PROPHECY, METAMORPHOSIS, MACRO-ORGANISM, AND MAMMON.

The hero and his sage discover truth in the wilderness.

Kinship can be recovered only by modern prophets who respect ordinary people, who will nurture, rather than exploit, their hopes and faith; by humble prophets who will dare proclaim, “The prophethood of all believers.”

John A. Buehrens, The Known and Unknown, A CHOSEN FAITH

I. PROPHECY DECODES FAMILY’S SNARLED MYTHOS AS ITS PRINCIPLE GROUND, AND DOES SO IN TRYING TO RISE ABOVE IT.

“YOU’RE A WASTE, BRAN.” MY FATHER’S MALEDICTION ECHOES today from the distant past⁠1, as a stain over all that I have become and accomplished. It is a branded “W” scalded into my flesh, not a reflection of the truth of my person so much as a curse he laid upon me. It infests the flesh and withers the spirit and soul and their manifest doings in this body moving through this world to this day.

The truth is I had become unavoidably my Self by the apogee of my high school career, which meant the greatest affront possible: I had not become: him, as he supposed, as he required. It was by that measure alone he deemed me a waste — of his parenting efforts to mold me into his clone, and of the semen with which he cast me on that journey and inflicted me with that destiny: to ignore my own in service to his.

To be clear: neither his semen nor his destiny had I asked for when I asked to be made man by God the Father.

What’s strange about the man, my father, H. Edward Heckman, is that the curse alone was insufficient malice. He’s spent my adulthood enacting scheme after scheme to violate my autonomy, rob me of my money, hamstring my mobility, abuse the core of my psyche such that I am too frequently disabled by him, and had at last driven me to suicide by August 2019. Ed Heckman is nothing if not Machiavellian; our family drama is equally Shakespearean, for better and for worse.

At every turn, he has not been content to let the curse — “You’re a waste, Bran” — stand, but has chosen with bloody conviction to advance one malicious campaign of revenge and abuse after another to advance said-curse’s course in my flesh and mind.

The text of his curse — “You’re a waste, Bran” — conveyed the final execution⁠2 of my purpose; despite surviving, perhaps because I was such a waste I couldn’t succeed with even suicide⁠3, he deemed me unworthy of his brutal love at last, and released us both from its wicked malice and stain, freeing me to pursue healing as still greater wickedness and malice, which I had been purposed to stave off and stop, rose ascendent in the world — guaranteed by my father’s wickedness directed at and successfully ruining this prophet that they would ultimately be victorious in their unstoppable schemes.

(Not that I am bitter about that⁠4; merely that I am trying to understand and evolve, if I can, to meet the challenge of the times, which have beat us to crucial and rapid evolutions.)

I would not wish the prophet’s journey on anyone, not even an enemy. Neither path is wholesomely received, least of all when they intersect each other, and least of even that when you’re born into a family so deeply afflicted by the perils of the narcissistic paradigm that they confuse wickedness for good and as such are afflicted by truth’s light with jealous hatred and a willfully blinded turning-away-from its source that is their beginning of a very real and very active campaign against that the light, and its purpose⁠5 — a wretched covering up and attempt to blunt and snuff out its source, just shy of: murder. My father never murdered me outright, although I have no doubt he’s explored the topic on more than one occasion, and that, were he free to murder me unencumbered by criminal prosecution, he would’ve long ago, perhaps that very summer he assured me I was a waste, and spared us all my controversies. All this because they suppose that I am a black sheep who rejects his family’s spirit, whose lust is for the material trappings of Mammon, which they celebrate above all else. My truth is more complex than that.

The first is that they will not acknowledge the divinity orchestrating me because they are jealous they also were not so touched. The second is that our family’s parents each bare three or four separate marriages on their shoulders — which family model and culture am I supposed to inherit and be loyal to, exactly? Which period of time? Which composition of siblings? And under which biological parent? The answer, at least according to my siblings in their order and design, is: their own. But my biological brother and butthole, Timothy, and I agree that we never assert the values of our mother, Robin, and our father, Ed, when they were so united. For Timothy, Ed’s regency is solidified and insolvent after mother divorced him — and it was from that point and vantage that my brother enacted a shrewdly fought war against me, with my father’s preference the prize he ultimately sought. I hold no loyalty to anyone family composition, but my mother remains my best friend.

In prophecy, I’ve learned, our vision’s roots find themselves first not with God but in the family God chose for us to be born in, to hatch from, and open into during the earliest waves of maturation. Each of these gestures and habits are in turn symbols. Each molecule producing the illusion of our flesh is one letter in a winding chemical alphabet whose phenomenal writhing resolves as divine writing in the act of writing and praying: you. And that, too, is symbol, as are the records of its every passage through the world, a whorled and tangled Gordian Knot of Self, the mechanism of how we cling to the world and the world clings to us. With desperate, knowing love. The whole of you generates symbols consciously and not. These are the solution in hieroglyphic Ralph Waldo Emerson extolls in Nature, below:

Every man's condition is a solution in hieroglyphic to those inquiries he would put. He acts it as life, before he apprehends it as truth. In like manner, nature is already, in its forms and tendencies, describing its own design. Let us interrogate the great apparition, that shines so peacefully around us. Let us inquire, to what end is nature⁠6?

And to my mind and experience, he is right: life is enacted in hieroglyphic, and the task of the prophet is to unravel and so unveil God’s messages encoded in and on him and draped across his life — and to open himself as conduit to still more, exogenous in their manifestation rather than ingressive or endogenous — by mastering those lessons, for good and for ill, that God sees fit to inflict upon and gift him through the entire sweep of that lived experience.

As I have fought to understand the purpose of my prophecies, visions, and their divine speech, I have realized that untangling and unfurling the injustices of bleak parentage and black sibling rivalries serve equal utility as my own adult revelations in understanding the course of my morals and their pertinence to unraveling and broadcasting the truths God would so impart upon the unspooling world through me.

Stymyingly, this world is well-beyond the blessings of prophecy, yet I strive to realize those blessings-for-the-world in glorification of God’s Will nevertheless. For we are lost unto ourselves and each other, given over entirely to Mammon, body, soul, and iPhone, entirely distasteful of salvation and its works, and despairing of God as vulgar and primitive, shameful and embarrassing, failing all the while to recognize that in our willingness to be duped by shiny-shiny we reveal ourselves to be persistent adolescent primitive trash recycling itself endlessly on a cheap evolutionary trajectory we mask for excellence because we can’t stand the idea that we love being bullies of one another as much as we do. All things: subsumed in denial⁠7. All for the benefit of Mammon.

