Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses walk into a Bar

In the Beginning, there was a Beheading.

On the Second Day, there was another Beheading.

On the Third Day, there were several Beheadings.

On the Fourth Day, there were hundreds of Beheadings.

On the Fifth Day, there were millions of Beheadings.

On the Sixth Day, there were so many Beheadings everyone lost count.

On the Seventh Day, the people sewed the Severed Heads together and presented them to God who wore the Severed Heads on His Wrist as a Friendship Bracelet.

...

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses were sitting in a bar.

"Yeah, nice story, Muhammad. We all know it's bullshit."

"Fuck you, Moses. That's exactly how it went down."

Jesus made His Presence felt, "So, Muhammad, you're trying to tell me that the Universe began with a week of Beheadings?"

"Well, that's what my people believe, yes."

Moses laughed. "Your people are fucking crazy!"

Muhammad expressed his indignation. "Oh, right, and your people are completely sane? They followed you through a desert for forty years!"

"That doesn't mean they were crazy. I have charisma. I was like every rock star who has ever existed all rolled up into one."

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses all laughed. Meanwhile, Buddha sat at the other end of the bar. He had a beer in front of Him but He hadn't touched it. He was busy thinking nothing at all and staring vacantly at the wall of liquors.

Moses pounded His can of PBR, crumpled it, and threw it as hard as He could across the bar. The crushed can hit Buddha on the head just above His ear. Buddha didn't move, didn't even a flinch. A thought arose, though, and that thought was "That didn't happen. It was just an illusion."

Jesus yelled from the other end of the bar, "I can hear your thoughts, Dude. I'm a deity, remember? That can hit you in the fuckin' noggin'." Moses and Muhammad, sitting on either side of Jesus, high-fived Him.

Buddha sat silently and thought, "I didn't hear a voice talking to me. It was an illusion."

Jesus shook His head and said, "Buddha, get some new material, Man. The illusion and nothingness crap is boring as all fuck out."

Moses shotgunned another can of PBR, crumpled it, and threw it at Buddha. This time it hit Him in the jaw. Buddha thought to Himsellf, "I did not feel that. Feelings are illusory. I will continue meditating."

Jesus said to Buddha, "Why would meditation be any different than doing anything else if it's all an illusion? Seriously, your logic is all fucked up."

Muhammad looked at Jesus, "Logic? What the fuck do you know about logic?"

Jesus replied, "I know everything about everything. I'm God you fucking moron."

Muhammad shook His head, "No, no, no, no, no. You are a prophet, same as me."

Jesus flicked a Beer Nut into Muhammad's right eye causing Muhammad to cry out. "Muhammad, I am the Lord thy God and I will beat your ass whenever the fuck I feel like it."

Muhammad angrily responded, "Bitch, I will declare a jihad against your ass. We'll see who's God then, motherfucker."

Moses was barely paying attention to them. Instead, He climbed behind the bar and grabbed an ice-cold PBR from a cooler. He hopped back over the bar and hurled the full can at Buddha. The can exploded against Buddha's ear.

Buddha cried out, "Ow, motherfucker! What the fuck, man?"

Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses almost fell off their bar stools laughing.

Buddha was pissed. He got off of His seat and He glared at Moses, His chest heaving, His breath rapid.

Jesus calmly said, "Chill out, Buddha. It was just an illusion, remember?" Muhammad and Moses laughed again.

Buddha tied His robe, put a twenty on the bar, and walked out.

Jesus mockingly asked, "What happened to the Laughing Buddha I'm always hearing about?"

Muhammad and Moses chuckled. Muhammad said to Jesus, "You would be a good comedian, I think."

"Shit, I am a comedian. I've been playing a cosmic joke on everyone for eternity. You two actually believe you're important in some way. I'm it, man. I'm the only One Who matters. I created your asses just to entertain myself."

Moses interjected, "You mean, Our Father created Our Asses."

"No, I mean I created your asses. I am My Father and I am My Son. I got it all rolling around so crazy none of y'all will ever figure it out. I am the Merry Prankster and there shall be no other Prankster but Me!"

Muhammad said, "You're so full of shit, man. You said You'd be back for a Second Coming and You'd cleanse the world of sin, but it's been two thousand years since You were crucified."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"My point is You're full of shit. You aren't going back to save the world."

"You got that right, Pardner. You think I'd go back to save their asses after the way they treated Me last time? They fucking crucified me, man! I love it that they all think I'm coming back for them, but Hell no, I won't go! I'm just gonna let 'em keep thinkin' that until they finally figure out what you finally figured out. Took you long enough, Mo."

Mo shook His head. "Jesus, you are one crazy motherfucker."

Moses smiled, "True dat! He was the One Who had me insert all the "Nots" in the Ten Commandments!"

Muhammad broke out into a huge grin, "Are you shittin' me?"

Moses calmly picked up His beer and looked away, "Yeah, I'm shitting you, you gullible desert rat."

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you! I'll beat your fucking ass, pussy!"

Satan had been washing glasses in the sink at the other end of the bar, but he sauntered over. "Hey, guys, try to keep it to a dull roar, huh?"

Moses puts up His hands, "No worries, dude. We're just having some fun, that's all."

"Just stay chill, okay."

Satan walked back down to the other end of the bar as Jesus said "Satan, you fucking hippy, get us a round of shots. Tequila."

Satan turned and said, "Three shots? Muhammad?"

Muhammad shrugged his shoulders, "Yeah, why not. These virgin daiquiris suck."

Satan slyly looked at Jesus while saying to Muhammad, "Maybe you should try a Virgin Mary instead."

Jesus hopped over the bar and raced toward Satan, "I told you what would happen if you talked shit about My Mom!" Jesus and Satan went at it, each of them landing vicious blows on the other. The Archangels who had been sitting quietly in the corner ran toward the bar but a horde of Demons jumped in the way. The bar was filled with violence and mayhem. Moses made His way back to the corner and burned some bush while taking in the scene. Muhammad twirled like a whirling dervish smacking the shit out of whoever got near Him, whether it be an angel or a demon. Jesus, meanwhile, had Satan pinned to the ground behind the bar and was jackhammering the Right Hand of God into Satan's bloodied face.

A golden light came pouring through the front doors of the bar. The Virgin Mary walked inside and every saint, sinner, angel, demon, prophet, and deity fell to the ground and bowed. Jesus, though, kept wailing away on Satan, unaware His Mother had come inside. The Virgin Mary floated over the bar and descended next to Jesus. Satan looked up and mouthed, "Thank God," causing Jesus to turn and look up as well. Jesus gulped and mouthed, "Oh, shit." The Virgin Mary grabbed Jesus by the ear and lifted Him through the air toward the entrance of the bar, chastising Him for acting like a drunken lout.

"You're supposed to be setting a good example for these heathens."

"Sorry, Mother, but Satan insulted You. I had to defend Your Honor."

"No, You turn the other cheek and You forgive. Now, tell Satan that You're sorry."

"But Mom!"

"No 'buts,' Mister."

Jesus sighed and turned His head back to Satan. "I'm sorry I kicked Your ass."

Satan smirked and said under His breath, "Whatever You say, Mama's Boy."

"Satan, I am gonna--"

"You're going to what, Jesus?"

"Nothing, Mother."

"As for you, Satan. Mind your manners. If you want to keep tending bar, that is. I can arrange to get your job back in the mines if you'd prefer."

Satan dipped his head, "Sorry, Ma'am. It won't happen again."

Mary turned and led Jesus by the ear out of the bar.

The bar was filled with murmurs as everyone went back to their seats and duties, more than a few grumbling under their breath. Muhammad looked like He'd seen a ghost. Moses, meanwhile, was completely baked. He walked crookedly over to the bar and sat next to Muhammad. He slapped Muhammad on the back.

"That was some heavy shit,  huh, Mo?"

Muhammad shook his head, "Yeah. She scares me, dude."

Moses replied, "Mary? Oh, yeah, Jesus's Mom's a Bitch."

