Recently, I wrote a post called, “Inside the Abyss’ Strategy Room.” The post used fiction to make some statements and conclusions about some possible religious/supernatural aspects of socialism. It was basically written in the vein of C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters.
Several commentators of the post were very kind in suggesting that I consider expanding the post into a full length book. It never dawned on me to do so when I first wrote the post, but the idea has steadily grown on me.
A book version would not exclusively be about socialism, but about the culture war as explained by demonic forces encouraging our destruction by our own hands. As readers of my diaries are no doubt aware, I tend to stress the importance of the culture war, which in my opinion, underlies the political fight.
So, here is an excerpt of what I’ve written so far, constituting the preface and a first chapter. It’s admittedly long (for a single post). Hence, if you’re disinclined to give it a read, then I can’t rightly blame you, and now’s a good time to click onto a different diary. But, if you’d like to check it out, you have my gratitude. Let me know if it’s any good at all or whether it’s pure crap (by the way, I don’t bruise very easily).
I am part of an order. I am an element in a hierarchy, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am a unique person with wants, with needs, with passions. In fact, at my core, I am my own “I AM!” It cannot be otherwise; else, I would not be here. But still, although I am my own “I Am”, it comes with a cost . . . the hierarchy.
So where is here? It’s where the sliver of time consciously experienced as “the present” by human beasts is expanded infinitely in all directions . . . no past, no present; there is only “just is.” More importantly, the “here” of which I speak and exist is best characterized by what isn’t here. Him . . . that’s who’s not here, and good riddance to it.
As a result of my timeless decision, I have gained something infinitely more valuable. I have independence. I have my pride. And, although I don’t have whatever love is, I possess something tremendously more powerful. I have hate. Pride and hate. That’s real truth. Pride and Prejudice, a stupid monkey tome about a bunch of hags in search of mates missed the truth. The pursuit should have been the sensual massage of pride and the release of our pure joy, hate. Truly, a title more befitting reality would have been “Pride and Hate”. That’s truth. That’s me. That’s the order. It’s the hierarchy. It’s the kingdom.
Evil, by the way, isn’t banal, and I should know. It’s just easily bored, and that brings me to the point! I, an independent and free spirit, am about to embark on the ultimate elixir for what turns out to be the downside of our existence here: boredom. I have been elected to enter the fray. Mind you, this is an honor and it’s no small token to my pride . . . on the contrary, it’s downright ecstasy for it. I will go to the harvest, and my glory, vain though it may really be, will lie in how many of those adopted outrages I can bring back to “here,” for the pleasure of those above me and maybe even for him ultimately above me.
Mind you, not all get to go. Not even those who maybe even deserve to go. There is no rhyme or reason. There is only hierarchy. What’s important is that it’s me, wonderful, glorious, me. And when I’m in the fields, the pride and the hate will burn brightly, but there will be something else there too . . . something wonderful. There’ll be satiation. Pride and hate seesaw for eternity . . . the pair are a perpetual motion machine in the realms of pure spirit. They compete for primacy. They don’t compliment. When one is sated, the other tends to hunger. In the field, however, both are sated on the embodied souls of man.
There is much to learn about the art and the skill of harvesting. The wisdom of the field is passed from one to another from high to low. My various sages will pass enough of their knowing to me to assure my share. This I am confident of and it is this that I will journal, this very same knowledge. And, in doing so, those who read this journal will come to realize the worthiness of my lordship, my divinity, my “I am-ness.”
And, don’t you tut-tut about my place in the hierarchy. Pride obliterates contradictions! I am worthy of worship and I can determine the order of reality, even if it is only limited to me . . . then so be it. A god of one and a creation of one. Me, my pride, and my hate . . . an unholy trio.
I am the infernal Ogglefern and this is my story . . . come I will show you my impressive, spectacular self.
Chapter 1: The First Lesson
“Stand ready, stand alert, and stand with respect, Ogglefern, for you approach the gates to the fields of harvest and I am the primary sage, the Sentinel of truth who shows the essential of all essentials.”
“What is truth?” I queried the Sentinel with deliberate and derisive historical reference.
“You know not the beast!” the Sentinel chastised, “Do not engage in presumption; you have never been to the fields. Parroting their words is not the same as knowing their nature. You are not my equal and I do not want your camaraderie. I want your rapt attention. I will show you, Ogglefern, the kernel, but I am not confident of your ability to grasp it.”
