Reason? I once sat down in a chair, a familiar chair, positioned in a comfortable nook of my home. It was mid autumn, neither too chill nor oppressively humid, I had nowhere to go and so I focused on the rather ludicrous pursuit of ‘reason in Being’. Arrogance precedes both reason and ‘Being’; Swifts may chase insects, but I doubt they squander their hours pondering the ‘reason in Being’. Hedgehogs shuffle gladly in the dark for juicy grubs, but not often are they to be spied reflecting upon the rejection of reason or ‘Being’. Why? I would wager, creatures like the Swift and Hedgehog are not blighted by arrogance, but they can they experience ‘Being’ without arrogance? Then it struck me, people are insane, we’ve always been this way and it might be the single most valid evidence behind our identity of ‘Being’. When we pursue ‘Being’ we are like children in the dark, amazed by everything, surprised by everything. Carl Jung wrote…

“…As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere Being…”

Ontologically speaking, the pursuit of ‘Being’ will invariably make the explorer more acutely aware of their own latent insanity. That is the darkness that resides at the core of ‘mere Being’. Because the kernel of our quest, the pursuit of essence in the minutiae, is madness. Academics are largely shielded from this mania by the material trimmings and idealistic reassurances of pedagogy. Textbooks, frameworks, paradigms, comfort in agreement, are very potent poultices. It is a glaring and painful absurdity to believe, that you can experiment with the very essence of your ‘Being’ and not be in some way disfigured by the exploration. You are not hypothetical, but you might very well be at the whim of your ancestral lunacy. Is it better to be clever and wrong or deranged and right?

Does a Hedgehog suffer insanity, can it have ‘Being’, does a Swift possess reason and if so do they experience the essence of ‘Being’ and the elevation of reason as I do, as we latter day Homo Sapiens do? No I feel they can not, because to explore ‘Being’ in any authentic sense, you must as a base prerequisite be afflicted by the capacity for an elevated mania. It is not the capacity to verbally reflect upon our history that separates Man from Beast, no it would be more accurate to say, it is our inherited insanity. This insanity is a gift from an invisible deity, who dwells in an invisible realm and this being has done so for an unfathomable expanse of eternity.

So I sat there, trying to muster the validity of ‘Being’ that might be experienced by the mercurial Swift or indeed the stoic Hedgehog. I began laughing, not a pleasant laughter, not it was something quite hideous. It was laughter, but a glee marred with a dumb kind of pathetic doubt. Because there was and still is a very real and potent stupidity underlying my question.

Motivation? So, if you require a neat lineage, I’d put it as thus; arrogance, reason/being and finally motivation. You could argue, ‘well without ‘being’ or the delusion there of, how could you acquire arrogance; arrogance being a character trait, surely?’. If we were indeed made in the image of some intangible deity, then we came predisposed with arrogance, not so much .being’. We have constructed a ghoulish mire, in each of us a sublime illusion of cognitive essence. So, motivated by arrogance, drunk on being, aroused by reason I sat in that chair and I stopped laughing because I became acutely self aware and I felt embarrassed, even in isolation as I was. I felt a strange Lovecraftian foreboding with my endeavour. Are the almost shameful notions of ‘reason’ and ‘Being’ synonymous with each other, indeed inseparable? Even in my easy chair, I was a bumbling maniac, and it struck me that our search for ‘Being’ is very much a journey to the mouth of madness. There is a rather poignant  quote from the bible, which succinctly sums up Mans exploration of ‘Being’ and so we have as thus…

“… “Lord, have mercy on my son, for he is a lunatic and is very ill; for he often falls into the fire and often into the water. “I brought him to Your disciples, and they could not cure him” Matthew 17:14-18.

We can’t be cured of our madness and we surely will not resolve the horror and tension being our ‘Being’. This kind of peculiar horror is softened by our arrogance. But what would motivate somebody along the pernicious journey into ‘Being’? Only arrogance could possible befuddle our senses so completely that we’d even dare contemplate it. Because if you settle yourself into an easy chair one autumn afternoon, with nothing better to do. If you dig deep and resolve yourself not to be deterred by intellectual shame, then you will be blighted by a succour of terror! In that, you will come to a very abstract and wholly unsatisfactory conclusion, and you will know that we are hypothetical entities. We are surely cursed with an incurable lust for ‘reason’ and ridiculed by a misplaced belief in our own ‘Being’. In truth we are all amateur solipsists trying to kindle a light in the darkness of our own manic idiocy.



