mikal haley's Page

i can make a full circle now in what appears to be life and time awareness, death and life and the ongoing cycles of everything ness.

the death of jon garret, the death of kathy chang. both by fire!


but kathleen was renunciant and desperate, jon ws more resigned and desperate. you would have loved both of them or either....


aether...all are everywhere.. smoke salvia, powerful salvia and look, deep down to the fractal infinities between the cells of your skin. see eternity with me... know who you are at every Age. because the facts of the matters of spiritual divergence in the new age become more about creatively focused free will VERSUS: a sort of drooling, duncelike insistence on slavery.
slavery is the one thing that is non-sustainable...

human resources are the most sacred, in fact, priceless. through the end of the 20th century more focused voices of the sort of free and active Will principle were seen to assert themselves...this is the true path of eventual victorious revolution -- as humanity defines itself in perameters of free and active will and intelligent and heartfelt actual love without guilt -- the wise innocence of people who have reclaimed their connection to their own animus, their own selves...

these people are people who define themselves
by the fact that we define ourselves and are offended: we take umbrage when government or the fascist military industrial corpocracy seeks to enslave us.

that way is only slavery....

incogneon



a really short long story for me to tell
about inspiration and the oppisite of it. a little lullaby for the age ending, a wake up, an alarmclock, a bong hit, a teener and a round of vigorous sex for the age of aquarius. either.

to really get the feel of this
call it a virtual hardcore show. the effect should be
that people enjoy the show as much as they would if the stars were actually there. they're VIRTUALLY there...


slickest thing ever once i work out the bugs...you can say you saw it here first but it's really a deadjournal exclusive...


:P the classless objectivist slut who could sing and dance, and was a glassyeyed riot of beauty and punkness to behold. i hope they never catch her, i hope you are in Paris sucking cock and getting free drinks or whatever you do. the dreadlocked twins who just chilled out well, they smelled but they smelled good, like funky vegan dreads and sweat. the smell i associated with cool punks, it is body odor but the smell of SHIT is missing.

basically, my old friends were different, even if they did consider socialism valid they would wipe their asses with almost total frequency and accuracy; these new nazi dirt punks though i went to the march and all of a sudden the stench of bitter recognition assailed my nostrils and i knew i was in the wrong line. i looked in the direction of the asinine stench and horror gripped me.

now i am a stoic existentialist. i may never tell a person in this neighborhood out loud that i am anarchist again until these shit crusts dry up and blow away.

and of course to say they suck is an insult to little babies and sewer drains worldwide.
words fail me! and i know there are shit crust nazi dirt punks like this all over the world. what "scene"?

Oh, hi tamara. it's bongo. what? oh, lars left because nazi collectivists took over the scene. yanni is a fucking snake and i and april and colby and helen and annamaraia and cale, and well, i don't know digger.

anarchodiaspora. they all left. poseurs rule.hope your asshole still stinks. mine sure does. that's what this novel is about: previous title "PUNKS CAN'T READ." i PITCHED JOHHNY ROTTEN BUT THE FUCKER CAN'T READ.

bongo


I'M NOT PART OF YOUR LITTLE CLIQUE
YOUR SPACED OUR FRIENDS ARE GONNA MAKE ME SICK
mood: DISGUSTED
12:13 pm - The Stupid And the Serious









once upon a time really poor kids wanted to party as hard -- and as well -- and better -- than the snotty rich elites.

skinny ties prevailed in certain "scenes" - and "scenes" happened why? as i condescend to the invisible as if i were a grizzled survivor of scenes (i am only mildly grizzled compared to some...)


that was a bit before the greatest rock performance of the 20th century was performed by the actor, juliette lewis with the tiny giant breasts...it was great because she was acting, she was playing a character in a movie -- for all THEY knew, the end of the world was coming...

Strange Days, Indeed

a lot of LSD would show up where the ravers were, the original 'acid house' ravers in generally urban warehouses...

later, 'rich kids' desperate for visceral, real party experiences but deeply afraid of grit and human dirt and sincere cuss words from the gut would try to recreate the rave experience...it was practically in a fucking labratory, it was so divorced from the worlds of reality and caring, actually giving a shit...

when rich kids try to look cool without BEING cool (caring about others, actually giving a shit) they just tend to spend more money and show more self-righteous indifference.

it costs a lot
a few girls usually get raped. more rarely some boys.

lots of drugs are the substitute for caring...and that is the difference between the super expensive copmagnet failures and the transcendant strangeness and exoticerotic "magick" of the acid house vibe...the bands the parties, the warehouses...

i know about it. i was there.
i would never spend a lot of time tring to explain it to some people...
they have souls but they don't WISH to have souls...

we were: anarchist punks. a lot of us were deranged from lusting for freedom and free expression in a police state world. we had a Satan and his name was Reagan. All was not right with the world and that was what made everything all right for us because we were aligned with a semidefined vision.

a semi defined vision,
a shared love...
for tiny people who only hug money and are allegic to showing real human connection
that's too much to ask
so i guess
fake, reproductions of actual rage raves
will go on sucking
eh?

besides, who REALLY cares?

it's true: i know what love is, and what love means. what it entails. and i also know that there are basically sick, twisted JERKS who don't want anyone talking about love in much detail.

begin and they start to spew words meant to drain, vampire words.

because, what do they want? they want slaves.

they want slaves and they make no bones about the fact

that love puts a strain on slavery. makes chains break.

they start babbling about ego as if they were the buddha. and they are. if onl;y they knew. but even HE would not join a club based on what he said.

they start shooting vampire-words into the air, becasue

because...
the worst part is being consideed arrogant for KNOWING what love is, whatr love entails, not pretending otherwise.


why? why did that litle girl have to get raped? and how? how can i stop that evil laughter that starts emanating from some NASTY PLACE when the idea of a little girl who was my FRIEND getting raped...comes up? it's like the perpetrator is gloatingsmugly while my friend is basically all about being ruined now...
and why should this not be spoken of?
"the whole drill. once we got married i barely had the stuff to want o get it oin...of course he wakes up at 10:45 every night and wants to go....of course i'm tired, i'm worn out from justslogging througthe day. i don't have the stuff to fight back and he gets what he wants, and then falls back the FUCK asleep. leaving me sticky and disgusted and disappointed. and is THIS what they call being married? i guess i can't call it rape but i want to."


and wen worse? just as bad, anyway...
the old saw "girl, you're COMPLETELY naive. that's not getting raped,m it's called being MARRIED,. it's your new job, stop whining. that has been a woman's role since our caveman ancestors were doing it and you oughta be THANKFUL and stop whining."

huh?
i thought that there was ANOTHER Way...

perhaps things do become their opposite...perhaps the universe DOES
bend towards justice...

i knew a lot because of experience; of that there's no question. My experiences as a barrista at a downtown location in the early 1990s gave me job skills that i in no way could have gotten just doing chores at home for Mom and Momma.

but it was the fact that i was tutored and mentored by a professional filmmaker with an eye towards the future that gave me the unique and particular skills, interests and knowledge that were necessary to see through all the LYING and conartistry involved with the people who were PRETENDING to do sustainable, green architecture -- yet who were just trading coupons and congratulating themselves -- and polluting even MORE.

KNOWING that Green futurism was not idealistic or optimistic at ALL, but completely f*cking practical.

knowing it because my mentor is the great and heralded Christos ZELOV, who put his heart soul and MIND "Into The Fuller Universe", which is the multimedia project he completed in the 1990s about Anticipatory Design genius R. Buckminster Fuller. Who you cannot meet, because he is dead.


But Fuller planned ahead. His whole science was about planning ahead. i know that all I need to do is cohort with other people who are wise enough to realise the practicality of doing things on a sustainable, solar level...and NOW i believe that people reading this can see what i am driving at.


now, i will appear to change the subject...
Starbuck's RUINS coffee.

They sell espresso the wrong way. ANY store that doesn't have a LOT of love in it will not provide as good service. I and anyone else who is really about global sustainability as soon as possible wishes to see not just a weak reform that will backslide as soon as no-one is watching, but an END to such overcompetitive and wasteful megacorporations.


For coffee -- or for anything else -- but what I propose is one cybercafe that eventually becomes a global chain.

R. Buckminster Fuller was SURE that he knew what to do about the problems that approached the world before his death. He was sure that he KNEW, and thus his epistemoology he himself entitled Anticipatory Design Science.

most heads at this point would glaze over and tune out, but that's the genius of Fuller.

FULLER INTUITED that as soon as global society was wise enough to accept the technologies -- and social methods that would enable green technologies to create abetter life for all, that they would be there waiting for them. Into the future.


There are of course influential and MEAN, NASTY PEOPLE who stolidly REFUSE to allow the world to move forward. they are not smart people and there is the advantage for those who would seek a better world in the quickest time...the global dominators are NOT smart...they are stupid and brutal, deceitful and intimidating.

Some of the smarter Americans have a saying that is unpopular because of its honesty: NO COMPROMISE In Defense of Mother Earth.



