Rationality, and concrete acknowledgement, is a tool for survival. When we seek the prolific awareness of each studied discipline, be it teleology, ontology, or mathematics, we fall into stereotypical schematics. In the considered bounds of those morbid and most arduous problems, we so often encounter the steadfast issue of abstraction and toiling nuances of each intricated concept. Those very obstacles serve as a lesson in divisions between the various realisms, these being the tangible, the noetic, and the undiscovered. I have frequently read speculations that we are not designed to comprehend contradictory topics to our quotidian survival, such as quantum mechanisms, individual possibilities rather than broad schemas about groups of humans, and certain mathematical concepts. While I prefer the impossible or paradoxical to sensory experiences, there is a certain sospitality to the solid and external which may be shared with our kith. It is anthrocentric to project our noumena as being obcetive realities. We wish to transform our cities, monuments, and selves in a manner which will continue beyond our quietus. If our ideas were impotent, what then would we know from the depths of each inequity and each disaster, without a defense of developing a larger goal?

In those endless surges of the unthinkable, such as in the Minotaur, Teatro Grottesco, or supernatural spectacles, there comes a strife which becomes paramount. How can we control concepts which are so ceaselessly and surfeitingly uncontainable by tools, roads, or words?

I suspect that many persons would lack the mental wherewithal to distinguish between an idea which is based upon a combination of realisms- in example, a supernatural and sempiternally replicating House is constructed upon our knowledge of rooms and moveable objects- and actual entities. However, it is more than accurate to state that the extraterrestrial, angel, or imp have their own form of existence as concepts.

Authority should always be granted and monitored with caution. The application of any such system must be carefull tended, edited, and made exactly transparent or candid for all parties. In order to continue such a system of crude and unfathomable persons who clash and crash into one another, there must come a definite vigilance against abuse and corruption. I have found that this is a fairly generic prescription for the preservation of democracy, but the sentiment remains a befuddling one. It is arduous to prevent corruption by puissance in any system, but the most challenging one is that of intellectuals. These discussions may so swiftly be entangled in clever manipulation, ideological wars, or empowered factions. Even those empowered should be held to equal standards of respect and academia.

The horror of philosophy has been my favorite immersion from time immemorial. I have long hungered to know the depths of all that reaches beyond our mere pieces of insubstantial flesh, gristle, and blooded brains. I am nequient to hold any piece of myself in illusions of anthropomorphism, although I understand that everything which I attempt is saturated in this paradigm. Amidst the possible proclivities to a solution which never fully erumpented from the sheer knowledge of every brazen dreadterror and every coarse fundament of the corpulent words which must create sensibility. In my endeavors to formulate a knowledge of any clear or exacting place beyond the bounds of mere dismality and overwhelming durge which consume my worldly relations, I have surfeited every possible permutation of nacre into my prose. When I pen, I must do so with the precision of exacting verse and formal presentation. I want to create contemplations upon pessimism not merely by dissection in academic style, but by a creeping infusion of both the unheimlich and the melancholic. I must leech forth the hues of auber, dun, and charcoal from the tenebrous fathoms of the brumous Othritch, and so arrive at my own confession.

I must confess.

Here is a sooth which has gathered the ire of all possible conflicts. To be nihilistic is to educe different views of the persistent human belief that there must be a certain evolution of the unknown or the obscene without a pause of any illuminating or evocative notion amidst the dwelling of all unrepentant nuances repellant, amidst the vocallant and vicious attitudes of benighting and profound absence, in the lightless and countless ages of untempered and unmitigated words and dismal reaches of the unfathomed and the miseried conflagrations of the heed and the age of those doubtful inconveiniences of the unrelenting viding now a pure trial of every unseen beleagurance and boring emergence never, not, the creature of each informant sweep, the unrenounced voices becoming as a hatred of whatever was…

The negation of human values and place inspires a prolific terror in each resoundant echo of the undetermined or unplaced loss which must result. In our most clandestine and unrelenting No adynaton may convince me of the rebarbative properties of such a paradigm. Nihilism offers a relief from succorous falsehoods. In the actual evolution of the unthinkable, in the loss of secure knuance and awareness, I may accept this terror. In my dreams, which are free from malneirophrenia, I may know the release from my waking remnants of trauma. In these coalescing awakenings into the formless ache and egregion of the dilapidated day, I am recalled to my own befuddling position.

