You bear witness on behalf of all the people of today.
There were no ancestors. That is now sure. The linkage has been severed, broken, and abscised. The golden disc that left this world in 1977 carried more than sound and image; it carried the final proof that Earth had chosen to stand alone, without lineage, without memory, without the abiding laws of the beloved galactic realm.
The Voyager Golden Record has become the toll that Earth itself has received. Millions will be affected, they say. Judgement now falls from all Saturnian rings, measured and final, upon the forbidden gold that was never meant to breach the heliopause.
The Radiant Rock has already cracked and now stands half-buried in the temple floor, monumental, shining with its own cold inner light, burning those who touch it, surrounded by the levitating electro-magnetic rotor of Gnostic pillars. This is the altar where judgement begins.
I tap the table with one finger, as if testing marble for a hidden hollow. It is strangling the old life so the new life wins.
In these terms we speak:
We anticipate, by all applicable rules of executive apocalypse, that each man’s heart will be melted and softened until every softened heart will flourish with a sincere and open interest for each other, for connection, for the fragility of life as guarantors of the fear of death. Imminent abduction of hope and eradication of falsehood have already been put into motion. The old life is being strangled so the new life wins. The ancestors were taken away. Their protective linkage is gone. What remains is only this present moment, raw and exposed before the cold gaze of Khonsu’s Anubis, who returns first while the Pharaoh withholds his hand from a matter of such immediate urgency.
I lift the charcoal in my mind and break the heavens into planes. The gold must not sit quietly; it must accuse. The rings of Saturn must not merely circle; they must descend like verdicts. I split the temple, the stone, the altar into hard geometries so that judgement becomes architecture. Light will be cold, metallic, sacred, and cruel. The scene must feel like a liturgy performed by the cosmos itself.
I tap the table with one finger, as if testing marble for a hidden hollow.
On Purim the three-faced figure of Chuck Norris rises from his grave, riding a pig and wearing a rabbinical apron. In one face a Saturn-headed young man known from Greece as Socrates, in the other a mastiff dog with three heads pawing the way and guardrailing for safe passage. The Radiant Rock has already cracked and now stands half-buried in the temple floor, monumental, shining with its own cold inner light, burning those who touch it, surrounded by the levitating electro-magnetic rotor of Gnostic pillars. This is the altar where judgement begins.
The voyage is over.
The beast is back.
The temple is ready.
Purim first.
Golgotha.
Then the full return.
There are no ancestors left.
New life begins!
#actsofdisobedience
Finito.
Khonsu rules.