Saturday, August 16, 2003

> > 2.) Souls are not perfect. Souls incarnate into personalities that reflect their awareness. Yes, they learn, but a soul may choose to be a thug over the course of many lifetimes.

I distinctly remember creating both the body and the persona. I remember making myself into a frog to attempt to jump outta here. That didn't work, so I left my frog creation to it's own devices, it hopped off into the bushes (which me and my kind also created), and then I went about making myself into a rabbit. That nay-me-less rabbit could jump higher than a frog, but it's usefulness in escaping back out into my previous condition of bouncing around the universe in perfect ecstasy, found ano more utilization in the frog than in the rabbit. So, I abandoned the rabbit to it's own instincts (okay, I might have stayed in the frog longer than it might have taken some of the others), and eventually made myself into a kangaroo (a bigger rabbit), with stronger hind legs that could jump much higher than the frog or the rabbit. But, alas, no cigar. I found myself sorely disappointed to finally realize I would probably not be able to develop the perfect organic vehicle to jump back in hyperspace. I left the kangaroo, it hopped off, sporting a weird grin as if to suggest that it had unwittingly conned me into providing it with a body without a soul that was not responsible for any blame.

I made myself into a monkey and tried to climb outta here. I made made myself into a plethora of flying creatures to attempt to fly outta here and get back to my beloved sojourn. These creatures that myself or others like me created (by shamanly imitating each other mindlessly), and filled the earth and the skies with iterations of creatures that are still here. Shamelessly reminding me of my inadequacies to get away clean.

Then one day something oddly final happened. Like the stroke of a fiery sword, all forms of life including the created and the creators got split in half, and the grand effort to create the perfect form that would elevate us all back into the open-ness of space somehow got lost in the shuffle of our collective effort to find our other half. I call that incomparable event the Great Schizm when I attempt to say what I saw.

All the resourcefulness, all the ingenuity that we used to create the perfect vehicle got applied to the sudden and unceasing seeking of the other, and that's when the territorializing that we had engendered into the previous experiments came into play.

They (the other than human creatures) began making trouble for us. By now we had made ourselves into the most streamlined soul searchers ever imaginated, with the ability to conceive of and make tools to extend our reach and our search for the other. But, we could not or would not take the ti-me to go back in and reverse the adverse traits of our creations, all our time was taken up in searching for our missing soul mates, and attempting to make ourselves whole by trickery and deception. So, when we had trouble with the animals challenging us with their parodied territorial imperative, we just started killing them, and we're killing them still. No blame. Tasty!

The territorializing instinct didn't end with the creation of our not-so-useful experiments, but extended to the advanced animals we had made ourselves into as the best of the best, later called homo sapiens, among other archetypical typecastings. Territoriality had became the chief reason for wars. now running rampant among humans themselves. I remember the very beginning of wars, although I think I may have copped the scene more recently from Space Odyssey 2001. You gnow, the ape-man thing with the sticks and the invention of weapons? Yeah well, I liked that scene, it was very close to the original.

After that came your spears, your bows, your arrows, and some guy named Arthur got crowned King of England because he discovered how to make iron outta rocks. The Limies only had bronze weapons up until Arthur came along, and they were supremely disadvantaged in their struggle against invaders. True, it's all hidden in metaphor and fairy tales now, but he really got the idea from spying on some really secretive dudes in Italy where he was a slave. Recalling the red sandstone found in the fens and swamps around his native home, he realized they were equivalent to what the Romans used. He called his first iron sword Excalibur, it may have sprung from the red sandstone found in swamps because the idea for it came from a dream about some chick in a pond. When asked how he came into the possession of Excalibur and got to be King, he told everybody he had pulled it out of a rock, which, in a way, he did. Businessmen are never satisfied with becoming rich, they wanna RULE! Stupid assholes, they never learn that we dreamed them up, and all it takes to bring them down is to wake them up rather rudely. They simply can't handle the truth. Okay, okay, some of them can handle the truth. They remember too.

After the discovery of gunpowder, by another dreamer who spent most of his time sitting around on his ass, the war thing really got on a role, and wholesale slaughter became possible. I saw the whole thing from it's inception to the very day this vision came to me in the dining room of some stranger's house. I saw my entire history from the time I got tricked into coming here under the guise of entertainment for a nomadic star wanderer (It was all them purty colors that did it). Until my serendipitous, time-distorted remembering vision, the transformations were too fast to mull upon the particulars, but when I got outside my personality limits, the incredible became mundane.

All the way from one-cell amoeba-like creatures to the formulation of humans... and beyond. Oh, you don't think there are creatures who are more evolved than humans? Well, you are wrong. Some of the entities that got split in half actually found what had been taken from them and reached the state where the atonement ritual could make them wholy. The nay-me I like best is the title referred to as Avatar. I ain't much on Sanskrit, those new agers with their uppity "Namastes", and all that pretentious "My spirit bows before your spirit" really gets on my nerves. It's one thing to be born into that way of conducting oneself from the gitgo, but to attempt to jam it up somebody's ass for show, seem ridiculous and snotty.

I almost always remember that I'm a construct myself, and not only that, but also the father and maker of what appears to the sensory world for the most part, and since many other pearline creatures are too, they can be unmade without their sacrifice being a big deal. Whoosh... off they go looking for a new body. One that hasn't got a big hole in it.

