The basket of deceit
John Bjarne Grover
Why do agents use dependency-making drugs? Because that is what an agent is - dependent via drugs on the administration or 'bureau' that controls the agent. The knowledge and control goes telepathically, I suppose - like the People of Israel. Aha, so that is what agency is - membership in the new 'mosaic' community?
Those who believe in the 'wrongway' solution, including bad child abuse, probably believe that the new millenium is this 'new mosaic community' wherein knowledge is shared via drugs where common faith was the defining common factor formerly.
People are inherently dependent - that means that their reality is restricted and redundant.
This is also what it means that there is knowledge that humans cannot understand - and winged angels tell this proof derived from the mystery of the reality of birds.
The drugs of agency is then the SOMA of vedic mysteries, is the philosophy. The same as Christ, tells the agent, and swallows another pill. Rigveda tells (according to tradition, if I have got it right) of the ex nihilo 'lapis philosophorum' being crushed in a mortar and mixed with fruit juice and drunk by the congregation - who get mystically 'high' on it. Moses tells not this story but something related: Moses got the stone tablets (they could have been white, of course) from God on the mountain, he carried them down and when he saw the congregation dancing around not an orange juice but a golden calf, he crushed the stone against the ground - and had to go up on the mountain again to get new ones. Cp. the 1st and 2nd stone in my work and the related phenomenon in Ouyang Xiu's. But the People of Israel had got the stone tablets with the inscribed law and did not practice consumption of it - and those who believe in the SOMA of secret intelligence services say perhaps that this was the reason why Jesus Christ was developed in the midst of judaism - to be crushed on the cross and distributed to the congregation to eat and drink in the holy communion.
From this idea modern Intenational Secret Intelligence Services seem to have developed their 'new judaism' in the form of a secret brotherhood of service people creating a shared consciousness by way of the dependency in drugs consumed by agents - it may be this 'secret brotherhood' who are in for terror and monkey business and secret service politics. They believe perhaps that the third millenium will be a time when the new divinity is chemical and is swallowed like SOMA pills - in a belief in the wrongway solutions for human society.
These are the ones who believe in the 'embryonic eruptive mystery forces' - such as in the name of Ad-Olf Hit-Ler and things like that.
My poem 'Basket of deceit', written in the spring and summer 1995, was an experiment to show that some morphs are more 'magic' or even more 'morphinic' than other morphs - and my example was not ad, olf, hit and ler, but on the contrary FLEECE, ShIN, BAT, PAN, HAM, SIR, PIL and LIP - which I combined to a 'poem of dependency' - the poor chap who had seen a nymph in the forest (or was it an illusion?) when he sailed past in his little boat - but he hadnt got a chance to find her:
The basket of deceit
On the river bank the trees...
In the boat the lord who sees
the forest nymphe, the siren in a glimpse,
At home he's drinking water from the tap,
his voice is dry as parchment
when his words fall like tiles from a roof far away
where a saddle rests on a horse's croup
in the strong gusts of wind.
He ties a white belt around his waist
when the basket of deceit
overcomes his morning coat of felt
with waves of sweat.
Cheated by her magic, like a bet,
he's bowing on a sandy shore
picking breadcrumbs fallen from the line
which separates the water from the wine:
Kneeling by the basket of this motherless deceit
he lifts the wet fish
deserted by its shining scales
and says this on and on:
"Your hair is short..."
"Your hair is short..."
And a waxen moth on three wings
comes with the voices from a nearby radio
like a boneless apparition of privacy
transgressing his wooden wall
as when a white bread
sinks in the rolling waves of the harbour.
A languor under his felt gown
meets the teacup lifted from his bedroom blanket,
as when two rails meet in the far horizon.
He makes a fur to his humid body
out of the blanket, up to his swelling lips,
like a fish in a jacket,
and his hair is floating on the porcellain pillow
where he rests his tired hairless shining head,
as when a stuttering motherless boy
is left in a harem.
Like clouds of bees in burning heat
down to his feet, breadcrumbs fall from his knees,
and voices from the bread
rise along the wooden panel wall
with the weeping spirit of an expensive plastic toy.
Like splinters in his fur are his thoughts now,
and they fall like tiles from a nearby roof,
and the woman's words in her ring of equals
somewhere else in the strong gusts of wind
with a shining headband over her ears,
are the siren's song
from the basket of deceit
when his coat of hair covers her humid body.
He is the last to leave the ship
when the wheels of history are burning.
The gods of fields and forests sit
on his bedposts, and outside,
from the street lamps,
the lights are flowing.
Clearly the poor chap hadnt got a chance - he was dependent in his human existence - and he was dependent on that reality pill which is mentioned at 09:10 in Bartok 3rd movement in the correlation with my TEQ book 16 poem #152 - this is the ex nihilo 'reality pill' I found some time ago in my bed - it is the size of a pea on which the princess can be found:
It is this pill which the new 'secret brotherhoods' believe in - and it ends up with the dependent lying there in the bed without his pill, sweating and sipping tea now and then - his lips meeting the teacup like the two rails of a railway far away into the horizon. The last lines tell what this is: As the crisis reaches its termination, the gods of fields and forests sit on his bedposts - those are the first divinities of a mythological reality out of which springs the more mature religious world of judaism and christianity. Or hinduism.
It is just a turn to a new time - before everything returns to the real world again.
At 09:10 (where Bartok has this 'reality pill') in the second part of Nono aligned against my book, there is in poem #63 the line "noe som lignet" = 'something that resembled" - which tells of that fundamental theorem of linguistics.
© John Bjarne Grover
On the web 5 august 2017