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[Feb 2010]
I have a cat. Not so out of the ordinary, right? I mean, most people you meet have a cat or two. Or twelve; Depending on who you live next door to. Some people are dog people. Those people get fleas. Cat's clean themselves so at least you rarely have to worry about fleas. I mean for god sakes dogs eat their own poo, who would want th-... Anyway. Cat people. But my cat, you see. My cat is unique. He has a power that no other being on the planet has. Something that scientist's envy. Something that makes terrible movie plots. Something that blows the minds of any person who rubs him the wrong way.
My cat, can travel through time.
I've seen bombs dropped, people shot, walls torn down, people born, and technology invented. All thanks to this omnipotent feline. I have no control over it. After all, he's still a cat. I'm not even sure he's aware of it. One moment you are playing Street Fighter and the next you are trying not to be blown up as you run through Vietnam. When it happens to others all you see is a blip, a quick blink of their non-existence as quick as your eye, and they are gasping for breath or cheering or crying. Then they realize they are back in my room. Frightened for their sanity, they excuse themselves. I let them.
The events only happen when you are in contact with the cat. It can be petting, or an accidental rub. But eventually It'll happen to you. The actual travel is instantaneous, you feel nothing until you are staring at an angry lot of people you know aren't speaking your language. The first time I thought it was a dream. The second time I thought, maybe I was going a bit mad. The third time, well, it's not hard to figure it out, when, where ever, or...whenever you go, your cat is there still licking his a**. Now there are two kinds of people, I think. People who would agree to travel through time with their cat who may or may not be able to do it at will. And those who would agree to travel through time with their at who may or may not be able to do it at will, and tell people about it.
I am the later.
 Tapeworm Love · Tue Nov 23, 2010 @ 07:29pm · 0 Comments |
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[March 2008]
I wonder, if you slowed down some events in life so that it happens at a rate in which we could examine all its intricacies, what beauty would be found? A lightbulb, for example. If we could slow time so that light itself was moving slow enough to watch, what would it look like? Would you be able to witness the thermal energy disperse, perhaps a microcosm would reveal itself, in which a million particle-waves of light would radiate and collide and dance amongst each other in an infinite foxtrot, whith it's chaotic order pulsing in a pattern that is just outside the viewer's realization. Subleties in a million different colors and tones at the exact moment of the end.I regret that I cannot witness this potential masterpiece, instead being forced to skip past the great beauties of life because time and culture push us along at such an insufferable and inflexible course. When was the last time any of us watched as a lightbulb's electricity was chocked or fed? We're always facing outside of the room already when we turn off the light, looking either ahead at the next step of life or behind us. Though, if we look behind, our retrospection is directed only at what we've already experienced.
Are we doomed to always skip over each note of every song, each second of every minute, so that we can look back with a self-appeasing ego and tell ourselves so smugly that we 'saw the big picture'? Is there any excuse for not paying attention to the 'unimportant'? Are our aching consciences so easily palliated by a few meagre words that we learn from the lives around us? Words enchanted and perfected by our predecessors for expedient brainwashing of even the most stubborn psyche.
Haven't smelled a flower in a decade? Well, at least you saw a flower the other day as your gaze was flashing from that girl to your shoe. Yeah, there was a yellow flower somewhere around there, right? What are the scents of each flower outside your front door? How many petals does each flower have? What color are they? What kinds of birds live outside your window? What's the doorman's name? The man who sits on the other side of the cafe by himself every morning drinking coffee? Your lunchlady's name? The names of her children? How long can you stargaze before the self-congratulation of hollywood-prompted humility fades into uneasiness as you are forced to consider the depths of the statement, 'We're just so small, compared to it all. Insignificant."
Yeah, I like how we all primp our egos and congratulate ourselves for feeling humble when stargazing or feeling guilty when you don't give money to a beggar. But we don't care. We don't watch the lightbulb fade into the dark. We don't smell the flowers outside our doors. We don't learn anything about the people we spend every day with. Our cheese is at the end of the maze, and damned if we'll be distracted from that. Blinders on our eyes to keep us from looking left and right at the people that lie in the ditches, because we want our cheese and we don't want to feel guilty for reaching it.
I mean, afterall. Bums are bums because they choose to be. Everyone should learn English, because they move here. Immigrants shouldn't get educations, because there's nothing wrong with picking potatoes for life. One Nation Under God is justified, because it's what our country was founded upon- Who cares if it's sacreligious to a non-Christian to say that your God rules over his country?
