With the upcoming Dreamachine and Brion Gysin lecture by Gen, it seems an ideal time to post Gen's 1986 Tribute to Brion from ESOTERRORIST (selected essays 1980-1988)
"HIS NAME WAS MASTER"
HIS NAME WAS MASTER
In 1916 Brion Gysin arrived screaming and kicking, suffering forever, he said, from thee adverse effects ov constricted vaginal muscle. Projected through a world that was like Disneyland into a world that became Disneyland, via a port ov entry charged by light. Brion travelled in time and light, and made us all cry easier than loose in our own earthbound domesticity.
E am coumvinced, always will be, that Brion is, was and will be, a Cultural Alchemist.
He could be so negative, stubborn and cantakerous, that screaming suicide off high buildings became more enlightening than his clammed up viscocity ov no-speak. Frustrating all attempts to a direct answer to a direct question, he would benignly draw on his kit, and, eyes twinkling, play magickal Cat and Mouse for literally hours on end. E have never met a more knowledgeable, more capable teacher anywhere, either as myth or saint, or, as in Brion's case, as human. At thee end ov thee day he was thee only man E ever wrote love letters to. To master a long goodnight...
And now, in present time. He's not here. And it hurts. It hurts coumpletely. In thee way that sneaks into us unnanounced, cutting nerves and emotions, crippling our coumplacent daily stance and opening up our pain synapses to snapping point.
In 1975 E wrote to Brion. E was co-editor ov a reference book ov mammoth proportions called "Contemporary Artists", and E was determined that Brion should be rightfully represented in that tome as a radical Artist and Painter. Not dismissed as an eccentric dilletanie as had appeared to have happened in thee deceptual art world. For ten yeras E had, like so many, been tracking down these renegades via deleted Beach Books, often found in Soho porn shops. Exploding with multiple recognitions ov contemporary arcane knowledge that appeared to coumfirm youthful instincts and intuitions, Brion was always thee hardest to find.
He remained that way forever.
He had becoum light.
There was no focus, only reverberating frequencies and pulses, crystals at his centre. He had becoum, quite literally and physically, a Dreamachine that had assumed human form for thee reassurance ov us mere observers. We stare with closed eyes. He flickers bright on our retinas and generates vivid signals. E see all about Brion as Magick and Light. E re-discovered perception through him.
Out to Brion went a list ov questions about his life so far. Back came a cultured exclamation ov surprise with a note, "Even the C.I.A. don't know this much about me". Through correspondence we met in Paris. He would make tea in his tiny kitchen, Morroccan style. Naming thee different bubbles as thee water heated. As thee fish eyes appeared he poured thee water onto thee tea. Exploding its flavour. Thee Alchemists believe that water boils at 101°, he explained. We soon developed a tradition, chocolate biscuits and tea in thee afternoons. A small pasta meal in thee evening, with spirits to accoumpany it. Coffee later on. E would sit. Thee sound ov drumming outside thee Pornpidou centre. Flashes ov Marrakpsh. Sunlight catching thee white flowers on his table, smell ov hash smoke. Swiss Urenmachine in thee corner. Calligraphic paintings on thee easel. Notebooks in rows. Morroccan trinkets reminding me ov his influence ovpr Brian Jones. And he would talk. It was like a children's fairytale. Thee child looking up spellbound and thee Grandfather enrapturing with his amazing tales and anecdotes. Never enough time. Yellow light cutting across thee later shadows and dreams. There is no way to describe how proud E was to meet and know this man.
"the hallucinated have come to tell you that yr utilities are being shut off, dreams monitored, thought directed, sex is shutting down everywhere you are being sent.
all words are taped, agents everywhere, marking
down the live ones to exterminate.
they are turning out the lights.
no they are not evil nor
the devil, but men with a spot of work to do.
this, dear friends, they intend to
do on you you.
you have been offered a choice
between liberty and freedom and NO! you cannot have both"
Brion Gysin
minutes to go
1968
Thee way to write is to simply tell thee truth. The right way is to simply, tell thee truth.
"DEarset Gen There is not much point in telling you just how negative I am feeling these days... daze. I
have not much recovered from my fall on the stairs. After all is said and done, I felt only one thing. . .
...finished. I don't feel any necessity to do all these things but I guess I'll do them if I am still
stuck here and have to do them. I'll do them the best that I can and that may not be much. Don't worry.
Nothing much more to be said than dumb numb no-news."
Love Brion
17 March 1982
And within everything else there is coumthing else. It's a spark. E live forver surrounded by Brion. He paintings on thee walls, his face in snapshots on thee mantelpiece. Thee glow ov Paris light. Caresse calls him "Grandad, my Grandad", and she is right. Thee wise old man ov thee lowlands. When E took Alaura to meet Brion for thee first time E was nervous. He's a bit ov a misogynist E warned. Well, he tries to be, butter E have always found him charming to women nonetheless. Alaura knew nothing about Brion except my love for him. Her love was instant and pure. He coumgratulated us on our impulsive marriage in Tijuana in 1981. Chance had it that two boys from Joujouka were staying with him In Paris that week. Brion made us relaxed. Alaura used thee Dreamachine.
Unprompted by any prior information about what it was, "Heathen Earth" played as she and thee Arab boys stared, ryes closed. E filmed on video. Soon Alaura was swirling through psychedelic patterns and vivid colours. Thee desert scapes, eyes ov Horus, so many archetypal symbols and places. Proof positive that thee Dreamachine actually works, is not triggered by preconceptions. And afterwards, thee most beautiful, priceless and special meal ov my whole life. Cooked and served by tht'e musicians ov Joujouka. As we ate and talked, Brion was full ov energies, thee boys played thee sacred musick ov Pan on pipes in candlelight. E was once more in a fairytale, thee old magician conjouring sensations and rewards.
