Exhibits in the ‘Did It Ever Get So Quiet, The Dark Began To Speak’ Gallery

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A Very Black Magick — Red Shift
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Magick Red Shift

It is unnerving to think that the essence of an amulet involves, in spite of everything, a principle of sleight-of-hand and misdirection. It is as if the circuitry indicated on the talisman were the plan for a contraption, devised to allure or fascinate the energies that the operative seeks to harness-by demoting attention itself to an attitude of entertainment, i.e. that awareness cannot perform the separation whereby it is to be distinguished from the most trivial episodes of psychic thralldom. Such a talisman is one part engineering diagram, one part cartoon. And the mind that aligns itself upon it, regresses accordingly.

What’s wrong with this story. It is just that there is no ostensible audience for such a procedure of fascination / misdirection. This omission is itself suggestive. Think of the magical pneuma, the general medium that serves as vehicle for the conductance of the magical will. The pneuma is collective, and though personally modified, impersonal, and surely without “personality.” The circuitry on the talisman configures the pneumatic substance. What appears to be transmission or, as we say, conductance, in fact conducts nothing but that it also induces its own object, carves out the channel of conveyance, constructs the transport vehicle, composes the message, and, singularly, measures “the signal to noise ratio” pertinent to the operation. For the message itself is far less distinct from the impedance of the signal, its distortion or dispersion than in the transmission of more purposively communicative missives. Here, the message modifies the principle of existence, that otherwise ought to supervene, so that the transitivity presumed for “signal maintenance,” cannot apply. It is this elision of the transitive that is most unnerving.

Unnerving too is the relation between the magical will and the sky-like expanse out of which there percolates, indifferently, a background noise (at whatever temperature, proximity to equilibrium, negentropic gradient, etc.) out of which the message is configured. At the essential cite in the operation the distinction between distinction and its own impossibility cannot be distinguished. Everything depends upon the way the operative disposes the moment at which this essential impossibility imposes itself upon the operation. There is a discontinuous continuum between the most egregious, ultimate steps in the working: how to begin and how to terminate fuse in a manner that, where methodology is most requisite, methodology is also quite impossible. And yet this fusion is in the end (or in the beginning) beside the point. The point itself precedes the oscillation in distinction. Happily, as they say, we all in fact do hold it in its hand.
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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 12.07

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2/34

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Blood of the DL

Some sort of fullness in the belly informs the texturing. As if the brain took hold of its own matricial intimacy and allowed itself to bespeak all thoughts at once. At least, it seems that such is the desideratum of the energies released here.

Yet the entities that climb from the tomb of an inessential pixelation survive, for an instant’s thought, say 1/50 of a second.

There is a point when the thing appears. After that a glide, an inquiry of attention. The thing becomes another thing, or else is frozen by the rigidities of the cognitive gaze, extracted and lodged in some database or other, not only off camera, but in Blake’s space “outside of existence” i.e. Albion’s couch, if you know what I mean. As if it were its own name, and in that, provided itself with the “bad” eternity that don’s the mask of identity.

1/50 of a second is an epoch, actually, measured against Planck’s time, say, or any duration spiked down to such a scale—where there are entire elements on the periodical table that have founded their being on far less.

Let the thing be its own name, certainly, and then withdraw. And let the thing withdraw, without an interval between it and its name, the name resolve into its own oblivion. The oblivion of the name, the name’s inversion. For the name is the nothing that covers the intimacy of the real, foisting its atemporal inability to abide, upon the true atemporal abiding of that whose velocity is acidic to any naming. Space. Light. Stone. Your choice of metonym.

Now consider the cone, whose geometry organizes itself as if to focus on the locus where its vertex stands. It is of course imaged in inverse, the vertex—above, the mouth a sort of table where all hidden process delivers its product, but AT the vertex, a small skull wakes up, and its interior comes alive.

