Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Monday, January 26, 2009

A Berry Chilly Scene of Winter



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Thursday, January 22, 2009

I Have No Time For This

I have no time for that either.

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Friday, January 16, 2009

Betaphysics!® (redux edition)



One of the reasons I blog, besides the "mental problems" is that it is an excellent vehicle to convey the instant insights that sometimes visit me (they never call ahead, which is rude but what can you do?). These insights go from the mundane ("I should put on clean underwear now") to the profound ("I should have put on clean underwear a couple of days ago"). Had it not been for the Internet generally and blogging specifically such cotton-lined epiphanies would pass and the world would remain clueless about me and my rotten underwear. But, unlike my man-panties, things have changed--and the crystal clear insights that shatter the dull concrete of my merest materialism cascade upon my cerebro-neck-hat in a thousand dancing limbless legs. Thinker Alert: God sent me a Message coded in Brain Language!

So, now to prove the Science of Creationism. C'mon, you know you want to.

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Author's Note: The following insight came to me as from an angel on hiatus.

We in the business of being chronically unemployed have been thinking about the Universe in terms of physics, to the point of talking about God's Little Project metaphysically (Note: if, while reading this, your eyes begin to glaze over it is because God really likes glaze). This is the sticking point, the faulty foundation that has trapped Intelligent Designer advocates (those who adhere to the Moronic Designer school of thought are not welcome here) and led so many of the "God is in the Gaps Holy Plausible Deniability Crowd" into the abyss of having to prove something, yet no one has stood back from that God Hole and seen the playing field for what it really is: (AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is where I should be writing about what "it really is" but I haven't a clue, ergo this minor parenthetical non sequiter--this would be a good time to look out the window and shake your head like a child's rattle).

The great Mistake we Chosen Believers have committed is we have ignored a wealth of non-data, opaque insight and pliant verities because we accepted the material world as a given--that it could be tasted, touched, heard, seen, smelled (NOTE TO SELF: I really should change my underwear. This is not a joke, for it lacks both humor and any semblance of a payoff). By giving in to the evolutionists' Oh-So-Self-Satisfied definitions of what is "material" and what is "a magical poof of abstracted cotton candy" the True Believer is already laden with a terrible handicap, that there is such a thing as "The Observable Universe." Well, I'm here to say "No, there isn't. And there never was. Nope."

I introduce to you today the Scienterrific discipline of Betaphysics!® Beta means "after" or "fuck VHS" depending on which dictionary your mom kept in your room after you went off to live in that garage near downtown. And Betaphysics!® is the key to the Kingdom of Winning every single argument you engage in for the rest of your life, including your funeral if you have the program printed up and include some brief bit of business about Betaphysics!® in the content of the program. Page 2 or 3--the back overleaf if you really have to (I mean, would it kill you to put my thoughts on page 3? Of course not.).

But I digress: Betaphysics!® is the discipline that says that the Creator (we'll call him Magnificent God, Lord of the Christians just for the sake of ease) made everything in Six Days (Five work days and then one day on the weekend, sort of like mowing the lawn on a Saturday or prying the Mail Box from the front grill of your Tacoma early on Sunday morning before that smart ass neighbor notices it and just gives you that look--that vaguely smug glance down the nose--what an asshole. I hate him.) So, in Six Days He constructed the Universe (no building permits required, no environmental reports to fudge, no pesky payroll, etc.) and then we come along and six thousand years later we start belly-aching about the Origins of Life and Dirty Underwear and My Asshole Neighbor, and you know what? We're Beta, we came after the Miracle, so anything we experience can only be written about or understood in terms of after or Betaphysically!® So there.

What does this mean in terms of proving Intelligent Design? It means that we have to take it on faith that the manifested world is as it says it is. We didn't make it, there are no receipts, no video, and so truly it must have been made by a patriarchal deity who wanted us to frolic (fully clothed) in His meadows, pray to Him in American churches and accept that the whole thing we call home CAME AFTER HIM and is in fact subject only to the laws of Betaphysics!® It's kind of like driving through a southern town in the sixties: you have to obey their rules or the chubbiest sheriff is going to eat a plate of bbq ribs about six feet from you while you lay doubled-up on the cold, cold floor of a jail cell. God is that Sheriff. Obey dem rules, son.

Because I am writing Betaphysically!® I know that I know nothing, and that nothing can be proven because everything came after God and it's His stuff and you can't trust any of it because He can queer the pitch anytime He likes and DNA is a trap and mutations are even trappier and God is Great! God is Great! God is Great!