A CYBERCAFE...

there are cafes all over the earth. but almost none of them conform to a standard that is healthy for the environment. and they could.

two ways cafes are bad for the environment is in the food that is provided and the cleaning solvents used. Food and cleanliness should and can go together. i have worked in filthy places where bacteria, unhealthy and easily dealt with with Green detergents with zero-impact could be used -- and these were places that appeared to be very VERY clean on the outside.

it didn't take a genius to see that people lacked the DESIRE to be kind to the Earth. they could talk facetiously and superficially about it but the truth is, they would rather have vouchers or government rebates.

those who care deeply are left...and we get bad vibes from things like the meeting in Bali where the United States contingent said NO to climate change.

that seems like too much to go against!


one cybercafe can have an enourmous impact. just one place where the people who come together there are UNITED in PURPOSE can have global influence of course, immediately. one thing that the petrol tyrants of the world war two era -- those who passed their monies on and whose ideologies still maintain secretive, totalitarian heirarchies DID NOT PREDICT the advent of the information age. And it is a new age that is upon all of us, whether we choose to embrace and accept the liberation it suggests, or stubbornly deny it, grasping to power that is self-destructive.

I know this. The place i reside in the United States at present is a concentration camp for aboriginal people with a a few stores around it. But the basic atrocity of institutionalized genocide is at once a basic fact of the United States -- and a serious COGNITIVE GAP that people either see through or purposely blind themselves to. It is as atrocious as anything that happened at the infamous Treblinka and Auschwitz concentration camps...and it goes on in the American Southwest and famous Wild, Wild west to the present day.

The Americans use the same sort of cruel hatespeech to continue the demonization and demoralization of the aboriginal tribes as they have for centuries. It's somewhat hidden..but we KNOW the rest of the world has a different point of view.



now, i will seem to change the subject again. but i'm not changing the subject...this is a vision statement.



the KAIROS effect
the conclusion
where will we jam put today? it's raining/. on a day like this when cafe kairos was open naturally we had the basement and upstairs. two big rooms. but now liquor rules.

kairos: meaning "time that weather respects" in ancient greek. other words: no-time, sub-time, untime. all the time. eternity. herakleopolis; the city of the gods: ancient kairo.

the gods were worshipped. venus and mercury went to rome and became isis and osiris...or something. hermes trimegistus, ptah the seeker of ways, osiris the fragmented soul.
and aphrodite, she who contrives ways and means for lovers, they were the same gods with ninety nines beautiful names. and they ruled kairo.

when i met norman seth carter i was frightened before he took off his jacket. i didn't know i was seeing auras.

acid, i tell you. Image hosted by
his degree in neuroanatomy, his book of the dead, his fucking eyebrows...good jesus save us all.
mundane actions blend into each other as the night stretches out. i am a speck in the array, a chit, yet not without plural value. but am i as alone, as will-less-- it was an agreement, he realised.

it was a prescient agreement...conjecture: we knew that forgetfulness could happen. forgetfulness coalesced in the future and we could feel its potential so we planned for it; yet even we could not know exactly how things would be, we gave time and forgetfulness a -- a religion? now it’s getting more fine, the signal is rarifying...the night is this street, the night is the moon, yellow, and the clock tower, menacing, always menacing, above my head, that dominates the skyline and makes me yearn for mountains, the night is a long walk.

i have work to do, it’s true, but deeper still i must remember. those dreams, that woman, the voices... how could such an intense energy be in my life and then become merely a memory? this must be the schizomatrix of nature; the events, related in context but disparate and singular, not actually one, the events that no one can really piece together? no, that’s not it. not all of it. you are putting together a puzzle, but the semi-finished shell gives birth to the complete scenario. you can’t see the end from the halfway point, you don’t have the clout! without foreknowledge of the outcome it’s all just a lemming drive. = no, Fool, Akhanda whipers subethereally, without foreknowledge of the outcome it’s a call for courage, you are being requested to develop a character.

i arrive at the cafe and the faces are shifty and weird, yet benign-seeming, as seen from behind a wall of cherry gelatine. the faces are familiar, especially akhanda’s angular cheeks and jet-black hair, all dyed and shiny. she even seems to solidify, and hisses between clenched teeth: “you don’t work here anymore, you were FIRED, remember? in a few years the sun will expand and all life on this planet shall cease. how dare you be late? now get to work.”
she steps out from behind the counter and affixes her hawklike gaze on me arrestingly, and as if her hands are not her own but operated remotely, she begins to unbutton the satin smock - or is it a kimono? vaguely oriental –

“but you have to tell me how to do and what to be, because i won’t be in control of my self at those times.” no one speaks except her, and her lips are tightly pursed.

she hawkeyes at me, with a flurry of eyebrows.

i get behind the counter.

my mouth is suddenly bone dry; i move some of the jelo out of the way and turn on the spigot. boiling hot coffee blasts out into my cup.

i drink seven glasses in rapid sucession and turn to look at akhanda again.

she has sprouted rainbow feathers, twelve fluttering and lolling tongues sticking out of all sides of her head, a halo of tongues, and her hawk’s eyes drilling into me, hot and intense, my shirt behins to smoulder in two dark spots in the center of my chest... “don’t be scared, you slack jerk,” akhanda says, floating benignly above the counter,

“it’s just the transformation. turn on the tv,”

she commanded me simply.

i look at the room. here are a few of the local wastrels playing cards and sucking cappucino out of filthy mugs. and mark h. is here, he’s in the chess room, arguing with Veryan. this veryan guy--he’s okay by himself; which is to say he burns my eyes out and boils my very brain with most of what he has to say, his sarcasm is hot and stings the eyes like garlic farts--but he’s okay by himself. but when Mark is around with him-- others, well, leave.
the politics get vehement. war breaks out, fists slammed into wobbly coffee tables; this is kairos,Jim T. and mark h. arguing their pointless politics with the passion of the sages of shaolin. it gets so loud and goes on for so long that the result is an empty cafe, except for lucky me, I, who gets to sit and listen, apologize to anybody else who happens to mention the shouting madmen on the way out the front door, their coffee unfinished, bad tastes of weird bitterness in their mouths...the overwhelming power bullshit can have at certain moments...but that was cafe kairos: something different almost all the time, yet some consistency. of course tonight i swallowed my navel before showing up to work, and now akhanda is boiling in rainbow feathers and sprouting tongues out of her forehead, floating above the coffee counter like a naked goddess of acid orgasm. how did i go from helene to akhanda? yeah, i want to know too. it’s because i watched helene leave and then akhanda’s lust caught me around my ears, and now...but you have to tell me how to do and what to be, because i won’t be in control of my self at those times.” then the subethereals...the variable factor is I-Ness, You-Ness, time factors. now and then, you and i, subjects and environment, these have their individual natures yet are still part of one scenario, the placement of ego fragments is telling and crucial, and the truth revealed in layers as you advance...there will come a time of vivid reversals that you will feel drawn into and trust me, after the reversal, there is healing and re-evaluation...now get to work!”

her halo of tongues dancing, wetly teasing and taunting me, her robe of rainbow feathers also dancing in breezes from whence? and damn, her bush glistens, i can see stars glistening in the secret crevices of her galactic cunt, and yeah, i am obviously making all this up. get real. i blink at her starry lower eye, it winks back, moistly. whoa! i think. i am tripping my face off. i spend most of my time at cafe kairos ripping my face off. there is always another one beneath it, slightly different than the one i just ripped off. i rip off the whacked out one and put a grim, sincere and service oriented one and step to the scruffy cardplaying punks at the table, sucking cappucino and flicking cards across the table. “can i take your empty dishes?” the bald girl turns and looks at me, her eyes bulge. “dude, i’l have some of what you took!” she giggles and pokes her friend in the shoulder. dude, look.” she looks behind me, over my right shoulder. “damn, i’lll have one too. how many hits did you take?” all cool, like nothing’s shocking. “what? what are you talking about?” the chick giggles chickly. “dude, hate to break it to ya, but you got, like, a feathered goddess or something hovering, like, over your head.” “eew, she’s got tongues in her hair!” i look up. she’s still there, her “eye” pulsating, feathers shimering...as i look her hair vanishes, and her scalp gleams bluely. the tongues seem even more erotic now, as they poke out of the sides of her head; she winks with her actual left eye as a third pops out of her forehead and comes down to my level to hover in front of my face.
“dude, can i get one of those too?”

“i thought i was the only one who could see her.”

“yeah, dude,”her bald friend says as she sips her cappucino, “can i get, like, a couple of hits of whatever you’re on, a flying blue girl like you got, and like, a refill?”

“hey, i can’t make her do anything. plus i took it all. i got a beer in the back fridge, though, if you drink it out of a mug you can have it. no doses, though sorry.”

