Gluttonous endpiece of the present
2 microns wide, 6 feet of DNA... if you could show a single cell the whole body it was a part of, wouldn't it already be well-informed from its books of DNA?
What if the single cells were being lied to? "We are part of a tiger in its prime." "Nope. You are part of a dumb old man, who spent his youth working in some of the most unsupervised, economically-stagnant carwashes of America."
ENJOYO SELF!
I'm serious, man. You spent a week on the road seeing people you love, extro-fueled and pure participle. Often longing for the recesses of some spiritually-rural domicile...
Now you need what entailed from every family gathering of your youth: After the big dinner but before the card games, you and the other youngins go to some room to make computer movies, play video games, listen to music, and make crazy holiday cards. While the elders get drunker and drunker... Now I have been drinking whiskey in the tub. I feel warm and relaxed and agree that what the thinker thinks...
YAGH the prover proves, he of the latest book says. (PROMETHEUS RISING by Robert Anton Wilson) I wanted it in 2814, but it was too rare and expensive. Ian said I would like it, since I read the Illuminatus Trilogy. I told myself, someday when I am rich and can spend 60 bucks on a paperback book, sure, I'll learn that material.
I did luck out with The Black Art by Ahmed--can't find that cheap! But I did, I got two copies for a couple of bucks. Occult knowledge is not about creating a world view, it is about definitively discrediting THEIR world view to as good as anything else. See through their symbols, and create as much reality as you can with your mind, hands, and life. Your mind constantly wants to make things for you.
I know. I believe that. Love under will. People make truth, it does not come from some environmental surrounding that knows more, or is more powerful. Those in possession of consciousness have a serious advantage over vast swathes of the universe.
Just embrace an infant's infinity, because you are not going to run out of weekend, Boyo. Be like unto the cat. Bodies in toil of oil! Strive off, baschamps. What other image can exceed the likeness of specific human existence? At 5:30, in Montana, winter darkness, a train chugging by, whiskey from the nose to the bumgut, a cat curled in comatose generation of body heat, and wife cooking borscht and swirling about the kitchen? My eyes tingle with onion upstairs, everything smells cooked and holy, burned and cared for below, and icy, dark, industrial outside with a lemon zest of skeletal trees and a lunar eclipse unseen since the 1400s... the festival is here. Its details have abandoned throngs of dead bodies, lost dialects, and the stifling weight of pure soil. But on top there is interference and reaction: signs of doom as aphrodisiac. Books of pleasure, books of blood, knowledge as the inert barrier between potential and kinetic energy.
Before the tang of the west destroys the earth as a whole, it will succeed in showing humans how to hold the past, access all that is known, and open its eyes to the future. And rap will finally go away, as humans will be able to internalize rhymeless passions, symmetrical and echoing into themselves wordlessly. Troy will catch the football, and tides will fold neatly and place themselves resting in oceanic shelves.
The cat is kinetically hot-resting on my lap, active like a fan in her heat, the rotation of ventricles poisson and velveclamping her meat-rich blood. She is the bone-tooled spirit of heat!
Can you believe how long?... tours have been cancelled, my shows and my couture... We wanted to see Wes Anderson's French Dispatch, perhaps in the fall of 2019? Now it is the fall of 2021, and I am waiting... it is close... December 14, they say, get it online and then you won't get anything else with your experience of this aging filmmaker's Thanksgiving of the soul.
Whereabouts of my Thanksgiving of the Soul, these days I am drunk to say I know. But fuck man, I have to say, if this is the moment, then let it be. A white boy may be charged with a crime, and I may disappear into some eclipse. But Christ, if it's all the same as it always was around here, a lot of people will be smothered in their cries, smothered hope smothered hope... he's talking about killing me/the electric chair... [hideous laughter]
What if the single cells were being lied to? "We are part of a tiger in its prime." "Nope. You are part of a dumb old man, who spent his youth working in some of the most unsupervised, economically-stagnant carwashes of America."
ENJOYO SELF!
I'm serious, man. You spent a week on the road seeing people you love, extro-fueled and pure participle. Often longing for the recesses of some spiritually-rural domicile...
Now you need what entailed from every family gathering of your youth: After the big dinner but before the card games, you and the other youngins go to some room to make computer movies, play video games, listen to music, and make crazy holiday cards. While the elders get drunker and drunker... Now I have been drinking whiskey in the tub. I feel warm and relaxed and agree that what the thinker thinks...
YAGH the prover proves, he of the latest book says. (PROMETHEUS RISING by Robert Anton Wilson) I wanted it in 2814, but it was too rare and expensive. Ian said I would like it, since I read the Illuminatus Trilogy. I told myself, someday when I am rich and can spend 60 bucks on a paperback book, sure, I'll learn that material.
I did luck out with The Black Art by Ahmed--can't find that cheap! But I did, I got two copies for a couple of bucks. Occult knowledge is not about creating a world view, it is about definitively discrediting THEIR world view to as good as anything else. See through their symbols, and create as much reality as you can with your mind, hands, and life. Your mind constantly wants to make things for you.
I know. I believe that. Love under will. People make truth, it does not come from some environmental surrounding that knows more, or is more powerful. Those in possession of consciousness have a serious advantage over vast swathes of the universe.
Just embrace an infant's infinity, because you are not going to run out of weekend, Boyo. Be like unto the cat. Bodies in toil of oil! Strive off, baschamps. What other image can exceed the likeness of specific human existence? At 5:30, in Montana, winter darkness, a train chugging by, whiskey from the nose to the bumgut, a cat curled in comatose generation of body heat, and wife cooking borscht and swirling about the kitchen? My eyes tingle with onion upstairs, everything smells cooked and holy, burned and cared for below, and icy, dark, industrial outside with a lemon zest of skeletal trees and a lunar eclipse unseen since the 1400s... the festival is here. Its details have abandoned throngs of dead bodies, lost dialects, and the stifling weight of pure soil. But on top there is interference and reaction: signs of doom as aphrodisiac. Books of pleasure, books of blood, knowledge as the inert barrier between potential and kinetic energy.
Before the tang of the west destroys the earth as a whole, it will succeed in showing humans how to hold the past, access all that is known, and open its eyes to the future. And rap will finally go away, as humans will be able to internalize rhymeless passions, symmetrical and echoing into themselves wordlessly. Troy will catch the football, and tides will fold neatly and place themselves resting in oceanic shelves.
The cat is kinetically hot-resting on my lap, active like a fan in her heat, the rotation of ventricles poisson and velveclamping her meat-rich blood. She is the bone-tooled spirit of heat!
Can you believe how long?... tours have been cancelled, my shows and my couture... We wanted to see Wes Anderson's French Dispatch, perhaps in the fall of 2019? Now it is the fall of 2021, and I am waiting... it is close... December 14, they say, get it online and then you won't get anything else with your experience of this aging filmmaker's Thanksgiving of the soul.
Whereabouts of my Thanksgiving of the Soul, these days I am drunk to say I know. But fuck man, I have to say, if this is the moment, then let it be. A white boy may be charged with a crime, and I may disappear into some eclipse. But Christ, if it's all the same as it always was around here, a lot of people will be smothered in their cries, smothered hope smothered hope... he's talking about killing me/the electric chair... [hideous laughter]