Recovered fragment. Distribution restricted by internal doctrine.
Unbeatable, always faster than joy. The birth of resentment. How are you doing my time? When was your last big epitome moment, enlightened experience? A while ago? How did you define it? An enlightenment ? Awakening? I call it pity. Like a god throwing a bone at you so that you just keep going, and in between that, the prosaic desert, the painful duration. You reminisce on it, you forget, you confabulate, you made it up again. A great delusion board for a scam lifetist. Keep dying forward looser. We really did our best, editing our synthesis, our great ideas, as if that would cure you somehow. What a pathetic medium, what a fucking joke.
A desperate effort, a lousy goal, we started off with an anxious conclusion, we really wanted to wrap this up, to get this off, and conclude. You should have noticed the anxiety of the conclusion. The finishing point. It's so sad, it's so pathetic, a long well built argument, a chain of ideas, an elegant proposal. As if this would cure you, as if it would change the mortiferous vampirizing of time. No we have lost, it's better to put this out now. My future self will hate this too, he will be so advanced, so lucky, so erudite, so clever. He will look back at this and laugh, we are so pathetic.
We have to wrap this up... really quick... A constructive, happy, joyful theory, synthesis, playthesis, of the various mind-luck artifacts that crossed my holy path. I am so glad to be a mystic, youpi. I salute my masters, my disgust, my body, my memories, my training, my enemies. Let's not forget friends. But this is deeply, in time, risibly endowed by concern, languish, and silent horror. I can't imagine a serious essay written nowadays that would not give credit to that spirit. Moving into the future is not really hopeful, hope is episodic, the mundane, the prosaic, is something that devours hope, and great resolution with something implacable. A slow cover, a muddy sand trap. Time is not entirely my friend, it's too fast, it's too enormous. My biological, premature existence is still so unfinished, oups! Lets die empty next time. The impulse to try is still playful, risibly playful, forcefully playful. We must show up, prove, climb, provide, contribute, battle. Again and again. For eternity. We are not made for not doing that. We learn it quickly. We still persevere sometimes. To learn it again. In this essay we.. shut the fuck up! We can't formalize again. We get tired, the same story no longer has the same juice. No one comes anymore. The church is empty, the original poetry of the rituals is over. The genius loci is gone. It's just a big cathedral now. It's historical. It's apparently important. It's smell museum now. All the places will smell like museums now, including our inner world. Our beliefs, our memories, we visit them but we no longer worship anything. It's a cute statue, nice shoes, nice partner, nice love, nice friendship, nice prosélytism, nice ideas, nice interprétation, nice sense of identity. We walk around with our smartphone we take some picture. Clack, we share the inner state, but we are not really here. It's just old ruins. Who cares? The museum defeats the vitality, the slower we are the quicker we turn into a museum. Time turns everything into a collection, a risible collection. Oh please stop using that word! The inner museum, the outer museum, the interconnected museum. Everything quietly perishes. The spectator still takes pictures, they share with others. Look at my museum! They call that culture, they shape it into communicable form. The other absorbs it, and it's added to the collection. The empty beings keep their collection large their selves empty. Maybe it will take form, maybe I will be. Pathetic monster. A sign from the room said: "hurry up and conclude!" You know maybe a digression is better than a conclusion, but I am not really sure either, I mean it depends.
[addendum removed — reason: operational leakage]
The Crimson Lotus is a temple of sacred practice that acts as an experiment in progress, that seeks to birth again ancient practice in the renewed actual bodies. This is not a classicist cult of text worship, scholastic rote learning, but a daring energy catalyser of incarnated bodies. It is there to develop the immunological fire, of the wandering Mystics and sorcerers, that can find in their daily meditation, dreams and inner world the symbols of reinforcement of their vocation. This Sacred place is for mystics, that is people that see their existential medicine as the daring incarnation, body acoustic attunement.
