At Church...

...I see dead people.

It's not empty. It's full. It's Sunday.

It's a mass. So why the plastic masks like it's a funeral?

(I note only a few, a rare small number, that I see and feel are sincere.)

Their eyes eat visuals of this detail and that, their ears observe sounds other than the priest's.

Some thoughts occupy their minds. Little nonsensical articles cloudy at this early hour; mostly though, mostly, their mind is full, only of emptiness.

Corpses can't think. These zombies hear the padre but don't listen. Might they need to? They've heard this all before, since childhood, when life shone in their visages.

Like children, they toy at acting out the required god-fascination so naggingly needled out of them by their superiors and elders since their dead formative existence.

The ones that are really pious are dispersed, rarely do they group, isolation is an ingredient to meditation, if not a physical one, at least one that rockets the mind and soul to other depths, levels, degrees of love and awareness.

Others check their watches. Smooth their pants or dresses. Tell their offspring to shut it. Tell their offspring to wake up. Are you awake, parent? Do YOU hear? But why then do you not heed? Do you believe the "the voice of the people, is the voice of God"? If you do, you let your fellows judge you.

Your fellows can only judge by what they witness. I wish I had an Oscar for every one of you. Masters of disguise and guile. Commanders of whipped up and puffy facial emoticons. Where do you take class? Hogwarts? Your glamours are art, a dark art, like the art of Marcos, Mussolini and Mao.

Your fellows' jugdement is flawed. If the voice of the people is flawed, then the god of the people is flawed. Simple as your ABCs. Yet, not. Consider this. A meme. A cultural component that clones itself through each mind that receives it. A catch phrase. A line from a pop song. A religion. This is called a memeplex (a compound of memes). Acts like a gene...or sometimes, a gene of a virus.

Like in this case, with these zombies sitting up, sitting down, mumbling, kneeling, walking to, walking fro, nodding, parroting, forming crosses on their upper halves, with the grace and understanding of replicas of Frankenstein. I note no respect underneath. If the god of the people is flawed, the people are flawed. Yet we follow the people. We follow the dance of the dead. Unmiraculous and unholy.

It doesn't stop here, this living death. But it may certainly have begun here. The symptoms were tell-tale a long ways back in time. The abandonment of culture, left the skin of our pride dry, which shed itself soon enough, but the virions didn't stop there, those were mere first steps, onto the heart of the being: the brain: give up your responsibility to think and you give up your soul, and Mr. Webster can't be everywhere.

What makes you you? Most people only vaguely know. Most people are clones of the model molded by some other, rather foreign entity, far away; alien and distant lands where silence drives men open to the free mental elements that inspire power, and what keener path to power than a useful, romantic glamour? A religion, mayhap? A nice old new idea-structure sure to win the masses over, bowl them down with an emotional flush of awww. "Wasn't that nice of Him, eh? Dying like that for us all, oh well, time for brunch."

Doesn't the host discern the funeral masks we have on? (Yes, I am dead too. But I know it. And besides, his not my only god, I am a player when it comes to gods. Why have just one? When you can have them all? No, I am not spreading myself out too thin, because players have themselves to look out for numero uno. In other words, we're too unfaithful to bother with different versions of the, essentially, same program: love the software not the hardware.) Does he care? If he is dense, he shouldn't be up there, sensitivity should be prerequisite. If he feels the noxious plumes outpoured by this congregation, what then does he do to improve the lesson plan, which is obviously flawed, it's from the people.

What would happen I wonder if we actually listened, actually obeyed, actually became pious? Just as theses priests, but throw in sex, and sometimes a little horsing around and beers with the boys (or girls)? I'll tell you straight the eventual consequence would be: the demise of control. The freedom of yourselves from power that should rightly be yours. The clarity of mind to think and not be judged, to act and not be ashamed. Do What Thou Wilt means not do whatever the fuck you feel like whenever the fuck you feel it however the fuck you feel it to whomever the fuck. It means following your true path, the path that is in harmony with the universe, the path to yourself and the riches there. Some say the path to your Holy Guardian Angel: I just say the path to your Higher Self, your holier consciousness, the you that is free from your corpse shell and witnesses eternity at every waking instance. Do What Thou Wilt in accordance to your real Will.

