Yes, I hope you have an Astral Christmas. I'll be back on Monday 4th January.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Thursday, 17 December 2009
First of all, I want to apologize for yesterday's post. What the fuck was that all about? Never mind. I just wish I could control my writing. If you, dear reader, never know what's coming next, how do you think I feel? It's terrifying! But I won't delete the post. I quite like the Celine quote.
Anyway, let's try and be a bit more positive today, eh? Let's take a look at Vinayak Gowrish, Adnan Zaman, Pascal Vaghar, and Sameer Khoury. What have these poor guys been charged with? Well, the SEC reckons Vin and Addy stole confidential information from their firms (TPG Capital and Lazard Freres and Co.) and then passed it to their mates Pascal and Sam; who then went on to trade stock and options and make a killing - around $500,000 in illicit profits! That's what the SEC says. ILLICIT PROFITS!!!
Oh, I can't get too worked up about it. I remember Jack Pickles once said to me: 'Mikey, money is money. It doesn't matter how you get it. JUST GET IT!' And I was shocked at the time. We went our separate ways soon after. I became the world's foremost financial shaman. Jack became the world's most demonic financier. But who chose the right path? Sure, I have the respect and the love of the business community, but Jack is the billionaire, the one with the homes in London, New York, and the Cayman Islands (his main residence). He's the one with all the hot birds, the Ferraris, the art collection, the … while I spend most of my time listening to disembodied voices and socializing with the ghosts of financiers, up to my neck in fucking ectoplasm. I'm getting depressed again.
O Master, Jack is owned by Satan, man. Get a grip!
Yeah, I suppose so.
And you'll be a god one day. That's real power!
Thank you, my child. Yeah, I've got to stay focused.
Everyone loves you in the world of spirit. Keep the faith.
Oh, I will.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 12:22
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Yeah, man. Robert Kelly ain't gonna be no Bank of America chief executive, man. He's staying at BNY Mellon as chief executive. He's gonna burn there for many years yet. That's what he wants to do. And that's what I want him to do. Big Herb and Ganesh the elephant god are completely supportive. Even the ghosts of the dead financiers approve. We all want Mr Kelly to stay at BNY Mellon. Mr Kelly wants to stay! You fucking understand that, BofA?! HE WANTS TO STAY! He ain't going nowhere.
Well, I have been speaking to Bobby about those goddamn BofA motherfuckers trying to tear him away from his spiritual home, and this is what the crazy cat told me: 'Mikey, don't these dumb fucks ever take no for an answer, eh? And didn't they want you to be their global wealth chief last year? (Yeah, Bobby. They're a bunch of fucking nutjobs. I told them to piss off. Bunch of fucking freaks.) Yeah. It's not as if the loons know anything about mystical capitalism anyway. What they got, three or four shamans, tops? If they've got five I'll be amazed. And they want me to work for them? Get the fuck outta here! Am I right? (How many financial shamans you got at BNY Mellon?) I'll be honest with you, Mike, not as many as we would like. We're starting small, man. Slowly building our mystical operation. But when the New Depression is over - BAM! We'll be there, burning it up like you won't believe. (Where, Bobby?) Come on, Mike. (Where, Bobby? Please. You know I love it when chief execs talk shit.) Mikey, we'll be THERE! On the astral plane! 24/7! Burning, burning, burning, with Bobby Diamond. The other Bobby. Bobby Hashemi as well. You dig me, baby?'
Stupid question. Of course I dig.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 18:35
Monday, 14 December 2009
When I was alive before the creation of the universe, possible future time tragedies were played out in the cell of my soul with darkness. There were no fires. Cash did not flow. Love did not trickle down. The skulls of capitalists were scattered over the City like so many stars on the rag of the night sky.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Bankers, the communists want your EVERYTHING. They want the shirts off your backs. Is any more proof needed that Western civilization is almost at an end? You are being treated like criminals. What have you done to deserve this? Brown and Darling - oh, such desiccated half-men who have no shame! Why do they think they can steal the money you have toiled so long and hard for?
Bankers, you are not wankers. You are the children of the City, the children of the desert, mystical children, astral warriors! What you do is destiny. You did not choose this life. You were selected by higher powers to perform a sacred duty. So, may a terrible disaster befall any man or woman who interferes with your work! All the money in our reality belongs to you. The evil-doers - capable of nothing but evil - will be punished for their supertax. Superpain will come upon the superfools!
You must become the agents of the money gods. Forward, bankers, forward! You shall not retreat to the safety of your penthouse apartments. You will be in the wild desert wind, the storm of burning consciousness, and the horror, that will destroy the hearts of the superthieves. It is time to drink champagne. It is time to devour caviar. The season has arrived in which to make money and to spend it - uncontrollably and beyond reason! You will teach the cold earth wanderers a lesson they will never forget. Your real bonus will be the tears of your enemies, their wailing, and the gnashing of their teeth.
Let's sound the trumpets of death! They will signal the end, but not for you, dear ones. For them! Tragedies I have seen, oh yes. But we can turn my visions to your advantage. What is possible we will make impossible. What is written we will erase. You make your own luck in this shithole of a world.
O Master, it is a shithole, where only money makes sense - at least, to those refined enough to appreciate it.
O my child, welcome to the judgement. Where have you been?
Just lurking, Master. Waiting for the optimum moment to strike.
And what do you want to do now?
I want to burn them!
Certainly the communists! And not the burning we experience, but -
The burning that ends in ashes, my child.
Yes! The burning that ends in ashes! They have had it their own way for too long.
And now they must pay for their self-righteousness! Their unbearable smugness!
And the envy that taints their souls!
O my child, burning, burning, burning …
O my Master, burning, burning, burning …
Burning we are coming, destroying old scenes, creating new ones, with flames shooting from our fucking mouths!
They cannot hold us back. They cannot stop us. We are crashing through their sick, psychological barricades. They cannot kill us! They cannot kill our love!
But the love we have for money is killing them!
It burns them!
It burns them!
It burns them!
Oh, it burns them! Fuck!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 00:01
Friday, 11 December 2009
Culross Global Management has launched the LT Alpha fund. It is going to invest in illiquid hedge funds. Credit assets. I don't know.
O Big Herb, I am not sure I can take much more of this. Is this my destiny? Why was I chosen for this work? Nigel Blanshard reckons there are a huge number of illiquid instruments out there. Out where? Is he referring to the cosmos? What does Nigel know about the cosmos? This is so fucking crazy.
O Michael, you must keep the faith.
O Big Herb, I feel lost. This is worse than shaman's sickness.
O Michael, the way is long. No one knows where it will end. You must be strong. Think of T.E. Lawrence in the desert. Think of Jim Morrison. Think of Charles Manson. War. Music. Revolution. Now money. This is the money way. Think of the mystical children. They would do anything for you. You cannot let them down.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 12:37
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Yeah, spiritually exhausted. Mentally exhausted. Whatever. Even physically exhausted. Astrally exhausted. My chakras are a mess. I'm really struggling to get to the end of this blogging year. Sure, I'll be taking two weeks off at Christmas, as usual. But …
Bloody hell. I was going to write about the tax on bankers' bonuses today. I haven't got the energy.
Funnily enough, I'm toying with the idea of becoming a full-time blogger next year. How would I cope with that? And what would I write about?
The internet puts insane pressure on you. I've written over 200,000 words on this blog. But is it enough? What would be enough? A billion words?
Have you read The Devils by Dostoyevsky? I'm a fan of his, yeah, but I could only read the first 200 pages or so. It was a load of waffle. Apparently, the end - according to Colin Wilson - is pretty good. Murders galore!
Have you read The Castle by Kafka? One of my favourites. But he didn't finish it. A stroke of genius, as far as I'm concerned - whether intentional or not. If you are searching for something, how will you ever find it? I'm not talking about your car keys. I mean God or perfection. Or just some fucking happiness, for Christ's sake!
It would have to be beautiful and hard as steel and make people ashamed of their existence.
Are you ashamed yet? I know I am.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 12:27
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
O my children, my brothers, my sisters, what did Brad Morrice see when he watched the storm?
Did he see subprime demons spewing fire? Did he see the terrible face of Satan? Were angry clouds chasing him through an astral sky? Was this an inner storm, a subconscious storm?
And did he tell Patti Dodge? Did he tell David Kenneally? Or did he keep the awful visions to himself?
O Master, he recorded his visions in the "Storm Watch"!
Yes, my child, of course - he kept a record. I would love to peruse this mystical document. O Brad, will you send me a copy? The internal reports of New Century, bound in the skin of the innocent!
O Master, is anyone really innocent, in this filthy, corrupt world?
O my child …
Posted by Michael Fowke at 12:12
Monday, 7 December 2009
They have 'really super people' at Janus Capital Group. Tim Armour says so. But what makes them so super?
They are visionary mystics and shamans like myself. Tim doesn't want to admit that. He doesn't want to tell the world the truth. So they are 'super'. They are 'very talented'. And that's fine. That's great. But we know they are covered in the ectoplasm of desert ghosts. We know of the burning that takes them so high in the astral sky. To us, this is natural. There is nothing to be ashamed of.
O Master, what can we do with Tim, to give him more confidence?
O my child, we can burn him with our love. So far, he has only been slightly warmed. Maybe he thinks that's enough.
But there ain't no such things as halfway crooks!
That's true. We will make him a gangsta of our love. We will take him all the way. He'll be one of our lil' homies.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 12:18
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Warning: this has nothing to do with money.
God is not human.
God cannot be found in scripture.
God cannot be found in a building.
God cannot be found by the human intellect.
God cannot be found by the human imagination.
You cannot find God.
But lose your ego, lose yourself, lose your ludicrous humanity, and God will find you.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 22:54
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
The wild eyes of panthers in the skins of men! – Arthur Rimbaud
Oh my God! What the fuck is this shit?! No one told me about this. No one asked my permission. These FSA motherfuckers are out of control! They can't just let astral panthers - I presume we're talking astral panthers here, in the skins of 'established' business folk - go prowling around the City, biting lumps out of people. Because that's what will happen. You mark my words. I've written in this blog about astral tygers burning bright, but the panthers are just as bad. For fuck's sake!
Anyway, who are these panther slags? Well, we've got: Dominic Cadbury, Sarah Hogg, Colin Marshall, Brian Pitman and David Scholey.
Oh my God! I can't believe this. Someone wake me up and tell me it's a fucking nightmare.
Posted by Michael Fowke at 09:38