Entry VIII--As Deconstruction, So Reconstruction

A world succumbing, to their crucial fiction…

Crucial fiction must = crucifixion. Think I finally have the first line of the first "song" deciphered.
So, the ‘world succumbing to their crucifixion” is a reference to the idea that christianity had gained a threatening toehold on politics and the culture at large.

Replaced by FireWheel, a window's prediction…

FireWheel, I know all too well, it’s the image that’s haunted—or saved(?)—me from xmas eve through ash wednesday.

What the FireWheel is seems pretty obvious on the surface…

Both symbols, the fire and the wheel, represent human triumph over nature and overcoming our diminished physical skills and abilities compared to animals out in the wild.

With these tremendous disadvantages, humans had no choice to rely on intellect to build objects and harness nature to survive and eventually, flourish (at least for the non-slaves back then).

…but, does the symbol run deeper?

Maybe the FireWheel is meant to have a more abstract meaning—that it represents humanity transcending god by creating, much as is attributed to god, that which did not exist previously (in the case of the wheel) and also by mastering a once unconquerable force of nature (fire). Before monotheism, fire as worshipped as a deity, one who provided the element to man.

So by adopting the symbol of fire juxtaposed with the purely manmade creation of the wheel, it serves as a talisman for secular humanism.

'A window’s prediction’ must be referring to the first time I glimpsed the FireWheel, on xmas eve, when it came into being, transformed from that plastic crucifix in that condo window on Snob Hill.

But what is it predicting?

That line’s still lost on me. Unless it’s as simple (and as preposterous) as prognosticating that the FireWheel will somehow overthrow christianity.

The struggle eternal, waged through the ages…

'The struggle eternal' could mean so many fucking things. It this context though, think I can safely narrow it down to the ideological battle between rationality and christianity that’s been waged through the ages.

Will finally be won, when you fill the pages…

So then the 'struggle' will be 'won' as soon as I 'fill the pages,' which means 'to write' as I learned during my latest hallucination.

But is that lyric actually implying that my writing will settle the age-old dispute between christianity and reason?

Is that the 'prediction?'

That's a bit heady for me to accept, so I'll discard that notion for the time being.

Lean back in my chair, skimming over the fruits of my labor.

Still a premature harvest, but already making some connections that I wasn't seeing (or even trying to see) previously.

For some reason, another set of lyrics are in my head...

No, not the ones from wednesday, I'll analyze those later.

Thinking of some other ones...

Lean forward up against the monitor and decide the best thing to do is type out what's buzzing around in my head...

That was the thing to do, as they swiftly come to me, flooding my memory all at once, as if they're being sung to me once again:

One more window, one more prediction

Finished with the book, all made of fiction

Pages that replace it, ending their ruse

The unwritten words, bring the good news

That was the third stanza sung to me on xmas eve...after I came back here.

This time the 'window' in question is the one I'm looking out right now from my computer perch.

What's this one supposed to be predicting?

Finished with the book made of fiction?

That would be the bible, which corresponds to the vision of the bible being replaced by the book I’m supposed to have written Bye Bull.

So it’s my book (the "unwritten words") which brings the actual “good news,” not the lies promised by the bible.

Lean back again, this time rewarding myself with a healthy sip of green tip and look on my fairly impressive amount of writing for the day.

Certainly more than I've written in months, if not a couple of years.

But I’m not working on material for a book for Ms. Cabal, like I probably should be doing with my time.

No, I’m playing psychic detective, as it were. Assembling all the disparate elements of all the crazy shit that’s gone down in my head ever since xmas eve.

Flogging my memory on a level most serious in trying to recall every detail of all those hallucinations and every word of the lyrics.

Much like a puzzle, and just like any puzzle if you stick with it long enough, you begin to see (or artifically construct ) a pattern taking shape.

Especially now that I have the benefit of perspective.

Why?

To see what the fuck it means, if anything. Like is there something I’m supposed to be getting out of it, or am I just cracking up?

Next thing I need to do is break down all the visions I’ve had, see if there is an underlying theme linking them all.

Besides the FireWheel, of course.

Maybe figuring out the FireWheel will unlock it all

The second vision, a week after the first, saw me reading the book onstage with Anarchistic Puppetry.

Then, I was in some futuristic Dome that replaced the church.

Each vision seemed to illustrate me taking a different step, a progression. In the 'Dome' vision, I'm no longer reading to an audience of like-minded people, I was actually living and interacting with them.

Then why was the final vision is so damn depressing, having me bow down to everyone I happened to meet.

