1
The Future of Temperament

"Sequels sequestered in sequence."
~ famous intro

The future of poetry in general may include a little more philosophy n a little less insanity ~ I personally would also like to see a little more sarcasm n a little less poverty of puns, precious pretentiousness n reluctant redundancy, also, too, as well. So there!

I once, long ago (in a galaxy far, far away), told the screen saver on my sweet silly mother�s computer to say "all is well" in big red bold capital letters that sweep across the screen, delightfully affirming, as if all really is. Perhaps all is well, universally speaking, but in the lower realms, it still looks an awful lot like pure utter chaos. That�s the irony factor, n why I brought it up may have something to do with poetic nonsense.

If yer still reading this far into the trilogy (n lets say, for the sake of argument that yer not loathing the experience), you�ve prolly gathered yerself an insight into my demented mind, besides what I think of minds (n dementia) in general ~ n even if yer not into trilogies that much, if you continue to read further (n not mind so much), there is further witty wisdom to be headily had herein.

"Fuck this, fuck that, n fuck the other thing!"
~ Me, famous new saying

Now, this is not a book of poetry, n prolly won�t have much poetry in it, but suffice it to say, for philosophy�s sake, n the state of insanity; the concepts have a poetic relationship ~ that is, irony vs. contemplation ~ a bitter pill sold freely n legally on the streets of Greenwich Village or the corners of Ashbury n Haight and/or whatever silly intersection is the pinnacle of all psychedelic psychobabble in this or any other space time continuum.

That much being said, one wonders why I haven�t devoted almost the entirety of these volumes to the subject of sex. I dunno. I mean, I coulda prolly sold a billion more copies n been on many massive talk shows, my signal being sent into space, converted into infinite radiation for all aliens to see, even possibly my descendants (if I ever have sex again, that is), if only to learn just exactly what it is that I happened to think about being on an early 21st century talk show, n being forced to talk about sex for aliens, and/or my great-great-grandchildren, the future space explorers, n obviously mankind�s only hope.

"Better ten of them n one of me, than just ten of them."
~ Me, famous new adage about overpopulation

OK, so there�s about six billion people here. That�s six billion possibilities that someone will be impressed by what I have to say. Obviously, someone�s havin a helluva lot more sex than I am. Mostly in the third world, I suspect. I mean, there�s not much to do there. After a long hard day of lookin for food, of which there isn�t nearly enough of cuzza all the people everywhere, ya kinda need something to take the edge off, to take the bite outta the frustration ~ n besides, being a lack of clothes, everybody�s already mostly naked.

"Fuck the poor, give em all a free ride to hell!"
~ some infamous Republican

Fame n fortune notwithstanding, some ideals are just not with it, or worth standing for. Take for example the people�s right to choose: purely redundant n self serving. I mean, if yer gonna put it to a vote ~ why bother, right?

OK, so I�m a big smart ass, a big ol giant sized pain in the smarty pants ass. Well, don�t let that piss you off. If someone being a smart ass pisses you off, I�m surprised yer still reading this book, for one thing. But if the very fact that there are smart asses in the world pisses you off (n challenges your frustration levels into new utterly cold n humorless states of being), then what the fuck are you doing not working for the religious right? I mean, you could be one of those sacrificial lambs whose souls�ll be expected to tarnish for just reading the offending artistry, sent to research the subject n bring back any information that could lead to the heavenly task of bringing people like me a desert cart just for writing whine lists like this ~ well, in that case, expose yerself to this.

"Magic is everywhere. Get over it."
~ Me, paraphrasing Jesus, a famous longhair type

So, you�ve decided to read on, have you? Well, good for you. Whatever yer purpose. If you�ve just tuned in, I was protecting myself karmically from all the zealots whose purpose still is to remain silent about nothing, n with whom my attitude is often confused. I�m very enthusiastic about things, just that most other people have never heard of em before, so I�m a culture of one. One being the loneliest number (I spose twice as lonely as, say, two), I will now quote something which I saw on TV several times.

"A culture of one is no less valid than a culture of one billion."
~ Captain Picard to Data, famous space faring android.

Well, my ma�s taken up knitting in recent days, so maybe there is some wiggy wisdom in reassurances like "all is well" even if all it really gets you is just enough of a paltry piece of peace of mind to contemplate the meaning n mantra of the aforementioned silly statement ~ which may or may not be true, I might add; but it all depends on yer perspective. I happen to be of the merry mind that while all may not be well, if we think about shit long enough, we can at least find a way to deal with it. Maybe a way out from under may not be immediately forthcoming, but if I analyze the sensations I�m sensing from my screaming ribs long enough, as I sit patiently waiting for this ten ton boulder to erode off my pinned down corporeal existence, maybe I can figure out how to breathe less excruciatingly before I go insane n start writing poetry or something similar.

