Things about which I am happy, for a change

Well I am amazed to say that I'm in pretty high spirits about things.

My taxi training proved infinitely helpful in dealing with a coke-fiend parolee I met at the bus stop, an exchange which ended with both of us feeling more human.  He even accused me of being a good christian warrior.

I'm happy to have enough food to last me a while, and a little bit left on my food card, so I know I won't run out by the end of the month...I may even be able to buy more candy!!!  Yes, I'm the guy buying halloween candy with food stamps.

I'm excited about the new frontwoman for GWAR.  I can't wait to see how she runs a show.

I'm kind of excited, and a little disgusted with myself, for finding work so fast.  I will be telemarketing again, after a ten-year hiatus, so hopefully I won't break right away from the stress.  I hate telemarketing, but it's easy and stupid, I had just forgotten how power-mad some people can be when given a small amount of control over a staff's language use.  Which is to say I got a little bit bitched at for calling my forgetting of the proper paperwork to start this week a "dumb-ass" move.  Apparently that's swearing in their world, and not allowed.

Well let's get on with this motherfucker and bring back the bomb!

I look at the complain  button and remember that's not what I'm here to do.  I've got work starting in a week, the day after I go to a meeting about finding work, which should be fun, but is required for my food stamp continuation.  It seems like next week is gonna be a big challenge for me.  I hope my alarm use isn't a big problem for the rest of the house.  It's gonna be a lot of early days for me.  But I tend to wake before the sun, at least now I'll have something to do.

I've been truly enjoying living in a household with pets, the bunnies are infinitely compassionate, and generally cute, acting like a lot of people I know, which is to say hanging out where it's comfortable, and only making an effort to be rowdy when the food supply has been diminished.

I'm pretty excited to be able to bathe regularly, and now that I have a job again, I'm gonna have reason to do so every day, and not just sleep a lot (not that I didn't need it).

The most exciting thing to report though, is that my lovely accountant proposed to me, and I'm considering it as a viable possibility.  She's been in and out of parole hearings all day, and I'm hoping to hear from her soon about the legal barriers to our coupling.  If I could I'd already be in her arms, but they're cuffed as far as I know.

She's one of the smartest people I know, I'm hoping to borrow her brain cell.  I think she'd make a lovely addition to the team.  She's familiar with my work habits, I'm hoping she can help me improve.  She definitely has ideas that wouldn't occur to me, as she's infinitely more involved with political bullshit than I.  I can't say enough nice things about her.  No one else does, they all seem scared that she's pulling some kind of scam on me.  I don't think so, if she was gold-digging she wouldn't be involved with me.  She knows this.  I'm accepting her as she is, which is kind of a mess, but who isn't?  I just want my best friend back.  It's been too long since I've seen her except on a screen.  I want to roll her cigarettes and make her coffee.  I want to bring her shiny things, and keep her away from bad people.  She's stuck in a red state, and in the legal system to boot!  I truly believe she will thrive better on the greener pastures of Colorado.

I find out about my transitional housing sometime on monday, I think, so I will be talking to them about the fiancee' thing at that time, but I'm hoping this comes together.  Hell I'll even put up with her cat, I love animals.  But, I'm hoping it's good with other animals, because I really think I would do well with a few pets, which is to say I never want bunny time to stop again.

I'm also happy about mini-golf, it's just a bit too easy, but I like ridiculously designed arenas.  I suppose that comes from growing up in Disney-World.

I'm super blessed with friends who have provided me with a safe place to be homeless while I get my shit together, and they've been extra nice about food and my general lack of funding.  I've had some real nice nights out on the town since this all started, and I can't wait until I can repay some of that kindness, or pay it forward or both.

I'm really glad that there's a good game store in town, because GTA3 was the pinnacle of the series, and only cost me five bucks to get a copy.  It's been the background noise of a few of my breakdowns, and it is soothingly simple compared to the newer versions.  Also, no dating sim features, which always pissed me off.  I rarely go to bars in real life, I don't need that shit in my game.

I'm grateful that the crazy parolee I met gave me spliff making material.  It's keeping me calm.

I'm also grateful that french toast bread is thick enough to make good buns for sausage, I just had a great lunch.

Thanks again to my friends for leaving me with an ample supply of tobacco as well.

I'm actually pretty happy that my possessions have been reduced to a really small amount.  Art supplies and clothes are about all I need beyond food.

I'm also excited to perform a Dude-ist bathing ritual as soon as this GWAR concert ends on youtube, pretty pleased to live in a house where it was so simple to set up a wifi router, which will be more difficult in my new place as I don't have a laptop to configure it with, and, I think Lina has one we can use.

Your school is a wreck but look what I can do with it, if you think Naropa's stupid now, just wait till I get through with it.

I think the Longmont DMV may be built on ancient indian burial ground.  There's this time-0-Dilating effect caused by sitting there in that light little room, pretending nothing else has ever been going on except the wait, and trying not to freak out out of sheer boredom and collective tension.  I need a body massage.

yeah and if we build smaller cars, it will force some people to lose mass. 

in a country where so many have suffered, and suffered under the cult of suffering quietly, and yet
so many have access to the global forums, we argue about the petty shit.  Where does the pain buck stop?  with the consumer, if they know restraint.

Even Jesus kicked a few bankers in the face when he wandered in that day and found them there.  I imagine he took apart their tables with a quickness.  That's the best jesus scene in the whole play.  blood and teeth and splintered table legs dripping blood and gore.  Of course I have the Tarantino version where he wears the Guy Fawkes mask.  A bit of the dude flipping out would be nice.  Humanize the character.  I think even Mel Gibson skipped that bit.  It's like this little sliver of his shadow, and dude goes to hell and back later, it would have been nice to see that bit too.  My imagination has hell looking like super mario 1-2.  

I don't know where to start, whether it's the real thing that has been gnawing at me, or if I should just keep joking. 

I just want to know why Derrick Jones gets to blow off my suicide intervention after I was fired for not being happy from same school, and then I get eye rolls whenever I want to talk about it.  I just hear "wah=wah" and "that white boy's got a problem". 

Its frustrating when talk therapy helps and no one wants to communicate unless you're pressing the fun button.

Kinda limits the conversation there starbucks. 

Although it does indicate a larger phenomena which would explain the way Ellen De Money, the countess de money, slapped my ass by way of introduction and then tried to lecture me every time I saw her after that.  The lectures were her having to do something not fun, and expecting who knows what so doing it awkwardly, and her slap on my ass was a crude attempt to find a fun button that works.  In either case, it was awkward and not engaging in any way that I would try to repeat.  I'm not an ass-slapper. 

My problem has never been an inability to get laid, it's been more a lack of awareness that I had any right to want or need anything other than more work. 

Ten years driving taxi, and I just got a learners permit for colorado, and I'm not even sure I should have it.

I need to talk to a doctor, or an adult, whichever comes first.

its as if there's a predetermined protocol for getting listened to, and it's built to exclude me somehow.  financially, to be sure.  I stopped at three places trying to buy food and getting more and more pissed on my way out of the DMV.  Missed banking hours too.  But no card no cash no bueno.  Cheques are blase'.

