hecklin' be a way of life. when you heckle, you heckle to live. you heckle the bad musicians right off they stage, you heckle the bad films right off they screen, you heckle the powerful right off they thrones.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

deep dude, way deep.

There comes a time in every man's life when he must shut up, buck up, and become Ernest Hemingway for a day. Put all your crippling deficiencies to the side and look at life through the lens of unbridled masculinity. Go buy a fucking gun and go shoot at some animal that has a good chance of killing you first. Go buy a fast car and drive it off a cliff. Drink hard and unhappily. Write terse, short sentences.

Off in the distance, three men were standing near each other. I knew this because I had only recently passed them on the road. I didn't stop. I didn't question why they were standing on the side of the road, doing nothing. I passed them by. And it was only after they were several miles distant I even noticed them. I looked back off the southern end of that northbound car at three men standing by the side of the road.

I never wanted continuity. All I wanted out of life was a series of indistinct and unrelated images. A few moments, pulled out of temporal context, take on an entirely new meaning. I wanted to be a reflector of experience perhaps. A mirror for the vain world to admire itself in. An impartial parser of dead information. A relay point for humanity.

All existence, everything that is and breathes, is a hypostasis of raw information. Our brains are the processor that serves up the endless bitstream to our consciousness. Angels broadcast celestial propaganda through the digital web of the universe. Electromagnetic revelation needs a medium through which to propagate. That medium is life.

Memory is a symptom of confusion, endless confusion that invigorates and awakens perception. We are born into the world with the memory of nothingness onto which we impose experience.

Assuming we were born at all. Most people hold no memory of birth, it's simply accepted. The Origin Question is puzzling. And even the memory of birth is just retelling of the fiction fed to us by the universe.

My mother Knew I would die one day. As she held me in her arms. The doctor said, “You have given birth to a glorious tragedy.” A tragedy that will rock the foundations of earth and heaven. A tragedy that will scream because it is alive and make gods tremble at its might. “You have birthed a human. The most immaculate misconception.”


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