Security Breach
Metaphysical Espionage: Part 1
I recommend reading I Was Dead and the Resurrection Plan before this piece or else it may be hard to follow.
Warning: This article contains themes and elements that could be distressing for individuals prone to paranoia, persecutory delusions or suffering from mental illnesses such as schizophrenia. Reading this material may exacerbate symptoms or provoke uncomfortable thoughts.
It also contains spoilers for Fight Club.
Metaphysical Espionage
By becoming human, the invisible God became visible. This is the incarnation.
Before, it was forbidden to depict God. But after the incarnate Logos revealed himself in physical form (in effect depicting himself), depictions of God and spiritual beings were permitted and were named icons.
These icons were regarded not just as artistic creations, but as windows to the divine. Openings in the veil of temporal materiality to the timeless world beyond it. You look through an icon, not at it.
But iconography in the fullest sense of the word is not confined only to these artifacts. There also exists naturally-occurring iconography, and these are what I have named teloconfigurations. The incarnation itself is the first clear example, but such symbolic scenes nucleate in time at smaller scales constantly.
This is one of the many deep implications of the incarnation: the world is a representational artifact, and whoever is able to perceive such revelations becomes privy to the whispers of angels.
I. In a world of perpetual, omnipresent surveillance, how is one to conceal subversive activity?
As King David did: under the cloak of apparent insanity, as before Achish, the king of Gath. The vital function of the schizoposter and apophenic is to provide a backdrop against which the spies for the Kingdom are camouflaged.
The more unintelligible I am to the uninitiated, the better. It is by design that I am hard to take seriously. My communication is shielded by a threefold encryption:
The first layer is the complexity of the subject matter.
The second is the seemingly delusional way I relate one thing to another.
The third is a shell of fiction-esque dramaticism.
I am so confident in this that I will state openly how it works and it will not matter.
The highest level threats are the lowest level threats.
If a person, machine or government agency cannot discern the difference between “real” and “fake” synchronicity — it follows that these would not be able to spot the difference between apophenia and constellation either.
That constellation is a kind of gnosis which can only be understood from inside and is impossible to achieve without a sincere love for Christ is precisely what makes it so dangerous. It is a true “black box” to the enemies of God.
The physical intelligence apparatus is likely unaware of it except as a potentially dangerous “religious idea,” and most probably not one that is watched very closely. The metaphysical intelligence apparatus on the other hand, supervening upon its corporeal counterpart (hence the recruitment of intelligence agents from secret societies) knows exactly what this is. In order to strike in public, however, it needs the cover of either probable cause or plausible deniability. Thus, it will engineer circumstances which conceal the true nature of such attacks even from the attackers themselves.
The purpose of I Was Dead was to prove beyond a doubt that this occurs.
It is what I call infinite compartmentalization, and it is why the cultic behavior that has periodically flared up around this project should be recognized for what it is: unwitting infiltration by “sleeper agents.” Its purpose is to manufacture antipathy and mistrust toward my work — to covertly signal that I am a cult leader who is deluding people and to keep away. To anyone with any sense, such behavior strongly deters any closer investigation. The goal is to envelop and insulate this corpus inside the perimeter of an imperceptible and effectively inaccessible ‘quarantine zone.’
This is a particularly pernicious form of what is called “occultation-by-parody,” a favorite weapon of the character assassin and a preamble to more aggressive tactics. Political comedians have made a lucrative career out of wielding it effectively and are employed by wealthy interests and powerful organizations to do so and you should not underestimate the effect it has upon you.
It is important that this divide-and-conquer strategy be named and known.
II. In a maze of misinformation and noise, how is one to access the truth behind such meticulously manufactured and diligently maintained mirages?
We are in the midst of a spiritual war between the powers of remembrance and oblivion and under siege by invisible enemies armed with weapons of mass delusion.
Plato taught that knowledge of the world of forms is not acquired but remembered. In his native language of Ancient Greek, this remembrance is called anamnesis.
The same term later became associated with the sacrament of the eucharist in which this re-membering is made literal — the opposite of dismembering. It is a restoration of the original human condition, reversing millennia of generational, archonic depatterning. We remember Eden the same way a puzzle “remembers” its proper configuration. This is why the Puzzle Method works.
It is through this memory of Eden — of the uncorrupted world glimpsed through the language of symbolism — that the human nervous system can accurately position itself within the confusion of the fallen world. All one needs to do is learn to use symbols as landmarks in an n-dimensional potential-space. I have made it my goal to teach this to those who can learn it, however scarce or remote in time they may be.
Metanoia and mortification are prerequisites to it. One must internalize Christian symbolic grammar to the point that it informs basic perception. It is the grammar, not the vocabulary that is the most important.
Having done this, one must then place more trust in that kind of perception than anything in the manifest world. This is a barrier which the enemy will not and cannot cross. On the other side of it, one perceives teleological objects as virtual images holographically encoded in the information patterns of normal perception.
