I got no plans tonight. Grief bubbles up through the silence. People have stopped calling me except after bar hours, when expectations get loose. Being inside is like convection cooking but not cooking. It’s like convection bathing, and internal steam bath.
I don’t masturbate all day. Things get done. Laundry, I mean. I wash my red wool robe in a bucket and hang it out of the window to dry. I watch all kinds of episodes. I brainstorm fetishes with bowls of milk, red balloons, slicing salami logs, banana cream pies.
If I were hit in the face with a pie, surely I’d orgasm.
I used to be the life of the party. I was the best dancer, the wildest kisser, the one with drugs, the one naked in the bathtub.
All of my night life friends have abandoned me and now I live in my red wool robe on the corner of 18th street and Fred Avenue. I hand wash my robe and let it crip dry into a bucket like a hanged man in wool. I live above a shoe store that sells stilettos that rich women use as an excuse to take a cab. The stilettos are sharper than the conversations. I haven’t left my house in three months. Loneliness is a fiction created by the romance industry. I have diagnosed myself with agoraphobia.
The last phone call I had bored the person on the other end, an old DJ I dated when I was normal. We talked about universal symbols and came to an intuitive understanding that our dreams are clairvoyant. He asked to take me out. Of my house. No. No. I hung up.
Last night I watched a Dateline exclusive about a video camera set up on the side of a bridge. Every day someone would jump off of the bridge to their deaths. There should be regulation or bridge protection, like a suicide net.
I have tabs open on my personal computer. I have enemies in chat rooms. I am an occultist when my Wi-Fi is working. Reddit dot com slash enochian is my temple.
Posted by u/sophialeftmeonread
1 day ago
r/abraxas
Knock Knock at the Threshold of the Pleroma
Last night while waiting for the light of the morningstar, I in my five bodies, the veil thin. God told me a knock knock joke.
God: “Knock knock!”
Me: “Who’s there?”
God: “Me.”
Me: “Who?”
God: “That’s what they all say!”
I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I think it was the Demiurge . He always tries to be clever when I’m at my weakest. But part of me wonders if I was called forth to enter the treasury of light like a comic beckoned to a wildly unpopular open mic night?
I craft a sigil with the expertise of a housewife slicing ham.
I use the following intention: “I attract a long-haired, adventurous, fire-loving, skilled, carnivorous man who is not a Virgo.” Reduce core letters, remove vowels and duplicates, and I’m left with T R C L N G H D V S F K M W. I combine the letters into a small drawing on the back of a brown paper bag that I snagged from the shoe store. I tear the symbol out of the page clockwise, leaving no sharp edges. Out comes the vibrator, my magic wand. I chant in phonemes I barely comprehend. My mouth is the mush end of ritual, the puckered asshole waiting for release.
He arrives in the light of the waxing moon through a curtain of vapor, wet smoke curling like the tongue of the ineffable. There he is, a Neanderthal with mud still crusting his thighs. His breath is heavy. His body is dense like a glade of mugwort. He carries a log, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. The log leaks sap onto my floor.
He mounts me like we’re fucking ourselves back through prehistory. Twenty-six minutes and thirty seconds in the same tragic rhythm. I’m not sure if we’re having sex or just doing Bill Clinton stuff. I hallucinate a choir of angels. He makes a sound like a kicked dog and goes soft. I slap him. His eye blooms red like a blossoming rose.
Later I realize I’m almost out of saving and the threat of having to get a brick and mortar job looms. So I buy a webcam. My screen lights up with strangers. I fuck the caveman on cam. I jerk off until my wrist goes numb. I leave my dildo out and the Neanderthal uses it as a log. My fanbase is a militia of preppers and incels. We get sponsored by some Alpha Male site, promoting the return of masculinity. The Neanderthal is rewarded with seared rabbit I have delivered from Venezuela. We mukbang on cam. One fan says he’d crawl inside me and wear my skin like a coat. My room smells like a yeast infection. I feel adored.
I make cut two small holes into a small white sheet and drape it over my clitoris on camera. I lose three subscribers for that stunt.
