caliph” of Iraq dismemberment scenario, super Baghdadi, Oswald, too, then their last words count, something about betrayal of the hand that fed them so that we see betrayals are the matter to dip a sop in the dish with which would be the same in some worlds as the betrayal of Joyce and Yeats to turn pyramids on their id sides to form cones interpenetrating in the structure of A Vision of the Vatican of the west, a Finnegans’ Wake to parody the individual assassination of Bandquo into the assignation of the world. And who knows but that the world is worlds, Egypt not only come to Rome but to Ireland among the Lochloins and Finn Mac Cool, Ramses Tut in this new history of the inseparability of the probable from the improb, telling their symbolic myth of the human form divine, out-Blake, where the immortals are beginning to wake in their mummies who think to speak the secret name, overthrow  the kins, the kings, the things on the bosom of eternal. Now let it be said they erred faintly in the changover of the world from its primary tincture to the approaching antithetical. Even if the inhabitants of Dublin were offspring of the Vikings you’d think they be about bringing up Finnegan again the way Yeats promised to write a volume from the grave and that Finnegan as a legend of antichrist coming awake when it had been killed, we stun to learn, as the Everyman father of Shem and Shaun, that is the Egyptian one of events to follow. Can these bodies live, they tied them to the mouths of cannons and shot them in the air, blow a Sepoy up and out in the deep sleep of nations homeless. To believe this you must think Oslo an outpost of  Tucktomen on the Adriatic, which it if dislocates thee mynde look for three worlds of symbolism, history and daily life to clarify where Banquo’s life is a record of events of the enire life of the nations. Not just one so far. Tincture tincture on the wall bring us back to where we were, and  everything began where everything begins when didcord falls into vortex and concord reaches the center and a sbrouded time is emptied out and they turn and run in circles around themselves, pass before and increase in their turn, Empedocles attributing the diminishing to nothing and interfeasting to the opposing each in the middle of the other’s base and there we have before us worlds, the one world burrowing on, into another world. Egypt drove to France and all of solid fire /and gold, this hand  to touch / her Baby long to man / Gesheuntight Finn / erse solid west of his comprachioes, to quote a street ballad in that way.

4500 steps

5/13/22 the egyptian ollave of the irish erev rav. Someewherethey call them ephebe ones afer the gks but if at center it is day and night they fight when Nurses to the trams are gone And the prams go rolling on. All signs of prams the alpha talk, bred into brains with beatings and boasting, be an ollave be an olive for you should under the cunning Osiris creeping along the river bottom looking for his parts, being the the dozen or so arms legs liver gizzer mind contact with the maa-mu as he must think unity and effort as he calls out shhh, in the night at the groans and wheezes disturbing his mediosleep, but it is himself not the four capitals of the origins of history scissioned that fell full when he transmarried the one onnan, Atum, can there be any doubt, Nun, we know, the waters that were not, then were, then only were, then were not and never more shall be where could he stand and offered himself as a hill, hello rock but not believe it will not last the pram and tram empire to net the light to unam sanctum eat the mile long Onesine, the hundred letter omnino esse de necessitate salutis buried in the grass with the mummy Giza  Osi trying to sleep, the grfasses whistering him he hears at night and says shhh, don’t you know I’m, shhh simultaneous a beat of the simultaeneous scatter those 12 or so parts to finger the battle of the night against  the day, down there was shud a clatter, a shatter, a shudder, then Sankey sunk to the af-invented  gates for twelve pieces found by then, one in the hill gate, two in the glade, three on the mount gate, four in the spring, five in nest, six rang from limbs, seven swiming away on the pool, eight a beaver catching, nine by the hen, ten, well ten was helioplit the center part hour of stillness he ran a line up and down to measure the culminated day and night, eleven his precognition, twelve the basket where he lay, he kept himself in and that is as far as he got on the  pylon collapsed pylon on the east bank of his emergence of faith, for burglars stole two parts of his pistis, the so the ollave driven out thought he was what the record said in a letter found by hen about the periploi south and the buried Babel buried there, not in Ireland sonny, a third of it sunk into the ground so it don’t show so well the capsized husk, pieces of Alp pasted over it we don’t like to speak their names too husky the immorts presuming to wake, wakey wakey time to go to school! The land league, bog peat, the turf folk dudes, Wakey wakey, you can’t sleep all day! Wakey wakey, humpty  shine the hills you think your coming in but not, being officially deranged, the potlatch not your blood dispersed parts delivered to reunite when twilight are dispenses parts and Parousia recovers the lost, day being night and night as day.

