Oh, wow, just noticed this is post 2323, which number kindles warm almost memories of so enjoying "The Illuminatus! Trilogy" back in darker-haired days.
I think what kills me most about the internet is that it just plain really doesn't contain much of interest.
Don't get me wrong. It seemed to. You know, the "those heady times" context. So many links, so much content, everyone coming together.
Deity, and ridiculous desperate hope driven illusion all *that* turned out to be!
Doing this (typing, posting) isn't fundamentally different from what I've done ever since I could type, and even before then to a degree: thoughts seemingly exist out of nowhere, and there's something fun about painting them in these letters-unto-words-unto-sentences-unto-paragraphs container glyphs.
And it really seems like something for... about three seconds. Maybe longer. Nostalgia might arise, reinvigorating the initial fascination to a degree.
But soon it enough, the same old repeat follows the same old rinse.
Here, okay, there might be response(s). But I've never written home about any of them. They - just like the internet described above - are initially infused with a whole lotta significance, and seeming unrealized potential.
Until you realize you're doing all that. It's not inherent. It's what you're seeing in an obsessed fit of wishful hope.
And it's already three seconds later....
It's just always been there.
Here, really. But from the pretense of be-ing a free-willed, separate individual/self/person is seems like there from context/perspective of that pretense.
Ears to hear?
Getting drowsy from the food. The occasional rumble rustle of trash/recyclables collection trucks intervenes.
Have I really been hallucinating you hallucinating me?
Not just you. All the you's. They exist the moment I consider them, and with as much detail as I like. Or seemingly need.
And yet "I" am no *where* or *when* to be found, being (yet not..) the essence of the seeking itself.
It's....
When you look. *Anywhere*. Go head. Look.
You're from whence the looking seeming emerges, instantaneously creating everything it finds, effortlessly.
Indeed, are you light....
A lot of the previous entry fomented in the context of Soundgarden's "Blackhole Sun" wandering around the mental backdrop.
It's funny. I've loved the song since first hearing it, but honestly wasn't even aware of most of the lyrics until last night due to having to create a lyrics/chords sheet to possibly perform it tonight.
But that hardly matters. The songs that most "do it" for me tend to have the music/sound itself "doing most of the talking". There's something about the chord changes, the hue and juxtaposition of sounds, aspects of the vocal(s) that come together.. right now.. inside me. I could wordlessly hum the melody tonight without losing a quark's worth of the song's inner significant.
Living is easy(er) with eyes closed. Or with words cordoned off, as it were.
Yeah, I know... but... what you're doing. Mmmhmm. Yeah.
I had the final leftovers of our friend's fantastic Mediterranean cuisine a little while ago. Absolute best hummus anywhere. And the "baba ganoosh" (sp?)? Whoa.
Must remember not to put cream in my wife's coffee.
Must remember not to put cream in my wife's coffee.
Must remember not to put cream in my wife's coffee....
(some kind of exam requires some fasting)
My sleep pattern still hasn't adjusted to the end of "daylight savings time" in our locale.
"I" seem to be back in an "Why am I doing this?" mood/mode. Listening to or reading others used to be an escape with potential for learning something. But now it mostly highlights our plight as seeming individuals, i.e. as evidence of mental illness, but in the context of the statement/belief that "all mental is illness", that even the tiniest seed of thought faithfully blossoms into "all this and so much more", none of which has anything to do with what we actually are, but is, in fact, essentially an active ignoring of what we are - *is* the so-called "ignorance" mentioned in varieties of spiritual ways/paths.
And so I honestly wanted to just close the notebook after that last sentence, break the laptop in half over my knee to guarantee rendering it inoperable, and dropping the mutually dangling halves into the outdoor garbage receptacle (well, discounting the environmental impact of that...), imagining a sense of relief/freedom/release I'll never experience so long as I continue staring at this screen and/while typing on this keyboard.
You know?
But then I remember it's just one device/implement of procrastination from letting so much else go, ultimately even the me/I which seemingly so cherishes itself, which fears dying (heh... originally typed 'drying'...), and all the rest. (Heh... the restless rest....)
Oh boy.
The necessary operation clearly need be an inner one, else the sick/deluded/ill self-referential monster will simply replace the halved laptop and all other ignorance/ignoring devices with others.