Disaster Train

Stardate: 05.30.05

Warning: The following is hazardous to your mental health.

This is a terrible story. In fact, if I were you, I'd stop reading it right now, and your life will be much improved by only knowing happy endings. Of course, they are fiction, cause faction is in the newspaper, and it seldom ends happy. In fact, it seldom ends at all, it just goes on and on like the never ending story.

So stop.

This is a fairy tale, as Tinker-bell green as I can get it. If you decide to ride along, I suggest you tighten your seat belt a few notches, so it actually does somewhat crinkle your pants, and rub the left teat raw.

Now you're all strapped in, what could possibly happen?

Never the less, this is an awe-full story. Just awe-full beyond your oscar wildest imagination, imaging that it creates its own dreams. Imagination making images in its head. Colorful images that seep out through the cracks of the cortex and matrix themselves into some much more interesting reality, where Morpheus is the son of the God of Sleep, Somnus. And all he wants you to do is make a choice, red or blue, pick one.

One you go forever forward.

And one you sink back into Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, where you just smash against the obstacles, like breaking waves of consciousness. Leastwise till you learn to surf.

But more about that later.

First. Make a choice.

Red means S T O P. I believe you are familiar with that, as there is one on every street corner.

So stop now.

Do not read any further.

Just tell yourself that was the fucking most excellent piece of work that you've read in years, and perhaps you should send the author a dollar or two, just for the fun of it. There is just nothing like having a pay pal.

However, should you select blue, you are in unfamiliar territory. Because there is nothing like a Sumari on the loose with good drugs, and Subjectiveville is only one attention away, if you take the transition train on track number 9. Or maybe it is eight and a half, and a secret doorway opens to another dimension. I can't re-member.

Anyway, I mean you will have to get out of Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, dry yourself off, take off your camouflage, and perhaps blow dry your hair. Then you will have to deal with Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Remembrance, that will be telling you shit you may not exactly want to hear, while Charon rows you across the River Styx to Happy Ass Fields. And do remember that is not a free ride. (See: Edith Hamilton Mythology, pg. 39, copyright 1940. Definite Sumafi.)

So make the choice now.

And yes, it is a either/or choice, cause at this point you are not aware of the other many choices that exist outside the boundaries and limitations of the old, worn out, and broken down, mass belief bus. Driven by Norm, Al.

So you have to really want to go there.

Whatever that means.

I'll wait...

:-)





You Have Selected Blue

Blue feels that life is much too important to take serious. Or, Sirius Black for that matter, cause black does take things serious, if it regards doing some serious judging for those serius black and white issues.

But blue is blue.

You can call this blue, Aqua Duck Blue, Quack, Quack.

Aqua Duck Blue is the blue of a channel, or a current of information. Aqua Duck Blue has many curious properties, that I won't go into now, suffice to say that Aqua Duck Blue really doesn't go anywhere, but does have subterranean outlets that could swallow a lake in the previously known as Russia.

Aqua Duck Blue is very powerful. I don't know how it got that way. It is somewhat electrical in summer, enough to dim the lights for at least a quarter mile, and make computers annoyingly dysfunctional. And it is somewhat outspoken, like every Quack is.

Aqua Duck Blue is playful like a duck out of water, adorned with feet of web, and bill of orange. I'll tell you about Bill of Orange later, but right now, I hope you have an image of the Duck. It might try to sell you assurance.

Quacks me up.





I'd Like to Tell You That Things Are Just Ducky.

But they're not. NO NO. Shift is happening, and it is up to your red knees by now, and you might find movement quite difficult. You may call this movement Wade.

(Advice to future mothers to be. Never call your kid Wade. Call him some hot surf name like Big Kahuna. This advice is highly valid. This advice, should you take it, is 25 cents. Cash, check, money order, visa, no american express.)

Anyway, wading like fording is not fun if the current is swift. The approved method is surfing, where you finally stand up for yourself, cause you're just so bored. For this you may use your irony bored, if you have one handy. Otherwise you may body surf, even though that is not nearly as elegant on video.

Body surfing is like wading done horizontal. The problem is that you can't really notice where you are going other than where the current will take you, as you are deprived of a steering mechanism, unless you thought to bring along a set of ors.

But usually body surfing is the result of accidental Wade during flash flood season. You don't remember you even needed ors until one minute before the tsunami hits. Ors are choices, and you should have many with you at all times. Like water wings.

You may also purchase a non boring board and paint it in dramatic Hawaiian colors for intentional surfing. It should have a fin like a shark, belly up. Self steering is possible. *****Highly recommended. (No charge for this advice. See: refund policy.)

Surfing lessons will soon be available from Surfin' Sumari for a nominal fee. Tapes are twelve dollars, and that is only .10 per minute, and much less if you listen many times. You can even make money at home if you charge your boss, friends, or relatives for listening. Tell them they belong to the pyramid club. I'll keep you posted.

I'm sure glad I got that nasty marketing business out of way right away. This is excellent information, and I don't want you to think that I would give it away free. You can dial, 1-900-SHIFTSUCKS, for more direction about where to send your hard earned money.