Everyone in the bar went silent. Moses said, "Hey, I'm just sayin' what you're all thinking."

Muhammad said, "Fuck you, Moses, I ain't thinking that at all. Jesus can hear everyone's thoughts, man. You think His Mother can't?"

Moses contemplated for a few moments and then turned to Muhammad, "What were we talking about again?"

Muhammad dropped His head and sighed.

Moses spoke up, "Oh, yeah, we were going to have tequila shots. Hey, you ol' Devil, get Mo and I a couple shots of tequila."

Satan, His face a mess with one eye swelled shut, poured the three of them shots. Moses, Muhammad, and Satan all raised their glasses. "To Heaven and Hell and back again!" They slammed their shots and Moses got up to head to the bathroom. As He approached He saw the signs on the three doors. One read Heaven, one read Hell, and one read Unisex. "Good, they finally got rid of Limbo. It took forever to take a crap in there."

Just Give Up

Do you feel horrible? Is your body racked with pain? Do you experience unending ennui?

If so, congratulations! Do you know how hard people work to be happy? It's an excruciatingly difficult process and requires constant vigilance. Feeling like crap is easy! You don't have to do a damn thing! Feeling shitty is the default condition of humanity. I don't know why, I don't ask why. I just accept it as it is and embrace it.

Life for me is so simple. I constantly feel miserable and for this I am grateful. When I wake up I remember all the good times I've had in life and realize that I have very few good days left. It's a relief. I spend my mornings huddled under blankets trying to shut out the day, waiting for night to fall so I can sleep again. I love it. I don't even have to get out of bed to experience dread! Why would I not embrace that?

You see, it's just a matter of bucking the trends and adopting a new attitude. There's so much pressure to be happy and it changes the way people live their lives. Suddenly, they're preparing for triathlons, trying to get Super Bowl tickets, preparing the perfect romantic getaway, pursuing higher education to one day land their dream job, and making bucket lists. Fuck that. That's a lot of work. Besides, doing those things rarely results in real or lasting happiness. The ratio of work-to-happiness is like 100 to 1. Really, really bad odds.

Meanwhile, my odds of being dissatisfied with a TV dinner and an evening of toenail clipping is almost 100 percent. I experience feeling like a squished dog turd without even trying. Even my lack of making attempts to be happy leaves me feeling unworthy. By embracing the attitude that life isn't worth the effort I have freed myself to be despondent, a feeling that arises with no effort at all. In fact, putting forth effort almost guarantees that I won't feel despair. Why the hell would I want that?!

I know there are few bookstores any more, but when there were in the 1990s and early 2000s the biggest aisles with the heaviest shopping traffic were for self-help. Literally every self-help book was about improving life in some way, most specifically to make one happier and feel more fulfilled. If you think it's hard to feel happy then don't even bother trying to become fulfilled. Fulfillment? Dear Lord, that's slightly more attainable than finding the Fountain of Youth. You might feel fulfilled some time in your life, but it will almost surely be accidental and it will last less than a day.

Guess what? The day after feeling fulfilled even happiness feels like a major disappointment. And now you're going to spend thousands of dollars to rebuild a classic car for six months in the hopes that you'll enjoy yourself? Now you're wasting time and money and you're going to be pissed more often than happy because you're always going to be missing a crucial part. Pretty soon you and your wife drift apart, your son never wants to join in with you for good old fashioned father-son bonding because he's playing video games, and your hours are cut at work because China's building more widgets than you can sell.

You fucked up. You could have spent no money moping at home and work while being completely indifferent to whether you'd done something instead of nothing. Dying will be easier that way. You'll have no regrets because you'd never expected anything from life but hardship and heartache. Your unhappiness would no know bounds. You're only fear of death will be that you might wind up in an afterlife that is happy and fulfilling. If you have to have a hope, if you can't do without one, then hope there is a Hell and hope you're going there to spend eternity in agony and shame. Think about how easy it is to get into hell according to most religions and how fucking hard it is to get into heaven or nirvana!

Dude, choose the sure thing. Don't gamble with your life only to wind up disappointed that all of your hard work, sacrifice, care for the sick and poor, and abundance of loving kindness leads to an eternity of damnation. You'll be swimming next to Pol Pot in a lava pit having your entrails eaten by fish demons for eternity and he'll be asking you what you did to deserve such a horrific fate. He'll be like, "I was responsible for the genocide of hundreds of thousands of people ... and you fed starving babies while caring for your sick and dying great aunt Edna? Ha hahahahaha!" Yeah, Pol Pot is going to laugh at you for being such a stupid douche bag for believing in goodness and happiness and fulfillment. He'll point over to a wall where Buddha, Gandhi, and Mother Theresa are being beaten with the limbs of Red Cross volunteers and say, "See? Doesn't matter whether you're good or bad, happy or sad. It all ends with eternal punishment so you might as well get your rocks off doing whatever you want no matter how much society frowns on your behavior. You're spending, what, 80 years on earth being good and trying to be happy versus endlessness in Hell being tortured for no reason at all? Come on, man, just admit that you wasted the only worthwhile years of your eternal life believing that up was down."

Pol Pot knows his shit. I know mine. You have to change. I'm introducing a new line of self-help guidance. For those who have already perfected the attitude and lifestyle of sloth and dismay, they'll never read this because they'd never put forth the effort to read. But you obviously still care about your life because you're reading this. That's a mistake. It'll take time for you to wean yourself off of effort and goals of happiness and fulfillment. You can do it, though. Try to put aside an hour each day to let yourself feel the existential horror of being; spend a morning each weekend lying in bed thinking about your most embarrassing moments, the most crushing losses you've experienced, and the dreams you once had that you know are no longer attainable. It's a start at least. I don't expect you or anyone who has cared about living a good life to master a cheerless life with a bleak future in a matter of months.  If you don't stop trying to be happy, though, your life will never be as gloomy as it could be.

The choice is yours; just give up.

If You Only Had One Day

If I had one day to spend any way I wanted to spend it how would I spend it? The answer to that question really depends on the amount of time I have to think about it. For example, if I had 30 years to think about how I might spend October 23^rd in 2044, then I might come up with a pretty remarkable day. If I have to give an answer for how I'd spend that day in a couple of minutes, well, my answer wouldn't be so hot.

I suppose that much is obvious, right? Is there a reason to hash that out any further? Should I change directions with my thinking and consider something else besides what I’m thinking about now? Maybe I should consider where I am this moment. Let me take a look. Well, it appears that I’m in Amsterdam. I’m sitting alone at a canalside table at an outdoor café on the Prinsengracht. It’s about 10 a.m. on a Monday morning, early October, about 65 degrees, a slight breeze, the sun is shining, a couple of fluffy white clouds dotting the blue sky framed by trees and gabled rooftops along either side of the canal twisting away from me in either direction. I see a bridge at an angle from my sight-line to the southeast. I turn and see a bridge in the distance the other direction as well. There are cyclists riding and walkers ambling over the bridges.

Strollers are meandering by me, a few feet from me. A handsome young couple walking one way, an elderly man wearing a grey cardigan striding gracefully the other way, three middle-aged blond women speaking Dutch have gathered outside the entrance to the cafe, two Indian boys, teenagers, run past the couple. A young woman, probably late 20s or early 30s, sits at the next table. She’s facing me as I sit across my table facing her. It’s only now that I’m noticing her. She has sunshine auburn hair, invisible golden sunglasses, and dark red lips peeled back in a smile with healthy white teeth and penetrating hazel eyes …

… staring right into mine. Really? Huh … really. I’m gazing into her eyes, focused intently on the black holes of her retinas, falling inside, swimming in the sea of her consciousness, letting the waves of her soul breath through me. I’m lost in her … how much time has gone by? A few seconds? An hour? I can’t tell. I don’t care.