To posit that a physical, palpable morality exists is to surrender to an alogism of the worst variety and formation. The extension of the unfathomable is a mercy not easily granted to the unwary or the haplessly metastastical. We can only view those few dismal hours with a woe of such unremitting and unbeguiling actuality as to belittle the ultimate sensation of the most brittle anguish and wafting knowledge of something, of some ephemeral distance and destination without a simple answer of any resoundant parison, any actual placement in which the heedless environment of a mystery is never quite upon us. Without the merest knowledge of a form, a direction of navigatory place, and a simple glimpse of destination as made by the eternal need to know a distance from the eventual fathomlessness of our own oblivion. In those invariable runes of crude bewilderment and passing days of infernal damnation made as a hollow within every comfort, we are without the ability to hold a star to the fathomless gulfs of demise which hang always over us.

Thomas Ligotti is such an unfathomable tool for damned dreamers. He steps upon the bounds of all reasonable precipice, and there violates our sacrosanct notions of safehaven and sospital. His The Conspiracy Against the Human Race evokes an awe of the most nabalistic kind, for we must flee his accusations. How few will ever heed one who knows the folly of reproduction? We cannot know anything which is not inherited into our brain. In our own damnation or atrabiliousness, we deceive.

Much of our existence is rooted in antilapsarianism, for we convince ourselves that we are achieving some lofty goal. Our descendents, so we muse, will surely be grateful and jollitous for their opportunity to sculpt the landscape of their inheritance. Those pained echoes of every impassed formation spur the damned, for how may we admit that we are mere, matterless tissue and flesh- a possible supernatural horror- and unable to shape the universe to our wont? In those uneventful passages of greed, of years and decades untouched by any reason, more persons are created by the fools, by the ultimate fury of humanity, and by the delirium of reproductive rationality. When, in those aching spans of sensation brought by the few who recognize the horror, we are mocked ad trampled, we only know it the further. In such abundant grievance and acraisiality, how may we ever reach a summit of salvation? I think that there is no such designation save for our own knowledge of antinatalism. When the prolific tsunami of each unthinkable or untouchable terror becomes as a breathless relic of each eternity amidst the very notions and reasons of the engulfing persistence of life, the nightmare is then palpable.

Fiction such as this generates potent visions of the most vile habitats, for, beyond the human scope, we can interramification and many other incredible occultisms. Such miribalia never allows us to approach too closely the horror, however. We must endure the appalling similarities of every bogey to modalities of human comfort. No genuine Cosmicism may be penned by a human hand, nor may any actual knowledges of the outer limits be had within our phanerons. We may search with such willful need for the perfect pessimism, but bias will always be our foible. In our own ire, in our very knowledge of the perfect prose or ghastly bugbear, we remain a witness to the overwhelming nature of that terrific disillusionment from even the barest escape from anthropomorphic solipsism. The endowment which I would crave from the endless studies of fraught and unwound libraries of the unknown or unnamed proclivities in the future is a profound divergence from the vast torment which has haunted the quodlibetifercatory schisms of philosophy; the extremities of the unthinkable other continue as no other place or time of a sensation bereft of any sensibility.

To study the grotesque unions of any ideal is to arrive at a delusive sensation of mastery upon the subject. When in the failure of the most decisive moment, can we not hold a mere awareness of any progress? We return to the seductive premise of the most parodic jest, this being the normalcy of our lives, and we are at the juncture of the most confused ire and absolute mourning- for we are abjucating and abjuring the Weird. In the actual formations of each untraceable or unmistakable conflict which evolve by the writers of Lovecraft, of Bierce, of Pugmire, and by Padgett, nothing that is genuinely cosmic is generated.

If the merest signal of any actual calamity were to be as revealing orrevelatory as the religious doctrines, would we then all perish in despair? If of an obscene or unshakeable morass of the worst order were to descend, could it verily consume us so completely as to unhinge the layers of the obscene drivel and dryadic phantasies which hang so stoutly in our every impulse to persist, what then would emerge into a highest beacon of a trepidation and a will to see the final pieces of each individual stain which forever must cloy, must rampart the years of the torturous and unbeknownst image which eternally plagues the lurker in the age, the toil, and the relentless line of the unfatigued entity which never arrives at any designation?

