Proverbs: Liars, Writers, Death & Fashionable Nonsense.

My girlfriend tells me that I have no fashion sense. Which isn’t quite the truth. The truth is that what I have is fashionable nonsense. Two socks of different colors don’t necessary equal a wrong if it’s done on purpose, y’know?


Compulsive liars also happen to be very creative people. Hence the reason why they are always “making stuff up”.


At times, I am overcome with the sensation that I am a clown of the universe. Others just nod their head and agree.


Death may be considered the final transcendence – the transcendence of consciousness itself. Death is an ultimate union with the nothing.


For writers, there is great value to be found in reading both fiction and non-fiction books. While reading fiction, one may pick up on elements of style, character development, and how to unravel a story. While reading non-fiction, such as a science or history book, one is consuming objective information, which in turn initiates personal reflection. These reflections will create images and sensations within the mind which may later be utilized in one’s own writing.


Life seems far more tangible if one can make an art out of it. Hence why, for me, writing about my life is a way of concretizing my experiences.


The self seems necessary for transcendence. For what could ever be transcended without something to transcend? Herein lies the value of the Self, the source of all our suffering.


Our greatest addiction is thought itself. Just try not thinking about it.


I walk down the booming street with cars zooming to and fro and everyone in a hustle and hurry with a place to go while really going nowhere at all. Everyone is in constant motion while living out their lives in a deathly stand-still. I have no doubt that this culture is a symptomatic sickness, a neurosis — a psychosis, perhaps. Yes. I am sure of it. We are a society of insane patients, living out meaningless, senseless, and idiotic lives. We spend our weeks chained to self-imposed obligations, choked on caffeine. We spend our weekends in brief respite, pretending to be free. All the while we forebode the future, numbing ourselves with liquor, television, and drugs. We do it all in the name of God, country and family. Is there ever an end to this madness? Are we but prisoners condemned by the judge of ourselves?

Clink your bones, baby. We are a mass graveyard dance!

Ponderings: History, Suicide, Eternity, and Just Words!

Forget trying to do good! Simply be good. What follows this inner-constitution of goodness will be inevitable.


Everything matters, but only in the sense that everything is matter.


History is the stain of time. It is like the jelly trail of a retarded slug!


I promise never to write or say anything for as long as I die.


Suicide is breaking up with your long-time Self. Mortality is our wedding ring to life. The upside to suicide is, there need be no lawyers to consul this particular brand of divorce.


People are either dead or pre-conceived for billions of years, practically an eternity, in comparison to their sunspot years of life. Seventy-six years and the cosmos does not batter an eyelash. Ten generations come and dissipate and the cosmos barely blinks. Am I supposed to be acting serious right now? I will leave the acting to the actors, I believe. I’ve got better things to do…like, live my life as authentically as possible while I still have it.

Don’t blink.


My identity wishes for immortality. My soul laughs and asks, “Why on Earth would you wish for such a ridiculous thing?”


To keep the ignorant youth more humble and a little less ignorant – instruct them to read Socrates, whom often said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”


Just a wholesome reminder: We imprint ourselves upon our reality at almost all times. This is why objectivity can often be so difficult. If you want to perceive with clarity, forget about yourself for a while. Let the ego take a backseat.


Justice for the Criminals

We have heard this phrase regurgitated time and again. The “Criminal Justice System”. It infers justice, but for whom? For criminals? Well, at long last! The law-abiding citizens of this country have accosted us with their mindless good behavior for far too long. Finally, justice shall be served!

I feel the same way about “Freedom Fighters”. Fire fighters fight fires. Freedom fighters fight…what? You guessed it!


If we are “not our body” as spiritual minded people are apt to say, why then, does it appear that we cease to exist once the mechanisms for our consciousness, our being, ceases to exist? Bodily death is Being death. This seems so obvious to me…

Death accepts us all equally, yet we do not accept death. Death is an embrace into nothingness, into a state of pre-birth. Humans have yet to embrace death, as they are mostly busy clinging to life. Fear has rattled our brains with attachments from the start. Yet death remains the eternal good sport, laughing good naturedly at our absurdity, all with an empty black twinkle in his eye.


I write such cruel things, sometimes. And yet I always feel so much better for it. For me, to be a writer is to be a harmless sadist. The pen and paper are my tools of torture. Tortured by the universe, I torture the universe right back. Sometimes it is as if whole stars were ripping in two, screaming out all their luminescent, solarized guts upon the page. Word after word, my pen chisels away at eternity.

All the while eternity chisels away at me.


The collar and tie,

A casual ball and chain.


Life is the ragged climb to a flat line.


Only death can steal you from your Self.