E have never lost my joy and thanks for such a special gift from Brion. Nothing could have been more literally priceless than that dark, orange, flamelit evening. At thee end ov thee evening, he gave us a painting. Our pagan wedding present, which he inscribed for us. All thee fears and illnesses, all thee betrayals and losses ov his life, his bittrrnesses and fliratations with socialites were nothing. He was thee wisest, kindest man in thee world, and we loved him totally for it.
Brion's work and friendship is a reminder ov work to be done, and a challenge to thee stagnant coumplacency ov thee dreamless minds that would like to drown us. Magick begins ini dreams, dreaming what we would like to happen, programming our subconscious. If you take these dreams seriously enough they DO happen. Dreams are descriptions ov. how things really are. A product ov thee Third Mind, ov perceptual editing and focused will.
Dreams are accurate transmissions.
There should be no separation between work, life, dreams. We must all aim for coumplete integration ov every possible and impossible facet ov our minds, emotions, responses and relationships, and then express that integration through popular culture and expressive arts, through frpndships and events, through light and time.
Brion was a philosophical and alchemical transmitteri receiver. His ideas are frequencies that travel and confront as intimately as Television, butter with thee content ov full knowledge and potency ov shamanic, ritual Magick. No womnder he fell in love with thee Pipes ov Pan and thee sunlight ov thee desert. There should be no separation. Separation would be dishonest, would go against a dream ov evolution through knowledge and psychic development, would go against all our potential.
A book, a film, music, paintings, love, are all thee person who makes and feels them. This is a magickal process and makes things happen. It reveals even more. Thee first time E looked at Brion's drawings they appeared abstract calligraphics. Then he told me they were portrayals ov Arab market places. E could suddenly see they were indeed photographically accurate pictures ov everyday scenes. They simply included thee nature ov reality and time that engages our receptors in a manner we are unused to. Now E always introduce his paintings as figurative works to make this point. Man dreams before he talks, and since our first dreams we have felt that therein are messages. Prophesies, descriptions and events that cannot be ignored. Arcane societies and civilisations in their wisdom, and to their credit, employed people to interpret and record these dreams. Priests would stand on towers and pass their hands before their eyes rapidly creating a flicker effect against thee sun, eventually "tripping out" and speaking ov visions which were coumsidered holy and powerful.
Today, a society and culture with a vested interest in thee suppression ov imagination, self-assurance, creativity, questioning and aspiration, discards dreams and esoteric techiques as trivia. Dreams are merely disturbed nights, or entertainment. Brion saw dreams as a parallel and interconnected universe. A commentary on Man's potential and hopes.
He was in many ways a traditional Artist, yet by thee nature ov his personality he was simultaneously and without self-contradiction thee most radical thinker ov our age in thee area ov Magickal creativity and cross-discipline possibilities. No surprise then, that his greatest political and behavioural achievement was dubbed The 'Dreamachine. A simple machine to decondition and reactivate our perceptions.
Societies controllers try to ensure that dreams are represented as vestigial trappings ov intuition, and are best kept in their place. For Brion and those who revere his work, that way lies death. When you cease to dream, you cease to exist. Shut your eyes. Thee world doesn't die. Open them, and in a sense half ov it does. Dreams generate ideas, liberate behaviour, enhance sexuality, empower Magick, and most ov all create possibilities.
Dangerous stuff.
No wonder Brion was frozen out to thee sideshows ov painting and writing. Too real. Too close to functional and practical techniques. Now, through Brion, we have a Dreamachine. Perhaps a crucial tool for thee arousal ov vision, perception and inner space that has becoum our heritage. Make no mistake, its suppression in subtle ways was no accident. A machine that for thee price ov a lightbulb leads you drugless into thee core ov your being, taps you into thee mass subconscious, stimulates thee mind, and bridges thee abyss between sleep and wakefulness, conscious and unconscious life. Brion recognised that we are at war. Thee fight is between suppression and perception, sexuality and guilt; and between all those things that bolster and assist control, manipulation and darkness, and all those things that encourage freedom, evolution, hope and light.
In thee eleven yeras we were friends, thee question E most asked Brion was, "Tell me about Magick". Thee question he most studiously avoided was thee same. Yet he once graciously gave me a clue. "Do you know your real name?", he said. E did. And then he told me his. It was as E expected.
There was never a superiority or generation gap with Brion. He was always living in now and thee future. In present time. Thinking ov new projects, working with young people, making music, records, painting. Holding 'soirees' for young fans and seekers, always outgoing and moving, always absorbing and thinking. Thee last time we saw him was in Paris in 1986, ten days before he died. Alaura and E sat and held his hand. Being physically alive had becoum a struggle,
"I just never guessed that it would hurt so much", he said. And really there was nothing more to say. It was over.
Brion was sure he was here to go. We are left here to do.
And what we do is described by, defined by, and coumtained within our dreams.
During that last afternoon thee undertaker came to discuss death arrangements with Brion. Alaura and E went walking around Rue St.Martin. We couldn't articulate thee craziness ov life and death. There was nothing to say. Two boys from behind thee iron curtain stopped us, and told us ov their work with electrical sculpture and words. They were influenced by thee work ov Brion, who they'd heard lived in Paris. We drank coffee and took their address. Exiles in America. "He doesn't live in Paris anymore". E said. We felt euphorically disconnected, yet cold. Suppressing out- emotions and terrors because they meant nothing. Had no value against losing Brion. So many people who love him so much. All knowing they will lose him soon.
