numbers

Ultimate reality is best expressed by numbers.
The numbers are living things, having power in themselves.
What are the relations between the numbers?
The numbers represent the father, mother, son, and daughter.

Voice

There is a voice from inside that has its origin from outside the self.

human suffering 25.13

25.13

We are responding to our trauma, to our being used as an instrument. We do not leave the battlefield unscarred. Their blood is upon our shoulders, as we piled the dead high up to heaven. We didn’t know what we were doing. It took me seven years of living with you before I really understood what was happening. It was like I stepped out of a very thick fog. The sunlight shone down upon me for the very first time and I heard angels singing my name. I sat down and mapped it all out, how everything should be done, what words should be said and the way the movements should work together. I could only do what I could do. I could only be the man that I am. I knew and felt that this was my salvation. There was no turning back now, I had burned the bridges behind me and had left a trail of dead bodies. The evidence was mounting against me, but I was still free. They would never find me. I had changed shapes and had been transformed into a new being. They were looking for the old me that was long gone and dead. They were looking for a worm, when I had become a butterfly. The old man had to be killed off, so that the new man could come forward. The old man was left in the darkness as the new man stepped into the light. The new man took the lead; he dove off the deep end. The new man was operating on instincts alone; he follows his impulses, following his heart or his guts. The new man shuts off the clatter of the mind and moves forward into the light of life. The new man acts instead of reacts. He cuts a new path through the jungle. The new man starts his own wars and fights his own fights. He finds another means of expression, an heightened one, struggling to bring out that which is unknown. The old man focuses on that which is known, when the new man focuses on the unknown, the hidden, and the occult.

human suffering 25.12

25.12

Trish is loading my gun. There is a smile upon her face. A cruel smile is the only one she knows. There is a seasoned quality to her hands as she works the mechanism. We were somewhere on the edge of a cornfield near Jesup, Iowa, the drugs are beginning to take hold. I tell Trish that I feel a little light headed and ask her if she felt like driving. She looks at me and opens her moth real wide, impossibly wide and there was this silence that seemed like an eternity. Then came this roar, it came out of her mouth, but its source was far away. It was a roar that might exist in the center of a black hole, as everything gets compacting into one another. Trish had taken her shirt off and was pouring sangria on her chest. “Damn it is hot,” she says and asks me why I’m staring at her. We were head to this special place that was famous for making the best baked potatoes in the world. As I kept driving Trish began to incorporate a magical vocabulary into her speech as she talked about the signs in the sky and what they meant to her and I. She was detailing her higher knowledge of the astral Arcanum when a tire went flat. I sent up smoke signals to Black Elk to send help. I fished a couple of cold beers out of the cooler and we waited for the rescue party. We painted messages on the rocks. We sold bracelets to tourists as they drove by in their ramblers. We set up a tent and watched the stars pass by us. Trish was counting all of the falling stars. Trish contemplated about all the meaningless questions. The mere mechanical process of touching her buttons sharpens my thoughts. There is something going on between me and her body. In a way, her body acts as a stimulus, it is a cooperative thing. I don’t pretend to understand it. We are working in an uncomfortable position. Trish says that the discomfort helps. We have both accepted the fact of our demonic natures. We are always in trouble, with our relationships, with work, with our friends. At times, it seems as if everything is spinning uncontrollably off the face of the earth. Trish thinks it’s bad to think. She is not very good at thinking. She operates from some deep down place that is inside of her, I guess it may be called intuition. She guides her steps by the winds of fate and doesn’t stop to ask why. She is a creature of action, of movement. She is constantly moving at the speed of light. It is impossible for me to keep up with her. She knows what she wants to do, but she doesn’t spend time thinking about how to do it, she does it. If it is not perfect, she doesn’t let that bother her. Trish says that life is not perfect. We use our antennas to hook ourselves up to the currents of the moment. We ride upon the winds of the times. We are intermediaries attaching ourselves to the ghosts and the gods. They whisper sweet nothing into our ears and we have enough good sense to write it down.

human suffering 25.11

25.11

We call the killers beautiful. It happens all the time. There is no need to be afraid. The things of the world pour through Tonya. She feels immobilized and drugged. She spits so the seeds of death will grow as she takes another swig of coca cola. Tonya was working hard at establishing her innocence. I had thrown my hat in the haha. She considered me her oppressor. I would shake her books and count the money that would fall on the floor. She had never seen mountains before. She begged me to stop the car so she could get out and take a good look at them. She was upset when I told her there was no film in the camera, this was before digital cameras. We stopped at a trout fishing spot and had lunch. I read to her a couple of poems from Richard Brautigan as she fidgeted on the blanket. She wanted me to write down all the names of my hookers. She wanted to sew their names into a quilt just like her grandmother did with her grandchildren. Tonya found it hard to sleep. In the morning she would be attacking the shore of the small little beach head. She knew that some of them would be dead, that not every girl would make it back alive. Bonnie was lying flat on her bunk with her eyes closed. She kept telling herself that she would be one of the unlucky ones. She prayed to every god she could think of and to some that she was sure she had made up. Bonnie figured that any god fake or real was just as good as any in a tight situation like this. Tonya was thinking about hard things like if they would be shipping her body home. She wondered if Hugo would remember what her pussy felt like. Tonya told lies to all the other girls about how pretty they were or how one had the grace of a movie star or the voice of a goddess. Bonnie put her trust in Tonya’s lies. The lies, for Bonnie always revealed the pattern. It was the pattern that she put her trust in. The lies were only the vehicle for revealing the pattern. Bonnie says that the pattern is everywhere.

human suffering 25.10

25.10

You lit up your pipe of opium and rubbed up against my leg like a cat. I am reading an article about a poet. I like how at the end they drag his soul through the mud. The writer reminds us that the genius was a sick and perverted fuck. I guess the article wasn’t about the poet but about the writer. You gave off some existential threat as you blew opium smoke rings into the air. There is always more reality than our stomachs can digest. All this talk of the enemy’s infiltration spun circles around your head, a world of endless dirt that always needs to be swept under a rug. At times, you could be all leg bristle with your complicated lips. The anatomy of where hips and thighs come together, magnified, stretched and out of focus, and the hungry mouth from another world, they all come together in you as if sealed together in Reynolds wrap. You stand outside the American hotel handing out coupons. I remember the wino didn’t want to be considered a beat poet. He wants to die in Bonnie’s hair before he discovers that he is all alone. We sat around and talked about all the ugly things in life. The news man doesn’t have a theme song, but he looks like he wants one. She had little titties and large hips. His wife found him in bed, dead with a heart attack. All his juices were drained out of him. The poor little girl couldn’t get out from under him. We thought he was a man, but he was only a muffin, as we stopped listening to his prolific promises. We shelled peas under a hot sun and drank jack and lemonade. Bonnie said a prayer for the growing season, we all said amen. Bonnie’s prayers are always like the words of an angry man, seething with the knowledge that redemption has been lost. She laid there for four hours before his wife came home from work. She said that he had great hands like a god. He made her feel so close to the dirt, so much more than one dimensional.