I may forever wax upon the blight of the untriumphed voidances which fill us, but then would I hold my own pure gall of all other topics and whills? In all of my bewitched hours of dolor at being, I have never been my own ambassador to the troubles of a tortured mind as in the few reminiscences of trauma which have sprung upon and enfolded me. Is existence so condign? While I cannot know the tracery of the emotives beyond myself, I know that my own revulsion permeates every Planck Length of my phaneron.

As an atheist, I consider the divide between the existence of a deity and its worship to be stark. I do not worship any such entities, real or imagined, and I would study any such being from an artistic and scientific perspective. I have long been avid for knowledge upon the most exotic strains of the multiverse, and I have been perplexed by the Big Bang. In the awe of the awareness which has proceeded my studies, I have craved to exhume more and more information. In every such tormented or reeling knowledge of fallen need, farrow ideals of unrelenting height becoming as a beeling, I have not found the solace of a God.

Some bias emerges from my own hope of lethe in quietus. I cannot imagine the noxious emergence into an eternal suffering which would inevitably consume me in the thrall of an omnipresence which would be my fate. Such a trial of eternity propels my hope for oblivion.

Mythology is a question of who. Many modern persons now accept the impersonal explanations of thunderstorms, of the changing seasons, and of the final days. In numerous cultures, these subjects were more commonly accepted as being manifestations of divine will. These times, in technologically advanced states, are of the enlightenment, and governments fund institutions such as space programs in order to gather empirical evidence. When we turn from the question of who, and conclude that much is caused by a what, then we begin to see a divergence and divestment from anthropocentrism. In the eventual discovery, we are forced to acknowledge the unreal rescarciation between our former inquiries and the notions of our existence, and the rimestock which has given way to empirical data. I do not know how precise are the most widely accepted models of genesis, but, based upon decades of peer reviewal, experimentation, and mathematical proofs, the scientific method offers a minimalistically biased tool for creating models of the universe.

As God is frequently cited as a noumenological being, it is arduous to offer an empirical rebuttle. However, it would be incredibly fallible to open oneself to these hordes of noumena- for any number of non-emperical ideas and concepts to exist- and thus deprive oneself of the observable. Why should we believe in any one noumenon when all are, according to belief by faith, equally plausible or intangible? For myself to function with any degree of rationality, I must make my decisions through deduction and analysis.

In such austere efforts to discover a perfected course for optimal logic, I have found that my bias occludes every conclusion. Therefore, I must venture more analysis and comparison to attain a sound conclusion. In my paradigm, mere faith only opens a series of convoluted pratfalls which are forever at the fore of any imagined obstacle to the world of coherence. While I adore the coalescence of falderolical conflicts and awful forces of the outside, such demesnes hold no place within my own sanctity. My own created universes must be kept to their pages.

Gender is a fascinating topic for the Weird writer because it holds such a challenge or affront to preconceived order. As societal acceptance changes, so too does our inquiry into the foundation of identity. I identify most potently as being an author and an intellectual; gender is not such a paramount consideration. In the exploration of myself, I have found that I am most satisfied when I am immersed within the most nefarious of vistas and wolds. My identity is centered around my need for the Weird. To be respectful of another person’s identity is to acknowledge their autonomous goals and ego. Bodies are not always whole or ideal, but the mind knows itself. It is imperative to construct one’s own incorporation of identity into one’s schematics, and to be deprived of this sovereignity is to be tortured.

I am quite prideful of my eccentricity, and I seek to analyze whatever traditions are offered carefully. When applicable, I seek and create my own modality of conduct. I am cautious never to bow to shame or to widespread stigma; I am secured my own goals and expressions.

My identity as an author is concentric about rituals of writing; in this way, I express my ego and self-actualization. Receiving bodily alterations to align with the ego is equally critical, and is another form of sovereignity. I refuse to be enthralled to another’s image of myself; those whom I befriend must acknowledge my identity in its various components.

