Hello Out There, all you dreamers, drunkards, and wanna-be zom-beez, Da WWWiz has missed yae! These lonesome moons of hermitage have been devoted to a colossal, three-planed media cut-up of the Obama/McCain campaign, the Kennedy assassination, and Big Brother 9 UK. Nothing else. Not even food. The results: total exhaustion and moral depravity. I’ve never felt better!
Stegasaurus! is an ontologic study of The Maltese Falcon as a revelation and divine mirror of the Matrix Generosa that some would call the holographic matrix. After the model of one James Shelby Downard in his epic King Kill 33, Stegasaurus! is divided into “sets” which reveal a particular aspect of the steganographic code that is the unmanifest message of The Maltese Falcon. The sets are in no order. Instead each set should be treated like a piece of jigsaw puzzle that when complete is a model of the proposed revelation.
The high pretense of the title Stegasaurus! is the bone of some recent digging. What shall we name such an endeavor but the revelation of all that is hidden. Aleister Crowley noted “. . . science is the term that the vulgar use for Magick.” Da WWWiz would say more: Magick and Mystic are terms that the Artist uses when he is picking your pocket. Art is our utmost concern. Art, like reality at large, is and needs must be the product of imagination alone. Is imagination magical? The words seem to mumble it so. Magic. Imagination. But there is a paradox. Words themselves are magical and can not be trusted of their own volition. They must be compared with the compass and the square, measured by wind and water. Tested by fire. A rose by any other name is no darn rose and dat’s da shiznit. Steganography is the Art we descry. Steganalysis is our technique. Drop your socks and grab your . . . aw shucks, you know the rest. Stegasaurus! is going through the roof. Top of the world, Ma!
So it happens we’re in the detective business. Now, when one of us gets killed it’s bad business, bad all around. We’ve got to do something about it. We must stop at nothing. None of us should be surprised at the kettle we’re in. Private investigators, what a laugh. What can we see with empty souls? Nothing but dreams.
And who among you, my fellow seekers, has not become a wizard in the process? The main difference between Marlowe and Merlin is environmental. It started out a simple case of Industrial Espionage, and where are we now? At the heart of Babylon face to face with the man all along behind the paycheck that has been our lifeblood. We gaze into the bottomless abyss. It is only a mirror after all.
The key is the Tarot. Our investigations into The Maltese Falcon prove, once and for all, that the proper attribution of The Fool is Zero. The Fool Falls. Somebody coshed his noggin. The fall en française is le tombe. The Tumbler Falls into the Tomb. Now and ever-deeper into the boob-tube viewing room. Seriously dead. Reality is nothing more than a really good movie—the dreamer and his endless dream. The number Zero (0) is the lens of the projector. The booth is empty.
And what gumshoe doesn’t love a good macguffin? Just what is The Maltese Falcon? Is Rosebud just a sled? What is in the Pulp Fiction briefcase or the trunk of the car in Repo Man? And what about that damned monolith? The answer is available, but you probably won’t like it any more than you would a mickey finn . . .
. . . Nothing.
W. B. Yeats, in his stalwart high-school lit fav “The Second Coming,” describes the process all too well. There is a bird. A dark falcon circling at the very edge of the ages in ravishing spirals of abandon. He is the shadow of a dimensionless imagination that is “the center” of everything. The passing of his image can be seen everywhere. Touched and tasted everywhere. It is the very web of the Smell-o-Vision CineMatrix. The silver wool over our eyes. But where is the bird?
Will the center hold? Can such a fragile dream go on? Will there be a third installment of Harold and Kumar?
Sam Spade knows. Roll me a cigarette, Effie. Our investigation continues.
Our quarry is the stuff that dreams are made of, namely that fugacious falcon of infamy, The Maltese Bippy. The message is right out of Poe: quite literally, everything we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. The stand-up scholar of this riddle is J. G. Frazer, and his massive 17-volume exegesis, The Golden Bough. Here for the benefit of Generation-Starbucks is the short version: reality is the illusion of a triple-faced and seven-fold goddess of many names. Ceres, Diana, The Virgin Mary, The Sacred Whore, Nuit, and the esoterically enduring Isis are but a few. Her supreme or final image is the barrier between this world and the pure, unbounded light of the supernal realm. This is why, after a display of seven daze or seven tones or seven colors, the earthly scales cycle back home. She is Eve, the Tarot of Karma, and as Eve she is the esoteric process of ev-olution.
