Transparency, divinity, wasting air space and committing cardinal sins. Run away with you towards the night. Been here before. Committing cardinal sins. Man I love to eat.
Something's gone awry. I can feel it. I can sense it. Youknow who you are you know i am who I was twenty years ago when we first met, as X found Y and conniption was born of all things small above below ma non troppo. But, more or less, I mean nothing and do not exist.
There's another new one below this one. It's a little bit better.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Bed time. Craziness. NyQuil. I think in terms of divinity. I am divine, you are divine, you are beautiful, you are my love, I am your keeper.
All at once, I amazed with myself. I put so much weight on finding love, and yet I'm such a cynic concerning it at the same time. Love is just a chance meeting of two people who are ultra-compatible. That's pessimistic, but I think it's true. I put so much weight on this chance meeting and yet I can't make the chance happen. Strange how paradoxical I can be at times. Or hypocritical. But I really think that hypocrisy is a natural progression of thought most of the time. Telling someone not to do something then realizing it's not all that bad. It's natural. Life ebbs and flows and a person's views and actions are more than likely going to do the same. Y'dig?
"Why don't you write a song about this? You can call it, 'I got punched in the face for sticking my nose in other people's business."
"Sounds like a country song."
All at once, I amazed with myself. I put so much weight on finding love, and yet I'm such a cynic concerning it at the same time. Love is just a chance meeting of two people who are ultra-compatible. That's pessimistic, but I think it's true. I put so much weight on this chance meeting and yet I can't make the chance happen. Strange how paradoxical I can be at times. Or hypocritical. But I really think that hypocrisy is a natural progression of thought most of the time. Telling someone not to do something then realizing it's not all that bad. It's natural. Life ebbs and flows and a person's views and actions are more than likely going to do the same. Y'dig?
"Why don't you write a song about this? You can call it, 'I got punched in the face for sticking my nose in other people's business."
"Sounds like a country song."
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Great night for insomnia
There was a lunar eclipse. We actually got use out of our telescope. I would have missed it had I been like any sane person and been asleep at 4 in the morning. Instead, I got to run around my house in my pajamas with a telescope. It was exciting. And the telescope must be made of aluminum because damn was it light.
It was basically a great moment in an otherwise shitty day. And I say shitty in the most literal sense. I awoke at around 8 or 9 in the morning feeling completely constipated, with my stomach feeling like a cow's when you need to stab it to alleviate the bloating. I wanted to stab myself to get the shit out it was so bad. Instead, I gagged myself into the bathtub, vomit that even looked like shit. I was surprised, and said to myself upon that observation, "Golly, there must be a lot in there." At this point I was being a little baby, wailing for my mom to do something because I was completely immobilized. So she brought me water and I drank it and tried to throw up again. No dice. Instead, I sat there, hearing the squeaks of immovable feces caught in some serious LA traffic in my large intestines.
At least I had a stroke of genius. I asked my mom if we had any castor oil, something no sane person should ever do except in the worst of circumstances. Castor oil is the king of laxatives, giving no remorse to the taker. I took two teaspoons of that, stumbled toward my phone and called my work, telling'em in one of the most distraught voices I've ever heard come out of me, "I think I ate something rancid and I really don't feel good, so I won't be able to make it into work." I had the afternoon off to shit myself to death. I then waddled into my mom's bed for some reason, the only one I can assume is because it's closer to the ground and easier to get in\out of. And because it's cooler in there.
I had forgotten to turn off my work alarm for 2 PM, but, once it went off and I awoke, we were off to the races. The shit races. I sat down and what couldn't happen this morning happened in bulk. It's like getting turned away from a fancy restaurant with small portions and then getting into Costco. It wasn't a gerbil-pellet-shit-fest. This was some serious shit. That castor oil tasted bad for a reason: because it's Satan's laxative. Between the hours of 2 and 730PM, I lost about three pounds, and read about a chapter of America: The Book, a funny, but arduous history book by the "Daily Show" writers. I felt completely wiped out.
I fell asleep at about 8PM, and you'd think I'd have slept straight through with the kind of sick day I had. Instead, I woke up at 2AM and finished watching the Dodger game (They won, Derek Lowe's "stuff" wasn't his best, though. Dickhead gave up three homeruns in six innings of work).
So I'm gonna now go to bed, rate some songs on my iPod (it's actually a lot of fun to comprise "Smart Playlists" of your three, four, and five star songs and then listen to just the songs you absolutely love or just kind of like.), wake up at noon, go the gym, try and gain some of this fucking weight back as muscle (instead of shit stuck in my intestines), go to work, then go out on the town.
I love you all. And I'm sorry if this was absolutely gross. Wait a second, no I ain't. Misery is hilarity!
It was basically a great moment in an otherwise shitty day. And I say shitty in the most literal sense. I awoke at around 8 or 9 in the morning feeling completely constipated, with my stomach feeling like a cow's when you need to stab it to alleviate the bloating. I wanted to stab myself to get the shit out it was so bad. Instead, I gagged myself into the bathtub, vomit that even looked like shit. I was surprised, and said to myself upon that observation, "Golly, there must be a lot in there." At this point I was being a little baby, wailing for my mom to do something because I was completely immobilized. So she brought me water and I drank it and tried to throw up again. No dice. Instead, I sat there, hearing the squeaks of immovable feces caught in some serious LA traffic in my large intestines.