So. Poetry. Let me count the ways. I can�t think of any. But beyond witty rhyme schemes n perpetual psychobabble, lies probably truth, or truth probably lies, or some other such odd philosophical nonsense that�ll perhaps drive us all insane, or anyone who reads it, or anyone who comes in contact with its implications, winding down into infinite half life calculations, until the entire world is just a little bit fucked up. See? It worked already.

OK, now that I�ve affected the entire universe from the comfort of my writing stool, n sent it all off for a stool sample for the pigeons in n around all known possible Central Parks to contemplate upon, lemme just add this: I�m not charging $4000 for fifty minutes. This pretense is only possibly leading to the assumption that my intentions are to affect people�s mental health in a positive way. It�s only fitting (n necessary after magically fucking it up just now), since I claim to be a poet, n a philosopher, n insane to boot; that I also add that I�ve had no formal schooling on the subject. In fact, formal schooling is prolly what most drove me to this, so I will just add further that it�s entirely possible that some secret government put some secret chemicals in our secret decoder rings, that mixed with the milk in cardboard boxes at school lunches, not nearly enough to wash down the chemicals that were designed to hide the taste of the chemicals that were designed to provide the fake food with flavor.

"There once was a man from Nantucket"
~ famous Irish philosopher

Now, I remember the innocence of childhood, the fuckin pain in the ass of gettin up at the crack of dawn or before to walk a mile in the freezing cold n sometimes snow to go n get ridiculed by ridiculous people who would mentally smack ya in the head n send ya to their boss� office for reciting such lines as the one spelled out above. These people usually claimed by example to have no sense of humor. I wouldn�t go back to that for anything. But I know what I�d tell my parents if I were suddenly single digit years again. Get me a guitar now n find an artistic community to immerse me into ~ it sucks massive icebergs from Mars being a zoid bad enough besides being the only zoid you�ve ever even heard of.

Y�see, my parents encouraged me, but plants need more than sunshine. Poetic metaphors not exclusive to my conundrum, I am alone in my isolated universe, mainly cuz I�m a shy agoraphobic (I shop in the middle of the night, n do drive thrus exclusively). Now, mosta my friends think I�m a space cookie for insisting the experience of being in a mall, for me, sucks so bad that I hafta avoid the whole subject n situation altogether..

See, most of my friends hate goin to the mall too, n almost as much as I (well, except for the chronic shopaholics anyways) ~ but with me I have a mild stroke every time I�m in public n there�s no real healthy way to explain it. I�m sure few people actually notice anything, except that I�m a zoid, even if they don�t even have the faintest foggiest what a zoid actually is. OK, so I don�t have panic attacks or anything, but sometimes I almost wish I would pass out on the floor n start drooling on meself ~ I mean, at least then I�d have some physical evidence to bring to all the learned colleagues, eh?

2
Adventures of a Zoid

Here�s something I wrote in the previous century:

Alone ~ to fear the sight of man ~ whose vision and mind contain the world that knows not of his existence ~ or place ~ but his persistence strives him onward to another world ~ where freedom and light are one with the day ~ but darkness is when he is here ~ with his world ~ and his visions ~ and the dark �

OK, so that�s pretentiousness incarnate, but I was only fifteen, n obviously suicidal. I got an A. I then proceeded to turn in lyrics by Led Zeppelin n Pink Floyd. I got As on those too. The teachers not being hippies enough to notice, it prolly didn�t make much of a difference, n I was not in the mood for further study. I�d already realized, after dropping out once already, that there was no way in hell that I was gonna make it to college on any scholarship (not that I wanted to immerse myself in that scene any further just yet) and I already had enough credits to graduate, or would easily soon if I just chilled out all fuckin ready n stopped takin all the hard ass classes just cuz I was slightly smart, if possessing a certain degree of false humility. So I slacked off, n started smokin pot n listenin to groovy jams n fantasized about bein a rock star when I grew up ~ but that�s the paradox n irony. Ya can�t be a truly successful rock star if you possess certain degrees and/or acceptable levels of maturity. This doesn�t mean that one cannot be a fine musician, however. Studying music, or astronomy, or underwater basket weaving, takes patience n dedication that even right now at this wise old age of thirty-something approaching infinity, I don�t have half the patience for. I may go back to school one day when I�m forty or so. Like they say, youth is wasted on the young.

So I�m two again, n Star Trek is already in syndication, in reruns, on weekends around noon. The family ritual of french toast or waffles or some other such groovy breakfast situations is still a relatively new concept, even to me. This was way before I realized the obvious ~ that shit�s fucked up.

