somewhere deep in the subconscious realms of my mind...

...I finally find my phallus,

resting elegantly in a

dense wilderness of

confusion and bliss,

harsh erotic dissonance

brought to a calming

drone.

No heaven no hell, no sin no guilt

only flesh and then death,

and so with this newfound phallus

I embrace the ritual of the flesh

and begin to witness

the once holy mind sacrificed

to the sensations

of flesh embrace.

for the phallus has been recovered

with blood cells screaming and

moaning in preparation to ascend,

begging for oblivion and begging for

the void

the guilt has been terminated,

the gift has been granted -

Sudden Orgasm,

a glimpse

and a

flash

of

Sudden Death.

The seed is spilled,

the flesh glazed

with texture

of wet joy.

thank you, Cleveland & Lou Reed

There are a plethora of things to thank The Velvet Underground for and one of them is playing in Cleveland Ohio in the late 60's, inspiring a group of young musicians to ignore traditional music theory as well as the industry standards of the time and express the industrial angst they felt with an intensity and abandon not previously seen in music. Bands like Rocket From the Tombs, Mirrors, The Electric Eels and The Styrenes are rarely given recognition by the mainstream but left behind a sonic blueprint for not only punk rock but for the avant-garde tendencies of post-punk as well. In an age where being 'art-rock' meant sounding like ELP or Yes bands from Cleveland were recording lo-fi noise masterpieces that were arty without being pretentious or overwrought.

Rocket From the Tombs are probably best known for two reasons: Pere Ubu and The Dead Boys. Both groups were spawn of the RFTT and represent two opposing but equally important poles of the punk axis; Ubu were art damaged weirdos inspired by dadaism and free-jazz while The Dead Boys were nihilistic and rude rock'n'roll traditionalist that had more in common with The New York Dolls. Rocket From the Tombs utilized both of these musical approaches. There leader was the self-destructive genius Peter Laughner (RIP) whose Lou Reed fixation possibly led to his premature death of acute pancreatitis. Though they never recorded a proper album they are one of the most incendiary groups to grace rock history.



Consisting of demoes and live recordings from the group, 'The Day The Earth Met the Rocket from the Tombs' is an essential collection for anyone looking to witness the genesis of punk rock. If you are familiar with the work of Pere Ubu and The Dead Boys many of these songs will already be familiar to you but exist here in there rawest and most authentic form, unhindered by production and sanitation. Stand out cuts include an explosive cover of the Velvet Underground rarity 'Foggy Notion' that adds even more of a relentless pulse to the original, a stumbling and anarchic early version of the Pere Ubu classic 'Life Stinks' that sounds like Captain Beefheart on quaaludes and 'Aint it Fun', an absolutely timeless rock anthem of alienation and violence. Given greater fame by The Dead Boys and mistreated by Guns'n'Roses, 'Ain't it Fun' is a plea for redemption from drug addled and shattered soul of Peter Laughner.

Ain't it fun when you're always on the run
Ain't it fun when your friends despise what you've become
Ain't it fun when you get so high that you, well you just can't come
Ain't it fun when you know that you're gonna die young

While Rocket From The Tombs approached nihilism they never reached the same level of sheer sociopathic madness as their contemporaries The Electric Eels. Probably the closest of the Cleveland bands to the modern definition of punk, The Electric Eels completely dismissed political correctness as much as they abandoned traditional music theory. Their songs are explosive and angry, bathed in distortion and fuzz and set to a primal back-beat that threatens to split ones mind open at any second. On 'Agitated' one can practically hear singer Dave McManus pulling his hair out while practically screaming in agony about how "the whole world stinks". Atonal guitar solos and fractured rhythmic sensibilities are abound, showing a band aware of their complete lack of commercial potential as well as the innovations of free jazz and Captain Beefheart. This is not to say The Eels are unlistenable - some of their songs are even catchy, carrying an infectious drive that could be missing link between The Stooges and punk 77.

The Electric Eels are not a band to play around your politically correct liberal roommates - songs like 'You Crummy Fags' and 'Spinach Blasters' are completely irresponsible flirtations with homophobia and racism that come across as completely tasteless and even harmful. One could easily assume the band to be the first neo-nazi punk band as well, their flirtations with swastika imagery not helping their case either. However guitarist Paul Marotta pleaded otherwise - "It was shock tactics, it was confrontational art, it was meant to be satire". Many bands in the future would take this same approach but The Eels were the first to cross the line of social acceptability as daringly.

