“And I will appoint my two witnesses, and they will prophesy for 1,260 days, clothed in sackcloth. They are 'the two olive trees' and the two lampstands, and 'they stand before the Lord of the earth.' If anyone tries to harm them, fire comes from their mouths and devours their enemies. This is how anyone who wants to harm them must die. They have the power to shut up the heavens so that it will not rain during the time they are prophesying; and they have the power to turn the waters into blood and to strike the earth with every kind of plague as often as they want.”
Back in 2010 under the guise of performance art a prophet of the end of days proclaimed to all the world the state of its soul. Peering behind the veil, forcing open the eyes and nostrils of man, exposing unforgettably the putrid stench and melting flesh of our age’s necrotic decay. Indeed, one is left in speechless awe, cowed by Theophany – and it is good that we fear lest we in our wretched state, born of the Kali Yuga, be consumed by the divine presence.
The video begins with our prophet opening the Seals, but we – the unworthy and regenerate – are not privy to the unsealing. We partake only in the reflections and shadows of this act through the medium of the Brahmin / Kahana Rabba, the Purified Ones able to stand in the presence of Heaven without shame. We see only their intense focus, spiritual jubilation, and reverent astonishment with the Mystery. Only the priests may see the beginning, understand how things will unfold. We may only infer with guarded speculation, always careful not to fall into blasphemy or heresy with an unwarranted investigation.
The camera turns to reveal the last moments of the unsealing, the Mystery of the Veil having passed. We may partake in the last pieces of this ritual only, after the plan has been laid and executed, destiny written.
It is no coincidence that it should be Spaghetti-Os that forms the base of our elixir to come. Indeed, is there any other item that best encapsulates – no, is the archetype of – the spirit of modern capitalism? It Is repulsive to the senses. The radioactive refulgence of its broth alerts the eyes to the subsequent smell of demonic disgorge, and should one be daring and stupid enough to put a hand in it the mind can only be immediately taken to a back alley in Bangkok, submerged in a pool of rags saturated with the sexual discharges of southeast Asian catboys after a tryst with the Ovenmen.
This is the base. It is the foundation, the start but not the finished product, for we are no longer swimming in the sewage of modern capitalism or communism, its industrial drive to make us all little Os in a stew of homogeneity. However, this is not the now. To quote Jameson in Postmodernism: the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, “the advanced capitalist countries today are now a field of stylistic and discursive heterogeneity without norm.” We start with the mass production of homogeneity, dissolved in the stew-pot, but this goes further towards the ultimate commodification of identity in late capitalism – global financial / consumer capitalism.
The base stew from a can reflect the scenes of Pruit Igoe and Prophecies from Koyaanisqatsi, a movie fundamentally about the dead, the faceless masses on the streets of city and slum as empty as the bustle of Wall Street, all naught but an O in a radioactive blood soup.
At last the Word is revealed through heavy breathing.
“Dirt is all around us. Everything is shit. We apply meaning, value, and worth, to the shit surrounding us. We live by this meaning and by our words. We live by worth, and applied value, but everything is shit.”
Can you, dear reader, not help but feel the deep, penetrating movement in your bowels at these scriptural words summoning the ghosts of Solomon and Nietzsche? Truly, my friends, today is the first day of your awakened life.
“Dirt is all around us.”
This opening line takes on a double meaning. In a single sentence, the Prophet captures the so-called “progress” of western capitalism from start to finish. We begin in nature, at one with it and in harmony with it. We love and fear the dirt from which we build our nations, grow our food, and later return our bodies to when it comes time to die.
“I worship impersonal Nature, which is neither "good" or "bad", and who knows neither love nor hatred. I worship Life; the Sun, Sustainer of life. I believe in the Law of everlasting struggle, which is the law of life, and in the duty of the best specimens of our race — the natural élite of mankind — to rule the earth, and evolve out of themselves a caste of supermen, a people 'like unto the Gods'.” - Savitri Devi
Being with nature, our feet firmly planted in the dirt, we are also connected to that which is above the dirt – the sun and spirit. We struggle and through that struggle we find meaning. But as time progresses, our lives become more material and less spiritual. The nutrients of our living soup disappear and, though we find warmth and comfort in the slow boil, we lose our connection to the spiritual, and even the natural. Everything around isn’t soil – it’s dirt. Everything is shit.
Like a newly born baby, seeing the world for the first time, the prophet rubs the elixir on her breasts – one can only see how the Mother Goddess is elicited in this ritual – and stutters out sounds not like a crippled art student with Down's syndrome but as a mortal vessel for Divine logos uncontainable by flesh. We can only stand in pious silence as the prophet is overcome with rapture.
This continues for a time.
Now, my dear readers, lost sheep without a shepherd in the dark ages where the wolves roam and hunt, let he who hath wisdom pay close attention for you won’t believe what happens next.
The reactionary and the conservative look to the past with dream-like brooding, praying – and only praying in their ineffectual devotionalisms – to turn the clock backward. But hearken these words my comrades lost in the dreamtide of history – this next scene denudes this fantasy. One may be a man in time, or above time, or God-willing against time, but the hands of the clock will not be turned backward.
Exposing herself not by merely removing her pants, but with scissors cutting a front hole in them, the illusions of the conservative are shattered away and drowned in a stream of piss. There is no going back now. Mixing the final ingredient into the alchemical potion to brew the amrita of the archons, she stimulates herself not with the divine presence, as before, but physical pleasure. Our longing for something more significant has been flattened into mere desire. “Pleasure limits the scope of human possibility,” says Jacques Lacan in Of the Subject of Certainty. “The pleasure principle is a principle of homeostasis. Desire, on the other hand, finds its boundary, its strict relation, its limit, and it is in relation to this limit that it is sustained as such, crossing the threshold imposed by the pleasure principle.” Everything - our pleasures, our meaning, our spirituality – is a consumption good. And it is consumed.
All is revealed and made manifest. We realized that we had not witnessed some mere performance art but participated – we participate - in a timeless Aesthetic Prophecy.