"We have noticed that you pretend to value truth on this planet. Some spend a lifetime seeking it. Your legal systems demand it, and you can be sued if your business doesn't practice it. Your philosophers define it, your scientists measure it, your religions exalt it, and you all fight over it. Meanwhile, all you are doing is paying global lip service to it. There is an excellent reason for this: You have no idea what truth really is. How the obvious escaped you is a tedious story.
The abridged version of it amounts to this: You embraced fear. After that unholy act, it has been downhill ever since. Fear is the first lie, the lie that tells you that you are separated from the whole. Once it has been embraced, you are incapable of ever telling the truth under any circumstances without blowing the game."
Funny how these insights always come in the form of a book, to rip my insidious hermit rug from underneath me in the nick of time. That, and through randomly unrandom word snippets I trip upon that induce unforeseeable laughter. Such as: 'Don't forget to feed your bear. If you don't it will die." What is with the bear theme lately? I suppose that's my energy's way of appealing to the hat I wear in this corporeal form. I've had this book for some time- it's short and succinct. For some reason I haven't read it all. But just now, I found an excerpt onlilne, following a compulsory urge, and synchronicity has in turn provided me a well-timed shot in the buttocks again. I'm glad I didn't see it coming and tense up- sore buttocks suck. Buttocks. Now that's a fun word.
My life is becoming exponentially similar to the reassuring premise of Slaughterhouse Five. It would be considered downright frightening, if I wasn't so fascinated with multi-planular time-travel and teleportation. Do I really have to wait 4 years until Mayan Prophecy 2012? Man, that sucks. Oh wait. Just arrived there. Eight minutes to darkness, and immediate light...
I was tempted to fill out the 25 random things on Facebook about me, because I always loved mad libs. But it just seemed like flipping the trigger to pandora's box. And I didn't want to scare unsuspecting people. Because really... you don't want me to whip out the random stick. Because that dude don't stop at 25. It kicks it frequently with pi. Sometimes the prolificity even scares me. Kinda like boxing a clown. Now that is a pretty disturbing image. But it might be kinda fun. If you stop before Mickey Rourke did. Lessons to learn kids. Lessons to learn.
My parents said they found me under a rock. Maybe that's why I like perusing and picking up rocks. I'm searching for my siblings. If I was a rock, then no one would try to eat me. Except pure jainists. But even rocks have energy. And sometimes they sparkle. And sometimes they have cool holes that you can slip a string through and wear on your neck as a pendant. Not that any of this is related or has any kind of pertinence whatsoever. Just saying.
My dog likes pop rocks. But I noticed an unsettling phenomenon. They crackle in my mouth, but do not in hers. Is dog saliva immune to carbon dioxide? Why in the hell am I ingesting carbon dioxide fruity sugar-flavored rocks anyway? Maybe I'm becoming a plant. Maybe I should read the package. But if I AM a plant, I want to be a rubber tree. It's good to have high hopes. "High apple pie, in the sky hopes... Oops there goes another rubber tree plant..." You sing it Frankie baby.
Damn ant.
If I ever get engaged, a sparkly rock would be cool, but what I really want first is a piece of string offered and tied around my finger during the proposal. I think that would be cooler than the coolest side of the pillow. Simple and complex. String Theory. M Theory. Theory of Everything. Circular. But without the part where my counterpart's evil best friend betrays him and sends him to prison, where he suffers, until he escapes and returns disguised as the Count of Monte Cristo. I just want the cool love string stuff. I don't need the rest of the drama. Except maybe for my counterpart to look as hot as the Count. And be skilled in sword play. Cool story though. And here's a pawn for you, dear avarice and envy. Damn good story indeed.
Someone just wrote "I hope they serve beer in hell" in a personals ad. I love perusing those things to find various fun nuggets of human nature. But this quote elicited an extended onslaught of laughter from deep within my gut. I've no idea why. I don't feel the need to question it tonight, but if one demands an inquiry be made, I'd simply say: Why not? However, I would recommend that writer clarify his statement with "on infinite ice." Because hot beer really just kinda, well, sucks.
The aforementioned relies on the premise that hell's all fiery of course, when it could be more along the lines of Dante and require no disclaimer of frozen water. I think hell's more along the lines of Milton. But more important to me is finding "A paradise within thee, happier far." I like Archangel Michael. He's a wise dude to follow if you want to transcend from this third-dimensional realm. Regardless, a cold beer is still really good. And my handbasket is super cool tricked out. I don't need one prepared, but I had one decorated up for shits and grins. Why not?
And now, friends and concerned attendants speeding ever forward in their white van toward my abode... animals are roaming around my house searching for rogue pretzels and water, and it's time for me to exit left stage to be ravished by oranges.
That is, until we reach the season of bing cherries. I so love me some bing cherries. And tildes.
Pontificatingly Yours~
C
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