If you find yourself with some finger-wagging finger-wagger scientist, and you are all that stands between the deific alpha and omega of the Universe and a frosty six-pack of Truth, just tell them: Betaphysics!®, baby! Betaphysics!® You’re too late! God already did all this stuff! Go home, and pray that He forgive your intemperate soul! And get a hair cut. Are you done eating that?

Well, like I wrote at the top, these things come to me sometimes, little flashes of insight--epiphanies if you will--and normally I ignore them on account of what the doctors and the prosecuting attorney told me--but what comes after God is Number Two. And that's where we are: in God's Number Two. And I really have to go find some clean underwear.

Man, I love blogging.

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Confusing image of my treasured Lord and friends is from here.

Last Note: the idea of the world as unmeasurable, and therefore not subject to scientific examination and inquiry in any meaningful sense, does not mean that everything is an illusion, because then we would all just be heathens or pagans or Hindus or Unitarians, and that would be wrong. So very, very wrong.

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UPDATE: This divinely inspired revelation is now crossposted over at Jesus' General.

Originally posted at Correntewire.

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Thursday, January 15, 2009

Goodbye, Number 6

Patrick McGoohan has died at the age of 80. I saw him once in 1982, sitting by himself at the bar in Barney's Beanery (where I was a waiter at the time). He seemed to be glaring at nothing in particular, and though I really, really enjoyed his work I did not approach him. In my memory his mild glare has become something of a scowl. He was probably just enjoying a moment of peace in the (at the time) sparsely populated bar.

His series The Prisoner was just abstract enough as to both baffle and amuse, and I always looked forward to seeing it, but could never quite say what it was I saw. Television, which could have been so many different things if it had any balls, was actually engaging and mystical for the brief run of the series. One had the sense that there were people in charge of his village who were neither kind nor sympathetic, nor could they be reasoned with. How prescient, yes?



So long, Mr. McGoohan. You have at last escaped the prison.

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Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Dick Cheney Eyes the Future



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Image of the marauding, cretinous monster from here.

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Monday, January 12, 2009

Thursday Afternoon Pirate Wanted



The title of this post came from a Craigslist posting I happened upon. And so, without further ado...

Thursday Afternoon Pirate Wanted

the old woman fell into the river
on a wednesday swept to the sea
it was there she dreamed of lovers
it was there she was set free

all the oceans crash in heaven
wash you up and let you down
she was left upon the island
in a strapless evening gown

she could see past the horizon
she resolved to be undaunted
she placed an ad in heaven:
thursday afternoon pirate wanted
bring your golden dreams of love

(chorus)
golden dreams and endless bounty
sweetest rum and candlelight
hold her like the mermaid's daughter
hold her close and hold her tight
set your sword upon the mantle
do not fear eternity
lay upon the bed beside her
making love beside the sea

her family held a funeral
all the mourners passed by her grave
flowers landed on her shadow
there was nothing left to save

solemn are the ways of mourners
when a lady's laid to rest
what a lady sees in heaven
is anybody's guess
she sees golden dreams of love

(chorus)
golden dreams and endless bounty
sweetest rum and candlelight
hold her like the mermaid's daughter
hold her close and hold her tight
set your sword upon the mantle
do not fear eternity
lay upon the bed beside her
making love beside the sea

ride the seas in search of treasure
hoist the sail and tie the mast
she is waiting for her lover
she will wait until the last

forget the cannon and the slaughter
and the world that is so haunted
answer the call from beyond the 'morrow
thursday afternoon pirate wanted
bring your golden dreams of love

(chorus)
golden dreams and endless bounty
sweetest rum and candlelight
hold her like the mermaid's daughter
hold her close and hold her tight
set your sword upon the mantle
do not fear eternity
lay upon the bed beside her
making love beside the sea

the old woman fell into the river
on a wednesday swept to the sea
it was there she dreamed of lovers
it was there she was set free

all the oceans crash in heaven
wash you up and let you down
she was left upon the island
in a strapless evening gown

she could see past the horizon
she resolved to be undaunted
she placed an ad in heaven:
thursday afternoon pirate wanted
bring your golden dreams of love

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Image of pirate ship from here.

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Friday, January 09, 2009

The Bad Magician and the Last King of America



The Bad Magician sold a silver throne to the homunculus of god. It caused grease to drip out of the various mouths. It encouraged mercury up the river and into the land cavity and was unborn. The hermes vat was serene with urine and the Last King of America sat in something very much like eggs. "Can you time an egg?" asked the King. "In time," said whatever it was that was rotting in his throat. "In time."

