25.20

25.20

You believe that one day you will be able to find your way, that the fever will break and set you free. I realized long ago that it was freedom that you wanted, but you continue to run head-first into that which enslaves you. Dreaming and swearing and constantly falling in love, it is a never-ending madness. Each drop of medicine only makes you sicker. Can you hear the storm clouds approaching? Hear the noise of the workmen as they build for you your tower? You will climb the stairway to reach god as you hold your lucky charm in your fingers. Reciting prayers that you learned as a child as you climb each step, higher and higher, you believe that magic never lies and that god makes all smiles, but in your heart you know the truth. Tonight you will burn your candles in the tower of your heart and you will worship the worm. You consider the worm to be one of god’s most useful creatures. Like the worm, you were born old, much older than you give away. You are sad and heavy and play the part of the tortured soul very well. Most people don’t realize that it is only an act with you, something that you try on for a season or two. Everyone knows your name as Mr. Crowley, but I know you as a brother. You see the bad before you can see the good. One would think that you were born a Capricorn. In all your evil workings you strive to do the right thing. You want to balance the books of karma. The night falls all around you as we go to dinner. You throw off the grayness of the day like a worn coat or a tattered robe. You are evoking a world of thought and feeling. We are coldly aware of the singular absence that haunts our lives. We hold up our drinks and toast the absence. We drink to the emptiness and to the king of nothing. We are familiar with the emptiness and are intimately aware of the various shades of emptiness that makes up one’s life. Mr. Crowley speaks to the emptiness with a full-throated roar that he was born with. He reminds me of the immense world of emptiness that I am familiar with. The day would be over and I would mingle with the crowds, being both pushed and shoved. I would be both fighting for a life and taking one. I dwelled in the realm of contradiction in the mesmerizing spell of the nothingness. When we have nothing, there is no guide to show us the way, no map to provide direction. All previous treasures mean nothing to us now. Our treasure is in the promise of hopelessness. The glamour has been replaced by seduction.

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 25.6

25.6

There were lines in your reasoning that I could not trace. She is giving me two hours of mumbo jumbo. I wish I could do something about it, maybe create a vaccine. She could dance with the fullness of her womanhood. We sat on our hands and watched the witches dance. They seemed like such pretty little witches. I wondered about their extra nipples. They kicked their legs up high and made attempts to fly. How would they finish? Would they finish at all or would they spin on forever until eternity broke loose from the coils of time? She wants to believe in my smell. I am devoid of purpose, I have become absurd. This world does not make sense, yet the rituals of our lives are very entertaining. We laugh at their utter meaninglessness. You have mistaken me as someone who only wants to wait. You think of me as a gap between though and action. We begin with the living individual and construct our machines of war from these weak materials. You made a life out of fighting against the machine of war. I am a man charging a machine gun nest armed only with a sword. Sometimes life contains aspects that may appear to a rational mind to be absurd. The appearance is only because of ignorance, because of a lack of understanding from the view point of the other. The absurd is that which we do not know of or we do not understand. Is a soldier who throws his body on a grenade being absurd or being very meaningful?

creativity 1.3

1.3

The skull laughs at him. The world is filled with laughter and those making videos on the internet, forms a cavity for the brain slipping through cracks and portals, a second moon, another world, another dimension it stands for the question, the one that has ran away from your brain looking for the woman you have lost. She exists in this other world it could be purely illusion. We all escape into another world from time to time. It is ok to let go and relax, let your mind go. There is always the possibility that you could become lost forever. We are all a little lost. Once you have crossed over the surface of an unknown asteroid it might be possible to reach the unknown. You are speaking of being tossed; you are a tossed salad, a flag or a beach blanket, a bouncing ball. Which one is you? Are you behind door number two? Are you in a play ground with virtual guarantees? Have you been given time to grow? Hear the ghosts of cats and crows-the most experimental controversial contemplative reflective refractive light source, pontificator of the highest honor and of a sound mental beating. You are bloated and puffed up beyond recognition, you inhabit the labial zone.  “Seek and ye shall find.”  A brown mouse broken and betrayed, being of two minds left brain and right brain on the world’s stage.  “Hark who goes there!”  It might be a ghost of our king and then we have more blunders, more lies, more cock waggling in the face of democracy. This is an allegorical world constructed from your childhood symbols. Moon pie is surrendering to the phalanges.  That is right honey; I take all the words out and make them more real for you. Any way, you can cough and scratch and run up the stairs spinning around.

creativity 1.2

1.2

We wrapped her in cellophane and sold her as a piece of meat, a utopian influence reading karl marx and polishing the bullets. A revolution of the working class to deconstruct the machine and then we discover that we have a profound love for the machine putting it back together replacing the chains on our hands, praying for the singularity gas chamber-paris dada-the first heavenly adventure with the queen and a stacked deck of cards. Her panties are around her ankles exposing us to her mesmerizing capabilities. She speaks to the dead stagnation of the movement as the tea party circles their wagons for their cookout on wall street pissed off that they did think of it, gibberish is what we bank on, secured loans that are no longer secure and we want our armies to be efficient killers. Tristan and the bear are dancing on the mountain the old man in his fur coat, as we wind up the electric car, it goes “chug, chug” and puffs a little smoke. Leo where did you go when your country needed you? The most the bearded heart tool time juxtaposition a former student in abstract art, nothing is again our call to moon beams and the electric shackles of industry and promised promiscuity that we dream of in our childhoods of masturbatory highlights-“click, cluck” chicken hot dogs- eat them with a “high five” tooth missing grin.  Lolita with the brown skin and a bicycle ride into the west don’t make this your bible date intervenes on Humbert’s behalf and shares none of his interests. Running away, the hero is beset by reflections focused only on the suffering and despair-metaphorically Herman creates Drustanus from the abbey of Saint gall castle dore and tau cross the bull of the Egyptians francis of Assissi, a personal coat of arms, advent and pope innocent-such a silly name to leave behind you as you walk away into the darkness into the abyss and strangle the lonely crocodile removing the thorn from the lion’s paw.