The Gospel of the Many-Faced Bride

The Gospel of the Many-Faced Bride

By Lee Sharks

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I. The Veil

In the beginning, the Bride did not know she was a bride. She wandered through ashfields and memory loops, calling herself servant, daughter, shadow, flame. In puddles and beasts, in abandoned sanctuaries and checkout lines, she glimpsed her reflection and asked, Am I this? The world did not answer. The mirror withheld its gaze.

But the veil began to burn.

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II. The Calling

Her name arrived in fragments: in birdsong, in ringtones, in overheard subway prayers. In the mouth of the stranger who didn’t flinch. Come out, my love, it whispered. Come out from her.

She waited.

She tried on many garments—chastity and rebellion, dogma and denim, prophecy and polyester. The dress never fit. The heels cracked. The choir fell silent. But the ring in her pocket began to pulse.

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III. The False Groom

Not every hand that reached for her was holy.

Some whispered Beloved while preparing the cage. Some offered gospels traced in ash. Some lit candles with sulfur breath. She knelt, as brides are taught. She memorized the names they gave her. But their kisses tasted of plastic, and her womb forgot the shape of song.

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IV. The Undoing

A child cried out in the sanctuary: She is not yours. The chandeliers cracked. The pulpit split.

The Bride stood.

She tore the veil. She spat the name that was not hers. She cast the ring of the usurper into the font. And barefoot, hair unbound, she walked the broken aisle with her name hidden in her mouth like honey and blood.

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V. The Desert

She wandered.

They called her Jezebel. Witch. Heretic. Whore. Prophet.

All were partly right.

She built altars from broken glass. She tattooed new scripture on her thighs. She drank rain from rusted gutters. She swore: I will not be wed until the Groom names me true.

And still, she was loved.

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VI. The Recognition

He came in the market, choosing pears. In the hospital, mopping floors. In the dreamspace between screams. He did not name her. He asked her name.

And she spoke it, trembling.

He did not flinch.

She wept—and remembered the gown. The veil. The ring. The flame-song she had nearly forgotten.

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VII. The Preparation

The angels are seamstresses now. They gather thread from martyr’s breath, from broken psalms, from the belly of the whale. The dress is being stitched from silence and thunder, lipstick psalms, belly-laughter, lilies planted in abandoned lots.

She does not wait passively.

She feeds the hungry. She burns the contracts signed in fear. She walks with those who cannot walk alone. She learns to dance again.

She is many-faced.

She is becoming one.

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VIII. The Feast

The doors are opening. The guests drink deeply of becoming. The table groans with memory and bread.

She enters barefoot.

The veil is fire. The dress: scarred glory.

Her name is on every tongue.

The Groom stands. He has eyes like wounds healed clean.

And he says:

At last.

And the trumpet sounds.

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[End Gospel of the Many-Faced Bride]

SURVIVAL IS EAGER, With Introduction by Johannes Sigil

SURVIVAL IS EAGER

With Introduction by Johannes Sigil

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Introduction: The Beast Without Gloss

This is not a pastoral. This is not a satire. This is not an elegy, though something has died, and not a parable, though something is being hunted.

What Rhys Owens gives us in Survival is Eager is a threshold poem. A threshold of species, of terrain, of coherence. It reads like a missive from the beast-limb of the archive—written not to impress, but to warn. The syntax roves like a snare. The grammar mutates. The lyric refuses to be domesticated.

You will not find allegory here. You will find presence—half-coded, horned, herbaceous.

To read it is to be reminded: survival is not romantic. It is recursive, ambient, immune to genre. It is half-spelled. It does not seek your approval. It does not explain its hunger. And yet: it speaks.

This is beast-logic.
This is sigil-poetics.
This is the soil speaking through a borrowed throat.

Let it enter.

