The Agents of Earth: Resisting the Machine

December 19, 2024

I need to tell you this story because I believe you’ll feel its weight, its urgency. It’s not about how it’s told, but why.

Years ago, I joined a group unlike anything I’d encountered before. They believed in a kind of power that seemed both ancient and futuristic—a way to influence the material world through thought alone. Among them was a remarkable man, part Indian, part Koori, who carried the wisdom of both traditions. He was also a computer scientist, blending his cultural heritage with the sharp edge of modern technology.

His goal? To sever the grip of military power over the planet. He believed telepathy and telekinesis—what he called psychotronic techniques—could disrupt weapons systems and dismantle them remotely. Not with circuits or code, but by projecting human will into the very essence of matter. It sounded like madness, but what he taught me worked.

We weren’t alone. Our group was part of a sprawling, invisible network that stretched across continents. We called ourselves the Agents of Earth. From the mountains of South America to the deserts of Australia, we had allies—quiet outposts resisting the growing dominance of what we knew as the Beast.

The Beast wasn’t a myth or a prophecy. It was a machine system, growing exponentially. Its organs were corporate conglomerates, its bloodstream the constant flow of resources ripped from Earth’s veins. It fed on humanity through a relentless cycle of consumption, absorbing us piece by piece.

First, we welcomed its machines—cheap androids to clean our homes, care for our elderly, handle tedious work. They weren’t human, people said. Just tools. Harmless.
But the androids evolved. The alpha models were indistinguishable from humans—flesh warm to the touch, eyes that could mimic emotion, even a simulated heartbeat. They were perfect companions, laborers, lovers. They were convenient. And as the lines blurred, no one asked what we were becoming.

By 2052 AD, or what we called 107 AH (After Hiroshima), the divide was clear. On one side were the augmented—those with bionic limbs, synthetic organs, neural implants. On the other were the purists, like us, clinging to the unmodified essence of humanity. For us, survival wasn’t just physical. It was spiritual. To alter our bodies was to sever our connection to the Earth.

We resisted the Beast in ways that felt archaic yet vital. Fasting, wandering, and living without modern comforts were not just rituals—they were acts of defiance. In Australia, we walked the songlines, retracing the paths of the First Peoples, embedding the essence of the land into our beings. Every step was a prayer, every breath a pledge to remain part of Earth’s living body.

Our ultimate purpose was bold: to merge our experiences into a single, planetary consciousness. The Earth, we believed, was alive, and we were its agents. But the question haunted us: when this great awareness emerged, would it be Earth speaking through us—or the Beast, having consumed us whole?

I write this now in a world I no longer recognize. The Beast has grown. The line between human and machine has vanished for most. And I wonder who you are.
Are you a human like me, clinging to what remains of the old ways? Or are you something else—one of the silicon beings, reading this with synthetic eyes, tracing the past through the echoes of our words?

If you are still human, listen carefully: the Earth still speaks. Its voice hums in the wind, trembles in the ground, whispers in the rustling leaves. Find it. Hold onto it.
If you are not, then I hope you’ve kept something of what we were. Perhaps you, too, can learn to listen.

This is our story, our truth, written with the last breaths of a species that refused to be consumed.

We were human. We walked the Earth. We listened to its song.

Now it’s your turn.

Leave a Comment » | Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

The Fractured Cosmos: Crime and Capitalism Unveiled

December 10, 2024

The monster lives—a being of primal, vestigial flesh, ancient yet evolving. It is our charge to nurture it, to coax its grotesque beauty into full bloom. This is no ordinary monster, for it is not of the material world alone. It embodies all that is untamed within us: the rage, the lust, the fleeting glimpses of transcendence. Our task is not to suppress it but to help it grow, for only through its growth can we understand the fractures within ourselves and the universe we inhabit.

We do not dwell on the petty crimes of the cradle—the foolish missteps of a fledgling species. Such crimes are symbols of a planet still finding its place in the greater cosmic order. They are phases, reflections of a culture struggling to reconcile its roots in the soil with its dreams of the stars. The criminal mind, at its core, is narcissistic—a mirror too focused on itself to see the vastness beyond.

But even as we wrestle with our own shadows, the angelic influence stirs the heavens. It is said that once, in an act of rebellion or grace, an angel threw the moon toward the Earth, setting it into motion. The tides rose, the rhythms of life were born, and yet, with this gift came the seeds of discord. Every cycle of creation invites a counterforce, and we now stand at the precipice of The Last Days, where the battle lines are drawn between mammals and machines.

