the name of the game is the ecstatic mystery cult of the yeti. we gather every third month at midnight on the night of the half moon and we fall into it. we do not speak. we meet at a different place each time. we do not publicize. we are not public. we are not secret. we may be somewhat elitist, but not in the way you think.

once gathered, we circle, engage in fanatic small talk about the weather and other things, and begin. we allow ourselves to be enveloped by the secret rapture which is born in one who truly understands that the yeti both may and may not exist. we are broken the fuck wide open by this saintly, ridiculous miracle.

it is just this simple.

if you do not understand it immediately you do not understand it. period. this is not a gimmick. it is not a men's group. It is not new age. it is not self help. it is not cute. it has the depth to utterly destroy you and then leave you unchanged.

we are a cult, and we are manically focused on burning the yeti into
our very flesh. this and only this.

the metaphysics of membership are such that you can be admitted when you are already a member, or kicked out multiple times without membership. it is a sub-categorization of the DSM VII designation of panhedonia, although more resistant to treatment then, say, Rafi Basket-based panhedonia. It is hopeless and rarefied.

in its ecstasy it is not a sexual orgy, it is something much subtler, much less relational. everyone must face the indeterminacy of the yeti on his own. many who try are unable to induce the trance like altered states that the EMCOY initiates live for. You who are reading are probably unable. you are probably afraid.

there is a recognized difference between having a peak state of communion with the contingency of the yeti's being, and the stage of an actual "becoming of the Yeti" as it is known. This becoming is when you yourself become the space of may or may not. Even Fantisto cannot touch those brave soldiers stationed in the excluded middle.

the EMCOY is academically rigorous and utterly silent. the cognitive and affective paralysis/release of those under the spell of the cryptid snow beast is part of the reason the first issue of the journal of postcryptozoological studies lies in perpetual waiting.

once you have, in a single instant, both seen and not seen the yeti which may or may not exist, there is no turning back. it is final. it is not final.

upon the formation of the journal of postcryptozoological studies we were sure we were joking. Hans called it a "sort of academic sleight of hand, a parlor trick, nothing to be afraid of.' we were sure we had everything under control. the feeling has eroded. we are now oscillating between seeing this as a running joke, and seeing it as the key understanding the mysteries of existence, the key to an intense and impure ecstasy. this oscillation itself is non periodic, non representable, and non denumerable. some of us may or may not have already seen the non/existence of the yeti.. some of us may already be ecstatic. The journal has become a spiritual cult, a worldview, and a way of life. We are no longer sure if we are joking. If you think we are serious you are wrong, if you think we are joking you are even further from the mark.

So: it is this radical indeterminacy which forms the core of the possibly existent ecstatic Mystery Cult of the Yeti. it is only this.

i am (not) in agreement with these words.
you may (not/never) join.