A word of advice.
If you are going to wear a swimsuit , please reconsider your stance of
not gardening.
I know its a jungle out there, but I don't want to see your pubic hair
playing peek-a-boo from the seams.
Yes, Men Notice.
I do, unfortunately.
I know its a jungle out there,but please be willing to trim it.
--
<
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Prison diary 3
The general consensus amongst the ship staff here is that our chief
cook likes to hump the eggplant casserole before
serving it to us.
Why?
Because his eggplant casserole always tastes so fucked up!
Our chief cook ought to write a book on weight loss.It should be
titled '101 ways to cook with capsicum and potatoes'
or in the ship staff's most favourite ,'How to fuck up food and get
cursed a lot' or the crowd favourite 'All you
wanted to know about culinary torture , but were afraid to ask'
Would his cook book work?
You betcha!
On mondays we have capsicum-potato curry
On tuesdays we have fried capsicum-potatoes
On wednesdays we have capsicum-potato broth
On thursdays we have boiled capsicum-potato combo lightly sprinkled
with salt and pepper
On fridays we have sauteed capsicum-potato lightly sprinkled with chilli powder.
On saturdays we have Gangbanged up the ass Eggplant Bukkake casserole.
Sundays are fast food days and we have Fuckin' soggy French fries
(pardon my french and pass the mustard please) and
capsicum cheese potato pizza.
You know how hard it is for me to gain weight?I had gained enough
weight for people to call me a fatso.And now...
Damn you.
DAMN YOU COOKIE!
I'll be back to my original weight before you can say 'Gangbanged up
the Ass Eggplant Bukkake casserole'.
Hey weight watchers! Hey fatsos! Hey anorexia addicts!
Try my chief cook.
Your weight will melt off faster than ice in the sahara!
You want a better analogy?
Your weight will melt off faster than a stick butter in an active volcano.
You want a dirty analogy?
Your weight will melt off faster than you can say
'Gangbanged up the Ass Eggplant Bukkake casserole'.
Today we stumbled upon the 'Law of Conservation of Problems'.This is
almost 'Dilbertian' in concept.
Two people signed off and went home today.
Someone remarked that those two people were the luckiest people in the
whole world, because from the time they
stepped off the gangway till the time they reach their respective
homes, they will be the only people who have no
problems.
We elaborated further.
It wasn't like these people didn't have any problems.All the problems
they had on the ship were simply transferred
to their relievers while all the problems on the homefront were still
on the distant horizon.So, for a brief period
of time, the people who signed off were in the so called 'Problem
Limbo', which is not to be confused with the
'Phantom Zone' or the dance in which inebriated people slide under
horizontal poles.(can a pole ever be horizontal?
Won't the pole lose it's 'pole-ness', when it becomes horizontal? Your
answers are welcome)
It wasn't that their problems had disappeared, but that the offsigners
were in a location where problems had not yet
found them.As soon as they reached home, these people and their
problems (wives,children,mortgages,bills) would be
united once again as a one big happy family.
But thinking that one could escape from his or her problems by staying
at the 'Problem Limbo' is an illusion.If you
stay in the 'Problem Limbo' for long enough, you change the properties
og the Limbo itself.Problems either seek you
or you seek out new problems.You must realize that problems and humans
are like soul-mates.We are bound to be
attracted to each other.
You go on a vacation to escape your problems, but if you overstay,
your problems will come in search of you, or you
will go in search of new ones.
Thus we fell upon the 'Law of conservation of Problems', which goes,
"Problems can be created, problems can be solved, but it is most
likely that problems will be transferred from one
person to the other"
x-x-x
Time is fluid.I keep telling this because you do not realize that time
is a man made concept.
Its been six months since I've joined,and the last few days will drag
out interminably.
The first few months flew like a sick sparrow, but now time will drag
like a limping snake.
WITH DAYS THAT FEEL SO LONG , HOW DID SO MANY MONTHS PASS SO QUICKLY?
Soon It will be time to sign off and I'll be dreading the day I'll be
returning home.
Its true,its like being in prison.Although you constantly yearn to get
out ,once you do, you want to go back in as
soon as possible.
--
<
cook likes to hump the eggplant casserole before
serving it to us.
Why?
Because his eggplant casserole always tastes so fucked up!
Our chief cook ought to write a book on weight loss.It should be
titled '101 ways to cook with capsicum and potatoes'
or in the ship staff's most favourite ,'How to fuck up food and get
cursed a lot' or the crowd favourite 'All you
wanted to know about culinary torture , but were afraid to ask'
Would his cook book work?
You betcha!
On mondays we have capsicum-potato curry
On tuesdays we have fried capsicum-potatoes
On wednesdays we have capsicum-potato broth
On thursdays we have boiled capsicum-potato combo lightly sprinkled
with salt and pepper
On fridays we have sauteed capsicum-potato lightly sprinkled with chilli powder.
On saturdays we have Gangbanged up the ass Eggplant Bukkake casserole.
Sundays are fast food days and we have Fuckin' soggy French fries
(pardon my french and pass the mustard please) and
capsicum cheese potato pizza.
You know how hard it is for me to gain weight?I had gained enough
weight for people to call me a fatso.And now...
Damn you.
DAMN YOU COOKIE!
I'll be back to my original weight before you can say 'Gangbanged up
the Ass Eggplant Bukkake casserole'.
Hey weight watchers! Hey fatsos! Hey anorexia addicts!
Try my chief cook.
Your weight will melt off faster than ice in the sahara!
You want a better analogy?
Your weight will melt off faster than a stick butter in an active volcano.
You want a dirty analogy?
Your weight will melt off faster than you can say
'Gangbanged up the Ass Eggplant Bukkake casserole'.
Today we stumbled upon the 'Law of Conservation of Problems'.This is
almost 'Dilbertian' in concept.
Two people signed off and went home today.
Someone remarked that those two people were the luckiest people in the
whole world, because from the time they
stepped off the gangway till the time they reach their respective
homes, they will be the only people who have no
problems.
We elaborated further.
It wasn't like these people didn't have any problems.All the problems
they had on the ship were simply transferred
to their relievers while all the problems on the homefront were still
on the distant horizon.So, for a brief period
of time, the people who signed off were in the so called 'Problem
Limbo', which is not to be confused with the
'Phantom Zone' or the dance in which inebriated people slide under
horizontal poles.(can a pole ever be horizontal?
Won't the pole lose it's 'pole-ness', when it becomes horizontal? Your
answers are welcome)
It wasn't that their problems had disappeared, but that the offsigners
were in a location where problems had not yet
found them.As soon as they reached home, these people and their
problems (wives,children,mortgages,bills) would be
united once again as a one big happy family.
But thinking that one could escape from his or her problems by staying
at the 'Problem Limbo' is an illusion.If you
stay in the 'Problem Limbo' for long enough, you change the properties
og the Limbo itself.Problems either seek you
or you seek out new problems.You must realize that problems and humans
are like soul-mates.We are bound to be
attracted to each other.
You go on a vacation to escape your problems, but if you overstay,
your problems will come in search of you, or you
will go in search of new ones.
Thus we fell upon the 'Law of conservation of Problems', which goes,
"Problems can be created, problems can be solved, but it is most
likely that problems will be transferred from one
person to the other"
x-x-x
Time is fluid.I keep telling this because you do not realize that time
is a man made concept.
Its been six months since I've joined,and the last few days will drag
out interminably.
The first few months flew like a sick sparrow, but now time will drag
like a limping snake.
WITH DAYS THAT FEEL SO LONG , HOW DID SO MANY MONTHS PASS SO QUICKLY?