At least I had a stroke of genius. I asked my mom if we had any castor oil, something no sane person should ever do except in the worst of circumstances. Castor oil is the king of laxatives, giving no remorse to the taker. I took two teaspoons of that, stumbled toward my phone and called my work, telling'em in one of the most distraught voices I've ever heard come out of me, "I think I ate something rancid and I really don't feel good, so I won't be able to make it into work." I had the afternoon off to shit myself to death. I then waddled into my mom's bed for some reason, the only one I can assume is because it's closer to the ground and easier to get in\out of. And because it's cooler in there.
I had forgotten to turn off my work alarm for 2 PM, but, once it went off and I awoke, we were off to the races. The shit races. I sat down and what couldn't happen this morning happened in bulk. It's like getting turned away from a fancy restaurant with small portions and then getting into Costco. It wasn't a gerbil-pellet-shit-fest. This was some serious shit. That castor oil tasted bad for a reason: because it's Satan's laxative. Between the hours of 2 and 730PM, I lost about three pounds, and read about a chapter of America: The Book, a funny, but arduous history book by the "Daily Show" writers. I felt completely wiped out.
I fell asleep at about 8PM, and you'd think I'd have slept straight through with the kind of sick day I had. Instead, I woke up at 2AM and finished watching the Dodger game (They won, Derek Lowe's "stuff" wasn't his best, though. Dickhead gave up three homeruns in six innings of work).
So I'm gonna now go to bed, rate some songs on my iPod (it's actually a lot of fun to comprise "Smart Playlists" of your three, four, and five star songs and then listen to just the songs you absolutely love or just kind of like.), wake up at noon, go the gym, try and gain some of this fucking weight back as muscle (instead of shit stuck in my intestines), go to work, then go out on the town.
I love you all. And I'm sorry if this was absolutely gross. Wait a second, no I ain't. Misery is hilarity!
Monday, August 27, 2007
A fifth to the commonwealth, the rest to the track!
I always thought it was interesting that baseball commentators, as well as players, constantly refer to a pitcher as having "good stuff." Now, that may not seem like proper grammar, but I think it exemplifies what makes baseball, a sport that lasts 3 and a half hours with the ball in play for an average of 12 minutes, fun to watch and keep up on: it's the elusiveness of what makes a player so great. That's why steroids suck, because they give an answer. A player either has it or he doesn't. On a given night, a player can be off or on...
And the pitcher's "stuff" can be anything from his flawless mechanics to his delivery to his mental\emotional toughness to his lucky jock. The season is so goddam long that it tests the endurance of its players more than a sport like football (specifically, the NFL, I dig NCAA) where cocky-ass jocks run out on a field once a week and give each other concussions, then go back and pump iron for a week, practice practice practice, then do it again. In baseball, the only time you have to practice is before a game since for the next three nights you're playing one team, then you're travelling across the country, and playing another team.
Every sport is hard, but baseball is hard without a lot of strategy and with a high-sense of enigma and intangibility. I can dig it.
--
I'm supposed to be hearing back from Humboldt in a few days\weeks as to whether or not I made their transfer cut. Pray for me. This is something we need.
--
I've been working out, and so maybe I'll be sexy one day and not just "cute after two weeks of knowing him."
--
A lot of the blogs where it seems like I'm talking to someone, referring to a "you," are really conversations with myself. I'm an asshole, I will be my own demise. BUT! I believe in you.
And the pitcher's "stuff" can be anything from his flawless mechanics to his delivery to his mental\emotional toughness to his lucky jock. The season is so goddam long that it tests the endurance of its players more than a sport like football (specifically, the NFL, I dig NCAA) where cocky-ass jocks run out on a field once a week and give each other concussions, then go back and pump iron for a week, practice practice practice, then do it again. In baseball, the only time you have to practice is before a game since for the next three nights you're playing one team, then you're travelling across the country, and playing another team.
Every sport is hard, but baseball is hard without a lot of strategy and with a high-sense of enigma and intangibility. I can dig it.
--
I'm supposed to be hearing back from Humboldt in a few days\weeks as to whether or not I made their transfer cut. Pray for me. This is something we need.
--
I've been working out, and so maybe I'll be sexy one day and not just "cute after two weeks of knowing him."
--
A lot of the blogs where it seems like I'm talking to someone, referring to a "you," are really conversations with myself. I'm an asshole, I will be my own demise. BUT! I believe in you.
I am late for the sky.
run with me and chase the leaves--This was once spoken of a great altered composer to be once for all time I know your name, come away come away to be waltzed around in circled triplets until we are dizzy and drunk and beaten stolid red stoic crimson stalwart hues of one only color to show new wounds within our toes. What we create is what we've never meant to be but at the same all we've ever wanted to die to love to scream to be eaten by the vultures above our rotting corpse now rooted in the place we died where we will meander if purgatory or ghosts allow us to believe in them... I am driftwood and come along the journey of what we once were i know we once worked in tandem before there was a burst a stress a panic a mood that fell apart i know we were once a one and not a two connected by sinews and ventricles, arteries the great highway across the soul like a concrete gash crossing the gap to be my own way to be away from myself for once wish to tear apart my insides and be left bereft with only one seamless personality and no mood swings the guillotine (was anyone around to remember that phrase? Maybe I can start reusing shitty one-liners from three years ago when you wasn't famous) I am away around away away away below the water up above the trees fucking in the canopies around the sinews shaking my head as to how I got so caught in this batshit ideal of why I once was nothing but here today am something more than most but yet less than all as if the world revolves around myself or at least I think it should even in my own lackluster coherence. Tell the world of what you are because there will be days when they won't know will want to know and you won't secede your answers villains in shame of all the wrongs you've committed against those rhythms that turned our toes red all those long days ago on the gravelly beaches we once knew where the rocks were soft and the waters were calm and we could call each other by pounding rocks against our heads to bleed as a signal up in smoke. I know your name, you across the gap--it's not my own yet it is my own because you are my own. A simple belief and that's something I know for sure but amidst this the waking fey, I can only sense the things that make things skip jump granulate the finality of what was could be i know you want to be with me but there's the greatest soul divide between us that i've created but i know it will one day be repaired....... one day i will be whole.
