...Mind in Meat Robes...We have a theme.
Just so you know I am wearing my new disguise
and observing the intoxicating lameness.
One must research.
It really is gross, though.
Grab the choice illusion.
Ride the streamline.
Beyond the system is
the art of play.
You can't even read this...
a fragile airy thing inside meat robes (simple as we are) and
toxic collaboration. The purity hunters, basking
in the glory of being correct, aim themselves directly
at those lizardly old fucks. And thank God. Or whatever.
Someone has to but it seems like odious journeys for
small change and I can't for the life of me
believe the best road to change are the ones
you are filtered into. Just my guess as far as power-plays probably go(the alliteration was an accident, the editorial choice of leaving it, intentional).
To put it another way: Make art without permission.
To put it another way: Play life as you like it.
I'm learning as I go here, and what comes out is what comes.
Spontaneity, or something like it, stay.
I sleep strange hours. Or, better said, I awake at strange times.
It has to be dealt with. Perhaps I'll seek
medication or
effective. It'll be great, I'm gonna be a go-getter. Or I'll take pleasure
Many translations of the name of
Buddha.
The Named One. The sitter. The Quitter. The Ready One.
Another paraphrased gem (watch out for paraphrasing...One
can start spinning words across words until the whole idea
is fucked into incomprehensibility, never mind locatable in form) Telling a man
to be pure is like telling water to be wet.
(I couldn't even read it, I just made it
straight into mind activity, a swirl of
arising ideas wrap the swirl of past
ideas, none of it me, all of it mind
all of it me, none of it mind).
Make notes.
Surf porn.
Study castration cult mythology.
Start new art projects.
Smoke marijuana.
It can get weird.
It is only
Isness.
The middle of the night is good.
The early morning is good.
Would you rather be alert and focussed on
your own project at 3 am or well rested for work
at 8?
I know what I've chosen.
Each piece is a mysterious event. A mystic stroke of luck.
Is Is meant to be.
Some new imagery:
The devils at the flea market.
I've started a collection of a certain
type of Native literature.
Sunday afternoon in the yard.
Again.
It's getting slightly loony and
finally interesting.
Playful.
And Faster.
