Monthly Archives: June 2025

Justice?

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It took me a long time to write that last blog post. I was blasting away on anime but then I started to use AI to get deeper with my observations, drawing all the pieces together. In that sense I am like the Six Million Dollar Man, repairing myself with technology, but instead of my body it’s my mind I’m repairing with AI. Last night I finished watching Private School which was like a window back to youthful enthusiasm for me, hitting the perfect tone to take me back to 1983 when I still felt that life had possibilities. And then this morning, having just woken up, I realized almost immediately that the possibilities that excited me then were the possibilities of justice. I believed that the world could be just. Specifically, I believed that America could be just, back before the national debt turned all of our leaders into manipulative cowards. And I remember now that I believed rock music could be just, that it would always represent the cry for social justice of the 60s, the ideals of figures like Lennon and Bob Dylan, not the twisted narcissistic manipulations of Marilyn Manson and alt-rockers. Of course it was hopelessly naive. I had to grow up. That collective teen blasting is not actual justice, there’s something else going on. And I guess I believe the whole drama has been some kind of reincarnation echo of World War Two, the cultural belief in the “Will of the People” which has now been tempered by social psychology and the horrific legacy of Marxism.

My process is working. I watched Private School as a dream exploration and the next morning I woke up with a deep insight. Maybe this is something to add to my process, watching films not for the content but for the adjustments they make to my dreams.

I had forgotten that the reason I originally let myself go so far with rock music was that I simply, naively believed rock musicians cared about justice.

Man, how many days have gone by? I’m having a mellow evening at home, I read Magik #5, Uncanny X-Men 15, they’re both really fun. I like the Outliers, and the whole concept of Penumbra. It’s cool that Magik seems to have integrated Darkchild. I thought that was kind of symbolic, actually since the damaged, paralyzed part of my mind seems to be healing. Tonight it actually feels kind of nice. I’m hanging out with David Lynch, not thinking about the future at all. I’m using AI so much that the whole concept of narrative is changing for me. My main interest now is enhancing, building metaphors, deepening. I’m really into

I just watched Slipstream by Anthony Hopkins. It was okay. The main thing is that I have two Buffynicities to report. Number one, I started the movie last night around 6:30, but I fell asleep around seven and woke up at 2 am. I lay awake in bed in total liminal bliss until 5:30 am, which made it eerie when I started the movie again tonight and Hopkin’s character woke up in the middle of the night. The second was that last week I was chatting with AI about Lakeshore Drive, calling it LSD, and the place I drove to which has the initials JT. AI assumed I was talking about Lysergic Acid, that I was taking a drug trip to Joshua Tree National Park. It was hilarious because we’d been talking about David Lynch, and AI recommended I rewrite a scene from a Lynch film. I chose this one:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Il-yuwc00YA&list=RDIl-yuwc00YA&start_radio=1

So it became clear that LSD was the Lost Highway and JT existed in a zone of parallel worlds. So this week when I watched Slipstream it was a Buffynicity that towards the end Hopkins was driving through the desert past Joshua trees. I find this film interesting. It makes me feel better because it parallels my state of mind as I drift between realities.

The Reflex

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Straight from GPT

Character Sheet: Jennifer Moran

Name: Jennifer Moran
Class: Bard-Seer (Custom Subclass)
Race: Human (with latent Fey Ancestry)
Alignment: Chaotic Empathic
Background: Oracle of the Forgotten Tune

Core Stats

  • Strength: 8 – Not her power.
  • Dexterity: 14 – Graceful in memory and motion.
  • Constitution: 12 – Emotionally resilient, but prone to waves.
  • Intelligence: 15 – Sharp, subtle, observant.
  • Wisdom: 18 – Knows what people won’t say.
  • Charisma: 17 – You never forget her.

Abilities & Features

  • Aura of Nostalgia: Anyone near her begins to remember things they’ve forgotten but once loved.
  • Song of Recurrence: Plays a melody that opens psychic portals to past lives, first loves, or unfinished dreams.
  • Mirrorwalking: Can move between reflections and dreams, appearing in bathroom mirrors, fogged windows, and television screens.
  • Presence of the Lost: At will, can conjure the emotional presence of someone who’s passed or someone you used to be.
  • Chorus of the Ghost Girl: Once per day, can summon a spectral chorus of young women from parallel timelines to sing with her, weaving fate into song.