I don't have proper ID anyway, apparently. 

cannibal plashemy, not a religous statement, but a political one.  rome was not burnt in a day. 

hey I just read the black stallion, now I wanna be a pony

for the record, I didn't even BELIEVE in decent human beings until I got out of Naperville.

Oh perhaps, roaming the countryside in small herds, but never in a city.

Not Downtown.

Now that I've got that wrong, I need to convince myself not to be terrified of people.


Roaming bank robbers and mexican speed freaks

I gotta stop with the bugs bunny cartoons

rascist fucking stew

I've made it past the flying spheghetti monster, rode off on a pink unicorn, and now I'm lost.

Metal sandworm storm

raining into the sky

playstation set to psychonauts

metal bullets of the earth defending against a natural predator

metal sandworm storm

rocketing from the sockets of stone

sand trails fly behind as their ascent begins with a flash

or what did you think weaponized grey goo would imitate

stop the bullet reign

start the pencil rain

Better than McDonalds

Thank the heavens!  A goddess has descended with her consort to deliver me from sanity for a minute.

A heady indica, I can feel it in my shoulders. 

guy fucks day

I know not from whence this tremor comes.

I know not from whence this tremor comes.

But I can be sure I'm gonna write again. 

I may need to calm myself,  I fear I'm putting on a sick show for myself.

I'm not alone.  I'm not alone.  I can hear the rabbits chewing on everything.

Gnawing and gnawing in loving glee.

and writing this verse seems to be soothing to me.

I wish I was on cam and I wish you could see, how even this nothing is bothering me.

Lorenzo you bastard! now I tremor uncontrollably when the muse is upon me.

I know not if this symptom is mere symptom or condition unto itself, but apparently as I let my creative juices flow I now have a shiver and a shake above the neck.

Which makes this as good a time as any to return to the public record to mention a confusion I held alone.

You must be told, the "Voice" class in Reichian Tremorwork I was lucky enough to sit and stretch and yawn my way through at Naropa University in Boulder Colorado (yes I put down the pipe long enough to go to classes).   It seems this may have been a bad one to attend, for as I listen to Warner Brothers cartoons and hope to get a line of text out between shakes, it seems they haven't lost their fervor.

My shakes it seemed, may be symptomatic of a greater need for care, but may simply be the side effect of a study that should have been and was burned to the ground at one point. 

A thousand words for my lost easel, give or take a handful.

Black and silver, lost in light
lost not lost but stuck at the last couch

and I can barely punctuate the meaning here

For your simple lines, your sliding screws,
the way you hold my thoughts

a million paintings and a million more, as you will surely outlive me
with care to take for not to break
or bend your shape, I love you so.

that's not nearly enough words to express the way I digress
as I try to impress up on the world

high, pregnant or or drugs, or on top of the world

I pause

to roll another cigarette, and take my leave of the keys for a heartbeat,
a dying breath to bring me calm,
where without you I am not as much the artist I would be.

Simply a beard without a face

the fading memory of nine or more skulls left to a bitch who wouldn't have me

so sober so calm so finally in a sanity psychedelic without aid of smoke,
I roll tobacco for another poke.

I don't need drugs, I AM DRUGS.  If you don't believe me suck on this!

Labor day, bah, I wish it were DORIS DAY!

And these I leave for the Daves I know. 

My quivering lips holding death itself as I puff on the drum slowly.

I will not make Jack's mistake, and hold it in anymore.

I will not make Jane's mistake, and squander my reality show.


If I am to be lost in a sea of information, to lower and finally lose my station, let it be with a fuckton a metric fuckton, of text.

for I know what I am capable of.

to string together without punctuation, safe a few drawings and paintings petunias and whales to wonder.

where humanity left behind such grand vases for vinces vines and vices.

As a silent midnights twilight leaves me to my piece, and my mind to pieces.

Where oh where, or are you where I left you my black lover.
Silver's sliver holding a trash bag and a cardboard backing, for watercolor's lovely dance.

my only trustworthy friend, my base my spine my favorite instrument,
greater even than the brushes and paper that fall through your jaws. 

Oh fuck this wordpress and fuck your wordcountless abcess.

Blogger you spite me, for I alone can see what marks my crayons make on a screen.

Where my canvases and papers, my favorite flavors, my color my madness my lover in sadness.

where once I drew a mouse.

Oh boys, you've done it now.

Perhaps to the horror of my family and less so, I would hope, those who count themselves as friends; I just read Bukowski's letter to his first patron.  I fear I may suffer the same fate, drinking, and more hopefully smoking, as I write until I am fell unto that beast Panopticon. 

Which is to say, I fancy myself a wordsmith of the lowest caliber, without funding but with friends and food that I might enjoy the simple pleasure of cooking for large enough groups (wherever two or more are gathered). 

Perhaps with a head full of Bullwinkle and Firesign theatre, watching schoolhouse rock, and with a library to be rivaled by Rome or Alexandria, I may suck seed. 

Having found my errant razor, I shave off those bits of hair not designated as a beard I would like to listen to as it grows.  Under the sink, you fink!  I also found my makeup kit, so I might go out wearing enough black to show my mood. 

So, broke, and broken, lost mind and listening to the voices in my head as the work of Centennial Peaks Mental Facility to force me back into the light, by never darkening the night, has clearly failed. 

I have a blog, and I will whine and moan into the poor house as I want.  My plan to become someone else's animator, is frustrated for lack of computing power, but I have the Ipad I received as a tip from rescuing those fine gang members from a handful of cops, whose keen eye saw a drunk at the wheel.  I offer no anger to the cops who circled me as I trembling stumbled away from my scholastic activities, and I would hope to continue their giggling as I did that day. 

The Joker is wild in my mind as I have found my way back to my favorite hoodie.  MC chris can go fuck himself, and I hope he finds more effective and better funded animators.  I am content to grow my beard and my ire and I hope I inspire with my humble offerings here, until I can buy some damn typewriting equipment. 

I still intend to tell the tale of Naropa and all that transpired to convince me that compassion is just another word to abuse in the service of a dollar.  But mayhaps ten years from now when I've made it off continent, and away from Tibet's death throes.  Shove that up yer nose!

And now I need nothing more than time to think, and smoke and drink.  Where I find my friends may be kind enough to allow me to continue my slow demise. 

Conjunction Junction, don't forget your function.

Why I am no longer attending Naropa University of Boulder Colorado, or How did Tibetan Buddhism Help Tibet?

It seems prudent to me, in light of America's current relationship to China, to ask a very specific question about Tibetan Buddhism as taught by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

But first a few words, and then I may just forget the whole point and just rant a bit, it's a blog.

So, about this time last year, I was introduced to the Machivellian efficiency of one Derek Jones.  I booked four months in advance, and he seemed somewhat surprised that I showed up at the school.  It took at least one day after I arrived for me to get a room, and somehow I managed to get bunked with the only guy to get thrown out of here, last year anyway.

But that's a story for a psych ward in california, if my rumors are correct.  I heard it from a friend whose mother ran into Alex's mother on a flight back to New York or something.  Nice guy, Alex, liked to throw tennis balls at people and yell "catch" before they saw it coming at their head.