The problem of ev-olution is death. Death in this sense is the complete annihilation of Material reality. A meditation on the force of unfettered materialism ought to leave the dreamer with the impression of a spinning disc or spool. All that hopes to thrive upon this surface is thrown into the noumenon by centripetal force. In three dimensions this can be visualized as the center surface of a hollow toroid. The effect can also be observed in the butterfly pattern of light seen on a wall behind a shining lamp or candle flame. Esoterically, it is the image of the vulva: a zero-point surrounded by ever-flourishing waves of petals that burn away the moment they feel the sun.
It is exactly because the force of ev-olution is utterly nihilistic that an opposing force is applied to ensure stability. And thus, to the stable the Christ child is born. This is the Cosmic Christ: the force is that of absolute in-volution. This magnetic force is fixed to a cross at the center of the toroid to ensure that all of creation will be enfolded back into itself.
Now it so happens we are talking about making movies, so it might pay to look in on Magus Magesticus Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits’ 1980 LP Making Movies.
Please recall that the goddess in question has three distinct faces. Face One of Making Movies is “Tunnel of Love.” One doesn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out just what one is on to. “Tunnel of Love” is an ode to the theoretical solid cube (box) turning inside-out forever. Ever-loving pussy galore. The lyrics are concerned with some dreamy wisps of a childhood memory. Memory is a ripple of the Hebrew Mem, a word which means water. Mem is also a letter of the Hebrew alpha-bet noted for its box shape. Who knows where the water breaks and what happens when it does so?
Face Two is called “Romeo and Juliet.” The Romeo in question is the human incarnation of the Christ. Knopfler’s “Romeo and Juliet” is the story of the crucifixion. Poor Romy is a little miffed that his one true love, who, it turns out, is his esoteric Mother, will peddle her loins to anyone with the cash. The cycle should be old hat, but Knopfler revitalizes it. Romeo is Osiris and Juliet his sister-bride Isis. His death, which is the death of love, becomes the re-birth of Horus, the cosmic Christ as the immortal hermaphrodite shown on the Tarot Trump called “The World.” A seven-fold nature is shown by the rods in her hands. These are the serpents of Moses, stiffened by her electric touch. The same clue is hidden in the English spelling SEVEN: S-EVE-N shows Eve with a serpent in each hand. Seven is the number of spiritual perfection and so this image inscribes a cross within a circle, which in multi-dimension becomes a kaleidoscopic toroid stabilized by a central and eternal magnetic force.
The preoccupation of this divinely balanced being is the subject of Face Three, the last track on Side A, called “Skateaway.” The abiding residue of “Skateaway” is of a free-flowing dream that never ends. She’s makin’ movies on location, she don’t know what it means. Life without love is life without meaning. Meaning is revealed as the prison of the soul. Ars gratia artis. Making Movies indeed! Alchemist Knopfler seems to have the subtle magic of the Magnetic-Donut World Tarot at his whim, for the A-Side of Making Movies is not only a perfect take on the triple-manifestation giving rise to reality itself, but also a reminder that it is all a dream. No more or less important than a film noir macguffin.
Hear (and see!) Side A of Making Movies:
Da WWWiz luvs Kenneth Anger. He is a beautiful artist. Nevertheless, because he is an honest artist he remains marginal. Until, that is, one fumbles into a copy of his delightful Hollywood Babylon.
Volume One of HB plunders the diary of a certain socialite, name of Mary Astor, star of Huston’s definitive Falcon. Mary and a pal, playwright George Kaufman, stole away from a party one starry night for a walk on the golf course. Later that night—Mary tells us with bliss—George would play his 7 iron right up the fairway.
“. . . George’s body plunging into mine, naked under the stars . . .”
This was no ordinary Mary and Boy-toy. This Mary is a Star. A particular star, in fact. Sirius, the Dog Star. Romulus and Remus were suckled by a Dog. Romulus slew Remus. Eve suckled Cain and Abel. Cain slew Abel. Eve is the Mary Star. Seen as this star, her number is five. Please note that the name of EVE is comprised of the fifth letter of the alphabet and the roman numeral for 5. Five is the esoteric number of evil and degeneration, and this Mary is the perfect femme fatale.