The thought of a xenomorphic mind is utterly overwhelming. Anthropomorphism is necessitated for the comfort of the explorer or man of science, and the obstacle lies in creating acceptance of that other. The Weird is so inveigling because it allows an awful glimpse into a nemesarial demesne of everything which is inhuman, and so too does it allow a malign glee of hygge at our own safety beyond the pages. In the unabiding nuance of each furtive glance, of each brief collapse not merely kept by a word, a weight, a relicing pull into the distress of the infernal, we are recalled to our own machinations. We must view ourselves as being elevated and separated from the other organisms; our societies view our consciousness as being sacrosanct and inviolate. To create another intelligent being would be to weaken that holy designation. We see our fears of intelligent computers in countless media; there, they seek to usurp our throne. In that actual contourfeit, are we ourselves not guilty for being machines?

However, computers are not currently infallible in their algorithms. Without a consciousness, they are unable to develop solutions beyond the bounds of preprogrammed instructions. Certain mathematical inputs will return an error; calculators are unable to innovate by using the correct branch of abstract mathematics. It is inevitable that any program which is currently created will contain fault; even the most prodigious human solvers are not infallible.

To create a mind without instinct and affect might have consequences unforeseen. While I know relatively little of neurobiology or of psychology, I am aware that the human mind is a layered construct. Our childhood memories, our keen wounds and triumphs, and our fixations culminate into the adult mind. Our affect and instincts inform our logical conclusions. Therefore, it is necessary to perform careful studies of multiple fields to construct our superior intelligence.

I have savored many paradoxes, and I have passioned an aeipathy for ravens.

If an item or idea shares an absolute trait with its fellows, and without exception, then we can reasonably assume that everything which is lacking in that trait is not of that designation. We may do this by the process of elimination, categorization, and exclusion.

The Raven Paradox is highly conditional, as thre are few objects which share such an absolute similarity. When items are compared, such as Johnny Truants and black ravens, it is natural to seek evidence for the conclusion. When items other than ravens are mentioned, they give evidence in the context of the statement. I am not certain that this oddity should be considered a veritable paradox. In considering the problem, we should remember that abstractions between divers objects are a common construct of our existence. Exclusions are a crucial portion of evaluation. While the problem is counterintuitive, it may seem an oddment only according to our wonted schematics of awareness.

Is time an actual fabric, and not the human abstraction of events and change? I have not found a certain clarity in my studies of physics, but entropy is undoubtedly present. Heat, molecules, atoms, and objects typically become dispersed with forward time. Heat will rarely conglomerate within a body of water by random dispersion; it will be transferred throughout into equilibrium. To reverse time would be to observe teacups reassemble, foodstuff scents retract into their origin, and fallen objects travel upwards. There are definite laws of progression for our cosmos, but how should we define the temporal?

Abstractions are obstreperous to delineate. They are products of information assigned by human schematics, but what do they actually entail beyond our phanerons?

I have often been preoccupied by the fanciful notion of a plane or volume of time. While I think it impossible to comprehend such an abstraction, it provides an abundant fecundity for fiction.

Boltzmann Brains have held a nearly infinite fascination in my studies and writings. As we are able to satisfactorily trace our lineage and our general universal history, I feel it safe to posit that we were not spontaneously generated. To perfectly form such evidence from mere chance would be yet more unfathomable still. As cosmologists can now accurately, to some extent, trace the cosmos’s evolution to only several milliseconds proceeding the Big Bang, thirteen point eight billion years of development could not reasonably be coincidental save for in the most extravagant imagining. Our universe, being less than fourteen billion years of age, has not had sufficient time to develop such miribilia. Based upon Occam’s Razor, it is most reasonable to presume that we are not Boltzmann Brains. A Boltzmann brain such as an entire cosmos is reliant upon so many coincidences and assumptions that such belief would rationally open, and even necessitate, belief in equally absurd others.

I do not know that any satisfactory experiments could be made to detect such a universe. As our Boltzmann Brain is an unfalsifiable axiom, is it not better that we bolster that which can be reasonably proven or discarded? Scientific inquiry requires observation and evidence. Other unfalsifiable claims, such as the existence of a deity, and other noumenon, create the same hazard of illogic.

However, I have relatively little knowledge of the Boltzmann problems, nor what paradoxes they might overcome. Is it possible that, with infinite time, everything can occur? How should we define all possibilities, and according to what laws? While this universe consists of time and space, what of other possible fabrics in which other events might occur, although events seem to necessitate the presence of spacetime? Are there states other than existence and nil? While these questions deviate from Boltzmann speculation, I find it exceedingly difficult to contemplate all possibilities without questioning the nature of possibility or being.