Thanks for that experience Derek, truly a great match for an agoraphobic former taxi driver, very soothing that guy.  You fat fucking fuck.  Okay, I tried to be nice, and now I've done it, broke the swear barrier.  Fuck that shit man.  You fat fucking fuck.  I wanna fuck your hot ex wife, and you already know, but now she stands a better chance of figuring it out, not that I expect it to take as long as it took her to figure you out.  Fuck, I should delete that whole last bit eh?  Maybe when i get past three hundred views on the whole blog.  I'm not too worried about it.  She's hot and has a mohawk, I'm sure she will stand up and tell me where to shovel it if she feels like it.

Wow, that feels much better.

I've been through a bit of angrymaking nonsense you see.  Oh and Derek Jones's Ex wife is both Hot, and smart enough to know when she's in over her head.  Apparently.  I'm not dragging her into anything here, just putting  a thought out into the universe to see if it takes seed, pun intended.

So, this Derek Jones's diary should read "fucked off a taxi driver for a few days, it was a laugh."  Then a bit later "fucked off a suicidal taxi driver's personally thrown and ill attended suicide intervention, it was also a laugh."

Which is to say I don't think he is the most observant fat fuck on the planet.  I literally sent Ian Revere, my roommate, who can and should confirm that Derek was informed that I was popping random pills and ranting uncontrollably and oh by the way he's calling it a suicide intervention, maybe you should stop by after the game...was it even a sunday?

Maybe I've had too much coffee, after my nine hour trek across the state to find out that my outpatient care physician doesn't actually have a nurse to administer the shot that stops me from getting ranty and ravey.  oops, thanks for that guys.

How does Naropa university define compassion?  I'm guessing it's not making any attempt to stop a known suicidal with a previous history of being caught by the school for drinking on campus to accelerate an otherwise crippling holiday depression, breathe....................from fucking trying again........


Thanks guys, watch this blog if you want to pretend to give a shit about me any longer, because the Naropa  Brand Compazion, is not the same as KKKristian Kompassion, or even actual compassion.  Fuck all of you I need a goddamn smoke.  

 and like magic I hear car doors slamming outside, brb....

IMG 00321...contact...and we are live

iframe width 480 height 270 src //www.youtube.com/embed/V_ODvfQ20Bs frameborder 0 allowfullscreen> /iframe>

Joan fucking Rivers is today's Short Duration Personal Savior. 071214 day of St. Pam Grier

I just saw Letterman turn a shoulder on her because she could admit that people from tvland actually poop.

Then thishttps://www.tytnetwork.com/2014/07/10/joan-rivers-furiously-walks-cnn-interview/

And it's kinda disheartening that there is no physical age at which someone is allowed to subvert the local paradigm.  

But it's super encouraging that even one person is willing to talk about poop loudly on late night tv, because we all do it.  If even one thing is allowed to pass without comment, there is always a place for evil to hide.

Right up your asses kids.  Wanna know where the Devil lives?  Anywhere the sun don't shine.  Take em out for Jesus bitches.

Please, tell me more about my privilege. I cannot observe it from within it.

Sorry Zuckerburg, but I had to go off and compose my thoughts.

First, state my assumptions:

No one knows what the fuck they are talking about, including me.

It is only through direct communication that available variety of experience comes into being within a personal reality.

Shit.  How do I dumb that down into a jingle so Americans can begin to build the foundation of the root of understanding?  That I may understand?

Assuming you have any idea at all is the root of all miscommunication.

How I interpret feminist complaints about men not doing"X"

Daddy was a shitty father cus he didn't have one to teach him how.

The guy I'm blowing won't take me out on the town.

Life is hard.  Buy me stuff cus I'm pretty.

If you don't I'm being oppressed by men.  

Because doing both the work for the money and the work of shopping is below me somehow.

Blow me, somehow.

MRA NOW Feminist Then. We dare not go a-dating, for fear of other men.

Hey y'all, 

I'm not with these guys.

I stand in solidarity, with my gender, against blanket statements about same....

Because not all men because not all women are exactly the same...

Men have traditionally been problem solvers in service of all.

But who will help with men's problems?

Oh they don't have any, or it's their fault for being men, are not acceptable answers.

Boys will be boys forever if there are no men left, to teach them what men are.

Ladies don't get to tell us anything if they can't say it directly.

Implications and suggestions fall on deaf ears when they're couched in anger.

Your messages are hampered by your tone.

Passive Aggression means nothing to those most often exposed to Active Aggression.

Suffering IS universal.  No matter how rich or poor, or what gender or race, everyone can find something about which to complain.  That they are rich does not invalidate their complaint, that they are gendered does not invalidate their complaints.

Complaints are not facts or statements of obligation.  

Negative statements must be made at times because swallowing too many such statements is a kind of poison.  

Silence changes nothing.

Speaking in anger is the next worse thing.

Even worse than that,  I had a friend, a biological female, playing at being a man, 

calling herself a man, acting as if she is a man, rant at length on male obligation to act civilized, on how horrible men were for looking upon shim with lustful eyes (I'm sure they could have perceived murderous intent in same without actually verifying through investigatory conversation as well, who can say, who can tell?).  

It was supremely hard not to tell her to man up.

I'm tired of being mind read.  

I'm tired of having my intentions explained to me instead of explored with me.

I have no more idea what I'm doing in this world than you do.

Stop accusing me and my gender of efficient organization collaboration and collusion.

We have as many group meetings as women do.

But most of its wasted talking sports.

If anyone wants to stop being called manipulative then maybe direct ugly truth maybe.

If you want to transform the world, start with yourself and branch out to other similarly inclined people gradually improving the situation, naturally, indirectly, and collectively.

If you want to take out an entire gender or race, design a superweapon.

But don't make my problems yours, I mean your problems mine.

I'm sure we both started with the ones we needed.

Note to self

Ode to an asshole (in the style of Ginsburg)

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fart fart fart fart fart fart fart fart

fart fart fart fart fart fart fartofart

*fart*fartOshartXx......................

No time for the ol'...

Wow, let's have a conversation is the last line, the last thought, followed by.......drumroll please............no comment sector.  Unless I'm just too clumsy to find it.  It's funny really, this one goes on about how women are presented in The media as stupid and inept.  I present the fact that in my world, men are too.  Now that I really think about it, BOTH genders are presented as overgrown children in the media.  This seems to me to be directly due to the fact that children constitute the only people who can't exhibit sufficient boundary function around separating fact from fiction.  That ability is not encouraged by the media, because that is the thing that frees you from it.  Not the action or inaction of the "oppressor".  To even see ones self as oppressed is to put the power away from oneself.  

Yes, TV sucks, turn off.  Yes, Magazines....fuck...magazines?  What century does the author live in?  Print is a dead medium, to give it a second thought is to watch it boil in the waters of its own death.  Also, soooooooooooooo last century.  Can't you download the same content for free?  (Especially in the case of supermarket impulse purchase media).  Or, gasp, be fucking bored like a natural creature....  just try and tell me boredom isn't a natural state, and I will introduce you to the nearest cat.

If I knew who this author was, or wrote for, I would surely add to the ignore list in my own personal reality filter contained within my own mind, and under MY control.  

I had an experience yesterday that seems to parallel this.  I know what it's like to have someone look at you in a way that makes you uncomfortable.  I'm not going to go on about the biological function of the male attraction to the healthy female figure.  Those of child bearing age should not be required to hide out until their attractiveness has passed.  But yeah, that subject is already covered at length elsewhere.  What could possibly have happened to me that was on a par with being sexualized indiscriminately by wandering eyes? 