I am alive this moment. I am fully alive, aware of being and of the being of others. Specifically, this one other woman sitting across from me, a table removed. She tilts her head just a bit. Her lips curl into a more devilish grin. She squints her eyes and speaks, “I …” She trails off, opens her eyes wider again, and shakes her head a little, as if in disbelief. “I don’t know how to say this. I really don’t. So I’m just going to keep looking into your eyes, okay?”

I listen to her voice and replay her words over and over again. I want to hear that voice forever. I never want to hear anything but her voice whispering to me, “Hello, do you mind if I bathe in your eyes for the rest of the day?”

I say in response, “Yes.” I look into her eyes. She looks into mine. I realize this is how I would choose to spend my day if I could choose to spend it anyway I wanted. Why not? What else could be better than being inside someone while they are inside of you?

…

If life makes you glance around blushing, embarrassed for feeling so alive and free, wondering if others can see how exposed you feel while you’re reading, then I am writing the way I should be. I want you to grab at your throat as a self-protective response to your growing awareness of your vulnerability and then take a deep breath to muster up the courage to let your hand fall to your side, to tilt your head back smiling while you close your eyes, allowing yourself to feel how you know you can feel when you are alone or with a lover; tender, passionate, curious, alive, your body tingling, craving specific sensations like a warm bath or a gentle caress, the wind blowing through your hair while you stand on the beach looking out at the slowly dimming sky at sunset, the colors shifting from pulsing neon to soft pastels, everything inching toward darkness, filling you with a sense of longing and loss, the loss of light and color into the dead of night, time passing like a haunting, tormenting you with the awareness of your total lack of control over what is essential for living: the air, the water, the land, food, shelter, companionship, health, and love.

I’ve been enlivened and tortured by a desire for autonomy and a need for security.  Our needs, our wants, they direct our lives in certain ways related to our circumstances and our understandings of what we think will best satiate our desires while also meeting our needs. In a sense, I want to write an open letter to the world, a letter filled with ridiculous naïveté, the purity and innocence of a child, an unconditional embracing of all. But I also want to admonish the world for being petty and ridiculous, for wasting time, for wasting life as if it were a renewable resource.

As a species, it is. For individuals like you and me, it is not. This is it and I’m surprised there are so few who feel “My God! This is really it? Why are we still waiting for Godot? He never comes. Godot, where are you? Why can’t I find you? Why am I looking for you when my companion is right here with me? Why am I not making love to him or her right now, why am I not looking into the eyes of someone else, anyone else, while smiling as I appreciate the willingness to allow me to simply gaze? Why am I not on a beach somewhere looking at that sunset I just read about? Why don’t I feel that longing like a suffering? Why do I so rarely feel alive?"

We continue cycling and recycling the same tired days that go on endlessly with no greater purpose than to continue fulfilling the tasks that allow us to survive and sometimes even enjoy life but are otherwise hollow. We fear silence because there’s so little within us to fill us. 

I am living a life that never stops to catch its breath. The imposition of structure feels like the formation of a prison. I prefer the chaotic incoherence of freedom ... "Huh? Where did that come from? That didn't follow. Are you suggesting that I embrace incoherence?" Yes, please do. Add unpredictability to the mix. It's so much more interesting to watch incoherent unpredictability than daily routines. Yeah, you might lose everything and wind up homeless, but it isn't until you lose everything that you understand anything.

Devil Woman

categorization is the matador’s red cape

I was at a bar in a city like New York that wasn't New York. The only thing I can recall about the bar was that it was weird. I left late and started walking home. I noticed that someone was following me and I became nervous. I sped up my walk and then I ran. Unfortunately, whoever was following me kept pace. I ran even faster, faster than seemed humanly possible, and eventually I experienced myself as a laser beaming through city streets, miles and miles on end through the vast metropolis. I still couldn't lose the stalker.

Out of the blue, I was human again and heading up the front steps of a brownstone. I couldn’t open the door because it was locked so I walked down the steps, intending to head around back. That’s when I noticed a guy coming toward me and it seemed to me that he was the one who had been following me. I quickly ran to the side of the building, passed through the open gate, and noticed a long two-by-four. The guy tried to push inside as I was closing the door, but I managed to get it shut, lock it, and put the two-by-four in place to barricade it. As I breathed easier, I tried to figure out why he had been following me. I didn't know anyone in this city, I wasn't a prime target for a mugging, certainly not worthy of transforming into a laser beam to follow me. I could hear him breathing on the other side of the fence. He never said a word and I felt no menace from him. I didn't trust him, though; it was against my instincts to believe he meant no harm.

I shook my head, walked around back and up the stairs to the outside balcony. I turned the knob of the kitchen door. It was unlocked. As I went inside, I saw a radio blaring salsa music on an island in the kitchen. It occurred to me that I did not have an island in my kitchen, that I didn't have a radio that looked like that, and it was doubtful I would have left it on tuned to a station playing salsa music.

I had an epiphany: I might be in that guy’s place and he was just trying to get inside; maybe he wasn't the follower at all. I opened the front door and let the guy inside. I explained the mistake and laughingly apologized. He told me not to worry about it and he laughed it off, too. There were seven beings in the living room. They seemed to have spontaneously appeared in a way that somehow seemed natural. Three of the men were cowboys, two men were space rangers, one was a humanoid octopus, and another was a ridiculously sexy red-skinned woman with coal-black eyes and razored finger nails. The woman was cartoonish in the sense that she was naked without being naked and yet she seemed to be entirely flesh and blood. The group was scattered throughout the overly large living room, bullshitting with each other. Without understanding, I conceived of this assemblage as an after-hours party, a spillover from the bar I had been at earlier.

I started talking with a couple of the cowboys dressed in classic 1950s-movie western gear. One of the guys was holding a saddle under his arm and looked around every once in awhile. I thought to myself, “He’s probably wondering where his horse might be.” The other cowboy, who was doing tricks with his rope, told me about a woman who eats raw chicken hearts. He was gregarious and demonstrative, a great storyteller. He claimed that eating chicken hearts gave this woman the ability to fly. If she eats one raw chicken heart she can fly for an hour; if she eats two, she can fly for an hour and a half; three, an hour and 45 minutes. No matter how many she eats, though, she can never fly for more than two hours. The Cowboy explained that this phenomenon was known as the Cluck-Cluck Principle.

As I was digesting his story I noticed that the other two cowboys and the space rangers were gang-raping the devil woman. I ran over to stop the violence but the woman appeared in front of me, blocking my way. Yet when I looked over again she was still being gang-raped. I was confused. The devil woman next to me smiled and spoke, “That’s just a facsimile of me.”

I asked her if she was the real devil woman. She asked, “Are you being serious?” She sighed before replying, “I’m you and you’re me.” My confusion overwhelmed me. My world was falling apart around me.

The devil woman continued, “You are me, you are the cowboys and space rangers, you are the devil woman being raped, you are the kitchen, the yellow paint on the walls, the air you’re breathing. All of it is you. The whole of what you see, smell, hear, touch, taste, feel, and imagine is your mind. You are forcing these things to appear as objects separate from yourself.”

I clung to my sense of self with a spirit of desperate determination. The humanoid octopus slithered over to me. Once next to me the octopoid became a hovering, disembodied head with a male face and tentacles squirming where you might expect hair. It had giant, bulging eyes with huge black circles around them. No mouth, no nose. Electricity crackled about his tentacles. The being thought to me, “Stop interpreting your perceptions.” As the thought vanished he floated toward the cowboys raping the facsimile of the devil woman. He hovered over them and then turned back to me. The glare of the being terrified me. Its tentacles melted and dripped onto the cowboys and space rangers; they dissolved, screaming in terror before before disappearing entirely. The facsimile of the devil woman shrieked and gyrated her hips until her shape shifted into a machine that looked like a giant circular saw.

I realized everything I had known about myself was a lie. I re-examined my life and realized I had not been living. I had been looking through the wrong lens and therefore everything was distorted. I felt as if I was transforming within a cocoon.