We just have to wait a little bit longer, I think.
We just have to wait a little bit longer, I think.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Crown of Storms
A wiggle. Awoken with a shudder. I am your own demise. There is belief in the deep-down gone-awry things of the soul. Only for good luck. I've grown tired of you.
I once had a dream that a girl had Beethoven's 5th as her ringtone. And it gave me a migraine. I woke up with a migraine. The sometimes-synergy of dream and reality is strange.
One time, in high school, my alarm didn't go off for school. So, instead (and by some divine power), my cat took a piss on my backpack instead to wake me up. What a helpful jackass. My other cat used to wake me up when I'd normally get up. She'd be in a panic because I wasn't petting her. She's still like that... Just, she sleeps in the garage now because we have dogs.
In no point within my memory have I ever liked bananas. Or Potatoes. Or Corn. Because I wasn't getting enough potassium during water polo, my mom gave me handfuls of potassium pills. And I never cramped up.
Make connections, you'll need to build a bridge later.
And I need help with mine.
He was sitting and waiting on the porch for something. Forgetting words as he wrote in the dark, dropping letters as one would carelessly drop a pen. Calling him outward. This is the greatest commission. I am your Babel. Keep me safe.
I once had a dream that a girl had Beethoven's 5th as her ringtone. And it gave me a migraine. I woke up with a migraine. The sometimes-synergy of dream and reality is strange.
One time, in high school, my alarm didn't go off for school. So, instead (and by some divine power), my cat took a piss on my backpack instead to wake me up. What a helpful jackass. My other cat used to wake me up when I'd normally get up. She'd be in a panic because I wasn't petting her. She's still like that... Just, she sleeps in the garage now because we have dogs.
In no point within my memory have I ever liked bananas. Or Potatoes. Or Corn. Because I wasn't getting enough potassium during water polo, my mom gave me handfuls of potassium pills. And I never cramped up.
Make connections, you'll need to build a bridge later.
And I need help with mine.
He was sitting and waiting on the porch for something. Forgetting words as he wrote in the dark, dropping letters as one would carelessly drop a pen. Calling him outward. This is the greatest commission. I am your Babel. Keep me safe.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
I put my hands away.
I think I wasn't made for this world--the 9-5, the in-out-in-out and the litany of lethargic days that blend together to form thirty years of your life.
"Well, then, start writing, asshole."
Yea, I wish it was that easy. I've been postponing it. I'm lazy. I'm big on laziness. Because I'm afraid of commitment in the strangest, inopportune ways.
Dear Kaitlyn, I think I was afraid of what I told you I was afraid of because I find myself running stalwart parallels with the protagonist from High Fidelity. Records, pop music, misery, trials of love and seperation... And that was exemplified by the relationship I was afraid ours would turn into. But that was long ago, I'm afraid.
Here is your beginning:
"Gone all starry eyed, he awoke in a stupor. Believability is fallability. He too often thought in aphorisms instead of textures or shapes. Pithy statements are, if you were to give a shape, round at best. Spherical and applicable to far too many people to be one person's thoughts. But that's what they were: rounded off at the edges and severely altruistic. He had no character and he suffered because of it. He was white as snow in dress and complexion. He seemed to walk in a daze, sifting through doorways as if he were the sand among gold dust, going on without any sort of color or complication.
"Until she arrived..."
I'm intrigued. But then my obvious pessimism plays into my ontology: why is she arriving? Are we going to have another stupid romantic comedy on our hands? Is tragedy all I'm good for?
Oh, the ending to that beginning is that he kills himself. She finds him surrounded by a pool of what looks like white paint, but it's really his blood. Upon closer inspection, it's more like infected milk, because specks of she (her color being a deep, deep, sodomizing green) within his blood.
She is never heard from again. And the color is removed from the wheel.
I believe in you.
"Well, then, start writing, asshole."
Yea, I wish it was that easy. I've been postponing it. I'm lazy. I'm big on laziness. Because I'm afraid of commitment in the strangest, inopportune ways.
Dear Kaitlyn, I think I was afraid of what I told you I was afraid of because I find myself running stalwart parallels with the protagonist from High Fidelity. Records, pop music, misery, trials of love and seperation... And that was exemplified by the relationship I was afraid ours would turn into. But that was long ago, I'm afraid.
