Tag Archives: fnord

Discordian Calendars for 03185 (2019)

The League of Question, the latest album from the The Crypt-Kicker Five. A new old soundtrack for a new old age. Thirteen dead drummers dangling from morbid marionette machinery. Infinite infernal instruments, cackling a cacophonous calypso of cannibalistic cuisine. A private whispering of words never spoken in a language never known. Running blind, screaming deaf, scalding numb, balancing vertigo, nauseating hunger. The bleeding resurrection of rock and roll from the regression to rebellion that refuses to reside in repeats and replays. For the jam session on the road to Mars travelled only by the agreed-upon owners of socially-constructed currencies. Failure by fiat. Frigid by function. Follower by fashion. Filled by futility. Fucked by the future.

A holyday not found on any calendar. A calendar not found on any planet. A planet not found in any universe. A universe not found in any imagination. An imagination not found.

About the Holydays



A Spurious Essay — 13 Feb 2018

by Joseph Raschack

Meditation is a lie. Modern spirituality bears no resemblance to the ancient Living Resurrection. We replace the trance-hypnosis of television with the trance-hypnosis of staring at a candle, or the imagining of staring at a candle. We become fixated on this trance state because it is familiar, and replacing it with the same but quieter feels more “organic”, “natural”, and other empty words. Pick your words and find your spirituality — cyber, virtual, vintage, authentic, exciting, sexy, manly, patriotic, holy, thrilling — our quest for meaning subsumed by a transitory feeling borne of safe experience.

Spirituality used to be real, severe, life-threatening. The whole point was to destroy your life, your self. Today, the closest we come to the — to the what? do we even remember what it was called? — is a campfire weekend, dancing naked while beating a drum and tripping on some chemical; a cheap, watered-down pseudo-bonding that induces a temporary euphoria in an otherwise dull life. This is like listening to someone who has never rode a rollercoaster talk about riding a rollercoaster — not like riding it, not like watching it, nor hearing it; only someone spewing enthusiastic ignorance tailored to fit politically useful ideas of what rollercoasters might or should be like.

To claim that drug-of-the-year is a gateway to mystical experience is a fucking joke. The highest possible cognitive behavior of the brain — if it even happens in the brain — is nothing like the delusional chaotic gibberish of the random slippery misfiring of some drug trip. The feeling of profound insight may happen, but nothing spiritual is connected to it, only some intellectual masturbation about morality or half-understood scientific theories.

The Living Resurrection requires more than a faint modern attempt. Where we would use the disturbance of drugs, it demands the terror of mortality and hunger. When we chatter our mantras and try to distract-o-focus our thoughts, it demands the clear presence in the room, the here-and-now, the objective reality, our environment and all that scampers within it. When we seek union and identity with the universe and all life, it demands our death and return to rotting biomass. Not some arm-chair anarchist idea of ego-death, not some comfortable metaphor that allows a smug sense of superiority over imagined achievements. Actual, physical, fuck-me-up death. To properly escape a prison, the prison must be destroyed. You can sit and imagine yourself free through a stubborn adherence to idealistic bliss-mongering, but that’s all it will be — a fairy tale told by a fool to entertain only its author.

Remove all of the gunk from the brain. Fasting until the edge of hunger becomes the blade of awareness. Resting until the inefficiencies of stress become the scars of experience. Celebrating until the company of boredom becomes the joy of the mundane. Probably not in that order, but in no order, every order. Seek an end to the distractions that plague us and chain us down — the thoughts that we try to focus within, replaced with the disorientation of presence. Symbolisms are parlor games for the mud-brained walking dead. Maps are rags for the snot-nosed lost youths. Stories and myths and legends abound, mere words because talk is cheap. A quest for meaning can only end, for meaning is easy enough to create from snips and shreds. A search for self can never be found, for self is a life to be lived. A journey through the here-after goes nowhere, for there is no veil, no separated realm to journey to. The Living Resurrection is not an answer, a destination, a noun or idea of any form. Not even a transformation, or a rite. The Living Resurrection is only the beginning of life within life, a death-before-death to end death-before-death.