First, lemme just say that this is still a very uncivilized planet. I know this cuz recently I hadda total system failure on my computer. First of all, if there were any sanity (this is how I know that shit�s fucked up, things don�t go this wrong by accident, someone�s out to get me), software would not be designed to fail at just precisely the worst most wrong time possible. Computers are designed for consumers, (who are thus urged to purchase back up devices). So I had just about finished half a year�s worth of work; including websites, these books, tons of tunes n pix n was just about to upload them all when the dominoes started to fall ~ I called people frantically trying to stop it, they gave their valiant all, some were more successful than others, I was able to retrieve some data (readers of these collective diatribes will be both relieved n thrilled), but by n large it was revealed to me eventually that I needed to pay my bi-yearly toll of 2000 smackeroos if I wanted to continue my trek thru the newfangled information age. Ugh, replacement?

This is the art of poetry that the gods have thrust upon us (as a philosophy it is insane, n as insanity it is philosophical), but let this not blind us to the condition that all things�re conditional n all conditions are things ~ as walls or pylons they may guide us or prevent our passage into oblivion, which may or may not be a good thing. But it�s still fucked up.

So I come back from the computer repair store (planning to go back the next day for a major overhaul n massive backup n ecstatic glee of self salvation n settling for only a couple months worth of setback, as opposed to the mesmerizing amount of time n personal memory n repetitive redundant repetitive redundant re-creativity) when, while on the freeway almost exactly halfway along the 20 mile distance between Valhalla n my cave, my car simply cuts out. This is how I know we are on an uncivilized planet in an uncivilized century: I waited there for the better part of a rush hour with no one stopping to help me in this uncivilized age, no tow trucks passing by n no police to wonder what my problem is, this isn�t a parking lot, damn hippie! Well, I about wore out my battery tryin to restart the thing (fulla gas, healthy crankin), n decided to step out for a smoke ~ the passersby now looking me directly in the eye as their fully functional rides passing me a gentle air-wake, on their merry happy way to whatever it is they needed to do to get on with their lives, which obviously didn�t include stopping to help out some poor broke down hippie with a 2000 smackeroo slightly freakin computer in the passenger seat, who was probably worried that I was gonna leave it all alone on the shoulder of the perimeter freeway with only a jean jacket to protect it from being discovered as doinkable. No one stopped. I looked for cops. Never around when ya need one. No groovy Samaritans from Samarita ~ so I set out for the top of the next hill to see if there were any obvious n handily convenient outposts of some semblance of a silly, if uncivilized, civilization. Nope, no one. Except one. Actually, two. The guy had his dad in the passenger seat. Perhaps the main reason why he stopped is that he wasn�t from America. He�d been here, as I later learned, for almost 20 years, but he still elected to drive me n my computer to where he was going so I could utilize their public phone. This didn�t seem to work out tho, cuz the people I was talkin to (n the people I was trying to get ahold of) were most likely from the good ol US of A n no one would have any part of that ~ I was obviously sposed to have a cell phone by now n at least a car that had the good sense to break down slowly but surely (like a newer model is trained to do), so I could take it in curiously n be charged enough to put on my charge card to have it fixed. I charged on, relentlessly, n asked the good Samaritan type if he would continue to be so kind n possibly lemme pay him a few bux n gimme me a ride home. We both understood that had I not had a computer with me, we would probably have never met, except in a passing nod as I wrestled with the kinda people ya meet when under pseudo emergency status n callin from a payphone, n he wondered what I was so stressed out about ~ after all, it was a lovely day. So on the way back, the long journey, all night to walk, drivin me home with his dad in the passenger seat who didn�t appear to speak any English (or was at least temporarily untalkative), my new friend Sam (for Samaritan) calls his friend who has a tow truck n a garage; on his cell phone (gotta get me one a doze) ~ this guy didn�t work out as a tower for a number of reasons which involved my car being locked, me having the keys on me, n his place being too far for me to walk to anyways.

Then I had the hardest time gettin a truck to come out. Seems like the more of an emergency it was (ie: no cell phone, not being there actually with the car, further than five miles from it, etc), the less the term "emergency road service" actually applied in whatever case it was exactly that I happened to be in at the fuckin time. So I finally got my car back, embarrassing to have a tow truck with all yellow lights brightly strobe flashin n lingering loudness gears grindin noisily ~ inna gated community where I hafta walk out to the gate n beep the onslaught in, where most people have cell phones n cars, that if n when they ever fall apart, they do so gradually like, n with relatively little fanfare involved. A wee bit embarrassing. Yes. So shit�s fucked up.

This is the poetry of perpetual motion that feeds us our lives on a conveyer belt of time to gradually make us fall apart until all our lights strobe flash n gears grind noisily n we beckon our fates into oblivion, blessed with the knowledge that someone did this to us, n therefore it�s not our fault, even if all of this is sposed to somehow bring us to a more civilized form of civilization. Maybe someone�ll walk out to the gates n beep us in. At that point I will beg to please be reincarnated some time later than the dawning of the age of civilized civilization, yet before the final fall of pedantic poetry.

