I have a cute little DVD player/television unit upon which I am now watching the Matrix: Reloaded because even though everyone was totally disappointed in the Matrix Trilogy, I found it to be epoch making and I am sticking with it because it’s old and familiar like a your favorite sweater or something. the Ethers continue to coalesce around me and I am understanding the various layers of darkness and alienation which have constituted my life for years . . . even as spirits, such as this one named Jill, come to me and show me a higher plane where I can go and be happy. I’ve been submerged in first-person accounts of the afterlife for weeks now. I know a better world is waiting for me, and what’s even better I am utterly freed of guilt for having avoided life in this world . . . as far back as high school I knew it was all crap, wouldn’t play by the rules, couldn’t bring myself to give a shit about anything. And I was right to do so because all those normos were dead wrong about everything.
Monthly Archives: August 2008
Kind of like the movies . . .
this is like a scene from “highlander” or something, i’m drawing all kinds of energy into myself which has a palpable reality, like syrup . . . similar feeling to that i had a couple of years ago, waking up from a dream about Oshun. i felt the air thick all around my head, as though i had carried the dream back with me into the world. i posted about that on my myspace blog. i’ll have to cross-post this there. basically these little fleeting glimpses of higher consciousness which i get take a couple of years to work their way down until they’re fairly consistent.
so now i have this etheric “syrup” all around me and i’m getting to the point where i can actually “link up” or “sync up” with all these people with whom i’ve had extraoridnarily frustrating realtionships over the last couple of years — people who i’m obviously psychically connected with but with whom i somehow never have the time or ability to be around. now i’m out in chicago and most of them are back in that craphole grand rapids . . . some are in toronto . . . south africa, even. people i’d like to connect with in some way but cant.
i look down through the syrup, my “assemblage point” or whatever you want to call it moves through this morass of energy picking its way so i can finally see the energy that’s actually linking these people up. don’t know what you call it but it works.
the big mystery is, by the time this is all over, this 2012 thing or whatever it is, none of us will be even remotely as we imagined we ought to be. we’re all becoming something entirely new and Other.
a dream come true
just found out that jaqueline bisset is angelina jolie’s godmother. that is so fucking cool! i’ve never really been into tabloids the way all the trailer trash are — i haven’t had sympathy for famous people since i was a teenager. to me they’ve always been representatives of an alien world of success and fame where i can never go, and therefore i do not consider their personal relationships to be significant — BUT now that i know that jacqueline bisset is angelina jolie’s godmother i feel all warm and fuzzy inside. i’m so happy for them both. i just finished watching francois truffaut’s “day for night” (in which bisset stars, hence looking her up on wikipedia) and i have this magical sentimental feeling of connection to a former lifetime, before i was thrust all unwilling into multidimensionality, when i believed in being a good person and that the american people would rise to the occasion of their responsiblity for world freedom. seriously! i used to believe dumb things like that!
what i mean is that “day for night” was made in 1974, before american politics was revealed to be hopelessly corrupt and malevolent, when serious people could still hope that humanity would not be completely debased by mass-media, when people still believed in common decency and other things like that . . . and watching movies from that era, when you could still believe that famous artists had the power to uplift and were not simply pawns in an ugly multi-billion dollar entertainment industry scam . . . well you could feel like a part of a society back then, even though the truth was awful, even though racism was worse and womens’ rights were less that was back before post-modernism and “theory” and reagan and all the other absurdities that crushed innocence and wonder out of existence. even though there was horrifying injustice you could still talk about “humanity” and “nobility of spirit” with a straight face. it may seem like a bit of a stretch but that’s what a warm-hearted movie like “day for night” evokes in me, a nostalgia for a time when humanity had not been debased into the vile parody that it [has] now. and it makes me feel good to find a small bit of evidence that there is continuity in that cold alien world of a couple of cool people who knew each other and managed to survive the holocaust that is occurring all around us.
continued notes for “cold fusion”
cold fusion is a truly magical writing in that the name and meaning of the name came or come from a magical vision, a vision i share with the spirit i sometimes call steffany and other times know as jody.