Here is your beginning:
"Gone all starry eyed, he awoke in a stupor. Believability is fallability. He too often thought in aphorisms instead of textures or shapes. Pithy statements are, if you were to give a shape, round at best. Spherical and applicable to far too many people to be one person's thoughts. But that's what they were: rounded off at the edges and severely altruistic. He had no character and he suffered because of it. He was white as snow in dress and complexion. He seemed to walk in a daze, sifting through doorways as if he were the sand among gold dust, going on without any sort of color or complication.
"Until she arrived..."
I'm intrigued. But then my obvious pessimism plays into my ontology: why is she arriving? Are we going to have another stupid romantic comedy on our hands? Is tragedy all I'm good for?
Oh, the ending to that beginning is that he kills himself. She finds him surrounded by a pool of what looks like white paint, but it's really his blood. Upon closer inspection, it's more like infected milk, because specks of she (her color being a deep, deep, sodomizing green) within his blood.
She is never heard from again. And the color is removed from the wheel.
I believe in you.
Thinking Outrageously.
God creates missions. I am going nowhere. Today there will be no tomorrow. I am alone for once to see your shining face, but i haven't laid periphory on you in years. Come on down to the shores of Babylon and sense the echoes out among the trees more than you'll ever know...
The birds will flutter up among the echelon, and we will sit down below on the rocky bank, in the shade of the trees so large and covered in moss. We will sit on our asses and hold hands and joke. It will be cool, it will be October. I'm not sure yet if I will be in love with you, but this day will definitely make its case. Plead guilty, I can sense the night coming in. We better get going, the leaves are getting restless.
By the warmth, I will kiss you for the first time in years it will seem, but it will really only have been months.
Like a sonnet, you will be ten more lines closer to my heart. Lines afraid lines divided lines remissed. I can feel your beauty as I swat the mosquitoes away on the porch. They will drive us inside. We will sit upon the rug and look at old photo albums.
I'm afraid of you that this will never happen. I am the Empty Garlic. Filled with hope. Forget about the odd-times ahead, I have hope ahead of what was once my own grace. Give me grace, I think. I am caught, meat-hooked on single-lined allusions and aphorisms.
But I can sense it all, I can smell the trees... They aren't pine but they sure sense that they know who they. All those rings, all those years stagnated.
And the saints will stave off the rest while we are indoors, away from the divinity of the land. This is a calling.
I can fear the Lord. but I fear love more. I fear women.
The birds will flutter up among the echelon, and we will sit down below on the rocky bank, in the shade of the trees so large and covered in moss. We will sit on our asses and hold hands and joke. It will be cool, it will be October. I'm not sure yet if I will be in love with you, but this day will definitely make its case. Plead guilty, I can sense the night coming in. We better get going, the leaves are getting restless.
By the warmth, I will kiss you for the first time in years it will seem, but it will really only have been months.
Like a sonnet, you will be ten more lines closer to my heart. Lines afraid lines divided lines remissed. I can feel your beauty as I swat the mosquitoes away on the porch. They will drive us inside. We will sit upon the rug and look at old photo albums.
I'm afraid of you that this will never happen. I am the Empty Garlic. Filled with hope. Forget about the odd-times ahead, I have hope ahead of what was once my own grace. Give me grace, I think. I am caught, meat-hooked on single-lined allusions and aphorisms.
But I can sense it all, I can smell the trees... They aren't pine but they sure sense that they know who they. All those rings, all those years stagnated.
And the saints will stave off the rest while we are indoors, away from the divinity of the land. This is a calling.
I can fear the Lord. but I fear love more. I fear women.
So I think that things will have to change between you and I. I don't think I can be as close to you. You scare me, make me nervous. I wish it wasn't so. I'm afraid of you, though, and your undercutting comments. Because my heart is too warm to be filled with the ice of your thoughts.
I am. Am I reciprocated. Things are generally unknown, but I know that now.
I and the Father are one.
I am. Am I reciprocated. Things are generally unknown, but I know that now.
I and the Father are one.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Cinder Smoking.
Seemingly bereft, beleaguered, with anger from the outset. Enough with the saints to bring out the dead with their stiff and bandaged fingers, their popped and erudescent flanges. Concubine, ursine. I am the all told among the different ones below your feet, the worms that turn the Earth for no good reason other than that's what they know how to do. Went to college to properly turn the Earth below us and around us. That's why we aren't floating off into space, why we have days, because the worms keep the world turning.
But that is only one part of the multiplying occupation that is fey beyond comparison. We sit in our chairs and contemplate another sort of life while others and I are among the con--
Oh my God. I have no idea how to write anymore. Is this a limbo period where all within my style changes? I don't want to just use big words, but, at the same time, I don't know where to go when the rhythm sags off below the echelon--
nippted figures below our waist, tugging at our hearts to find the last one. I am your own found among the finders. Come away with me to find a new dawn, I think that's what we're supposed to do. I'm no longer sure what is red. I'm no longer sure how to think about you--
I think I'm losing it.... It it it. The motive, the passion, the complacency. The killing I am among the rushes. Don't lose it. Always keep a little in reserve. You'll know it because you'll feel it--where the nerves and the sinews end and my relationship with you begins. Darling. Among the amazed I am yours for all time.
