Random Boo

Numerous born and countless dead, in a world of dreams and nightmares, it’s crowded in here. Put the milk in the cup first, your divergence is the testimony to your madness. Pick a cat and provoke a fight, hands on table, lips pursed, and, go! Retreat, then, into the hours of night, which is your deluded haven, “be polite”. Society is a symphony of logic, but only on paper, it burdens the creative individuals that can potentially generate the spark, which becomes the flicker of light in a room of darkness. The weirdoes become eccentric, the eccentrics become geniuses; don’t underestimate what you cannot evaluate. Time continues regardless, you don’t, so ‘heads up’, judgement day is a comin’, accept the leaflet, and donate the two pounds. You know how to whistle, don’t cha Steve? Heaven is paradise, but for who is the fantasy tailored? Oh, and duck! Ha, you actually believe something sympathetic can willingly conceive a concept such as Hell? Lies! Lie more times than a cheap Japanese watch. God, you are submissive to the oppression of mass, fear not the Spanish Inquisition. Mackerel sky and mares’ tails make lofty ships carry low sails. All the cats will go and the million pigeons remain, ready to be hooked on new religions, clip your wings and fly to Daddy. Existence is a toss of a nickel. The fizz is in decline, gulp it quick or slurp it flat; you can’t quantify life, don’t squander it in trepidation. They do do though don’t they though? Patriotic vitriolic potatoes in uniform make horrific cheesecake. The field is overflowing with sheep, thank you Mr Jintao, don’t ask Reagan for help; he has a cold. Four horsemen with an arrow of time, good show Friedrich Heine, shame about Thor, must have been looking for North. Welcome to the Oscillatory Universe; are you ready for The Crunch? Look in my bag of entropy, there’s a Big Rip; you can blame Caldwell for that. Uh oh, St John is on the punch again, oh look at who’s the messiah; “it’s all who you know”. It’s getting hot, no cold, HIV, HMV, oh mind your step, there’s a Meteorite there, just push the red button and it’ll all go away. Say what you see Mr Chips, “fat lady singing?” and so our survey says *uh uh* No sorry; death is not on the ‘to do’ list. Just row your boat down the stream, life is just a dream. And in 2012, when you’re up to your knees in snow sunbathing twenty-four foot under the sea, raise your glass to the invading aliens and say “chin chin old chap”.

“But why?” she said, “why not?” he responded, “if, as I stand here, in line, waiting to be served at the ASDA checkout, I decide to rub my fingers in circular motion around my nipples, then I will” well what could she say; he had a point. You can’t derail yourself from the tunnel, but when you see the light, you can make sure you’re brighter. A ghost has no concept of time, correction; a ghost has no concept of our time, but then time is relative to everyone anyway. The corpse is nothing more than a husk with the spirit elsewhere, the ghost is the spirit, the ghost is living, or an echo, but we’ll conveniently avoid that bit. Death is nothing more than a transition, and thus you live forever, that is, if ghosts are real. Unless your husk once housed a nut, then you believe in religion (same thing), and therefore believe in heaven, even though it clashes with the ideal of every other living organism on this hanging sphere; I bloody hate harps, and discussions on the calories in Philadelphia light. I don’t want to be rewarded for my inhumane ignorance and arrogance by a creative version of Mussolini. “Is this banana flat?” pondered the monkey on drugs “let’s publish a seven hundred thousand word essay about it” said the other monkey, which had an empty wallet to fill.
Now do that tie up, otherwise you’ll trigger the disapproval of our leader *points at sky whilst doing a woo noise* No; you refuse too? Then I’m afraid expulsion is the only answer, it’s the opinion of the entire staff that Dexter is criminally insane!

He didn’t look happy.
I have stuff to worry about, he said.
He then furrowed his eyebrows.
Sh*t, he said. Fuck*ng sh*t.
This went on for a while. And then:
Oh no, he said. Oh no!
What? I said.
Sh*t! he said.
He was really into it.