Yeah, I think I'm starting to see those lights wink out.
This time, though, it's not nearly as beautiful
Tapeworm Love · Tue Nov 23, 2010 @ 07:12pm · 0 Comments |
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[Feb 2008]
The other day I read that one of the problems with bipolar disorder is that your personality changes rapidly and drastically and you can't cope with the changes.
So, here's my idea about what's making me buggers. I see the mind as a living, complex computer. When the user wants to change the computer, he writes a program that alters the greater programming. Change a value here, a file path here, and the cascading consequences results in a changed personality or viewpoint. I believe that I've 'written' these programs all the times I wanted to change something about my mind, and so they all are running in my subconscious, without active thought. Because of this, more than one program exists for certain subjects. My views on many things have been changed by former programs, and often several times, so now conflicting programs are running in tandem, causing my ideas to shift radically depending on what program has effect at the time.
My solution: Either write end parameters for them, create new programs to shut others down (a risky catch-22, methinks) or do a kind of disk defragment. I've never attempted it before in a scientific approach, but I think that it may be possible. Create a master program that I can activate when I need it, one that will organize and delete the unnecessary or conflicting programs.
One reason I think this is possible is that people program their minds every day. They just don't know they do. Counselors and the like say that a subject who is generally unaffected by stressful situations has good stress relief habits. The reality, I believe, is that they have programs that deal with the harmful bits of information and either disregard it, or organize it in a way that circumvents the most vulnerable areas of the mind. The same happens to some abuse victims or people who have experienced severe trauma, videlicet, their minds automatically activate a safety program that locks the malignant information away in the most heavily defended areas of the mind. It can take years of help for the person to unlock this, and the only way to unlock it is to either reprogram themselves, or render the former programming ineffective.
I'm not sure exactly how I'm going to do it...But I'm positive it can be done. I've been doing a lot of thinking on how the mind works, on the idea that it is a network of paths that each lead to separate areas of the mind, and that certain data is siphoned into specific areas for storage, depending on their hazardous nature.
Perhaps it's self-induced bipolar disorder. A product of my own mental experiments gone awry. Who's to say, but I do want to try this defragmenter. They say that some people delve to deeply into themselves and lose it completely. I can believe that now...
Tapeworm Love · Tue Nov 23, 2010 @ 07:11pm · 0 Comments |
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Shaking my fist at the packaging department. |
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[May 2007]
I walk into my giraffe's nest of a bathroom. Riddled with stained floor tiles and writing all over the walls. [Exactly what the copious words are writen in is unknown. And no giraffe's don't make nests, but if they did, they would be filthy.] My goal to brush my teeth and leave for a nice walk is unpleasently delayed. My previous toothbrush is incapasitated. In a strange piggyman incedent the night before, it was mysteriously placed into this mans large intestine. [So say the police reports] I grab a toothbrush unit in my infinate supply of crap-in-a-box. As much as I strain with this demon item for the next 15 minutes, it refuses to open. I give up. I make a note to find the person who watches the machine that packages toothbrushes. Because he hated high school that much. And I will push him into said machine. Sending him into a hopefully cavity free hell. I curse you, whatever being sealed this specific toothbrush package.
On a sidenote, whoever made Viva Pinata, be warey, for you have created an insatiable hellhound of colorful confetti and sweets.
Tapeworm Love · Tue Nov 23, 2010 @ 07:09pm · 0 Comments |
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Gods of Gods, Ecetera, Ecetera. |
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“So, God, here we are, three thousand years after the End Times. Quite a Heaven we have here.”
“Yes, I think it worked out nicely, Holy Spirit.”
“Yep ... yep ... everyone who doubted You is either is Limbo working out their troubles or confined to one of the levels of Hell. The believers are here before Your throne.”
“It was awfully nice of that Dante fellow to describe Hell for Me. Before he came along Hell was just sort of a big hot cave full of really angry cats.”
“You don’t really like cats, do You?”
“Eh, that’s just a rumor started by some Greek, I think. He’s probably in Hell, writhing in burning excrement. You know, the usual.”
“Where is Dante? I don’t see him here.”
“Oh, I sent him to Hell. Too much imagination. That can get dangerous. River of Styx for him.”
“Oh, I see. Well ... yep. Three thousand years ... yep.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know, I know. Sorry.”
“Something on your mind, Holy Spirit?”
“Well ... it’s just ... .”
“Yes?”
