“Kill the Demon, Kill the Muse”

Who it’s truly attributed to I’m altogether unsure as I’ve never heard it worded in such a manner before; but driving along the I-90 while listening to Smashing Pumpkins singer and tea shop owner Billy Corgan’s podcast, the guest Jeff Baxter explains, “Kill the demon, kill the muse,” in a somewhat humorous delivery albeit, but it is an intriguing statement to consider. It’s word-play which uses what is understood to be their implications both definitionally; and doubling as trigger for introspective investigation.

Muses being odd, mysterious entities of addictive intrigue which inspire passion and as a result act, like Carl Jung put it, as conduits to one’s own unconscious. The concept of a muse being like that of an artistic guiding angel; with there being nine different representative deities paired with such outlets in Greek mythology. Paired then with the word demon as also used in the statement, a word that also has its origin in the Greek sphere with the etymology tracing to the classical ‘damōn’, meaning a, ‘spirit, divine power or attendant supernatural entity,’ not intrinsically implying evil. However the typical and generally understood connotation of the word is malevolent; similar in tended contextual imagining in some regard to a heroin addict scratching around, thumping and searching for an unpinched vein— or more charitably: drawing on a pain for power, like Kylo Ren hitting his bowcaster-blast-wounded side for aided anger and sustaining imbued byproduct energy in The Force Awakens, as fuel for passion. Adrenaline. Inspiration, motivation and creation. Not getting over it more psychodramatically medicating in order to stagnate and stay in the preferred, wired state as it has such a divine, driving hold…

Westworld

Written while driving from South Dakota through reservation land in Montana and in taking it all. Through an April winter storm and gas station stops a poem scribbled in between sights seen out the van window. Title given due to traveling West the entire route. 

Westworld

Gray wisps of rain;

Curving curtains around conservative-inhabited vague spaces

Small plots on vast green,

blue and healthy, earthy tan;

Rich, data-depleted interstate street,

Covalent rape-trailer—

Hiding an open secret in rural,

plain sight;

Concentrated, collapsed suburban,

Post-traumatic stress infusion;

Thousand yards staring down—

into blank-face destitution

Dipole-dipped delusion, evading snake-stick,

Pushing prod with a cheap, synthetic leather scent;

Prosthetic parody—

in and out under the clouds:

Stale tasting Starbucks

Queer, once in a moment shitty coffee—

Small-Wall infantry.

butchered strung up to a tree;

Flaying poles dancing—

Murderous, moseying impulse

Wearing out, wondrous new side-route—

New copycat miniature ranch county range,

Free-rein, open carry days:

Small town gossip, glossed over malaise:

Reservation reprehension—

‘stay the fuck away or we’ll kill you’

Repressive, open-range intent,

Free-roam roulette glory hole;

Ozone fusion, chemical dispersion

Sky cleanly cluttered,

and scarcely is there a soul off the road;

Choke-hold latex tether shredded over—

invariable trillions of blades of sharp grass,

Stretched beyond elastic,

strained overstate divides and rung through miles of mud, sun, muck and gorgeous valleys of silent, salient selective serenity;

Bone-laced lines of traveling history,

Battery low and the sun descends West—

as also headed, an un-winnable race,

79 mile an hour pace;

Hate a bitch enough to dig them up and desecrate their face,

Post-mortem parlay—

Wild-West, bleeding gas mileage 

4.22.2026

Raspberry-Sonne sonic stream,

Van leaves Via I-90

To (or) through Madison today

Sears tower behind for a later date

Illegal flavored vapes and flavored, 

failed array

“This arrangement is arranged”

Passing Wilson Avenue exit ramp-

Downing caramel flavored,

frozen coffee drink

Western wavelength;

Drill beat droning bass-strength,

Vibrational vocation:

Pseudo-sober elation,

Strained epiphany overconsidered…

Weakness is last strength;

Sly sleepy eyes, climbing over chairs—

Mummy-rust coughed up cat dust,

Sterilizing to stone soft

Guitar riff writes the sign-off

“So long and good-night”