Soon It will be time to sign off and I'll be dreading the day I'll be
returning home.
Its true,its like being in prison.Although you constantly yearn to get
out ,once you do, you want to go back in as
soon as possible.
--
<
Shoe Fetish
Shoe fetish and Learning to walk
--------------------------------
Lots of women like my shoes,or so they say.
Strange as it is,I don't give a damn about my shoes.
I just buy the most comfortable pair that I happen to see.
Most of my shoes are strictly sports sneakers and tennis shoes.
Sports apparel.Not fashion statements.
I like the support that they give me when I walk.
I walk a lot.
A lot.
And I need all the support I can get.
But in any case, most women like my shoes.
Or so they say.
But there is one girl I know who is a little different.
She is a confirmed shoe fetishist.
And a foot fetishist.
It's a funny thing to see her stare at me when I wear my shoes.
She looks at them like a fat hungry kid stares at a hamburger.
Her eyes are transfixed.Her face is blank.
She has lost track of time.
I see drool at the corner of her mouth, I kid you not!
And she's looking at me wearing my shoes.
She never misses an opportunity.
It's creeping me out.
My feet aren't pretty.They aren't supposed to be.
I clip my toe nails regularly but that's about it.No nail filing or
pedicures for me.
My feet don't smell, or so I'm told.
They aren't too hairy either.Maybe that's because I'm not Frodo.
My feet are a bit on the dainty side.
Size 8 on their best days, and size 7 on weekends,bank holidays and
most other days.I suppose I got it from my mom,
whose shoe size is 3.She has to search in the toddlers section for her
footwear.She's officially tired of wearing
sneakers with stickers of Mickey Mouse and Goofy on them.
BUt let me tell you something.Small feet only mean that the man wears
small socks.Nothing more,nothing less.If I
could only tell you what a whopper I had caged behind the
zipper...maybe some other day, and only if you ask nicely.
Oh I forgot.
My feet aren't pretty.
Four years ago I poured steaming superheated water on both my legs.
I'm not a masochist.
It was an accident.
I repeat.
I'm not a masochist.
I suffered second degree scald burns to such a severity that two
hospitals refused me.The third only gave me a shot
of painkillers so that I could stop howling in pain, and dressed my
burns up with Silver Sulfadiazine and sent me to
another hospital.
I spent two days in the Intensive Care Unit and a week in the Burns
unit and consumed five bags of plasma.In the
Burns unit, there was an eight year old girl bext to me who had an
accident with hot oil from a deep frying pan.
She was all wrapped up in gauze like a mummy.
No.
She didn't walk like an egyptian.
I doubt it if she had even heard of The Bangles.
I don't know what happened to her,but later the police showed up to
the hospital.They were alerted by the hospital
staff about the severity of the accident.
They suspected it was a college hazing ritual gone bad.
I explained to the inspector that I had been out of college for some
time now ,and this accident was entirely my own
fault.
The inspector gave me his number and asked me to call him if I had
changed my mind or my story.
Neither my mind or my story changed.
My nurses weren't sexy.They didn't wear short skirts.They didn't
lavish any attention on me.
They were middle aged, and acted as if they had seen all of this a
hundred million times before.
Maybe they had.
After being discharged I discovered that I could not walk.
Extensive nerve damage and muscle tissue damage, said my doctor.
My left ankle was twisted at an odd angle and the skin had hardened around.
The doctor explained that there would be some permanent damage and
some loss of function.
But it was difficult to assess the extent, he added.
My treatment was as painful, if not more , than the accident itself.
Saline solution to be rubbed on my raw skin.Twice every day.
Doctor's orders.
Ear plugs optional.
Talk about rubbing salt on your wounds!
And a high protein diet, for rapid regeneration.
I tried to walk after ten days.
Shooting bolts of pain from jangled nerves almost made me faint.
At this point it was easier to walk on all fours.
I was twenty one and was learning to walk all over again.
I was crawling on all fours for two days, before I got frustrated.
Learning to walk all over again is a lot harder the second time.
Gritting my teeth, and screaming with each step, I began walking.My
hands supporting and taking most of the
weight.Ten minutes on the first day.Fifteen on the second, I began
walking slowly,shooting stars of pain searing
lines of pain and etching them on my memories.
More salt was being rubbed on to my wounds.
Doctor's orders.
After a while the pain became a constant companion...a
friend,confidante,my guardian angel who let me know that I was
gloriously and riotously alive.
I ate,slept,shit and walked through the pain.
Pain, I realize is very beautiful.
Pain makes one realize how alive he is.It opens up the portals of
consciousness.In pain ,you regain your clarity of
vision and things suddenly become what they are and just that.Nothing else.
I was waiting for the pain to become so unbearable that my system
shuts down due to overload.The moment never came.
Pain is very resourceful.It was determined to see me suffer.
I was drifting away under waves of painkillers and sedatives.
But the pain still remained.Dulled, not so bothersome.But it
stubbornly remained.
I had refused painkillers until doctors convinced me that
anti-inflammatory drugs in the painkiller would hasten the
healing.
I'm not a masochist, but was afraid that I'd get hooked on to the painkillers.
I'm afraid of addictions- which is why I don't smoke,drink,gamble or
follow any ritual for more than 21 days in a
row.
Learning to walk the second time was much faster, if not harder.
Ten days later , I learnt to walk, just in time for my birthday.
But the scars remained.
My feet had strange black and white patterns on them.Ivory white skin
with melanin freckles on my ankles.
My left thigh sports a black spot that looks like the continent of Australia.
It looks like Aus-trah-lia.The land of Foster's Beer.
That's right Mate!
Er...I mean left.
On my right thigh, a pitch black Pangaea goes all the way from the
back of my knee to my kidney.Its easy to remember.
Australia,left knee,Pangaea -right knee to kidney.
My feet aren't pretty.Not even close.Brown scars and white mottled
skin shows all the way upto my toes.
And yet she loves to watch me slip on my black socks (I only own black
socks) on my feet.
She will not budge until I've knotted my laces and said my goodbyes.
Maybe she likes my feet.
Or maybe she is fascinated by the scars and grotesque patterns and to
grotesquery in general.
But after learning to walk again, don't care when someone stares at my feet.
After all,despite what doctors said,my feet still work.
Footnote:
The Art of storytelling:Comedy in tragedy
When I actually tell this story to someone else, it is nothing short
of a performance.
I aim for different effects and different emotions.
But if I'm bored, I'll make it short,cut and dried up.
But if I'm in the mood for it, the story will always be funny.
People have laughed till their tummies hurt with this story.It was a riot act.
I was clowning around, right from the beginning where I'm stripped
down buck naked in front of a very cute looking
intern to the later stages where I'm walking on all fours.
The only people who weren't laughing were my parents.They had gone
through it, and all those memories were stronger
than my story itself.
Theye were appalled by all the people who were laughing.They thought
people were being insensitive.To an extent that
was true, people were being insensitive laughing at my pain, but they
laughed because the story was crafted in a
manner to evoke laughter.
Of course, my parents forbade me from ever repeating the funny version
of the story.
--
<
--------------------------------
Lots of women like my shoes,or so they say.
Strange as it is,I don't give a damn about my shoes.
I just buy the most comfortable pair that I happen to see.
Most of my shoes are strictly sports sneakers and tennis shoes.
Sports apparel.Not fashion statements.
I like the support that they give me when I walk.
I walk a lot.
A lot.
And I need all the support I can get.
But in any case, most women like my shoes.
Or so they say.
But there is one girl I know who is a little different.
She is a confirmed shoe fetishist.
And a foot fetishist.
It's a funny thing to see her stare at me when I wear my shoes.