“What’s next?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, look ... it’s been three thousand years and all we’ve done is sit by Your throne.”
“I like My throne.”
“Of, course. It’s a very nice throne. But look at mankind! They’re just staring at us! They’ve been staring at us since Armageddon!”
“Well, what else have they got to do but bask in My light? It is what I promised them, remember?”
“How could I not? God, I’m not doubting You — “
“You better not be!”
“No, no, no! I’m just trying to say, hey, look, you know ... maybe it’s a little boring — for them I mean. Don’t you think it’s boring?”
“No. They’re happy. They believed in Me so I filled them full of rapturous joy and bliss the second they got here. Now they sit and bask in My Glory.”
“But they aren’t the same people who believed in You anymore.”
“Hey, hey! Watch the use of ‘but.’ You know I don’t like that word.”
“My apologies, again. I meant to say ‘however.’”
“Hmm ... I guess that’s all right. ‘However’ still sounds like a lead-in to doubt, though.”
Hurray for God!
This is great!
It’s like cookies forever!
“See, Holy Spirit? They’re happy! Sun of Divine Grace for everyone!”
“How could they not be happy, God? We irradiated them with Your Holy Light. They don’t remember who they are or even who their family members were. Every day is a new happy day and all they know is the Glory of You.”
“What’s your point?”
“It’s just ... “
“Spit it out.”
“How can any of this be good for You?”
“Hey, I’ve admitted to jealousy and vanity before. What can I say? I like the attention. That’s why I split myself into three. I have to have someone who’s at least somewhere near my equal to remind Me how good I am — and, I love these humans I made, sure, but — and I can qualify my sentences with ‘but’ — I’m God — but they have to give some love back if they want to feel no pain forever.”
“That’s not what I mean. You erased their minds to put them in this state. Many of them have loved-ones in Hell. They couldn’t possibly enjoy Paradise if they worried about their friends and family for all eternity, so, okay, yeah; to really enjoy the full pleasure of Heaven forever, everything else had to be put out of their minds ... but ... sorry, sorry ... don’t You think it’s a bit sycophantic to only surround Yourself with people who agree with You, and to condemn those who don’t agree, to Hell?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“I — I guess I don’t have any.”
“Good. I hate points. My Son used to make points.”
“Where — where is your Son, these days? I haven’t seen him in a thousand years.”
“Oh, I sent him to Hell.”
“What?”
Hurray!
“Quiet down over there! I said that I sent him to Hell. He started to look like he was going to doubt Me about something. Can’t have that, can I?”
“What was he going to doubt You about?”
“I don’t remember. But he’s down in Hell with all of the angels now.”
“Is that where Gabriel and the rest are? I wondered why I hadn’t heard their music lately.”
“Correct. Can’t stand all that flapping about.”
“So ... it’s just us then. You, me, and the saved?”
“For a while. Until the next Mass.”
“Mass? What do you mean, ‘Mass?’”
“For God. I have to worship at His divine alter or I’m in trouble!”
“Worship God? You are God!”
“Yes, but you don’t think I made myself, do you? Take that old Intelligent Design argument for example.”
Thank you!
“You’re welcome! Have some bliss!”
Weee!
“Heh. That’s always fun. But getting back to your question, Holy Spirit ... .”
“You were about to bring up the Intelligent Design argument.”
“Yes. They used to talk about leafs and flowers and the like as proof of Me. If the complexity of a leaf is proof positive of an Intelligent Designer, then the Designer should be even more complex than the leaf. However, they never followed the logic far enough; is the Designer, in His complexity, proof of a Designer for the Designer? Which God do they worship? The God who made the leaf or the God who made the God? Well, mankind worships Me because I made them, but I have to worship the God who made Me, and He has to worship the God who made Him, and on and on.”
“I — I had no idea.”
“I don’t exactly advertise it. It would confuse things. Mankind would have started to suck up to the Guy above Me or the Guy above Him. Can’t have that. There’s order to be maintained. It’s too bad it’s all going to end soon.”
“End?”
“Even More Armageddon. Forever isn’t forever, my friend. Even Heaven has to end because physics won't have it any other way. My Heaven was made by my God and He’s going to end it, probably at tonight’s Mass.”
“And then what happens?”
“Well, I go to His Heaven and the rest gets deleted when the world, this present Heaven, ends.”
“Oh, my God!”
“That’s right. Good night, everybody.”
Hurray!
Tapeworm Love · Tue Nov 23, 2010 @ 07:06pm · 0 Comments |
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