Art
If I can not be an artist, then what is the next best thing? Consume consume until consumed. Without malice, without hate, detach from all wordly attachments. Drink till full, then drink again. Love till full, then love again. Masturbate till empty? Jeez, what a hard life, always full of intrigue and double meaning. Someone measured the fractal-nature of Jackson’s painting, and found that over 2 was too much. The best was 1.something, but I forget the exact number. Maybe 1.618? Lol, math.
The best math is philosophical, but maybe that can be said about the best anything. Can you connect two unrelated things together, my young artist? Look at the sphere swirling inside, outside and find the new way, the new look, the new idea that fits round peg into square hole. I have been thinking about n-dimensions, en-dash and em-dash, n-words and f-word, sea-wards and inwards. And all I have gotten for my troubles is a hangover headache, post-dated for tomorrow morning. Christ.
And the creator of Bokononism has passed. I am dual faithed, I believe in both Bokononism and Pastafarianism because I believe that they are both lies. Yet, these lies are more honest than a fundamentalist. The truth is, you’ll never know, the truth is, why not be happy? But the truth is, I want to know, and the truth is, I’ll never be unless I know. But yet I must accept that, believe them both until I burst stars in my eyes flying over rainbows in unicorn driven sleigh, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, my savior, my God. Given to me by the Lord above, who lives just below my right ventricle, trickles through my aorta till, he hits my brain.
But Christ died, man, he DIED. For your sins and mine, or at least it was something like that. In any case, does it matter if you spit on the Cross, or bow before the imprinted figure on the cheese toast? As long as you believe in Jesus, believe in his heart and soul, can you disregard the body of Christ? The blood of Christ? Because truth transcends the body, the mythos, the big Lies we tell ourselves to help understand truth.
Truth is not the words, but it is The Word. Draw, sing, write, preach facsimile after facsimile after broken-hearted empty facsimile but remember the Spirit is not the Form. This bottle of booze, this wine, is not The Bottle, it is not The Booze, it is not The Blood. It is all dots and lines constructed. It is electric shocks applied astutely to our synapses firing quickly like machine guns tearing through. Spinning wheels picture show, show me life, show me death, let me pretend to live, then live through this light, live through the swirls and twirls that circle my mind.
Penance, penance, penance, forgive. Sins and fathers, maries and mothers. I am looking to replace you Adam, replace you Eve. To love you Jesus, marry merry Mary, mother dearest, my friendly Freudian phantasmagoric fantasy. Isn’t it strange to see Mary, Jesus and the Holy Spirit? Did Jesus get the Holy Spirit with Mary in that barn yard? Is that how he learned the truth about ol’ Pa? I’m just rambling, blasphemous rambling, but I’m trying to question, to question my questions, to learn, to love. But God damn it if it ain’t hard to know the right thing.