Past-future lackluster

Hole-blown passion filibuster,

Salient synths singing serotonin;

Sick sound-silencer,

Building it up then burning it down;

Extended, condensed winter

Breaking in anticipation,

Engulfed undercurrent—

Cupid with a stuttering rotary turret

Repeat runaway:

Black-mage, egotistical empathetic sage;

Concerning, disintegrating 

Retention pace, vertigo space—

Reason rings the rope regardless,

even if out of respect:

Dearly departed stitch,

Obfuscating bad cadaver,

15mph toll racer

Pay at wanted risk:

Polar-predictable pricing—

Flagrant fragrance, knee-natural dog on a leash;

Nicotine sweet tea, 

Midnight nowhere road gleam

04.13.2026

One-fifty in the afternoon and I’m once again back in the cafe section of the second floor of Chicago’s monolithic Museum of Science & Industry drinking free coffee, courtesy of Shane’s membership. Blip of a discussion on the allure of such ‘special treatment’ for members, it’s a payed for image of privilege in a sense with the contained rewards. Reason to be here today, at least specifically isn’t completely clear beyond that it is a neat spot and wanting to get out more; like last night driving near the lake front and stopping by a park to walk its loop and smoke a joint before being interrupted by a vulture-esque tow truck shortly stalked the vehicle needed for necessary transportation at that night time of morning…

Talk turned to the enacting of plans; and then to the overlap between intelligence and malicious manipulations which are delegated out by more left leaning fellow travelers, namely from dominatrix related occupations where such psychological play is practiced to near perfection— which is why intelligence agencies often use sex workers as tools for psychological operations. 

Contemplation what to see here at the Museum it would seem what is left unexplored is the submarine. There is some Anne Frank one which sounds intriguing but not available to being seen at the current moment. Decidedly, the coal mine exhibition is what to do…

04.12.2026

Sitting in a corner restaurant in a town on the Chicago outskirts. What I can see outside the window before me is a brick wall surrounded by grass behind a street, lettering on it reads “ST JOSEPH UKRAINIAN CATHOLIC CHURCH. I take a bite of the hummus and olive oil dipped Middle Eastern gyro, it’s a scenic spot and from what I am told, everyone can read the room as to the reason for my being in Norwood Park Township and apparently fitting a gothic profile; and am obviously as such a true crime sight-seer passing through the neighborhood that once housed John Wayne Gacy…

The food I ordered— a falafel wrap and French fries— arrives at the table. Consuming half and from there back out to the car quickly dropping off the food, then heading next door. A smoke shop, I got a new vape— blue raspberry flavor from a brand called Mr Fog. Never heard of it or had it before but it’s the same as a Lost Mary…

…

Graveyard visited prior was quite a sight to scour through. Stone and buried bones in rows upon what seemed unending rows, eventually leading to a statue commemorating the Haymarket Anarchists as well as the notable headstone of the anarchist thinker Emma Goldman. Etched into the stones: names, dates and various recognizable sigils. Crosses, Freemason iconography and a communist hammer and sickle. Some of the Freemason grave markers have three letters carved with a pentagram: OES, which according to research signifies that of an adjacent fraternal organization called the Order of the Eastern Star; whose members typically consisted of the female family members of Masons, matching with what can be seen in the gravestones.

Carved into the back of the stone monument dedicated to the Haymarket puppeteers is the name of Louis Lingg. An eyesore, by my understanding of occult literature. Quick connection is to the Great Beast, Aleister Crowley, in his Book of Lies with a poetic piece titled with Lingg’s name. Tellingly the writing opens up explaining, “I am not an Anarchist in your sense of the word…” and wrapping up his contrarian to the contrarian claim by stating with a (personally perceived) Machiavellian lacing that, “every ‘emancipator’ has enslaved the free.”

