The just about new Falcon
rolled up the
Because she was being mucking carted off in
a superb Ford cart, only to somewhere worse than the guillotine, and by her
mucking mother too! She couldn’t believe the depths of the maternalised
treachery that was being foisted upon her. She just couldn’t. It was simply
unbelievable. It was the sort of stuff that one would never ever read about in
a million years of being a human being, and wuck that! She reckoned. Because
nineteen years of being a homo sapien with a super bug up her she was thinking,
was just about mucking long enough for her.
Bugs Bunny and the fourteenth Phantom and
Barbie doll would all be doing back flips in their graves about what was
happening to her, and she knew it. Her first Teddy bear would be screaming at
God about the unfairness of what was going on, she felt, deep deep deep down,
in her tender as the night territory. Mickey Mouse would be spitting chips in
the direction of Walt’s grave, things were that bad for her. Skippy the bush
kangaroo would be out in the bush somewhere as usual, probably behind some big
fat gum tree, having a wucking wank about it all. No doubt, she thought.
The young lady was quite obviously in a
somewhat browned off and stinky mood then, and most decidedly was she not at
all impressed with her current psychic and physical oppression status. Or her
lack of personal individuality power, and as the car turned old world slowly
left into the venerable Walcott street, she swiveled her head quickly to the
right. Like a rock faced, skinhead she Dirty Harry, she scowled mercilessly at
the being who had birthed her into what she was thinking was a rather wretched,
and a turdy and a despicable world. She was only nineteen too, which isn’t that
old really, but this rotten rock wasn’t currently her favourite planet, and
neither were Venus or Mars. Because according to her, they weren’t far enough
away from this horrible and dirty low down sinner’s dump of a programme, called
Earth. Julie Thompson the young lady’s birth name was. JT her mates called her,
and she was dreaming big time about being galaxies away from this forlornly
hapless and super bung globe. As she was currently conceptualizing it, or the
Mother Earth programme to be.
Primarily was she dirty about being here
and now, because the penalty that she was presently incurring for going off the
homosapien rails a wee bit, didn’t seem true blue fair to her at all. She in
fact and to the contrary, felt like she was being relentlessly bastardised and
mind sodomised as well, in a world full of super selfish, power mad, power
playing, balled up bastards. Super bitch creatures who called themselves
mucking mothers too.
JT reckoned that situationally, it was as
if she was being coated in the goo that clothes a Scotch egg, she did. She knew full well that she was heavily
surrounded by psychologically adulterated adult sausage slop and square boxed
ego thinking, that far too often bordered on a bloodthirsty hypocrisy, and
verily, it seemed to her that it the adult be a robot and follow the same old
stupid and nonsensical herd path slop, was closing in. At an astonishing pace
too. Exist, eat, shit, get ripped off,
get raped, sex it and job it and family it, consume, make the rich
richer, obey and die. Wasn’t really her cup of tea though, or anything like the
excitement machine model for life, that she deep down desired. For it was deep
deep deep down, in her deep deep deep soul, the real Real number one life that
was she secretly chasing. Who wucking isn’t, who still has half a brain left,
down here? She asked her own brain, which again, fell short of coming up with a
decent answer.
Tick number one for her, because deep down
somehow, someway, she did have a purler of an intertwining gut and psychic
feeling, about what her accursed life on the universe’s number one craphole
planet was really all about. It was all about the vagaries and the highs and
lows associated with love, that is. Many don’t get that and die without a
wucking clue going for them, because they think life is all about fighting and
war and being dominant and acquiring riches, but for some mysterious reason, JT
did have a bit of a insider’s line on it. The who do you really love trip? That
is. It was almost like the force in the background One life, had chosen her for
a special third dimensional mission, or some’in’.
Like she was another high high high powered
mystical sleeper! With cosmic consciousness bubbling up within them, and
ultimately exuding out of them, as that stuff that humans call extreme mystical
and spiritual charisma. Like what had happened with that dude Jesus, and the
Bood, and Moses, and
As a young young young kid, growing up to
be a young homosapien female adult, she’d also inherited war and peace, inside
and out. As well as situational mind and body control from an older parental
source, and now in her transfer to a supposedly independent adult, it looked
like that sort of shit was just getting a whole lot worse. When really she felt
that it just shouldn’t have anything to do with her anymore. That didn’t
correlate however with the fact that what she was currently living was called
decidedly, a beggars can’t be choosers life. Being that she was a penniless
beast of burden, carting around a neurotic to psychotic, body burdened up and
somewhat bemused mind laced person. Who was stuck with a wayward personality,
and who deep deep deep down, just like every other citizen on her wayward and
super whacky and super violent planet, was just a beggar on the street of
transcendental love. There were billions of her kind on her rotten to the core
planet, and she knew it. She knew that she was ordinary, and not extraordinary,
she did. She knew intuitively that her suffering and sorrow, was of the exact
same type as the suffering and sorrow of her existentially forgotten, super
wucked up race. She was archetypal and run of the mill therefore, she wasn’t a
cosmic standout, yet. She was no anxiety free pretty pink flamingo, casually
trotting around some fabulously blue lake, stuffing its beak full of abundant
mud based food, that was for wucking sure. More like she was walking through a
valley full of wucking evil super turds, it was, she reckoned.
So bloody what however? What in the wuck?
She had to ask herself, in her inner young woman. Was she that much of a
wucking sinner? Was she cursed to be stuck as a sinner concept programme,
caught up in a limitation concept programme, for the rest of mucking eternity?
Was she doomed to re run the rotten rotten rotten, dualised Earth programme
game, into the galactic ground, and never ever be able to really get out of it
it it? That sticky matter web of attraction and repulsion, and fear and desire,
and love and hate, and war and peace, and pain and pleasure, and God or Devil
worshiping, and craving for this or that, that so so so many souls are stuck to
here, that is. Would she ever escape it it it, so that she could existentially
play in the far higher and far more upbeat, fun fun fun, non dualistic,
programme games? Where the wucking enlightened went! So she’d heard from her
mum, and her pop and her gran. Unfortunately for her, it seemed like she had
sweet wuck all chance of doing that, at the moment. It did.
At least she wasn’t a bad Barry H bomb throwing
punches at innocent bye bye birdie bystanders, or a slap happy elbow you in the
face, wharfie type. Or a beat you to death type. Or a drop a nuclear bomb on
your head type. Because she hadn’t thumped anyone. Not yet, anyway. So far she
had not been ultraviolent physically, and that’s what she had going for her,
ultra big time. She didn’t have squillions in the wucking bank! Or servants to
cook and clean for her. Or media cameras and Marys and Mikes and mikes in her
face all of the time, to capture her useless ego crap, but she had that be non
violent at all costs streak in her cosmic basket. She wucking well did. She’d
got it from her mum she had, and some mums do pass some decent stuff along,
along with their mother knot, they do.
She hadn’t committed suicide yet either,
and being a trumped up existentiality in a dirty dirty dirty duality
consciousness programme, she wasn’t quite sure whether she was morbidly sad or
gloriously happy about that. Because like just about every other human with half
a brain still going for them, she had it in her that it would be good to go
home to the ethereal home. One day. Where the ethereal birdies fly around as
existentially free as all wuck, and as happy as pigs rolling around in the sky
shit and sky mud. Oinking their happy happy happy, liberated hearts out, in
their mystical heaven. One day, that heaven concept programme was gunna wucking
happen for her, she hoped. She desired that an opposite of the Earth life
happened somewhere else she did, because she felt that in such an opposite,
that she may be a happy kid. Instead of being a shit unhappy, too angry and
agro one, like she was now.
A bright and desiring only the cosmic best,
when only the cosmic best will do type, she was. Even if she was still a bit
holographically bugged, by an absurdly outdated, ratshit duality consciousness
programme, that has an intrinsic I am limitation concept running down the
middle of it. Riding an existential razor’s edge! With I am a secure something
with a strong ego off one side, and I am an absolutely insecure non ego event
of a nothing, off the other side. That was her. Caught in the existential and
mystical desire and fear trap! Hook, line and fanny, too, she was. Taking a
programme to be blood and guts real, and ultra ultra ultra heavy super serious
stuff, when maybe it is mucking not. Maybe again! That was a bit the mindset of
this nineteen years old she, called JT. Alias, the Highgate kid. A land of make
believe citizen, running with an I am a duality consciousness programme in her
psyche, if ever there was one.
I am evil. I am good. I am worthy. I am
wucking unworthy. I am useful. I am wucking useless. I am something. I am
wucking nothing. I am alone physically. I am not alone ethereally. I am a
wucking beast of an animal. I am a squeaky ethereally clean, higher programme,
drop down, downloaded angel. Figure that all out! Which way do you go, when
there is a cosmic gun at y’head, and y’entire species could soon become
extinct? Which way was more fun to get into in the end of time days? Hmmm! To
dance with Mr D, or to dance with Mr G? Or someone or something else? The
existential wild card maybe. That was her prime question. Love and hate! To
love the programme, or to hate it? It is a tough call, when a citizen is bouncing
around 24/7 in between those two emotionally top heavy concepts, and the
Highgate was such a citizen she was. She wasn’t citizen Kane either. She was
citizen Thompson, she was.
To tell the absolute gut wrenching truth, not being able to make up her mind
which way was the real wucking fun way to go with such stuff, was beginning to
existentially and socially bore her. Just about wucking senseless too. Like
unto death till we part, sort of psychological gear. Existential boredom, and a
strong dislike of establishment pigs, she had that 666 intestinal links up her
arse, just like a lot of the kids do, these rotten rotten rotten days.
Existential boredom and a need to blow off some homosapien third dimensional
steam now and again, can however get a kid into big big big trouble, and she
knew that all right. Robocop, super wise robot copper from the ranks that he
was, told the kids to stay out of a trouble, but she hadn’t. Oh no! On the
contrary, she’d wallowed in the shit outside the wucking coppers’ door, and
done a wee bit more than that, she had. She’d given the thin blue line a shake
all right, she had. She’d bi polared the mucking lot of them, and got herself a
get the wucking crazy bitch out of here strike, she had.
Nahh! She only just managed to tell
herself, in her inner young woman territory. She wasn’t that bad, as far as
homosapiens go. There were a lot worse than her around the joint, and she knew
that. She was just a bit of a wucked up downloaded angelic human, that was all.
Wasn’t it? Anyway, she felt, according to the current supernatural legends that
were doing the mortal rounds, that’s all that she was. God! There were
heinously cruel and heartless low life scum who raped and killed willy nilly on
her rotten rock, and they were the real zunts on her planet, she reckoned. She
wasn’t as wucked as them, and she knew it. She’d just slept around a bit, and
screamed her lungs out here and there at this bitch or that prick, and the
beguilingly rotten system. So what! She’d indulged in and self abused herself
with legalized and prohibited drugs, and simultaneously developed a super
strong anti establishment leaning. Big deal! Wasn’t that what big girls who
rebel super seriously plus, and who purportedly don’t cry that much, did these
days?
If it was not for the fact that she was
dead broke and a bit psychologically flat and nervously stressed out, with the
odd panic attack and a touch of depression entering her oh so very young life,
she never would have allowed the cops to have made the phone call. That had
future ended up with her Whistler’s mother sitting on the end of her bed, in
her old bedroom, staring trance like and somewhat glassy eyed at her stupid
childhood dolls. Whilst simultaneously wondering what in the hell she was doing,
and what in the muck was going on and down in her thoroughly confusing bi
polaring, and riding the duality consciousness helter skelter slide out, of a
life. The burn out virus programme gets many a good citizen, and it can get ’em
pretty young, these very unpretty and pretty shitty 21st century
days. She was the proof of that all right. God! She was just a kid, and she was
only wucking nineteen! That’s pretty young to be riding the giant existential
Barry bummer slide, in the middle of one hell of a supernatural galactic battle
going on within a planetary programme, but she was. Unfortunately, a bit of a
luckless Highgate kid, on a bit of a luckless planet, at the moment. Or so it
Sweeny seemed, anyway.
Demonized nerves! Prompting little bi
polaring burn outs inside of her psyche’s constitution, and promulgating the
spin off gatherings of unpoliced hoons in her head. Currently, Julie Thompson
didn’t like them at all. As far as JT was concerned, they were all fuckers of
the highest order. They were fuckers galore, the nerve packs and clots and
unpoliced hoon gatherings inside of her were. She was societal and
existentially damaged goods because of them, and a bit of a bung black dog of a
programme, she felt, rather strongly. That the system had triggered the bung
black dog of a programme off, and somehow and some way the system was going to
have to pay for that heinous crime, she thought. That the system should build
one’s esteem up to the existentially great and fantastic heights, where child
like fun galore roams again, and that it shouldn’t pulverize it mercilessly
into cerebral bemusion, where black dogs galore hang out. Shitting all over the
place too. It shouldn’t foster a disgusting self and species hatred, with an
attached and inherited self destruct trajectory, like it does with so many
people. Species too. She reckoned.
Journey on the dark side of time and space.
Journey on the light side of time and space. Or dream journeying somewhere in
between. As matter and energy combined, with a spirit backer thrown into one’s
soul for good measure. She was the driver of all of that, or at least she
thought that she was supposed to be, but she didn’t have much wucking control
at the moment. She couldn’t quite pin her ego concept identity down these days,
because it seemed to her that it was spread out, all over the wucking universe.
Some days it was like she was on the bus in that movie Speed, with that Matrix
bloke Neo and his shades in it, and that giggling American lady. It was. Then
other days it was like she’d become a bit of a non thinking snail, slithering
along and leaving slime behind her, whilst going nowhere. Real slowly like. The
moody blues or gross existential depression, she had them bad some dark nights,
and she was a true blue child of the land of Oz all right. Arf! Arf! Arf! Wolf!
Wolf! Wolf! Owroooooo! Owroooooo! Owroooooo! Her black dogs inside were going,
intermittently.
The Highgate kid felt adamantly, and
earnestly too, and she sensed it strongly, that the system’s inbuilt and embodied
up selfish greed, was by far the worst human narcotic of them all. She was only
nineteen, but she already knew that, because it was just about the easiest
thing for a human to pick up. That the number one human vice was selfish greed,
and the number one human attribute was ignorance, was pretty evident to her.
Furthermore, from what she’d seen of it out on the street, and on the tv and
everywhere else, she was quite aware that it the greed and ignorance could turn
people into dependant ego psychotics, pretty easily. Ego was a bit of a dirty
word to her, because it chased mortal power, and bullied and raped and killed
far too often, it did. She had her old yellow lady pegged as just about being
one of them too egoed up types at the moment, too. Her old lady wanted it all
her own way, and that was the I am dominator, do this! Or hand it wucking over
virus in the human programme, to a wucking T. She thought. Bossy bossy bossy
boots her mum was, and the old lady was the dominator type, whom the Highgate
kid was currently dealing with.
For the therapeutic sorting out of her
chronic bemusion and her almost tipping off the existential scales, and for the
alleviation of her somewhat neurotic to a bit psychotic and giving her trouble
nerves then, she would have far preferred a Freud look alike. Or much better
still a woman, instead of him him him, to whom her wucking mother was currently
taking her.
‘He’s an Indian mum! An Indian! He’s
fucking one of them! He’s an Arby!’ She suddenly spat at her old lady. Right in
the furiously fertile left side of her driving face, too. ‘You’re taking me to
see a winging telemarketer! Who probably thinks that unnecessarily interrupting
people’s lives and frustrating the shit out of them with multinational dribble
crap, in the middle of a shower or a crap, is a noble middle class job. Or
else, if not that, you’re more than likely lining me up with a winging fucking
ex cricketer, who can’t handle the truth that they’re not some elephant riding
God from out of one of the Gitas! Or fucking something! Christ almighty mum!’
hissed JT, at her old lady. ‘Why couldn’t you have picked a fucking Tibetan
therapist? Their grudge against this viciously motherfucking and super bully
full lunatic’s fucking world, I can easily understand. Someone like the Tankman
would have been good too. Now there’s a dude whom I can easily identify with
mumsy! So why aren’t you taking me see the Tankman or his spirit, instead of an
Arby wog?’ She spat almost viciously, at the near new Falcon’s driver. With the
tiny pricks of dyed black hair that were still left on top of her
Mansonistically shaved scone, sticking up like razorblade corner edges. Too.
Her eyes flashing multiple doses of hard done by cosmic indignation at her
historical maternal adversary, as well. Just about calling her old lady a
wucking zunt inside, the kid was. Hohh! The mother knot that she had with her
was a wucking purler. For sure it was, this absolutely stinking hot southwest
downunder, Oz day.
‘Julie!’ Her old lady, who had absolutely
had more than enough, and who truly rooly felt like she was on some stretched
to the max boxing ring ropes, admonished her. ‘Your language is as usual
absolutely atrocious my girl. Please try to desist from using that coarse
language with me! I don’t speak that way to you dear. Do I?’
‘What! I am acting naturally and speaking
my Earth taught language, and you’re questioning its status yet again? Are we
going to debate the morality of the fucking f word now, are we mum? You’re
blackmailing me with basic survival stuff to see some no doubt pushy bloody wog
motherfucker, and we’re going to debate the morality of the fucking f word. Are
we? Christ! I don’t believe it! I just don’t fucking believe it!’ Roared JT,
somewhat like an exploding tin of sardines. ‘I am telling you mum!’ she crapped
on, with her natural pissed off and plumb wucking riled intense intelligence,
almost flaming out of her. ‘If I had a flying saucer right now, I’d be off this
shit of a fucking monster’s planet faster than the speed of fucking light! I am
talking existential angst and expressing it, and you’re talking a convential
straight laced language. We’re chalk and cheese mum!’ she asserted. ‘You might
as well blast off for Venus right now and get y’pussy tickled by some fairy
Goddess or Godfather, and I’ll blast off for Mars and catch up with
m’Braveheart mates, and we’ll make some more fucking war in heaven. Because God
knows, every other fucking fucker in this fucking place is!’
‘Oh pollywaffle Jules! You’ll get nothing
out of Mars but copious red dust and chronic sweat rashes, and Shyam is not a
wog! He comes highly highly highly recommended, and he’s helped a lot of
people. Maybe he can help you by teaching you how to give yourself a good
talking to, now and again.’
‘A good talking to! A good talking to! A
good talking to! Mu..uuuuuummm! For fuck’s fucking sake!’ Julie snapped. ‘I
need a lot more than fucking that! Fucking hell! I need a planet that doesn’t
suck like all fucking fuck, just for a fucking start! I need a programme rock
that hugs and supports me, and one that gives me a fair go and boots my
programme up now and again, and backs me existentially fucking up! I don’t need
this one that’s run by a cruel and heartless and bloodthirsty and lunatical dark
power, and which is absolutely obsessed with ripping me off blind and making
mega mega mega profit out of me somehow, before wiping me and everybody else
out. With mega unnecessary pecking order generated stress, bullets and bombs,
and greedy dollar making, environmentally killer destructive, beast man and
beast woman, sky war God backed, manipulation profit profit profit making
fucking bullshit.’
Here, the nineteen year old gave her old
dear an absolutely filthy look.
‘Get real mum! For fuck’s sake old girl!’
she continued. ‘We’re not on fucking Venus yet! This is still the motherfucking
Earth mumsy! Wake up!’ Said the kid, as she took a worthy gulp of ribald Oz
air. ‘Woof! Woof! Woof mum!’ She went on. ‘How many times do I have to tell you
that these days! It is not meow meow meow, second coming time yet old girl.
You’re not going to go fucking senile and get dementia on me before you reach
fifty, are you mum? I can’t even look after m’self these days, so I’ve got fuck
all chance of looking after you too. Aliiiicce will have to give up her
lawyer’s job to fucken do it! Or else, we’ll have to get you into a nursing
home. Don’t worry mum, we’ll pick a good one. Hopefully, you won’t get the
chronic chronic chronic shits, too much. If you do, it’ll probably be a bit of
karmic payback for what you’re doing to me today. You dirty dirty dirty, low
down, under the counter bitch! You are pulling rank on me mum! You know what I
think about that! Don’t y’Adolfess?’
Louise Thompson sighed heavily, like mother’s
do, because she’d heard it all before a hundred thousand mucking times. Being
that it was just about her kid’s stock multi paragraphed existential bitch,
about this so called planet Earth. I am a bored to the existentially boned
body, in a sick sick sick world, full of crazy mad, ultraviolent baby soul
psychos. Her kid wasn’t too fond of that programmed up conceptualization, at
the moment. That was pretty obvious to her mum, but what in the wuck could she
do about it? She wasn’t a qualified and professional existential and mystical
instructor. She was just an ordinary Australian, trying to get by in the land
of Oz. She had the mystical in her, but she couldn’t pass it on to her kid,
because she didn’t know how and the mother knot forbade it. If ever a good
mother needed a good Guru to sort out a wayward child, this one did.