It is composed by me, as the cult leader, memetic parasitic agent, and was birthed through synchronous, big bang, magnetic relational magik, with my feminine counterpart brahman-warrior, as a persistent spirit that became a bacterially persistent agent of the spirit-gut-flora. This eventually anchored itself as persistent somnambulistic funny thought in motion, that summoned the possible virtual concretion of the sacred space. In times of confusion, where people are losing the meaning of life, spiritual practices, “ways of life”, sensemaker agents, become sought after, and schools of mysteries get bloated with people that normally would not go there. Naïvely in our time, people think this is the positive sign that people are waking up, that everybody is now interested in spirituality and the deep question in life. But as one of the brahman let me tell you another story: the same process happened in the school in mystery in Greece when the state failed to provide good answer, when the protestant reform in the 16e, cult started to emerge on the side, when during the revolution many cults for the res publica formed from the Masonic to the philadelphia brother to create alternative systems of recognitions. And a lot of these organizations bordered on the occult, the misunderstood doctrine, the fallacious galvanization that fit the desein of the more ordinary caste of people. In That regard, the distance between the “magical type” and the profane does not emerge from an arbitrary elitism, but is the result of a necessity: the genuine proximity of bodies, the ability to generate miracle of being, transmutation, chirurgical operation on the ██████████████, those acts can only exist within sacred space and acoustic. In order to generate that experience, bodies must recognize each other, through the blend of antediluvian memories, phenotypical recognition████████████████(CUT OFF) Imprinting: The early neurophysiological experience, from the sounds of the mother, early genetic marker, epigenetic trigger, parasitic gene sharing, create an imprinting, or ████████████████ as a type of sounds, premonitored stimulus that “sounds right”. The feeling of this is “just” is engraved as the earliest memories. Similarly occult practice, seek to rewrite or “amplify” certain kind of imprinting, on individual that have a “weaker” sense of self, or ego dystonic structure (most notably borderline, psychotic, hysteric, homosexuals(MISSING TEXT)Sacred sexual alchemy is one of the derivative branch of that “disposition”. In the sacred lotus temple sexual alchemy works as the laboratory of sorting out sacred symbols and eliminating parasitic elements within the mind and body. Rituals of interaction clarify the counteractive memberships(so called addictions, confusions, partial vocations,
[Missing part of the text, Spiritual Misfire — agent was discarded]
Line item flagged.
Resolution deferred.
No follow-up scheduled.
Impossible to know where do those voices comes from, a podcast was displaying the conference from that famous professor, here is the transcript: "It's possible that deep down, in the fear of the sublime, of greatness, of borderline experiences, man thinks that something else, the incomprehensible, can possess him. I was wondering, given that many great philosophers have remarked on the need to have these broad experiences in order to become more, what purpose does this function serve? What's the point of this function that generates exaggeration, role-playing, simulation and spectacle? If the human being was designed to be pure logos, a man-machine, then why endow him from the outset with an extravagant function? And where does this possibility of a charismatic personality come from in the first place? What about hypnotic suggestibility? It's quite possible that this function is simply a basic concept of homo sapiens, the one who can exaggerate, ████████████████, and build hypnotic collective intoxication. And why? Because that's the way it is. This flexibility allows him to tell new stories for new geographies, new dangers, new gratifications. Telling new stories requires a muscle that can stretch to new possibilities, the ability to absorb new forms, to become itself the vessel of something else. And becoming charismatic is the excessive function of the accumulation of voices, which at its peak becomes a phenomenon of modulation of the field of reality. Charisma is when inner voices converge, ignite and mobilize to become an ontological weapon. A means of reshaping man, in the flux of change. But man has always had a tendency to fixate; part of his brain, part of his mind, relies on repetition, on fixity. He has to fight against a very strange and imperfect construction in his nature in his ability to rest in eternity and swim in the flow of things that are constantly changing. This tendency makes him hate extravagances of the mind, follies, moments outside the logos. And yet this very rationality is built on a particular kind of hysteria, a superstition like any other. It remains to be seen whether he will be able to impose his program on all men, to completely intoxicate the atmosphere with his fixopathy. What's the point of storytelling?How each of these mediums changes the nature of storytellers. The age of interaction, out of the prehistory of the fixed medium, literature? Has the true art of narratological construction, metanoia, not yet really been realized? We've arrived in our era at something akin to the atmospheric domination of immersion. It's a predominantly acoustic medium that uses images to accentuate its grammar. Literature, and the novel in particular, possesses a particular force of enculturation, of domestication, which leads man to overcome the initial subjugation of prehistoric images and synthetic impressions. This is what we call the critical mind, intimately linked to literary text criticism, to a particular cognition that disentangles the linear elements of logic in order to break them down. This specific training of the mind is what has made our civilization more ocularly detached from the world of objects than ever before. And now, caught up in the new acoustic world immersion of cybernetic immersion, mathematical grammar cuts out the world and recomposes it in synthetic, holographic pixel series that spill over into the previous pixels we've called matter. This holographic intelligence is slowly but surely developing its own intelligence, its system, its reproduction, its omnipresence through its observers and hosts, we who are carried along by its industrial and imaginary parasitism. In the same way that text parasitized prehistoric man towards history, the new holograms parasitize us towards a new space-time, and above all time, in fact.
[Leaked from the Croupier's note, TO BE DESTROYED IMMEDIATLY]