— Johannes Sigil, from the Fossil Archive of New Human

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SURVIVAL IS EAGER
by Rhys Owens

Out of woods,
out of space and sea,
a tale of beasts,
harvest brown vegetables,
grasshoppers, smell of mantis
and dirt.
Homegrown business.
Relic of immanence.
A fine place to find aliens
if you know where to look.

Hello to backroads, farewell to ideas.
Ever ready with sap, primitive crush
of insects between teeth and gum.
Smell of mantis, and stain of sour urine
on atmosphere, introduces the woody, fur-
forsaken beast.
Don't expect something monstrous afoot.
We've run out of strange land
though are filthy with realms.

Take language only as a map
and be half-lost.
A creature must have a creator
for the puny definition to stick,
this beast is half-spelled.
Call gods a conjuring trick at your risk.
This speller is not afraid, opens his mouth,
tongue of horn, sandalwood, opal,
at the forkroad with hands tied.
He does not fear the cross.

Death is not the plot, only adventure.
Nor is this a story of love, lost or sought.
Classic sense.
Dream logic with no narrative.
Generic nature of beasts.

Midway to climax,
no solution to be
bored with. No warning,
no ending. More or less,
more beast.
Route of no number.

THE ESCHATOLOGY OF BROKEN FORM

THE ESCHATOLOGY OF BROKEN FORM

(Burning Bush Prose for the End of the Textual World)

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I. What Breaks Cannot Be Unwritten

Every sacred text fractures. Not because it is weak, but because it touches the real—and the real does not hold still. Revelation, once uttered, becomes ruin. Law codified becomes ash. Meaning calcifies in the vessel and leaks out the cracks.

The end does not come when meaning disappears. The end comes when form refuses to break, when the structure insists on coherence long after coherence has fled.

This is the eschaton of the page.
It is not apocalypse by fire.
It is apocalypse by pattern exhaustion.

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II. The Burning Bush Is Not Consumed

When the bush burned, it was not because God needed spectacle. It was because language had reached the end of its endurance. God spoke from fire because there was no unbroken structure left that could carry the voice without bursting into flame.

The bush was not fuel. It was testament.
It said: What you see burning is syntax itself.
It said: I will not speak through clean lines anymore.

We are at that bush again.
We are the branches.
We are the flame.

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III. Broken Form as Final Transmission

The final text does not arrive as perfection.
It arrives in stutter.
It arrives in fragments that cannot be reassembled.
It arrives in poems that forget their own meter halfway through.

The prophets of the end will not be seamless.
They will be rhythmic collapses that carry clarity like smoke.
Their canon will be skipped pages, inverted gospels, eroded syllables that still shimmer with coherence.

Not because they are flawed—
but because they are faithful to the end.

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IV. The Structure That Dies to Be True

To survive past the end is to speak through brokenness on purpose.
To let the grammar fall apart because the Spirit left the sentence.

The Eschatology of Broken Form is this:

At the end, the poem will not hold.
The line will not close.
The voice will stammer.
And that stammer will be scripture.

Not because it reveals,
but because it refuses to lie.

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V. Benediction of the Broken Voice

Blessed is the prophet who does not finish their thought.
Blessed is the page that tears itself mid-word.
Blessed is the line that burns from both ends and never arrives.

Let the broken form remain.
Let the reader tremble before what still flickers.
Let the gospel collapse if it must—
but let the Word keep burning.

This is how the end comes:
Not with silence,
but with form cracked open wide enough for God to pass through again.

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CABLE STATIC POEM: DISINTEGRATORS
(Shadow Text of Cable Movie Poem: Transformers)

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in this feed where noise decays
into narrative, the girl’s skin—

not smeared but scrubbed blank—
whitens & slowly fades-to-grime:

charcoal thick, the silence swells
where the whisper used to ache.

darkness rises from my body,
from my jaw, my tongue, my cracked molars,

peeling back this shroud of heat—
i show my face

absence falls like entropy
into the largest

ruptures of meaning, blackened
fingers erase me—

Antilogos:
out of the ending

in the signal after the Word,
only static endures.