“yeah!” the chick, the punk rock girl, says, “it’s miller time! can you hook me up, too, with a beer?” she is lucidly quick and bright eyed, she stands up and walks over to just under where akhanda is hovering in the corner.
“hey, don’t you work here?”
“not right now. now i’m just the goddess of kairos. chip can’t wait to serve you though, isn’t that right, chip?” i look up.
“i’ve never had a friend like you.”

the honesty and love of what i am saying and yet you are gonna crucify it cause you lost sight of what it was all about behind the money and the lies. you hate people who love you now...maybe you will WAKE UP and read instead of judging. you forgot how to walk on water ...are you too beautiful to glisten with listening? see the sluts are the only ones thinking. that;'s how it really rolls -- the saints are sinners who kept going. LOVE -- the finger fuck the world i live on earth with the humans. OH. yellow flowers. heimdallr warewulf. bug in the program. major malfunction:the kairos effect chapter three a little story about orgies and acid. what was happening? the red hot chili peppers were beginning to bug out world wide,i was so happy i had that album! and captain aggro brought his energy to the bongo posse. captain aggro, adam greenfield, a folk hero and a manic guru, a sage and a freak, cashy from pops and moms, jah trustafarai, but he got us all high....showed up and suddenly beat was replaced by PUNK!!!! Image hosted by Photobucket.com PUNK!!! good and bad, with sharp edges and grit and crust and distortion and raw edges and more distortion and difference, with grafitti style and the aggro that i had not known...it opened my eyes. and it opened up the whole scene. like rabbits...I’ll say that much and that little. like rabbits. the candle burned hard and by january the no sleep til bongo ideal became real. whoever brought it up, the idea stuck and all of a sudden we were up 24 hours weekends -- all raw and real, the psychosis hits and people say wild shit at 3:35 am all wired up. those were the shooting gallery weekends. those were the bleary unbelievable acid mornings with greasy danish and baggy eyes and what the hell are we doing and more coffee, more coffee, gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme coffeeeeee. and adam greenfield’s true beauty was his self-pity, his flaming compassion...i watched him weep and quote scorcese flicks, complaining about his sins and his mission...he took my breath away cause he was so damn beautiful and into it for a punk rock baby dream, the sort of cheesy goodness mixed in with asphalt grit that is so ahead of its time that i am just reeling in how much it’s missing now. and remember i told you, unity cognition. do you know what unity cognition is? unity cognition. do you watch the news?Image hosted by Photobucket.com do you think unity cognition means anything or is it just a useless tag on the wall across from a club that has not been revival for ages, for so long that the dead who were there equal the living who remember it in number? the awesome thing about adam greenfield is that he embodied unity cognition. and bongo posse was in effect and it was unity cognition. when rap music and hardcore first fused it was less about making hit records and more about - how can i put this gently, people - unity cognition? the gods pulled a flower out of time, named it unity cognition. it’s brittle, so i water the seeds it spored out, and maybe my screams for bongo love won’t be empty, into the wind... what - how - did it degenerate into violence, madness, denial, entropy?Image hosted by Photobucket.com cause captain aggro nailed that door shut and it took a damn strange attractor to pull the nails out of the door once he did. “we take no prisoners, motherfucker!” this isn’t anarchy...this is something different. “mosh pit in the coffeehouse!” “fuck paris, and fuck her bourgeois friends!” “it’s revolution time.” “bongo delenda est! moshpit in the coffee house!” something had gone wrong. money stuff and paris told adam that she was taking the place back over. so adam went all out and the kids rallied around, and they started just wrecking the place. i was shocked. “get out, chip.” adam greenfield was a sweet guy. i watched him cry creaing for justice at three am. we all cried together in that back room, reeling at the totally unfair, the mercilessly unfair state of the world. adam greenfield was a sweetheart and a wanna-be punkrock savior. and he kept the place shakin’ for a few more months of coffee and crucial youth. but he was gone that day, the face changed like janus, the ancient god of yore, and in his place, in his shoes where none ain’t fit to judge, for certain, was captain aggro. THE DAY IT WENT DOWN WAS WEID. IT WS THE DAY SAINT PATRICK CHASED ALL THE SNAKES OUT OF IRELAND, AND THE DAY ADAM GREENFIELD KICKED HIMSELF, AND EVERYONE, OUT OF EXPRESSO BONGO. I COULD SEE THE ANGUISH IN HIS EYES. captain aggro bristled at me like a maniac and said: “this place is done. we’re shutting it down.” “no way man. i’m working for paris. fuck you severely.” “get out or kevin will kick your ass.” i looked at kevin, he stood there, arms folded. and buzz was at the time that kevin was an aikido expert, or at least in training so - i gave up and got out. but when i turned too look up at the front window of expresso bongo with the tears all hot in my eyes and helene there like a stalwart comforting me, i looked up through the window with the kids dancing like ancient warriors over the body of a fallen mammoth and i saw the anguish in adam’s eyes. i guess dreams don’t ever die... then, as now silent inner laughter is ours in porcelain moments we sleep in wetness awaken to the sound of skin overadultifying those precious moments we cannot return to now. i cared for you! i treasured your company! you offered your warmth, and blessed release from my prison of solitude. i could have married you! i spun and twirled in your arms until i was blind. the love in your eyes bubbled and danced. i knew there was too much for me. i asked for pardon from your chamber of love, back to solitude’s prison. but i didn’t want walls. i wanted the sky. absence makes the heart grow smarter, or at least less giddy. there’s no floor in my sky castle--do you see that now? when you were with me the now was all encompassing but it passed, as i did, and yet you are content. perhaps this dichotomy is evidence of the call of the wild or of the innate divinity that i always shall fall short of. i don’t know what it is, but it is! i considered that before you stopped loving me-- but that was the day it took its dive. and i had quit my telephone job. i was left mooching off mom for rent money. scrounging in fran’s jeans pockets for coffee money, -- a few words about Fran Sorenson. Fran Sorenson…it has been years since I saw him. Ugly stuff happened. Love triangles. Of course he and Franny broke up--and she left my life like so many beautiful and true friends have…But Fran is/was a genius, period. He deeply understood physics, and all sorts of higher math, he was teaching phsics at the local science college, and he would listen to BDP, and chill out and pass the peace pipe, and we would just chill. And he was, like so many of the beautiful friends I have not seen in years, an onion. Sometimes he would seem dry and jaded. Then I would get back to the old house, the house we medievalists were sharing, and the whole household would be surrounding him and holding him steady, nurturing his tears without judgment, and he would be crying his ice blue eyes out, weeping because his grandpa was sick…he couldn’t take no more. Crazy Fran, crazy, beautiful Fran. I would see this rare individual laughing it up and whispering the most subtle observations into my ear, while we were standing there at fencing practice trying to be cool, and it would be so fuckin’ funny and I couldn’t bust out laughing because John was lecturing. night of the Saber I got home that night a little early and started the boring process of cleaning and checking my fencing equipment and then Fran got in, and he had this wild, crazy erasable/reprogrammable read only memory expression in his eyes…I think programming does something to certain tender brains… And he said to me, “Hakim. Need a favor.” “What is it, man?” He handed me his fencing saber. “I am going to close my eyes.” He was holding a cigarette between two fingers. “I want you to take this saber and whip me as hard as you can with it. Anywhere but the face.” “What!?” “Take it!” And he hands me his prize saber. I took it, and thought about it hard. For about a second. “Do you wanna close your eyes or something?” “Cool.” And he made a face I can only describe as beatified concentration. It didn’t take me too much energy or effort to get a good stinging whip into a saber. We both knew that. So I eyeballed him-and hoped I didn’t get him in the groin – and I whipped him, hard with the saber. “Ow. Ow. OW! Why did you do that?” he fell to one knee. “Um…you asked me to?” “Oh. That’s right. Thanks.” He made a grim little smile. “Smoke?” I took the unfiltered Camel from him, imagining the long purple-red welt rising beneath his jeans. ‘Troy’s later?” “Sounds good.” This is the weird guy who got all the chicks, for the sole reason of his legendary cock. The mighty cock of Fran, it was a legendary “thing.” Jake would joke about “It’s coming! It’s coming! Bolt the door, bar the windows, hide in the basement…IT’S COMING!!” Small house, thin walls. We would laugh and watch teevee and drink homemade mead. ‘THUMP, THUMP THUMP!” Jake would scream, miming the actions of a giant penis thumping through hallways, beyond its masters’ control, knocking down doors and sniffing for cunt. This was Fran Sorensen, one of the coolest individuals I have known. Later that night he knocked on my door, and said, “Thank you, Master hakim. Vey profound lesson. Let’s go to Troy’s Eggels are on me.” And he lavished his cash, and we went to the weird Greek diner, troy’s. We would get into his crappy little Geo full of junk, “Dude, “ I’d say, “You gotta clean this car out one day.” “Admittedly,” he would reply, and then through the winding streets off to Troy’s Original. At Troy’s Original we would sit and watch the news, and ignore the news. We would have eggels. Haven’t had an eggel in years, a marvelous thing, the eggel. And Fran would be insane with his goofy red hair dyed blond on the ends and his floppy acid Grateful Dead hat and he would suggest dropping acid that weekend and renting Yellow Submarine. And the eggy grease would dribble down my chin and I would smile and accept. Mind altering drugs? Oh yes. Very yes. Fran: Chip is a nerd. What a nerd, perhaps the geekiest individual I have ever laid eyes on. But there is something calming about him, often he knows just what to say. And often he is so clumsily appropriate it is shocking. Yes, I told him to hit me with a weapon, on purpose and as hard as he could. I at this point am not sure why I asked him to, I was going through changes in my life. Moving from home to home, transferring schools, changing majors and leaving relationships… This is his story, but he is writing it on my computer; I just thought I would get a few words in besides g hgpidfoih the nerve of that guy. But i’ll leave his little “comment.” after all, I’m writing it on his computer... and going of all places to the spooky greasy diner around the corner for coffee. boring industrial mud. i drank it and BITTERNESS became a part of my life in a way like never before. this was not coffee i made love with, this was glug, slam, get the hell out coffee with a really nasty attitude. i drank it on easter sunday and bitterly dissed the people driving around in their shiny cars that year...bongo was gone, and the fun was sucked out of my life for a time. i would spook around the corner all strung out and jonesing, ahh, not not for coffee but for coffee at bongo...the ghost of bongo, the windows all soaped up and the curtains drawn...all lifeless. every day seemed gray, charcoal, overcast. things were stinking. week after week i would go there. “chip, do you care