“And where were you last night young lady?” Enquired my owlish father, peering over his poached eggs. I was not fooled by the calmness of the question, his eyes betrayed a simmering anger. “Last night?” I feigned surprise. “Yes Sophie, last night. The one in which you did not come home at all!” Outburst. “Well?” the calmness returned “I, I met someone” Apoplexy threatened “You did  what? A man?!” “Yes, no, sort of, I didn’t mean to.” The awful implications of my disappearance only now seemed to dawn upon me. “What man? Where is he? Did he touch you?” “No no, not at all, at least I don’t think so…” as these words came out I could see I had to be less vague “You don’t think so?!” “No, no father he didn’t!” “Then what were you, a 14 year old girl, doing with this man all night?” The horror of accounting for this dawned on me deeper and deeper, I began to tremble. “Nothing, he, said he knew a short cut home, across the downs back to here.” “Oh he did did he, and I suppose you stopped to pick flowers off the path too!” I looked at the breakfast table. “Sophie, have you any idea how dangerous that could have been?” I started to cry “Did he hurt you?” I sobbed onto the table cloth, “Did that bastard hurt you? Because if he did…” “He, he did’t h hurt me.” “Then what, you stopped to play tiddly winks? Sophie you were gone all night!” “No, we w walked ac cross the d downs, I didn’t know where we were.” “Then why did you go? What were you thinking?” “I d don’t know, I wasn’t scared, father it was… strange.” My father paused, something arrested the anger in him, some interest was piqued. I looked up from the table cloth. “I don’t know where I was.” I said through tears “And I don’t know how I appeared in bed this morning. He looked shocked. “Sophie, you haven’t been to bed! Between your mother and nanny and I someone has been waiting up for you all night!” “Father I don’t understand” Waves of distress overcame me, accounting for my actions had seemed like a problem, but now realising that I couldn’t  account for them. This was an anguish my mind could take. “Sophie…” calm but firm “Sophie, who was he?” “He, he said he was my uncle. He was like a frog.” the absurdity just came out “Your Uncle? But you know both your uncles. One lives in Newport and the other in London.” “He wasn’t either of those uncles father, he was a different uncle.” “What do you mean? What was his name?” “He said his name was Ambrose.” The word dropped like a stone into the room as if it were a pool. The ripples were visible. My father’s whole expression wavered, and trembled the recomposed slightly “Ambrose, you say?” “Yes…” I mirrored his waver “uncle Ambrose.” “Uncle Ambrose?” “Yes.” My father lost his composure and the colour drained out of him. Silence filled the room. “Father?” “Mm?” The replay came as if he returned from somewhere distant. “Do, do you know him?” “Who?” “Uncle Ambrose?” “Him, oh, yes, maybe. Sophie…” “Yes father.” “Sophie, maybe since you just came down from upstairs, maybe you you weren’t out all night, maybe you were there all along and we didn’t see you.” “But I remember him father, I remember being out in the hills in the dark, I remember the glowing stones in the twilight.” The fake composure tried to reassert itself “Sophie, Sophie, listen to yourself, glowing stones, dark hills, these are dreams not reality. No, you must have come back when we didn’t notice and you must have slept in a flat and inconspicuous way and we, we your worried guardians have been fools.” I was almost carried along with this narrative, if only because the ill formed images of the twilit path seemed more disturbing than this notion that I had been at home and dreamt it. The concealment however was too great for the vivid feeling that I had not dreamt it. “Who is uncle Ambrose?” He twitched slightly “I, I’m sure I should ask you the same, since it was your dream and not mine.” He tried to make this sound jovial, but his anxiety showed through “You said you something like you might know him father, what did you mean?” “That oh, I don’t know, I must have been thinking of someone else.” “Who?” “No one, nothing, nothing to do with this.” “Father your lying!” “Don’t! Don’t say that! Ambrose is a phantom, a fiend, a nothing!” The words erupted suddenly, his anxiety dissipated a fearful intensity gripped him and he stared at me with pointed eyes “A devil!” “But where do you…” “Sophie, I do not know if you dreamed him or saw him, it matters not a jot of difference. If you see him Sophie you must hide and run or both.” “But why? What do you mean? I am quite unharmed.” He calmed again as if accessed a place in which to talk of this was allowed “Things like Ambrose give clues, Sophie, the clue here is the name.” “I looked quizzically on.” “Think Sophie, think, his name is ‘uncle Ambrose’. U A are the initials. These stand for no less than ‘Utter’ ‘Abomination’. Do you see? This is what he is!” There was something persuasive in my fathers tone that rendered his decoding as quite sensible, even powerful. I began to feel frightened at this unmasking of his nature.

‘The Kingdom of the moon’. I pondered the phrase as I walked. It seemed to me it had a fantastic sound to it. It beckoned at once being upon the moon and being bathed in its light. It conjured a land of moon beings ordered by some alien monarchy. In this reverie the luna folk were nearly visible, yet not quite so. An amalgam of a the concepts of pallid light and humanoid form just out of view. In the inchoate scene they lingered outside a cratered clearing bathed also in silver light.