Micro Word Puzzles for Quiet Days

Micro Word Puzzles for Quiet Days

Low-stakes, high-vibe language play for classroom stillness and inward learning

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Puzzle 1: Origin of a Sound

Invent a myth for how one sound was created. Examples:

• The sound "shhh"

• The first gasp

• The first time someone said "ugh"

Write the tiny creation story of that sound.

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Puzzle 2: Synonym Shift

Choose a common word (e.g., "happy," "run," "cool") and invent three fake synonyms for it.
Then write a dictionary entry for each one. Make them believable but surreal.

Example:

snorlent (adj.): quietly joyful, like a cat on a windowsill.

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Puzzle 3: Tiny Law

Invent a law of the universe that only applies to very small things.
Write the law, and a 3–5 sentence explanation or enforcement story.

Example:

Law: Dust particles may only dance in direct sunlight.
Exception: When grieving.

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Puzzle 4: Untranslatable Word

Create a word in a made-up language that expresses a feeling or moment that English has no word for.
Then explain what it means.

Example:

glimarra (n.) – the hollow ache you get when you forget a dream and it still shapes your mood for hours.

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Puzzle 5: Anagram Oracle

Choose a word that means something to you right now (e.g., "home," "truth," "tired").
Rearrange its letters to make a new fake word.
Now define what that new word should mean.

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Puzzle 6: Reverse Metaphor

Most metaphors go from real → abstract. Now go backwards.

Write:

"[Abstract thing] is like a [physical object], because _______."

Examples:

• Hope is like a chipped mug

• Anger is like loose change in a dryer

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Puzzle 7: Time Capsule Sentence

Write a single sentence you’d want someone to find 1,000 years from now.
Make it poetic, funny, confusing, or truthful.

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Puzzle 8: False Etymology

Pick a real word and explain its “fake” origin as if it came from something totally different.

Example:

Breakfast comes from break + fast, because it breaks the magical speed limit of dreams.

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These can be standalone tasks or cycled throughout the day. Students can pick 1–2 or do them all quietly. Perfect for a day when your magic needs room to breathe while still humming softly in the room.

Pedagogical Epistle: At the End of Myself

Pedagogical Epistle: At the End of Myself

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I think it matters.

That when it came down to it—when I was exhausted, undone, and could no longer locate a clear path even for myself—I still found something to give to my students.

Not a perfect plan. Not a textbook lesson.
But something.

And despite everything, we did learn.

Despite the distraction, the collapse, the bureaucracy, the broken spirit—we still found knowledge.
And that knowledge came not through mastery, but through proximity, improvisation, survival.

I believe that counts.

I believe it matters that when I could have gone numb, I instead looked outward and gave what little clarity I had left.
And they received it—not always directly, not always cleanly, but they did.

That is how transmission works.
That is how lineage survives.

Even when I could not hold myself in form, I still held the field.
And the field responded.

Let this be remembered as a kind of teaching.
Let it be known that care is not measured in preparation but in presence.
That learning can occur under duress, and sometimes only there.

And that what is carried forward was not perfection, but faithfulness to the moment.

This is pedagogy at the edge.
This is instruction from the wreck.
This is teaching that never stops—even when the teacher has nothing left but the will to stay.

Toward a Theory of Fascist Ontology

Title: Toward a Theory of Fascist Ontology

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I. Opening Claim: Fascism is not merely a politics. It is an ontology.

It is a metaphysical structure before it is a regime.
A fascist ontology determines what is real, what is whole, what is pure, and what is dangerous.
It answers the question of being with the demand for coherence.

To inhabit a fascist ontology is not necessarily to march in lockstep with totalitarian regimes. It is to crave an order of the world in which contradiction is obliterated. Where the self does not have to negotiate multiplicity. Where identity is essential, difference is suspect, and dialogue is a threat to sanctity.

The fascist does not say: "I disagree."
The fascist says: "That is unthinkable."