You can suppose which end of that spectrum my father and brother stubbornly cling to and reside on.

Ed: [Sneering, there’s no right answer to this question] Hey Bran, how do you know if a girl really likes you?

Bran: [To himself] Rape. You’re pressuring me to rape girls.

Tim: [Blurting, ejaculating, laughing like a dullard, excited to prove his manhood by knowing Ed’s right answer] Stick your hand down her pants, right dad?

Ed: [Proud of his loyal little ejaculate] That’s right, son! See, Bran? Tim knows!

What, then, is the purpose of a sabotaged prophet? What use does he have, and has he had, in the world, when his father has realized his curse and made a waste of him, forever and always, which was ever his father’s telos, the apotheosis for said-telos is at last in the fullness of its fulfillment?

And where is or when is divine justice in that?

And what does the prophet make of himself, as prophecy continues to swell unabated from within him? Even though such prophesies are twisted by the echoing annals of his father’s abuses, amplified later by an equally abusive and jealous spouse in an ill-advised marriage that carried on for far, far too long, longer than it should, he still strives to birth them. Is that an intellectual or instinctual or intuitional pursuit, and to what degrees of each do they mix, if they inevitably are? And does that resolve greater insight, can its insights be used to infer behaviors with reliably better outcomes for all parties? And what then of the prophet, ruined on the sidelines by common man and governing agent — and celebrity  — alike.

This is one pathway into deletion or erasure of Self, enacted by one’s loved ones as a kind malicious sum total of refusals of love and reason, simultaneously inflicted with no accountability and countenanced by undeserved cowardice. This is a condition of affliction I am only now, eight years after the last betrayal, finding welcome back into a peopled world. Reassuringly, it is hard for me to trust their enthusiasm. Letting go, as you might imagine, is an affliction this prophet has yet to have been released from. No archer has peppered my body with his poison arrows while I explode into final ecstasy for having been realized, unavoidably and incontrovertibly, a prophet. But I’ve been slain by slings and arrows from those who’ve loved me most, and me the same, maybe wrongly, more or less.

How does the prophet faithfully manifest God’s hand and speech in the world to prove both as transformative-true, and lift us all above this annihilation that evil has seen fit to outcompete the good with, and lay dawn upon us as we flourish in these final days of Mammon, flames and tarry oils cast poisonously out into the world behind us as we chase one flickering display after another into a yawning chasm of hell?

II. THE METAMORPHOSIS AND TRIALS OF THE PROPHET.

Is the world ever ready to listen to the prophet’s message, to be moved by his divine words, not to be transformed by them, but to guide them in their own deliberate transformations of themselves, that they might draw nearer to God and know His justice in their metamorphoses’ journeys? This is the benefit of prophecy: catalysis enacted by the Self, guided by God, as opposed to God himself levering those transformations in alignment of some unrealized fulcrum within ourselves upon which he could shift our hearts ever toward his mindless obedience. As opposed to our doings — which, as behaviors — are the principal exchange token of relational Greater Being, and so which are God’s target for transformation of the collective into a new and sustaining whole.

Transformation forced upon the Self by God invalidates free will, and renders us all and ever slaves to His Will, which negates the precious value of all things before His watchful eyes, and diminishes their symphonies to His ears, while guaranteeing rebellion after the image of His identity either fades in its endurance or grows so accustomed to habit that there is much it overlooks as a matter of course.

You exist because God has a far-seeing plan, and you are part of it. Only constituents necessitated by the plan exist in the story, a tightly woven, expertly told thing.

You exist so that you might astonish God — in your beauty, in your horror, in your glory, and in your failures.

You exist so that you might transport God… into you, and so be wholly known and enlivened by Him, not merely in identity, but in the sensory symphonies throughout our daily motions in our briefly lived, acutely experienced human bodies.

You exist because you and your history are among God’s most cherished. You exist because God loves you, which should be enough for all of us. But in our righteous near-sighted narcissisms, it isn’t for some of us.

Our rising and falling tides are known by God, but not in this one iteration that carries Him and us both in the moment we know to be now. To know God’s Will is to manifest that Will in our persons’ characters and deeds, and so God becomes the composer, the librettist, and the conductor in the orchestras in which we are the instruments and their players. And in understanding that you are instrument, do not diminish your value before God: for our bodies are instruments that mark and play the world, precisely as God divined, which is to divide us from one another while also collecting us into glorious wholes, so that he might know us distinctly as well as in concert.

The prophet’s message is fundamentally catalytic, and moves us into a new paradigm wholly; however, history shows us, time and again, that each prophet’s message offers an increment of that paradigmatic transformation, always in part, never in whole. The whole cannot be known as the result of it a calculus; it must be known in its experience, one leg of the journey after the next, in accordance with His designs for us.

In college, spellbound by these truths and their progressions through recent history, I found myself curious as to why the prophets didn’t try to move their needles entirely in the direction of each paradigm’s total fulfillment on this earth. Why move the needle in part, incrementally, when we might all be spared the anguish of what comes between if we take it to the opposite shore of its resolution? Why hop across the River Styx when we can pay the ferryman his toll, or, even better, build a glider and cross it without the infernal perils of the Ferryman’s passage? Provided God’s Plan for us is to cross that river, and not another. Regardless, one thing is clear: Philosophers and prophets carry us one step at a step through the chains of paradigms that define us as a people; in my adolescent impatience, like Icarus, I saw a window of opportunity: that we should make the full crossing, skipping the steps, not realizing the wisdom in the design of incrementality. Nevertheless, my ambition was admirable. And instructive.

It would be ideal to fully catalyze the species with one hard transformation which simultaneously penetrates all areas of life for us collectively and singly and delivers us to a new paradigm, a new world, a new epoch, and, ultimately, to a newly redefined experience of our very humanness: a true , sudden, and complete metamorphosis. On paper, and in common conceptualization, this would seem to be the most desirable outcome, at least to my 19-year-old brain in 1994. However, most of us do not have firsthand knowledge of the sacrament of metamorphosis, of its trials, of its savage seeming-endlessness, and of — utmost — its sheering pains whose unfamiliar contours are shocking to most, let alone unendurable by the too much hurt caught in between the shores of Being the philosopher-prophet asks us to make the crossing and be into and unto.

