The Missing Years

It seems, unbeknownst to me, that there is a great deal of debate regarding the whereabouts of Jesus from 18 to 30 AD. (Aside: It never really occurred to me until now that Jesus is the time we accept, at least in years, and I'm thinking that 2007 is pretty fucking old and outdated) Well, I figure he did pretty much the same things any young man does between 18 and 30--trying to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up, carousing a lot and chasing pussy. Sure, it's possible he took a little road trip to India, ate a lot of macaroni and cheese, smoked a little weed, did a little yoga, and sought the 'essence' of the path he was choosing, being the son of god and all. I am certain however, that this was the high time of his life, filled with the invincibility of youth and the angst of growing. Somehow, I'm sure that Jesus assumed that he'd never live past 30. It was, after all, the original Age of Aquarius. Then, of course, he got a job, became the messiah, and spent his little remaining time wondering why it paid so little, and was so temporal.

It's funny really, that we have all chosen similar paths, especially since most of us have no legitimate messianic leanings. Why is it, dear reader, that we choose to close up our aquarian shops when we hit 30, or thereabouts? Why is it that the summer of love eventually became the winter of stocks and bonds? Why is it that 30 to dead becomes a time of maintenance, of sustaining, of atrophy? Have we really gotten where we want to be?

The answers to these questions are complicated, but are all tinted by a dynamic that doesn't really enter our lives until then, namely fear. I don't know where fear hides until we grow up, but it clearly doesn't exist until then. It sneaks up on us, like a scorpion crawling up your leg in the outhouse, and initially, we swat it away and step on it, but eventually we are all bitten. I don't know about you, but for me the words 'afraid', 'boring' and 'stale' don't appear in my inner definition of 'really living'. I'm not claiming that I have been immune to these ravaging diseases, in fact, I've been crippled by them several times, but I am telling you that I am now eliminating them, evacuating them like a morning bowel movement, and releasing my 'inner adolescent' from my self-constructed prison.

As has been indicated earlier, there are two main goals in the liturgy of the Great Triad: the attainment of nothing, and entangled enlightenment. I have recently taken an enormous leap of faith, and it feels right as rain. I am as clean, as blank as I have ever been. My journey has only begun, but it is free of fear and doubt and expectation. I am like a newly plowed field, irrigated and 'dripping wet with things to understand', my bounty is freely given and possible. I do not know where I am going or how to get there, but I am going there and I will find it.

I'm not sure I know who I was before my journey began. I have always been a bit sponge, a bit thief, a bit liar. I have absorbed many experiences, not always my own, and integrated them into my life. I have stolen many moments, and made up countless more. I have loved with abandon, but I'm not certain my foundation was always real or imagined. I do know that my life has consisted of many pieces glued together by friendship, imagination, falsehood and joy, and I am proud of it.

I am sure that I have no idea who I am now. All the tiles of my mosaic have come unglued, and they are flying in spirals flowing upward and downward. The future medium of my masterpiece is undetermined, but I don't see tile as apropos any longer. Perhaps, colored sands, or maybe rocks, or even limestone. Then again, maybe oils, maybe words, maybe willow. It is still very unclear. But my slate, my canvas, my slab of granite is unblemished by my interventions. It is clean, clean, clean and waiting patiently. And my vision of my life is smoky, like fog and dry ice, and unformed and unperceived. I don't know what it will look like, only that it will come, or rather that it is coming.

In the experiments I have previously described regarding suspending light in nothing, I have mentioned that the light itself is not there, only the 'certainty' of the light. I have clearly reached my entanglement, my entwinement but my light is still the free radical, the muon, the prophecy of the oracle, and is yet certain but unrealized, there but unobservable, earthly yet ethereal. My entangled enlightenment is there, just beyond the event horizon.

While all of it floats just beyond my sight, there is one thing of which I am sure. My planet revolves around a star in South Dakota. She has helped me find my way to nowhere. She has helped create my vacuum. She has made my light certain and suspended it in the void. She has unlocked the door to my unborn universe. Our lights, and our colors, are travelling in the same beam. Our atoms are coalescing, the heat is rising and the Big Bang is imminent.