The caveman eats raw beef and calls it “power food.” I think of murdering him. I fantasize about his death while watching him bend over to pick up a granola bar I threw at his back. His balls dangle like prehistoric fruit.
I eat the rabbit imported from Venezuela and cry with pleasure. He doesn’t get a bite. I am the storm, I have the power to knock out my WiFi at whim, I am the wrath of modernity.
He lectures me on civility. I ask why he smells like bergamot. He says real men don’t wear perfume. He tells me I am difficult, that this isn’t what he signed up for. I tell him the gods gave me what I deserved, which is not a boyfriend but a grunting, sweating, mountain that fucks.
He clubs me with his log (it’s my dildo) and drags me to a casting call for a reality show. “Naked and Afraid: Jungle Redemption.” I wake up with my cheek pressed on a long, black, laminated conference table. I hear Mark Burnett say, “She looks like trouble.” I peak out of the red wool robe covering my face and watch Mark pointing to the Neanderthal, “He looks like ratings.”
I sigh heavy. They hand me a machete and a waiver.
At the start of our show, a jeep barrels through mud. A chopper cuts across a cloudless sky. Dropped off at the bend of a river snaking its way through a dangerous lush jungle. Our Primitive Survival Ratings appear in Comic Sans on screen. Me: 3.4. Neanderthal: 7.9. We are naked. They introduce me as a self-taught survivalist and Wiccan. I notice that someone has shaved a lightning bolt into the Neanderthal’s hefty pubes.
Camera Confessional: The Neanderthal in great lighting, “I haven’t been out of the United States. This is all very new to me.”
They drop us by a river that winds into the distance, throwing a smell of copper into the air. Full of piranhas! If we hike northwest, we may reach a canyon and have time to set up camp before nightfall. We’ll be rescued after twenty-one days, or filmed dying. Either way, Mark says the audience loves the narrative and ratings are through the roof.
He builds a fire with piss-soaked twigs and lectures me about friction. I gather leaves and dream of pasta. He talks about bark. He says, “If you have your mind in the sexual gutter in the wilderness, you’re in for a world of hurt.” I stare at his nipples. They twitch like antennas when he lies. He eats a baby falcon for fun, grunting eating sounds and maiming with his teeth at the camera.
Camera Confessional: “I found a beautiful falcon baby, a fledgling not able to fly. What do you do when you’re hungry? You have to eat in typical fashion. I looked into its beautiful little eyes and i saw my own reflection. To see your own reflection in a spectacular bird! ! It just died in my hands. It is dead now ” He shrugs, feathers stuck to his massive chin, “So I ate it. Two bites.”
After that, I didn’t speak to him for three days. He eats beetles, snakes, a parakeet, gnats, termites, one horse fly, a handful of white bugs he finds under lemon balm, and drinks his own urine. I eat silence, the asceticism pulling my ribs in so tight I feel corseted by the divine. I sharpen sticks and sleep with them in a pile. He draws on rocks and calls me over to witness his strategy. The camera zooms in on a crude drawing of a helicopter with a smiley face, a stick figure hanging over the side holding a large dildo, and another stick figure with large titties lying dead on the ground.
He dreams loudly, snoring in Neolithic grunts. I masturbate secretly under a waterfall in the Amazon just to remember I’m alive. I lick the condensation from our tarp at the base camp. He calls me pathetic and takes a swig from a foraged plastic gallon of his own heavily recycled urine.
He tries to explain periods to me. If he doesn’t stop explaining to me about things I already know, it will put a wedge in our relationship. Early morning day five he leaves the base camp without informing me.
The camera zooms into a rock with a crudely drawn calendar and an anatomical drawing of a woman with a uterus that overcrowds all of her other internal organs. He grunts and struggles to pronounce the word ovulation. He says woman are coded to be so annoying once a month, but sometimes god makes mistakes and woman are annoying all month. I gouge “fuck you” into a tree trunk. The camera ignores me. He chops down the tree trunk and whittles it into a spoon. This spawns a line of merch sponsored by the website ReturntoMasculinity.net.