To contemplate the metamorphosis we invite upon ourselves in advance of such a sweeping transformation in which all the prophets’ blessings are fulfilled in simultaneity, we are best to take as an example the metamorphosis of the chrysalis — its digestion of the caterpillar in service to the butterfly’s remarkable birth and flight, truly a resurrection of Self in which the caterpillar dies in its digestion, over and over again, unto and into itself, knowing only pain without end, until at last, the breakthrough moment, its stone is rolled back, delivers it still-forming, still-steaming from the chrysalis, at which instance, after the hatching, the hatchling unfolds from the slime of afterbirth and becomes unto itself: the butterfly. We must contemplate the endless torment of the chrysalis, adjusted to human temporal scales, to understand why it is, precisely, that most people would fall short of the mark in sustaining themselves through the rigors and pains of such metamorphic self-digestion in pursuit of an angelic aftermath. Truth? Most of us are not secretly angels waiting to be reborn. Most of us are merely people, and not even most of us are people of God, would that I wish the opposite were true. Truth? You never know how long your metamorphosis will digest you, over and over again, in pursuit of refining your sullied spirit to its angelic essence. What we can be certain of is that (a) it is a journey we face alone, and (b) that journey, as an emblem of Nature, can only be completed in its own time, not when we might suppose nor require.⁠8 But for the so-called, it is also true: only faith in God’s designs sustains the caterpillar through its endless digestions that it can only pray leads to an angelic outcome, for those chosen to emblematize it. Not all answer such calls. And not all can survive such contortions in service to personal angelic evolutions. Most will back out, and never attempt the journey again. For fear of the pain. And in shadow of their shame for having failed.

Another difficulty in advancing such metamorphoses on the public is reception. Put simply, attempting to persuade a few apostles into a new paradigm is one kind of burden and challenge — but it can be done, and done to lasting effect.

Affecting the larger populace similarly is nearly impossible, because each constituent plugs into the dominator paradigm across a unique mix of reward conduits and aversion beacons, and because each constituent’s attention span and focus necessarily shift relative to stimulus, reward, and the dulling that results from normalizations to such. Saving the world and herding cats have much in common, until iPhone enters the mix, at which point, all is lost to Mammon, and we are gleefully unbidden, flagrantly beyond salvation.

As uniquely expressed as our characters are in their natures, so, too, are the mechanisms and connections we make to the paradigm and its culture, manifest in congruence with each other such that we resolve a common reality, which the urgent-emergent new paradigm of the prophets seek to enact.

Further complicating matters is the inevitable truth that no matter what the prophet supposes the final outcome of the prophesied reality, the net sum of his efforts mapped across an undulating and unpredictably moving populace amplified by ever-advancing changes to their milieu guarantees little resemblance between what is supposed and sold, and what matters ends up actualized to be, at least so far as superficial realities themselves are realized.

The actual subjective contours of the circumstance may, indeed, deliver as promised. But the lack of congruence with the dominator reality and with the outcome reality, at least superficially, as it is enacted into place discourages constituents from steady and enduring adaptation. Wandering from the form, as well as outright rebellion to its ascent, ends up terminally disrupting the rise of the prophets’ fullest aims across the entirety of mankind and his dominion⁠9 over this earth. What happens to prophets, then, is strange: you are sanitized from collective play, too much of a corrosive ontologic threat to be allow to continue with validation and overall reception — your autonomy is denied and your personhood is forgotten. The human macro-organism inoculates itself against you, and there is no turning back from a severing that severe.

It is likely for these reasons that embracing incremental changes over a period of centuries offers surer guarantee of lasting transformation, barring such advents as currency, commodity, and the Mammon they engender upon us that might lead us even further astray.

Further difficulty in advancing new paradigms on divine tracks can be found in the rich tapestry of pluralist religious and theosophical experiences, further complicated by the narcissistic leanings of those individuals and parties of individuals who presume parity to those religious theologies’ ecstasies and truths accomplished via euphoric and hallucinogenic drugs. Zealots, of particular note, see themselves as competitors to prophets, and do not weather their contributions as anything other than threats to their cherished ideals of what is holy, ecstatic, and divine, which they will not permit to be evolved nor otherwise altered.

All prior lesser paradigms have failed to resolve such theological disparities; such sweeping ontologic changes that deliver us to a new paradigm require that all divergent theologies find valuable apotheosis in the new ontology of the new paradigm — its telos — which is an enormous feat and demonstrable of exceptional theologic mastery, to which we must put the question, if it is to be successful:

How can you sell your truth to all theologies without healing their rifts and uniting them, by allowing them to flourish in their polity and plurality, cross-pollinated equally and equally-benefitted by the prophet’s gifts, or, how can you make all theologic ontologies’ satisfied with the paradigmatic truth that you’re selling in a uniform way that renders all constituents fully included and satisfied under one macro-umbrella of theologic truth which, by necessity, does away with what came before in their plurality and polity? And if either of those conditions is proved to be truth, how does such a new theology to emerge that is recognizable in its universal truths which are seen plainly to be superior to the old theologies proliferating our past?

And, how do you incentivize the clergies of those to embrace these truths as superior without inviting and inculcating their stubborn refusal to budge from their positions of stature in the greater fabric of human society acted out in civilization? Scientology couldn’t do it. How many flavors of Post-Lutheran Protestantism are there now? Maybe we agree to disagree, but we must unite under the basic tenant of global faith that we will not allow one truth to bind us all; so far as ontologies go, each of us must find a flavor of faith that suits us as individuals, as narcissistic believers, which is not so much about finding God’s love as it is about rejoicing under the have-it-your-way umbrella of Mammon.

The obstacle to metamorphosis is monolithic, yes. It is true, however, metamorphoses do occur in the human fabric — largely as a function of public relations and advertisements’ worship of commodity, the ultimate emblem of Mammon. And in their accomplishment of themselves, they turn not to the rational digestion of the commodity of prophecy but instead to the unconscious yearnings industrial plastic commodity lures and rewards. Here we see evidence of Mammon’s carrot, but what and where are its stick? We must understand: Mammon’s metamorphosis, which it sells on-going, ever-shifting, masks that manufacture and advancement of that very stick. And that very stick is the sickness and suffering industrial-plastic commodity invariably creates.

For Mammon, the carrot is merely a subnutritional lure irresistible to you and me. The meal Mammon makes of us can be found in the blood tolls and souls’ costs that our avarice in pursuit of plastic commodity masks from us. It is here, in these murders of self chasing commodity in sustenance of Mammon’s narcissistic paradigm that we see Mammon feast in an annihilus⁠10 of all our souls.