But that is only one part of the multiplying occupation that is fey beyond comparison. We sit in our chairs and contemplate another sort of life while others and I are among the con--
Oh my God. I have no idea how to write anymore. Is this a limbo period where all within my style changes? I don't want to just use big words, but, at the same time, I don't know where to go when the rhythm sags off below the echelon--
nippted figures below our waist, tugging at our hearts to find the last one. I am your own found among the finders. Come away with me to find a new dawn, I think that's what we're supposed to do. I'm no longer sure what is red. I'm no longer sure how to think about you--
I think I'm losing it.... It it it. The motive, the passion, the complacency. The killing I am among the rushes. Don't lose it. Always keep a little in reserve. You'll know it because you'll feel it--where the nerves and the sinews end and my relationship with you begins. Darling. Among the amazed I am yours for all time.
It's been nearly two weeks since I last got a decent night's sleep. If I go to bed before 5AM, like tonight, I wake up at 2-230 with an insatiable hunger. If I go to bed at 5AM, my entire fucking day is ruined.
And that's how it's been for the past two weeks, my sleep pattern has been completely fucked up. I'm ready to buy a bottle of Nyquil for emergency cases. This just plain sucks.
And that's how it's been for the past two weeks, my sleep pattern has been completely fucked up. I'm ready to buy a bottle of Nyquil for emergency cases. This just plain sucks.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I planted rows of peas, by the first week of July I should've come up to my knees but they were maybe ankle high
I've been reflecting on love lately, and I've come to this: if we are to believe what the scriptures say (we really should), then God is love. If God is love, then God embodies all characteristics of one in love with something, right?
And someone in love is, in regards to the other person, ranged in their emotions--all within the typical arch of humanity. Now, it has been stated by both myself and others that we should not place human characteristics on God because he's above all things human and is simply pure existence. However, if he is just pure existence, then how can he have emotion? How can he smite and bring wrath upons the 12 Tribes without emotion?
From this, we can easily establish that since God has shown typical human emotions such as jealousy and rage and kindness and forgiveness, we can therefore say that God is something of a superman, as any Nietzchean would describe it--God is what we are but all things in their perfect sense. His forgiveness is perfect. His rage is perfect. Everything about him is perfect, but he also exudes human emotion. That's why Christ the deity was also Jesus the human who wept.
As a result, it is therefore absurd for a person to say that God is completely mean and cannot be a loving God. They say, "He's judgmental," and deny their faith. However, in love, are we not judgmental when what we want is best for our lovers even though they choose to go astray, making us angry? God is showing nothing but love to the Israelites in this situation.
They say, "God's a killer, he didn't have to kill all the [insert name of people decimated in Old Testament]. Hasn't he ever heard of diplomacy?" This one is rather tricky. However, I would argue that, in those times, as well as these times, coming into a foreign land and saying, "Could you please hand it over because our God [at this they may stop and say, "One God? How narrowminded of you!] said it was our land of milk and honey." Diplomacy doesn't work in a takeover. God said, "Take it as yours, leave nothing," and the Israelites did as they were told.
We could definitely look at this sexually, this whole murder thing because sex and murder are relatives of trust. Think of it this way: we allow our chosen lovers (within or without wedlock) to ravage our virgin skin and take from us all that was once all we were. However, in this sort of death, we become one with the person more and more, trusting that they are the one to be your companion for eternity. This is God saying, "Pillage my land," and the Israelites doing as they're told, trusting that their God won't leave them in a motel room on the road to Vegas where he promised they'd elope but really just was dragging you along to ditch you in Memphis where he was meeting up with his mistress.
God could have fooled us, said that the Land of Milk and Honey was everything that man would ever need, then turned around and showed the truth that was really the Sahara fucking Desert where nothing survives. It's all about trust. Killing is a trust exercise in God's eyes. It's like that whole, "Fall backwards into my arms," but instead it's, "Kill 100,000 Phillistines."
Therefore, God is simply the holistic embodiment of love. What we do out of love is broadened outwards towards the scope of God where 1000 years is like a day.
Then there's always the, "That was the Old Covenent God. Jesus is the lamb, the New Covenent." Yea, I still think that's bullshit... and for another time.
And someone in love is, in regards to the other person, ranged in their emotions--all within the typical arch of humanity. Now, it has been stated by both myself and others that we should not place human characteristics on God because he's above all things human and is simply pure existence. However, if he is just pure existence, then how can he have emotion? How can he smite and bring wrath upons the 12 Tribes without emotion?
From this, we can easily establish that since God has shown typical human emotions such as jealousy and rage and kindness and forgiveness, we can therefore say that God is something of a superman, as any Nietzchean would describe it--God is what we are but all things in their perfect sense. His forgiveness is perfect. His rage is perfect. Everything about him is perfect, but he also exudes human emotion. That's why Christ the deity was also Jesus the human who wept.
As a result, it is therefore absurd for a person to say that God is completely mean and cannot be a loving God. They say, "He's judgmental," and deny their faith. However, in love, are we not judgmental when what we want is best for our lovers even though they choose to go astray, making us angry? God is showing nothing but love to the Israelites in this situation.
They say, "God's a killer, he didn't have to kill all the [insert name of people decimated in Old Testament]. Hasn't he ever heard of diplomacy?" This one is rather tricky. However, I would argue that, in those times, as well as these times, coming into a foreign land and saying, "Could you please hand it over because our God [at this they may stop and say, "One God? How narrowminded of you!] said it was our land of milk and honey." Diplomacy doesn't work in a takeover. God said, "Take it as yours, leave nothing," and the Israelites did as they were told.
