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| Do Not Fear The New-Oh-Sphere |
| 12.20.04 (8:14 pm) [edit] |
Man's philosophies are now duking it out in the Noosphere...for
we all know by now, that any idea that does not get included, is
an idea lost forever. It is, in a sense, the erasure of most of
the Akashic Record, in order to start "anew". Or as Xians might
call it: "born again"...only this time on a cosmic level, as
well. Is this fair? Should past knowledge be completely removed
FOREVER, as the price to pay for a new life...for immortality,
even? Think about it: would you exchange most of your past
memories in order to live an immortal life of joy and adventure?
(Oh why do I think of that phrase, "Ignorance is bliss" right at
this moment?)
It is a similar quandary to Shakespeare's most infamous phrase:
"To be or not to be". For if one sacrifices enough of one's
memory, does that not qualify as secession of consciousness...at
which point, ressurection would be the equivalent of a totally
new--thus different (thus not "you" any more)--sentient being?
It is perhaps good at this moment, to tell Tom Cahill how much I
appreciate his comparing me to The Hundredth Monkey, regarding
my call to Randolph. I've always held onto that most happy of
all presents: The Gift Of Optimism! Believe me when I say
there's plenty of space in my intellectual attic of most
positively influential people in my life. You are of course, one
such person, and--though part of a very tiny clique--are a jewel
in This Crown Of Wisdom I humbly adorn. Now, don't let your ego
step in the way with such silly questions like, "Diamond or
emerald? Sapphire or glass? How many facets? Is this Elf
Magicke?" It is time to let go of them, Thomas...let go and chug
down a glass of Mendocino goat milk (which you can afford to buy
a quart of, twice or thrice per month; and would be very
beneficial in damp weather).
For you have ARRIVED!
"Where?" you might ponder, "Where HAVE I actually arrived, Zeke"
And I shall respond (not without a hint of sadism adding a
delicate trill to my voice):
"Aha! That is not my department. I have no idea, either, but I
don't obsess over it, honey. Let's just make the best of this
plastic art we call Life, and see who becomes a True Sculptor!"
So my personal dreams are met, as are yours...and of course those
who all have this or that aspect of World Peace in common. So
not only will I sculpt Randolph's return to my side, but great
victories for all Good Folks everywhere, leading to a world of
utter respect, harmony, joy, adventure, and gay, gay, gay, gay,
gay, gay SEX! Yes, I know Heaven's Sexual Mansion won't suit
MANY who've earned it, but gee...this is how a Queer Reality
Hacker (a "Quacktivist") such as "moi" has a little fun on the
job.
So our jobs are done, good buddy! All we need to keep doing is
learning bit by bit how to destress off this PTSD. Just learn to
relax a little more each day. It is all too easy to forget that
sometimes--just sometimes, if you're real lucky--an easy answer
IS the best answer. While modern life is indeed complex, this
still does not mean that ALL truths must now be complex. But is
it true this time? Ahhh, always something for this Lone Elf to
worry on! We are the bedraggled veterans of a long, long war;
only now coming off the battlefield for some badly-needed
triage.
We are the first! We are the vanguards! We stood up to Evil long
before anyone else did, or even realized it for what it was!
(And it's name is "Hompohobia: Author Of All Wars And Man's
Inhumanity To Man".) And that shall NOT be forgotten by
humanity, ever...in fact, it will be CELEBRATED EVERY
YEAR...from December 30th to January 16th (the former date being
Randolph Taylor's birthday, the latter being the day he shot
himself in 1985, and survived).
Yes, Tom, we simply need to kick back and savor the vision of our
labors bearing fruit. For you, and for all admirers of Randolph
Taylor and others like him, this Yuletide poem:
THRENODY
by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
Please God, don't let Christmas come
Without my Randolph Taylor.
My quest is still a painful one:
Adrift at sea, a lonesome sailor.
I can't believe that he is dead,
His soul bound to the quilt.
(Oh can't this be another man,
Same name, in glitter gilt?)
How many years I've walked this path
Of love's devotion on the cross,
Only to echo The Devil's laugh:
"You lost, you lost, you lost!"
I pray, I guess, for miracles,
Each breath a sacred wish:
My heart a candle in the dark,
Or in the deep blue ocean, a single
golden fish!
"Please help me stop the dying," was
Randolph's tender plea,
Scrolled across a letter: the first
he sent to me.
But now my sadness falls like rain,
And drowns my joy like a broken toy.
I cannot bear this pain.
I cannot bear not knowing
How you, dear Randolph, are.
(My heart forever glowing, whether
near or far
For a man who gave me everything
And set my course to a star!)
Without you, my dear Randolph,
I have no way to steer.
The waves are crashing 'gainst the prow;
The clouds are tumbling near!
I yearn for you my chipmunk,
My little piece of Heaven.
If my soul were a loaf of bread,
Your kiss would be the leaven.
Quilt display in San Francisco's
City Hall, November 1992
(Honoring S.F. police who died of AIDS.)
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posted by: Big Pete (reply)
post date: 12.26.04 (9:13 pm)
That exquisite assembly of beautiful and heartwarming verses is something Shakespeare himself would be highly envious of, Zeke. Thank you so much for posting it.
"If my soul were a loaf of bread," wow... simply breathtaking!
posted by: zekeblog (reply)
post date: 12.26.04 (10:36 pm)
You really made my holiday, Big Pete!
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