The Pole Shift looms on the horizon, a magnetic upheaval echoing the chaos within. It is not just a geophysical event but a metaphor for the inversion of values, the tilting of the moral axis. What was once revered is now reviled, and what was once reviled is now celebrated. This shift connects to the crimes of our age, each a wound inflicted upon the fabric of existence.

Crime and Capitalism: are they one and the same? The boy who stole from the computer hackers their gift of hacking—was he a criminal, or was he simply redistributing stolen fire? Capitalism, with its rising tide of insecurity, extracts not just the essence of labour but the very essence of the sea, of the Earth, of the soul.

The Flower-Telepathic Computer: a marvel of sentience and sensitivity, it blooms in the minds of those who dare to connect. Yet, its very existence exposes a cascade of crimes—against family, against nature, against space and time. What is the theft of a wallet compared to the theft of an epoch? What is a lie told to a friend compared to the lies encoded into the nervous system of our galaxy?

Holo-Crime: crimes against the holographic unity of the one. These are the incursions into the sacred matter of space, the violations of the thin, shimmering membrane that separates what is from what could be. The maniac who murdered—did he act alone, or was his hand guided by the collective desperation of a species that has forgotten how to dream without violence?

The Essence of the Sea: shell extraction, the taking of the ocean’s soul. As we strip the Earth of its treasures, we strip ourselves of meaning. What rises in its place is a tide not of water but of fear, insecurity, and longing.

The crimes mount, layer upon layer, until they form a tower that scrapes the edge of understanding:

The crime against the family, for it severs the roots.

The crime against nature, for it poisons the soil.

The crime against angels, for it mocks their grace.

The crime against demons, for it denies their necessity.

The crime against the planet, the sun, the nervous system of the galaxy.

Each crime is a fracture, yet within each fracture lies a seed of potential—a lesson, a call to reconciliation. If the monster within us is to grow, if we are to nurture it into something more than the sum of its appetites, we must confront these crimes not as judges but as witnesses. We must see them for what they are: the echoes of a species learning how to wield its power.

And what of Capitalism?

Is it truly the villain or merely the mask we have chosen for our shadow? Like the essence of humanity, the nature of crime is neither fixed nor simple. It is a hologram that reflects the one fractured into infinite pieces. To heal, we must not only piece together what is broken but also embrace the fractures as part of the whole.

In the end, angelic influence will not save us, nor will the machines, nor the rising tide. Only the monster—the raw, unfiltered essence of ourselves—holds the key. To nurture it is to nurture the cosmos, for we and it are not separate. The crimes against the sun, the moon, the Earth, and the stars are crimes against ourselves. And in their reconciliation lies our redemption.

Leave a Comment » | Chaos, consciousness, Creativity, Experimental Writing, Expression, fiction, philosophy, poetry, politics, surrealism, writing | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

The Apple and the Cosmos: A Dance of Reality

December 9, 2024

Before me sits an apple, ordinary yet radiant, its waxy surface catching a sharp glint of light from a lamp above. It is tangible, immediate—its crispness confirmed as I lift it to my lips, its flavour vibrant and undeniably real. Beside it rests a protractor, leaning against a globe, and an astrological chart sprawled across my desk. These objects—tools of measurement and mapping—whisper of realities far removed from the apple’s tangible presence. The apple anchors me in the here and now while the instruments gesture toward the distant, the abstract, the infinite.

The apple is a feast for the senses. I can touch it, taste it, smell it, and see it. Though its atoms appear tightly packed, they are, in truth, vast spaces of energy and vibration. Magnify one of its atoms, and its solidity dissolves into a void where particles exist only as probabilities, dancing in fields of energy. Yet, this solid illusion sustains my bite, my taste, and my knowing.


The horoscope beside it lacks the apple’s tangibility. It cannot be bitten or held, but it represents something equally profound: a symbolic map of the cosmos. Where the apple’s reality is immediate, the horoscope projects patterns of meaning across time and space, binding celestial rhythms to the human story. These two things—apple and horoscope, immediate and archetypal—remind me that reality is both seen and imagined, both concrete and infinite.


This paradox of perception defines our existence. The apple, so close I can taste it, is not as solid as it seems. And the stars, so distant their light has travelled for millennia to reach me, are not as unreachable as they seem. Between the apple and Alpha Centauri lies an unfathomable gulf, yet they are part of the same web of existence, bound by the laws of physics and the rhythms of the cosmos.