The end of the vision, as all really good visions do, existed as a poser. It left me wandering and wondering about how I got to be so privileged to see the vision itself. Sometime I think the end exists as nuclear holocaust. where all the forms of earth are destroyed simultaneously, to release the spirit of life for to join together as one. Or... will it be just more of the same until a new planet is needed because we shit ourselves out of a ho-me. One way or the other, when the mushroom clouds start appearing, as they already have, somebody gotta come up with a new planet.

Thursday, August 14, 2003

I had a cousin down in Mississippi who got mixed up with a woman like Deb. He drank hisself to death and then died of cancer. He was 58 years old. I didn't know Tom all that well, because he was around ten years older than me, and we lived nearly a thousand miles apart. He was a likable fellow, and kind to me as a kid. He taught me how to shoot a .22 semi-automatic rifle his family owned. He created some bright memories for me as a kid.

His mother was one of my father's older sisters, she and her husband Barney were also very kind to me. Aunt Marietta's family were really the only kinspeople I knew very well on my father's side. Except for Aunt Marietta, my father hardly ever visited his brother and sisters. My early experiences of kinship beyond my immediate family of parent's and siblings were all with a bunch of strangers who had never set eyes on me or my people. And yet...

My father was the only one in his family to receive a seventh grade education, much less a college degree. His family were all hard-working landowners, and my father attempted to engender them with genteel qualities that didn't exist for them, so they dismissed his efforts as the delusion of too much education. Maybe in my father's imagination his family had those kinder, more refined qualities. His family, however, were not kind to my father in response to what they sensed as accusation of lowliness. It hurt him that they resented his education. Why would they not? They were hard-scrabble, red neck mofos who followed the rough-necking trade wherever it took them. No blame.

My mother's father and all but one of his sons followed the road building trade and operated heavy machinery like bull-dozers and roadscrapers. They moved all over the southwest building roads and engineering places for industries.

The oldest son of my grandfather, my Uncle Howard, refused to follow in his dad's footsteps and got into real estate developement. He stayed in the same place his whole adult life. An incredible feat with our clan which has always migrated to where the work was. That's how they ended up in America, them that didn't get sent here as prisoners.

I seem perfectly willing to accept the notion of some families having a wanderlust gene that makes some them feel more comfortable dealing with their surroundings as if their surroundings was what changed and not themselves. amd what they perceived about them was not as a stranger, but as a familiar passerby and an old friend. It's hard to miss old friends when the only ones you have are always in your pocket.

I didn't think that much about the extended families of my mother and father. We moved from Mississippi to North Carolina when I was two years old. I knew more about my relatives through my parent's stories of their youth than I knew about the actual people.

When I did see my kinsmen in actual person I only saw them as charactors in my parent's stories, and I never possessed much of my own experiences with them as fellow humans in their own right. I deliberately returned to Mississippi to live near them to see what they were like, but it was like walking into a stone wall, yet,the wall did not seem as if it were there of their own choosing. Too little, too late. All fall down...

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

I had a cousin down in Mississippi who got mixed up with a woman like Deb. He drank hisself to death and then died of cancer. He was 58 years old. I didn't know Tom all that well, because he was around ten years older than me, and we lived nearly a thousand miles apart. He was a likable fellow, and kind to me as a kid. He taught me how to shoot a .22 semi-automatic rifle his family owned. He created some bright memories for me as a kid.

His mother was one of my father's older sisters, she and her husband Barney were also very kind to me. Aunt Marietta's family were really the only kinsfolk I knew very well on my father's side. Except for Aunt Marietta, my father hardly ever visited his brother and sisters. My early experiences of kinship beyond my immediate family of parent's and siblings were all with a bunch of strangers who had never set eyes on me or my people. And yet...

My father was the only one in his family to receive a seventh grade education, much less a college degree. His family were all hard-working landowners, and my father attempted to engender them with genteel qualities that didn't exist for them, so they dismissed his efforts as the delusion of too much education. Maybe in my father's imagination his family had those kinder, more refined qualities. His family, however, were not kind to my father in response to what they sensed as accusation of lowliness. It hurt him that they resented his education. Why would they not? They were hard-scrabble, red neck mofos who followed the rough-necking trade wherever it took them. No blame.

My mother's father and all but one of his sons followed the road building trade and operated heavy machinery like bull-dozers and roadscrapers. They moved all over the southwest building roads and engineering places for industries.

The oldest son of my grandfather, my Uncle Howard, refused to follow in his dad's footsteps and got into real estate developement. He stayed in the same place his whole adult life. An incredible feat with our clan which has always migrated to where the work was. That's how they ended up in America, them that didn't get sent here as prisoners.

I seem perfectly willing to accept the notion of some families having a wanderlust gene that makes some them feel more comfortable dealing with their surroundings as if their surroundings was what changed and not themselves. and what they perceived about them was not as a stranger, but as a familiar passerby and an old friend. It's hard to miss old friends when the only ones you have are always in your pocket.

I didn't think that much about the extended families of my mother and father. We moved from Mississippi to North Carolina when I was two years old. I knew more about my relatives through my parent's stories of their youth than I knew about the actual people.

When I did see my kinsmen in actual person I only saw them as charactors in my parent's stories, and I never possessed much of my own experiences with them as fellow humans in their own right. I deliberately returned to Mississippi to live near them to see what they were like, but it was like walking into a stone wall, yet,the wall did not seem as if it were there of their own choosing. Too little, too late. All fall down...