Frail Images ov his room. Now n hospice. 1 her air itself thee colour ov thee plastic tubes nnd bags ov liquid. Casting a cold bluish tinge through everything. As thee light was going from him, his space was becouming transparent.
Ten days later Alaura came rushing into thee room crying, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Brion's dead", she said.
genesis p-orridge
November 1986
london
Monday, July 5, 2010
Upcoming:July 13 and 15th 2010: Brion Gysin and dreamachine lectures...
July 13. 2010 - 8pm Dream Machine, A Celebration with performances by York Factory Complaint and John Zorn & Bill Laswell
July 15 - 7pm Genesis Breyer P-Orridge lecture at New Museum
Genesis Breyer P-Orridge in Conversation about Brion Gysin and Other Matters
The New Museum will present “Brion Gysin: Dream Machine,” the first US retrospective of the work of the painter, performer, poet, and writer Brion Gysin (born 1916, Taplow, UK–died 1986, Paris). Working simultaneously in a variety of mediums, Gysin was an irrepressible inventor, serial collaborator, and subversive spirit whose considerable innovations continue to influence musicians and writers, as well as visual and new media artists today. The exhibition will include over 300 drawings, books, paintings, photo-collages, films, slide projections, and sound works, as well as an original Dreamachine—a kinetic light sculpture that utilizes the flicker effect to induce visions when experienced with closed eyes. “Brion Gysin: Dream Machine” is curated by Laura Hoptman, Kraus Family Senior Curator, and will be on view in the New Museum’s second floor gallery.
“An exhibition of an artist who died more than twenty years ago represents an approach to the notion of the new that is somewhat different from the Museum’s standard—one that emphasizes relevance and fresh information over chronology, and brings to the fore a relatively neglected yet very influential innovator who continues to have a strong impact on artists working today,” said Laura Hoptman.
In 1959, Gysin created the Cut-Up Method, in which words and phrases were literally cut up into pieces and then rearranged to untether them from their received meanings and reveal new ones. His Cut-Up experiments, which he shared with his lifelong friend and collaborator William S. Burroughs, culminated in Burroughs and Gysin’s The Third Mind, a book-length collage manifesto on the Cut-Up Method and its uses. Transferring this notion to experimenting with tape-recorded poems manipulated by a computer algorithm, Gysin created sound poetry and was among the earliest users of the computer in art. At the same creative moment, Gysin conceived of the Dreamachine. During the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, Gysin would continue his collaborations, and prove to be a mentor for myriad artists, poets, and musicians, from John Giorno to Brian Jones, to David Bowie and Patti Smith, to Genesis Breyer P-Orridge and Keith Haring, among many others.
“Brion Gysin: Dream Machine” will be accompanied by an illustrated catalogue co-published with Hugh Merrell, Ltd., featuring essays by Laura Hoptman; John Geiger, literary scholar and author of the definitive Gysin biography; Gerard Audinet, Chief Curator of the Musée d’art moderne de la ville de Paris, which houses Gysin’s artistic estate; James Grauerholz, Gysin’s friend and literary executor; as well as appreciations by contemporary artists, musicians, and poets including George Condo, Paul Elliman, Ugo Rondinone, Rirkrit Tiravanija, Cerith Wyn Evans, Shannon Ebner, Trisha Donnelly, and Sue de Beer.
New Museum
235 Bowery
New York, NY 10002
212.219.1222
Banner image: Bryon Gysin with Dreamachine at Musée des Art Décoratifs, Paris, 1962. © Harold Chapman/Topham/The Image Works
Sunday, July 4, 2010
sleeve notes to Tekno Acid Beat by DJ Doktor Megatrip
"This is revolution for the hell of it. A politics of ecstasy that burns out your brains in the ultimate freakbeats. Part of the Human Be-In, the pulsing Acid Test. Expanding the frontiers of Space Technology. Your Space. Preserve your space. Be cool. SMILE. S.M.I.I.L.E. Space-Migration/Intelligence Increase/Life-Extension. Play loud and play non-game ecstasy. Designed to produce the psychedelic experience through the use of light and sound. Tune in, turn on the Acid House. Unity for the HELL of it."
DJ Doktor Megatrip
1988-1968
sleeve notes to Tekno Acid Beat
DJ Doktor Megatrip
1988-1968
sleeve notes to Tekno Acid Beat
“Last Words Of Hassan Sabbah”
(transcribed from the following audio files:
(1) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=caFiSBl-zUs
(2) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyYJ9HWcLq0 – RB)Oiga amigos! Oiga amigos! Paco! Enrique!
The last words of Hassan Sabbah,
the Old Man of the Mountain!
Listen to my last words, anywhere!
Listen all you boards, governments, syndicates, nations of the world,
and you, powers behind what filth deals,
consummated in what lavatory,
to take what is not yours,
to sell out your sons forever!
To sell the ground from unborn feet for ever, for eve – r!
Listen to my last words any world!
Listen if you value the bodies
for which you would sell all souls forever!
I bear no sick words junk words love words forgive words from Jesus.
I have not come to explain or tidy up.
What am I doing over here,
with the workers, the gooks, the apes, the dogs,
the errand boys, the human animals?
Why don’t I come over with the board
and drink coca-cola and make it?
“Now for Godsakes, don’t let that Coca-Cola thing out!”
