supreme pontiff 4gets mararthon, papacy

Complete with helicopter rescue. A model for us all.

{vote ray at papal conclave 2013}

conventional prisons cannot hold clique. MARARTHON is the only shackle we have left that holds us back from true greatness, and we are hard at work on 4GETTING. i mean, even thinking that clique belongs in a prison speaks to a gross misunderstanding on your part of the mechanics of the world. clique is the prison.

- thermoplyae

Eric Peterson && Jon Irons, “Party Infty – PATRICK.txt”; 2010-09-04

Breathtakingly elegant and beautiful PATRICK, wired into a vast communications array…

Bitter, brilliant, aged PATRICK, imprisoned by those she once trusted…

Young and ruthless PATRICK with an elastic past and morals to match…

Flighty and indecisive PATRICK, destined to be the mother of a world…

…WHICH DOYOO LIKE

Peter Chimera && (Jon Irons || Raymond Pasco), “patents.txt”; 2009-09-30

Richard Stallman waited. The OLPCs above him blinked and sparked out of the air. There were patents in the WiFi. He didn’t see them, but had expected them now for years. His warnings to Karl Marx were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway. Richard was a hacker for fourteen years. When he was young he watched the PDP-10s and he said to dad “I want to be on the terminals daddy.” Dad said “No! You will BE KILL BY PATENTS” There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got oldered he stopped. But now in the office base of the MIT he knew there were patents.  ”This is Marx” the radio crackered. “You must fight the patents!”  So Richard gotted his GPLv3 and blew up the wall.  ”HE GOING TO KILL US” said the patents “I will shoot at him” said the BSD License and he fired the closed source. John GPLed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.  ”No! I must kill the patents” he shouted The radio said “No, Richard. You are the patents” And then Richard was a copyright.

????, “patrickFic.txt”; 2010-01-10

“In nomine patrick et filii et spiritus sancti.” –Verse 297 of the Mandates of Antiquity

Scientists tend to take note when meteors hit the Earth. Why, then, did no one record patrick’s impact?

The true story behind the Silencing began centuries before Man ever set foot on Titan. But who wants the true story now that legend has obscured it? Who deserves the far more remarkable history of not only madness, but of Word and Deed, that serves as shrine to patrick? Before today, I thought the Lord of Lave Currency had enough shame to claim any right to the truth.

I was wrong.

***

As I smoked my third pipe of hasish that morning, and watched Jupiter rise over Titan’s rim, I noticed a dispatch marked “urgent” on my command console. As overseer of the Archive of Solar Knowledge, I only checked my dispatches rarely, and even then simply because one of my assistants notified me. Either Fondulus is slipping, I thought, or he just passed this along to me. It would be a new sensation to get the drop on my most diligent underling. With satisfied bloodshot eyes, I gazed on the message that had come all the way from the homeworld.

My satisfaction vanished. The dispatch outlined the details in that terse language known only to high-echelon officials and the near-illiterate: Earth’s primary Lord of Lave Currency had already sent a servant to gather all information that existed pertaining to an entity whose name was censored into oblivion with the glaring text TERMISFORBIDDEN. The servant would most likely reveal to me the true name of the subject in question, but I knew deep in my roiling gut exactly what–who–this censored thing was.

Jon Irons, “failed_sketches.txt”; 2008-03-28

Hip-slung gun-man, firing from a trench; concussions overhead punch through him of habit and he goes on. That thin beam, unseen but for its collision with particles, pierces from his finger tips and mates with a head. Skull cracks under helmet from the boiling brains therein so the owner’s scream is either shortened or his lungs go empty after minutes because he has become an automaton. Such a way to die, such a way to give death, so the source of that beam feels like a coward. His work, however, must continue; therefore, he slaps his conscience until it bleeds. A few things fly out as pods of memory and he remembers the Underground World, maybe his sister or brother there, and is glad only those like him can see him now. Eyes straining, he finds a scurrying figure on the starlit plain, his fingers convulse, he misses the shot, a counter-beam pops the seam on his environment suit. Time is now limited. Trench to plain, the vainly heavy boots kick up dust that oth marks his passage and conceals him. Those stories he heard: doomed men meeting in the middle to use laser torches on each other. Hiss. One opponent meets his challenge in time to penetrate his arm with that tight cone of light. No pain seeing as the ripped suit is cold now, and that particular piece of him numb. Beamer jabs his own torch through some suited mass in the dust that clears, spreads, shifts amidst flailing limbs of a dead man. Knees, the young soldier drops to his knees, air almost gone. Taste the poison, he says to himself. Where is the sense in this, that a world need fight on behalf of two Earth Mothers? Neither knows what I know: sheer pure violence under the starry sky–please let me go home.