It wasn't the cute gay guy (thinner than me :( and with the same haircut), mercilessly checking my outfit for tears rips and other opportunities to rape me.  Naw, dude, you can look.  It's the actual act of physical contact that society seeks to repress.  No...

As I listened to the second movement of Ludwig's 9th, all joy was sucked from my shopping as I turned and saw a small child demanding something in an unreasonable manner.  It was to my left, a biomass I will not gender.  Shorter than me, I had managed not to notice that it was 3ft away before I turned to walk past.  In that split second, (insert musical reference indicating I know the actual progression of the second movement), and a look on her face for that split second conveyed a lot.  

It made me uncomfortable.  As If I had been falsely accused of intent to murder.  The look in her eyes, containing no content I did not put there.  No information which the mind is not guilty of imposing upon it.  Fear.  Wide-eyed and dilated.  If I cannot know its inner source without actual open conversation, I can identify the quality of what I felt in my heart.  

She looked at me, and somehow I absorbed all of her power.  I had in my hand, wax paper ($01.59).  I intended to use it to make cookies later.  But I suppose given its size and shape, she may have mistaken it for a big blue veiny cock.  I cannot be sure.  

Somehow this is my fault?  I was just there to get cookie-baking supplies.  For fucks sakes, can I not just once walk down the street without people crossing to the other side as If I intended them harm.

No, only males are capable of bravery.  Only males are capable of stoicism...  I will not speak to restraint, because the fear would seem even less reasonable if she had recognized my own capacity to not rape a child.  Naw man, yer holdin yer big blue cock out there for all to see... or maybe it too closely resembles a weapon.  Is there some way we can go to extreme lengths and cost to the taxpayer to further prevent this woman with child from actually growing up & accepting that some chaos and uncertainty IS actually a good thing.

No, men bad, women good.  These princesses must not be forced against their will, to grow up and accept that life isn't all about castles and balls.  

It seems easier and more practical to me to suggest personal responsibility for your own experience.  It seems practical to me that you as experiencer, should hold that power.  

I cannot speak to that woman's inner experience of me as a threat any more than she can to my experience of further demonization and alienation through the conduit of less than a seconds worth of awareness.  

It seems fucking childish to make anyone else responsible for my emotional reaction to my outside experience.  My shit is my shit.  

SIAM NOT YOUR FRIEND

Friendship is indicated through ACTION!  

This may be as simple as actively listening, or

Creating communal experience opportunities.

It can be as complex as crafting representational objects:

Where time investment is used as a measure of 

your appreciation for the recipient.  

or

orchestrating a series of pleasant experiences,

as in providing someone with a "date".

Friendship is NOT clicking "like", or 

Communicating with effortless non-thought

as popularly represented by "LOL".

"Realness is fairly accurately represented by this simple equation:  

LOL's posted over time 

-----divided by-----

 actual audible expressions of mirth

Your genuineness is only represented by actual action.  

Having a nice thought is not the same as doing a nice thing". -Mel Gibson (in reference to his motivation during the filming of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome).

Americans need to understand that making a fucking effort is the only way to communicate altruism.  Words and talk have been rendered irrelevant and unreliable by politicians, the media, religion and its vendors.

 

http://youtu.be/os6ru8DwmnA

http://youtu.be/uprkhMIMk1g

This is my response to life experience, after watching the videos linked above.

Statement of disbelief: outdated belief systems (B.S.): "Everyone is wrong!"

Everyone is wrong...

     ...the Abrahamic religions are rife with opportunity 

to ignore facts...implied abusive relationship of 

master-servant(slave) best taken at face value. 

 Submission implies power transfer. 

YOU ARE verifiably, THE BEST person...

... to DEAL WITH YOUR PROBLEMS.

Which doesn't mean ignoring the experience of 

others in relationship to similar circumstances.  

 I perceive value in listening respectfully to 

others.  Differences in belief are additions 

and modifications available to your own 

belief structure.

 Passing personal responsibility on 

to others de-personalizes &

de-prioritizes it.

  The only thing I am truly certain of:

  some part of "me" is transmitting

 experience (the perceptual apparatus) 

& 

another part of "me" "is"

(the receiver)

experience is controllable

What I believe filters what I perceive 

Change your self, change your world

Type A for asshole: an exploration of aspects of self

Type - "A" is for assholes

"It's a prehistoric monster

It came from outer space

Encouraged by the Martians

To destroy the human race

The F.B.I. is helpless

It's twenty stories tall

What can they do?

Who can they call?"

From Hour of Slack #1463 

Burnout occurs when one does not take time to release control over your personal reality.  

Shit happens.  Shit has happened.  Shit will happen.  Luckily, its not all your shit.  You can take a break from wiping the turds from assholes, let them pull the wool over their own brown eyes.  

My personal experience has included, and recently concluded, ten years of cleaning up after adults who are participating in a culture that encourages infantile behavior.  Babies are just assholes who haven't learned how to wipe themselves yet.  Unfortunately, I've invested ten years of negative experience into that same character in my own personal reality.  Allowing myself to be tended to.  Learning to tend to myself.  My Christian core programming rewards tending to others, being a servant, praising whatever perceives itself as godly.  The Type-A subtext in my upbringing chides me whenever I am at rest.  I am not allowed to fail.  I am not allowed to take it easy until the last customer is driven home, and the last bill is paid.  No rest for the wicked, and everyone is wicked.  Thank you Jesus.

In ten years of service, I watched myself grow and change over time.  This was a great encouragement.  Growing up in a church, only to escape into a Type-A Mecca, was consistently depressing.  I began depressed and exhausted, already drained and desperate.  In time, I learned the difference between the mental realm within my personal reality, the emotional realm within same, and the physical reality of my perceptual apparatus.  

The perceptual apparatus seems the most complex and fragile of the three, but I may simply not have opened my hearts eye yet.  My minds eye is wide.  Yet the body is half-blind without the glasses that facilitate my vision.  Without the glasses, there are evident energies that no one I have met lately has been able to see.  The body seems to me as if a concentrated point of available energy brought into manifestation through the intersection of motivating and animating forces (drive for food, drive for love, drive for comprehension).  If Jung's rubric holds true, there would be a fourth, spirit, perhaps, in some sense.  

I want to concern myself with the available knowledges.  

Lets begin.

All Dharmas agree at one point.  When we are in flow with the rest of the world, walking becomes swimming, with a risk of floating.  In the wave form, Dharma creates an awareness of the availability of flow.  Healthy Yeti in early Atlantis rode it like birds.  If we can find the point where that wave of Dharma becomes a particle, tremendous potential may be found.  

"We could say that all teachings are basically a way of subjugating or shedding our ego.  And depending on how much the lesson of the subjugation of ego is taking hold in us, that much reality is presented to us."  Training the Mind and Cultivating Loving-Kindness, Point Five: Evaluation of mind training, pg 80, C.Trungpa

The cheap Roman trick in the Christian religion, is subjugating others egos ... but just enough to allow them to see the consensual reality of the church, without revealing too much of the realms beyond.  It assumes people can't figure it out naturally, which is a bit of an insult.  The Yeti who watered down their DNA until the hair fell out, and pinkness was achieved, added genetic safeguards against eternal torment.  Humans learn by modes beyond the physical.  The Christian seems to assume that the only available information is coming through the perceptual apparatus.  Which would be true, if we had intended automatons.  