The image faded and I returned to the stony luminescent world continuing up the path. Ambrose now was sometimes but a moving shape up ahead and sometimes he would disappear entirely. This disappearance though was not his having moved out of sight but rather simply his having stopped moving at all. The poverty of light and his unutterable stillness rendered him seemingly impossible to spot. Only when I got within feet of him would he start walking again. I walked on after him until a moonlit twilight became a moonlit dusk. The stones grew bigger and more dominating until at last they took over the whole of the landscape. Imposing boulders and monoliths rose around me out of the darkness. The path was less of a path than a series of rocky slabs that picked their way between the higher stones. I scrambled on as Ambrose danced nimbly like a goat from rock to rock. Only the moonlight saved me from serious injury. This incredible lithic scape went on also for an age such that I began to feel tired again. Ahead Ambrose paused again. This time he waited until I had fully gained him. “My dear…” he began “…we have nearly reached our destination though there is one last path. It begins just yards from here as we go between two great stones, there all will be dark and if I lose you in this place, I shall never find you again. From this point onwards you must here take my hand and hold it tight no matter what happens. If you manage this all will be well.” Instinctively, with the same insane trust that had carried me this far, I took his hand. It was warm to the touch and firm in its grip. “Now you must walk at my speed.” he said in his jovial tone and with no warning, he set off again across the rocky landscape near dragging me as he went. I don’t know how I kept up, every footstep was a guess, a dice roll, yet somehow I always landed correctly. I was just beginning to feel a confidence in walking at this speed when the two vast rocks loomed towards us. For the purpose of illumination though their separation was practically artificial. That is, such was their size that as the path went between them, it was just as Ambrose said and the moonlight failed the chasm entirely. I held his hand tighter in trepidation and blundered into the black passage.

Apart from the darkness what was different about the black path was that underfoot there was no longer rock, instead the ground felt what could be best described as a peculiar sand, at any rate it was soft. From now on this strange sandy floor, Ambrose’s hand, and the occasional brush with the rocky side was all my reality consisted of, all else was blackness. My sense initially was that we would walk between the rocks and emerge quickly; it soon became clear that this would not happen. The sandy floored blackness continued relentlessly. Though now even through the eerie calm that had carried me along I began to become more and more frightened. A wind began to blow through the passage and though it was blacker than pitch it seemed I could often see a mist that blew past me. As time went on the misty forms grew more common, swirling in eddies by me as they went. I tried not to look for I began to feel there were faces that looked out from it with hollow gossamer eyes. Averting my gaze downwards though was no comfort, for it seemed that as I looked I could see a void of space beneath me, filled with a million stars. I felt the sandy floor continue against my feet, yet I could not reconcile this with the vast emptiness below. A nausea gripped me and  I tried to look forward to avoid these hideous images. This seemed the best option, for here was a literal nothing. A plunging darkness into which I plunged, yet staring into this emptiness was better than the vast cosmos beneath me or the baleful shapes of fog that seemed to drift so close either side.

The interminable passage went on and on. Yet it seemed now as if the mist like forces were not content to occupy the periphery.  I could feel and see that they encroached further into the void before me, whispering things as they did so. At one point another hand took my other hand and began to lead me to one side. I felt so lost that I could not at first remember which hand Ambrose held onto and which hand was newly grasped. It was only with a small remainder of consciousness that I managed to remember that Ambrose’s hand was warm and that this other hand was cold. I tried to let it go but it made no odds. Cold fingernails bit tightly into my hand and it tried to guide me to its way with more force. I responded with resistance and determination not to release the warm grip of Ambrose’s hand. The hand pulled me fiercely now and I began to feel it less as a hand at all and more as a suction as if my arm were stuck in some vertical quagmire. I tried to pull it back only to discover to my horror I could not feel my arm at all! There was the sensation of having the awareness of an arm but no corporeality that I could exercise against the dragging force that pulled me towards it. I gripped Ambrose hand with every ounce of strength in my remaining arm and lurched on through whatever void my legs moved in. The wind whistled, the misty eddies rustled, the power dragged at my non-arm and I screamed at the absolute desolation of my senses.

“I’ll whistle across the merry land, 

I’ll whistle from afar,

I’ll whistle with the gentleman, 

Who leaves the door ajar.”

