Dear diary,
I thought that moving into a new house would solve all my problems, but it solved none of my problems. Or maybe it solved some problems, but not nearly enough. Nothing will ever be enough. Too much is not enough.
I don’t need to MEDITATE, if by that word we mean to focus one’s mind intensely quietly and calmly upon a single idea. I don’t need a mantra. My mantra is eternal life. I never stop meditating on eternity, which is unstoppable expansion bliss enlargement flux…
Yet, in a funny way, the desirable change is as much a shrinking as an enlarging. It’s not only good to get bigger; it’s a genuine accomplishment and very pleasurable to grow minuscule. The size of an atom, and then of a subatomic particle, and then even tinier than a quark…
What’s smaller than a quark? I AM. And, now that my size is infra-quarkic, what do I own, which I lacked when I was larger than a planet? I have more time now. For big things age differently. The sun in heaven is worried about the inevitable freezing of the universe, and about everything turning to nothing – as if eternity is only what exists this instant, and as if it’s going to let itself become a sewer: just a bunch of worn stuff sludging thru a trough. The sun worries because, being humongous, it needs a lot of food to eat, in order to sustain its vast body; and also it measures its years by how many revolutions it has accomplished around the Earth. (While the sun chases the Earth round & round, it is too dense to grasp that the Earth is standing stock still.) The sun has roughly five billion laps to run, and then it’s dead. It will turn into a piece of coal, and no one will bother to re-light it. So that’s what happens when you focus on your own selfish existence and you forget that you’re a part of all that you’ve warmed. On the contrary, I, the first charismatic literary sub-quark wave form, measure my ages according to the flapping rate of the wings of the the photons of light that carry me to new worlds. Every time they flap their wings, they change from a particle to a wave, and since I myself am a wave, they merge with me, and we bear forward thru a single flesh: thus flux becomes us in-between every other flap, and then they flap back and flux goes away for an eon. Simply briefly. My point is that these photons can flap almost indefinitely, so I’m able to live a long time. Much longer than the sun. As it is written (Psalm 18:9-10)...
He bowed the heavens also, and came down; and darkness was under his feet.
And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: and he was seen upon the wings of the wind.
Yes, so while a dinosaur like the sun has to hunt kill & eat umpteen rhinoceroses per day, just to keep its figure; my friends, the light waves and I, do subsist on bread alone.
But the thing about moving into a new house is that you assume it’ll be paradise, just because it lacks all the problems of your old abode. Your old abode had noisy neighbors, so that destroyed your soul: you couldn’t stand the sound of those bumpkins stumbling around all day and all night, therefore you reached into your own rib-cage and seized your own soul and wrenched it out. You took it into your own bare hands and threw it down, and it hit the floor and expired. Just like the sun.
So now your soul turned into a dead thing on the ground; & this prophetic act of yours proved to God that you really and truly hate your next-door neighbors. God commanded “Love thy neighbor” but you hated your neighbors so much that you slew your own soul to prove it. Now, getting into a new house means peace & quiet. The new neighborhood is silent every night. Holy night, eerie night. This is what you wanted. Now you can sleep. But look how you still can’t sleep. Now the total absence of any rude noises is so scary that you lie awake all night in fear that some strange sound will break the silence. It’s like an allergy of potential. You’re out of alignment, therefore. You should celebrate potential: yearn for the state where anything is possible & not even the sky is the limit: the measureless potency of the outer darkness. Instead you’re wanting to thrust your head in the sand like an ostrich, to avoid…
What is it that you’re trying to avoid? You’re just like the sun, fearing the forthcoming scene. You wanna float up there forever, and never change your costume ever again.
Also now you don’t have to share any walls with your neighbors: you have your own walls now. But is this the solution to your problem? No, for you realize that it was the pressure of being judged that you wanted to abolish; and yet, instead of abolishing it, it increased twentyfold: for now all the houses in the vicinity, which you do not share walls with, have fixed their telescopes upon your house’s lawn, and they are noting down all the ways that you are failing to comply with the unwritten doctrines of yard-readiness. It’s like visiting a salad bar on Venus, where they have refined customs (unearthly), and they serve you your leaf, but no one will tell you the rule about which fork to use, and only one of the utensils on either side of the plate may be employed without committing the sin of impoliteness. Plus the room is really hot. (Venus is a longtime fan of global warming.)