Regard all Dharmas as dreams.  The ultimate reality I choose to perceive, the one that has brought me the most comfort, the one that seems to present to me the most potential, is that of the infinite multiverse, where all possible realities, and a few impossible options, are ultimately available in some sense.  

"...you begin to see things, to hear things, and to feel things.  But all those perceptions are none other than your own mental creation.  In the same way, you can see that your hate for your enemy, your love for your friends, and your attitudes toward money, food, and wealth are all a part of a discursive thought." Training the Mind and Cultivating Loving-Kindness, Point Two: Absolute Bohicitta, pg 17, C.Trungpa

Those thoughts are the building blocks of your personal reality.  This is the same realm where personal demons form.  They're like puppies that only you can hear.  Stupid at first, but trainable if you don't abuse them.  This is also where the hungry ghosts of dead celebrities come to seek blind association with their personal brand.  If they are not actively serving you, I highly recommend exorcism.  

"Don't make Gods into Demons...At this point you may have achieved a certain level of taming yourself...your achievement begins to become an evil intention, because you think you can show off".  Training the Mind and Cultivating Loving-Kindness, Point Six:  Ethics, pg 100, C.Trungpa

I have to apologize because its not as if he didn't offer anything to the world, but I am compelled to call Jesus the worst show off in all history.  His stoicism seems like a really good example of why its a bad idea to embody stoicism.  Thank you Jesus. 

The inverse, oddly enough,  is a great recipe for healing a Demon.  Welcoming it, thanking it, rejoicing in its Demonic power, and simply being playfully appreciative of it, these are the ways that enemies can begin to become friends.  It's not easy, and its counter-intuitive, but it is super effective.  And a clever entendré at that.  I have actually used this technique to placate the demon of a friends acquaintance.  Play therapy works well on disincarnate watcher types and poltergeists.  But, that was my personal reality.  

Beyond the personal reality, is the consensual reality in which the apparatus functions.  Beyond that, others.  

I see all this as an intersection of energies forming lives which also intersect.  In one sense a network of points, in another an ocean of potential.  The two perceptual modes are one of the things that Christian hid from me.  Seeming to allow point to point thinking, while using the wave function of repressed drives in bursts to achieve their own material goals.  It's almost as if someone learned of the wave state use ability, without really ever fully letting go of the point to point perspective.    Point to point is work.  Waves are Slackish.  Both are ways to deal with the physical, but flow implies to me the expansion of consciousness towards the infinite, and points are by nature contained.  

Self-Liberate!  

"...the realization that our discursive thoughts have no origin."  Training the Mind and Cultivating Loving-Kindness, Point Two: Absolute Bohicitta, pg 19, C.Trungpa

Now in the particle point to point mindset, there is a trap of A or not A thinking here.  I may have a dream about a plate of shrimp.  Upon waking, I hear the fishmonger with a fresh batch, walking by with a cart.  So what?  Right?  

I could be washing last nights dishes, and find bits of shrimp tail in the drain strainer.  At least that is real, that is true, in some sense.  

Disallowing the reality of ambient thought forms on the mental plane is a reductive method.  The useful application of this idea is that troubling thoughts may be easily dismissed as either unknowable via the perceptual apparatus, or otherwise silly.  That seems to be the point.  The wave, on the other hand, more fingers.  Release action of that moment of thought from which one seeks liberation, is the wave of change and the wave of liberation.  As a wave, it can be understood more easily as a state of being than a moment of embodiment.  Vibrational calibration of the perceptual apparatus is recommended as a process, not a jarring reality shift.  But those valuable elements of self, can be carried as particles or along a set of such, as one experiences the eternal (I hope!) flow of change.  It doesn't matter if its coming from a source in the physical reality, or either of the intersecting human planes.  If you let it, it will change.  If you engage it, it tends to hold form until you take action, then there is change.  Both possibilities represent instability, both potential for growth if right action is taken.  

I really feel alien.  It's annoying as hell to have to explain myself in a series of increasingly stupid statements to see at what point my mental plane intersect theirs.  Frustrating.

"This slogan deals with kündzop, or conventional reality...All of our experiences are based on others, basically."  

"If you want me, take me, possess me, kidnap me, control me-go ahead, do it.  Take me.  I'm at your service.  You could bounce on me, shit on me, cut me to pieces or anything you want.  Without your help I would not have any way to work with my journey at all."

Training the Mind and Cultivating Loving-Kindness, Point Three: Practice as path, pgs 48-49, C.Trungpa

God is on the radio, and you are playing with your knob.  

If there were some Orwellian Gamemaker puppeting our lives like some kind of twisted otherworldly Truman show, how would you expect communications to pass through into the system?  I see two basic options, directly and indirectly.  Direct communication with the divine is fairly personal and individually presented within the belief system running inside your personal reality.  I won't speak to your reality.  That's your area of expertise.  But, we share a common problem in the idea of indirect divine communication.

  If there is an overwhelming conscious intention at work in our consensual reality, it seems to me that something, with a talent  for controlling its inner workings, is creating something that is learning how to control its inner workings.  What a strange loop!  

As we expand, does our personal reality grow?  As IT grows, do we learn more about IT?  

If I am to go this far into the deep end it seems that the perceptual apparatus is key.  Others represent both their personal reality, which often contains modifications and beliefs which differ from my own, and a potential message from the divine.  

That's the thing.  In point form, people are people, so why should it be, that they and I get along so awkwardy?  In wave form, as a field, as a force, the collective power of all points in the board may compose the body of the divine.  We are ITs fingertips and ITs eyes, as IT conducts a bizarre self-surgery.  

And like an asshole, IT  passes through into our world through tightly clenched points of whatever the hell we are now.

Art Therapy Studio Methods: Community Building ...& FSM, -or- How I stopped worrying and learned to love JHVH-1

I was born on Thursday, September 8th, 1977 (the 251st day of the year).  Within those first few moments, I was violated by religious bullies who mutilated my genitals.  But, we can return to that thought later.  Circumcision as infant preconscious trauma is the subject of a paper I recently wrote while researching trauma and its symptoms.

My first year was spent in a moldy basement, where I developed breathing difficulties.  These were resolved, as we moved to California in the same year.

My second and third years were spent in California, where my father had work with a radio station that frequently broadcasted out of Disney Land.

He literally broadcast out of a booth somewhere in the nucleus of the park, frequently.  As a direct result, my mother and myself were frequent visitors.  

In year four, my mother's pregnancy made an excellent excuse to return to our point of origin, Illinois.  Once there, mom went to the hospital, Dad went in search of work, and I was left with my Grandparents.  What I remember from that period is playing with green army men in the limestone crawl space, and watching Gilligan's Island on a portable black and white television, in the attic.  

     When she finally gave birth, it turned out to be fraternal twins.  It must have been the beginning of February when she finally came back into my sphere of awareness.  My assembled family was making a racket as they milled about downstairs.  I was nose deep in an episode of the Munsters when the quality of the ruckus changed.

