“Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.”
― Jorge Luis Borges
As I was walking among the fires of Hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity, I collected some of their Proverbs.
If you’ve read through many of the supposed post-modern turn fabulists… a term I hate by the way! Stanislaw Lem, Jorge-Luis Borges, Italo Calvino, and so many others… One discovers – as John Barth would say, the “replenishment of literature under the heretical sign”. So counter-cultural weavings have always been there, but under various shadow disguises… Kabballah being the shadow of Torah, Magic the shadow of Hermeticism, Occult in general the child of political heresy and Gnosticism…
What Land and the CCRU gang did was to playfully reenact the heretical hyperfictions, update them for a new time-war sequence, create and absorb the underbelly of those political heresies in parody as a wake up call. Our age is itself the greatest hyperfictive enactment in history. We are living inside a horror novel that has locked the door, thrown away the key, and left the habitants with little or no recourse other than to wake up before it is too late; else die.
As Mark Twain once reminded us: “The list of things which we absolutely know, is not a long one, and we have not the luck to add a fresh one to it often, but I recognized that I had added one to mine this day. I knew, now, that it isn’t safe to sit in judgment upon another person’s illusion when you are not on the inside. While you are thinking it is a dream, he may be knowing it is a planet.” – “Three Thousand Years Among the Microbes”
Time-wars and bootstrapping events move ceaselessly through the vertical and geotraumatic spaces of our enslavement. We ponder the outer darkness, while all along we harbor the veritable enemy in our own blind mind. Unable to see the mote in our own eye, we introject it into the other and thereby continue the fake world of death and political malfeasance. Contrary to Sartre, Hell is not Other people, Hell is what we are and have always been: the eternal flames of desire captured in the endless repetition of a universal hyperworld, a labyrinth for those unlikely guests of time, ourselves.
If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.