Such were the words that drifted into my wakening state, to a tune I fancied I knew from somewhere. I noted dimly that some kind of pipe was dissonantly set against the melody of the voice, though much quieter. I suddenly came to with a start, recalling where I was. “Uncle Ambrose!” I called, fearing my solitude in this strange place. “Yes” came the familiar voice “Are you ready now? Are you rested?” I sat up and looked around. The light had changed vastly since earlier and I could only hazard the time. The dimmest edge of twilight felt visible, though the it was still clearly day. “What time is it?” I managed to say through an intangible panic. “It is time my dear, for us to leave! Your feet must be a healed a thousand times over by the slumber you’ve had.” I wanted again to ask where we were going, but it was clear that we were not going back to the house, not going back to mother and father or nanny. I wanted to feel anxious, terrified of their worry and wrath, fearful for my own safety, but instead all I had was a numb disquiet accompanied by increasing sense of marvel. “The path leads on through twisted bower, which is the thorn and which the flower?” He gestured from  the other side of the pool that I should follow. Rising from where my shape pressed in the grass still and quickly putting my shoes back on, I picked my way more purposefully than before, towards the path and Ambrose who waited where the trees resumed. The light dappled in a completely different way now and the slightest hint of cooler air drifted through the trees. The trees seemed more comforting now, more welcoming. I felt their susurration as a voice of calm. The copse proceeded not much longer and the path emerged into a second rockier  terrain. The sun no longer beat upon us, it was low in the sky and the larger rocks cast ominous dark shadows across a scene of heather and grass. Curiously, though from the top of the previous down it had looked like the path should have continued downwards after the copse, when  in fact this new path led up a steady incline into an ever stonier place. Ambrose danced on, skipping his way up the path, turning adroitly once in a while to check I was still there. He needn’t have -if indeed there were anything more than show to his checking- for I followed now without reticence. Onwards went the grey path, and as it did so did the vividness of the emerging twilight. The rocks especially seemed to begin to glow with a faint indigo. As we went I noticed now that though there was much light in the sky, the moon, near full, rose from behind us -where the lake was. Ambrose did not turn round but at the moment I saw her rising he intoned “Nigh encroaches oh so soon, the joyful kingdom of the moon.”

“Upwards and yonder, amongst the grey ones of ancient times.” He spoke with an exultation, before turning to me with an intense glint in his eye to say “Who may bewitch the unwary with their ancient rhymes.” No soon had he turned than he had turned back and was striding upward through the rocky ponderous landscape. “Come on Clara, the downs beckon, the rocks reckon!” I followed as fast as I was able, but the day was warm and my shoes seemed quite inadequate to the rocky path. I was thirsty and my feet hurt and I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t know who this man was. “Uncle Ambrose, uncle Ambrose!” I shouted suddenly “Where are we going?” He whirled round so fast his coat tails shot out “Going? Why we’re going back to nanny aren’t we? Or at least something very similar. But oh, my child, I see your feet hurt and you are thirsty. Fear not, just over the rise is a stream. There you may stop, drink and rest your feet.” and this was all I got. So I followed. I followed through the stony green land, that became more stony and less green as we went. I followed through the heat and past the now occasional windswept hawthorn that conjured images of iniquitous fey. I followed till we gained the stony mound summit -still green in places, for the downs are not high- and looked down the descending path. In truth there were two. The major path bent round to the left whereas there was a small divaricating path  that can came off it to the right. The view of the rolling lush and stony downs stretching for us was beautiful. “The stream my dear Clara is down there.” and he gestured with his cane down the right hand path. My sense of direction was poor but I knew enough that one must bear left to head back towards the village and told him so. “Yes, of course this is true, but you require cool water do you not? There is no stream that way, only the dry stones in the heat of the day. No my dear Clarabel, there can be no doubt that this is the way.” It was true that one could see a stream that ran down the slope further round to the right that looked like it would intersect the path at a copse of trees further down. I looked round and Ambrose was already off down the path, half leaping from stone to stone in way that made me think there was something amphibian about him. Sighing and trusting that either the path bent round or that he intended to reascend the rise I gingerly followed him down grey sandy-stone path. This side was a steeper descent than the other and twice I nearly lost my footing. Ambrose would not have noticed if I had as he was far ahead and having nearly gained the copse. When he did reach it he stopped and turned back towards me making a beckoning gesture and I thought of his rhyme from earlier. The copse grew on a flatter part of the hill and close up one could see it was not simply hawthorn but also mountain ash and blackthorn. The entrance was guarded by two rowans that framed the slim smart figure perfectly upon my approach. He beamed and he gestured as if immensely proud of himself. Indeed he waited for me the whole while so that I could enter the wood before him. Stepping inside had an otherworldly feel. The trees were not close or high and the light flickered intangibly throughout. The gurgle of the stream was immediately audible, presumably the sound captured amongst the leafy enclosure. I stepped on with Ambrose at my heels. “On on! ” he ushered me as I stared about “Don’t let’s keep your mouth and feet waiting!” The copse was fairly small yet large enough that just round a bend in the path the trees parted in a tiny glade in the centre of which lay a small pool, obviously fed by the same stream. Sunlight struck the pool and it seemed to glisten iridescent, nestling, as it did amongst the trees and rocks. Insects flew about, rendered more visible by the fractured sunbeams that shone in part through the trees. At the pool’s periphery grew meadowsweet, edging the water with is foliage, its creamy flowers tinting the air medicinal. I needed no further instruction but rushed towards the pool and cupped my hands to scoop the water to my lips “And it rippled like lips, as if a nymph rose from the water to kiss me” spoke Ambrose from somewhere. I shuddered inside at these words, which seemed so familiar to me, but as there seemed nothing other than this alien familiarity to the sensation I gave nothing away. “Rest Clarabel, rest, and when you are rested we shall press on to Narnia.” or at least so I thought he said at first, though I realised  quickly he must have said nanny. “When you are ready to go I shall reappear.” And he was gone. I took my shoes off and sat down in the glade by the pool. It was so lovely there and the water so refreshed and calmed me that I thought I would lie down. As I did, I lay my head so it could look across the water’s ripples and darting insects in the light. I felt sleepy in the warm grass and remembered last listening to the croaking of a frog, whom I dimly believed I could spy on a rock just under the hanging meadowsweet leaves.