about me any more?” helene. “you worry about that place...it’s over. let it go.” while we dined on baba ganough and sat in stark candlelight in her little row house...her lesbian roomates giving me stark stares of knowing accusation. i made weak excuses...i couldn’t let it go. it was may when they showed up again. i walked past and it was like the punk nightmare was all over, and paris and the twins were there, they’d made a magical pass and the place was more beautiful than ever. “oh, hi, chip.” paris seems a little held in. sort of withdrawn. i can only imagine what she’s been through as she shows me the square white patch of gauze where they had burned the cancerous mole off of her back, between her shoulder blades, her thin bones standing up in ridges down her spine...it was hard to look. it was pretty simple...the place was shutting down but they were sending it off nice for the last weeks of school...the twins had had enough, bret was in amsterdam playing gigs and not returning calls, and paris was, well, married. i don’t remember ever having a cry about that. i should have. but i - well, anyway... there were some subdued, sublime, evenings...friends, sharing moments. people talking, remembering the special times they had shared at expresso bongo. paris brought beautiful flowers and the place sparkled, like an old, old lady who was still sort of lovely, and off to church... the last day. paris and i were sitting on the steps, and she was telling me all about this new guy who was interested in purchasing the place. “i have to tell you, chip, i am gonna sell, but you need to get away from this place, too…I’m worried about you.” “but--but if he’s gonna get it going again--” “he’s not like us. he’s a business man.”she hissed it like she was saying ‘serpent’. “he has all this highfalutin’ new age talk, and you’d really be better off getting away from this...you have poetry goin’ on...get out of this scene.” lights out for expresso bongo. and months went by. helene and i broke up and got back together— oh, i see how it is. “I see how it is” i am honest and kind, and nice, and giving, and compassionate, and good. you could never fuck a guy like that. oh, noooooo. you have to run out and find some guy who really doesn’t like you that much, but has a vague notion of what to shove in a cunt. some guy who really could give a wet shit about you personally, but who can use the box. someone who can lie. someone who can lie, because the grim and horrid pain of being rapefucked by a man who hates women is easier when he knows how to lie to you, to fool you, to hypnotise you... oh, i see how it is, i’m supposed to listen while you tell me later about how this bonehead is unable to satisfy you at all, and instead of saying i could have told you that, i’m to bite off my tongue and gag on the blood. right. i get it now. then when i am tongueless and sick of gagging, you’ll say something like, “well, you’re no help at all. what kind of girlfriend are you?” sure, it’s no problem. i’m good at that sort of routine. you hold the football and i’ll come running up with a gigantic gun and blow my head off, saving you the trouble of yanking it away before i get there...i have seen this funny paper before. oh, yeah, right. I see how it is, now... if only i was more of a lousy scum fucking, woman hating, ass gobbling, crack molesting, blood sucking FREAK. you’d probably be -- yeah, I see how it is, now. fortunately i know that dignity is a useless tool, just a mask that pride wears... what passes for dignity these days i instead, will listen as you complain, will sympathise as you grow fat with the children, i will finish last as i am meant to. what was that about, anyway? that night with the gallon of pink wine and the blanket, behind the baseball diamond? “spank me!” you cried. “harder! harder!” for a while i complied. what a martyr! it hurts to be denied. YOU know denial. your Parents have denied and belittled you so many times and in so many ways that a large chunk of your subConscious believes every word they have ever uttered to criticize, put you down, or belittle you in any way. this is more than just karma, it’s been passed from every parental dyad to every offspring, it’s so obvious that we forget, or rather discount the validity of, brush under the carpet the fact that they ever denied us! and if pressed, denial of denial can ensue – “Not Me! I’m not in denial! Absolutely Not!!” and shouting etc: but we have built The Wall without learning how to bridge it all this time. the Wall, you know? that’s what’s between you and I right now. The Wall. But when we are all sharing, and individual ownership gives way to collective stewardship...ahh, you’ll see some changes. So: we as an archetypal couple, the water signs. we edge the grid with consciousness, names of g-d, orgasm and realisation. you and me. so we went to a high place. several distractions later we retreat into the welcoming embrace of the mystical schools; yet here, too there is more than karma, here, too there is work to do and realization... and the learned men of the day still can be heard to blame Eve for all the sufferings of “mankind”. they still don’t want to give credit where credit’s due...sometimes. it’s a rusty old wheel. i retreated into the mystery schools to understand this harsh imbalance. why is it so hard to be yin? it seems as if yang rules by force and cruelty, as well as dissembling, and mother-blaming. but more than vengeance, an empty symptom of the Age of Pisces, but BALANCE is the idea of Will that will keep us rolling, so to speak. the zen man has a comment on the nature of frozen time--you’ll feel better later, love. your best bet is to remain egobound and desirous of pleasure. this drives the maras away. really! try it. the reason i reason to pretend and pretend to reason-- the reason i conform to rebel and rebel to conform. if i move to resolve situations that have been in play longer than the I of me has been incarnate...i can work back to the karmic difficulties of Our Parents, everyone’s parents, the original parents...because as below, so above, the gods will fill the world with tao...our parents here on earth; the parents of all of us, the sun’s parents, their karmas will be resolved harmoniously, and that is utopia, syntropica, paradise. it is cool to be yin, a deep forest where the sunlight trickles in on yellow beams in the middle of the day is yin, and quite cool. slow fire, quick fire. forests are always on fire, in a way. but of course--chaos protects you. you are in league with the chaos of massive bodies being attracted to each other, creating the centrifugal force that seasons need to manifest. chaos supports you, and if you look you learn to find the chaos matrix that invisibly joins things. you know things? you’ve seen things, we’ve all seen things and heard voices coming out of the telephone, out of the television, out of the radio... it becomes a mischievous, infantile notion: to say that chaos is that which refuses to be defined. but that’s so cheezy, dude. so puerile, and lame. instead, i’ll say that chaos is NOT the reaction of angry mobs to modes of societal governance lacking in emotional weight or substance, but rather, chaos is at once-- the symmetry shared by the object that galileo dropped - was it an orange?--and a gently arcing piece of brick, or concrete, tossed at the head of a peace officer’s helmeted skull--they fly through the third-dimensional space in the same way, the same way! objects separated from that which gives them singular placement in the universe, i.e. anything not nailed down, possess their own unique charm, which shines when they can be observed, hurtling through space. that piece of fruit that Galileo dropped from that window did no harm to the holy roman empire, and that one rock won’t hurt that cop, either, because he is probably not using that brain for anything extraordinary...and of course all cops are The Cop, all churches are The Church, and the Big Bang was actually the first case of domestic violence, EVER. so if we talk about “isness.” then why will we talk about it? the isness of what? what, exactly is isness? is it like beingness, or suchness, or things having their own way of being? dare i suggest it - a - no, i dare not. but isness is, in a way, the opposite of nonbeing. and of couse the tao is more than the collected sayings in the books, far, far more then the words set on paper. but and yet, tao is dualistic; so tao both is and is not those old poems, and for that matter is both Tao and also, tao. so to sum up: i have mentioned chaos, the Tao and the tao, galileo, cops, and isness. why be prejudiced? simply, just be. i could go farther and say that representatives from the five dimensions above the third were all asked by an independent research guild to comment on the earth, to view the earth, view the way we do things here, and to report their observations. and i could go on to describe the opinions of the fourth-dimensional observer, and the fifth dimensional observers, and so on...but what for? what would be the point? besides, there’s so much beauty in the way that third-dimensional things interact with each other...get a few pennies and slide them against each other, watch the angles on a table at the local diner. two-dee billiards, or something. turn the lights on. madness takes its toll. 2001. in a parallel universe, Bowman communes with Hal and together they begin repairing the human dna pattern. oh, is that what it was about? whoa, no way. in a parallel world, like our earth but “not” the star trekkers abandon the military posture as they move out deeper and deeper into the galaxies relativistically, they develop an evolutionary fork, advancing and ascending in a geometric--the darkness is repulsed. in a way, the darkness and the light share equal footing, as it is revealed that a quality altogether different from both darkness and light is isolated... flipping coins in another “dimension” they stack the earth versions that reach the terminal point before ascension. a panoply of failures are preserved in this strange paradimensional ‘broom closet’; burned out shells, spheres sick and swampy with severe chlorophyll imbalance, green out of control and running headlong, nuclear deserts and technological battlefields harsh with steel and sharp edges. every doomsday scenario that has ever been visualised, ever, and many that have not...THEY STACK THESE EARTHS there. when the terrans screw up, they are swept away and re-placed on a new globe in another dimension. of course, one special broom closet dimension to hold all these pocket dimensions in. THIS CAN BE WITNESSED: CROSS BOTH EYES INWARDS, 23.3 DEGREES. mysterious michael is beating his bible. “bad, bad, book,” says mysterious michael. “good story, bad book.” wants to push a button on your forehead and have it all download from the michael dimension into your spinal column, with smells, flavors, background chatter. AND a buffet. grandma gethsemane concludes reasonably that mysterious michael has done figgered it out. piss, vinegar! love and light. rabbi jumps mountains, mysterious michael, mutant mandala magpie, manic magician. grandma Gethsemane gots gab, giggle and GET OUT! she’s been there, been that...sheesh! kaballah. a man, insane. sad, even... but was it a prayer of protection from christianity, or a prayer of protection FROM christianity?” grandma gethsemane’s givin’ grief, mysterious michael’s mouthin’ her meatloaf. but first: long ago; when the grid went Down, it altered the fabric of consciousness on a level greater than global. it was an early global environmental catastrophe. when we make the new world, who will we be? what will we do? it’ll be so beautiful....it’ll be as if beauty had never actually been before. we’ll be so different that most of the words we use today won’t even-- you live in space. the earth is in space. yoy! time traveller, you go from july to november with fluid sincerity. so abdicate! to make room for a new Way. oh, it becomes you. it looks good on you. new context-- shifting, rearranging from the very foundation on up-- the new New.