To act with rationality is often to adhere to human preconceptions and instincts. To find nourishment, we must act in a rational manner, rather than engaging in a series of frivolous noises or bravuras, which will not win for us a meal. Those overwhelming propensities for a crude jest serve socially, either to ostracise an enemy or to create a synergy between the exorbitant planes of discomfort which eld friends must traverse. To behave in a rational manner is to acknowledge cause and effect, and to act according to observations. When the eventual conditioning is completed, we know that we could not achieve our goals without making choices in accordance with cause and effect. When the imperfect knowledge which we incorporate into our schemas is revised, we create new models of cause and effect which to follow.

However, much of our reasons for rationalism or nonsense must be analyzed according to our definition of rationality.

After some reflection, I have edited my original enumeration of oddments to expand upon my definitions. In each such unprecedented tidbit, a unique history surrounds the item’s original manifestation, whether it be by deception or misadventure. However, I think it crucial to acknowledge that these collections, as with all grammar, syntax, and definition, can and should be evolved. I have not yet arrived at a satisfactory system for organizing the various encounters with amphigory which litter the various pieces of arcana and lucubration amongst the nonfiction and Weird of history.

To be suspended in complete oblivion is to be prepared for quietus. Death does not completely consume my thoughts, because I know that it will bring a finale to agony, and a countermeasure against eternity. To be suspended in my own lethe is somewhat comforting, because, rationally, I know that I need fear no eternal consciousness. The knowledge that I can there be saved from eternal torment lessens my own horror of the paradox. It is a blessing, or merely beneficial, to accept the lethefold, and to find there nepenthe.

Mannequins and monuments are fortunate, for they are noetically in oblivion. For many persons, however, they appear to pose an insidious animation.

When the abstract or Weird is discussed, I prefer to imagine the subject as being an exotic demesne. Acarytid, while typically referring to a pillar of feminine form, can also imply the uncanny. A being, or location, which emanates from the unimaginable might be populated by temples or architecture of obstreperesque form. The pillar might initially appear Heimlich, or near home, in a humanoid form, and thus ensnare the observer in dread. The uncanny can be found in architecture, in faces, or in stifling room. We might imagine that a carving, in its petrified glare, contemplates nothing, or that it reveals the actual state of humanity as being a mere object. Any of these concepts are routes into the unnameable, and therefore the immersion of dread.

I do not often hear of nothingness spoken of beyond dense thought experiments. Existence is necessarily defined by something, and nothingness is not useful in the economy, in the political, or even within the mathematical. Nothingness might be used to prove innocence, such as in the absence of a crime, but the defender might speak rather upon the defendant’s innocuous activity during that time. If suspension in dread were more delicately attuned, for instance, as found in horror media, then we might see a wider resurgence in media. However, what provides the existential thrill or palsy is the obscurity of the dread. Nothingness is a perceptual disadvantage, and it arguably gives no evolutionary advantage in its reflection.

Nonetheless, absolute null is scintillating when used as an abstract misadventure. Thusly, it bears a broad usage in my profession.

Nothing invites the enervating malediction of cursed or indignant sourness as does nothing else. The formation of the surreal, the nature of the intoxicating or corruptive caryatid which is ever present amidst the swallowing legends of protruding or protesting miscibilities of every and only philosophical conundrum, and the terrorscapes which contemplations of lethe evoke are as ceaselessly intoxicating as no joyful escapism. The nameless egresion of Nothing, of the haunted pitch which emanates from every absolute moore of some noetic wold, carries so excruciatingly the varied notions of indeterminate clash which must forever consume the wanderer after the formal invigoration of every clashing fugue, delirium, and offal of the waking world. Those awful nuances of pitiful clash- the moment wherein we might gesticulate and howl for the grief of every confounding draw and clash suffocates.