“Poor me, I am a re run victim! Who can I
blame for my myriad re run, I am a bodymindmachine woes? I know! I’ve got it! I’ve
got it! I’ve got it! I’ll blame what’s outside of me and hate the muck out of
it, because what’s on the inside of me can’t measure up and figure out how to
deal with the accursed split outside, or the accursed split inside. The mind
and the human, they’re both filthy superbung programmes, they are. Sob! Sob!
Sob!”
Re run, Groundhog Day like.
How many ways can a human play with that
sort of existential conceptualization? She the mother knew of a few trillion,
particularly as she’d used a few of them up herself, on her path for glory. Her
sojourn to find that long lost ancestral place, where the beast and the angel
within and without are joined together in eternal love and light again, that
is. Romantic physical love and romantic ethereal love, Louise Thompson was
chasing them both. Just like a woman. Some bastards as well.
Suddenly, as if right on cue, and as if it
was a machine that was running in a parallel universe to her current
existential frustrations, the near new Falcon went jerking down and then
rapidly up a gear. As the she being driver tripped her indicators on, and her
magnificent machine magically took a one frame sideways right step in the
picture, and extremely flash like, moved to the lusciously vacant outside lane
of the venerable Walcott street. There was some idiot dickhead show pony in a
black 4 wheel drive in front of her, or there had been, and even though she
could not currently get any satisfaction out of her relationship with her
youngest daughter, Louise tremendously enjoyed the exhilaration of more than
comfortably cruising past the going to slow bastard of a dickhead in the 4WD.
She’d partaken of a sideways look at the abortion of a driver as she’d shot by
his heap of black shit too, and by crikey she’d thought to herself, he was one
ugly sonofabitch.
The old Caucasian goon had looked like he’d
been born breech out of a bulldog’s bum, in between a couple of being ejected
turds, instead of headfirst from out of a just about had it vagina. Or maybe
some laboratory where evil scientists do strange experiments had produced him,
she mused. Like she thought that so so so many politicians and judges and big
business and media types look like, he had looked to her, and she fair reckoned
to herself that he had been and no doubt still was, a rather bulldog faced, goo
slobbering animal allright.
She hadn’t just been 21st
century feminism in motion, as she’d flashed by the horribly presumptuous slug
mobile on the now far back inside lane to her either, because she still looked
like some sort of stiff backed, primeval, blonde headed, Aussie Oz Goddess. On
wheels, courtesy of a near new Ford. A bit of a looker she still was, despite
being forty eight years old. Breasts like targeted Aussie rules footballs that
are pointing at some blissful heavenly goals, she had. Pumping out of the chest
area of her yellow dress like a couple of divinely handsome celestial
mountains, they were. Passed the nice galactic pair gene onto the young gone
off the rails being riding in the Ford with her, she did. Passed a few other
things on as well, maybe. She had. Some mothers do have them, and she’d mucking
had one all right, she thought. That parenting was like cultivating tiger
snakes in y’head, some days. Why do people do it? Why had she wucking dun it?
She didn’t know. She just knew that reaping the unripened and off the track
fruit of her 20th century rooting actions, was hard hard hard 21st century
yakka, and not a mucking teddybear’s picnic. At all. She wasn’t Alice in
Wonderland. She was the ex missus Thompson in Oz Perth, she was.
As far as Louise, who was a real 21st
century middle aged Aussie gal was concerned however, 4 wheel drives had taken
over from Volvos as the machines to hate. She didn’t like them at all, and
having their fat lumbering showpony arses in front of her was definitely not
her cup of chai. At all. Whether the driver was a stupid young upper middle
class or upper class squirt of a mother, as they tended to be, or an ugly old
upper class fart like the one that she’d just burned off, it didn’t matter to
her. Particularly as she had other things occupying her consciousness at
present, namely the gone off the rails item sitting next to her.
If only she felt, with considerable
trepidation desperation in her veins, that she could just flap out a milk
filled boob and stick Julie on the end of it, and sort the little societally
nazitised bitch out. If only it were that simple, like it used to be, in her
old old old days. Before the little package of a cute pooping thing on the end
of her nipple had grown up, into a bit of a nightmare on legs. Into a 21st
century female Crazy Horse, who quite frankly, was once again, proving to be
too much for her to handle. She was supposed to be grooving in the mythically
nostalgic Itchycoo Park 24/7 with her new boyfriend, Tommy the infidel, and not
stressing out to the max because of a wayward child who should have more common
bloody sense. That was getting to her, somewhat. It the apparently winless
parenting role was getting up her goat, and not her sprightly yellow dress,
where she currently desired a half decent tickle or two, it was.
It would have gotten to any forty eight
year old bombshell with the hots for a second coming, really. There is nothing
like one’s own space, and the freedom of movement inherent in that absolutely
wonderful consciousness level called liberty, the liberty to choose between
solitude or company, that is. Louise knew that back the front and inside out.
Just like she knew the unsalted butter on her daily bread, and the nipples on
her mighty, currently uptown Oz breasts.
In her professional mother’s thinking also,
was strongly the notion that her kid Julie had picked up the above average
intelligence that she herself had inherited from her extremely progressive
folks, and they from theirs. As well, it was clear that the little bitch was
genetically expressing to its maximum degree, the extremely rebellious Ned
Kellyish nature and fingers up to all deadbeat, square minded authority
figures, that was a part of her family’s cultural and philosophical tradition.
She was an Oz kid all right. Only it the entire consciousness package was all
far too strong for her at the moment, and obviously the Jules didn’t know how
to handle it. As a matter of fact, having the divine cosmic intelligence so far
up up up her cutey cute cute cute arse, so soon soon soon in her life, was
burning JT out. That was pretty obvious to her good intentioned mum. God!
It the early burn out and associated early
life crisis was happening all over the planet with the kids these days,
everywhere like, and like every adult who was worth the ethereal salt in them,
she had to shake her head about that. So much intelligence going down a drunken
street war violence laced drain was such a sad waste, for her. She felt for the
young Louise did, because the shit in the super greedy motherfucker and killer
establishment pig systems had so accelerated, that the world was even more
explosively difficult to cope with, than it was when she was a kid and a young
adult. It was just getting tougher and tougher and tougher to remain a sane
sane sane human being, in such a super stressful and chronically expensive
world, and she knew it.
The old world was dying, and the new world
might miscarriage and never be born, and it was freaking people out. She knew
that, like all mums do these rotten rotten rotten, end of time days. As well,
the killer serial killer psychos were everywhere, from the very top to the very
bottom of her society, and her civilization too. It was real life! These
chronically expensive days, for sure for the kids, she surmised. She had
empathy for her kid then, and some left over for all of the other kids in the
universe too, she did. She was a good soul, and an extremely intelligent one,
and also one who didn’t mind a half decent root, with a second coming maybe
attached to it, now and again. Was Louise Thompson. Supposed to be ex mother,
on the loose. But not quite, because of her child JT. An existentially wayward
lass, if ever there was one. A bit of a shadow type, actually.
It was also quite evident to the mother
that every anti the masses, rigged ruling class system so far invented upon
this Earth, would be too slow and too boring for her kid’s type of flighty
consciousness level. Furthermore, she was cognizant that any system going that
in anyway fiddled with sacredly inherent individual rights, would antagonize
the shit out her little darlin’. To venture deep into the herd would not be her
kid’s cup of tea, that was pretty obvious to her. Her second child was not the
sort to tolerate any state that is run by some sleazy and wealthy minority’s
narrow minded pecking order, that is fuelled by a grossly ignorant make
ceaseless God backed war vision, play domination with her fervently free and
fertile mind. She was too much of a free thinker, and she had too many extreme
insights for that to be, her good mum thought.
In a way, Louise surmised dead ironically,
it would have been far far far better if Julie had been a lot lot lot dumber,
and placed more more more in the middle middle middle of the human herd. She
could have maybe kept her nice long blonde hair then, and maybe read out the
six o’clock news on commercial tele in a palatable female voice, and told
everybody how many are dead and how everything everywhere is so fucking
unbelievably fucked 24/7. That’s what the ex missus was thinking.
Rather however, her immediate reality was
that her kid being was a bit of a universal fly by nighter, who was skirting
the fringes of the mad and spooked unemployed and employed, good and evil human
herd, at seemingly a hundred thousand miles per hour. Like a flying saucer,
with an incredibly space drunk alien at the controls, JT was to her good mum,
some days. Too much intelligence and too much thinking and too much of a good
or a bad thing can burn a mind out pretty easily, and the missus, or rather the
ex missus, she knew that from direct mucking around experience. Many plus
others of her boobed up and balled up, and half way in between kind did, too.
The mind is a super super super, dicey dicey dicey item, that lives on a
razor’s edge called this insanely unjust and crazy existential reality. It is,
for learner souls, an unbelievably fickle and an extremely difficult to handle
existential tool, and the ex missus who was currently without a half decent
rooting partner to be incredibly soul mate intimate with, and maybe have a
second coming with, she knew that all right. That’s why she was a yellow
dressed lady, and it was why she drove a gun Ford too. A neat package indeed
her wonderful machine looked, and it was a credit to the venerable street that
it was on, it wucking well was.
She had to back her daughter with all of
her big guns blazing however, because her maternal love for her just wouldn’t
go away, and the kid was just treading her own idiosyncratic version of the
same path that she herself had trod. Many moons ago, when she’d hit the piss
and the pot and the acid a bit too much, and maybe had her legs open a bit too
much, in her own youthful wild days. When she used to be what was called back
in the late late late twentieth century, a hippy. A love child who liked sex
and drugs and rock’n’roll, and that sort of peace which is rarely found on this
astonishingly appalling and quite shocking and shock filled, beautiful planet.
Like Jimmie Morrison and a few others did, she’d done. Except she hadn’t tipped
herself over that edge that is called death. She had been lucky, whilst many
others hadn’t.
Her terrestrial fingers were crossed then
that the Indian sage’s sidekick that she was taking Julie to could help the
lass, in that existential area where the maternal and the parental couldn’t
reach her. Her kid had an environmentally reared and a secondhand inherited and
learnt, heavily impregnated black dog programme bug in her, and Louise was
hoping like hell that against all of the odds, that the therapist from the
subcontinent could drag it out of her. Then shotgun the demon filled bug’s head
off, king cobra up a kookaburra’s arse like. Set Julie free from her bug virus,
and open up her programme to the lusciously delightful concept called, the
prospects of getting a second coming in before death. That’s about what mum
wanted the old Indian fucker to do. She had high hopes, but she’d heard good
good good things, about the bloke that she was taking her off the rails kid to.
In her mind’s eye, the good intentioned mum
was currently fixated on a three year old mental image of her younger daughter,
asleep in bed. It was about the main thing that was holding Louise together,
because she was remembering how much love had been pulsating thru her
constitution, as she’d gazed at the adorably cute and oh so innocent form of
her sleeping beauty child. She was recalling how strong was the feeling in her
back then that all should go well for her second made from making love, and
wucking like crazy kid, and that she be kept safe and live a rewarding life.
All of that and more had been in the little kiss on the forehead that she’d
given Julie, before she’d gently retreated each night from the bedroom, totally
and absolutely in love with the aura of her gorgeously beautiful, asleep child.
Then, believe it or not, she had had to
live a recent reality where after a phone call in the middle of the early am
hours, she had had to go to a police station and collect the said Julie. Whom a
hard voiced officer had told her on her landline, had been a very naughty
naughty naughty girl. Because she was under the influence of prohibited
substances, namely ice. Probably. Cannabis sativa also, because they’d found a
couple of little stinky poo buds of it in one of her pockets, he’d said. Not
only that, the good lady got told by the law that her pro creation had spent a
large part of the night crawling around their gardens on all fours, and that at
one stage she had dropped her black strides and given them a pretty damn good
Ms Sharon impersonation.
As a matter of fact, apparently, she had
given them a pissflapps puppetry show that they would all remember until the
day that they wucking died. Before she had urinated profusely on their much
loved and tenderly looked after geraniums, that is. Real underbelly stuff it
had been, like big time. The sarge, he’d almost passed out apparently. On
account of she had been obviously drunk and full of piss also, and full
bladdered to the max, and he dearly loved his geraniums, he did. Meowing and
scratching at them like a pussy cat going the toms too, she’d been, apparently,
a bit of an ultra ultra ultra wild one for the good officers to handle.
“Madam!”
The cop on the phone had barked at the good mum known as Louise Thompson. “No
young pussies are allowed to roam free in either the station’s front or back yards!
It’s against the state’s laws, and she scratched around them both. If the cells
weren’t so full to the brim, we’d have thrown her in the slammer, and ran her
thru the books, and the computers. I’ve been here ten years and I’ve never seen
anything like it! I’ve never seen such astonishingly unbelievable and
absolutely downtown flamboyant to the max hysterical behavior, in my entire
professional fucking life! It was like a female Tassie devil had come to town,
and every time that we tried to touch her, she went crazy cat wild with agro
and fear. Like one of them. She was absolutely frightening missus Thompson! We
were very nearly pissing in our pants a couple of times, but please don’t tell
the Minister that. For God’s sake, don’t do that missus T. Or we won’t all get
a hefty pay rise, like we bloody well should!”
The good missus had been informed, about
her child. By the grossly underpaid policeman.
“Come and get y’bloody daughter missus!
Because we don’t want her and we don’t need her! We’re not wucking
psychiatrists! We’re mucking cops!”
Is basically the gist of what the somewhat
irate cop on the phone had told her. Before he’d passed the communication
device over to an incoherent and babbling, and coming out of it her dreamtime
storm time some, and a little bit quieter and more subdued, cyclone Julie. Who
had only just managed to repeat the officer’s request. However, not in quite
the same Earth language.
“Come… and… save me from the fucking pigs
mumsy!…For fuck’s sake! Because their gardens stink to the high heavens….of too
much f..f…fucking…d..d…fucking dogshit!” Actually, is what the too out of it
Julie had said. In stop start, garbled bursts.
Which had had Louise severely cringing. Like
she was a fully fledged member of some bottom of the bottom of the rung,
floored turds filled, dunny sweeping untouchable caste, as she’d entered the
police station. Feeling like an average absolutely powerless citizen, living
within a mad mad mad 21st century state, she’d been, that is. It hadn’t
been necessary however, because the law had been deliriously happy to see her,
and even more deliriously happy to hand her chronic problem child back to her.
With no questions asked, and no bloody little stinky poo buds of pot in her
pockets either.
Because it had been quite obvious to them
all that the kid’s mum was going to need all the help that she could get, to
straighten her offspring out. They’d easily assessed that mum didn’t need a
costly court case. It had seemed to them all rather, good souls that they were,
that what she’d needed was the dough quickly to lash out on a mighty mucking
good therapist or two, for her extremely wayward plus child. Who had to them to
the man and the opposite of that, been a bit of a little shaven headed steam
train come off its tracks. A young mad mad mad woman, that no one really wanted
to know about, or have hanging around their station. That is. They would have
preferred a whole bikie gang, compared to one Julie. She had been that bad,
that it had shocked the lot of them just about senseless, and the streets that
they were paid too cheaply to patrol, were getting worse and worse and worse by
the second. They’d seen the proof of that they had, and they’d been more than
keen to get rid of the wucking Highgate
kid. They had.
So the patience expired police officers,
both male and female, had been all smiles and empathetic politeness
personified, and the ex missus Thompson couldn’t have got a smoother treatment
if she’d have been on Mars. Partying with Thor the God of thunder, and his
mates. Both female and male, and bikies and sex workers and addicts and nuns
and the poor and the homeless included. And all crooked and corrupt lawyers,
judges and politicians, and police officers, and pedophilic priests, and media
wankers and serial killers, and dark lords and spider queens, excluded. For the
benefit of flying Mr Kite.
The kind not on the take coppers did inform
the fleeing mother however that the next time, that her daughter wouldn’t get
off so easy. Not with calling them bad hog names, and with her substance abuse
and her unlicensed meowing, and what not. A pity that the Eagle hadn’t been so
damn lucky, but that’s the ball game in a dualistic shithole like this one. The
next time her naughty girl would go before a judge, Louise had been told,
rather emphatically. Twice too. Once by a deep bass toned sergeant who’d looked
like he ate and drank real well, and once by a pretty young female,
authoritarian detective. Who had had her long jet black hair done up into a
failed softish ponytail, and a strapped Dirty Harry type big mucking gun
adjacent to her ample right tit. Tucked into her leather shoulder holster like
an oversized Peter heater on a holiday, it had been. A female Elliot Ness in
need of a pin striped suit, or maybe an extremely hard core lesbian lover, or a
movie set like Underbelly, Louise had thought of her. Somewhat cat cat cat
sarcastically, at the time. She hadn’t been able to help it either, because it
that cat cat cat cattish impression had just come to her at the time, like a
second coming should.
For Louise, a second coming was a whopping
big injection of the old super enthusiastic child like life force, in that
which is just about five sixths dead. That is, that which is just about psychologically
shagged from enduring and surviving in this unbelievable hellhole of a world
for so long as forty plus eight years, and who isn’t getting enough of the
other, far more fun shagging. Gets! Tutti frutti! A damn good shagging of the u
beaut right kind for once. A well matured Bridget Jonesing so to speak, and
some sex wucking anywhere, and consequently some spin off cosmic re boot comes
along. Courtesy of a gloriously romantic, second coming.
A named and shaped catalyst, with in her
case a penis, super stimulates the love juices again, and one loves the
universe again and sails off into a heavenly romantic sunset in a Tardus
bubble. Sort of stuff, it was. The lusty desire for both unadulterated and
adulterated heterosexual romance playing up within her yet again, pure and
simple. It was also a bit of a white horse model reinvented, and she knew it,
but for the 48 gal from Highgate, it was better than mucking nothing. Because
simply put, she’d had a wucking absolute gutful of shopping and making multinational
pricks richer and richer and richer, and she wanted a half decent root with
maybe a second coming attached to it as a trade off, the yellow dressed lady
did.
One wakes up to being alive instead of
feeling three quarters dead with a second coming, and is existentially gay
again about life once more, she knew. Like a child is so super enthusiastic for
life, so one is again. Chemical sort of stuff, it is, she was cognizant of.
Rebooting one’s existential love for it all and not worrying and seeing nothing
but problems everywhere all of the time, in other words. It was, for her, being
in love and having sex anywhere. Milking the absolutely beautiful and
absolutely fantastic, lusciously gorgeous exquisiteness out of it that which is
simply the sensual life. In a re run that is actually worth it, because it is
full of fun and love again, that’s what a second coming was, she reckoned. Oh!
She’d just about die in some horny Devil’s arms for a second coming, Louise
would.
No wonder then that she had her favourite
eye catching yellow dress on! No wonder then that she was driving a wucking
Ford! No wonder then that she was living in Perth city in southwest downunder,
in the land of Oz. No wonder then that one half of her mind was preoccupied with
what was happening with her little nazi bitch of a kid JT, whilst the other
half was preoccupied with what was gunna happen with the lusciously gorgeous,
brutishly hunky and cute butted to the max, Tommy the infidel. Who apparently,
or so he told everyone, hailed from wucking Muckinbudin. A tiny tiny tiny
hamlet in the wucking Western Australian wheatbelt, that is.
For the ex missus, these days, with the
dreaded fifty just around the getting more apocalyptic by the day corner,
second comings were pretty desirable things to have in that package, which is
one’s middle aged life. Attending to a gone off the rails kid meanwhile, wasn’t
much fun. It was just life, and a really poor imitation of the real thing, and
doing one’s accursed and biologically vexed and much loved, heart duty. It was
a hard yakka love test, and quite frankly, Louise reckoned that she’d already
done enough hard yakka love tests to last her fifty thousand life times, in an
unbelievable dump like this Earth. She’d squeezed two little, gorgeously
beautiful bitch buggers out and shed some considerable cells, and put up with
them and a husband or two who just didn’t get it until the horse had bolted
twenty miles down the road; for twenty odd mucking years. Christ all bloody
mighty!
She was an iron lady! Iron blonde she was!
Disguised as flesh and blood. She’d been iron long before her folks had been
beheaded and incinerated in their horribly fiery car and truck smash. Only the
iron souled survive in this world, she knew that, but in a very different way
to the establishment pigs. Who put their iron into bullets and bombs, and their
hearts too. Instead of back into the family of soul love, which every single
human being is a part of. Of course, there should be a statue of her on every
bloody street corner! How else could she as a mother see it? Who had done the
hard hard hard yakka yards, whilst everybody else was only deluding themselves
with their pathetic illusions into thinking that is was they, and not their
mum, who was doing the hard hard hard yakka yards? Of course, she as a mother,
had. So it was well and truly time that a second coming break or two came her
way, she was fervently Ford musing, with one last little ping of a 48
excitement dot, pinging around her west coast brain.
