When speaking of the past there is often an emphasis on things done for “the glory”. Glory was a virtuous ideal, but despite all the tales one must ask, if it was really so glorious why the constant emphasis on it? Why aren’t we continually basking in its shadow?
In hindsight, there does seem to be glory in that the grass is always greener. Glory is another abstract ideal rather than reality. But it gives people a motivating force to strive with.
I’m only an antichrist insofar as I don’t buy into the jesus myth or give any real shit about Christianity. I’m as much an antisemite.
In a sense, fascism is a subculture under the broad label of counterculture. It’s queer and as such hated by society. Once it was a predominant system of thought, but has since become a boogeyman. Albeit it’s a legitimate one. However, like communism to capitalism: fascism is the best friend liberalism has ever had, its fear has kept it in business all these years.
Antichrists are easy. The terminology to it really just means one who denies the divinity of Christ. Paul the apostle was the original antichrist. In the modern sense the antichrist is the subconscious disbelief in God.
Actively being an antichrist is where the challenge comes: if it’s forced and insincere, the concept fails under the incompetence of the inauthentic exclamation. It has to be authentic, like poking a bear with a stick while wrapped in salami. Like eugenics, being an antichrist can’t run contrary to nature or you end up with more fuck ups. Unsuccessful and artificial antichrists are caught up in artificial, sterile and stagnant ideals of those they are trying to provoke a reaction from. Case study: the reason Marilyn Manson became so successful, aside being genuine, as the Antichrist Superstar is that he manipulated the archetypes and playing into the dogmatic dualism he was both opposing and being consistent in.
Making people into muses, while absolutely unavoidable is quite limited as latent disloyalty and over idealization the inevitability. As if people are the only muses. If mankind may only muse then misery will usually be the mental montage. Not everyone can sit still and nude while a portrait is painted, picture taken or whipped, so it’s only sensible that human muses are momentary to the scheme of life.
While you might know perceivably every little detail of a person, you don’t. A muse is more of a medium than a motivator; an image to put your energy into and from, a self sustaining mania. Why say mania? Muses are an obsession. Addictions.
A serpent is a more stable muse than a person.
In history today seems recurring, at least in the last century
Disneyland opened on an august 8th
Nixon resigned
The Tate-LaBianca murders began and nearly a century of Celebritarian celluloid has been cast as a result.
8-8-88
People like a muse because they tend to embody natural characteristics one should supposedly have, but lacks the activation for them. A muse is like a phone charging on a computer— plug it in and its access/use is increased.
“Oh look you’re like a VCR/ stick something in to know just who you are”
Most make misery, as people have an issue balancing idealism with the reality of the thing before them.
“You spin me right round…”
Jackie would never know. The morgue was locked and her husband’s open-headed carcass was being prepared for the coffin. Late in the night one of the workers came out of his secret spot, it wasn’t his first ballgame but it would be the only chance with such a notable corpse.
“I didn’t vote for you, but I can’t resist it. This is a once-in-a lifetime opportunity you see; for me not you of course” he thought as he pulled the sheet off the presidential cadaver. The mortician began to undress himself, and his eye caught the record player in the corner of the room. Conveniently it had Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday Mr President on it already. He went over to put the needle to the record before walking back to the corpse. As he turned the body over to begin, a flap of skin on the skull fell back.
The mortician, already aroused from the idea of what he was about to do smiled a sly slit. He knew what to do, no one had ever done so to the commander in chief before, at least in public record. Gently, he steadied the head and guided his erect member into the wound. What brain was still in there made for an almost instantaneous orgasmic reaction. Sperm leaked from the nose.
“Fuck” he thought, “that was too quick.” But then, he realized the deceased man’s suit was in a bag in the next room over. Quickly going to it, he rummaged through the fabrics until laying his hands on a small capsule. “I knew it” his mind retorted while opening it.
After snorting the capsule of cocaine, the necrophiliac mortician went back to work and to town. His trick was simple, do the job he was payed for while performing. After half an hour it was done.
Jackie-O would never know.
