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!!!*

And then I'll need to scurry back to my bubble covey
all perplexed about why tickles turn into pricks, yet
awaiting a double or triple bubble birth which will
take me for my next ride.

Sharp things are anathema. So if you put me on a bed of
pins, I'll burst! *Plop*

So I'm just your harmless bubble boy, which you can tap
around, blow around--just like a toy.

There's a deep tickle inside, and it is so harmless
that I allow it to bubble up and so here I am.

Good vibes--or that by any other name--require the
sentience which I know we share. The sharing is good
and the capacity to do so, sweet. I am tickled sitting
here writing to you.

but she's better than this hero with secrets

and more
exotic than this dreamed alien:

she's a pureblooded
girl in touch with herself

a rarity, a woman, my
friend.

and don't underestimate her raw power

physicality to
her is not strange

if you'd try to mess, she'd get the
best

wrestling ya to the ground half-deranged.

with a display of beauty daunting

she'd embarrass all
who frown

and adorn the world with a taunting

when
they'd try to hold her down.

with an intellect so piercing

she'd see through all
the crap.

then direct me ever so safely

away from
heartache traps.

with energy unrivaled

she'd dash the lifeless trash


out of all the rituals so feeble

that cause my mind
to crash.

i'd play the puer aeternus

living life in the moment
of now,

she'd be a puella forever

forsworn to youth
like a vow.

i wish she were a secret hero

or some alien from
another land

then i could just hang out with her


like the lost boys with peter pan.

That being said, may I now add: let us all welcome
ourselves to this expressive insurgency!

Hence blogging distinguishes itself as a most genuine
form of expression—and is utterly artistic at its
height—when it creates community.

So the timeline of expression invites a timeline of
response—and thus the blog is woven as a form for all
to see.

But the highest form of blogging always invites
response: the initial post is one hand posed awaiting
the second hand, the comment, which issues the *clap*
or sometimes the *smack* or sometimes a chaos of
*slaps*, *hugs*, and *gawks*.

The best of posts, uncommented, remains the haunting
one hand clapping in the forest—which is a rare and
ethereal accomplishment: a pure essence of expression,
standing by itself, pristine, an incontrovertible
entity.

Though like a journal in having a timeline that flows
like a river carrying fluid thoughts to the sea, the
key to this art form (dare I say that?) is its
performance: its interactivity.

Is blogging a new and emerging
literary/graphical/(perhaps even audible) art form?
Should it, will it rank among other genre of recognized
expression such as the novel, the essay, the poem, the
sketch? Will the “Art of Blogging” be a credited
English course in tomorrow's universities (surely, the
kiss of death) ?



I dare to struggle and say: yes.

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale
smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street


With all the muddy feet that press

To early
coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time
resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are
raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.




--T.S. Eliot

I am no prophet -- and here's no great matter;

I have
seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have
seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,


And in short, I was afraid.



--T.S. Eliot

And I have asked before, as you have undoubtedly
wondered yourself, *Can I blog after I die, or must I
anticipate departure with a final posting goodbye?*




That depends...on Machine.

Most people live out life as a given experience, but I
have embaraced live as a self-chosen experiment. Join
me.