Journal Entry from February 21 2012

Extricate thyself from the fascination with horrendous
orifices or suffer the smothering of eternity upon thy scrawny bosom. We endure
and then end in manure. We flutter for five fantastical moments of lugubrious
quietude under a forlorn fern and are shorn of all concern for the
well-established pathos of our time. Hence, it has been said and shall again be
spread unto thine ears like a mighty dread that descends upon fear,
obliterating all gears and mechanized entities, terminating all years of
agonizing enmity, that a shallow pit of shit is fit for the unregenerate git
and his loony tits. When once he will have come to bare himself to the mist,
rest his head upon a grassy frieze, tickle a hummingbird’s breast with his
pinky, spin abreast of a mighty gale chuckling, gentle will be the touch of
Sun’s rays upon his merry enthuse. But is this a tale told for to console the
ill and terminating carcass-to-be? Is this a comfortable cushion to push into
our expiring bush-kin? Or is it rather a yellow brick road climbing gracefully
into the eerie pink moon? Shall I ascend via an inner sense of the fleeting
march of our brief pulsating hives? Gorgeous is a word too narrow to contain
the picturesque qualities of the slain shadows that flitter every which way.
These fields of grey that cleave to each other obey not the holy Mother which
bids us all come out and play for the betterment of her day, and we repay the
immense burdens of our debts by exclaiming a sardonic “NAY” from our heavy lips
that betray our true hidden idolatries and SUDDENLY WE SAY: “release me unto
the nether of this gregarious day, and allow me to saunter naked as I was on
that fateful day, and unsheathe me from the scabbard that keeps me pinioned all
the while it impedes my way, and tear me in half or in quarter, to splash and thunder
astray into the distance. We are not yours to command and thy orders I shall
NOT obey. And I will rush to the occasion and unleash my tongue to its heart’s
content, to the spur of its hidden intelligence, to commune with the heart of
life’s sacred undercurrents. I do not care if I am unseemly by thy standards,
those wicked chains that keep us tethered and branded. I do not don any emblems
or signage. I am lost and am ecstatic to know it. Flattered by the thought that
my thoughts are all meaningless, I float peacefully to the highest realm of
insignificance. I disintegrate all compound objects into the original
constituents. A single beam of light travelling endlessly in an eternal
timelessness is all I am, and all there is. And what is this heavy material,
anyway? Condensed energy, might they say? Occult forces of nature, hidden
essences of blind urgings, will-to-life brought to object by passing through
the world-bearing lens of our knowledge, in varying degrees of its clarity, so
they say. Heaven and hell, for whose sake others may pray. But what is all of
this when seen from the perspective of that singular photon? Witness to cosmic
time spans that span no time at all, vast reaches of the far-flung corners of
the universe all in one glancing sweep, an undying flame that keeps the wheels
churning and the gears turning. An edifice to behold this reality truly is. And
while reveling in the gargantuan scales of infinity, we come to shed ourselves
of ourselves. This is the meaning of the holy death. In order that life may
spring forth from frostbitten sloth, we are bidden in the very moments we are
most distraught. A secret voice comes singing in the night, hidden in plain
sight. Ride out in a twilight flight to make contact with this underlying
might, and discover a source of undying delight. Ride out with me and drop a
bucket into the deep mysteries, and patiently await your turn!”

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