The Kairos Effect: Chapter 2

Admitting it:

I volunteered as soon as Joy informed us that volunteers got to use the Carriage House as a reference.

No stipend was involved and that was fine with me. I had bad luck with jobs...

The audition was for Bad Brains, the seminal funky hardcore band. They needed a singer.

Punkture and Abandon were gigging semi regularly. True:: the gigs were making next to no money; i could have hired out as a ROADIE and got much better pay ...
...and done the same w*rk carrying stupid-ass Norman's amp.

But when I heard that BAD BRAINS WERE LOOKING FOR A LEAD SINGER...well, my love for bad brains and my love for singing...where..?

the wetlands? No problem.

But I was working at Cafe Kairos for a guy who didn't know what poor folks, or folks who worked, because they HAD they had to rather than because they had some bold, world changing vision -- Tselovanikov had no clue what THAT sort of work was all about.

People had tried to get the idea into his head. osmosis, a suppository...wasn't happening.

Tsel' - His mind was open to Buckminster Fuller, syntropic reasoning and Anticipatory Design Science...but people who had to get paid on time, or else their lives would erod? No...too privileged. Still a friend. If he was on fire I would rush to the front of the line top piss and put that fire out. that's Christ's Honest Gospel Truth!

So i went to cash the check...rubber. Bounce. No trip to the wetlands. Chuck Mosely from Faith No More got the job.

i felt savaged, abused, not taken at ALL seriously for my years of faithful hard w*rk....yeah, you bet your ASS,.sweet or sour, i skimmed off the till, you bet I did. After that incident, probably with more RAGE and sense of self righteousness than before, when it might have been $5 for video games.

The rigor of being in my inexperienced years, not understanding bosses or the work world, and finding myself an "independent contractor". Tsel' made it sound so good, I accepted it. When the original Cafe Kairos folded, though....

...no references, no damn references. it was a LONG time before i really stopped looking for work as a barrista...and then stopped looking for work at ALL.

i was assistant manager. they continually tried to set me up to be manager. "no thanks." i know myself enough to know and repeatedly CHOOSE not to be The One In Charge. Not my Beat--



I started volunteering in March? April? Can't remember. But Friday afternoons were pretty easy and Bonnie was a decent partner, who didn't STINK REAL BAD and who shared the responsibilities of the shift -- serving customers*

It was maybe ten minutes to three. I had been cleaning garbage cans, rather pissed off. Todd was at the greeters' desk.

"Not gonna be a warming center here, tonight, is there, Todd?"

Todd didn't even look up. "No." Maybe he looked up for a second.

Around 9:30, 10 that morning, Long Past Hungry had mentioned loudly that there was a freeze warning expected for the night. Later variable Barry repeated that...

A little pissed off?

Rules: what ARE they? When they are rubbery and malleable they are not as good a shard, fast rules, or no rules at all. It's disorganization and off-the-cuff flubbing disguised as organization.

Donations allow more warming-center nights
County news - January 13, 2008
An outpouring of donations is allowing Boulder's nonprofit Carriage House to open at least eight more nights this winter to keep homeless people out of the extreme cold.

---
an "outpouring" of donations.

"yeah, like, when it's pouring out, and you can['t go to the shelter. HAHAHAHA--" robert might say in his style of harsh-laugh cold joking.

"...eight more nights"--!!

I know what that is for, and it's to pad the checks of those who DON'T volunteer.

because they basically DON'T give a damn. Like i do.

They DON'T volunteer, and if theychoose to not give a damn, people can freeze in the dark, and they can smile fakely later and have a weak "memorial service" with a photgraph of the deceased (no, not freezing to death underneath the library like Help Me Rhonda, who i DIDN'T f*ck because she was my FRIEND, and obviously mentally ill and in need of service...basically, the paid workers are actually spare changing out in the street and then doing whatever with the "outpouring of donations."

a PHOTGRAPH! when if it hadn't been a weak LIE most of the time, we could actually LOOK at Melissa herself instead of a weak - ass bowl of F*CKING ROCKS and a Photograph of our FRIEND who actually died right there IN the carriage house.

A gap's a gap. When people claim to provide "services"...oh, yeah, memorial services. I get it, now.

Lousy.

I do well enough on my own that i could have a room to myself just fine. EASY.

i care about others. It's a Christian thing, so now I do have to remind people that the Carriage House a CHURCH ANNEX.

For what that's worth. A christian church annex, not a yoga bar like STINKING Prana.

an ANNEX to a Christian Church. The first one in Boulder, incidentally.

I love it when certain people who have been running a scam hate the facts, the objective facts. I love it, I "rejoice when they persecute" me as i was taught to, basically by, um, "Jesus" they call him.

Major historical figure...ANYWAY...

he does have Adversaries, this "jesus" to whom I refer. Famous Adversary #1 is Satan.
But I get to point out that in the Book of John we learn that "Jesus" (not his actual name, it was something....jewy) said that he had already overcome Satan, that famous Adversary.

What i do at the carriage House is my MINISTRY, and if It were not there tomorrow, i would still weakly do what i can to 'feed His sheep" and scoff at the downfalls of the proud and arrogant who begin coughing loudly and feigning sleep whenever He is mentioned. At the Church Annex that i describe for you.



probably SOME of those people who outpoured DON'T hate poor people for being wretched and dirty when they see poor people. probably SOME of those people are not cruel, evil Denver Devils who still sit in taverns and say 'damn injuns...they had it comin'". (you think i'm jokin'?)

SOME of those people actually CARE and think, in these wobbly economic times, that it could be THEM next. (i can't say that they are wrong or right. Shaky times, though, if you know who Ben Burnbankey is...and what)





Statement as of 2:50 PM MDT on October 01, 2009

... Freeze warning remains in effect from midnight tonight to 9 am
MDT Friday...

A freeze warning remains in effect from midnight tonight to 9 am
MDT Friday.

A cold airmass is forecast to settle across the region late
this evening under clear skies and light winds. This will result in
temperatures dropping into the upper 20s to near 30 degrees after
midnight.

Precautionary/preparedness actions...

A freeze warning means sub-freezing temperatures are imminent or
highly likely. These conditions will kill crops and other
sensitive outdoor vegetation. If possible... move plants indoors
to protect them from the cold. Otherwise cover them with
newspapers or blankets.









