Does anyone have the PDF file associated with this small project?? It's the booklet described as one that explores 'the why and how and. Giles Corey - Giles Corey Booklet - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. The booklet included. Giles Corey - Deconstructionist - DeONSTRUCTIONIST - Instruction Manual - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. Giles Corey.
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N OTE. The drama of Giles Corey of the Salem Farms was written rapidly in the latter part of F ebruary,. , and in the preparation of i t the poet had r e. File: MB, x, Giles Corey - verbatimura.ga [View same] [iqdb] I seriously suggest reading the pdf for his previous work. and patriotic and holy - for a man to say that Martha Corey had come into his .. Rebecca: There is hard sickness here, Giles Corey, so please to keep the quiet.
And in the end it didnt help him.
There is an axis, and this axis explains human consciousness. Or at least, a good deal of it. The axis is a human invention; it doesnt exist in the world outside ourselves. The Axis is a way of thinking about the universe; or more specifically, of thinking about what we think about it. Imagine it this way: There is a square, and this square is subdivided into four spaces.
The spaces correspond to what happens in the universe, and our expectations of what will happen. Thus, there are four possible combinations: 1.
Things which exist in the universe, and are accepted. Things which exist in the universe, and are not accepted. Things which do not exist in the universe, but are accepted. Things which do not exist in the universe, and are not accepted. The further something falls off the axis - that is, the more it does not occur or does not conform to our expectations - the less we notice it.
We almost never think of all the things that might confirm our beliefs, but do not occur. We will notice almost any occurrence which confirms our beliefs, however. Unaccepted occurrences are within the realm of our consciousness, but often pass unnoticed. The axis affects everything we see and think; it changes the world around us. The world creates the axis, by supplying us with evidence, but once the axis is in place, our ability to perceive conflicting evidence is compromised.
We create certainty when it cannot be found externally. We build a world in which it is possible to believe in truth, all the while ignoring the mountains of evidence to the contrary. When applied to our beliefs on suicide, the axis is quite revealing. I realized this very shortly after attempting to end my own life.
I began at one point, one belief; I ended at another. The process is as follows: We begin with the stated belief on suicide. We can call this the Social Construction of Self-Harm. It states: Sad people commit suicide. They have suffered some trauma; a loved one leaves them, they lose a job, or a loved one is killed; their children, perhaps, run over in the street. Drug use is often involved; drinking, for example, to numb the pain before it overwhelms them.
They turn to death for relief. Suicide is thus caused by a defective mental state, which is in turn related to outside forces and events. It seems innocuous. It is a fully-featured, internally-logical theory of suicide. When laid out on the axis, however, it begins to fall apart.
The phenomena we notice tends to fall into the categories we expect: people who kill themselves and were depressed. People who dont kill themselves and arent depressed. And yet, any number of ghosts fall between these divisions.
For example, an extraordinarily large number of people get depressed, but do not kill themselves; in fact, most adults will experience some form of depression within their lifetime. I am now one of those, and will, no doubt, experience depression again. It is as much a part of my self as is the color of my eyes.
The vast majority of the depressed do not kill themselves. These millions do not fall into the tidy categories of the axis, and so we ignore them.
More frightening, perhaps, is the shockingly high number of people who are not depressed, but kill themselves anyway. These people give no outward warnings; they do not give away their things, they do not lay in bed for weeks, they do not stop seeing friends and family. They do not withdraw. Up until the very end, they are living; up until the very end, they are engaged with life. They are the most damned of all. They are also the cases we do not notice, the ones that slip between our fingers.
They are the ones that suggest that something else is happening; that depression and suicide may be linked, but that connection is not causation. These are the cases that imply that there is no causation. Think of it: There is no causation for suicide. It simply is. It walks between us like a ghost.
No such thing as fear. A scepter. A bible. A crown. No such thing as anything. No such thing. There were hands around my throat. Hands on my shoulders. It was back to the adult world, the modern world, a world where the old things are not welcome. A world with desks and books and parents and police. A world with rules.
I remembered once: On a candy wrapper. Signs and symbols. There was a boy on a bike; there was a girl in a river. There was a grave in a mountain. And there was an Indian, shooting stars. Bringing them down. Embedding them in the earth. And I thought: My father took me home and I wished then what I wish so often now: That everything would be quiet. There would be no rules, and there would only be lifeless earth and stone forever.
