I don't really believe in coincidence. I feel like the things you say and do are at some level related to things you have heard at some point in your life. If someone else does or says a similar thing as you, that makes sense. We all come from the same sea creature. All of our brains grew the same way. If the brain naturally gives you ideas and impulses, than I think it is safe to assume that someone else's brain is giving them the same ideas and impulses.
This tho, I thought was at least a happy occurance of thinking about things and then having those things reinforced moments later.
Yesterday I blogged about NYC in a post with lyrics from Across the Universe by the Beatles sprinkled throughout. Right after posting, I was very tired and decided to read before going to bed. I had started re-reading The Invisibles a couple weeks ago. Last night I wanted to read something that I had read before. I recalled re-starting the Invisibles. So I shuffled through the pile (huge) of comics on my nightstand. There was the Invisibles volume 1 with an envelope inside as a bookmark.
The Invisibles volume 1 is of course titled "Say You Want A Revolution." And in a portion I had read 2 weeks ago, King Mob summons up the Psychedelic God / Head - John Lennon. Anyways. The bit I was at last night was a bonus to the happy occurance because in it Tom O'Bedlam has a speach about cities and magic. Here it is:
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When we met first I promised you a secret to keep in your pocket, didn't I? A fine and shiny secret, passed from hand to hand through the years, master to pupil.
Didn't I say I'd tell you what citites are? Listen, then, for I'll not tell it a second time.
Here it is as I was told it once, old but new-minted with each fresh telling. Our world is sick, boy. Very sick. A virus got in a long time ago and we've got so used to its effects, we've forgotten what it was like before we became ill. I'm talking about cities, see?
Human cultures were originally homeostatic; They existed in a self-sustaining equilibrium, with no notions of time and progress, like we've got. Then the city-virus got in. No one's really sure where it came from or who brought it to us, but like all viral organisms, its one directive is to use up all available resources in producing copies of itself.
More and more copies until there's no raw material left and the host body, overwhelmed, can only die. The cities want us to become good builders. Eventually, we'll build rockets and carry the virus to other worlds.
Cities have their own way of talking to you; Catch sight of the reflection of a neon sign and it'll spell out a magic word that summons strange dreams. Have you never seen the word 'IXAT' glowing in the night? That's one of the Holy names.
Or make tape recordings of traffic noise and listen to them at night. You'll hear the voices of the city coming through, telling you things, showing you pictures. Sometimes they'll show you where they came from.
In waking dreams I've seen cemetary planets circling abandoned stars. Like mausoleums, silent and dead, every building a headstone.
That's what cities do... But those of us who know the secret learn ways to unlock the power in cities. We make a pact with them and they give us gifts in return.
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The city has its own gods and spirits; Electric-eyed car gods, funeral gods in the form of underground trains that burrow through the dark like old CROM-CRUACH, Lord Worm himself. And totem Animals too. If you want to be a sorcerer, you'll learn to honor these animals. Rats there are and pigeons. Invisible animals, see? They're overlooked and despised, like we are. Nobody sees their comings and goings.
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And this part about minds:
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Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once: of lust, as OBIDUCT; HOBBIDIDANCE, Prince of Dumbness; MAHU, of Stealing; MODO, of Murder; FLIBBERTIGGIBBET, of Mopping and Mowing. So many giants and deomns and always room for more in poor Tom's head.
Your head's like mine, like all our heads; Big enough to contain every God and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there!
But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play with over and over. The world turns our key and we play the same little tune again and again and we think that tune's all we are.
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Grant Morrison, man. Grant Morrison.
