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Topy on-line Transmission 1.07
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II
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<<------II------>> Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth
II
<<--II-->> OnLine Transmission V1.07 Ratio Zero
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<<------II------>> July 23, 1991
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II
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1) Editors' Statement
2) NOTIFICATION OF TERMINATION OV TOPY DENVER STATION
3) A Death Poem of a Samurai
4) Coummunication: Words & Symbols
5) "Secrets of the Assassins" by Peter Lamborn Wilson
6)
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1)Editors' statement..
Well, for those that have not heard, change is afoot in thee Net-work. In
this issue we have a letter from Tom Hallewell, formerly Coyote 12, a
guiding force in TOPY NA over thee past five years.
He has decided to give up thee responsibility ov heading thee North American
Station in order to concentrate on his Ratio One work.
We applaud his courage and his commitment to inner growth. It often coums
to many 'magickal' organizations that thee leadership becoums so wrapped
up in thee process ov running the GROUP that they lose track ov their OWN
growth, and end up living and teaching a lie. Tom has shown that in TOPY,
this too is different.
We hope that those called to take up thee Work that Tom left behind will
take his example and will not allow the apparent 'power' [ha ha] that they
may get to obscure or even deaden their own Ratio One work.
We dedicate this issue, with L-ov-E, to Tom. Your work will not be
forgotten.
l-ov-e: Coyote 129 & Coyote 131
ps: next moonth - thee return ov CHAOS!
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Special Request for Information on:
Taoist alchemy & sexual yoga
Chaos Magick
Chemognosis
Runelore
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2) NOTICE OV TERMINATION OV TOPY STATION DENVER
After five yeras ov running thee North America Station, E (Coyote 12) have
made thee difficult decision to decrease my level ov involvement in thee
Network. After much thought, E have coumcluded that for my own growth, it
is necessary to do more Ratio One work, and less Broadcasting. Thee causes
for this decision are multiple, let it suffice for me merely to say that
E do
not see this as an end to my involvement or work within TOPY; it is
simply a
lowering ov Network-related workload, in order for me to have thee time
and money to pursue other interests and long term goals.
TOPY SOL have agreed to take over thee Station; this will be effective
immediately. All litters sent to this Station will be automatically
forwarded to thee SOL address.
E apologize to all ov you for not replying to any mail for thee last several
months; E have had many personal issues to deal with, and thee time and
inclination just have not been there for me to put thee effort E feel that
your litters deserve.
This will be thee beginning ov a new era within TOPY NA; please be patient
with TOPY SOL, they really have no idea what they have gotten themselves
into!
TOPY TEXAS will, at coum point in thee near future, be taking over thee
merchandising section ov TOPY. Any orders that have already been made
through Denver will be honored and taken care ov by DENVER. Please wait
until TEXAS gives the green light before flooding them with orders and
inquires; again, thee transition will take time. Bear with us all.
We still aren't sure what to do with thee World Domination Club; butter for
thee time being, it will remain here in Denver, and ought to have a new
mailer out in a relatively short time.
E thank all ov you for your support, enthusiasm and patience over thee last
five yeras, our association will be a memory that E will always cherish. E
feel that thee changes will be very positive for thee Network; thee de-
centralization that many ov you clamored for is upon us.
As for myself, E am relinquishing thee Temple Name Coyote 12, and
destroying all sigils performed under that name. E desire to begin a new
phase in my involvement with TOPY, and that will be under a new Temple
Name, assigned by thee new Station.
Anyone wishing to maintain contact with me can feel free to do so, in care
ov thee WDC, whose address is in thee last few CCTs. Be forewarned that E
will not discuss thee affairs ov thee former Station, or my reasons for
terminating it.
with deep L-ov-E, Tom Hallewell, formerly Coyote 12.
[ note: the address ov TOPY SOL is : Box 33540, San Diego, CA 92163 USA ]
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DEATH POEM OF A SAMURAI
Toshimoto took out of his robe a scroll of paper and, after wiping his
neck with it, spread it out and wrote his death poem:
From ancient times the saying comes,
"There is no death; there is no life."