I noticed the red-skinned woman again. She said, “Your conceptions are flawed. Conception itself is flawed. You can’t experience being exclusively through thought. Thought is based on a perception of a separation that doesn’t exist; thoughts are reflections and representations. You focus on the past and the future so exclusively you completely miss the present; the present is when and where you live.”

I thought to myself, “Wait a minute! I wrote this. This is part of a play I wrote long ago.” I asked the devil woman, “How did you know to play this character? Who’s directing this? I want to talk to the producer.” I had a sense that I was witnessing and participating in a play I had written. Part of me had an urge to claim credit for it. Another part of me simply wanted to talk to the producer because I wanted to know how he or she obtained my writing. Yet another part of me wanted to know what the audience thought of the play. “I” had the sense that whoever had put this together must be someone I had to meet. He or she or it had put it together in such a way that it felt like it was “I” who had done it.

The red-skinned woman said “You did put it together. You’re the producer! This is your mind.”

I interjected, “Wait a minute. So I’m a god of sorts?”

“God is a conception of an 'other.' Your conception of god is something you constructed. You are everything. Just be.”

I sat down with the devil woman on what was now the edge of a stage. I closed my eyes and meditated. From a balcony, I watched myself and the sexy red-skinned woman sitting on the stage. As my stage manifestation meditated, jugglers danced by, lit candles floated around the theater, and a battleship crashed through a backdrop. When my stage manifestation opened his eyes everything onstage disappeared. The  devilwoman sat next to me on stage. My stage self turned to the woman and said, “Nothing’s happening.” She laughed and shook her head. My balcony self clapped heartily and yelled, “Bravo! Bravo!”

The woman turned to my stage self. “Everything is happening. You're not yet aware of it.”

When she finished speaking a book fell from the rafters and landed on the stage with a loud thump. My stage manifestation turned around dumbfounded. The woman said, “You did that. You’re the book.”

My stage self said “I’m the book?”

“Yeah, you’re the book falling onto the stage.”

My stage representation repeated, incredulously, “I’m the book falling onto the stage, I’m the book falling onto the stage, I'm the book falling onto the stage...” As the inflections of the repeated statement changed more books fell. In minutes, dozens of books littered the stage.

My stage self turned and picked up a book. I turned to the red-skinned woman. I whispered, “I’m the Bible?”

My balcony self disappeared and “I” was back in my stage body, now both "I" and a representation of "I." I looked at the seats in the theater and they were filled with people. The entire audience was engrossed. I turned around and picked up another book. “I’m the Koran?” I grabbed another book and playfully sang out, “I’m Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!” I was having fun. I snatched another book and shook my head. “I’m Green Eggs and Ham.” The audience roared with laughter.

The devil woman said to me, “You’re the audience, too. You’re also me, remember?”

I looked at the audience and saw their radiance. I turned to the woman. She was beaming. I wept with joy. I looked into the her eyes and she kissed me. The representation of myself dissolved and all the manifestations of the theater dissolved as well. "I" dissipated. Only she remained.

Listening for the Wings of Icarus while Prometheus Bound

...modern man no longer communicates with the madman [...] There is no common language: or rather, it no longer exists; the constitution of madness as mental illness, at the end of the eighteenth century, bears witness to a rupture in a dialogue, gives the separation as already enacted, and expels from memory all those imperfect words, of no fixed syntax, spoken falteringly, in which the exchange between madness and reason was carried out. The language of psychiatry, which is a monologue by reason about madness, could only have come into existence in such a silence. (Foucault, Preface to the 1961 edition of Madness and Civilization).

Now the madman provides a language which is a monologue by madness about madness ...

My thoughts leave no trace. As soon as one passes it vanishes into nothingness, leaving nothing behind even in the tiniest fraction of a second. My thoughts have no duration, they stream past me and I have no ability to grasp them, hold on, stop them from flowing further and further down the stream.

I see thoughts operating on their own, a jumble of them, all of them vying for attention until one prevails over all the rest, the champion thought, the thought surviving fittest, and yet it, too, disintegrates into nothingness and the pool of all thoughts mix together, squirming like worms in a bucket of mud, drying until the thoughts solidify but before they fossilize a rain of new thoughts fall and the bucket overflows, dozens of thoughts sliding and slithering beyond the pale, each squirming on pavement, trying to find a crack to wiggle through so that they can share what they are with someone alive.

When one thought finds a crack all of the other thoughts follow. The bucket tips, who knows how, and the worms slither toward the crack, burrowing into my mind, twisting and turning, all at full speed, like a flame has been put to them. Spasmodic oppositions tangle and fight, tie themselves into contradictory knots, ropes lashing and corralling ideas that won't be tamed, stretching my mind unevenly, the focus of attention flitting every which way, unable to find a single thought isolated from the others, all of them interconnected, woven into a tapestry that must be understood all at once or never understood at all.

I see thoughts shatter, break into trillions of crystals, each crystal exploding into fractals, the patterns so immense that they cannot be measured by sound or silence. I try to follow the flow, but it goes in every direction, each direction a pinwheel of colors that give no hint of where they are going or from where they came. The directions correspond and become a contiguous line and now oscillations of awareness flow from pole to pole at hundreds of thoughts per second, It is wrong, it is right, they are wrong, they are right, but there is a chasm between the poles and within it everything is ambiguous and no conclusions can be drawn.

A symmetrical asymmetry forms, pro becomes contra, the affirmation of negation, an antithesis of thesis. Feelings have disentangled themselves from their corresponding thoughts and are now roaming freely, electrons of feelings bonding with thoughts that are becoming unstable, thoughts radiating distressed feelings that disengage and cling to other thoughts, always trying to find a pairing that can contain itself without destroying everything else.

I cannot see outside myself because everything has become me. The animated tree is my thought of lambs bleating, a heartache about someone I loved, and a choir of demons singing haunting melodies. Infernal, a word, it comes again and again even though I can't recall its meaning. It has the weight of menace within it, a property that cannot be reduced any further. I feel malice, not from me but from a thought that isn't mine within me. I don't want it to exist but it does. There's no way to get rid of it, it's figured out a way to stay, and my thoughts are too weak and fleeting to fight back against it, to recoil it, to wrap it in a package and mail it to nowhere.

A black sky fell below me. I rise higher and higher above it, above the sky of black thoughts, of dark feelings. I am lightness but certainly not light. There is no light, just weightlessness, something not I that floats pretending to be me. Where am I? There is no I. Awareness is scattered, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I to I. The sovereignty of existence deigns to greet what isn't me and awards nothing, removes the rules, disintegrates itself, and makes way for anarchy. Greetings from Chaos, a postcard that came from neither the past nor the future. Invasions of thoughts and feelings fly from images that have no shapes or forms, hurling themselves against the walls of mind. None of them stick.

Undulations now, wave after wave, microscopic swells of images riding the waves, waves of thought making way for waves of feelings making way for waves of thoughts and feelings. The rhythms are strange, a steady wind, a vibrating coil, primitive, primordial. The waves are visual, waves attached to images that convey visions and ungraspable ancient memories. The waves pulse and pulse, sheets of color, oceans of color delivered in waves. I am the waves, nothing but waves swelling in hurricanes of thought.

Midland vs. Midland

I can’t remember the last time we went to see a movie together, Stan.

Neither can I.

This one is supposed to be so good.

I’m excited, Judy.

Hey, look, they just opened a new window. Let’s go!

Stan and Judy run to the open window.

Hello, we’d like two tickets to see Midland.

Which one?

What do you mean “which one”?

There are two movies named Midland.

What? Judy turns to look at Stan.

Stan shrugs and says to the teenager in the ticket window The Christian one, the one about Christianity.

The ticket teenager sighs. Those are two different movies.

They are? Judy looks exasperated.

Yup.

Stan asks, What’s the difference between the two movies?

One’s a Christian movie about atheism and the other’s an atheist movie about Christianity.

Stan shakes his head. They’re both named Midland?

Yes.

I guess the movie about Christianity.

No, Stan. The one about Christianity is the atheist movie. We want the movie about atheism.