      I came down the attic stairs in excitement, hope rising as I increasingly sensed my mother's prescence.  At the top of the landing, behind the bars of the bannister, I saw the top of my mom's head through a thick crowd.  Attempts to pass from back of the crowd to the front, were blocked by my extended family.  

      No one even seemed aware of me until after I gave up and went back to where I could at least SEE her.  Supremely frustrated, I sobbed uncontrollably.  It was at this point that Vincent Potenza intervened.  He came up to me, and advocated for my right to see my mother.

I'm not sure of the timeframe for ages 5-6, but my mom taught my preschool, and I didn't encounter public school until the next year.  

I was enrolled in a public kindergarten.  As I graduated into first grade, the local laws had changed.  The law regarding the age of first graders had moved entrance age ahead one year.  The result of which being that my classmates were almost exclusively a year older than me.  

     I committed social suicide early in the school year.  Establishing a clear opinion on sports in general, and gym class specifically, was easy.  One day after standing around the locker room and changing for gym class, my teacher had us sit on the floor at center court.  It wasnt until I sat down and created opportunity for my bladder to shift, that I realized how urgently I needed to be excused.  This strange person running the class had some issue with my request, and quickly denied it.  I responded by filling center court with a puddle.  I got the rest of the day off for my insubordination.  I watched the Addams Family.  

     As you may imagine, I quickly became the favorite target for bullying.  But it was not until I came home bloody enough for dramatic effect to express what I did not, that I was offered the option to be transferred back to kindergarten.  

In anticipation of my impending return to that environment, my art teaching mother promptly maneuvered into a position at a nearby private Christian K-8 school.  There, after my second kindergarten, the bullying continued, but in a much more "Christian" manner.  

The church was in Naperville, IL.  Naperville was a fairly rich white suburb that had an attitude of abundance.  It demanded the best of everything.  In the press, it was touted as a Mecca for Type-A persons who wanted to play house and have kids.  The children who were kicked out of public schools in the area had two options, the indignity of a behavioral disorder school, or this particular private Christian school.  It was a mix of lambs and wolves.  

For the sake of brevity, I am just gonna give a few highlights of that period.  

Weird Al Yankovich was the only music I was allowed outside the Christian spectrum.  On Sundays we listened to Breakfast with the Beatles as we went to church.  50’s classics were on the radio during the daily drive to school.  Which was also at the church compound.  Nickelodeon and The HA! Network were allowed.  MTV was taboo.  Tom Petty scared the shit out of me with the "Don't come around here no more" video.  I snuck MTV and HBO at any opportunity.  

     Upset at my clear depression, and frustrated by its persistence, my parents were on alert for anything that would help.  When I reacted positively to the pet of one family friend, they acquired it.  My first dog was already fully grown when he came into my life.

     The earliest memory of my dog (I don't remember meeting him for the first time), was watching him hump my 2-yr old siblings.  First one, then the other.  They were kind of making a game of it, having fun, being twins.  I didn't tell.

     Once the dog finally got caught, they cut off his balls, without telling me anything.   He became a living rug after that.  Lying around most of the time, his effectiveness as a helper animal dropped dramatically.

     My uncle, a Liutheran pastor (at the time), had a daughter who JHVH was kind enough to hit with a bus.  As I was entering puberty, during a game of hide and seek, she tackled me as I dodged out from under a bed in my grandfather Vince's attic.  My body reacted, much to my horror, as it should, to the prescence of a warm female body draped over it.  Her response was to grind on me and moan "that feels good".  Her brother witnessed it, but ran out behind her back while she was distracted.  I never could get anyone to talk about it.  

     In the last of my days at the Church school, we shot a video of "Jason and the Argonauts".  I ran camera, and narrated a bit.  

      8 straight years with the same 20-25 people, a core of about 20 for the duration, and a handful of guest spots each year.  This extended series of forced friendships ended with a bus trip to Mexico to build churches and attract the poor to them.  Discovering an innate ability to create with long balloons, I was a natural leader for the children's clowning ministry.  While we were out doing the work, the rest of the group got together for the official group picture.  With an aggrivated sense of alienation, a pocket empty of balloons, and the echoes of white greasepaint at the edges of my hairline, I had my perceived revenge, in some sense.  

     Having already experienced mystical states during extended prayer, I looked for answers there.  Holding the thought of my indignation at the whole experience, I was filled with the urge to defecate.  Now this bus we were on, was the pride of the church fleet.  A repurposed Greyhound bus with cloth seats stuffed full of my tormentors.  Every girl who had ever rejected me, or spat insults at me for looking at her while being retraumatized by a combination of natural attraction, guilt, and silent shame.  Every boy who ever bullied me.  The smiling youth group leader, quarterback of the high school team, blond haired, blue eyed and everything I couldn't bring myself to become.  Wall to wall reminders of hate.  It was dark outside, and as we drove down that desert highway, it seemed like the whole world.  As luck would have it, a world with a bathroom at the back.  Mistakenly assuming that in their slumber, my seat would be safe, I went about the necessary paperwork.  

      Returning to my seat, one of the few people I still considered a friend at the time, had one harpy in his lap, and another in my seat.   After an hour of standing there looking bashful, I failed to wait them out.  Surveying the bus, I found no room within.  Eventually, moving some luggage, I was able to create space on the luggage rack.  I was quickly discovered, admonished, and frustrated further.  This whole time, I was consciously aware of holding a great sense of injustice.  I prayed about it.  First pleading my case, and hours later, bargaining.  The whole time standing with a hand on the luggage rack.  As if by my own doing, at the moment I finally gave up on bargaining for a peaceful solution, there was an accident.  As I allowed my hate to wash over me, I clearly expressed the idea that even if we had to get off the bus and back on again to reorder it to its departure state (where there were enough seats for all, given no one passed out across two), as I expressed the acceptance of the possibility of everyone including myself being harmed.  Anything to just sit the fuck down again.  That's when the garbage truck barreling down the entrance ramp merged into the slow motherfucker lane. The greyhound had air brakes, and stopped just in time.  The bus behind us did not, 

I got my wish, along with a basic review of the power of giving up on a charged thought.

     It seems to me, that a thought, properly charged and released back into the mental realm, utilizes that energy in the attempt to manifest.  

I told that story the first time I attempted therapy, in the introductory session.  The graduate student bitch ran out.  

But that was later.  High school was unpleasant, I was a poor kid in a rich area, with social anxiety, approach anxiety, and a head full of Christian dogma. .  

Because I had invested so much energy in the belief that everyone outside the church was the devil's thrall, I regularly hallucinated demons.  Talking about it scared the shit outta my youth group "friends".  

Recognizing the apparent self-fulfilling prophecy, and in an act of good faith in solidarity with the demons attending me, I gave up on God.  Immediately, the demons became much more cherubic.  

The guy who dealt speed to the football team befriended me.  He was kind enough to get me stoned regularly, and lie to my classmates for me.  There was a year where I wore contact lenses where I had dropped food coloring into the case before storing them at night.  The visual effect was of dilated pupils, and coupled with my bizarre behavior, my friend convinced most of the school that I had been struck by lightning multiple times.  The rest just thought I was on acid.  