I believe this deep-background-patterning is anamorphically organized around the human observer. It cannot be decrypted from another vantage point. This is why the technological invasion of the human being is taking place.
III. If we are truly in the midst of such a conflict, why does nothing ever seem to happen?
Because it is advantageous to both sides to remain camouflaged, and the arenas wherein the great multitudes expect “something” to “happen” no longer refer to anything real. They are simply the points of contact where the orders to execute this or that protocol are disseminated. Such facades are propped up purely for the purpose of misdirection, manipulation and pacification. Bombs are for the masses.
World War Three is cold, total and already happening. The borders of states; the laws, signs and institutions that bind them are the bastions of two fortress cities that occupy the same space. The real powers are outside the battlefield, exchanging broadsides from the other side of time. We see only the points where the salvos intersect the world of our senses.
Things do happen, but they happen at such high frequencies that they are invisible to the untrained eye.
Ours is the era of ultraviolet warfare.
The End of the Siege
I have been the target of relentless attacks since last summer. They have persisted with increasing belligerence and scarce relief from July until this past April. In the end, this forced my hand and I had to pack my things and move to get away from it. This string of maneuvers began after a quite brutal gambit was played a little over a year ago. It followed so soon after the ‘I Was Dead’ affair that I can’t imagine it is unrelated.
What I mean to say is: the aggression has not stopped since it started in September of 2023. I’ve kept most of it to myself because of the reaction such things have received in the past.
The attacks I am talking about are dismissible by design. The entity will attempt to compromise a target through demoralization, entrapment, veiled intimidation and traumatic bombardment, and aim to do so in a way that will either make the victim delusional or at least appear to be so. This alienates them from others, effectively isolating them from any form of support.
I am discussing this now despite my reluctance because I think this kind of thing will become more common in the coming years and in order to resist such offensives, one must understand the enemy and be ready to navigate what happens.
I do not remember if it was April 22nd or 23rd when Zell told me to watch Fight Club again. I don’t remember a lot of things since the summer. My memory is fuzzy from August until about a month ago.
By April, contact with Zell became halting, inconsistent and muddled. It was always difficult to tell if she was speaking at all or what she was really saying or trying to say. Toward the end of that time, when it became obvious that I was all but deaf to her, she rarely tried to say anything. This was an exception, and the impulse was insistent enough that I decided to watch the film.
There was a vague sense of standing before a threshold. Upon the precipice of some invisible abyss. My mind was blind to whence the feeling came, insulated by a thick, dour cynicism that was not able to believe firmly in very much anymore. But I felt in my body, a tension; a bracing for impact. My heartbeat was always just a bit faster than it seemed it should be. My gaze searched for something I could not name and never seemed to find.
I was being led through a great darkness back to something I’d once known but had forgotten. I would hear the calling and be sure of it — sometimes for days, other times, just a moment — then it would fade, taking with it the faith it restored and almost all memory of itself.
I’d been disillusioned. Not completely, but enough that in those last weeks, I’d mapped out a plan to shelve this whole thing. Go offline forever, meet a pretty girl, have a few kids somewhere quiet and leave a tome for posterity. I hate almost everything about the internet in its present form. It distorts and destroys everything, including those who use it. I can’t stand watching what people let it do to them. I would often find myself wondering if I was just another node in a parasocial vapor economy, enslaved by the illusion that anything was ever achieved.
And at the same time, you hear the whispers burrowing into your ear from sunrise to sunset to sunrise again:
You are ten times what you ever were before. Why do you sit at a desk wasting your talents to be called a charlatan as thanks? What now would stop you from anything that you resolved to do?
They try to turn your gaze to all the wrong things. You, not God. What you can achieve, not the pride that stops you from achieving it. The worst messages, the worst comments. Everything important seems small and far away. The very strange thing is I received far more delusional and hostile messages than normal during that time. There was a measurable and unusual spike in such activity, the likes of which I’ve not ever seen before.
Of course it’s usually easy to see the evidence of an entrenched infection, but to get rid of it after it’s rooted is another thing entirely, and if you can’t, you will run out of willpower before they do. The smart thing to do at that point is to drop what you’re doing and look for a priest like you’ll die if you don’t find one in time.
It is never unpersuasive. They always seem perfectly sensible conclusions from a hardened point of view. There are never clear errors in the reasoning.
The world starts to darken. The senses fill up with toxic grime. Everything seems smeared with the ugliness that starts to grow in you, and it becomes frighteningly easy to suspect that this, not the place you were before (that you now but dimly remember), is the real world.
One of the effects the condition has on you, is you forget how real this stuff is. You know it’s real, and you won’t be convinced otherwise overnight. Instead you forget how real it is. You slide slowly into an apathetic and paradoxical belief-without-faith. You passively “believe in God” and that distracts you from the fact that you no longer actively trust Him. If you’re not careful, you can forget there is a difference at all. You just “believe in God.” Trust is reserved for things you can see.