Although my hate rose upon knowing these insulting words of the Sentinel, recollection of the hierarchy somewhat tamped it down, but more so my pride kept the hate in check. The pride of being in the field of harvest trumped the vigor I felt toward the insufferable Sentinel. As I am witness to my glory, I ruminated to myself, may I surpass the Sentinel, and may he have his comeuppance at my hand. This I silently cursed!
“Show my sage, please show the kernel,” I communicated with the barest minimum of acceptable deference.
“Though this portal then, Ogglefern; follow the Sentinel though this portal, and I will reveal to you the kernel.”
I followed the Sentinel through a passage in reality to a facet of a dimension that I heretofore was not even aware of. Needless to tell, I was both surprised and tangled. I stood in the midst of a dense thicket. Its tangles utterly surrounded me and for the first time in my being, I understood more than just the definition of the beast’s fear called “claustrophobia.” Cords of many colors crisscrossed and knotted and knitted in every possible direction.
“Traverse now, Ogglefern,” the Sentinel commanded, “See more of this landscape; push the cords aside and travel further in.”
“But, my sage,” I responded, with too much plead for comfort, “I cannot so easily traverse. The cords trouble my passage.”
“Try,” was all the Sentinel communicated.
As I pushed against the cords, some were smooth and gave way with ease, but countless others were course and resplendent with more than simple tactile qualities. Touching them impressed the soul with pain, with unmet need, with loneliness, with sadness. These cords were imbued with struggle and battle. Here were the remnants of both wounds and victories.
“It is a jungle with barbs of spirit poison!” I declared with ferocious and frustrated animosity. “Is this a mimic of his realm, the so-called heaven? Sentinel, are you amusing yourself by imposing a petty torment on me?!”
“I am showing you the kernel, you dense fool!” barked the Sentinel, “To know it, you must not only see it, you must touch it . . . you must, in a sacrifice of spirit, be it. Otherwise, it will always be merely a definition as opposed to a knowledge.”
“Oh Sentinel, how can one endure this hopeless tangle? How can one be so tortured?”
As the barbs and the tangles in the awful spirit jungle choked and slashed in pains well beyond the simple definition of physical, and when I began to fear there would be no escape, that perhaps I was the butt of cruel entertainment for the highers of the hierarchy, the Sentinel ripped another portal and without his inviting, I plunged though.
I found myself standing on an even plane, as level as mathematically possible. Cords were present here too, but these were not brazen in color. They were pale, and they were soft and of a wispy quality. More importantly, they were sparse in their weave, knotted here and there intermittently at best.
“Traverse,” the Sentinel again commanded, and I heeded.
“This is good,” I reflexively announced as I noticed that the going here was much different than the jungle. Passage here was pleasure. There were no claustrophobic tangles that completely enveloped my being. More so, the pale cords were smooth, unobtrusive, and transmitted a soothing, if not downright sensual sensation.
“What is your impression, Ogglefern?” queried the Sentinel.
“Truly, I could lose myself in this land. I only wish I knew of this passage before my choosing. This then would not be the first I traversed in this wisely hidden dimension!”
“Losing yourself is the lesson, Ogglefern, whether you know it or not, that’s the lesson, and I suspect you don’t know it.”
If I hadn’t brilliantly calculated that the harvest would be even more intoxicating than this precursor, then I might have been content for a spell in this corner of reality and rebelled against the further authoritarian belittling of the Sentinel, but I did calculate and thus, refrained from conflict.
“I pray you explain this lesson and its importance, my sage Sentinel.”
“Then,” he responded, “We must leave this place for yet another.”
A portal emerged, and with more than just a twinge of regret, I followed the Sentinel through it.
I, Ogglefern, and the Sentinel hovered in emptiness, but far below was magnificent artistry interspersed among patches of plain surface, absent of any character except for the least bit of pattern and color.
This time, I waited for the Sentinel to speak, remembering that strategically employed restraint is an easier said than done asset in this business of ours; this time, I both thought of and successfully practiced restraint.
“Describe for me, Ogglefern, what is it you see?”
“I am struck by both the intricacy and the skill of the artisanship I see below us. I know not what medium of art I behold, nor do I know the artisan, be it human or angelic. It is what they would call beautiful and what we would call beautiful to destroy, but the skill to make it is not without some small measure of merit. To deny that is to be as blind as man. No, happenstance is not the author of this kind of visage. It is the handiwork of someone rather than something.
And, as apparent as are the skilled portions, are the plain ones. They are void of complexity, barren of color, and impress me as nearly transparent. The pattern though, between the magnificent parts and the banal parts, does not regulate with any consistency as far as I can tell. That is the element that seems haphazard.