Let me use this paragraph to describe that path. Let's use the stars. The star system we call Solar has x number of planets and stars and comets and asteriods. Each of these and others I have not mentioned are perfectly timed. Like instruments in a timepiece. As above, so below; or, as without, so within. We are the stars, within us the universe; the only distinctive difference: we have will. The power of choice. You're hungry. Choose. Eat now. Eat later. Eat now, little. Eat later, lots. Eat not at all. Eat now, fast, or slow, etc.--etc.--etc. You are hungry, but the choice to eat is yours. Your soul cries for nutrition, like a good book, something of Joseph Campbell's, or Thomas Moore's or Timothy Leary's, whatever. It does. It is your choice to feed it. The universe may dance to the tune of your secret and true Will, force factors that will set you up for that opportunity: this situation that will surely introduce to you that which your soul yearns for, yet yours is the choice. Buy it, heed your love that loves you; don't buy it, buy it soon, buy it later, take your time, absolutely turn back on the intuitive urge: up to you. If you do choose to go with your Will, then, my friends, you act like such stars in a star system, dancing perfectly, brilliantly radiant in darkness. If each of us followed their True Path, if we collide, you'd know in instinctively, it was meant to be, and you shrug and let it go, you followed your path and you don't question it: your bones and each of your cells know it is truth in molecular form. You shrug and you say to yourself, move on, baby, it was the Will of the universe, I know, I am part of it, like I know my heart is part of me. I am intrinsic.

Is church the path your soul speaks as true? Question yourself. The Beast said, even doubt is reality; consider your doubts, consider everything as paramount unless proven otherwise the worth of it is less than initially surmised; scientists pushed this global society forward into a technological age; apply that same scientific mentality to spirituality and transcendentalism; enough emotionless, soulless tradition, be sincere, you don't owe anyone your power but yourself; Do What Thou Wilt and trust the diseased spirit within you compose a plan for self-regeneration. Do What Thou Wilt and jump the cliff. If church is what it is for you, so be it, do it properly; you are not fooling any god of your theater-tactics; stay home then and put your feet up and yell to the wife to hurry with your beer and channel-controller, play network games, read verses on the erotic, whatever turns you on, whatever you NEED, but no one needs your hypocrisy, nobody but people who don't need it yet want your contribution, your generous tithes; your pennies and papers have replaced the Aztecs' human sacrifices, yes, but they, at least believed, were true, and their wars merely play-acts toward each others gods' and peoples' benefits, now pennies and papers for sacrifice, brilliant, no blood, but the blood of your wallet, all those coins and papers, they could end hunger, end poverty, yet we offer it to an absent dull idea instead of to our fellow visible starving family. Offer it to--who knows?-- men who can't face the fact they wanna fuck chicks, so they fuck children instead. Offer it to THE "representative of god on earth," whose predecessors were responsible for more blood shed on earth's soil through wars than Hitler's concentration camps. That's they don't mind you fucking other women other than your wife, you'll come for confession they are sure. They don't mind you killing or stealing, you'll be here Sunday, the day of cleansing and white forgiveness. Without your sins, they'd be out of business. Without the threat of hell, and the promise of heaven--which are accesible right here right now--their whole structure of lies crumble like expired Graham crackers. As above, so below; as without, so within: heaven and hell is in here, my heart my mind my soul, your heart your mind your soul; and heaven is out there, in sex with a much-loved one, in the vibrations of your young son's formative cackle, in the caress of your soulmate at night and in the morning; and hell is out there, in hurricanes that wipe out families and properties like a virus lunching on a weak gene, in diseases that seem to randomly take hold of your life and spirituality (if you let it: maybe you may, maybe you fight: ask your Will), in people that appear to have absolutely no iota of love contained in them, nothing but the black, heavy evil-throbbing of hate, which attacks and consumes like a blackhole: stay away from their event horizon: danger sometimes wears a sun's face.

We're stars who've Will. The cosmos is our church. Concentrate and connect to the cosmos and church within: power to YOU: as above, so within. Use the constellations as rosaries or runes, and pray to the hidden infinite pantheons lurking underneath and beyond (yet within) your own mere being. These souls of Ancients and Future Selves, allow each to guide you, spiritual stocks acting as one organism, the sun father to your body, the moon mother to your blood. Shine, you've only one life, Death's grin is too long, too determined and proud and too-certain of victory over another clone, another irrelevant zombie, stand out, stand up, SHOUT your aura's radiation like radiancy as it is supposed to and allow your personality's electro-magnetism to attract and trap friends, not foes; you are a corpse, as I am, as everyone I know or will know, as whoever had lived and will live is or was: you are already dead. Be dead, you have no choice, but don't be a zombie, a controlled clone, choose: