The Eroticism of God is Death.
There, I said it. I got it out there. For all you Scorpios. Something to pin on your leather jacket with the other patches, of the punk rock bands and whatnot.
I intend to talk about God tonight, which is to say I intend to talk about real things, things that matter. So I will start with Amit Goswami. This sentient turtle/parrot man of the rebel alliance, has made quite a name for himself as an established quantum physicist who realized the deep philosophical ramifications of the science he was studying and shifted his focus away from the material worldview. I saw his movie called Quantum Activism or something, and I enjoyed it. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to say "I know, I know how the light just flows into you, and you want desperately to share it, but your words are countable and finite, and the light is uncountable and infinite. So you just hit these points, you hope the viewers will connect the dots, you forget yourself, you share what you can. And is it enough? You know the nature of the phenomenon is that the ignorant are empowered to enforce the tyranny of their own ignorance. Thank GOD for the man who set me free. Was it you? Was it me?"
But that's not enough, that's not enough to say. Scientists like him demand rigor, that rigor which reduces the complex to the simple. The rigor of the reliable. But what if the reliable, I mean the old scientific reliable (reliable across numerous observers) simply does not hold within this new sea of truth? What if Freedom were the ultimately the enemy of (consensus) truth? Amit would just smile with that far away look. He would understand what I was getting at, but know my words were imperfect and can be taken in different ways. He would see my maths were strong on intent but imperfect.
I guess I have now stumbled drunkenly into the realm of poets. Nothing is real here, Nobody can reach or understand me here: I am beholden to all the stories I have written and devised, and I am pleased. Maybe authors are Buddhas. They understand that what they deal with after they die is they stories they themselves have written. Mine have been very few but good. Lord, take me to Hyder to meet the mermaid girl at the bar. Take me again to be with Lane, let her draw my blood and have her show me her father Santa claus the Devil, in the north pole where I may be frozen into a plaything, to be liberated by the gay Rudolph on the stripper pole, and run 200 miles with a teddy bear through the snow. These are my homes, these are songs written in the secret language in my soul, these are where I will be after I die.
Who takes ecstasy as their own? Who takes the most high and holy elements of existence their abode? Lord, what kind of pervert....
Yes Lord, WHO???
Who seizes by right what belongs to them?
I apologize, I have nothing REAL to say tonight.
I intend to talk about God tonight, which is to say I intend to talk about real things, things that matter. So I will start with Amit Goswami. This sentient turtle/parrot man of the rebel alliance, has made quite a name for himself as an established quantum physicist who realized the deep philosophical ramifications of the science he was studying and shifted his focus away from the material worldview. I saw his movie called Quantum Activism or something, and I enjoyed it. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to say "I know, I know how the light just flows into you, and you want desperately to share it, but your words are countable and finite, and the light is uncountable and infinite. So you just hit these points, you hope the viewers will connect the dots, you forget yourself, you share what you can. And is it enough? You know the nature of the phenomenon is that the ignorant are empowered to enforce the tyranny of their own ignorance. Thank GOD for the man who set me free. Was it you? Was it me?"
But that's not enough, that's not enough to say. Scientists like him demand rigor, that rigor which reduces the complex to the simple. The rigor of the reliable. But what if the reliable, I mean the old scientific reliable (reliable across numerous observers) simply does not hold within this new sea of truth? What if Freedom were the ultimately the enemy of (consensus) truth? Amit would just smile with that far away look. He would understand what I was getting at, but know my words were imperfect and can be taken in different ways. He would see my maths were strong on intent but imperfect.
I guess I have now stumbled drunkenly into the realm of poets. Nothing is real here, Nobody can reach or understand me here: I am beholden to all the stories I have written and devised, and I am pleased. Maybe authors are Buddhas. They understand that what they deal with after they die is they stories they themselves have written. Mine have been very few but good. Lord, take me to Hyder to meet the mermaid girl at the bar. Take me again to be with Lane, let her draw my blood and have her show me her father Santa claus the Devil, in the north pole where I may be frozen into a plaything, to be liberated by the gay Rudolph on the stripper pole, and run 200 miles with a teddy bear through the snow. These are my homes, these are songs written in the secret language in my soul, these are where I will be after I die.
Who takes ecstasy as their own? Who takes the most high and holy elements of existence their abode? Lord, what kind of pervert....
Yes Lord, WHO???
Who seizes by right what belongs to them?
I apologize, I have nothing REAL to say tonight.
posted by tridentblue | 10:04 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home