Consider the meticulous best-seller The Quincunx by Charles Palliser: the story of the financial downfall of a widowed mother and her son. His name is John Huffam. We transpose Huff-am to Huff-man. Huff-man. Cough-man. Kauf-man. The gradual insolvency of Huffam, whose Mother-Sister-Wife is Mary the A-Star, can be appreciated as the degeneration of ev-olution. A quincunx is the shape of five points as arranged on a die. This is how the casting of Mary Astor as Miss Wonderly in The Maltese Falcon is revealed as a transmission from the Star Sirius. It also illustrates that although encoded and seemingly corrupted, the message remains extra-virgin. From two-dimensions into three, the quincunx can be extended into a pyramid as seen from the top down. It is up to the viewer to lift eyes toward the horizon. Now the five points thus arranged are the four corners of the silver screen and the center point is at the projector. The picture is clear. No need to worry that the frame is out. This projectionist is bar-none. Just sit back and enjoy the show.
Let us look at the names of our players.
Miss Wonderly . . . On the streets of San Francisco, pre-WWII, Miss Wonderly may as well be Alice Liddell. Would any-one-bee shocked to find that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland begin with a poem that documents a pleasant day three sisters share upon a sacred river? And Lewis Carroll calls his heroines Prima, Secunda, and Tertia, natch! As Carroll relates it, he conjured Alice’s Adventures to amuse the Liddell sisters as they whiled away a summer afternoon at boating. And Bridgid O’Shaugnessy, Miss Wonderly’s real name, is also of a three-fold nature. A quick peek at this link ought to put the fear of God into you.
As Bridgid’s story ends, Sam hopes aloud that they won’t hang his breathless beauty, but we all know that this is exactly her fate. She will be hanged just like a phony star in a penny arcade. This is because, in spite of her monumental and ruthless efforts, she could not possess the Black Bird. She could not because it is ineffable. It is the severed penis of Osiris. Miss Wonderly’s attempt to possess “the dingus” is a direct impression of the ya-ya sisterhood’s historically epic struggle with cosmic penis envy and the continued if codified practice of human sacrifice, particularly the sacrifice of young men.
Which leads to Miss Wonderly’s victims: Miles Archer and Floyd Thursby . . .
Da WWWiz has paired these two for a reason. Can movie lovers detect a hint of something je most definitely ne sais quoi!? There was another archer acquainted with a famous Floyd, no? Fellows also obsessed with a certain black objet d’art? And doesn’t Thursby recall Thursday and therefore, esoterically, the planetary influence of Jupiter, as all you private dicks oughtta know? Yes, that’s it! You’re onto it now. Thursby and Archer are a bridge-players convention for David Bowman and Heywood Floyd. And the Falcon is none other than the Monolith itself. To accept this, the P.I. must apprehend the quincunx/projection model discussed in Set II. As we look back through time as only the cinema and related arts allow, we have a pristine version of a previous message from the Star Sirius—Oracle of the Matrix. The Maltese Falcon is an early draft of Kubrick’s 2001.
A good primer for this idea can be found here. Read it. It’s chock full of vitamin Death.
The main key to these names is hidden in the regalia of Mr. Cairo. He carries a little pistol and scented calling cards. His Swiss passport gives away his Templar legacy. He orally fondles a phallic walking stick. He is homosexual, yes, but not in the post-modern way. Instead it is sexuality bedded in the pederastic sex-magick practiced on the altogether shell-shocked altar boys of age past and hence. These same boys grow from Wilmer the trod upon gunsel into twisted queers like Mr. Cairo (perfect priests), if they are smart enough to survive. If not, then like Wilmer, they take the hard fall.
The term gunsel is a German slang for the passive partner in man-on-man anal sex. Hammett was keen to this, and used the word because he knew that it would escape censorship and remain to be revealed later on. This is especially important in the light of The Maltese Falcon’s big baddy Caspar Gutman. Caspar was one of the Magi that visited the baby Jesus. Gutman is German for Goodman and therefore God-man. The appellation signifies Gutman’s occult role as Grand Poohbah of the Holey Roman Lurch. It is safe to infer that Joel Cairo is Gutman’s stand in for another J.C. that Gutman would just die to straddle. Wilmer is but one of the farm team. Who knows how many others Gutman has corn-holed?