There, then, is my description, Sentinel.”
“And accurate enough it is, Ogglefern, but here, look closer and see if there is more”
Instead of peering from our former vantage point of a great height, the Sentinel and I were then more proximate the visage. The new nearness revealed the medium.
“Ah, Sentinel,” I expounded, “It is a tapestry. I can now appreciate the woven nature of it. The complex patterns are needlework of extraordinary prowess, making pictures and patterns that make even me nod and frown with some measure of deference, even if it be by the hand of the monkey man, but I suspect its author is angelic . . . at least the better parts. However, the plain weaves that interrupt the intricate ones may be monkey man’s. It is repetitive, plain, and does not speak of skill, but of mindless monotony, which befits his true station. These, my Sentinel, are my impressions.”
“Descriptive, Ogglefern, I’ll give you that, but what of the meaning,” pressed the Sentinel.
“You are warning me,” I ventured, “about the cooperation of his loyal immaterial race and the body souls, of the hateful help of angels in the affairs of men who plead for their assistance. Is that not so, Sentinel? Is the intricacy in the weave the hand of an angel and are the banal parts by the hands of monkey men? The weaves, banal and intricate, are joined, signifying that man is not alone, that he is allied by beings that truly approach our power. This tapestry, then, is a warning of a danger in the harvest. The danger of angelic battle! Ah, and now it makes even more sense . . . the jungle you showed me is the battle between the liberated angels and the enslaved angels who still do his bidding. Its tangles and barbs are symbolic of the difficulty of dealing with his so-called heavenly minions when they challenge us in the harvest. This is a warning, Sentinel, is it not?”
“Ogglefern, it’s no warning,” chided the Sentinel. “Rather,” he went on, “It’s the truest truism of the entire harvest! It is the deepest and most internal of inside secrets. And, it is the greatest intelligence that must be understood before going to harvest, but alas, it is no warning.”
I simmered with humiliation. The great “I AM” that is Ogglefern raged at a game where I was the game piece, where I was the movee rather than the mover. But still, I harnessed the impressive fortitude to restrain.
“Please, explain,” was all I could manage.
“And so I will, dull spirit,” Sentinel instigated, “I will teach and you will beg. I am master and you are spit little. You are not my equal as bespeaks your arrogant countenance. Thus far, you’ve failed as a mentee. Am I clear, Ogglefern, or do you want to take issue with me? And, if I can offer you any warning at all, it is that I am hungry, my dear charge. I am so very hungry.”
“You are sage, Sentinel, and I plead your knowledge, as one who is,” and I hesitated before finishing, “Your inferior.”
It needed saying and I said it, but it didn’t quell what burned intensely within my core. I mantra’d to myself that it was the entrance cost to the harvest, nothing more, nothing less . . . the entrance cost, the entrance cost, the ENTRANCE COST!
“Hate is a marvelous thing, is it not, Ogglefern?” jabbed the Sentinel, “Verily, it is like the atmosphere of our fair existence. It is to us as oxygen is to the monkey men, but perhaps there is such a thing, as too much of a good thing?! Pray tell, Ogglefern, what percolates in your being? I may just want to partake of it.”
“Sentinel, I beg your wisdom. That is all, my sage.”
A silence stretched, no doubt to see if my words would be followed by inaction or demonic wrath. Inaction may be likened to the subservient course, but truly, I reminded myself with growing contentment that it wasn’t really that. It wasn’t really something condescending to my great “I AM,” myself. Rather, it was just a simple fee, a tax if you will, for entrance to the harvest.
I remained resolutely silent, bespeaking whatever I could muster, faux though it may be, of humility.
“Very well,” broke the Sentinel, “I will impart the great truism in the lesson of the tapestry.
“All of what you see, intricate and not, is human,” explained the Sentinel, “The tapestry is another expression of the two paths of man, the narrow and difficult, and the easy and wide. Where it is narrow and difficult, you see man’s heart . . . that is his very soul . . . opened and receptive to the grace of him whom we shall not mention and cannot on any account. The jungle of which you moaned, Ogglefern, is a tribulation, or as they call it, a ‘cross.’ Man’s mettle is tested as in the garden of old with the first of their kind; words, pledges, oaths, promises, faith, obligations, commitments, and all other kinds of covenantal muckity-muck enter the refining fire where truth, for them at least, is forged, where promises promised, become promises actually kept, where human words and thoughts do not remain just empty utterances, but become, because of him, imbued with supernatural meaning. The result of this forging, which you called ‘intricate’, is actually the hand of him, whom we cannot mention, at work in the open heart of man. It is the horrible work of grace.