The information will include the words enlightenment, school, ancient, secret, and wisdom, even though none of those may actually apply. (See fine print.)

Global Seminar Workshops are being considered, as long as they are no more than five miles from my home. There will be no advertising, other than some over zealous boss, friend, or relative acting much like a Stepford Wife. They will not be able to tell you what the seminar is about. I think it is a pyramid sceme.

The Seminar is about two days, give or take an afternoon, graduation rites, and two year apprenticeship. The Seminar is also .10 per minute, but reduced to .09 per minute for early registration, and full payment in advance. Non refundable.

Tee shirts, coffee cups, and cheap pens are optional.

No camera or recording equipment allowed. (See: Protecting/Freedom in the oxymoron dictionary, right next to Self Matters/Family First.)





Bob Consciousness

Oh, oh, oh, this is a terrible story. I warned you.

But now I assume you've made your personal commitment by swallowing the blue pill, and now you're just waiting for it to slowly dissolve under your tongue, and the promised bliss to set in. But we are far, far away from Bliss. A good 400,000 or so miles, set the odometer and turn left at the last chance gas station. You'll recognize Bliss, it has two trees. You won't like it.

This is a story about the shift.

I know you've heard lots of stories about the shift in consciousness, many of them religious. And you probably have yourself, if you admit to it, lit some candles, and incense, and chanted at the proper decibel for reality creation equal to wish desperately. Please. Please. Please. Think only good thoughts, only good thoughts, cause good thought, if soaked heavily in wish, will create reality.

And yes, consciousness itself has a good/bad meter where it judges heavily any vibration emitting from the indigo area that could possibly be admittance to Hell. I know this for a faction. Consciousness reads your private email, and judges it. It checks your back account, and makes sure you self deny anything closely associated with Pleasure, the first cousin to Bliss.

So if you still want to go to Bliss, you have to go through Pleasure several times, in order to get there.

It's a labyrinth.

And here is the scary part. You could become addicted to Pleasure. I mean after you've been through it several times, it grows on you. And that's a fact.

Never the less, consciousness itself has a conscience, and it judges. It has only two categories, good, and don't even think about it. Seriously, don't think about it. Like don't notice the blue elephant.

Thought kills.

Thought alone has never been correctly dissected, but for some reason it moves like clouds, and you don't want to have any while you meditate. But you do. It is a most wonderful time to make the grocery list, and worry about the future. Perhaps reprogram your cell phone, and feel a little guilty about something, somewhere, in the past.

This type consciousness actually has a name. I like to call it Bob. That's so easy, cause it is the same forwards and backwards. I could easily call it Otto, as there is another name you just can't hardly screw up. But play along here, call this consciousness Bob, and it is the common belief.

And like I already told you, Bob Consciousness is all seeing and all knowing. It keeps a list sort of like Santa. And if you are not continuously on the A list, then there will be no toys in Bliss when you get there. But don't forget about the two trees.

The thing about Bob Consciousness, is that it gets so addicted to thought itself, it really doesn't have much time for driving through Pleasure. In fact, Bob himself really doesn't have his own reliable vehicle, much less a train. He spends most of his time on autopilot, on the mass belief bus, thinking about thought and doing some sight seeing. (Word alert. Redundant, as in hear music. What other way would there be?)

That's why Bob picks a name like Bob. It is quick, and get it over with, I need to think.

You might say Bob is so thought focused he is rather political and hair trigger cocked for debate.

Bob used to smoke and enjoy it. But it stained Bob's teeth yellow and brown, the color of jockey shorts. No, Bob gave up that last single pleasure about two years ago, and only misses it hourly. Bob does like to talk about it, however. Usually in the form of creating everyone else's reality for them, by seeing that they equally self deny. Misery likes company, and Bliss is way far away anyhow.

Bob does not create his own reality. There is another Bob that creates reality for him. (See why you need the simplicity of spelling?)

It is a very easy system, you might want to get a pencil and write it down. Bob is omnipotent and creates everyone else's reality for them, cause if they did it themselves, they would screw it up. And Bob is so busy, he has little time for his own creation of reality, so he has another Bob do it for him. That way he doesn't have to pay attention.

Bob, however, has flow charted his future on paper. Bob is a producer, and works hard, and there is a goal after all the tasks are completed in proper order, and on schedule, with a small allowance for acts of God. Oh, yes, Bob has a God. A supreme authority who is also omnipotent, and creates everyone else's reality for them so that they don't screw it up. He is heavy into punishment, sometimes by trials of fire. You can call that God, Bob also, just for simplicity sake. Cause you already know that that God is very busy, and doesn't have the time to create his own reality, so he has another Bob do it for him. It just goes on and on.

We all subjectively know Bob Consciousness, whatever level he is at.

Need I remind you that Bob Consciousness is very judgmental? You have to be when you're controlling the world like Bob is. Bob needs to make instant judgments automatically, within the only two categories now available, good (spelled like god, with an additional o. Redundant alert!), and of course the second and least favored category, don't even think about it, spelled bad.

