Corpus Possessionis

“Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.”
~ Jack Kerouac to Carl Solomon

Time to leave this planet

A few years ago, when there was still hope, I traveled to the Stars, and returned renewed. Hope is overrated and, like the dream of a nightmare, the heart wants what the hands can never deliver; a good friend to have but not keep.

Dios Mio.

Living today is like a full body massage in a cement mixer. WTF on wheat toast?

The inhumane species has interbred to create a new and less subtle microorganism;
the embodiment of Corpus Possessionis wherein so long as the individual is in control of an object, to the exclusion of others, they possess it through the power of will.

I’m a bitch with nothing but time, even if it’s merely an irreversible, indefinite progression forwards. Welcome to the nonspatial continuum where events are measured as they succeed one another from the past through present into the future.

Inhumankind is an unconscionable collective who deserve Gone Fishing tattooed across their foreheads. Vacuity should not be the newest status symbol. Lacking intelligence is not only a state; it is becoming a nation.

Carry a Vade Mecum of Humility and Kindness as a reminder that beneath skin and muscles and veins is a skeletal structual that once it is stripped of flesh and pretense and arrogance is a grinning skull. For whom one exudes a lifetime of hatred; dispensing cruelty towards fellow homosaps, through words and deeds, after the end that gruesome smile is reserved for You for eternity…

Often attributable, sans a record to confirm, to Oscar Wilde:

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit but highest form of intelligence.”

Cherchez la femme.

The sagacity of this sardonic and caustic truism had to come from the mind of a woman; it’s too bonnie to imagine it was articulated by a man.

Chazak u’varuch

We shall meet again soon at the parallaxis.

To Be Continued…

Hypnagogique: Physiognomy of Zero Point Field

Doused in fiery quasar auras and the charcoaled fragrance of the eleventh dimension brings solace to the paradigm shifting chaos embedded in the sentient intellect.

Former upright being returns to all fours and tracks mind prints of insouciance and transcendental facial features of faceless fastidious, facetious fiends.

Expressionless freedom is still a chimera, costumed in creatures creaking through cracked idyllic idiom periodically priceless idiotically tasteless.

Lumbar spinal spiral galactic arms enshroud magnetic resonance imagining; properly externalized forces crush spirited platinum consciousness resources into finite dark matter replacing gray with white noiseless typewritten thesis of gregarious upper level pain management, quintillion cycle.

Eclipsed and stripped of garments flesh made sinuous parabola desperately ravenous to taste madness over one iced cube of wisdom, melting in decay as string theory unravels mysteries no longer interesting to brain fried freedom fed furiously from fracases forced friendless finality.

If it cannot score it isn’t their game; deep fat frizzed lest it cannot be digested.

Protozoon to soon Saracen moon in the insane prism lane betwixt, between.

Existentially imprisoned interstitially and in the interspatial netherworld tormented dreamer of musical poetry of the absurd wormholes frozen in time, in space, in cosmic walkabout.

Yay, as astral projector through the washbasin of hallucinogenic marenights, devoid of fear for sacrificing the illogic in favor of empowering anarchism, beard anointed in special perfumes as eyes melt from sockets to sliver down fateful faces of distorted noir, taking comfort in nonconformity defying deifying demagogues. At the precipice lemmings refuse to retreat rather risking rivers of rationality below.

Cool deep waters warm and salty. Refreshing, revitalizing, resilient.

Creative, not destructive, alas, man takes control again unleashing masculine profundity; darkest humor for his sake named mayhem. Hu man, hu man ity, humus.

Mayhem, like humanity embraces the selfish male interloper, barely concealing it's enviousness; disquieting feminine outrage, discontent hem sic him.

Maelstroms convergence soon arrives on the wings of ravens; lost in fogs of colourless pallets, once rainbows of bee honey now crust, dust, dusk rusted and muskrat sallied.

Far fetched

Pink Martini: April 30, 2006 – December 31, 2012

Surreal Days for Pink Martini

Surreal Days for Pink Martini

My feline companion, Pink Martini died earlier today at an area veterinary hospital of renal failure. Pink is pictured looking at the destruction from the April 27th, 2011 tornado in Tuscaloosa. Pink, named for the Seattle-based music group that fronts singer China Forbes, was the third born of six to Cous Cous LaPress during the morning of April 30, 2006. In August, Pink’s brother, Tippy Van Helsing died of feline leukemia.

Pink is survived by his mother and four sisters, dubbed the femme fatale felines of PinkToo, ShyGirl, Kitja and Katja.

After receiving the news – I had left Pink with the doctor, who was trying to open a block urethra, after contracting a kidney infection over the weekend – I returned to the house where the sisters are housed in an exterior dwelling.

Instinctively, they knew he was ill when I transported Pink into the carrier early today. When I began talking about him they mewed in a manner that was profound and chilling. Tears flowed freely and one suspects later tonight the deluge will occur. Pink slept on our bed for five years and was one of those sweet souls that combined innocence and naiveté equally and was beside me when I wrote many of what I consider my best essays.

There are individuals who do not believe in animal souls; I am not one of those non-believers.

Every living being has an essence that defines it amongst the innumerable animate forms populating this planet.

Not trying to convince anyone that bee and ladybug spirits are more important than theirs. I know my soul has value; however, the importance of the bees, trees or weak of knees should never be ignored. My beliefs are based on cosmic ideology and consequently I no longer fear the inevitability of death, and I sincerely hope, and expect, a few others to accept a living, breathing, caring and non violent solution to tomorrow’s sunrise.

Inspirit of life is infinitesimal – we don’t see grass grow but it does – and like a cool breeze in spring it caresses other spirits into a planetary eco-dance. Everyday is the new year. Every nanosecond is delightful, leading to milliseconds and days pass like shadows of eagles to soar above the madness.

There is no year ending tonight. Dates are arbitrarily subjective little proto-matter and as such matter less. As a sentient thinker, I place emphasis on life daily rather than embrace the death and despair. Pink was fortunate to have a home and love and an opportunity to explore metempsychosis; I believe he was either a first time reborn or second but in my world, he will return, not to me, but to another caring carbon baser.

Goddesses of the Feline Soul, until we meet again, bless you Pink, bless you.

Solace Between Raindrops: Pachelbel Canon in D

Johann Pachelbel Canon in D Original Instruments from David Tayler on Vimeo.

Voices of Music

Strong storms are converging on the State of WestAla; between huge raindrops, and expected winds up to 40 mph, the holiday season takes on the expected southern inhospitality. The city is dead; the uni is closed and the parking lot is flooding away and the felines sit in the window watching gently. Rather than get lost in the minutia of why I do not celebrate holidays, especially the last three of the year, I would rather listen to classical music. Enjoy.