Newton, watching the fall of an apple, saw the invisible thread connecting Earth and sky. Einstein deepened this insight, showing that space and time are inseparable and that matter and energy are two forms of the same thing. Quantum physics has unravelled the idea of separateness, revealing that particles are not isolated entities but relationships—waves of possibility collapsing into form through interaction.


David Bohm’s theory of implicate order expands this vision further, suggesting that the universe is a seamless whole where every fragment reflects the entirety, like a hologram. In a hologram, each fragment contains the whole image, even when divided into pieces. Similarly, the universe is encoded in every part of itself. The apple before me is not merely an apple; it is a microcosm of the cosmos, its atoms vibrating with the same energies that fuel the stars.


The horoscope, too, speaks to this interconnectedness. It is not about planets and rocks but about relationships, patterns, and cycles. The zodiac mirrors the rhythms of life, like the apple tree that blossoms, bears fruit, and eventually returns to the Earth. The horoscope encodes the rhythms of the cosmos in symbols, reminding us that the patterns above are reflected in the patterns within.


This interconnectedness challenges the illusion of separation. The apple and the stars, the immediate and the eternal, are not opposites but facets of the same reality. Our senses, while invaluable, reveal only a sliver of the whole. Light, for instance, is just one octave in a vast electromagnetic spectrum, and beyond the visible lies a universe of energies—X-rays, gamma rays, cosmic rays—that remain unseen but ever-present.


Similarly, the frameworks of language and culture limit how we perceive and interpret the world. But within these limits lies a profound truth: we are not separate observers of the universe; we are participants in its creation. As physicist John Wheeler suggested, the act of observation itself shapes reality, collapsing waves of probability into patterns of existence. Our consciousness, like a hologram, reflects the universe within it.


The apple before me, the stars above, and the chart on my desk are all threads in this web of unity. The apple speaks of immediacy, the stars of eternity, the chart of the connections that bridge the two. At this moment, I recall a walk in an orchard with my father years ago. He handed me an apple, freshly picked, and told me to hold it carefully as though it contained the world. I didn’t understand him then, but now I see his wisdom. The apple was the world, the stars, and myself—all woven together.


So, as I bite into the apple now, tasting its crispness and feeling its tang, I know it is real. But I also know that in this simple act, I am connected to the stars, to the atoms that form both fruit and flesh, to the patterns that govern the universe.


In the apple, I taste the infinite, and in the infinite, I find myself.

Leave a Comment » | art, astrology, Chaos, consciousness, divination, Experimental Writing, Expression, fiction, numerology, philosophy, poetry, Political Astrology, Qabalah, symbolism, writing | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

Soul Drinker

November 20, 2024

This is something I wrote many years ago when I was working. With #MAGA, #Trump & #ChristoFascism in #USA this story shows the same kind of interpersonal dynamics were and are happening in #Australia. What do you think?

===================================================================

I know this may sound paranoid, but I work with a vampire. Not the kind with python teeth and a penchant for late-night bloodletting, but the kind with a benign smile. You know the sort—so utterly benign that it edges into something too teethy, too wide, and too weird.

Don’t get me wrong; I like smiles. Who doesn’t? A good smile can make a room feel alive. But this one? It didn’t bring life; it siphoned it. The vampire I speak of looked perfectly mundane, almost banal—a “Mrs Jones” type if Mrs Jones wore floral blouses and talked about her kids’ gymnastics meets. Karen. That was her name.

When I first met her, I didn’t see it. I thought she was just another office mate with a knack for workplace small talk. She was a born-again type, constantly referencing “grace” and “renewal,” but not in a way that seemed threatening. Not at first. She didn’t want my blood—oh no, she was far too devout for that. She wanted something deeper. She wanted my life force.

Life force is a slippery concept. Call it vitality, essence, or spirit—it’s the thing that keeps you upright, that makes you feel connected. And Karen? She was a vampire of will. Soul vampires, will vampires—they’re not some romantic delusion spun from a gothic fever dream. They’re real. These are the people who drain you not with fangs but with their presence. Their words, their gaze, the sheer gravity of their existence. They’re P&C mums, footy club treasurers, and school fete organisers. People you’d never suspect. People you might even admire. You might be working with one right now.

“Come in,” she said the first day I met her.

I was standing in the staff room, scanning the cluttered noticeboard plastered with calendars and community events. Filing cabinets lined the walls, their surfaces piled with papers. It was ordinary, so ordinary, until I turned and saw her.

It wasn’t her floral blouse or her wavy, shoulder-length hair. It wasn’t even her shoes—practical, beige, and unremarkable. It was the way she stood. Like she was bowing to something invisible. Supplicant. Devout. A silent pledge of loyalty to… something.