When Lovecraft wrote “To achieve the essence of real externality, whether of time or space or dimension, one must forget that such things as organic life, good and evil, love and hate, and all such local attributes of a negligible and temporary race called mankind, have any existence at all…but when we cross the line to the boundless and hideous unknown – the shadow-haunted Outside– we must remember to leave our humanity and terrestrialism at the threshold” a choice is made. This is not to say it is a bad choice but it has shades of irony to it. A clear facet of a magickal universe is that NARP fields affect the putative externality as mediated through the pneuma. A dark materialism that renders human emotion, concepts and spatio-temporal interpretation as irrelevant curiously eradicates this kind of magickal possibility. Yet of course in such a universe the nature of sorcery is often espoused as true under the auspice of a naturalized-supernaturalism. That is, it implies from other dimensional perspectives these attributes are nothing. Yet if magick obtains (in a sorcery accepting world) then the conceptual and emotion must register as real in the outside (the pneuma can affect the umbra) -that’s how it works.

The choice [of Lovecraft’s] is one of allying the outside with a kind of multidimensional-realism that is entirely indifferent to the affective and cognitive faculties of a kind of NARP (humans). He seems to be committed to a kind of reality in which we are purely material beings with our feelings and thoughts being contained purely within. This means sorcery in such a universe is dislocated from will and rather must be a form of a more realist magick in which symbols, vibrations etc. have intrinsic power. It is through these means that sorcerous interventions are made and not through conceptual readjustments (pneuminous interference). This in turn means that all sorcerous interventions must be made by supplications to entities capable of manipulating human reality or through particular symbols, sounds known to bring specific about effects, as this cannot be achieved by humans themselves.

This agnostic disjunction’s alternative choice is that human affections and concepts do potentially exert some power in the outside. This is the pneuminous chaos-magickally compatible theory commonly discussed herein. When we talk about the outside as the vast cosmic abyss it is interesting to note this kind of double motion. Cosmic horror of the above kind seems to eschew this possibility. But of course it must eschew this possibility in order to preserve the radical sense of impotence in the face of the titanic powers that be it desires. Human magick is replaced by inter-dimensional sorcery (scientifically reproducible). This resistance to human level magick is also a feature of the kind of transcendental realism that the cosmic horror is often metaphorical for. In this materialism also, the affectivity and conceptuality cannot affect the outside.

It is a bizarre consequence of the disjunctional arm: ‘magick obtains’ (in the pneuminous chaos magickal manner) that this makes the universe in some sense less alien -the playing field is more equal. This is not a naïve lack of alterity; the possibility that titanic accretive horrors lie in the unfathomable is still entirely possible. The pneuminous theory though would entail a version of sorcery that seems less restrictive [to the NARP]. That such beings (from the outside) could be restrained by human constructs -because they do have power in the outside- and that interventions can also be made at a more ordinary level of conceptuality without the intervention of entities from the abysmal outside.

What is a Narp? It’s a CEO term used basically for the subject, however it’s well overdue a second unpacking as this equivalence is hardly helpful. The term Narp is an acronym for Neurotic Accretion Regional Processor. These terms represent the first synthesis point of mine and Charlie Johns’ philosophy of neurosis and assimilation. In fact the term ‘regional processor’ appears first of all (apart from its earlier telecommunications usage) in my essay ‘Conceptual Animism as Neurosis’, a slightly altered version of which appears here (and the original in ‘The Neurotic Turn’ 2017 Repeater). Here RP is used to describe the brain-body as an entity that is not everywhere but occupies only a ‘region’. Of course the region is not static, the region is mobile, it is however limited and as such a only a region. The term processor buys into the kind of computer-brain comparison, it is there to say that this regional thing can process [information]. The paper make no mention of pneuma, but the idea is similar. Concepts are self animated and interpreted as either roaming free of the RP or as housed within it (magick-obtains v does not obtain). The hints for the possibility of conceptual animism are listed as: the appearance of thoughts in the mind (the facticity of thought), dialectic scepticism (that doubt always can appear of its own accord in relation to any thesis) and informational interference (synchronicity). The first two hint at something resembling Johns notion of neurosis. This is more like an ontological neurosis of the mind. Control over thoughts is illusory. Neurosis is not a pathology, it is just how all thoughts arise including the ones we actually think that we want there.