Thing is right, Mr Whoever is responsible for that who-done-it!
Explain how the blood and bones and brains of a hundred million
more or less gooks went down the drain in green piss
so you on the boards could use bodies, and minds,
and souls that were not yours, are not yours, and never will be yours.
You want Hassan Sabbah to explain that? To tidy that up?
You have the wrong name and the wrong number,
Mr Luce Getty Lee Rockefeller!
“Don’t let them see us, don’t tell them what we are doing!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
“Don’t let them see us, don’t tell them what we are doing!
Not the cancer deal with the Venusians, not the green deal!
Don’t let that out!
Disaster, unevaluable disaster!
Don’t show them that!
These things take time and that’s my business.”
As usual, Mr Luce! Short time to go. Minutes to go!
Blue heavy metal people.
“Don’t let that out!
Don’t show them the blues!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
“And don’t whatever you do let them see us.”
Crab men! Tape worms! Intestinal parasites!
Squeezing the air, eat it, and shit it out, and eat it again, forever!
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!
Disas – pay!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards, syndicates,
cartels of the earth?
the great banking families of the world,
French, English, American?
like Burroughs, that proud American name?
Proud of what, exactly? Would you all like to see exactly what
Burroughs has to be proud of?
The Mayan caper, the centipede hype,
the short time racket, the heavy metal gimmick?
All right, Mister Burroughs, who bears my name and my words,
bear it all the way, for all to see, in Times Square, in Piccadilly.
Play it all, play it all, play it all back!
Pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back!
Listen : the word comes before English American German French,
the jaded minds are arsenic for all,
now the bones went – use never you have light.
All of you, all, all, all, green people, crab people,
blue heavy metal people,
compliments of Mister Burroughs for the heavy metal gimmick.
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!
Premature! Premature! Reconversion, reconversion blues … “
Shall I show them the blues?
“No! No! No!
Premature! Premature! Premature!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
I say to all : these words are not premature.
These words may be too late.
Minutes to go. Minutes to go. Minutes to goo. Minutes to green goo.
What I have to say is everywhere now.
Rub out the word Jew, and you rub out the word Hitler.
The answer comes before the question.
My words are for all – for all,
I repeat for all!
No one is excluded!
Free to all who pay, free to all who pain pay, for all to see,
for all to see!
In Piccadilly, in Times Square, Place de la Concorde,
in all the streets and plazas of the world!
Pay, pay, pay!
Play it all, play it all, play it all back!
Pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back!
See my writing the silent – across all your skies,
the silent writing of Brion Gysin – Hassan Sabbah.
All out of time! All into space! Forever!
Take what is not yours to skies squeezing the eye bodies forever
All out of time! All into space! Forever!
You cannot take words into space.
That is all, all, all, Hassan Sabbah.
You cannot take woman into space.
I repeat, you cannot take woman into space.
That is all, all, all, Hassan Sabbah.
See my writing the silent – across all your skies,
the silent writing of Brion Gysin – Hassan Sabbah,
the silent writing of space, the writing of Hassan Sabbah.
Look! Look! Look!
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!”
Are these the words of the great nations, the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
These are the words of liars, and cowards, and collaborators,
and traitors, collaborators with insect people,
with any people anywhere who offer you a body forever,
to shit forever.
For this you have sold your sons forever,
the ground from unborn feet forever!
Traitors to all souls everywhere!
You on the board, who want others to pay for you,
with your deals to take what is not yours,
and leave your human animals to be eaten alive by the crab people,
to go down the drain in green shit and piss.
The green deal?
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!”
You on the board, who now say:
“Protect us from our gooks!
Protect us from our human animals!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
And you want the name of Hassan Sabbah on your filth deeds
to sell out the unborn?
“Protect us from our gooks, our dogs, our human animals!”
Are these the words of the all powerful board,
the all powerful syndicates, the all powerful governments
and nations of the earth?
Liars! Liars! Liars! Cowards! Cowards! Cowards!
who cannot even face your own dogs!
Traitors to all souls everywhere! Sold out to shit forever.
You miserable collaborators
now ask the protection of Hassan Sabbah?
Are these the words of the all powerful board?
“Protect us from our gooks, our human animals!”
No, no, no, I will not protect you, and you will never use
the name of Hassan Sabbah – William Burroughs
to cover your green shit deals with crab-men,
with the Elders of Minraud.
Listen! Listen! Listen!
I rub out all the words and reports of the board, forever.
I rub out your Thing Police, for ever, for eve – r.
I rub out the words of Marx Lenin Einstein Freud fraud, forever.
I rub out the formulas of Einstein Oppenheimer, forever.
I rub out their words, forever.
I rub out the Qabalah, forever.
I rub out the Talmud, forever.
I rub out all the formulas and directives
of the Elders of Minraud, forever.
I rub out the word, forever.
Listen, all, all, all!
If you – I cancel all your words, forever.
You cannot take words with you into space.
That is all, all, all, Hassan Sabbah.
(1) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=caFiSBl-zUs
(2) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyYJ9HWcLq0 – RB)Oiga amigos! Oiga amigos! Paco! Enrique!
The last words of Hassan Sabbah,
the Old Man of the Mountain!
Listen to my last words, anywhere!
Listen all you boards, governments, syndicates, nations of the world,
and you, powers behind what filth deals,
consummated in what lavatory,
to take what is not yours,
to sell out your sons forever!
To sell the ground from unborn feet for ever, for eve – r!
Listen to my last words any world!
Listen if you value the bodies
for which you would sell all souls forever!
