Rave!
Not a Zombie.
The only philosophical question that matters is whether or not to jump.
We can always
quibble
about what
“jump”
means.
It's a long way down.
“On the grounds of all my experience, which has lasted for several years now, I can say with full confidence that in their form, angels are completely human. They have faces, eyes, ears, chests, arms, hands, and feet. They see each other, hear each other, and talk to each other. In short, they lack nothing that belongs to humans except that they are not clothed with a material body. (Heaven and Hell #75)” Swedenborg
Vanity is power, power is vanity.
Do you hear the trumpets in the clouds?
Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
Is it Übermensch?
Trump’s people,
simple people running on pure emotion.
They thrive on dogma and crave the mad ramblings of despots.
Violence and death give their lives meaning - open any flavor of "Good Book" to see what I mean,
or simply turn on the TV.
Does she know?
There are zip codes in NYC (reference Sam Harris) with people who have done more to improve the lives of all creatures great and small than any mass of sheepish, genuflecting, fear worshippers have accomplished in 200 thousand years of humanities
stumbling,
gross,
and horrifically painful struggle for survival.
Is that living?
Brutish and short, brutish and short, human life was brutish and short…
(Do ants suffer? Does asphalt burn? What Host has suffered for my cheeseburger? Ethics, what a bore.)
It must be mundane. It must be random.
Knowing which mushroom can kill you is knowledge worth having.
You're yellow! You're yellow! Ya yella! Ya yella!
Trump embodies our sickly need for dictators who appeal to our childish fantasies of
honor,
glory
and triumph.
(And yes, lines must be drawn and if crossed by the other, the other must meet dire consequences!)
Are we not surviving well now?
Survival is enough for the species but insufficient for the mind.
Does she know where she's going? Do they know what they're waiting for?
"If you see Buddha on the road, kill him."
If we can't kill the thoughts and ideas that drive us toward solipsism, we will inevitably succumb to our
slow,
imperceptible,
instincts
and continue to revel in our self-righteous struggle with pain.
We will continue walking zombie-like in a faceless crowd of heroes, giants, and demigods while the real dangers swell without our knowing
and wipe us out of the universe.
Why wait for the radiating portends of a supernova when our imagination can ignite
the fires of hell on earth.
Lest we forget Oppenheimer's prescient words as he quoted the good book Bhagavad Gita,
"I have become death, the destroyer of worlds."
Oh, proud words.
Proud indeed.
So proud.
Death and destruction are
what our species invented with our amazing self-consciousness.
So if it's rapture we want
we will have it,
perhaps sooner than later.
Forget life,
God's speed -
to heaven!
What is time?
What is the end?
I said nothing, I only followed her and enjoyed the colorful surroundings.
(Our king is our concept of freedom. What concept of freedom is that?)
And by the way, I do a great James Corden.
I do existential happiness,
I smile and giggle while pushing the stone up the hill
and laugh madly when I watch it rolling back down into the ravine.
It’s what I do.
It’s the artful deal I made.
Mine will be a Happy Death.
Happy life,
happy death,
humorous and long enough,
humorous and long enough.
Shall we do joie de vivre?
Anyone?
Anyone?
Mundane images, mundane women - it must be mundane.
The Better Angels -
Black First Lady,
Rapper Gal,
and
Comedian from a foreign country.
Bliss -
if only for fourteen minutes and forty one seconds.
Consumed - a blissful cigarette.