Discordian Calendars for 03184 (2018)

A fresh sense of urgency. A human chain of left-ward force. This loose affiliation of energized radicals has shown no qualms about using their fists.

Speech is a form of action: when it harms others, it is abuse and oppression.

Ideologies cannot be reasoned with and must be physically resisted. Is it more dangerous to do nothing and tolerate them, or should we confront them? Their existence itself is violent and dangerous, using force or violence to oppose them is not unethical.

The ascendant new is coming into your town with hate. The essence of their message is violence. They don’t care if you’re quiet, you’re peaceful. You need violence to protect nonviolence.

About the Holydays


Discordian Calendars for 03183 (2017)

Still trying to negotiate its own identity, caught between the paradise of its ideals and the realities of its history still fresh on our tongues, wheezing noisily. Gathered around looking concerned and asking about our stereos, might not be loud enough. Bumped very lightly into a limp and fangless thing: government-subsidized poets, vague nonsense zombies who wrote verses and talked revolution, with an insatiable hunger for news.

About the Holydays


Discordian Calendars for 03182 (2016)

Get out of that rut and into a good pot hole. Get out of that pot hole and into a good sink hole. Get out of that sink hole and into a good puddle. Get out of that puddle, the waves have teeth.

About the Holydays


Discordian Calendars for 03181

After the crash, the night mares came. “You’ll never sleep alone,” mother whispered. “Not now, not forever.” Death would soon become fun again.

About the Holydays


Oblique Eristicisms

Back in 2013, I had a hard drive failure. While waiting for money to buy a new computer, I started a small list of I’m-not-sure-whats in a small memo pad. I named them Oblique Eristicisms, because I wasn’t aware that “eristicism” was already taken. These all come from various sources, so you may have heard them before. Here they are:

The Wonder Under
furious sleep
criminally perfect
change puppet
the honesty of sinus headaches
laying rootless in the sun
three feat and a disco mouse
I thought that I heard the fax.
Normal could be good.
Doctor of Traffic
dancing on a blue skull
I jump rope in Marijuana Park.
diabolitical sabotagey
bleeding liquid joy
under ten tonnes of place
beyond success and failure, beyond victory and defeat
a touch of rare
love your insomnia
roast in one sitting
useful hard-water haunting
a desire for certainty
and yet we remain ourselves
fear or laziness
A well-armed public is the best implementation of tyranny.
Beliefs don’t have to be real.
Justinian Plague-Aliens?
The difference between culture and fad.
All culture is appropriation.
Yet another failed attempt at masturbation.
mustard, strawberries, and a dirty balloon
Elvis is a point of view.
Long live the new flesh.
Death to Cyberdrome.
the spirituality of citizenship
heterogeneously yoked by violence
a fitness and courtliness too often lacking
concordia discors / discordia concors
dancing in the closet of yesterday
the desire to punish
different forms of inheritance
window sill nine
recycled epoxy concrete
At least ten feet tall. Confidently pink.
the urgency of absorption
astro pirate
Remain with your host.
The greater good does not justify lesser bads.
gluten-free non-alcoholic god
and some were picnicking
from sex and surgery
revolve around your symptoms
escaping directionality
splinters shaped my toes, still I love them constantly
driving a meat-coated skeleton
a vein of lilies
as she dances in the widescreen of her existence
wobbly tasting of pink
the goddess is algebra
a mistaken egg
catalytic cell loss
Bill of Riots
renegade symbologist
Kentucky meat shower
Incoherent fire dissipates all contingency.
a contagion of shrouds
the five Erises
I dance through your dreams like a Carolina heart attack.
ambient meat
salami tactics
the absence of absence
bursts of activity
It’s not a child, it’s an invader. Stand your womb!
All unreasonable children should own razor blades.
An uneven number of buttons.
Red 37
scraps of untrained thought
ham and salt, tooth paint
doe snot