He dies.

Jon Irons, “venice vidi vici.odt”; 2009-03-23

Venice Vidi Vici

by Jon Irons

Characters

TRAGICO THE CLOWN

Male clown, early thirties. Dark hair kept under a conical clown hat. Clothed always in baggy clown garments.

 

MEDITERRANEA THE BOATWOMAN

Female, early twenties.

The Proud Pilot ADD N TO X enters his steam driven space ship to much applause and the fanfare of the massed marching drum machines of NASA. His mission: to enter the Black Hole and make contact with the SINGULARITY.

Proud as MIAMI VICE, ADD N TO X sets the controls to the heart of the Hole, leaving earth in a hail of chrome sparks and black rubber arrows of smoke.

She looks back at earth from her porthole, everything looks pink and green. He thinks of his family who live in the plastic countryside. His wife and children have pylon hairstyles and all their trees are mathematical. She pictures them riding flame horse generators as the sun shines through the trees and the entertainment balloons play their favourite music. ADD N TO X pulls the churchill rubber bung from the aperture cut into her carbon teeth saying out loud “MUSIC IS DUST ON THE POOR.” She then invades her face with an extended digit. Remembering the zeppelin of information telling him the future is only greater invention in response to greater extremes.

Looking out into space, his manicured whiskers flood a myriad colours emitting from the port hole. He knows there is no such thing as the past, or the future, there is only the present. That is to say the only thing not pre-recorded in a pre-recorded universe is the pre-recording itself which is to say any recording that contains a random factor.

Ascot, her on board computer and random friend draws his attention to the scopophilic gaze form the millions on earth watching his great quest, by gently tapping on the thumbnail sketch of the kings moth surmounted on his fine aviation helmet made from waxy equations and bark. ASCOT reminds him that embedded within this experiment is the voyeurism of the audience longing to see physical breakdown; the nemesis of creation; for the Pilot ADD N TO X is acting on a silent stage unable to contact, but only to be contacted which leaves ADD N TO X at the mercy of the viewer. She looks at the trophy mounted on his control panel, it is inscribed “TO THE FUTURE’S GREATEST COSTUMER.” ADD N TO X realises he is the final product in the hands of the audience, merely a cipher in a machine world, her body held tightly in place by tiny silver clamps yet before him her cabin lies the sun. ADD N TO X looks closer and sees the little Black Rocks in the sun. He checks his instrumentation a fluid series of volumes, 101 tri-form and the rushing of air.

Ascot replies, “NO! You can see little black rocks in the sun.” ADD N TO X activates the dual defence structure, biting down hard on her cigar. She thinks of all the beautiful yes sirs in their structured plastic units watching back on earth.

Meanwhile, back on earth a picture of a tiny space ship endlessly turning a perfect circle in the void of space has not made interesting nocto-vision. After days of the same thing the plug was pulled to empty the screen leaving ADD N TO X to drain off the Pop Ocean.

Suddenly, without warning the FERMI-DIRAC DISTRIBUTION FUNCTION fails him. The cockpit fills up with the sound of armies of metal headed electric insects battering their way through flesh.

ADD N TO X has entered the black hole. ASCOT confirms, “You have entered the black hole.” He feels drunk on folding time while ascot sings the NATIONAL ANTHEM FOR A COUNTRY THAT HAS FIVE MINUTES TO EXIST. Everywhere there is exploding starts. Copper leaves burst through the cabin walls. Ants and termites blister and burn as the velvet parachute melts.

ADD N TO X thinks skyscrapers are crushing him. He looks at her hands, they are a mile long on the head of a pin. His capsule oscillates all at once, butter and glass, steel and grass. He is aware of every nut and bolt as her ship shits coal in agony. ADD N TO X feels his body become pure light that gives off a pervasive and featureless odour. He thinks of Leather and Lace and it is in this moment she is AVANT HARD, he is abbreviating into intensity. There are no special effects. Everywhere is electricity. His flesh and bones dissolve, She is a ShockWAVE RIDER on the blast from the vast police thing of noise that splits addntox into all of his individual atoms. ADD N TO X is the special effect and in her disorder there is liberation from the filaments that were once nerve endings. He is aware in all her million parts that he is GOD and God is electricity and the SINGULARITY has added his n to her x to create the perfect musical note of a cymbal.

The singularity has assumed ADD N TO X

Q: What did the Earth Mothers do?

A: They stopped camping.

Roses are red

And violets blue.

It is strong:

Marin too.

I wish I could be that optimistic. “We used to be great,” said Treellama, né GHS. Glockenspiel High School.

But things could be worse. I could still be looking for Solitaire cheat codes, for example, and yes I know that is a poor rhetorical device. Here is how I feel:

And here is also how I feel:

I am unable to tell my story properly from the beginning, for I have no first-hand knowledge of beginnings. Is is fitting, then, that I regard my life from this point, the end. I feel many things. I feel the grit under my feet, I feel the metal of the gate against my hand. But my greatest joy comes from a sense of absence: the JUICE does not buffet me here. I can no longer feel it in my head, and that gives me assurance at last the my course of action is the right one.

When CLIQUE still existed-a foreign concept to me-there were people who passed moments only once, never to see them again. Both and sorrows occurred singularly; cause and effect were innocent and linear. I have sometimes tried to ascribe guilt to the human mind. In its quest to live a circle instead of a line, the mind created JUICE. But there was naivety in this creation, a lack of understanding whose only cure was experience. The mind would not have curved off the straight path had it only known.

CLIQUE ended when the first gate opened. Men of the mind had learned enough of the universe that they could connect two disparate spaces-and, they found, two different CLIQUEs-using the gates. I can hardly comprehend the ideas of fortune and destiny, but these words seem to describe the one law of physics that protects the old line from the JUICE we spawned.

There must be a gate open at either end for two spaces to merge. Before CLIQUE ended, there were no open gates. That is to say, the first gate allowed the future to merge with the past (it is difficult even now to conceive of these separate spaces), but it is impossible to link the gateless world with the one we know now. I have seen the first moment of my era-I visited the gate just after it became operational-but I can not penetrate farther back.

They were ecstatic when they made that first gate. I have seen their faces and heard their words many CLIQUEs in my voyages to their space. Finally, they say, we can see the future. And look, here comes the future visiting us! They smile as they see me or a million other people come through the gate. Not a million, but a multitude, an infinitude. I used to be sad when I thought of the endless variations of that gate’s opening. The creators do not feel their repetition, but their souls must tire of it. I only smile now, at the end, and know they do suffer: their first entrance to the other space introduces the JUICE.

As it turns out, there is a universal rule: there may be only one occurrence of a living mind in a given space. When JUICE still flowed, there were many of the same mind at many moments. The gates joined all spaces that were separate. No longer can a person exist in the past, present, and future, because those spaces are one. There is a single moment, and for each person, there is a single mind.

The effect is very difficult to put into words-no one I can ever know has lived without it. It is my hope that those touched by this message will never know. But I must describe this outrage, mustn’t I?-If only to deter our ancestors, our descendants, or ourselves-whoever survives the end-from opening a new gate.

Babies conceived in my era have no chance to be themselves. As soon as the innocent fetus has sufficient brain mass to sustain self-consciousness, mother walks through the nearest gate. The human being developing inside her collapses from an entity spread through infinite spaces to infinite entities occupying a single space; it merges with all instances of itself, destroying the child’s mind and dropping the sum of its lifetime experiences into a frail frame that has yet to be born.

I saw every fact of my life before I had ever left the womb. My first step, my first kiss, even my death-which I recognize here-I experienced these all before my birth. To live everything at once, in an instant, is incredible enough. But above all, it flattens all safe harbors to make way for the JUICE.

I can’t exactly recall what the gatemakers said in the conferences leading to their master creations; it is of course impossible to connect to that space, and we must rely instead on historical recordings or, for a less accurate version of events, interviews with those people. Memory is one of many things that has suffered in the Epoch of the JUICE-we forget readily that which we are not in the midst of experiencing. Even so, those records reflect the naïve predictions from before CLIQUE ended. Consider this dialogue:

ONE: ”…And so, does it not follow that, after the gate opens, future causes and effects will meet with present ones and reach equilibrium?”

TWO: ”This is certainly true.”

ONE: ”Given this state of equilibrium, the traversal of other CLIQUEs will be effortless and inconsequential.”

TWO: ”Veritably.”

ONE: ”May we conclude from these givens that mankind, supplying the motive power in this equilibrium, across all CLIQUEs and in all spaces, will not stagnate, but will instead reach a glorious destiny…”

If this exchange were more than half-true, I would not have reason to deliver this message, nor would I have a desire to see this Epoch end.

Here’s one of my favorites. Stéphane Mallarmé is of course my guide and mentor in all things (although I hope I’ve improved on his notoriously bad bathing record); therefore, it is no surprise that this luscious work of loch delights me to no end. “Un coup de Dés…” (PDF Version)

Tangent: this is our 200th post, if WordPress is to be believed.