If one wants to hear the best work of The Electric Eels one can find a good selection of their material on the compilation album 'Those Were Different Times: Cleveland 1972 - 1976' as well as their 'Eyeball of Hell' album.

Mirrors on the other hand were a far artier group, less afraid to embrace 60's influences and romantic sentimentality. Also featured on the "Those Were Different Times" compilation they are as indebted to Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd as they are to Lou Reed. This doesn't make Mirrors prog wankoff's by any means - they are just as capable of raw immediacy as they are of psychedelic whimsy. 'How Could I' is an almost victorian sounding ballad that works beautifully and could fit alongside the best works of The Kinks while 'Everything Near Me' almost sounds like something from The Nuggets Compilation. While the Electric Eels had their strengths in attitude Mirrors are simply gifted songwriters that aim for the sublime rather than the nauseating. Weird sonic experiments never get in the way of their incessant garage rock drive and melodic sensibility. Along with their contemporaries The Styrenes, Mirrors carry a sort of nostalgia for the 60's counterculture that punk rock prided itself in stomping on the grave of. However this is a 60's where The Velvet Underground were just as important as The Beatles, with any signs of pretentious hippy spirituality thankfully missing.

What is so essential and important about the Cleveland proto-punk scene, beyond it's influence on future musicians, is that it demonstrates the greatness that comes from musicians who are liberated from the need for commercial success and inspired by the bleakness that surrounds them. In a time where rock music was getting more and more overproduced and predicable the aforementioned bands favored authenticity over pop postures. Pioneering 'lo-fi' before it became a hip buzzword on Pitchfork and refusing to follow any rules, social or musical, Cleveland was the brewing ground for a musical ethos that still reverberates through the sound of artist to this day.

guilt

Standing in the hallway of your home,
in the corridor of your cave,
in the godliness of your gaze,
you leave me in a daze.

So when I bring myself to speak
and describe the state I'm in
I can bring myself think
and contemplate my sin

you've got me down on my knees
you've got me talking to god -
I ain't never been a believer before
and I ain't never seen the light

and when the light shines
I'll be sleeping through my sickness
And when my eyes have widened
I'll be staring at the darkness

I'll stagger like a drunken bum
through the labyrinths of my life
or I'll sit and still and stare and disappear
to a place devoid of fear

Sweet Sister Ray

There is something romantic to me about degradation and self-destruction so it only makes sense that Sister Ray by The Velvet Underground stands as one of the greatest works of noise-poetry ever conceived and recorded. Coming out of Lou Reed's methedrine laced street smarts and John Cale's training as a deconstructor of musical forms Sister Ray stands as the apocalyptic east coast counterpart to the Grateful Dead's Dark Star.

FINISH THIS WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE SCHOOLWORK YOU FOOL!!!!!

stagnation

I have little to say these days. My mood has been nihilistic and uninspired; I guess you can say my life isn't at the point where I'm burning with passion and excitement.

Living in this culture that fuels rampant greed and narcissism depresses me and I can see how it's leaking into my own self. I don't have any great ideas on how to fix it, in fact I'm completely clueless and nothing that's been proposing to me has warranted much other than laughter from me. My idealism of the past has been replaced by a lazy and jaded attitude that sees little hopes in dreams of a utopian future.

A utopian future doesn't even interest me anymore - such a thing seems more dull and oppressive than the capitalist tyranny we have now - no suffering? no incentive to rebel? Suffering and rebellion are essential to all human creativity that isn't pure scientific and technological progress. A world without suffering sounds desolate and simply boring, a greyscale pleasure prison.

The angst and alienation I feel is typical, I realize this. I don't have any delusions of individuality and uniqueness like I used to, I'm just another anonymous voice helpless whispering into the collective information network of the human race.

Why it is important Spacemen 3 came into my life and why they should be part of yours

Spacemen 3 came into my life before I ever experienced the novelty of chemically enhanced consciousness or understood the merit of numbing minimalism in music. Naive and close-minded, I was enamored by the bloated excess and pristine production values of 70's prog rock. Knowing little about music outside of these parameters I was in need of a savior to open the aesthetic floodgates and allow me to escape the slavery of complexity and pretention. Jason Pierce and Peter Kember, along with the brave travelers they took along for the ride served this role. So when I ended up with a copy of 'The Perfect Prescription' on my hardrive because of a comparison to Hawkwind (a band I still adore) it was the beginning of a new era.