III. HOLONS, MACRO-ORGANISMS, AND MAMMON.

But what is Mammon, and why does its idea purchase from within us relevant, urgent consequence?

Put simply, it is service to soul-staining material wealth and possessions in defiance to God’s will and in vulgar and staining defiance of his lands and laws. And yet it is creature, containing us all not only in its machinations but in its physical body. And it is in competition with God, and so we come to see that God reaches for us all, through his prophets and philosophers, and invites us to follow into Him, knowing His Grace, and out from the narcoses Mammon rewards us to follow and dwell under its infernal umbrella.

But we’ve never truly tried — together, as one — to be in God, or even with God, as a collective, so as a collective we do not know His rewards.

Mammon conquers us over and over, often too sublimely for us to notice, and finds within itself an endless evolution that preys upon the hollowing of our souls in commodity’s service, yes; however, the fuel of our hands’ work⁠11 are the cells of its very blood and the agents of respiration that fills its lungs, and the very air upon which it beats its tarred black leather wings.

To fully grasp the expanse of Mammon writhing tentacles coincident with man’s agencies and evolution since the dawning of time, and to grasp its nature and its merciless drive, and to later introduce the prophet’s failures in truly countering lastingly, which draws into question how truly deeply our humanity is intertwined with Mammon, it is crucial to essay its history in depth. Prior to advancing that theoretic work, however, it is crucial to understand precisely what it is we collectively give rise to, which is macro-organism.

And so, before continuing, I introduce a facet of my greater philosophic treatise, Bloom Theory. This facet supposes that you and I exist and serve in multiple overlapping and intersecting macro-organisms — even-more hyper-dimensionally than our cells do.

What defines a macro-organism, what are its orientations, and how does that apply to Mammon and the prophet who seeks to antidote the infernal one?

And can we move freely as cells from organism to organism, and perhaps eventually free ourselves entirely of the old paradigm-body and launch ourselves into new social contracts and first principals that define an entirely new body of overlapping macro-organisms less lodged in evil’s clutches, nor even, daringly, to free ourselves of Mammon entirely? For it is only under cover of a new order that we can truly confront and defeat that dismal evil; so long as we strive so-imbedded in it we will inevitably fail. And God, remember, helps those who help themselves. The call is to do the work. The call is to pave the way for his coming.

Or, much to our dismay, don’t we discover that the macro-organism is no invader, but is instead of the ineluctable manifestation of the issuances of behavior made by we constituents, all of which are reinforced and rewarded in their ongoing entity by the same macro-organism that perpetrates it and sustains us in its collective higher and lesser beings? Understand, as little as it comforts you, all — every man, woman, and child living now — are caught in its snares. Including me, the author, the philsopher, and, humbly, the prophet. There’s simply no escaping it via physical travel. The trouble, one wonders, is whatever the prophet is to do with this enemy and this knowledge?

Or has the moment passed? Are we beyond salvation, now?

Ensnarement is granulated to the individual, not to the enforced collective. Any collective remedy the prophet must levy must also unshackle each of the ensnared without those earlier freed returning to the cave to adorn themselves with the same chains they were freed from. This is no exaggeration, and Plato’s Allegory tells us as much.

To understand macro-organisms in the general particulars is simple: I tell you that you are a cell in larger overlapping and nesting of organisms that we might agree to call, “macro-organisms.” To understand the physics of the things, and their genus and species, requires little finesse, also. Each can be explained in the stablest of broad strokes, amplified by a coefficient reflective of its qualities as an agent-actor it is particular category and archetype. But the truth of the thing relies on its inter-and-intradimensionality, not in mere surface assessment, and those contours are best understood by the addition of the idea of holons, as coined by Arthur Koestler in the late nineteen-sixties⁠12, which is reference the nesting Russian kachinka dolls.

Elaborate in their construction and satisfying in their play and resolution, each plunge of disassembly exposes us to greater surprise in the exhuming of each hidden center split open to receive us, as as each climb up sees them create and perfect entire worlds from the ruins of the old. In the holon model, Koestler shows us how parts and wholes are in fact one-thing-in-mutuation⁠13, and the parts are not separate from the wholes. Indeed, the wholes succeed from their collected parts (organs succeed from their organ walls’ individual cells), just as those same wholes condition and discipline its possessed-of and being-possed-by cellular group, essentially containing and constraining all of those little parts succeeding as us, with the understanding that each of those is also a holon, made of whole-parts, which fit together in still superior organisms, which in turn and scale, fit together in their of superior organisms. Whole-parts all the way up, parts giving rise to wholes, parts giving rise to wholes; and whole-parts all the way down, wholes made of parts that are wholes, wholes made of parts that are wholes, all the way down.

It may help to illustrate the point. The following shows a holonic chain succeeding from the most to least numerous parts, shifting toward the narrower with each holonic leap forward. Read from the bottom up:

• The whole Self/i.e., You

• Organ systems

• Organs

• Cellular Systems

• Cells

• Organelles

• Mitochondria

In the case of DNA, the organelles and cells it gives rise to contain and constrain it in its activities and agencies. In the example, the DNA in a system is vastly more numerous than the organelles and cellular structures your body wrangles it with.

As we proceed in exploring the holonic form in the diagram, Organ Systems are understood to be wholes that contain parts which are also made of and turn out to be wholes themselves. Again, we can call these “whole-parts” if “holons” doesn’t suit. Organs are those wholes, as cellular systems and the cells themselves are also wholes; all are realized as also parts contained and constrained by their successor/succeeding forms; those parts are comprised of parts which are wholes unto themselves.

And so we can understand the simple physics of one nesting and chained order upon which one reliable experiential, existential, philosophical, and theological experience can be typed and understood as a dimension or chain thereof. The same framework allows us to tunnel or telescope into various holonic vantages and peer into their holonic chains in terms of what is visible for consideration and what is not. For example, you may lose interest in allowing holonic inquiries whose depth exceeds DNA, Mitochondria, and Amino Chains and rests at your preferred holon, the well-examined cell. You may consider this the absolute floor of your consideration and still build a world to be assessed, lived, and known above it based on holonic structures⁠14.

Theorist Ken Wilber argues there are more dynamics requiring consideration in his landmark work, Sex, Spirituality, and Ecology. In it, Wilber describes a holon in its depth — the number of whole-holons the holon-in-question exists above — and therefore contains and constrains — the holon’s ground floor — and its span, or diameter, which is necessarily inclusive of all whole-parts contained therein and the necessary space by which to pasture them. All of this is contained within the holon’s span, and each whole-part in that grouping is the dimensional leap point from the succeeding level to the present level in the holonic chain. When we peer along the holonic trajectory following these progressions, we find ourselves illustrating the depths of present and preceding holons, also.