I just watched the sun dribble away from my fingertips, slipping off the world like a holy egg yolk, blessed into the great beyond. I am alone, writing, with the blackened outside dawning through my windows. I can see little pin-points of light shining through the black canvas, like worn immaturities in God’s reality fabric. How those little pin-points bedeck me with hope!

Holy men and women pray for the universe to unveil itself so that we may discover what we really are. I know what we really are. We are the universe, composed of an identical fabric, shining through our consciousness. Look up into the heavens and behold the distant, wistful stars of this galaxy, located in the wild flesh and genes called human.


Just Words

The world is a vast complex simplified into “the world”; a general meaning utilized for common reference. This is what language has done for us. It has taken the inconceivable abstractions of our universe and compacted it into symbolic little packages which we call, words. Let us consider the “Universe”, a mere word which entails stars, galaxies, vast amounts of space (vaster than vast), solar flares, supernovas, black holes, worm holes, quasars, electrons, protons, neutrons, photons, quarks, matter & anti-matter, cosmic acceleration, at least four dimensions, orbits, satellites, planets, moons, comets, asteroids, intelligent life (some say we are an example of this, and some are still not sure this is the case), on and on to literally ad infinitum! Language is an invention which has surpassed our ability to imagine – indeed, much of our imagination is based upon linguistic structure. Our consciousness has been tainted – nay, infected – with language!

All of this, of course, is just words.

Your Cracked Writer Returns: A Pre-Curious Occupation, An ode of Voluntary Schizophrenia, and A Matter of Prejudice.

As per usual, here are

A Few Aphorisms of Divine Intoxication…

People are apt to say it is unbecoming of a man to keep a stash of two or three single Oreo’s in his left side shorts pocket. But what care have I for these puerile bores of convention? In any case, a small bit of lint in the double-stuffing never hurt anyone, and, in fact, adds to overall flavor. Wiser words rarely (if ever) spoken.

To find one’s way out of a wet paper bag is an ability which continues only to elude me.

One need only pop the lid on his ID to watch the blood begin to flow.

A writer or an artist is one whom is blessed with being a schizophrenic by choice.

The most awful, deplorable pun you’ve ever heard, courtesy of your ever-cracked author: What does an Ancient Egyptian say when she begins undergoing menstrual cramps? Answer: “Oh no, I’m getting my pyramid!”


A Matter of Prejudice

Human beings, by and large, seem to have a great prejudice against matter itself. People not only deny that they alone are composed of matter, but also believe themselves to be “something greater beyond just being STUFF”. And for why? If everything in this whole wide universe is composed of atoms, matter, (STUFF), including the sun, any galaxy you can hang your hat on, your mammalian brain, the planet Earth, an adorable newborn baby fawn, and on into ad infinitude, what is so wrong about ourselves, too, being composed of material stuff? Must something be immaterial in order to be great or beautiful? This seems like little more than superstitious folly to me. “But what about our souls!?” they are ravenous to ask. Well, what of them?

The soul, if we are to use that word, need not be immaterial either, in my view. By and large, the soul is either a poetic device or a myth — like God, like angels, like the mischievous leprechauns and daring centaurs of old. Regardless of souls (or leprechauns for that matter), the stars will continue exploding their enriched star-stuff guts out into the universe for an infinity, only to collect themselves once more under the law of gravity, reassembling all those chemical constituents into new stars, with new planets, with new moons, and perhaps with new intelligent mammals whom may one day grow up out of their planetary abundance of stuff just to ask those cold, shimmering ancient stars above, “Aren’t we greater than just being STUFF?


Sex:              Date of Birth               Preoccupation:               

I like to think of myself as a man endlessly consumed in the avalanche of constant discovery. My preoccupation is consistently and faithfully, with curiosity. My persistent spirit, as a result of this preoccupation, is of awe and wonder. I am rather proud of these facts, and only wish there were an available space upon every drab application form I find myself filling out for such information. Yet the cold machinery of our working society is lamentably indifferent to such wistful proclamations, no?

To hell with those bastard writers, poets, and visionaries!” the bald-headed managerial halfwits are apt to say. “What we want is obedient workers! We want men and women whom clock in on time, commit their heart to their work (and do it with a smile!) and work the overtime when asked! Good boys and girls need only apply.

Well. I say to hell with your obedient workers! To hell with all the “good” boys and girls!

I say, for the sake of ultimate preservation of the soul and all that is sane, bring on those bastard writers, poets, and visionaries, please!

And thank you.

The Multi-Universe of the Written Word

The Multi-Universe of the Written Word

The ability to read is among the most beautiful and abundant gifts of human life. Each book can be seen as a miniature universe unto itself, and the library as a collective multi-universe. Authors are mini-gods, popping in and out of existence all the time, gifting us with their creations. Our minds and imaginations are versatile spaceships, intricately connected with two seeing eyes which serve as the perfect coordinate communicators.