The Last King of America holds rubble in his arms, holds death in his hands the way misers hold a baby, holds the 'morrow in a burnished urn with his remains spilling out onto marble. The Last King of America is seeing a door in a wall in a hole in a car in a plane in a face. He crawls to his finish but stops and turns on his back. He winces skyward. Uneasy lies the head that is the head that lies.

When one thing leaves another must leave as well. The Bad Magician reflects a parallel shadow out of nowhere. Angular, unweighted, the needs of dreams bending light back to the darkness where what isn't born isn't dying. Further evidence of dangerous thinking: he solders old wires to old songs. A pop a hiss a scratch a peal of a gasp of a buckling of a fallen of rubble. When the King goes so goes The Bad Magician. It had to be true.

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The Bad Magician was born as a dopamine answer to coded god shibboleth war killer wraith ministers. Born to send sympathetic night shivers to The Last King of America. Inside the head. Impossibly inside. To descend into cranial crevices. To navigate the neurons. To Kick What Makes Him Tick. Secret: The Last King of America is the Forty Year Plan. White for black. White forever. One man is a symptom. Many are the cause.

The Last King of America is roped off in the Forest of Nemi. Incantations are whispered. Incense of rarest bark paints the air fully. The full moon eats the sky as it passes. Rex Nemorensis grips his torch and trembles violently. Eight years of blood for blood. Eight years of The Lie. His turn, only. His turn on the wheel. "I am the walrus!" cries The King. "I am The King! I am Eternal!" The Bad Magician conjures nothing. He watches the stupid old king lurch to the edge of the known world. No horror. No gotcha. No epiphany. Just a stupid old king at the edge of the known world. The Bad Magician claps his hands. Not with a bang, but with a Chimper, goes the life.

Yet another King spies the silver throne. Another King for another witness. Let someone else crawl inside his head and follow Ariadne's thread. Orpheus is busy tonight.

The Bad Magician says goodbye.

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Image of the Homunculus of God by mjs...

Crossposted at The Bad Magician.

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Thursday, January 08, 2009

No Peace in the Middle East



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Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Give Him the Beat, He Do What He Can



who brought the fire that burns itself forever?
who howled at the moon at the end of his latest bender?
who took his club and banged like a crazy drummer?
who looks like the guys in dumb & dumber?

cave man
cave clan
human
oh, my lordy, do what he can
just give him the beat
he do what he can
oh!

who got naked in the tree with the monkey momma?
who took the bones and created a brand new drama?
who made whoopee without so much as a by-your-leave?
who got naked in the tree with the monkey momma?

cave man
cave clan
human
oh, my lordy, do what he can
just give him the beat
he do what he can
oh!

who woke the baby in the middle of the jungle rumble?
who's next in line for a role as a monkey's uncle?
who laughed at old man winter like in some play by harold pinter
who woke the baby in the middle of the jungle rumble?

cave man
cave clan
human
oh, my lordy, do what he can
just give him the beat
he do what he can
yes sir

who brought the fire that burns itself forever?
who howled at the moon at the end of his latest bender?
who took his club and banged like a crazy drummer?
who looks like the guys in dumb & dumber?

cave man!
cave clan!
just give him the beat
he do what he can
oh, daddy!

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Image by mjs--taken at the Wolf to Woof exhibit at the World Forestry Center in Stone Age Portland, Oregon.

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Sunday, January 04, 2009

10 Foot Baby Gate

man you got a big fat baby
man that baby is living large
float that baby down the river
float that baby on daddy's barge

how you gonna feed that enormous baby
how you gonna push him to the park
build yourself a baby carriage
just as big as noah's ark

the windows rattle when he's crying
time to feed him, best not be late
lord, he's coming, he is crawling
gonna have to get a ten foot baby gate

10 foot baby gate
10 foot baby gate
10 foot baby gate
build it now, best not be late!
gonna have to build a 10 foot baby gate!

must have been something in the water
must have been something in the air
whatever it was it got in the baby
whatever it was let the buyer beware!

here you come, better run for the mountains
here you come, better fly to the sea
damn, your baby gonna crush the city
ain't nothing be left for you and me

gonna have to get a...
10 foot baby gate
10 foot baby gate
10 foot baby gate
build it now, best not be late!
gonna have to build a 10 foot baby gate!

man you got a big fat baby
man that baby is living large
float that baby down the river
float that baby on daddy's barge

how you gonna feed that enormous baby
how you gonna push him to the park
build yourself a baby carriage
just as big as noah's ark

the windows rattle when he's crying
time to feed him, best not be late
lord, he's coming, he is crawling
gonna have to get a ten foot baby gate

10 foot baby gate
10 foot baby gate
10 foot baby gate
build it now, best not be late!
gonna have to build a 10 foot baby gate!

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