…

Starbucks brand medium blend

Late-night data,

discussion about atomic arsenals,

international obliteration;

Scrolling sights of Seka—

A Flock Of Seagulls sings from Spotify

Omnipotent omission, disguised delusion:

Profound, propelled illusion,

Rock me Amadeus. 

Culpable

A million years yesterday—

Cross-crossing paths,

Unlasting and retained ridges

Culpable,

Forensic exposition,

Underlying exhibitionism

Too much too soon

Cautious option

Isolated optical illusion

Theosophy & Laundry

The final day of March 2026 and the occasional venture was a trip out to Wheaton, Illinois to visit the headquarters for the Theosophical Society of America. A bit over an hour to reach the destination by car, counting nearly becoming stranded from running out of gas until a Shell station finally appeared for it and some coffee. 

Getting to the location I was greeted with a scene which seemed right out of a Supernatural episode by its aesthetics coalesced together: overcast, greener surroundings and a red brick and stone building full of esoteric thought. Center of focus within the bricks being the Henry S. Olcott Library chock-full of archived Theosophical journals, pamphlets and racks of philosophical works from Blavatsky to Zoroastrian literature. 

In my browsing I was led along the walls to focus on a few publications which seemed of note. Most interesting of available material being that of a four volume collection archiving a journal publication called The Light Bearer from 1993 up until 2008. Flipping through it presents as largely Buddhist leaning streams of thought with degrees of (syncretic) Gnostic lacing and interpretation. An interesting title for what is presented; in most contexts the term 'light bearer' conjures up a Luciferian or Promethean ideal. Pipeline separating though with connection to Satanic or adjacent thought evident (as well as within Blavatsky's Doctrine) with comparative analysis. Satanism being the closest the West, or specifically the USA, can ever get to the Eastern philosophy; its means of attaining this Gnosis is via indulgence in the existence whereas Buddhism's enlightenment is through a negation of said desires; both going into the introspective results. 

A small hardcover pamphlet was the next item of captivation, A Theosophical View of Human Races. Short, brief and syncretistic bit it is a largely symbolic posit regarding the idea. Going about explanation by historical mythos such as Atlantis, Hyperboreans and Aryan's with a purported new (at the time of the pamphlet being made) American on the way; detailing that it is more to do with era's of existence and the evolution humanity has during said segment rather than an ethnological determination as with breeding, the species is technically always evolving. In a sense the view given is akin to that of Mark Fishers' conception of 'disidentity politics': a fluid form adopted as method to dennunciate the dissatisfying institutional impositions. It's reminding in the Theosophical sense of a personal omnipotence, or elevated consciousness-- spiritual enlightenment; while Fishers' would be more hardline agnostic sociopolitical, awoken and reasoned with more of a depression. 

Lastly looked at in the Olcott Library was a small hard leather covered translation of The Book of Devotion from the Bhagavad Gita; and then a larger red book which was an exploration of power through a Hindu lense, which I find to be of so much interest I plan on returning soon to read it through...

Age Aggression: Generational Envy & Influencing Insecurities

A delve into horror & human behavioral psychology to sitcom gilded glazing and the generational gap considered.

I. Existential Angst

Part of the 1980s line of campy B-horror movies is that of the 1981 Alison’s Birthday. Story to the film is a classic Satanic Panic tale: a secretive intergenerational cult preying on a groomed youth on the behalf of an ancient deity; who possesses the body of a 19 year old for some 80 years or so then the rite of reanimating this possession repeats. In the end it’s like Freaky Friday, the adolescent (Alison) wakes up in the body of the woman who had gone through such decades prior to her, as her own younger vessel is used as replacement. A longing, age-regressive instinct it would seem in celluloid form.

It’s similar to a more recently released movie, The Substance. The 2024 body horror bit shows this vampiric longing for this sort of youthful rejuvenation, to the point of conscious autocannibalism, and the main character losing her entire person in the introspective split attempt at batting away nature’s road to inevitable death. Wherein it differs in portrayal of this fear of aging as the plot to steal Alison’s youth is completely unbeknownst to her, while Sue seals her own fate knowingly after being told (and experiencing) consequences of abusing the reincarnating drug she takes. In the end both succumb to this end, one’s life stolen the other frantically eaten through in the averting attempt.

