The Black Arts, An Introduction:

An Unmemorable Fancy

I was asked by the editors of Fiat Lux to write a cursory introduction entitled “The Black Arts.” I had never heard of Fiat Lux before, but at the time, this did not concern me.

9. The Hermit

I began to prepare as I do for all my articles, by ritually cleansing myself in the Roman fashion with olive oil and by jumping in my neighbor’s hot tub. I then did forty-two push-ups, put on a new shirt, opened a new ream of paper, put a new ribbon in my musical typewriter and licked my writing toad. No sooner had I sat down to my desk then there was the sound of a million champagne corks popping and the theme from NPR and a sudden icy rush and the ceiling to my chamber vanished, ripped clean off. I could not see in one eye, but it seemed that a swarm of birds that should not be flying fell onto me with blows and I cried out, only to find an answering hand in the firm grip of my old friend, Mon Raban. He was covered in soot and what looked like vacuum lint. Upon closer inspection, the soot appeared to be cheap greasepaint. “Master,” I exclaimed “you are dead.” “You are deluded,” he replied, “these are your imaginings.” With that, he plunged the tip of the quill into his heart and then pressed it into my hand. Together, we began to write.

The next morning, I awoke, somewhat discomforted, with an empty dry cleaning bag, though I was far from my home and my dry cleaners. I carried the hanger, the ticket and the bag home with me. At my desk, I found the first part of my article had been completed. It was not very good. It was vague at the points where it should be most clear and dull at its points of natural interest, becoming downright obscure and sullen at turns, with confused paragraphs that ended abruptly and even contradicted their own topic sentence. This is absolute rubbish, I said and I treated myself to a Lillet.

15. The Devil

Gifted as I am with unusual powers of concentration and productivity, I had rested no longer than three days before I immediately returned to to the article. I had gotten no further than searching the thesaurus for synonyms for “syzygy” when the phone rang. On the other end was a most curious and corporate voice, small, squeaky and raspy as though composed out of a myriad of tiny tongues. It asked:

H e LLO (h e l l o) w e h a v e g o o d n e w s w o u l d y o u l i k e t o l o w e r ( l o w e r) y o u r m o r t g a g e p a y m e n t f o r e v e r (E V E R)?

As I happily owned my good estate ever since the Old Man with that annoying eye of his never returned from the country, this message did not apply to me, and yet my polite interpolation went as though unheard:

w e a r e a u t ho r i z e d t o o f f e r y o u t he o p p or t u n i t y t o r e f i n a n c e y o u r h o m e b e f o r e i n t e re s t s r a t e s r i s e (R I S E) d o n t m i s s o u t o n t h is g o l d e n (G O L D E N) o p p or t u n i t y j us t l i s ten:

o n a m o o n l e s s n i g h t , t hr e e d a y s he n c e, r u b y o u r s elf a l l o v e r w i t h t h i s s al v e t h a t w e s h al l pr o v i d e a n d m o u n t a s t i c k or b r o o m (no lo n g e r t ha n t six f e et or t w o me t e r s) a n d yo u s ha l l b e t r a n s p o r t e d to the s a b b a t w h e r e y o u w i ll d a n c e d a n c e d a n c e a n d n e v e r h a v e t o p a y h i g h i n t e r e s t r a t e s f o r a s l o n g a s y o u o w n y o u r h o m e

-y o u w i l l a l s o f e a s t o n b a b i e s a n d b e m o u n t e d b y t h e g r e a t g o a t

interjected another, even squeakier voice, enthusiastically. I had heard such offers before. I moved to hang up the phone.

w a i t

the first voice returned

w o u l d y o u b e i n t e r e s t e d i n t a k i n g a s h o r t s u r v e y t h at w i l l q u a l i f y yo u t o w i n a f r e e c r u i s e f o r L a m m a s, L a m m a s i n t h e B a ha m a s o r w a i t w a i t

I did not have time for this, so I completed the motion and hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang again:

H e LLO (h e l l o) W e a r e l o o k in g f or y o u r s u p p o r t f o t y o u r lo c a l s t a t e t r o op e r s e a c h y e a r n u m e r o us s t a t e t r o op e r s d i e in t h e l i n e o f d u t y o r i n a c t s o f s in


Again, this was no concern of mine, but I had no sooner foreclosed on that conversation when the phone rang once more, this time

t o no t i f y y o u t h at t h e re i s a re g i s t e re d s e x o f f e n d e r m o v i n g i n t o yo u r n e i g h b or h o o d a s e x o f f e n d e r re i s a re g i s t e re d w i t h t he s t at e an d w e a r e i n f o r m i n g you a n d t h e y a re m o v i n g i n t o yo u r n e i g h b or h o o d and w o u l d y o u l i k e t o m e e t t h e m?

