Gone With The Change Wind

Don’t they always come unglued just when things are getting good, these damn meat popsicles, these cyborgs that we identify as self? While the seas are calm, we’re all buccaneers. Then a storm comes, the British Navy is breathing down our backs, and we disintegrate into a blubbering weepy heap of flesh, and hair, and bone, and tooth- coming apart at the seams. Just when the adventure is about to begin, that is when we transform from brave dashing pirates of the seven seas into insane emotionally crippled dribblers. That’s when we want a house, we want a boy friend, we want to become our parents only classier, or we just want something we can never have, but anything is better than sucking it up and waiting for the gale to grip us.
The human machine is a useful pile of vile rubbish, but of course when you aren’t using it, it is just a pile of vile rubbish. While we wallow and rest in the comfort of this decaying husk we perceive ourselves as something stable. Even those thoughts and feelings which we think are us, are just embellishments to the crap heap, no more permanent than a sherbet ice cream cone on a sweltering afternoon in July. It will all go away, melted into a gooey rainbow colored mess.
It is a mistake to become identified with anything that you see, hear, think, feel, dream, or seem. None of it is the great prize. It turns to sawdust in your mouth, collapses like a sandcastle under the first far reaching wave. There is nothing wrong with being disposable. It is not avoidable or regrettable to be a conglomeration of biological debris with a psychic whip cream topping. It is, as before mentioned, a useful thing to possesses, but the flip side of the coin is that it is, (as often is the case) a terrible thing to be possessed by.
To be a slave to the human trash heap, and I don’t just mean the culture, civilization and society of humans, but to be a slave to the individual human garbage mound that you think of as yourself; that is hell. Each wriggling offering of humanity imagines itself to be quite unique and important, blind and ignorant to its bland similarity to every other member of its species. We all received the same basic DNA grab bag at the beginning of this party, and yet we each think that there is something special about our favors, or occasionally we envy those combinations of junk given to others.
But what’s the use of a kazoo if you don’t blow on that son of a bitch like there’s no tomorrow? You have to use your crap bag. Play with it. Work it. Monkeys for example throw their own feces, a practice which displays a remarkable tendency towards playfulness. Levity will carry you places. Humor is essential for being able to work with the bio excrement you call yourself. If you take your condition, as a miserable bit of biological refuse destined to be flushed, too seriously, it’s not conducive to a mood in which creativity thrives.
Use what you have. You could, of course, identify with those temporal thoughts and feelings that you have come to be so identified with. You could take them quite seriously and spend a life time fleeing from the British Navy, settled down somewhere where you think you will not be found, perhaps nestled under the bed sheets entwined with a lover that is not so different from your own biological mother or father.
Then when they find you, and believe me they will, for there is no shore that the storm does not eventually touch, that temporal you, suckling on your mothers tit or fathers cock and whimpering in anticipation of the impending darkness, will be blown to ash and scattered to the four winds. Your thoughts, those things you called emotions, will evaporate under the gaze of the sun absolute. You could do that.
On the other hand you could polish your steel and seek to penetrate the greater mystery. You could embark on the quest to unmask the Real, the Eternal Beloved. There is something other than the sticky goo masquerading as emotion, a real emotion, a current which may pass through your jumbled organic assemblage.
It is, like the Queen of Hearts or the King of Spain, not an easy to accommodate guest. It rocks the wastebasket it passes through violently, dispersing bits of rubbish which once made you seem to be you. It may propel you out to the high seas, to your death prematurely and voluntarily.
It takes a real will to put your hand in the flame. A real desire to melt the human being to a point of malleability so that you can bend it in the service of some higher emotion. It takes real will and some objectivity, the ability to look at the walking, talking, laughing, crying, body of death and realize that it’s going to go to rot anyway, why not do something different with it?
Take a gamble. Have a real laugh. Find out what might be possible. Because I guarantee you that there is a death after death. Why not attempt to experience the life electric before the looming event horizon?