Thematic contents and concept not necessarily given in the same light, however the human denial of death is evident. As one ages they get consciously closer to that encroaching and unavoidable end date. Mortality Salience as prescribed by Terror Management Theory would go to explain this as a wholly natural one: biologically, like any other animal, a human has an innate drive for survival, paired with an evolved intelligence and subsequent overactive imagination. Combined psychological posit, as well as a movie the same vein of ‘80s B-horror flicks. The reverse-snuff film Frankhenhooker takes from the average interpretation of the tale, and adds more of an element of human grief into it, as a man resurrects his decapitated sister with the pieces salvaged from exploded prostitutes.

A similar human ship of Theseus scenario furthers this idea is season three episode fifteen of the grandstanding, all-referencingseries Supernatural. Antagonist to the monster hunting siblings in this episode is that of a nineteen century surgeon who achieved a form of immortality by replacing any ailing ligature or organ of his own with that of those surgically stolen from younger and healthier specimens.

With that accumulated explanation of the parable, this ill-perception of age and envy of youthful energy and time ticking down to the grave, coalesces into a generation animosity. In all the given theatrical examples it shows up as an idea of some form of perpetual reincarnation. In Alison’s Birthday it’s notable that the age of reanimation is in that of a 19 year old, switching with a 103 year old. Being revitalized in a fresh body the eldritch entity is able to exist (almost) ad infinum, regenerating eventually to when is generally spoken in hindsight as ‘good old days of age’. Rinse and repeat.

II. Absurdist Insecurity & Reconsideration

The Office was a sitcom originally set in the UK but more famous in and due to its American variation. Idea spanning the base material and spanning all nine of the successive series is that of a mockumentary about one select branch of a paper company and all that ensues within its walls and lives of the employees. Weddings, cruises, bears, beets and Battlestar Galactica the camera caught it all, much to the surprise and initial dismay upon realising just how intimate the recording over the years had been as the show neared its finale. In that finale capping off the ninth and last season of the sitcom as a whole, miniature monologue delivered from Cornell grad and by that point former Dunder Mifflin employee Andy Bernard (played by Ed Helms) expressed a sonder-ful sentiment saying, “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them,” after having (presumably) seen up to then in the series as had consistent viewers by then.

Largely contrary to my own prior espoused opinion on the matter it would seem that the concept of generations has sense to it beyond comparison to wishy-washy astrology. Astrology is a concept which curates people into broadly defined categories based on certain traits shared. Generational differentiation does the same: a bracket, the segmented portion of people born during a certain era, with conscious connection to and development within it; and as a result an averaging of produced behavioral outcomes and emotional outlooks categorized by such a label. Like any broad stroke of a brush it isn’t all-encompassing however largely stereotypical, environmentally.

Within generations are its own groups supporting the idea. Shell-shocked soldiers, roofie ruminating revolionaries to angry aesthetic terrorists and marginalized, ordinary every day school shooters to emo’s, hipsters and groypers, what results in people’s development then rubs off and updates to the environment for every successive youth group.

Essentially it would seem that the issue is almost, or would be, that influence and its impact onto the younger members of the population. Older ages lay their moral musings, insecurities and baggage for the upcoming generations to sort through succinctly. Insecure baggage levies down as hysteria characterizing eras: the creation of the Atomic Bomb made groundwork for induced fear for lost futures.

Gaps in the eras and as a result worldly outlook it seems a reactive instinct to opposition of instituted, inculcated baggage— bad and good— of those raising them. As such they raise their children in differentiation to experienced adolescent rearing ills until nonetheless this is repeated by their children’s children, and so on. The seeming result to this in the grandparental generations is a more negative broad stroke painted on the youth (as well as vice versa) for being weaker, lacking in ethic, having been more coddled… lacking in what they in fact seemed to be raised lacking, some qualities of existence which led them to their older age and place in the world.

