Friday, October 2, 2009

You can criticize the  goo prospect as despairing, nihilistic, but you can't say its unreal. To say that would be to posit that the guess or  made up world of a primate(Jesus) on a grain of sand on the universe's beach occupying a word in infinity's  library is as accurate as all the beaches, mountains, and  books ever written.

Qualitatively you might be right but you can't but be worried now about the leap of ego your belief in your own judgement encompasses. Better keep that thought  in the back of your mind room but deal with the front door opened to an existence  in which  your infinite thoughts are encased in  and arising  out of dying drying bone and where there is an f-stop  shuttering even that diminishing aperture.  

I don't know, like the fifteen billion before me, how to deal with these incarnate  limits but I suggest that we haven't  started trying or if we did, we forgot every lesson or had it beaten  out of us by powers whose truth we couldn't twist as well .
This is not real. I want to tell the truth. I am no entity but a collection. Each of my parts is a part. If a beehive has a personality then I'm grateful for mine.



For years I waited for drama, for experience to provide a plot.  Now I've had drama but its not heroic, tragic or interesting, it is brown. Dogs trampled kidnapped, friends killed, girls lost or thrown away.  I have no plot and no wish to tell..


Our universe  in the universe is a sand at a beach, in a second of  a million year day.   One word of a book in a library. A word without a sentence.