OK. So my car is sittin out there wondering why it hasn�t been fixed yet. Parked in a spot more easily accessible to any tow truck that may happen to happen along n claim it for its very own. Some other time. I�m worried about my computer still. It�s been a week since the first inevitable downfall. I gotta go take it in, in the morning, or early afternoon, n sit there with it, while some other good Samaritan with a thick accent tries to explain to me exactly what I need to do, in a language that was just invented all too recently, n only meant for either aliens or actual androids to describe to the digits or understand for themselves. This is aka DOS. Designed to be difficult, I think.

One such genius I once knew once claimed to be a fundamentalist. I asked if that meant that they were having fun with him mentally. He was from my newfound surrounds, (n I�m still in culture shock). I meant it in a friendly way, but it was purely political, a little philosophical, moderately poetic, n for the most part a totally insane thing to say, even if a few people nearby did get a kick out of it, n I got a kick from that, it was probably a kick in the psyche to him. This is what�s wrong with the world. People are uncivilized.

Now, a friend of mine was recently highly insulted by something I had to say. I guess I�m an asshole. Or at least moderately insensitive, but I didn�t mean for it to hurt his feelings. I was just kiddin around with him in a way that we were both accustomed to doing, but had hit upon a subject that was a sensitive area to him. The man is a planet. Not that that�s a bad thing, he�s just spherical in nature. I guess he�s been picked on enough about it. Now I�ve been picked on for shit I�m not even anywhere near. I�ve been hassled for everything I am as well ~ but you�ve probably come up with a few original approaches to that, since beginning your read, yourself, too as well.

I guess my mind has just accepted the fact that I will be criticized by people who obviously think they know how one such as me should be (n that I should be better than I have), but just not clued myself into the fact that they don�t always aspire to the same conditions I find myself being demanded of by this. I have been conditioned n adjusted n chastised n untrusted until I�ve become an amalgam of other peoples demanding expectations. This is where I become something that is moreover of anyone else�s design but my own. This is where good intentions have been either recreated or disguised as insecurity from a benign focus. That is, wherever or whatever this n that is, I make sure it�s not anything someone in my life has, to them, seemingly validly criticized me for bein before. So I make sure I�m not doin anything to piss anyone off, but am I doin it cuz it�s right or cuz it�s relatively promising to be painless? The answer may be as unclear as the question blurs already in my mind, and/or yours as well. But the simple philosophy n insane (if not inane) poetry beneath between n behind all this is this: know yer enemy n yer enemy is self doubt, but only when it threatens to interfere with yer natural instinctual understanding of logic n the healthy expression of unstable emotions.

So, I knew better than to mention to my gravitational bud any imaginings of food runs beyond the normal laws of gravity wells, but I reconsidered momentarily that we were close friends who could say anything to each other (n he was above bein hurt by me). I also knew better than to be a little stressed out when talkin to strangers whose unhappy job it is to try to talk to stressed out people all day, n are hence inherently unimpressed. They cope by gettin on to the next callers in the queue, n inputting their dangerous info n heinous situations, hopefully, to them, by then, forgetting whatever may happen to be stressing out my life ~ but hey, I was a little worried. Worried that I may lose money, my place of residence, my method of transportation, n eventually everything else in my life, including my health as I sit on the curb sometime close to Christmas ~ hey, it�s happened before. So I been conditioned to foresee the inevitable decline of civilization, or at least my tiny little twisted end n perception of it, thereof, anon. 8 daze, weak, n I was still freakin.

So the next day it takes forever to get the truck to come out again, the same guy as before, tho now shaved a little, so I didn�t recognize him at first. I hadda beep him in the gate again, this time in broad daylight, when such gates (impervious to tow trucks) should prolly be just left open, even on a Sunday. Again, prolly the first and second tow truck experiences that this slightly upper crust complex (that I can barely afford) had ever seen. I guess mainly, I decided to do all this then cuz I planned to be unavailable the following morning ~ but not because I was gonna be at a day job or anything. See, after playin with my coma computer for upwards of a week, I had kinda gotten used to stayin up til dawn, n beyond, n had no willing immediate plans to lose any further sleep. So I drop off the car at the shop where I get my oil changed irregularly, and it�s really the only one reasonably within walking distance. Every part of my trek homeward was part of a busy bus route, but not on Sunday, n no schedules to be found anywhere. A liquor store I passed is also outlawed to operate in this state on the day that Gawd was permitted to have slept in. Like I said, it�s a fuckin conspiracy.

