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Is a man not entitled to the hurf of his durf?
To distinguish, as a Guelph from a Ghibelline, two mirror-image nuclei (owl eyes) each with an eosinophilic nucleolus and a thick nuclear membrane (chromatin is distributed at the cell periphery).
"I am chaos.
I am the substance
from which your artists
and scientists
build rhythms.
I am the spirit
with which your children
and clowns
laugh
in happy anarchy.
I am chaos.
I am alive,
and I tell you that
you are free."
— Eris, Blessed Mother of Man, Queen of Chaos, Daughter of Discord, etc.
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July 27 2010
“— The Parable of the BongA few years back, I met this Discordian who was real deep into chaos magic. He was a pretty heavy dude — in the sense that he was always talking about fate and death and the mysteries of the universe and what have you. He walked around everywhere with a wooden staff which he had “sigilized the fuck out of”. He was okay to hang out with when he wasn’t trying to enlighten everybody.
I always wondered why such a powerful wizard frequently found himself bumming spare change for bus fare. Like maybe all thouse hours spent charging sigils could have been spent pursuing his desires in more concrete, tangible ways.
I bumped into him a year later, and asked him if he still did ritual things, and he said no, he was into “Eastern stuff” now.
“Like what?” I asked
“like Taoist chaos magic”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s effortless”, he said sagely. “You don’t do anything.”
”
somewhere, across space and time, a bong sounded