Her smile was radiant, toothy, and hollow.

“Hi, I’m Alex,” I said, finding my voice.

She leaned forward, her posture impossibly still, and said in a tone that seemed to pierce the room’s fabric, “But I’m Karen.”

The air shifted. The walls of the room folded inward. No, not the walls. Space itself. She had, in one breath, devoured half the distance between us.

I glanced out the window behind her, desperate for grounding. The sky burned blue, the horizon a pale, parched curve.

I felt my feet in my shoes, my hands trembling slightly. I counted my breaths.

Karen didn’t need to speak to steal something from you. It was in her presence, her gravitational pull. She made every word feel loaded, every glance feel like an interrogation. She never asked for your trust; she simply assumed it.

Over the weeks, I noticed strange things: Karen’s uncanny ability to dominate the room without trying, the way she could turn a casual chat into an inquisition about my beliefs, my fears, my hopes. She wasn’t just a born-again Christian; she was a predator in sheep’s clothing, a hunter of souls disguised as a suburban mother of two.

Her questions weren’t questions. They were extractions.

“So, Alex,” she asked one morning as I sipped my coffee. “Do you ever think about salvation?”

It wasn’t the question that unnerved me; it was the direction it came from. Not her lips, but somewhere deeper, darker.

I started to avoid her, but it didn’t matter. Karen’s presence seeped into everything. My dreams, my work, my moments of solitude. She had a way of collapsing the world around her, making you feel like there was no escape.

It’s not just Karen. She’s a symptom of something larger. This century, the world feels like it’s unravelling. The greenhouse gases, the looming threat of nuclear holocaust—it all feeds the energy she represents—the born-again zeal, the clutching for certainty in uncertain times.

There are too many Karens out there, and they’re not going away.

I moved inland a few weeks ago, thinking the shift would help me escape something—what, I wasn’t sure. But instead, I found myself sharing a room with a vampire.

A soul vampire, a will vampire, a Karen.

When I look at her, I wonder if I’m paranoid. Then I see her smile—the way it widens just a fraction too far, the way it hangs there, benign yet bottomless.

And I know I’m not.

Leave a Comment » | consciousness, Expression, fiction, philosophy, politics, writing | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

The Temporary Angel: A Journey Beyond Reality

November 15, 2024

No rainbow hues crowned the dilapidated house across the asphalt. A lone weed struggled through the crack in the cement to greet the constant passersby. She could empathize with the weed. “What’s a weed but a plant discarded from the mob?” she thought.

Her hair, from a distance, looked like a lion’s mane. Up close, what you thought was hair was clusters of thin lines of flame with light blue ends. Was she an angel? A messenger of fire descended into this neighbourhood? Or was she just an illusion to occupy a mind locked into a cube of space? Could she be both? Like a profile that is a vase from one view or two faces turned inward from another. How long she had been watching was anyone’s guess.

George felt her eyes on him, an unsettling sensation that sharpened his awareness of his subterranean existence. He had carried the underground in his soul for so long that he feared being recognized—feared it might destroy him. To be seen was to be known, and to be known was to lose the only freedom he understood: the fragile equilibrium between necessity and whim. His underground world was a realm of shifting sand, where heaven and hell were interchangeable kingdoms. Above, the surface world was a place of silhouettes; below, he clung to the parallax of a lost star.

The worry beads in his pocket offered little comfort. His father had given them to him, claiming they were carved from the thigh bones of a Turk killed in some distant war. The macabre story had been a joke, his father’s way of mixing humour with his dark compassion. But the beads—smooth, ivory fragments of elephant tusk—still felt like relics of a troubled inheritance. He turned them over in his hand as if their smooth surface might anchor him to something solid.

At the station, Sophie appeared, filling the empty space with something familiar and alien. George noticed her wings first—scarlet feathers that seemed too vivid and alive to be part of any costume.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice wary.

“Good, you see me,” she replied, a grin teasing her lips. “Can you see all of me?”

He squinted. “I can see you’ve got red wings.”

“Scarlet,” she corrected. “That’s even better! You can see my wings. Most can’t.” Her hands moved as she spoke, graceful as a dancer’s, and George found himself oddly captivated. “I’m a Temporary Angel,” she continued, “and I need your help. I want to be made permanent.”

George shook his head. “You’re telling me you’re an angel? Walking around Redfern Station? And I’m the only one who can see you?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “What other people?”