I don’t want to see a movie about atheism!

But, Stan, the one about atheism is a Christian movie.

It’s a Christian movie, but it’s not about Christianity.

So you want to see the atheist movie?

No! I want to see the Christian movie.

The one about atheism?

No, damnit, the movie about Christianity.

The teenager says That’s the atheist movie.

I’m not watching a damn atheist movie!

So you want to see the Christian movie, Stan?

If it’s about Christianity then yes.

But the movie about Christianity is atheist, honey.

What? Turns to teenager. Just give me two tickets to the Midland movie about Christianity.

Judy sighs. You’re not going to like this.

I’m beginning to remember why we stopped going out to movies.

Stan and Judy get their tickets, walk inside, and stand in line for popcorn and drinks.

What size popcorn do you want, Judy?

I want the Jumbo without butter.

No butter at all?

Well, a little butter is okay. But not much.

They get to the front of the line. Stan says We’ll have a Jumbo popcorn with a little butter and two medium Diet Sodas.

The teenager behind the counter says The Jumbo only comes with extra butter. If you want only a little butter you have to get the Giant.

Stan asks How big is the Giant?

It’s the same size as the Jumbo.

So the only difference is the amount of butter?

The teenager responds No, there are other differences.

Such as?

The Giant comes with extra salt.

Judy says I don’t want extra salt.

Stan asks Which one comes with a little butter and regular salt?

We don’t have “regular” salt. We have “no salt,” “extra salt,” and “extreme salt.”

Which one do you want, Judy?

Judy sighs. I’ll have the one with a little butter and no salt.

The teenager responds I’m sorry, we don’t have any popcorn that comes with a little butter and no salt. We have no salt and extreme butter or cheesy popcorn with no salt and extra butter.

I don’t want cheesy popcorn, Stan.

Stan hangs his head. He says to Judy Let’s just get the Jumbo.

But that has extra butter!

Judy, “extra butter” is the same as “regular butter.” They just use ridiculous names to make it sound better … or in your case, worse.

Judy sighs. Okay. We’ll have the Jumbo with extra butter and no salt.

I’m sorry, but the Jumbo only comes with extreme salt.

What?! Stan is miffed. Well, which type comes with extra butter and no salt?

There are none, sir.

Well, which one comes with the least amount of salt and butter?

That would be the cheesy popcorn, sir.

Oh, for Christ’s sake!

Honey! You took the Lord’s name in vain!

Oh, dear, you’re right, Judy. I’m sorry. And here we are going to a Christian movie.

No, honey, we’re going to the atheist movie about Christianity.

What?! I wanted to go to the Christian movie.

But that’s not what you told the ticket person, dear.

The teenage food worker says I don’t mean to interrupt, but the line behind you is getting rather long.

Fine. We’ll have the Jumbo popcorn,

But, honey—

We’ll just deal with it, okay?

Teenager brings Jumbo popcorn and rings it up.

Judy says Hey, we ordered two medium Diet Sodas, too.

I’m sorry, we don’t serve medium-sized drinks. We have “extra large,” “huge,” and “gigantic.”

We’ll take the smallest of those three.

They’re all the same size.

Stan stammers W-w-w-what?

I said they’re all the same size, sir.

How … why … what, what, why are they all the same size.

I don’t know, sir.

If they’re all the same size then why are there three different names?

Because each one is a different shape. One’s tall and skinny, one’s round and fat, and the other is in between.

Oh, dear Lord!

Honey! That’s the second time you’ve said the Lord’s name in vain.

I’m sorry, Judy. This place is ridiculous. Do you want the tall skinny one?

Yes, that’s fine, dear.

We’ll have the tall skinny one, son.

I’m not your son, dude.

Excuse me.

You called me “son” and I am definitely not your child.

Well, I didn’t mean to offend you, I—

You offended me.

I’m sorry.

Okay.

Stan shakes his head. We’d like two of the tall skinny Diet Sodas.

Do you mean the “huge”?

Yes!

There’s no need to yell, sir. I’m standing right here.

Judy sighs Could you just get our huge drinks, please?

Sure, ma’am.

Stan and Judy finally get their popcorn and drinks. They walk to the back of the theater they see the name Midland on the signs on either side of the hallway.

Judy says Which one is the one we bought tickets for?

Stan looks at the tickets. He looks up at the signs. He looks down at the tickets. He looks back up at the signs. Oh, for the love of Pete.

What is it, dear?

There’s no way to tell which movie is which. I do not want to watch a damn atheist movie.

But that’s the one you bought tickets for.

The heck I did! I’d never watch a damn atheist movie.

Judy sighs. Well, let’s just go to the one on the right. “The right hand of God.”

Good idea. Stan stops. But what if we had been coming from the other way?

Judy pulls him by the arm and they go inside the one on the right. They find a seat in the middle of the theater. The previews finished before Stan and Judy entered. The movie begins.

Voice over “In the Beginning there was God …”

Stan and Judy turn to one another and smile.

Voice over continues, “That’s the lie that’s been told for thousands of years. Hi, I’m Richard Dawkins and we’re going to spend the next two hours examining the fallacies of Judaism and Christianity.”

Stan says The hell we are! Let’s go, Judy. Stan and Judy walk out of the theater, across the hallway, and into the other theater.

They find a seat near the back. On screen is Richard Dawkins. Stan says What the hell?

Voice over “Richard Dawkins has a global agenda to spread atheism around the world. He has minions such as Sam Harris … and many others. Atheism today is feverish and untold numbers of youths are being converted before our very eyes.” Cutaway to Hitler Youth playing soccer.

Stan buries his head in his hands. Judy caresses his neck and back. We’re never going to the movies again, Judy. Never.

You Like Hot Chicks

I tried to give you a greater diversity of images to accompany my linguistic brilliance, but no, you want what you want. What you want is hot women doing salacious things. I get it. What you don't want are hot guys with sizable packages. I understand.

I'm not typically a people pleaser. In fact, I get off fucking with people, even insulting them at times. I like to shock, make people squirm, make them uncomfortable. But not always. Sometimes I want to hug people, caress their soft or hard bellies, run my fingers through hair ... not necessarily the hair on their heads. I don't need you to get a Brazilian wax for me. I like your pubes.

I'll give you a brumsky between your cheeks. I'll cup your balls, I'll finger your pussy. I'm not particular. I like all of you and I want you to take off all your clothes and run naked through the streets. Wherever you're at, strip now, and run to my place. We'll have an orgy, Anti-Dada style. Wine and dildos, body paints and candle wax, whips and chains, shrooms and blow, fat and old, young and sexy. We'll film it all and I'll do a play-by-play commentary. I'll take each one of you aside and ask you to tell me what turns you on and what doesn't. I'll make sure you get what you want.

And what you don't!

But, see, some of my readers may be women and bisexual and gay men. I have to throw them a bone. I don't mean sexually, although I can make that happen. No, I mean an image of a guy in a provocative position. But maybe I've been misreading what women and men want in a guy. I'd been thinking they wanted some hot pinup model but maybe they like a more "normal" guy.

or even a guy who doesn't fit any of the Hollywood stereotypes of attractiveness.

I got it right with the women, though. The numbers don't lie. Pageviews. I don't know who any of you are, your sexual orientation or gender identities, or anything else that's personal about you. I know that I have viewers from all over the world: Russia, France, Germany, Poland, Malaysia, Romania, United Kingdom, Brazil, Ireland, Spain, Italy, Canada, Mexico, Netherlands, Belgium, China, India, Turkey, Australia, and more. That's why I put the Translation bar at the top, just in case some readers would rather read in a language other than English. My largest audience is from the United States, but I hope to one day change that. But what really get me is that I have no views from the Middle East or Africa. I don't know what that means. It probably doesn't "mean" a damn thing. I'd really like to get more viewers from Yemen, though. It has nothing to do with Islam or anything like that. It's just a fetish I have for Yemen.