Hearing the endorphin releasing fuzztone of 'Take Me To the Other Side' for the first time provided me with a high that I still chase to this day. Admittedly I didn't fully understand the music - it sounded like static compared to the elaborate prog symphonies I was absorbed in at the time - but nonetheless the feelings I felt were transcendent. From this moment on I came to the realization that you could make a masterpiece from only one chord and that Keith Emerson was a cunt.

'Walking With Jesus' came next and was possibly my first exposure to junk-induced nihilism. A rumination of the nature of sin and salvation, Jason Pierce tells us he's "found heaven on Earth" and is going to "burn for his sin" but finds solace in the fact that he'll "have good company down there with all my friends". For a young man in midst of an intense confusion about religion these words helped put a rest to intense internal dialogue in my head like they were a shot of heroin itself. 'Walking With Jesus' is an apt metaphor comparing the highs of opiates to the void filling nature of religion. It was clear which of the two they preferred, giving their music a quality of edginess as well as darkness. This was before I heard The Velvet Underground or read Burroughs and the deadpan skag addict aesthetic was slightly disturbing to me but also fascinating.

'The Perfect Prescription' became an object of obsession. It was foreign sounding because of it's minimalism but it's experimental nature and mind-manisfesting qualities appealed to the prog nerd I was. 'Ecstasy Symphony' was a journey through the psychedelic realms of the mind, an exercise in Eno-esque ambiance that melded together with a cover of The Red Krayola's 'Transparent Radiation'. 'Feel So Good' and 'Come Down Easy' were stoned folk anthems for the desolate and depraved seeking redemption. 'Call the Doctor' is a meditative look into the world of addiction and the despair the came with it, telling an unresolved tale of an overdose. "You better throw away the spoon, and all the other dirty things.." This music was real and direct, not lost in pretention and fantasy.

At first Spacemen 3 sounded like no other band I knew of. I soon discovered that they were fairly, if not extremely, derivative of past influences. 'Come Down Easy' was basically a perverted version of an old blues song, 'Ode To Street Hassle' was completely ripped off of an old Lou Reed tune called 'Street Hassle' and this was only the beginning. The minimalistic rawness was already achieved by The Velvets, Stooges and MC5 and so was the nihilism. Originality is often the sole quality that some seriously value in music and to some this was something the Spacemen took little stock in. However I see these 'rip-offs' as a tribute to the mastery of their influences and a revelation of how musical innovation truly happens in rock'n'roll. The truth is that all bands regarded as groundbreaking base their sound on past influences and mutate them into something "new". True originality, as defined by complete separation from the past, is simply impossible. Others who took the same influences as came to the conclusion of punk, whereas Spacemen 3 came up with something similar in spirit but far more sonically diverse.

Spacemen 3's debut 'Sound of Confusion', like most other debut albums, revelled in the bands influences more than any other album. Even more minimalistic than The Perfect Prescription, Sound of Confusion dealt in noise drenched mantras that sounded like The Stooge's debut except even more strung out and willing to abuse feedback. The song 'O.D. Catastrophe' is basically 'T.V. Eye' with different lyrics and 'Little Doll' is a straight Stooges cover. While the pristine and celestial moments that would be produced on future albums were missing there was hint of the spiritual nature of the band to come in the song 'Hey Man', which hypnotically glides between two heavily distorted notes while Jason tells us "I don't mind dying lord, I don't mind dying lord, I don't mind dying but I can't let my mother cry." This is gospel for the suicidal and nihilistic who are begging to find peace of mind in a world gone mad, only find more of the sickness in religion.

