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jruit :: 7 |
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"// .. ./ // .. ./. Sanctimonious one! ../ .. //.. /.. ./. /." It was a whisper voice. I'm used to it. I don't even know what "sanctimonious" means. I lay in bed this morning noticing my body feeling like the pleasant expanse of a steel bar extending the length of a football field. I was on the sidelines in something like a glass booth, able to slide my attention at will, up and down the bar. In one end zone, my feet were curling like a purring cat's, feeding off the poised energy of my genitals, which felt like some kind of tingling power plant. At center field lay my belly, what I think of as my gateway to "fortunate luck," as the Chinese would say, though luckily I don't know any actual Chinese people who talk that way. The center of my chest lay at about the thirty-yard-line of the field, and I now know that seats what's known as the "Pearl Beyond Price," quite similar in nature to a rainbow crystal you might hang off the rearview mirror of a 2014 Silver Camaro, if you actually had a 2014 Silver Camaro. Anyway, this "location" clearly has something to do with inner (and maybe outer!) time travel. Moving slightly farther upfield, we get to my voice box, which is currently a source of mystery or confusion to me. Sometimes it tingles on the verge of a cough as I make feeble attempts to extricate myself from emotional connections from certain women, the ones I most definitely don't want to fuck, and certainly have no interest whatsoever in making any other "connection" with or their faux-evil ways. There's a fiendish sort of behavioral feedback loop in my voice box, too, which on occasion leads me into repeatedly doing something, like sit down, take off my right sock, and put a touch of ointment on my right big toenail, as if that would actually cure the tiny bit of fungus there, and I don't need to do it twice in a row, thank you Commander Voice Box! Now at end zone we have my forehead, just under the goal posts, the location "right between the eyes" being the crossroads of the magic pyramid of intuition, where crisscrossing observations converge upon "meaning," or as Gurdjieff followers would do well to discover, the enneagram. Most of them have no clue what THAT is, and Gurdjieff can't tell them, because he's dead, along with all those others who are actually dead. Living is the watchword here, now isn't it? Okay, I'm quite finished. I've got to go look up "sanctimonious" on my iPhone ... Oh, here it is ... "Superior!" Ha! Half the time when people insult me (Including my own damn self!) I'm actually a little slow in figuring out what the hell they're talking about. "DOGS, TOO!" That's what I would say to that. "DOGS, TOO!" |
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