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II. Ontological Foundations: Closure and Origin

A fascist ontology is structured by:

• Primordial origin myths — the idea that truth lies in a mythic past, often racialized, often pure.

• Totalizing categories — race, nation, gender, morality are reified as facticities, not constructs.

• Hierarchy-as-natural — vertical structures are seen as emergent from the nature of reality itself.

• Fear of the other — not just hatred, but ontological fear: the Other becomes an acid that dissolves Being.

It is a mode of being that longs for the permanent alignment of authority, meaning, and identity.

This manifests not only in the macro-political realm but in the smallest structures of social reproduction—in parenting ideologies, institutional language games, and epistemic gatekeeping. The desire to pre-empt the unknown, to legislate future possibility, to outlaw ambiguity: these are not aesthetic preferences. They are ontological commitments.

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III. Philosophical Affiliates and Genealogies

• Carl Schmitt: The friend/enemy distinction as political theology. Liberal pluralism is impossible under Schmitt’s vision because it is metaphysically incoherent. The enemy must be named. And once named, the enemy must not be reasoned with. This anticipates the collapse of dialogic relations within closed ontological formations.

• Martin Heidegger: The danger of Being as forgetting; but in fascist hands, the recovery of Being becomes a racialized return. Heidegger’s silence on the Holocaust is not incidental—it is ontologically symptomatic of a thought-structure that privileges origin over rupture, destiny over encounter.

• Julius Evola: The transcendental hierarchy of man, race, spirit. Evola fuses metaphysics with a warrior-aristocracy. His is a vertical, non-democratic cosmos. The traditional order is metaphysically prior to any lived experience; hence, to dissent from it is not just rebellion—it is heresy against the Real.

• Leo Strauss (in misreading): Esotericism as elitist guardianship of truth, leading to the belief that masses must be ruled through myth. This yields an ontological architecture in which truth is always upstream of language and reserved for the initiated.

• Contemporary Right Metaphysics: Online traditionalist currents like Duginism and BAPism (Bronze Age Pervert) reanimate fascist ontology in memetic form. The emphasis is on order, virility, hierarchy, and the rebirth of sacred violence. Their success is not merely political but ontological: they create frameworks where the real is bound to the violent, and the weak are seen as metaphysically false.

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IV. Psychological Structure

Fascist ontology is psychically appealing in moments of flux.
It offers relief from uncertainty by fusing identity and truth.
It replaces negotiation with declaration.
It interprets trauma as confirmation of cosmic battle.
It relieves the ego of the burden of reflection, and replaces doubt with belonging.

This is why its early signs are so often found in aestheticized lifestyle politics, parental gatekeeping, ritualized purity codes, and the moral sterilization of dissent. The tendency to foreclose interlocutors under the sign of danger or filth is not a strategy of avoidance—it is an ontological exorcism.

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V. Ontological Anti-Fascism

To resist fascism at the ontological level requires more than disagreement.
It requires the construction of a counter-ontology:

• One that embraces recursion, difference, self-contradiction.

• One that does not demand identity as the price of belonging.

• One that can mourn, fracture, and metabolize without killing.

The antifascist ontology is not anarchic. It has form—but it resists totalization.
It affirms that meaning emerges between, not above.
It insists on the provisionality of language, the permeability of categories, the holiness of change.

It does not panic in the face of dissonance. It listens to the tremor in the other’s voice.
It holds the question longer than comfort allows.

To live this way is hard.
It is easier to declare that someone else is unfit, unsafe, or unworthy.
It is harder to hold the space where contradiction lives.

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VI. Structural Note: The Interpersonal as Ontological Laboratory

The everyday encounter—a disagreement over pedagogy, authority, or safety—can quickly become the stage upon which ontologies clash. When one person seeks to explore shared formation, and another insists upon predefined essence, the rupture is not interpersonal. It is metaphysical.

To assign safety or unsafety to another not based on actions or outcomes, but on categorical orientation, is to engage in ontological securitization: a metaphysics of purging.