We could definitely look at this sexually, this whole murder thing because sex and murder are relatives of trust. Think of it this way: we allow our chosen lovers (within or without wedlock) to ravage our virgin skin and take from us all that was once all we were. However, in this sort of death, we become one with the person more and more, trusting that they are the one to be your companion for eternity. This is God saying, "Pillage my land," and the Israelites doing as they're told, trusting that their God won't leave them in a motel room on the road to Vegas where he promised they'd elope but really just was dragging you along to ditch you in Memphis where he was meeting up with his mistress.
God could have fooled us, said that the Land of Milk and Honey was everything that man would ever need, then turned around and showed the truth that was really the Sahara fucking Desert where nothing survives. It's all about trust. Killing is a trust exercise in God's eyes. It's like that whole, "Fall backwards into my arms," but instead it's, "Kill 100,000 Phillistines."
Therefore, God is simply the holistic embodiment of love. What we do out of love is broadened outwards towards the scope of God where 1000 years is like a day.
Then there's always the, "That was the Old Covenent God. Jesus is the lamb, the New Covenent." Yea, I still think that's bullshit... and for another time.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
John Henry
Reset the counter, it's become aleatoric.
I could have sworn I knew your name, that I trusted you, that we were once alone together on the beach holding back the waves with all the might of 1000 children's addled, scraggly, nightmares. We were sickly, we were tired. We were tried and true and sovereign.
I am the sickest.
You can't become another twang upon the grass, scratching and itching after rolling down the hill as if you're covered in bees.
Seeping into the night of a million.
Quantity. Push everything out there into the echelon. Pleasure. I am yours for all time.
I could have sworn I knew your name, that I trusted you, that we were once alone together on the beach holding back the waves with all the might of 1000 children's addled, scraggly, nightmares. We were sickly, we were tired. We were tried and true and sovereign.
I am the sickest.
You can't become another twang upon the grass, scratching and itching after rolling down the hill as if you're covered in bees.
Seeping into the night of a million.
Quantity. Push everything out there into the echelon. Pleasure. I am yours for all time.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Saw them shake like Wind on Rushes.
It began in the car, was interrupted by four phone calls, an almost-alarm, a call-on, and a call-off. It last almost six hours.
It wasn't a nap. It was a supernap.
And I am now aflurry with restlessness because I got a usual night's sleep between 2 and 8 PM.
Restless and suddenly I'm ensconced in two seperate conversations while writing on a machine--all three (four if you include listening to Belle and Sebastian) activities I couldn't be doing at this moment 20 years ago--hell, 10 years ago. Welcome to the 00's.
--
It's strange I don't question my faith, become agnostic, or completely drive away from the church because I seem to always have some sort of problem with it. Be it chauvinism, not full-fledged Calvinism (always forgetting about predestination), or anything else. However, I suppose that these problems are not inherent problems with my faith, which is fully Calvinist and relatively open to new-osity, but rather problems with the church, which I am fully critical of and knowledgable of their faux infallibility.
The underlying premise of my theosophy is John 4:8, "Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love." and Phillipians 3:10-12, "I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me." I have a purpose and I press on so as to takehold of it. Whatever it is.
You are the sovereign.
It wasn't a nap. It was a supernap.
And I am now aflurry with restlessness because I got a usual night's sleep between 2 and 8 PM.
Restless and suddenly I'm ensconced in two seperate conversations while writing on a machine--all three (four if you include listening to Belle and Sebastian) activities I couldn't be doing at this moment 20 years ago--hell, 10 years ago. Welcome to the 00's.
--
It's strange I don't question my faith, become agnostic, or completely drive away from the church because I seem to always have some sort of problem with it. Be it chauvinism, not full-fledged Calvinism (always forgetting about predestination), or anything else. However, I suppose that these problems are not inherent problems with my faith, which is fully Calvinist and relatively open to new-osity, but rather problems with the church, which I am fully critical of and knowledgable of their faux infallibility.
The underlying premise of my theosophy is John 4:8, "Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love." and Phillipians 3:10-12, "I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me." I have a purpose and I press on so as to takehold of it. Whatever it is.
You are the sovereign.
Then to Lebanon... Oh God... The flashing at night, the sirens grow and grow and grow....
""
And I groan.
Here, check this,
“In an age where passion has been done away with for the sake of science he easily foresees his fate—in an age where an author who wants readers must be careful to write in a way that he can comfortably be leafed through during the after-dinner nap, and be sure to present himself to the world like the polite gardener’s boy in the Advertiser who, hat in hand and with good references from his previous place of employment, recommends himself to a much esteemed public. He foresees his fate will be to be completely ignored; has a dreadful foreboding that the scourge of jealous criticism will more than once make itself felt; and shudders at what terrifies him even more, that some enterprising recorder […] will slice him into sections.”
Respectfully,
Johannes de Silentio.
I guess I’m here to justify my friend’s work—something that is not an easy task, I think. What follows is didactic and loud and boisterous, bogged down with lyricism and convoluted by ethereal dream logic, all of which is buoyed by the Inland Empire’s drab scenery and bullshit weather.
You may read it, put it down, try and read it again, then say, “Step off your goddam pulpit!” But, really, I can guarantee you that he didn’t mean it that way. He was thinking of you when he wrote it, at least in a round-about way. I was in communication with him when he was writing it, and he said, “I’ve been thinking of the readers. I think they can go to hell.” This is a personal book by a personal person. If you meet the author, he will be shy and nothing like the narrator, despite the fact that 25% (or more…I’m not sure anymore…) of this book is true.