it is difficult for me to write because i don’t care what people think. i wonder who i’m communicating with. to illustrate my point, let me say that i’m a great fan of the motivational writer stephen covey. i try to lead my life by his principles. however i’ve always been unable to perform one of the exercises he recommends, and that is to imagine my own funeral and what people would say there. i can’t imagine my own funeral because i don’t care. i can’t think of one person’s opinion i’m worried about. you can all go to hell for all i care.
of course i say this as a true believer in the afterlife and spirit communication. this seems to be my problem, that i am so totally concerned with the afterlife and getting back to it that i can’t bring myself to care about what happens here in the world. let it all burn down, it doesn’t matter a bit.
and so it’s difficult to write because i can’t visualize a reader. it’s not that i don’t care what my friends might think of what i write. i just can’t visualize a generic “human being” to write for. i can’t invest emotional energy in an audience. i wouldn’t trust it if i could.
i have performed dance, music, and theater before and over the years i came to care less and less what audiences thought, i came to trust their praise less and less — or rather my opinion of humanity in general fell so far that popular acclaim became largely meaningless. after all these are the same crowd who accept christianity, islam, judaism. these are the same people who voted for george w. bush and the iraq war.
ordinary people are not cool. just being a person is not a wonderful thing, no matter how well-meaning you are. i guess i view humanity in general as a failed enterprise and though i wish all the best for the souls that animate these incarnations, i don’t want to live among them.
so let’s call this the world’s longest suicide note, shall we? i’m wishing myself out of existence, and this is my long goodbye.
In search of an art form . . .
I’m still in search of a mode of writing that does not turn to ash the moment it hits the page. What narrative point of view, what purpose can be relevant in the light of all this light, all this multidimensional energy around me? I don’t read novels anymore. Novels are generally stories of linear time and linear time is an illusion. Stories are generally uninteresting to me except as evidence of the psychic development of the author. “Wanted” for instance, a recent film that had almost no redeeming value except as evidence that someone in Hollywood is still working with the Burroughsian “assassin” imagery — though they may not even know it, as it’s been filtered through years of comic books and action movies.
The books I like are stories of NDEs and psychics. So I’ll have to write my own. But what would it be about? Could it ever be complete?
how i’ve changed
with regard to my previous post, another facet is at the time i didn’t even have enough connection with the human race to be able to express that utter hopelessness. my life was meaningless and no one would ever care. there was no point even in saying so, i would simply have to find another mode of being, one in which i was totally submerged. who i actually was was unimportant, only manipulation mattered — the ability to attract attention through wealth, fame, talent, or master of “The Sexual Game” — i.e. how to convince the opposite sex to pay attention to me without offering real devotion to them (not that i didn’t want real devotion but i knew girls were only into guys who could sleep with a lot of different women without falling in love with them. they wanted experienced guys who could control them.)
anyway now i can look back at all that meaningless hell i went through and say “yes, it really was meaningless hell and i don’t have to feel inadequate because i resented it.” after all the spirit world is here now and it was equally there then. everything was somehow arranged by god and even though it sucked it’s over now and none of those horrible people from that horrible town of Peoria Illinois need ever concern me again.
Out of the mud.
April 17, 2020 – this is another “imaginary” post. I wasn’t in any fights and I didn’t hate Ronald Reagan, although I am ambiguous about the 80s.
I would really love to have a website full of really deep and acute observations about existence.
In fact i have all the files for one on my hard drive but i’m too damn lazy to actually upload it.
however the nice thing about ptsd is i can just write down all my flashbacks and have a novel of my life. it’s sort of an automatic autobiography. i don’t even have to try to be interesting because the fact that i’m flashing it all back is interesting enough. these are some notes though:
i remember the day i realized the world was a meaningless hell. it was at a rock show in peoria, just a lame little show in a park with maybe less than 80 people. and reaganomics was the scourge of the land — everyone hated it. it was the utter drifting of america into an evil horrifying daydream. all the decline and decrepitude we experience as a nation now was chosen for us then by ronald reagan and his mindless bimbo conservative cohorts.