Accretions are the stuck together bits of pneuma that we call concepts, ideas. Naming words anchor the pneuma together. The neurotic accretion is in a sense the self-accretion. It is the accretion of the name that inhabits the RP. The [proper]name arises neurotically as the name for the whole (the Narp). There is something like a vector-pneuma relation between the neurotic accretion and regional processor. This is not a perfect description as of course regional-processor is still itself an accretion applied to a vector. This heuristic bodily description the RP then, is essentially controlled by the neurotic accretion insofar as the we think of consciousness as controlling the body. The RP has of many activities under its own domain which are to a greater or lesser degree influenced by the NA.

In the biological realm the notion that pneuma affects (at a certain level of animal existence at least) umbra is much stronger than the more dubious magickal disjunction. Very few Narps doubt the notion i) that you can exert some kind of affect upon the body with the mind and ii) that other Narps can affect your body with their pneuminous interactions (they can make you angry, arouse you, embarrass you). The general extension that the ‘magick-obtains’ arm of the disjunction makes is that this is not just true of the Narp-Narp/other RP entity relation, it is also true of the Narp-inanimate things relation. Clearly this raises the issue of at what point do certain RPs become pneuminously receptive, e.g. lower animals and plants? But this point isn’t for today. Here we have to allow for a heuristic sense of the non-autopoetic world as it shows itself: stones, wind, water etc, and bracket off manifestations that suggest these things might equally be autopoetic. This means that not just the accepted living world but also the putatively non-living world vectors can actually be affected by pneuminous accretive plug-ins.

There is a kind of dualism going on in the Narp concept. The dualism is more like a fuzzy division point (like in the above line between higher and lower RPs) between the capacity to form large complex accretions and more automated processes of the body. The former belong to the NA whereas the latter to the RP. Insofar as magick-obtains, the NA is something more like a contingent-soul. It is a fully autonomous accretion with the capacity to leave the RP, indeed it is defaultly connected to the wider pneuminous sphere (which results in pneuminous interference -synchronicity). It was formed in the RP by the various relations the RP spatially held to the other Narps, that is, in relation to the biological-umbratic nature of the RP the NA is created (this is not a theory of a prior accretion occupying an RP, the soul (NA) is entirely as created as anyother accretion. The giving of the RP its name normally forms the seed for the NA. The sense of autonomy is usually localised largely in this accretion. The vector that is the RP is just capable of producing NA’s.

The Narp is not intended as an anti-humanist construct per se. What it does though is create a concept that includes humans (and possibly other similar vectors). ‘Human’ is an accretion, formed by our use relation to the restraints that vector displays. In both its magickal and non-magickal interpretations the Narp displays the kind of entity that we are as having a self but only one that is entirely contingent. This does not align the concept to any political accretion as such or deny its affective capacities. In some ways it is as reinforcing to a humanism as it is possible to be. There is a human, but it is a human accretion attached to the vector. This is the only thing it could ever mean. There is a self, but it is a self [neurotic] accretion. This is also the only thing it could ever mean. The disentangling from the RP capacities of the NA strongly suggest its spirit like nature (which under one interpretation are true), this though does not entail it is a divine spirit, teleologically bound to some spiritual purpose. It is just a contingently formed accretion that can uncouple from its umbratic birth place -no further metaphysical statements are grounded.

We are all Narps. But Narps are also agents. The autonomy of the Narp is limited. Whilst the RP is primarily controlled by the NA there are in any given Narp many other accretions vying for control. The Narp’s hobbies, the Narp’s job, the Narp’s favourite TV show etc, all these provide powerful pneumious forces that try to take over the Narp. Of course other than in the vector we call ‘mental illness’ usually the NA stays in control, but even then, although as central concept it maintains control, because it is largely empty of any particular pneuminous-content other than a name and certain proclivities, it is actually working as an agent for these other accretions. This is the reason for another CEO phrase:

‘Who are you working for?’

1) Twin Peaks as cruelty.

Whatever is your stance on the finale of Twin Peaks, one thing is for sure: it was cruel. Open ended and dark, it not only gave no answers to us, but it left our good, immaculate hero stained. After the doppelganger/worms have feasted for the last 25 years on his and his beloved’s carcasses, he then either became lost in an unknown time loop that brought him back to the past, before any of his effort even existed, or stranded in a future, in which every familiar face has been erased from the plane of existence. Of course, for some, this was an act of gratuitous ontological sadism. Far from that, others are convinced that this is a dark metaphysical statement, which doubles one of the most unsettling proposition of deleuzian philosophy.