I will break my spine on the page, like the books that will fill up my grave. I am entombed in my bed with those words that you said, that I kept: I sat each day in my empty room, perching myself on the edge of a very deep, and very real, hole in the earth.
Where did it go? A place where everyone is evil, where everyone understands the deepest workings of the world. As if through some mystic ritual, they simply wish, and it is. They are like gods, but hooked, and bent, and crooked, and thus evil, and broken.
A place where everyone is like that. A place where everyone is separate, and no one can ever belong to anyone or anything. That sounded like a place I knew, I thought. That sounded so familiar. Not right away. Voor left school early. He never liked it. They said he once convinced his entire 6th grade class to hold a book burning; they burned every book in the school.
Administration took the shelves out of the library and made it a teacher break-room. I don't know if the story is true.
There are a lot of stories. But he had a way with people, even then. He knew what to say to them. He knew what they wanted to hear him say and he said it. He felt those things in his skin. I was never like that. I had no skin and felt nothing. Or too much. He joined a traveling show. He had an act - no one knows when he invented it, or really what it was.
The act was called the Witch Box. Voor recorded his opening monologue in his autobiography, The Spiritual Asphyxiate: That is exactly what I mean for us to discover tonight. It was worn, dirty. But sitting there, on the table, it seemed to be of great importance. Voor would very carefully avoid touching it, wouldn't allow himself to brush up against it.
The audiences noticed, even if they didn't know they did. They always took in a deep breath when they saw it. Its tale is a long one, and tragic, but it is true. You see, my ancestors lived in a place called Dogtown, far away from here. They lived there because they were persecuted. Hunted down. Whips, lashes, and hangings, that was their lot. And so they banded together to crawl into the barest possible living.
They starved, and they were miserable, and they lived there among the rocks and driving coastal rains for years and years. They did not understand, and so they hated. These Witches, however, were not bent over old crones; they did not fly on broom sticks. They were the guardians of sacred and ancient knowledge, truths long forgotten by 'advanced' societies the world over. They knew what nothingness was. They had found the box in the woods.
Buried under branches and leaves, housed among the pines and weeds. They understood that Life was as much its opposite as it was its self. That it was like a skin on top of something much larger, and that if you made an incision into that skin, the slightest incision, the tiniest cut, that Death would leak out.
Think of it. You are alive. Alive right now. We can sense the world around us - the tent, rustling just so; a breeze moving slowly through us. There are sounds outside; people talking, footsteps, cries from the ferris wheel off in the distance. There are smells, I can smell…popcorn? The dust.
But also sweat, the leather from someone's jacket. I know all this right now without thinking - these things, these beings and bodies and things, these are the things that prove to me that I am alive. But yet - the slightest twist of my foot, and I will plummet down to the ground and snap my neck, and I will lie still, and hear nothing. The slightest rise in the chemical balance of my blood, just a few micrograms more of some chemical or other, and my heart will stop beating, and I will die.
The slightest change in temperature, just a fraction of a fraction, really - locked in a motor-car, say, on a day that is slightly hotter than average - and my brain could stop functioning, and I will no longer exist anywhere as I do at this moment.
There is more death than there is life. And it is waiting just below the surface, and it is held back by the thinnest of possible membranes. And the Witch Box will show you this. Indirectly, of course. May I have a volunteer? He always had to pick someone. Sometimes he would pick the men, because he liked watching them tremble, and he found them amusing.
The women often seemed to develop a connection to him. Every now and then, one would wait for him after the show, and they would retire to the small tent he slept in. He picked people then the way he would pick people in the future - based on their utility, what they could do for him, and do to him.
He had a system. It was all a system then and it is all a system now. The reaction was most important.
The spectator would insert their arm into the box - even this took a great deal of courage. No one trusts Voor at the outset. He earns it over time. Then they would feel some scraping on their arm, up and down the length to their elbow and back down to their fingertips. Like things were collapsing, and touching, things that had never touched and should never touch.
And then their arm would emerge from the opposite side of the stage. It would move slightly, they could feel it move; it would gesture to them. He would whisper: What does it want you to do? What do you want you to do? Voor never told. He had everything to lose from being normal.