For the pith of universalem to occur the person who lives in any city London, Austin must be the same person within who lives in Darjeeling and whether  that person in the flesh is black or white, orient or occident, or in the geography of India or Russia, to be the same person is the life of the mind the universalem, one.

So the way to begin is take these standing on the shore of life inland to see life and love and peace which I have done through a series of anonymous pseudonymous personas invented here.

The voyage inland is in berms of a bridge between this world and the next, or that world and this, the world befoe birth birthe into the world, the world after. The bridge connects these two wrolds from which we come to where we go

Wm c Williams on Olson: “the man is full of violent prejudices, which could be a good thing if they are intelligently ordered

Olson:Melville: deep far away things, invisible spheres, telling the truth covertly and by snatches

Note: even with auto spell check the only convincing aspect of this writing only gets through in the misarranged words and misplaced consonants vowels which stand for the fact that the language covers up the world work as well as the paradigms . So when you real, here all the solecism realize that each one of them stands in for your misperception and the scales on your eyes, how many skales are there is not the Q but that they are all scales until you see. Yes it helps if you heart beats irregularly and  you bp is like a rolly coaster and you don’t know whether you will last, your brain has been rewired! And you live on blood thinners of the intellect, flow through, flow through, that’s what the badger said

“the audible slippages that he makes resemble some of the ways in which his textual drafts change peace to pierce and reason to season and reveal a man for whom the idioscantratic pronounciation of words and reinvestment in them of the fullest inflation  and vocalization of their dipthongs andphonemes tried by a peculiar speech to speak.

written as a text over time

but in this case recorded on a single

day a day in which the author had a

cough and that cough and his evident

vocal fatigue changes the particular

iteration and sonic contours of the poem

in the mid century recordings as you

probably know from labels like Cadman

and Argo were still by and large

mimicking The Criterion of published

poetry collections and that they strove

for perfection and definitiveness in

many cases producers and editors remove

the kind of procedural elements in vocal

marginalia that we in our post modernity 

often revel in the imperfect to quote

which the audible

slippage as he makes resembles some of

the ways in which his textual drafts

change piece to pierce and reason to

season and reveal a man for whom the

idiosyncratic pronunciation of words and

reinvestment in them of the fullest

inflation and vocalization of their

diphthongs and phonemes tries by a

peculiar speech

 

Re-Sounding Wallace Stevens (excerpts) | Woodberry Poetry Room

Satellite cosmics. The cartoon of this world present, SueLit., Turk Myth and Step Dame Musselman, Joe Palooka, Penn Paulsen-Professor YumPot, Croton Giants, Grizzly Mama Ayin Harpshark, Pedro Escadero, Grand Canyon mules,  Leo and Rheb, Jack Bommb, Walto Dog, Elsie Marley, Demonauts, Cheese Blocks, Snappers, Biters, Oracles, Wonk Yaps, MuchMon,  Sir E. Pluribus Paddington, Pawns and Pancake that all have a e pluribus unum as they say. If you do not hear laughter through out these excursions you are too seriously reading them. OOk.

There is a natural emphasis throughout. People and animals point the Aesop truth in situations adjusted from the ancient Greece of Aesop and the 19^th century folk of Nietzsche. Almost everything in Pied Cow Now is outlandish. We want the reader to puzzle this, so encourage a musical or poetic telling. The fables are fairy tales themselves that pretext events we cannot or will not believe, but communicated by absurd report.

The first fable citizen of Pied Cow is a coyote who prepares to eat a literary agent/travel guide who has fallen into the Grand Canyon. Later. Later, after church, a grizzly bear is invited to dinner with Ardor and Eden Eatin. We come to realize Pied Cow is not a town in Germany at all; it is a whole world. We are prepared for such literature by the work of Barthelme and Borges, droll modern Aesops, except there is unity in Pied Cow and its constructs. Serious readers might seek to piece a wholistic picture while others follow individual accounts and characters like Rheb Starr who repeat in the tales. A spiritual background of the fables is prepared from the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch of enemy painting that reveals a  sinister hidden in the everyday, which naïve comedic exterior covers the noir within, a professor of religion suspected of eating his students. Further along

 Pied Cow is bounded on all sides by wilderness, the ocean and forest of that rooted world, its grasshoppers and torrid summers, arctic winters and epidemics, wars of the original Massachusetts Bay or Botany Bay adjusted of course by the errand of Uberman. The Coalcrotch Town now in neighborhoods with bicephalic imprints and subfornical necessities includes the speech of this POPulation.  Walto Dog and Tannenbaum, Johnny PanCake and Jack Bommb, Leo O'Hearn, Rehoboth Starr, Pedro Escadero from El Tovar also celebrate with the puppoets of the noonosphere above Hopi House. All live together in the Pied Cow Now House fables that point to the truth.

