*

If eternity were real, people would loose their minds.

^

We’ll be born again -if we can just live through this death.

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.

God's address

If God is the continuum in which events flow, then there’s every reason to identify ourselves with him… because we are really the continuum in which events flow.

This place needs a woman's touch... badly

I just waked into the kitchen and took a look at what’s going on in there. The trashcan has literally vanished under a massive heap of garbage that almost fills the room. A blockade of trash has cut off my ability to reach the cupboards. There are a lot crushed pizza boxes, broken wine glasses, filthy dishes, a teapot full of mold, and other things like that. I don’t dare even contemplate the biological hazard brewing inside the sink, which has been clogged for weeks. Adding to the ambiance is the stench of my cat’s litter box, which I can barely even see, much less scoop the turds out of. It’s fucking heinous.
The other rooms are pretty bad too. In my bedroom lies what Lauren calls the “clothes monster”, a heap of dirty clothes that make it impossible to set foot on the hardwood floor, which if memory serves correctly, is quite lovely. If someone were to say, sweep this floor, they would collect pounds of cat hair and dirt. Judging from the smell, I suspect that my cats have given up on the litter pan and begun peeing in my closet. I can’t rightly be angry with them about this, considering the current state of the litter box. Even the living room is littered with dirty socks and trash.
It occurs to me that the dirtier my home gets, the harder it is to clean it. It just turns to squalor and depresses me. My home ought to be my sanctuary, but instead it’s this dump I can barely deal with, so I avoid it altogether. Instead of relaxing, I leave and go to the coffee shop instead. And the mess just accumulates.
It’s just the same as when I lived on Poplar Avenue in Memphis. The kitchen in that place degenerated into something totally uninhabitable, complete with fruit flies and roaches and rotten food. No wonder I was having hallucinations back then.
The old “bat cave” on Tremont here in Denver suffered a similar fate when I lived there. My time in the bat cave ended with all the windows broken out and the hardware ruined. I pity anyone foolish enough to try and use that bathtub after the mess I left in it.
I manage to go on living this way because every so often some woman comes around with a motherly instinct and cleans the place for me. It’s usually an epic task involving all manner of industrial cleaning products and gear. My last girlfriend was very good about taking care of all this, but she’s gone now and I am once again called upon to live like a responsible adult with no mom to clean my room for me.
Many times I swore I would never live like this again, especially if I could ever get a decent apartment. Well, now I have a really nice place and nothing much has changed. What can I say, I’m a fucking slob.