Maybe after dying we become one of the equations of mathematics, you know, no more pain, not more suffering.
Part of me wants to just be a knower, not a sufferer. What part of me is it that would lose sleep over something that went uncensored in "the scribblings" ? That is the sufferer, the one who, since childhood, has been punished for speaking its Will, or the one who fears, the one who knows not that we are all decaying matter. These symbols coming through to you are structured by the knowing part, but beneath these words? the trembling, frightened animal just returning in from a middle-of-the-night cigarette, the worrying man. Yes, very cold, and bright stars - and a nightmare world of smirking motorists.
There are the torments of vanity, yes. I've witness faces in public which would force the possessor to develop extraordinary philosophical powers of reflection, seeing all of us for what we are, a nightmarish spectacle, as a whole.
What is it about the grotesque which is so repelling?
Also, the smell of the beans after the spectacular animal organism has processed the nutrients.
You see, were something to happen to me, no one in my family, not my mother or sister, would ever know how to, or even care to, preserve the pages I carefully copied before burning.
I am in touch with some deeper parts of myself. The frightened part of me wishes to hide from the world and just get through life unnoticed, as most people do. A great grandmother got me to express myself in writing, and, well, a grandmother told me, before she died, before I left the park service, that she wished I wrote her, or that I at least "find employment that required I use that part of my brain which delights in expressing ideas". Of course, many have encouraged me to "write." Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean!
And there are things people are specific about you NOT writing about: THEM!
Everyone wants you to "write" but nobody wants to be written ABOUT!
It's bullshiit, to be honest. So, fuuck 'em all. Mathematics it is. I'm pretty sure it is and always will be safe to write about mathematics, and even practice applying some theorems.
Not everyone can handle large doses of concentrated cognizance or self-awareness. The grandmother who encouraged me to write may not have approved of what it is I chose to write, after all. How is one to know these things? I did not like being referred to as a natural resource. I did not sign up for the building of the pharaohs' parking lots to sell their Cadillacs. Nor did I sign on to keep Amerika drunk or design drones or smart-phone apps.
The great grandmother [wife of the suicided great grandfather (paternal-paternal), not the Swedish maternal-maternal great grandfather (the one in the photo with hands in pocket)], the one who exchanged cursive handwritten letters with me in my formative years, she would appreciate my response to the world that has been created for us to "BE" in. She did not think highly of this world. Maybe other metaphysical mutations will gain a little insight into their own predicaments should they be exposed to the nature of many of our correspondences.
Maybe this is all just a phantasmagoric memory. Our elders, before they died, may have encouraged us to WRITE, even if what we were to write was NOT going to be pleasant. I don't think either of my grandfathers would have encouraged me to express myself so openly and vocally, certainly not in the reckless manner in which I have gone about conducting myself in this life. I refuse to apologize for a botched experiment of which I am the outcome but played no role in hatching.
I am sorry to say that neither of my grandfathers were outspoken radicals. I would say they were servile scientists, and while my love of mathematics makes me partial to science, I am lacking in servility. If my grandfathers thought to replicate their subservience to the Overlords in my animal body, then it looks like we are having an internal genetic mutiny here. I am not the tool of my grandfathers' masters. I am the result of a biological hoax, so I demand the right to process my reality without feeling obligated to sing praises of Hosana in the Highest.
Rather than "honor thy mother and father," the commandment should read, "Question your mother and father as to what in the Hell they were thinking when they reproduced." What were any of them thinking? Rather than honor my ancestors, I often would prefer to scold them for dragging me into this! The nerve of all the aunts and uncles playing stupid, acting as if they are having a vacation at Walt Disney World.
There is so much I feel I need to do, many loose ends to tie up, but day to day life has its own challenges, some which can be emotionally draining.
Too many damn Muses for one man to obey! What is a comedian to do when he is cast in a sci-fi horror? What would I do if I were possessed by the Old Ones, older than Satan, older than all human civilizations? Would it not be fun to mock human vanity?
These supernaturals that the mortals fear. I often would like to be taken under their wings.
[cut 1]
We need new metaphors. Our lives are mostly like keeping above the water so as not to gulp down the salt.
We witness all of what individuals suffer and wish to back out. Each creature is in it. Most creatures have no sense of humor whatsoever. I guess, if we can work on our own inner-philosophical sense of humor, it might grow into some kind of psychological Love-Force-Field that you can protect the psyche with for its journey to the grave.
I've always loved roller coasters, and when I can sense a loopy-loop coming, I prepare to bend into the turn. I would never see the skull-crushing pain coming. A fallen tree on a roof, and I am exposed as pathetic naked ape dependent on a nightmare world of guns, gods, oil, and a heap of prisons. Even within these lives of ours, so many "spiritual" struggles with vanity, our own horrible learning experiences, etc.
Stay deep. No one is really expected to "have a nice day." It's a horrible joke.
Maybe, instead, have a day of being an observer and knower, as opposed to a day of the sufferer.
How is it possible? I do not know. I am always still this brutish creature who would become a frightening beast-man a week outdoors. No, one night in this cold, after having been living as "an indoor cat" for so many consecutive days, I don't thing I could keep my head together.
That's one of the "horrors" or "terrors" in this life, that no matter how keen the knower inside our heads, the suffering animal, upon which is seated "the soul, the engine of reason" could come falling to pieces all around us as we lose the vitals …
C R E E P Y as HEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. (as Ophra Winfrey might exclaim, were you a cartoonist).
I think all we can ask for is a sense of humor so that we might handle our own personal breakdowns with grace and humility, as opposed to intense morbid hubris which can only end in self-hatred … Although, seeing the way billions of people spend their lives right about now, maybe mass self-hatred is actually quite appropriate.
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I have trouble following my own suggestions, the ones I type.
I will try to just observe this absurd comedy and adjust to cold. Our blood is keeping our bodies warm. It's creepy as hell. It's amazing that more people don't freak themselves out. Maybe that's why consciousness is not very developed in other species. They would not be able to cope with the mechanical nature of their existence if they were too [philosophically] aware of their predicament, being born just to die.
The suffering has not been worth the knowledge, but, since I can't reverse having been born, the very least I can do, while I am here, is articulate as best I can my sense of outrage against those who go on and on with their inane reports about outcomes of sporting events. How much of our intelligence are we expected to hide so as not to disturb their mass hallucination?
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST: The terror created by "the tyranny of public opinion" (what will others think or say?) is taken advantage of my those who wish to manipulate the masses. Others will beat down the one who dares defy their master. They can't stand anyone not paying deference to their "daddy" or "master."
[cut 1] === caused paragraph to sound incoherent:
You see, while it was the handwritten letters between my great grandmother and myself, from childhood on throughout tough painful insane adolescence, which may have developed in me the desire to express what is going on within me in writing, but it also gave me an appreciation for her hand-writing, one I would mimic up until I encountered Roger Waters's style for lyrics in The Wall, released in 1979.
His handwriting had a HUGE impact on me, or whoever the hell came up with that font! That font I liked. I liked the way the first letters, if capital, were printed. I noticed my own parents did a great deal of that kind of "mixing". I find that I will write in non-cursive letters of words I wish to stand out.
Home
Search
Members
Login
Register