Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Or something like that.
Sunday, April 11, 2004
Happy Easter, and all that Christian shit, to you all!
Easter, as we all know, is a Pagan holiday appropriated by the Roman empire under the emperor Constantine, and it celebrates the season of growing and rebirth. Hence, the symbolism of such things as Easter Eggs, and rabbits. (This is what I choose to celebrate, anyway.)
I have learned something: If you want to get into a somewhat interesting discussion about philosophy and the nature of reality, (Or, as someone eloquently put it, "Circular Rhetoric",) go to toolband.net. (Or toolband.com, I forget. It' the official site for the band "Tool". Anyway...) Something about their music seems to attract the elemants of socuiety which are wont to discuss such things; present company includesd. And I know, for a fact, that my spelling sucks. I am inebriated at the moment, and I make no apologies. So fuck off.)
L:ife is meaningless only to those who choose not to seek out meaning, for ut is to be found whereever one so chooses to look. Meaning being, of course, an elusive term. One person's meaningfulness is another's pornography. And I am not here to judge. Oh no. I am merely an impartial observer of this stage upon which we are all players and the outcome is fiction. (Fiction. With a capital 'T', or uppercase, iof tou prefer, which is how it was called in the days of Guttenberg when Printers would select letters from the top or bottom of the case uin which they were stored; hence 'upper' and 'lower' case. But, my Dear Friends, I digress...)
What was I tralking about? WHy do you care? i certianly dojn't know. But there is no such thing as Fiction. So-called 'fiction' exists, as surely as you or I, merely as fiction. It is not unreal, it is real, but it exists as Fiction. I don't expect everyone to understand this concept.
So... what the fuck is a 'blog' supposed to be? I still have yet to find out. This is due to, in no small part, Ignorance, zas well as Apathy.
I received a gift today. A gift that I do not really want. It is a little thing, vaguely ghost-shaped, upon which one could rest a cell phone. If any of you should have a use for such a thing, pleawse let me know. And, incidentally, I still have yet to hear from anybosy in any way affiliated with this website, which could onlyu lead me tyo believe that they d not acutally read these postings. As such, I feel compelled to say what I will. Fuck blogger! Blogger-dot-com can suck it, and suck evwerything that was never actually intended to be sucked. May they burn in the excrement of insurance salesmen forever. May their shit come to life. And kiss them. (That was appropriated from Zappa.) May they, uh... opkay, I ran outta shit to say. You get the point. I must go defecate now,. I have spoken.
There are phone numbers and addresses written on this pad that I have no recollection of whatsoever. Driving directions too. (My spelling sucks, and for this I apologise. Grammar is shabby as well.) Normally, well... in my youth I would have waited until much later to begin this diatribe, continuing into the small hours of the pre-dawn morning, but these days I have the misfortune of foresight; as in "I know I will have to get up early tomorrow, therefore I shall not stay up so late tonight drinking low-budget beer. (Even though I am, by my natural inclination, nocturnal.) SUch is the curse of quote, unquote maturity. So here I sit, awaiting a flight 'delayed' by, I guess, incliment weather, writing these words which are by no means fit for human consumption. Even worse, this pad is supposed to be for "work". Oh well. My hand is beginning to cramp up; I'm not used to this shit any more. I used to write in marble notebooks in train stations and the shores of a post-industrial lake. Now I got airports. Fuck this shit. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, such is life, consisting of rhythms and waves. Kind of like music; it's all in the timing. Matter, such as it is, is made of waves, the harmonics of which are... important. Kind of like music. I think more and more of you are beginning to realize this, which is probably a good thing. Are the eyes truly the windows to the soul? I dunno. Love sounds like noise sounds like love and vice-versa. Boredom's not a burden anyone should bear. Welcome to the infirmary. I have spoken.
I've been trying to glean information about the stuff we're made out of, lately. Energy. Energy which begets waves, which begets matter, which begets television and excrement which are really the same thing anyway. There are a great many stark raving lunatics who will speak incessantly about these things. SOme of them are right, many are not. I sure don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. Is it proper to use that kind of language here in "blog.com" or whatever this web site is called? Are such obscenities, like 'incessantly', approved for public consumption? And what is a blog anyway, and what should it look like? I've never wasted my time reading them. I don't care. Fuck 'em. And fuck me too. Spell check be damned, stop reading this! The nature of energy is such that it can be preceived directly, without the corruption of consciousness, but only with great difficulty. The aforementioned Stark Raving Lunatics speak of this, people like Castaneda, Hawking, Icke, His Holiness the Dali Llama (sp?), but not the Pope. He's looking kind of old and senile. Love the hat, though. The world that most of us perceive is the map, not the territory. Nothing is real, as the Zen Buddhists would have us believe, and I truly feel that this is correct, how else could such an irrational and imperfect universe be explained? Waves, energy, God, and Manitou are all one and the same, and they're really really small stuff. (Don't sweat the small stuff.) Heard any good conspiracy theories lately? Like that George W. Bush is really a green reptilian shape-shifter from the lower fourth dimension. Love that one. Prove me wrong, fucker! His poetry has been described as 'scatological', which I suppose is a good thing. However, you are afraid of the smell of shit. (Ghandi wasin't. In fact, he would often entertain visitors whilst engaged in the act of defecation, of which he was completely unashamed. A latrine should be a clean and holy place, like a temple, according to Bapu, as his followers sometimes called him. I still lock the door when I shit. Because when Genaro shits, the mountains tremble. This is all meaningless, why are you reading it?)