What wonders await I do not know; what nebulae and blobs will appear; what forces, facets, planes and spheres; what green and infrared giants, what brown periods, what conservation of energy, what mystic particles.

Jesus may love you, but a pirate in South Dakota works better for me. I like her, I love her, I adore her. I know it all begins there, wrapped in her blanket in the Black Hills.

For Gail

I have discovered today, disturbingly, that my sister-in-law equates slapping someone with loving someone. That she is possessed of such violent tendencies is disturbing enough, but to realize that she is made of such contradictory parts is more disturbing still. I have always seen her as a very simple person, revelling in the basic simple pleasures of life and love. Now, I have always been a person who is willing to allow others to live their lives as they wish, but I am also a golden rule type of guy, and no one I have ever met wants to be slapped.

During our conversation, she also revealed to me that even the purely evil person has a place and a purpose in the grand scheme of things, and is graced with some redeeming quality. This of course is pure hooey. There are people who just plain don't deserve to live.

Now, I am not a person who believes that it is my place to straighten other people out. So, I didn't really feel any need to force my belief system upon her. Although I did tell her that if she ever slapped me, I would knock her out.

While I firmly believe that no one likes to be slapped, I also innately know that no one willingly gets nailed to a cross. This knowledge was reinforced by a myriad of entertaining Jesus radio shows airing across America. My favorite came out of Denver. Davey Detective (I can't recall his actual name, but he was clearly an incarnation of Davey, of that brilliant claymation show, Davey and Goliath). Davey is transported to the crucifixion by something akin to the wayback machine. He drizzles and drazzles into the lives of Mary, and Barabas and Herod, sasses Pontius Pilate without ramification, until he discovers why it was such a good thing that Jesus chose to die such a painful death. I'm no biblical scholar, and I was unaware that Jesus reappeared to several of his disciples and to Davey, as well as to someone named Norman, post resurrection, but I was amazed at all the nice things he told them before ascension. As much as this story filled me with laughter and ecstatic reverence, the pursuant revelation of the truth brought me more heightened reverie.

To illustrate, I will provide quotes from the Gospel according to Norman, recently discovered amongst the ancient texts of the Great Triad.

(To Peter)

"You fucking fish-fucking asshole. You were supposed to be my friend. Do thoust have any idea how much that hurt, driving nails into my hands and legs? And those fuckin thorns, they hurt like hell too. And then, instead of you sticking around to watch my back, you let them hang me out there on that sun drenched hill, for all the world to laugh at my small penis, barely peeking out from my loincloth.
And then Jesus slapped Peter and said 'I love you too'."

(To Mary)

"You fucking, sperm burping little bitch. My grail grows within your womb, if it's even my kid, you fuckin slut. You knewest that I was addicted to opium, knew that I was incapable of a rational decision, yet you let me carry on with that lunacy.

And Jesus slapped Mary and said 'I love you too, you fuckin tramp'."

(To his father)

"Fuck you, Daddy. FUCK YOU!!!!! Why have you forsaken me? Forsaken, my ass. You let them drive nails into me; you let them humiliate me. And for what? A little world domination? You're just like all the rest--a power hungry greedy little god, you impotent fuck.

And Jesus slapped God and said 'I love you too, motherfucker'."

We have all been told that Jesus is Love, and it is clear from this recently discovered Gospel, that Jesus slapped as an expression of love. I guess my sister-in-law might be on to something.

I learned during my recent vision quest, that wrestling is an effective means of getting closer to the godhead. According to the Kabballists, god exploded his all encompassing self, and fragmented himself, to allow room in the universe for his perfect creation. This was accompanied by a loud slap in the face of god himself. Who am I to argue with god? Who am I to not humble myself to the current state of grace I now find myself in? Who am I?

Go ahead, show me the love. Slap me silly, sister.

Disclaimer

For those of you who now believe that I have flipped my gourd, fuck you. I still have my edge and I will slice you to ribbons if you protest. I will scare the dickens out of you.

