RECAP

It’s not easy being 500-yrs.-old, more or less, slipstreaming into the Kosmos next door during the various timequakes, losing emotive scenarios evermore.

Schizoid erosion ensues from all the cold bites of love’s labors lost. It becomes clear why encapsulated immortality is not all it’s cracked up to be. . ."Look at me, I’m shattered. . ."

One posits monadic reincarnation, infinite paradox notwithstanding. Seems similar enough to my own temporic outlaw odyssey – only more amnesiac gaps between lives.

Agon of exquisite pain and pleasure.

Every bid for glory is shredded by enigma. Terror-joy becalmed by surrender.

I’m surprised more people aren’t terrified of their own obsessively ignorant allegiances. Assholes of fire and brimstone in the hell-on-earth sweepstakes. Writhing psychosis of the rich and famous; insidious promulgation of the unwashed masses as well. . .

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God god god god god god the surrogate goddess sobs from the iron fisting in a velvet electric glove of the titanium fucking machine of tomorrow. She’s a tri-layered entity now, a maid, an alien interdimensional walk-in, and a surfacing memory of primal archetypal glory.

Her pussy-pistoned orgasms electro-juiced, and her uncontrollably possessed god god god god utterances become the magma sound for the half-cowled, half chrome-domed Gregorian/Tibetan misfit monks to melodically and chordally chant and throat-sing over.

God god god god god god she cums for the laryngeal host divine on his velvet titanium steed.

Impossibly deep wiry chords and haunting devotional vocal cords entwine, the Voice of God made manifest.

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Christianity IS a crucifixion of Christ.

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I know. I walk around daily, hammered to the matrix cross, fire ants feasting on my original stigmata.

Mood banality is the root of all evil.

Your baboon civilization is my crown of thorns. This baboon world is everyone’s crown of thorns. Forget the Roses, Send Me the Thorns trumpets the humorously antinomian title of an S/M text. Ironies abound.

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ViciousFish 81, DeadPrez’s 77 in Game 101 of the RazorRunners Circle ‘n’ Sphere Finals. Dork Panik scored 33 for the ViciousFish and killed an assistant coach with an errant razorsphere pass.

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These words are gnomic, sacred – vast instantaneity inhaling/exhaling the blizzard of time.

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Martyred by the obscenity of my spawning vessel, I crawl across the desert in said blizzard of time, blinking into the glare of the latest casual atrocity of life, limb, and the pursuit of un-sane oblivion. I’ve been thinking the shit-covered street jabberers are, of course, clinically insane, whereas their potential keepers and other systemic archons are merely un-sane, as in ungrounded in infinite life, dark apologists for the siege of unconscious history.

My "character developments" turn to dust, ‘cause that is the destiny of born creatures unaware of transcendental source paradox. It takes a massive dumbing-down to care about the world on its own apparent terms. Alleviate suffering, of the externally-corrective kind, that’s about it. The rest is subjective interpretation, so one contemplates accordingly.

We need an alien implant for ordinary world leaders. OK casually systemic violence and you’re instantly vaporized. All the macho shitheads will have to grow up fast, ashen faces blinking at various piles of dust of their "fearless leaders."

Yeah, I know, a violent notion, but clean.

Beginning-less-ness is the heritage in the quantum field; naked apes run the spectrum through time.

Jesus is "Jes’-us" – evolutionary/transcendent gifts of the universal daimon.

Believers are like asylum-ites insisting Monopoly money is real world currency. Well, unfortunately, institutionalized religion DOES have real world currency as political networking cache, but represents utter bankruptcy in the domain of actual spiritual intelligence, wherein all the unexamined projections are unceremoniously retracted in favor of free-standing grace.

Ecstatic release from the siege of egoity; enstatic holding fast to the palpable transcendent mystery.

Turns out psi research, in all its phenomenological, philosophical, and cognitive aspects, is motivated by the impulse to discover the real.

I define REAL as thoroughness in the depth of attention, the ancient wisdom inviting a western scientific objectification. The surreal elements of the quantum micro world made visible out of the corner of the macro eye.

So my alleged quest into meaning, my 500-yr.-old sojourn with 2500-yr.-old coordinates, is but a blink in an a priori eye/"I." Psi-fi lovers and Bane Savage always dissolving – let’s hope into sublime bliss more often than blood-curdling screams.

Of course I sometimes think of Asphyxia when I am out wilding. Wonder if she ever mastered "Purple Haze" on cello, and if she still cums with nano-enhanced explosiveness. Yesterday I mugged a dandy who resembled the addled dictator of North Korea (circa ’06; familiar temporic-spatial stream). His guttural protestations were silenced by a clean stroke from the platinum gold bar the fool had in his hip pocket. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do with a platinum gold bar, but I’ll think of something.

A 20, 30, 40, or 50something visits the lair of the ancient madman. It’s been awhile since the last time-space continuum quake.

Stares at my bedroom doorstop.

"Is that what I think it is?"

I nod, shrugging. All my wealth hides in plain sight.

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To recapitulate: Archaic man is a mute virtual ape asleep in the Garden of Eden. Magic man experiences a one-pointedness with his tribe, with his environment. Hence, participation mystique, draw tomorrow’s kill on the cave wall, and as one mind the tribe enacts it accordingly. Mythic man is also community-based, but agrarian rather than hunter-gatherer, and enamored of sets of visual symbols he frequently takes for reality, rather than reductionist simulations. Mental man says "I think, therefore I am," vivisects animals, posits a clockwork universe. Makes marvelous machines while in a schizoid state of arbitrary dissociation from intuitive-feeling modes. Integral man sees what we’re made of, is maybe 1% of the population – maybe – and sets the stage for the dynamic wonders of transcendence. These mutations not only represent historical emphasis, but also a simultaneity, a living archeology of the psyche.

Old-school "man" is used without politically-correct modification while still meaning all of us humans.

Any questions?