Or you could also use right and wrong. Right is anything Bob agrees with, and wrong is everything else.

And Bob defends and justifies himself all the time. That's where the love to debate comes in handy. Bob loves to debate those items normally in the basket of "who gives a fuck?" Bob keeps statistics.

Bob gives a fuck, I assure you. Bob gives a fuck, cause the Bob creating his reality is not doing a good job. Bob is experiencing a bad reality, with no pleasure, but lots of expectation, and he can't even allow himself to smoke.

But to tell you the truth, I did see Bob sneak a couple of puffs a few days ago. Because he is going to have to fire the Bob creating his reality and replace him with some sort of consciousness upgrade, perhaps, Bob v2.5. This Bob does automatic filtration of bad/wrong, so that Bob doesn't have to think about it, and it also filters his email spam and checks for flaming.

Bob Consciousness v2.5 does have a small side effect like Viagra, you go blind, but maybe it won't be all that noticeable.

Bob is way into the movement of Wade, which is difficult. But Bob need only blame it on the Bob that is creating his reality for him, and fucking it up. At some point, Bob may even have to take over and do it himself.

Perish the thought.





The Movement of Wade

Most people don't think much about the movement of Wade, but it is difficult.

It is hard to know exactly how deep the water is, unless you watch the current.

Current is a very important statement, because current means now. I've mentioned Bill of Orange before, and I'm not quite to him. But he made a statement to me that made sense. The currency of the future will be information. And it needs to be current, and it needs to ebb and flow.

Current and currency regarding money are the same word in a sense. I don't mean to pull a Mnemosyne, but money is a medium of exchange. It is circulating, movement. It isn't the money. Money is simply the symbol for self worth. It is about the movement.

The movement of Wade impedes normal movement. It is always forceful, even if the current is mild. I suppose walking through deep snow would equate, but if you add the current, which means belonging to the present time, or now, then it increases the difficulty if it is a swift current.

There is also a milder current, that doesn't incorporate the movement of Wade. This current has a flow, a steady smooth onward movement, like a current of air, or a current of spoken words. It is like electricity, in that it is a flow of electric charge. Color it Sumari blue.

Wade is not blue. Wade is knee deep. Wade works hard to stay in the same place. Wade is a point of choice, whether to continue to hold, or to let go and swim.

Perhaps surf.

I'm getting to that.



The Mass Belief Bus


The Mass Belief Bus is brown for loyalty, with a big yellow stripe up its back. It has rusted in several places, and the tires are receding hairline bald.

Its windows are coated with grime, from centuries of belief, that have pitted the windshield and broken its spirit. It chugs along, spitting angry from its exhaust, and polluting the atmosphere.

Its seats are leather worn, and sometimes the springs poke through, but mostly it has lost its punch, and the seats look like a crater after the volcanic blast. The backs are never upright, and the plastic tray tables have long since disappeared, any evidence masked by silver duct tape.

The Mass Belief Bus was once proud like the Titanic, but now has a inoperable scrape across its side, and it knows it shall break in half, and sink to the ocean floor. It prays for salvation, but knows there is none. It is suffactaing to ride, but yet so familiar, one has forgotten that its constant belching cries for relief.

The Mass Belief Bus' only attribute is that it is always on schedule. It reluctantly moves from stop to stop, opening its welcome doors for admission with a whoosh. But the routine has driven its spirit into submission, and the horn of signal no longer works. When the tears of depression arrive, it only has one windshield wiper that is rotted and dysfunctional.

The Mass Belief Bus can't see where it is going, it just knows the worn path like an old stable horse.





The Mass Belief Bus Driver

NAME: Norm, Al
HEIGHT: Medium
WEIGHT: Medium large
SEX: Yes
RELIGION: Bob Consciousness
SCHOOLING: Medium small
EXPERIENCE: One size fits all
NUMBER OF OFFSPRING: Undetermined
WORK RECORD: Excellent





Who Watches the Watchman?


Anyway, I need to go on with this horrible story about the shift.

This is horrible, just horrible, and it is only going to get worse. I warn you there is no happy ending, only because it goes on and on and on and never ends. Day after day after miserable day.

And it was exactly like this the beginning of the last century, I remember. Everyone was meeting Wade and greeting him, but always wondered why they always found him somewhat annoying. He would prattle on with the unmerciful whining until all hours of the night. Everything for Wade is difficult.

But that was back in the time when the Mass Belief was not a bus, but a trolly. A colorful electric trolly, just fucking cutting edge. Everyone rode the trolly with pride, even Judy Garland sang a song why the trolly was so jolly. And I can see why. Woman were still limiting themselves with the coarsest of corset. They cinched their waist clear down to their ass, and that was attractive. Now you have to cut the ass off, and make more boobs. (Redundant alert: See if you remove the o you now have bob. Somehow it always goes back to bob.)