Happy hunting,

Afraid of his Horse (I don't know the Sioux, and I probably couldn't pronounce it if I did)

Snipes and Suicide

I hadn't planned on jumping from that railroad bridge in Maumee, Ohio. In, fact, I hadn't planned anything, but she drew me in like a Disney animator. As bridges go, she was pretty non-descript; not old, but not new; no ancient voice calling to me. She bore her rust and faded paint like bat guano on a cave wall, or perhaps like the papier mache concrete of a Gaudi building. But still, despite the layers of deterioration she wore, she was all steel; steeled against the wind and the water, and unyielding; steeled against uselessness and obscurity. She appeared as a respite from the erector set structures of the Midwest; the mushroom power towers with their sagging electric valances, the field sprinklers, and the pumpkin-topped silos of unknown farms. "Come and jump", she said, as I sped down the interstate, and I swallowed her invitation like the light trickle of blood from a long awaited kiss. I descended and scampered until at last, I found myself standing upon her, in her really. I could feel her strength, long obsolete, scurry up my leg like a scorpion, but she creaked and groaned and swayed with the ghosts of dreams long faded, and still unborn. A bridge, no matter how strong, has to have a little give, a little flexibility, to bend to the burden of hard work and eternity, and I could feel her dance to the music of the river below.

The Maumee flowed beneath her, caressed her hips like first love. Her water was rusty, too. She and the bridge shared the same color, the rusty orange of wisdom, not deterioration. Her waters seemed warm and inviting, like motor oil, and she pleaded with me to bathe and to lubricate. She flowed slow and easy from wherever to wherever, washing and smoothing and helping like a grandmother. Oh, she beckoned me allright. She danced and swirled and licked my thighs like a pole dancer, and I watched and listened. I closed my eyes, stood in my own skin, and fell.

The river and the bridge are separate, but are one thing. They stand in each other, are clean, and are as right as rain.

Time is what we get, be it short or long. Life is what we make.

Which brings me to the snipe, a magic and elusive bird. It is perfect black, the black of invisibility. It only emerges on the moonless nights. Darkness and speed make it nearly impossible to detect, but that has not stopped myriads of children from hunting it. It dwells in ditches and washes. One leg is shorter than the other, enabling the snipe to run like light along the edges of gullies. It has yellow eyes, the color of caution, and yes, dear reader, caution is warranted. This fanged bird is indeed dangerous like a dinosaur. Hunting the snipe requires great courage, armed only with a stick, a flashlight and a burlap sack. The hunt is fearful, yet filled with the possibility of capturing the most mythic bird of all; fear mixed with wonder, standing in each others space. Many have sought the snipe. Few have even seen it. Fewer still are those that have captured it; a cloaked and secret few, unrevealed to the masses. But all who have sought the snipe share the same imprint; the fear of wet underwear joined with the exhilaration of dangerous seeking.

I have just started a new journey, a spirit quest filled with fear and exhilaration, ease and mirth and wet underwear. The crows have flown 2000 miles to join me. The snake has also taken my journey; even the weasel. I have sought wisdom in the magic cards and cherished their revelations. I have discovered that lavender oil is the ultimate vaginal healer. I have worshipped the goddess and plundered with pirates. I have found the love of children, both the small and large varieties. I have begun to discover my earth and fire and water and wind. The herons lead me on my path and I have played with the dolphin. I am balancing my chi. I have learned more things than I will ever realize. I am the bridge and the river, and I stand in who I am. I will continue to hunt the snipe

Red Moon, Right as Rain

According to Mavis Clemholler, masseuse/matriarch/scientific prognosticator, of South Dakota, the upcoming red moon will trumpet the end of days. According to the scientific evidence, for the worthy, the righteous, the chosen, armies of angels are on standby, checking and rechecking Santa's list, preening and culling the list of those that will be swooped up and taken to a better place. I, in a magnanimous gesture, have asked Gabriel to remove my name. Why, you ask, would I not want to be included? Read on.

