Everything is too clever right now, Chester. It’s like if you want to be artistic you have to distort and twist-up. And I’m sick of all the cute-ness. I’m sick of all the perverted innocence, Lesley Chester. It’s always some sort of violent innocence in our art. It’s sick innocence in our lame-ass paintings. I’m over here trying to grow spiritually and I’ve got all these dumb-ass distractions. Here I am trying to solve the great "suduko of my soul," and lazy thinkers are trying to SHOCK me with hedonistic paintings that are vain and hopelessly uninteresting. I’m sick of all these uninteresting people, Lesley Chesteron. I’m sick of them all and I just want to stare at a blank canvas for a while. I’m sick of it, and I’m gonna have to start painting my own pictures if things don’t change soon.
That old bastard’s softened up a bit. He has humbled up. Stepped up to the plate. He negotiates. He filters his opinions. He pours salt into his geyser gushes. He still drinks his wine and he won’t back down from a fight. Be he no longer ignites. He wants you to stay around. He wants to go boating. He wants to be a smile bringer to children. He wants to troll for sun fish. His golf game is getting better. He sits with his legs crossed and tries his hardest to get along with people who are different than him. His children are tainted by the manner of man he used to be, but he is rising above his debris and seeing the wisdom of his prodigal daughter. With his eyes and his time, he is affirming "the different one" and now she is being redeemed.
Hannah prays in her heart, that’s why you can’t see her lips moving. Hannah keeps herself apart. She guards her heart from darkness shards. Hannah finds a way. She shuffles through the crowds. She goes through places she is not allowed. Hannah shuffles through the storm without an umbrella or a coat to keep her warm. She is constructing a song. She is formulating a prayer. She prays her prayers. Hannah shuffles up the stairs to higher places. Jacob saw a stairway to heaven and there was Hannah coming down. She did not see him wave as she shuffled through the crowds, set apart in private thoughts, shuffling through the town. Her lips only move when she chews, or when she is bringing happy news. She does her work and rarely frowns. Hannah goes through places she is not allowed and rejects proposals from the city’s clowns. Hannah is on guard as she prays her prayer in her heart.
Enriching as it may be, I don’t want to continue with your program. You can keep your course fee. You’ve earned it. But I do not fit into your personality-type quadrants and I am not motivated by the same human forces you suppose. You can keep the fee, though. After all, I had a donut and juice and the donut was good. But I do not want to stick around for your program’s conclusion. I do not want to learn the secret of successful people. I do not want to learn the "truth about making millions." I don’t necessarily want millions and I am not sure success is all that important. After all, in some sense, Jesus was a failure. Bonhoffer was a failure. Pelagius was a failure. All of them. Failures. None of them followed your 7 Steps to Perpetual Profits. None of them applied your Power-Packed Principles of Performance and Productivity. None of them signed over a check to your “Better Living Institute." Yet they are all my heroes. Thanks for the donuts and juice, though.
Electricity builds up in us as we walk around our ambiance. It builds up and blasts us when we touch the doorknob, or brush the phone pole. With a jolt and a spark, electricity moves. It jumps and accumulates, then jumps again with a jolt and a spark. It might hurt. It might startle. It might alert. It moves from host to host, and noone knows where it goes. It is nature’s spirit. It is God’s jazz. It is small reminders of our mortality. It re-orients us if we get lost in our dreaming. It grounds us if we become too elated. It jumps from host to host, and accumulates in our sheets. It lays awaiting in the carpet under your shoes. It will get you too.
It was a resurrection year. There were bags under my eyes. There were the burdens of my sins. There were those dangling, pointy things. There were women on the verge of drawing me in. It was a perplexity year. A year of scattered projects and loose associations. There were self-righteous Bible believers quieting our Bible scandals and polishing their Bible-sandals. There were over-wealthy hippy-chicks shouting at our tail-pipes. And the tail-pipes… they coughed out filthy gasses. And the hippy-chicks... they took enlightened classes. It was a year of shrinking barriers, and I was peeking over the top. I was peering around the side. I was dancing in the light. And in that light there were immigrants trying to come back to the land their ancestors owned. Like scattered tenants returning to their homes. It was a resurrection year, and now ascension is near.
