Your profession of putting people in boxes has so repressed the authentic Self within you that you aren’t here at all. It’s so engrained in you, you have no awareness of the fact that every expression of you is from a place of identification, and your analysis of every individual in your presence is an extended expression of your limitations. ‘You’re the type of person who…’ fill in the blank. ‘I’m the type of person who…’ fill in the blank. You’re not even aware that you’re not in the moment when you’re talking about how to be in the moment. You’re not even aware that you sit in judgement as you speak of no judgement. Everything is judgement in a taxonomic breakdown of identity. Your plateau has rewarded you for your hierarchical classification ‘skills’, and so you believe it to be a strength, but there’s only one of us here. I’m arguing with a textbook and then getting frustrated when all that comes back is analytic data.
The Artist Formerly Known As Robert LaSalle Wins 2022 High School Superlative: “Most Likely To Drown Beneath Incessant Noise Of Disinformation Age”
None of your favorite writers read about how to write. None of your favorite songwriters required musical lessons. None of your spiritual, ontological or existential teachers required spiritual, ontological or existential teaching. Writers write. Creators create. Seekers seek. Believers believe. And repeaters repeat. Welcome to the age of inauthenticity, The Disinformation Age, the first time in history where everyone's an artist, and there's no art left in artistry, where creativity goes to die under the red carpet where "content” holds it’s daily high school popularity contest, and True Artists are pushed unto the sidelines unacknowledged in the noise of competitive babbling, likes, follows and claps.
The Quest for Truth Begins In Lies
Riding bikes up Oakleaf Drive, Dereck asked, “Why don’t you go to church?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “Why should I go to church?”
“Well, if you’re not a Christian, you go to hell.”
“Oh.”
“All you have to do is ask Jesus to forgive you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just say, ‘Jesus, please forgive me of my sins.’””
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, just say it.”
“Jesus, forgive me of my sins.”
“OK, you’re saved.”
“Saved from hell?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
Your Society Always Has Your Best Interests In Mind
As long as you sleep less than four hours each night and fill your entire schedule with useless tasks, appointments, and meetings, you never have to confront any existential truths -or lies. Just fill your days and nights with doubt, worry, stress and fear. This is called success. Great job! You did it. Your peers will applaud you for your “ambition” and “hard work.” You will feel as though it’s all meaningless, but your society values your unique contributions.
Cosmic News I (Ned the Fish)
Ned the fish has evolved in time and space, as one does in the Cosmos. The consciousness that is Ned the Fish has become entirely sentient but not yet conscious. It’s a tricky place in time and space, where one species on a planet becomes aware but not yet conscious. This is the period when 99% of species in the Cosmos destroy themselves. This species on planet Earth call themselves… Hu-mans.
Sardonic Genie
My rhetorical attorney is nefarious, and I think it's all hilarious, particularly as it pertains to pardoning my illustriously alliterative rhymes and reasons, as they're clearly wrapped and bundled up in my listless, masochistic blanket on my hotbed of cynicism, and good god I'm anxiously awaiting the comfort of eternity.
Time Machine 1804
After acquiring a private jet from my German engineer friend with whom I left blueprints earlier this year, I fly to London to visit a friend of Thomas Paine’s. William Blake has just returned to London to begin his Prophetic Books, beginning with “and did those feet in ancient time.” I pose as a client just to witness his workshop. I’m awestricken by the beautiful man. Finally, I tell him I’m from the future, as I know he’s the only person on earth who’ll believe me. He laughs and we sing and play music together. While in London, I briefly visit with teenaged Lord Byron at Harrow, where I accidentally step on his foot.
Across the channel, I travel with Simón Bolívar to Notre Dame de Paris to witness Napoleon crowning himself Emperor
Welcome to Nashville, Fred Chopin
Nocturnes. That’s a sick title, brah. Hey, do you do Facebook? Check out my band, and give us a “like”. We’re called The Buttmother. It’s forward slash buttmother. Here's my card. We’re like post-ska-alt-prog, but it’s not slut-punk but like the backhand stuff more like post-modern-slut-punk. We’re playing Basement East this Tuesday