Spike's Ego: December 2005

Page 1

She said what?

If I weren’t who I was that other time, I’d be who I am now. Fuck my problems. I hate them myself. I like my penis, but if it just keeps distracting me, I’ll have to go without touching it. For, like, a whole day. If we go in further than that, we’ll end up in that cave of brown stones, dripping with life. When you let go, you become the algae that cling to the sores. When you let it go, you become the one that killed you so horribly. I’m just here, starting over from the green and brown plants that covered the ground where we played with plastic toys. And we weren’t acting out our revenge; we weren’t striving to make right the wrong that was done to us. We played to play. Fuck the underlying cultural subtext. It’s to play for playing. We remember, sometimes, that we hold within our tongues the contradiction that we’ve always been looking for, but only when we don’t speak. Or speak only in ways scientifically verifiable. Looking back to what we were striving for, we put away the things of man and become again a childish thing. You should see by now (not to judge, just to see) that you are the one that killed yourself. I am the one that killed myself. I killed you. Forgive me, you killed me. Forgetting this, remember the tip of your penis when it was sexless – only itself, devoid of any purpose except the memory of its own moment. The great roshi saw that to cut off the finger was sometimes necessary to gain enlightenment. The great roshi saw that it was generally better to end with a joke, as the joke was the same as the severing of the finger – when the time was right. When we played on the banks of valley grass, a green stream flowing this to that, both better than the one that lay before, no different. This. Is. Where. You. Live. You. Are. Only. Alive. Right. Here. The now and the better less. The now and the better more. Get the fucking cup of coffee right the fuck now. I’ll be here when you get back. Words do not exist. Existence is hidden within the womb of engorged words. Wittgenstein’s critique of language is the same as Nietzsche’s, only more developed. Existence is joy hiding from itself in order that it might be surprised when it stumbles upon itself again. I’m ready to be surprised again. Do not critique the demons of the past, stop hating them, they are we, and when we find ourselves in delight’s mirror, the surprise is sprung and it was so more than fucking worth it. No worries. No worries. Ever. No more despair. There is no despair. Despair is only a word and words have no meaning save the burst of flavor that I promised myself in the beer commercials that we watched when the house was asleep and you were alone. What does it mean? It means that we are alive here and the sex dreams where the best that there is, because there is only the joy and joy can only be a surprise. Surprise! It’s your birthday and the boy that they compared us to was the same as us. The exact same. You are the fallen one and the raised one. Hate yourself because hate is only a word wrapped in surprise. Love yourself because love is only the purity of the joy, waiting to be surprised. All of it is a surprise. All of it is an accident. All of it is forgetting and then remembering again. Remember the whole of existence. Remember yourself in the grass, crawling like a bug through the dewy green river to the butter-colored sunrise and being surprised that delight is an endless loop of joy. I am myself. I am the pirate. I am the victim. I am the cowboy. I am the Indian. I am the tomahawk. I am the Winchester. Remember this. Remember the shout and the quiet. Remember that there is no change. Remember that all is endless change. Remember that it’s all the same thing. Remember that you are everything. Remember that you’re okay with being the only thing that matters. Remember that you’re nothing but a stream of nothings. And, above all, remember the porn.

The OPWC

A Corollary to the Possibilities of Unknowing

6:38 AM – 7:01 AM

What am I when I’m not really thinking of something? Existence is unknowable; it’s the perception of the thing that matters. The corollary to the facts of unknowing is that the best possible out-come is equally valid. That’s what you hope for, but you know that the worst thought may be true.

When you wake up, you come out of the dream and, briefly, wonder about the actual. If it is the perception and not the fact, the fake is as viable as the actual, as long as the perceiver is fooled. So, when I lie to you, oh Love Of My Life, it isn’t a lie if you don’t know, if you never find out. The sin of the lie is piled upon the liar, not the lied to. Briefly, Santa Claus exists. The parents buy the presents. The children live in a lie, but it doesn’t matter. Why do we need Santa Claus? Why do we need anything more than the clearly evident?

The fact of Santa Claus is that he really does exist, but the only power granted to him was immortality. Every year, for the past 1500 years or so. He piles into the current mode of transportation (it’s been a semi for the past twenty years, mostly) and delivers gifts to all of the children that he can in one night. At most, that’s about 1000. But, more than likely, it’s about 500. He parks his truck on the edge of town and delivers presents. I am ten feet tall and rising a thousandth of a millimeter a day. I’m only 5’ 10 ½” when someone can see me. How many years until I can kiss the sky (or “this guy,” depending on how you hear it)? One year, when you were very young, it was your town that Santa picked. One Christmas, there was a gift beneath the tree that your parents couldn’t exactly remember buying, but that they didn’t think that they hadn’t bought either. It was a simple gift, it didn’t cost a lot of money, but, somehow, it was exactly what you wanted. That was not a power granted to Santa, it was one inborn and honed by years of practice.

View of my counter at work

Feel free to waste hours on this one:

http://www.cockeyed.com/inside/howmuchinside.html

I did.

A Brief Interlude of Instants

It was my day off yesterday. No roommate today. That means early to bed yesterday, early to rise today. You sketch out the picture with a pencil first, when you’ve got the composition and perspective right, you take your pen and ink it with sure, purposeful strokes. No matter how unsure you are.

What’s that mean? It isn’t really a metaphor, just a picture. How long now? 4 months? Something to look forward to. If I thought about it, something to fear. No thinking in those colors. Doesn’t do you any good. Be here now. And here is alive. When the time comes to die, we might go to hell, no matter how we've lived our life or what God we've worshiped. I’ve found the worst thought. It puts life into a better light. Enjoy your life; no one knows what death may bring. At least here, there’s a good chance that it will get better for a little while.

The rest and the waking. Rio Bravo was good. A lot better than I expected. A lot different from what I imagined it would be. It moved so slow to such a brief climax, it was almost an Art film. Except that it had manly men with a sense of humor. That’s the one thing about St. Ayn’s characters. Not one of them had a really good sense of humor. Probably because St. Ayn didn’t. Roark’s book was the last one that the wise teacher had for the narrator of “Perks of Being a Wallflower.” Mind you, with the admonition to be “a filter, not a sponge.” Keep voting Democrat was probably what that meant. Pirates had better politics. They were not good people. But they were free. There it is. Say, “lah.” Pick it up and move from where you dropped it. Pick it up and go. Four months. Four months and then this again. Art. No community, but I’ll have art. They asked me, “what are the first three memories that come into your head from when you were a kid.” The railroad tracks on a foggy day, carrying my BB gun. The perfect snow day when we skated on the pond in the dump. The ducks in the swamp behind my uncle’s house as I ran away from the school bus. Love songs are the best songs.