Each letter is an atom, each word a molecule, each sentence a planet, each paragraph a star. From page to page, from cover to cover, the open mind and hungry heart yearn for those miniature Gods to deliver us some beauty, some insight, some fantasy, or even just some plain amusement.

Whenever I see a child nestled in a cozy corner, oblivious to his external environment, lost in the little universe of his book, smiling bemused, there is inevitably a glow stirred within my heart. It reminds me to think back to those quiet, undisturbed summer days, sitting beneath a tree in my backyard, reading a paperback, and feeling happy as the sun shone down through the leaves, scattering light between shadows upon the pages of my book. True peace, true happiness, is often just as simple, just as easy as getting lost in a well-crafted, enticing story created by the adoring mind of an author, whom was merely trying to write the truth of his mini-universe as well as he possibly could.

So remember, the next time you pay your library fines (if you have any) or donate to your local public library, you are effectively funding an expanding, undulating multi-universe of human ingenuity, legend, and happiness.


A Few Aphorisms…

A neglected soul shall fly only by tattered feathers upon shattered wings. Some will say this is not flying at all.

Interests may change, but one will always return to what one loves.

Whenever someone creates something out of the fabric and goodness of one’s soul — a book, a poem, a painting, a sculpture, etc. — I want to applause.

With the tools of the mind, plying the materials of chaos, the artists constructs therefrom a cosmos.

I must be approaching death. How does a man as inept as myself hope to survive the ravages of daily life combined with an utter lack of common sense?


Ponderings — Fools, Immoralists, Elastic Limits and Brown Liquor.

A Few Aphorisms of Divine Intoxication…

If there is such thing as a moderate extremist, I am it.

That glorious dome of stars o’er the planet is Nature’s cathedral ceiling for the reverent Naturalist.

Patriotism is a euphemistic word for anti-intellectual pride and militant barbarism on parade, cloaked in national color and a vague symbolism fit to stir empty hearts.


The Fool and the Immoralist

A fool acts not knowing not what he does — a victim of his own ignorance committed to folly.

An immoralist is one whom acts out the same deeds as the fool, the difference being that his wisdom is far greater than his deeds. This is to say, he does wrong knowingly.

Better to be a fool than an immoralist. At least there is hope for the former!


Pour Ze Brown Liquor

“Pour ze brown liquor, ye fette sau!” — something I’d like to say to a disagreeable bartender just once in my life (preferably without being decked for it). Employing a few Germanic words seems to be a means of more eloquent defense than smashing a beer bottle over the bar and keeping the jagged bottleneck for a weapon. Same goes for uttering something in French. “Garder le culture en vie, vous le philistins!” You see. How could one say I am not a man of delicate sensibility?


An Elastic Human

We ought to envision the limits of a human being, physical and emotional, as that of a rubber band. When the limits are tested, there is unease and suffering, there is tension. Yet within the stretching of limits, there is room for the growth of one’s inner-strength and dignity of character. When the tension eventually recedes, one will have learned something of him or herself. When the tension picks up again later on in life to an even greater outer-limit, the suffering will be endured with greater, more learned fortitude and dignity. Of course, if the tension causes us to snap like a rubber band stretched beyond limit…those said limits, sadly, may never be tested again.



Pop Prejudice

Some folks tend to object to my usage of such words as, ‘unconscious’ and ‘incompetent’ in regard to the general population — that moving, undulating mass of what forms ‘the collective’. Would then “individuals exhibiting involuntary behavior” as opposed to “performing unconscious actions” be more in line with proper etiquette? It is true I may be judging a large group for being generally mindless and acting stupidly, but if the boot fits…

In any case, when it comes to language, connotation is the infection of popular prejudice.



Personal Good, Personal Evil

Questioning whether or not one is a genuinely good or bad person is the first clue to the former — especially if one’s heart weighs upon the question moreso than one’s intellect. “Evil” people care not if they commit atrocious deeds. If they do end up questioning their immoral behavior, they will do it with a casual intellectual curiosity and without any moral concern, unlike the generally good human being whom is questioning his or her own worth with a hope for goodness.



A Few Ponderings: Poets, Jokes and Echoes.

Hope you’re having a wonderful Saturday! Here are a few thoughts/aphorisms of mine as of late…

Abraham Lincoln is among one of my most favorite U.S. presidents. He had a wonderfully refined taste in top hats, and only a bullet to the brain could put a stop to his appreciation for the exciting art that is American theater.

If there is no central point to endlessness, then eternity must be joyfully futile.

Seek not to be an echo, but to be the source where-from all echoes resound.

The poet transcribes his primitive intuitions and interprets them as angelic impulses — only because the euphoria he experiences whilst gaining them clouds his understanding that he but a lowly visionary clutching at the frayed ends of a larger truth.