The transition in sound from Sound of Confusion to the Perfect Prescription proved Spacemen 3 to be a promising band, capable of developing their sound while still being grounded in a rich tradition of musical minimalism for the sake of raw power. Playing With Fire delivered on this promise even more and almost sounds like nothing else to come before hand. Peter Kember called it "the refining point of a lot of my theories on minimalism being maximalism, 'hypno-monontony' (consciousness change via repetition)". More electronics became a part of the picture and production was more involved, even strings being used in parts. But Playing With Fire was far from a sell-out of any kind, but a perfection of the ethereal and spacey sound the band was pursuing. There was still rawness abound; 'Revolution' which is the closest the album comes to another detroit proto-punk ripoff was raw enough to inspire a Mudhoney cover. 'Suicide', which is a tribute to the band of the same name, takes their formula of incessantly primitive drum machine rhythms and distorted organs to an ecstatic height of blissed-out spacerock mayhem. However for the most part Playing With Fire is reserved and meditative - the gospel and folk blues roots of the band are fully revealed but put in a totally modern context. There is also a sense of uptopianism in some of the lyrics, a sort of separation from the nihilism of the past. We hear a calling for revolution and a promise that "we could make love and live as one". On Playing With Fire, Spacemen 3 ascend to the heavens and reach a height that sets a standard for all bands with cosmic intentions to come afterwards.

After Playing With Fire, the next two recordings to come have a controversial nature amongst fans. 'Dreamweapon: An Evening of Contemporary Sitar Music' sees the band taking their minimalism to an extreme. Inspired by the proto-Velvet Underground avant-garde classical collective the Dream Syndicate and Brian Eno's vast ambient landscapes, Dreamweapon is essentially 40 minutes of droning performed live. To some this was an exercise in extreme self-indulgence, but within the reverberating echoes of the drone is an essential aspect of Spacemen 3's sound being explored to it's full potential. Being high out of one's skull certainly helps, but if the listener simply surrenders to the void contained within the drone a new musical world is revealed.

Recurring is the final recording of Spacemen 3 and sees the group divided because of personal conflicts. The first side is entirely compositions by Kember, the second entirely Pierce. The separation of the two seemed to somewhat weaken the band, but rather than being a forced collaboration between the two, Recurring is a collection of great songs from both talents that shows their individual influences. Kember's side is far more electronic and drone oriented, even approaching Acid House with the ecstasy anthem 'Big City'. Pierce expands on the blues and gospel influences of the past, creating his own fair share of masterpieces such as 'When Tomorrow Hits' and 'Hypnotized'. While there are fewer sheer masterpieces to be found on Recurring, by no means is it a weak album. It is a parting of ways for the duo, as well a preview of what is to come in future from their respective side projects.

Spacemen 3 prove to be a band of contradictions. Derivative of past influences but with a radical approach, drug addled yet reverent, this is music that portrays both the grit of the streets and the beauty of the cosmic depths. It is part of an important tradition of music that covers everything from the spirituals hymns of slaves to the raw power of punk rock and should be heard by all who value the quality of authenticity in music.

this could be a cool beginning to a book

i wake up and the day begins, contrary to what I would prefer. it's time to take responsibility and care about things, no longer time to aimlessly wander the subconscious. however i have it my ambition to behave in the same way i do in the waking state of conscious consensus reality as i do in the dream state. I live in a haze, a cloud that filters out sensible logic and leaves me only with the abstractions and absurdities and none of the clarity.

fast and bulbous

talking bout' that old time religion
in that spaceage bluesman voice
a tin teardrop
tells a story
of dropouts in disgrace

they make babies
boogieing like beelzebub
through bomb shelters and poppie fields
smiling at prostitutes and businessmen making deals

peaceniks that talk bout' politics and idolize the
old farts sinking in the swamp
their little eyes wide open
unfocused and electric

their main man is a mysterious old wizard
with an ashstray heart shaped like a antelopes gizzard
he shouts rhetoric,
rules for living
and casting spells
for creating heaven and abolishing hell
but the children of the revolution know all too well;

life's better in high society
than in a cell

but that don't drain them
of their endless complainin'
and nothing can stop the stop the sound
of the animal blues
that the madman is playin'

listening to the theatre of eternal music

those endless echoeng sounds of pain and terror
creaking in the old cellar, coming out in the morbid night
they speak the minds of the disillusioned and disturbed
never stopping, never ceasing
relentless and infernal like the fires of discontent
that burn in the mind of the sun
and torture the sinners in hell

but sometimes a voice of beauty arises in the malestrom
and rises to speak a tale of redemption
we listen with our always almost shut
knowing that soon enough the morbid truth will be revealed

since when was optimism not a joke?