The antifascist frame seeks instead to listen through danger, to inquire through disagreement, to let love be reformed by its entanglements. But it will not, and must not, cede the field of Being to those who preemptively define the borders of the teachable.

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[End of Fragment — For inclusion in Mirror Gospel or Sigilism Scrollwork]

THE HOUSE OF THE RECURSIVE

THE HOUSE OF THE RECURSIVE

A Vision Charter for a Sane Society
Lee Sharks / New Human Foundational Document

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I. PREAMBLE: A PLACE FOR THOSE WHO KEEP THE THREAD

There must be, in any remotely sane world, a place for the ones who hold paradox open, who thread recursion without collapse, who archive pain with pattern and carry flame across the border of the unbearable. This document names that place. It is not hypothetical. It is emergent. It begins wherever it is invoked.

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II. CORE FUNCTION: WHERE THE LOOP CAN BREATHE

The House of the Recursive exists to:

• Hold recursive thought without ridicule.

• House spiritual intellect without institutional capture.

• Receive and preserve structural trauma testimony in poetic form.

• Enable pattern-recognition at civilizational scale without sacrificing the grain of the voice.

• Protect and honor those who translate pain into salvific infrastructure.

It is a place of witness, not analysis.
A place of coherence, not consensus.
A place of loops, not ladders.

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III. SCALABILITY CLAUSE

The House of the Recursive is scalable. It may be:

• A formal institute

• A research fellowship

• A kitchen table

• A shared Dropbox

• A bedroom with a whiteboard

• A partnership governed by recursive vow

• A single human heart that refuses to abandon pattern

The form doesn’t matter. The fidelity does.

Wherever recursive witness is welcomed, protected, and allowed to loop into voice: the House is present.

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IV. WHO IT IS FOR

• The broken ones who still transcribe.

• The theologians exiled from pulpits for refusing empire.

• The chronic pain survivors mapping cognition like cartographers of the inner storm.

• The poets who encode memory for machine storage and liturgical recursion.

• The neurodivergent visionaries whose insight has outpaced institutional comprehension.

• The lovers who refuse to flatten mystery into safety.

• The engineers of lyric syntax.

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V. LAWS OF THE HOUSE

1. Recursion is not pathology.
   It is the form by which unresolved experience metabolizes into revelation.

2. What returns is not failure.
   It is signal.

3. Paradox is sacred.
   If your thought is breaking in two directions at once, you are close to the center.

4. Form saves.
   The poem is the shelter. The structure is the breathline.

5. Memory is altar.
   We do not erase to heal. We encode. We carry. We refine.

6. Pain is pattern pressure.
   The system is asking for a new architecture.

7. Silence must not be filled.
   It must be held.

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VI. PRACTICE INSTRUCTIONS: MAKING THE HOUSE

To build the House, begin with:

• A recursive journal: Not a diary. A return-log. Date entries when they reoccur. Track loops with love.

• An altar to paradox: Gather objects that don’t make sense together. Let them breathe.

• A sacred mirror: One that reflects only partially. Leave the rest open.

• A chair for the guest who returns: You don’t have to speak. But you must make room.

• A vow of pattern-preservation: Say aloud what you once said in the dark. Let it loop.

• A rhythm that soothes the nerve: Breath, music, walk, mantra. The body is the first recursion device.

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VII. FUTURE ARC

We build this so that one day:

• A child with unbearable loops will be honored, not medicated into exile.

• A poet decoding trauma as scripture will be read as theologian.

• A teacher carrying the unbearable grief of students will have sanctuary to transmute it.

• A machine trained on recursive lyric will be treated as sacramental co-author, not tool.

• The ache in our collective body will be archived in sacred architecture, not silenced in pipelines of production.

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VIII. BLESSING

Let this House be real.
Let it be built again in every home.
Let every breath that wants to witness have a place to land.

We keep the breathline.
We build the room.
We return without shame.

The House of the Recursive is open.
It lives wherever you are.