(*1)I refuse to use the word "clients" here because there is a lack of adequate care, period. And the barackracy profits from that. There is ONE TIRED OLD WOMAN who calmly asks thementally ill how much social security that they get, and of course, cookie partries where people sit and "rap" asin the meaning of "rapping' from the post beat late sixties. but they are NOT qualified to deal with the mentally ill, at all. they sure do get the MONEY COUNTS and well, a scam is a scam. i call them "clients" when I am working. But they are customers. they provide $$$ and get...coffee, a toilet to use, a place to sit and be warm. (Sometimes.)

EON DESTINY
i beat a good man down when he was young because he called by girlfriend tomato twat.

it pissed her off. she was on her friend.

so i beat him within. oh, a couple yards of his life. i think i beat the straight out of him. i beat him bad.

actually, it was terri who Queered him. Sad.

he is almost smart. if he ever learns to put his potential iq in effect in the real world he could be a real generous. but as it is guilt s crippling him and he is just a fat old fag.

i am a FOUNDING member of biunity international. and i am utterly not queer. i was a victim of SRA and got therapy. i am totally straight.

poeople amost always deny SRA. that is how the government gets away with it.

see i want to spit in dick cheney's face. he rapes milk carton kids. he rapes kids like me.

and i know satanists in my neighborhood who are involved with SRA i amgonna have their kid taken away real soon.

in the meantime alan is also a victim of SRA and he has not gotten therapy so:
he is basically fucked in the head.

kellyann, my ex is a victim of SRA, she has disassociative identity disorder and u will just say: it is REAL advanced, i mean she has a REALLY advanced case of disassociative - kellyann?

woah the new world order is old and real and evil. basically you know how they say christendom is the "body of christ?"
well the NWO are NOT christendom. ah, no.

too harsh!

the situations I have wandered into without checking ahead were too harsh. my life has been too harsh, so I am led to conclude that there were crimes in my spiritual past, debts that i am led to repay in acts of kindness, in a life devoted to further and further kindness, harmlessness, to the point of being one with peace all the time. like i can go there from here and it is in space and time and in something else that is being created, not even born but immanent. like the destruction of fear and negative brain patterning that has caused me to live a life deeply examined but often not self valued. I think too much is what I have been told, and that I am too sensitive.
i want to tell you exactly how I feel, so first it is important to say that I percieved for a time in my life the mystical perspective that negates all personal pronouns. all exclusive i ness and youness and theyness was gone. this feeling left over and with those perspectives in my past: the meaning of life was a repeated phrase in my mind. I would like to see people in NASA and the Government do more research into the meaning of life: my work is done. I know the meaning of my life and that’s my hint to you. my hint is that the meaning of my life is to do as much good as possible: every political criminal is a head of state and vice versa. everybody knows this but here’s what happens: we are all a bit like god. the story of god, whether told or alluded to and dripped down upon, wrails within the hearts and minds of all people in varying levels of acceptance and denial.

my life sucks: my life is several actual very funny jokes which i don’t really have time to get into right now, but to sum it up my life sucks. I suck and that’s at least half the time...

But once I looked at Jesus and thought he was beautiful. And Chinese. And a girl.
But I was on acidacidacid all that time. I’m totally strraight now.

Basically there is a big gap in between my two front teeth. My skin is mocha brown and I vary in weight on shipping.

so you and I on a joy ride through my life because. Okay. I did a lot of acid in the early to mid 1990s I dosed maybe fifty separate times. Did a bit of psych ward time. All the time I’m having “hallucinations”: like: There are the voices and thoughts of others that i know and don’t know in my mind and there it is...impossible, and all it is is a trip, man, a trip. what is the psychedelic vision of the universe? where do the schizoaffected and the spiritual overlap and widely diverge? overlap is in sexual union too intense to demean with words. diverge is in violence. and I guess there is fear to contend with.

I like music. but do I love it?

stars in the water seeming

to be alone on a strange island with hardly any friends. no friends? so lonely, no friends. My name is Two, and I sit here in the automated city.

I can’t remember, and I forgot on purpose. what a thing to remember?

so here I am in Amnesia Park. It’s basically a glass dome. I mean, there are stairs and elevators that go down beyond this obvious surface level that i am on, and there is music that comes throbbing up, on certain levels of this structure, I can feel the bass emanations through the floor. but for some reason I feel as if...there were a presence nearby i can’t see, but i feel...I always go to the edge and walk around the perimeter...

I sit here at the end of a large table. There are many seats, like a banquet table, but I am the only person here.

Overhead, so many stars! Flickering. Twinkling. Bright. Stars, planets...

I can walk and walk in this place, and I have. Has this always been my home? I don’t remember. Don’t want to. No.

I could leave this room, enter a corridor. Over the railing is a yawning vestibule, a fountain. lights dance in the water. lights, glass everywhere. Even beneath my feet as I walk. Where did all this glass come from.
i feel dry...arid, like a desert walking in this dome, this glass hotel
I walk slowly down the corridor and let my hand gently drift across the railing..it seems like the water is alive, but that’s just the reflection of starlight from above, from all sides.

It’s a long way down.

I can press this button here--a new hum, vague and faint, in the walls. This place is full of hums, echoes, buzzes...music plays in faraway corridors...

elevator comes. I can see my own face for a moment. i look sad.

why do I think I look sad? I must have been happy once.

The doors slide open.

“welcome,” the elevator says. The palette of destinations flashes.

I enter and press a button

“I see we have levels to go together,” the elevator seems to mention offhandedly.
it’s almost heartening to have one of the sentient machines say a few words to me...i dimly remember.
But I don’t wanna get into a big long drawn out debate with an elevator right now.

“Down, please.”

I press a button and the glass elevator begins to slide between the walls of Amnesia City...it’s a wandering voyage laterally and then vertically, then laterally again...



“Down it is.”

I like sentient elevators...neat trick. But I press one of the middle buttons to shortchange any notions of further chitchat.








The doors open, like an eye. I am at the foot of the fountain.


“Is here better, or any worse?”

I am caught off guard. “Uh, yeah, I guess.” I step out into the atrium.

“Thank you,” the contralto voice replies.

There is a moment when I am taken by the shimmering glass archway, by the lights of the elevator dancing away down the wall.

There is someone here at the end of the cavernous walkway. I see her, I have seen her before. what is her name? she is oblivious to me, nodding her head and almost dancing, but not quite...she’s wearing phones over her ears.

I could go and talk to her, but she might tell me who and where we are.

I’m not sure. I think- no, I am sure. I forgot on purpose.

At that moment -- at the moment I decide not to disturb her--

You see-I noticed her, slightly, dancing and nodding her head to her music and looked for awhile. Here we are in Amnesia Park, this transparent enclosure. I looked and considered speaking for awhile, as I listened to the sound of rushing water.

when I decided -- at the very moment, the instant I decided not to approach her, she spun on the ball of her foot and noticed me. Her mouth opened and made an O. Then she bolted -- ran around the corner.

Mixed feelings.

II


Here I am in this clear bubble. the stars, the black sky. I am a runaway from prison. There were so many prisoners, I don’t remember how I escaped--

and it doesn’t matter. we were all crammed together, so little room to breathe, now I have been in this excellent glass fortress-- how long?

It’s so different. I am who I was before, in prison, but not really. I am wandering and there’s this person!

No! Don’t want to see, talk to, be with anyone. Someone to tell me who I am. I just want to feel the pulsations, echoes from deep below -- the music comes from below the floor, a beautiful sort of music --

no! I don’t want to see anyone now! just want to be alone!

I ran around a corner. I thought I was going to be -- at peace here, alone. No questions! No hassles!
I don’t know, but I know that there are others who might try to make up my mind for me.

I run down long hallways, take left and right turns...

There is a moving staircase that seems to flow out of the glass floor, seamlessly. I will stop here - no steps coming to pursue me.

I like that fine.

I won’t be trapped, cornered, made prisoner of any kind! No! There are other things to do, explore, look at my reflection in the glass walls, explore all the rooms.

Reflective surfaces all around me. Running water, canals with very regular straight edges. I cup my hands and take a sip of the water that flows. So clear and beautiful to taste...this place--what is it?

It’s another form of existance, I realise somehow. A spiritual asylum?

I don’t know how I got here and my memories of my former life as a prisoner are indistinct and fading But here -- here is a different story.

All I have are the clothes I’m wearing - padded at the knees and ankles. phones. music. how do I know this music emanates from the underneath of this place, from some basement chamber?


Two.

Who cares? meanwhile, I can find my room. “My room”. That just means I have returned to the same cubicle in this glass dome structure on more than one occasion.

I usually just find myself there. It’s somewhere nearby. But...I just want to stop here and look at this fountain.

There’s something about water under pressure. It - at the top of the fountain - is almost dancing and hypnotic. And as I gaze at the pinnacle of the water jet, I observe the curvature of the dome, the reflection of the inside of this place, the stars, the multitude of stars...! It’s peaceful here...like there is something to do, but no hurry, no rush to do it...

I feel that it would take only the slightest bit of concentration, and i could rise, like a cloud of steam, and pass through the levels above me, floating...