I think about Yemen a lot. I think it's because it rhymes with women. I imagine Yemen rubbing hot cocoa butter all over her bronzed naked body, blowing kisses at me, inviting me over to her apartment to watch her masturbate in candlelight, always teasing me, telling me she wants me inside her, but no, not yet, not while she's engaged in solo foreplay. But she just plays with herself for days and weeks and months and I'm going crazy because I desperately want to eat Yemen's pussy and fuck her until I die. But she won't let me touch her. It's madness ... I love it.

What I'd really like is if all the readers of Anti-Dada formed a religion, a religion in which no two individuals share the same beliefs. Every person believes something radically different from every other person and it's this difference in beliefs that unites all of you together. In fact, I'd like it if you'd shun anyone who believes the same thing you believe. "What, you believe the Cloud Monster created the Universe? So do I, you bastard! There's only room for one of us here!" Then there'd be a duel, each of you with your backs to one another, walking away from one another for ten paces, turning, and then masturbating furiously. Whoever cums first, man or woman, gets to hold that belief while the loser has to become your sex slave and believe nothing but what you tell him or her to believe. That can change at your whim, too. You can tell her to believe that giant cocks from outerspace colonized the earth one minute and then tell him that pebbles hold the secrets to the origin of life. It's up to you. I mean, s/he is your sex slave.

Well, I think I've effectively covered everything of import within this post. If anything else comes up that needs to be addressed, I will let you know. I always keep my readers informed about what is important in life. That's my lot in life. I'm not complaining. I enjoy tickling you ... I'd just like to fuck more of you at an orgy sometime. I have goals, you know?

Time Keeps on Slipping ...

Time is infinite. There was no Big Bang, no beginning; there always has been an exponentially growing universe. To trace the universe back to a point where, from a human perspective, the universe appears as a dot would not bring us to anything approaching a “beginning” of time—there is no beginning, damnit, and there is no end. The history of the universe as we conceive it is endlessly less than a nanosecond in terms of the time it took to enlarge to the size that would be equivalent to a quark.

Time is relative to mass. For the sun, a day may be equivalent to a human moment and to an electron a human moment may be equivalent to a million years. From our human perspective, an electron can be everywhere and nowhere in a given moment. In a nanosecond, we may be recording the equivalent of a billion years of electron movement. It is also why a quark can “spontaneously” exist one moment and disappear without a trace (to us) the next. Think of how long (from our perspective) it takes a star to form and then die. It is possible that the quark that comes into and out of existence in a moment (from our perspective) has had an equivalent lifespan—relative to its size—as a star.

Imagine 186,000mph/second if you’re the size of a quark. Now imagine if 186,000mph/second if you’re 999 trillion trillion times larger than the sun. For the subatomic, a trillion trillion lifetimes can pass in one second; for an object exponentially larger than the sun, a second is imperceptible, unmeasurably faster than a nanosecond is to a human.

Perhaps an object can move at a top speed that is in proportion to its relationship with time. Perhaps subatomic particles  move faster than the speed of light and faster even than time (as perceived by humans). Without time, there is no difference. All would be one. Time fragments oneness into difference. In a moment, when able to witness from a particular perspective, things appear separate, as others. Even the self is separate; conception a matter of difference allowed by the fragmenting of time. What causes time? Did it originate or has it always existed? It had to have always existed. There was never a “oneness”; there has been only “difference.” To believe otherwise is of no consequence but then again to believe what I've written is of no consequence, either.

How would believing what I've written change the world? I mean if the majority of people in the world believed what I'd written or some similar variation of it? I ask because if believing what I've written changed the nature of relations in the world then believing what I've written would be of consequence and not believing it would also be of consequence. So which is it? Is it of consequence to believe what I've written or not? If it is of consequence then what I've written is of consequence even if no one believes it; it's of consequence because it is an alternative to current beliefs that is rejected and the act of rejecting this premise is an act of strengthening one's current beliefs. If it is of no consequence then no beliefs are of consequence; beliefs, in that case, have no bearing on relations in the world.

We know the latter is untrue so what I've written here, right or wrong, believed or not, is of consequence. You're welcome.

Will You Please Stop Staring at My Crotch?

Will you please stop staring at my crotch? I’m up here, okay?

You get that a lot from women, don’t you?

Far too often. They’re always looking for the bulge in the pants. The only time I get any peace is when I wear baggy sweats. Even in my baggy jeans I “show.” That’s all women think about. “Huh, huh, huh, he’s got a penis, huh, huh, huh.” Grow up! Would it kill women to develop more complex emotions?

It’s not really their fault, though. It’s how they’re wired. It’s the estrogen. It makes them horny all the time. They think about sex constantly.

*Sigh* I suppose you’re right, but it’s no excuse. They should learn how to curb their emotions so they can be more respectful of me. I’m not just a cock and a pair of balls, you know?

Look, I hear you. I mean, I’m not as, uh, well-endowed as you, but women still stare.

Yeah, I get it. Every guy’s gotta deal with it to some degree.

Don’t get me wrong, Quincy. I mean, you’re blessed and you’re cursed. Most guys would kill to have a schwantz like yours. Jeremy gets pissed when he hears you complain.

But Jeremy has a great body and he’s cute.

Still, he’s flat-crotched and it bothers him. You know how many times he’s heard “It’s not you, it’s me”?

It sucks that that’s what matters most to women. I’d like to be considered for my mind and Jeremy, my God, he’s so sweet and kind. Women don’t care about that, though. It’s all about being eye candy, about having the right equipment between the sheets. If I was a woman, I’d be all over Jeremy. I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather cuddle with than Jeremy. Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, either. I’m like most guys, I’ve experimented a bit. But if I had to choose just one guy to be with, it would be Jeremy.

Really? Well, he is sweet.

Well, who would you go for if you had to choose?

Um, I’d rather not say.

Me? Are you serious? Please don’t tell me it’s because of my cock?

Well…

Oh my God! It’s bad enough dealing with women and now you?!

Hey, I swing both ways, you knew that. And, yeah, a sizable cock means something to me. It’s not the only thing, though.

Well, what else is it about me?

Your self-righteous indignation.

Fuck you!

Ha hahaha! See?

*harrumph* Well, I’d probably do you if you really wanted it. Why can’t women be that way? They’re so freakishly homophobic.

Except when it comes to watching two guys making out. They love that.

I know, right? I don’t get it.

Hey, here comes Sheila. Be cool.

Hi, Sheila.

Hi, Quincy. Mmmm, you’re looking as delicious as ever.

Um, hello, Francis is here, too.

Hi, Francis. Anyway, Quincy, are you going to Jill’s party Friday?

I don’t know. Maybe.

Come on, you have to come! It won’t be the same if you’re not there.

Sheila?

*Silence*

Sheila!

Huh? Yeah, sorry, what?

Oh my God. Can you, for just a minute look me in the eye when you’re talking with me? Is that too much to ask?

Sorry, I just … *silence*

You’re doing it again! Enough! My lord, I’m wearing baggy pants!

I know, that’s what’s so amazing about it. It cannot be hidden no matter what you do.

Fuck off, Sheila. Do I have to turn my back so we can have a real conversation?

I’m not sure that would help matters. You’ve got a damn fine ass, baby.

Fuck you, Sheila. Francis, let’s go.

Hey, don’t be mad. It’s not my fault you’re hot! Come to Jill’s party Friday night. Wendy and Hannah will be there, too. They really want to see you!

Yeah, yeah, I’m sure they do. *sigh* See what I mean Francis?

I think I’m going to the party.

What?

Jill’s hot. So is Wendy. Just because you can get anyone you want doesn’t mean we all can. In fact, it would be better if you don’t go.

Oh, really?

Yes! Every time I go to a party with you I get lost in the shuffle. All the women flock around you, ogle you, flirt with you. Meanwhile, I don’t get as much as a look in my direction. Without you there … well, the girls might actually notice that I have a dick!

Oh, so you want to use your junk to attract women?