Indeed, the skies are cloudless
And the river waters clear.
Toshimoto then laid down his brush and smoothed his hair with his hand.
At that very moment, the blade of the sword flashed behind him; his
head fell forward and his body followed, covering the head.
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I just finished reading Mishima's SUN & STEEL a lengthy essay on the
inadequacy of words...Tzara, Gysin and Burroughs also are disgruntled with
the inadequacy of words, all four are writers by profession...and all four
are trying different ways of communicating there experience to
others via words...Burroughs pointed out the problem with words...which
is
that to read a little voice must read the words...this little voice is inside
our head...and thus the agents of control infiltrate our minds by us
reading there propaganda...by reading a sign or headline, etc. my own
inner voice speaks those written words...thus i may believe them as
true because my own little voice spoke to me...there is a scholarly
book which Burroughs often quotes from on this subject...the title and
author escapes me at the time...but such verbalizing of writing leads
to discursive thought...the noisy, unattractive thoughts of us/them,
here/there, subject/object, mine/other...Burroughs suggested stopping
this "voice of authority" by using language based on pictures
...ideally hieroglyphics...but chinese and japanese charachters
are based on pictures also..."sunset" is written by juxtaposing the
symbol for "sun" which looks like the sun with that of "tree" which
looks like a tree...thus the word "sunset" looks like a sunset...the
sun just on the horizon behind a tree...and Mishima (who writes in
japanese) still found this inadequate to communicate properly...for
him action was the only pure communication...action as symbol?
a single perfect note from a bamboo flute which induces enlightenment....
holding a single flower aloft...cutting an apple in two to actualize
its center...Mishima denies that action is a symbol for anything else...
an action undifiled by discursive thought...that is an action as it
really is...pure action=pure consciousness...so what did Mishima
communicate by his seppuku (ritual suicide)? i am skeptickal as to any
real comunication...i fall back on the Zen saying that there is
"Nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing to know."
Any thoughts on this subject would be appreciated...
somewhere suspended
between the sky & the sea
nowhere else to be
L-ov-E
COYOTE 131
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[ ok, so heres the story - E lost coum ov thee files for this moonth
>oops< and E thought 'Hey, what am E gonna fill thee space with?' so, E
dug into meye little folder o' delights and came up with coum writings
from Ilsa VanHook (ilsa@well.sf.ca.us). She
fits right in.
E didn't ask for her permission to distribute this, and E know shes
gonna see it - so: If it makes you mad Ilsa, sorry! L-ov-e & Kisses,
Coyote 129 ]
Explanatory Chart
v---------Abandoned KRELL Technology----------v
+----<Adam Weishaupt<-------------|-------------->Bavarian Illuminati
| | |------->Franz Mesmer<--^
| Helena Petrovna Blavatsky | |
| | | Otto Messmer------v
| "Aryan" Mysticism | | AaronSpelling
| | Felix the Cat |
| +-----------v----Project Bluebook v------------+
| | "Frank Edwards" / | Earl Holliman |
| | / | Angie Dickinson
| | / Weird Stuff Warehouse
| Brad & Francie Steiger / +--------------+
| _______________/ | Chilly Willy? |
| / +---------------+
+----->SANRIO>--{ Hello Kitty }=={ R'lyeh }
{ Tuxedo Sam }=={ Hollow Earth }
Squirt { Little Twin Stars }=={ The Two }
| { Zashikibuta }=={
? }
Fresca { My Melody }=={ Tzara death plot }
|
Pocari Sweat
We will pitch our tents in the campfire of the Lord and offer up
sacrifices
of live scientists. It will be a happy time. Embossers will live off the
fat of the land. The lion and the cow and the hippy chick will lie down
in a field of poppies; their little machetes will do them no good.
You and i will breathe helium and go to wake them up before too long.
