Thursday, October 30, 2008
Next, you need to find a spot to lie down. You want to make sure that you are lying down with your head facing north, properly aligning your chi with the ley lines around the world.
Breathe. Follow the breath. Let your muscles relax with every breath, sinking you into the floor, the ground, whatever.
As you get good at this, eventually, you'll come to realize that all of reality seeps into you during these moments of quiet, calm reflection. All of reality is already inside of you, and vice versa, it's just that most of the time we're so busy talking with our mouths that we don't talk with our souls.
Practice this for weeks, months, whatever. Eventually, you'll feel your insides resonate with the natural electric fields all around us.
Now you are starting to access that area of reality that has all the answers. Ask God or god or Buddha or Mohammed or some crazy Jinn (whichever one you believe in at any specific stage of evolutionary development that you are in at that given moment) to show you the way.
He or she or you will.
Now you know the future of whatever it was that you wanted to know about.
However, you will probably start to see the blurring of time in every other aspect of the world. That's just a byproduct.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
how often do we take words for granted? they are everywhere, in our ears, on the page, in little notebooks we keep by the bed. and yet in them are the dreams, thoughts, hopes, and fears that we all share on some level. propaganda, motivational tracts, spiritual texts, memoirs pile up on my desk, and yet i don't have enough words around me. if i could bathe in them, i would. simply for the little words to cleanse my bottom, the big ones to exfoliate, and the cursive ones to feel like bubbles. sometimes we don't choose our words too wisely, sometimes we think long and hard about the ones that we need for a given situation. but out there, in there, are the words for every occasion. granted, often the words are out of our grasp. we search for the specific nouns and verbs that convey the right meaning, and the remain elusive. other times, they pour out of our mouths like vomit after too much jager. but they're just words. we assign meaning to them, applications for our brain to assist us in creating some sort of picture to go along with them. we find a quote that we like and we parade it around for others to marvel at its ability to capture something so surreal, so sublime, that we can't believe that it could be said any other way. we look at books, spilling over with words, and we all have one or two (or more) that we can't part with. others that we lose so quickly because someone else HAS to read it. but they're just words, right?
“This newer strain of the H-virus has now adapted the material of this world into transferring its life-code and protein strands across vast distances of galactic space. It has now infected the two closest planets, a distant moon, and is attempting to stoke the nearest star into speeding up its own life cycle, threatening to create a system able to support more of the virus. This is a rapid change from the last scan of the sector and represents a huge difference in the current modeling techniques used by this office.” He paused and looked around the room. “We now need all of your help in how to not only reverse this process, but also how to inoculate other class B worlds which might create and sustain other strains of the H-virus.”
Jules shuffled in his seat, knowing that his presentation would be coming up next.
“Jules Grant, senior virus advisor, will brief you all on the nature of this specific strain. Jules?”
He got up and walked to the podium, slightly slouching under the weight of the eyes that were focused on him. He saw Angie in the front row, her stockinged legs crossed tightly.
He cleared his throat. “This is a nasty bug. You have to understand that.” He clicked his control and an image appeared behind him of a desert planet. “This is Mercon 6, a class B planet in the Harpoid sector, 8 cycles after an H-virus outbreak. A particularly nasty mutant group of cells infested the geothermic patterns of the planet and used it to break most of the organic matter into silicone, carbon, and methane in roughly 200 orbits around its nearest star.” He looked out at the group. Guy, guy, guy, ugly chick, guy, guy, hot chick with a weird lazy eye, guy, guy, Angie Harmon – the most beautiful corporate PR rep he’d ever see or ever will see, guy, guy, ugly chick, guy, guy. “It is in the nature of the virus to use up the organic matter on a planet in a rapid fashion. It eats through the core, sends receptors in the sky, and eventually, after reaching a point of critical mass, pass its genetic code to nearby planets, moons, and eventually – if our models are correct – into the entirety of space.”
“We have every reason to believe that this is the same type of virus currently spreading in sector 9 and capable of reaching that level of transmission in 2 cycles or less.”
“What about the current research suggesting that this virus is a thinking virus, capable of long term adaptation and mutation?” Angie looked up at him as she asked.
Angie, beautiful Angie. Jules locked the image of her in his mind for a later private viewing. “Well, the research is still out on this, but I think that it is not in the realm of science fiction. While the different H strains have adhered to similar patterns of development and evolution, their paths are as different as the planets where they are grown. So, I agree with the current findings. These are not like the cellular viruses that are acting only on protein stimulation. These might very well be sentient viruses.”
A soft murmur fell on the group as Jules smiled at Angie, silently thanking her for the alley-oop. She returned his smile with no reaction at all as she went back to jotting down notes on her opened pad. Dornan rose and walked to the podium.
“So, knowing what we know, how do we stop it?” His eyes looked from Jules out to the group. “Get to work, people.”