Nothing can better inspire the pessimist or nihilist than the representation of the unknowable. I found a childhood gambit in travelling to the edges of what I could find in the concept of an afterlife. I attempted to imagine myself in an eternity, day following day, and found myself stymied by an illimited Cosmicism. I was suborned by a need to investigate that which could only be semiotically understood, much as the search for the noumenonic God has possessed some. However, nothingness does not necessarily invite theological reconciliations. Such concepts are not benevolent for humanity, nor do they hold a prodigious unholiness. The infinite and absent are dreadful because they refute everything which comforts us. I never found comfort in the ideal of a deity.

I have always adored the bewilderment of Absence. The panic of absolute and utter contradiction is delightfully unbearable. Poetically, we could easily speculate that the paradox of nothingness, when it is brought into the object of consideration, is so disturbing because it cannot directly be accessed. We might only seek a brief envisioning of that nonsense before the unheimlich devours the notion of each unbearable thought. To think upon infinity or an infinitesimal evokes the bitter barrier of the imagination, and so drowns me in thrall of my intellectual limitations. The human mind is a flawed machine, and so, we are thence reminded of our banality. We are not exquisite, or elevated above other organisms and objects.

Nothingness is a horror which defies all of our attempts to rationalize, and we there are stripped of our psychological defenses. Thomas Ligotti superbly analyzes the human machine in his The Conspiracy Against the Human Race.

The paralysis of the paradox is my favorite vertigo. I am able to compartmentalize it by pretensions to fiction, but I am, if only dissociatively, able to understand the deception. Nothing, nihil, and the other lingual representations of it is so robust because it cannot be transmuted into our paltry language. It is there only a silly exercise.

I invent words in order to better comprehend my consciousness and phaneron. Doing so bequeaths unto me a sensation of puissance. However, the most excruciating blow is the knowledge that this is merely a defensive method against dread. I think that I shall someday be paralyzed or maddened by the surrender of these notions, when I am no longer able to maintain my rituals, when I am no longer able to convince myself that my trials and traumas have made a contribution to sensible development and growth, and when quietus nears. The extension of every breath, inhalation, or thought only prolongs the inevitable. To be suspended in dread is to be ululated in a lifetime of demurring by felicitous illusions, and thenceforth, delusions. The notion that I will die must be suspended amidst the background of vacuous horrors, which I may temporarily ignore.

I am A.R. LaBaere.

I am an author whose main fascination lies within pessimistic nihilism and Cosmicism. Additionally, I am childfree. As I suffer from severe post-traumatic stress disorder, I seek to elucidate my horrors through fabrication into fiction.

Beyond and within the demesne of the literary, I adore intellectual giftedness. I prefer Machiavellianism as my method of conduct, and I make few moral scruples. Puissance and intelligence are my zenethic goals, and I put aside interpersonal interactions in my hajj.

I am quite proud of my first publication, Rene Descartes Does Not Exist. Fiction has offered to me both possibilities unjudged by historical accuracy, and a distortion of actual events. I immerse myself as fully in the surreal as I may, for realism and the actual holds ennui.

My literary influences include H.P. Lovecraft, Thomas Ligotti, Mark Z. Danielewski, and Jon Padgett. I keep a sacrosanct library idolatrized to the aforementioned authors, as well as to the finest horror fiction and nonfiction available. My library also houses The Oxford Guide to Philosophy, from whose pages I hope to gain a wider overview of positions.

I dedicate my efforts to the cultivation of every paracosm within reach, every possible reading, and every improvement of fluid intelligence. I practice The Method of Loci in order to arrange ideas, improve my working memory, and to cultivate a noetic phrontistery. The evolution of ’Pataphysics, as well as anti-consciousness and anti-logic, compose a good portion of my pieces and lucubration. I am also heavily invested into theoretical physics and abstract mathematics.

In the completion of The Abyss Laughs, I have discovered and cultivated an increased vocabulary, working memory, and recall. I am pleased to have grown increasingly aware of the English language, in its selection of phrases long desuete, literary phrases, and verbiage freshly coined. I hope to expand my array of proses into a separate dialect, or stylization, of literary allusions and wordplay.

My current philosophical aims include the refinement, and erudition, of ’Pataphysics, antilogic, antinatalism, and nihilistic pessimism. The works of Thomas Ligotti have been awing for my pessimistic studies. In particularity, The Conspiracy Against the Human Race has introduced me to an exemplary structuring of pessimistic concepts, as well as to pessimists such as E.M. Cioran and Georges Bataille.