La, mister lion! Wake up! La, mistress hippy chick! We will lead them,
in their drowsy state, to the zeppelin hangar. We will induce them to
don
the special gutta-percha flight suits that will protect them from the
terrible high-altitude phlogiston winds.
At this height, geography is not so cumbersome. It becomes apparent
that
office building lights are pixels in fatbits mode illuminating the whorls
and
arches peculiar to fingerprints. Our little mammalian brains are racing
very
quickly now, threatening an unsettling revelation. The helium-enhanced
voices
on the intercom do not soothe any longer. The pulse of blood in our
ears
slams against our eardrums. The last thing we remember is Mister Lion
holding
the test instruments in the phlogiston wind. He is leaning far out of
the
gondola. Fat blue phlogiston sparks are creeping up the handle towards
him.
Suddenly we can see valves and relays inside the instruments; it seems
that
their titanium panels have developed transparent splotches where they
face
the wind.
The moth-baby shook violently and woke up one of the guards. This one
rolled
across the wide lawn toward her, pushing her back in the cage. She
cried.
She got sick. It was very quiet, and the moth-baby imagined that the
whole
world could hear her vomit.
Then she stopped vomiting and began dry-retching. She did not find this
much
more pleasant. Her abdomen was very tired, and she wanted very much to
sleep.
Sometimes she dozed off, but she always awoke in convulsions, trying to
throw up the contents of her empty moth-belly.
Just before dawn, she coughed up a piece of track from a main battle
tank.
That was the first. Every few minutes she retched, and sometimes
something
would come up. The first day there was the tank track, a napkin
dispenser,
some rebar and a stapler.
The next day, things seemed to come out even faster. She worried that
her
cage might fill up, and she would be forced out, which would attract the
guards. By the third day, she had a poinsettia, a volleyball net, a
translucent plastic glove, a tennis trophy, christmas tree lights, lumps
of
paraffin, a sled, a pinecone, a Miami transit map, brushed aluminum
drawer
handles, an eyeglass repair kit, ceramic insulators, a Kawasaki clutch
cable,
an empty Ramones CD jewel box, a pair of safety scissors, a wasabi root,
saxophone reeds, a Barbie-sized oxygen mask, sand, worry beads, a scarab
beetle, a circular saw blade, semaphore flags, a bakelite scotty dog,
fishing sinkers, cheese seals, a portable phonograph, a dowsing rod,
sugarcane, a bottle rocket, a lawn chair and a stuffed giraffe.
She tried and tried to cough up a curved metal box inscribed
"front towards enemy", but could not control her talent.
Our tormentors are always the most sympathetic. Especially the
Etruscans,
with their moist pink snouts and cleverly woven hair extensions. I
remember
them floating face-down in the fountain by my favorite restaurant. I was
fifteen, and i was trying out my new electronic stud finder. I remember
them taking me to an all-night recycling center. Someone was whistling
Bridge Over the River Kwai. I remember them having spongy hands, with
fingers that came off when you bit them.
They wanted me to tell them about disaster models, they had all kinds of
pictures of flood, hurricane, accident victims. I don't think they
believed
that I couldn't get them calendars and t-shirts; it was hard to tell what
they meant or what they wanted
. They videotaped me, asking me if I had ever been in a fire, a flood,
anything. Then they insisted I make something up, talk about how my home
was
destroyed by earthquakes.
They kept saying oh, how terrible when the camera was on; like I said,
sympathetic. They put dirt on me, then helped me brush it off, saying
oh,
how terrible.
An old man with one of those plastic necks drove up to drop off some
aluminum cans. He got back in his car and didn't start it for a long time.
She watched ungulates washing up on the shore. They had their sleeves
pushed
up to their elbows and were chattering about the latest Rae Tracy,
virtual
girl detective, video.
She watched ungulates wash up on the beach. She was sure now that the
ocean
was mostly ground glass; the waves were too hard and sparkly for it to be
otherwise. And the paint was already wearing off of
the sand dunes. Green fiberglas was showing through the most weathered
spots.