I bear no sick words junk words love words forgive words from Jesus.
I have not come to explain or tidy up.
What am I doing over here,
with the workers, the gooks, the apes, the dogs,
the errand boys, the human animals?
Why don’t I come over with the board
and drink coca-cola and make it?
“Now for Godsakes, don’t let that Coca-Cola thing out!”
Thing is right, Mr Whoever is responsible for that who-done-it!
Explain how the blood and bones and brains of a hundred million
more or less gooks went down the drain in green piss
so you on the boards could use bodies, and minds,
and souls that were not yours, are not yours, and never will be yours.
You want Hassan Sabbah to explain that? To tidy that up?
You have the wrong name and the wrong number,
Mr Luce Getty Lee Rockefeller!
“Don’t let them see us, don’t tell them what we are doing!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
“Don’t let them see us, don’t tell them what we are doing!
Not the cancer deal with the Venusians, not the green deal!
Don’t let that out!
Disaster, unevaluable disaster!
Don’t show them that!
These things take time and that’s my business.”
As usual, Mr Luce! Short time to go. Minutes to go!
Blue heavy metal people.
“Don’t let that out!
Don’t show them the blues!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
“And don’t whatever you do let them see us.”
Crab men! Tape worms! Intestinal parasites!
Squeezing the air, eat it, and shit it out, and eat it again, forever!
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!
Disas – pay!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards, syndicates,
cartels of the earth?
the great banking families of the world,
French, English, American?
like Burroughs, that proud American name?
Proud of what, exactly? Would you all like to see exactly what
Burroughs has to be proud of?
The Mayan caper, the centipede hype,
the short time racket, the heavy metal gimmick?
All right, Mister Burroughs, who bears my name and my words,
bear it all the way, for all to see, in Times Square, in Piccadilly.
Play it all, play it all, play it all back!
Pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back!
Listen : the word comes before English American German French,
the jaded minds are arsenic for all,
now the bones went – use never you have light.
All of you, all, all, all, green people, crab people,
blue heavy metal people,
compliments of Mister Burroughs for the heavy metal gimmick.
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!
Premature! Premature! Reconversion, reconversion blues … “
Shall I show them the blues?
“No! No! No!
Premature! Premature! Premature!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
I say to all : these words are not premature.
These words may be too late.
Minutes to go. Minutes to go. Minutes to goo. Minutes to green goo.
What I have to say is everywhere now.
Rub out the word Jew, and you rub out the word Hitler.
The answer comes before the question.
My words are for all – for all,
I repeat for all!
No one is excluded!
Free to all who pay, free to all who pain pay, for all to see,
for all to see!
In Piccadilly, in Times Square, Place de la Concorde,
in all the streets and plazas of the world!
Pay, pay, pay!
Play it all, play it all, play it all back!
Pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back!
See my writing the silent – across all your skies,
the silent writing of Brion Gysin – Hassan Sabbah.
All out of time! All into space! Forever!
Take what is not yours to skies squeezing the eye bodies forever
All out of time! All into space! Forever!
You cannot take words into space.
That is all, all, all, Hassan Sabbah.
You cannot take woman into space.
I repeat, you cannot take woman into space.
That is all, all, all, Hassan Sabbah.
See my writing the silent – across all your skies,
the silent writing of Brion Gysin – Hassan Sabbah,
the silent writing of space, the writing of Hassan Sabbah.
Look! Look! Look!
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!”
Are these the words of the great nations, the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
These are the words of liars, and cowards, and collaborators,
and traitors, collaborators with insect people,
with any people anywhere who offer you a body forever,
to shit forever.
For this you have sold your sons forever,
the ground from unborn feet forever!
Traitors to all souls everywhere!
You on the board, who want others to pay for you,
with your deals to take what is not yours,
and leave your human animals to be eaten alive by the crab people,
to go down the drain in green shit and piss.
The green deal?
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what we are doing!”
You on the board, who now say:
“Protect us from our gooks!
Protect us from our human animals!”
Are these the words of the all powerful boards
and syndicates of the earth?
And you want the name of Hassan Sabbah on your filth deeds
to sell out the unborn?
“Protect us from our gooks, our dogs, our human animals!”
Are these the words of the all powerful board,
the all powerful syndicates, the all powerful governments
and nations of the earth?
Liars! Liars! Liars! Cowards! Cowards! Cowards!
who cannot even face your own dogs!
Traitors to all souls everywhere! Sold out to shit forever.
You miserable collaborators
now ask the protection of Hassan Sabbah?
Are these the words of the all powerful board?
“Protect us from our gooks, our human animals!”
No, no, no, I will not protect you, and you will never use
the name of Hassan Sabbah – William Burroughs
to cover your green shit deals with crab-men,
with the Elders of Minraud.
Listen! Listen! Listen!
I rub out all the words and reports of the board, forever.
I rub out your Thing Police, for ever, for eve – r.
I rub out the words of Marx Lenin Einstein Freud fraud, forever.
I rub out the formulas of Einstein Oppenheimer, forever.
I rub out their words, forever.
I rub out the Qabalah, forever.
I rub out the Talmud, forever.
I rub out all the formulas and directives
of the Elders of Minraud, forever.
I rub out the word, forever.
Listen, all, all, all!
If you – I cancel all your words, forever.
You cannot take words with you into space.
That is all, all, all, Hassan Sabbah.
Lineage...
My Archive of the works of Genesis p-orridge and the ideas and art which I believe ask the most important questions of our exsistence. An archive as well as the Lineage of the ideas of Brion Gysin and William Burroughs which inspired Gen.
