Life = Specific

Life seems like a very specific thing, this specificness disturbs the little monster in me that runs at every door it sees and tries to get through. Everywhere I look in lifedeath, samsara, I see adheration to specification. When you plant plant a fertile bean in soil of same ilk, water it, a bean plant will grow.

As humans our brains are so large, we produce behavior that appears to our consciousness to be complex, much less predictable (some of us more so than others) than our smaller brained animalia, and non-brained plant brothers.

Human lives executed like genetic code... if... then. All lifedeath.

If you get a degree, get a job, listen to the messages from "above" you will "grow" become part of lifedeath and thrive in samsara. And like the rest of the machine-organism-computer, you will be in a process of evolving, mutating through the sexual and natural selection processes.
I am not saying that all humans SHOULD get a degree, job, wife, house. I'm saying that is one [bio][logical] path in which I've seen human life THRIVE. Just like that little monster running at the doors, life just wants to thrive. There are folks thriving working at a post-office without a degree, on a farm without a wife...the Emperor of the United States (a homeless man in San Fransisco) is also thriving without any of these other conditions being met.
Although no two snowflakes are identical in the details, the basis of their formation is based on laws that bind us (and free us) in samsara. To attempt to break these laws will bring about suffering, try to fit the square peg in the round hole. In the game of Go, a game in which some say is a reflection of the cosmos in a microcosm, I've heard a master say "To the beginner there are many options, the rules say you can place a stone on any one of the 19x19 intersections, but to the expert there are but few options" -- to the ones who see how the game of lifedeath is played, there are few options.

I've been suffering because I've been fighting with the game itself instead of leveraging my knowledge of this cosmic game to my advantage, allowing MYSELF to be played out of angst and hopelessness. The part of me that wants to escape suffering by ending it all.

As I said, our brains are complex. Perhaps, our brains are the most complex object that our brains can find in the universe. To comprehend some thing more complex than our brains, with our brains _______________.

I search for purpose. I give more of myself to that little monster trying to get through the next door, to that alchemist attempting to pierce the veil, and it has it's price.

"To enjoy life. Happiness. Contentment."

We have the ability to feel, and attempt to move that feeling to another feeling human. The purpose of Art. One could say "The purpose of life is to feel, life is art." or in E-prime: "A purpose of life could be to feel, life can be seen as art."

-- Parts from notebook page found

Poshitive Thinking

Hey if you're not going to reverse the direction of your spiraling thoughts, then how do you expect the universe to work with your incoherent, out of key, mistepping life-movements?

It's not.

You're fucked until you learn how to focus not on a point of positivity, but on the motion of positivity. Goals are so scarcity oriented objectives, now objectives are not goals. Now, in this age of singularity, our objective is not a singular goal, but a flowing motion of decisive thinking process that is only defined by taking the leap from "here and now" to "hear and nao" (Nao is a common Japanese name for robotic playthings, like, dildos that hook up to the internet.)

Stay with me here folks, or really stay with me "hear". Get my drift? Thought not. Ok, picture this: we have a wild country side, the grass green glistening in the early morning. Birds swimming in the currents and thermals above, and others sing their birdy songs from the trees near the edge of the wooded areas. A deer masticates the grass, extracting the slowly vibrating prana, and it breathes the fresh summer air gaining lighter prana, as well as absorbs more from the sun itself.

Torched Soil *cough* *hack* damn cigarettes... I meant Chris Toledo.

"It's a simulation!" the little people that make the grass up say.

The Deer doesn't contemplate such things as holographic universes, sampling rates, or has even heard of things like the speed of light or Claude Shannon. Maybe he's too pretentious, or doesn't have enough reverence for GOD to do so.

Now, what we're trying to get at here is, don't do that. What you ask? That thing you were thinking about doing, it was a bad idea in the first place. SO just stop, get your hand out of your joy department and break your mind free from the prison of your reality TV show called "Whooops".

You know what the prophet Charlie Sheen says about Whooops? PLAN BETTER. There's no excuses for your pathetic life, it's not your parents fault, the schools fault, the multinational corporations bombarding you with advertisements, it's not the fault of the government for enslaving you 600-96-1766, yeah I'm talking to YOU...
Birth certificate slave, simulacrum of your neighbor, cut your grass, your pubes, lift weights and live life like the rest of the meat on your bones because if you didn't what would GOD do? He'd fall apart, and he doesn't want that to happen. And guess what? You were created in the IMAGE OF GOD, so you better keep it together, keep it real and don't let any of those damn little devils trick you into thinking that "being a mutant is cool" -- because it isn't. Its dangerous to the GREAT PLAN and the GREAT WILL of YADA-HADA-VAVA-HAHA-UNO. So, miss(ter) DOS, not DIOS, you'll never be number one, stay in your cubicle and all reality will dance around you giving you whatever you want... why not just give it a shot tough guy, you're not scared of anything anyway...

