The Sync Whole

Monday, December 7, 2009

Jupiter Jack in the Box (mashed)

What I wish to suggest (suggest) is that we are dealing with synchs ever closer to home than we generally acknowledge. For me, the Tiger Woods story is laced intricately into my own life, but its dangerous territory - close to the heart. I am willing to express these details in the light of a mutual understanding.

I am not an egomane, I am simply a man who enjoys the edgy side of things. The Black Diamonds. My crime is in the manner of my style and not the matter. And yet, I recognize that this style has marginalized my work at large, for which I blame only myself - and without tears.

I offer this short apology because I want to open a can of worms from my own work, with the idea of leading into a very open discussion about the personal synchs that I believe we are all experiencing right now.

I have attempted to achieve a likewise scenario which failed because the awefulness of it became to much for my cohort. I would like to try this again, here at the Synch Whole.

I must repeat - it is not my desire to glorify my own ego. I hope it is not too late for me to be believed in such regard, because I think we have an opportunity, thanks to the excellence of mind and the variety of perspective, to achieve something of a high order of profundity, which promises to turn our mostly academic exploration into a full-blown adventure.

Here is the main object as I see it: to refine the nature of our synchro-mystic study into a strictly internal dialog that follows the assumption that we (blog members) are not merely reporting distant and static events, but are very specifically and directly participating in such events.

Now, we all have our own obsessions, no? I am by no means implying the exclusion of these fields, indeed they are key to the study - fah shizzle. And we need not rush into the details of our own synchs, exactly because I think that our special fields of inquiry are in fact intimately attached to our own personal synchs and will therefore benefit from an organic transition to the more sensitive areas of discussion.

If this challenge is accepted, even provisionally, I would ask readers to take a look at an article from Da WWWiz on The Shining, Durkin's Garage, which is all about the Jack in the Box phenom, and dates back several months.

The fact is that even if my proposal is outright ignored, these articles are still highly relevant to the currently tabled discussion. Don't let the title of the piece fool you, and recall the Jack Nicholson has made a famous attack on a certain automobile with a certain sporting implement.

Shifting gears...

I have made a real ass of myself here at The Whole. In particular I have picked on Jake Kotze, because I saw him as King of the Hill and I wanted to throw down a respectable challenge. Jake, if you read this, please accept a sincere personal apology. I submit in every way to the superiority of your skills as eagle-eye observer and juggler of what is some of the most sensitive material published in the history of writing - and these words are not idle, as I find a deep and direct personal connection to the events that started your famous work into motion.

My final argument emerges from this belief: that we are closely connected to events that we investigate. The personal proximity of my own experience is seriously fucking shocking - which I dig in the most high. Can I seduce the Whole to trend, gingerly, into this realm?

Jake says Global Consciousness and he just might be onto something. The beauty is that the big GC or not, my proposal makes sense. Who among you would deny first, the possiblilty of your unique value, and next a chance for a voyage rich and strange.

Sure, it's all about the ONE, maybe, but such fact does not dismiss the validity of the experiment as it is proposed. Let me know what you think with a comment and please consider my earlier work on The Shining as the invitation to open a door that in my experience, remains closed. If its all too much... ignore everything I just said... except my atonement and a promise to stop making fun of Eckhart Tolle.

Finally, some research (still working on my re-survey of The Shining eta 48hrs).

There are 808 days from 9/11/01 to 11/27/09. Consider that 1127 less 911 is the notorious 216. More data needed here.

Golf Ball = The Moon? Is there a Tiger link to the discovery of water (hydrant) on the Moon?

Please recall that Jupiter Jack = 10-10. Revelation 10:10 has meaning re: Box/Book in the Hand. Just a hunch on this...

What ever you think of my overall notions... let the high weirdness continue.

~11-9-4-4~

I wrote about this clip when I first started blogging. Long before(few months)G8tor was even slanged by Jake.

Please note 2001 music and listen to the lyrics of spirit in the sky. Sync cluster boooooooomb!

Oh yeah...Hexagonal golf ball and the three pillars at the end.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

The Domino Effect - Jupiter Jacked

2001 (9/11) to 2010 (Year of the Tiger)

2010 to 2012 - Domino's Fall.

From the Globe and Mail, December 6, 2009:

“There's no impact on the sport itself other than the fact its best asset is a little damaged right now,” said Michael Gordon, CEO of Group Gordon Strategic Communications, a crisis PR firm in New York.

“But it starts with Tiger. He's at the top of the pyramid,” Gordon said. “When Tiger is hurt, other assets could get hurt, too — potentially the PGA Tour, sponsors, his family. It's a little bit of a domino affect, and he's the first domino.”

Tiger Woods' logo seems to imply a pyramid that is crowned with his initials of a T and W. He is at the top of the Pyramid. And his logo sure looks like a domino or black monolith.

Black Monolith as Domino. That is good stuff.

Tiger could possibly even lose his Jupiter Island home.

Seems like Jupiter is coming back to reclaim his Eye Land.

Did Tiger Woods just get Jupiter Jacked?

Some nice Jupiter Island property for sale. Like the pyramid shaped swimming pool?

"In the mean time. . ."

"You don't know what you do to me,

Now all I see is new to me. . ."

2001

2010

BlakRoc

WTC BlakRoc

forgot this:

I really think we're about to be found. Thanks All!

Saturday, December 5, 2009

are you f-ing kidding me?

two days ago

Today:

Friday, December 4, 2009

Artislav Mel v. Jake and Jim

(Round 1: Crowley v. Tolle)

Universe says?

One point Jake and Jim!

Ultimate indulgence of self yielding annihilation results in what realization?

people matter.

thnx ish, finish the post.

Artislav Mel says...

- Yo, Cookie, the foist round is over?! I don't remember it Cookie, am I hoit?
- Yeah Champ, he hoit ya real bad. Listen kid, yer left eye is closed up, I'm gonna have to cut you.

Cookie cuts the Champs eyelid, which gushes forth with indigo colored blood....the Bell Rings. The Champ stands, wobbles, thumps his gloves on his chest, and stumbles into the center of the ring, his silver sweat iridescent in the hot light of the spots.

Round Two (Artislav vs. Jake and Jim - Who Knew?)

I feel a little strange being conflated with Crowley, for whom my regard is mainly his genius as a writer, and not so much his philosophy of Ritual Magick. My own muse is Humor, which is in a sense, the complete diameter of power. Power, if I understand, is Crowley's big kick - I'm in it for shitz and gigglez.

I put myself at the mercy of the Muse. My arms are tied.

Stranger still that I should be conscripted into the ring without warning and at a loss. This fact in itself, I think, ought to score the round in my own favor. And yet, because I am delighted to be singled out in this special way, I defer the first round to my opponent.

BTW who is my opponent? Eunus Noe? Jake and Jim? All Three? Can I have a team, too? If yes then I choose Jon Kidd. No? Alright. I'll go it alone.

And just what is at stake here? Checkers? Chess? Naked Twister? Global Thermo Nuclear Wargames? I'm up for anything, although I admit I may be a little low on equipment for an all out nuke-attack - or Naked Twister, for that matter.

Do I have time to run to the store and grab some extree tabacky? No huh? Jeez, youse guyse are tough, you are. On with it then.

The Champ comes out and goes right into his famous quintuple knock-out combo.

1. Chris McCandless is not a good posterboy for the slogan 'People Matter'. He rejected people for the experience of what he believed to be 'The Divinity of Nature', which is simply a passive way of bowing out of the game... quitting. And his reward: to find nature exactly just as it finds him: as his Death. What is more indulgent and self-annihilating than that?

2. The use of the term Matter as in 'People Matter' is a corporate fascist post-mortem. That which matters also 'must be', and is therefore presented as an unfalsifiable absolute. Any value presented as unfalsifiable absolute represents the end of discourse and the beginning of dogma. Too rough?

3. In the social sense such phrase as people matter is a nifty example of Orwellian doublespeak. What do you do with the one guy who simply must insist that nothing matters? Doesn't he matter too? Do some matter more than others? Who decides what matters? Not I, Not I.

4. I do not believe that anywhere in the glorious opus of my work stretching back on line for more than eight years, that I have once so much as hinted that people do not matter. Therefore, the scoring of a point against me with the banner 'People Matter' seems a sucker punch. The same flaw in...

'Ultimate indulgence of self yielding annihilation results in what realization?'

Have I suggested some sort of 'realization'. If so, I admit the error, because as of this moment, I just realized that I have yet to realize anything, except perhaps a highly refined taste for Haute Coture, Bacon and Country Time Lemonade.

5. Your mother wears army boots.

How many points do I get?

Thursday, December 3, 2009

THC: Another Kind of Smoke

The transgression of theater and therefore of human thought and dreams of purple super-trouper lights are gonna find you shining like the sun - in three stages.

T - Tragedy
H - History
C - Comedy

Our Play:

From beyond Uranus we tumble into the world of Time and Times, and unto the Solar Deity. For now, as we hurtle toward the Earth and yon, look - as we go by - look at the Great Wanderers in the Sky.

Dramatis Personae:

Up just ahead is Saturn, its mighty rings the symbol of the binding walls of Time itself. Saturn is The Hotel California. The Letter B. The note Ti (natural) - most common in the music of 1500 to 1800 CE. A probability engine striving for the utmost unification of all transfinite events. Within its icy core, the Akasha: the library of all that has happened is happening and can happen yet, at least for the Time Being. Some call Saturn God, but this is only because they have no idea what God might be, and so must give the name Almighty to the greatest mechanism they can imagine.

