But...why...

Why stop? Though I'm sometimes given to
romantic excess, I see a modification of that
inclination and not wholesale cessation of
communications as my solution.

Did you hear it? Or am I the only one?

Am I dreaming or did I really hear that voice? What
voice? Listen:



*abandon the blog*

...until the phone call--*crack*--and I'm whisked away
by a loving guardian faerie. Aloft with wings in the
night fluttering so lightly!

Like a bat out of hell I'd be, but I need an opening.
There appears no ultimatum, only a fate of spatial
attrition...

Soon the spaciousness of the cell that appeared from
without begins to dwindle as the walls begin to retract
toward the hollow center. Stop! Stop--I'm inside...what
is this, a garbage compacter???

Step in, try the cell out, they banter, no
obligations! And you step in and then the door slams
behind.

Look: this prison cell comes with a hot tub and pink
walls! And that one: drinks for nothing and the
prance-dance of endlessly deluding sex!

There are so many pleasant prison dreams in the prison
catalogue I been browsing.

Thanks to a phone call that cracked a crevice through
which I could crawl.

notforprophet finds himself no longer a spring chicken
in a world of spring chickens. The spring chickens hate
anything that isn't one of them, call it pluckaphobia.
Chicken of chickens, notforprophet sprouts wings and
flies away! Haha! spring chickens can't fly! But all
that's up must come down. notforprophet hates down, but
down, down he goes. The authorities, themselves spring
chickens, feel like farmers who have found
notforprophet in their henhouse. O this is going to be
fun! While notforprophet slithers to the henhouse
floor, his younger hidden aspect, forprophet, peels
away (like the s

Yes. That's it. So I will write a hundred ditties for
you--all going unread.

Or that for every unread beauteous word expressed
(like a flower blooming in a forest forever unseen),
the entire world is secretly enriched.

I can fantasize anything I want: like, for every unread
blog of friendship, God takes a year off of my
purgatory.

I love you! I hate you. I love you! I hate you. I love
you! I hate you. I love you!

Of course, you will never read this. It is obvious that
you will never read my posts again--so I can say
anything I want, right? Okay!

no wonder the death angels are canvassing around
looking for popes about to croak! O yes they do! they
really do!

gone so far as to preserve a piece of the INtesTINE of
the current PoPe--that had to be removed after an
assassination attempt on his life--in order to include
it in the mummification process after he dies!

apparently, the Catholic Church has been/is mummifying
all the dead popes (just like Pharaohs) in anticipation
that they will need their earthly bodies ASAP on
Resurrection Day.

...Always the beautiful answer who asks a more
beautiful question.

e.e. cummings

Got to keep remembering to keep asking more beautiful
questions....

“Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is
stand still and look stupid.' -Hedy Lamarr

In a way, my will is no longer my own; I am, rather,
the proxy of a transpersonal force, with an agenda all
Her own...

And so this memory of...'something' has utterly seized
me, and I am compelled to gaze into this darkness
trying to see - to understand - just what it is I have
encountered.

And I can't quite retrieve that knowledge and
understand it in the light of conscious cognition, and
I think I'm supposed to.

In my writing, it feels like I am trying to remember
something: the images come to me like vague memories of
someone I was, someplace I was, something important I
knew.

But erudition alone cannot explain the existence in my
inspirational moments of the tripped-out cosmological
patterns and spiraling-staircase associations which
press upon me, prior to, and independent of, my
“scholarly knowledge” of them.

There can be no question that what I have learned in my
studies has colored the tetrahedron crystals through
which I perceive the world.

The scholar might look at the themes occurring to me
and suspect them to be nothing more than the cognitive
distillation of what I have studied and read: science
and philosophy, history and theology, anthropology and
psychology.

Perhaps, the dark side grows darker with every
inspirational indulgence.

Or perhaps worse yet, it is not a benign spirit
Godhead, but the Trickster Coyote who misguides me.

Perhaps this is part of the answer. Or perhaps, it's
just a logical construct.

To apprehend the intimate relation of all things is to
see part of the blueprint for the Grand Plan of the
Universe, and touch the Divine Will that beckons each
of us to our final destiny.

The spiritualist might say I am in contact with a
Transcendent Presence, Who is guiding me along the
rocky path to Truth.

One could never believe so many coincidences to be only
coincidences, probability theory notwithstanding.

Quite “accidentally” not, I am infused with the same
patterns that manifest in nature, in preternatural
laws, and human thought dating back at least 20,000
years or a kalpa—whichever is longer.

So I have also learned that there is a universal,
transpersonal dimension to the motifs in which I am
awash.

Hence the haunting image of a woman searching in the
forest (a notion constantly reoccurring to me), is in
fact a representation of my own search for completion
in the labyrinth of my own interior kingdom.

As a man and woman may draw unto one another to explore
the unity that is Life, so too does the conscious
identity seek union with the unconscious identity to
achieve full humanity within—individuation.

The Jungian psychologist might say my ideational
imagings are salient representations of my Soul Image,
my unconscious identity, my Anima (feminine aspect).

Poke, jab, push I, nonetheless. *slimed again* Does he
learn? *slimed again* Apparently not. *slimed again*

Sometimes, though, I prod and then fear the bubble pod
will burst and I'll get slimed by alien afterbirth.

Such moments of 'aesthetic arrest' are very exciting,
and when I experience one, I'm always childlike to
begin my quest, to explore the alien pod at hand.

Is this method?

     Is this madness?

           Or just Blogging Immortality?

Other times, when my mind is quiet - when I have
stopped my 'internal dialogue' - a vision will
unexpectedly press its way into my consciousness as an
undeniably expanding bubble but from a source,
nonetheless, in absolute apparent nothingness.

Inspiration, for me, sometimes happens without warning,
triggered by something I have seen or read about (or
perhaps, like Scrooge explaining his visiting spirits,
due to indigestion from something I ate).

I just heard said that the reason that Mickey Mouse only has four fingers

was because Walt Disney coldly calculated all the tens of thousands of animation man-hours that would be saved by drawing one finger (two, counting both hands) less--and it made eminent business sense.

If that's true, why doesn't he have one eye, one hand, and one ear, too?

Of all the things I've lost in life, I miss
________________________ the most.

It is never a solemn trail that leads us towards our
future. Let us dance up this spiral staircase to
heaven.

Hey, when did the *Xanga Olympics* disappear?  And who the hell won?!

There's still a reference on the protal page:

Which only takes you here:

Well, if nobody else claims it, in the words of my dearest friend, lcsaph, : *I von, I von!!!*