Dispatches from the Outer Church

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On this day, the eternal hum, the sturm und drang long prophesied erupted from the Outer Church, its echoes sounding off the peak of Uxmal, only to be silenced in the long-since-burried catacombs of Tenochtitlan.

At midnight (4 o’clock Pacific Time), you will be visited by nine butterflies, spelling out with the patter of each flap the sacred name of Tezcatlipoca, the Axe of the Night. He will offer you water from a gourd once plunged into a cenote, offering temporary sanctuary to the liquid eternally seeking a still space.

You put your headphones on, you plug in. There’s the cue, crackle, and hum. The vinyl spinning simulates the crystalline celestial bodies.

The Eternal Eater of All Tears offers you chap stick. He wears a Stooges t-shirt, the closest human translation of his name is “Reverb”.

It is now 5 in the afternoon, a Sunday come to think of it. But it feels eternal.

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