But it was a cutting edge time. Bob dressed real nice, wore a hat, and was a gentleman. Yes, they did gather together the eve of 1899, to see if the world would immediately end when the clock ticked over to 1900, like time is actually linear and achieves certain effects on its own. But when that didn't happen, it was party down for a while, get on the jolly trolly and ring the bell as your most outrageous expression. But it soon wears off, like a EST Seminar, and one runs into Wade more often than one wants.

That was the time of Madame Blavatsky, and she said hey, when things bog down, we could always start a religion. And that was even before it was tax exempt, so you know it was simply because it was cutting edge. There are rules however. First, it must be secret. Secret Ancient Enlightenment, with a school attached that makes it look like a Wendy's commercial, just oozing red on white.

But I do have to tell you that the Greeks did pretty well have it down. It was a recipe. They took a little Egyptian dogma and rolled it out on a flat rock and made tacos and partied. That's what Greeks did, they partied, all the time. But it had rules too, like Polyhymnia had a little Martha Stewart in her. The garlands were arranged just so, and there were lots of laurels, with people not sitting on 'em. You're going to be really surprised about the secret ancient wisdom, cause it is quite colorful, not like the Greek statues you see today. They painted with Egyptian colors, as broad and bold as a highway billboard or a hotel in Vegas.

The Madame knew this, but like any Madame, any place, she knows you don't just give the secrets away. First you dress them up till their so tantalizing and tasty red one could hardly resist, then you throw a cold blanket of white on it, and call it spirituality. It is a winning recipe, used for generations. You do know that the secret ancient god is actually named Bob don't you? Because that is the way it works.

Oh, yes, and then you need some candles, incense, and chanting.

Ohm means Bob in 23 languages.

Actually it was much a Tupperware party. The women all got a in room, loosened their coarsest of corset, and lightened up. I think they smoked some weed, it wasn't illegal then. Neither were a lot of other stuff, so good times were still available if the room was seance dark. The bugle is a nice touch, and the word psychic keeps Bob from knocking on the door, but in the next room peeking through the keyhole. The floor is sticky.

Now here is the clincher, you need to name it some Greek name, like Theosophical, which are Greek words for "Bob" and "party."

In the meantime, Bob said, hey. I can start a religion too. I'm going to call mine Science and paint it orange. And women are not allowed, except in rare instances where they are actually smarter than men, like Mrs. Einstein. But that is limited.

And I'm going to invent ipods, and cell phones that transmit pictures, and you won't be able to resist.

Actually, they were well on their way cause like they invented electricity, and what a hot thing that was. Never mind that the Egyptians already invented it once. Like how many time ya gotta do that? Don't forget that the Egyptians had one hell of a pyramid scheme, still used today. And their corporate logos? Outta sight!

Anyway, Bob, and the Bob that runs that Bob, who looks much like some corporate icon with a bad comb over, all got into a room with a long table and did some inventing of rules. Cause that is really what it is about, the inventing of rules. You only need a couple of episodes of the "Little Rascals" to get that. The clubhouse is a nice touch.

But you have to pay attention, cause if you fuck up, "you're fired."

It's a game.








Club Spanky


And Bob said, there is no god.

And all the other Bobs agreed.

And Bob said, it is all about sex, cause I've been peeking through the keyhole of spirituality, and I know what I know.

And all the other Bobs agreed.

And Bob said, hey this is not a bad deal. First, you get a dark room, and a comfortable couch, and you have them lay down, and tell you their story. And you listen, and you listen, and you listen, till you can't listen to much more whining, cause you have to wade through this. This just screams victim, victim, victim. ja ja.

And then you take all their victim beliefs, which you have been writing down, and throw them in their face, like the Dr. Phil Judge Show. And they love you for it, I don't know why. Perhaps it is the German accent.

And all the other Bobs agreed.

And Bob said, your ratings go up, up, up, and self worth jingles in your pocket like the celebrity with lots of freedom and too much money.

And all the other Bobs agreed.

And Bob said, that you know they vote with their pocketbook. Write it in hieroglyphics, keep it secret, and call it wisdom, with a capital W. We'll make a club. No girls allowed.

And all the other Bobs agreed.

And there were many Bobs, both Jung and old.

And one Bob said, don't forget you should give it a Greek name. Pick a tragedy, any tragedy, and color it emotional yellow.

And all the other Bobs agreed.

And then Bob said, let there be enlightenment.

And all the other Bobs agreed.







S T O P


God o god, this is a horrible story. Horrible indeed.

Not only that, it will fuck with your mind. And that is the most horrible type of fuck. The worst fuck, cause fuck has many meanings. It is a noun, verb, and adjective, and it incorporates sign language. You can speak fuck with single digit extended out a car window gangster style.

Fuck is both aggressive and passive. You can be fucked over, fucked on, and fucked up. And you can fuck anything. Fuck you, fuck them, fuck that.

But when you fuck with your mind, you're not even close. I mean the mind is way purple, and the fucking apparatus is red. That is two ends of the spectrum, and red bends the least when rainbow style.

I mean, in some ways Bob is right. It is all about sex.

And then in some ways, Spock is wrong, emotion is wonderful.