Hey, it’s not like I’ve got the prettiest face or shapely biceps. I got a nice ass and a good-sized dick. If I had your cock then it would be easy, but I don’t.

You think it’s easy being me, having a huge dong?! Do you know how many times I’ve thought of having penis reduction surgery?

Shut the fuck up! No way! If you do that, I swear … that’s just selfish.

Why?

Because you’ve been given a gift and you don’t even appreciate it. Guys would kill for that thing and women, hell, you know women would. How many times have we seen drunk women beating the shit out of each other over you? Seriously, you cause more catfights than anyone I’ve ever met.

You make it sound like that’s a good thing. It’s not. You don’t understand at all. I never have any privacy.

You’re also never alone or lonely. You can connect with anyone at the drop of a hat. Even the straightest guy gets turned on a little by you. Seriously, you’re the perfect package. Everyone loves you or loves to hate you … and even the ones who love to hate you love you. And, yet, you complain.

*Sigh* I’m tired of this conversation. Let’s go to Victor’s Secret and look at some lacey underwear.

Sunset and Rain

Maria Aceveda is licking her own nipples. “They’ll be here in an hour.”

She stumbles toward the Piano Bar three blocks from the state-sanctioned border crossing. Across the street a huge concrete wall marks the imaginary dividing line between the first world and the third. It is just past midnight according to the three-story clock tower two blocks to the south. The stench of sweat and liquor fills the air outside the saloon as bodies crowd the corner around the entrance. The bouncers wear pit-stained black T-shirts, chinos, and wing-tips, and their eyes flit back and forth between the bustling corner and the bedlam raging inside the bar. Their anxiety thickens the tensions mounting in the red light district along the border. One of the bouncers with a rasping voice and a round, pock-marked face, standing just two feet outside the doorway, makes a gesture that is unmistakably obscene and at the same time incomprehensible.

Maria is reminded of a night on San Pablo, watching the street outside a dive bar erupt into a riot after her pimp knifed a mouthy john. She met a lady with a magic potion, a gift from unseen admirers who shared the same vision of a world without conscious thought. The lady said to Maria, "Destruction of comprehension is the only hope we have for annihilating desire. The potion should do the trick." How to distribute it, though? She chose Maria. She said, "Just do the fucking thing, Maria." Maria asked how. "How? Fuck how. Just do it. You know, slogans, follow the slogans and you’ll be alright. Stop thinking for yourself and this nightmare will end. Accept mediocrity and ignorance, it’ll set you free from desire. Stupidity or apathy, that’s an answer. But only a temporary solution. It can’t last. Eventually, you’ll want to know. And what then? That’s why you have to distribute the potion. It’s the only fucking way."

Maria had a compulsion, an addiction rising to the surface. A desire for love, a fucking desire for love. Maria couldn't believe it. "Of all the bullshit times to want a bullshit lie." Maria knew how to annihilate it: gambling or cocaine or prostitution, something that numbs the senses and diminishes the possibilities of connecting with other people. Relationships are pure, but futile. Misery. Maria abandoned herself to the meaninglessness of arbitrary motions. "A purposeless life is still a life. I must immerse myself in an emotionless vacuum. Straight-arrow, conformity, smile wide, say 'thank you' and 'please,' disappear in a crowd, become invisible in a room full of people, a question is asked, silent scream, a pat answer, eye contact without seeing, vision impaired by thoughts of standing perfectly still without becoming rigid, oh, bliss, thank you for the mindless arbitrary task of standing still without becoming rigid, a challenge without meaning and yet occupies the mind, the body, wastes time, I’m grateful for this respite from the search for meaning, happy with pointlessness." The moments pass. Back to square one. Longing again. "Desire consumes me. Desire to understand, know, control, usurp power, and create beauty, appreciation, affection, and love. I must abandon myself to a higher power, relinquish control, resign my free will, become a servant performing tasks without thought. This dichotomy is killing me, these conflicting desires are tearing me apart. I need to choose one and stick with it, pursue it like a woman possessed, a goal that is holy and total. Which one, which way, I have this power, a power to choose, a power I didn’t ask for but have. What do I do? How do I decide? I don’t have a fucking guidebook! Help me! Someone please help me!"

The lady slapped Maria's face. "You fucking idiot. You have the potion. Use it and no one will have desires any more. That includes you, you fucking drama queen."

...

Thomas Merton:

Let me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness.

The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with;insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are not those of the engineer.

I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the corn fields, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper… The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with it enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in a forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen.

But I am also going to sleep, because here in this wilderness I have learned how to sleep again. Here I am not alien. The trees I know, the night I know, the rain I know. I close my eyes and instantly sink into the whole rainy world of which I am a part, and the world goes on with me in it, for I am not alien to it.

...

Ever notice that there are many ways to use the words attention and attentiveness? It can be very confusing if you're not familiar with everyday uses of the terms. For example I've heard "pay attention," "give attention," and "be attentive" used to mean the same thing. But how can pay, give, and be mean the same thing? I've devised particular definitions for each of these three phrasings to make distinctions that preserve the integrity of the words:

Pay attention: Exchanging currency or other objects of value for observational direction.

Give attention: To relinquish control of the direction of awareness by allowing an object or other to direct it; to offer observational direction as a gift to another for the sake of that other rather than for the benefit of oneself.

Be attentive: To self-direct control and exercise of one’s attentiveness.

I believe these definitions demonstrate the being attentive is the only reasonable option. Paying attention and giving attention are ridiculous. I'm trying to right a few wrongs. Just so you don't feel like the only fool in town, I have been guilty of using pay attention as well. No one is perfect, but it can't hurt to point out how stupid we are.

...

Cormac McCarthy, The Road:

How would you know if you were the last man on earth? He said.

I don’t guess you would know it. You’d just be it.

Nobody would know it.

It wouldn’t make any difference. When you die it’s the same as if everybody else did too.

I guess God would know it. Is that it?

There is no God.

No?

There is no God and we are his prophets.

That's some of the best damn dialogue in English literature. But McCarthy's got more:

I’ve not seen a fire in a long time. I live like an animal. You don’t want to know the things I’ve eaten. When I saw the boy I thought I had died.

You thought he was an angel.

I didn’t know what he was. I never thought to see a child again. I didn’t know what would happen.

What if I said he’s a god?

The old man shook his head. I’m past all that now. Have been for years. Where men can’t live gods fare no better. You’ll see. It’s better to be alone. So I hope that’s not true what you said because to be on the road with the last god would be a terrible thing so I hope it’s not true. Things will be better when everyone’s gone.

They will?

Sure they will.

Better for who?

Everybody.

Everybody.

Sure. We’ll all be better off. We’ll all breathe easier.

That’s good to know.

Yes it is. When we’re all gone then there’ll be nobody here but death and his days will be numbered too. He’ll be out in the road there with nothing to do and nobody to do it to. He’ll say, Where did everybody go? And that’s how it will be. What’s wrong with that?

...

And then there's this passage from Hegel's Philosophy of Right:

There are two kinds of laws, laws of nature and laws of right. The laws of nature are simply there, and are valid as they are. They cannot be gainsaid, although in certain cases they may be transgressed. In order to know laws of nature, we must get to work to ascertain them, for they are true, and only our ideas of them can be false. Of these laws the measure is outside of us. Our knowledge adds nothing to them, and does not further their operation. Only our knowledge of them expands. The knowledge of right is partly of the same nature and partly different. The laws of right also are simply there, and we have to become acquainted with them. In this way the citizen has a more or less firm hold of them as they are given to him, and the jurist also abides by the same standpoint. But there is also a distinction. In connection with the laws of right the spirit of investigation is stirred up, and our attention is turned to the fact that the laws, because they are different, are not absolute. Laws of right are established and handed down by men. The inner voice must necessarily collide or agree with them. Man cannot be limited to what is presented to him, but maintains that he has the standard of right within himself. He may be subject to the necessity and force of external authority, but not in the same way as he is to the necessity of nature; for always his inner being says to him how a thing ought to be, and within himself he finds the confirmation or lack of confirmation of what is generally accepted. In nature, the highest truth is that a law is. In right, a thing is not valid because it is, since every one demands that it shall conform to his standard. Hence arises a possible conflict between what is and what ought to be, between absolute unchanging right and the arbitrary decision of what ought to be right. Such division and strife occur only on the soil of the spirit. Thus the unique privilege of the spirit would appear to lead to discontent and unhappiness, and frequently we are directed to nature in contrast with the fluctuations of life. But it is exactly in the opposition arising between absolute right, and that which the arbitrary will seeks to make right, that the need lies of knowing thoroughly what right is.

