Rabia is the working title of a fiction-in-development, about a muse — nebulous, hauntingly attractive — who reveals herself to a surprised, unsuspecting artist in his painting studio.
She is a sassy preter-angel, a strange creature, with seemingly many personalities, who communicates in many modes of action and speech. The artist, the fictional Michael, is confused, intrigued, and frightened by the manifestation. He is shocked by the real possibility that muses can exist.
At once, he begins to question his mental stability, as he is a natural skeptic, a devout reader of science, and a pragmatist in general. That is, he likes the idea of a muse, a spirit, a goddess being extant. But he has never actually seen evidence, in all the literature he has read, of a provable sentience beyond human beings sans possibly some animals. So as the mercurial Rabia continues to insert herself more and more into his life, Michael is presented with a new running subtext that possibly he is hallucinating, or worse.
Michael takes to researching gods, spirits and muses with a vengeance, yet becomes even more skeptical of material spirits. The idea of avatars serving some internally visualized psychological function — as a compartmentalization of certain passions or feelings, perhaps — he can abide. But not a phenomenon like this art-maven minx. He retreats. But then he postulates, in new found bravery: “What’s the harm with a leap of faith? Let’s engage, see how the art changes. God sure as fuck knows I need an audience.” And with that, he ventures through the window.
Another character avails himself in the story, an anti-muse, whose name we soon learn is Luther. He is everything Rabia is not — Investment Banker, Public Relations Man, Cynic — except he, too, comes from some spirit pantheon.
It becomes evident Rabia and Luther are connected somehow, socially: maybe they were siblings once, even lovers? As their backstory presents itself to Michael, a psychological triangle develops between the two dualistic Janus and the painter himself.
“My favorite apartment was inside Segovia’s 1937 Hermann Hauser Sr. guitar, in Salobrena. Of course, I had many adventures all over the world in that tiny apartment. It smelled of Brazilian rosewood, olive oil, and copal. The classical transcriptions put me in the best sleeps. I have lived in many harps, horns, and pianos, but Segovia’s heartbeat through the soundbox was poetry; complete symbiosis of man and guitar.
This happens sometimes with musicians; they form a new body, fused with their instrument. This is why I constantly fall in love with them: they are gods, of spirit, not human. But alas, they must feed, they must fuck, they must navigate the horrible world, and ultimately burn themselves up with fire. Right to the bottle, they douse the flames. Right to the opiate, they salve the burns. They calm their temperature, right onto death.
But this is the silent proposition, this is the divergence, of solar soul and animal soul (earth soul). Music is just the human-inflected concept for cosmological speech. Whole worlds sing to themselves for no other reason than eternity is one large orchestral emanation; endemic art. The human mind can only grasp the most infantile musical concepts; only very few musicians can intuit the music of the cosmos. They are the composers, not the technicians. The technicians are merely acolytes, genuflecting as required. Still, they are the grist for the composer, and are holy, much like chickens and pigs are grist for the human stomach, they are holy.
Segovia played notes that were silent to most human ears. The good ones play in multiple spectrums of energy. Their impacts are felt across the rippling pond, all the way back, all the way forward. Of course that is ultimately why human beings are pitied: because the songs have clear voice: of love, universal love, beyond the lowly human fetishes. Musicians, and most true artists, have kept the world from destroying itself billions of times. They are the salubrious light in the darkness of pure ignorance.
If you really want to know, the earth was given up on eons ago. It’s these artists that have kept the whole damn thing afloat.”
“Lutherian secrets. Lutherian code. John Milton probably painted the intent of malevolence better than anyone, in his psychological portrait of Lucifer. But I don’t think persons this day and age, circa 2018, really know the ancient program that keeps man in chains. You see, the first rule of Lutherism is that you kill all reformers. You kill them because you can; you have to have that in you. And how do you have that trait within you? Quite simply (and elegantly), because you are the pure expression of power. Godly, cosmological brutishness. Thermodynamic reality of pressure and voids.
Genetics protect the powerful: makes them kings. Thus, the DNA-royal trust is with the loyalists of the ancient program. Some have speculated it is some Project X, some global conspiracy, some Skull and Bones coterie of uber-elites. Well, it is, but with a strict discipline not recognizable to our thinking, and for good reason.
Adherence to the code guarantees the success of the race. The master race. The kingly expression of the universe. The dominators. In this sense, of reality, the Lutherians are the nexus of nuclear power, flexible covert military, media prowess. Monetary wealth is just a by-product of the arrangement. Try to disturb the arrangement, and see what that gets you. Ask John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
Ancient mafia, with nuclear weapons, to test the mettle of man. Who has the gusto to rule the poker game? Who gets to call the shots? The coterie. The club. They are the ultimate expression of hunter-man. Gold, oil, platinum, cash, uranium, armies, viruses: just the tools of the game. But the game is life. Lutherians know that they are the cosmos’ expression of the Black Hole and the Supernovae made in the human inflection of true reality. All else — all scholarship, history, knowledge — are a fiction of obfuscation. What you know, from all you have read and all you have been told, is nowhere near the truth.