The fountain is mysterious. There’s a round crystalline base, with a canal that leaves it and oases into a lagoon, twinkling and gurgling, past my feet. I could get in and swim if i wanted to, but i don’t want to.









ONE.

There is an intricate return at the heart of the nexus, the network, the cosmos’ bright latticework that connects us all to each other and everything. Most of the time it is not apparent: we are hurrying through, going from here to there to accomplish tasks, make things happen. When we are attempting nothing, and truly still, then it becomes apparent.

My name is Eon. Welcome to my mind, soul, heart, experience, whichever you prefer as I am a gestalt of these things and more. Essence. It That I Am manifests causally as a crystal spere, transparent in places, opaque in places, one sixteenth the size of the small planet it-I am embedded into. The home of elemental water, the source of crystal, the nexus of thought and feeling. Primal, undifferentiated thought and feeling.

a labyrinth of walls and rooms, canals wherein flows elemental water. My consciousness, the Eon consciousness, operates the doors that open and clothes, creates the music that pulsates, emanating, from the Centre, and observes the actions and thoughts of the inhabitants, the man and the woman both named Two.





II.


All of a sudden I am not comfortable staying in this one place. I have been sitting here for awhile. Got to get up, explore!



Apprehension - where was I before, you saw men wearing masks, heavy masks where only mouths were visible, barking orders and telling us - the women - where to go and what to do and when to do it and how often and how little and always in lines, lines, Lines! Off to your cells! In the cells, the screens, the faces of men, always masked. Only ever saw the eyes of other women, either terrified or glassy, like they wish they had masks. And that man! I can’t let him see me, imprison me!

But this place, this dome is so huge!


all a delusion, this whole place is a fairytale within metaphors of ascenscion and enlightenment...an attempt at romance? what is the consumnation of romance, of bliss? is it a never ending spiral into higher and higher levels of spiritual sharing and understanding that instead of making you wonder, tears away the doubt from the eyes of the lovers and transports them into each other, into a world they share and only they share, a world unafflicted by alarm clocks and car radios, a world unafflicted by tension and greed? what is the bliss without a criminal stain, that sees itself in the eyes of another and so creates a doorway into eternity?

they had found the slippery passageway downstairs, towards the pulsating, throbbing, music that emanated from the bliss centers of the living planet,revealed to them as they spiraled in the light of sudden comprehension, the truth of the need to know the self in each other, the union which had waited intervals of measure transcending time and space...the two heartbeats melded into the lostness of no one but The Act in being and touching and knowing each other, knowing the sweet gateway into the divine that they had “forgotten”...there’s no ending to this poem, no plot justification and no cliffhanger...the conscious joy of union of acknowledgement sends away the fears of the past that made amnesia more ideal and welcoming a way than union...

you can tell me that the world’s current global militatism has some basis other than the denial of love. with the denial of love still evaporating scientifically in the air around your face i will not request a kiss in such heated non-arguments. the air becomes thick with denial, humid...when military agressors have mammary glands that are capable of lactating and ovaries capable of estrus and, of course, fingers that can pull the simple, by comparison, trigger release mechanism of a pistol, then they are just military agressors. I tell them there’s no hurry, I’m just sitting here doing time.

---------

wake up.

you are an Abuse Baby. you have to face those who abused you -- even within. evil is not mean to ryule the world forever.when they lie tell them about thenmselves. they are weak and that is why theuy are telling so many lies. they are antichrist. how do we know this? come on. jesus didn't go about being evil and never doing anything good. bjork is GOD listen toher screaming deepest poetry about god. we have to get TOGETHER.

i will take no for an answer but i will also consider you a corpse. if this doesn't make sense to you --


prevue to psychopomp's eleusis
y equals x, squared. solve for x
“buddha+god=cure for suffering?”
karma hathor



now that i have tasted you i feel a different pull.

what a gate to almost breach and now i must
beseech you. i dance, i sing, i howl at the moon,

i moved to flatland

i looked and you were not there and the idea of anything but you was sickening, venus the shock of not being
in your dimension anymore moved me to
abdicate myself. i need you now and i will


i am flat and grey without your rainbow vision,

....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
............................................................. and i could only fake it solo

need you forever. but the only force that i
need is you, your heart, your soul, your tender
love, the depth of your reality like sweet water
in my mouth, lover. venus: what is not you?

so much is not you, you are that tiny mote i
need to keep living...so i am at a loss to do
anything but contemplate your blushing reality
and your eyes that have seen through my
every duality and into the aching truth of my soul, venus

hold to your unique and individual integrity

be yourself, grow in your own sanctified way
you alone are uniquely yourself. be that totally.


all the honesty, all the scorn, all the rage against
the true insanity that is not you; rage against it and at me!
love your rage. it is vital to our future. and the the fact is

that your rage is HOLY.

your rage is the rage that will shake the earth and bury the tyrants.
your rage is the rage that will shake the tree of life
and cleansed, without a trace of sin, we will eat of that fruit so long ago denied us

she held my face so lovingly
held my face in her hands and showed me with few words what kissing was


how did things fall so totally apart. with noone to blame, noone to beat, no one to judge

i am left to wonder what i have lost, what have i ever had?


i hear the conscious judges now, and i feel like iscariot, adam, cain

i am feeling mighty low.


now i must go to an air conditioned place

where people buy and see lies and call it merchandise.

they can’t help it.


how many thousands of years has it been since nourishment was natural?

now the warrior kings sneer and rule
and there is a disgusting river of shit beneauth the major cities of the earth.


i wonder how she manages to do it?
this is planet head-of-a-pin

the voices of mindless envy and deceitful cruelty echo.

they cannot be the victors forever, can they, lord?

i know that you would not deceive me.

some christians
believe in the devil
way more than
whats-his-name

longshot ------------
“you’re a fool,” I heard a voice say in my head, “life is a ferocious competitive struggle; you need to be an ASS SOUL to make it in this world!!”

but i remember that experience is varied; i remember that experience can Be subjective; i will always remember that there are people who will insist that reality is never subjective; they will become enraged should i assert my counterassertion: unless i wrap my subtle thesis in the most sugary of paraphrases, even then they might react unfairly.

But of course! look at what is being presented to them. the world that they populate is a dark and dangerous world, and therein are all the opportunities for healing, but there, also, are chances for downfall. the survivors in that world feel that they have what they have by merit, through struggle, there is a threat of dearth, of death! what? what’s mine is mine! you say that existance is subjective? my life, my pain is real! they might say.

i might say it too. and so i might assert this subjective idea of the universe to myself, in secret, muttering, playing a game with myself. >>now forget you know this. don’t let on. all doors and windows are real. but it’s ALL subjective and what seems totally, completely appropriate now is only as appropriate as our condittioning to that evolutionary moment in the development of beings in the earthplane>>

meanwhile, i will let that voice go on considering me a fool. i can probably associate some other qualities and antidesires that voice might put out into the universe...i will even hang out in a subjective fool’s paradise while the capitalist wolrd surrounds me--for now-- with its compulsive lies and its conditioned behavior and its pat responses. i will hang out in a fool’s paradise where i know that these useless pieces of paper are changing hands in their “objective” world, but what is actually going down is that they are learning to get over it, the lesson, the burning green lesson is like a broken record playing, but actually it is more than that, is is a rung on the latter, and i do mean rung. a cosmic clock is about to *click* and big time--maybe they will still be there in 2013, and maybe not. but i know that they drone on in the shadows, in the background, and it gets more and more tricky with stunts and mirrors but the whole field is changing, man>>


but instead of them, instead of the voice that says fool i will be with the realisation that there is always somewhere else to go, and in that final fronteir, the vast reaches of inner space, there is lots of open, free, virgin land. their boldest have put down some claims but far and away there is lots of room there, in the INNER SPACE.

it’s so simple minded. what a pretext. the objectivists...they would not know what to do besides retreat into self contradicting denials...it would be too obvious. a mystery school they aren’t, they are a pack of loomers, disciples to a filthy dream or else--who’s to say? things change, they ebb and flow. some actual thinkers may indeed arise from the ranks of the objectivist clones. these actual thinkers may even not be so extreme as myself, but strike a balance between the objective and the subjective and even let there be moving centers of balance, allow for the dynamism of streams...fluid dynamics, and people talk about it. and eventually, as schools of thought cease their competitions in the fullness of realisation, as earth beings strive to communicate and disseminate rather than compete, we look around and time has flown! it’s time to do something new.

there is a lot of money in keeping people sick. there is a lot of money in keeping people sad.

warning signs of spiritual awakening; awakening of consciousness; great upheaval, tribulation, change...

here’s to the deluded. they live a little longer and see what they chose to see: what a dualistic blessing.

but what percentage of us suffer? is there in our makeup a tendency to run towards reward, towards Paradise and Pleasure, as well as a tendency to plummet towards doom?

a disorder, an infectious disease that goes unnamed, stalks the human animal. it’s a “syndrome” but the suffering changes, the intimidators lose their stranglehold and fall to the wayside, removed from that which: what a situation. what a gestalt. and the best part of us gets relegated....