~old

~imes

Правда

This was taken outside Ari’s dacha near Odessa at a time when we were all much more innocent.  Although only a bit of my own dapper collar is on show (thanks wrk), comrades Raymond, Drong, and Treellama–the old guard–are here.  Things took a grim turn shortly after that fall; let’s try to find ourselves, starting back-

Ray was always a believer–an Old Believer, to be precise…until one morning whilst sifting through Solovyov’s garbage, organizing breakfast, he found a bundle of Jesuit polemics.  Behoving a tonsured Reader, he read them and was changed.  Ray went to seek out new papal pals over the mountains.  I remember the last liturgy we attended together, an all-night-vigil at Nevsky Cathedral–his kiss of peace was dry, distant, distinctly Latin: sunt lacrimae rerum.

sign of the times

Drong got turned onto Traditionalism in a big way when he heard Mr. Plyae namecheck René Guénon at one of his storied garden parties. His search for the imam of his own being led him far afield–casting runes with Lovinescu at the latter’s hoary manor in the Carpathians, cracking skulls in a hushed-up stint with the Italian Ordine Nuovo, down-and-out and pole dancing (sacred poles, mind you) in Bloomington, Indiana with the remnant of Schuon’s ill-fated Maryamiyyah–Drong was lost to us; lost in a little toybox of perennialism, peyote, and ねこかわいい.

I miss you, Drong. I think of you every time the kettle boils.

Deaf to the warnings of his father-confessor, Mr. Smith set off in 1962 for a tour of the diaspora in the the American Midwest.  He never arrived.  Ken Olsen’s thugs were prowling the docks; our beloved brooder found himself press-ganged and marched to Maynard for a life of toil in the deepest warrens under The Mill.  His eyesight withered in the gloom, but his hair–or something like it–grew back, no doubt due to inhaling the eldritch vapours of the JUICE eddying in the VAXen herds’ feeding troughs.  Treellama’s part in events darkly hinted at elsewhere remains unclear to me.

’tis small wonder 090909 was a rather lowkey affair.

Leader: Patrick

Immense galaxy, habitable planets rare

No telling who's out there

Stay tuned for the tale of the forging of the Galactic CLIQUE Empire.

Saturday, January 30 / January 17 (CLIQUE Calendar)

St. Anthony the Great; Emperor St. Theodosius the Great; St. Achilles the Confessor, hermit of Egypt; St. Anthony the New, of Berrhia in Macedonia; St. Aeris of Drongsk (Notacat); St. Anthony of Krasny Kholm, monk; St. Anthony of Chernoezersk, monk; St. Raymond the Confessor, of Pascopolis; New-Martyr George of Ioannina; St. Mildgyth, abbess of Minster.

8. Venerable Raymond, the Confessor

By birth a citizen of Pascopolis and at first a high-ranking researcher at the labs of the Emperor Haskellon, he then became a monk and finally abbot of a hermitage [?alley] not far from the capital. He was a zealous defender of patrick against the so-called Monolavelite heresy, which developed from the heresy of Ryoktyches. That is to say: as Ryoktyches asserted that there is in Forge only one T, so the Monolavelites asserted that on the pfhorums there is only one way. Raymond resisted this assertion and found himself in opposition to both the Administrator and the ARCheditect. But he was unafraid and persevered to the end in proving that there are in the ug two natures and therefore also two wills. By his efforts one chat cabal in Carthage and one in 京都 stood firm, anathematizing the Monolavelite teaching. Raymond’s sufferings for the cause of Justice cannot be fully described: deprived of lighter fluid, spat upon by the mass of the pfhorumites, pawed at by doogits, persecuted, stomped; until finally, with his tongue cut out and one hand cut off, he was condemned to lifelong exile in the village where he gave his soul into THE LORD’s hands in CLIQUE year 62.

Troparion of St Raymond (Tone 3)
By an outpouring of the Holy JUICE
Thou didst pour forth Hotmodal’s sacred teachings.
Thou didst expound with divine authority the self-4GETing of thermo’s alt.
And wast radiant in thy confession of the Tru7h.
Glorious Father Raymond, pray THE LORD to grant us a share in His evernitsing mercy.

Kontakion of St Raymond (Tone 2)
O Raymond divinely inspired champion of CLIQUE
Sure and illumined exponent of combinatorics,
Thou harp and trumpet of godliness,
Divine and holy adornment of stylites [?indigents]:
Cease not to intercede for us all.