As I have not yet mastered the precise definitions and variations of mode, I wish to gain a broader overview of metaphysics, epistemology, and ontology. Nothingness, paradoxes, and the unheimlichness of the human condition are key areas of obsession. I seek to combine absurdist fiction with new varieties of philosophy. I am not certain of the applications of fictional philosophies to existence, but I much prefer magical absurdity which is only sometimes bound by an arbitrary mode of laws.

I am quite eager to meet other vedists, and I wish to invite any willing parties to begin a correspondence.

House of Leaves serves not merely as a simple tale or intrigue, but as a profound closure between the layers of metafiction, characterization, and the individual. The cast remain as stolidly indistinguishable as any Pynchonesque or Nabokovian exploit. The entirety of each episodic dreamlogic, the nature of every grim person, face, or entity becoming as a collapsing wind of time made a feature, distortion, and heedless plunge of every indescribable wailing kept by the pages of unformed strength only serves to cycle. Those times, places, and undivided notions of all and unlevelled other are becoming a clash, a verdant perfection, upon which every moment of unseen and uncultivated theses might bloom into raconteurs of paper persons. Danielewski invites us to question, and even fantodingly interrogate, our preconceptions about the origins of storytelling, our own notions of every possible event as a history, and our appreciation for the mythical entourage of every culture. Those diffident evolutions of unthought, of drastic and absolute transmogrifications upon all and every unheard failure of the loss, the land, and the infernal crawl of each livid essence becoming clandestine.

Magical realism is an abundantly profound tool for its application in the various spaces of unseen threads, hints, and collections of defunct passage. Hallways, the grand steps of the House, and the untrodden potentialities of the pages. Every possible conglomeration of might, of unseekable ipseity by the very notions of evolved place, conglomeration, and vague opponency of choice, is brought into chaos. The panic, the entropy, and the melisma of the halls can be interpreted in any modality. Those zenithal sounds, halls, Holloways, and insensate beacons of crude want have become as lavalieres, where words, fascinations, obsessions, and bleak terrorscapes may guide the reader into any thicket of verbvepricosities.

There is, in House of Leaves, a fathomless and boring instinct to the core of every escapism. We may eventually discover the complexities of each diverse formation and ultimate dissolution of the unknown through our own homes, which might reflect to us another façade entirely other than our own. The House, too is surely connected by a mesentery of mythomaniacal outlets, wherein shamen, wise magicasters, paracosmicists, and oneirophrenics have envisioned, and interpreted, it.

The Similars, being a motion picture of the uncanny, features a primal distortion of the countenance. The primal form of every unremarkable feature, the facial transformations, and the fundamental fear of conformity or abstrusity is epipresent. Those inherent conglomerations of miraculous foundation, wherein one countenance may become another, are, however, attributed to the machinations of extraterrestrial entities. The entirety of all possible or fanciful countenances are contained here, as the Mexican bus station becomes a harbor of intrinsic collapse, inherent dissociation, and inherent vice. Those convoluted entities of characters, dull terminal scenery, the paranoia, the grim nuance of the hopeless and the trodden, and the eventual revelation of the unthinkable alien are here in full frampold. Each such placement of fright, each rampart of unthinkable clamor, and each desperate character is vivid in its dissociation.

The Similars explores the horror vacui of conformity and the abberant confusion of a society amidst anonymity. The nature of such dastardly disparities between students, the faculty, and the government become apparent through the tensions at the station. The disease carries a mutation of the countenance into the apparent guise of Ulises, a character possibly named for James Joyce. Throughout the journey, which ensues not in an omnibus, taxi, or city, but within a claustrophobic paracosm, we witness a warping of cultures, of politics, and of humanities.
Ulises, we learn, is the first of the group to have transformed. At another time, he was an ordinary countenance, but, because of the extraterrestrial influence, he cannot recognize the transformation. His eventual dearth brings a moment of revelation.