Hundreds of ungulates had washed up with the last tide, clogging drains
and
decorating the beach. She decided to take casts of the decaying beasts.
She put on hip boots and the gas mask. She loaded the foam gun.
[ Intermisson ]
I am the incarnation of evil.
I will lick your face when you get out of your car and you will
know fear.
I will keep your parents in a bottle at the bottom of my purse
where they will be forever pushed about by the sunglasses, kohl
pencil and kleenex.
I will steal your socks.
When you are dead, i will give you a passing or failing grade. I
will weigh your heart against a dried bat. I will look you up
in the phone book and enumerate your sins on network television.
I will judge you on the Richter scale.
I will chain myself to your coffin.
But you haven't suffered enough! I will lick your face and
bring you back to life. The terror of the situation will slowly
become apparent to you.
In the summer, i will kiss your ears. In the winter, i will
kiss your eyes. In the spring, i will kiss your nose. In the
fall, i will kiss your mouth. You will die again, and i will
kiss the rest of you on your funeral pyre. We will be consumed
by a hideous orange pillar of flame that screams, deafening, to
the sky.
I will put your ashes into my purse, where your parents in their
bottle will now have to dust constantly wherever the ashes
settle. You will become friends with whatever lint and crumbs
you can find.
But still you haven't suffered enough! I will lick your face
and you will return to life. Your eyes will be wide with panic
as you realize your position.
I will make you so happy.
I will tease you, and call you names, and lick your face, and
you will be so terrified that your heart will stop but i will
keep licking your face; i will not let you die.
I promise you will always be my favorite zombie.
I will hold you, forever, closest to my heart.
I will let you enter a contest. It is a contest to see who can
drive, blindfolded, closest to the gap in the Bay Bridge without
falling in.
After your car is pulled from the bay, i will supervise the
embalming of your body. I will replace your internal organs
with meatloaf and your blood with honey.
But your new eyes of tourmaline set in quartz will make me
reconsider; i will sit up for years staring at your corpse and
wondering: "Have you suffered enough, my greatest love? Could
i cause you any more suffering?"
And although you will be desiccated and crispy, i will lick your
face once again. And as you awake to this horror your rictus
will soften slowly away and your body will be restored again to
caressable flesh.
You will think you are dreaming.
I will let you dream only of me.
And when we go out, people will stare at your quartz and
tourmaline eyes. They will be scarred by the invisible needles
of the lasers stimulated by the electrical storm in your brain.
And when we go out, you will open your veins to sweeten my tea
with your blood.
I will take you to visit your old friends, who will wonder at
your appearance, and be amazed at the complicated hieroglyphic
tattoos that appear on their bodies as your eyes wander over
them.
Everyone will ask how a man this dead could be this beautiful.
But i will explain to them that you are not dead, you cannot be
dead as long as i exist. It is my love that makes you live.
It is my love for your suffering and terror.
Nobody takes me seriously.
No one will rescue you. There will be no one to take you from
me. Even if you were to escape me, no one could remove the
lingering horror from your mind.
With me, you will understand incomprehensible things. You will
believe incredible things.
I will polish you to an impossible brightness. Only the smoke
of my breath will hide you from view.
I will heat you to a white heat. I will mark your incandescent
skin with my fingernails.
Even i cannot believe how happy i will make you.
And yet, you will wish you were not His Endlessness at all, but
unfeeling, inert and cold beneath the earth. You will seek
Death in ever more clever and subtle ways and, at length, find
him in spite of my attentiveness.
You will have learned how to hurt me, my ancient and powerful
love.
And i will leave you at last as all mortals truly desire to be--
undisturbed by thought, feeling or experience.
And i will go on through the aeons alone, troubled by your
absence, always wondering, "Is it really possible that you have
suffered enough? Was my love somehow imperfect? Can i never
reawaken your fear, your desire?"
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> End ov TOPY ONline v1.07 <
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