I was now convinced that it was time to unplug the phones, which I promptly did. To my very small surprise, it rang anyway:

h e l l o y o u h a v e w o n a f r e e s u b s c r i p t i o n to t i me

This I actually was interested in, as Time was the oldest of the periodicals, leader of the Titans, castrator of his father Uranus, the sky god, and brother to Life. So I habilled myself as the voices suggested and hiked out to the woods.

When I returned with my complimentary free gift “Time Laughs at Life” I discovered my desk in some disarray, littered with several half finished beers and hand rolled butts, and spotted all over with the mottlings of little foot prints. Someone had also taken the liberty of making a sandwich. Several of the typewriter keys were jammed and it appeared that the ribbon had been ripped and then tied back together. In the roller, badly wrinkled and marked over, and clearly misaligned each of the several times it had been taken out and reinserted into the machine, was the second part of the article. Numerous misspellings and typographic innovations aside, it was clearly of a whole different water than the first. It was worse. It was full of pained constructions and sentiments so equivocal and balanced as to be wholly vacuous. It had unmistakably been written by committee.

12. The Hanged Man

Troubled as I was by such assaults on the salients of my prose, I took myself on a long lonely walk, as I often do, in a writerly way, to the old and decrepit park near my venerable home. There, as my custom, I parked my walking stick by the side of the old well that the Chilsom twins perished in (one suddenly provoked to push the other in, the latter somehow goading the former to jump in after) and pulled out my moleskin to prepare myself to work, as I was wont to do, by charging my intellect and sensibilities by marveling critically and intensely at the natural wonder of my own prose and by exciting my animal spirits with a perusal of a copy of a familiar Egyptian pornographic scroll. My meditations complete, I began to introduce the third part of my article. I had gotten no more than a few scratches in when I began to be distracted by the resonant and liquid murmurs of the well, whose various ploppings and splashes had started up into a low demurring eruption, like an enormous cold throat being cleared. Vexed, I asked “What?” more or less aloud. In response, a sleeping whisper seemed to answer

...Are ...you

And here, I horripilated slightly, for I knew the well was very cold and deep, and the root of its spring had never been identified. I stared in the face of the well and listened:

...Are ...you ...sure

My teeth ground nervously as I strained to make out the words that faded in and out uncomfortably like water trapped in one’s ears.

...Are ...you ... sure ....that ....is

....one sentence ...and not ...two

I replied with a catechism: “The function of a sentence is to express a clear and unified idea composed of one or more related thoughts.”

Something moved upon the face of the unseen surface of the waters.


Are thoughts ...the objects ...for which ...the words ...stand?


“Spirit,” I commanded “this sentence is my topic sentence for my paragraph. There is only one. All other sentences are subordinate to it, to serve to reinforce or elaborate it. To honor it. It provides the unity for all the other sentences in the paragraph.”

And here I heard a deep and pocketed chuckle, that was indeed far away deep in the well, and yet closer than before:

There are five ways known to man to develop a paragraph ...There are twenty-two known to us ...Listen to me, and I will teach them to you ...They are: a priori, from cause to effect, a posteriori, or from effect to cause, a contendo, or compare and contrast...

I fled that place, for I knew that the rhetoric of hell consisted entirely of antitheses and proved all propositions equally false.

13. Death

All my phones rang again. A monstrous purring gargling growl answered, a throat that had been shredded and razored on endless black nights, that spoke like a bad burn, and shrieked like a rape in a rusted freight car. I knew it at once. It was Baal. The lead singer for “Dark Cum”. I had done some research for them for their last album RAPEWORLD. Baal’s voice blew out of the receiver:

HAIL! HAIL! HAIL! DO NOT FORGET TO MAKE DUE OBEISANCE & LEAVE APPROPRIATE SPACE TO HAIL OUR DARK LORD WHO SHALL TRIUMPH OVER THE LIAR JESUS CHRIST WHO WAS NOT CRUCIFIED, BUT SIMON CYRENE & WHO HOLDS NO POWER OVER THE SON OF MORNING NOR HIS ARCHONS OR I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS /THEN I WILL FUCK YOU WITH A FLYSWATTER

There were the appropriate chord changes and fiery licks.

