________________________________________________________________________________ II ---------------->> II <<----------------------------------------------------- <<------II------>> Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth II <<--II-->> OnLine Transmission V1.07 Ratio Zero II <<------II------>> July 23, 1991 ---------------->> II <<----------------------------------------------------- II Send all subscription inquiries, submissions, feedback, text, bitching, etc to: kitsune@u.washington.edu, vajra@u.washington.edu ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Special Request for Information on: Taoist alchemy & sexual yoga Chaos Magick Chemognosis Runelore -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 ] -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [ 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 +----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?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- > End ov TOPY ONline v1.07 < --------------------------------------------------------------------------------