Monday, July 3, 2017

9706. RUDIMENTS, pt. 3

Making Cars
So, you need to think of a hundred things
at once, and yet most people say just one
is all they can do. I walk along, or drive
along or whatever I'm doing, and I precisely
inscribe to my own dumb mind the things I
am doing. Could I have spoken to anyone
about that, as a kid? Nope. It's too late
now for overhaul. I gotta' just live.
I learned about weird things when I was a
child, mostly by myself, on a bicycle. Yes,
it seems pretty ludicrous, but that's how it
was. Out the back end of Avenel Park there
were acres of bog  -  swamp grass, skunk
cabbage, a plant called 'May Apples.' All
the little animals and sounds. No one told
me, by taking my hand, what any of that
was, or how to be safe, or maybe I shouldn't
have even gone there, dangers lurking. I
got news for anyone who's listening: It's
all a pack of lies. And that's all
apartments now anyway.
Granted, I was told not to speak up, to listen
instead, show respect, defend my honor and
family, stand up for right, and learn the things
I was supposed to learn. From all that? It
never worked out that way. I was leagues
ahead of anyone by the time I was twelve.
By 1960, at the end of my own street, I'd
go down to the woods in the early morning
light and there'd be a few possums hanging
from the tree limbs, upside down, by their
tail, wrapped around the limbs. I guess they
just did that naturally in the Summer months,
which is the only time I saw them. Possums 
introduced me to colors, tans and things I'd
never noticed before  -  not brown, not tan,
not pink, but all a bit of each. There should 
be a color or a crayon called 'Possum.' 
Here's another thought I lived with: Planet
Earth, I'm eleven years old; what the heck are
possums doing in my world? They can't talk,
but they show me things. I watch and listen  - 
like the native American Indians, this was
all theirs, once. Now the whole mess of 
everything is gone, all part of that lie. I was
just thinking today how I'd love to be the guy
able to nail down some or all rat politicians
or business-people  -  the ones who develop
places, cut and rip, wreck the land and despoil 
the water, crowd the areas we live in, really 
muck things up, after long saying they'd 
'never do that, everything will be great, 
let's just get this done.' Meanwhile they're 
high-tailing it to the bank with their deals
and payoffs. I was thinking I'd like to get
them, on camera or whatever, for the record,
saying what they say (any of them, educators, 
lawyers, political creeps, etc), and then 
agreeing that at the first instance of it 
NOT being so, the first instance of their
double-speak, misinformation, and 
betrayal, I get to chop off two fingers 
from each hand. Their hands, silly. 
You're probably thinking they'd make 
the deal nonetheless, and that the loss 
of four fingers is not such a big deal for 
the success of a rich-man's life. Well, 
I'm not sure you're correct. And then, you
see, that's again part of the paradox of this
ridiculous life we're given. In one respect,
that procedure is, essentially, a medieval 
torture, the sort of thing I normally rage
against. Me? No different that Taliban or
Uncle ISIS. Well, someday we'll talk.
Honestly, You need to imagine this: That I
speak only the truth. I'd been dead. I'd been
there and came back, and no one could tell
me ever differently. Getting hit by a train isn't
anyone's choice occurrence, not something you
normally select. Basically, I'd been picked off,
age 8; that was how a figured it; some sniper
 along the cosmic way had somehow finagled
position and permission to pick me off.  OK,
then, enter Reading Railroad and take me out.
They dragged me up out of there as dead.
Steve Meszaros thought I was dead, the first
aid guys thought I was dead, maybe the hospital
was able to figure it out, and I don't care. I'm
not here for that story. The little cul de sac
I'd wandered off into, and which then did let
me go, it held a lot of the secrets to everyday
life. If you ever get a chance, read the Gospel
of Enoch. He had somewhat the same experience.
His transcription of what had occurred to him
was so startling that he and his 'Book of Enoch'
were summarily thrown out of the Christian
Canon altogether by like year 300AD. But see,
to him, it's all mechanisms. And I understand
that and it's very startling. It's the kind of new
that can rip the skin right off your bones, and
before you even know it. He saw everything,
the vast celestial machine works, the slow and
constant drag wheel turning the cosmos, precisely,
pulling the days and the nights, the suns and
the planets, the darks and the nights, progressions
and regressions and inclinations and sounds.
Perfectly attired and perfectly in suit; working the
vast and constant cosmic order and dropping it
all down as an overlay of time and reality for us
pitiful slave-souls stranded here. I love Enoch,
and every past participle knuckle-brained,
offhand effort at 'religion' ever since has gotten
things all wrong. They call it Creation, and then
deny its presence and precision. Creation takes
location and being, it takes the metallic precision
of a perfect being producing a fleeting thought
pattern, millions of times over, but outside of
'Time', which simply doesn't have a role, and
outside of 'potential' and faith and reward
and salvation and all that. All potential has
already been met, and we are merely in rerun.
For myself, yeah, they let me back in, but only
after a complete re-synch of my self and my being.
Like Robert DeNiro would say, in one of those
dumb-ass hoodlum movies, with that funny little
sneer of his, "Uh, yeah, I hear things, yeah, I 
know things, I just, its good.'

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