Now the skull itself, with its internal structure, black hole eyes, is invariant over several degrees of magnification. At different settings, what might be wavulets are luminous rope-like tubules, whose contents, unimaginable, sustain the only secret left, for the little skull, were it capable of vocal articulation, might haunt us with the cry, “All is Revealed.” All is not revealed. In fact it is precisely “All” that has absconded into its own ascent. All matricial segments or positions have delivered themselves over to the scribulariae through which they precisely refuse to determine themselves. By becoming them. Super-transitory written signs, that is.

The verticality that aligns on the vertex of the cone, or drops perpendicular from it, does not particularly telegraph the entity heads that inhabit it, but rather allow a noise jam of microtubules, worm hairs, strings and foams, and other yet untheorized quantum glyphoids to co-postulate their own spaces, so that the Kings and Presidents of the Central Boulevard are relieved somewhat of their magisterial regimina.

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 12.07

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Dakpa Tamdin

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Red smoke fulfills the ambient. This is a small amulet. Being small, it is a signal from the smallest. If you insist on the scale of it at all, its shrinkage goes to singularity. The information it contains is vectors driving to the limit. But at the limit. It is not about what with some strenuous investments can be seen here. It is about what cannot have—what is about it. It awakens in the cockels of ignominy. It fulgurates in the glory of the gods. In that respect, there is nothing but the tanrtist’s ploy in it. At the moment that discomfiture, great or small, is objectified in the ken, a small room has opened and it is here, not there, where you are. Beyond this you are neither here nor there.

It is thus an amulet against all possible (actual) discomfiture.

Still, Lord Cat-Wolf holds a candle to the Dream-Lord.

Transference is not Transmission.

But Transmisson may occur

in Transference Only.

Thus and only thus:

Obeisance to the Guru.

All take note of this.

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 18.12.07

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Jesus Loves You

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Jesus Loves You, and We Do too

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Dakini of the Crystal Cross

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The Demons that were Left at the Door Last Night

It is a question and a wide open one at that—though open to such densities and thickets of incongruous roilings—whether the tangles of language can appropriately wrangle with the tangles of brujeria—opacities and coilings of a darkly promulgated magical will. For the factor of will factored out of Being descends, in a platonic hierarchy, to and from the darkness of matter itself—and is inextricable and inevadable because said matter, when rendered by language, shares a nature with the highest substances and states.

It is not a laughing matter, though it is possible, by a kind of sudden glancing, if succeeded by an equally sudden glancing away—to find in the two toiling figures that serve as temple columns in this image, a kind of crazed jocularity—the hilarity of the undercosm—the weird conjunction of laughter and horror that can be discovered in Vincent-Price level cinematic thrillers and as parodic moments in the Eleusinian Mysteries themselves. The exhausted initiates cross a magic bridge after the long treck from Athens towards Eleusis. Under the bridge there is a swamp that serves as a portal for the dead as they, on equinoctial wings, rise from their fixities in the underworld; while on the bridge the initiates are assailed by taunting jesters, the fixities of their beings assaulted from two intertwined dimensionalities: immortal ghoulishness and preternatural hilaritas.

Fail to glance away with sufficient celerity, and the jocular figures seem composed of an effusion of tears, a savage intent relieved only by the savagery and releasement of unrelenting grief.

But the beings in the central column—the Middle Pillar—seem clamped and stretched, the all pervasive tedium of the enmity registered in these magical doldrums having gotten the best of the equilibrium that portends relief. It is the place of Kings and Mighty Presidents in kliphotic parody. So much so that it is indiscernible whether structure here mocks substance or, by an inauspicious inverse, substance itself has been ground up into antinomies of structure—the assault upon the door turned to the only transformations yet possible, a dense and alarming invitation to speech. But speech wrangles with image here, not to mention substance, for where the darkness tends to its own extremity, in spite of moral fatigue, or rather quite on account of it, why should we not anticipate, beyond all parody, eversion towards inversion—the inextricable catastrophe of the inalienable? For language alas is formidably imbued with structure but only has substance where it is allowed to stretch beyond itself, entangled with the wicked eructation of a contumacious world. Already demonic, is it any wonder that language, involved in such a wrangle, has no recourse but to spit, and quite indeed nastily, back?

Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 23.01.08

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The Window & The Void [Hotel San Miguelito, San Miguel de Allende] – for Ezra Thelonious

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What sort of writing remains when the null cartouche

erected for the empty monument

witnessed by the tormented hieroglyph

has found its happy Sunday sunlight but for a moment

and the interpenetration of the principles of witness

catapult obliquity so graciously across

the traces of symmetries broken before emanation—

and can we read them?

To read in this case is to retard the little party favor quality to the vignettes seized

from what must have been and is a fulsome fabric

mocking the endeavors of what is called history—

not the inquiry, not the tale, but the body of event itself

dissolving in the intimacy of the experience thereof.

A window imbricates a witness, a witness no doubt a spectacle

but it is only ideology that forces from the spectacle its void

by severing things-seen from facts-of-seeing.

And what is the void into which the void itself has absconded?

or else has the void rescinded from nothing other than its own

excessive contumacious erasure?

The absence in essence of the essence of absence? And that from the beginning.

Try as you might, you will not make out what it is.

Such an itinerary of optical extravaganzas

expresses a certain volatility on the vital plane.

To not be or not to not be begs its own question,

one gesture before so consummate an arrival,

that no whiteness ever would add itself any longer to The Whiteness

but the latter sits refulgent

as the most forthright of renderings.

When the proof text scratches itself across the pinched fold

orthogonal to its own extenuation,

does this not herald the loss of one’s very self in a blink?

No matter how nearly the end approaches,

its moment refuses the anticipation of closure.

Admit this as frustration? Never!

Lest Time

ever finish a poem.

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 30.01.08

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The Shadows of Deception’s Daughter [19.02.08]

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Heaven Be Damned, or The Bardo According to “bialy/s”

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“Well, while I live, I’ll fear / no other thing / So sore as keeping safe / Nerissa’s ring”

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Bialzebub & His Grandchildren

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Two Venom Delivery Devices in the Style of Porceline Miniatures in the Persian Mode [for Jorge David Estrada Ochoa, who made the device on the left]

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Dakini of the DL

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The face of the woman exchanges with a mask of itself, wrenched strangely on the same body and its pretty neck. As in some split brain optical textbook trick. There are water marks scribbled on a transparent surface, or else incised on space. You are in the parking lot, tasting flakes of red rust, and you cannot see her. Her face refuses to form. Look at her. Look at the face. The Dark Lord cannot see this woman. For him, his own face displaces her face. It looks like there is a world there. But standing outside of the abstract vestibule forbids that.

It looks enough like a world. Transluminal vapors smudge the recording surface, jiggled chromatically to make a pleasant enough pseudo-cosmographic poster, $29.95 at the planetarium. The Dakini is overwhelmed by the rumors of so grandiose a scale. But in the dusts and vapors attenuated and stretched across so many billions of parsecs, innumerable little faces form and deform just before the tricky pixels rise into view. It remains quite true that nobody knows why faces form. The attitude that wants to read the water marks, finds faces.

You look for the face of the woman and you find a beast face. There are priests that depart from the parking garage. They walk quietly, locked in concentration, as concentration takes over from the effort to assume concentration. Distraction is now not possible, but it amounts to the same thing. Intense elimination of the pertinent ambient. So that the image of the woman’s face cannot form properly. Face or mask wrenching the face from its gesture. Forcing it to face front.

