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Saturday, February 11, 2006

8:10AM - MiniMeme Beta

MiniMeme is in beta. Upload your 100px by 100px image and add the code snippet to your website. Once you start displaying other user's images, yours will display as well. Broadcast your sigils or viral images to others on the Web. MiniMeme images do not link anywhere and may not contain text--your site will look sexier with a MiniMeme.


Tuesday, December 2, 2003

7:35PM - Bye bye

s.l.a.v.e. news has been inactive roughly since... oh... inception. That's because I'm an idiot. Anyway, if you're still illusioned and interested, I am actively maintaining goza as a magickal diary, and doing a fairly decent job of it.

I decided that I should get my shit together before I tried to be a prophet.




Monday, January 13, 2003

11:53AM - Excerpts from Randolph Carter

He had read much of things as they are, and talked with too many people. Well-meaning philosophers had taught him to look into the logical relations of things, and analyse the processes which shaped his thoughts and fancies. Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other. Custom had dinned into his ears a superstitious reverence for that which tangibly and physically exists, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying them full of meaning and purpose as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.

They had chained him down to things that are, and had then explained the owrkings of those things till mystery had gone out of the world. When he complained, and longed to escape into twilight realms where magic moulded all the little vivid fragments and prized associations of his mind into vistats of breathless expectancy and unquenchable delight, they turned him instead toward the new-found prodigies of science, bidding him find wonder in the atom's vortex and mystery in the sky's dimensions. And when he had failed to find these boons in things whose laws are known and measurable, they told him he lacked imagination, and was immature because he preferred dream-illusions to the illusions of our physical creation.

So Carter had tried to do as others did, and pretended that the common events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. He did not dissent when they told him that the animal pain of a stuck pig or dyspeptic ploughman in real life is a greater thing than the peerless beauty of Narath with its hundred carven gates and domes of chalcedony, which he dimly remembered from his dreams; and under their guidance he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

Once in a while, though, he could not help seeing how shallow fickle, and meaningless all human spirations are, and how emptily our real impulses contrast with those pompous ideals we profess to hold. Then he would have recourse to the polite laughter they had taught him to use against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams; for he saw that the daily life of our world is every inch as extravagant and artificail, and far less worthy of respect because of its poverty in beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own lack of reason and purpose. In this way he became a kind of humorist, for he did not see that even humour is empty in a mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.

IN the first days of his bondage he had turned to the gentle churchly faith endeared to him by the naive trust of his fathers, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to promise escape from life. Only on closer view did he mark the starved fancy and beauty, the stale and prosy triteness, and the owlish gravity and grotesque claims of solid truth which reigned boresomely and overwhelmingly among most of its professors; or feel to the full the awkwardness with which it sought to keep alive as literal fact the outgrown fears and guesses of a primal race confronting the unknown. It wearied Carter to see how solemly people tried to make earthly reality out of old myths which every step of their boasted science confuted, and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the ancient creeds had they been content to offer the sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

But when he came to study those who had thrown off the old myths, he found them even more ugly than those who had not. They did not know that beauty lies in harmony, and that loveliness of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the dreams and the feelings which have gone before and blindly moulded our little spheres out of the rest of chaos. They did not see that good and evil and beauty and ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole value lies in their linkage to what chance made our fathers think and feel, and whose finer details are different for every race and culture. Instead, they either denied these things altogether or transferred them to the crude, vague instincts which they shared with the beasts and peasants; so that their lives were dragged malodorously out in pain, ugliness, and disproportion, yet filled with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something no more unsound than that which still held them. They had traded the false gods of fear and blind piety for those of license and anarchy.

Carter did not taste deeply of these modern freedoms; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone while his reason rebelled at the flimsy logic with which their champions tried to gild brute impulse with a sacredness stripped from the idols they had discarded. He saw that most of them, in common with their cast-off priestcraft, could not escape from the delusion that life has a meaning apart from that which men dream into it; and could not lay aside the crude notion of ethics and obligations beyond those of beauty, even when all Nature shrieked of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in th elight of their scientific discoveries. Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of justice, freedom, and consistency, they cast off the old lore and the old way with the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that that lore and those ways were the sole makers of their present thoughts and judgements, and the sole guides and standards in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference. Having lost these artificial settings, their lives grew void of direction and dramatic interest; till at length they strove to drown their ennui in bustle and pretended usefulness, noise and excitement, barbaric display and animal sensation. When these things palled, disappointed, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they cultivated irony and biterness, and found fault with the social order. Never could they realize that their brute foundations were as shifting and contradictory as the gods of their elders, and that the satisfaction of one moment is the bane of the next. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a dream, and this solace the world had thrown away when in its worship of the real it threw away the secrets of childhood and innocence.

