I’m all alone in this; it’s the cult of the Goddess for one (if you like): it’s only you and Her as far as that goes and it’s not always up to you what happens so don’t assume prerogatives that don’t exist except in the necessity of your own convenience. I seek to serve, it’s simple and so the necessary imperatives always arise, even in the most challenging of situations like say for example if you have been weaponized against strangers by other strangers, that would qualify as something that requires some kind of malign social fiction in order to be fully realized and qualified, coded really, in the cultural mien that seems to be an inert store of nightmare.
That stretch in the winter of 2015 was particularly galling, being chased off the streets by the tension and those infernal black SUV’s cruising up and down and online of course was a scary place to be. I’m all alone in this and if it’s not evident by what I say, than I can’t really be blamed for not being direct or clear about the structure that inhabits my life like some kind of absolute dictator without a proper interface for me to moderate or mediate the physiological demands of the many, vested in the physicality of the individual. It is a cult of one when the touch is immaculate )(the Goddess is in the flesh)(the sculpture is in the block, also), you can feel her warm presence in your chest, the hopeful swab of recognition in your mouth, the balm of love in your mind again, temporarily at least as you are restored to a feeling of necessity that resonates with what’s around you, not an imposition, not a diversion but a genuine channel of efficacy from introspection. We are all watching the same thing, me unfold in real time and common space, but without the benefit of a shared past and the necessary sort of precognition that comes with knowing what someone is about without being told. That is the story of my life; people know about me without being told, to the point that the cult around me is such an obvious thing that it more or less recedes into the fixtures, just another social wave going by, itself a fixture, a bad infinity if you will, things on repeat and pathological formations allowed to become exponential social properties. This is not creative destruction, it’s the annihilation of the individual at precisely the same time as everything has become radically individuated and individualized, the world where I was raised now a distant and vanishing memory to me in order that new mechanisms might come about and a whole new pattern of self-inflection set to emerge.
Given that we are at a point of departure (from this vantage I am merely invoking chronology as if to say, from this moment onward) it is safe to say that the cult of the Goddess needs to be funded somehow, and also, it needs some renovation. I made a vow to the Goddess 20 years ago and I wouldn’t mind refreshing that shortly and then slowly working towards a maintenance cycle in the work such as I want to describe the underworld in stark and hopefully level terms (the demi monde is not necessarily safe for observation and so experience is a hard fought and a hard won thing, when you consider the cost of everything around you as it relates to the cost of starting something new) that will serve the broader venture entirely as a mode of expression and exposition that challenges the patriarchy as fraud in one sense and toxic masculinity and wounded pride in another. I don’t want to pick a fight with anyone on this score but the cult of the Goddess is a militant sect and it prefers to be armed with at least small arms, nuclear weapons being best put into space, get them off the Earth, all of them, go and shoot them at a black hole or at an asteroid belt (and shoot down the space junk while they are at it, right?). What I’m getting at is there is no culture of victimization because we prefer to curve our abuse towards some recognition that self-care requires a sensibility of restraint and some reserve towards those that would meddle in your life or otherwise form an overarching and unattainable barrier to your happiness (as I’m sure the glass ceiling represents. It’s not made of glass, it’s made of men, silly). I’m only saying this because the cult around me (and make no mistake, the patriarchy is a cult of masculinity gone off the rails for much too long), is a limiting and liminal factor in my life such as everything was at a point of departure in 2015 and now six years later people are saying that they feel like they witnessed a genocide. I witnessed a genocide in 2015 and it made me who I am right now. I would like to update my Goddess vow and then explore what it means to be in the cult of the Goddess and need to fund the operation and possibly expand the operation towards some kind of necessary elevation of sensibility, with an idiom geared towards evangelizing for the maintenance cycle (and for profit harm reduction, generally) as well as actually designing things like an app that would work with HAT and also create the possibility of linking HAT to housing. If that could be done I would be over the moon because it’s the main predictor of success for the HAT program, without which people are left to their own devices and not really able to focus on keeping away from drug seeking behavior (ie crime) or a toxic drug supply that really narrows your life choices to a few grains of chance and whoever the fuck has a narcan kit around you, if you are lucky, that is. I know people that were bringing people back a long time ago, and it’s like nothing for som people to reverse an overdose. Personally I don’t like dropping as an individual and I don’t like being around people who are that high on opiates and unsafe. I knew a guy that went into a trance after shooting two points of heroin that luckily, didn’t kill us. That’s when I still trusted the down not to kill me. After going out on two thirds of a point of blue I realize that I don’t ever want that to happen again. And after seeing someone who was dealing heroin, DIE from the heroin, when he doesn’t do the heroin, is mind blowing. The guy does coke; he doesn’t do smack. But he died from the smack he was selling. Are you fucking kidding me? That’s fucking tragic.