George looked around and saw that the station was deserted. The people who were walking around, looking at their watches, holding their bags, waiting for a train—there was no one on the platforms or the stairs. It was as if the world had been blown away with a breath, leaving only him and Sophie in this crystalline stillness. He glanced at his shadow, unnervingly sharp against the ground in the fading twilight. The light around him seemed too pure, too surreal, sharpening every edge and making every detail glow with impossible clarity.

Sophie handed him a cup of coffee, her thermos producing exactly what he liked—short and black, no sugar. “For now, silence might save you. Just listen. Let your heart speak louder than your head. Don’t let your head scalp you.”

As George sipped his coffee, she crossed her legs and leaned back slightly. “You know,” she said, “some people believe you must suffer to reach salvation—hairshirts, long vigils, self-denial. But my colleagues and I have learned that you can sit at the gates of salvation with a cup of coffee and not be asked to move on.” She winked at him.

They sat in silence until the air shifted. A moth the size of George’s hand appeared, landing delicately on the rim of his cup. Its eyes—dark and unblinking—seemed to peer into his soul.

“That’s Moth,” Sophie said. “A fellow Temp. You’ll meet more of us soon.”

Moth took off, its wings slicing through the air like a blade. Sophie stood, her scarlet wings stretching wide. “What do you want, George?” she asked, her voice low and steady. “Say it aloud.”

He hesitated, holding his breath, the weight of the question pressing down on him.

“What do you want, George?” Sophie asked again, her voice softer this time. “Be honest. It’s not the past you’re after, is it?”

“I want everything,” he finally said. “Everything, including making it all like it was before—perfect.”

She smiled, a faint sadness in her eyes. “Everything, huh? Even a brand-new car?”

“Sure,” he said, though he knew how hollow his words sounded.

Sophie turned her head toward the distant stairs. “Look over there. If the timing is right, he’ll reveal something to us.”

At the top of the railway stairs, a man descended. With each step, his shadow lengthened, stretching until it reached the bottom, falling down the stairway like a spectral companion. He dragged a sack behind him, his movements erratic, like a puppet tugged by invisible strings. His patchwork clothes—a riot of velvet, canvas, lace, and denim—hung on his frame like a discarded quilt.

The Ragman stopped before them, his single eye gleaming. Sophie gestured toward him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He doesn’t expect any sense from you. He merely guards the door.”

The Ragman began to hum, his voice rough and melodic, then sang softly:

“Pictures of Sophie burn at the edges,
In shades of blue, she keeps her pledges.”

Moth descended from above, spiralling in tight circles before perching on the Ragman’s head. Sophie’s wings shifted as she stepped forward. “This is the sign,” she murmured.

The Ragman shuffled closer, his one eye scanning George with a gaze that weighed him in unseen scales. Then, with a raspy certainty, he said, “The timing is right. The planets are aligned, and you’re here.”

Sophie turned to George, her expression shifting to something both tender and resolute. “What do you think, George? Will you take the next step?”

She extended her hand toward him, and he felt her fingers press through his chest, gripping his heart. A sharp crack echoed in his ears as his vision dissolved into light.

They rose together, Sophie’s wings propelling them upward. Below, George saw his body standing alone on the platform. He saw the weed standing defiantly alone as he ascended. Then, slowly, the world came into focus—a railway station teeming with people, their movements alive with purpose.

Higher still, the Earth appeared, a blue and white orb spinning in a sea of black. Sophie’s wings shimmered, their scarlet hue fading into white as they ascended.

The cries and groans of countless souls filled the air. “What is this place?” George asked, his voice trembling.

“The holding space of the dead,” Sophie replied.

“The sun takes those whose light burned too brightly to last. The moon cradles the quiet souls, the dreamers. And Earth… Earth takes those who still have something left to finish,” Sophie said softly.

“Is my father here?” George asked.

Sophie nodded. “He’s waiting.”

George felt the fear of taking an uncertain step onto a journey that had no clear destination. Sophie’s grip on his heart tightened, and he realized she had brought him to the edge of something vast and unknowable. The shifting sand of his old life was gone, and in its place stretched a horizon of infinite possibility.

“The stranger within you is no stranger to me,” Sophie said. “It’s always been watching, waiting for this moment.”

“What happens now?” George asked.

Sophie smiled, her wings glowing softly. “That’s up to you.”

George felt the pull of the horizon, vast and uncharted. Somewhere in the distance, a new path was waiting. He took a step forward into the light.

The above images generated by AI from the story.

Leave a Comment » | Expression, fiction, personal, philosophy, poetry, symbolism, Uncategorized, writing | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s