Bob Consciousness is very attractive. Bob Consciousness can fake a certain element of emotion, like they have a faint memory of what that incorporates. But it seems relatively distant, like a heritage one can smell or taste, but not feel. Bob thinks about feeling.

And then Bob complicates that by naming it. Perhaps some long name, punctuated with alphabet, and he confuses himself.

Oh, Bill of Orange. Don't peck at me so.








Cyberspace



This is a fairy tale.

And everyone knows that fairy tales exist in cyberspace. Which is now a word so valid, that even the spell checker understands it.

Cyberspace is a place of connection, like a train station, if it were strictly a train of thought.

Cyberspace is a dream with a delete button.

Cyberspace occupies space determined in language painted orange, and consisting of many acronyms.




And the Nyms.

The Nyms are little Greek fairies, with a nasty disposition. They tinker with a bell to get your attention, and then they play tricks that fuck with your mind. The worst kind of fuck. They are classified into many categories.

(A) There are the Homo Nyns,

(B) and the Hetero Nyms.

It is the Hetero Nyms you have to watch out for. That is when a word is spelled the same but has different meanings. There is just nothing you can do with the that, it is just total translation. I spell it correctly, and then Bob, the spell checker agrees, and then you're on your own. Bob is very Hetero.

But the Homo Nyms are fun to play with. They sound the same, but are spelled differently, and have different meanings. They sparkle in the sun like puns.

Puns are green, and dress like the pan, Puck.

(C) the Syno Nyms are worth paying attention to. They have a real metaphoric language, but watch out for the

(D) Pseudo Nyms, which are phony right to their toes.

(E) the Allo Nyms just don't want to be exposed, and the

(F) Ano Nyms are much the same. The

(G) Anto Nyms are primed for conflict, and the

(H) Caco Nyms are just a misnomer.

And it goes on. Nasty little buggers. Perhaps a virus.




Wilhelm Shakespeare

Oh, oh, oh, this is an awe-full story. I hope that you've stopped reading by now, and burned the book. Shift sucks in many ways.

And I'm just talking about the beginning, only the first ten or twenty years. But the orange was very busy forming new organizations that later became shrines. But that's later, much later. I told you, this story is just going to get worse. Get the matches right now, cause the mind is a terrible thing to baste.

I'm just hoping you're not mysteriously drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. You're not buzzing around, thinking that this is really, really hot, and that you're not going to fly into it and crash and burn. And then you do.

Bob Consciousness created many, many new organizations of thinking. Bob blew the first breath into science, and it got up and took over like a Frankenstein monster. It measured everything it could find, and wrote it down. Bob invented the Hypothesis, and he loved it more than he loved himself. He kept feeding it, and it grew and grew and grew.

Bob invented democracy, not that it hadn't been invented before, like electricity. Even the Hypothesis had been invented by the Greeks. It was a large three-headed dragon-tailed dog, named Cerberus, that guarded the gates of hell. It allowed all to enter, but none to leave.

(I'm telling you, when you get to Bliss, you will not want to stay very long. Just long enough to dump Bob and have a life.)

I mean Bob was really a dream artist at heart. He just dreamed stuff up, and it became.

He dreamed up psychoanalysis, and he should have been shot for that, but he wasn't. He should have been shot for dreaming up any word that has psycho in it, and there are hundreds; 177 in my American Heritage. But he wasn't. The closest we ever came to stopping Bob, was a Bob named Wilhelm, and we finally burned his books Hitler style of the third reich, and threw him in jail, where he died.

The first American scientist to be treated like a heretic. (I told you that science is a religion, and an insidious one too, cause we actually believe it. )

Wilhelm was outrageous and probably deserved every bit of that. First of all he was a disciple of Big Bob named Sigmund, and he agreed with Sigmund that it was all about sex. (A Bob named Jung agreed too, but he was lying like that Bob named Alfalfa does in Club Spanky.)

And Wilhelm went off on his own, cause he was young and cocky, but mostly because he was cocky enough to piss Sigmund off. Sigmund, like Spanky, held the keys to the clubhouse, and if you didn't do it his way, there would be hell to pay.

Wilhelm became a sex therapist, and he probably used those psycho words which were exclusively the property of Sigmund. And that was the beginning of copyright infringement. Even therapist itself is spelled wrong. It is two words, the-rapist, and is Greek for mind fuck.

Wilhelm had many adventures, which I won't go into now, except to tell you that at one point during the season of the Ilda, he was attacked by aliens. The season of the Ilda is around the 40's and 50's, and we're not there yet. I guess this story is linear.

Anyway, Wilhelm said, I'm going to invent the life force, ignoring the faction that it had already been invented. Bob's are like that. And he named it Orgone, after the orgasm, cause it is all about sex. And he put it in a box and took it over to show Einstein one day, when Einstein was in a bad mood, and Einstein said, "who gives a fuck?" And that hurt Wilhelm's feelings, cause you would think that the life force is a huge invention that should be instantly made into a shrine with many big buildings, but it wasn't. By then Einstein had become the Pope, and if you don't get the Pope's blessing, you are doomed. Einstein also had a set of keys to the clubhouse.

