On Achieving Perfectamundo

02/10/2006 9:43 AM-10:20 AM

There’s that light in the clouds. Unseen, but there, reflecting back onto it self. Where were we? The trees, a single branch requires years of study. We have years, and if we don’t we can pretend. There is this. This is just fingers pressing down on small pieces of plastic.

When slowed down, it all becomes meaningful. The substance of the argument is this: the data is just data. We can attach any meaning to it that we choose. The idea of the splitapart is true, but we cannot find our soulmate anywhere else but in our soul. The gods of Olympus threw in one final trick: after they had cut us in half, they told us that we would find our full self only when we found our She. They lied. The true She is in the bottom of our soul. What is your wife? She is your lover and your friend. She will not make you whole. Neither will Jesus. Nor science. Nor philosophy. Nor art. You are whole. You are the serpent that eats its tale to make its head. You must find the impossible path. You found it a long time ago.

Walk with me, Girl of My Dreams. I’m only a figment of your mind. There is only this. This. This. This. The fullness of the thing can only be tasted if you chew each bite ten thousand times. This is only a reminder of existing. This is only typing. Existence holds the meaning that we imbue it with. We breathe the breath into our lungs. Count them: one, two, three… This is you. Fret over nothing. There’s nothing to fret over. Slow down to the level of bliss. Heaven is unattainable if you bring hell with you. Who knows if you can bring heaven to hell. But this is not hell. This is not death. And if it is, what do you care? Stop. Just stop. Settle down. Slow to the speed of water in the frozen river. You are here. You create your enjoyment of existence. Slow down and taste the splitapart in the reflection of clouds on snow. There is no sadness unless you imbue the experience with sadness. Perfectamundo can be found in the Other Man’s Watch as well as it is in the cottage by the water. But, laughing, move as close to the cottage as you wish. Move from the calm. Stretch out with you ears and eyes until you can think your own thoughts. You exist within the confines of an invisible box. Eat the walls until nothing remains but this very moment. The experience of being in love is available without the experience of being in love. Break my arms around the one I love. You cannot love her without being able to love her without knowing who she is. She cannot love you without your experiencing the love she does not feel for you. There is only this. Just this. This. This. This. Surprise. The pure skeptic was wrong/right, the ground will hold you if you stand on your own two feet.