"Being Judgmental is Wrong"
~ famous poetic insane philosophy

So, along me walk homeward, I�m thinkin ~ there�s these pyramids all in a row ~ boom, boom, boom. In Egypt ~ but not perfectly straight, n just anywhere in randomland, they happen to align to the stars of Orion�s Belt at exactly 30� North Latitude (especially after adjusting for atmospheric refraction n crustal displacement). Now the first thing that arrives on the lips, if not the mind, of someone whose been trained to be skeptical about such things (that is, such things that are pretty big on the "important things we should know list," but not already known), is usually something like "well sure, but there are billions of stars in the sky, I�m sure they align to any many of three of those as well." Well, sure, if ye wanna grasp at straws to remain accepted by accredited science ~ thou fool , thou foolish mortal ~ but it just so happens that you�d hafta look pretty hard. OK, so not only this, but if you turn the sky around to the exact aeon when those stars positioned themselves exactly over rocks one, two n three (in that order n at a certain time of day and/or night), the Milky Way also happens to then align with the River Nile, and a buncha other stars in the general vicinity also happen to align to a buncha other pyramids in the general area. So, naturally, it�s still considered hogwash by science ~ cuz those ancient people couldn�t have known anywhere near enough about anything anywhere near as deep as outer space, besides be bothered to go to all the trouble that we ourselves would be pain stretched to come up with a plan to make sandwiches for all the people who would be entrusted to plan such a thing.

"Silly Human, Silly Human race"
~ Yes, in a silly song they sing

So there�s these pyramids on Mars all in a row ~ boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Not just a buncha randomized rock formations, "well, anyone can do that, the wind can do that!" These are perfectly aligned on a grid tho, like graph paper. This is now moved wholly out of the category where we place erosion and asteroid collision craters and Marsquake mountains ~ more closer now to the category of leftover sandwich crusts (that is, something someone made n left behind, as now they are gone someplace else, n are currently unable to clean up after themselves in this particular location in which they were previously residing). OK, so now what if this Martian pyramidesque grid wasn�t at an exactly perfect ratio of 1:1 and instead was more like one of 1:x where x represents a number completely different from the number one? But first, a number ~ la da dah doo dee dee doo . . . . . . .

OK, now ~ how weird and mathematically heavy would the number x hafta be before people started goin, "hey, I bet there really is something to this" and stopped allowing some stuffy "so-n-so�s" from doin all the thinkin for em? What if the number in question were the square root of two? Well, it is ~ n I mean, it might as well be pi.

If any of the above is over yer head, it�s over mine too. In fact, it�s over all of our heads n might as well be right underneath our collective noses for far too long to reasonably be no longer embarrassing, even if alluva this happened at a mandatory martini cocktail party which we�re not usually obliged to remember too many details about.

But this is where the skeptics thrive the most, cuz the details that are required for understanding are so detailed as to defy most, understandably ~ and it�s easy from a high pedestal of credibility to remain fulla shit n an asshole at the same time. See, if these people wanted to study facts, they woulda become curators of a museum or something. The high point of their jobs (n this is if they�re not evil) is when they get to continue their lifestyle n look important n intelligent at the same time ~ where bonus is how fast the rest of the world gets on with leaving you the fuck alone already again, cuz that�s the way ya like things, a big parta the reason behind career choice, that one.

So what about all the woolly mammoths frozen solid (hair intact n everything) with half digested berries in their belly? Something happened alluva sudden one day that put them surprisingly enough in a sudden climate too frigid n chilly even for them. Up sprout the Atlantis theorists claiming a massive catastrophe occurred which shifted the poles slightly enough as to move Antarctica from wherever it usedta be to the South Pole, n some poor furry elephant, whose previous biggest worry was not falling into bogs, into an opposite polar region, sometime shorter than it took him to digest his berries for lunch.

Well, the Martian site is called Cydonia. How much more does there hafta be before it�s considered an archaeological site? Whaddya want, a big smiley face carved in stone? Well, there is one ~ it�s about a mile across, 3D, almost Egyptian in nature, n also on the grid relevant to the ratio of one to the square root of two. Staggering, I know. But that�s not enough. The whole monopoly board has a smaller scaled twin in England, same general neighborhood as Stonehenge (of all things), at an ancient Druidic site known as Avebury, where even what are mind bogglingly ancient natural craters on Mars are represented by giant grassy round hills, made from enough dirt to fill a swimming pool that Paul Bunyan could do laps in. None of this is getting through to CNN yet, tho.

So, after thinkin about alluva this on me walk home, half of which I was carryin groceries, as I would prolly not have a car for a few days, I naturally decided to go swimming, where fellow residents of Oz had brews for me bruised psyche. Now, I�ve only been up for about five hours at this point, technically haven�t even had lunch yet, n am thusly so light that a light wind tried to breeze me away a few times this week already, but they cheerily offered. So, after trading beverage rights for classic rock acoustical nuances beside a pool that was far too cold to be located in the "end of summer" portion n partition of the space time continuum, I naturally asked for another. Dizziness ensued.