Outside of Saturn is beyond Time. Dispatches from this distant shore are unreliable and garbled - non-linear and illogical - and so we call Saturn Seven, as 7 is the most complex of the integral primes and implies the impossibility of the hyperdoxical and super-infinite 8.

Look there, that tiny dot. It is the Majestic Jupiter and will soon grow to fill the limits of our peripheral acuity. Big-Bigger-Biggest. As we draw nigh, you will note a sinewy cable of star-dust that stretches back toward Saturn. The Aural-Optic Nerves. Jupiter, you see is an Eyeball Earhole which operates as both viewer, audience and projector of the Cosmic Melodrama.

It is grossly improper to imagine a sexual orientation to the persona of Jupiter, which is the pitfall of all religious thought throughout history and to this very day. Jupiter is not a fountain-phallus, you Theocrats, nor a tender-teat-for-suckling, o yea Pagans, but an EYE. Your eye. That is All.

Because this is a lonely eye, it sees and projects in 2d, from 5 directions: directly, from left, from right, from above, from below. The secrets of Jupiter can be easily divined by the cinephile, the painter, the tarot occultist, the practiced photographer and the Euclidean Geometer, and in audio by the actor, dancer and acoustic engineer.

In music, Jupiter is the chord that is sometimes called a 'sus' chord or 'sub dominant add four'. It is formed by the notes Do-Fa-Ti (flat) and is common in blues, folk, jazz, country and rock music. This particular combination or progression of tones has the quality of suspension, which is why music of this genre is often played into a fade out over vamp, as opposed to the resolution of the key common to the classical genres.

Numerically, Jupiter is 12, 21 and 42. These numbers are quite normally placid, balanced and playfully funny. The essence of Joviality, Poetic Justice and the Suspension of disbelief called Faith.

Coming up is Mars. The Rising Red Sun. Mars is Christ as he ascends from the Cross, which is simply a metaphor for anti-gravity. The usual dignity of Mars (and Venus) has been confounded by tome after tome of deliberately confusing literature. Mars is but one half of a pair of stereoscopic woof-lenses designed to produce the illusion of the 3rd dimension and sound - an illusion called Elo. Venus is its opposite, implying the Crucified Christ as Gravity and Death. It's just that easy.

As stated, there has been much trickery in regard to the specific orientation of Mars vs. Venus.

Here is the corrected tale of the tape:

Mars: Peace, Eternity, Anti-Gravity, Vipassana Submission, Left Eye and Ear and Hand (freedom), Right Brain, the number 5, the note Sol, the Man Alive, Gimme Five.

Venus: Calamity, Mortailty, Gravity, Homoepathic Paganism, Right Ear and Eye and Hand (law), Left Brain, the number 6, the note La, Sex and Death, Six Feet Under.

These forces work in perfect harmony as the twin serpents of the caduceus, as the platform, the stage and rigging of the Great Cosmic Theater of Electro-Orgasma-Plasma we call good the ol' planet Oit.

A cursory word about Earth and the Moon. These bodies are not Wanderers, not Planets. The Earth is a Hologram and the Moon is the internal emblem of the lens that focuses the image field into the false sphere of curved space. In the fullest sense, the Earth and Moon are the product and tool of the co-ordinated efforts of the Great Planetary Spheres - the product, and not more.

Mercury is tricky. Sometimes called the Thrice Great, Mercury has no real personality at all, not because it is a Zero, but because it defies any label except quick. The secret nature of Mercury is that of a high-speed processor. To enter the sun, one must pass through Mercury much as one must pay a toll at a gate or buy a ticket for a movie. Mercury is all business, and for this reason is sometimes called the Thief. Its power is transmuted and extracted from exterior sources.

In music Mercury is the Octave, a note in perfect harmony with Do, the first note of the scale. This happenstance is the basis of the confusion of Mercury with the personality of the Magician and the Number 8.

And at last, our blue souls glowing, we plunge into the Sun, which we find not a great body, but a tiny point, merely imaginary, the core of the self, where billions upon billions pour themselves into sacrifice for the implication of a light and heat that does not exist, into the dulcet harmony of Do Re and Me, the first, second and third notes of the scale, and forever outward whence we come on ripples of consecrated bliss.

It is here, after our first journey from the noumenon, the outreaches of Uranus, and into the core of the Self - the Sun - that we are given to consider that which reaches past Saturn and beyond the measure of Time and Space.