She looks at them like a fat hungry kid stares at a hamburger.
Her eyes are transfixed.Her face is blank.
She has lost track of time.
I see drool at the corner of her mouth, I kid you not!
And she's looking at me wearing my shoes.
She never misses an opportunity.
It's creeping me out.
My feet aren't pretty.They aren't supposed to be.
I clip my toe nails regularly but that's about it.No nail filing or
pedicures for me.
My feet don't smell, or so I'm told.
They aren't too hairy either.Maybe that's because I'm not Frodo.
My feet are a bit on the dainty side.
Size 8 on their best days, and size 7 on weekends,bank holidays and
most other days.I suppose I got it from my mom,
whose shoe size is 3.She has to search in the toddlers section for her
footwear.She's officially tired of wearing
sneakers with stickers of Mickey Mouse and Goofy on them.
BUt let me tell you something.Small feet only mean that the man wears
small socks.Nothing more,nothing less.If I
could only tell you what a whopper I had caged behind the
zipper...maybe some other day, and only if you ask nicely.
Oh I forgot.
My feet aren't pretty.
Four years ago I poured steaming superheated water on both my legs.
I'm not a masochist.
It was an accident.
I repeat.
I'm not a masochist.
I suffered second degree scald burns to such a severity that two
hospitals refused me.The third only gave me a shot
of painkillers so that I could stop howling in pain, and dressed my
burns up with Silver Sulfadiazine and sent me to
another hospital.
I spent two days in the Intensive Care Unit and a week in the Burns
unit and consumed five bags of plasma.In the
Burns unit, there was an eight year old girl bext to me who had an
accident with hot oil from a deep frying pan.
She was all wrapped up in gauze like a mummy.
No.
She didn't walk like an egyptian.
I doubt it if she had even heard of The Bangles.
I don't know what happened to her,but later the police showed up to
the hospital.They were alerted by the hospital
staff about the severity of the accident.
They suspected it was a college hazing ritual gone bad.
I explained to the inspector that I had been out of college for some
time now ,and this accident was entirely my own
fault.
The inspector gave me his number and asked me to call him if I had
changed my mind or my story.
Neither my mind or my story changed.
My nurses weren't sexy.They didn't wear short skirts.They didn't
lavish any attention on me.
They were middle aged, and acted as if they had seen all of this a
hundred million times before.
Maybe they had.
After being discharged I discovered that I could not walk.
Extensive nerve damage and muscle tissue damage, said my doctor.
My left ankle was twisted at an odd angle and the skin had hardened around.
The doctor explained that there would be some permanent damage and
some loss of function.
But it was difficult to assess the extent, he added.
My treatment was as painful, if not more , than the accident itself.
Saline solution to be rubbed on my raw skin.Twice every day.
Doctor's orders.
Ear plugs optional.
Talk about rubbing salt on your wounds!
And a high protein diet, for rapid regeneration.
I tried to walk after ten days.
Shooting bolts of pain from jangled nerves almost made me faint.
At this point it was easier to walk on all fours.
I was twenty one and was learning to walk all over again.
I was crawling on all fours for two days, before I got frustrated.
Learning to walk all over again is a lot harder the second time.
Gritting my teeth, and screaming with each step, I began walking.My
hands supporting and taking most of the
weight.Ten minutes on the first day.Fifteen on the second, I began
walking slowly,shooting stars of pain searing
lines of pain and etching them on my memories.
More salt was being rubbed on to my wounds.
Doctor's orders.
After a while the pain became a constant companion...a
friend,confidante,my guardian angel who let me know that I was
gloriously and riotously alive.
I ate,slept,shit and walked through the pain.
Pain, I realize is very beautiful.
Pain makes one realize how alive he is.It opens up the portals of
consciousness.In pain ,you regain your clarity of
vision and things suddenly become what they are and just that.Nothing else.
I was waiting for the pain to become so unbearable that my system
shuts down due to overload.The moment never came.
Pain is very resourceful.It was determined to see me suffer.
I was drifting away under waves of painkillers and sedatives.
But the pain still remained.Dulled, not so bothersome.But it
stubbornly remained.
I had refused painkillers until doctors convinced me that
anti-inflammatory drugs in the painkiller would hasten the
healing.
I'm not a masochist, but was afraid that I'd get hooked on to the painkillers.
I'm afraid of addictions- which is why I don't smoke,drink,gamble or
follow any ritual for more than 21 days in a
row.
Learning to walk the second time was much faster, if not harder.
Ten days later , I learnt to walk, just in time for my birthday.
But the scars remained.
My feet had strange black and white patterns on them.Ivory white skin
with melanin freckles on my ankles.
My left thigh sports a black spot that looks like the continent of Australia.
It looks like Aus-trah-lia.The land of Foster's Beer.
That's right Mate!
Er...I mean left.
On my right thigh, a pitch black Pangaea goes all the way from the
back of my knee to my kidney.Its easy to remember.
Australia,left knee,Pangaea -right knee to kidney.
My feet aren't pretty.Not even close.Brown scars and white mottled
skin shows all the way upto my toes.
And yet she loves to watch me slip on my black socks (I only own black
socks) on my feet.
She will not budge until I've knotted my laces and said my goodbyes.
Maybe she likes my feet.
Or maybe she is fascinated by the scars and grotesque patterns and to
grotesquery in general.
But after learning to walk again, don't care when someone stares at my feet.
After all,despite what doctors said,my feet still work.
Footnote:
The Art of storytelling:Comedy in tragedy
When I actually tell this story to someone else, it is nothing short
of a performance.
I aim for different effects and different emotions.
But if I'm bored, I'll make it short,cut and dried up.
But if I'm in the mood for it, the story will always be funny.
People have laughed till their tummies hurt with this story.It was a riot act.
I was clowning around, right from the beginning where I'm stripped
down buck naked in front of a very cute looking
intern to the later stages where I'm walking on all fours.
The only people who weren't laughing were my parents.They had gone
through it, and all those memories were stronger
than my story itself.
Theye were appalled by all the people who were laughing.They thought
people were being insensitive.To an extent that
was true, people were being insensitive laughing at my pain, but they
laughed because the story was crafted in a
manner to evoke laughter.
Of course, my parents forbade me from ever repeating the funny version
of the story.
--
<
Mr Big
MR. BIG
I was sitting in my office, cleaning the
debris out of my thirty-eight and wondering where
my next case was coming from. I like being a private eye, and even
though once in a while I've had my gums massaged
with an automobile jack, the sweet smell of greenbacks makes it all worth it.
Not to mention the dames, which are a minor preoccupation of mine that
I rank just ahead of breathing. That's why,
when the door to my office swung open and a long-haired blonde named
Heather Butkiss came striding in and told me she
was a nudie model and needed my help, my salivary glands shifted into
third.She wore a short skirt and a tight
sweater and her figure described a set of parabolas that could cause
cardiac arrest in a yak.
"What can I do for you, sugar?"
"I want you to find someone for me."
"Missing person? Have you tried the police?" "Not exactly, Mr. Lupowitz."
"Call me Kaiser, sugar. All right, so what's the scam?"
"God."
"That's right, God.The Creator, the Underlying Principle, the First
Cause of Things, the All Encompassing. I want you
to find Him for me."
I've had some fruit cakes up in the office before, but when they're
built like she was, you listened.
"Why?"
"That's my business, Kaiser. You just find Him."
"I'm sorry, sugar. You got the wrong boy."
"But why?"
"Unless I know all the facts," I said, rising.
"O.K., O.K.," she said, biting her lower lip.She straightened the seam
of her stocking, which was strictly for my
benefit, but I wasn't buying any at the moment.