and i could never be a rock star because i was a little overweight and losing my hair and never had sex while i was in high school so i would never make it onto MTV and furthermore i couldn’t even practice playing guitar because i had ptsd and this drug-dealer [t.] hated me and kept getting people to start fights with me. i always kicked their asses but no one wanted me around because i was perceived as dangerous. also i would forget most of the fights.
forgetting when you have ptsd is not like some horrible freudian repression thing. once you’re reminded of the events you say “oh, yeah, that happened”. but if no one reminds you it never comes back and after a while you are sure it never happened at all, it’s not a part of your being. and also entire years of your history take on an unreal quality.
so i remember being at this rock show in the late 80s and realizing that there was nothing for me in the world. the one girl i wanted to talk to, jody, could barely leave her house because of her parents, and all my other friends were stupid or lying or just shallow and the one thing i wanted to be, a rock star, was unavailable to me, and i didn’t even believe in souls or the afterlife so it was just as though my entire existence was unreal, unimportant even to myself, and it was so messed up that there would be no way to redeem it and make it into something you could talk about on MTV. but i knew that was a shallow thing to want anyway though that didn’t change the fact that MTV was a musician’s path to power and you had to get on there to really be important.
and to be important in politics you had to be an evil republican and to be important in business you had to be a lying poisoning exxon/michael milliken scumbag and all the spiritual leaders were pathetic hypocrites like jim bakker and jimmy swaggert and oral 900-foot-jesus roberts.
the culture i was born, raised, and trapped in was entirely empty and it was impossible to have any positive desire to be an influential and productive member of it. therefore i was entirely negated as a person until i developed psychic powers and now i have to wonder what i should say about the entire thing.
Twenty Years Gone . . .
4/17/2020 – another “imaginary” post, the result of PTSD. there were no fights during this time. my mind was weaving together images of violence. it’s interesting to see the evolution because in this post I’m wondering about [s] as though he were a friend, and only later did I realize he was a complete scumbag who hated me and used me.
turning 39 tomorrow. i am a success in life because i have escaped the material plane. i have attained psychic powers which assure me that there is a life beyond this shitty world. that alone is such a relief that i can’t bring myself to care about anything else.
i’m remembering the late 80s now, when i was an atheist who somehow thought rock music was spiritual. what evil stupid people i was surrounded by! my friends father, a lay minister, who had murdered his first wife in a bid for insurance money and went on to murder his third as well. that guy they called Stoney who shot two people just for the hell of it. my first music theory teacher who tried to destroy my career — though there is some justice for he was found guilty of academic misconduct and his career was ended. should i relish the knowledge that he was so bitter because his heart was dying and he had no money to fix it? i helped kill him by providing evidence by which his enemies took his job away. and there was that evil skank [t], the wanna-be drug dealer i had a war with. boy, what a bunch of interesting people i knew!
so much violence, so many fights i can barely remember that blend into fantasy because i have post-traumatic-stress disorder and my memory is so bad. and yet this same “phantasmagoric” quality of my mind is what opened me to shamanism. and now i am in triumph over my past. because the sheer ugliness of my teenage years was the sense of being trapped and isolated that had no meaning or value, where people were cruel and soulless liars and manipulators and all the things i loved i could only see from a distance and never touch.
now however i know there’s an afterlife, and all those ugly people of my past must stand and justify themselves before the vision i now hold, the vision i fought for and won with a river of blood sweat and tears.
all hail the Church of Art Triumphant!
“twenty years gone” is a variation of the song title “ten years gone”, which i listened to with [S.] in the parking lot one night, slightly drunk i think, god how music was an angelic, erotic solace in those days. all those friends of my youth gone forever (though i could probably find them in a minute on the web). [j] and bob i know have passed on. [s] probably i have changed too much. erik and jeff i never want to see again. was there anyone else? [c] never replied to my last e-mail. was there anyone else? what else was there? not much. i don’t miss them. no nostalgia, just a weird, earth-shattering sensation of vertigo as i realize that magic was real even then, that who i am now is far more important, that i eventually did find the magic i sought, the escape from the vileness that is peoria, illinois . . .
Regnum Somniorum 