Life is like a 1st grade recorder concert. Each note, both collectively and individually, is a beacon of possibility, and a different one for each student and each parent. For each student that successfully navigates the score, there is a student that forgets where he/she is. For each perfect D-flat, there is the atonal squeal of over-breathing. The resulting cacophony contains infinite moments, each signalling the end of days for each of us, and the ascent to paradise, the next moment.

We, as human beings, are not hardwired to comprehend the infinite changes in our lives. We cannot see the reality that arises from the undesired D-flat to A-sharp flutter. We may remember the concert, we may remember our child's smiling glance, we may remember how proud we were, or how embarrassed. But we can never process how an errant B-flat leads us, through a myriad of resultant consequences, to the best blowjob your partner has ever blessed you with.

We all tend to look at life through the big picture. But no painting is static. Paintings are dynamic, evolving, an infinite number of brush strokes from burnt umber to beyond ultraviolet; an unwanted speck of dust to a desired layering; a blending of the unforeseen and the intended. We are all a painting, and all part of each others paintings. Our masterpieces can never be foreseen or foretold. We will never know what they will look like when we finally lay down our brushes.

I sail my ship in uncharted waters. At this moment, there is a pirate ship, a sloop I think, sailing alongside. The vast, turbulent oceans of possibility are always blended by the wind and currents. Yet my pirate and I are stirring the waters with our evolving keels. I have let go of my wheel, and where the winds of my life will lead me, I do not know. I only know that the waves behind me, and the waves ahead, will change before my eyes. The future, and the past, are not here, not now, not ever.

My pirate and I will sometime find many places, undiscovered and unimagined. The canvas of our sails and our paintings is clear and clean, vibrating in the ether. The notes of our recorder concerto are unscored and undetermined. I will stand in it, own it, stay open to it until and beyond my next end of days; till my next red moon.

Sending Men to Mars

Oh, I know, another essay defending space exploration, but hey, it's my blog and I'll write whatever I damn well please. I will, however, try to touch on the obvious and not so obvious.

We should send men to Mars because, at least according to popular, touchy-feely psycho-babble, that's where we (men) hail from. It makes sense, in at least one visceral sense, because Mars is red, and men are all about blood, even though Mars is more the brownish red of dried blood, not the fresh, salty red of an overly passionate kiss. Perhaps we might discover the long awaited dilithium crystals to fuel our warp engines, or uncover a virulent strain of bacteria that will re-fire our long dead imaginations. Or maybe we will just create some space for the excessively procreative. I don't know what we may find, but I'd rather spend the money on possibility than on eradicating populations of nations that don't share our national loftiness.

At the very least, we may tune our televisions away from Deal or No Deal.

Exploration and discovery are core elements of survival, although the current version of humanity could use a lot of humility mixed in. Where would we be without the man or woman who surmised that the lobster might be edible; or the oyster? Where would we be without the first traveller to be headbutted by a coconut? Or the first firestarter? or Columbus? or Fred Smoot?. We need to clear our overgrown path of discovery, and begin our journey upon it. We need to refind what we have lost, and discover the bashful, new reality. It takes more imagination for a chimp to fabricate a termite shovel than it does to sit on our collective hands.

I am too old, too nicotined, and too out of shape for the trip to Mars. But I am not too old to remember and cherish the flame that burned in my mind when I was a child and Sputnik soared and the Eagle landed. My life has always been about what I do not know; what I may never discover.

I may not be the archetypal astronaut but I am a willing one. Just ask and I will go. I am not afraid to live and I am not afraid to die. I begin my training next week in the Black Hills.

My Ego in Full Bloom, or why drugs are good for you

It was reported yesterday that a study at Johns Hopkins found long term benefits from the use of psychedelic drugs. This fully explains why I turned out to be such an incredible person. The study was confined to the drug psilocybin, but I see no reason not to include peyote, LSD, and mescaline.