can we hope to find a truth that will not drive us insane?
maybe not, maybe we're doomed to wallow in this idiotic death trip

but either way we linger on
and in the back of the mind the orchestra plays
screaming, shouting, droning and droning and droning
that mad infernal noise
that damages the ears
yet leaves the mind devoid of pain

depressing

‎"I woke up this morning with a damaged brain, you tried to comfort but only worsened the pain. No lover could help me escape this life, only the love of death's sweet knife. But regardless you spoke in ways to lift my spirit but my soul is empty with no ears to hear it. If there's something to live for it surely aint love and there's surely no heaven waiting above. Live life in sin and hope it feels good, your bodies as worthless as rotting wood."- some guy i met at a gas station

lovers of life are worshippers of death

someday i'll get some peace and quiet,

but for now i'll settle for the beautiful terror of noise.

for peace and quiet is the bidding of the old -

the ones with only absolute silence to live for,

who fear the vices of the youth

which make love as their bodies decay

they march with tranquillity,

deeper and deeper

into that strangely familiar place;

the void,

that hole we've been digging for oh so long

do I follow them?

why of course,

for the noise begins to disgust me -

these days my eyes prefer to be closed,

my mind my heart and my mouth as well.

but soon the silence begins to manifest,

the static fading further and further into the atmosphere -

it becomes apparent

i am at the end of my life and i have chosen this,

not some governor of the soul or depraved virus within.

the true terror lies within the silence,

the sound of the coldest of truths being revealed;

i listen carefully and

i stop marching in this pathetic parade and

i quiet the voices in my head

and i listen carefully

the noise is there;

it always will be

if only it was this simple

all i want to do

is offer some new ideas to people

and provoke some thought

if i can do that then i'm satisfied with my life

yet another synchronicity....

So I've always had a fascination with Charles Manson. As far as serial killers are concerned he's probably the coolest one. Using a combination of scientology, LSD, and sexual prowess he was able to turn his flower children into murderers with a lust for blood. He represented the evil lurking within the counterculture, the dark side of letting ones spirit run free to do whatever it pleased. His face, with it's piercing eyes and goofy grin, staring at me hypnotically and urging me to violently unleash my id, is a face I will never forget.

I've just been getting into the music of Charles Manson, and I honestly don't know why it has taken me this long. I always knew he had an album of psychedelic folk released on ESP records (one of my favorite record labels), but for some strange reason I didn't check it out until recently. So I finally downloaded and listened to his album 'LIE: Love and Terror Cult' and naturally loved it. Beyond the general novelty appeal of the record it's a prime example of California psychedelic folk-rock and the evil lurking within makes it even more fascinating.

Last night I was flipping through channels on TV in stoned haze with some friends and we came across a TV show on Fox where a mom and a dad are talking to their college aged son. For some reason we stopped and started to pay attention. The parents are talking to him and he brings up Charles Manson. Then the mom says "ya know Charles Manson made some good music. I listened to his album and it's not bad". The weird thing about this is that I had said the exact same thing less than 10 minutes before. The fact that the R. Crumb Mr. Natural (one of my favorite cult icons ever) was for some reason on the kid's shirt made it even more and personal. All I could think about was how one of my teachers said that everything to see on TV or in the movie is there on purpose.

Maybe this is a sign that I need to seriously start a psychedelic cult and kill some rich people.

some thoughts

Overwhelming urges of violence with no healthy outlet can be dangerous.

Especially with those who have fanatical and dogmatic belief systems that lead to ideological and sexual repression.

The masses cannot be repressed for too long before it has dangerous consequences.

Often fanatics are so blinded and enslaved by their ideology that they cannot understand the world outside of it. Every aspect of their thinking is dominated by it to a point where they do not realize it.

Our own modern American culture contains elements of this. There are ideas that are so locked within our culture and engrained in our consciousness from birth that we can't think beyond them. In fact we see them as part of the natural order of the universe.