So you see, Wilhelm Bob just managed to piss off enough people, that finally they actually threw him in jail, cause I guess burning at the stake had gone out of fashion. Miraculously, some of his writings survived, and are still being read today, or maybe acted out in plays.



Surfin' Sumari


I know I promised you a Surfin' Sumari tape, the Big Kuhana of riding these tsunami waves of consciousness. I just haven't gotten to it yet, and most important is that I haven't set up the pay pal account, cause I know by now that if you haven't burned the book, you must want to send money, the symbol for self worth.

So put some dollar bills in an envelope and send it to me snail mail. I love those symbolic Egyptian pics on the back, with that third eye of perception lookin' at me. Is that cool, or what?

Of course that is also a representation of the Egyptian pyramid scheme, that I was talking about earlier. There is your ancient wisdom right there. You see, Bob is at the pentacle, and all the other Bob's are underneath. The pyramid is very heavy, and all those poor, poor Bob's on the bottom are feeling the wait. I bet their neck and shoulders really hurt by now, like Atlas supporting the weight of the heavens on his shoulders.

If your shoulders hurt right now, that is because you are shouldering responsibility that you don't need to be. Examine your beliefs about personal responsibility to others.

If your neck hurts right now, that is because you are thinking about shouldering responsibility that you don't need to be. Look at those beliefs again.

This is important Big Kuhana secret, and I don't want to just give it away.

Perhaps I can make a video.

Stay tuned.






The History of the World, Part One


I don't know who invented shame and blame. I know Sigmund Bob thought he dreamed it up, but it was invented way before that. I think the original Bob invented it in the garden of Eden while creating another Bob in his own image. At that point he got a really good look at his own image and said, heaven's I hope that isn't me. But of course it was a mirror image of god.

And Bob said, that looks just like a dogma, and he shuttered.

I don't think there is anything wrong with having your very own dogma, that walks with you when you say heal, and sits at your feet when you don't. Every Bob has their very own dogma. It is also a mirror image. Turn it around and it says, am god. It is man's best friend.

Shame and blame just came about cause Bob kept trying to train his dogma with a rolled up newspaper. Don't pee there, don't poop here, don't eat the slippers, don't, don't, don't. All that constant restriction really gets to a dogma, and pretty soon they lose their puppy spontaneity, and just hang around with long ears looking sad.

I don't know why Bob does that with his dogmas. One by one he beats the life out of them, and then they die. Then he gets a new one and starts all over.

There is nothing like having a brand new fresh puppy dogma to play with. They are just so loyal and lovable, but also a pain in the ass. They whine all night like Wade, cause they want you to be their mother, and you do have to continuously feed them. It's that personal responsibility thing.

That is when Bob first noticed that his shoulders and neck hurt a lot.

At any time Bob could have just pulled down the barriers and let his dogma have its way. But no, Bob felt personal responsibility to create his dogma's reality also. This is a real problem for Bob, he just can't seem to let go.

And there are dogma training facilities every where, and every whim. They have weekend seminars, when they lock your dogma in a room for 18 hours, and make it confess to every type known sin. And then they insult it until it cries, like the Dr. Phil Judge Show, or Jerry Springer.

But your dogma has emotionally expressed itself, and somehow actually feels better. I think that dogma had been restricting itself from feeling for a long, long time, and it felt good to cry. Or it might feel good to finally open up and share yourself in some more valid way. It is like having that dream about being naked in public, or using the toilet in public. Exposure.

So much fear about exposure. As though there were actually secrets.

Just think about that word for a moment.

Secret.

I'll wait...

:-)





Secret simply means, not expressed.

That is secret ancient wisdom wrapped up for you in a package with a big bow. Secret sells.

I asked Madame Blavatsky again, and she just half smiled, her bright, bright, bright, blue eyes twinkling. She said dryly, I can't give away my secrets.

If you run that through the common sense translator, it reads there are no secrets.

Secret is just the magic word you put in there to give it more value. You can tell a story, or you can tell a secret story, don't repeat this.

This also has a Greek name, the word formerly known as ethos, but now known as gossip. It actually means custom, disposition, trait. It was acceptable to gossip. It was interesting to gossip. It was an exchange of energy, just like money is. The more you exchanged, the richer you were, I mean in terms of self worth.

In fact, the Greeks even had a symbol for gossip, and her name was Thalia, one of the social graces. You could not throw a party without Thalia there to stir things up. Thalia knows how to entertain. Thalia is also a muse. The green one. The Madame is a muse too, at least for me right as this point. She is also known as the Goddess Nike, or winged victory, or Vic.

The Madame says she invented spirituality, but you know it was invented before.

Probably by Bob.






Yellow Fever

I don't know when it happened exactly, perhaps it was while Bob was digging the Panama Canal, and he was bitten by a yellow bug and got yellow fever, and then Edward the Peacemaker died, son of the dysfunctional family of Queen Victoria, and all hell broke loose. There was protest, revolt, and revolution was spinning. The world was wobbling in emotion and passion like an unexpected earthquake just hit.