Said Genesis...
“How many people would do a book about their own art and devote two pages to a picture of themselves at Brian Jones’s grave? It’s important to confess the influences of your art. Nobody is simply unique.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Of course the sands of Present Time are running out from under our feet. And why not? The Great Conundrum: "
'What are we here for?' is all that ever held us here in the first place. Fear. The answer to the Riddle of the Ages has actually been out in the street since the First Step in Space. Who runs may read but few people run fast enough. What are we here for? Does the great metaphysical nut revolve around that? Well, I'll crack it for you, right now. What are we here for? We are here to go!
~ Brion Gysin The Process ~
We are here to go!....."to space" added William Burroughs
“…It’s about the human species. Will it survive? What is it supposed to be? We are here to go. If we’re here to go how are we gonna do it? If we’re gonna go into space then we have to accept that the human body is malleable and it’s not sacred. It’s not sacred and it’s not finished…”
Continued Genesis p-orridge
"______________ _______________ ______ _____________ _______________...________ __________ ______! ________ _________ _______
My own additions, yet to come ...
Continues Gen..
We are "here to go" as Brion Gysin succintly stated. But not just here to go into inner and outer space, though that process is one part and conceptual parcel of the final aspiration.
We are here to go outside of the physical body. To enter the soild pool of TIME.
That connects us with every moment, in every direction, and every parallel or conflicting omniverse that was, wills to be, or intends to be. Intention is the key and the process is the product.
Said Genesis...
“How many people would do a book about their own art and devote two pages to a picture of themselves at Brian Jones’s grave? It’s important to confess the influences of your art. Nobody is simply unique.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Of course the sands of Present Time are running out from under our feet. And why not? The Great Conundrum: "
'What are we here for?' is all that ever held us here in the first place. Fear. The answer to the Riddle of the Ages has actually been out in the street since the First Step in Space. Who runs may read but few people run fast enough. What are we here for? Does the great metaphysical nut revolve around that? Well, I'll crack it for you, right now. What are we here for? We are here to go!
~ Brion Gysin The Process ~
We are here to go!....."to space" added William Burroughs
“…It’s about the human species. Will it survive? What is it supposed to be? We are here to go. If we’re here to go how are we gonna do it? If we’re gonna go into space then we have to accept that the human body is malleable and it’s not sacred. It’s not sacred and it’s not finished…”
Continued Genesis p-orridge
"______________ _______________ ______ _____________ _______________...________ __________ ______! ________ _________ _______
My own additions, yet to come ...
Continues Gen..
We are "here to go" as Brion Gysin succintly stated. But not just here to go into inner and outer space, though that process is one part and conceptual parcel of the final aspiration.
We are here to go outside of the physical body. To enter the soild pool of TIME.
That connects us with every moment, in every direction, and every parallel or conflicting omniverse that was, wills to be, or intends to be. Intention is the key and the process is the product.
ON THE WAY TO THE GARDEN
The original "on the way to the garden" essay by genesis, this material has found its way into some of his other works, appeared in online (only?) zine, Verbal Abuse issue #2
Will Power Go?
World Preset Guardians
ON THE WAY TO THE GARDEN
There is a specific clarity when Fire cleanses. A moment when it seems to freeze. Every possible particle is motion rushing up or down? Naked and blind upon a path of lies we enter the field; a dull agony of fear dilates Time against the biological confusion.
Columns of fire, columns of lies, pillars of Solomon's Temple. Dilate the pupils of the brain, a doorway opens to manifest leaving. A fire sale in an inferno. One day a truth shall emerge however deeply we seek to avoid
it.
There is more than one Time. Limitations imposed by the passage of inner-Time make it The Enemy. Possibilities exposed by outer-Time make it a delusion of night.
Change thee way to perceive and change all Memory.
2.ON THE WAY TO THE GARDEN
"A Soul must lose its attachment to humanity.
A Mind must lose its attachment to salvation.
A Brain must lose its attachment to body."
In the retreat from matter, all realities are equal.
Now that interreality travel is possible we will become the very substance of hallucination, and thus enter and leave at will the uncertain principle of all realities, regardless of their location.
Those who build, assemble, ASSEMBLY is the invisible language of our TIME.
Brain and Neuro-Visual Matter are one, are the material of all that can be seen, was ever seen, will be seen, in every place & in every time, forever.
Each brain is all realities, from mundane to omniscient.
Only alone may we breach the dark matter of lost memory and connect all points of Light. For this we need a map of the stars, our superior will electrifying a web that catches our Soul and emits eternal vision. The
visionary alone can be free, the blind masses seek to blind Him, put outhis eyes in their fearful progression to the desert of dark skies. Theblind may not lead the illuminated, rather they must be forced to surrender
all thought of vision to those who are their eyes and who dream the most dangerous dreams of annihilation.
We control THINGS to eradicate them.
Nothing matters but the end of matter.
All must be controlled & destroyed that allow Blindness, all that breed blindness, those who spawn the children of dark, must be buried in the dark, cold dark crystals, in a desert of grains made without Light. Their dark is a night-mare, a castrated black stallion trampling the prophet who communes with the stars and reads the codes of electrical knowledge and return. We are not from one star; but all stars are Our source. Every story ever told resides in them.
Infinite choices of reality are the gift of software to our children.
We signal and are signaled. We hold aloft a torch of fire and pass our hands across it. Visions, images, primal memories from this immeasurable Brain fill us with transmitted Light, dancing dots and lines, an end to a tyranny of language and a beginning of our return to the Garden. Solidity is a perfection of Light; its prism, its manifestation, a hallucination of evidence that Mind may reside within any reality.
