I’m shocked that so many humans enjoy the act of physical intimacy. When I walk down the street, I see angry faces, dull faces, somewhat contented faces, and sleepy faces. None of these specimens strike me as prone to express euphoria during a conjugal spat.
Nevertheless, every age, new faces appear; and, believe it or not, they are the result of successful acts of coitus. (Unless they were manufactured by Science Itself, up in its mountain lab.)
People enter the world, and people leave the world; so do flamingos. That’s what keeps the money flowing. But the most crucial acts always take place behind closed doors. Very secretive, death & birth.
During my daily bike ride, I see a lot of squirrel carcasses on the road—smashed and bloody (I’m sorry to report), due to motorized vehicles acting on behalf of God. But I have not yet, under similar conditions, come across any carcasses of humans. I guess the reason for this is that we shovel all humans off of the road when they die.
Dead squirrels are left to decompose in the sun. A one-time living soul becomes a dry pelt; and the pelt is flat from being run over. But human cadavers, because of their bulk (which is vast, compared to their rodent brethren), provide much better obstacles, if that’s what you’re looking for in a road.
When my earthly father got diagnosed with his mental disease, he was reluctant to give up the ownership of his trucking company. My earthly mother plead with him to find a buyer for the business, since it was obvious that the task of running it was too much for him; but my father was stubborn—he’d keep repeating: “We are not quitters!”
That’s why I’ve always thought that quitting is a great thing to do. When something is bad, quit. When something is wrong, quit. When something is harmful, quit. When something is dull, quit. —But you see that I have a lot of my father in me, because these blog posts always overstay their welcome.
Especially because I don’t believe in God, I regret not becoming a pastor: I would love to cause people to yawn through my overlong sermons; and I would add extemporaneous digressions ubiquitously, so that all the menfolk would miss the first half of the game—the televised playoff game, that is. And I mean U.S. football, not soccer—they’d never watch soccer.
The only time I’ve ever thought myself into a nightmare while still awake was when I hazarded to imagine what I was before I became myself: it terrified me that my inward vision was able to represent this enigma persuasively (I’m my own best audience).
Reminiscing on origins, I think of the almost-less-than-an-instant of “initial singularity” that happened back when the Big Bang was only a baby. It sounds so bleak. But literally everything was in attendance, so maybe it was fun after all. The place was packed, that’s for sure. I’ve noticed, however, that, in my waking nightmare of meditation, even if I rightly understand the concept, I still picture it wrong:
Here is the image of initial singularity that my mind projects upon the silver screen of its own damned self:
I see a black backdrop with a little black bead in the center. And the way that I can perceive this black-on-black crime is that the bead has a crescent of brightness upon it, as if it’s reflecting a spotlight. This is inaccurate, I assume; because, if all of the mass of the universe is crammed into a grave the size of the will of an angel, then the spotlight would be right there inside the singularity; and no beams should be able to escape, not even a crescent; not even for the purpose of communicating with the one who is imagining it: not even to ask this watcher to resurrect it.
Time forces me to stop here.