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Maybe then we'll realize that there aren't as many things separating us as they make us believe.
imagine ingraining yourself into a method, mode, and manner of behavior to such an extent that when it's over, you feel like something thick and real is missing. believe me, i've bitched so much about the job of bartending that i thought it was the end of the world when i had to put on those clothes and smile and flip bottles and whatnot, but as i sit next to my phone waiting for the occasional call from my friends, i am confronted with the realization that IT IS HARD TO LEAVE IT BEHIND.
i've puked on their patios, seen them change from single to married to parents, taken their keys, laughed, cried, and made some money with them, but now it's all different. now i'm the outsider, the excommunicated, the OTHER. days where the sun doesn't show, the rain almost falls, and the coffee isn't quite strong enough, it seems worse.
i miss my friends.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Additionally, I think that this is a metaphor for the way my day is going.
Which should raise my eyebrows as I ponder the nature of metaphor and how we as humans can read into anything some semblance of metaphor. But instead, I am struck with the smell of poo and as such, cannot concentrate.
Monday, October 20, 2008
“Thanks, hon.” Dornan Hepler sat down in his seat, the pages of the report sliding on the glass table. “Son of a bitch.” He reached over and pressed a button on the compod next to him. “Get me the president.”
TOOPI, The Office Of Planetary Irregularities, exploded into action. Junior assistants suddenly found their normally empty desks covered in paperwork, files, and reports that needed their attention. LCDs were piped with round the clock coverage of reconnaissance missions to the edge of the galaxy, coffee machines and caffeine pills were brought in by the truckload. Everyone in the office called loved ones and told them that they would see them soon, but not that soon. Everyone but Grant. He was busy jerking off in one of the stalls in the bathroom for the last hour.
“Jules, you in here?” The voice came through the door, shattering the image of the three tittied whore bouncing in Jules’ mind.
He stopped smacking his flaccid dick. “Yeah, must’ve ate something bad. Be right out!”
“Hurry up, man, this place just went crazy. The virus is spreading.” Jules heard the door close.
He looked down at his soft penis. “This isn’t over.”
* * * * *
Jules sat at his desk furiously typing, running searches and cross references on the planet 34778-B. He noticed the past few scans, dated 6 cycles ago and found no record of the virus at all. He plunged back into the computer looking for a precedent for this fast of a mutation.
“Conference room in fifteen. They’re going to want a report.” Harry looked down at him, the seriousness on his face.
“Got it, boss.” He grouped the files that he needed and sent them to his printer. He eyed the folder on his pc labeled “security risk” and moved the pointer over it. Two clicks later and a digital orgy of three tittied women filled his computer screen. They all stopped and looked at him. “Wish me luck, ladies.” He closed the image and walked to the printer.
He was standing behind Angie Harmond, her black stockings covering her shapely legs. He followed them up, up all the way to her tight, not-quite-big-enough butt, up the small of her back, slightly twisted, to her shoulders, and finally her head, turned toward Jules. “Take a picture, perv.” She grabbed the last of her docs and walked back toward her office in the corner. The big office.
His cheeks flushed, he glanced back to the printer as his own docs started printing. “shit.”
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Since I don’t work anymore, I’ve started riding mass transit. And it’s great.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m doing something good for the environment, I’m saving money, and I get time alone with my ipod. Those three things rarely coalesce into one grand thing.
But I’ve started noticing something. Everyone on the bus is in some way or another, isolating themselves from everyone else on the bus. I can’t say that I blame them; some of the odors and crazy eyes that I’ve experienced on the bus make me want to curl up inside of my ipod from time to time. But it also raises some pretty obscure and philosophical questions about the nature of our shared reality.
First, there’s the case of cultural music. With the spread of itunes and digitally downloaded music, I no longer have to listen to the music that some corporately sponsored entity deems as good music. I can let my heart run wild at the itunes store or download cheap mp3’s from my favorite band directly from their website. So while we all operate in the same space for a while as we leave downtown on our happy way to the suburbs, we can enjoy our own personalized music choice to our heart’s content.
Second, no one looks at anyone on the bus. There again, I can’t really blame them for this, as drunks start getting on the bus at about 3:00 p.m., and you can’t really tell what someone is going to do to you while riding on the bus, so for the most part, it’s safer to put some sort of blinders on and sit there with your head down, waiting for the moment when the bus pulls finally to your own stop. It’s like society’s limos for poor people. You get driven where you want to go, and if you have a laptop, iphone, magazine, newspaper, or whatever, you don’t ever have to acknowledge anyone else sharing the same space as you.
I don’t know which I like more, judging people for doing it, or judging myself for playing solitaire and listening to Xavier Rudd while we pass by Wendy’s and Arby’s. Just wait until that moment when you see someone that you kind of know getting onto the bus with their ipod earbuds locked and loaded. Try to get their attention. I dare you.