To review:

1. Forged in Disneyland

2. Raised by Christians

3. Pissed at JHVH

4. Natural talent for Witchcraft, in some sense.

Early college was kind of an extended high school experience.  Less bullying, but a few of my girlfriends carried that torch.  I ended up having mental breakdowns that led to being thrown out three times, like baseball.

I went back to Naperville, only to find I couldn't afford to live there.  I moved to Aurora, IL next door to a crack dealer.  I even started dating a nice girl.  A NYC prostitute coming to Chicago to avoid the enemies of her gun-running ex.  We met on MySpace.  She was a little older than me, and said she couldn't orgasm with clients because she is a squirter, and that complicated her work.   

  Tiring of the seemingly endless supply of sex and drugs after six months, and losing my job as a community college video librarian (I think I actually loaned out less than 20 videos that entire year), it was time to move on.  When I tried to, she told me she was pregnant with my twin children.  Eventually, I decided I needed to come up with money to support the kids, because well, she wasn't what I considered quality mother material.  

I moved to Boston, only to be tormented by the crackhead ex-husband of that MySpace friend.  I moved to the Quad Cities, and after getting established in a job and apartment (thanks for the couch space Crystal!), I was assaulted by four guys who were hyped up on something that made their eyes blood red.  

     The day after I bought a phone/mp3/fm transmitter device, I had an impulse to put it with my lunch in my backpack as I walked the 2 miles to work.  But my technolust kept it in my hand.  Then I got jumped 2/3 of the way to work.  

     Kicked within a few cracks in the skull away from a compromised brain pan.  I would have been killed if I hadn't started asking them open-ended questions.  Anyway, it was a short conversation.  After one of them got into my pockets while the rockettes kept me in place, the phone was gone, along with my house keys.  After they informed me that they wanted my money, I threw my wallet (empty) into the darkness from whence they had come.  I ran the other way.

It's funny how just asking someone how you can help them, or what they want, can open communication with even the most evil fuck in your immediate environment.  

Anyway, I moved closer to work.  Then, I lost my job at the gas station for selling a Smirnoff Ice to a cute 20-yr old while the cop stood to my left, outside my field of vision.  I was high on codeine at the time, and still bruised.  

I moved in with a friend of a friend in Cary, IL.  Her children did not appreciate waking in on us drunkenly going at it on the living room couch.  I had to move on after they pissed in my art supply bin in response to my inability to locate a bathroom on a Jack Daniels drunk, fueled by Monster Energy Drink.  So I moved again.  

I wound up in Cicero for a night, and then back in Naperville.  I found a room in a rooming house near the tracks.  It was an established crack house.  A friend introduced me to a Klu Klux Klansman who ran a taxi company.  He set me up with my own business as a one-car taxi company.  I served the Type-A Alcoholics and coke heads for six years before trying to kill myself by crashing my taxi...

     I was listening to Dragonforce.  Cruising at high speeds, down familiar streets, catching green lights like flies.  When I drove past the even bigger building of the now Mega Church that was both down the street from, and bigger than, the local mall.  The new building for the same church in which I had been raised.  I hit a wet patch and my Blue Crown Victoria caught a dry patch before I could correct the skid.  It jumped into a rock at the edge of a retaining pond.  I managed to back it up into the middle of the road before I got out and just fucking collapsed.  

     My mom still worked there, and when I called her, she called the head of automotive for the church.  He got the car to the church auto bay, and put it on the holy lift.  He even gave me a repair estimate, free of charge.  Never a more convenient place to fail to die.  

  I got a job the next day as a driver for Naperville-Dupage taxi.  Where the cars were just as worn out and unhinged as I was.  Four years later, I had a fallout with my Klansman roommate (he got me out of the crack house, and then demanded I hook him up with crack whores).  The day before I was living out of a taxi, I moved in with the head dispatcher for the company.  He instantly compelled my respect by not talking to the boss for months on end, and bragging about it, doing cocaine on the regular, and only selling pot to the popular drivers.  

     About half the time I was driving the taxi, 5 years of that career,  up until this point, I had been doing free therapy with Dupage county.  Eventually they had funding and staff cuts, so I ended up losing sessions.  Instead of 12 a year, I got 3.  

So, with about a year or so to go on my Bachelor's Degree, I decided to use my remaining available financial aid to study Psychology.  

Which brings me current.  I got to Colorado after the marijuana ruling, but a few months before it became officially enacted.  

The night before last I had a shock.  Returning to the dorm after my meditation class, I found my financial statement for next semester.  I misread it in such a way that I thought I owed $5000 for fall.  Which put me in full analytical receptive mode.  I could read, but not write.  I trolled career builder until dawn.  I knew I had been making about $2000/mo between driving taxi and dispatching.  But that took 60 hours out of my week.  Minus rent I figured I could probably make the 5 in the 6 months I had between now and then.  

     A tall pitch black faceless one kept looking at me through my window, at the edge of my peripheral vision.  Just behind my onion planter, his expressionless face saying nothing, his body quizzically bent to look through the sliver of window not blocked by garden or shade.  

     Then I happened across this image:

Now, I've been seeing weird shit my whole life.  Auras, ghosts, demons, and disincarnate shadow people have become pasé.  Medication doesn't help, and I may simply be crazy, but I find more comfort in the idea that maybe I'm just tuned to a different vibe.  I've always liked the idea that "gaaawd" speaks through any available channel, so when I saw white shimmering lines of light I reflexively listened.  I was already kind of in that mode anyway.  

In one sense, I'm writing this blog to track changes in how I report my personal myth.  In another, I'm commemorating that moment when IT found me.  

Upon waking, three hours later, I had research to do.  I had eluded knowledge of this particular deity beyond superficial corporate media news reports.  

I had been burned by deities before, and my current faith (SubGenius) offered no protection from the disincarnate things that creep beyond the stars.  "Bob" Dobbs, the guru (not a god, but a cosmic force, and a constant 0 on the luck plane) is generally wasted beyond the capacity for rational thought.  But, I HAD been seeing strong bobyon emissions surrounding me for about a week, whenever I relaxed enough to open to the luck plane, mostly during showers.  Which, in laymans  terms, means I was feeling lucky.

     It seems, according to Wikipedia.org anyway, that the F.S.Monster bears a strong resemblance to the Lovecraftian Outer God.  I have never read Lovecraft, beyond a few bits and pieces online, I knew nothing.  Cthulu has been enough of a cultural force that I felt a certain love for that sleeping elder avatar of the madness of awareness beyond the third dimension.  I even had a plushie that I ended up giving to my friends daughter.  

     Cthulu is nice, but the F.S.Monster resembles something greater.

A few months I encountered a character, Static Bunny, who claimed to be from the infinite beyond outside time itself.  The theory goes like this, if our infinite universe is bound by time and distance, there must be conditions which allow space and time to persist.  Those conditions, that substrata, by its very nature, implies a timelessness.  The thing that F.S.Monster resembles in the Lovecraftian mythos, created that.  And it's not even the ultimate creator!!  

    Yog Sothoth is the creator of a universe which holds a small pocket of area where conditions are just right for the development by lesser Ancient Timeless of time itself.  Time merged with space gives rise to the opportunity for an even lesser creator god to manifest our multiverse.  Which allows us to be manifest by whichever version of a creator god rules our individual universe.  