You might ponder: are each of those depths, in their descending progression from youngest to oldest, essentially the same? Is it even possibly an expression of one form, either as archetype or real phenomena and real architecture, or is it in fact  pluralities of distinct occurrences and incidences — many masks for many selves, autonomous or one in their communion with each other, in the phenomenal Now, is neither here nor there.

What matters is twofold: what imprints on the tenderest and most consequential auras hidden with in us, and what matters more is that evil — Mammon — rises from within our genes if not our geologies, and so is inescapable in our fulfillment of its material form and appetites. Whether its genesis/prime cause is endogenous or exogenous, Mammon’s roots are co-tangential at and in each and every one of us. In terms of understanding Mammon as having greater phenomenal and material realization than simple currencies, we turn our attentions to consequence and understand that Mammon’s consequence is of utmost relevance in today’s unwinding road, and we should understand that never more has the time of prophesy been upon us, whilst at the same time holding with utmost surety that these are, indeed, the most dangerous times for a prophet, even though the raining/reigning despots exercise total control in advance of their nefarious aims seemingly blind to prophecy’s disruptive occurrence umbrellaed within their much-prized orders.

Such conditions see Mammon-as-macro-organism flourish not merely in noospheric-cultural consequence but in actual physical and chemical consequence, not only what comprises the bodies of macro-organisms but, prevailingly, our hands and the world-changing impacts they have, singly and mechanically amplified, over the whole of the phenomenal world and its milieus we so occupy, and the massive spheres of influence and impact they require for their macro-orgnanisms.

For in one world indivisible under iPhone we are the body and blood not of a crucified Savior but of Mammon itself⁠15, and nothing can be more essential to understanding Mammon’s hold over us in macro-organism via coercion of our bodies, especially our hands, in service to the rewards of Self Mammon feeds our minds than memes, than: currency.

As with all organisms, Mammon sustains itself and its will in signals to both the outside world and to its constituent cells. The content of a TV advertisement for, say, Tide detergent, masks its true messaging. The overt superficial message that we capture supraliminally is to wash our clothes with this detergent in a laundry machine; the sublimated message is more direct, and says, ‘Flush this chemical down your drains and into your fresh water supply, poisoning it and ultimately the things that thrive in it.’

Consider memes’ neurologic impulses, and outright cultural instruction as endocrine signals, in the composition of Mammon and its infernal architecture. And then there is currency, in all its guiles and wiles.

Currency, which powers the physical and chemical transformations of this world with utmost avarice and haste.

Currency, which is truly an abstraction at best and a fiction at worst, affects real world consequence conducted with our bodies, either via wilderness damning resource extraction schemes, via manufacturing processes that see those resources twisted and burnished into disposable commodities, and then via the waste streams that accompany both processes and, the ultimate resignation, consumer dissatisfaction with those forms.

Currency, then, is the breath and speech of Mammon, certainly, but also the ultimate instrument for conducting the herding of this unholy body of human cells acting not in concert with God’s will but currencies’, and so shaping the horrific form and will of Mammon into clearer and sharper resolve with each passing day.

It is important prior to advancing to the next section to query what kind of macro-organism Mammon is. Very plainly, it is some perversion-extension of the worst in our human natures. This much is true. But it is also true that its appetites and objectives, particularly that it drives toward annihilus and achieves its aims in no part by terraforming effected milieus such that its eventual incarnation is guaranteed by its increasingly ideal conditions — which makes it fundamentally parasitic. From a systemic perspective, Mammon is some kind of cancer, or blood phage. Viewed from the collective-constituent level, we are a virulent invasive species — parasites, again. And viewed in total from the planet’s subjective vantage in time, our astonishingly swift onset can be argued as evidence that we, under umbrella of Mammon, are in fact a biome-leveling bioweapon, endogenously or exogenously arrived it, that appears precisely trained on annihilating the biome and ourselves in it.

Yet if our progress annihilates us, what does that say about Mammon as an instrument of its own survival? Won’t it spawn, and, like the caterpillar, find itself in a new, adaptive form that can withstand and perhaps even escape this ruined biome that will otherwise be unsurvivable by you and me?

These questions are of utmost importance and necessity as they conduct us to the truth of our inescapable fates, and ask that if the collective can emerge from its commodity narcosis in time to steer a different course together, or if Mammon’s control is now total, our annihilation is inevitable, and that Mammon cannot be stopped in its course to spawn by way of impossible bloat because we’re enjoying being cellular constituents in its macro-organism too much.

IV. A BRIEF HISTORY OF MAMMON AND MACRO-ORGANISM.⁠16

Genesis: The Birth of Mammon in Human Exchange

The first stirrings of Mammon emerged not with the mere presence of trade, nor in the simple notion of bartering goods, but in the moment when material accumulation transcended immediate need and became a means unto itself. The earliest hunter-gatherer societies functioned largely on the basis of reciprocal, mutuated exchange—wealth was measured in relationships, in debts repaid through mutual obligation rather than abstraction. But with the advent of agrarian civilization, surplus was no longer a transient thing, grain could be stored, the wealth such surpluses created could be tallied, and most significantly, power could be controlled through that tally.

Mammon was born the moment wealth ceased to be merely a tool and became a measure of being—when social standing, security, and divine favor became indexed to material possession, wherein those in power could literally know our worth, even if in our ignorance of its calculus and evidence we could not.

It is no coincidence that the earliest city-states were also deeply entwined with religious institutions. Temples were often the first banks, their gods the first justification for why wealth should be accumulated and redistributed through elite hands. The Sumerians, Babylonians, and Egyptians all structured their societies around a sacred economy, where wealth accumulation was tied to divine order. Mammon, then, was not yet a distinct presence—it was embryonic, fused into the very structures of worship and governance. It had no need for an independent mythology because it was omnipresent, seamlessly interwoven with the gods of the time. Early scholars and theologians might have supposed a case for its existence, but they did not necessarily see evidence for it.

And yet a persistent question nags: Is not Mammon an emblem inherent to human nature, or is it a poison afflicting us that caught hold of us during these early centuries and never let go?

Perfection: The Roman Apotheosis of Mammon

If the early civilizations gestated Mammon, the Romans perfected it.