I then proceeded to complain about my local state in life, n reveal that it was in fact me who summoned the dragon twice to ferry my wounded ride to n fro, n also ask if anyone needed a room, cuz I desperately needed a roomie ~ my second psycho having moved out just as everyone else in this college town had secured a fashionable flop for the semester. At this point it�d been about three weeks n I�d had about as many calls on the place ~ one chick declined cuz her boyfriend threatened to break up with her if she moved in with a guy. Ah, the south! Well, at least the weather rules. Just wish I could afford to live.

See, the problem with capitalism is this ~ someone once thinks it�d be a good idea to do something for a living, n they get pretty good at it, n somehow so wrapped up in having such a good time doing their favorite thing, that for a number of terrible reasons, they can�t seem to make enough money to continue doin this thing, whatever it is. Then, someone comes along to help them but isn�t interested in anything really except making money, so the thing doesn�t really ever get done very well. But if the space cookie in the spotlight never really even makes it to the proverbial point where some bigger fish can munch him up, before losing everything (to the wrath of lack of proper technology) in time to spend more proverbial profits on makin a bigger n better mousetrap factory, then the whole endeavor was prolly a waste of time, unless some cosmic zen maturity lesson was gleaned from the experience ~ n then only if the subject somehow survives.

The lesson in alla this is this: "back up yer fuckin files." I couldn�t afford to ~ basically cuz I couldn�t afford a cd burner, or a zip drive, or even a pile of floppys ~ or to have the kinda personality I woulda developed saving to hard copy every time I made a new correction, or the paranoia I now felt every time I made a major change, or at least more of a change than I cared to do all over again. That point being moot (as by now, just about all previous changes occurring within the half a year prior to the existential weeks in question, hafta now be redone); the lesson in alla this is that poor people suck. See, poor people with computers are not paid attention to by big conglomerates that mainly sell computer stuff, n this is irritating to me, n probably most other poor people with computers. I prefer freeware to payware, mostly cuz programs evolve like Easter Bunnies.

I had a tape deck in junior high school that was also an FM radio. I made dozens of tapes, but never spent a single night jail (well, not for that anyways). This obviously was a loophole which the masters of the universe hastened to close upon the introduction of new technology onto the scene which is the consumption of modern music. Fuckin mp3s, man. Pisses me off somethin special to think I�m bein charged to download a shitty copy of somethin, n not even gettin the jewel case or lyrics insert which is what makes it an actual album in the first place, eh? I mean, if ye wanna rape the public for every little dime just so they can have some piece of mind; n possibly worship yer shit from afar, while ye install yet another basement bar; at least have the class to kick yerself in the ass, n allow yer fans to avoid the man, at least while they�re jammin yer riffs!

So, you can go thru life bein either uptight n proud (lame) or casual n zen (groovy). If that doesn�t make any sense to you, munch on this for awhile: "No matter how brilliant or intuitive ye think ye are, there will always be those, even not as smart or insightful as you, who can see things, even about yourself, that you cannot" ~ groovy, eh?

Maybe if I were a mascot, inna costume, clever disguise, or some other such bag over me head, I wouldn�t be too worried about all the things in me life that are threatening to do the exact opposite of workin out, n all at once yet. But this would be only because I�d be able to take out my comical frustrations in public, yet remain anonymous, n therefore relatively free of any retribution I might receive if I were to just casually groovy zen on up to somebody n mess up their hair cuz they were bein particularly uptight n proud ~ n therefore lame. I did this once as a roadie for a rock band, but only cuz I was poor. So, the sad fact of the matter is that, in this capitalist political superstitious society, most people even anywhere near bein in charge of anything, n therefore with their fingertips on the puppet strings of people�s lives, are somehow somewhere fallin into the lame category personality wise. This is a drag cuz, however unqualified they may happen to be for these tasks, they affect people n their related lives in a much detrimental way sometimes, often actually, n haven�t a care for or otherwise, but no one hardly ever even notices n hence takes the power away from them to do these vicious careless thingies, not that anyone could manage such a coo successfully, even for a moment, but then again, there I go again, slippin back into pessimism like a slug under a rock, afraid to take charge of me own destiny, or so it would seem to someone who�s comfortable playin along with the rules n fittin into their own slug crevice ~ tho they may not happen to particularly notice, cuz they�ve been takin the world at face value for most of their lives. So, they will fight, with their teeth, any opposition to whatever it is that seems to be holdin up their satisfying situation. This is sad, but it is the nature of most things on most primitive planets, n in most primitive eras ~ n nevertheless must be at least mostly realized, if it is to be dealt with in any way shape or form, other than mostly accidentally. Mostly.

OK. So what if everything that�s known about Astrology, n even more we don�t know, were true? If it could be easily explained by the simple reality of cosmic radiation ~ the fact that we are constantly being bombarded from all the stars that we are surrounded by, this would explain a lot. It would also require that both Astronomy n Astrology be treated as the same science. This I highly approve of.