When I was a very young child, my mother and father sat me down and explained to me that psychedelics have been used for centuries in religious ceremonies, and that it was part of human nature to get high. My father, who frequently invited Jehovah's Witnesses in for tea and cookies, explained to me that Jesus started out as a simple pothead, but moved on to opium before deeming himself the son of god. The drug of choice at the Temple Mount was mescaline and the high priests had him crucified as a ne'er-do-well junkie. As Jews, he told me, we have been aware of this for generations. This was verified in Bill and Ted's Psychedelic Adventure, which was unfortunately lost and thus, never released. But I stray.

The study reported that many of the volunteers still felt more grounded and centered many years later; still felt ' a moderate well-being or life satisfaction, in terms of things like feeling more creative, self-confident, flexible and optimistic'. The study also reported 'lasting gains in being more sensitive, tolerant, loving and compassionate'. This, of course, is me in a nutshell.
Since I know that I am one of the finest human beings on the face of the earth, I now stand as a shining example, a poster boy so to speak, of the benefits of psychedelic (and occasionally, psychotropic) drug use. It is high time that all drugs be legalized, for the benefit of mankind.

(I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but I am currently reclining in a tent, no ordinary tent, one of those beautiful tents with a big centerpost with a flag on the top, orange like oranges, red like fresh blood, green like envy, purple like catholic, white like light, lined with yak and goat skins, replete with fresh figs and dates and dark coffee, somewhere near the Afghan-Pakistan border, awaiting the arrival of Barack Obama and Osama bin Laden. I am here under the auspices of the United Nations and the CIA, to arbitrate an end to terrorism. I have brought boxes and boxes of 'magic mushrooms' and fully anticipate a lasting solution. I seem to be speaking fluent Arabic, even though I have no actual training. Hey, what can I tell you. I started early. Salaam Aleikum)

Mirrors, or internet dating advice for the getting older crowd

I admit that when I look in the mirror each morning, I see a face not all that different than the eighteen year old version, although I wasn't balding, flabby, grey or wrinkled, and I didn't have hair growing out my ears and nose, but, I think I've aged fairly well considering all the drugs, cigarettes and scotch I have consumed. I think, however, that I represent myself fairly accurately, at least according to my mood of the moment.

Surely any idiot is aware that the internet was designed as a tool for deception, and internet dating is surely one of the symptoms. Not since we were told that tomatoes are good for you, has a lie of greater magnitude been foisted upon the public. Of course I refer to the phrase 'a few extra pounds'. This phrase would be suitably used if we were talking about a dating service for large pachyderms, but we are talking about humans here. As an example, say as a young woman you stood 5'7" tall and weighed in at 140 pounds. Normal enough, eh? Well, let's say you shrunk an inch and now weigh 275 pounds, most of it below your waist. No matter what sort of expensive mirror you now own, this cannot be represented as 'a few extra pounds'. This is FAT, HUGE, OBESE, UNSIGHTLY. This should not be squeezed into a bikini under any circumstances. I mean, you wouldn't put a bikini on an eggplant, would you? I mean, we're talking about a piano crate for a casket here.

And men, what in god's name makes you think anybody wants to see a picture of your wrinkly old cock and balls. More power to you if you haven't stressed out to the point where your erection is medicated, but come on. I mean the thing looks like Squidward at this point. You shouldn't even be looking at it, with or without a mirror, let alone taking self portraits.

Every single dating profile, male or female, says the same damn thing. 'Would prefer someone with a sense of humor'; 'Honesty is a must'; 'would like someone with similar interests'. Call me crazy, but is anyone out there looking for a fat, humorless liar with no common interests?

Last notes from home: If you want honesty, start with your self. Divorce didn't just happen to you, you had some part to play. If you're a bitch, say you're a bitch. If you're a cheating asshole, admit it. Describe what you think is funny. I mean I can make anybody laugh, but they might think I'm revolting at the same time. So, back to honest self-evaluation. I'm not talking about admitting that you have a small penis here. I'm not talking about admitting you last gave head 33 years ago. I'm just saying admit the good and the bad, describe what you like and do not like, specifically. And lastly, look outside the box. Expand your boundaries a little. South Dakota is a great place to look as far as I'm concerned.