The elderly women Conspire
You’ ve walked through the exchange,
It’s possible, ma’am, but I think I’m done. I’ve been run down and pressed to the ground. I’m gonna go this way. You go where you want to. Too much time has passed and I’m not talking about "pretend" time. I’m talking about real time, with real consequences. Real shifts in reality. "Ontological" time that ticks in cosmic permanence. The type of time that clicks and whizzes on the clocks of God’s observatory; His grand balcony overlooking his show. We prance around and run into each other, and God and his angels… they laugh and laugh and laugh. But you know what? That is okay. I’m glad someone thinks it’s funny. I just don’t want him to change the channel, or cancel my program. Not yet, anyway. Not until I see what happens with all these improvements I’m making. Not until I finish this episode I’m working on. But you... you have had your episode on my show, and the ratings just weren’t that good. Sorry ma’am.
The squeak startled me, I’ll admit that. I’ve been to your planet and I know what’s going on there. You told me to follow that twinkling star, but I lost track of which one and ended up here on your planet earth. You pointed to "that star," but you were sleepy and your hand was wavering, and the sky has so many stars, I couldn’t keep track. And so earth it was. This is where I ended. It’s not that bad, if you don’t mind eating chicken, or drinking bottled water. The gas prices here fluctuate. The price of stamps stay stable. The friendlier the person the smaller their net worth. The richer the child, the slower their intellect. The clouds are from moisture, which builds up in the sky, then purges itself on the weekends when all the blue-collar families seek picnics and worship. The speed limit refers to "driving machines," and is established by assessing the dangers of the immediate environment.
On the one hand, I’ve got all these work requests coming to me demanding my time. I’ve got well dressed peers handing me work orders while they are pointing at deadlines on a calendar. I’m at the bottom of a hill and milestones are rolling down on top of me. I’m following all my lifelines all the way to my deadlines. I check that one off, then hand it back. I check that one off and hand it back. I’m always checking things off, but nothing is ever satisfied. I’m dynamic in my resource allocation, but nobody shares a joke. On the other hand, my foot aches and I limp from place to place. All my schedule estimates will have to be delayed because my foot is slowing me down. All my estimates are suffering. These non-physical, fairytale estimates are laying on the floor and I am squashing them under my aching foot. And as my body slowly disintegrates, my projects slowly integrate.
I’m at the ocean, standing at the edge of the beach. People pass me with distorted faces and misguided dreams. Reflective people stare at the ground. They're at the beach, but are nowhere to be found. I hear the ocean water pushing and pulling, like the breathing of the earth. I’m on the edge. I can either go in, or I can turn back. But if I go in, I’m going in deep. Women pass with their Japanese hand-fans. They cover their face, but not their eyes, and I feel like the world is waiting for me to move my feet. There are certain people who have earned a place in my mind. They are my portable audience. I carry them with me wherever I go. Everything I do is done for them to see. With eager anticipation, I imagine what they will say and think and if they will be pleased. They're in my mind, in the back, behind the hypothalamus and the amygdala, just beyond my hoping lobe. I check my watch. I check my feet. “If I go in, I’m going in deep.”
Reaching and stretching to clasp it. He, or she, is just a thought that tumbles through the mind of God, and into the minds of lesser animals. This all makes sense if you read my book. My book is about the thoughts that tumble through the very mind of God, and how the lesser animals are totally perplexed by them. Except for this one (a Chihuahua no less). For some reason - maybe it was his genes - he understands them, and his life is totally ruined because of it. He is a freak amongst dogs. He is cast out. He is... he is "the one who knows the thoughts of God." Knowing God made him freaky. A freaky little dog with a dynamic leash, and a tendency to deconstruct conjunctions when he reads them. Oh yeah, he can read as well. His name is Tony. He likes to scratch his ears and fetch sticks. When the thoughts of God first tumbled upon him, they knocked him over and he tumbled into a pond. He came out, shook water all over the place, sniffed himself, and felt different... smarter... more in touch with reality. The thoughts of God will do that to you.
You've been a good friend, Nerton.
"You've been a vague, vague boy," said the mother with her long crooked finger shaking sternly at a starry-eyed boy who looked up at momma, or just past her shoulders (or out that gray window, I really couldn't tell). He wore out his welcome at "Ned's Candy Store," because of his deep inimical questions of freedom and fate. He once stole a sucker, but Ned let him go. The "boy with the vague look," yes, the wandering face. When momma shook her crooked finger down at him he looked out the door. And there by his rope was the drummer who played for him Egyptian notes. He grinned, so it seemed, and tapped his left foot. Momma's eyes rolled and she fell to the floor. Papa was sleeping in a box six feet deep. The chickens were restless. The dog was in heat.