It takes two to tango, procreate and continue the ages so on and so forth.

Envy based on age and projected animosity as a result is and likely will always be a present conversation to continue. From the younger ages this envy is in response to lost, ruined, hopes and futures and perceived ease of experience with those of older eras like the gilded age or post WWII boom; and envy from the older generation for seeing the changes in their lifetime in abundance or ease of access to things that the youth seems to be coddled with, and made soft.

Uniquely then it is when the younger generation becomes older, there’s a reminiscence going along with the negation of natural age. A natural weariness of the progression, the past is often painted over with a primrose gleam in longing daydreams. Come then declarations of the ‘good old days’ and so called golden ages— glorified and gilded segments of time, a fetishized revitalization fueling both generational ambition and aggression.

Ensuing from this is the sense of nostalgia, despite if what is remembered is glossed over. A powerful, dopaminergic drug nostalgia can be. Like with Andy Bernard in The Office stating his own sense of it— when was it really? Throughout the course of the show his character routinely is put through the blender: an engagement failed as a result of being cheated on with a fellow coworker, constant ‘rage bait’ from peers, losing his job and family fortune in swift succession… in other words would those really be the best days of his existence? Likewise this can be taken to a personal autobiographical interpretation; as well as to a now incredibly common phenomenon of individuals of youth being nostalgic for times they themselves never even existed in.

40 pages

There’s only some forty more pages left to fill in this notebook I got back in January. On average it seems I go through around that many pages a week, give or take days and papers. Anyway I decided to do a 40 line poem as a way to coincide with the limited time. 

One week sleeps into late day, two nights all awake—

Third much of the same, occasionally crashing into a comatose state,

Conscious again before too long, too much too soon;

Too little and too early, why bother finding party or comradery?

What’s truly bothering is the practicality of a purple pen—

Smooth and spitting out ink, cleaned out down to the last drop…

Time moves rapidly in frozen mind-play:

Past and present blur as a future momentarily concurs,

Blots and smeared papers, stained hand sides,

For my own private eyes  

Live a little, die a thousand times and revive: rewrite

Scribbling out stupidities, evident mistakes—

Shown shit-shot, candid calamity and beautiful brevity,

Youthful nuisances, minded turbulence: reconfigured truths—

Re-arranged attitudes and unconscious allusions; 

Cat-curious amidst confusion;

Point on paper unleashing recreation:

Pint of this, hint of that— interpersonal correlation,

Odd lack of initial understanding— 

Constant conceptual mining

Minced misunderstandings, collected intellectual entropy—

Cultivated clarity with continual correction,

Biological computer, handwritten invigoration;

Sober and stoned, added combined comprehension,

Cautious perception in cynical self-recognition—

Pattern-porn checkered and torn:

Poured out passion; scripted convictions,

Contradicted end-missions;

Shredded shrink, dipped feet loosely sink

Persisting proof, grandiose and grotesque:

Banal bullshit and gray gaiety—

Spills, savored sips of ever-intaken coffee,

Ingested liquid-literary sanity;

Black envy and calmly smoking,

Eloped knowing with missing a million marks—

Paper pulpit, flammable consultant;

Frayed flames, stoked dust long after the smoke

Indifferently uplifting self-psychoanalysis

Forty more pages to fill and never miss

Coffee iii

Written originally on a napkin in a Diner while drinking coffee after having had an incredibly midnight meal. 

Midnight dish, March cool must;

Diner went, marijuana tailing scent,

Candid, average mundane extreme instance—

Half & Half creamer for a warm cup of coffee;

Unique interaction unfolds before—

Fly on the wall, intaking it all:

Odd, interesting overall;

Stool-chairs and witnessed baking

Tasteful creations; plentiful French toast,

Over half a century old, empty and now late becomes early;

Fresh hit, caffeinated hot bliss—

Spoon-spinning vital existence