The Silver Key - H.P. Lovecraft


Saturday, September 21, 2002

1:02PM - s.l.a.v.e publications - issue #2

A bit may or may not have been mentioned about wendes, and some of you who have not had the good fortune to read A Good Old Fashioned Future may be wondering just what the hell a wende is. So I'll hopefully get around to explaining it in the next issue, hehe. For now, more rising action is in order, and here is s.l.a.v.e issue #2. Unfortunately, I have not had time to outline the entropic argument, but I felt that I better release something, before no one jumps off a cliff.

The anarchic po[e]tluck can be considered a mini-wende, or possibly the catalyst for a larger wende. My aim with the development of the po[e]tluck concept was to hijack a traditional social-reinforcement event and turn it into a tool of beautiful chaos. I could, you are saying to yourself, have done something more impressive. But, I say back to you, it would not have had a name as cool as the po[e]tluck. So nnnyeh!

As for issue #3, I have a forewarning. I'm hitting a busy spot in school, and I do not have a majority of the next few releases pre-written. Therefore, they may be scant even compared with the first two. Quit your bitching though, I says. If this were printed, you'd be 1) paying for it and 2) getting it quarterly or something. And remember, user submissions are welcome, provided they make it past my blazing laser-eyed editorial accuracy of doom. Other than that, some poetry may make its way up.

anarchic po[e]tlucks - revolutionary foreplayCollapse )


(1 subscriber | editorialize)

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

4:05PM - "Not An Issue, So Don't Cream Your Pants" Issue

A new layout for s.l.a.v.e. Welcome aboard artists, yuppies, and other non-functional aesthetes.

(2 subscribers | editorialize)

Saturday, September 14, 2002

2:54PM - s.l.a.v.e publications - issue #1

Welcome aboard, pirates. Issue number 1, unfortunately, has the sum total flavor of a McDonald's fish sandwhich. Please allow me fair time to crack my knuckles, do some editorial yoga, and get uncomfortable with the format. Contained herein is the public manifesto. A previous version was posted in dry academic language and then renounced by the final approved position paper. Keep in mind that s.l.a.v.e is as much an attempt at a myth as it is a "real thing." Granted, the difference is almost negligible throughout history, but hey.

Second of all, please comment freely, suggest revisions, right responses, anything. The only content I aim to control in any way are the actual newsletters themselves. If I ever manage to build up enough enthusiasm to print the newsletter, I would like to incorporate feedback in the actual production process. Anyone who has read The Art of War with the additional commentary, translations, and addendums included throughout history may be familiar with the concept.

All s.l.a.v.e articles coexist as neatly formatted Word documents. Let me know if you want a copy. I can also mail printouts, but I don't have stamps. I sometimes post these things around campus, so they're essentially in flyer form. I will also include a sneak preview at advanced releases, and some may have more than one article. If you'd like to actually submit something, e-mail it to me and include your LJ name, so I can read it and give you posting authority.

Quickly, what is s.l.a.v.e? So far, it is a semi-existent organization concerned with promoting ontological anarchy, wendes, poetlucks, and generally pursuing the possibilities of social disappearance/avoidance, self-rule, and evangelizing freedom. I am also pursuing the concept of liberating modern science (on the micro scale) from materialism and blending it with the alchemical/spiritual tradition. Maybe more on this later. I'd mostly like to encourage you to wrench your life out of anyone's hands but your own. But I sure as hell don't want to take over the government, or anything stupid like that.

Sneak Preview - Issue #2 - Anarchic Po[e]tlucks 100% Guaranteed! Slight possibility of the Entropic Argument. 30% Humidity. 20% more free (contents may settle during shipping)! Coming soon to a theatre near you...

the s.l.a.v.e manifestoCollapse )



Thursday, September 12, 2002

11:10PM - Welcome, s.l.a.v.e.

Thus commences the first in a conceivably long line of slow moving informations. The first issue of the s.l.a.v.e newsletter should hit your friends page (no one said we are non-violent) in like 3 to 4 somethings. Bite your arm if you can't hold it any longer. And now, some crap:


chaos I birthed you
my progenitor

pregnant of
mind scintillating
all blueberry fields

one two
red blue
go the patterns


all grown up now
get a job you
pathetic loser

patterns are stronger
diamond hard
than love itself

the beauty’s gone
moved on
never stays put


maybe one day
it’ll all come down

and we’ll be
standing there
parent and child

and we’ll eat blueberries juicy dripping
like the sex that got you in this mess