oddnessmostly

So that the miscreant souls will come into your presence? I think not. I think that you might think again. This is a wish invites disaster. My friend, please reconsider the action you are about to take. This action is one which places you in a danger you cannot calculate. You invite a violation of your own soul. It is your mind you torture, no other's. It is not so difficult as some might have you believe to break certain bonds, to seal others. Bonds of a dimensional nature. That is, bonds impacting upon all dimensions.

Here, this place, contains a deadness. The life of it has been pushed out and more. This is a deadness that is not merely an absence of life. It is an active deadness. It may soon spread.

I cannot bring life to it.

This is not the intended containment. This containment is inappropriate. This containment results not in combustibilities nor consumables.

This has been the day. This day has been and passes. Days do pass. They also accumulate. The same days that pass build up in heaps and piles. Just pass, day. Stop all this piling. There are too many of you as it is. Pass.

The sacrilege of slaving sunlight schismatizes sacred day.

I AM BEGGING FOR FORGIVENESS

I am begging for forgiveness for forgiveness for forgiveness. Forgive my mind. Forgive my mind's scattering unmindfulness. Forgive my begging for forgiveness for forgiveness. Is there no mercy in the earth? There is no mercy. Can there be no forgiveness for forgiveness? There is no forgiveness. Fortune favors the unforgiven. I lie. I am not the Prince of Lies. I am a shining angel to light the way for those who are blind to God's forgiveness.

God does not forgive.

I am not lying now. God will not forgive me. God will not forgive the Prince of Lies.

SCAT

This journal is nothing more than the scattering of my brain. Please do not heed it, I beg you. I beg you not to heed it, yet I beckon. I beg you not to heed it, yet how I do attempt to beckon you hither. Beckongings, beggings, brains. How these things quickly whither.

ECHO

All my words and they are not my words. No words belong to me. They do not allow capture or conjoining. My word is my bond therefore I have no bond. I do not engage in bondage. Not today. Not any other time.

FLESHWORD

What is the word that haunts me. It is not on the tip of my tongue. It is near my fingers. There was once a Word made flesh. It is not that Word, but this word has much flesh about it.

Language is often angry with me. Today it is enraged. I have offended the sacred and ultimate epiphenomenon.

Acrid as passing fancy at an autumn ball.

There is a page that rejects potential readers. It will not offend the eye.

There are words that defy the language and the minds that generate them. Attempts are made to classify and define them, but they remain essentially renegade. They cannot be used correctly. Words have souls. The souls of these renegade words cannot be contained by mere letters, signs, sounds. They are indecipherable as they are not ciphers. They are spinning bundles of will opposing the world of meaning by means of centrifugal force.

There is a fraudulent fiber in the fabric of the universe. I am a filament in that fiber.

This is an entry. This is an event. This morning, the sun rose. I rose. The coffee was good and it was strong. I like good strong coffee. The darkness of the good strong coffee did soften the harshness of the sun which rose. I also rose. The coffee did not soften me. It endowed me with a rigidity of the muscle and of the bone which I find necessary to rise to occasion. A day is an occasion. Every day. This entry. This event.

This is not an entry. Apologies to Dada. Whatsisname? The Frenchman with the goddam pipe. Smart-ass. Fuckin' pipe.

This entry should not be. For any entry, any entrance, purpose must be bound with arrival. There is no purpose in this simply grouping of words.

One attempts an entry. One attempts to make words form an... What could be characterized as, considered an entry. Is this a joke? It is not funny. It is not a joke. Not all jokes are funny. This is not one of them. It is not possible to enter.

There is a struggle with words. This entry is not an attempt to address that struggle.

This entry was simply not meant to be.

To put it simply. That is the desire. That would be ideal. With a universe of signs and tongues and images, however, it is hopeless. To put it simply is a thing for which one can no longer hope.

To join in. To become a part of a greater whole. To mingle with some vast matter's mass. To indistinguish one's self from the incomprehensible host of selves incapable of distinction. One might say perdition, but there is no spirit in it; not even as an object of agonies. One is lost. One is lost entirely in the entirety. The universe viewed as an empire of nonentity.