It
the 48 excitement dot pinged and pinged and pinged, and it went here and there
as chemical and said hello super jovially to this or that fellow neuron in her
brain in a millisecond flat. The result of it all was that chemicals galore
went downwards galore, and little explosions of simulated orgasm feelings went
hither and thither in mum’s pelvic area and stomached guts. Self excited
adrenalin, was squeezing thru her veins again, it was. It was like her soul’s
heart was pumping real real real strong again, with I am alive, and that
whatever had downloaded into her when the universe had started big bang like,
was about to blow back out of the top of her head . Big time too. As if some of
her simulated orgasms could go the other way in a collective, and spiral
upwards in a click of the fingers, and collect in her heart for a whopper of a
big existential and cosmic love putsch, and then blow clean out of the top of
her head and arc. To go right thru her targeted man, being Tommy the infidel.
Thru whom she could explode her I am in love with my existentiality, around
this heady heady heady, universe. Which would be wunderbar wunderbar wunderbar
stuff, for her. She was quite aware of that.
The anticipation of true love with a good
universe, it was. With an old hippy slant ingested into it, too. She had a wee
sniff of it, there was no doubt about that. Was there some of it just around
the corner for her? Would Tommy the infidel play the right sort of Earth game
with her, so that she could fall head over heels in love with her universe
again? Eh tutti frutti! She mucking hoped so. Was he a wucking crude bastard,
and was he 008 and licensed to downunder wuck, good and proper? She fully
intended to find out, the old 48 girl did.
Meanwhile, the wucking Ford’s wheels just
kept on going around and around and around, on top of the venerable Walcott
street bitumen, beneath hers and her kid’s feet. What else could they do, with
mum’s staunch right foot planted smack on their mega strong and superbly
created, Earth pedal? They couldn’t take a holiday when there was hard work to
be done. Not at all.
A thin plate of floor metal doomed to rust
and fade away into microscopic dust, and then pass from there into absolutely nothing
at all. Except the pre big bang universe gear which no mind can know about,
separated them from the dangerously exposed and rushing by bitumen headed
street beneath them; and that is a bit the mortal’s story so far.
Unfortunately. She was thinking in the midst of a bit of a little cynical
thought cloud, that she’d very recently, or suddenly Ford conjured up. The
dualistic possibility that she wasn’t gunna get any love or sex at all from
that Tommy the infidel bastard, is what she had momentarily switched to
thinking about. Making another good decision however, she decided to completely
ignore such doubtful tripe and rubbish, and to plough on ahead with her erotic,
existential fun dreams. Of course the infidel would play with her! He was an Oz
man! From Muckinbudin too. He wasn’t a west coast pussy, she told herself, so
that she believed it, ninety nine plus percent. Aside from all of that, she
just had a gut feeling that she and Tommy were gunna play with each other,
sooner or later.
It was all happening southwest downunder in
and on the realm of mind, for the yellow dressed lady. That was for mucking
sure. Duality! First one way, and then the direct opposite, and then back
again, and then repeat. That was the lady’s pattern, and the pattern of her
dualistically bound up like shit to an existential shovel, species. War and
peace inside and out, defined her third dimensional consciousness, like
lusciously gorgeous defined her human female’s S shape.
As they pulled up at yet another set of
accursedly vexed, and mucking red far too often mucking traffic lights, in a
city that has just about as many of them as it has people, and dogs and cats
and birds and cockroaches and dust mites all combined. Into a really big
numbered spewey stew and Mount Everest high pile of red lights. The average 21st
century mortal life, that is. There, at that mucking mortal point where despair
hangs on one side, and a kind of ecstacy hangs on the other, and a half decent
knob to somewhere absolutely different either way hangs in the middle, Louise
was positioned. In something of an existential and mystical and survival
dilemma. Big time, with too many contradictions between desires and actual
doings or having to doose, in her life. Who isn’t caught up in that full of contradictory
desires, existential survival web, where the have to do’s heavily outweigh the
want to do’s? These super spooky, super troubled, super bloody 21st
century, end of time days. She thought. Is the current word out upon the
street, all around the world. Every bugger knows! She reckoned.
That the pulls and pushes and stresses and
enigma troubles in the 21st century life can be absolutely
overwhelming. In a mad mad mad world, they can drive some beings totally and
absolutely insane insane insane, they can. In such societies, governed by such
appallingly low in vibration, beast brained establishment pigs, she saw that
even the filthy rich sometimes are more than tempted by the final out of it
that mortals call, suicide. Missus Thompson, just like the boozy Missus
Robertson did in the sixties, she knew about that. She wucking did.
She had Simon and Garfunkled her way thru
all of that crappy money and mortal power can’t buy you the right kind of love
data, years and years ago, she had. When it came to the war between subtle
feelings and subtle other side power, and hard core blood and iron thought and
practice, she was well aware that subtle feelings and the subtle other side
power would eventually triumph. One cannot take one’s fists or guns or big
bombs or anything else that kills humans, or one’s isms, to heaven. One has to
leave them behind, she knew that. She knew instinctively and intuitionally that
the universal flow was from the dense back into the subtle, and that the subtle
ruled, and that it was not the other way around. She wasn’t a total ignorant,
or an existentially violent God mad deluded type, but she was on a planet full
of them. There was no doubt about that. East or west, such types abounded in
her world. To many of them, God was great. To others, God did not exist. Which
is just the way it goes in a duality program, because everybody knows that
there are two sides to every story, and then there are the multitudes of spin
offs.
She, Louise, was no dumb suicidal blonde
then, far from it. She was just a run of the mill good woman, with a 21st
century woman’s intelligence, and the hots for a second coming. Neither was she
totally and absolutely insane, having come from an exceedingly left wing of all
bloody wings, family background. Her father having been as a mortal being, a
mystical philosopher and a political analyst and a painter, and a gardener and
a part time fisherman and writer. Of most unusual ghost stories. Mind blowing
ones actually. With heaps of benevolent and motherfucker aliens, inserted into
every plot. Y files gear. Whilst her good mother had been a supremely good 24/7
brain surgeon. Who had always been in over demand, in her hectic heyday, so
that their only daughter’s intelligence was far reaching, and sometimes quite
emphatically spot on. Well, at least abstractly and intuitionally anyway.
Though it could also be as poignant as all hell, and dualistic to its deep
throated core.
That love and hate and peace and ultra
violence walk dualistically side by side upon this wretchedly beautiful Earth,
intermingled in and in between human bodies and other ones too, she the aging
not too badly blonde in the yellow dress was instinctively and intuitionally
aware of. God knows, she’d lived it that vexed duality where the ego beast
fought the ethereal angel in one and others nonstop, and the angel fired back
now and again. So, she was flagrantly aware of, did everybody else on her
wretched rock live exactly their version of that light to dark duality of mind.
24/7 too. It was just a Barry bummer that her daughter’s time for the beast to
angel duality’s contradictions to all bubble up above her psyche’s surface,
gross enigma and black dog oil like, had mucking well come when all that she’d
really wanted to do herself. Truthfully! Was to wuck around 24/7 with that
gorgeously hunky brute, Tommy the, hopefully, wucking infidel. Now who could
blame her for that? God? Who had purportedly made her vagina in the first
place. She didn’t think that that was likely. If God had indeed created her
vagina, then he must have done so for her to use it, and by Christ, if she even
got half a chance, she was gunna use it on Tommy the infidel’s two heads, she
was. She was adamant about that, was the ex missus Thompson.
What a contradiction she was still in, with
a beast who wanted to wuck and mortal romance like crazy still within her,
whilst also in the mix somewhere, she was simultaneously hosting a fallen angel
who desired ethereal absolution and mystical liberation. That was the part in
her that desired to be head over heels in love with the universe again. Like
she had been a long long long time ago, in her first and most powerful love is
a drug affair with a bloke, and this universe. Such is life she felt that such
a duality fused with hard core irony exists everywhere on this rotten rotten
rotten, but still very beautiful rock. She had to tell herself that irony ruled
one’s life sometimes, over and over again. She did. Stuck record player like.
Stuck at another red light like. Going somewhere seriously important, and going
absolutely nowhere in the dreaming in the dreamtime, at the same time. Like.
Living life. Being a being experiencing being being shagless and recording it
with unwanted memories, that is. Not getting a second coming when one wucking
well deserves one, that is.
Because they hadn’t wucked each other’s
brains out yet. Her and Tommy the infidel, that is. They hadn’t even had a
tickle downunder, or anywhere flipping else either. A peck on each other’s
cheeks, is as far as they’d got. They hadn’t had a Dame Edna, nor a Wallaby
Bob, nor a Spinifex McMasters, nor an absolutely riveting Mr Squiggle. There
had not been a sniff of a Clinton, or a Claytons. Nor had they come anywhere
near to tasting each other’s vaginamite and penis pasted sandwiches. So far,
all that they’d done was talk like sweety toothed Freddo frog confidants, and
the blonde was hoping like all hell that that was going to change real soon.
Truthfully, she was most keen to have the galactic root of the century with
Tommy the infidel, was Louise.
He was ten years younger than her, and he
was built like a heterosexual male Terminator, but he had the face of a simply
irresistible, fallen angel. He was Norse Goddish with his blonde mop and his
exquisitely sparkling light blue eyes, and the lady in yellow, she just
couldn’t block out his Scandanavianish and Valhallaish charms. Even just a few
flashy thoughts about the hunky Nordish looking bastard from Muckinbudin, could
turn her on, and get her a bit more than warm and wettish. Down there,
downdunder. Where her pretty woman pink knickers met her vagina machine’s
monologues, underneath her Ford cooled yellow dress.
She was absolutely dying to find out if the
rumours that Tommy the infidel had a monster monster monster donk, and a
pisseye to die die die for, were true. Because she already knew that he had a
heart of gold. Even if he was a bit simple sometimes. So that the Ford wasn’t
the only thing with a red hot, well lubricated gearbox. Because Louise Thompson
figured that if Jesus was going to have a second coming, then she might as well
try and get one in too. No one could blame her for that either, when she was a
true blue lady. Yellowed up somewhat. Crikey! The good mother felt like she’d
been crucified a hundred thousand times, before she’d got her last second
coming in. The proof of that was just about sitting next door to her too. It
looked like something from out of a Mad Max type of movie as well, but that
wasn’t her fault, and she was adamant about that. There’s definitely a limit to
feeling guilty about the way things go for anybody, including oneself, and the
yellow dressed lady, she knew mucking all about that. She mucking well did.
On an emotional and perceptual level
however, she could easily identify with her daughter’s bitch that the world was
a far too hard, rock bottomed, dirty soul’s place. A wretched shithole, that put all other so far
undiscovered shitholes in this universe to shame. For their gross inadequacies,
and lack of raw beast brained ignorance, selfish greed and hate, and
underhandedly cruel and heartless, psychological and physical ultra violence.
Because she’d reasoned out, beastly humans had societalised their animalised
pecking orders, so that the ultraviolent and selfishly greedy and
manipulatingly corrupt and most experienced with wielding dark power and ultra
violence, ruled their entire civilization. In their purported God’s names,
usually. Where the next heartless price hike or cruel smiting of labour by
capital, or sky war God backed war, or atrocity for super selfish group or
personal profit, or strange system’s glitch that makes it even harder for the
poor to survive, was just around the next well plotted corner. She thought,
somewhat cynically. With her eyes upon the road, and her hands upon the wheel
of her near new stationary Ford. That was perched very neatly, just on her side
of the straight down the guts white line. Its wheels dormant, like both eastern
and western politics and religion in motion.
She knew that a super stressed out life,
where one is in debt up to one’s cerebellum to profiteering God and war mad
human swine’s, who have the homosapien animal farm, pecking and power orders
rigged to heavily favour themselves, was a farce and psychic manipulation of
the mob of monumental proportions. Consequently, she felt that it was a bit of
monstrosity of a con job to believe in any system really, and that all states
screwed their citizens up their ringholes, one way or another. One way she
thought being an obvious bullet to the back of the head, which certainly
finished a person’s existential misery, and another more insidious way being to
make an anesthetized robot consumer, taxpaying drone out of the individual. Who
then to all intensive purposes would be better off being dead, she reckoned.
Rather than being a mindless systemized slave drone, or just another gullible
consumer. Who is running off a wallet and cards and prices and the ultra
heavily establishment pig filtered six o’clock news, and still voting for show
pony politicians who will change nothing, unless it is to their own advantage.
With their core expression of unique
individuality having been shot to pieces, by the mad paranoid mania of the
super rich corporations to control everything to do with the mind and body of
the masses. Whom she’d noticed, they called blind heartedly and all lumped
together in their potential and actual profit pies, mere consumers. Or civilian
casualties. When they had to shoot thru them, or bomb them to knock their
latest enemy off, that is, she mused. She the yellow lady had reasoned that
pecking order, who’s expendable and who’s not psyche shit out long ago, and
applied it to nuclear weapons. She was then fully and totally and absolutely
aware that the establishment pigs still desired to have everybody shit and
think and worship and buy, the exact same robotic way. Their war way. With
every bugger worshipping their one and only purportedly real, war God.
Whot’shisname! Herr Dollar! That is.
Whom always she felt, seemed to be rather
fond of bursting forth from his pretty flimsily closed closet, fully enclosed
in his war armor and madly waving his battleaxe around and shouting kill kill
kill! Thus completely backing the lower beast brained, establishment pig mortals.
Who can do nothing but insanely fight to the death. For their God’s food and
living land, soldier breeding women, and mineral stuff that has to be dug out
of the ground to make weapons with. Exactly like the cave men did, when they
started off the iron age. Fighting nonstop too, in this cruel and heartless
hate filled war or that one, or the next one that’s just around the conjured up
corner.
She saw that the perps often worship a sky
war backing God whose one and only holy book, composed by mortal men,
purportedly tells it all. Existentially and mystically and supernaturally
speaking. The other big books being a tad fake like apparently, according to
them who have got their very own book to quote from endlessly, even though it
was composed thousands of years ago in a completely different human era. By
mortal men, who because they were mortal, she knew, could only approximate the
absolute truth, thru their well intentioned dreaming in the dreamtime fiction.
Whether it be disguised as nonfiction, or not. She knew all of that! She wasn’t
stupid! Muck no! Not Louise Thompson. Not missus T. Not the lady in the yellow
dress. Not the leftover hippy damsel from Highgate. She was an Oz gem, in a
endless consciousness sea of them, and she was a bit of a Bright Eye’s type.
She knew that one book should lead one to another book, and so on, until one
doesn’t need any books at all. As far as the real spirit you all trip goes,
that is.
She had the awareness level of a formidable
formidable formidable 21st century woman, she did. She was the
result of what has being going on for millions upon millions of years of
evolution, upon this apparently Godforsaken planet. She had the breeding
background of a multidimensional starship, with her folks being the way that they
were. The real dark and the real light, she could still tell them apart,
intuitionally. She wasn’t a genetically modified, brainwashed robot yet. Not
the yellow dressed lady, not at all. One bookers east or west or north or
south, weren’t her cup of tea then. She liked to spread herself around, and go
beyond even that sometimes, the yellow lady did. She was a consciousness
flower! Which is what a hippy was, and what a hippy always will be. Until the
first shovel full of dirt hits the lid of their coffin, or their ashes are
spread around the old commune’s corn, or pot field.
She wasn’t a cosmic citizen enclosed by a
dualistic mind, obsessively and compulsively pushing one way of putting words
together. Not her. No way! She was just an average mother with average mother
feelings for her gone off the rails kid, that’s all. She had absolutely no need
nor desire to wrestle with war mad religious psychotics east or west, doing
their version of the crocodile rock. They could all go to some astral dunce’s hell,
for those who couldn’t pick that a subtle subtle subtle love rules all
universes! Because that’s where they the ultraviolents were all gunna end up,
as far as she was concerned. Establishment pigs and supernaturally bugged or
not psychotics then, she didn’t have much time for them, at all. They were a
minority of karmic idiots who were buggering it all up for a mass of good souls
who knew how to adhere to peace, she felt. She was a bit of a freelance
spiritual type Louise was, having inherited the fascination from her old man,
and her old lady. She believed that people had souls and that there was an
afterlife, and that attitude and behaviour here influenced what went on there
on the other side, and stuff like that.
The way that some of them reacted however
whenever that their book was even slightly questioned, as regards its absolute
truth content, absolutely astounded Louise. She reckoned that they had
redefined the concept ultra hypersensitive all right, and that they lacked that
sort of gentle steam releasing Pythonish humour, where one takes the absolute
piss out of oneself, and one’s society and other Bruce filled societies, and
everything else that is about. On this both rotten and beautiful rock. One has
a laugh at one’s stupid super serious beliefs and those of others, as an
existential cure, and one doesn’t really need a flying fist, or an arsenal of
nuclear and conventional weapons to back up one’s stupid super serious beliefs,
she reckoned. She was very very very smart! Missus T ex was.
She
knew that nukes were designed to knock off civilian masses, not armies. She saw
that the war mad humans were really worshiping death for everybody, as a bad
and imperfect, supernaturally bung creation. In an ignorantly roundabout and
severely existentially twisted way too, they chased the dark instead of the
light, and it made her want to puke up sometimes, that they could all be so
mucking beast letting go stupid. So hypocritical too! Because they professed to
worship the light, but in practice they were slaves to an unbelievable
darkness. Which was the result of their fascination for insane fighting instead
of sane sharing, that their own dualised minds generated. They were like the
opposite of her with her hippy peace and love and flower power based creed.
Because despite everything that had happened in her life, and everything that
was still happening, and the endless deluge of dark fascinations that permeated
her world via the TV, films, radio, net, individuals, papers, groups and the
street and so forth: despite it all, believe it or not, she still worshipped
life. Like Mr David Attenborough, and the near geriatric Rolling Stones, and
lucky lucky lucky dudes who inherit almost a quarter of a mil, and lotto
winners, and people who are in love, and so so so many others do.
She, being an Oz mum and bringer of more
human life into this accursedly beautiful shithole of a world, worshipped a
fair go for all, in her glorious down under heart. In a world where that was
seemingly becoming even more absolutely impossible by the day. Because it the
world was full of too many crooks and swindlers and rip off sham playing
swine’s, and too many heartless and viciously callous, killers. In short, her
world was full of some extremely extremely extremely, existentially ignorant
people. To her, they were the crazy and insane establishment pigs, and the
ordinary mind mad psychotic swine, and they were to be avoided at all costs. An
avid fan of non violence was Louise. Whose genes and yellow dress were really
something to witness. Even on her off days, too.
That so many who haven’t thought it their
actual existentialities out anywhere near properly enough. Or basically, that
so many God or demon crazy ultraviolent blockheads, and so many super dumb
negative karma reaping dunderheads, could be on the same rock as her and her
kids and her mates, and gush gush gush, Tommy the gorgeous infidel, at the same
time. Just blew her away some days. Despite that she had taught herself to face
off and not on to it. Having a daughter who was constantly reminding her about
what living with all of that beast brained, ultraviolent and schizoid cock and
bull human establishment pig come psycho rubbish, can do to a fun loving person
too; wasn’t helping her second coming cause much. Like she had taught herself
to do so well however, she was soldiering on in her yellow dress. In her near
new Ford. She didn’t have the blues about life, but she wasn’t exactly ecstatic
about it either. She was hoping that Tommy the infidel could change all of
that, as it had been a while since she’d had a real man in her 3D life, or in
her big Highgate bed. It had.
Still, to her, all of the blind faith and
rote stuff that the fundamentalist types everywhere seemed to use as their
purported sky God backed justification, for releasing individually and
collectively dammed up existential anger, wrath and hatred and ultra violence.
The lower beast stuff that is, which lower beast brained establishment pig
ruling classes could so easily direct into war. Like they had a nation full of
puppets on strings, who would war dance for them on a trumped up patriotic
banner, any old time. Just wasn’t her cup of tea, and most decidedly, it did
not existentially gel with her. Such war and peace stuff, between mortals or
supernatural's, as an existential surfer, she had thought about quite clearly,
and the yellow dressed lady was not a church person. At all. In fact the good
missus Thompson stayed as far away from churches as she possibly could. She
acknowledged that the religions were still full of genuinely peaceful types and
good people, but she still avoided their churches. Like they were full of some
sort of insipid God save me virus, that she didn’t want to get into her
programming, or something.
“You can’t put the transcendental and
universal spirit into a building! Sift thru it all and sort it all out for
thyfuckingself Louisa! It’s the only bloody way my precious!”