In Difference and Repetion, Deleuze wrote: «Cruelty is nothing but determination as such, that precise point at which the determined maintains its essential relation with the undetermined, that rigorous abstract line fed by chiaroscuro» (Difference and Repetition, p. 29). The upshot of this statement, which, on a surface level, could just seem a pretty obscure form of philosophical mumbling, is, as Reza Negarestani noted in Differential cruelty, very clearly: existing in all of its varied significances = determination from an undetermined background/Umbratic plane = an act of cruelty. This, of course, doesn’t only entail the conscious processes that we trigger with our actions. For example, being born is, following this skeletal outline of Dark Deleuzism, the cruelest of all determinations, setting in motion an accretion-without-consent against the possibility of non-being/being-one-with-the-the-HyperUnCreation-of-Umbra and chaining each and every one of the newborns to an illusory fixity. As Artaud put it: «For it seems to me that creation and life itself are defined only by a kind of rigor, hence a fundamental cruelty, which leads things to their ineluctable end at whatever cost» (The Theater and Its Double, p. 103). This is, they think, the upshot of David Lynch and Mark Frost’s finale: Judy/the Red Goddess/Umbra eternally wins, because she is able to demonstrate to the starry-eyed Agent Cooper (any accretion whatever) that everything he could possibly do to right the wrongs that haunt him is, at the end of the day, cruel, an act of cruel accretion. He not only will always fail, like Morpheus – too weak not to look back to check the wellbeing of the simulacrum of his loved one, condemning her either to repetition or to non-existence – but he’s always confronted with the cruelty of an ontologically pluralistic universe made of accreted or volatile pneumas.

2) Cruelty as ethics. So that’s it? The non-cruel ontologists may ask. Luckily, the party of cruelty not only has a dismal metaphysics at their disposal, but also a blackened ethics to propose. After all, we know how Judy/the Red Goddess/Umbra wins. Cooper, in an act of all-too-human weakness looked back. He triggered, the party says, the disappearance of Laura Palmer and the destruction of the whole universe. He looked back and undid the whole world with his own eyes. Therefore, the cruel party proposes a radical, mercyless solution: let us be as cruel as Judy, as oceanic as Umbra, let us eat cosmos and let us follow her Chtonic left-hand path of pneumas-without-accretions. Rather than surrendering to Cooper’s humanist fears and behaviors, let us join Judy/The Red Goddess/Umbra. Never look back, no matter how long Sarah will try to capture Laura’s pneuma, without being afraid of the unknown consequences of our journey. After all, no one promised us that we will have the peace we are hoping for; the only thing we really know for sure, is the (existence of an) alien world, radically disfigured by our transgression of time and space. As Negarestani wrote: «In the wake of the philosophy of cruelty, ethics can return to the mathesis of the problem once again wherein the problem is not determined by its solution or conditions but by its capacity to generate fields of the problematic» (Differential Cruelty, p. 82). Judy demands to be destroyed with her own sword and daggers, and be reborn once again in us.

3) She’s universal emptiness. But that’s not enough! The party of cruelty says; if we want to appreciate David Lynch and Mark Frost’s sadomasochistic ontology, we have to push ourselves forward and consider the show in its entirety, not just the finale. This last season, they contend, was the actualization of a greater plan for this universe: the desecration of the fixity of the monistic substance and the annihilation of the World, both inside and outside the Twin Peaks’ mythos. As spectators, we witnessed a grotesque puppet show, whose protagonists resembled the lovely characters we have learned to love in the past two seasons, but felt way too hollow to be the “real” thing. They were as thin as our own breath. Two prime examples were, of course, Dougie Jones and Diane: Dougie Jones looked just like our beloved Coop, but he was, actually, just an empty, lost pneuma. An alternative and not fully realized accretion, stranded in a world in which he was probably never meant to be summoned, of an accretion (Agent Cooper) who, in what we think was our past, we have learned to love. On the other hand, for months, we grew attached to Diane’s loud mouth, only to find out that she was nothing more than a half realized accretion, directed by an alien, malignant will. She was the particular embodiment of a form of universal emptiness, in a dreadful cosmos where not even the owls are what they seem.

4) Us is Them. Therefore, for these theorists, the upshot of the cruel Frostian and Lynchian metaphysics is that there is no such thing as this world. Everyone and everything is a tulpa/accretion of some alien pneuma, set against the non-field (the kabbalistic dark Waters of HyperUnCreation of the Leviathan/Umbra) of the darkened powers/the left hand path/Umbra. Can it be our situation? It is.

5) The endtimes. Hail Umbra.

Many thanks for the tremendous response to the Parasol launch. I just want to take this opportunity to ask you all to seriously consider doing some writing for us. The CEO’s mission is to try to house a plurality of theoretical  voices and supply publishing to good writing/thinking/art/poetry outside of conventional academia.