As the proposed diameter to the Fatman’s gentlemen’s club, Bridgid, our Miss Wonderly must stand alone. For just as Gutman and crew sneak-up, fuck you, and then kill you dead, our many-faced heroine gets you tete-à-tete, loves you, and then kills you really, really slowly. Either way you’re pushin’ up daisies.
What remains can only be termed as subjective aesthetics.
A great deal of relevant info regarding the struggle for Paternal/Maternal dominion as it relates to the projection of the 20th century toroid CineMatrix and its lonely projectionist can be found in the lyrics of Jon and Vangelis’s seminal track The Friends of Mr. Cairo. This classic is a veritable grimoire of occult double entendre. (Complete lyrics).
You’ll dig it the most. Trust Da WWWiz.
The Maltese Falcon was made into three successful films. The middle of these mirages was called Satan Met a Lady. There can be little doubt. We are speaking of Eve and the Serpent. The admonition to avoid the Tree of Knowledge came with a warning of Death. Knowledge and Death are One. This explains the elusive connection between death and the act of physical love of which the joyless Freudians love to remind.
Gravity and Death are therefore the same force. Where other than the Book of Genesis do we find an apple, a serpent, a tree, and a warning that we must fall to rise again? Think high school math history and you are Johnny on the Spot. Issac Newt-on. Wizard or Lizard? It’s up to you.
We might call it The Halo Effect. The Halo is the Crown of Christ and Christ alone. The Halo is a model toroid. Because his force is an ex-entropic magnet, Christ is altogether not there in the same way a do-nut hole is not there. How can a hole ever be whole again? This is why the messiah is eternally un-manifest. The occult term of fashion is bornless and captures an image of the force at the center of revelation: that of an egg on the extreme verge of hatching itself. Botanically, and in the usual Biblical simile, the image is of a seed and not of an egg. Nevertheless it is the egg that cracks this noodle, for inside this egg is a chicken that wont come out.
Consider the common schoolboy parlance for cowardice—chicken! This is our Christ. Christ is an ever-bornless coward more than he is anything else because he supplies the standard for the denial of death. The story of Christ the Hero, just beneath the skin, tells of the one persistent nerd who will not accept the Disney hakuna-matata bullshit cycle of life and death and just get laid already! The toroid halo of this dimensionless cosmic egg is the infamous material illusion of our investigation.
Astronomically the described egg is the both the earth’s hollow Moon and the interior surface of the hollow Star Sirius. One may envision the Moon as a 360-degree spherical movie projector and as the divine eye of Jesus Christ Super-Chicken, the lonely projectionist from whose terrible and terrified imagination spring the sum of all experience. Star Sirius provides the projection surface that is the silver screen of lore. The interior surface of the hollow Sirius is in fact the selfsame shape of the interior of an impossibly empty apple skin and is therefore a fat-toroid, or as Da WWWiz calls it: a papal bull. All gravity-based math can now be recalibrated. We are and have always been inside something very small. External phenomena are illusory.
To compliment The Halo Effect we have The David Copper-field. Dickens! is just parson’s parse for a certain unmentionable that Da WWWiz is all to happy to mention: namely, the Devil. The astrological body that bears Old Nick Across the Universe good occulties know to be the mighty Saturn. With this knowledge we can correctly connect the film noir macguffin to the hexagonal shapes appearing at the poles of Saturn.
The pin clicks when we realize that any and every story-line of the Great CineMatrixical Tragicomedy is driven forward by the macguffin. The macguffin is an object that has no meaning but somehow manages to propel the action nonetheless. The same mechanism operates on the level of Biblical and Cosmic reality. The Greatest Story is that of the Bible and its greatest hero is Christ. Because the magnetism of Christ is a repulsive-gravity that stabilizes the kaleidescopic toroid he in essence does not exist. There is no one there. The cross is empty. The empty cross is now the model for supreme heroism. Such heroism, it seems, is impossible, and true accounts of the the torture and murder of Christ cry out it never happened! This is why we may be assured that we die only in Christ. Death = Nothingness. Nothingness is impossible—just try it some time. Christ is the Über of all MacGuffins. The impossible Superman who saves us all over and over again.