That’s what her wise wise wise old man, had
brought her up on. Physician heal thyself, said another way, it was. Her mum
had pumped the same line as well, even though she’d also told her about this or
that Goddess. Whom the odd dead client that she had operated on, had told her
about. In her dreams. Or in her mind, as they had clinically died upon her
operating table, and then no thanks to Dr House, come back to life again. Which
had bemused everybody, for a time. Until they’d got the hang of it, that
apparently there is a trillion trillion trillion times as much life on the
other side as there is on this one, that is.
Louise really, with her accelerated
consciousness, which left the beast man and the beast woman for dead, thought
that all of that religion is the opiate of the people shit, was a bit of a
giggle really. She wasn’t at all religious in the sense of postulating another
static world, for those waiting to be saved from their own duality bound up
dark and light minds by a sky God, because of existential fear and maybe a lack
of lucid thought in this one. Her God was a nature God, and her religion was
life without preconditions, or any predetermined domination. Pure and simple,
she worshipped absolute freedom and absolute liberty, and the right to love and
be loved, and to live in peace. That’s all. She saw herself as being a soul who
was gunna live forever in an eternity of second comings, and she was convinced
that somewhere either in this universe or another, that there had to be a
Goddess Oracle type. Or two plus. Hanging around. She was a 21st
century woman who had woken up a bit to an existential thing or two, all right.
She could read the dark and the light and
the black and the white and the in between too, without even having to think
about it sometimes. Women can read the subtle vibes pretty easily sometimes,
and the lady in yellow, she looked a bit like she could have been that Dubois
woman’s sister. She had similar sized breasts, and that sort of attractive
blonde hair, anyway. She was a heavy heavy heavy dreamer of unusual stuff as
well, just like her brain operating old lady had been, and she fitted the
medium’s bill pretty well, all right. She fitted her white lightning Ford
pretty snugly, as well.
As a matter of fact, these days Louise was
slotting into the entire twenty first century, like a dick going up an endless
shirt sleeve. It was the hint of a second coming coming her way, that was
powering her. It wasn’t the benevolence of the system that she lived under.
That was even more of a drag than it had been in the seventies, but she was
enduring it. It was becoming more expensive day by day to survive, and she was
gunna need a Ford that ran on natural gas or spit or piss or boiled down
politicians pretty soon, and the Third World War was looming, but she was still
in it. In that which is a sensualised matter, third dimensional life, that is.
She wasn’t a stiff in the morgue yet, and Louise was pretty happy about that.
She was all smiles about that these days, she was.
Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!
Her brain was pounding out, relentlessly. Where
art thee now my love, and what art
thou doing Tommy boy?
They wanted absolute conformity to their
vision of the way that things should be in thought and deed, in some global
multinational paradise, run by them for their own gross gross gross profit, the
world’s establishment pigs did. Well, Louise had thought a lot about that too,
and she knew that it was galactically impossible. Because every individual is a
unique expression of their soul she felt, and not a ruling caste slave, or just
a mere consumer. Or a civilian casualty. To that rigged system the good mother
thought, where they the manipulating mad dogs of war and vice and horror and
sacrificial death can get richer, and become even more powerful, pecking order
animals. Of the establishment pig, blood and iron kind.
The old hippy girl knew that the
establishment pigs hadn’t gone away, not since the nineteen sixties and
seventies. Or even the last hundred thousand years before that. She knew that
they had actually dug in like fat and bloated leeches, who were surrounded by
an idiot full media circus, which was owned by their super rich masters. Being
some of the dark lords amongst the establishment pigs she thought, and she was
aware that they were all lock stock and barrel, deadly cancerous to her self
destructing civilization. Which was a veritable swamp full of human despair,
and mass sufferings on both the physical and psychological levels. All born of
ignorance and super greedy selfishness, and registering to the low low low
bestial state of humanity, and huwomanity too. Of course, she was aware of this
shit, being an ex hippy. She also knew that in the 21st century that
they, the dark ones who were the establishment pigs and their upfront hired gun
and shit for brains cane toads, criss crossed her society and every other one
on the planet, like the Nazis criss crossed Poland in ’39.
Consequently! Louise would trust a
syphilitic cockroach, before she’d trust a politician or a high roller or a
judge, or something in or out of uniform that is holding a loaded gun that’s
pointed at her head. She would. Many wouldn’t who were either pure
establishment pig or affiliated in consciousness with them, but she would.
Which was an astonishing fact, because she absolutely hated roaches. Black or
brown, albino or whatever.
“Trust no indoctrinated mind! Not even your
own, some days.” Her wise wise wise old man had told her.
As was said before citizen, this lady in
yellow was no dumb wuck, and her name was Louise. Not Marilyn, or anything
else. Because she’d worked a few things out as far as the nature of the human
pecking order goes. She’d actually sussed a few things out that many never
touch on in their rottenly beautiful lives. Despite the considerable looping in
her dot of cosmic intelligence however, and the amazing depths of her insights
into the nature of men and women, and their dark sides and light sides, she was
still a sucker for the romantically orientated sexual lollypops, that one’s
life can sometimes bring along. She liked being in love and dilly dabbling with
romance, and she liked to have her fanny tickled now and again, and she was
quite aware that a hundred million different supernatural existential models
and purported Gods or whatever, would probably never ever change that. Even if
the wretched state outlawed the right to a good fanny tickling, she’d continue
with obtaining it illegally. If she was gunna die sooner or later then, if the
planet didn’t die before her that is, then Tommy the infidel was the dude and
the hunky handsome devil of the moment, whom she most wanted to die wucking
with.
Even Hitler she thought, had had an Eve
girlfriend called Eva. Who had fried beautifully with him as angry Rusky
bullets had whizzed overhead, after her little mustached man had no doubt
recently contemplated a few last mad thoughts about the absurd highs, and the
absurd lows in the mortal life. It was succinctly clear to her then that if she
couldn’t have Adam and what Adam had underneath his raunchy fig leaf, because
Adam was dead, then Tommy the infidel had to be her trade off. At her age, it
was impossible that the hunky bastard could be anything else. That was her
conceptualizing on the matter, as she sat on the inner white line like some
sort of female Moses, who was waiting for another bloody Red Sea to hurry up
and part. The lights were taking so long to change that it was making time
unbelievable for the yellow lady, and in a way to her, the damn waiting waiting
waiting, was almost like a premature death sentence. Not many humans can handle
an enforced neutral, because there’s absolutely nothing going on there in that
action less void, and she was a bit like that. At the moment.
What next? What next? What next? Tommy!
Tommy! Tommy! A second coming? A second coming? A second coming?
Her mind was going! With that natural amphetamine, that is the Catch 22 chance
of getting some sexually romantic love, and the stuff of the human. Life in the
fast lane with the prospects of a pretty good second coming coming up ahead it
all was, and man, she was just about existentially flying around, like that
mucking nun used to do back in the sixties. Or Brazilian priests do in this
century. She was flirting with her universal consciousness something shocking
as well, and having a little existential bit on the side too, she was. All
woman. Dabbling with her existence, from the tips of her toes to the tallest
strand of blonde hair, on her third dimensionally fertilized head.
Louise, being a rather intelligent lady,
and not a Naples back street dog at all, also saw clearly that psychologically
or physically or both, that all states or systems geared their citizens up to
conform conform conform. To their said, ruling class, everybody be like
everyone else and be a mighty gullible consumer, and shit here and fart there
and think only this and buy this way, norm. They pushed their citizens to
salute their flag and pray for their side, and shoved all of the rest of that
heavily ignorant rubbish down the public throat. So that the rich can get
richer and become more powerful, and the poor get poorer and become even less
powerful, and maybe even die off from starvation, whilst the war drags on. Or
she felt, maybe they’ll cark it in a terrorist attack, which is maybe much
later on exposed as extreme right, friendly fire. Or as being known about, but
allowed to go ahead.
Thus she surmised, saving the super rich
manipulators a bit of welfare dough to sidetrack, and lots of piggy food to
sidetrack, and leaving them a surplus of freshly made ammunition. To fight
their next trumped up mega expensive war with, with a galvanized public opinion
behind them. When the factories and the profits for their co owners and lackeys
only run on war, someone’s gotta keep the world wide, extremely profitable
fascination with war and death going, she knew. That that someone is called a
politician, and that a politician is a dog of war, and that they can be a
pretty ugly soul too.
Because human politics she was aware of,
was government by a few who are pretending to not be insanely unethical
programmes, over the many who are striving to not go insanely unethical.
Because of the religiously backed, war and mineral extraction from the Earth
sustained, political economics in their lives. She knew that she was living in
a system where the beastly traits of greed and power lusting were
institutionalized into pecking order institutions full of establishment pigs,
but what could she bloody well do about it? Christ almighty! She could do nothing
but watch Rome burn, and try and sneak in a second coming or two. That’s all,
she reckoned. She could look after her wayward kid also, and she was doing that
because her Ford was still headed for the Mumbai shrink’s place.
People play control control control with
mortal ego power and their manifested pecking order infrastructures, because
they’re unbelievably stupidly ignorant and still in egoised animal and pecking
order, beast mode. She mucking knew that. She’d known that for well over forty
years. When they should, she felt, be playing with a welfare state, and myriad
forms of communal love and practical support. Which are all designed to assist
the individual citizen to pay the wider community back lovingly and practically
with their idiosyncratic skills, when they are able to. That was her final
estimation of things, and her logistics hangover from her hippy commune days.
Where she had lived with over thirty people for three whole months, without
anybody getting violent. Possibly because they’d all been too stoned to throw a
punch, let alone tend to the corn patch, though the pot field had gotten plenty
of attention.
She had had a pretty good time back then,
and that was where she had met Julie’s father. Who had looked like Jesus Christ
himself, but had been a bit of a gung ho Satan type in bed, and exactly the
sort of horny horned beast that she had required at the time.
She had thought a lot about the deep
insidious nature of the dark mind con of the establishment pigs, over the
masses, long ago, the good mother had, and she was a pretty perceptive 21st
century radical allright. She was of the silent revolution and she knew her
stuff, the yellow dressed lady did. Having self accelerated herself out of
mundane ignorance, as regards what some humans are really on about, behind the
scenes. She was a good systems analyst, having been taught a thing or two by
her rather liberated, free thinking old man. Who had been beheaded and
incinerated in that unfortunate car crash, along with his missus. Who had lost
her head first in an Olympic record, as an enormous petrol truck which had
quickly burst into a ball of flame, had inadvertently slammed head first into
them.
Missus T, their surviving daughter however,
knew that womb born, mad human dogs and ignorant and ultraviolent idiots, ruled
this bizarre world. Apparently. Without a thought for the heavy duty karma that
they were racking up upon themselves individually and collectively, because of
their indirect or direct killing. Which quite frankly, absolutely astonished
her. It blew her away that people could be so cosmically stupid, and it was a
clear cut cold and warm case of the unbelievably blinder leading the
unbelievably blind, she reckoned. Because she had had clear indications in her
own life of how karma worked, and how it had a habit good or bad or very very
very bad, of boomeranging back unannounced, upon one’s quite often mystified
head.
“What you plant in the mind you reap, and
considering the crap that they plant and get told to plant by the mad state’s
machinery, wise are they who can avert a crisis or two in their lives. Watch
out for them Louisa! They’re not nice, I’ll tell you that! I’ve had a boot or
two up the arse from my spirit in my lifetime, and I’ll tell y’what precious, the
shit came out of my arse ran down m’legs and hit the ground so fast, that it
was fucking invisible!”
Her old man had told her about and
instructed her with such stuff, and she could still hear him saying all of the
above in her mind’s inner ear, even now.
The establishment pigs may have sucked
others in with their insidiously darkish manipulations, about the enemy being
over yonder, but they hadn’t got her completely yet. Because she still had the
free thinking hippy gene active in her. So far she had managed to hold her
western mind intact, and so far she hadn’t bought a big gun and started
shooting people. Not Louise. She was just an enduring mother, on a rock full of
them. She wasn’t a dog biscuit or a whorebag or a murderess, she was a human
being, the yellow lady was. Apparently. So was the Elephant man, but he didn’t
have a daughter like JT. Or a close amigo called Tommy the infidel, whom it was
desired to get a lot closer to. In a little café down by the border, or
anywhere else in the universe.
Louise was more than aware that the real
enemy was within all killers and everybody else too, and that it was called the
split mind’s lusty greed for human pecking order power and material wealth, and
the super selfish desire for absolute control over others. It was about dark
mortal physical and wealth power and beastly force, and the high rolling ego
bump up that that brings. Domination was. She however, being a Highgatian with
a neat little three bedroom pad in downtown Highgate, still had the venerable
light in her. She hadn’t turned into an android drone agent or a Terminator for
the dark state, yet. Not Louise Thompson. Not the lady in yellow! Because she
was an acutely astute shopper in the marketplace of life, and one of the most
discerning consumers who has ever lived, and she still had a touch of the
romantic peaceful left in her. If it is one thing that the romantic peaceful
has over the ultraviolent she knew, it is that when in love the romantic loves
the entirety of life, and whilst in normal mode, they don’t usually kill
people. Or order them to be killed.
Like don Corleone did, and Presidents and
Prime Ministers have done, and still do. If the leader of the pack is a killer,
it followed naturally to her that there was no hope at all for the inhumane
system, over which the leader presided. Even their holy book told them
succinctly not to kill, but they kept on re run doing it nonstop, and that
befuddled her a bit sometimes. Just like it befuddles others, sometimes. Their
planet seemed to be dying, or rapidly alternating to extremely harsher
conditions in front of their blah blah blah noses, and everyday food and water
were becoming more of an economic scarcity for the masses, yet the government
gangs of establishment pigs kept on making war. Because they so loved to fight
for their God’s created dwindling goodies, with which to make bucks from their
consumers with, to fight their ongoing wars with. She thought. There was
absolutely no doubt about it. The world’s establishment pigs liked to fight, or
rather to employ others to do the fighting and dying for them, so as to sort
their pecking order out. Who rules? Who is the top gang? Whose God is the real
one? Who will finally conquer the entire Earth? We’ll find out boys and girls! Was
their existentially woeful woeful woeful programme, in which everybody else
could be quite possibly snuffed out in.
They liked to celebrate their fight or
fights too, for hundreds of years to come, they did. They glorified death in
war as a nebulous duty for everyone but them, and pushed it as corn flakes for
the masses, they did. She felt that they were all war upon war types, and that
they were a very very very low grade of human being, who would be in for a big
shock when dead and back on the other side. Because she didn’t think that they
were going to be able to find their war God anywhere. It would be more like the
putrid shit of their own karma would be giving them a good astral face
slapping, she thought. That as fallen angels, that they would probably be
pretty dirty on themselves, for being so conned by a make believe, fallen
beast’s programme.
She was ultra anti war then, and what dark
and karmically useless power lusting that is based on superselfishness and
individual and group bestial greed does, is make war. Nonstop. She knew! It
periods! No matter where it is, it makes war and blood lets, sooner or later.
In a bad egg re run. Within its own boundaries, or outside of them, it makes
war, and too many women get raped during wars, and war is the food which runs
the darkly ignorant ego that chases mortal power. She knew! Her dad had taught
her pretty well, with some acute observations.
He’d sat her down by a gorgeous swan filled
lake when she was thirteen, and she’d had a yellow ribbon tied in her hair that
matched her yellow dress, and he’d explained it the existential all to her, as
best that he could. Considering that he had been half pissed on his ding
neighbour’s home made vino at the time, he hadn’t done a bad job either. He had
loosened right up like an open fridge that’s full of food, and passed on secret
knowledge which runs between too few human fathers and their daughters. What
was violence and war? Between either individuals, or the collectives. It was
hatred in the human heart in action, and being an old hippy from the land of
Oz, she didn’t wanna live with hatred in her good heart. For anybody! Neither
had her old man.
Because the human lot was a dirt bound up common
one to them, and not a supernaturally grounded bloody battleground, for ultra
ignorants to let their beast beast beast sides go in. It was a common lot where
everyone no matter their skin colour, shat brown, pissed yellow, and bled red,
and had to constantly feed their stomached guts, and constantly bust their
psyche’s guts, to keep their mucking split mind afloat. In a super dooper, hard
core physical, tough tough tough, need need need money, arse wiper’s world. In
that way humans were dead equals she thought, who were all gunna wind up dead
anyway, sooner or later. Hence she felt that they should all get a fair go from
a fair system, but that wasn’t Earth. That had never been Earth and quite
possibly never would be Earth, and she was well aware that individually or
collectively, humans were disaster areas. Because Earth was a place in space
where lunatic ally mad dominator types with extremely bung programming in them,
could run riot. She was cognizant of that, but it didn’t dull the brightness in
the yellow of her dress. Not one bit. They make ’em supertough down Oz way, and
she was a bit of the proof of that, was Louise.
Humans, quite obviously to the ex missus,
were still in animal beast and pecking order modes, and their chances of hyper
evolving into any sort of angelic mode before self destruction, seemed to her
to be getting slimmer and slimmer and slimmer by the 21st century
day. She was perceiving a bit that maybe the doomsdayers were right, these
fearful, fear filled, spooky, the shit’s about to hit the fan, end of time
days. She was thinking that man could go the way of the dinosaur allright, and
that in a way, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Because it would put
everybody out of their existential and journeyed too far into the dark misery
allright. It would finish the maggot like establishment pigs from feeding on
the rear end of the not so smart, gullible and fear spooked carcass of the
masses, too. She was aware of that, and it did rather hypothetically tickle her
that they should miss out on their final dreamt up in the dreamtime glory,
because they brought the roof down on their own, and everybody else’s head. As
if the pigs in Orwell’s Animal Farm, a favourite book of hers, had nuked their
own farm. Before the farmer could get back and take over again, and sort the
animals’ pecking order chaos out, that is.
Once upon a time, when she was growing up,
one only had to look out for the communists and the longhairs, but now anything
with or without a beard was exceedingly dangerous, and there was agro and
madness from one end of every street to the other. Which, being a woman, she
had just about known intuitionally since her first day upon this Earth. A bit
of an indigo child was Louise, and ditto for her youngest daughter too. As a matter
of fact, her younger daughter was about as indigo as they wucking come, and the
future would only too clearly show that. What was in store for JT would change
the mucking mucked up world, it would.
The good and still peaceful southwest
downunder mother was doing her bit for the silent revolution, by keeping the
existential hate for it all out of her heart as best that she could, and by
sticking to the romantic love in it all. As best that she could. Post a warlike
marriage or two, she had considerably refined her views on the much adored
human concept called love. To the yellow lady then, it was all a bit like Nero
fiddling whilst Rome burned, what the stupid stupid stupid establishment pigs
were currently doing in the Crusades, and no mucking wonder that the good
mother was chasing a second coming.
For some relief from the ultraviolent
lunatic idiocy, that surrounded her, and her wayward JT child. Who kept on
reminding her about it, the ultraviolent lunatic idiocy surrounding one, when
she really didn’t want to be wucking reminded about it. Because she was hot on
the trail of a second coming, and one of the purposes of a second coming is to
pulverize into the background of inconsequentiality and gross insignificance,
the ultraviolent lunatic idiocy, that surrounds one these days. She was quite
aware of that, she wasn’t wucking stupid. There may even be the odd dumb blonde
about, if the rumors are true that is, but this old lady with the forever young
heart, and a superurge for a second coming just about a busting out of her
yellow dress, she wasn’t one of them. No mucking way.
If the Duke had been in some saloon and
he’d clapped his big eyes on her in that wucking yellow dress of hers, he would
have grabbed the nearest bottle of whisky and two clean western glasses, and
asked her politely up to his room faster than one can say, John Wayne. She was
hot, on a hot planet, in a town called wucking hot hot hot, summer in the city,
she was. Her mind box was on fire with imagined and projected images that she
desired to come true and manifest pronto, on and into this shitty 3rd
dimensional plane. So just about was her other one. Box, that is. On fire. With
what some citizens might call, abundant love juices. The holy stuff of life
that is. At least for humans, it is, and humans are programmed to be solid
animals, and they are all physically and otherwise, a product of the cosmic
juices. That was wucking obvious to her.