The guilty parties need not worry, he means all the best.
The readers need not worry, because it all makes sense when you take and take and take from the book as he desires you to do. This is a book of passion, this is a book of emotion, this is a book of the great I AM. I think that’s the only way to describe it. A book of God’s dreams and one man’s fear.
I don’t want you to slice him into sections, like a whore, and give him to the 12 tribes of Israel for sanctification. He is already sanctified in the eyes of God. I want you to take everything with grains of beautiful sugar and salt, knowing that it does all make sense, and that the great Idea that is DEATH WALKS IN THE EAST RIVER VALLEY has a purpose beyond sounding pretentious and esoteric.
In a letter he wrote me once, he stated that, “This is a book of God, about God, and for God. I want this book to emote people into belief, into doubt, into something! Everyone is so fucking A.D.D. these days; I want to slow them down; I want to show them the beauty in the mundane, the trials in the slavery, and the greatness of not man, but of themselves. Greatness through value by God. That is my ultimate purpose, I think.”
If you’re A.D.D., take your Ritalin and settle in. If you’re an average American, turn off your T.V. and lose some goddam weight. But, no, read this book.
In truth, I really think he just wants you to believe in God…
But that’s just me. Of his real motives, I could never actually tell you about those.
Johnathan Roberts,
Hollywood and La Cienega, 1979
DEATH WALKS IN THE EAST RIVER VALLEY will never be finished. I lost the map and I am embarrassed. But you are my beloved.
And I groan.
Here, check this,
“In an age where passion has been done away with for the sake of science he easily foresees his fate—in an age where an author who wants readers must be careful to write in a way that he can comfortably be leafed through during the after-dinner nap, and be sure to present himself to the world like the polite gardener’s boy in the Advertiser who, hat in hand and with good references from his previous place of employment, recommends himself to a much esteemed public. He foresees his fate will be to be completely ignored; has a dreadful foreboding that the scourge of jealous criticism will more than once make itself felt; and shudders at what terrifies him even more, that some enterprising recorder […] will slice him into sections.”
Respectfully,
Johannes de Silentio.
I guess I’m here to justify my friend’s work—something that is not an easy task, I think. What follows is didactic and loud and boisterous, bogged down with lyricism and convoluted by ethereal dream logic, all of which is buoyed by the Inland Empire’s drab scenery and bullshit weather.
You may read it, put it down, try and read it again, then say, “Step off your goddam pulpit!” But, really, I can guarantee you that he didn’t mean it that way. He was thinking of you when he wrote it, at least in a round-about way. I was in communication with him when he was writing it, and he said, “I’ve been thinking of the readers. I think they can go to hell.” This is a personal book by a personal person. If you meet the author, he will be shy and nothing like the narrator, despite the fact that 25% (or more…I’m not sure anymore…) of this book is true.
The guilty parties need not worry, he means all the best.
The readers need not worry, because it all makes sense when you take and take and take from the book as he desires you to do. This is a book of passion, this is a book of emotion, this is a book of the great I AM. I think that’s the only way to describe it. A book of God’s dreams and one man’s fear.
I don’t want you to slice him into sections, like a whore, and give him to the 12 tribes of Israel for sanctification. He is already sanctified in the eyes of God. I want you to take everything with grains of beautiful sugar and salt, knowing that it does all make sense, and that the great Idea that is DEATH WALKS IN THE EAST RIVER VALLEY has a purpose beyond sounding pretentious and esoteric.
In a letter he wrote me once, he stated that, “This is a book of God, about God, and for God. I want this book to emote people into belief, into doubt, into something! Everyone is so fucking A.D.D. these days; I want to slow them down; I want to show them the beauty in the mundane, the trials in the slavery, and the greatness of not man, but of themselves. Greatness through value by God. That is my ultimate purpose, I think.”
If you’re A.D.D., take your Ritalin and settle in. If you’re an average American, turn off your T.V. and lose some goddam weight. But, no, read this book.
In truth, I really think he just wants you to believe in God…
But that’s just me. Of his real motives, I could never actually tell you about those.
Johnathan Roberts,
Hollywood and La Cienega, 1979
DEATH WALKS IN THE EAST RIVER VALLEY will never be finished. I lost the map and I am embarrassed. But you are my beloved.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
I am alive for now for ever for all time among you all my beautiful
Lately, since July 27th when my aunt died, I've wondered why I'm not bereft of happiness, why I'm not completely filled with anguish. I've tried to place it in the pocket of "I didn't know her very well," but I had to quickly remove it because I realized that that is not why I am seemingly apathetic towards the death of one hell of a woman. I realized how I feel about death, and how it became solidified.
Death is an illusion. We live on far longer than our hollow grave of a body would like to think. Our bodies are so fragile, like a lamp being shipped, that the packing peanuts are soon to give and we are soon to break. It's obvious. It's unavoidable. That's obvious.
It's also obvious that we live on far beyond what our body says is our life. Our soul, our reputation, live on in the words and actions of the others we have influenced, the others who took from us the good which we held and melded it with the good of others (as well as the caveats of miscreants) to create the next person. And suddenly it trickles into generations--our influence is diluted, sure, but it is ours, and we are forever within this good Earth. People have searched for the tree of life, when in truth we are the tree of life, our branches stretching out among the reeds to hug along the river.
And that is evolution.