No, not everyone. There I go, being intellectually lazy, and not really thinking things through.

I was bowing before Pleasant and Ms. Cabal specifically, just those two.

What do they represent?

Well, they’re both icons. Pleasant is the icon for institutionalism, conformity. Ms. Cabal, well, that’s a little harder to define--but she's definitely iconic.

More so than Pleasant, least to me, anyway.

And just how long am I supposed to ignore the fact that the voice singing those lyrics is Ms. Cabal’s voice?

Sure, I only had one phone conversation with Ms. Cabal, and I only heard the lyrics on three separate occasions—the last time in an admittedly altered state, but there’s no denying it.

It’s one and the same voice.

Just what do I know about Ms. Cabal, besides the shit I’ve read on the Internet?

One of the articles claimed she participated in satanic rituals, not that I believe it. Besides, it seemed like some kind of christian website with an agenda against her freethinking sensibilities.

Face it--what I know about Ms. Cabal is what everyone knows about her.

That she’s a multi-billionaire computer chip heiress who owns a book publishing firm.

Yeah, that's what she does, but what I gotta find out is who she is...

Take her name. Her chosen one, not her birthname.

Her first name--D’mona.

The name I’m not permitted to use.

If you just go by the pronunciation, “D’mona” isn’t far from “Demona.”

Demon-a. That could be thinly veiled code for 'female demon.'

Flash back to the kneeling vision and wonder if it isn't short for 'Domina,' another name for a Dominatrix.

And what about her last name?

Cabal. That can be read as “secret group?”

Could her full name be implying she’s part of some kind of female-driven satanic cult?

Her rather obvious opposition to christianity, her dominant nature and her secrecy on certain topics—particularly why she opposes christianity—would give credence to that theory.

But why would a multi-billionaire actually give two shits about satanism?

On the other hand, if I actually believed in anything, I’d possibly fall under the illusion that Ms. Cabal is the 'devil incarnate,' seducing me with her sensuality and promises of a book deal to get me to 'sell my soul' and lead a cultural war against christianity.

Returning to a more secular track, maybe she’s a U.S. Intelligence agent working undercover, in order to round up all the biggest 'anti-christian subversive elements.' once and for all.

Regardless, if she’s connected to my visual and auditory hallucinations in some way, how can I possibly trust her?

Yet I want to write that book for her more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything.

But I can’t. I don’t have a book in me.

Do I?

And even if she does have a connection to the fantasies, does that mean I just turn her down? Not even give her a chance to pitch her deal?

And even if she is the cause of the visions, can I hold that against her? Frankly, I want her to be the one behind the curtain, filling my mind with these psyche-scapes.

See, that’s my one solace from admitting I went bonkers—that all those visions were solely products of my warped and weathered mind—is the fact that it is the mysterious Ms. Cabal’s voice that sings inspiration to me.

And I can’t blame it all on hashish, because on most of those occasions, I was stone cold sober. I was drinking to drown out the visions and for the most part, that worked. Except on New Year’s Eve, of course.

In other words, I have hallucinated whilst sober, drunk and stoned. And that further tells me that it's probably not any psychosis of mine, but that it could very well be an external influence affecting my consciousness.

But if it's Ms. Cabal's doing--how the hell is she doing it?

Even harder than figuring that out would be getting up the nerve to ask her if she's the one behind all my freakouts.

Not about to beat myself senseless over speculation as to Ms. Cabal's possible role in all that...

Not while I'm still to afraid to meet with her.

Besides, there are other things about all this that make seem impossible that she could have anything to do with my visions.

For instance, the appearance of 'Bye Bull.' That was a creation solely of my own mind, a working title for a book of compiled essays that I never finished.

How could she possibly have known about Bye Bull?

Ah, there I go again. Promised myself I wasn't going to do that.

So I let my mind drift to the visions themselves...

Laid out in a row, like in a storyboard for a motion picture, it’s almost as if that the sequence of visions were projecting what could be possible...

If I choose the right path.

Writing a book would lead to public appearances and then collaboration with those of like mind.

But the final vision, where I saw the endless possibilities for my life, kind of leaves it open as to what the conclusion will be.

Which makes sense, since I haven't lived it yet.

About time I broke down the final set of lyrics, those I heard while stoned on hash.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Your creativity, enslaved to lust

The whole ‘ashes to ashes’ relates to the fact it was ash Wednesday, and the ashes at the bottom of the goblet relating to the ashes of the burned out church.

In my case, those ashes symbolized the defeat of christianity, and a metaphorical/philosophical (if not literal) triumph of rationality over christianity.