We have another issue of Parasol in the pipeline and we want it to be good. We have some contributors but we do need more. The general theme is Wilhelm Reich. This topic seems ripe for a variety of readings (Deleuzian/OOO (as hyperobject?)/Xeno-feminist/accelerationist/pataphysical).  Write something for us and lets make this a true collective of exciting theoretical voices (as opposed to me just wittering on about vectors/pneuma and magick ;-))

You might alternatively want to blog for us. This is also an increasingly more inviting notion as the stats are better all the time, so blogging for us increases your exposure as well as ours. There seem to be so many exciting, independent thinkers that all are formed of this mashup of Anton-Wilson/Land/Accelerationist/Deleuze and Guattari/Heidegger/OOO/Laruelle/Promethian thing. I’m not saying this is an accretion of agreement, but it certainly seems to be a fascinating melting pot.

We have (at least for the time being) money to publish things like Parasol. With more active CEO agents we can accomplish more.

Please consider this invitation to make a flourishing theoretical platform.


Write to us at

This is an attempt to solve the problem I often perceive to occur in OOO in its sloppy ignorance of all the linguistic philosophical progress that was made last century. I think it’s pertinent because the language relation is crucial to understand the alternative realities that lie flickeringly present beside the dominant materialist convictions. Let me say that the notion is under construction so I expect some conceptual difficulties. Nevertheless here at the CEO we are encouraged by the potential exhibited so far.

The term vector is taken from the notion as a host which carries a parasite, the parasites here though are concepts. The vector term can be used in a fairly ordinary solid world compatible philosophy or it is equally applicable to the fluid world magickal one.

  1. Vectors are the phantasy of the myth of the given. Phantasies are agnostic disjunctive options that are not dominant but that will not go away. The notion of pre-interpretive perception is exactly such a thing. It looks cogent and not cogent at the same time. We can somehow easily conceive that we could see things without our having names of them yet when challenged we find that perceptual content is comprehensive conceptually grasped albeit incoherently.
  2. Vectors are regions (vectors do not settle Kantian or otherwise arguments) that have certain natures, certain restraints to them. These restraints enable conceptual attachment (accretion).
  3. E.g. the classic hammer. The ready-to-hand hammer before it has reached further accretive levels (noun/image like present-at-handiness) is still the primary form of attachment to a vector. If you want to say that the people had a concept ‘stone’ then we acknowledge that ‘stone’ too is attached to a vector. Vector regions enable the concept stone via accretive similarity (hardness, coldness, in the earthness), but all the concepts are formed by the Narps or other beings capable of some kind of informational cognition. The set of restraints that enables the vector to facilitate the concept stone, enables the facilitation of hammer (with some further restraints, like shape etc).
  4. There is no talk of vectors as noumenal or in themselves, they are just what allows certain conceptual attachments to make sense. They are not real objects. ‘Real objects’ has a grammar depending on your ontology that is itself facilitated by certain vectors, what kind of thing can have ‘real object’ attached to it? This sends us down a circularity that reminds us of the need for manifestationism (the competing world of ontologies) indeed vectors may be able to part of manifestationist theory as the transcendental condition of what can count as some kind of discreta in a given ontology.
  5. This is worth repeating and may indeed end up as the stumbling block. Vectors are not objects, rather object is a concept attached to a transcendental vector. OOO wants to widen this to non-physical objects, this is a reasonable aim that the vector notion aims to deal with more successfully than ‘object’. Objects in ooo are not carriers for concepts, they are often phrased as simply being something. This is inadequate for their description in relation to other things. A ‘stone’ is not lying next to a ‘hammer’ outside of our perception, unless of course we think of the strong pneuminosity theory in which the hammer accretion is actually attached to the vector, making it in some sense a hammer for anything. There is certainly a complicated picture to paint in relation to the nature of different kinds of objects, we should be wary of simple reductions.
  6. In a sense a vector is not a discreta, as discreta is the basic restraint for ‘object’. Vectors are preconceptual restraints in accessible being that allow concept attachment, either as use or just name (‘this is called Maxwell’, doesn’t tell me what its for, or how it will behave). We might in this respect speak of a vector field as potentially comprised of regions that disclose themselves owing the Narp interaction.
  7. A given ontology wants to say ‘this is an object’. To do this it must cogently be able to say what restraints apply. Object is also a concept. If the grammar of this ontology says that physical discreta are objects, then vector regions for this concept must have e.g. discretion and space taking as features.
  8. The vector can only be detected by its transcendental status. If concepts are autonomous they may attach to each other (pure pneuma) or to umbra (vector regions). Concepts are not just for Narps, animals clearly have some degree of conceptualisation and other pneuminous bundles with processing abilities may also exist. Noun-concepts are just a refined more accretive form of pneuminous relation.
  9. The restraint by the vector makes the accretion of the pneuma possible (the concept formation).
  10. Objects do not ‘withdraw’ because there is no object to withdraw. An object cogently spoke of as such is an object which relies on a vector. The vector does not withdraw, it is just the host for the object concept, it is visible as such.
  11. A concept may inhabit any vector that allows it to do so (meaning as use).
  12. In magick we may attach concepts to vectors that seem to defy the grammar of the restraints of the vector e.g. this piece of paper has the power of healing.
  13. Vectors deny any concept being applicable to them.