"Let's have it on the line, sugar."
"Well, the truth is--I'm not really a nudie model"
"No?"
"No. My name is not Heather Butkiss, either. It's Claire Rosensweig
and I'm a student at Vassar. Philosophy major.
History of Western Thought and all that. I have a paper due january.
On Western religion.All the other kids in the
course will hand in speculative papers. But I want to know. Professor
Grebanier said if anyone finds out for sure,
they're a cinch to pass the course. And my dad's promised me a
Mercedes if I get straight A's."
I opened a deck of Luckies and a pack of gum and had one of each.
Her story was beginning to interest me. Spoiled coed. High IQ and a
body I wanted to know better.
"What does God look like?"
"I've never seen him."
"Well, how do you know He exists?"
"That's for you to find out."
"Oh, great. Then you don't know what he looks like? Or where to begin looking?"
"No. Not really, Although I suspect he's everywhere. In the air, in
every flower, in you and I--and in this chair."
"Uh huh."
So she was a pantheist. I made a mental note of it and said
I'd give her case a try--for a hundred bucks a
day, expenses, and a dinner date. She smiled and okayed the deal. We
rode down in the elevator together. Outside it
was getting dark.
Maybe God did exist and maybe He didn't, but somewhere in that city
there were sure a lot of guys who were going to
try and keep me from finding out.
My first lead was Rabbi Itzhak Wiseman, a local cleric who owed me a
favor for finding out who was rubbing pork on
his hat. I knew something was wrong when I spoke to him because he was
scared. Real scared.
"Of course there's a you-know-what, but I'm not even allowed to say
His name or He'll strike me dead, which I could
never understand why someone is so touchy about having his name said."
"You ever see Him?"
"Me? Are you kidding? I'm lucky I get to see my grandchildren."
"Then how do you know He exists?"
"How do I know? What kind of question is that? Could I get a suit like
this for fourteen dollars if there was no one
up there? Here, feel a gabardine---how can you doubt?"
"You got nothing more to go on?"
"Hey--what's the Old Testament? Chopped liver? How do you think Moses
got the Israelites out of Egypt? With a smile
and a tap dance?
Believe me, you don't part the Red Sea with some gizmo from
Korvette's.It takes power."
"So he's tough, eh?"
"Yes. Very tough. You'd think with all that success he'd be a lot sweeter."
"How come you know so much?"
"Because we're the chosen people. He takes best care of us of all His
children, which I'd also like to someday
discuss with Him."
"What do you pay Him for being chosen?"
"Don't ask."
So that's how it was. The Jews were into God for a
lot. It was the old protection racket. Take care
of them in return for a price. And from the way Rabbi Wiseman was
talking, He soaked them plenty. I got into a cab
and made it over to Danny's Billiards on Tenth Avenue.
The manager was a slimy little guy I didn't like.
"Chicago Phil here?"
"Who wants to know?"
I grabbed him by the lapels and took some skin at the same time.
"What, punk?"
"In the back," he said, with a change of attitude.
Chicago Phil. Forger, bank robber, strong-arm man, and avowed atheist.
"The guy never existed, Kaiser. This is the straight dope. It's a big
hype. There's no Mr. Big. It's a syndicate.
Mostly Sicilian. It's international. But there is no actual head.
Except maybe the Pope."
"I want to meet the Pope."
"It can be arranged," he said, winking.
"Does the name Claire Rosensweig mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Heather Butkiss?"
"Oh, wait a minute. Sure. She's that peroxide job with the bazooms
from Radcliffe."
"Radcliffe? She told me Vassar."
"Well, she's lying. She's a teacher at Radcliffe. She was mixed up
with a philosopher for a while."
"Pantheist?"
"No. Empiricist, as I remember. Bad guy. Completely rejected Hegel or
any dialectical methodology."
"One of those."
"Yeah. He used to be a drummer with a jazz trio. Then he got hooked on
Logical Positivism. When that didn't work, he
tried Pragmatism. Last I heard he stole a lot of money to take a
course in Schopenhauer at Columbia. The mob would
like to find him---or get their hands on his textbooks so they can
resell them."
"Thanks, Phil."
"Take it from me, Kaiser. There's no one out there. It's a void. I
couldn't pass all those bad checks or screw
society the way I do if for one second I was able to recognize any
authentic sense of Being. The universe is strictly
phenomenological. Nothing's eternal. It's all meaningless."
"Who won the fifth at Aqueduct?"
"Santa Baby."
I had a beer at O'Rourke's and tried to add it all.up, but it made no
sense at all. Socrates was a suicide---or so
they said. Christ was murdered. Neitzsche went nuts. If there was
someone out there, He sure as hell didn't want
anybody to know it. And why was Claire Rosensweig lying about Vassar?
Could Descartes have been right? Was the
universe dualistic? Or did Kant hit it on the head when he postulated
the existence of God on moral grounds?
That night I had dinner with Claire. Ten minutes after the check came,
we were in the sack and, brother, you can have
your Western thought. She went through the kind of gymnastics that
would have won first prize in the TiJuana
Olympics. After, she lay on the pillow next to me, her long blond hair
sprawling. Our naked bodies still intertwined.
I was smoking and staring at the ceiling.
"Claire, what if Kierkegaard's right?"
"You mean?"
"If you can never really know. Only have faith."
"That's absurd."
"Don't be so rational.
"nobody s being rational, Kaiser."
She lit a cigarette. "Just don't get ontological. Not now. I couldn't
bear it if you were ontological with me."
She was upset. I leaned over and kissed her, and the phone rang. She
got it."It's for you."
The voice on the other end was Sergeant Reed of Homicide.
"You still looking for God?"
"Yeah."
"An all-power Being? Great Oneness, Creator of the Universe? First
Cause of All Things?"
"That's right."
"Somebody with that description just showed up at the morgue. You
better get down here right away."
It was Him all right, and from the looks of Him it was a professional job.
"He was dead when they brought Him in."
"Where'd you find Him?"
"A warehouse on Delancey Street."
"Any clues?"
"It's the work of an existentialist. We're sure of that."
"How can you tell."
"Haphazard way how it was done. Doesn't seem to be any system
followed. Impulse."
"A crime of passion?"
"You got it. Which means you're a suspect, Kaiser."
"Why me?"
"Everybody down at headquarters knows how you feel about Jaspers."
"That doesn't make me. a killer."
"Not yet, but you're a suspect."
Outside on the street I sucked air into my lungs
and tried to dear my head. I took a cab over to
Newark and got out and walked a block to Giordino's Italian
Restaurant. There, at a back table, was His Holiness.
It was the Pope, all right. Sitting with two guys I had seen in half a
dozen police line-ups.
"Sit down," he said, looking up from his fettucine. He held out a
ring. I gave him my toothiest smile, but didn't
kiss it. It bothered him and I was glad. Point for me.
"Would you like some fettucine?"
No thanks, Holiness. But you go ahead."
"Nothing? Not even a salad?"
"I just ate."
"Suit yourself, but they make a great Roquefort dressing here. Not
like the Vatican, where you can't get a decent
meal."
"I'll come right to the point, Pontiff. I'm looking for God."
"You came to the Right person."
"Then He does exist?"
They all found this very amusing and laughed.
The hood next to me said, "Oh, that's funny. Bright boy wants to know
if He exists."
I shifted my chair to get comfortable and brought the leg down on his
little toe.
"Sorry." But he was steaming.
"Sure He exists, Lupowitz, but I'm the only one that communicates with
Him. He speaks only through me."
"Why you, pal?"
"Because I got the red suit."
'This get-up?"
