Tuesday, October 27, 2009

The work of the day is always well within my reach. The strange strain I’m under is entirely of my own devising. I just need more oxygen. What is the cure for a metallic feeling? Caution is my problem. A physical feeling that the strings are too tight from organ to organ. On the up side, myself contains a wonderful vast blue plain exactly like the sky. A truth so beautiful and bright that it could become the sun of a universe. Oh strain, how I hate you. I was created without patience. How can it be fair that God created such fools and expected them to be so wise? I think I want to be a parasite on some great source of strength. Sometimes I feel that there may be a parasite draining me! Some people make me think such complicated thoughts that I hate them, because I am a simpleton. But, there’s always the vast blue sky to sooth my mind. Here’s such a laugh for me: the mistake people make in the quote “music soothes the savage beast” which is really “music soothes the savage breast”, and what makes me laugh so hard is the idea of some poor fool trying to play music for a savage animal and getting ravaged. There aren’t too many angry beasts that music would calm down. Maybe snakes. I would say the premier aspect of being me is my response to beauty. Oh how I love beauty and color and intelligence and comedy. I think I’m like David dancing before God. When David danced for God, God struck dead the people who laughed at him. How wonderful. Beauty washes over me like the slow motion lover of my dreams. Just my front yard affects me that way. I live in the country, but what I liked in town living was rainy warm days when the house was clean and sanity united the indoors and outdoors. I like how beauty holds me still. I feel almost obliged to be more than I actually am, so you could imagine the strain of that. Guilt over things I can’t control and could never control. That gnaws away at a person. I need all the comfort I can get. I‘ll enter another dimension when I die, and be relieved of self. That dimension is like math made of feelings. Like a musical silence. Proportion there makes any pain orgasmic, in the sense that feeling ripples through you with no analysis, and that makes it bearable. I think there are many other dimensions, and the movie Holy Mountain hints at the nature of the difference between realms. One thing dimension speculators seem to share is that animals can talk in other worlds. It seems funny that this could literally be true. I feel like a talking animal. I think trees exist in many realms at once, and all the dimensions exist in one location. Here is a phrase I read today, ”sweet danger”. I wonder if that’s the meaning of our world. Here’s another fun fact about me, I encountered real demons and they are so horrible they sent me running like a stark white shock with hair standing strait up on end. They’re so much more than humans can handle it’s like vicious timber wolf with rabies vs. sleepy kitten. I wonder if other people I know have encountered this. My friend James said he met the New Jersey devil, and it was no joke to him. I suppose these are the beings behind human violence of a certain sort. Humanity isn’t to blame for certain things. People never seem to know what’s hit them, but they take on blame like abused children. I wonder if this is the meaning of the apple in the Garden of Eden. Beings not equipped to understand right and wrong got exposed to information about existence that made them blame and resent and analyze. Maybe these functions were never meant to be. My pain feels exactly like a creature trying to carry out a process it was not designed for. Gurdjieff wrote about that in Beelzebub’s Tales to his Grandson. He misunderstood some things though, because I read some more compelling explanations for things by an anonymous monk who wrote essays about the major arcana of the tarot. Deeply I’ve felt the assurance that things will end well, but they aren’t seeming right yet. I feel like I could kick my mind to make it work like an outmoded machine. Maybe if I took every act as a symbolic ritual I could escape my normal mentality. I would sure be acting strange. Of course my troubles don’t amount to much more than a few aches and pains. There’s no urgency to change since I’m so happy. There’s just that nagging vague notion that I’m functioning without key information. Like a horrible awesome flat suspense just hanging there forever. Blank…Something like that.

When beings move in heaven, they don’t need to create momentum, but only float from their inner directive, always lifted in the buoyancy of that dimension. That’s why dancing there involves a choreography like giant flocks of birds or puffs of pollen in a breeze. Everything in our sky reflects heaven as trees and wind connect worlds.

Heaven is in the sky, just as the conventional wisdom says, but it’s dimension is sharing the space of our sky. Heaven isn’t far away! It starts where our feet touch the ground, and the ground is its’ anchor.

Sometimes I feel like I’m on a spinning wheel looking at things from every angle, or on the swinging ship ride at the fair. For example the view that by living with my parents I’m in a frightful nosedive, is the counterpart of the view that I’m part of a miraculously successful social experiment where all members of this extraordinary household are combining elements in balance with skill that would defy logic and gravity. The view that I’m in an ordinary situation also lurks nearby. The whirl around these points of view and every nuance in between, is one of 1000 streams of comparison that spins me in this monotonous perpetual identity crisis with no concerned party but myself, and sometimes not even myself.

I wonder why it seems I see the world through rose colored glasses when I’m stalked by such insidious demonic hecklers. Maybe because I see them through rose colored glasses. I know that life is hard. Hard as a rock.
Do you like puzzles or not? If you don’t you may as well die. Well, not if you can turn your mind off, but a mind that works unhappily at it’s essential function is doomed, I think. Have we been dead, or not? It seems plausible that before our births we were dead.
Radiant red music that can’t be turned down. Long sustain relaxing into rhythm. Sudden quiet. The wild rattle pounds out after, with that suggestive pulsing pounding keeping something steady.

Many times as I drive by another car I imagine the ACTUAL crash. You can do that too.

What I wanted to do was walk into the heaven I’d been imagining in the back of my mind. The opposite of the many hells I could tolerate easily. My tolerating skills would lie there limply. Some new shape of me would remain with the agony dissolved away.

I work on a street of dream-houses. All day I do easy things in a beautiful house. The inhabitants of the house are charming. They’re very thankful to me. I like it that they treat me as if I had worked magic. I like it that they’re beautiful and well to do. Being a housekeeper is good because you become very important as the only one who can find things. I think that people love significant and insignificant importance just the same deep down. I look at all the horrible judges on tv and if those people are important I would never skip a beat about being unimportant. Even truly wonderful and truly important people like novelists and poets and everyone who creates beauty, I think I probably create about as much beauty as they do. If I could do anything this evening I would be stepping out in the city in my new silver shoes. I would be going to an art event in a warehouse space with a party afterward on a roof garden, where the artist would put his arm around me and everyone would seem to have a crush on me. If I could do anything this evening I would be in a large sun filled workshop creating a playhouse with a garden rooftop and elaborate interior décor.

A list of my dreams:

The village of elaborate playhouses

The party boat with paper lanterns, that sails around the bridge of flowers.

The musical pantomime play “ The Elysian Follies”

The hammock amphitheater for music performances.

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