spikedunn.blogspot.com

Stops

writing from work stop computer in a coma stop boot area virus stop wasn't really using blog lately anyway stop will post again when computer works stop and I have something to tell stop end transmission

back to the instants, I guess

09/16/2005

9:18 AM
It’s back to the instants, I guess, though different in form from what they were. A month or so without really writing anything, did I learn anything? No, not really. I’m still what ever I am when I am writing. Life is mostly mystery with guessing and taillights. I’m not really here. I’m not really there. Fine and so be it.

9:22 AM
The first rain of autumn. I called in sick. Unfortunately, I am sick. A full-on phlemmy head-cold with accompanying dizziness and sleeping. The good thing about being sick is how it slows down the spinning wheels. What do I want? What do I care? It’s raining and the light is made for me. I’ll sleep in a little while. We cobble together a philosophy and let it change as we obtain more experience. Those people driving by, do they wonder too? They must, they’re human aren’t they? But still they drive by on a day as calm and beautiful as this, flicking on the windshield wipers and agreeing with the TV weatherman that it’s a miserable way to start a weekend. Repent ye, the day of today has arrived. Walk ye in it.

9:28 AM
Love me a little, raindrops that walk down my window, sleep me in the bosom of an English mystery novel or an Inkling’s fantasy. I stay alive here and rest from my fears. What comes, comes. Maybe some were born with the desire for greatness so they could find it in others and not themselves. We search far and wide for that hint of the great aesthetic in order to cultivate it in ourselves, and if we cannot grow it, at least we can fall asleep knowing that there were some who found it in the base of their spines and the pits of their stomachs and grew leaves that drip with And So It Is. Now the eternal dawn of the rainy day. Get up, get up and make. Get up and find. Go ye into all the world and watch the lilies of the fields. First envy, then acceptance, then the waking rest. I do not feel the loss of Christmas acutely any more. It is merely something that was and is no more. Sleep now and wake rested.

9:41 AM

Something about the Nietzch

09/12/2005

6:00 AM
Are you there, God? It’s me again, Margaret. What do I believe about it? There is a God, who was and is and is to come. I do not believe that he answers prayer in any way detectable to us, at a human level. I believe that if we cannot count on something in this way, it becomes a plastic garnish – pretty and useless. Do I pray then? Yes, in a rambling way that one has when one addresses the inner dialogue to another. Wishes and hopes that flow freely, without a hint of that revolting “binding and loosing” witchcraft that I was brought up to chant. In times of extreme duress, it becomes more urgent but remains detached from reality. I believe that God did once answer prayer, but hasn’t done so in almost two thousand years. We killed him/his son, and he said, “Okay, time to grow up.” The dark ages is an example of what happens in the denial stage of death, in this case, the death of the present God, when he sent a comforter (the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting Amen) and we refused to accept the new face of God, and continued instead in the old ways of worshiping when those ways were addressed to a god that no longer lived. God is dead. Nietzsche is dead. – The two do not contradict. Like all good philosphers, Nietzsche was a journalist reporting old news. In this case, news that was more than fifteen hundred years old. Stop mocking him, he was braver and wiser than you and took the terror of it to heart. By his honesty, we were brought a step closer to the living God.
6:18 AM

Anonymous backstabbing fun!

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Closer.

We should smell the bodily resurrection. If Jesus could eat, he could poop. But what after the death and resurrection? Were the intestines and sphincters resurrected? Or were they deemed “ungodlike” and rejected? Watch yourself, you’re thinking about the Intelligent Designer here. Cutting to the chase, will there be dick and fart jokes in eternity? I’d like to think so. I enjoy them. When done well, few things stink less of lies. They said no marriage in heaven, but they didn’t mention sex. Will the heavenly comedians ever run blue? I hope so. When done well, there’re few jokes that make me laugh harder (when run amuck, few things that make me change the channel quicker).
They’ve given us the promise of an eternity free from fleshly impulses, finally able to succeed in the task that they had set before us, which, being impossible, they made us come in at five in the morning on a Saturday to stand in a circle in front of the alter of the loving God that they had created and we had killed and chant the prayers that they had taught us to chant but scolded us when we used the same words that they had used and demanded that we find our own way of saying what they had taught us to say in order to atone for our failing and so we hated ourselves, but they were not hypocrites, they hated themselves right along with us, so great was their need for magic that, after learning to put the rabbit in the desk before the performance, they forgot it when the time came and they pulled the rabbit out of the hat and so they stood as astonished as us that were the audience to see the virile audacity of the God of Puppets that they had created and we and they had killed and continued to kill every day with our fleshly impulses and so we came in exhausted on a Saturday morning to atone for our sins with a mortification of the flesh and a chanting that they had taught us and scolded us for and then forgot the teaching and the scolding so that they could heard it again for the first time and feel the precious tortures of first love all over again, but I’m not playing the record right, I’m not telling the history quite right, because I’m saying that they forgot, but they didn’t forget, not then anyway, they forgot at the start when they were still just in the audience, they forgot when they were still just one of us, but that isn’t quite right either, because we, the audience, had forgotten by then as well. It must have been in those times before we became one of the audiences that we knew and decided to forget. Forget that we pissed and shat and didn’t like it, because it makes us common and weak, and we wanted to be special and strong and, above all else, sure. And so we conspired to create a creator that would take away the shitting and pissing and farting and fucking and make us beings of pure spirit, forgetting our fleshly failings. But in doing so, we were required to forget the promise of the resurrection, because it held the implied threat of dicks and farts.
A guy walks into a bar and goes up to the counter. Out of one pocket he pulls a small grand piano, out of his other pocket he pulls a man in a tuxedo that stands about a foot high. He puts them both down on the bar and the little man in the tuxedo sits down in front of the piano and starts to play.
The bartender walks over to the guy and says, “Wow! Where did you find him?”
The guy reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a brass lamp and sets it on the bar.
The bartender looks at the lamp and says to the guy, “do you mind if I give it a try?”
The guy looks at the bartender and says, “keep me in drinks all night and you can have anything you wish for.”
The bartender says, “you’ve got a deal.”
The guy says, “have at it then.”
So the bartender picks up the lamp, rubs it and shouts, “I want a million bucks.”
There’s a pause for a little bit and the bartender is about to tell the guy that he’ll be buying his own drinks, when all of a sudden the doors of the bar burst open and ducks start flying in. Hundreds of them, thousands of them just start pouring into the bar, and just when the bartender thinks that that’s the last of them, even more fly in. Finally, when the bar is almost completely packed full of ducks, the bartender turns to the guy and says, “What the hell was that?”
“I’ll take a shot of whiskey and a beer,” says the guy, “do you really think I wished for a ten-inch pianist?”

Still not.

While I try to figure out what this is supposed to be doing, I thought I'd distract with a couple of new blogs. The goodly Mr. James has come back to the fold: http://www.livejournal.com/users/snarfeck/ and the one and only Mr. Andrew P.C. has entered the arena: http://www.campmodern.blogspot.com/. Take a test run or two. I'll be listening to Sufjan and reading novels that I haven't written and watching the ceiling rotate. ...what's that sound?