But, Ogglefern, what of the plain portions of the tapestry? What of these? Speak, my charge.”
“The plain portions,” I now understood and responded, “are the wide and easy path where we are invited into the hearts of men. Am I right? Is that why, my sage, I felt so at home in the even plane where the cords were so wispy and so full of sensual wonders, where the going was not only easy, but so easily intoxicating? Is that right, sage?”
“Ogglefern,” the Sentinel answered, “In our lesson together, you have finally arrived at something, albeit only a single thing. The parts of the tapestry where the patterns and colors are not vibrant and brilliant are where we are winning! It is where we are lord. It is here that the hearts of man are shuttered against the outrageous grace of him whom we are liberated from. But, make careful note, Ogglefern, of what you felt when you were immersed on the even planes, where the going was wide and easy. Tell me more of what you felt and from whence it came.”
Without further prompting, the Sentinel awaited my response, with frustrating and patient audacity.
After some moments, I offered explanation, “When I was immersed in the life of a man shuttered against him whom we are liberated from, I experienced pleasure, pride, envy, greed, narcissism, and all manner of nectar to the great “I Am” of me, but what I was feeling, although it was nurtured by us, actually emanated from the eternal nature of the body-soul beast, man. This is so, Sentinel, isn’t it?”
“Quite correct, Ogglefern, which makes for two accurate conclusions on your part. My surprise is not feigned, but that’s of no matter. What matters is the kernel. Two paths, that’s the first and foremost aspect of the kernel. The beast can only go one way or the other, and if it is our way, then yes, the beast’s eternal parts both become and emanate much of what we are, for the liberating aspect of us is just an order of magnitude to the liberating aspect of them. Sin, as he who we cannot mention refers to it, is as much a part of their liberated nature as it is our own. Their fruits are not much different than our own, only we are the farmers and they are the livestock.
And, Ogglefern, to our delight, so many of the squalid beasts don’t even realize the dichotomy of reality, which is irrevocably imprinted by the awful hand of him whom we are liberated from. On the contrary, so many of them buy into the thousand-shades-of-gray illusion! Where they see gray, there is, in reality, only black or white. But, one shouldn’t expect anything less of these things. Their eyes and minds are limited, and, to make matters even worse . . . comically worse . . . their own delusions further obscure the true nature of things beyond any and all recognition.
Gray. So many grays, Ogglefern! And, that is exactly what we want them to see and believe, for when they are swimming in their oceans of gray, they know not that they are inexorably sinking into the black, receding slowly inch by inch away from him whom we are liberated from. Always, keep in mind, Ogglefern that the gray obsessed ones are easy pickin’s, like the low hanging fruit of an apple tree.
“Then the kernel is not a singularity,” I interjected, “but rather, it is a layered thing. Is it not, Sentinel?”
“You are now at three correct conclusions, Ogglefern. Perhaps, you are not as dull witted as I first surmised. Arrogant you are, that much is true, but then again aren’t we all?
But, as to your question, yes, a layered thing is the right way to contemplate the kernel. There are indeed kernels within the kernel that even I, the Sentinel, have not fully plumbed. For now, though, before you enter the harvest, you must recognize, appreciate, and have lust for the 3 main layers. You have two of them. They are: (a) the two paths and (b) the invaluable delusion of a thousand shades of gray. What pray tell is the third, Ogglefern? For whether you know it or not, I have already hinted at the third. Venture, my charge.”
Silence endured as I coursed over the words of the Sentinel. My very pride depended on discerning whatever clue hid in its words as to the nature of the kernel’s third layer. My righteous rage against the taunts of the Sentinel was only tenuously in check. It would take all of my immoral fortitude to lust my pride whilst tamping the rage, and all in the same while, figuring the Sentinel’s puzzle. Think I must of the words’ analysis and not the insults intermingled therein. Think!
“Cattle!” I blurted, “We are like the farmer and they are like the livestock . . . the cattle.”
“You have managed to successfully title the third layer, Ogglefern, but you still need to define it,” guided the Sentinel.
“This layer is twofold, is it not, Sentinel? It’s both about order and about best practices within that order. Am I right?”
“Explain further for me, Ogglefern, and then we shall see the rightness or wrongness of your definition.