So I was hula hooping naked whilst singing Surfin Bird by The Trashmen, just like I do every Sunday morning, when a woman started staring at me from across the street. Seriously, she just stared for a good 10 minutes, with a face like a bulldog licking p*ss of a nettle. Why do people have to be so weird? When children are young, they learn what it means to be inside or outside of their home. Food can be inside or outside of the oven. Dogs can be inside or outside of their kennels. It occurs to them that “inside” and “outside” are terms with wide applicability. So what is outside the universe? There are monsters, hungry monsters, which eat little children who ask too many questions. And rightly so, children are horridly spoilt now, new car, caviar, what did I get as a child? Chicken pox is all I can recall.

My religion says you have to conclude that your own ability to conclude things is faulty, she said.
That’s the only way any of it makes any sense.
I conclude that your religion is faulty, he said.
She concluded that too, but she concluded that her conclusion was false.
So you believe in it too? she said.

In the words of I, even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day…

Time, and the very existence of everything that is the human concept of reality, is the measurement of what is potentially, immeasurably potential.  Emotions, fear, hate, pain, joy, love, and so on, are conceived to sustain the organism’s existence, and are required to develop what is better known as ‘experience’.  Consciousness is the ability to observe what you think is reality. We’re intimately hooked into the very existence of reality, without observation there would just be, this, expanding superposition of possibilities, with nothing definite ever actually happening.  Every attempt spent on studying particles beyond a certain level, is flawed by the very act of studying. There is no one electron; an electron or any elementary particle exists only in relationship to other particles, or even the universe at large. This means that deeply enough, when you dive down into the nature of matter, everything we know about the everyday world dissolves. There are no objects any more, there are only relationships. There is no locality anymore; there is no time anymore. The more you look at something in detail and what we think of as solid matter, the less solid it begins to look.
The only realities we know are the ones our brain manufactures. A brain receives millions of signals every minute, and we organize them into holograms which we project outside ourselves and label reality. Everything you smell, taste, feel, and see, are simply electrical signals interoperated by your brain. However, it is this very said ‘hologram’ that creates what is, although not, essentially real; what you see as existence, is so because you observe it as, what is, existent. The fabricated reality is reality because you defined the observation that you have presented yourself with. A spatula has the ‘potential’ to turn into a pink elephant, it doesn’t because of consciousness and its perceived concept of the reality it is presented and is collectively responsible for. So, more interestingly, what is then the raison d’être of our consciousness? Is sustaining the existence of what is existence to us the meaning of life?

The mind is eternal, infinite, and spiritually potential. Unlike the encompassing body, it exists outside space and time. The body is not eternal and infinite, but instead decays and is webbed into the delusional reality matrix of now and here.
My reflection incarcerates me, envelopes me in a nauseating consciousness. Why? It nauseates me because I’m no longer free; I’m no longer infinite. Infinite means having no limits, and having no limits means beginning and ending nowhere, encompassing everything everywhere always. Therefore, from the point of view of an infinite being, nothing exists but it; it is totally, absolutely, and unconditionally everything and all that there is. To an un-reflected me, there are no others, not even the concept ‘others’. No ‘me’, no ‘you’, no ‘we’ no ‘they’ no ‘this’, no ‘that’, no ‘these’, no ‘those’. There is only ‘I’. In the entire Universe, there is only one identity, and it is ‘I’. It is that, no matter how many things may seem to you to exist, from the point of view of an infinite me, there exists only one thing, in only one place, at only one time, and all of that is and always is wholly itself, I.
By definition, I is mind and mind encompasses, or includes, or is, everything that there is, and therefore there exists — there can exist — no thing, no where, and no when, which it is not. Whatever is, it is. That is what being infinite is; living in the mind, means: Having no limits of any kind. No beginning and no end, no fixed centre and no circumference. No boundaries of any kind, neither in time nor in space, or in any other dimension; no specific form, either physical or conceptual, no name and no shape.
In order to make proper use of a mirror, a viewer must be able to distinguish himself or herself from everything else reflected in the glass, not to mention from the glass itself, and the room in which it is located, and the time and the space in which the reflection is occurring. It’s this reality that troubles me, bounds and limits me to self. I become no longer infinite; I’m dying.

The lapse of the pulse remains irrepressible
Blackness melded with shades inexpressible
The infinite infinite compressed into nought
Measured only by sight and thought
Hours, years, and centuries all rhyme
The rhythm of life, the rhythm of time