We might imagine these as fictional studies of indigenous society and families popular in naïve anthropology, but these are fables that emerge from within, not dropped off from above, parachuted down.  So while we say people are more complicated then cows, since they invent fairy tales, those who have not been a cow can't know for sure. And if you are a cow how can you be a man?  Thus the fables tell the complications put on us from the herdsman above, who if he is not a cow of the herd, how can he be in our analogy, a man of the earth? There’s a rub if all these complications are indoctrinated from outside society, like a Zarathustra coming down from his mountain to live in Pied Cow and tell them what is there. As we go chasing our tails around the maze of thoughts planted to confuse us we shall hear objections that we are really simple beings from those who refuse. Some compare us to cows in this, but these are fables that point to the truth. None of them are true in  a literal sense, not of a community or world exclusively out of Nietzsche in Zarathustra, since it  is named after something old as the puritan ships by that name and the Roman countryside. 

There are two features that come along with the  mystical and practical cow attributes named after the gods, 1) that it is black and white, meaning simple, which Nietzsche takes as a primary attribute and 2) that it is a place where citizens can be manipulated like cows, herded, slaughtered at will and they will not, cannot remember any of the things that are done to them. So there is an implicit third feature in the cow herd, farmer,/herder/rancher. In the natural this overlord works for a conglomerate who lives in the big house and while you would think  benevolence would be in its interest, the modern sense is ill tempered and mocks the cows, as it were according to the ancient rites of some order or other. Thus there is an order of the cow and the anti cow, human and anti-human, so the cow in the end stands for people who are herded just as cows through the mediums of control too many to name. So really it is a tale Aesop he never wrote, a moral parable  impossible, to wake the cow up to its fate and urge it to collective action, something the big houses have much entertainment at in their forbidden Bohemian skits.

Pied Cow envisions a society based on the social dynamics of a cow herd, an economy of cows, a religion of cows. Sure there are other factors too, the grass, the barn, the milk, the meat and what happens to a dairy cow in the end. What happens to a man? Nobody knows. The names of cows that go missing are not on milk cartons. There are millions of cows missing each year. Some speculate the ETs experiment on them. Cows and millions of children, gone without a trace. Sometimes a carcass is found eviscerated. Then an investigation ensues. A panel, a commission is appointed. What do they conclude. You see they never do. That is pied cow too. 

 Herr Nietzsche isolates the sine qua nom, the essential condition,  the denouement, the final resolution of them all. It sums up in  two words: No memory. Das cows give milk cannot remember yesterday, or even the last second, blissful chew their MacDonald, to switch back into the purpose of Zarathustra to alert, but who is there to alert? The nation’s prophets are cow herds, that is investors, teachers, poets who milk the herd as they are milked themselves. Holy cow! in India the cow is sacred. What does that get it? The purpose of all this this is only to prepare for the one and only thing: the arrival of superman, Uberman we like to say, but he doesn’t drive you somewhere in a car or on a cow. He is there to overcome, to rule. So look out boys we’re coming down fast. Helter skelter. What we have here is a case study, case by case of some representative events in the everyday world of Pied Cow. and everyday means according of Hieronymus Bosch, who found like Aesop humble incidents to teach great truths, which to us are the H bomb neutering,juvenalization of all people by an overwhelming force dropped from above, meaning all around? Holy Cow!

Now just as Pied Cow Now focuses on the society at large in its case studies, the Legend of Pied Cow focuses on one individual, We shall call her Susan, the stepdaughter of the Dame of Guapa Pop in all her goings, for the Dame represents the closest we can come without endangering ourselves to superstition and conspiracy on that rung up on that ladder of mortality, the primordial force of the mind of Uberman the herder of Pied Cow

 But these are not anthropoid studies

that grant from the simple when somebody once said if a fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. We lived among the people to extract their customs, sometimes create a language, or order to advance the “science” of the other, but not of themselves, except in the most general sense of Schlomo Freud et al. So right away know these studies are about them even if they pretend to be of them. Nobody can be what they are not.

