Okay, I will admit that I was hearing voices again. But these were the good kind. Listen to this:
According to reliable hearsay evidence, interstellar activity has been gathering dynamism, thrust, and elliptical momentum. Yes, again. Contradictions abound. Where? Out there, where else? If you’d keep up your end of the connection with the big bang you’d feel better and know more.
Have you been listening avidly to the latest gossip about the major stars turning up exposed? Why not? Don’t ever admit it if you’re not. That’s like so nowhere and yesterday. You might miss out on a crotch shot or an erect nipple. Wake up. Again, why not?
The cool pair of beavers who are best astral traveling buds with the tawny owl are the likely source of the latter story. According to more hearsay, they laugh their respective asses off with major attitude and style. It’s hard to know with any certitude without inside information, which I sorely lack, though I would surely like to possess. I have been itching for a chance to visit the beaver lodge near Scott Creek in the Santa Cruz Mountains. From all I hear, those beavers sound like a couple of awesome dudes. That’s coming and going, too. According to the tawny owl, their lodge envelops more than twenty levels in notched pine with adjustable adaptations that shift geo-technically around the tide, and with continuous expansion capabilities, most with running water and multiple option sequencing, and a launching pad to boost their astral traveling on the roof of the highest level. But, the tawny owl says I’m not ready.
“Let me know when you finish a thousand figure-eights in a solitary loop.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“You make it sound like it’s my fault all of the time. It can’t be my fault all of the time.”
While I may be intellectually aware in a rigorously stiff and detached manner of the human connection to the maelstroms of dust from the big bang that swirl with nourishment all around us, it’s hard not to feel at a loss. I can’t explain. It hurts too much to try too hard.
It seems as if lately the tawny owl has been constantly carping near my tail end about the amount of time I waste drifting inside of my so-called vastly empty head. That might be his opinion, but in my defense, I think that’s a bit much, even if it is true that he can read my mind, uncannily as it is or may be. But, isn’t what goes on inside of my head supposed to be privileged information? And impervious to penetration? If not, why not? There oughta be a fucking eternal law that doesn’t stink and erode in due time. That’s why I like to spend so much time in my head. Alone. Me time. On safe, sacrosanct turf. Don’t knock atop it. Whoever you are. Yes, this means whoever. And whatever. No solicitations or peddling allowed.
But then I usually soften up and conclude that the tawny owl is only trying to get my goat again for motivational purposes. I know there are more obstacles that reside conceptually ahead and that a first person singular can never be too tough. I may be damned if I do and damned if I don’t but I will not be accused of faking it. I am aware that ebb and flow does not nearly begin to cover the subject. As if.
One eternal problem that often distorts communication tends to arise when interstellar objects and quacking holes masquerading as quarks collide with dust from the big bang with no satisfying conclusion. But does that mean I have to respond accordingly? No fucking way, No more than the next guy or the guy after that. You know the guy. He’s the guy who sticks out like a nail that pines to be pounded. The buddy system leaves him alone and hung out to dry whenever he makes a minor mistake in front of the judges. He gets dragged on his knees into predicaments against his vanquished free will. He spins a little awkwardly and gets major points deducted for dizziness. He becomes additionally penalized by poisoned slings and arrows that are never aerodynamically pure or fair. How is a singular man supposed to keep a straight face when presented with fake trees falling in perceived forests and fake messengers from the one true God, take your pick which correct one, which beard, which beanie, which conception, which boogeyman, which enforcer, which clod who sinks because he can’t swim atop water, who walks like a duck, flies like a squirrel, fucks like a bunny, and looks like all the rest, emaciated and ragged? Like it’s supposed to be for this ordinary guy’s own good. Who is supposed to stay on his knees while double-checking his one true answer until the scabs fall off and bleed. According to someone who carries a big stick and a sword and claims to know what’s best. Or else, woe to the hapless motherfucker in the way.
How come none of the smart messengers from that same famous dry gulch in the desert were able to figure out that the Sun did not revolve around any of their parched dirt? Not before or after any delusional wacko was miraculously born or followed. Not when swords and letters were drawn in the sand. Not when thirst was great. Not when lust had to be chopped down to size. Not even now. Did the psychodramas and burlesque shows of their failure enrapture them? Were they too busy scraping dirt off of their knees? How smart is that? That’s how scabs become infected. That’s how evidence gets faked, gooses get cooked, throats become ritualistically slit. Doesn’t that count as major grounds for disqualification?
In my nearly objective opinion, a guy would have to be close to crazy to ignore voices that emanate from higher sources originating near any of the gaps between Galaxy NGC3314a and Galaxy NGC3314b. I’m not only not that kind of guy anymore, or aspire to be, but this time I’m not shutting up about it. Why should I? I know how important it is to project attitude. Attitude is the major contribution to arts and letters that spell out words and music of our apocalyptic times. Pictures, too.
Here is another fucking rub: Sure, there will always be another test out there waiting to be scored, but lying and cheating is not a viable answer or alternative. Not burning, bombarding, or executing, either. Most of what I’ve learned turned out later to be wrong. How can I be sure the latest hoo-hah is not more blather from a statistical government, an empire, a duke, a dick, a dolt, a savage, a dweeb, a juggernaut, a bigwig, a queen, a goth, a European pretender?
So whatever you believe is the fucking point of both those double barrels coming down the pike, don’t aim ’em at me. And keep your hands out of my pants where I can see them while you’re at it. Whoever you think you are. Take your scabby faith with you when you go and close the door. The breeze you leave behind feels good.
I’m still hard at work trying to have a little faith in me.