Do not carry with you your mistakes.
Do not carry your cares.
Travel on alone
Like an elephant in the forest.
-The Dhammapada

There are several ways of looking at life. One way of looking at life is to see coincidences as significant, and to dive into the nebulous world of the collective unsconscious the way Jung did after his breakdown during World War I. (I just saw Cronenberg’s “A Dangerous Method” and I recommend it to anyone who wants to have their illusions about western romantic relationships vigorously dispelled.)

Another way is to dream up a race of pig men who are battling us for this dimension; they are evolved pigs from our own timeline in the future. Their race was fed increasingly potent chemicals by their human masters and their ability to forage in the rubbage left by the collapse of most of middle-class society gave them an evolutionary edge. It was they who discovered hyperdimensional shifting and time travel, and now they silently battle us in interstellar court for the right to co-occupy our dimension. Which means they would rule over us with giant triangular cloaked starships. (Don’t worry, they only have one so far.)

What complicates their ascension is the fact that there are multiple timelines; in order to enter this one they have to contend with their very distant evolutionary successors, the hyperintelligent octopi and squid. And the squid are bossy. Down at the end of most of the sentient life timelines on earth, a million years away, the insect robots reign. All we have in our narrow gap is the ability to contact our ancestors and occasionally schmooze with the ghosts of dinosaurs and Venusians. Venusians are slippery though, occupying the dimension just behind ours at tremendous expense.

Another way is to teach a producer Avid next week in an awkward attempt to schmooze, wait for Hiccup Media to call me in instead of just putting me on hold, apply for two jobs on idealist.org and finish editing a taster for home improvement show by Antonia and Ganso’s Wife, The Lawyer. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Do I really just look at ads on craigslist and mandy.com? Confused, Scrambler Twizzler

When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
-T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets

The fear is a vestigial brain system that attacks irrationally. It is dysphoria based on panic: over the top and illusory.

What if everything, by definition, was meant to be, leading up to now– including the shocking removal of the things I thought I wanted.

An ocean of dead leaves and the soft tinge of halitosis from the man sitting behind me. I am on the bus again. It is time for cheese-filled combos.

Jealousy is just curiosity, taunted and suffocated. I want to confess everything but I have nothing interesting left to confess.

I dream of myself and all my friends in a kon-tiki boat riding up the sheer edge of a narrow Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom-type waterfall.

Three giant elephant heads sent from an alien techology crest and topple over the top of the waterfall after surveying our slowly advancing wood ship.

The first one grazes the top of the boat and severs the wooly mammoth tusks that we have jury-rigged over the prow.

The second one bursts apart, rattling our ship to its core.

The third one glitters with dark fields of light, and a low hungry honk blasts from behind the picture show as the massive grey head topples and rushes down the side of the waterfall headlong like a vertical tram.

I awake, having overslept, without knowing how to save our boat.

1) Force of Personality: Some people just know themselves and have lived a life where they have had opportunities to zealously protect their boundaries.  Not me!  I tend to avoid confrontation until it’s way, way too late.

2) Career Track: Some people have worked out what they want to do at the age of 16. I haven’t.  I got too choosy with my editing career, then I started to dream about higher and lower realms, and this is what you get — really smart guy who waited too long to really narrow down his options.

3) Fooling Around With Magic: This is about as much as I’ve accomplished.  Mirror work, softening my energy, syncronicity of the sloppiest kind. Congratulations, flying monkey — you’re looking for a job.

Fooling around with negative thinking is probably old hat; I’ve literally already been to Hell and back. (Hell looks a lot like here, but the only thing that’s open is Italian restaurants and everyone is missing their irises.) Um, Invisible Protectors, Mic Check! Mic Check!

Oh, wait — I’M JUST HUNKERING DOWN FOR THE YEAR OF THE DRAGON.

Freak the squares, baby. If you’re an artist (or even a poseeeeur) you’ve already dug me and you’ll continue to hang on to every word I say. I’ve only met less than a handful of people less weird and self-aware than I, and none of them are complaining.

My ability to pinpoint that in myself is also, repulsively, an analytically German trait. Oh, the Jerries. I get to hang out with that blood in Tucson over Christmas. Delightful.

My ability to write this down is English. Fuck that country. Their experiment in democracy is over. They took the bullet that Thatcher loaded in the late eighties: the “Liberal Democrats.” I’m sure third-party shenanigans will be the switchblade that threatens to take the nation out of President Obama’s hands next year. So be it.

My rhythm, when I’m functioning my best, is French. La France est morte en 7 Mai 1995. Another sad example of a country that has drifted into pre-totalitarianism.

This braggadocio is the kind of thing that precedes a man’s total downfall. There’s the gypsy polack talking.

To hell with it, the American declares — freak ‘em.

(The dash of Algonquin blood whispers, Uh, Yeah.)

1) Alchemy: Individual mind control.  Yippee!  You’re so special!

2) Astrology: Societal mind control.  This is definitely the most creepy and gnarly aspect; just look at google.

3) Theurgy: Mind control within the organization.  Congratulations, flying monkey — you’re working for the wicked aristocracy of the west!

Fooling around with lemures is probably trouble, thanks to my snitching in the underworld; stick to lares, if any of them are still even listening to you.

Oh, wait — I’m just crazy.

I’ve arranged my computer against a wall with a piece of an old dresser tacked up above the screen and under my corduroy jackets. It’s raining in Bed-Stuy. I’m home.

2012 will consist of me hanging on in New York or finding a cheaper place in Pittsburgh while still drawing unemployment. All right, there’s probably more to it than that. If you’re re-reading this, yeah, I could use silent blessings all year.

Whoops, I’m in trouble for my devious hypotheticals. Put a fork in me. So to speak.

My father and I agree that I’ve been having psychedelic experiences, like, the, I Am Pretending Not To Know That There Are Gods, Which Are Aliens, routine.

Anyway, my sources tell me the aliens have blabbed — a four million year kalpa is ending in scandal. Pookas are real! And bored.

Oh, right, and for those in the know, I’m an interstellar citizen: name of “Bardoz,” status “On Welfare.” Whatever that means. Probably just Vega lingo.

Did I mention I can say anything the fuck I want about secret societies now?

Nazis are real. (Actually, I shouldn’t have written that if Nazis are actually real. They don’t give a shit about interstellar law.)

Update: I think this A.M. my status was downgraded to “Professor Worm,” “Out.”

Waves,

“SHUT THE HELL UP”

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