There were government reforms, and it was all about tremendous change. Bob went on inventing, inventing, inventing, and by the twenties, before the big depression set in, Bob had invented everything there was to invent. He had invented big sailing ships, and rockets, and fast trains, and commercial aircraft, and cars, and paved highways, and telephones, and television, and talking movies, and psychology.

But the emotional climate had changed, and now that everything had been invented, it was time to implement it, and improve it. Bob loved his invention of transportation, and he began to paint it in artwork. It was the deco of sleek movement, and things were moving and changing rather fast.

The Mass Belief was no longer a trolly, that was much too slow, small, and limited. Soon there was a Mass Belief Ocean Liner, the finest ever built, Titanic in size, and absolute. But it was disaster sailing, and because disaster did strike, all the Bob rules changed.

I hadn't mentioned Mrs. Bob, but she was a prime factor in this, cause she is just so emotionally focused and saw herself as suffrage. And emotion reared its ugly head and became the god that it is. It was revolution on a grass roots level.

Mrs. Bob told Bob exactly what she thought of his invention of democracy, and that it was very biased, based on wether one had a penis or not, and that was just about to change.

Oh this story is ugly, really ugly.

I beg you don't go on, it is likely to just piss you off royal at this point.

There was a yellow rash of incidents and then it broke out into global war. The world was trembling and covered with sweat with a yellow fever of fire and brimstone.

Oh my, oh my. Why does that happen?



Sidebar: Geek History

Sometimes it can just get pushy and people go postal for what seems no reason, but there is always a reason. You can't hold back emotion. It is a god, and it must be expressed. Can you imagine telling Zeus to take a hike? No way, Jose.

See, in Greek, there are a whole bunch of little gods and goddess'. Some are real tiny, like little tinnie fairies, and some are big, and some have extra heads and tails, whatever. Snakes on the head. That was rather creative, cause if you are honest, there is not a woman alive, that does not know Medusa on a personal basis. And she is truly a bitch, and she looks just like that on those PMS days.

See, it is me, Rose Ann, Rose Anadanna Essence, telling you that it is all about emotion and relationship.

And the Greeks knew that the really, really, god was not named Bob, he was named Zeus. And Zeus was somewhat a Bob in that he could not keep it in his pants, and he was just fucking everything, cause he thought he was God, and Hera his wife looked just like Medusa when she let it get to her. Those snakes of the brain just won't leave you alone, it's like a hamster wheel up there, ya know, what I'm talking about. It is like a scab that you can't stop picking at. You think you can, but you can't, and pretty soon you are thinking about it, and thinking about it, and thinking about it, and looking at it, and it is nasty, nasty, but you start picking at yourself. Picking, picking, picking.

It is an emotional climate, and the head guy, whom you can hardly stomach, is yellow and running the show. And all the time you get these gut level feelings, that keep trying to tell you what to do. But lucky for you, you never never pay attention to that, because you are much too busy thinking about all those snakes on your head. Like what are you going to do with that? It is a definite bad hair day, and I don't want to end up looking like some crazy character on Saturday Night Live.

Emotion is a nasty dragon that kicks you in the stomach and then pulls your hair. And you can go to a dimension of pissed off, where you have never been before, and there are no maps for that territory.

So you've got to give Hera lots of credit for hanging in there like she did, she really was a Queen. And she resisted that temptation to chop it off, like Zeus chopped off his father's. Cause up until that time that was the standard procedure for the prince to king upgrade, and Hera actually changed all that to something more military. You have to give the bitch credit, she could hold her own.

The reason Zeus is so powerful, is because he represents the weather, or the climate.

I want you to notice that those two words are the same. Emotional climate, and the environmental climate. That is a definite Nym right there, spelled the same, means the same, probably, Sameo Nym.

And it is also one of the Tudes, like Atti Tude or Alti Tude. When you put the Nyms and the Tudes together like that, it can just wreak havoc.

(You've got to learn to spot these little demons, cause they are always fucking with ya in one way or another.)

You know that your emotions don't end at the end of your skin. Oh, noooo, they reach on out there and grab that mothea by the throat and shake. Emotion shakes and quakes like Hollywood. The Greeks had it nailed, they named their gods after emotions, cause emotions do take over and run the show. Some were goddesses. The Goddess of Love. The Goddess of Rage. The Goddess of Grab you by the balls and squeeze and scream I've had just about enough.

You probably never noticed where your emotions go after you are all done with them and sitting in the rubble, back to having that cup of coffee and cigarette, back to thinking about all those snakes frizzed up like an afro, and how you're going to get it straightened out before the parents come over to visit.

But emotions keep right on going up to the heavens, and end up knocking on Zeus' door, whining like Wade that Hera tried to kick my ass, and what are you going to do about it?

And if Zeus gets enough knocks on the door in one night, cause he has been with a lot of women so you see he doesn't get a lot of sleep, he gets in a really pissed off mood also and there is a storm with thunder and lightening.

