Today we attend the big party for the Chinese New Year. Time to put on our slippers. Time to buy a new car. (The average price of a medium-sized sedan, at the moment, is thirty thousand dollars.) Time to don our best wig. Time to bathe. Time to dust off those dancing boots. Time to re-learn how to use the fire extinguisher. Time to spray window-cleaner on the spaceship's fin. Time to pet the gargoyle and broadcast wheat.
Let's turn on the TV. Let's watch a show. Now let's watch another show. Now let's go to work at a factory or office. Now let's have a child. Now let's worship God. Now let's buy some groceries. Now let's kennel ourselves.
Actually the Chinese New Year doesn't start until Tuesday, February 1 of 2022. The Year of the Tyger. I just looked it up on the Internet: today is December 31 of 2021.
Are you having a good life, so far? What could we do to make your stay here more tolerable? I could turn you into a gargoyle and pet you. Would you like that? OK. There you go. Nice being. I kiss your snout.
Would you rather ride on a roller-coaster in an amusement park, or go for a walk by the side of a swamp? I myself prefer the swamp. I like the quiet life of just ambling around, even if nature is rotten. I don't want to buy a large plastic cup of sugary soda. I'd rather die, because then I'll end up in Heaven with Beatrice from Dante's PARADISO. (Other people are sent to different parts of Dante's afterlife when they die, including Dante himself, who ended up in the lower level of Heaven; but you and I get to recline next to the most Gioconda-esque damozel, who inherited Heaven at the ripe age of nine, but who is forty-nine by the time we fall in love with her.)
And there's a place, somewhere out there in the stars, where horses willingly give rides. A horse approaches you and bows three times and slightly kneels, signifying that you should mount. You climb into the saddle and lace up your gloves — then you're off! The horse gallops at top speed, and the drums on the soundtrack are thrilling.
Our destination is a dinner with diplomats. The reason that we desire to dine with diplomats is that warrior states have no need for diplomacy. States that are physically weaker but mentally superior are keen on conversation.
Now let us slip into something more comfortable: a plaid shirt and blue jeans. I shall wake up early and feed the waterfowl. Did you perform maintenance on the sunshine this morning? Ah, then I guessed correctly. It looks a little brighter than usual. Thanks for bothering to oil its hinges.
Is it true that mothers love daughters and fathers love sons? If so, then everyone is...
Why do folks keep bearing children intentionally? I'll never understand that. I only understand anyone who does the best for their LOVECHILD who was a mistake. (Mistakes are good. Too much planning is Nationalsozialistische.)
What exactly are prophets and seers? I think they're similar to what our modern age calls poets. They're just people who see farther off and more clearly than others, because they goof off more and thus possess abundanter imaginations. I myself fear that I might be a prophet, because I can obtain anything that I desire within my mind, while I cannot obtain ANYTHING in reality. In other words, my private fancy is harmonious, while the world (the shared "it" and my own "I") is an absolute nightmare. I think that regular folk are scatterbrained or confused in their fancy, so the world seems passable cuz it matches their inner confusion; whereas we prophets experience inward bliss, thus we despise reality and yearn to amend its clus·ter·fuck·éd·ness.
But can one be at once a prophet and a clown? I say yes:
A clown is a more advanced stage of prophet. It's what Jeremiah becomes when he reads the book of Jonah and recognizes a parody of himself; then makes the necessary change to his rap-style. He becomes more like the Fool from Shakespeare's KING LEAR.
We're always learning. That is desirable. I just wish the process were more enjoyable. (The ride is too rough.)
I favor mind. Others favor matter. Who's right? Maybe both! — Yet perhaps we're both wrong. Maybe neither mind nor matter matters.
Say you're enslaved and you procreate: Have you not made a contribution to slavery? Why or why not? (Your assignment for the upcoming eon is to write an essay explaining why masters and slaves are both a zillion times stupider than each other.)
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