Both House of Leaves and The Similars display a paranoaic escapade found within the confines of the ostensibly domestic. The frightening transition from melancholic hiraeths of the quotidian into absolute and arrant pandemonium is an unending void, a rictus of horror within the bed, within the very fabrics of the unseen, within the voidances of every crude unreality and misstep. The extraterrestrial beings, in their Cosmicism, wish to make humans identical, and therefore otiose to the deistic viewer. Identity and the home are stripped of their reason, and replaced by catechetic calamity. The cacoethes which drive both the Navidson-Greens and the Mexican cast are driven by an insane perplexity at the order of homes, relationships, and features which reassure the traditional familial unit. Ignacio is no placid boy, and neither is the House a mere hearth for the hunter and entourage. In the House, shifting walls symbolize the dissolution of a marriage, of the nuclear family, and of the self. These themes are echoed throughout The Similars, and that profundity of the House. A House which emerges in similarities and in pareidolia is a fundamental mimicry, for, even as the walls shift and sieve, it is not easily distinguishable from the confines of the wonted home.

The Navidson Record illustrates to us the deepest agonies of a life in which supellectile places, people, and ambitions are caught within concentric nightterrorscapes of the unthinkable and the irrational. Every possible outcome, every impossible failure of nuanced room, vice, and countenance are relegated to the ordinary familial home or to the washroom of a degenerate omnibus station. Every portion of the unknown is as a shattering blow to the tastes of the vagrant, for whoever loses a facade, whoever is lost within a hall, loses their place in the hearth and the home.

The Similars revolves about a xenomorphic presence, or egregore, which, as the House was constructed by and for unknown purposes, so too alter the image of man for unknown reasons. The philosophy of pessimistic nihilism is one which encompasses, and confounds, all aspects of existence. House of Leaves is a book within a book, and so nested into the folds of every recursive narrative. Every frightened tumult, clash of nonsensical amphigory, and the mutation of ostensible literature only recurses the further into semioticism.

I am A.R. LaBaere.

I am an author whose main fascination lies within pessimistic nihilism and Cosmicism. Additionally, I am childfree. As I suffer from severe post-traumatic stress disorder, I seek to elucidate my horrors through fabrication into fiction.

Beyond and within the demesne of the literary, I adore intellectual giftedness. I prefer Machiavellianism as my method of conduct, and I make few moral scruples. Puissance and intelligence are my zenethic goals, and I put aside interpersonal interactions in my hajj.

I am quite proud of my first publication, Rene Descartes Does Not Exist. Fiction has offered to me both possibilities unjudged by historical accuracy, and a distortion of actual events. I immerse myself as fully in the surreal as I may, for realism and the actual holds ennui.

My literary influences include H.P. Lovecraft, Thomas Ligotti, Mark Z. Danielewski, and Jon Padgett. I keep a sacrosanct library idolatrized to the aforementioned authors, as well as to the finest horror fiction and nonfiction available. My library also houses The Oxford Guide to Philosophy, from whose pages I hope to gain a wider overview of positions.

I dedicate my efforts to the cultivation of every paracosm within reach, every possible reading, and every improvement of fluid intelligence. I practice The Method of Loci in order to arrange ideas, improve my working memory, and to cultivate a noetic phrontistery. The evolution of ’Pataphysics, as well as anti-consciousness and anti-logic, compose a good portion of my pieces and lucubration. I am also heavily invested into theoretical physics and abstract mathematics.

In the completion of The Abyss Laughs, I have discovered and cultivated an increased vocabulary, working memory, and recall. I am pleased to have grown increasingly aware of the English language, in its selection of phrases long desuete, literary phrases, and verbiage freshly coined. I hope to expand my array of proses into a separate dialect, or stylization, of literary allusions and wordplay.

My current philosophical aims include the refinement, and erudition, of ’Pataphysics, antilogic, antinatalism, and nihilistic pessimism. The works of Thomas Ligotti have been awing for my pessimistic studies. In particularity, The Conspiracy Against the Human Race has introduced me to an exemplary structuring of pessimistic concepts, as well as to pessimists such as E.M. Cioran and Georges Bataille.

As I have not yet mastered the precise definitions and variations of mode, I wish to gain a broader overview of metaphysics, epistemology, and ontology. Nothingness, paradoxes, and the unheimlichness of the human condition are key areas of obsession. I seek to combine absurdist fiction with new varieties of philosophy. I am not certain of the applications of fictional philosophies to existence, but I much prefer magical absurdity which is only sometimes bound by an arbitrary mode of laws.

I am quite eager to meet other vedists, and I wish to invite any willing parties to begin a correspondence.