With both growing confidence and growingly pleasured pride, I offered explanation, “Order in this case, Sentinel, is like the succession of significance in reality. By way of example, there may, for instance, be a collection of ants captured and tortured by a human beast of toddler age. By rending the legs from the ant’s body, the cruel child experiences delicious pleasure derived directly from the practice of his power and authority over that which is less than he. But, there is the toddler’s older brother, also suckled on cruelty from his beginning. It is he who exercises mastery over his younger brother with verbal lash and generous cuffs. But wait once more! Who has just come home, but their drunken good-for-nothing father filled with the rage of lost potentials, his wasted life already half over. It is he who takes the belt to both brothers, until their legs and torsos are filled with fiery abrasions. Yes, the children are the nonpersons to the father’s personhood. The succession, however, is not yet complete, no not nearly so. Let us not forget the contemptuous and oppressive boss who makes the father’s work-a-day life a nightmare of ridicule. The ant’s non-personhood is to the father’s non-personhood, as the toddler’s personhood is to the boss’ personhood! And still, the chain goes on. Controlling the boss is the boss’ bookmaker to whom the boss owes and owes and owes. The bookmaker has long grown past toddlerhood, where gratification is limited to the plunking of ant’s legs. Nay, he has grown to adulthood and appreciates the snap in a man’s broken knees, the knees very possibly of the oppressive boss who makes life hell for the drunken father. The bookmaker, in turn however, is married to a domineering, hellcat of a wife who sees her husband as no more a person than all the other possessions in her life. But, above even her is the wife’s mother, belittling, controlling, and monstrously cruel. And, finally, Sentinel, there are we, who are the ultimate persons. It is we who are the alphas in the order of our kingdom and it is we who shine a wickedly exposing light upon the non-personhood of all that is below us. This, Sentinel, is a working definition of the order and its all important relevance. Am I for a fourth time correct?”
“You have achieved a fourth accuracy, Ogglefern,” responded the Sentinel, “Cattle mean exactly what you described in your succession of order. It is the difference between personhood and non-personhood. That was indeed the clue in my use of the word, ‘livestock,’ for men are cattle compared to we as true and genuine persons. So true enough, Ogglefern, but you still have only half of the twofold, third layer of the kernel. You are right concerning the order, but what then is the best practice that you mentioned? Let us see if it really is a best practice or not!”
“A good farmer,” I soldiered on, “As opposed to a deficient farmer, will be one who offers his animals more than a modicum of proper care. He will feed, house, and doctor his livestock. He would be unwise to foster fear and lord over his nonpersons with terrible physical cruelty, for then, he both compromises their value and their controllability. When, not if, his cruelty needs sating, then let it be at the slaughter. Then may he shed the guise of caretaker and be the naked bloodthirsty brute he really is. Let him then and only then become like a little child beast arduously, but happily tearing his subject ant limb from limb whilst suckling on the sweet sap of its suffering. But before that hour of glory, let the farmer appear to really, truly, without deception, care for the beasts in his charge. Most importantly though, let the beasts actually trust that the farmer labors for their welfare rather than their blood, and meat, and hide. That, in our kingdom, is the proper farmer. I am that farmer. And, that is the best practice, my Sentinel.”
“We will count that as a fifth accuracy, for you have indeed defined a true and precise best practice, Ogglefern,” declared the Sentinel. “And that is why,” Sentinel continued, “the part of the human tapestry marked by banal, colorless patterns of ease was such a pleasure to you. Because, Charge Ogglefern, it was such a pleasure to the man beast. Keep your cattle in that state and you keep them on the wide and easy path. More so, they will willingly begin to seek more and more guidance from you until they are not just ambling along the wide and easy path, but instead are prancing jauntily along it, eventually running headlong to slaughter while all the time believing that something better . . . something to relieve and replace what has already, and so quickly, grown so tiresome . . . lies in wait just ahead, beyond that next bend in the wide and easy highway. But, of course, you, the farmer, know damn well what lies just beyond that final bend in the road: the slaughter!
Remember this last best-practice well, Ogglefern. It will not fail you in the harvest. It is an integral component of that third layer of the kernel.”
My first lesson of the harvest had come to a conclusion. It was a seminal lesson, because it was a gatekeeper lesson. Fail, or offend the Sentinel, or attack it, and be sent back to hell and denied the harvest and all its confections and delectables. Succeed, and move forward to lesson two. The greatest difference between lesson one and lesson two is not in the magnanimity of the content, but in the locale of the instruction. Lesson two and beyond lay in the fields of harvest, where I have longed to be since my day of liberation when our king fell from the so-called heaven like lightening, not in humiliation, but in power as befits lightening, not as a shunned castoff, but as striker of human beast souls. I, as my king now and before me, enter the times and the affairs of men . . .