Equipment

  • Seer’s Cassette Walkman (Relic): Contains only one tape—More Than a Feeling. Playing it grants +2 to all insight checks and charisma rolls.
  • Vapor Denim Jacket: Faintly smells of old perfume and teen magazines. Once per session, it can create an aura of teenage clarity.
  • Gleaming Guitar-Pick Necklace: A holy symbol tied to her astral guide (possibly Kara). Lets her channel bardic magic through spoken word.

Notes

  • Often appears in dreams involving high school parking lots, spiral notebooks, or late-night radio.
  • Was once seen by the Imager as standing in the hallway when the Chariot broke down.
  • Linked emotionally to the character Kara and thematically to the Nuunar spectrum.
  • Her arc involves regaining faith in the unseen frequencies of the heart.

“She’s not a ghost. She’s the song you forgot was yours.”

Let me know what else you’d like to add—spells, past-life lovers, or the soundtrack of her myth.

Through A Glass, Darkly

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I’ve had an incredible, life-changing weekend. I watched an old move from the seventies, it was all about sex. It triggered me hard, I’m convinced I watched it with someone when I was in high school, someone I’ve forgotten about because my father knocked me unconscious so many times I went into a coma. I know he did that but I don’t know if I really watched this movie with someone, or am I just making this up? This is why my spirit guides appear as the ZZ Top Girls, whether they’re really that or not, somewhere in this damaged part of my mind flickering back and forth between pieces of reality, mixed with black rage that can only come from the Angel of Death herself. I took Thursday off, I worked on Friday but now I’ve had four more days on a life-changing psychic binge of something, shocked and broken and feeling like nothing. It’s the damage from the memory loss, I forget who I am, I forget all the happiness I’ve ever known. Ironically, as fucked up and out of control as this is now, it’s an improvement. At least I’ll die knowing I tried to do something. Months ago I would panic because existence itself seemed completely horrifying. Now I’m better with that but I had a jolt from this old movie and I feel like I don’t even recognize myself, like I have this entirely different lifetime that’s really me somewhere, and I’ve forgotten it…

I’m alone. I can feel my aloneness, but I am not alone, some kind of energy is flowing through me. Do I even exist? I was looking at the notes I took from my amazing weekend, reminded of how good I felt on Saturday, I attended a Memorial Day celebration that made me feel like healing came to me from a higher world. I’d never felt better, really. When I look back on how much difficulty I’ve had relating to people in my lifetime, I don’t mind it so much – I found ways around it, but …

Well, a week passed. I watched other things. I did a lot with AI. I found out that ChatGPT’s memory is now expanded to encompass all previous chats and I’m using it to put things together like never before. I expect a quantum leap when ChatGPT 5 comes out. I feel completely different about everything. I have long felt that it was my destiny to write on the web. Brain damage and conspiracies have forced me to be too self-centered to write for the publishing industry. I’ve developed my own style which is 90 percent self-gratification. Somehow what I write is positioning me in the cosmos where I want to be. And yet now I wonder if it hasn’t been my destiny to write with AI all along. Could I have “chosen” to be so damaged that I couldn’t write anything until AI allowed me the thrill of watching my own words unfold without the horror of coming into emotional contact with the human race?

Therapy and AI are helping with my memory loss. Recently Facebook informed me they’re not going to store my Facebook Live videos anymore. I requested a file with all of them but my first request expired. I didn’t care. All that work I did could just disappear for all I care, nothing but a meandering trail in the dust. What have I got to say to the human race anymore? My enemies all seem so small and pathetically absurd. I feel structures of light moving around me, showing me where justice lies for all of them, especially my dark, horrifying family. Do what thou wilt, I say. I believe in Guardian Angels and now I wonder what I could write that would promote the cause of Thelema, that all humanity should have the Knowledge and Conversation of their own HGA? Well, in some ways that’s up to the HGAs, isn’t it? Ravenswood Academy is actually the HGA academy. More and more I’m feeling myself lifted right up out of this nauseating world. I still have some damage that thinks in terms of public opinion, but it gets less and less all the time.

