Cray

      I am God.  I am a human being.  God is a human being.   Only humans have words.  God is just a word.  Only humans have gods.  All creation worships God?  Ha.  I have a computer and words and I’m human and I have a god complex, but I’m just an animal, really.  Humans invent things like cars and nuclear bombs and cement and tv and religions.  My religion is I sing a song of myself.   Not very original, I know.  But it works for me.  I like to read myself.  Is that mental masturbation?  I honestly don’t know.  So I write to music, and enjoy being a creator.   But creators have their muses.  It’s a team project.  I get my inspiration from others.  I want to be an interesting author, with captivating words, stories, ideas.    Words designate things, or concepts.   What is God?   Everything.  Nothing.  Me, myself, and I.  You, yourself, and thou.  Love, hate, life, death, history, the future.   It’s always now.  See?  It’s now now.  So who, what, where, when, why, how, and which is God?  A scientific treatment of theology.  Some theories and laws.  Drop some knowledge from on high, from the ivory tower, from my high horse.  God is all-knowing.  He knows every atom and molecule of existence.  She knows what spacetime is.  He knows how to create a universe, destroy hell, and other fun things like that.  Utopia, shambala, paradise, and other dystopian possibilities.  War is hell, unless you’re a hardcore killer, who feels alive in the shit.  Those folks are kind of exciting.   But you and I, we’ve been through that.  So let us not talk falsely, now.  I keep good company with myself.  I’m my own audience, prospective reader.  I assume if I enjoy reading myself, then you will too.  Maybe a wasteland is your bag.   You like scrounging for nutriment, and huddling around campfires during winter, avoiding marauding rapists and thieves and assorted cutthroats, in your heavenly hellscape.  To each her own.  Picking fruit in eden is hardly shooting down drones, to my way of thinking.  Anyway, there’s more where that came from.  About time to shift to another paragraph, a change of topic, a change of tone.

    I like sex and candy.  I like feeling healthy even more.  I like feeling moral.  The good book says only God is good.   So I’ll be God.  I’ll decree laws and dogma and etiquette and other assorted rules for the good of my beloved heathen, who all believe in themselves, like me.  The world is mad.  I can say anything.   That’s freedom.  Different strokes for different folks.  Some dudes like to dominate, others to submit.  Dudettes and chicks and honeys and babes are a different class than the hombres machos, the big and bad, the hecka mongo burly studs.  But some guys like having long hair, and some girls like to be GI Jane.  If you can dream it, it probably exists.  Variety is the spice of life.   Life is spicy.  There are Normals and Queers.   Actually, there are so many queers that they’re kind of normal, I would say.  But I’ve been in the Bay Area for awhile.  Cities are a tad different than out in the cornfields.  Unless you’ve seen it all, and nothing is that exciting, anymore.  The grey of the sidewalks is as boring as the expanse of space is as flat as the African savannah is as old and tired as another movie, recycling the same old themes and tropes.  You’ve heard all the music.  You’ve seen all the movies.  You’ve read all the books.  You’ve asked all the questions.  You’ve fuct all the women.  You’re old and waiting to die, and it could come in a hundred years or tomorrow, makes no difference to you.  You’ve seen it all.  You’re a dragon.   Life just drags on and on, like an endless cigarette.  Burn, baby, burn.  You’ve tried all the drugs.  You’ve travelled the globe.  You’ve met all kinds of people, and a few mean ones.  Time for a new paragraph.

     Time? What is time?  Physicists say there was no “before” the big bang.   Does that mean there will be an end of time, too?  So confusing.  I like to think I know better than them, and it’s really not so complicated.  Like time has always existed, and always will.  Maybe time travel is possible, so there’s some cyclicality, circularity.  Or alternate universes, existing in the psyches of vastly different kinds of people and sentient beings.  And books.  Just sitting there, lurking at your local library.   Waiting to pounce.  Daring you to open their covers, crack their spines, to transport you to another world, another time, another place, another mind.   Music does that too.  You can mix and match.   Music and books make good bedfellows.  They enhance the experience, bring the high up a notch.  Stimulus and excitement and going where the current takes you, going with the flow, riding the bumps.  Like white water rafting.  Good to have an experienced guide.  Thyme-Lyfe books.  Lyfe is, in fact, a food company.  I cracked the code.