A man need never tell a joke if everything he says is funny.

(Man IS the joke, hence the inherent tragedy of his humor.)

If curiosity killed the cat, I am that cat. And quite curiously, happily killed!

Musings on Anatomical Furniture, Essential Truths & Cosmic Acting!

Chew on these cheese curds you decrepit Wisconsinite!


Some Delightfully Strange Aphorisms:

Death is always just a sneeze away. ACHOO! Gesundheit and goodnight.

A man should be as high as the top of his head.

Pretty blue skies are….boring.

Strive to be nothing, reject the notion of being anything, and in the result be everything.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in America, eat deep fried candy bars.

The cigarette is our most murderous of best friends. All the while enjoying its red glow comforts and companionship, it remains our most constant and truest enemy.

Recipe for a happy life: May the void take easy delight in its birth and taking of you, and may you take ease and delight in being birthed and taken.

Time is like a mosquito bite. The more one scratches, the worse the itch.


Anatomical Furniture

It is one frigid bitch on this side of planet Earth this morning. The occasional breeze cuts through the skin, raises goosebumps. Colder than a witch’s tit, truly. I walk the city streets nonetheless and contemplate anything and everything that crosses my neural pathways. Thoughts fleet and flow like feathers in an eddying wind. The joy I feel in this spontaneity brings a little warmth that otherwise would not be there. I have a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in my right hand and it is the brightest thing about my morning. Brighter than the sun even. I am wearing two thick hats upon my cranium today. I figure that the brain is a vital piece of anatomical furniture, and if you fuck up your brain temp., your entire house will soon be freezing.


Soul Garden

I want my soul garden to bloom full, dig? I allow the seasons of my mind to tend and cultivate full and without the obstructions of my ego. Part of me is always dying. I let those parts crumble and fall through willingly, effortlessly. Out of that intense decay, new flowers sprout in their due Springtime. I smile triumphantly, knowing that the past is good manure for the soul.


Teenage Lament

Teenagers are often found to lament quite publicly, “Nobody understands me!” Yet if they have a semblance of intelligence or subtle vision, they will eventually come to quietly realize that this is a good thing. To not be understood is a benefit, an advantage. You have something no one can take away from you, a quality void of external comprehension and thus incapable of being seized or stolen. Your soul has a trusty barricade. To not be understood provides us with a further license to kill.


The Replacement to Thinking

I can only barely comprehend the consolidations of immense power and influence which social media and cell phones have over the minds of our dear modernity. Mass distractions of a trivial, fleeting and hedonistic nature continuously draw people way from earnest study, from open questioning, from reading books, utilizing a vastly impersonal “social” means drawing them away from even being truly social. We have replaced thinking and reflection with gadgets and techno-obsessions. We have hypnotized the world with possessions which pre-possess. We are erased as humans before even opting for an erasure. The drawing away from thinking includes as well the drawing away from basic physical and mental vision, of not gazing up long enough from the comforts of the portable screen to see the fate train — check your messages, check your Facebook, check, check, look, look, drool drool! — running us down face first.


A Few Things We Must First Understand 

This is all quite simple: Put no stakes on immortality. Live for this present moment, for this brief, sunspot existence. Look forward to the Nothing. Live for the Everything, now. When we die, we go to Nothing, which does not exist. We rot and don’t go anywhere. In this life, the only thing you are entitled to is to reach the end of it. Your birth is ultimately a happy (or otherwise, depending on you subjective inclinations) accident. You are fortunate to be among the conscious living, to be a bipedal creature with a brain and spinal column. All is impermanent. There are no true rulers. Authority is arbitrary and subjective. There is no one to guide you but your Self. Your rights are illusions and superstitions. Life is a meaningless and blank canvas and you are the existential artist — so you better get to painting. Create your colors and forms, and act accordingly. Oh, and you’re on camera. Smile!


Cosmic Acting 

As I have mentioned previously, a man is a role to be played. Personality is a mental construction, an illusion attached to the Self, the I. All of this reality is a tragic comedy, a cosmic drama for the Gods of eternity to feast upon with wondrous eyes like children in a darkened, enclosed cinema. Our funny flesh and terror is their salty popcorn. The Gods laugh and weep from eon to eon, from reel to reel. There is a reason why a person is often referred to as a character. At heart I am an actor, just as we are all actors in this absurd, grand freak show of performance-living.

The insane thing is, the Gods are just a nice and playful idea. There is truly no Grand Director, and nature is our only producer (and ender). No Sir, Spielberg is not the director of this evolutionary motion picture! If there was, He would be more like Ed Wood. In truth, we are a play of, by and for ourselves, running off of a random and spontaneous script.