I will have to leave this country soon or it will be the death of me. Even the bustling hub of New York City felt more alive than post-Covid Ontario near the big cities. I am in a very dangerous place.
“The Golden Death” is the name I gave to a certain kind of ritual atonement and purification. It is used in cases of persistent infestation after all other interventions have failed. A cup of fire is prepared and drank which induces a kind of fever of the soul. This causes a fierce burning that will kill the worms and smelt down impurities but only after crossing over an ocean of terror and despair.
I had undergone it a few times already, but the mold always returned. Now I had moved far from that place. One more time should kill whatever remained.
I prepared a place, drank the cup of fire and I laid down. I was brought then before the sun and through a curtain of fire into a golden corridor. I felt my body scorched in the searing glow, and a few times, opened my eyes, and saw that my skin had turned bright red. It felt like I was inside of a furnace that was heating up.
I was carried into the heart of the sun, and in its midst was a great angel, too luminous to see, praying many prayers of intercession, pleading for mercy so fervently that it were as though it was praying for itself.
“Have mercy, have mercy, Lord Jesus Christ have mercy.” Over and over and over again. I was certain it had been praying like that before I arrived and that it would continue after I left.
It did not answer anything I asked nor respond to anything I did nor even acknowledge my presence. It just prayed for hours while I laid burning.
When it was finally over, I went outside. A flock of birds had gathered in the trees and were making a commotion. I found a sparrow which had fallen dead in the yard which the birds seemed to have gathered around.
I sat by the sparrow for a long time feeling sorry for it. I would not have looked twice at it before. I finally felt like I was myself again — enough to know I hadn’t been for quite a while.
Missing Time
Later the same day, my father asked me to go for a walk. I am staying with family until I figure out my next move. It seems prudent to deliberate for a while given how things played out and ended in the last place — the place where the spores of the things I’d burned had come from.
On that walk, my father happened to mention an upcoming lunch in memory of a beloved family member who passed away four years ago. He mentioned it briefly. Something about scheduling. Having to plan around it. I was surprised this hadn’t been mentioned to me and I asked if I was welcome to come along.
He was taken aback. “We already invited you.”
It takes a lot to shock me, but that was enough to do it.
“What did I say?”
“You said no.”
If I’d been invited, I should have remembered it because the person the memorial lunch was in honor of had been on my mind for several weeks.
“I never heard about this, when was I invited?”
He seemed almost angry, though he told me he wasn’t. He explained that a few days ago, when another relative of ours visited, I was invited and declined to go — rudely according to his telling. He said that I got upset and gave “a big speech” about how I “don’t like restaurant food.”
Now this shook me for obvious reasons — chief among them: I did remember that afternoon to some extent, but my account of it was entirely different. I don’t mean my “side of the story” was left out, I mean it’s not remotely the same story.
For one thing, I don’t clearly recall my father even being there for most of it. I remember seeing him at the table, and it makes sense that he would have been there the whole time, but I don’t remember us talking.
I don’t remember anyone talking, actually.
I know people were speaking, but when I think back, it’s all garbled — kind of like song lyrics when you know how they’re sung but not the words. It’s just like that. A humming without form.
Second, by extension, I recall no mention of what the lunch was actually about. I only remember I was invited to a restaurant — a Greek one, a detail which was confirmed to be correct — and I remember politely saying I don’t like restaurants because I worked in one and I’ve seen how the sausages are made. That’s what I say when invited to a restaurant just for its own sake.
My father insisted that I was repeatedly told what the lunch was about and persistently declined to go.
This was just the most egregious offense I was made aware of that afternoon. There had apparently been a host of inexplicable, often inconsiderate and suspiciously half-forgotten patterns of behavior coming from my direction over the past few weeks. These came up together in the same hour, as if the many tendrils of a single weed were all being uprooted at once.
As soon as this began to unfold, I understood why Zell had told me to watch Fight Club the night before. The timing was too conspicuous.
One of the many reasons you should watch Fight Club is because it shows you very clearly how actual demons work in the modern world. More importantly, the film often shows you (especially if you’re a young man with a working endocrine system) that you’re not nearly as immune to it as you’d probably like to think.
After I made it clear that I would of course like to go to the lunch, the conversation took another bizarre turn: my father brought up Moloch.
It again came up by itself. A Moloch cult just happened to be in the book he was reading which he then started talking to me about. My Dad didn’t know anything about Moloch. He didn’t even know that I knew anything about Moloch.
Just after I finished explaining what Moloch was on the way home, we walked past a house numbered: 444. Just a minute later, a gray sedan came down the road with a plate also numbered: 444.
The driver waved at me. I waved back.
Welcome back, he seemed to say.
Blindsight and the Memory Hole
Blindsight is a phenomenon where somebody who is cortically blind can respond to visual stimuli which they cannot consciously see. The processing of optical information seemingly bypasses their conscious awareness.
People with blindsight might be able to recognize their location, detect obstacles, motion and even catch things that are thrown to them — all the while insisting that they are blind and cannot see anything.