OK. So. Now. What if Magic n Metaphysics had similar somethings in common with Religion. What if Psychics n Ghosts n even Atlantis were all for real? This would mean n require that all these fields, n in fact all fields in any far off field farm, should start comparing notes. This would bring upon our scene a new brotherhood of man. Now you can see that this isn�t really gonna happen anytime soon, n perhaps you can imagine a few profound reasons why. Apart from this fantastical solution, the recently discovered profundities all have at least one thing in common: that we are not only on a very primitive planet, but trapped, stranded, in a very primitive era. Perhaps it�s cuz we only have one moon, or relatively little cloud cover, thereby allowing for a less oxygen rich atmosphere, n thus shorter human lifespans, along with all the extra added cosmic radiation to keep us busy bein either poetic, insane, or philosophical about it all.

"Are you a �glass is half empty� or �glass is half full� kinda person?" I get asked that a lot (perhaps you�ve surmised this fer yerself). A classic object of a determined determinist, ye might think ~ a trusty sword to root out depression wherever it may happen to be found. But it�s really just one of those questions that�s designed, not simply to separate the optimists from the pessimists, but perhaps more simply, n direct, purely to make ye feel guilty for bein a "realist" which is usually the common cry of most hardened pessimists ~ if only to defend themselves against the blind hoards of optimists running towards them on any random hour of the day or night, with baskets fulla boogie banzai bunnies n flasks of fragrant flowers, to share their supposed enlightenment that all is in fact well, no matter how drab, pathetic, n pitiful it may sometimes seem to the people who actually happen to be involved in the situation at hand, in question, of the mostly primitive day.

"I guess it depends on which way the water line�s goin�," is what I would say ~ so ya can take yer best guess which one of the two aforementioned n prescribed choices I am. Also, at this point, I have been singled out as a problem, or a basket case, or one who�s off the prescribed meds, or at the very least, a troublemaker. So if there are aliens out there (or down here, as it were), the next step in this clandestine interrogation is do find out if I�m one of those accidental tourists in the pessimism realm or, in my case, happen to think I�m really having a keen eye on what�s supposedly, allegedly, in fact, for the sake of argument n this discussion, goin on. If I�m only depressed, then that�s fine, but the trouble really starts if I happen to not only have all by meself apprised the situaion at hand, but have fully explored all areas of possible escape, found them wanting for practicality or possiblity, and have not yet crawled into a happy little hole in the middle of the forefront of me mind (simply yet arrogantly designed, to keep me from realizing in time, that my world is indeed fucked like a duck under a truck fulla hockey pucks, n that this totally sux), where I�m instead sposed to say all sortsa optimistic like type thingies, like: "ah well, it�ll all work out for the best eventually," or, "I can only do what I can do, the best I can, that�s all I can do," or even something more like, "Gawd�ll help me if I only pray harder, why can�t I pray harder?" None of this having worked out for me in the past (as it was in the official handbook that I was issued at my primitive birth), I have hence n thus moved onto other methods, such as actually researchin me problem n comin up with creative answers all on my own. This also havin proved recently fruitless, my mind has dutifully shut down power to certain aspects of itself (for one, the cheery part of me personality), to better define the direction in which the immediate future should go ~ kinda like when a great chess master�s face goes momentarily blank cuz he�s busy formulating several of his opponents possible next moves simultaneously, the muscles have been temporarily cut off, power is being diverted elsewhere.

So these earth managing aliens who now realize this (n obviously designed the "half-empty half-full" concept), n that this is what I�m obviously about; could prolly use a bitta character reference at this point. First, the last thing they want is this puny ape like species figurin out things like how Astronomy n Astrology are really the same thing. This would only lead to chaos as far as they see it, n so heavily discourage such behavior.

This thus tends to keep the theoretical thingies in quizzical question really rather busy as bastard bumblebees. See, in order to do this, they hafta keep the astrologers completely mystified as to what�s goin on in the scientific world, which only makes it easier for the astronomers to further find their counterparts completely ridiculous, n hence ridicule them, as publicly as possible. Otherwise, how much fun would it be?

OK. That wouldn�t necessarily be the end of the world, as it were ~ more like a stifling halt to all that was fun n funky about keeping us all perpetually in the dark, hating each other, blindly goin along with whatever territorial or economical comical war that springs up for no apparent reason, other than that there hasn�t been a war in that area for a certain amount of time, n the fish n rocks n clouds n trees were beginning to sleep nights again (n we can�t have that, now, can we?) so another skirmish to remind us that the most important thing in the world is whatever the most powerful guy in earshot sez it is. So religion n politics being thus proved to be in fact all bullshit, it seems a funny thing to realize publicly, so more silly sitcoms are written up on short notice n we have more "Must See TV" damage control being thrust at us like steamroller pistons, when in fact it�s just steam rolling offa us, cuz we�re being pissed on ~ n then when monkey boy comes along n decides his future all on his own, it kinda depresses them actually, n they�re not the types who gladly n resignedly put up with that sorta thing. Poor thingies.

