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

Today

Style? The gaseous emission from some cosmic nebula, that style is post-modern.
Good? The white dwarfs, neutron stars. Bad? Red giants, blue dwarfs.
A HOLY CRUSADE FOR THE STELLAR MEN! Fill the ignorants with star dust, destroy old brain patterns by creating new ones! Your SECRET sinturd. My back arches for your love, 3.1415.......... tick tick tick, your measurements divide the waters.
"YELP ABOUT GOD!" GOD IS A NERD! GOD IS A TURD! GOD IS GOOD! AND GOD IS FOOD!
"I'm in it for the water" Stop splashing, stop typing, stop fucking, stop eating, stop breathing, stop stop stop STOP THINKING!
Mow your lawn.
Paint your house.
Go out and have dinner, pretend FOR ME.
Envelop me in your skin, wrap me in your sin. Keep believing that I'm not here, so I can have some fear.
Security, encryption would mean no-more color, the grey little alien derive no dollar
You can't grasp the flow, touch the fence and your fingers crumble.
He sharpens his crude iron blade, made of the souls thrice slayed.
Stuck in this cycle, rebirth everyday... there is ~about~, numerically, a place to play.

The loudspeaker above me crackles "Number 84, your time has come."
White walls, white tile floor, calm angels wearing turquoise.
Me get up, me no where to go, the angels in their smocks direct me to freedom.
The path to the door is lined with dogs in kennels, speaking to me in tongues of a language long forgotten.
They were out once, and they were in, and me see my own paws now and my body grown thin.
Me used to only be my sight and smell. Now with these angels I AM and have a Will.
The door isn't pure as the rest of this place, bloody paw prints, and desperate scratches.
A golden door knob protrudes from the right. I dare not touch, but the angel's hands are the keys to all the doors we please.
And there he sits, as though he's at the top of the world. My blue green guardian-guides leave my sight, but not out of mind.
A woman dressed in a black dress and a blood red poppy pinned to her chest. Surrounded with gold coins, and mounds of currency dressed up for all the nations.
My eyes follow her form from her soft red lips, down down down, my mind and eyes are falling to the floor.
Past her perfect breasts.
Down to the house of the reproductive system, which creates the slightest, subtle hill where the stars are born.
The dress is now lace, black and intricate, covering her legs. Ankles. The horror of the floor she stands upon. The faces of living zombies, lost souls staring up her dress, needles, white faces of the ones that finally made it. They fold over and under under her stance. The woman in black still on this ocean of secure bliss. The tiles made of human life, bought and sold they flow up, then down behind the desk of the man in the Grey suit.
His desk is mahogany. They say if you can craft mahogany, you can craft anything.
His face is neither young or old, he is neither fat nor thin... and his smile is made from Light stretched skin.
Not even a smile, a slight upturn in the corners of his mouth and his jaw slightly slack, holding an orb of Air between his tongue and pallet. His eyes stare, his chest doesn't seem to move.
To the right of his mighty empty desk stands a man on a chess board extending to the infinite. He is dressed in a white suit, decorated in metals, ornaments and sashes I've never seen before. I covet these things immediately, I wish to impress this man.
I remember my paws.
I remember my worthlessness. How could I ever be him, be as valuable as him? I feel shame.
It's my fault.

This man, he speaks, he speaks words of Madness staring out on his grid of black and white.

As soon as my mind settles the Grey suit at the desk moves.

His face doesn't change expression, he reaches slowly, purposefully to a drawer and removes a small dagger. Closes.
Another drawer he opens and removes a glass phallus, holding his careful expression he places both the dagger and phallus on the mahogany pointing in opposite directions. The blade towards the White suit. The phallus towards the Black dress.

He stands up, walks through the polished wood desk as though it were air. One pace, two pace, three, four. Another four and his nose would be at my snout.
~Fellow. You are on the path between SEVEN and EIGHT.
The path between FIVE and FOUR.
You don't need your beauty anymore.
His eyes were locked with mine, but his face hadn't moved. There may have even been a glow coming from inside his mouth... if he opened his lips.
The squares began to twist and turn under the White suit. The black and white spiraling in a pattern, as if it were a chore for them. Just as winding a spring is a chore, less force required at the beginning, then it gets tighter, and harder, and tighter.
The humans under the heels of the Black dress began to rise, speak unMadness to each other. The womans face was changing, her nose became larger, left eye just slightly lower than her other, her tits sagged just a little unevenly and the perfect lace became tattered.
"Know were I can score some x,y,z?" Dope, pussy, dough, a job, a good time, beer, friends... some water? All the risen were needing something, to do something, to get somewhere and make something out of themselves.
The man in the Grey suit still stared unblinkingly into my soul.
The White suit began to turn with the patterns beneath his feet, each rotation created another man in a special garment. First was a priest, a police officer, a good looking man in a suit and tie and a smile that could woo millions. Boy scout leaders, girl scout leaders, a pretty third grade teacher, and eventually mall security officers.
Still, we stood still speaking the language of silence, staring into each other's eyes.
The crowds were now intermingling. Each one latching to another, grabbing this, killing that, believing this and shunning that. The ones who spoke unMadness were beginning to speak Madness, following one of the chessboard people, building bridges to somewhere, making something of themselves in their Destined image.
Reality set in around us, Grey suit and I, now us.
Factories, green grass, stone, mountains, streams, computers, blogs, information rates, explanations of their birth into this cosmos.
The right side of our lips move up so slightly and our hearts melt for every single one of the animated ones, for reality, for the food and the worm.
Love is their work, worm and word. Love is a lie to us.
The smile spreads to the left side of our mouth and we turn around, eyes shared reveling in the mathematical chaos. Person(A) chasing Person(B) creating Chase(X). Nouns are dead. Verbs live forever. XXX