That part about creativity and lust is still throwing me. I'm not seeing the connection alluded to.

Always been serving, on bended knee
Always been serving, the words are not free

Now this one hits me where it hurts, bruising the ol' ego just a bit.

"Words not free" could be an allusion to writing, my writing.

"Never been serving, your fiery passion
Never been serving, what you will fashion"

Weird as it is to admit--that song is right, I haven't been serving my passions, I haven't been fashioning much of anything, not for the last few years. I let that spark fizzle out even though I'm not really sure why I let them get away like that.

"So ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Liberate the words, serve as you must"

Naturally, all the references to "serving" evokes the twin imagery of me bowing before Ms. Cabal and Pleasant.

Why the hell was I on my knees?

Hesitate to face up the truth, finally admit to myself that I always have been bowing--and not just in these fucked-up fantasies.

(I've been "hesitating" to admit that to myself for over 10 years).

‘Bout time I got real with myself and where I’m at (or where I'm not) and who the fuck I am, and if I had to inhale a chunk of hash to do so, then so be it.

Even though I renounced christianity so many years ago, I’ve still been seeking acceptance and approval all this time, whether it's being attractive to women or selling essays to the various indie journals I’ve written for over the years.

Sure, I claim to be a “rational anarchist” who doesn’t need god, government nor any authority, but in reality I’ve never really had the guts to stand up on my own when it comes to...anything, really. I only write when someone else publishes me or when Ms. Cabal sticks an empty book under my nose and forces me to fill the pages.

Or I’ll bow before christ to avoid being struck by Pleasant's crop, instead of taking the physical abuse like someone who actually posessessed a modicum of integrity would do.

My cock gets harder at the thought of serving Ms. Cabal than it does fantasizing about climbing on top of her like a real man.

Creativity, enslaved by lust indeed.

Like a splash of cold water, I finally get that lyric and I think I get the rest of it, too:

That is, I'm totally plugged into “the system”—because by not standing up to them, I’m serving them. No, it's worse than that:

I am the fucking “system.”

I work jobs making money for someone else. I pay taxes. And I’ve given up trying to fight christianity’s influence. I’m just another ordinary schmo, always on my knees. Only pretending in my mind that I oppose institutions, while in reality I'm either tacitly supporting them (the government and military) or at least not providing any meaningful resistance (the Crusaders, christianity in general).

But if that’s the way it’s going to be, let me make the most of it. If I’m going to be bowing before someone or something, it’s going to be Ms. Cabal and the book, not Pleasant and the crucifix.

And by serving her, I will be resisting christianity’s control over me, and over the culture at large.

That’s what she means by “serve what you must.”

To do that, I’ve got to eliminate all the excuses and barriers that hold me back.

Already started in that regard--still haven’t had a drink since Fat Tuesday. That’s definitely cleared my head and reduced my anxiety. People drink to calm down, not realizing it’s a depressant and ultimately trigger symptoms of depression, such as anxiety/panic attacks.

That’s the trap I fell into.

It’s not like I can’t remember what it was like to be sober, it wasn’t that long ago.
It’s made the mornings a helluva lot more tolerable, not to mention allowing me to spend money on such luxury items like three meals a day.

When you don't drink your dinner anymore, I suppose you've got no alternative but to eat it.

Scroll over the contents of what I've just written. So this is what it all means? I've decoded the secret messages, and now I'm just supposed to go out and conquer the fucking world?

All this deconstructing of visions and voices has nearly convinced me that there’s enough freaky shit going down around me that all this god/devil/angels bullshit is actually true on some level.

But that would contradict everything I've ever written about, everything I've never believed in.

It would reduce all my previous work to the level of a meaningless joke.

Let me buy into it for a second. Is that, then, Ms. Cabal’s game? Publish my book, and prove me wrong by revealing herself to be Satan…or Satan’s wife or some demonic force. Then, not only do I make a fool of myself, lose book sales, allow christians to rationalize that their faith is true even more so than ever before, I'll also be condemned to hell, doomed to spend eternal torment with a woman who led me astray and ruined my eternal life.

And for the rest of human existence, people will say "I told you so" to my tombstone and evoke the name of Darwin Grimm every time they want to prevent some youth from going astray from christ.

More likely, she wants to dominate me and get me to write a book that she can sell and just make some money off of through some outlandish promotional campaign she'll concoct.

Either way, it’s not like I have any choice in the matter.

That’s the only way I’ll “liberate the words”—write—is by doing it for her.

Serving her.

That possibility doesn’t disturb me as much as it really should.