Living the Dream

After many trials and tribulations in Cambridge Illinois, I woke to the sound of a meandering cello receding in the distance.  I looked around, and the obscurity of my milieu was drowned out by the monochromatic stench of the singularity.

"Outstanding," I thought.   "Another lucid dream.  What should I do in this one?"

The water tower of Cambridge, or was that Peoria? Delavan? appeared in front of me.   With my new dream powers, I willed myself to ascend to the top and spied the full domain of my dream.   "Variety, I must have variety,  An assortment with all its assorted assortment--not this foul smell.  Give my nose something it can enjoy!"

So I extracted a prism from my pocket with hopes that the prosaic stench of the singularity could be deconstructed and spread out like a rainbow.

I paused and enjoyed the profundity of my olfactory pleasure and abundance.  As morning gave way to afternoon, a visitor reproached and then later approached who claimed to possess the ability to smell consciousness.  And she thought I smelled good--very good.  But when I put the prism back in my pocket, I could tell her attention began to wander.  It was not me that she liked, it was the slow rhythmic breathing from my diaphragm, and my prism of course.  There were brief negotiations over the purchase of the latter, and eventually I relented.

Here is what she promised:  Each night at 10:04 p.m., she would leave her wife, find me, and she would have intercourse with my mind in a new way every night.  This would go on for a period of 10 years, or until her real lover found out.   I found the arrangement satisfactory.   I would find the arrangement satisfactory, as it turned out.  What she did not know now, or later (which I could opine with a high degree of certainty, for I came to know her very well as you might suspect) was that this particular model of prism was readily available on Ebay from a number of Chinese suppliers at a remarkably low cost.  I found (and would find) that I had struck a remarkable bargain--for mind intercourse is one of the most rare commodities in this age.

Another apparently rare commodity in our day and age is the inability to drop the gun you are holding when the police tell you (that is too mild--they scream at you ten times) to drop the gun.  But I digress.  I have had a long week of inmate complaints, and I'm less than objective. 

 

Thank God the Nathaniel Hawthorne trial is over

I Don't Have a Head Anymore

Losing your head is thought to be a bad thing.  When the proverbial guillotine descended I feared the worst.  But aside from the obvious irony, decapitation opened up unforeseen vistas for me.

Having a head, you see, leads one into the well entrenched illusion that you have a unique and individual portal into reality--through your head.   So to dissuade you of that error, try this little experiment:

First, imagine you that you are in Mordor, or was that the Third Reich?

Wait, wrong experiment, that's the one we save for special cases.   The experiment that you should try is actually down the hall first door to the left.  There you go.  That's the door you need to open.

This experiment begins by imagining that you don't have a head. Seriously, give it a try.  It's like to your head has been severed and you are still experiencing reality without any mass above you neck.   Without a head, there is only reality. It's all around you:  now can experience 360° without turning your head.  If you want to complete phase  2 of our little experiment, you can even imagine that you don't have a body.   Then there is just you and reality, and nothing in between.

Just a little warning:  this experiment is actually a pilot stream for our next generation extension to virtual reality network called THE ENDLESS STARE.  We have mounted CCTV cameras all along your area at various traffic monitoring devices. Our field service team is out there now, testing a live update to target acquisition and tracking firmware.

"Remind me again who thought that this was a good idea?"

You were not supposed to ask questions, but since you did, I suppose I am obliged to provide answers.  So I will tell you that the way is down.  Very far down according to the map which I will now provide you.  But if you don't want to descend down the dark, cobweb filled corridor to your left let me ask you:  Have you ever heard of the urban legend that if you put a frog in a cooking pot filled with cold water and slowly bring it to boil that the frog won't notice the heat until it dies?   You my friend are that frog.   In fact we all are.  And you had no idea that your personal life was getting that exciting, did you?

So my friend.  The next time you dream.  Especially when you are in that lucid dream and you realize that you are dreaming and that you have a choice.  Take the cobweb filled corridor to you left.  You won't regret it.  Surrender into the dream my friend.  That is all........

And now a special message from our sponsor.  Now that Cubs have officially won the division, the Cardinals are making a special announcement through a commercial involving the Talking cat and yoda:

Talking Cat:  "Well Yoda, what do you want to do today?   Isn't it wonderful to have all these furlough days?  All the Government offices are closed.  Must be some kind of holiday in Hong Kong."

Yoda:  Hmmph. Not know.  Bored am I.   Think of something we can do, have you perhaps ?

Talking Cat:   Well actually I've heard that today is Georges Bataille day at Busch Stadium. The first thousand ticket holders admitted get their very own decapitation and initiation into the secret sex cult of the Pineal Eye where causality and actuality are abandoned in favor of limitless possibilities of action.

Yoda:  Hmmph.  In am I.   Monotony of break, sure to be, it is.

Talking Cat: Well then, lets slide down the totem pole and to the Kantmobile!

 (A brief montage ensues of the Talking Cat and Yoga having past adventures traveling down totem poles, climbing into Kantmobiles, and accelerating at ridiculously high rates of travel with hair swept back  all slowly coalescing into their seats at the ball park).