"Don't knock it. Every morning I rise, put on this red suit, and
suddenly I'm a big cheese. It's all in the suit. I
mean, face it, if I went around in slacks and a sports jacket, I
couldn't get arrested religion-wise.
"Then it's a hype. There's no God."
"I don't know. But what's the difference? The money's good."
"You ever worry the laundry won't get your red suit back on time and
you'll be like the rest of us?"
"I use the special one-day service. I figure it's worth the extra few
cents to be safe."
"Name Claire Rosensweig mean anything to you?"
"Sure. She's in the science department at Bryn Mawr."
"Science, you say? Thanks."
"For what?"
"The answer, Pontiff."
I grabbed a cab and shot over the George
Washington Bridge. On the way I stopped at my
office and did some fast checking. Driving to Claire's apartment, I
put the pieces together, and for the first time
they fit. When I got there she was in a diaphanous peignoir and
something seemed to be troubling her.
"God is dead. The police were here. They're looking for you. They
think an existentialist did it."
"No, sugar. It was you."
"What? Don't make jokes, Kaiser." "It was you that did it." "What are
you saying?"
"You, baby. Not Heather Butkiss or Claire Rosensweig, but Doctor Ellen
Shepherd."
"How did you know my name?"
"Professor of physics at Bryn Mawr. The youngest one ever to head a
department there. At the mid-winter Hop you get
stuck on a jazz musician who's heavily into philosophy. He's married,
but that doesn't stop you.
A couple of nights in the hay and it feels like love. But it doesn't
work out because something comes between you.
God. Y'see, sugar, he believed, or wanted to, but you, with your
pretty little scientific mind, had to have absolute
certainty."
"No, Kaiser, I swear."
"So you pretend to study philosophy because that gives you a chance to
eliminate certain obstacles. You get rid of
Socrates easy enough, but Descartes takes over, so you use Spinoza to
get rid of Descartes, but when Kant doesn't
come through you have to get rid of him too."
"You don't know what you're saying."
"You made mincemeat out of Leibnitz, but that wasn't good enough for
you because you knew if anybody believed Pascal
you were dead, so he had to be gotten rid of too, but that's where you
made your mistake because you trusted Martin
Buber. Except, sugar, he was soft. He believed in God, so you had to
get rid of God yourself."
"Kaiser, you're mad!"
"No, baby. You posed as a pantheist and that gave you access to Him if
He existed, which he did. He went with you to
Shelby's party and when Jason wasn't looking, you killed Him."
"Who the hell are Shelby and Jason?"
"What's the difference? Life's absurd now anyway."
"Kaiser," she said, suddenly trembling. "You wouldn't turn me in?"
"Oh yes, baby. When the Supreme Being gets knocked off, somebody's got
to take the rap."
"Oh, Kaiser, we could go away together. Just the two of us. We could
forget about philosophy. Settle down and maybe
get into semantics."
"Sorry, sugar. It's no dice."
She was all tears now as she started lowering the
shoulder straps of her peignoir and I was standing
there suddenly with a naked Venus whose whole body seemed to be
saying, Take me---I'm yours. A Venus whose right hand
tousled my hair while her left hand had picked up a forty-five and
was holding it behind my back. I let go with a
slug from my thirty-eight before she could pull the trigger, and she
dropped her gun and doubled over in disbelief.
"How could you, Kaiser?"
She was fading fast, but I managed to get it in, in time.
"The manifestation of the universe as a complex idea unto itself as
opposed to being in or outside the true Being of
itself is inherently a
conceptual nothingness or Nothingness in relation to any abstract form
of existing or to exist or having existed in
perpetuity and not subject
to laws of physicality or motion or ideas relating to non-matter or
the lack of objective Being or subjective
otherness."
It was a subtle concept but I think she understood before she died.
- Woody Allen (Getting Even)
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Woody Allen folks...So what if he looks like a chicken embryo with
glasses.So what if the guy married his own
daughter.
This stuff is pure unadulterated genius.Riotously funny and pure genius.
I wanna write like this guy.
--
<
I was sitting in my office, cleaning the
debris out of my thirty-eight and wondering where
my next case was coming from. I like being a private eye, and even
though once in a while I've had my gums massaged
with an automobile jack, the sweet smell of greenbacks makes it all worth it.
Not to mention the dames, which are a minor preoccupation of mine that
I rank just ahead of breathing. That's why,
when the door to my office swung open and a long-haired blonde named
Heather Butkiss came striding in and told me she
was a nudie model and needed my help, my salivary glands shifted into
third.She wore a short skirt and a tight
sweater and her figure described a set of parabolas that could cause
cardiac arrest in a yak.
"What can I do for you, sugar?"
"I want you to find someone for me."
"Missing person? Have you tried the police?" "Not exactly, Mr. Lupowitz."
"Call me Kaiser, sugar. All right, so what's the scam?"
"God."
"That's right, God.The Creator, the Underlying Principle, the First
Cause of Things, the All Encompassing. I want you
to find Him for me."
I've had some fruit cakes up in the office before, but when they're
built like she was, you listened.
"Why?"
"That's my business, Kaiser. You just find Him."
"I'm sorry, sugar. You got the wrong boy."
"But why?"
"Unless I know all the facts," I said, rising.
"O.K., O.K.," she said, biting her lower lip.She straightened the seam
of her stocking, which was strictly for my
benefit, but I wasn't buying any at the moment.
"Let's have it on the line, sugar."
"Well, the truth is--I'm not really a nudie model"
"No?"
"No. My name is not Heather Butkiss, either. It's Claire Rosensweig
and I'm a student at Vassar. Philosophy major.
History of Western Thought and all that. I have a paper due january.
On Western religion.All the other kids in the
course will hand in speculative papers. But I want to know. Professor
Grebanier said if anyone finds out for sure,
they're a cinch to pass the course. And my dad's promised me a
Mercedes if I get straight A's."
I opened a deck of Luckies and a pack of gum and had one of each.
Her story was beginning to interest me. Spoiled coed. High IQ and a
body I wanted to know better.
"What does God look like?"
"I've never seen him."
"Well, how do you know He exists?"
"That's for you to find out."
"Oh, great. Then you don't know what he looks like? Or where to begin looking?"
"No. Not really, Although I suspect he's everywhere. In the air, in
every flower, in you and I--and in this chair."
"Uh huh."
So she was a pantheist. I made a mental note of it and said
I'd give her case a try--for a hundred bucks a
day, expenses, and a dinner date. She smiled and okayed the deal. We
rode down in the elevator together. Outside it
was getting dark.
Maybe God did exist and maybe He didn't, but somewhere in that city
there were sure a lot of guys who were going to
try and keep me from finding out.
My first lead was Rabbi Itzhak Wiseman, a local cleric who owed me a
favor for finding out who was rubbing pork on
his hat. I knew something was wrong when I spoke to him because he was
scared. Real scared.
"Of course there's a you-know-what, but I'm not even allowed to say
His name or He'll strike me dead, which I could
never understand why someone is so touchy about having his name said."
"You ever see Him?"
"Me? Are you kidding? I'm lucky I get to see my grandchildren."
"Then how do you know He exists?"
"How do I know? What kind of question is that? Could I get a suit like
this for fourteen dollars if there was no one
up there? Here, feel a gabardine---how can you doubt?"
"You got nothing more to go on?"
"Hey--what's the Old Testament? Chopped liver? How do you think Moses
got the Israelites out of Egypt? With a smile
and a tap dance?
Believe me, you don't part the Red Sea with some gizmo from
Korvette's.It takes power."
"So he's tough, eh?"