And Zeus says, I've had just about enough of all of you. And the electric volt comes, zap, zap, zap.

Then all the Zeus' agree.

(I cannot believe that Hera left his balls in tact and he still does that all the time to this day.)




But back to the horrible story.

That was the general climate. I mean, if you want to make some heavy duty changes you have to put it on out there. And I guess it requires a gun if you believe you need a gun. But major changes were definitely being made.

Oh my, oh my. The heinous Cides had crawled out of the woodwork and were swarming ten deep. There was Homo Cide, and Sui Cide, and Geno Cide, and baby Infant Cide. There was Pesti Cide, and Germi Cide, and Larvi Cide.

War zone! War zone!

No atheists in the fox holes!

Millions of Bobs were killed on the battlefield, and some of the more artistic Bobs said fuck this, and moved to Paris to party, but wrote about their home town. And it was just crazy, just crazy. All the Titanics were going down, man the life boats, women and children first.

There was prohibition, and you already know that restriction doesn't work in times like this. Bob was back to trying to train his dogma with a newspaper, don't do this, don't do that. And you could tell his dogma didn't like it one bit, and wasn't going to put up with it anymore. And there were gangsters, gangsters everywhere, with their car windows rolled down, and gun barrels pointing out. It was the time to speak easy, but no one did.

And you know that as soon as Mrs. Bob got her half of the vote, she bobbed her hair, and put on loose short dresses with fringe to shimmy, and she just started flapping all over the place to the tune of anything goes. So much for the corset of restriction.

It is a good thing this is a just a story, cause if it were actually faction, it would be too emotionally stressful to even think about. It was the disaster train chugging along and picking up speed on that downhill run. And you already know that at some point the disaster train will lose its breaks and just speed on out of control. It is coming. Talk about your series of unfortunate events.

Choo, choo!

Maybe we should all just stop now and relax.




Earthquake

Wilhelm Bob knew the exact moment the earthquake of emotion hit, because the core of his heart broke open and exposed a fault that he would dwell on for the rest of his life. It was a Greek tragedy far beyond what Freud had conceived. It was trauma so painful, and so secret, that the mere smell of memory brought pangs of remorse that racked his stomach raw.

He had murdered his mother, whom he adored. Not out of anger, not out of evil doing, but out of simple curiosity about life and sex. It was the fuel that burned his flame so bright. The fuel of self blame.

He had shingles of anger over his elbows that was armor for his terrible secret. He had committed the worst sin possible, and the inner conflict was so strong and grinding, that going to war was a welcome diversion. He liked wearing an officer's uniform, and playing the war games of dodging bullets. Sometimes one must get up close and personal with death, and smell and taste it, to learn to appreciate life.

Wilhelm was on his way to discovering the life force, and this was just the first stop. He could smell the yellow breath of the dragon as it flamed all around him, but he could not entirely face it. He could not speak of it. Shame was his red badge of courage, and yet he felt strangely motivated to discover.

The dragon of energy is as electric as a pending thunderstorm, pregnant with potential. It pushes forward in the waves of childbirth, and the sound of power roars in its belly, like the very core of the volcano roars. The dragon has many heads, each going in a different attention, and each spouting fire from nostrils that are tortured by constant irritation, and a throat dry as death, and a black tongue. The dragon is many colors, all designated by passion. The dragon is the most powerful creature ever know.




The First Day of Juno

This is the first day of Juno. Juno is Hera in Roman.

It was a funny thing, that every time the Greek Gods went to Rome, it changed their perception. I don't know why that was. They couldn't have been further apart than say, Los Angeles is from Seattle.

Like Hera was totally hell on wheels in Greece, and she gave birth to Ares by Zeus. Ares was the God of War, and he was born of a relationship that was war like. But all the Greeks hated the heir to the throne, including both Hera and Zeus.

However, when Ares went to Rome, they fell on their knees and said, its a god, and they renamed him Mars, and made him a four star general. And Mars had a train of attendants, like Discord and her son Strife, and the triplets, Terror, Trembling, and Panic. But the point is that the Romans loved Mars, and the Greeks thought he was a whining Wade.

I think on one of those rare instances when Zeus was actually home, and putting up with the obnoxious Wade, and he was thinking, thinking hard about what he really wanted for an offspring, a chunk of his head fell off, like Monty Python, and it became Athena. She was born full grown and in full armor. She was purely a product of Zeus' imagination, but he breathed life into her and she became as real as Mark Twain was to Sam.

Athena was the Goddess of War, and she was strong, but had wisdom, and was known as the protector of civilized life. She was adored by the Greeks, and they built statues to her, and Athens was named after her.

There were two different perceptions of the God of War. One was more like a game where strategy and intuition is used, and that is a goddess. The other was pure brawn in a lumberjack shirt, and that was seen as godly and heroic.

When Hera went to Rome, they changed her name to Juno. And they saw that she represented marriage, and how difficult romantic relationships can be when there is so much expectation. Besides, in Rome she was the mother of a battle hero, and they named a month of the year after her.

Brides still prefer to get married in June.

When in Rome...