And this is why our relationships and our loves must hinder more on emotion and soul & spirit as opposed to physical attraction. Our bodies are finite and crumbling and fragile by the day while our soul lives on among the rushes among our memories that meet on the porch near the fireflies and bats at dusk. If a relationship is merely the husk of lust, what is it that beneath but blackened and burnt corn that is nothingness when you die? I want the husk to, when I perish, to reveal corn so yellow and so delicious that people will remember me and my lover as the greatest cob ever to be passed among the mouths of this goddam forest.
--
And this whole thing brought up another odd theological question: Why must I include heaven in all talk of death? What if I don't believe that we should focus so much on the afterlife, as if religion is a crutch for our fear of death more than it is a faith and a passion? Why was I so compelled to say that our souls and inspirations live on while our spirits dance and praise Him in heaven when it was not a part nor a participle nor a precept of the above thought? It's as if I have to inject Western Christian Apocalyptics into everything I touch involving God.
Life is everything, make it the best you can for Him. And he will understand all your efforts as your spirit drifts up above you eternal soul above your addled and rotting body.
Death is an illusion. We live on far longer than our hollow grave of a body would like to think. Our bodies are so fragile, like a lamp being shipped, that the packing peanuts are soon to give and we are soon to break. It's obvious. It's unavoidable. That's obvious.
It's also obvious that we live on far beyond what our body says is our life. Our soul, our reputation, live on in the words and actions of the others we have influenced, the others who took from us the good which we held and melded it with the good of others (as well as the caveats of miscreants) to create the next person. And suddenly it trickles into generations--our influence is diluted, sure, but it is ours, and we are forever within this good Earth. People have searched for the tree of life, when in truth we are the tree of life, our branches stretching out among the reeds to hug along the river.
And that is evolution.
And this is why our relationships and our loves must hinder more on emotion and soul & spirit as opposed to physical attraction. Our bodies are finite and crumbling and fragile by the day while our soul lives on among the rushes among our memories that meet on the porch near the fireflies and bats at dusk. If a relationship is merely the husk of lust, what is it that beneath but blackened and burnt corn that is nothingness when you die? I want the husk to, when I perish, to reveal corn so yellow and so delicious that people will remember me and my lover as the greatest cob ever to be passed among the mouths of this goddam forest.
--
And this whole thing brought up another odd theological question: Why must I include heaven in all talk of death? What if I don't believe that we should focus so much on the afterlife, as if religion is a crutch for our fear of death more than it is a faith and a passion? Why was I so compelled to say that our souls and inspirations live on while our spirits dance and praise Him in heaven when it was not a part nor a participle nor a precept of the above thought? It's as if I have to inject Western Christian Apocalyptics into everything I touch involving God.
Life is everything, make it the best you can for Him. And he will understand all your efforts as your spirit drifts up above you eternal soul above your addled and rotting body.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
This is Dementia?
It's time to go.
Let's go.
Grown among the wheat only to be taken at harvest. Oh how the weeds so much the same. Much the temptress grown between.
And place your feet in the sand. I don't need to be carried.
Women and Children first.
Laugh until my head comes off.
--
I feel kind of hollow right now... I think it's because I'm at such a crossroads in my life... All waiting for a letter. I applied to Humboldt and I don't know if I'm gonna get in. So I'm worried about all of that and it all hinges on a letter in a mailbox that may not come until mid-September. And so I want to find a new job but can't, I want to move but can't, and it all becomes a sort of loss-quality derivative.
The rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops.... We're not scaremongering this is really happening take the money run take the money run....
Well enough. X & Y above and below.
You already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know how this will end....
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
&
S
I
N
K
I
N
G
Isn't it relatively arbitrary, don't you think?
To play with your words like that.
Don't play with your words. They're liked Mashed Potatoes.
"This means something."
It's time to go.
Let's go.
Grown among the wheat only to be taken at harvest. Oh how the weeds so much the same. Much the temptress grown between.
And place your feet in the sand. I don't need to be carried.
Women and Children first.
Laugh until my head comes off.
--
I feel kind of hollow right now... I think it's because I'm at such a crossroads in my life... All waiting for a letter. I applied to Humboldt and I don't know if I'm gonna get in. So I'm worried about all of that and it all hinges on a letter in a mailbox that may not come until mid-September. And so I want to find a new job but can't, I want to move but can't, and it all becomes a sort of loss-quality derivative.
The rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops the rain drops.... We're not scaremongering this is really happening take the money run take the money run....
Well enough. X & Y above and below.
You already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know you already know how this will end....
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
&
S
I
N
K
I
N
G
Isn't it relatively arbitrary, don't you think?
To play with your words like that.
Don't play with your words. They're liked Mashed Potatoes.
"This means something."
Day 75 - Arbitrary.
MySpace. I deleted it because it had a crappy server, a ton of subversive advertisements, and it wasn't allowing links in its bulletins.
And I made a new one (http://www.myspace.com/americanpulp), and nothing's changed. I'm an idiot.
On the lighter side, Superbad comes out on the 17th. That's in 12 days. I'm eczema-cited. In all the rashy ways. I believe in you.
And I made a new one (http://www.myspace.com/americanpulp), and nothing's changed. I'm an idiot.
On the lighter side, Superbad comes out on the 17th. That's in 12 days. I'm eczema-cited. In all the rashy ways. I believe in you.
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