"Yes. Very tough. You'd think with all that success he'd be a lot sweeter."
"How come you know so much?"
"Because we're the chosen people. He takes best care of us of all His
children, which I'd also like to someday
discuss with Him."
"What do you pay Him for being chosen?"
"Don't ask."
So that's how it was. The Jews were into God for a
lot. It was the old protection racket. Take care
of them in return for a price. And from the way Rabbi Wiseman was
talking, He soaked them plenty. I got into a cab
and made it over to Danny's Billiards on Tenth Avenue.
The manager was a slimy little guy I didn't like.
"Chicago Phil here?"
"Who wants to know?"
I grabbed him by the lapels and took some skin at the same time.
"What, punk?"
"In the back," he said, with a change of attitude.
Chicago Phil. Forger, bank robber, strong-arm man, and avowed atheist.
"The guy never existed, Kaiser. This is the straight dope. It's a big
hype. There's no Mr. Big. It's a syndicate.
Mostly Sicilian. It's international. But there is no actual head.
Except maybe the Pope."
"I want to meet the Pope."
"It can be arranged," he said, winking.
"Does the name Claire Rosensweig mean anything to you?"
"No."
"Heather Butkiss?"
"Oh, wait a minute. Sure. She's that peroxide job with the bazooms
from Radcliffe."
"Radcliffe? She told me Vassar."
"Well, she's lying. She's a teacher at Radcliffe. She was mixed up
with a philosopher for a while."
"Pantheist?"
"No. Empiricist, as I remember. Bad guy. Completely rejected Hegel or
any dialectical methodology."
"One of those."
"Yeah. He used to be a drummer with a jazz trio. Then he got hooked on
Logical Positivism. When that didn't work, he
tried Pragmatism. Last I heard he stole a lot of money to take a
course in Schopenhauer at Columbia. The mob would
like to find him---or get their hands on his textbooks so they can
resell them."
"Thanks, Phil."
"Take it from me, Kaiser. There's no one out there. It's a void. I
couldn't pass all those bad checks or screw
society the way I do if for one second I was able to recognize any
authentic sense of Being. The universe is strictly
phenomenological. Nothing's eternal. It's all meaningless."
"Who won the fifth at Aqueduct?"
"Santa Baby."
I had a beer at O'Rourke's and tried to add it all.up, but it made no
sense at all. Socrates was a suicide---or so
they said. Christ was murdered. Neitzsche went nuts. If there was
someone out there, He sure as hell didn't want
anybody to know it. And why was Claire Rosensweig lying about Vassar?
Could Descartes have been right? Was the
universe dualistic? Or did Kant hit it on the head when he postulated
the existence of God on moral grounds?
That night I had dinner with Claire. Ten minutes after the check came,
we were in the sack and, brother, you can have
your Western thought. She went through the kind of gymnastics that
would have won first prize in the TiJuana
Olympics. After, she lay on the pillow next to me, her long blond hair
sprawling. Our naked bodies still intertwined.
I was smoking and staring at the ceiling.
"Claire, what if Kierkegaard's right?"
"You mean?"
"If you can never really know. Only have faith."
"That's absurd."
"Don't be so rational.
"nobody s being rational, Kaiser."
She lit a cigarette. "Just don't get ontological. Not now. I couldn't
bear it if you were ontological with me."
She was upset. I leaned over and kissed her, and the phone rang. She
got it."It's for you."
The voice on the other end was Sergeant Reed of Homicide.
"You still looking for God?"
"Yeah."
"An all-power Being? Great Oneness, Creator of the Universe? First
Cause of All Things?"
"That's right."
"Somebody with that description just showed up at the morgue. You
better get down here right away."
It was Him all right, and from the looks of Him it was a professional job.
"He was dead when they brought Him in."
"Where'd you find Him?"
"A warehouse on Delancey Street."
"Any clues?"
"It's the work of an existentialist. We're sure of that."
"How can you tell."
"Haphazard way how it was done. Doesn't seem to be any system
followed. Impulse."
"A crime of passion?"
"You got it. Which means you're a suspect, Kaiser."
"Why me?"
"Everybody down at headquarters knows how you feel about Jaspers."
"That doesn't make me. a killer."
"Not yet, but you're a suspect."
Outside on the street I sucked air into my lungs
and tried to dear my head. I took a cab over to
Newark and got out and walked a block to Giordino's Italian
Restaurant. There, at a back table, was His Holiness.
It was the Pope, all right. Sitting with two guys I had seen in half a
dozen police line-ups.
"Sit down," he said, looking up from his fettucine. He held out a
ring. I gave him my toothiest smile, but didn't
kiss it. It bothered him and I was glad. Point for me.
"Would you like some fettucine?"
No thanks, Holiness. But you go ahead."
"Nothing? Not even a salad?"
"I just ate."
"Suit yourself, but they make a great Roquefort dressing here. Not
like the Vatican, where you can't get a decent
meal."
"I'll come right to the point, Pontiff. I'm looking for God."
"You came to the Right person."
"Then He does exist?"
They all found this very amusing and laughed.
The hood next to me said, "Oh, that's funny. Bright boy wants to know
if He exists."
I shifted my chair to get comfortable and brought the leg down on his
little toe.
"Sorry." But he was steaming.
"Sure He exists, Lupowitz, but I'm the only one that communicates with
Him. He speaks only through me."
"Why you, pal?"
"Because I got the red suit."
'This get-up?"
"Don't knock it. Every morning I rise, put on this red suit, and
suddenly I'm a big cheese. It's all in the suit. I
mean, face it, if I went around in slacks and a sports jacket, I
couldn't get arrested religion-wise.
"Then it's a hype. There's no God."
"I don't know. But what's the difference? The money's good."
"You ever worry the laundry won't get your red suit back on time and
you'll be like the rest of us?"
"I use the special one-day service. I figure it's worth the extra few
cents to be safe."
"Name Claire Rosensweig mean anything to you?"
"Sure. She's in the science department at Bryn Mawr."
"Science, you say? Thanks."
"For what?"
"The answer, Pontiff."
I grabbed a cab and shot over the George
Washington Bridge. On the way I stopped at my
office and did some fast checking. Driving to Claire's apartment, I
put the pieces together, and for the first time
they fit. When I got there she was in a diaphanous peignoir and
something seemed to be troubling her.
"God is dead. The police were here. They're looking for you. They
think an existentialist did it."
"No, sugar. It was you."
"What? Don't make jokes, Kaiser." "It was you that did it." "What are
you saying?"
"You, baby. Not Heather Butkiss or Claire Rosensweig, but Doctor Ellen
Shepherd."
"How did you know my name?"
"Professor of physics at Bryn Mawr. The youngest one ever to head a
department there. At the mid-winter Hop you get
stuck on a jazz musician who's heavily into philosophy. He's married,
but that doesn't stop you.
A couple of nights in the hay and it feels like love. But it doesn't
work out because something comes between you.
God. Y'see, sugar, he believed, or wanted to, but you, with your
pretty little scientific mind, had to have absolute
certainty."
"No, Kaiser, I swear."
"So you pretend to study philosophy because that gives you a chance to
eliminate certain obstacles. You get rid of
Socrates easy enough, but Descartes takes over, so you use Spinoza to
get rid of Descartes, but when Kant doesn't
come through you have to get rid of him too."
"You don't know what you're saying."
"You made mincemeat out of Leibnitz, but that wasn't good enough for
you because you knew if anybody believed Pascal
you were dead, so he had to be gotten rid of too, but that's where you
made your mistake because you trusted Martin
Buber. Except, sugar, he was soft. He believed in God, so you had to
get rid of God yourself."