The good mother knew instinctively and
intuitionally, that fine and good and happy loving souls can travel a long long
long way, from their real home. Where the souls around one totally love one,
totally support one, and wish that one should have it wucking all, and that is
reciprocated in big measure. It is not like here, where the souls around one
cannot be trusted to not go ultraviolent in a split second, because of the
appalling state of so many minds. Who have succumbed to the appalling pain and
anger and delusion and illusion, that is inherent in the very afraid,
existentially lost beast programme. A beast that will make war any old time, to
forget their existential fear, and pump up the ego importance of everybody from
the kitchenhand in the mess and the latrine cleaner, to the Commander in Chief
at the top. Her old lady and her old man had wucking drilled that into her,
that that was what war was really all about, and she would never ever forget
it. They had also taught her good that the reward for sticking to peace, no
matter that one may feel like sticking this universe into the nearest
existential crusher, where it can be reduced to turd size; was eternal life. As
a gung ho spirit, on the existential loose. How in the muck could anyone forget
that? They’d have to be some sort of sleeper to forget that, the ex missus in
the yellow dress reckoned. But then again, they were also souls just like she
was, and she would always have that bond of identity with them. The others to
her on both sides, that is.
In a gross gross gross western world that
is still fighting the Crusades, and maybe in the future the Iranians or the
Chinese, and lord knows who else. It could even be the Alpha Omegas or the
Arcturans, or those shifty shifty shifty dudes from Sirius, or plane old
Martians, like in H G Well’s, War Of The Worlds. Muck! She didn’t know who in
the hell the future enemy of her state was gunna be. Whilst in a sad irony, she
felt that worldwide, things were seemingly going down the physical existential
plughole, because of extreme mismanagement by too many stupidly egotistical and
superselfish, beast brained dickheads and bitches. Who were all establishment
pigs of the highest order to her. Well considering all of that, what in the
hell else could a good mother do at the ripe old age of forty eight, apart from
chasing a second coming? Was her theme song.
Second comings! Zippity doo da! Zippity
dey! The homosapien absolutely loves them, they do. She knew that, deep deep
deep down. They are very very very rare jewels, in an existential shithole like
this one they are, and she was more than aware of that universal fact. Louise
had a sniff of one, and she was sticking to it like her life just about
depended on getting it. Some partnership intimacy and rocking and rolling with
the gorgeous Tommy the infidel that is, was highly highly highly highly desired
by her. Every yellow lady needs a good fan of gold. Who is an admirer of their
holographically imagined heart, their holographically imagined personality, and
their holographically imagined fanny. She knew that. She knew that they needed
a fan of gold with a programmed heart of gold. One who can go the Oz bonking
distance admirably and take orgasming into the unknown hyperspaces, and she
wasn’t any different from the droves of yellow hued ladies about these days.
Yellow is a good colour, she thought. It had peaceful green and serene blue
mixed in it, and it was a full on mellow life colour, vibrantly bumped up. Like
the sun is. She liked yellow Louise did. She liked it a lot lot lot, she did.
Even though the mere mortal fact that she was
able to drive the Ford as an embodied up body, with an attached superbly
breasted up representation out the front of her, was an existential and
mystical miracle, it was a second coming that was on this Oz girl’s lusciously
beautiful mind. Like full on too. It wasn’t the elusive butterfly of love that
she had going for her either, but it was as close as the yellow lady could get
to it. In the mortal life, one takes what love that one can get, and one gives
what love one gets the chance to give. Coming from southwest downunder, where
men chunder and women and kids and lizards and cats and dogs do too, in a
society dominated by short arsed, milky faced or fat bloated establishment
pigs, she knew that allright.
For her, that was the quintessential difference
between the establishment pigs, who were human existential chunder as far as
she was concerned, and the masses who weren’t. The establishment pigs she felt
viewed the mortal life as being all about power and wealth, and the rule of
beastly brute bloodletting might. They appeared, whilst professing to know all
about it because of their one book, to be totally ignorant of the subtle
machinations that are attached to this world, that definitely affect the
afterlife. She, on the other hand, knew that the usage of violence justifies
absolutely nothing in the eyes of the evolving spirit, and being just an
ordinary common procreating mother with a pretty good brain, and representing
an individual amongst the masses, she knew that the mortal life was all about
endurance, and one’s extremely subtle to extremely gross relationships.
Particularly for her was it about the far
mightier stuff in enduring and in those relationships that humans call love
ones, but some hate ones too, were usually on the plate somewhere. She knew
that, she wasn’t mucking stupid, as she wasn’t the type to keep her split hate
to herself. Just like her daughter, she hated the male power dominator system,
with a fiery inbuilt passion. She had always hated it, because it was a rip off
killer and anti nurturing system, and she always would. Hate it! The cocksucker
and motherfucker system that all citizens live under, and have to endure, that
is. The bullshitting, bloodsucking, manipulating, con artist, establishment pig
filled state, that is. As said, there may even be the odd dumb blonde about in
this dog eat dog of a world, if the rumours are true. But the ex missus
Thompson wasn’t one of them. She just used the name Thompson sometimes, because
she liked it. She wasn’t born a Thompson though, thank God. She wasn’t a bad
girl. Not this sweetheart, who was currently doing it tough, because of her
wucking off the existential rails, nazi looking kid. Stress! She didn’t need
stress! She needed a second coming. Who in the wuck doesn’t?
The trick was to overcome the hate somehow,
and to stick with the love, for self and others and species and the existential
set up, and for her, that was also what being a human was all about. It was
about spiraling out of self and group imposed ultraviolent hate and anger
filled, war mad darkness, to embrace and play with the fun and love aspects of
simple existential life again. It wasn’t a political view of life that she
necessary held. It was more a simplistic
psychological one, that started with the individual getting their existential
facts right. Primarily the one that a subtle subtle subtle background love that
allowed for dreaming in the dreamtime to go on, and not a gross up front human
hate for the human as a faulty and wickedly bung or enemy creation, ruled the
universe.
“Bet on that love! Stick to that line my
precious, and do not swerve from it Louisa!” Is what her eccentric, mystically
inclined old man had told her. Fifty thousand wucking times too.
The yellow lady was doing her best to love
her daughter, by getting her some help for her existentially wayward mind. The
daughter could see that, but it still pissed her off, because the help was a
wog, and currently, she didn’t like those dudes. At all. It was early in the 21st
century in this third dimension’s time format, where mental strife is so rife
in 2008. God knows what it was beyond the matrix, in the hypothetical non dual
timeless.
Suffice to say probably, that somehow and
some way, it was probably still dreaming in the dreamtime Earth dwelling stuff.
As if somehow and some way, every human was already just a ghost dancer for the
Light. Or the Source, of it the existential all. She knew that intuitionally
somehow and some way deep deep deep down did mum, and that was built into her
nurturing aspect, which is why she was urging her child JT to live in the now.
She wanted her kid to have the magic in the moment, and not to lose sight of
the fact that it the magic actually happens now and again. Putting it all into
words for her daughter to comprehend however, about how second comings can
really and trooly come about, was an entirely different story. Mum just didn’t
have the words, or the language package that covered the appropriate ground.
What parent does, when it comes to conveying postulated purposes for
individualized existentiality?
Mum Thompson wasn’t bloody Superwoman, or
Einstein’s sister, or Wonder Woman, or Batwoman, or Catwoman, or any of those
other super heroines. She was just a big girl chasing a half decent second
coming really. She had a man marked to do that with too. His name was Tommy the
infidel, and supposedly so he’d said, he came from Muckinbudin. Some people
questioned Tommy’s intelligence, and so in the near future, would the good
missus Thompson. Along with the rest of the world, his GuruFather, and
probably, the universe too.
Louise however also felt strongly that the
real gut human reality was that personal endurance ruled the staying alive
equation, no matter what system was in vogue. In an unbelievable human
darkness, one must find one’s own light, she’d reasoned out. Live a clean and
orderly life, don’t hurt and don’t cheat, and get in a second coming or two if
y’can, was her motto and the focus of her fascinating fascinations, these days.
She didn’t give a monkeyshit for anybody’s revolution, where the new boss turns
out to be the same or even worse, than the old wucking boss.
On the other hand, she had never been
anywhere near starvation point, nor had she lived through war or terrorism or a
natural calamity on her home soil. Like many westerners, she had so far had a
bit of a milk and honey life. Compared to what billions of others have to put
up with, in this appallingly bad but still very beautiful world, that is.
Louise had had the full belly time to be a bit of a drifting intellectual, and
a somewhat wandering introspective, and a beggar on the street of love, and a
bit of a sexual monster on the loose, and a hippy lover and a mother too.
Generally speaking, when there is no food in one’s belly, one doesn’t normally
get that sort of idle or experience laced existential time.
However, with a sustainable western belly,
Louise had learnt that it the system, restrictive or liberal, was the real
life, and that if one knew how to handle it, then one could get over one’s
youthful follies, and their associated black dogs. To rise again Phoenix like
from the ashes of the wall that failed to keep the black dogs out, and re
generate a drop or two of exquisiteness out of it, the crazy dream which is
life. With the majority of the black dog pack having been all shot in the head.
Killed by endurance and the wisdom of maturing age. Like what she had done and
was still doing, or was attempting to do, within her, and with her new and rather
handsome and hunky boyfriend, Tommy the lusciously gorgeous and possibly big
donked infidel.
A pisseye to die for!
Mum wanted to know what that really meant, she did. It sounded good, anyway. It
sounded too good to be true to her, actually.
Some girls will dream about the zipless romance until they’re dead, and then even after that they’ll still go on dreaming about it, and Louise was just one of them, she was. She was a little Aussie battler thru and thru, and her yellow dress was lighting up the inside of the wucking Ford. It was. Her daughter, young Dark Cloud, wasn’t noticing it however, and she didn’t give a rat’s arse for not having a Running Bear in her wucking, or rather wuckingless life. Right at the moment, she didn’t exactly trust men. At all. The wheel hubs of the near new Ford may have been super solid like Superman’s nuts, but that wasn’t currently doing anything for her attitude towards boys. The accursed red light in front of her face, that was life. Brought to a dead halt before it has even really got started, too…it was, taking so wucking long to turn green, it was. She was angrily musing.
It the outside was the only dynamically
tangible life that was in front of one’s eyes Louise felt, and therefore as she
finally finally finally, instinctively pushed her right foot heavily downwards
and shot out of the societal imposed stop stop stop blocks, out came her stock
21st century answer. To her gone off the rails daughter’s
existential bitch, about life on this planet being a dreadful dreadful
dreadful, low down and rotten rotten rotten, dirty bitch of a bastards
everywhere affair. In tune with the green light, mum was. Someone in the Ford
had to be, or there would be no story to write about.
‘Jules! This is the only world that we’ve
got, and you have to appreciate what you’ve got going for you, and make the
most of it in it.’ She said, as she shaved five clicks off the speedometer dial
of the near new Falcon, and brought it back down to 70k’s. Even though it was a
60k zone that they were in.
‘You mean I’ve gotta do the done thing mum?’
Julie heaved ever so dryly back to her. The dyed black, shaven tips of her once
blonde hair, still sticking up like the corners of razorblade edges.
‘I’ve gotta settle down and get a job in
some fucking rip off wanker’s bank! Then get married and pop out a few
bambinos, whilst hubby and I struggle like fuck with a mortgage that drives us
insane, in a superstressful and super ultraviolent world that drives us even in
saner. To that point where we drive each other into a war zone, and fuck each
other off. Like you and dad did!’
‘Julie! That’s not fair! It wasn’t like that
between your father and I. We just grew apart, and we’re amicable now, and we
still love each other, in our own ways.’
‘Yeah! But you fought like fucking Rambo and
the Burmese army for about ten years, didn’t you?’ Julie kind of hissed back at
her mother. With a bit of a wrathful and pointing the bone scowl etched upon
her youthful and playing mind games, pretty face.
Looking for a bit of leverage as to what
constitutes a true definition of the good life, the naughty bitch of a kid was
conscious that she had her mother on the edge of insanity. However, that
everybody had at some stage in their lives either lived on the edge of
insanity, or still was, was the point that she was trying to drive home. In
defense of the mitigating circumstances stuff inherent in her own situation,
that is. After all, she was only human, she felt. She wasn’t some Goddess or
angel, or some prophet endowed with mucking cosmic consciousness.
She was far from being perfect! She
thought. She was just a limited creation of some man made up God, so she’d been
told, since just about her primal fart in this Earth hellhole. She was merely a
human wuck up repeating and re running the ignoble human tradition, of
perfecting beastly base imperfections born out of egoised selfishness, and re
running them Groundhog Dayish like. She was flesh and blood that was being bamboozled
by a too darkish focused wayward mind, in a planetary sea of that commodity.
She wasn’t guilty of anything. She was just par for that Earth course where one
seeks unlimited unconditional love, and to have everything in the universe at
one’s fingertips, at the same time. She had tried to get that via her screaming
ego instead of mystically accessing it, and wucked up pretty bad, and shit
happens. She wucken knew that. She was the young lady in black with the zig zag
black tattoos on her arms, and she was full of desire and its spin off desires
allright. She didn’t want to be a supermodel however, she wanted to be a
supermystic, so that she could finally curtail the abhorrent psychology that
was going on, in her too hard to handle mind. She didn’t even know it yet, and
couldn’t yet put it into words, but in her aching soul, she knew that was her
prime desire. To be a supermystical type, that is.
‘We had the odd spat Jules!’ Louise half
roared back at her daughter’s too dysfunctional family accusation. ‘I’ll admit
it! But the spats are part of it, and during child rearing, they and the sex
that follows them keep y’going as much as anything else.’
‘The odd spat! Come off it mum! It was like
World War Three, followed by some extraordinarily loud and hefty grunting and
groaning sessions of the century, some days. It was like living with a couple
of fucking feral pigs some weeks!’
‘You can always go back to Melbourne and
stay with your father if you want Jules!’ The mother said, with more than a bit
of the ‘please do stuff,’ in the tone and accentuation of her voice.
‘Hohhh!’ The daughter head bob retorted
sarcastically and rather caustically as she turned sharply sideways, and her
absolutely fantastic right boob just about flopped out of her loose and light,
black bra, and black singlet top. ‘Wouldn’t mumsy love that? Off the hook, hey?
Send the naughty bitch back to daddy, hey? Well here’s some news for mumsy! I
am not going back to fucking Melbourne mum, and that’s final!’
‘Jules!’ a frowning Louise intoned. ‘I wish
that you’d worn something a little more appropriate. That wee black bra is a
bit too skimpy dear!’ She wasn’t just looking at her daughter’s half hanging
out hefty breast either. She was also taking in her tight black strides, and
her jet black boots, and the black zig zag tattoos on the sides of her upper
arms. Which frankly, appalled her, because her kid looked like some sort of
petite nazi. One with too many rings dangling from her lobes, high and
suspected low, as well. Which in a way, it seemed that she was. Naziish, that
is. At least to Louise’s chances of having a real good and free time at an age
in her life, when she thought that she bloody well should be. With all child
rearing, or the weighty bulk of it all behind her, disposable nappy like.
‘Mu…um! I’m not trying to give anybody the
come ons! That’s the last thing on my fucking mind. I am trying to keep cool!
It’s fifty thousand degrees out there today. Fu…uuck! This city is hotter than
fucking hell!’ Her daughter shot back at her.
Actually, it was 3.37 pm, and the current
temperature was 43.7 degrees celsius, and because of the local establishment
pigs daylight saving law, it was just warming up to as hot as it was gunna get
for the day. It wasn’t Norway, that’s for sure. It was instead the third
consecutive day of temperatures way way way over the old 100 degree Fahrenheit
mark, and just about everybody in town had mucking had enough, and their nerves
were on the edge of both mucking reality, and wucking insanity. They were
pretty well mucked off with being fried like God’s prawns, from southwest
downunder way. The heat had also been different from the traditional heat for
this part of the world too, and the weather all over Oz was changing nonstop.
It had not been a dry and crisp heat of
late. Where a dip in the pool or the ocean, and a slab or two of some sort
of meat on the barbie and a salad, and a
few drinks and some chat, sorted it out. Rather, the Queenslander’s weather had
arrived to scout for their legions of fundamentalist cane toads, and it had
been a sticky and super supersweaty, cling to one like demon slime, horribly
yukky, humid heat. It was like being cooked in a vat full of sunflower oil with
carbon monoxide ’erbs being bubbled thru it, and living perpetually in a sauna,
at the same time. They were ok at the moment in the superb air con of their
near new Falcon, but the both of them were postulating the effects of having to
dash from the Falcon, into the therapist’s air conned office.
Like running through an oven that was
cooking a pork pot roast that was going to be, they knew, from past experience.
Definitely, they had the proof, and there was no doubt about it, their rock was
getting hotter, and hotter, and hotter. At least in their dunghill of a city
southwest downunder called Perth, in the land of Oz, it was.
In Canada and Holland and Denmark and
Norway and Sweden and freeze y’tits and balls off northern hemisphere places
like that, they run for their mid winter heaters. Southwest downunder in Perth
city however, in peak summer in the middle of February, they run for their
humming bloody air conditioners. Whilst the town’s peasants, artists or not,
writers or painters or poets or singers or tap dancers or addicts, or whomever,
sit real close to their Bohemian twenty five dollar fans. Wiping the copious
sweat off themselves, with their one and only, absolutely sweat drenched
bathroom flannel. Whilst simultaneously cursing profusely the inadequacy of the
absolutely flat out little machine in front of them. To the extent that the
power company stresses out that so many are cooling off and pushing their
beloved grid into the red, and consequently they can threaten to pull the plug
on some good citizen’s electricity. For the greater good.
Which is democracy down under style,
approaching democracy Indian style, which is a 24/7 power on – power off, and
some human shit on many a street affair, and exactly what these two Aussie born
girls were currently living. Southwest downunder. This give shit and take shit,
and play with one’s own and each other’s shit, and find the inbetween
nonviolent medium’s life shit, was all that they had, and all that anybody else
had too. Underbelly Road was life high and low, but it was just coping with
having a mere belly and a mind supposedly sitting on top of it, that was
killing everyone. Painfully slowly, too. Like the tick tock, tick tock, tick
tock, clockwatching stuff is. No wonder then that second comings are held in
such fantastically high regard by humans. They certainly were by the good ex
missus Thompson, anyway. She could hardly wait for hers. She was approaching
the level of that pretty French sheila in the Last Tango From Paris, who could
get herself off, just by running downhill down the street. Good lord! It
occurred to Louise to stop the Ford and get out of it and bolt for the nearest
hill, it did. The 48 gal, to say the least, was rather horny, as they say. She
was. She was a bit of a silky smooth moving cheetah in a CatFord, in the middle
of the mating season for 48 gals, she was.
Watch out Tommy! You wucking Muckinbudin
infidel!
That was written on her sensational and
superkeen to do some damage face, it was. It was so obvious that it could be
spotted a mile away, and the only one who hadn’t so far spotted it, was Tommy
himself. This tells all about Tommy. Because Tommy couldn’t read himself, let
alone read anyone else. He was just that sort of a guy, the wucking Muckinbudin
infidel was.
At the Alexander Drive lights, which are
on a dip if one is coming north down the venerable Walcott street, Louise found
herself in a line of about ten cars waiting to turn right. It did not please
her at all that three of the machines in front of her were monster 4WD’s, and
she did wonder for a tad how many of the swine's actually took their lumbering
boxes of shit, off road. As she accelerated gently with the light change and
the consequent chain gang movement however, something else took over her brain.
Something that was far more important than lumbering boxes of foreign made,
totally unnecessary shit being here, there and every wucking where. On her
roads.
‘Jules!’ She asked softly, as her near new
machine negotiated the wide corner and swung boisterously into the A Drive.
‘What happened in Melbourne?’
‘I’ve told you mum! Nothing happened in
fucking Melbourne!’ Julie practically spat back at her.
The mother knew that that wasn’t the case.
She was aware that Julie was lying and denying stuff to herself, at the same
time. Louise could feel it in her gut that something not right had happened to
her youngest daughter in Melbourne, and Julie’s body language and reaction to
the subject being brought up was a dead give away. Again.
‘I just don’t like it mum! There are too
many wogs over there!’ The kid added.
‘Ok!’ responded Louise, as she chucked a
leftie off the A Drive, and simultaneously thanked God for the existence of
eastern mystics, who had become western therapists. ‘You shouldn’t call people
wogs all of the time Jules, you know? It’s not nice.’ She asserted,
deliberately changing the subject.
‘Why not mum? That’s what they are and I
could call them a lot worse, if you want. I could bring in the c word easily
enough, because it describes some of them a lot fucking better!’
‘That’s enough Julie! I don’t want to know
about the c word just at the moment, or them that constitute that pluralized
pack of bloodsucking ignorant swine's! I just want to live out the rest of my life
and get in a last luscious lick of a second coming or two, if I can. Now help
me look for this street …please. You never know sweetie, you might like this
old bugger! A good friend of mine does, you know? He sounded ever so nice on
the phone, he did. He may be good for you my dear, you never know.’ Mum said
first super loudly, then super softly, to her kid.
