(no subject)
Shit.
Perhaps this should have started with a dear diary, or some other inane form of salutation. But think of these words as a direct manifestation of my fingers running away with one souls thoughts. And I apologise if this is filled with banalities but how one dances, perhaps even sings when one thinks nobody is watching perhaps captures some finer value that would otherwise never have been unveiled.
But far be it for me to attribute any material value to the casual collision of a few words and pauses, if I can just find something that approximates a rhythm in this writing, perhaps the ebbs and tides of it all could help me breathe.
And where the full stop rests, I've exhaled, only to be picked up again by a sharp intake of vowels and consonants. Cool? Perhaps Icy? Were it the case - I could wax poetically about some cool mountain stream, the dynamics of melted glaciers or the purity of fjords as a some inane metaphor for the relief that writing brings.
Alas, this is not such an occasion. The words come haltingly. The curious mismatched combinations of letters appear to me as some foreign transmission. I'm running away with the thoughts as quickly as I can. With every breath I try and push out another phrase, another sentence. But never a complete thought. Somewhere in this I'm a small child lost in the woods. A broken artist lost amongst the skyscrapers of New York. Or even Socrates in a phone box.
But even these ludicrous notions fail to provide any comfort as I type maniacally in search for some form of absolution. For it is absolution that I seek. Surely it must be absolution. Why for else would I have taken centre stage in some community theatre production of some Dionysian tragedy with no script. Shit. I think. The script had called for a Hera not a Hestia! Damn it Janet!
Lasek it is then, and perhaps my vision *COULD* be split into. The one eye that sees, and the other that sees also. Split neatly in two like a confused herd of orators amongst a string of ideas. Ho! Hey! A string indeed. But a string no more, when I've collapsed across dimensions. If I hold tight onto this end and I shouted loudly enough perhaps you would have heard me. Or perhaps not have hurt me, in one of those other places that we so often here about.
In another place. Another time and another existence.
In practice -
somewhere out there, it never played out like this
somewhere out there - past time, untouched by gravity
We are nothing. Perhaps the total sum of all of our experiences across all our dimensions total 0. A big fat zero. My inner librarian throws out some past notion of 1=0 like it was in the days before you stepped in. Days punctuated by DMT's influence.
Where Peter Carrol and Ginsberg are fucking in some masochistic homosexual dash to a a singular end. Oh and fucking they are while I'm clawing at my minds eye. The pineal gland is bloated not engorged. No fuck no.
Even as the universe breathes around me, and she blows kisses in my ear every breath kills me. Every blink blinds me. Where the al-kemia of old collides with the laws of the Ancient. Where the serpent rises from groins to rest on the crown. These ludicrous visions of paramedics with serpents faces in their little vans as they hover over me with a defibrillator and all I can see is the truth. So I claimed as Asclepius blurred and in it I saw the illusion of man.
And because she'd wanted to be marked by the never-ending beauty of Cerberus. And the weight of the human condition forced me to my knees and everywhere I looked Caudecus unravelled before me. Both serpents both truths.
So I ask you how could it have come to this?
I'm listening but I can't hear. or I won't hear? Or perhaps there's nothing to hear?
Perhaps in when you keep running around in the dark you'll eventually stumble over the truth. And no - that I passed on that fated(?) wine. Perhaps perhaps perhaps perhaps perhaps.
Perhaps Bernard - "running a small, quirky taverna in Sicily. Maybe we would have married the local twins instead of wasting each other's time in this dump. But it was not to be. So, hop it"
Past the psycological elevenses of Chandler, when one is walking the happy path ask yourself - during the War, did you let something die. Because those marks on the calendar they say its alright. It says when 60 days of breath and sleep pass. There's a ball. Beause the pain of the shoes we're wearing goes away.
Remember. After 60 days there's a ball in one's honor. Flowers from above, courtesans from all over the land arrive and the band strikes up. All in your honor. And the honor?
Oh snap.
We're singing it now.
Something did die.
In the pursuit of knowledge we're all standing around the proverbial bus stop. Parroting someone else's ideas the worlds collapsing around us, and we're reduced to nothing but thoughts and intentions. But if you've no thoughts of your own.
Ask yourself this kind Sir.
In the absence of original thought does one cease to exist.
