The discovery of the moon

In this rancid twilight, one god’s sun has set and the next god’s has yet to rise. We catch a fleeting glimpse at murky constellations that depict our hateful fate.

The wakeful souls on night watch are sickened. This is the no man’s land between suns.

Another layer of illusion vanishes and the landscape changes. We are on the moon. We have been here all along, this god forsaken lunar vacuum. You and I exchange a glance full of unspeakable realizations: We are stranded here.

We’ve never known anything different, and yet we cannot suppress the impossible knowledge that wells up out hearts, in our very guts, like a fountain vomiting blood from the unconscious depth. We are not home here in this life. We are lost.

One's got to wonder: will a messenger come?

the state of affairs at this moment

Right now I’m looking at a glass of beer and thinking very hard. I’m experiencing a deep ambiguous longing that’s perhaps crossing the line into desperation. The beautiful waitress clearly does not like me. The fat waitress however is constantly looking over at me while doing other things, failing to hide her own human desperation. I certainly can identify with her position and yet I want nothing to do with her, just as the pretty thin blonde waitress wants nothing to do with me. It’s a weird rejection triangle. There’s a clever term: rejection triangle. It makes me wonder who’s sitting at the top of this food chain of longing and rejection. Who is it that rejected the beautiful waitress? Ah, but enough of that. I go back to looking at the fine glass of Duvel and pondering my own issues. Sitting alone, staring off into space over a glass of beer, and meditating on god knows what kind of hopes and dreams very much reminds me of myself in 2006. Those were better, more luminous times. The road was more open back then. I didn’t own anything but my own convictions. I felt free, totally fearless. Yes, if there’s anyone in the world who can help me now it’s the Joseph of 2006 or thereabouts. If only I could channel some of his energy. He was inspiration on the move. He acted with authentic spontaneity. He had the urgency of a man who knew the world was ending. He was young and alive and on an honest-to-god crusade. Now, somehow, only four years later I’m tired and sick and frightened. In 2006 I felt as though the clock were ticking, as though youth were ending and this were the eleventh hour. Now I know I was right. I burned the fire of youth’s last hours in that weird Vltava dusk, in that “purple haze” of psychedelic intensity. Now I know I was right. Sadly and weirdly enough, I survived the end of the world: my own personal apocalypse. And what can possibly follow that act? Nothing good I’m sure. I desperately wish I could channel that lightning one more time –and perhaps I will. Its do or die this year. It’s time to “storm and break out” from this line of artillery that’s got me hemmed in on Grant Street. One way or the other, I’m going to turn thirty in Sakartvelo. I’m going to find the kingdom of heaven. I’m going to look into love’s eyes and demand: “Answer me!” Until then I will pray and meditate, live the best I can, and storm the gates of the kingdom one more time. I remember myself when I was twenty-five. That’s the self I need to keep with me always. I can still find him. I look up and can’t help but notice that the beautiful waitress is smiling at me.

Nausea/compassion

People will tend to associate the cross, the crucifixion, with Jesus’ love for the human race, the final sacrifice for those unwitting sons and daughters of the kingdom. Well, I’m nothing like Jesus. When I view the stages of the cross in church all I can see is the vicious cruel insanity of our species, the real mortal danger of doing or saying pretty much anything right. They humiliated, tormented, and killed the best person who had ever been in their company. It’s hard for me to get past this and see the supposed theme of the action.
For Jesus, compassion was big enough to override the nausea he must have felt in our presence, not to mention in his own body. Not only did god have to suffer the stink of sweat and excrement and the gradual rotting flesh on his body, but he had to suffer it alone in the midst of this psychologically rotting species. It must have been existentially terrible for him. Just imagine: a god trapped not just in an animal body, but in the psychosis of an animal society. And still, instead of damning them, he said this: “Forgive them father because they do not know what they are doing.” That is a massive gesture of compassion and understanding.