I find a world war 2 bunker in the southernmost tip of our strategic area. It smells like old leather and repressed trauma. I sleep on a cot with rat nests beneath. This feels like the arms of a grandpa, so safe and ready with interior pain. That neanderthal might be a caveman, but I’m a goddamn star.
He returns with a toupee made of moss. He says I’ve changed. He says I’m cold.
“You look like a man who jerks off to footage of fire,” I say.
He cries. The jungle watches. The rats organize themselves into chorus lines and hiss at me. The cameras never stop.
The producers mail in a new challenge. The Neanderthal opens up an envelope and holds it up to the camera. The word “seduction” is written on it in comics sans. My survival rating drops 2 points. The goal is now to gain trust, eat protein, make love. A food drop lands by parachute. It contains condoms and a protein bar.
He tries to barter the condom for dominance. I swallow the protein bar without chewing. Camera confessional of me talking about the Gnostic origins of patriarchy and how the individuated ego will resemble a chimerical, terrible, awe. There are now t-shirts with my face on it, under a big red x.
Day sixteen. No food. I eat a parrot head. I named it Carl, sobbing hysterically to the camera. I don’t know if there are many brains left but it will be a good source of protein for today. He laughs like he invented violence. We are now feeling the effect of malnourishment. I climb into a six foot tall palm tree and live there for forty-eight hours. When he walks by, I throw coconuts to try to knock off his moss toupee. He dances below it with palm fronds and a goat skull and reads my reddit posts in the Camera Confessional. The audience is referring to me as The Devil Worshiper.
Day nineteen. He carves a dildo from driftwood and offers it like a wedding ring. I say nothing. I put it in the fire. Camera zooms into the small necklace that I’ve made from the head of Carl.
Day twenty-one: Extraction.
A helicopter appears, low and throbbing like a god with no mouth. Montage footage of the drawing on the rock. I wave the helicopter off with a dramatic slowness, fingers smeared with period blood. I pull a WW2 flare gun out of a coconut shell, concealed perfectly until the right moment. I am not done. We still have time to broadcast myths.
That night, he builds a fire out of failed whittled dildos. He chants my name wrong while painting symbols in ash on his own chest. The fire licks up the sky and he says, “You complete me,” quoting a VHS he found washed up on the bank of the river on Day 13. He proposes. I ask what his last name is. He says “Fire.” I imagine the wedding dress stitched together from leaves, plastic receptacles, used condoms. My veil of toupee moss trailing into the mud.
We fuck on top of the emergency rations until I’m so dehydrated that I delude myself into thinking it’s a reenactment of agriculture. The rats cheer and I see one of them raise a paw to its heart. I can not let the man win.
The Neanderthal says he wants to go home.
“There is no home,” I say, pointing a flare gun to his crotch. “Our only hope is syndication.”
I hand him a knife to cut the cameras. He laughs with all his teeth, covering his genitals for once.
I leave him crying in the black moss of a river embankment, gnawing on an eel he caught with his bare hands. I find my war bunker and crawl inside, cradling the last can of spam and a copy of Cosmopolitan. I slam the hatch and lie down, neutralized and ready for the credits to roll. The cot is warm like fever, the war steel cold like the average mother in the industrialized age.
I whisper: “Knock knock.”
The rats chant my name. The sound echoes off the walls, enveloping me in a finale of grandiose recognition.
At last we have the credits. Director Producer Writer Composer Script Bitch Gaffer Lighting Assistant Hair Stylist Catering My name over and over Helvetica Comic Sans The font used on the tomb in the Pantheon ILLE HIC EST RAPHAEL TIMVIT QVO SOSPITE VINCI RERVM MAGNA PARENS ET MORIENTE MORI. Blazing fire, smoke billowing into the night sky. Raging rapid sweeping down the amazon. Scratched into the bark of a cedar tree, sap leaking out into tall grass. Cumulus clouds with peaks higher than mountains. Blinking in the corner of a porn ad on a stolen laptop. Encoded into a livestream of a woman pulling a live octopus off of her face. I am. Over and over. I am a rerun.