re: death, the afterlife, and necromantic illumination
( the author claims no liability for the accuracy, efficacy, or integrity contained in the following musings )
I ruled out the possibility of posthumous passing all too prematurely which is proof positive of my incompetence in this providence.
And given the extravagant seance required to animate your atrophied muscles with enough vitality to raise that desensitized corpse of your remains from lethargic bliss in boxer briefs atop your convertible coffin-esk box-spring mattress modestly condemned to a claustrophobic corner of some cozy mausoleum of motionlessness you've mistaken for bed chambers.
Life is quite the peculiar experience, as any rational bastard would agree, filled with unknowable enigmatic mysteries, eerily karmic reversals of fortune, and vapid cynical religiosity all too casually written off as by-products of perception. But death is an even more peculiar animal altogether. It's just too bad no one gets out alive to tell their tale, bid us caution, or offer advice on the safest route to travel. Or have they?
I realize, with the preceding rhetorical interrogative in place, this begins to sound like another stereotypical monologue setting-up the premise cycle for some half-assed documentary on the supernatural, but sadly it's not. It's not even a parody of one. It's just an oblique op-ed on some unspecified topic of the author's choosing. The self-indulgent prick has no lingual filter to speak of he'll start in on general relativity any second now.
When already complex life and death matters are back-lit by the fundamental principles which describe how time is relevant to motion it makes them seem even more inherently difficult to describe.
As I'm sure the majority of you have already figured out on your own, 45 seconds can seem like an eternity depending on the company you keep, the environment you inhabit, the psycho-emotional or neuro-chemical state you're currently undergoing, so on and so forth.
Your subsequent awareness of the passage of time alters accordingly as though a figment of your collective unconscious were brought to the surface by ecstatic catharsis or encephalitic cataplexy.
For the sake of bandwidth we'll avoid discussing the resultant fixture of consciousness inspired by achieving allegedly 'divine' gnosis.
Stepping down off the pulpit of persuasion for one farewell performance finale staring into the darkness of the abyss wherever charges roam, the gaunt glamor-cynics gather at the gloaming guild of glass-gazers
Honored only by momentary amnesty and the promise of eventual anonymity, the average civilian will scarcely be a footnote in family history nevermind attaining notoriety in any manner aside from the paragraph printed in the local paper's obituary.
So, whenever passing the sites of funerary rites or gliding in your gas guzzler past grave yards or mopeding past mortuaries on your muscle scooter pay homage to those residing on the other side since they died without telling us what they saw of the brief hereafter with the last lungful of air in their final breath.
Remember well to remind them in casual prayer of the radiant raucousness in our remedial revelry.
We all, present for our loss of you, seated in synchronous sonority do solemnly apologize for your subjugation to the senseless grief and witless banter that is surely coming from this cross-section of witnesses whispers, whining whimpers, whistling fixtures, uncaring alcoholic wankers, wi-fi waves, and the unwashed works.
Whether your remains end up as a cold cadaver in a casket claiming countless acres vital to low-cost housing, chalky dust in a dixie cup scattered amidst the mighty Susquehanna, or rocket-propelled near-earth orbiting space debris I feel it incumbent upon me to proclaim with utmost sincerity that you needn't worry how your physical meat-husk is treated because it is no longer of any use to you whatsoever.
However your abandoned vessel does hold importance to necromancers, vodouists, and experimental renegade hedge-mages of all sorts, as well as grave-robbers. It possesses no real importance to those you've left behind except for superficial lachrymal bereavement purposes as some sort of symbolic anchor to your former life. Far be it from me to diminish the power of layman grief rituals since any form of comforting solace is worth its weight in funerary costs.
Not everyone is as spiritually connected to the afterlife as I happen to fancy myself, but let me be clear that the atavistic throwbacks embodying my departed ancestors are not for sale at any price. Nor does my connection to them exist for anyone's amusement, entertainment, financial gain, oracular exploitation, or feigned predictive powers.
Before I found the means by which to contact them they've popped up unexpectedly at various points in my life as audible (seldom visible) apparitions derived from momentary lapses into psi-nostalgic throes of involuntary trance-induced post-mortem evocation, or from dream-based walkabouts through some immense astral necropolis constructed of undefiled genetic memory.
These past bloodlines manifest as voices in my mind's ear up to and including recently deceased relatives who now make themselves known to me on this corporeal realm from the subtlest dimensional continuum. The random radicality of ecto-phosphoryl transfer advances their ability to confer, counsel, and co-mingle with ulterior forms of non-biological matter with the least mass and the lowest density such as writing utensils, etc.
While my own personal degree of perception and the behavioral limits of my will power are dictated, with blunt indifference, by ingested chemical assistance. In simplest terms they transmit from death in accordance with the limits of the receiver's own unique biological longevity, or brevity as the case may be, to exit this earth interred within it, at one with it, or worse.
So, whether you've been buried, burnt, or blown beyond the upper atmosphere it's plausible enough to assume that you won't be attending my bruncheons, birthday parties, or bridal showers any longer and insofar it's off the guest list you go tracing parallel lines of redundancy across the six-faced threshold-less golden gates in purgatory's palace.