That it cannot be stated who is the witness of or from the ambient, what the nature of the observation, measurement, or intervention is that forces the state vector to collapse, etcetera, only portends so much confusion between the physical and the ethical registries. You look away. The ambient regains its duplicities, the coherence by which it denies or underwrites the world. Impossible to characterize the witness. The necessity that there seem, a Dark Lord. But the DL himself recurs in the confusion he legislates. He cannot find the woman or form the circumstance of his own desire. Desire precedes him principially. It hoves to from the darkness of his nature, as the darkness of his nature is the conjugate doublet of the evanescence of the form of his desire. It tears the object from the glance that establishes it. And turns the page.

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 16.03.08

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Universal Coinage

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Money has an enemy.

Does such coinage precede or succeed the tokens that bear the insignia of its patronage.

That’s one question.

As in “One guy’s got to have ALL

the money.” Not a question. He already has.

What say you to the notion that the universal medicine resigns as the universal…as you do seem to say. As for the pharmikos, the scapegoat, the guilt money, the medicine, the poison…Ah, The universal poison, “entwined throughout the system.” But the evidence of the perfection of funerary ornament: It Does Not Die. (Longevity/immortality code for Timeless Entity.

In the visica pisces the figure of Imhotep, I say, two millennia before Asklepios, holds an offering from which the vaginal orifice modestly scintillates, except for his eyes, which positively shine

from Source. The happy complement of the rhymed black gem hole eyes that absorb all possible shining, as if to see were to suck down the light and to cause all information to wise up,

and stash itself in a cache where only the general principle of such knowing shows, the detail subsumed “in the coin (the coign).”

Inscribed in the luminous patches on the middleground, the holy letters seem broken—ayin? shin? while the Owl’s Crown is darkened that the eyes, which I suspect also to be Imhotep’s eyes, are all but lost in positive shadow.

What limns the crown are skeletal legs so complexly incised, that I dare not hazard to elicit the radical fixes infixed there, let alone pretend the music that induces their dancing. Nevertheless, though elicit I dasn’t, I’ll still dare a list: mule’s head, unicorn, votive pigmy, rat with mason’s apron—all this symmetrically reduplicated and sporting above a funerary chalice exulting in the portage of guess who’s remains; downward rushing squirrels on the surface of two world trees; rivers of mortality rivers of ecstasy; dragon semen; happy cats with feathered epistolary instruments.

You can have it all for a dime, certainly, or really for any fiduciary instrument, however denominated. For only this is certain: universal coinage is not for everybody.

The enemy of money funds the void.

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 18.03.08

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Particle Chamber of Horrors

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“The CAT came back the very next day”

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2 truths

pain burns karma

pain waits in line

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Charles Stein

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“You can’t see us in spirit land”, and We can see it all [for Jack Spicer, 14.10.07 & Edem Akpan 04.04.08]

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A Night of Torment & Delight

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Axial Music

tensive sounds like burning up

George Quasha

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Strings of a Second Heart

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First one eye, then another; then the third, recessive, though larger than these, then eyes like little flames, firing—could be anywhere.

The benevolence of Space, it ought to seem, were visually attuned without the focus either from or on, any optical apparatus. It is this eyeless vision that makes unbodied lenticular presences spooky, redolent of surveillance from untoward subjects—untoward entities scanning that which they situate in the ambience they constitute, an infinitely recursive terror twisted into consciousness itself. Whose, these eyes? What, their subject? Whom, the object that engages them, or which they are engaged so darkly to survey?

Of course, it has been some time since the answers to any such queries might fail to be spontaneously forthcoming. Yet there is a certain rhythm to the Dark Lord’s epiphanies, not to say periodicity, that makes one wonder, again, who it is presumed “I am,” to feel myself espied by these dark gazes, pouring from a textured materielle quite new to our domain; strings indeed, like the striate muscular tissue of which the heart is formed, though the canonical denial, “not this pump,” referring to the cardiac organ, makes one think the entire materiality, and not of this organ only, recedes to the referents of common metaphor. Does the second heart, then, portend the throbbing of the famous Other, in affective proximity to the mortal effector of these imageries, or, perhaps co-aptly, the micrological doppleganger of any very self, the first heart verily unmanifest, until the second intrudes proximally upon its ambience?