The words wont ever pave the way with gold. And the principals of al-kemia still rewards the one with truest and purist heart with the keys to the Kingdom of God
Perhaps this should have started with a dear diary, or some other inane form of salutation. But think of these words as a direct manifestation of my fingers running away with one souls thoughts. And I apologise if this is filled with banalities but how one dances, perhaps even sings when one thinks nobody is watching perhaps captures some finer value that would otherwise never have been unveiled.
But far be it for me to attribute any material value to the casual collision of a few words and pauses, if I can just find something that approximates a rhythm in this writing, perhaps the ebbs and tides of it all could help me breathe.
And where the full stop rests, I've exhaled, only to be picked up again by a sharp intake of vowels and consonants. Cool? Perhaps Icy? Were it the case - I could wax poetically about some cool mountain stream, the dynamics of melted glaciers or the purity of fjords as a some inane metaphor for the relief that writing brings.
Alas, this is not such an occasion. The words come haltingly. The curious mismatched combinations of letters appear to me as some foreign transmission. I'm running away with the thoughts as quickly as I can. With every breath I try and push out another phrase, another sentence. But never a complete thought. Somewhere in this I'm a small child lost in the woods. A broken artist lost amongst the skyscrapers of New York. Or even Socrates in a phone box.
But even these ludicrous notions fail to provide any comfort as I type maniacally in search for some form of absolution. For it is absolution that I seek. Surely it must be absolution. Why for else would I have taken centre stage in some community theatre production of some Dionysian tragedy with no script. Shit. I think. The script had called for a Hera not a Hestia! Damn it Janet!
Lasek it is then, and perhaps my vision *COULD* be split into. The one eye that sees, and the other that sees also. Split neatly in two like a confused herd of orators amongst a string of ideas. Ho! Hey! A string indeed. But a string no more, when I've collapsed across dimensions. If I hold tight onto this end and I shouted loudly enough perhaps you would have heard me. Or perhaps not have hurt me, in one of those other places that we so often here about.
In another place. Another time and another existence.
In practice -
somewhere out there, it never played out like this
somewhere out there - past time, untouched by gravity
We are nothing. Perhaps the total sum of all of our experiences across all our dimensions total 0. A big fat zero. My inner librarian throws out some past notion of 1=0 like it was in the days before you stepped in. Days punctuated by DMT's influence.
Where Peter Carrol and Ginsberg are fucking in some masochistic homosexual dash to a a singular end. Oh and fucking they are while I'm clawing at my minds eye. The pineal gland is bloated not engorged. No fuck no.
Even as the universe breathes around me, and she blows kisses in my ear every breath kills me. Every blink blinds me. Where the al-kemia of old collides with the laws of the Ancient. Where the serpent rises from groins to rest on the crown. These ludicrous visions of paramedics with serpents faces in their little vans as they hover over me with a defibrillator and all I can see is the truth. So I claimed as Asclepius blurred and in it I saw the illusion of man.
And because she'd wanted to be marked by the never-ending beauty of Cerberus. And the weight of the human condition forced me to my knees and everywhere I looked Caudecus unravelled before me. Both serpents both truths.
So I ask you how could it have come to this?
I'm listening but I can't hear. or I won't hear? Or perhaps there's nothing to hear?
Perhaps in when you keep running around in the dark you'll eventually stumble over the truth. And no - that I passed on that fated(?) wine. Perhaps perhaps perhaps perhaps perhaps.
Perhaps Bernard - "running a small, quirky taverna in Sicily. Maybe we would have married the local twins instead of wasting each other's time in this dump. But it was not to be. So, hop it"
Past the psycological elevenses of Chandler, when one is walking the happy path ask yourself - during the War, did you let something die. Because those marks on the calendar they say its alright. It says when 60 days of breath and sleep pass. There's a ball. Beause the pain of the shoes we're wearing goes away.
Remember. After 60 days there's a ball in one's honor. Flowers from above, courtesans from all over the land arrive and the band strikes up. All in your honor. And the honor?
Oh snap.
We're singing it now.
Something did die.
In the pursuit of knowledge we're all standing around the proverbial bus stop. Parroting someone else's ideas the worlds collapsing around us, and we're reduced to nothing but thoughts and intentions. But if you've no thoughts of your own.
Ask yourself this kind Sir.
In the absence of original thought does one cease to exist.
The words wont ever pave the way with gold. And the principals of al-kemia still rewards the one with truest and purist heart with the keys to the Kingdom of God