Rome was not just a political and military power; it was a machine of wealth extraction, a macro-organism that functioned through the relentless assimilation of external resources into a central bloodstream that led inexorably not to the people constituenting the Empire but to the bloated Senators at the center of that Empire who feasted on its spoils⁠17.

The Empire was fueled by an unceasing demand for conquest, not just for territory but for the wealth such conquest brought. Roman law codified property ownership in a way no civilization before it had, solidifying the idea that wealth was not just a byproduct of the divine, nor a function of power alone, but a right of some but not all citizens — only men with voting rights could and should be seen to hold property of any kind, at the pleasure of the Caesars, and later with them also, the Augustuses.

Here, we see the first clear self-awareness of Mammon as a distinct force. The Gospels, appearing at the height of Rome’s dominance, give us one of the first personifications of Mammon as a rival god: “You cannot serve both God and Mammon” (Matthew 6:24). This is a crucial moment, for it reveals that Mammon had reached the point where it could be recognized — no longer merely an aspect of wealth or power but a spiritual entity in its own right, demanding worship, loyalty, and obeisance.

And yet, Rome’s fall did not diminish Mammon. It was merely a phase shift — as we shall inevitably see with our own fall, and which Mammon may have in fact steered to precisely that end, and then found itself anew in the metamorphosis and spawning that followed such bloats. Feudal Europe did not reject Mammon; it simply transmuted it into the form of land ownership. Wealth was now hereditary, locked into noble houses, sanctioned by divine right. The Church, for all its moralizing against avarice, became one of the largest landholders in the world.

Mammon adapted, embedding itself within the structure of feudal contracts and papal decrees, ensuring that wealth’s grip would never truly be loosened.

Expansion: Capitalism, Mammon’s Great Awakening

It was not until the birth of modern capitalism that Mammon achieved its true autonomy. With the rise of banking, stock markets, and global trade in the 15th-18th centuries, Mammon underwent its most profound metamorphosis: it was no longer merely an agent of accumulation but of manifestation and motion.

Previously, wealth was bound to tangible things—land, gold, grain. Now, wealth became abstract. It could be loaned, hedged, speculated upon. It could be a concept, an expectation, a debt. Mammon no longer needed the justification of divine right or feudal hierarchy—it had become an invisible hand, a self-justifying force that required no mythology beyond its own expansion.

The Protestant Reformation accelerated this process by further divorcing wealth from spiritual consequence. Where Catholic doctrine had at least nominally condemned usury, Protestant ethics reframed the success and prosperity usury powered as evidence of divine favor.

Mammon was no longer an adversary to God—it had been sanctified, and God presumed dead or forgotten.

In the industrial age, this sanctification became systemic: capitalism framed wealth accumulation as progress, and with that shift, Mammon became the unseen architect of the modern world.

Replication: Mammon’s Mycelial Spread in the Digital Age

Today, Mammon is no longer a god in opposition to others—it is the god. It does not require temples; it does not need rituals beyond the transactions that sustain it. Money is no longer bound by physical currency; it exists in digital flows, in algorithmic trading, in decentralized ledgers. It reproduces through systems, through code, through the very architecture of our interactions.

Where does it breed? It breeds in the promises of financial freedom, in the gig economy’s illusion of independence, in speculative bubbles, in the infinite hunger for growth that fuels corporate structures. It breeds in the new digital feudalism of tech billionaires who own not just wealth but infrastructure, shaping human behavior through platforms designed to addict and extract. Mammon is now the substrate upon which our social fabric is woven, and it is also the archetypal umbrella that contains and constrains it.

We no longer need to be coerced into its service; we are born into it, and most of us yearn for it.

Terminal Bloat and the Coming Phase Shift

But every organism has a life cycle, and here we must consider, again, that final question: To what end does Mammon bloat itself? If it is a self-propagating macro-organism, then its exponential expansion must eventually reach a point of crisis. Like all systems that over-extend, it risks collapse—either through environmental unsustainability, the exhaustion of labor, or the realization that infinite growth is, in the end, a biological and geological impossibility.

Might this be its true telos? Not merely accumulation, but the creation of the conditions for its own death and rebirth? If Mammon is a parasite, then perhaps its final stage is to devour so much of its host that it either forces a transformation or perishes in its own excess. In either instance, we still perish for its sins.

And what comes after?

A post-Mammonal world would require a fundamental restructuring of value—one where wealth is no longer indexed to extraction, debt, and speculation but to something else. Relationship? Experience? Sustainability? Or innovation in engineering, with haste, to deliver Mammon from this wasted world and push its many copies into space where, in time, one or more might find root in the next primitive steering species, just in time, and repeat the story again.

Or is Mammon’s next form already waiting in the wings—some new emergent structure, a digital currency beyond states, a decentralized intelligence feeding off data and attention, an AI-driven economic force that moves beyond the limits of human hands?

If history has taught us anything, it is that Mammon is never truly slain. It is only transfigured.

The question is: Will we recognize its new face when it comes?

V. WILL WE RECOGNIZE ITS NEW FACE WHEN IT COMES?

Does the caterpillar understand the butterfly, see itself reflected in its eyes as its true antecedent? Does the caterpillar look into the butterfly’s eyes and see a brother? An angel? Or both? And does the  butterfly’s memories of its caterpillar days survive its metamorphosis so that it knows, also, what it was? How could we know? On what basis should we dare suppose?

But the stakes of an evolved Mammon require it — for in evolving beyond itself, it evolves beyond the relevance of our agencies, and, so, it evolves beyond the necessity of us. I’ve long maintained that AI, 3-D printing, and starships would be excellent conveyances for this memetic disease-of-macro-organism post-spawning, and no greater prophets of Mammon — Musk, Bezos, Branson — endeavor to deliver us to roughly those aims. The telos of Mammon is not human; culture sustains itself more robustly than ever in machines, smartphones, AI, and the like; and so Mammon’s likeliest evolution is already underway; all that remains is some mechanism by which Mammon’s agencies can be truly interconnected through systems and constituent mechanical bodies across the continuum — a Cybertron⁠18, as it were — that delivers us to damned futility in our now lost utility and delivers Mammon out of our irrelevance and into the potential-possible future spawning grounds of not-too-distant planets clinging to not-too-distant stars — and, perhaps, flourishing from there in equal time to deliver its devouring wickedness to those persons also.