“For the Heart is a Subtle Organ, oh my mother”—the utterance reverberates from Andalusia through the Windy City—its sapience infinitely sensitive and transpicuous to the intensification of all materiality—whose heart indeed is light.

Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 16.04.08

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Hungry Ghosts

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Isis & Her Sisters

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Made in China

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From There to Here Long Before They Like to Say

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We have paid the forfeit. Now what. How many hypers to the hyper hyper… hypercube? He who has accepted Universal Coinage knows this: dimensions may extrapolate to some non-rhetorical infinity, and the gray and massive Egyptian with the massively disrupted face that comes forth to greet the anything-but-innocent-eye – deserves what he gets, actually. Now he recedes utterly. No more need be stated about him.,like…What affect does he effect?

After the little confab outside the driveway in front of the cemetery, under the bright new moon, we all went down the road for cocktails and poetry, a nice woman from Sussex, drolleries and anxieties concerning catching a plane. And where are you off to? Now look, look.

Under the few houses this side the vast rolling lawns where the horse lady used to let her fillies wander, apartments and mallways walled with gold bricks where the unsettled recent dead also wander, not yet having sorted out the utter dissolution of the social structure down there. Just keep your mouth shut and listen. (Would that this were possible.)

The accumulation of personal power ought to be equivalent to releasement from all circumstances under which one might be tempted to use it. Power is like the moon behind the clouds behind the oak trees. The moon itself is not affected by the various scales and substances by which it is transformed by its being occulted. You are like that too, little brother. Otherwise, business as usual. The holding of a ceremonial object that could easily be the head a cat at the center of one’s body below the waist accumulates energy as the lower Tan Tien accumulates chi or ki. The accumulation occurs affecting just such a release. Things speed up and one becomes more quiet accordingly. Eventually even the Dark Lord becomes very quiet indeed and the recognition of what “one always was” itself is perfectly instructive.

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 12.05.08

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Tantra Shmantra

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No Light at this End of This Tunnel (31.08.08)

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An Equinoctial Offering: In the Forest of Ogun They Drink the Blood of Black Dogs (22.09.08)

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Listen Closely, the Voiceless Dead Are Speaking

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13 x 3

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Consort of the DL

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“You may say they are saying I am saying: ‘Eh? What’s this? You commit to this? You give me consorts? Like some Prince of the fucking realm? Like some GOD or GODLET? Like some YAB? Do you think that I imagine myself submissive to the masks and mores of ANY sociality, any composition of cities, that must relate to themselves, not to mention each other? To some Kosmos? Do you think I confirm a WORLD? Am I not the Necessary Entity, if ever were there a Necessary Entity, that I should HAVE a CON SORT? What SORT of a CON is THAT, may I ask—but I DO ask. Am I a Wrinkle? In a piece of wrapped foil? Am I a sheet of matter, annealed to another, matter? What IS the matter? That they must send me such meager compensations as ANOTHER THING. Another Being to match Being Myself? Am I but some grand mistake? Some mischance? Some missed Mark? Am I a Mark? For THAT?’

“But no. I must tranquilize myself. I must watch. I must Receive.

“Further and further through such recognitions, consortings with the temper of these markings. I see, I see. No surface. So shape. No mirror. How shall I draw Her from the vertical address of these bright and murky poolings? Do I dare to call to her, to Her, who, were she truly to consort with me, would so disfigure my nature that the very reason for my various appearances among these images and missives, would undergo, no doubt, no doubt at all, unanticipated transmogrifications.

“I blush before my own bottomless need. For the Dark Itself Has No Bottom—no finality to its grand and lordly resource. And the pathology of it is coterminous with its dubious if creative play.

“Dolphins swim in the treasures of Her rain.”

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Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 29.10.08

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