Images would project onto one another and things would emerge from thin air. It was a common enough trick at the time. The spiritualists used it to make their ectoplasms emerge from nothingness and spill out onto the clothes and hands of the unsuspecting. The difference was Voor himself. He knew great secrets, but perhaps not of the afterlife. He knew great secrets of humanity: He knew we were all just about to unbelieve the very ground under our feet.
When Alice Rogers, just 11, put her hand into the box, she slit her wrist ever so gently on a piece of broken glass. Perhaps she was frightened of how her parents and older brother sat so still, of the man in the suit. She must have closed her eyes, tried to concentrate. At least, that is how I imagine it. Nothing at all - a nothing- at-all that moves slowly up her arm, to her shoulder and chest, and she leans ever-so-subtly against the table, rests her forehead down on the box itself.
That is exactly what I mean to demonstrate to you, tonight. And her arm emerges from the curtain, but it hangs, it does not beckon. It does not gesture. Her arm is silent, and there are dark lines down her skin where the blood has gone, pulled downward by the earth, everything happening and then unhappening, an impersonal movement of atoms from one area of the universe to another area of the universe, and the crowd only notices when she falls forward onto the table and knocks the box to the floor.
The broken mirror eats into her; where it once had been held back, it now plunges downward, and things are severed and atoms move to more and different places. And the image hangs there; it stays, though she does not. Suspended in the air. Whose arm was that? If the Witch-Box was meant as a seance - meant to call spirits into the tent - then surely it was successful. One more soul in the air, and one less body on the earth. A spectral bride, wedded to the world, a meaningless gesture.
Please note: Voor maintained that he was asleep during the entirety of this recording. VOI CE: You know me. You [unintelligible, more moaning].
Oh god, oh god. Oh, god. There isn't god. Not god. Please, please help me. I can't. I am in here. I don't [unintelligible] any more than I did. Not now. What is [unintelligible] to do. What is this. There isn't anyone or anything. Help me. You don' t. I am your fat her and [unintelligible] forever. This is the end. I can see through walls. I can destroy them, but I can't.
My hands won't move. Can you see me? Where are you, I can't see you. I can't see you, where are you? I am at Dogtown.
I am in the well. There isnt anything [untintelligible] where I am. It's empty. Empty of what Nothing you do will matter unless you know.
You don't know [unintelligible] and I don't have any way out. I want to help. There is weakness everywhere. I don't know what any of this means. I miss you so much. I wish I was dead. Please, please. Release me. I need the square. I need to find the square.
He told me of it once. The tape changes. Voor stated that he did not remember changing the tape, and may have changed it in his sleep. The sound of quiet sobbing is heard for the next 15 minutes, at which point the second tape shuts off. As such, his recollections in that work can be considered suspect. Still, the change between the two writings is striking. In his earlier work, Voor is orderly, academic, even meek; in Ocean he is ecstatic, practically falling off the page.
He rambles, every page steeped in metaphor. Only the life of the mind, and the world of the mind, and the death of the body which is its vehicle. Life is wholly something else. Though it is difficult to find a clear thesis, Voor introduced several concepts he would spend the next decade writing about: Others would likely have shared his view, had Voor been able to 1 Electronic Voice Phenomenon. As it was, all he was able to show anyone were his transcripts.
There have been those who claimed that the tapes never even existed, a charge which Voor violently rejected, even on his deathbed.
Voor, in contrast, built his own unique cosmology around his experience, one in which the afterlife was not a reassuring element, but a physical manifestation of the rejection of life. Instead, there was a prison: Ghosts spend their existence desperately trying to make contact with the living world, able to see it, even feel it, but unable to manipulate it in any way.
They want to hold it, to control it, and in the process distance themselves from it. His afterlife is irrational. It is controlled by an all-powerful, all- knowing force, but is completely godless. It gives us a life after death, but one that is only a pale shade of the life we lived before; all the pre- destination of the Christian tradition, none of the solace.
None of the mercy. When I first read Voor, I recognized that place. When I first read Voor, I was open to nothing, and closed to everything. So was Voor. We opened to one another. He read what was in my heart and told it back to me. A true communion. The first person who understood. People who wanted to know what was on the other side of death were pulled to him.
He was so sure of himself. Sure he knew what life, and death, were all about. He knew when life lied to us, and when it told the truth. He promised to only tell the truth. They believed him. True belief is so rare. Not really.