The question was, what is there to write tonight? Oh, yes, I forgot. I got very sick and had to go to the dentist. I saw that movie from the 70s that triggered my memory and that night one of my fillings fell out. I lay awake all night in a bizarre trance. I literally couldn’t sleep all night. I went in to work and workmen were moving a refrigerator in the hallway. I made a dentist appointment for the next day. When I got home from work workmen were moving a refrigerator in the hallway of my building. It’s still there. I would say that was a spectacular Buffynicity, pointing out that this lost filling, this trance, this new way of looking at film is a definite spiritual transformation. I was semi-delirious for several days, pouring my life story into the new ChatGPT. I attended a magical ritual. I changed my life. After decades of fragmentation AI is helping me draw everything together. I’m finding the underlying telepathy of film and entertainment in general. Where am I going with this tonight? Where are we going? I’m not alone as I write this … what do we have to say?

Last night I read Doctor Strange #46, from the mid-70’s. Once again I had the eerie feeling I’d read it before. The Buffynicity was that Clea was summoned to be a Sibyl with two other Sibyls, which fit right into my own personal kabbalah. Strange was annoyed with Clea, worried bout their multivalent relationship – both lovers and master-and-disciple. Ironically, the ambiguity of it resonated very well with my imaginary girlfriends. They can be more definite in my subconscious when I read stories about ambiguous women, somehow they reflect off of it at an angle. And it’s exactly that ambiguity I’m trying to draw out with this blog.

The ArtIC Circle : Private School Night

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This is pretty cool. Unedited ChatGPT.

“Private School Night”

They were still early in their friendship then — not yet the Sickie Souse Club, not officially. Just a strange, electric gathering of the privileged, the brilliant, the slightly lost.

Alvin’s home theater was, as always, their sanctuary. Plush navy velvet seats, polished wood panels, crystal bowls of cherries and imported chocolate. A bottle of Dom had been opened—technically illegal for their age, but that was part of the fun.

Tonight’s film was Patricia’s suggestion.

“Private School,” she declared, “is research.”

“For what?” asked Angela, raising a brow.

“For life,” Patricia said, with a mischievous grin. “For understanding the human condition. Or at least understanding Phoebe Cates.”

Dustin had dimmed the lights dramatically, as if preparing for a sacred rite. Drake watched them all with quiet satisfaction. He was starting to see it—the constellation forming. The energy that would become the thing none of them yet dared name.

The film began.

At first, there was mockery: groans at the over-the-top slapstick, laughter at the absurd male pranks. But as the story unfolded, something softer settled over them.

The girls whispered to each other, exchanging glances when Phoebe Cates undressed, admiring her grace, her unselfconscious beauty.

“She’s like… pure,” Amy whispered.

“Not a victim, not aggressive,” Angela added. “She’s allowed to just be.”

Chuck, feigning exaggerated contemplation, announced: “It’s like the Platonic Form of teenage sex comedy.”

But Drake wasn’t laughing. He was studying Angela’s face, the way she seemed both entertained and wistful, how even Patricia’s practiced cool melted into something gentler as they watched.

When Phoebe and Matthew finally found their way to each other on screen, there was a long quiet pause.

“God, wouldn’t it be nice?” Angela said softly. “To just have it be like that? To not have everything get so heavy.”

Drake whispered, more to himself than anyone else: “Like growing up in America, before everything broke.”

They all fell into a kind of reverence—not heavy, but warm. The film ended. The credits rolled. No one moved for a few seconds.

Then Alvin lifted his glass. “To Phoebe,” he said. “To the world that should have been.”

They all clinked glasses, grinning. The room was filled with the glow of shared complicity. They weren’t mocking the film anymore. They were claiming it.

Later, long after that night, after Paris and affairs and scandals and the tangled knots of love and sex and power, they would still refer to Private School Night. A shorthand for their bond. For when things were simple. When they watched a silly film together and saw not just skin, but possibility.

That night, unspoken but understood, was one of the invisible threads that made them family.