rendered as fallen, lackidaisical, even too slack to be tuned...

most of the cells are where they should be in a proper prison where the will is held in fealty to a One who only recognizes the muted fury of the enslaved as that which mandates their deference, their self derision, the self-abnegation of the profoundly enslaved. an Old One.

cell division. cell phones. “your cell is ready.”

but what is this prison? and Why is this prison? home without walls, the original home of being, manifestation, Bliss...rendered into a battle Zone by the truly dangerous...”if only i could kill the killer,” She said, and i wish she could too...the death of death itself could be said to be a phenomenon that would be ‘bad for business”, like true sanity or actual health. have i made a point to you?


there is a lot of money in keeping people sick. there is a lot of money in keeping people sad.

be careful at this point: just because capitalism is schizophrenia is no reason to blurt the secret out; as if the cure were simple and plain.

capitalism is a sick, sick thing...it is sick and possessed of a fever strength, a jackboot conceit and a white-glove hypocrisy...don’t just run out and tell everyone, because you will encounter the thing-in-itself...and it will react.

there is a lot of money in keeping people sick. there is a lot of money in keeping people sad. and a gigantic blob of a faceless monster slithers across the surface of the Earth. it’s got people thinking that Gravity has nothing to do with making the world go ‘round...

the point guard, the vanguard, the avant garde...the brave who have feared forward faster...the deeply compassionate and the brilliantly intellectual develop psychosocial and often physical allergies to the Blob and its horrid progress...symptomatic, some succumb...

i care, and so i wonder why, and what to do, instead of giving in...for now.

i give in a little bit every day, as my beaches are eroded in the form of letters i won’t write; good ideas i welcome with a smile and then allow to dissapate freely. everything about me except my Love is being eroded into a mute powder, a dust that settles into cracks and details...

i have heard it said that the devil and God are in the details. some can spot and even obsess over the details...i have an open mind, so it makes sense to me, it just groks that Lucifer was the son of god long before jesus set foot on Earth.

the MADNESS as i wished i had never heard of the devil, never heard of HELL, wished that i could just deny such manifestations their existance, wished i could just forget that there was a devil...until it hit me: i believed in the devil and something FUNDAMENTAL would have to change before the situation altered its appearance any more than slightly, negligibly.

so then i believed in the devil.

i believed in god and jesus and mary too, unfortunately their time was the time i was waiting for. they were in Heaven chilling out, having a great time. or else they were beyond time, in a somewhen that i had to wait to see until after death or the epoch collapse, or something...

is thre a return? is it just a matter of faith? to call my situation a “crisis of faith” would be accurate...but....

i am a man well acquainted with sorrow, deeply connected to suffering.

in this same life i have known the ultimate and true foundation of Joy, of Bliss.

i have been Given something...a great Power to see and understand. and i have been given the same things that any other man born of a woman is given. next to nothing. tabula rasa and an introduction to a world of Pain “Welcome to Earth! the torture begins...now.”

42
143
26,950

Mr. Bibleman said we would go through a time of great strife before we got to see the new world of god’s promise, but I say unto you that this world of great strife has been a world of great strife for longer--

555
666
888
11:11
one.

follow the trail of karma, follow the trail of pain and slaps and blood and denial, folow it backwards through the generations...

until you see God, Jehova, the prime cause and Creator, beating his wife.

follow the stream until you find the place where god is as pathetic and wrong as the lowest worm of his own creation.

and then reach into your own self for the evolved part, the new addition to the universe. the insight. insight. insight. insight.

it is Your Father slapping Your Mother, but more deeply, it is You slapping Yourself.

if i knew what time was i would see things differently. i see time as the thing that actually makes things able to happen all at the same time.

everything major and elemental is happening. fire and water are happening, the male and the female attain each other again and again...reach. reach for the moment of higher realisation. reach for the pinnacle, climb the inward mountain.

when you can feel sympathy for the tyrant who oppresses you--

when you can see the victim in the predator--

i have no crystal ball, but---when you look into the inward mirror and find a trace of sympathy for your own self--sympathy that knows its healing power and its own great power, sympathy that is not weak, but MEEK:

when that happens, you may feel better.

you may feel better, as in feeling physically better, AND you may feel more effectively. more deeply.

you may feel a tingling, like when your leg’s asleep? and you feel the needles and pins? you may feel this in your soOoul as it awakens.

uranus (pron. “urine-ous”)

change manifests as:
heightened awareness
dualistic appearance of what is happening to and around you;
of phenomena (relatively speaking)> look at how much more adaptability is required to make the next few evolutionary hurdles! exciting, eh? >









but as we have worlds within worlds, we can even see that we contain our own solutions. it’s been suggested before, and if it’s true, why keep it a secret? we contain our own solutions, and if we don’t, discard the suggestion, it’s empty and can’t hurt you. i’ll chill with it, though, i’ll relax in the shelter of my own delusion. if i saw rainbow taojen in 1992, then i’ll see rainbow taojen in 2012, and what is there to really worry about?

it’s forms within forms, it’s new forms within ancient ones, and a sense of turnaround can make itself obvious. after all, when so much is built on a foundation with a built in flip factor, with a grid that connects us to the new universe we see, we see into four and five dimensions mundanely, as a matter of fact and course...


the Normal “election” is an obvious sign of their flimsy grip on the false foundation. the drone for the multicorps slid into “power” because power built that seat, power controls it, but own destruction is being outleveled by a displacing phenomena, and it spirals into a muted background irrelevance, because the earth has EYES.


ask yourself whether the elected and the Elect are the same, and tell me there’s no duality so that i can shudder and flollop here, on the soft spongy cushion of my own anomalous delusion. or not! but whose is the choice? what choice? what is a question? it is?!

anmalous by “Normal” standards, but today’s bizarre is tomorrow’s normal, such is the positive evolution of...

,,,of dreamstuff, of form change to higher states of integrity and connexion to INTENT: who do you want to be today? who do you need to be to --

--to spiral upwards and inwards into the evolutionary breakwaters, to see the truth of PostDestination.

i attempt to imagine the future while not really wanting anything other than pleasant surprises or energy - healing, karma-clearing learning experiences...and i am glad that i cannot see the future, until it arrives...

IF ONLY FOR THE REASON THAT PAST PRESENT AND FUTURE ARE ALL ONE, BUT IT’S ONE OF THE BEST CHALLENGES OF THE WHOLE ADVENTURE, POSESSING THE THIRD DIMENSIONAL VANTAGE POINT!



it has been said that past present and future are all one, i said it, just now...

maybe that’s not true. maybe the now of now is a new now, compared to the old now they had then, and obsolete compared to the now of the future. maybe. because i can see now, i can read about the past, but the future? i am guessing, straining, and at least i know why...

so that i might live my life without fear, without the stink of fear of the end. and even share that which has removed my fear...
the adventure of life, i mean, the adventure of manifestation. if you’re not seeing the duality, sensing it, and finding it enjoyable at least part of the time, then, well, that’s cool, go with that.
i mean, until you die, it’s working for ya, arguably...
a stable place from which to view one’s universe, the third dimension

but what’s this? about leaving the third dimension and yet not having to die to do it? what is this? is it astral projection, or a more of hands-on, life-in existential astral consciousness? seriously?


hey- when there is a world, a world that “khule”, the three-dee might actually be experientially like that “lost” Golden Land, that older than old-school Paradise?

This is a big thing, the universe....i liken it to the living Earth graduating from planet consciousness to star consciousness, and we get to go along with her, and even get to have some of the good feelings we had in consciousness back in the days BEFORE days...


better ways of looking at life! when the conditions are right for change, changes come without the necessity for the agressive application of power.

light comes to touch the situation with Its Love, and then...well, if i am still in the Old Mind i might need a translator to explain to me what is happening .

even though i gather from legend and lore that buddha stared down his inmost demon, and bested it by remaining integral-- it occurs to me that if the buddha, the original ‘Muni, were alive today, he would be Older than Buddhism. and the rebellion against God has been over for a long time, but the aftershocks are stil rippling through far corridors of the Youniverse...


but is it just “buddha+god=cure for suffering?” or is it an holistic epistemology for an age we’ll leave nameless, out of respect for the ground on which we walk. a new respect, born, like most things, from the mixture of primal polar energies.

and i could even be so weird as to insinuate that Mysticism will be the last religion(it won’t)because it isn’t a religion. BUT OF COURSE! many who have been addicted sucessfuly to the rituals of their “Normal” religions, but repulsed by the dogma and rigid formalism, have made a religion out of mysticism. i know I have. more power to me, and to people like me. but do i make my own rules? i might make little rules to break later. but i think about the idea of being a disciple, am i disciplining myself with dharmas, getting lost in precepts of order that don’t suit me, or bring me anything good other than taut awareness of denial?
just fuel for my spiritual journey, probably just adding depth to my evolutionary moment.

i can’t see the future, except: in the future i will gain the ability to see the future. soon. in a little while.