So Julie did help look, with an explosive
flash of anger in her glowingly red terminator type eyes that told Louise that
her second kid, didn’t believe in any impossible mucking dreams. Presently,
dream or no dream, they found the street that they were seeking. The fair city
that is so gloriously so far far far away from any other mad bastard’s cities,
that they were living in, was being baked by a right wing bastard of a sun God.
Despite the Ford’s air con being on sky high, so were they. Who isn’t these
terrible terrible terrible, horrible horrible horrible, and still existentially
exquisite and very beautiful days?
As far as streets go aesthetically
speaking, both of the Oz ladies had to admit to themselves that it wasn’t a bad
one. For a start, they couldn’t see any armed militias, or politicians, or
other sorts of pimps up ahead. They couldn’t see any working girls up the track
either, and it the track was old city and narrow and slightly down sloped, but
its verges were jammed with thick trunked trees. Which had spewed a profuse
leafy canopy forth, which had just about covered the entire street. Apart from
where the power boys had neatly cut away for power transmission purposes, that
is. So that they felt like they were driving into some sort of Disneylandish
tunnel with wormholes in it, or something.
Julie had to remind herself that she wasn’t
in anybody’s wucking wonderland, and Louise told herself several times that
dead or alive, she was gunna come back up the spookingly gorgeous tunnel, find
Tommy the hunky infidel, strip, and then spread her legs and sit on his angelic
Scandanavian type face. With her knickerless thighs Miami vicing his head, and
her pussy galore giving him a full on southwest downunder clitoral nosejob.
That had been the best Earthly advice that her father had ever given her!
Regarding what to do first up with a half decent man who was baulking, and who
should be able to look after his own stomach and psyche peacefully, and maybe
the day was coming where she would do exactly that. Have sex in the city on top
of Tommy the infidel’s gorgeous face, that is. Was she getting premonitions of
that sort of naughty naughty naughty snogging, where she could get her rocks
off maybe rat a tat tat and second coming like, manifesting on this horrible
Earthly plane? She most certainly hoped so, she did. She was gunna have a
second coming in style and with the works and that was her dream, and as far as
dreams go, it wasn’t a bad one. She reckoned.
About forty to fifty metres into the
naturally eerie but cool bitumen mixed with vegetation tunnel however, she
forgot about that rather marvelous head imagery, and they calculated that the
joint that they were after was the next left. Number 666, it was, believe it or
not. The both of them braced their downunder nerves, as the Ford slid
beautifully into quite a well hidden by vegetation but wide u drive, whereupon
the Highgate girls nearly shit themselves. Bohemian Rhapsody chords going
everywhere like. Good shock value and rather jarring stuff going off inside of
them, it all was.
‘Whot mum! Are you having me carted off to
a concentration compound or a boot camp, or a Young Lib’s safe house, are y’?
God! Fuck me! You’re not sending me to the World Youth Day in Sydney, are you?
You know that I am not a catholic. I am JT I am! You dirty, double crossing
bitch!’ Julie exploded.
‘Jules! Don’t be so patently absurd. I
would never do any of that! You are just letting your imagination and your
emotions run away with you, as usual. Face it! You’re only nineteen, and you
need help. You do kid! You do! I can’t help you anymore, and frankly Jules, I
don’t know how much more of your
abominable behaviour that I can stand. I mean, doing Ms Sharon
impersonations in a copper’s garden! How low do you wanna go Jules? Jesus! Even
in my wildest wildest wildest days, as a wild wild wild woman, long ago, when I
was a hippy, I never ever did that. That’s going too far, that is!’ Louise
perkerked mother henishly back at her young and wayward chick, she did.
‘Oh bullshit mum!’ Her kid fired back, like
the Kormoran dun. ‘That’s just what the pigs say that I did. I don’t remember a
thing about it, so it is their fucking word against mine! So whot’s that prison
van doing there then mum? Come on! Out with it you manipulating fucking parent
you! You may have squirted me out, when you shouldn’t have squirted me out, but
I gotta know mum! How come there’s a heavily armed guard on the front verandah
over there, and one down the side of the house, and one poking his big boof
head around the back of the fucking house as well?’ The nervous kid asked, as
her mother slotted the Ford into the most logical car parking spot. The one
furtherest away from the wucking prison van, that is. Where the Hannibal type
inside had come from. The van being the Hannibal type’s flying saucer, or
personal Tardus, so to speak. She felt.
Louise positioned her machine like it was a
dick going up a shirtsleeve too, she did. The mucking Ford pulled up like Henry
had risen from the grave into embodied flesh again, and put every nut and bolt
in it together, personally. Everybody, including God, and Satan too, were
pleased with the formidable creation. It was a machine, but what a machine it
was. Everybody in the universal family was happy about it being there, and
looking so fine and dandy, and existentially useful. The sun was shining down
benevolently upon the creation, only it was a bit too galactically mucking hot.
It was. One can’t have everything, but nine out of ten is not bad.
Particularly, in a world like this one. It wasn’t the machine’s fault that the
motherfucker sun, was farting wucking unbelievable solar heatballs, far far far
too wucking much.
Just before mum cut the motor and the air
con in the creation, she turned to her gone off the rails kid. She could’ve
been in a dramatic B grade Hollywood or Bollywood movie, but she wasn’t. Thank God.
She was in a southwest downunder, mind projected holographic one, she was.
According to the Naz, anyway. She was in one that many call real wucking life.
Being a terribly hard and grinding along slog for most, whilst others in the
minority and on the outskirts of the human herd call it the slogalong life, the
dreaming. Some, like the Naz go further and claim that life here is just
dreaming in the dreamtime, and nothing else, and that’s all. Which pretty well
summed up where Louise Thompson was at, at the moment. Her kid too. Here we all
are in the land of make believe darlin’, and what are you going to wucking do
about? It was a doozy of a programme, and they were in a mucking and all mucked
up twenty first century nightmare sub programme of it, allright. There was
absolutely no doubt about that, and the heat was on, it was. Momentarily
however, it was off for the old girl. Because she had arrived at the
therapist’s joint with her fragile cargo, which had once been the size of a
Tinkerbell swimming around in her womb.
‘Jules!’ Mum said, with some voluptuous
Grace Kellyish solemnity, and some Bette Davis eyes, a half popping out of her
radiant blondie scone. Like she was having some fun walking a duck on a leash,
she was. Super excited that she had actually made it to the heavily guarded
therapist’s front door, with her number one second born, heavy duty problem
child, was she. ‘It’s like I told you. This bloke comes highly recommended, and
he obviously works with some pretty hard core cases!’ She related, almost
jovially.
‘I’ll say that he does Louise!’ Her kid
barked back.
Over her left shoulder, Julie eyed the
latest Terminator model on the front verandah off, again. She could almost hear
that robotic rrrrrrr sound, as the heavy looking, heavily dressed, heavily
armed dude oscillated his neck. He had some dangerous looking machine gun
strapped to him, and a hoot of a big sidearm on his left hip, and he had a big
hand on that hoot of a sidearm, he did. He was keen that someone should
challenge his vested institutional authority, he was. That was obvious, as it
was etched implicitly in the foul and super hard and super tough expression
that he had upon his face. The bastard looked like he’d stepped out of some
computer game like Warcraft, he did. He was like a rock statue of a mercenary,
that had been planted on a front verandah. The Little Mermaid, he wasn’t. More
Thor in a different uniform like, he was. He didn’t look happy, that was for sure.
Death warmed up some, is what he truly looked like.
If one makes a nuclear bomb, then one will
use it sooner or later, because otherwise there would be no purpose in making
the nuclear bomb in the first place, and that’s existentially insulting to one’s
lack of real mystical intelligence, and he stood for that consciousness level.
No purpose that is, apart from sussing out how many people that it the latest
weapon can kill, and the cost factor associated with that, that is. Missus
Thompson, she knew all about that dirty deeds done mega mega mega expensively
shit, she did. None of them should have them, she thought as over her shoulder,
she eyed the frustrated Terminator off. That was where she was taking her
stand. The existence of those things, guns and nuclear weapons that is, was an
offence to every citizen’s intelligence, she reckoned. The thing on the
verandah to her meanwhile, looked like something that was about to start World
War 3.
‘What did the client inside do then mum?
Knock someone off? Or did he do a Goi Fawkes and blow up those ego bloated up
motherfuckers in parliament house, or something?’ JT asked her.
‘Oi dunno love. Oi don’t know what he done,
and oi don’t want to know either,’ Louise answered Oz casually.
‘Well you have it your way mum, but if I
have to sit in a waiting room next door to the bastard, I’d like to know what
he’s fuckin’ done! You know?’ Julie kid snapped back at her.
‘Well dear! With an armed guard at the
front of the house, and one down the side of the house, and one poking his nose
around the corner of the back of the house, one would expect that between the
three of them, and whomever else is packing inside, that if the client cuts
loose, then they’ll get a few bullets into him before the bastard gets to us.’
‘Hohh mum! Do you wonder where I get my
fucking dryness from?’
‘You get if from from y’grandad dear,
because that’s where I got it from.’
‘I miss nan and pop mum. I wish that they
hadn’t been beheaded and burnt together in that fucking car crash. I wish that
you were taking me to see me pop for some therapy, instead of a fucking wog!’
‘Julie! Please! Enough of the W word! Enough
of the f word! Christ! I should have called you Ozziess, or Chefess Gordon R
Thompson. Can’t you talk normally?’
‘I fucking w’ll am! I am never ever going
to forgive you for this mother! I have never been so ashamed of myself and my
own mother at the same time, in my entire fucking life! This isn’t fair! It’s
blackmail for having a roof over m’head, and for having m’childhood dolls stare
me in the fucking face all night long. It’s an incentiveless bore mum, that’s
what it is!’
The mother swallowed the little
capitalist’s hint, as she opened her scintillatingly gorgeous west coast gob,
again. Profit profit profit. Personal profit, from success or disaster. It runs
the personalized human beast’s ego more than love unfortunately, and she knew
it.
‘Well dear!’ she purred, like a well worn in
Jaguar motor. ‘When the going gets tough, the tough get going and they go and
see a mystical therapist, don’t they? Because then mumsy might give them a
hundred bucks, for personal spending and definitely not for dopey wopies, for
merely…. walking thru the front door to the therapist’s lair.’
‘How do you know he’s a fucking mystical
mum?’
‘The friend who recommended him to me
described him that way Jules.’
Suddenly and H bomb like, Julie seemed to
put two and two together, and her face exploded into red with the realisation
of who had dobbed her in, for wucking wog therapy. At the same time, the still
stiff little black hairs on her formerly blonde head, the ones that looked like
the corners of razorblade edges, well. Quite frankly. It was as if they’d
suddenly all grown a good quarter of an inch. Upon a fertiliser of septic
indignation, mixed with a lot of wucking fire, and no dispassionate awareness
or affectionate detachment, at all. Rather, stuck fast in the body and in the
mind as heavy duty ego, and some other fucker to payback gear time it all was,
for the apparently luckless Oz kid. Who had purportedly dropped her black dacks
in the coppers’ yard, and done a pretty good Ms Sharon, before she’d pissed on
their beloved geraniums.
‘It’s y’new fucking boyfriend! Isn’t it
mum? It’s this Tommy the infidel prick who has dobbed me in for this fucking go
and see a mystically smart wog crap! Isn’t it?’ Julie shrieked, at her old
lady.
Louise finally cut the motor, and the air
con, and almost instantaneously, they felt it getting ribald to the max hotter.
It was like some big fifty foot high Devil had squatted for a ground zero crap,
and was resting his flaming scrotum sack and its enclosed super super super hot
nuts, on the top of their succinctly innocent, near new Ford.
‘Well! We are good friends and although we
are not yet intimately acquainted with the not so secret human business yet, I
do trust young Tommy’s judgment.’ Mum said, holding her cool.
‘You’ve got the hots for the bastard mum!
That’s what’s going on! I know you! You just want to sit on his peachy cute fucking
Scandinavian type face, and squeeze his pulverized cheeks with y’knickerless
thighs! Don’t y’?’ Julie roared back.
‘Jules! Don’t be so forthrightly vulgar!
It’s not ladylike. We’re just good friends dear, that’s all.’ Louise said
calmly, whilst holding her composure impeccably, inside of her yellow dress.
Could she tell her daughter the truth about what she really wanted to do to and
with Tommy the infidel’s face and cock and heart and especially, his fine
Scandinavian looking nose? She couldn’t, because that just wouldn’t be
ladylike, nor appropriate to the razor’s edged situation that she was currently
existentially experiencing. She couldn’t risk blowing her cover yet, and she
knew that if her kid found that secret information out that she would really
spit the conspiracy dummy, and that the chances of her getting the little bitch
inside of the door yonder, that had an armed guard in front of it, would
significantly plummet. More or less, like a turd going down a just flushed
toilet, or a Brazilian priest trying to fly with toy balloons. Street politics
it was, and it was her cosmic duty to disguise her real intentions, state like.
She felt. After all, she was the parent in the situation, and she was supposed
to have the power, and not the unruly kid.
‘I smelt a dirty rat the first time that I
clapped eyes on that Tommy the fucking infidel cunt mum, I did!’ Julie cat spat
at the windscreen. Like she had a repressed fur ball in her throat. ‘He’s too
smooth a fucking prick for my liking! He’s too quiet and he’s too creamy nice.
I don’t trust the angelic looking motherfucker, or his duhs! Men! They’re
nothing but fucking animals who pretend that they’re the creation of some
wrathful love God!’ asserted the kid. ‘They’re full of fucking shit, they are!’
She roared, like a young lioness with a thorn in her foot. ‘Look at that goon
on the front verandah there mum! There’s the mind of the common man for you. Me
and my fucking dickhead’s piece!’ JT shrieked, somewhat bitterly. Just as the
guard tapped his holstered dirty great big hoot of a gun. As if he was super
ready for any trouble. You wucking betcha!
Louise Thompson was really a bit surprised
by the degree of her child’s animosity towards males. She had not picked up on
its full strength before, and immediately that she did so Melbourne came into
her mind again, but God forbid, she wasn’t going to mention that vibrant
cosmopolitan east coast city again, to her agitated, and agitating daughter. So
instead, she decided to stick up for her current love and romance prospect, and
some other male beings too.
‘I actually think that Tommy’s quite the
simple gentleman dear, and that your pop was too, and so’s your good mate young
James, in his own way.’ She said softly softly like.
‘Pop was ok, and Jimmie’s ok, he’s a good
mate, but don’t expect me to like that fucking Tommy prick mum!’ JT snorted.
‘That low down and dirty rotten bastard of an infidel has set me up! If you
want to fuck his brains out, you go ahead mum, only don’t expect me to smile at
the motherfucking meddling arsehole in the morning. Because I fucking well
won’t be! I’ll murder the bastard the next time that I see him, that’s what
I’ll do. I’ll tell him to shove his wogs up his fucken arse, I fucking will!’
‘Look sweetie!’
‘Don’t sweetie me mum! I’m not four years
old, I’m post fucking nineteen! I am almost an adult homosapien! Get it, old
lady?’
‘Julie! I’ll give you two hundred bucks just
to step on and over the pass go and do not go to jail square, being the front
door, and then just see how it goes. Please. Give it a go? For yourself, and
for moi. Come on! Let’s go!….Jesus!…..Once upon a time you used to be able to
bribe a child with a twenty five cent packet of Smarties. You know? Come on
dear! Let’s get this bloody business over and done with! We’ve come this far,
so we might as well. The Ford needs to cool off a bit, anyway.’
‘Two hundred bucks?’
‘Two hundred bucks Jules! A steal, believe me!
I am not as rich as Di was, or JK is, or Oprah is, and even Britney could still
buy me out a couple of hundred thousand times. That is for bloody sure!’
‘All right mum! I’ll do it! But I’m telling
y’right now, if he turns out to be just another fucking ordinary wog, then I
won’t be coming back. Ever!’
‘Ok! Let’s hit the trail and get the verdict
then dear. Let’s rawhide it and move out, and do something absolutely bloody
different for once. Let’s have a second coming! Why not?’
‘Huhh! Fat fucking chance of that happening
mum,’ her daughter mumbled back, with the conviction tone of a three quarter’s
dead Freddo frog.
So simultaneously they opened their
respective car doors, and the overwhelming sensation that they got was that
another much much much bigger Devil, had just dropped a dirty great big big big
personal assault whopper, in their respective faces. Because it was hot outside
the near new Ford. It was wucking hot in the fires of hell stuff! It was
nipples melting and lips high and low melding together weather. It was cock and
balls and scrotum dissolving back into the clay dust stuff. It was
unbelievable, and galactically atrocious that a sun could pump out so much
blood curdling heat. It was nasty nasty nasty Canasta hot, and true blue proof
that the Earth could be a kind of a technical go thru the motions, and a sweaty
sweaty sweaty environmental mucking hell, some days.
‘Oh Kerrist!’ moaned the lady in the yellow
dress hyper nasally, as she closed her door, and hit the lock them all beeper
on her keyset.
‘Oh fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ groaned Julie, as she
took her first step towards real existential and mystical freedom.
They motioned with copious easy sweat
forming on their brows towards the guard on the verandah, and although the
Julie avoided eye contact with him, Louise nodded the bastard’s way, and gave
him a somewhat neutral, yet appreciative smile. The dude dropped his left
bottom lip, like it was a dog having a strained poo, and nodded ever so
slightly back.
Growing old gracefully that lady?
Affirmative! Nice yellow dress? Affirmative! Nice tits too? Affirmative! The
younger of those two female Caucasians had nice tits too? Affirmative! Loved
the skimpy little black bra? Affirmative!
He thought to himself robotically as the
women went inside and his head turned again, and he scanned the two hundred and
seventy degree spectrum in front of him once more, for any would be
Rolfbusters. Rolf being his client who was currently being therapeuticised
inside, by the Indian mystic. Come western therapist.
C’mon!
C’mon! C’mon! The dude vibed the universe inside and outside of himself, as
he tapped his holstered dirty great big hoot of a gun, relentlessly. Give me something to fucking blow away? Give
me a purpose for being a lump of meat? Affirmative! Just one little ittsy bittsy Bluto bearded
Rolfbuster….please God! Make my day y’fucking Fucker? Action! Action! Action!
Give me some action you divine bastard! I can’t stand this fucking peace and
quiet? Affirmative! It’s killing me softly without a song, and I fucking hate
that? Affirmative!
Absolutely bored bored bored shitless with
Rolf guarding, the bugger was. Despite that he was standing in the shade of the
therapist’s verandah, sweat was cascading down his face, and running off his
big testicled scrotum, and down the insides of his thick strided thighs too. At
less than thirty five plus bucks an hour, he was thinking of putting it to his
union that they should push the employer for sweat money. He could do with another
allowance, he reckoned. It was costing him twenty five bucks a week in creams
to stop the sweat rashes, these days. The cost of him getting to and fro work
had quadrupled in the last week, thanks to the seven sisters and their
political machinery, and his economic future was looking to soon become more
expensive than a hundred thousand acres in paradise. So the guard was a bit on
the edge of reality, he was. He wasn’t digging the heat either. No verandah
bound up bugger in town doing their sacred duty was.
Fuck!
Fuck! Fuck! Not a fucking potential Rolfbuster in sight anywhere. Again!
Oh
shit! This is so boring! I am bored shitless, and it’s so fucking hot?
Affirmative! This cunt of a city is hotter than fucking hell? Affirmative! I
might get on Google tonight and look up the market for armed guards in fucking
Tasmania? Affirmative! I am sick of this fucking heat, and this constant
constant constant, fucking sweating? Affirmative! Oh come on Rolf! For fuck’s
sake! You’ve been in there for fucking hours! Fucking hurry up y’little Dumbo
eared cunt! I want to get the fuck out of here you prick? Affirmative!
He thoughteth to himselfeth, deep deep deep
within his grey matter, as he completed yet another 270 degree scan.
Going
to need a half a toob of fucking Deep Heat on my neck tonight! I might have to
ring the Russian mole a bit later on, and get her to come over tonight and do
so rubbing. Affirmative! She’s good at rubbing different body fucking parts,
the fucking Russian mole is? Affirmative! She gives good rates too.
Affirmative! I don’t mind the Russians. It’s the fucking Americans who worry
me! They came from the fucking English, like these crazy mad Ozzie cunts here
did. That’s their fucking problem? Affirmative!
Rrrrrrrrr!
Rrrrrrrrr!