Let this be the end of the first of two failed parts of this blog entry.
How stupid entertainment systems are.
You don’t understand what I mean by that phrase “entertainment systems” because they all went extinct by the time you’re reading this. Back in the early point-zero-ones, stupid men invented stupid inventions, like screens and speakers that could project images and sounds. The idea was to have the biggest screen, so that you could view the biggest image. (See above for my condemnation of bigness.) So images were all stretched and blurry; and they were devoid of any intellectual worth. And the racket that such systems vomited forth…
I’m just saying that I hate entertainment systems. And I hate that everyone thinks we need to keep inventing annoying machines: metallic contraptions to give us pleasure. I’m not against metal, and I am all for magnetism, but plain old paper and ink can deliver thots fine. We don’t need more than thots, and since we can convey them so easily, we should release our manic inventiveness from the realm of physicality – untether it, let it fly into unknown mental realms. I repeat: We don’t need more than thots; we need only more thots.
So stop with the cars, the gadgets, the stupid multi-seat recliners. Just sleep on the grass. Use a rock for a pillow. Or buy a fold-out bed for thirty bucks. (One buck equals one U.S. dollar.)
(Are dollars worth anything nowadays? Here let me start this entry over again one final time:)
Dear-r-r diar-r-ry
You build two humans. Let me back up, actually. You find yourself the only being in existence. You are the strongest and the…
So you build two humans, after building a world & a garden within it. The garden is a little place inside of a bigger place, so that you can feel like you have a home. Sort of like a doll house. You’re all for play.
Now these two humans that you create, you craft them out of the finest earth. They’re therefore like earthenware (as opposed to stoneware). You give them your breath, and they begin to squirm. You want them to “love” you, so you say: All that you can fathom is for the taking, except equal potency.
You’re not a jerk: it’s not out of meanness that you deny them the potency that you have always naturally possessed; you just know that too many bland chefs ruin the oatmeal. Either that or they might accidentally perfect the oatmeal. Let’s settle on: Too many worldbreakers blank the blank. Or whatever.
My point is simple. I’m trying to say…
My point is NOT simple, it’s complex. No one could understand it if that person (the one who’s trying to understand my point) had a billion lifetimes to…
Go shopping. That’s what it all comes down to. Keep the blood circulating. I’ll do the heavy lifting, if you’ll agree to…
Let me return to those humans that I blew up. Say I created a perfect world, and these two smooth-talking parasites tickled my fancy. I said: Take and eat whatever you want. Hell, even eat the savior; see if I care. Just don’t touch my booze.
So they sought out and found my stash and guzzled it down. They became like me. So I got rid of them. I had the sheriff come in and evict them: “Go away, shoo!”
(Isn’t it cute, how I’m delivering this sermon? I mean to draw your attention to the style.)
*
In conclusion, I tried to write a blog post but couldn’t. Everything above the asterisk was one effort. Instead of living in harmonious luxury with my fellow beings, in a world that we created together, I’m rehashing my take on a single, current event: a story written by God-knows-who, in a dimension elsewise, otherwhere... (Genesis 3)
Our new house has lots of pictures on its walls, tho. The previous owner left us all of his trash. He left beds, dressers, vanities, mirrors, enormous structures that have no name among men, and inventions equally stupid and ultramagnetic. For the latter, I thank the fiend; and for all the former, I curse God yet still remain alive.
But I meant to focus on the pictures. They’re not paintings; they’re prints or posters. Yes, I say, this previous homeowner’s taste in art is unambiguously anti-Bryan. (And that’s worse than pop surrealist. That’s worse than realist.) My name is Bryan, I wrote this entry; that’s why I say that. (Bryan Ray is my full two names.) I’m unmoved by pictures of golfers. There are also monochrome deer on snowy landscapes, plus WOLVES and professional baseball players from the olden days.
In case it isn’t apparent from all these details that I’ve offered you free-of-charge, then let me tell you clearly and directly: The dude who sold us our new house is the same age as my parents: they hail from the Epoch of the Greatest-Ever Increase in Overpopulation.
I don’t like to say the phrase “fuck you”, because I feel that it sounds too smart and not compassionate enough; but I will allow myself to type those magic words here at the end of this bad entry, cuz I can’t stand the generation of vipers previous to mine – the humans from the age that wilted every flower. Fuck you, babyboomers.
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