Muse Defence Artefacts

A few years ago, in New York, a business student named Trina Thompson filed a lawsuit against her college three months after graduating (with a Batchelor's degree), due to her being unable to find work. The outcome is currently pending, but it should be interesting. In comparison, I have been persistently shunned by employers for five years, and I have a Distinguished Master's! It seems outrageous that these qualifications should lead to such breathtaking unemployability. I'm not American, therefore I'm not interested in suing anybody, rather, I'm keen to identify the demobilising agencies at large in this corrupt society. Absurdly, it even appears increasingly rational to question whether occult machinations might be at work. Companies are essentially cults run by exploitative thugs indoctrinating recruits with a bovine aversion to difference of thought. There are certainly many stupefying viral forces disseminating themselves within superficially harmless new figures of speech, but such forces resist pinning down as they are antithetical to study.

Royalties from my published works have dried up this year. The last lecture of October 2009, given at a now-defunct research centre, seems like an aeon ago. Interest in thoughtform seems to have waned this year. (These areas of study are not even remotely related to my qualifications). This straitening suction has necessitated daily explorations to harvest the dream-weaponry of the muse. Apparatus is also sought - research must be continued. Parallel to this, food is of near-secondary importance.

Supermarket trucks transport discarded, past-the-sell-by-date food directly to disposal facilities. It's becoming difficult to intercept this loading of perfectly edible food. The scandalous wasted food mountains that Freeganism's popularity exposed has seen supermarkets conceal their discards from starving eyes. Nevertheless, food seems to be of such essentiality to the constitution that one finds oneself automaton-like obtaining it by hook or by crook, in a state of near-somnabulism. Sometimes I find myself holding, say, a sweetcorn or a bag of potatoes, not knowing whether this was shoplifted or placed in my hand by some unseen entity.

Elsewhere, in the search for dream-weaponry and vital apparatuses, various hurdles make their procurement appear daunting. These objects are always to be found in waste containers at industrial estates, commercial centres, etc. In contrast to the aforementioned somnambulistic state, finding and implementing these articles beneficially requires intense concentration, increased awareness and inventive spontaneity. Low-level hurdles such as any ingrained inhibitions are instantly obliterated when it is borne in mind that the contents of these containers are only hours from becoming permanent dark archaeology: daring resurrections of usage are the heroics of some future culture (probably). Next are the physical hurdles: a collection of keys must be patiently accumulated to unlock the many varieties of lockable waste container. Prodding implements are necessary to avoid traps, unsanitary miscellany and sharpnesses. Aside from these, all objects contain inspirations hidden interiorly beneath the fashioning of their outward aspect. Certain types of people express violent disgust at this statement of fact, presumably because of its insignificance to economic matters. They may even "psychically" provide additional hurdles with poison thought-seeds in the form of callous put-downs.

A good example of this occurred earlier today during my circuitous evening dustbin investigation. Routinely, I begin with an arduous excursion to the edge of town where a satellite commercial complex offers a meagre constellation of sustenances, not always fruitful, but largely untrodden by fellow scavengers. One reliable source of materials adjoins the rear of a troublesome hairdressers. The hairdressers - in its current 'Jo Spencer' incarnation - seems to be staffed by cruel goons, neanderthal chimneys and conflicted bruisers raging on their own homosexual-repression (perhaps). They appear to behave dreadfully unprofessionally, often swearing in front of young children from the nursery opposite, and they spit everywhere too. Territorial like brutes. Too ignorant to cut hair, surely?! Nowadays I often purposefully block my ears with bungs. Once, as I examined some forsaken mementoes from the charity shop's bin nextdoor, one of the hairdressers marched out and decided to throw a bag of hair onto my hands. He arrogantly declared, "this is all mine - I own all these shops". His assertion was comical in both its obvious untruthfulness and its deeply insecure pettiness. I later uncovered the depth of this bullying behaviour and grotesque tyranny surrounding the Jo Spencer hairdressers after finding District Council papers detailing their illegal installation of exterior shutters over their shop-front. The proprietor(s) had brazenly ignored planning regulations and failed to respond to letters from the council. Obviously they consider themselves all-powerful! Returning to the narrative, earlier today one uncouth amateur beautician emerged from the Jo Spencer backdoor to shout "skank", before he hurried back inside. Such cowardly broadcasts of hostility conduce to irritate the nerves, but thankfully there are ways to prevent the ingress of demotivating sentiments.


In the image above can be seen a hair-zither, constructed with hair from the Jo Spencer bins. I employ it to encourage their would-be-voluptuous male employees to "come out the closet"; refining those unconvincing brutes through occult channels. Short mantras are plucked out on the strands of hair, once touched as it was by those hairdressers of prickly disposition, with this objective strongly in mind. The end result discourages any ill-met interventions by transforming these 'bingo hall Hitlers' into humane, cultivated thinkers. A salvaged mechanical counter, bolted atop, is clicked with each 'session' to imbue each performance with manifest significance and potency (it stands at 460 as of today). Interestingly, one of the female employees was heard on a few occasions directly referring to me as "Potter", presumably a reference to 'Harry Potter' the wizard (which was odd) - could she have become aware of the hair-zither transmissions and sensed wizardry afoot? The fictitious wizard would seem an apt point of reference given that Francis Barrett, Aleister Crowley, Austin Osman Spare et al are so little-known today. Tangentially, the resonator part of the hair-zither is a metallic pot, which forms the bulk of the instrument. Maybe the effect of this device is one of self-deception, but either way, it can be recommended principally on its "value-for-money": the surprisingly reassuring effects it can produce without any pecuniary expenditure whatsoever. Bovine doubters may deign to even consider the use of such apparatus, but surely its use can't be more futile than cutting hair?