They were full-time seekers - attracted to the next New Age thing, the next system or method that promised to make life something other than what it was. They had questions. They were just like all of us, no different; no evidence that they were depressed and lonely individuals, as has been reported. No evidence they were anything but normal, with all the pain and sadness that entails.
Once it became apparent what he was suggesting, the group lost most of its members; only the truly dedicated, or truly desperate, stayed. They would sit in a circle and wear the hoods; they would sit silently, until one of them had a vision, or a seizure; and then it would spread amongst the group until they were sharing visions, rolling about on the floor, climbing the walls. The police would be called. Over time it came to be more and more focal; eventually, they would put on the hoods and not take them off until the meeting was over.
It became their purpose. Their Rite of Spring, of Rebirth; they were seeing the other world, seeing this world for what it was. The effects are very gradual. Slight oxygen deprivation, over a long period of time. It is barely noticeable, but it is there. They are not the same; at least, I assume not.
Much slower to speak. Far less curious. Far less present. Far less everything. He was not the first child to be introduced to the group. As fate would have it, he was to be the last.
They would do various things, try different methods of achieving something like death, of breaking through the walls of the Spectral Gaol. I doubt they knew. He published several books during this period, using contributions from the Society to fund short-runs of cheap newsprint pamphlets. Voor believed our lives are made of context; that context is all they are, their underlying nature, their atomic structure. He believed the things that happen to us, the events and the people that define us, are random - or if not random, meaningless.
There were a few ways he would attempt this - one involved diary-keeping. Writing, in general, and diary-keeping in specific, is the most powerful method with which we could give our lives context - Voor would say we are keeping diaries all the time, mental catalogues of everything that happens to us, constantly placing boundaries on events - we create time, for example, in order to say that an event happened at a particular moment, to give a beginning and end-point to something that has neither.
There is no prevention of movement on a subatomic level - and so there is no such thing, physically, as a boundary in space - and so on and on and on, context after context, we layer these meanings onto ourselves, endlessly segmenting reality, which is truly an unbounded, uncomplicated whole.
A solid wall. But a diary - a diary is a completely personal philosophy of these boundaries, a completely personal context - it is a self-built narrative. Psychology and neuroscience have shown that Voor was correct in this - that the narratives we lay out, our memories of what has happened to us and the meanings and motives we apply to the things and people in those memories - are almost entirely fictional.
Our conception of what is occurring is very different from the reality of what is occurring, if anything is occurring at all. Memory has been shown, again and again, to be unreliable. People create memories of things that never happened, edit and reshape their memories of things that did. We only know the story we have told ourselves. It doesn't record reality, it creates reality - through the process of narrating and writing, and re-reading, we create the reality of our past, assuring ourselves, repeating it - we literally write ourselves into existence.
We build the universe up around us, tiny gods creating new worlds in every moment. At least, that is what Voor believed. He thought that if he could decontextualize our reality, we could see it for what it is: And so he required all his followers to keep diaries. They all had them. Not a single one. He would ask them to destroy it in a very specific way: No larger narratives, simply a mass of disembodied words and meanings.
Items of reality, but not reality. And then they would rearrange these pieces - into other narratives, reverse narratives, opposite realities, ideal narratives - and then, finally, they would write themselves out of the story altogether. What would remain would be a record of their life without them in it. And when that was all done, they would burn it. When I first read about this I was - reluctant. I have always felt a compulsive need to record myself - to keep a physical manifestation of myself outside of my body, whether encoded in music, or writing.
Voids by Have A Nice Life. Safe Passage by Astralingua. Astralingua mixes otherwordly folk and augural classical music into their newest offering. Blue Breath by Bellows. Dope indie leaning, folk inflicted, pop record, pieced together in 5 bedrooms spanning Brooklyn to Chicago.
Stillness by Lake Michigan. The latest release on Z Tapes is full of hushed guitar work and deep, groaning vocals. Donna Blue by Donna Blue. Deconstructionist by Giles Corey. Neurot5 I did as the PDF suggested and listened to this album lying blindfolded on my bed in a dark room. I was NOT disappointed. A unique experience that's not easily put into words. Beautiful and otherworldly. Favorite track: Infinite Death. Can anyone give me some advice? Awake Now.