My hero—The little boy who wouldn’t love because he liked living better.
When Sam Spade gives Miss Wonderly the cold shoulder he re-enacts the cowardice of Christ to a hangman’s tee. Maybe he loves her, that’s for sure, but love is too dangerous for Sam. Love is deadly and Miss Wonderly is just the last nail in the coffin. Sam has never bought it and never will because it goes against his unfathomable personal ethics. The same equation is given with quadratic precision in the other great macguffin movie: Citizen Kane. Kane will live life on his own terms and nothing could be clearer: such terms do not include mortality. Take it or leave it, but this attitude is fundamental to anyone who wishes to be the hero of their own life.
Our model now unlocks a little mystery of Solar locality.
Take a look at these ancient planetary glyphs for Venus, Saturn and of King David, who is the literal seed of Christ.
a) Venus gives us the circle squared, but the cross/square appears outside the circle to clarify that the inside cross un-manifest. This cross is the dark-winged ravens ravishing shadow. The arc of an invisible diver. It is the force that binds the toroid and it is imaginary. It is imaginary because it is impossible—the impossible force of repulsive magnetism. Please recall that the alchemical pairing for the planetary influence of Venus is Copper. The electromagnetic field is realized with the ubiquitous use of copper. The force described is the passionate union of immortality upon the crucifix. The cross is the death of Christ the circle His endless dream of life.
b) The hexagonal Star in the Star of David seen within the Circle is a 2-D rendering of the Seed of David and is therefore the force that binds the Halo-Toroid. In 3-D it can be imagined as two opposing tetrahedrons circumscribed by a sphere. In glorious 4-D Techno-Sniffle we will see the points of the Star Tetrahedron poke out of the sphere, at once gripping and rotating the fat-toroid.
c) To conflate Hammett’s dark neo-realist Sam Spade and the influence of Saturn: we have Sam’s paternal distrust and simultaneous anti-feminism. Sam has no inheritance but the grave. The Spade makes the Grave. Sam Spade and his world are the theory of a dead man. Saturn, who is at the outmost barrier of reality, is the repose of this everlasting reverie of death and its glyph shows a cross as the shadow of a grave-stone (or vice versa). And yet this grave remains open because here, upon his throne, is the Holy Spirit, who is always awake, eyes wide shut, for the likes of a good movie.
The final piece of our puzzle is The Falcon itself. The Black Bird.
There can now be little doubt that Sam Spade is the Black Bird. Just as he is Kane’s sled Rosebud or or Poe’s Raven or Stan’s now not so mysterious Monolith. Sure, as in each of his dreams, he is death itself, but oh so much more: he is the mystery of death. Unsolvable and Undissolvable and fuck William Butler Yeats . . . the center will hold. It is holding still, you Golden Dawn mo-fo (horsemen pass by).
Recall our first and most marvelous clue: from the oedipal gangster movie White Heat. When Cagney’s tragic mama’s-boy dies atop a sphere of scorching pale Gehenna, crying, without fear, Top of the world, Ma!, he becomes the mighty charismatic wad of binding magnetism that rocks and rolls the Mother Toroid at the hips like negative glue. He is a Stegasaurus, pushing through the roof of Shangri-Lala-land into the horrible new.
Horus is our Black Bird. He who will not love. Sam Spade is his human shadow. Unpossessed. His World is upon us. It is the Age of War and the Death of Love. Just ask Sam. He tell you straight: it is an Age of Freedom. The Age of a dreaming mind in a world where gravity is only a polite suggestion. She better not touch me, thinks Sam. Love must not take the place of Life. The story is only just beginning.
And meanwhile . . . a modern day warrior, today’s Sam Spade, straps on his roller-boogie shoes for a stakeout on Venice Beach. On the heel of each skate is stitched a single black leather spade. The kind of spade you find on a playing card. Slate-black stealth bomber wings stretching out over the night. Rolling, willy-nilly across the widening gyre like an oil slick on a rain puddle. A very private dick.
Toro, toro, taxi. See you tomorrow, my son . . . maybe we’ll catch a flick.