Less Abstract

I actually have a real world "mission". I am going to be working on Tim Dance's website like a maniac. My focus is going to shift from the esoterically abstract towards the exoteric and empirical, although still intuitive, the technical work will be bound in the screen.
I need to dandy up my own site as well.

I was listening to this song when I decided to post this lil' blurb turd:


yeah ____----_))0999!

A sphere with more than 4 dimensions

I am looking at this ball, it is a round ball, a green ball, a ball that looks like it has been in the sun for a while.
I am looking at this tennis ball, I wouldn't ever use it in a tennis match, it's old and worn. Something I might play "DOG ... fetch" with.
I am looking at a sphere, it is but the extension of light from the origin. There is no such thing as time and too bad these other losers are here creating a restricted consensus reality that I am unable to penetrate fully with my "big bang" powers.
I am looking at a table, it is oak, it is well crafted. On this well crafted table I notice a manufactured play ball. The play ball is grey-green with white stripes and is a bit fuzzy. The table has a few rings from where inconsiderate people have left cups creating circles of water damage.
Ball! My hand is my mouth, they bark, I escape! Life is a game!
A tennis ball, it's Wilson brand, circa 2008, the distinct lettering and stripe pattern is from that around that year, in contrast to the previous lettering, and the proceeding stripe alteration (the stripes have since become closer at the apex by 5mm).
Damn dog! Stole our ball for this exercise, time for tea. With saucers, don't want any of these bastards to damage my table.

I admit it...

I'm full of shit.
Yes it's true. Now, then, I see myself, floundering in a sea of psychedelic vomit. Eating cream cheese on a chilled English muffin, finger motion translating into blog words.
"How can we help you?"
"How can we help you, help yourself?"
"Fuck you, help yourself."
"Welcome! Help yourself to the chips and dip."
Don't continue to desire the unattainable on that level of consciousness, focus more on the verbness between the desires.
The duit, instead of Nuit. (I know you loved her so)
Sense comes easy, make non-sense again.
Non-sense is point-less.

Help me! Help me! -- Sir, what do you need you are knee deep in feces.
Yea yea yeah!
If I were to hold my hand out to myself, world being torn apart, huge voids of energy, monkeys in a barrel, everyone connected holding on to the last piece of humanity that they can see.
Drink Orange Juice. It's nice.
Pandemonium.
Don't you know how to dance? Follow Blue's Clues. CUES.

Never once. Always thrice. Simpler Times in contrast. Origami of space-time, matter is an illusion.
Fold it up, fold it down, fold it around then stick a push pin through it.
Now, unfold hold up to light.
Next find constellations, attribute meaning.
Find reality.
nadabra, Abra

Still, you suck. Still we're hear, you here?! Still motion. Watch them eat, watch you eat, quick before the lights come on. They have no soul. "Scratch 'n Sniff"
SO MAD. ANGRY! STOP THAT. Fade away, shapeshift. Continue.
The eye swings around madly upon it's perch. I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!
I just need to engage the clutch, engage the engine with the drive-train.
Just need this one last thing.
to participate.
to be part of.
Excommunicated from Life, self serving liberated individual collective of space matter.
All gone. Too many mistakes. Good.
Didn't want to finish the race anyway, wanted to scrape my knees, goal.
Poor girl, I love you so. Sorry for killing you that one time, and that other time, and that other time.
I saw you. I knew you. What to do? How can we free each other from this misery?
Ice cold cum.

Some quotey quotes

"It is well known that scientists and mathematicians have evolved a cryptic language, a language so elusive, so fugitive, and yet so essentially cosmic that it forms an almost qabalistic mode of communication, often misinterpreted by its own in­itiates!" - K. Grant, Outside the Circles of Time

"the primary study of the man who wishes to be a poet is his own knowledge, entirely. He seeks for his soul, inspects, tempts it, instructs it. As soon as he knows it, his duty is its cultivation ... The soul must be made monstrous ... I say that he must be a Doyant, make himself into one. The poet makes himself into a seer by a long, tremendous and reasoned derangement of his senses. All the forms of love, suffering and folly, he seeks himself; he consumes in himself all poisons, in order to retain only the quintessences ... Thus he attains the unknown; and when, at the point of madness, he finishes by losing the intelligence of his visions, he has beheld them!" - Arthur Rimbaud