There is he says a substance in which magical information transmits other than through the propagation of wave forms. The experiment, he says, thus yields the unexpected result…

that the image in question, itself, is, in spite of everything, a re-presentation of an otherwise irrepresentable ontology. It is only here because it cannot possibly be here. Watch and listen.

Not yet delivered to its measures or to the terms to which any measure whatsoever ever might apply, one enters the region of such a substance in accordance with happenstance, surely, but not without preparation and commitment, at least a general commitment to the form of magical will.

Manifestation, willfull; the declension from the inapparent, magical.

But the substance appears in the quality of its ambient atmosphere, the nose for which requires an exaggerated relaxation of the musculature deep about the lumbar vertebrae. Way down there, very still. Very open. Very susceptible. The fascia all unglued and preternaturally resonant.

The passivity of The CruXified requires this. The rippling wave-form of agony passes right on through.

Various symbolic articles have been cast abruptly into that atmospheric quality, their materiality—ominous, miraculous, extravagant, improbable. The probability of the materielle canceled in the self-confirmation implicit in its epiphany. One has simply entered the corporeal regions where only magical configurations apply. The thought of the inexistence of this atmosphere—an inexistence that is the provenance of Reason itself—an extravagant dream. The Dream of Reason extruded from the ambient. The mirrors, he says, the mirrors.

(Write something, he says he says, for chrissake…write….some…thing…)

Are the crumpled heads mementos of some inescapable biography of violence—some accumulation of minute acts of grim volition, each skull one vile intent, and shall they waken and bespeak us? Only the verbal occupation of The Crucified requires this. To wash the ambient in the blood of the invisible.

What do these sorcerers imagine we will make of their stark yet lurid, hyper-material, technically Decadent histories? Whatever it is we will not make of them “histories.”

The magical is thus revealed to have several boundaries, only one of which degrades the rational.