It's a conundrum.
You like things. Certain things. Some things. Things that aren't abrasive and/or leech energy from you for their own personal gain. You fancy these things and you cling to them.
Any Zen master will attest to the clinging of fancies and pleasures conflicts zen.
I know am I am the universe. I know interconnectivity. Why this burden of isolation? The surest of poisons. solace.
Why do I have to be here? Why can I not find satori? It seems to me I'm just being pummeled continuously into this vector that is getting thinner and thinner. Think Dante Alighieri's circles. I see this plain as day with mass inflation, the prison industrial complex, police unions, CIA approved opium, shit, give em hell boys, it's only a little dope., Military Jack offs that get off on the systemic saturation firebombing of hospitals chocked' full' o' sick little brown people. Some of that great American spirit of generosity we're always hearing about. If I could live forever I'd be at peace, because I want to know to know how it all goes down.
Ad infinitum. I want the knowledge of the logos. I want it all. I'm a greedy little prick.
I've been rereading dune to an impressive degree. Their Padishah Emperor took his fighting force, the abhorrent Sardaukar, hardened and molded into perfect killing machines through duress encountered on the prison planet, Salusa Secundus.
Herbert was wise. I see the fabric of time in his vision, it fits sure as a tailored suit. I'd count him among many visionaries I admire, along with W. Blake.
Is this our prison planet?
Huxley postulated that the pacification of the masses would inevitably be done via drugs, and in a a sense he was right. Television and all that screeching clamorous rubbish is the most addictive shit I've ever seen. I've grown up and seen drug dealers who never used lose 20,000 dollars they'd saved from selling this back allley mexican low-grade weed to suburban sots from a fucking halo addiction. Halo. It's some damn video game, likely old hat now, but he was hooked as fuck. You can't get better irony than that.
It's like being contracted for a book with the characters already written.
The fuckers are real. Same thing with the Hell's Angel's and Thompson. You couldn't make that shit up. Real life is stranger than anything you ever comprehend. Infinitine.
So do I go or shalll I stay?
If clinging and impermanence are such important factors towards the path to enlightenment, what's the bloody point? Lets just strike the match right here and end it.
It was Camus who said that "The only real question in life one has to ask oneself is whether or not to commit suicide."
This is installment one. That last one was too vicious to finish and the reason my satori has been compromised, as you can plainly see here.
Fuck each other in the streets, that's my new standing head.
You like things. Certain things. Some things. Things that aren't abrasive and/or leech energy from you for their own personal gain. You fancy these things and you cling to them.
Any Zen master will attest to the clinging of fancies and pleasures conflicts zen.
I know am I am the universe. I know interconnectivity. Why this burden of isolation? The surest of poisons. solace.
Why do I have to be here? Why can I not find satori? It seems to me I'm just being pummeled continuously into this vector that is getting thinner and thinner. Think Dante Alighieri's circles. I see this plain as day with mass inflation, the prison industrial complex, police unions, CIA approved opium, shit, give em hell boys, it's only a little dope., Military Jack offs that get off on the systemic saturation firebombing of hospitals chocked' full' o' sick little brown people. Some of that great American spirit of generosity we're always hearing about. If I could live forever I'd be at peace, because I want to know to know how it all goes down.
Ad infinitum. I want the knowledge of the logos. I want it all. I'm a greedy little prick.
I've been rereading dune to an impressive degree. Their Padishah Emperor took his fighting force, the abhorrent Sardaukar, hardened and molded into perfect killing machines through duress encountered on the prison planet, Salusa Secundus.
Herbert was wise. I see the fabric of time in his vision, it fits sure as a tailored suit. I'd count him among many visionaries I admire, along with W. Blake.
Is this our prison planet?
Huxley postulated that the pacification of the masses would inevitably be done via drugs, and in a a sense he was right. Television and all that screeching clamorous rubbish is the most addictive shit I've ever seen. I've grown up and seen drug dealers who never used lose 20,000 dollars they'd saved from selling this back allley mexican low-grade weed to suburban sots from a fucking halo addiction. Halo. It's some damn video game, likely old hat now, but he was hooked as fuck. You can't get better irony than that.
It's like being contracted for a book with the characters already written.
The fuckers are real. Same thing with the Hell's Angel's and Thompson. You couldn't make that shit up. Real life is stranger than anything you ever comprehend. Infinitine.
So do I go or shalll I stay?
If clinging and impermanence are such important factors towards the path to enlightenment, what's the bloody point? Lets just strike the match right here and end it.
It was Camus who said that "The only real question in life one has to ask oneself is whether or not to commit suicide."
This is installment one. That last one was too vicious to finish and the reason my satori has been compromised, as you can plainly see here.
Fuck each other in the streets, that's my new standing head.