Now, the essence of all this is, just fuckin relax already, it�s not the end of the world, we are but one stanza in an infinitely long (from our perspective, anyways) poem of some value to somebody, that we will never get the opportunity to fully appreciate, cuz we�re still only a centimeter away from pond scum on the evolutionary trail. Taking the road less traveled at this point will only get ye snipped off like the odd branch of a shrub that grows longer than mosta the rest, n ye end up lyin on the grass until the lawnmower comes along to process ya into even more infinitely pathetic particles, destined for the dust bin out behind some greasy garage that hasn�t been cleaned out for seven summers now, creepy crawlies havin overtaken the entire phenomena.

OK. Well. Now. So. It don�t matter if they�re aliens or not, if they�re successful bullies, or just very simply mistaken about the state of the world in general n this madness having driven them into a particularly peculiar form of insanity called, n known as, optimism, the way I feel safest lookin at it is this: they�ll feel bad about all of this when they grow up ~ n that�s a drag (that they hafta feel bad), but at least they�ll have grown up by then n not be particularly any much harm to anyone in particular, save themselves. But, what comes along with most of the things like this (poetic justice hence interfering, n in an inner fearful kinda way), is that they�ll hafta actually figure out things like this for themselves from then on out, or else retreat into the comfy little hole of self satisfying optimism that they�ve been trained to dig for themselves, but usually this has grown curiously smaller n hence uncomfortable, as they have grown somewhat or significantly larger than what one would wonder why is now suddenly seeming to be something for some smaller minds to fit into, n now they hafta fend for themselves on their own.

Making our merry way into the world (as grown ups are wont n tend to do), the end of this said sad world still always seems near, but the end of everything is really n actually so vastly far off, n the universe is so seemingly infinitely, obtusely, insanely, n obscenely large, that one is vented rather into the more slightly silly realization (if in fact this is the case after all) that we are but cogs of parasites on dustballs in a really rather vaguely vast void of an otherwise empty environment ~ but this is only yet another pile of crap, on the long list of escapist routes, that we desire to amend for ourselves the end of everything impossible to understand. The fact of everything may in fact be that the truth is that we should all just relax, if only to figure out a way out ~ like quicksand, the more ye freak the faster ye fall, or perhaps it�s the opposite of that, the more we relax the further into sleep we doth slip. Either way, we obviously don�t know what the fuck�s goin on, n if we tend to seem to think we may possibly do, perhaps we are only fooling ourselves ~ therefore, if the end of the everything is indeed, in fact, nigh; we perhaps have no one to blame but ourselves that we were innocently drugged by cozy ideals, n lured into a state of coma preservation, only to be reincarnated into a wiggier web of wishful wastelands.

Bah, I say. Fie! Begone the wrath of dreams, n into the night of self despair I go, for a purpose is just if it has grand designs enough to keep me busy until I figure out on my own the means to my hopefully inevitable enlightenment. One cop out after another, jumpin from stone to stone as each one becomes slippery from my own sweat of worry n wild ass wiles ~ crafting my way thru oblivion until the blindness is gone, hopefully n faithfully feeling my way across dungeons of doubt n dangerous depths until sad sardonic poetry is all that I have left. Argh!

So I guess the whole problem is (n the whole point behind this book, for that matter), is that I was raised by someone who didn�t entirely know what he was doin (or for that matter, that there was any such task assigned), namely me. Or, more accurately, I think I was prolly raised and/or raided by TV n rock radio. So, unless there really is an alien conspiracy of some sort (n they happen to actually know what they�re doin), the previous distinction applies. But that�s not entirely true either. One thing my ma installed n instilled in me (so this book is therefore n hereby entirely her fault, as this is the underlying theme here), is this, n I quote, "the worst kinda lie is the one ye tell yerself."

So. Wise n poetic as that may sound, symmetrical n ironic as that may yet be, it has a certain kinda truth to it about being fulla shit to the point of ignorance n arrogance beyond thunderdome. That is to say, denial n escapism will prolly only lead to a karmic vibe that after death will leave ye in a perpetual limbo, if not whatever one imagines is hell in such an ethereal state, besides living a lie n then therefore a pretty shitty life besides before the inevitable guilt that follows after having led a such n so said shitty life in the first place. At least me TV works. Now where�d that roomie candidate get to?

So, try to be a groovy personality, if not a groovy person. If this means sacrificin yer pride to defer a different kinda pain n suffering from yerself or other loved ones, please only see that as a temporary solution ~ cuz that�s no kinda life to lead. Meanwhile, as for me, another nipplehead�s definitely movin in this week. OK. Nothin more to read ;o)