The truth is that power is as natural as the sun. And power, expressed as Darwinism, is the nature of Nature, beyond man. Lutherians know, in the bottom of their DNA, that the master race will not let real power ever waver again. There is not a single question that they, Luther’s children, would destroy the world in defense of their lifestyle, which requires unemotional subjugation and slavery, like EO Wilson’s ant-hive metalogic. From the top, all the way down, mankind is a herd animal. The shepherds know who they are, thank you very much. They would easily destroy the world than let you in, because they’ve done it many times before, and will so again. Adherents laugh at petty “morality” and the talk of a “soul.” What is not to understand in kill or be killed, rule or be ruled?
This is the elixir. For the coterie to achieve their position in the cosmos – and it has cosmic reach, beyond our comprehension – the plan must be adhered to, even if it means global suicide. That’s the absolute relish of the situation, borne from the ultimate in centralization and crass brinkmanship.
Let’s look at the recruitment of Luther’s armies: do not even begin to challenge the supremacy of video games and their indoctrination of future soldiers. The numbers are so solid as to be invisible to all analysis. What is sold as Xbox is in fact a normal day at the office. Sales, my friends, sales: not of money, or power, but of control, a hedge against the negation of the ultimate future. You think this is about oil-fields and castles and survival pods? This is hardly that: it is protecting mankind as the expression of DNA, the code of the universe, inflected in human form. DNA is the brain of the animal, is the animal. Flesh and bone is fodder, fish-meal. You, dear reader, are a vestige of earlier golden ages, when freedom had deep, real meaning beyond the weak theories you fancy you know today. You do not. You, the philosophical scholar, are in stasis. You espouse circumscribed terminal thinking because, like marketing, you have been handed all the derivative talking points. Your whole incentive structure to live was determined long ago by Luther’s minions. Just try to trace his lineage all the way to some identifiable group. You will only find flak at its most nuanced.
You are as nuanced in self-knowledge as stone is, as shit. What is fascinating is that the language of politics, and economics, and marketing, and media, is so terse, so thoroughly effective, that no other communication system can even begin to challenge the supremacy of Luther’s monolith. Any alternative systems of freedom need not be murdered, anymore; they simply need to be starved, in neglect. Poetry died in the corpse of Chief Seattle.
What remains is the language written in your psychology, today. You perceive this text, and all texts, as borrowed perceptions from the masters. Lutherians have a good laugh at this fact, when they’re drunk enough. But they don’t get too loose anymore: they have been temperate and moderate for eons now. Their health and survival are tantamount to the survival of the earth.
They are disciplined.”
Rabia is peace on earth, goodwill towards men. All pure poems in un-pure religions.
Rabia looks at DNA, that molecular acid, as being the golden code from which we may progress towards union with the cosmos. The reclamation of the whole. The counter-thesis of holy Darwinism hailed by Luther.
What’s the point in stark wiggling vitality if you slaughter your own kind, ad nauseum, from the hominid wars until now, that tired and exhausted script? Have your power, celebrate your ego, consume your solipsistic fire, sings Rabia. In counterpoint, Rabarians will be naked, feeding on the brotherly food of sentience, fresh water, campfire songs, and communal dancing. Power grabbing on its face is just plain tedious, even if it is rooted in cosmological truth. Better being pathetically human instead of being god-like, making human heaven here on human earth.
Hair, teeth, bone, menses. Mud in the toes. Negroid as midnight. Oriental as midday. Brown as putrid slaves. Peons, yes: dirty humans, but humble, with grace. Grace is power. Luther may be the white sperm of reality, but Rabia is the cloudy yoke of the egg, of the egg, of the egg. Love is picking your sister up, dusting her off, giving her some rice and a bedtime story. There really are no clocks and timepieces in the cosmos, no matter what you’ve heard. Einstein only had the chops for 4 dimensions.
Now, what of Rabia, this woman? She is as shapely as your shapeliest dreams. She is the white sunlight on skin and the gradient of the luscious shadow, where secrets lie. She is the clearest eye of the crystal: you can drink from her eye.
Her blood is warm: like a warm blanket at the beach at midnight. And her lips taste salty, which feeds her blood. Her laughter is the same as the play of children, and her passion is akin to a category 5 hurricane, or a 9.0 earthquake. She lives in Hopi caves, and in baskets, bowls and vases. Her breasts are the oceans; her pubis all humanity, with animals and insects.
Her hair is flaxen fields, walnut groves, and potatoes.
Her love is the antidote to the hate.”
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