 These tales a family. Among islanders the tales are much the same. That the branches of civilization ate like the the fobs thrown to a hog to fatten for the feast which explains all the boasting and grunting, synonyms for politics and war. its main branches. Southlanders call politics a game of cochroachers to describe the many branchers and layers of intrique, but only war describes the ultimate sacrifices of life over and over pointlessly for no reason, with a year of peace than fmore war. Jimmy Crist who became a frogman but graduated to Sargent in the forces to take K2 in the Korean winter and come home to boast about it and be lauded by the whole town until the next went off to fight. The many branches are fested at yearly or so banquets like the Tystes and the Zeus with beheadings  and pallor told in the tale.  We will bet too. One hitch in the Island is the characters are all women, giant huge bulking beasts of the female who lurch from the starts in the end but in the beginning are made out two neighbors who come over to sit upon the berm. Pagan tales are that wary they pretend great horrors warapped up in the ordinary. This is no Goldfarb family then, but a family of the gods themselves that rule the cosmos. If the blood and such bores you that is the stuff of myth deconstructed. Left in the natural it is nasty enough, but seen from above and not below, suffers symbol, which is is so open to interpretation we prefer and pretend its cousin allegory, as if there were some point to it all, that being to wake the reader up to his predicament among the ifobs of civilization to these giants. Wake them up to do what? It never quite says what the purpose of myth is. That ‘s why we bite off a lesser branch than politics and war here in and take up their handmaid, literature, the sop of this great pig eaten by an old sow. The old sow that eats the pig in a universe of consumpation, creating and destroying, might be entropy or black hold or quark, but call it chaos that sees to undo even the evil that it did. This is all the pagans got until their endammerung, which fractal production is evident in Breughels fish coming oout of the mouth of another fish, but here it’s pigs going into the mouth of other pigs, reversing the motion of the fractal, consumpokng them all, which is what pigs are best at, consumpoking, which takes us back to the fattening up for market and slaughter and war, the gigging and the pudding, the smoking in the old tale we start with, being the Dame with it’s own set of vectors and references which we soon enough become familiar with. So having said, on with the tale of giants eaten by the gods.

The truly illowis snowbelt career Frey and Frigg, Frieda and fritag, Iceland gods and giants on vacation in the west are reincarnation of the Iceland gods. You’d think they’d melt. They don’t even get damp. I can not explain the physiology of ice flesh anyway, or reincarnation. Gods of course may do this over and over until they long for an honest death, which they will get, just not in time. I was rusty on my Iceland gods so went to the sagas I used to read in the winters on the cold rainy wet stone flats outside town where the dirt was one inch deep on th top the limestone slabs that looked so like whale backs you had to watch where you stepped to avoid the blowhole. The blow hole is a Hopi place where the wind blows up through a hole in the earth after long miles of caverns cool and ice cream in summer, so the whale backs swim in a deeper seas there. The low whistling rush of air is like the flute of the openings Chuang Tzu played from his hideouts under bridges in the bandit years. I always liked those sounds of the openings, especially the breath of praise. But anyway the gods are much the same in their palaces. Waters tells their masks, the dances, their races from the peaks to bring water to the parched lands in the desert, but in Iceland the mists hang low over the glaciers and we don’t go too far afield less we mean the giant Gunnar chainsaw Hansen guy, gentle Texas for all that. I guess that’s why the whole island is completely vaxxed, to drive off the wards and these outlaws. A lot of this and more must be be behind the move west, the extrano environment like Mars compared to Iceland, or Norway where these beings take their rest. Smues in any rate it was at that time these giants were seen living at the bottom of Grand Canyon. And don’t trouble whether giants or gods, much the same from our view, but of course the gods are eating the giants as the giants are eating the rest. The fractal creation emerging from itself over and over, propagating like a fish coming out of the mouth of another fish to infinititude is not the case here, but reversed. Here creation consumes itself, rather is overtaken from behind by. The tree is swallowed by the man swallowed by the giants by the god, and there are all sorts of variants of this in body sacrifice to giant power by the men but the principle is the same, not life but entropy and death.  These gods appear differently in times and place. In old Iceland, Third Mesa we see them more traditional, but over the major capital cities, especially of the Potomac they appear as human bodies stretched up and down and across the sky. What else though? Giants and gods are not creative sorts any more that are fractal fish, for creation is not a machine repetition of itself, just the opposite, each being unique beyond the age of the universe. These god bodies look like pedestals  and above they stretch balloons  like body parts up into this sky, which ordinarily only the blind can see, blind because they can’t see the original beauty of life but only this ugliness.

Sop, pig or sow are applied symbols of applied evil, the essence is pure symbol of some spiritual pyramid of false alteration always changing to deceive, esp. its name, the way a woman sitting in the midst of an ephad of lead, is wickedness throw back into the weight of the ephah and sealed with the lead on its mouth, collapsed into the metal and transported by two women with wings like storks to the land of Shinar and set upon its own base—outside the holy city.
 represents all economic exploitation, the cement gallery