*

In the entry below, which is to say the entry immediately previous to this entry, it is not my intent to suggest that the heavenly bodies conspire against us, only that they conspire amongst themselves. It may be that they do conspire against us, I cannot know this to be either true or untrue. It certainly does appear at times that the heavenly bodies do conspire against us, against me. It is not likely, however, that they do, is it? It cannot be that the heavenly bodies conspire against me. What could I possibly have done to call their attention to my barely existent existence? Even if they were somehow made aware of my existence I can see no reason why they might conspire against me. If only they would. If only they knew of me and turned against me. That would give a meaning of celestial dimensions, as it were, to my dreary, soil bound... But no, do not consider it. Do not even consider that the stars and planets know you, attend you in any fashion, conspire to disrupt your heart and mind and soul, foil your every effort. There can be no such conspiring.

A simple sunrise involves a conspiracy of all heavenly bodies.

The question remains: What can one do with the time remaining? Put together a string of words. Send alien signals to familiar ears. Familiarize one's self with a string of questions which remain unanswered. Alienate one's familiar. Simply remain. Unanswer qestioning strings.

(I have no faith in string theory, so will not mention it here in a place of sacred statements.)

maohwmai

Animal experiments cry out for attention. The animals cry out. The experiments cry out. The scientists wipe sweat from their respective brows with bloodied rags. The scientists are learning. They are teaching the animals. Soon, the animals will know as much as the scientists and more. The animals will know what it is to be the experiment. The animals will learn to manipulate results, alter observed phenomena. They will learn these things and they will wait for exactly the right time.

Bold. The thing has been. It has been bold in its appetites. No more. The thing is finished. Incomplete in its satiety, it is done.

There is no knowledge in it. There is no knowledge in it. There is no knowing what the knowledge is. There is no knowing. There is no knowledge.

What the point is, I do not know. A point is meant. What is meant, I do not know. A point is intended to concretize some abstract. I like some abstract. Concrete scrapes so at times; at points in time. Time may be a pointy product. I cannot say. Time is a thing I cannot grasp. It does not fly, still I cannot grasp it. It is not still. Nor am I. I cannot grasp time. I can be grasped. I do not think that time makes enough of me to have me in its grasp. I do not think that time is a grasping thing. It has no desires in it. It does not covet nor require. It only clings in the form of a nearby star.

This is the only place for this thing. This is the only place that this thing could even remotely begin to be.

Okay. Ok. Oh-kay.

There was mentioned the possibility that this one is the one. It appears now that it may not be, but the possibility still exists.

Strictly speaking, of course, possibility cannot so much exist as be an alternatively angled dimension to existence. Does that sound right? Is that sound?

Hypothesis: Possibility is an alternatively angled dimension to existence.

No.

Hypothesis: Possibility is a dimension alternatively angled to existence.

No.

Strictly speaking this, these, is, are not hypotheses. I do not tend to speak strictly. Untestable. Untestable, is it? Too many questioning marks. This entry, this post, it is a foolish thing.

It is possible to end it here. To cancel. To edit. To delete. To simply walk away. (Split infinitives are perfectly acceptable, see Garner, it doesn't matter, though, as I do not speak strictly).

Possibility is dimension separate from, at an alternative angle to existence.

No.

No.

Once again. Set. Set. Set settings. Test. Once again. Test. Test testings. Test settings. Check. Set checking. Check set testings. Everything everything everything is an experiment. Experiment sans hypothesis. Hypothesize. Go ahead then, hypothesize. See where it gets you. See what. See what it gets you. She will. She'll see.

One should simply say 'without'. Or at least italicize 'sans'.

Ping. Please ping.

This may be the one. Others may be as well. This one may be the one that the others, however, are not. When searching... Searching is too strong a word. Connotes nearly a spiritual quest. What it may be to nearly connote, one cannot quite say. Not this one. Though this one may be the one.

I thank you. I thank Jesus. I thank the Lord of Flies. I thank the Files of the Lord. The Lord of Files is immune to gratitude's expressions. There is a bureaucracy entrenched in the very ether of what is termed cyberspace. Cyberspace is an obliquely breathable ether.

That which is not easily accessed may make a brain reach to fashion new functionings.

I hope that Herbert's feelings were not hurt. It cannot be easy to be Herbert. It cannot. It must not. It simply mustn't be easy for Herbert. We will make certain of that.

Herbert. I warn you. It will not be easy.