"Kaiser, you're mad!"
"No, baby. You posed as a pantheist and that gave you access to Him if
He existed, which he did. He went with you to
Shelby's party and when Jason wasn't looking, you killed Him."
"Who the hell are Shelby and Jason?"
"What's the difference? Life's absurd now anyway."
"Kaiser," she said, suddenly trembling. "You wouldn't turn me in?"
"Oh yes, baby. When the Supreme Being gets knocked off, somebody's got
to take the rap."
"Oh, Kaiser, we could go away together. Just the two of us. We could
forget about philosophy. Settle down and maybe
get into semantics."
"Sorry, sugar. It's no dice."
She was all tears now as she started lowering the
shoulder straps of her peignoir and I was standing
there suddenly with a naked Venus whose whole body seemed to be
saying, Take me---I'm yours. A Venus whose right hand
tousled my hair while her left hand had picked up a forty-five and
was holding it behind my back. I let go with a
slug from my thirty-eight before she could pull the trigger, and she
dropped her gun and doubled over in disbelief.
"How could you, Kaiser?"
She was fading fast, but I managed to get it in, in time.
"The manifestation of the universe as a complex idea unto itself as
opposed to being in or outside the true Being of
itself is inherently a
conceptual nothingness or Nothingness in relation to any abstract form
of existing or to exist or having existed in
perpetuity and not subject
to laws of physicality or motion or ideas relating to non-matter or
the lack of objective Being or subjective
otherness."
It was a subtle concept but I think she understood before she died.
- Woody Allen (Getting Even)
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Woody Allen folks...So what if he looks like a chicken embryo with
glasses.So what if the guy married his own
daughter.
This stuff is pure unadulterated genius.Riotously funny and pure genius.
I wanna write like this guy.
--
<
Special Guest Appearance
I'll make it simple.
In bollywood movie terminology , I'm what they call the 'Special Guest
Appearance' and not the Main Lead.
Remember Kuch Kuch Hota Hain ?
I'm Salman, not Sharuck.
Salman's character has no visible flaws except that no matter how hard
he tries , we the audience knows that he is doomed to fail.We, the
audience in fact, root for him to fail so that we can see Sharuck win
and get his girl.
The Special Guest Appearance is not allowed to get the girl, no matter
how perfect he is. (I'm not implying I'm perfect)
The sole reason for the existence of the Special Guest Appearance is
to draw a sharp contrast between him and the hero and to increase
dramatic tension and so that the heroine realizes the depth of her
love towards the hero.
Similarly I came in your life for a brief period of time,made you
smile for some time, made you realize new things about yourselves and
forget a few worries, gave a bunch of fond memories and then faded
away.
It's what I do best.
I'll gladly fade away, rendered to wisps of past memories and
imaginings long forgotten.
Don't worry too much about my heart.I've superglued it together.Glass
and glue are unlikely allies, but they will have to strive to keep me
alive.
Remember.
In the end the Special Guest Appearance makes his own
reconciliation,swallows hard and accepts defeat like a man.
And fades away.
I'll just fade away
and one fine day you will try
to remember me ,
but will feel an emptiness
that has replaced my presence.
My memories, or their suprising lack
will haunt you.
--
<
In bollywood movie terminology , I'm what they call the 'Special Guest
Appearance' and not the Main Lead.
Remember Kuch Kuch Hota Hain ?
I'm Salman, not Sharuck.
Salman's character has no visible flaws except that no matter how hard
he tries , we the audience knows that he is doomed to fail.We, the
audience in fact, root for him to fail so that we can see Sharuck win
and get his girl.
The Special Guest Appearance is not allowed to get the girl, no matter
how perfect he is. (I'm not implying I'm perfect)
The sole reason for the existence of the Special Guest Appearance is
to draw a sharp contrast between him and the hero and to increase
dramatic tension and so that the heroine realizes the depth of her
love towards the hero.
Similarly I came in your life for a brief period of time,made you
smile for some time, made you realize new things about yourselves and
forget a few worries, gave a bunch of fond memories and then faded
away.
It's what I do best.
I'll gladly fade away, rendered to wisps of past memories and
imaginings long forgotten.
Don't worry too much about my heart.I've superglued it together.Glass
and glue are unlikely allies, but they will have to strive to keep me
alive.
Remember.
In the end the Special Guest Appearance makes his own
reconciliation,swallows hard and accepts defeat like a man.
And fades away.
I'll just fade away
and one fine day you will try
to remember me ,
but will feel an emptiness
that has replaced my presence.
My memories, or their suprising lack
will haunt you.
--
<
I see you trapped in your words
I see you trapped in your words.
far away in other worlds
Your language is your limitation,
but realize, it is an imitation
of reality, and not reality itself.
You hurt from within,you seeth
in anger,your joys hardly
come and go by.
You hate yourself, and the world,
you reject beauty and call yourself
ugly,and you cry
I see you trapped in your words,
Don't you see it too?
Your amber casing trap hardening
your tar pit of horror,smothering
or are you blinded by the mirror,
eyes wide shut to all your errors?
But hear my silent plea,
for I may be trapped too
but blind and unaware
or may not even dare
to open my eyes to the truth
Won't you lend your arm,
extend & reach out
throw me a lifeline,tell me to
Take a deep breath
Calm down and relax,
and learn to be still?
I see you trapped in your words.
And I wish to set you free.
So Won't you save me?
(so that
I can save you too?)
Words can change your DNA
-------------------------
Science has, in the past, discounted 90% of our DNA as ‘junk DNA’.
It is only until now that MANY scientists have set out to look at what
the rest of our DNA is really about. Before we get into how this ties
into everything already introduced, let’s check out these experiments
that rattled some of Darwin’s monkey cages. Russian scientists seem to
be on the forefront of the revolutionary discoveries of what has been
such a mystery in the past.
Biophysicist and molecular biologist Pjortr Garjajev discovered
that all living chromosomes function exactly in the same way a
holographic computer would. Using laser radiation, he and his
colleagues were able to change the genetic information contained
inside the DNA by modulating the information, or frequencies, inside
the DNA. They also found that there was no code to crack inside the
DNA; the code is already accessible to us because that code is our
very own language. Our DNA is able to react directly to our spoken
words! This is exciting, especially to the field of hypnosis.
... and more!
Language is made up of 26 letters or ‘codes’ that are used to create
words, and then sentences that we understand through communication. If
you don’t understand that, you probably shouldn’t be able to read
this. Our DNA acts just like our language in the way it structures
information inside our bodies. As we learn more about our DNA we learn
that they are not only similar in the fact that they have structure to
them, but are identical in structure. Since our DNA obviously came
before the English language, or any language atthat, it is also
obvious that our DNA has something to do with the way we structure our
languages. This also means that we have at our power the ability to
change our DNA through our language. We have done it all along, not
knowing the ramifications of our actions. This is the placebo effect
on steroids, used consciously; curing cancer would be a walk in the
park.
... and more !
Molecular biology has now uncovered an analogy between DNA and written
human languages. It is more than an
analogy, in fact: in terms of structure, the two are “mathematically
identical.” (In other words, its not analogous to a language—it is a
language).
It is important to understand that we are not reasoning by analogy.
The sequence hypothesis [that the exact order of symbols records the
information] applies directly to the protein and the genetic text as
well as to written language and therefore the treatment is
mathematically identical. (DNA IS A LANGUAGE) (S8int.com, 2006)
Holding a mirror to myself:
When I notice myself using the same old
words to describe things, or when I notice oft repeated patterns,
that's when I know I've fallen in a thinking rut.And to change my mind
, I simply have to change my words (or even language,for that matter,
because transliteration always loses some original flavour that the
language of origin had imparted.Let me put it this way.A translation
can never be same as the original)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words can trap you,make you strong,happy or simply miserable.Words can
make you sick or heal you.