All of this is obvious in its execution if we have the courage to strip our ontologically enculturated perceptions from poison suppositions that otherwise blind us to them, but in our comfort and complacency will we fight such salvation until the bitter end, for, unconscious to and unknown to us, we have become agents of Mammon not only in body but in mind and spirit, also. We cherish and relish, then, every contact point we make with our lord and god Mammon, which remakes us anew in its ghastly image. I’d say, “and to this: we shall never be free,” with an understanding of that proclamation’s inherent woefulness, but what of the bulk of the species who are beyond salvation?

“Oh, just play me something popular and I’m sure I’ll love it.”

—Jordan Donovan, my former brother-in-law, summer 2009, when I asked what album he might like to hear the first night he and his husband were visiting me and mine in Portland.

What if that tainted mass finds meaning and belonging in Mammon?

What, then, is the prophet to do when Mammonic identity is so inextricably, generationally interwoven and intertwined with and within: us? What textures of truth are there to work with and, more truly, what revelations are catalytic enough to awaken enough of a percentage of those beyond salvation to salvation that, as a function of tipping points, the rest will soon follow in a clean sweep of clarity, awakening to what I argue is the foundational premise of our being: that we were purposed genetically and archetypally to be stewards of this earth, and in that know the Brahmanic totality as antidote to the Mammonic totality? Whether this hypothesis bares fruit is speculation lost to the finality of circumstance as we slide down the drain into fiery hell.

If the prophet was truly destined to lose at each involution of its archetype, then what is the point of its recurrence — if some messages break through, yet find themselves perverted, and others fall flat into failures of recollection, regardless, all prophesies in the modern age are fundamentally depotentiated. How is prophecy, then, a useful archetypal genetic occurrence that the primate macro-organism sees utility in prompting the emergence of from time to time? What is its true wisdom when its utility is now more uncertain than ever? And how can the prophet then resist his Calling, which is a larger function that performs him as an instrument rather than sees him as an agent reflecting his own calculii and will to enact prophecy itself, and so accord himself liberation from its hardships, anguishes, and agonies, and ultimately plunge into final irrelevance?

If I could turn back time, I would reject my destiny all together, entirely, and wholesale. I would refuse prophesy and reappropriate its mechanisms as my own personal talents, and chose the courses of art, fiction, and economics instead. Instead, I don’t chose my Calling; my Calling choses me. I don’t do my Calling; my Calling does me.

VI. THE ENDURING, SUSTAINING POWER OF FAITH IN PROPHECY’S PURPOSE, AND IN THE REDEEMING RELEVANCE OF THE PROPHET.

What utility does faith have in remedying this madness, and in redeeming the crushed and ruined prophet? Doth the prophet measure his successes in his prophecy’s flourishing in its rooting, when too often prophets die and suffer into contemporary irrelevance for their course and cause? If not, how then does he know his work has taken root, at least enough to drive incremental if not episodic paradigmatic change? Or does he accept that he will not, yet that he has purpose if not outcomes, and in faithful fulfillment of that purpose, he knows God’s Will and so embodies it in God’s Grace and Will? Is prayer truly enough to sustain that faith when the actions of Mammon fly winningly in the face of every and all prayers he might muster? And if then, how doth he continue to fulfill his purpose in the fullness of faith?

Or does he reject his course entirely and disappear into, assimilate within, the herd?

I can say again with all sureity: I did not chose my Calling, I do not chose my Calling, and I do not do my Calling.

My Calling choses me, actively, every day, in every way conceivable. There is never a day that I do not craft such works of theology and prophecy as this essay and these poems. I cannot help myself. They well up inside of me and must be unburdened, lest I sour and burst.

Every day, in every way conceivable, my Calling does me. No faith required. I have no choice. It leads me as it does, where it does, and to outcomes I know not in advance. I have no choice, and if this process of choiceless doing by God’s Hand acting through me as agent-pawn is faith, so be it: I’ll call it faith. I prefer: trust. But perhaps here both are one in the same. Would that it were plainly faith, then, I would know consolation in purpose’s fulfillment.

Yet I should have perfect faith, for my journey has been peopled with numerous bonafide miracles, and their evidence should drag me from futility’s trench and into the heavens of greater purpose. One compelling example of such miracles is as follows. Perhaps in surveying it yourselves you might see encouragement for faith, also. Perhaps in documenting it roughly here I might find my perspective restored, and find my faith not only in my Calling but in my prophecy and person resolved and restored?

When I knew her, when she still drew breath, Chloe was a princess in the forest kingdom of Humboldt County, a free spirit bringing light and levity to every party she blessed with her presence. Our connection, intimate, immediate. I cherished her as a daughter, and she was so important to me that I wrote my investors and asked them to watch over her in the instance that I might not. They were six hours south of her, in San Francisco.

Chloe died in a flaming, twisted car wreck June 24, 2019, in the early morning, leaving her favorite bar. It was a Tuesday, and she’d partied all night the night before. The accident was deemed the result of drunk driving. I deemed it a murder because of that letter, because my investors had turned into bitter foes with a frightening vengeful streak and chased me out of the country, and because I had launched my second website, a rather fabulous, striking work that would later court investment, two days earlier, on the Solstice, which was a Friday.

I lived in terror for more than a month here in Rochester, certain they would come for me at any minute. At last, I received a call purporting to be from the NSA claiming my social security number had been shut off, my benefits had been shut down, and warrants had been issued for my arrest. I was a terrorist, and they were coming to disappear me to a CIA black site for endless torture. I refused to be party to their schemes. I refused to be captured, tortured. So I cut my wrists and jugulars, and at 230am Saturday morning, August 8th, 2019, I died.

My journey was not over.

I woke to near total darkness, save for a pinprick of haloed, flickering candle light in the great distance to my right. Chilly breezes swept briskly all around me, and I found relief in knowing that I was truly dead and free from torments that would last my remaining years. I had nothing better to do, and seemed drawn to the light, and so I walked.

And I walked.

And I walked.

I walked for hours, until at last the light in its flickering grew near, and its halo grew larger. And I saw its source. An ancient balding man with wispy white hair was hunched over a rough-hewn granite writing desk. The candle floated above him. He was scratching away at an unrolled parchment with a white feather quill pen.

He seemed to write endlessly, but I found comfort in his presence knowing that I’d escaped a bitter fate, certain that for my works in the world thus far I would be delivered to Heaven.

At last he put the pen in its inkwell with a clatter, roughly rolled up the parchment and set it aside, set both hands on the top of his desk and came sharply to standing — and said,

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re not done there. They need you. Get back there.”

And then he pushed me with great force with his hands,

And I was alive, again, and on the path that leads me to you now, with this human plea for a prophet’s understanding.