Talking Cat:  Well Yoda, I know you are not familiar with this game, but its highly philosophical in accordance with Bataille's dictates.   There are sacrifices, base materialism, and an exchange of obscure signals.  There are also teams named after Indian tribes all practicing pot latch.

Yoda:  Standing up why are those people doing in a sequence?

Talking Cat:  That's called wave. That section of the crowd are a bunch of quantum physicists.  They are reenacting the wave/particle duality.  Standing makes a wave, sitting denotes an inert particle.

Yoda:  Interesting for sure this is. Going to the concession stand I am to purchase some Kombucha.


(any similarities between this commercial, and an ancient blog are strictly intentional)

We Are The Safety Police and We are Here to Help: The Bot

In the beginning, there was a vast river. And on the banks of this river, there were deposits of clay.

One night, unbeknownst to the safety police, we went down to the river and began to fashion the clay. Some of the clay figurines were freaky and some were not.  Those that were freaky we fed the Turkish food.  We taught them to dance to the funky music and we gave them barley wine and margaritas to drink.  We discarded the clay figurines that were not freaky.

On the second day, we saw what we had created and we became concerned. We had created a non-diverse, albeit freaky ecosystem of clay figurines who could dance well and who liked the Turkish food and alcohol.  What would happen if the supplies of barley wine and margaritas suddenly disappeared?  Would our new civilization wither and die on the vine?

To test our hypothesis, our scientists conducted a peer reviewed study where we deprived our freaky figurines of the alcohol and the funk.  We gave them grape juice and Michael Bolton instead.  We sat back and observed.  And hoped.

On the third day, we went down to the river and saw what we had wrought.  To our delight, we discovered that the funky figurines had adapted to their relative deprivations by fermenting the grape juice to create the languedoc wine from the grape juice.  The Michael Bolton had been transformed through a series of sampling algorithms back to the funk.  We were most pleased.

But still I think the whole idea of holding our accomplishments up as achievements or to seek some sort of merit badge is to be avoided.  Indeed to advocate the devil's position, the approaching apotheosis of funk is like the excitation of particles from water into water vapor into clouds. Perhaps the silver lining is to be found when human beings, inspired by the funk become more vaporous, and scattered through the solar system by inhabiting asteroids.  That perhaps presents the duality which can be resolved when the waves crashing on the shoreline are transfigured by solar power and electric engines are disintegrated into zoning laws which eradicate the dichotomy between UFOs and trailers, into some sort of intimate relationship with the craft and you are no longer sedentary or nomadic, but a single gravitational reference frame.  A solar power RV that can become a boat, blimp and Japanese apartment in one cake where you can eat it too.  If the safety police don't catch you first.

Shoe fest 2016

You Always Knew I was Batty

Bats supposedly don't get arthritis and rarely get cancer.  For a mammal their size, they live a remarkably long time.  We all should all be more like them.  Not the sucking blood business, but at least the sleeping upside down bit.  Bats were yogis long before yogi had Booboo and India was invaded by the English.  Or was that the Persians.  Or the Chaka Khans.   Never forget the military prowess of the Chaka Khans.  Kubla Khan had nothing on Chaka.  Chaka will rock the shit out of your country.

Vampires are supposed to be bats, right?  So how come Vampires always slept in coffins and never upside down?  Typical Hollywood B.S.  Bats avoid arthritis because they sleep upside down.  Kinda hard to get an inflammatory disease with all those inverted poses.  It then logically follows that even thought Vampires live a long time (they are bats after all.),  if they don't sleep upside down, they must still get arthritis.  That must explain the gnarled hands of Nosferatu.  At least Hollywood got that part right.

Bats have started their own record label, you know.  An independent label.  They wanted to send their sonar sounds out in the sonosphere.  They wanted to expose the rest of us to their reality.  A reality with a small "r."  Their first song was a spiritual allegory of postwar life in Britain.  And Genghis Khan.   It was kinda difficult to follow.   I thought maybe you could hang with it more if you were upside down.  Just saying.  I wrote them a screen play once hoping to give their little allegory some structure.  But it was a non starter.

So I went to New York and started to produce some records there.  I had some initial success.   Did I ever tell this story to you?   There was alot of drugs, a lot of action.  I knew I had some great music, but I was frustrated about never having the craft and skill to really deliver it.  Maybe my mystical ideas were too mystical.  Maybe it was when the drummer ODed that brought my little project down. Maybe it was the fateful visit that wine merchant.  I remember only purchasing three bottles of wine. The receipts say otherwise.  It hurts me to talk about it anymore.

But the bats were never good at the psychology.  The deeply felt resentment that eats and eats and eats away.  They became slightly paranoid.  A type of mental illness.  Not quite in touch of reality per se.  Its up to us to bring them back.  We had to spend the money to get them out of prison.  The day after the funeral, we came here and walked into this ballroom.  And we did this melancholy sort of walz.  But we didn't want to continue anymore.  Not without the bats anyway.