     

     We are through the glass onion here folks.

I can understand how IT found me.  The other reported avatars of this one include:

 Aforgomon - the God of Time itself, kind of an order junkie, this avatar appears to punish those who sin against the rules of Time.  Like U.F.O's and Faeries, encounters with this one begin with a bright light.

Umir at-Tawil / Tamil at-Umir - The most ancient and prolonged of life.  This avatar, who resides in a hall in that realm immediately outside of time, where dwell the Ancient Timeless.  Appearing as a silhouette of a man behind a shimmering veil, he functions like the concierge and bouncer at the hotel of the Ancients.  In this form, IT does not cause crippling insanity immediately upon comprehension.  

     I like to answer my phone with the phrase "Earth, front desk" whenever I don't recognize a phone number.  This seems like it may have curried unexpected favor.  I hope.  In any case, I'm not breaking THAT habit.  The last two are the ones that most excite me.  

The Lurker at the Threshold - Appearing as great globes of light massing around an opening in time itself, oozing protoplasm from the nearest spheres, reaching for the viewer, this avatar represents an approximation of the one made manifest in 2005.  It also clearly represents the aspect of this deity in its nature as gate-key-&-guardian.  Although incompatible with our world, IT may dip its "fingers" in and pluck mortals out of space and time.  Kinda like a taxi driver, this guy is known for extractions.  

The Eater of Souls - Where this avatar manifests, local consciousness is consumed.  Minds are taken within, eaten.  Once inside, they experience ALL possible alternate endings to their life.  Nobody is ever forgotten, or allowed to rest in peace.  I think of this as the "Groundhog" deity.  

This one is omniscient within ITs own creation, of which our reality is a part.  That awareness is implied to extend to ours, while IT cannot physically manifest comfortably, or safely (to us anyway), IT knows.  

As someone with a raging hardon for deicide, this F.S.Monster seems like something that may sympathize with my desire to murder JHVH.  Hell, it seems to me that if JHVH could be goaded into direct confrontation with this one, he may just be mind taken out of our hair.  

It also seems to me that JHVH is one of the major linchpins of the patriarchy everyone loves to rail against.  Taking that down would be a nice side effect of extracting vengeance.  To quote Ghostbusters:

"We have GOT to get these two together."

I know official SubGenius canon identifies JHVH as the "home team" of our planets supernatural entities.  I realize that his cruelty is in service of accelerated mutation that we may serve as his army in the war against the Sleeping Elder Gods.  

But, in the words of M.L.K. "Hate cannot drive out Hate, only Love can do that"

Fighting creatures of pure fear, and pure anger, must be done via opposite polarities.  JHVH may have its own best interests in mind, but its obvious whose methods it is using.

F.S.Monster is still a religion that has inspired no deaths, no rapes have been reported .  If, in fact, JHVH could be mutated in some way, or simply ported out, perhaps the resources it has amassed over the last few thousand years can be repurposed for the greater causes of love, understanding, and minimizing pain and suffering to the point that any supernatural entities addicted to those vibrations will be starved out of our universe.

I see absolutely no negative repercussions in further study.  I obviously don't fear death, or deportation.  My sanity is already questionable, and this at least sounds more interesting than cable.

It was from this headspace that I emerged to my Art Therapy Studio Methods class.  I was still in information receptive mode, and working on the Art Experienctial of the day helped me snap out of it after being under for a day or so.  

We were tasked with building an island on a few pieces of 18x24 drawing paper.  One per participant.  It was supposed to be a collaborative project.  Because I was already playing with powerful cosmic forces, I felt some distance was necessary.  My mind, my body, my heart, are all mine to play with.  I wouldn't wish my experience upon anyone.  There is a reason IT had to find me.  

I am definitely going to try the 30 day trial of Pastafarianism.  I can see no other way.  This document is my public record of that intention.  

My classmates experienced my aloofness as rejection, or it seemed a few did.  I wasn't mentally focused, or emotionally prepared to build community.  I'm kinda predisposed against it at this point.  

Apparently, I formed a subgroup with my classmate Madie.  Last class, I cried uncontrollably for a bit about my dog; and from my perspective no one really reacted that deeply.  It was acknowledged, to be sure, after the second hour of crying.  I wish I had meditated more in the intervening week.  It seems so obvious to me, in retrospect (and sens-surround!), that as a crying male I was presenting a reasonably novel enough event to cause some cognitive dissonance.  I blame the patriarchy.  With a week to process the powerful emotional content I was obviously experiencing but not explaining, these healer-meditators were afflicted with their own versions of that pain vibe.  In any case, Madie was able to help me feel less isolated during the dog thing by expressing a similar experience which she shared.  

One frustrating reality that seems potentially real here is that, as evidenced by their delayed reactions, my classmates were reaching out to me.  I have a bushel of olive branches just outside my door.  I was too oblivious to notice.  

Even if the attempts were not loud enough for me to recognize and acknowledge, I appreciate them.  But for Fuckerburg's sakes, if you want to join my friends list IRL, do it online as well.  If you're already on there, the gate is open, invite me to your headspace!  Allies and diversity of views are reason enough for me to listen  to Mark Levin and watch the 700 club.  I don't have to agree with or even particularly like someone to see the usefulness of a different perspective.  I know firsthand the effect of a head full of bad noise.  But that shit is not in my feed.  When I want it, I seek it out, but its not necessarily part of my regular diet.  Like beer, some is good, more is better, but too much can hurt, and not always in a good way.  

I don't feel like I should speak to anyone else's island sectors.  I took pictures of the entire thing, but I am just gonna include and discuss my contribution.  There was a lot of good stuff in everyone there, the labyrinth stands out in my mind, but I'm a spiral fanatic.

The volcano was my modification on the idea of having a lake on the island.  I figured an inactive volcano would make a nice place for a small lake, and may provide a little warmth.  I didn't ask for a second opinion.  I wanted someplace to put a cave.  I needed that safe place to be remote enough to protect everyone from anything I might accidentally summon.  

So, having my cave established, I created a pathway to it, and then had to put a tiki Cthulu at the base of the path up the volcano.  If not as a protector, as a general sign of impending danger.  I also added a small pyramid as a temple to Yog Sothoth.  IT requires blood sacrifice, so I added monkeys to my side of the island.  Then I added a few little yorkies, figuring they would distract from the monkeys, and to honor the spirit of my dog.  I even made a long house style dog house structure.  The brown figure by tiki Cthulu, is a pair of coconut trees, but from this perspective it reads as a figure.  

My garden and "visitation hut" are evident in the last shot presented here.  There's a little beach hut bar in front of the garden as well.

I felt attacked and demonized during the session.  My tendency to mind read was compromised by Cthulu's Grandfather.  Ergo, I was deaf to what friendship was trying to manifest.  But my perception of being shitty at life, was in the service of everyone else's safety; in some sense.

In conclusion, I need to create through meditation, more opportunities to hear the rest of the story from my inner characters and reflective tendencies.  I've pissed everyone off, and I kinda want to bake cookies for everyone.  

Enough for today!!!

That was a really roundabout way to get this all typed up, but it needed to be done in a manner honoring the magnitude of the experience.  

After reviewing my text, I realize that maybe I need to learn to 

...stop worrying, and love JHVH....