...

I went inside my mind to discover what was outside; I went outside my mind to discover what was within

I sat outside a little after 8:00 PM, puffing a cigarette, enjoying the relative calm, when I looked up across the street at the Douglas Firs and noticed they had the beginnings of an orange glow. Not just any orange, but a special vibrant orange. Before I could say “HOLY SHIT” I was running to my car, trying to think how best to head west so I could catch a glimpse of this sumbitch.

There are certain sunsets that have “it” and I could tell by the light that this was one of them. The right clouds were in the sky. I had to see the sunset even if the clouds never aligned in the best way. Nevertheless, I had to see it in a certain spot and I didn’t know where that would be. An adventure with a deadline!

I found my way quickly to West Union in Beaverton, headed west toward Hillsboro, and barreled down the road chasing the sunset. I caught glimpses here and there, attractive but nothing extraordinary. Still, I saw ripe clouds, staggered, colored but waiting to be lit up with force and delicacy. A bit closer now, I floored it, trying to get beyond the cities into an open field and just as I came clear the clouds aligned, the sun dipped just so, and I saw rusty orange become neon, the edges lightning yellow, a cloud below the softest pink smudged here and there with fuchsia, and between those vertically aligned clouds the blue of the sky, a blue that rarely appears in nature, a blue created by the neon orange, the lightning yellow, the puffy pink, a blue with three hues, all with vibrancy, none blended, none with lines of demarcation between them, and all existing as one in relation to the others through color.

My breath upon seeing this coral reef in the sky ... my breath disappeared. My heart swallowed my body. My eyes, the images, they are one. When I look in the mirror today I see the sunset. The colors, the vibrancy, the life, the true sunset, lasted maybe 20 seconds before fading into a beautiful but comparatively mundane dusky sky.

Usually I’m saddened when beauty passes or fades, but this time the grace remained. I could have watched donkeys shit on puppies immediately after and still I would have genuflected in awe of that sunset. I passed a church with a steeple, the parking lot full of cars. I thought of pulling over to run inside to proclaim, “You just missed God! He smiled at me through a sunset!”

Instead I thought, “Damn, they missed it. They missed it!” If I could have felt sadness at that moment I would have felt it for them. I wondered if anyone else in the Portland area witnessed it. I may have experienced the best moments anyone in all of Portland experienced last night. For a brief time I may have been the most fortunate human being alive. I experienced the best that could have been experienced yesterday. Maybe some guy had sex with his dream supermodel for eight hours last night and as good as he felt something in him worried about whether or not she really liked it. Perhaps a woman got married to the love of her life but on her day of days she wasn’t able to completely abandon herself to love. Perhaps some guy won the lottery but in his exuberance he became possessive. Me? I never expected the colors to last yet my appreciation for them grows.

...

Today is the first time I’ve ever seen a cloud. I’ve mentioned this to several people today and, judging by their reactions, this is apparently very weird. I don’t understand why. From my perspective, it’s very strange that others have been seeing clouds their whole lives while today is the first day of my life I’ve ever viewed one. I don’t know what to make of this.

It’s possible that I’ve never seen a cloud before because I have a neck condition that prevents me from looking up. I didn’t really know there was even such a thing as a sky before today. See, a chiropractor cracked my neck and now my head is angled upward. Unfortunately, I can’t look down any more. All I’d ever known before was the ground and it’s a bit disorienting not being able to see it anymore. Now I’m staring at the sky all the time and while I’m fascinated on one hand I’m also incredibly freaked out on the other. It’s like going from seeing everything with a red tint to seeing everything with a green tint.

I understand more now about what people have been saying to me for years. They’d say, “Sure is cloudy today” or “I’m glad the sun is shining.” I’d just nod and pretend like I understood what the hell they were talking about. For a very long time in life I thought people were fucking with me. It was sort of like they were saying Santa Claus exists. Internally, I’d be thinking, “Yeah, I used to believe in the sky, but I stopped around the same time I found out Santa wasn’t real.”

Even though I could feel rain and the warmth of sunshine on the back of my head, I always wondered from where the water, light, and heat originated. I took it on faith that the people who always talked about the weather knew what they were talking about since what they said corresponded to what I experienced. Until today I thought they were talking about the weather with me because they knew I was at a disadvantage by only being able to look down. Now I find out people talk about what is obviously happening even though it’s also obvious to everyone else (except for me before today). That seems really bizarre to me. Why would someone say to someone standing right next to them that it’s windy? Is there a possibility that it could be windy in one place and not windy just a few feet away? I guess anything is possible. After all, I never believed that clouds were real before today.

It was weird seeing the cloud at first. I didn’t know what it was. It was white and fluffy, like a big popcorn surrounded on all sides by blueness. It was incredibly beautiful and I couldn’t look away for the longest time. Of course, I couldn’t look away because my neck is stuck looking upward now. Still, I think I would have looked for a long time even if my neck wasn’t stuck.

It was difficult walking home, though. The greatest benefit to looking down all the time is being able to see where one’s feet are going. It’s easy to avoid mud puddles and dog sit on sidewalks when you’re looking down. Crossing streets could be a little tough because I couldn’t look up far enough to the left or right to see if there were any cars coming, but fortunately cars are really noisy so I could usually hear if it was safe to cross the street.

Now, though, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It was easy to avoid trees while looking up, but I stumbled over bushes several times and once fell off a curb into the street. If I had been able to look down I would have easily been able to prepare for the drop. I walked mostly in a zigzag on my way home. I assume I did because I constantly felt myself veering from the sidewalk onto grass. Fortunately, I only had to cross two streets. The first time I got lucky because there was no traffic. The second time I listened as acutely as I could and when I heard a silence I started walking. Unfortunately, there was a cyclist riding by and he yelled at me as I walked in the road. As I got further across the street a car honked at me. I hadn’t heard it coming. I heard a woman across the street, she must have been walking, yell at me, “That Prius almost ran you over, you idiot!” Apparently, Priuses do not make a lot of noise.

I found out I had successfully crossed that street when I tripped over the curb. It wasn’t fun falling, but I was grateful to be across the street. As I kept walking I saw a tall building. I happened to pass by a sign that was high in the air, the sign for my apartment building. Luckily they’d placed it really high because I wouldn’t have known that the tall building was my apartment building without it. I had never seen anything above the first few feet of the first floor. It’s very difficult, I might add, to put a key in a keyhole while looking up. I had to feel my way around it quite a bit before I finally got it in the slot.

Once I got in my apartment I fumbled around and found my kitchen table. I’d left a book I’d been reading there. I wanted to relax and read my book after such an adventure. One nice thing about looking down all the time is that it’s easy to read a book. But with my head angled upward I had to hold the book above me with both hands. My arms got tired after a couple minutes and I had to stop reading. That sucks because I like to read.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about all of this. I thought it’d be a gift to be able to look up instead of down. I’m going to ask my chiropractor if he can adjust my neck so I look straight ahead. I’m guessing that would be the best way to have my neck set since it can’t otherwise move. I'm not sure what I'll do between now and my next chiropractic visit. I guess I'll try to learn as much about the sky as I can. Who knows what it will be like to look straight ahead. I've heard others have eyes and that if you stare straight ahead you can look into them. I suppose it's like looking in a hole in the ground or a jar of pickles or something else you can look into. I'll find out soon enough, I suppose.