Saturday, March 18, 2017

Doing the Spastic Chicken with the Brides of Baron Samedi.

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

The Ides of March are upon us (now they are gone and so is St. Patrick's Green Beer Marathon Puke). The Ides of March are one of those days that have a kind of ominous potential. I sit here reflecting on whether the world needs another Reflection in a Petri Dish; maybe... maybe not. Chances are (though I wear a parenthetical grin) we won't be talking about the Julius and Brutus cage match. Perhaps we could go and get ourselves a word sandwich down to the International House of Logorrhea. I'd like to take a break from my busy schedule of abiogenesis. As you can imagine, that form of employment takes a great deal of concentration, so as not to wind up with a Gollum instead of a golem. Cases of mistaken identity are the cause of more sorrow than most people imagine and the worst of it is incorrectly identifying ourselves, which, by extension, leads to us misidentifying everyone else. The problem always starts with ourselves and then radiates outward. We live in a world of pirated fashion lines, similar to putting a Calvin Klein label on a pair of Winner's Cup Vodka Jeans. However, in our case it goes in reverse. We undervalue ourselves because we do not know our own worth as inheritors of the Kingdom of Heaven and the legitimate offspring of the almighty god. Being aware of this is what got me into the abiogenesis business to begin with. Our cacozealous, not so Great Pretender efforts, fail across the board. We don't know who to imitate or emulate.

You are either drawing your inspiration from the world or the divine. Of course you are not drawing it directly from the divine or you would be turned to ash. Rather it is filtered through those capable of standing closer than you can and even they are the beneficiary of interposing angels. If you are drawing your inspiration from the world then you may be popular but you will also, most assuredly be dead.

As much as we might know that the world is a sham and unreal by comparison with what is real, we do not usually see how strong an impact the world has on us; until we do see this and are capable of employing the right countermeasures.

The proximity of the ineffable ecstasiates me and requires excutient actions on my part to maintain my middle way on the Golden Mean. If you are familiar with the track record of the various personalities that operate here, you know we are not guilty of fallaciloquence. We famigerate sincerely what information comes to us from the deep interior beyond. We seek after the possession of hirquitalliency, hoping that it may resonate across a greater reach of time and although we may be considered no more than a historiaster in the moment and though our present status may be no more than that of a medioxumate, we aspire ever to be upwardly mobile.

Certainly a culture in a Petri dish is a suspect commodity. I have yet to see a culture rise from the ashes of its own demise. This culture is a lot like the cycles of a maintenance drinker' “Okay... I am having a problem with my drinking because my life is all screwed up. It is because of my screwed up life that I am drinking, certainly not the other way around.” Uh huh.

So the maintenance drinker, like the maintenance eater, like the maintenance sex freak, have all got a system in place. The maintenance drinker tells himself that he has to switch to beer but... then he has to piss much more often and hiding the beer is not like hiding shots in a glass of Dr. Prepper. He runs into all sort of logistics problems and... of course, either way, at some point the alcohol is going to seep out through his/her pores. “Hmmm, Vodka! You can't smell vodka.” Yeah, you can. The maintenance drinker manages for awhile, when he's got those thorny social engagements. He has to make up for this by really hitting the bottle in his free and private time. He probably has to go places he doesn't usually go so he doesn't run into anyone he knows. Maybe he leaves town. Sooner or later the shit is going to hit his life, whether a fan is involved or not. Thank god for Uber.

The maintenance eater believes you can eat as much as you want as long as it's salad. Imagine what you can put on a salad. Maybe the dressing is a problem. If you're Momma June or Momma Cass, even getting dressed can be the problem. Exercise? It just makes you more hungry. I know! Of course. I can just start taking crystal meth. No more eating problem and talk about svelte; figure wise anyway. You will soon enough look like one of The Brides of Baron Samedi. Still, I assure you, there are passionate necrophiliacs out there. The one thing most over eaters never get is that the flesh comes along to insulate you from your feelings. Certainly the composition of most foods, especially processed foods are going to do the job, even if you aren't stuffing your feelings. We are all dealing with some level of emptiness. You can expect to be as successful as Thor was, attempting to empty the drinking horn that was connected to the sea.

Maintenance sexual problems usually involve routine self abuse, prior to running into anyone where there might be a problem of engagement. Sexual freaks are usually in search of death, which is why they need an endless continuance of petit morte. It doesn't matter which of these obsessions are bugging you and it could also be drugs or money or whatever. The arch-demons who are the driving impetus behind each appetite are loose at the moment and each of them has the single task of distracting us from the practice of the presence of God. Only God- or Love (interchangeable) can fill the emptiness that we cannot fill with any other thing.

Some of us are born relatively normal, or allowed to be that way for having grown up in a stable and caring home and environment. Karma neh? Some of us got pounded by the same and wound up with a serotonin imbalance which can make it difficult to be normal; in the best sense of it, not meaning normal where you just go along with the program all the time. This kind of person can be high on life because they don't have this serotonin hiccup or some other internal knot. There was a great book back in the 60's called “Knots” by some psychiatrist. This fellow hit a lot of the right buttons.

I don't want to misgueme any of you with my novaturient speculations or oncethmus pronouncements. This is all about my attempts at patration. I would hate to spend my time trying to resarciate for this. I have tried in the main to avoid sevidical behavior, lest I experience some tudiculate reactions to the same.

Okay... okay, two paragraphs of verbal venialia. Whether others employ some other form of annoying the hell out of you, through some version of endless bombastitrons (made that one up), I prefer, usually, to remain simple as possible without being a simpleton or conversely, leading you in veprecose environments. We're not weequashing nepheliads with a left handed skyhook. If you need further torment, I suggest you read Kant's, Critique of Pure Reason, the ponderous and unreadable Ulysses, or Gravity's Rainbow. An example of the vain conceits that James Joyce fostered was inspiring Samuel Beckett (Waiting for Fuckall) to wear the same size shoe that Joyce wore, even though his feet were larger. This, of course, let to podiatral problems and continuing pain, albeit not as great as that experienced by someone trying to read Finnegan's Wake.

You might think I was being self indulgent here; trying to shake things up, or pursing the limit of my ability to annoy you. I've no idea why these paragraphs slipped into the posting. Perhaps to see if anyone will actually track down the meanings or just bypass that effort and move right along. In any case it is all an exercise and exercise of the right kind might ameliorate the problems mentioned here earlier.

The good weather, we imagine, is about to set in and that provides the opportunity for those running around with their heads up their ass to scream about Trump while taking payoffs from George Soros, whom... we assure you, hates them far more than Trump does, if at all. The rock and the hard place have slowly moved closer to one another. Many of us are bursting at the seams from desires and appetites that cannot be satisfied by the products being advertised for that purpose. Until the majority of us engage in the pursuit of and the practice of the presence of the ineffable, there is no solution but.. there is a solution for those of us who do.

It doesn't matter what everyone else is doing because Karma is as personalized as it is generalized. Everything manifest has karma, be it a nation, a hemisphere, a mountain or a particular person. Solving on your own what you don't know anything about is not going to end well. Leaving it in the hands of the one who knows all there is to know about it is likely to come to a more fortunate result. This is as far as I have gotten with it and I'll let you know when that changes (grin).

End Transmission.......



Joseph Brenner

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