An end of Time is just another way of saying the beginning of Immortality.
3. Dreams are a coded material of eternity. We possess LIGHT through them.
"Those who accept LIGHT control mortality.
Those who control LIGHT control immortality"
Space is our church, the stars our windows, our dreams navigate pathways.
Only an ancient map has been lost.
Our world's a dream, a miserable one. In our unfathomable ignorance we call it the only reality, consensus reality, we assume that its events, human events, human life, are implicitly of value. This buries us in a
quicksand of compassion.
Be subtle to the point of formlessness
Be mysterious to the point of soundlessness
Be extreme to the point of powerlessness
A Garden was destroyed by a Word, destroyed by Language, became the first Memory. Time was set in motion at this point. The garden did not exist within Time, or language, it was an exterior neural projection, a Cathedral that worshipped its occupant, the Soul. Representing as it did the Mind at Preset without Light, there was nothing to reflect, shape, or fix this particular dream.
4. We have formed sounds, made names, trapping matter with Language. We perpetuate our tyranny and drown in a flood of speculation and false communication. To be reborn, immortal, outside Time, we must look for ways to transmit infinite alternate realities and choices of reality, to make them as real, MORE REAL than any emasculating reductions that we inherit; yet not be corrupted and trivialized by a belief in our singularity.
Nothing is real, everything must go. Every inherited construct, society, techno-patriotic political system that trades off believing it exists, must be destroyed as fast as possible, we must make space to be space, this is
the Cyber position.
The eradication of the tyrannical nuclear family, building block of the prison walls for this imposed, humanitarian dust, that chokes and dulls the masses reducing all to a worthless, Mind-less, dreamless fog.
Memory is a clock, the ageing mechanism of the Mind.
Memories tell us one thing, every Thing must go.
Every Thing is a hallucination, made solid by mass belief.
Names are given in order to control. To reduce, to comprehend the forces of nature, to demonstrate ownership. In this race to name the poor have grown to be rich, and the rich have grown to be poor again. Know that to re-enter immortality we must ourselves become unnameable, emptied of all sense of being here.
Television is our new exterior brain, one day it will be a standard fitting within every skull on earth, each brain an electronic star in a transmitted milky way. Galaxies of dreams and information, people will become more
comfortable with televisual reality than that of their daily lives.
Television is already MORE REAL than life. A new synthetic material, giving all people infinite access to infinite alternate realities through a cortex of light. They will Program, shape, form, and broadcast messages,
until the very fabric of reality has been torn assunder, its cloak cast down beneath. From this day forth, reality will be a multiple series of channels, option switches feeding our brains.
"I lay in the desert, on my back, staring up at the stars. I could feel millions of rays of light entering my body, one from each star, infinite numbers, my cell walls broke down, my sense of bodily existence ended, I
was illumination, a 3D projection of cosmic light, I could see the ancient shaman building sacred sites to fix their relationship with the stars, to solidify their connections and effects. I remembered the thousands of Holy
Teachers, the idea of the Divine "spark", the descriptions of white light, the myths and legends of our descent from the stars, I was not corporeal, I was a mirage, sealed within an inherited apparently solid body by the
weight of History, by the weight of Fear and Guilt. I shimmered like a ghost, ectoplasm, illusion, and all the puzzles I had heard in Japan, and all the limited descriptions of limitless transcendent experiences made
sense. I knew I had to find some way to GO, to leave this sealed coffin that is my body, to find an accelerator to project my brain, bypassing the tedium of mechanistic evolution, into deepest omniversal space, into immortality, and the very fabric of myth and heaven. I was everyone, everything, and everything too was here to G.O. I understood my lifetime's sense of disconnection / disorder was not a flaw, rather a wondrous gift that described in a new way, the true nature of being that may be experienced whilst trapped, mortal, and confused, here in this desert that was at once a theatre of all possibilities, and an exit to all
impossibilities."
5.Does MIND leave, or does Consciousness? What leaves, what stays behind as we achieve immortality? BRAIN? If it is, as I suspect, the programmable computer MIND that is the Key, what happens to Consciousness? Am I mistaken, or will there be a Projection? I want to GO. This final puzzle evades me.
- Genesis P. Orridge, 1993
Will Power Go?
World Preset Guardians
ON THE WAY TO THE GARDEN
There is a specific clarity when Fire cleanses. A moment when it seems to freeze. Every possible particle is motion rushing up or down? Naked and blind upon a path of lies we enter the field; a dull agony of fear dilates Time against the biological confusion.
Columns of fire, columns of lies, pillars of Solomon's Temple. Dilate the pupils of the brain, a doorway opens to manifest leaving. A fire sale in an inferno. One day a truth shall emerge however deeply we seek to avoid
it.
There is more than one Time. Limitations imposed by the passage of inner-Time make it The Enemy. Possibilities exposed by outer-Time make it a delusion of night.
Change thee way to perceive and change all Memory.
2.ON THE WAY TO THE GARDEN
"A Soul must lose its attachment to humanity.
A Mind must lose its attachment to salvation.
A Brain must lose its attachment to body."
In the retreat from matter, all realities are equal.
Now that interreality travel is possible we will become the very substance of hallucination, and thus enter and leave at will the uncertain principle of all realities, regardless of their location.
Those who build, assemble, ASSEMBLY is the invisible language of our TIME.
Brain and Neuro-Visual Matter are one, are the material of all that can be seen, was ever seen, will be seen, in every place & in every time, forever.