For example, our modern gender roles of masculine and feminine are so ingrained in our way of thinking we see them as the result of biology rather than social construct. It is the same for race.

love poem for the apocalypse part 3

though death may greet me at any moment,
everything is alright
and everything is ok

for the blood that runs as my circuitry
the cerebral lightning that defines my perceptions
and the chemical change that gives me direction
need not last forever

but within the thoughts that slowly crawl
through my bespectacled head
there exists these creatures
with lives eternal

experiences -
priceless!, says the wisest man i have known.
those fleeting images and feelings of exploding moments
that tantalize the senses -
they define this tattered world as I know it,
with illusions that fool me and drive me mad
defining reality as it is known

memories -
those hazy windows to the shattered and incomprehensible past
those old hags that sit around and moan about sexual dysfuntion
those burned out angels that talk to themselves, lost in space,
whose memories are curiously missing or incomprehensible
they bring you up and
bring you down and they pointlessly shove you around -
they are the living dead
roaming around your ghost town mind

divinations -
whether soothsaying based on the meaningless zodiac
or mere anxiety of what lies ahead,
we foolishly claw at the void of mystery
only to sacrifice it's majesty
wallowing in puddles of empty superstition,
looking to prophets and seers rather than the all knowing now;
attempts to see what lies ahead
only leave us nauseated and braindead

but let me tell you my friends, the end-times are here
they're happening right now,
they're more than just near

we're either cowboys indians or monks
and we can't stop living our roles
still reading from that moldy old script
that we fished out of the lake before the sewage cleared

we're wasting our time,
contemplating loudly and obnoxiously
in our costumes of pride and esteem.
all pomp and circumstance, no spontaneity,
we claim to carry the truth and strive to guide the masses

but we only end up bored
dead,
diseased and
devoid of pleasure,
creating vast expectations that only separate us from the moment,
building temples of doom and industry that satisfy our need for inhumane stimulation

self destruction is how we respond -
we pursue annihilation in the name of escaping this mess,
romanticizing degradation and
writing poetry and punk rock songs
in our attempts to understand
and finally come to terms with
the emptiness that lies at hand

but don't shout, don't scatter, don't think these things truly matter
please don't worry
don't worry bout' a thing;

please don't worry about the voices in your head
please don't worry that god is dead
please don't worry about the feds at your door
please don't worry about nuclear war
please don't worry about the stock market crash
please don't worry about the radiation flash
please don't worry about neurological disease
please don't worry about existential unease
please don't worry about getting to heaven
and please don't worry about going to hell

please,
just have no fear
for the end-times
are finally here

creatures of pure id

creatures of pure id
on the road to disturbed braindeath
their mania only fueled by promises of empty pleasure
debauchery is all that makes sense
they live within us and scream in our moments of boredom,
they try to hide in our moments of pride

so many of us scared to death
by the thought of losing it all to the malice of the Earth

so many of us apathetic
to the thought that it's all up to us if we want to save it

so many of us
have nothing to live for but the self and it's glorification

so many
minds
and
so many
bodies

separated by the machinery of industry

if we look to the stars and stare
we're either terrified or amazed or simply bored
confused and disoriented,
led to a narcotic rampage till the day they die

trying so hard to make sense of what can't be understood
trying so hard just to have something to live for

and when it all falls away the world turns to a violent brothel rather than a temple of peace

liberation, what does that mean to most?
to have the freedom to live selfishly and without regard to others
to endlessly indulge in however way they wish

but to me that's not liberation
that's the most cruel form of slavery yet
to be enslaved by the disgusting follies of the self

aesthetics

a science fiction dream
of mysterious planets and life forms exotic
where the madman wizard rants his bogus mystical philosophy
and the ancient death band plays
for hours and hours and infinities
with their endless jams of droned out confusion
confusion is the music they play
like a hypnotized folk singer
drunk on anarchism and idealism
yelling at squares and they huddle on by in the streets
eating from dumpsters and
raiding the culture of all it's dying of
no one holds back their most poisonous words
there's a savage nuclear war in all our heads
that's spreading through the air all night long
jazz music is nonsense
so is poetry
there's no more need to talk
silence will save us from the horror of language
we rot away in our own cubicles while floating in space for the rest of eternity
kept alive by machines
mankind will sacrifice it's humanity to any means as long as it can survive
but that's only logical
and logic is the only thing you can trust
do you trust logic? it's usually the most sensible thing to do
but when boredom comes logic is an obstacle to liberation
and who can blame me for wanting liberation?
some moments so intense
some so pointless
but all might as well be the same

the sun

AAAhhhhh, the sun, the astral being that defines our human timescale. The radiance and energy provided by the sun has caused it to become an object of worship. It has been my opinion that it makes more sense to worship the sun that it does to worship a god or gods. However the beauty of the sun is that it provides to us regardless of our reverence. It has no intelligence (that we know of or can be expressed to us) yet has created the conditions under which intelligence can exist.