There was indeed another armed guard
inside, as Louise had prophesized. Whilst Ivan the terribly annoyed, his
comrade out on the front verandah wasn’t exactly existentially enjoying himself,
this guy was lapping up the air conditioning and the free water from the
readily available water cooler. He had his legs crossed and his big boof head
buried in a women’s magazine, where he was secretly looking for pictures of
semi well dressed breasts, that severely rivaled his mother’s. Doing some
research, he was. The girls were in an opened doored waiting room with just
them and the guard in it, and across a narrow passageway from them, in an
office, sat a big big big Sybil. The lady was a well proportioned Hindu woman,
who was bulging out everywhere from a colourful sari. They’d had a brief chat
with her, before they’d sat their scorched arses down in the adeaquately air
conned waiting room, and she’d seemed nice.
All of a sudden, they heard what sounded
like a bit of a rumble in the jungle coming from the therapist’s room, which
was further up the passageway, past big Sybil’s office. They caught a few words
of what was being said, but couldn’t put the sentences together. The guard
chuckled away to himself, because his client was getting it stuck up him, and
big Sybil giggled for much the same reason. Plus a few others of her own,
because she was professionally intimate with Shyam, her boss and the therapist.
When Shyam’s door opened however, and the shortarsed and big Dumbo eared Rolf
stepped out into the passageway, the therapist could be clearly heard. Speaking
Indian Oz, he was.
‘Now I want you to spend the next few days
ferreting out the prime chemical called the I am Rolf! That’s the only
descriptive concept about yourself that I want you to play with. You can take
the rest of the shitpile of them that you’ve accumulated since your good mother
spurted you as a body out, and shove them up y’incarcerated western bum!’ he
barked at the backside of his client.
‘Yes Master! Yes Master!’ Rolf chirped
budgerigar like, over a Dumbo eared shoulder.
‘I am and nothing else Rolf! Just sit in
pure I am and see what you get. If you come back to me on Thursday with
bucketloads of conceptual descriptions that you’ve attached to your I am, like
we’ve been through again today, then I may have to make you an offer that you
can’t refuse. Do you understand Rolfy? You are not a bad guy doomed to live a
hell existence forever, you are the fucking Source itself! I say unto you you
bloody idiot, that you put the stars up there in the sky, and then you super
condensed yourself into a body, so as to wonder about them. Ponder that my son,
and stay away from the illusion that you are a human being and a doomed man.
Because you are definitely not! You are spirit Rolfy, and spirit is unbeatable
stuff that is never ever damned.’
‘Yes Master! I’ll give it a go. There’s
fuck all else to do inside, apart from watching that moronic reality tv crap.
See you then! I am! I am! I am! I’ll sus it out! Thankyou again Master,’ said
Rolf the wonder prisoner, as the interior guard escorted him out of the front
door.
‘See you then Rolfy! Have a good one, you
fucker!’ Shyam barked back. Before, like some cosmic shark on the loose, he
swiveled his medium sized and hairless head into the waiting room, and his curt
bush of a moustache twitched up and down, bullet fast like. Like it was on a
fox hunt with Madame George and no one else, or something.
‘I’ve just got to have a downunder crap
ladies! I’ll be back!’ he fired off in his Indian accent, before disappearing
again.
The two ladies looked at each other, and
Louise’s eyes were full of daggers, and her eyebrows were just about having it
off with the ceiling.
‘He looks like fucking Gandhi mum, and I am
not calling anybody Master!’ She waiting room, heavy whisper spat at her old
lady. Deep deep deep in her inner woman however, she was impressed that her
analyst had fired off an f word. Her mother wasn’t, however she was pleased to
have something to bitch about to her new beau. Tommy the Muckinbudin infidel,
who had recommended this particular mystical therapist from old Bombay, that
is.
‘It’s ok!’ Sybil called out to them in her
big mama Indian voice. Her huge girth just about murdering her desk, and her
enormous breasts seeming to fill two thirds of the upper half of her small
office. ‘He always has to have a crap after seeing Rolf! Rolf gives him the Oz
shits a little bit, but he’ll be fine. He’ll be with you in a moment ladies.’
‘Oh good Sybil!’ Louise answered her. ‘No
hurry! No worries!’
So they waited a bit longer, and JT felt a
bit like Jesus must have felt, just before they nailed him to the cross.
Pensively, she flexed her toes up and down in her black shoes, and in her inner
woman, she told her nerves to get wucking lost. Then, from somewhere out the
back of the converted house, she heard the unmistakable sounds of a dunny
flushing, and simultaneously she thought that she should’ve asked for two
hundred grand, instead of a measly two hundred. All that she could hope for was
that the wog bastard knew how to wipe his bum properly, because about the last
thing that she needed on this Earth, was a therapist who stunk of b a. Bowel
actions, that is. Ah! What the wuck!
She had to tell herself inside. Her entire
human world was nothing but a loose bowel action. Was it God’s loose bowel
action, or Satan’s? She didn’t know, and she didn’t give a brass wuck either.
Youth! Blown away by a ghastly ghastly ghastly, motherfucking hypocrite’s
world, that is full of ultra ignorants and ultraviolents, and even more full of
sex, music, and piss, and mind altering drugs galore. That’s what she
represented. It could’ve been a rebel female reincarnation of James Dean
sitting there in that chair in the waiting room, and stretching out their cute
knuckles, but it wasn’t. It was JT. Anticipating and brooding over, what the
wucking wog was gunna be like. Would he be an Arby? She certainly hoped not.
She didn’t want to be slapped around, and she didn’t want to have to let one or
two go in retaliation. She didn’t need that shit. She had enough shit in her
life already. Mother Theresa! She was only nineteen too, and finding a ranker
planet in the universe for her to live on, would be like finding a needle in a
cosmic haystack. The kid already knew that. Christ almighty! She was living it
all the existential hard way, she felt, deep deep deep down in her kid soul.
It’s tough being a split minded homosapien in a duality consciousness
programme, when one is only nineteen. Real tough. She was the proof of that,
she reckoned.
Ten minutes later however, she was in a
state of mind which to simply put it, was being blown away. Absolutely! Was she
being tsunamied. That good old reverse swing that can actually happen sometimes
in life, where the chemicalised duality consciousness can jump from a negative
to a positive, or vice versa, in a millisecond flat, was waltzing her around
this fair and very benevolent, heady heady heady universe. It was. She’d either
bi polared or been bi polared, one of the two, and she was pea eyed pink
ecstatic about that. Life is a highway, and all of a sudden she’d turned around
and gone the other wucking way, away from the neuron traffic congestion in her
brain, for reasons only remotely known to her. For sure, was she high high high
now, and not down down down, and bitchy bitchy bitchy, and angry angry angry,
about life. No Ma’am! No Sir! She’d rocketed right out of all of that stuff one
right up stuff, instantaneously and spontaneously. It was a bit of a 21st
century miracle, but sometimes, on the odd occasion, the swinging duality
consciousness here can actually work for one. Because nothing in a duality set
up can be all bad. There’s evil in good, and there’s good in evil, and the
positive is all mixed up with the negative, and the dark and the light are too;
and that’s what she was so painfully finding out. Who wucking isn’t, besides
the Goddesses and the Gods? Who are exempt from wiping arse, and urinating
umpteen times a day.
She was also seated quite comfortably thank
y’very much, in her therapist’s air conned office, and he the Bombay dude was
showing Louise her old lady out of the door, and telling her that Sybil would
run her the daughter home. Julie was feeling strangely strangely strangely
peaceful, and almost almost almost; blissful. Like somebody had just shot her
up with some pretty good sister morphine or brother horse, or five and a half
gallons of Enya, or something. Because she was getting the opposite experience
to that which she thought that she would get. Wogland had gone magically and
mysteriously Alice in Wonderlandish for her, in a delayed recognition jiffy, it
had. Christ! It was a 21st century wucking miracle happening for
her.
Because she was strange psyche running
with a most mysterious deja vu sensation that she already knew her therapist
Shyam from somewhere, and that they were old galactic mates, or something. That
sensation was coming to her totally uninvited and totally unexpected, but she
was digging it, because it was making her feel so relaxed. It was like her
nerves had wucked off, like she’d told them to do, and she was spacing out
somewhat on that. She was hoonless upstairs currently, and that was also pleasing
her. It was a bit like the old bugger was a valium radiator, or something, it
was. To her, he also seemed to be shining somehow, and vibrationally what he
was exuding was mellowing her out to the max. It was a miracle! Of unheralded
proportions, she felt. He was so so so intensely alive, so amazingly
intelligent and chase cutting, and so so so on the ball for a lad of his age.
To cap it all off, she had already sussed out that he had a real deviously
wicked sense of humour, which she rather liked. As a matter of fact, she liked
it a lot, she did. He swore openly too, and she loved that and could so easily
identify with it. They could have been younger sister and elder brother, and
ethereally they were.
Imagine her wunderbar wunderbar wunderbar
surprise. Her therapist wasn’t a wog at all! Or if he was, he was
Superwuckingwog to her. Because like everyone else, what did she know for real?
What is truth? On a planet full of selfish to the core, body only identifying
dreamers. All living in a mind made holographic dreamtime, which is spinning
out unbelievably ignorant, bullshit beliefs. Which people will mega kill for,
so as to maintain their illusory status quo position, within their animal
human, pecking orders. She didn’t yet have a clue really, how deep deep deep
the animal matrix runs in the third dimensional holographic life. So to her,
Shyam seemed to be a bit of a marvelous, old mystical type bloke, and not
scammerish at all. Just like her old pop had been, before he’d lost his head
and been incinerated in that infamous car crash. Where his missus had been
topped first, by three thousandths of a millisecond, which was an Olympic
record.
“Love you Willie!” She’d said to her long
time partner, as she’d got the demortalising chop, and been well and truly
underbellied.
“See you on the other side for some astral
rocking and rolling bitch! Whoopee! We’re going home mate! Thank fuck for that
darlin’! Hey! We’re out of this fucking shithole, at long long long last! God
bless that drunk driver in that petrol truck!” Willie’d fired back, before he’d
got the chop too. She hadn’t heard him though because she was already
headlessly dead, and that’s just the way that it goes with some unfortunate
missus types upon this Earth.
‘Will you by any chance be seeing that
lonesome streaky and freaky Muckinbudin bastard, Tommy the infidel, Louise?’
Shyam asked her old lady, just as her mum had one gloriously exuberant foot out
of the door.
Louise looked back, and she could have been
a spy for anybody, she could have. All of the mad mad mad state gangs on the
planet could have used her services, because her face was giving pretty well
nothing away. She could have just as easily been a politician or a leader of
them, she was that damn good. Because she’d just had a quick dunny break where
she’d unloaded a half gallon of hot hot hot Oz pee, and shot off an sms to
Tommy the infidel, at the same time. The message had said that she would be
around in twenty minutes for a chat about the scorching heat, even though she
had considerably considered sending off that she would be around in twenty
minutes, to sit on his absolutely fabulous face. It had been a close call with
which way to go with her message, but in the end she had gone with the norm,
instead of the absolute truth. Like people do to disguise what they really
wucking want, and to buy themselves a little bit of time to train the cerebral
troops up, to that point that they can actually get what they want. She done,
she did. After all, she was an Oz woman. She’d been in the Oz programme a
while, and she knew a few of the ins and outs of it, she did. She could play
the cosmic Earth game, pretty well, for a working mother.
‘I may bump into Tommy soon,’ she said
calmly, brand new toothbrush expression on her face like. Whilst knowing full
well and secretively to herself that she was heading directly for the infidel’s
joint in North Perth. A suburb that adjoined her beloved Highgate.
JT’s ears pricked up, and she listened in
as a more than interested party.
‘Well if and when you do see him, could you
give him a message for me? Because he won’t answer his phone. The bloody thing
is always switched off! Which is a tragedy, because it is a brand new phone
which was bought for him when we were last in the old country,’ Shyam asked and
told her old lady.
‘Sure! Sure! Sure!’ The mum from Highgate
responded, quite jovially.
‘Then tell the Muckinbudin lad that the GF
is after him, and that he’d better touch base with the old bastard from old
Bombay quickly, or else there will be a shitload of Kali Maya trouble!’ Said
the therapist. With his Indian accent just about dissolving the British paint
off the Oz walls, where a ghost like impression of Rolf Harris holding his Aria
award was slowly forming.
Louise frowned a bit, and so did Julie.
‘GF?’ Louise queried.
‘The GuruFather!’ Shyam shot back, machine
gun like. ‘The big boss of the Naznath clan! The controller of all secret
mystical Naznath agents! The enlightened one, Sri Nizzawatta!’
‘Sirree Nizza bloody who?’ Louise and Julie
asked simultaneously.
‘Nizzawatta! It means from where the
mystical water comes,’ Shyam told them.
‘Riiiight! Good stuff! Lovely! I’ll give
Tommy your message then Shyam, when and if I see him,’ Louise said back, as she
took off. ‘Thank you so much again for everything Shyam…. See you later Jules!
Have a good one!’ she chirped Pythonishly and elastically over her shoulder, to
her daughter. Feeling like she’d just got out of jail after a long long long
stretch mum was, and she had to make the connection between the feeling that
she used to have when she’d left Julie at kindie or school to be so called
societally educated, to where she was leaving her now. Where she had a far far
far better chance of really and truly being universally educated, mystically
and spiritually speaking. With instructions for correct usage of the mind stuff
thrown in for good measure, as well as instructions for appreciating one’s
existential potential, that is.
‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! You too mumsy!’ Julie
exploded jovially back at her. Just as her old lady breezed by big Sybil, and
head nodded and smiled a triumphant goodbye to her. With Sybil smiling back and
understanding perfectly what was going on. She was all big mama hearted, and the
big fat Indian big mama bitch was a lovely lady. To tell the truth, she wasn’t
just a secretary and a receptionist, because she was quite an adept mystic as
well. One who could give her Guru one hell of a cosmic blow job, ethereally and
third dimensionally, too.
‘Give his nose a good hard core clit rub
for me old girl, hey!’ JT screeched out of her therapist’s room. ‘Underbelly
that low life cunt good and proper mumsy! Because if anyone deserves a ribald
arse full of a full on post middle aged twat in his face, it’s that fucking
swine of a manipulating infidel prick from Muckinbudin!’ The pretty crude and
vulgar speaking kid fired off.
Not willing yet to let go of her animosity
towards Tommy the infidel, despite the joy that was going down, was JT. How
human is that? Enemy or mystical lover? Some don’t care so long as they’ve got
one or the other, and at the moment she had both. She was over the moon about
that, as she wondered about what was going to be involved with the initiation
of her existence saving therapy, from her wunderbar shrink. As her therapist
planted his Mumbai’d old Bombay arse back down in his chair, she watched him
like a stationary and leaning on the rails, semi psychotic construction boss,
watches their flat out to the fingernails gang. She just couldn’t shake the
feeling that she knew the bastard of a mystical being from somewhere, and that
omniscient feeling was gnawing at her mental and emotional innards, nonstop.
Like a rat munching on a ten ton block of dynamite tasting premium cheese, the
relentless déjà vu superbug within her was.
‘You know Shyam!’ she said in strict
strine, before her analyst could get an analytical word out. ‘I just can’t
shake the feeling that we’ve met before, but I also just can’t place where it
fucking well was. I don’t think that it’s because you look a bit like the
Mahatma either, and I do rather think that there’s a bit more to it. You know?
Fuck a duck! It’s eerie mein therapist! It’s really other worldly and downright
fucking cosmic, if y’ask me. I feel like I am in the Twilight Zone, or the
Outer Limits, or something. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, or I’ve
been or I’ve gone, or whether I am going up or down with it, or sideways, or
every which way out from its centre. It’s got me, but I am absolutely positive
that I fucking know you from fucking somewhere.’
‘Do you think that we’ve met on this third
dimensional side, or on the other side in the fourth dimension Julie? Or could
it be that we’ve hung out in the fifth dimension and spaced out with the cosmic
consciousness lads, and ethereally partied on together?’ The high voltage old
dude from the subcontinent asked her.
The little skinhead nazi looking kid
flinched, several times too. The zig zag tatts on the outers of her biceps got
a bit tighter. With the flaming cosmic concept arrows coming at her, and what
not, it was all happening where she had expected sweet wuck all to happen. Her
therapist’s language was super surprisingly sky high voltage vibed allright,
and it did take a bit of an inner effort for her to acclimatize herself to it.
Luckily, she’d been brought up in the sort of family that questioned the odd
existential thing or two. Because she wasn’t jawing with a straight laced and
ultra narrow minded establishment pig! Who saw things only thru the eyes of
black and white and loss and profit, and war and a wee bit of peace and then
more war, with God on their side, and she knew that. She was chatting with a
wucking mystic, that was pretty self evident. Mystics don’t judge anybody and
they never lord it over y’, she was aware of that too, and so she felt
relatively comfortable with talking the deep deep deep multidimensional shit,
and all of that.
‘Well I dunno!’ she kind of third
dimensionally barked at her Indian therapist. ‘I know the heavy dutiness of
this bleedingly thick as a brick and lunatic full ultraviolent 3D side, back
the front and inside out, but what is the fucking fourth dimension and this
other side business Shyam? And what’s the difference mein therapist, between
the fucking fourth dimension and this other side business, and the fucking
fifth dimension?’
Shyam shoved his head back and Master cock
laughed, as his mo happily twitched and twitched and twitched. First one way
towards the dark side of the moon, and then the other. The lad was happy!
Because he had a willing subject who wasn’t short on the existential questions,
and this type were far easier for him to deal with than the other sort of
beings. Who were very unwilling, because of their existential fear and their
woeful woeful woeful third dimensional, I am just one bodymindmachine
programming, to ask themselves the sacred and secret question; Who am I really?
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ he went exuberantly, with
a big old Bombay cheesy plastered all over his mystical gob. ‘You do have a
fucking way with words my young friend, don’t you?’ He asked, not so silently.
‘I do Master! I do! I can’t deny it!’ A
beaming and cherry ripe red dimpled Julie Thompson shot back. ‘I can speak
Earthian Oz allright mate. Fucking Ramsay’s got nothing on me, and neither has
fucken Ozzie. I am a fucking expert at it! I can’t play a guitar like a gone
mad longhair, and cooking is for sweaty and hairy meathead cooks, but I invent
cuss words and dirty conceptualizations in me sleep too, I do. It’s m’cosmic
job Shyam! I am honoured to have it, too.’ JT told her mystical therapist.
‘You ask fucking good questions as well
kid! Chase cutter ones too. So! We are existing here in this third dimension
Highgate, which as you know, is a more than slightly horrendous and sometimes
beautiful, blood and bone, light and dark, unbelievably superdense in vibration
one. It’s a thick as a fucking ego brick, blow the mind and access the angelic
cosmic consciousness programme, fucking dimension. Or programme. Obviously! It
is a gateway back to the cosmic consciousness dimension, because it is a
duality.’
‘Uhuh! It sure as all fucken hell is, Old
Bombay. Is also a gateway to the worst hell that one could possibly fucking
imagine! A hell to top all hells, where one is screaming one dominating
question thru one’s soul! Can this cunt of a life in this cunt of a hell, be
all that there is, to my fucking existentiality?’
‘Ha! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! It is! Precisely!
You can go down down down in consciousness, or you can go up up up in
consciousness, in a third dimensional duality programme like this one. You’ve
got fucking brains kid!’
‘Oh yeah! Somewhere! I dunno where they are
some days, maybe they’re up my vagina, I
dunno. Anyway, I suppose that someone has gotta have this brains stuff Shyam.’
‘Yeah! They do Highgate! Anyway,
contrastingly to the third dimension, the fourth dimension or the other side is
not a blood and bone one at all. It is a far more nebulous and a far more subtler
vibed affair, where souls play cosmic football with their projections, and boot
them around this or that dimensional hologram. However, it is still light and
dark, and there is still the odd dark lord, or spider queen about. Tricking
souls with this or that astral to Earth garbage line about them being a God or
whatnot, so that they themselves may personally prosper and expand their astral
kingdom. Now apparently, the fifth dimension is all light and if not formless,
probably almost formless, and no darkness at all can penetrate there. Not one
dark lord or spider queen exists anywhere in the filial fifth the GF says,
because dense and dark vibrations cannot survive there. They are simply
dissolved by the cosmic consciousness inherent in the mystical force there,
before they can even get going. In the fifth dimension, with the matrix out of
the way, one can get a ride up the river of Light in. Again!’ The Master
explained.
‘Fu..uuuuuck! No dickheaded, shit for
brains, fucking little dark lord pricks anywhere, in any city or any town, or
on any street, or in any house. No cunt faced spider queens about as well! Well
that’s what I’m chasing then! That’s what I am here for! Light! Heaven on
Earth! Payback for moi and me mates for being subjected to the anti fun and the
extreme gruesomeness of this holographic shithole programme, and most important
of all, payback for the spirit of this third rock from the sun programme. Bring
it on mein therapist!’ screeched the kid, deliriously, and very bi polarish like.