For many, this frontier demands a recap of the Life of a Time, a Time Line, and such travelers, as all have been past, must re-incorporate into the linear streams of Akasha and back into the Sun. This journey can be repeated as often as wished, and usually is. Trouble is, these curtain calls have the sublime tendency of enhancing the performer until he or she threatens to become, let's say, bigger than Time. Such infamy is impolite, and the refined soul will exeunt stage left to avoid the loss of their discreet personality into a larger archetype.

It is such maturity alone that allows entrance through the Gates of Uranus, Uranus the Comedian and true Magician of the Super 8, who bars the passage of anything sacred, and into the Violet Essence of the real mystic, but one of an ecclesia of artists that share just two qualities among them: that of an altogether unique self identity and a taste for lowbrow humor...

...or as some like to call it Comedia Ultraismo, - the Old Ultra Violets. Comedy is difficult and difficult comedy is somehow funnier with each new examination. As an example of my own expertise - that of a mere acolyte - I proffer the notion that certain films and novels, notorious for their reputation of profundity and moral import, are in fact resplendent baroque farce and best discussed in the shithouse over a schwitz. Kubrick, T.S. Eliot, Fellini and Joyce, and Tolle (a personal fav) are fine examplars. Francis Bacon is supreme for shaking a spear.

For the fettered souls we leave behind, within Karma, which is Space, and Dogma, which is Time, the story of the sovereign self cycles glumly repetitious in the Theater of The Tragi-Hysterical just as Megan Follows. To refresh our humors and to last, we recall the Tragedy of Human Suffering and History of Human Striving.

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Bacon's funniest, is crypto-tragic, because its content implies the inferiority of the mortal. The joke is on you, for when the intellect, the academic, the poet, and the poser laugh at the Comedy, it is a laugh of self-deprecation, of self-pity, of self-loathing. Laughter yes, but circumscribed by the ineluctable distance between the mortal and the heavily advertised divine.

To the young mind, the tragic mind, the mind without sufficient evidence of pattern, All is Tragedy and its laughter is a callow, hollow ruse without a memory.

The transition to History promises growth, but wilts upon the vine. The Tempest, the sole Baconian opus that can not be specifically classed as Tragedy, History or Comedy and with pretension to the 'mystic self', is the favorite muse of the Historically Grateful Dunderhead. Our lives, we are told, are dust - a touch...

...of gray, no more to say. To know this is to plunge with 'the fervor of necessity' into the Mercantile Operation of the Alchemical Wedding, which aims to ensure immortality through the line of our seminal genesis and work product. To become, in simple terms, a businessman - and get down to business.

On first blush, such pursuit seduces the aging mind with the promise of dignity and the social honors that come with. But, and precisely at the moment of pattern recognition, which is simultaneous with the inner birth of the sovereign self, the Historical model shatters. Caliban Sees Himself. Caliban Sees Nothing.

The moment is defined astronomically as a threshold on the souls journey away from the Sun Sacrifice and back into the Akasha, when it sees Jupiter, shall we say Eye to Eye, which is the extreme moment of self awareness inside of Time. It is to look into ones own third-eye, and go blind at once.

The preferred response is to re-juvenate into the Tragic mode, and return to the Sun and the labyrinth of Time.

Yet in this place, a few brave souls face at last the Leap of Laughter which I conclude is the only technique to cross the Abyss of Da'ath and into perfect light - and this Leap is A Leap of Faith. Faith not of a Dogma or of a System but instead the cheerful and optimistic Faith in Oneself - Oneself on the Edge of Nothing.

Now, the comedian reads Hamlet and finds neither a Tragedy, nor even a specific story worth repeating, but a Colossal Cluster of Crazed Comic Corkscrews, Fugal Frolics and Bawdy Bathroom Phoney Bones. The whole she-bang of it is a one liner and when staged properly oughtta quite literally rib-tickle its audience to death.

- LOLOTF, OMG, I'm Dead!
- Haha! What? U2!
- 2B or not 2B, WTF?
- Tubey or not Tubey?
- I prefer rice.
- I feel ya.
- I missed her potato head.
- Alas, Yorick. Porridge.

OK. Corny I know, but as stated, Comedy is Difficult. So, can you forgive a fumble in the light of my promise that All of It is a Joke? A Great Cosmic Whoopee Cushion, so sublime that once you get the punch you will start to laugh, stopping only to cry, until at last released of the ballast of your tears you begin to chuckle from the bottom of your soul. Without the slightest fear of heresy at Comedy so Absurd it can only be called Divine.

T or H or C, my hidden friend, it is up to only thee.
The Comedy at History's end is good enough for me.

Also, a little reefer does wonders, I am told.

But then again, what do I know... I'm just Mark LeClair, and may have slighted the Moon.

James:

Yesterday I felt a very strong desire to hear "The hills are alive with the sound of music" and instead I listened to this because I couldn't find a good copy