ALSO YOU SHOULD MENTION THAT DARK CUM SUPPORTS RECYCLING BECAUSE IT PLEASES OUR LORD BECAUSE IT DENIES THAT ALL REDEMPTION & REBIRTH MUST COME THROUGH THE NAZARENE. I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS I WILL CHOKE YOUR DOG WITH MY BALLS

“That’s great, Barry. How’s you’re Mom?”


I TOLD HER TO STRIP TO SUCK THE BLOOD AND THE SHIT THE BLOOD AND THE THE SHIT THE BLOOD AND THE SHIT I TOLD HER TO SUCK IT SUCK IT NOW SUCK IT SUCK THE BLOOD AND THE SHIT THE BLOOD AND THE SHIT THE BLOOD AND THE SHIT THE BLOOD AND THE SHIT THE BLOOD S U C K THE SHIT THEN I TOOK HER TO SEE THAT PENGUIN MOVIE

After Barry spoke unholy drums pounded, like automatic rifle fire, or rapid punches to the abdomen. So I supposed that Wayne must be there, too.

2. High Priestess

Frustrated and mystified as to why this article seemed so difficult to write, I went to the abandoned Scotty’s on School Ave, which functions as a sort of Unspeakable Writing Clinic: in the basement (beneath a tarp, next to the “sweet smelling stone” of Rhazes) is an old fortune telling relic left behind from circus days: the Gossip of Thebes. The Gossip of Thebes is easy to use, her openings having been filed over the centuries to accept a variety of coins. American money works especially well, but for some reason the maple leaf of Canadian coins offends her. Interpretation, however, is difficult, for you get a different answer depending on which orifice you put the coin through and there is no small art in knowing which slot to use for what question. The Gossip of Thebes was well-known for saying untimely things, fatal tidings in an unforgettable voice that was all-too familiar; for this reason, it was said, over the years, she lost her voice (or it was silenced) and eventually the Gossip was modified to dispense little printed fortunes on something like paper, that, however, your should never put in your mouth nor touch with your lips. Having made my obeisance to the four directions and the Gossip, I placed a newly minted quarter through her ______ , this one honoring the statehood of of Virginia. The coin fell a surprising distance before registering its arrival; the name of a lost people came unbidden to my lips. An unmistakable scratching sound began inside the box at the base of the figure, as though a rat were trapped inside. Then a shuffling sound, the scratches interrupted by a light intermittent ringing, like the uncoiling of some internal spring mechanism, or the sound of an inkwell scraped by a nib. There was a great deal more shuffling, as though the primary task inside the mechanism was now for something to come to rest, or at the very least get comfortable. Finally, a different kind of scraping announced the issuance of the fortune from a slot below. It came out on a slip much the color and consistency of ancient teabag, with dull dark reddish writing printed on it. It said:

{In the prose of hell there is no single topic sentence. All the other sentences are afflicted with pride, lust and envy and seek continually to rule and organize the other sentences. They rebel, as before.}

Then, as a further inducement, it continued:

{Add another coin in her slot and the sphinx will whisper the nine sacred words in your ear that will give you an erection that can only be satisfied by the end of the world.}


I passed on this, because what is the point of losing your erection at the end of the world?

Further, I knew the Gossip’s true secret (if it indeed, even were the same Sphinx): whatever thing was inside the box and its labours were unimportant, a distraction. The Sphinx spoke in sudden jolts of memory and inexplicable phrases and thoughts that you suddenly came to mind and persisted. In this case, the Sphinx had given me a name that my lips sounded out before I heard it: Crotoan.

When I returned home, I found another part of the article had been written. It dealt, however, exclusively with the history of the Roanoke Colonies and the probable fate of Virginia Dare.

0. The Fool

As the deadline approached, I fell entirely prostrate. I rearranged my outline. The sheets got kicked off the bed. I hid in them. I felt sick. I drank too much. Of everything. As dawn approached the editor rang. I was apologetic. I was abject. I was defensive.

I complained that since undertaking the article, I had been harassed and molested by unclean and unsolicited help and contributions from esoteric and undesirable forces, whose continual contributions, far from illuminating the subject, seemed to obscure and distract from any coherence, with the resulting whole being an unintelligible mass of obscure and degenerate superstitions and superfluous mysticism, completely suppressing anything intelligible lucid in these teachings, let alone a gnosis.

I put down the receiver. On the other end I heard a burning that sounded like laughing or a laughter that sounded like burning.



NUMBER 43, WEEK 31; WORD COUNT TO DATE: 36,371
NEXT BY 25 JANUARY 2006