Each brain is all realities, from mundane to omniscient.
Only alone may we breach the dark matter of lost memory and connect all points of Light. For this we need a map of the stars, our superior will electrifying a web that catches our Soul and emits eternal vision. The
visionary alone can be free, the blind masses seek to blind Him, put outhis eyes in their fearful progression to the desert of dark skies. Theblind may not lead the illuminated, rather they must be forced to surrender
all thought of vision to those who are their eyes and who dream the most dangerous dreams of annihilation.
We control THINGS to eradicate them.
Nothing matters but the end of matter.
All must be controlled & destroyed that allow Blindness, all that breed blindness, those who spawn the children of dark, must be buried in the dark, cold dark crystals, in a desert of grains made without Light. Their dark is a night-mare, a castrated black stallion trampling the prophet who communes with the stars and reads the codes of electrical knowledge and return. We are not from one star; but all stars are Our source. Every story ever told resides in them.
Infinite choices of reality are the gift of software to our children.
We signal and are signaled. We hold aloft a torch of fire and pass our hands across it. Visions, images, primal memories from this immeasurable Brain fill us with transmitted Light, dancing dots and lines, an end to a tyranny of language and a beginning of our return to the Garden. Solidity is a perfection of Light; its prism, its manifestation, a hallucination of evidence that Mind may reside within any reality.
An end of Time is just another way of saying the beginning of Immortality.
3. Dreams are a coded material of eternity. We possess LIGHT through them.
"Those who accept LIGHT control mortality.
Those who control LIGHT control immortality"
Space is our church, the stars our windows, our dreams navigate pathways.
Only an ancient map has been lost.
Our world's a dream, a miserable one. In our unfathomable ignorance we call it the only reality, consensus reality, we assume that its events, human events, human life, are implicitly of value. This buries us in a
quicksand of compassion.
Be subtle to the point of formlessness
Be mysterious to the point of soundlessness
Be extreme to the point of powerlessness
A Garden was destroyed by a Word, destroyed by Language, became the first Memory. Time was set in motion at this point. The garden did not exist within Time, or language, it was an exterior neural projection, a Cathedral that worshipped its occupant, the Soul. Representing as it did the Mind at Preset without Light, there was nothing to reflect, shape, or fix this particular dream.
4. We have formed sounds, made names, trapping matter with Language. We perpetuate our tyranny and drown in a flood of speculation and false communication. To be reborn, immortal, outside Time, we must look for ways to transmit infinite alternate realities and choices of reality, to make them as real, MORE REAL than any emasculating reductions that we inherit; yet not be corrupted and trivialized by a belief in our singularity.
Nothing is real, everything must go. Every inherited construct, society, techno-patriotic political system that trades off believing it exists, must be destroyed as fast as possible, we must make space to be space, this is
the Cyber position.
The eradication of the tyrannical nuclear family, building block of the prison walls for this imposed, humanitarian dust, that chokes and dulls the masses reducing all to a worthless, Mind-less, dreamless fog.
Memory is a clock, the ageing mechanism of the Mind.
Memories tell us one thing, every Thing must go.
Every Thing is a hallucination, made solid by mass belief.
Names are given in order to control. To reduce, to comprehend the forces of nature, to demonstrate ownership. In this race to name the poor have grown to be rich, and the rich have grown to be poor again. Know that to re-enter immortality we must ourselves become unnameable, emptied of all sense of being here.
Television is our new exterior brain, one day it will be a standard fitting within every skull on earth, each brain an electronic star in a transmitted milky way. Galaxies of dreams and information, people will become more
comfortable with televisual reality than that of their daily lives.
Television is already MORE REAL than life. A new synthetic material, giving all people infinite access to infinite alternate realities through a cortex of light. They will Program, shape, form, and broadcast messages,
until the very fabric of reality has been torn assunder, its cloak cast down beneath. From this day forth, reality will be a multiple series of channels, option switches feeding our brains.
"I lay in the desert, on my back, staring up at the stars. I could feel millions of rays of light entering my body, one from each star, infinite numbers, my cell walls broke down, my sense of bodily existence ended, I
was illumination, a 3D projection of cosmic light, I could see the ancient shaman building sacred sites to fix their relationship with the stars, to solidify their connections and effects. I remembered the thousands of Holy
Teachers, the idea of the Divine "spark", the descriptions of white light, the myths and legends of our descent from the stars, I was not corporeal, I was a mirage, sealed within an inherited apparently solid body by the
weight of History, by the weight of Fear and Guilt. I shimmered like a ghost, ectoplasm, illusion, and all the puzzles I had heard in Japan, and all the limited descriptions of limitless transcendent experiences made
sense. I knew I had to find some way to GO, to leave this sealed coffin that is my body, to find an accelerator to project my brain, bypassing the tedium of mechanistic evolution, into deepest omniversal space, into immortality, and the very fabric of myth and heaven. I was everyone, everything, and everything too was here to G.O. I understood my lifetime's sense of disconnection / disorder was not a flaw, rather a wondrous gift that described in a new way, the true nature of being that may be experienced whilst trapped, mortal, and confused, here in this desert that was at once a theatre of all possibilities, and an exit to all
impossibilities."
5.Does MIND leave, or does Consciousness? What leaves, what stays behind as we achieve immortality? BRAIN? If it is, as I suspect, the programmable computer MIND that is the Key, what happens to Consciousness? Am I mistaken, or will there be a Projection? I want to GO. This final puzzle evades me.
- Genesis P. Orridge, 1993
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