I ruled out the possibility of posthumous passing all too prematurely which is proof positive of my incompetence in this providence.
And given the extravagant seance required to animate your atrophied muscles with enough vitality to raise that desensitized corpse of your remains from lethargic bliss in boxer briefs atop your convertible coffin-esk box-spring mattress modestly condemned to a claustrophobic corner of some cozy mausoleum of motionlessness you've mistaken for bed chambers.
Life is quite the peculiar experience, as any rational bastard would agree, filled with unknowable enigmatic mysteries, eerily karmic reversals of fortune, and vapid cynical religiosity all too casually written off as by-products of perception. But death is an even more peculiar animal altogether. It's just too bad no one gets out alive to tell their tale, bid us caution, or offer advice on the safest route to travel. Or have they?
I realize, with the preceding rhetorical interrogative in place, this begins to sound like another stereotypical monologue setting-up the premise cycle for some half-assed documentary on the supernatural, but sadly it's not. It's not even a parody of one. It's just an oblique op-ed on some unspecified topic of the author's choosing. The self-indulgent prick has no lingual filter to speak of he'll start in on general relativity any second now.
When already complex life and death matters are back-lit by the fundamental principles which describe how time is relevant to motion it makes them seem even more inherently difficult to describe.
As I'm sure the majority of you have already figured out on your own, 45 seconds can seem like an eternity depending on the company you keep, the environment you inhabit, the psycho-emotional or neuro-chemical state you're currently undergoing, so on and so forth.
Your subsequent awareness of the passage of time alters accordingly as though a figment of your collective unconscious were brought to the surface by ecstatic catharsis or encephalitic cataplexy.
For the sake of bandwidth we'll avoid discussing the resultant fixture of consciousness inspired by achieving allegedly 'divine' gnosis.
Stepping down off the pulpit of persuasion for one farewell performance finale staring into the darkness of the abyss wherever charges roam, the gaunt glamor-cynics gather at the gloaming guild of glass-gazers
Honored only by momentary amnesty and the promise of eventual anonymity, the average civilian will scarcely be a footnote in family history nevermind attaining notoriety in any manner aside from the paragraph printed in the local paper's obituary.
So, whenever passing the sites of funerary rites or gliding in your gas guzzler past grave yards or mopeding past mortuaries on your muscle scooter pay homage to those residing on the other side since they died without telling us what they saw of the brief hereafter with the last lungful of air in their final breath.
Remember well to remind them in casual prayer of the radiant raucousness in our remedial revelry.
We all, present for our loss of you, seated in synchronous sonority do solemnly apologize for your subjugation to the senseless grief and witless banter that is surely coming from this cross-section of witnesses whispers, whining whimpers, whistling fixtures, uncaring alcoholic wankers, wi-fi waves, and the unwashed works.
Whether your remains end up as a cold cadaver in a casket claiming countless acres vital to low-cost housing, chalky dust in a dixie cup scattered amidst the mighty Susquehanna, or rocket-propelled near-earth orbiting space debris I feel it incumbent upon me to proclaim with utmost sincerity that you needn't worry how your physical meat-husk is treated because it is no longer of any use to you whatsoever.
However your abandoned vessel does hold importance to necromancers, vodouists, and experimental renegade hedge-mages of all sorts, as well as grave-robbers. It possesses no real importance to those you've left behind except for superficial lachrymal bereavement purposes as some sort of symbolic anchor to your former life. Far be it from me to diminish the power of layman grief rituals since any form of comforting solace is worth its weight in funerary costs.
Not everyone is as spiritually connected to the afterlife as I happen to fancy myself, but let me be clear that the atavistic throwbacks embodying my departed ancestors are not for sale at any price. Nor does my connection to them exist for anyone's amusement, entertainment, financial gain, oracular exploitation, or feigned predictive powers.
Before I found the means by which to contact them they've popped up unexpectedly at various points in my life as audible (seldom visible) apparitions derived from momentary lapses into psi-nostalgic throes of involuntary trance-induced post-mortem evocation, or from dream-based walkabouts through some immense astral necropolis constructed of undefiled genetic memory.
These past bloodlines manifest as voices in my mind's ear up to and including recently deceased relatives who now make themselves known to me on this corporeal realm from the subtlest dimensional continuum. The random radicality of ecto-phosphoryl transfer advances their ability to confer, counsel, and co-mingle with ulterior forms of non-biological matter with the least mass and the lowest density such as writing utensils, etc.
While my own personal degree of perception and the behavioral limits of my will power are dictated, with blunt indifference, by ingested chemical assistance. In simplest terms they transmit from death in accordance with the limits of the receiver's own unique biological longevity, or brevity as the case may be, to exit this earth interred within it, at one with it, or worse.
So, whether you've been buried, burnt, or blown beyond the upper atmosphere it's plausible enough to assume that you won't be attending my bruncheons, birthday parties, or bridal showers any longer and insofar it's off the guest list you go tracing parallel lines of redundancy across the six-faced threshold-less golden gates in purgatory's palace.