Movie: Jeepers Beepers.

 

"If it moves, kill it..."

-Darnell Strafford-Lisenby, The Lesser.

I stepped into the world as one partaking from here to there, or was it there to here? but nevertheless, a transitory sort of bird, coagulating between two junctures, at a pace, a happenstance plopped-down and push-pinned between several more determinate points.

It was Friday morning.

I un-knotted my colon, lost in thought in the outside air, to be sustained by pure clean air, and have those as it were, influence my thoughts; I was somewhere between Stunt Driver Bo and Henry David Thoreau, with probably more Stunt Driver Bo in my colon than without.

I was thinking as such that all news was not about the President, and I turned away to better my perspective, as I was not paid to generate content for a network, not fill so many hours a day with pointed perspectives for or against; I had the luxury to reserve my own judgement, as it were.

One could pay dearly for independence of mind, so to speak, in the modern age, particularly if he sought for it in the wrong corners, for indeed, it is not found without very often, but more or less consistently indwelling, sitting in between the ears, all the time.  Indeed, so much of that outside must be cast aside and did away with in order to actually mark a moment of silence, to not be plugged-in or reachable by the touch of a button.

They used to experiment on small animals by inducing stimuli at the touch of a button.

I was watching a program on the Akashic Record earlier, something of the mysticism, a sort of global consciousness that more learned men have hinted it, things like the collective unconscious, a kind of spiral symmetry prevailing across the human beans in the ether, how they all seem to approach and sense and theorize and then, even when it is unexpected, there are more than one set of hands to be found grasping for that new, novel, original thing.

Synchronicity.

Or, as Blake said darkly, "the Fearful Symmetry".  It was something only one with extra senses could pull off, to mine his thoughts from a few cryptic words, and then, to find, enigmatically so, that it was not a new thought, but the pattern, the shadow of one's own prior thoughts, that Deja Vu that fingered insistently through the darkness of time and space to encapsulate and snapshot some un-bespoken moment in time in the reader's own life, even some 4 centuries later.

Indeed of the unseen transmissions, of the Akashic Record, Tesla said to know too much or much more in a given time than anyone, to seem to have advanced knowledge, to even do "wireless electricity", and him being one of the pooka, one of the touched of the Akashic Record?  Was his symmetry fearful, locked in patent wars with Thomas Edison?

I had caffeinated sweet beverages, and set down my "f*ck-all", and generally adjusting the bolts in my neck my looking at my own little space, the mindset, the attic of the old asylum, as it were, I finally had some unabbreviated television time.  My "f*ck-all" sat, like Matt Dillon's 45, for a few hours as I gathered-up my spleen, my unction, got a snoot-full of who I am, who the ancient Isrealites were, and then I found myself finishing the guy on tv's sentences, finishing the thought, as it were, going further ahead in his sermon notes for the greater truth of the piece, what they call "the Bridge of Interpretation" in hermeneutics.

Of that a "breach in the wall", which I had plugged with Chris's sunburnt ginger hindparts, how he was there and not there at once, and there was such burned with fire, the Temple damaged, and such and so forth.  Even that, as Solomon would have said, had its time and place, and even the reign of an Anti-Christ according the St John would have its own marked time and place, and somewhere in all that hatred and killing and territorialism, I checked the tag on my underwear, and it amazingly had my name on it.  I remember that guy.

Adrien Brody.

I remembered talking about Specific Gravity, or saying that mass and the pull of the curvature of spacetime: voids abhoring, vacuums calling like unto like, and all that, and all the substance of the universe singing various portions, ala String Theory, of the self-same song of amazement, wonder, and all that, set to the rhythm of life and death, and marked by the drip-drop of the perception of time.

It was such to say, "gravitational forces are abundantly self-evident, inductive."

Or, to wit, "I like big butts and I cannot lie."

Perhaps it could further be theorized, one can't have a hot dog, without buns.