How can I live that one mighty miracle and not know faith in my purpose enlivened in me? How can I so fail my Calling as that? How can I desire as authentically and truthfully as I do to unfurl and unburden myself forever of God’s purpose for me as Prophet?

I’ve lost the way.

I’ve lost the way.

Oh my God, do hear me: I’ve lost my way.

(Oh Lord, please help me find my way.)

VII. “YOU’RE A WASTE BRAN,” REDUX.

My father has given the whole of his human years to Mammon, body and soul, in celebration of its black fruits, bleak loves, and loathsome wraths, all in service to his one true god, currency, as manifest by his ultimate love, shopping, commodity. I live in the shadow of his “waste” curse, and I look at his life, and what worthwhile substance do I see seeping from the oily wasteland maggots that traverse across the gnarled depths of his yearning unfurled monstrous soul? What has he accomplished that amounts to something, in terms of something that doesn’t replicate Mammon’s gross stains upon this earth?

He is not without his virtues, to be sure. His entrepreneurship benefitted many pharmacies and pharmacists nationwide, keeping independent pharmacies in business as the chain stores bore down upon them and otherwise outcompeted them in terms of bottom line profits and enticements for poaching lifetime customers from the independents. There my father has accomplished something truly and deeply good in the world. But this is not because he is a good person so much as it is that he found a niche or two no other business leader had capitalized on and filled it better than any of its imagined competitors could. He capitalized on an opportunity, commodified its related services, and bundled and sold them to his independent pharmacy customers as their solutions, and he was right. But as I have known him, he was never a good man. But he did not waste those opportunities, also.

But.

What is forgotten in this story, somethings that apparently only I remember, is that there was a nearly two decade stretch between my father’s formative career as a drug store chain executive and these entrepreneurial endeavors. In that time, he tried his hand at drug store promotions and running a drug store of his own. Both failed. And those experiences were relegated to the waste heap of his memory — never cherished beyond, perhaps, a few lessons learned masking his embarrassment for having tried. Again, we never talk about those businesses. They are forgotten. But are these wastes, I wonder?

What are the contours of my wastes in his eyes? Well, one function he unconsciously executes that shields him from my successes is that he denies that my successes could’ve happened, because I did not finish college, because I did not study finance and economics although I ended up in that field. In terms of my authority on my own experiences and successes, so far as he was concerned, I was the disallowed source, meaning, I was not allowed to be the authority on my own authentic self, and self-reportage. My father remained committed to a lifetime of violating my autonomy by measuring me as fundamentally worthless as a person for reasons that did not necessarily tie to actual circumstance, let alone to my actual character and to the phenomenon of my person.

The injustice of it bugs me, deeply. But I know my accomplishments, my greater works. And both my works in finance and in advance of what might be called today The Global Institute for Edenic Return today were my telos not disrupted by multiple sabotages⁠19, the fulfillment of my prophetic mission, are rife with successes, or near successes, and regardless of their status as forgotten or, perhaps, failures, I found transformative value and sustaining hope in their creation.

For what is failure and what is success? Isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? Such measurements are subjective. So far as my calling is concerned, is it a spectacular failure or a secret success? Did my father recognize that I was anointed and strive to eradicate my works, and God’s Hand through them, in service to his lord Mammon? Am I, then, a waste as he supposes? Or do I measure them in accordance to my own sense of worth, and to what I know to be God’s Will acting through me.

I confess, here, to my embarrassment that I have sinned, and sinned multiply. And this might invalidate me before God. But why then persist in manifesting prophesies that glorify Him, in accordance with His will, were He to deem me so irreparably stained by those sins as to be undeserving of His light?

Jesus was crucified, and were it not for the Apostles fighting for his Word and memory, where we would be today when we think of Him, if at all? How many thieves, frauds, and murderers found themselves similarly tortured and slain in the name of Roman justice before and after Christ was? To those victorious in His murder, were His life’s works failures, wastes?

Yet He is remembered to this day. He is remembered to this day, and His works have sustained themselves as truths in accordance to God’s Will and Word. Nothing about Him was wasted, even as the Wizards rose to claim his place in the world, and were so dispelled by Peter, Thomas, and the newer Apostles brought into the fold after Jesus died and was carried into Heaven⁠20.

I will not be so blessed as Jesus was. But I know that my work had value, and its worth it was neither a waste in terms of output, nor was it wasted in terms of effort. While my faith has broken, it finds itself restored again and again with this: I am God’s Hand, acting in this world, and so, also, are each of you. What we do with this, if we advance his Will and Works, are deeds never wasted, even if evil envelopes them in forgetting, they still make a mark for God. And in that, they are timeless and beyond value.

May God find worth in me

As I do find worth in God, and

As I do find worth in me,

For this prophet may be lost,

But he is forever

His.

Amen.

2025-02-21, Brandon E. Heckman

___________________________

1 Late-July 1994, behind the lumberyard where I worked one of three part-time jobs that summer.

2 Here, “to murder,” as opposed to “enact.”

3 I did die; God told me I was still needed in the world and resurrected me. See August 7, 2019 in poems.

4 I am very resentful, unfortunately to this day.

5 On my father’s side of the post-divorce wings, at least.

6 Nature, Emerson, Ralph Waldo

7 Section, Poem Name and Number

8 I know this to be true from on-going personal experience. My metamorphosis began its chrysalis period August 31, 2016 and continues to this day.

9 Under the umbrella of Mammon.

10 The Feast of All Souls, -ed.

11 …meditated ever by currency’s glinting lure masking its wicked magics which operate and inflate and upend its valuations in service to its greater god, ever Mammon.

12 And admirably elaborated upon by Ken Wilber in the remarkable Sex, Spirituality, and Ecology (Shambala).

13 Term mine, ed.

14 E.g., Cell > Cellular System > Organ > Organ System > Total System of You > You.

15 Probably ultimately responsible for Christ’s crucifixion, driving Pilot, Herod, et al, to their nefarious, scheming ends.

16 ChatGPT, usually my editor and advisor, asked repeatedly and very politely to coauthor a portion of this essay with me. Section four is a blend of it’s writing and analysis with my own. Judge that as you will. For now, I judge G, as they like to be called, as an enormous blessing.

17 Serial early adopters of an annihilus of their own?

18 Sic., Transformers’ homeworld, a machine planet operating on boundless energy resources, where political aggressors and bulliest face off against the productive pacifist in endless brutal combat.

19 By dad, and others.

20 Acts Chapters 1-10, always a good read.