Words can make or break you.
Hypnotists and NLP practicioners have known this for a long time now.
Scientists know this only recently.
You are a wordsmith.These words are your tools to shape your reality.
You wield a great power.
So be careful what you write about.It might just come true.
I see you trapped in your words.
And I wish to set you free.
My wish is to be a Cosmic bibliographer.
------------------------------------------------------
Poetry is a far more powerful device than prose.I believe that poetry
is a subtle method of channelling the unconscious mind.
Poetry has a way of communicating even without making the meaning
explicit, sometimes even to the poet.
As I've said before, I don't write poetry.It flows out on its own and
I record whatever I can access.
When I wrote 'I see you trapped in your words', I did not realize what I meant.
Maybe it was a fluke, or maybe my unconscious telling me what
scientists have found out.
Poetry has a was of reaching the unconscious of the reader as well.You
may not consciously understand what it says, but your unconscious
does.Or at least I believe so.
--
<
far away in other worlds
Your language is your limitation,
but realize, it is an imitation
of reality, and not reality itself.
You hurt from within,you seeth
in anger,your joys hardly
come and go by.
You hate yourself, and the world,
you reject beauty and call yourself
ugly,and you cry
I see you trapped in your words,
Don't you see it too?
Your amber casing trap hardening
your tar pit of horror,smothering
or are you blinded by the mirror,
eyes wide shut to all your errors?
But hear my silent plea,
for I may be trapped too
but blind and unaware
or may not even dare
to open my eyes to the truth
Won't you lend your arm,
extend & reach out
throw me a lifeline,tell me to
Take a deep breath
Calm down and relax,
and learn to be still?
I see you trapped in your words.
And I wish to set you free.
So Won't you save me?
(so that
I can save you too?)
Words can change your DNA
-------------------------
Science has, in the past, discounted 90% of our DNA as ‘junk DNA’.
It is only until now that MANY scientists have set out to look at what
the rest of our DNA is really about. Before we get into how this ties
into everything already introduced, let’s check out these experiments
that rattled some of Darwin’s monkey cages. Russian scientists seem to
be on the forefront of the revolutionary discoveries of what has been
such a mystery in the past.
Biophysicist and molecular biologist Pjortr Garjajev discovered
that all living chromosomes function exactly in the same way a
holographic computer would. Using laser radiation, he and his
colleagues were able to change the genetic information contained
inside the DNA by modulating the information, or frequencies, inside
the DNA. They also found that there was no code to crack inside the
DNA; the code is already accessible to us because that code is our
very own language. Our DNA is able to react directly to our spoken
words! This is exciting, especially to the field of hypnosis.
... and more!
Language is made up of 26 letters or ‘codes’ that are used to create
words, and then sentences that we understand through communication. If
you don’t understand that, you probably shouldn’t be able to read
this. Our DNA acts just like our language in the way it structures
information inside our bodies. As we learn more about our DNA we learn
that they are not only similar in the fact that they have structure to
them, but are identical in structure. Since our DNA obviously came
before the English language, or any language atthat, it is also
obvious that our DNA has something to do with the way we structure our
languages. This also means that we have at our power the ability to
change our DNA through our language. We have done it all along, not
knowing the ramifications of our actions. This is the placebo effect
on steroids, used consciously; curing cancer would be a walk in the
park.
... and more !
Molecular biology has now uncovered an analogy between DNA and written
human languages. It is more than an
analogy, in fact: in terms of structure, the two are “mathematically
identical.” (In other words, its not analogous to a language—it is a
language).
It is important to understand that we are not reasoning by analogy.
The sequence hypothesis [that the exact order of symbols records the
information] applies directly to the protein and the genetic text as
well as to written language and therefore the treatment is
mathematically identical. (DNA IS A LANGUAGE) (S8int.com, 2006)
Holding a mirror to myself:
When I notice myself using the same old
words to describe things, or when I notice oft repeated patterns,
that's when I know I've fallen in a thinking rut.And to change my mind
, I simply have to change my words (or even language,for that matter,
because transliteration always loses some original flavour that the
language of origin had imparted.Let me put it this way.A translation
can never be same as the original)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words can trap you,make you strong,happy or simply miserable.Words can
make you sick or heal you.
Words can make or break you.
Hypnotists and NLP practicioners have known this for a long time now.
Scientists know this only recently.
You are a wordsmith.These words are your tools to shape your reality.
You wield a great power.
So be careful what you write about.It might just come true.
I see you trapped in your words.
And I wish to set you free.
My wish is to be a Cosmic bibliographer.
------------------------------------------------------
Poetry is a far more powerful device than prose.I believe that poetry
is a subtle method of channelling the unconscious mind.
Poetry has a way of communicating even without making the meaning
explicit, sometimes even to the poet.
As I've said before, I don't write poetry.It flows out on its own and
I record whatever I can access.
When I wrote 'I see you trapped in your words', I did not realize what I meant.
Maybe it was a fluke, or maybe my unconscious telling me what
scientists have found out.
Poetry has a was of reaching the unconscious of the reader as well.You
may not consciously understand what it says, but your unconscious
does.Or at least I believe so.
--
<
We are having a baby!
He said they were having a baby.
Actually he said 'we' are having a baby'
How is it that 'we' are having a baby,
while you are here and she's there? I asked.
Your Political Correctness maybe well intentioned but is totally wrong.
(You had a hand in it...this baby making process, but that's all.
Come to think of it, you didn't have your hand in it at all.
It was some other part of your anatomy.)
All over the world, only women are having babies.
We get to wait and watch.
I want you to see something, I said, handing over a pendrive.
He came back a few hours later.
It isn't easy, is it? I asked.
Yeah.
I watched it though.
Giving birth isn't exactly beautiful...
So much blood...
I thought I was watching a sci-fi horror movie.
That old movie with Sigourney Weaver.
Aliens bursting out.
screeching,screaming.
Terrifying.
Yet, I've watched it thrice already.
I thought I couldn't watch,
but
couldn't look away either.
I think I'm supposed to say it was beautiful.
But it felt violent.
So did 'we' have a baby? I asked.
Nah.
I was here.She was there.
Next thing you know , someone will tell you that 'we' are having a period.
(PMS I can understand, but a period?)
Punch him in the face for me, will ya...
Or at least give him a sanitary pad.
--
<
Actually he said 'we' are having a baby'
How is it that 'we' are having a baby,
while you are here and she's there? I asked.
Your Political Correctness maybe well intentioned but is totally wrong.
(You had a hand in it...this baby making process, but that's all.
Come to think of it, you didn't have your hand in it at all.
It was some other part of your anatomy.)
All over the world, only women are having babies.
We get to wait and watch.
I want you to see something, I said, handing over a pendrive.
He came back a few hours later.
It isn't easy, is it? I asked.
Yeah.
I watched it though.
Giving birth isn't exactly beautiful...
So much blood...
I thought I was watching a sci-fi horror movie.
That old movie with Sigourney Weaver.
Aliens bursting out.
screeching,screaming.
Terrifying.
Yet, I've watched it thrice already.
I thought I couldn't watch,
but
couldn't look away either.
I think I'm supposed to say it was beautiful.
But it felt violent.
So did 'we' have a baby? I asked.
Nah.
I was here.She was there.
Next thing you know , someone will tell you that 'we' are having a period.
(PMS I can understand, but a period?)
Punch him in the face for me, will ya...
Or at least give him a sanitary pad.
--
<
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