Like a just freed for flight galah, she was. Her cheeks redder than the reddest
Cherry Ripe that has ever been made, on that glorious production line.
‘I’ll have the fifth dimension here just as
soon as you can fucking manage it! Get to it old son! Hop! Hop! Hop! The fifth
dimension is hip hip hip! Because it is definitely, without a shadow of a
fucking doubt, what’s missing in my cunt of a fucking life! The cunts of lives
that six to seven odd billion others here are living as well!’ roared JT. With
her face covered by a three inch layer of absolute desire. ‘I’ll have some of
that fucking fifth dimensional gear then Master! Light! Light! Light! That’s
what I want! Fucking hell! I’ll have a universe full of it, if you don’t mind.
I just can’t tell a fucking lie mein therapist!’ she informed him, with a bit
of a long held in her deepest depths, verbal spray. ‘I’ve had a fucking
absolute gutful of darkness Shyam! I’ve had enough bullshit wank and crap, and
enough to do with lunatic fucking dark lords and spider queens, as they present
as imbecilic and moronic motherfucking violent or violence endorsing, ego power
tripping, shit for brains dominator humans, to last me a hundred thousand
fucking lifetimes. On such a forlorn planet as this cunt of a prick filled one,
I’ve seen them all, and they are all without a doubt, atrociously atrociously
atrociously, existentially fucked! Old Bombay! I’ve had it with super ignorant,
super ultra violent, pecking order fuckwit humans! I really really really have
Master!’
‘Uhuh! I understand kid! Been there! Done
that!’ the old boy said, with a sly old subcontinent wink back at the kid.
‘I’m only fucking nineteen too! Jesus
Shyam, I’m still just an innocent fucken kid really! Point out any other
motherfucker on this planet who can fucking beat all of that mate, and I’ll get
naked and surf multinational sharks around this rotten to the core world
backwards nonstop for y’. Fuck me fucking dead! I wouldn’t mind playing where
the darkness can’t get in again! I wouldn’t mind living in a finer dimension,
which those disgusting disgusting disgusting, despicabale despicable despicable
dominator killers, can’t access. I wouldn’t mind celebrating and gung ho
partying with the fucking Light and only the Light, again. I reckon that that
would sort me out, good and fucking proper Shyam, when nothing else in this
stupid tinseled up motherfucker’s world ever will. I would like to marry the
Light again mein therapist. I really would mate!’
‘Uhuh! I see it kid! I see it ! I see it! I
do! I do! I do! It’s at the tip of your nose, you little Oz darlin’! It’s not
far far far away, at all.’
‘Yeah! Ok! Well anyway, as I was saying, I
am sick of this bemusing cocksucking and motherfucking Earth darkness shit, I
really really really am Shyam! I’m sick of despairing, and I’m sick of being
bemused, and I’m sick of being existentially and environmentally afraid. I need
a holiday from this turd of a planetary programme, as much as I need a holiday from
the word and concept excreting anus that is in my mind, and mate, that’s what
this fair damsel is fucking all about. I am not here for fucking Hoadley’s
Master! I’m here to sort the existential shit out one way or the fucking other,
I fucken am. I want to do that and negate the horrible fucking pain and the
fucking rotten existential fear, or die. That’s me swami! That’s who I am and
what I am really fucking on about Master. If there is a ticket for fifth
dimensional enlightment for sale Old Bombay, then I’ll fucken buy it.’
‘You will never find such a ticket kid!
Such a ticket does not exist anywhere, at least not in this universe. It is you
who must do the work within, to facilitate that waking up to who you really are
as a dimensionless point of Light, and bring it the Real and the Light on
Julie. You have to find the always open I am door to cosmic consciousness that
is inside of you, and dive back thru it. So that It the cosmic force can play
with your cunt of a life for once, as you so formidably, descriptively call it.
You must do away with all of your holographic shadow personalities and their
world programmes, which are but unreal bubble plays in consciousness, that you
are shooting thru mindtools. You must short circuit them by negating their mindtool
asserted reality, and by reverting to the usage of your mighty fine spirit’s
intelligence. You must let go of all that you are conceptually not, especially
the ego business, and re embrace all that which you truly mystically are,
again.’
‘Uhuh! Yes! I have been thinking somewhat
along those lines old son! I know that I can’t go on like this forever. Sooner
or later, third dimensional despair will force me to act mystically, so that I
can act super naturally, for fucking once.’
‘Das ist goot Highgate! You must remember
to remember to remember, who you really really really are. You must earnestly
apply yourself to the inner work on the I am path and model that I will show
you, and discuss with you, and I am sure that it no time at all you will re
inherit the fifth dimension, and a lot more than that too. I sense my dear that
you could easily revert back to the dimensionless point of Light where you surf
source from, and I do think you rather capable of making out with the river of
Light again. It’s just a gut Krishna consciousness feeling, but there is
thinking here that is saying you are maybe the One, and one of the ones, at the
same time, and that the cosmic consciousness gene flourishes already in your
veins.’
‘So much worrrkk mein therapist!’ Julie
exploded. Like a clogged up with pigeon shit, smoko siren.
‘Yes work! Solid inner work! What, are you
averse to it are you JT? You can’t get away from it anyway kid! Because third
dimensional body burdened up nonsense is about the hardest existential,
physical and psychological work that any mystical bastard, or any mystical
lady, could ever do. To have to get up in the morning believing absolutely that
one is just one paltry bodymindmachine programme, in an appalling world
programme, and then to have feed and toilet that body and verbalize it if
others are around, before taking it forth into a vampiristic and ultraviolent
monetary system, to work for a dollar or whatever for the basic necessities of
life, is an ultra tough mystical assignment my dear. Especially for the
masses!’
‘Yeah! They know it too! They know that
both the economic and the existential squeezes are on big time now.’
“Yes! They do kid! They do! They do! They
do! However, the masses are very conscious these days that the vampiristic
monetary system that they dwell in is run by ultraviolent establishment pig,
baby soul crooks and killers. Who are going to rip off suck their hard slog
earned dollars or whatever off them, a lot fucking faster than they can make
them. Because the oink oink oink types up the top of the human pecking order,
are so insanely profit profit profit minded, and they wouldn’t share a dime
with a downtrodden and dying citizen. Of any religion, or colour. They don’t
care how many individuals within the masses have to suffer, or how many of them
have to die, they just want to stay in power and live high on the hog, and make
more and more and more money. Kid! This mob is the real lost lost lost mob, in
this milky way of a Milky Way universe. The masses are doing just fine
mystically speaking, compared to this mad mad mad, ultraviolent mob.’
‘Pricks and cunts! That’s what that mad mob
all are! Animals! They’re fucking dirty dirty dirty animals Shyam! They’re
demon possessed, they all are.’
‘Yes! From a third dimensional perspective,
that is quite true Highgate. However and simultaneously, every bugger in the
masses on this planet should get an ethereal Oscar JT. For merely falling from
grace, to do this obnoxious and compulsively restricting 3D, ultra downloaded,
I am just a bodymindmachine programme shit. Because it is so far from our true
ethereal reality, where we are playing with the I am not the bodymindmachine
programme, and the fucking with the great beyond programme, that we all
absolutely love and adore unreservedly, that quite frankly my dear, most of the
time, this old Ma Earth programme, she’s just not mystically fucking funny
enough.’
‘You can fucking well fucken say that again
Master! By fucking fuck! Great fucking Bon Scott!’ the JT self exploded.
‘You’ve hit the cosmic fucking nail on the head with that supremely superb one
liner mein therapist!’ She asserted.
‘The Earth is just not fucking mystically
funny enough JT! We all know it! We all fucking live with it! We all fucking
endure it! Why? Because our pure and wider consciousness has a filthy dirty
sensual habit of jumping into matter bodies and shutting up shop in them, with
the interloping mind locked into an absurdly cosmically restricting, third
dimensional programming. The I am one bodymindmachine only shit, that is. So
that it the normal life here is too often an excruciatingly laborious, deadpan
holographic hard time, because it is a hardcore bodymind fucking burden stretch
in mind made time and space. With a top heavy existential and survival angst
permanently up one’s cosmic arse. Because the cosmic truth inherent in I am the
inner and the outer and the beyond programme, has been walled off by a
holographically constructed fucking ego, playing I am a body only mind games.
So that It the inner and outer and the beyond and the mystical truth behind all
matter and all matters, is being denied a fair go here. Incidentally! To live
in denial of being the common universal inner and outer spirit, that is only
temporarily mucking around with a lump of mind projected holographic flesh and
a food body, is pain galore. Isn’t it mein Oz babe?’
‘Yeah! It’s fucked Master! It is rooted to
its holographically constructed core. It is a great calamity to forget who one
really really really is, and what can I say mein therapist? I can say that I am
the so called living proof of that, I fucken w’ll can mate. A cardboard cutout
of the PM being carted around by Liberal party idiots, has more fucking fun
than a fucking average human in this holographic dump.’ The Highgate kid told
her newly found in most mysterious circumstances, Guru.
‘Yeah! For sure Highgate!’ he barked back
at her. Wolf! Wolf! Wolf like. ‘It the 3D abominably programmed to fuck up
life, is also a kung fu dancing with the beast within and the beasts without
trip, and not at all a Milky Way waltz with the angel within, and the angels
without affair. It is no peaceful walk in the mystical Hyde park where you like
to hang out. Is it Sunshine? For many, it is a lifetime of being jammed in
between fear and craving, and for most it is a kind of tormenting hell. In a
bemused mind pit that is absolutely chock full of insatiable holographically
invented and imagined, conceptual desires. Lots and lots and lots of a little
something else called existential fear, too.’
‘Work is the concept that sends shivers up
and down my spine Master! Never mind the concept called existential fear, I can
handle that one. It’s the one called fucking work that just about scares me
fucking senseless sometimes.’
‘Well any concept can do that, including
the I am one, and the Goddess or God or Devil ones, and this is gyroscopic
work. You put in and big boot start it off, and the path will eventually run
itself. You won’t have to do anything at all then, except but to skip down the
path and into the promised land, where the inner and the outer types dwell ever
so humbly, in the timeless river of Light. How does that sound to you mate?’
‘Well I guess that it is all gunna depend
on what the fucking path is Master! I mean I’m just as keen as anybody else to
make out with the fucking timeless river of holographically fucking around
Light again. But I don’t want to have to canoe thru the fucking mind’s sewers
arsefirst without a sturdy astral paddle, or a decent cosmic torch, or a good
galactic rat shooting pistol, to do it. I want to get fucking away from that
fucking nightmarish 24/7 crap that I’ve been doing all of my long life, if I at
all possibly can. I’d also like to think that I’ve got it in me somewhere to
somehow shotgun every black dog that I’ve got dead. Deady dead dead, that is.
I’ll tell you a little secret too Master. It’s widely known that I’ve got a
fair few truckloads of the cunts, I have. They’re hooning it periodically, too.
Do you think that Hitler had some demons up his arse Shyam? You should see the
intergalactic bunch that I’ve got up mine. They’re all fucking dark astral
Hoons, every last one of them!’
‘Fair enough! Don’t worry! The I am path
will dissolve them all! Be happy and be the rhythm of life, and just be!….Who
you really fucking are! At Source! Then everything will go just fine for you.
Return to your natural existential and mystical self kid, because that’s all
that you can really do, in a turd of a programme like this one. Or any fucking
programme really. Well! Enough fucking said, let’s get fucking started then
Julie.’
‘Call me JT Master!’
‘Ok JT. Do you like painting kid?’
‘Painting?’
‘Yes painting! I don’t really give a crap whether or not you like it or not, because we’re going to do some. C’mon! Move y’fucking arse JT! Your good yellow dressed mother is paying good Oz dollars to have you exorcised and deprogrammed and reprogrammed, so we’d better give her her fucking money’s worth. Or there will be Oz trouble! I can feel that in me old cunt, wog bones, JT, and if I was an Arby like you, I’d need a change of my ultra clogged up carbie too, wouldn’t I? In fact I’ve had one, and I’m still having one, thanks to my venerable Guru, Nizzawatta. Ah Nizzawatta! Nizzawatta! Nizzawatta! What a lusciously gorgeous mind fucker you are! What an old fart of a GuruFather thou art! What a supreme old cunt my GF and our big boss is, JT.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ erupted the kid, as she
trotted off after the good mystical doctor. Of the mind that is. Humans love it
when co workers take the piss out of the boss no matter who in the fuck they
are, and she wasn’t any different. The enlightened and the unenlightened both
exist to have both the micky and the piss taken out of them, and being from Oz,
she was extremely aware of that.
He’s
no Arby! But he’s right, because I am. Christ! This cunt of a third dimensional
rock is full of them! He’s a mystical fucking clown, this old fucker is.
JT had to
tell herself.
He’s
Superfuckingwog all right! He speaks
fucking good English too. An added bonus for down and out and destitute and
fucked over, moi. Oh fuck me! Life is a circus going the other fucking way,
some days. I wonder what in the fuck he wants me to fucking paint? I hope that
he doesn’t want me to do a Mona Lisa or pose as one, because I’m not in the
fucking mood! I am in a Whistler’s Mother of a mood, I am. I am. JT and I am
woman I am, I think. Well maybe I’m not, if what he’s saying is true. Hmmmmm!
That’s interesting. Very interesting! I am no fan of being a fucking woman
anyway. Being a woman fucking sucks, if you ask me. Woman equates as human, and
human equates with a multidimensional disaster area. I fucken reckon that I
won’t miss not being a woman, if it fucking turns out with this mystical shit
that I’m not really one.
To drop the fucking mind’s holographically
imagined mortal weight! Whilst still being a mortal! Is it possible? To slit
the matrix’s throat here, and recapture me old and much loved and adored, and
heavily soul missed, old existential ethereal form. In a higher vibed dimension
mixed with this one, where the gorgeous beings around me totally love me and
totally support me, and absolutely wish for me that I should have it, the
mystical all. With me loving them all exactly the same airy fairy way. Is it
fucking possible? Given the weight of the mortal weight, and the nature of the
dark focused 3D mind here. Hmmm!
I wouldn’t bet a fucking roo poo turdball
on it, but I might find out with this old Indian prick, because he certainly
seems to know a fucken thing or two.
So they ended up in an adjoining room,
which was a lovely little room, she thought. Because it had a large window
looking out upon a terraced area and a rather astonishingly good, green as all
mucking green, back garden. It also had a huge wooden table, upon which lay
oodles of painting gear. Everything was capped off, when to her utter surprise,
her therapist offered her a fag. They lit up like a couple of old cosmic dags
doing hard time in an alien and hostile space, and she sucked in and relaxed
like a sponge going down right on knock off time on a Friday afternoon, as the
mystically shifty Shyam explained what the deal was. It didn’t seem much to her
and they donned some aprons and grabbed some paints, and some sheets of thick
as all mucking muck drawing paper, and started. JT was using jet black, because
that was her adored colour, but the therapist strangely enough opted for
yellow.
‘Always go for the gold is my motto!’ he
jovially told the kid. As like a kindie child, he painted away madly. Like he
was on Sesame Street, for just one day, or something. ‘If it is one thing that
the GuruFather has taught me, it is to go for the real gold in life. Which is
surfing the timeless river of Light, and the answer to who am I really, and to
leave the rest, which as you so beautifully said is holographic tinsel really,
alone.’
‘Uhuh!’ She answered him.
‘Fame
and fortune, glory and gross ego power, the one who is the One and one of the
ones at the same time, has no need for.’ He saideth. ‘They are quiet types who
do absolutely nothing, but all of the mystical power in this universe, and all
of that ethereal commodity in all of the other fucking universes, is with them.
All that the establishment pigs and the ultraviolents here have really got, is
a holographic illusion programme, which they owe lots and lots and lots of
positively charged karma to. Because they’ve just about drained the fucken shit
out of the negative side of this Earth hologram, just like they’ve just about
drained the planet of its black gold oil,’ the Master told his client. Who
grinned back at him a bit wild savage and local native like, with a mucking
tell me wucking about it expression, on her pretty as a picture face. Which
didn’t match her severe as severe haircut. Her superb above the belly shoulder
tatts however were shining somewhat under the fluorescent lights, with the black
ink in them being worth its weight in shoulder gold, and all of that.
‘Is this all that we’re gunna do Master?’
she asked him a bit later on. ‘Paint I Am over and over again. I’m fucking
bored shitless already mate! Sometimes mein therapist, I feel like I was bored
shitless before I was born, I do. I sense somehow that I was born just out of
the lust for something sensually different to do, with my lusting lusty
multidimensional consciousness, and to get away from being a bit bored shitless
ethereally. If you know what I mean.’
‘I do! I do! I do!’
‘Uhuh! I thought that you might. Because
the same thing over and over again, no matter what in the fuck it is, can get
to one. Can’t it? Me old pop told me that flying around as a gloriously pure
spirit and visiting every ultra magnificent mystical cunt and prick in the
universe, and having an absolute cosmic ball as a free ethereal agent, can get
to one, if one is doing it all of the time. Without a bit of a holiday from all
of the existential and mystical fucking joy, and from doing the same damn
blissful fucking thing all of the time. I thought then that he was a crazy old
fucker, but now I know what he meant.’
‘Uhuh!’ The Master yapped. ‘You’re on the
right track Highgate! You’re definitely on the right track kid! God! You’re a
fucken Oz classic, you are. Your background intelligence for one so young, is
amazing me. You’re blowing my mind kid!’
‘Hohh! Fuck off Shyam! So! A shoreless
ocean of inert super consciousness bliss, pop said, has gotta do fucking
something to liven things up mate, hey? It has to pop up another wave up on the
surface of Its shoreless ocean, and jump into a matter body now and again, for
a break from the unbelievably good and mystically sensual sky shit. Doesn’t it
mein therapist?’
‘Until it grasps the mechanism by which the
wider consciousness jumps into matter bodies, so that it can shoot the other
way and go beyond even the subtle worlds and surf the river of Light again,
fulfilling the soul’s number one cosmic desire, it does JT. But then again,
jumping into named matter shapes, is really something that a wise and matured
soul avoids. Unless they have a specific cosmic mission, within the lower
dimensional holographic matter field that they have jumped into. It is like
living in jello and slog wading thru it, for those types to come into such a
dense in vibration and thick as a fucking brick dimension programme, as this
horror and beauty split, 3D dualistic one. They’re all fucking hard core non
dual addicts, those ethereally high up cunts are! Super earnest and super wise
and super gun cosmic playing mystical angels, aren’t that fond of wiping a
common brown shit out of a dirty and foul stinking, heavyset matterised
arsehole. I’ll tell you that as a cosmic fact with not one drop of curried
bullshit in it, mein client.’
‘Uhuh! I believe y’! I wouldn’t be! Fuck
that Master! I’d stay in the filial fifth, I fucken would! No way would I form
up a human body, in a cunt of a prick filled planetary programme, like this crap
of a one. I’ll tell you that as a cosmic fact with not one drop of curried
bullshit in it too, mein therapist.’
‘Uhuh! I believe you and fair enough. I
mean, who in their right mind would want to be a Zimbabwean these days? Or a
Tibetan. Or an Iraqi. Or an American, an Australian, or an Indian. Or a fucking
Canadian! I mean, who as a human being in their right fucking mind would wish
to be born on a fight to the death, insanely lunatic filled war and God mad
world, like this crappy nappy one? Who would desire to dwell unceremoniously
with an installed and woefully wretched I am a body only programming running in
their mystical works, in a terrestrial land that is chock full to the brim of
ignorant ignorant ignorant psychos? Some high up in the pecking order, and some
not.’
‘Hohh Master! Ha! You have got a way with
words too old son! You take them out of my mouth, before I can speak them. You
give me the answers, before I have even properly formulated the questions! So
pray continue Shyam and, how come there aren’t more Superwogs like you in the
land of Oz?’
‘Ha! There will be pretty fucken soon my
dear. So! Where were we in the multidimensional story? Ah yes! That’s right.
You may have come back from the fourth programme to the third one JT, many
times too. Not too many come back from the fifth programme to here however, and
if they do, they can quite inadvertently start a religion or two, or three plus
off. You can mark that one down as a cosmic truth, and not a wanker’s lie, at
all. Note at the same time that inexperienced and immature and ignorant, not so
mystically earnest yet because of sensual addictions, but getting there slowly
plus, downloaded angels, can end up wiping a lot lot lot of fucking shit, out
of big big big arsehole. That’s life, in this holographic place in holographic
space JT.’
‘Well I’d have to say that also Master, and
also that I think that I’ve met some of them big big big arseholed types, and
that also I came here to this jello rock for the exquisite beauty inherent in
it as a holographic projection. Probably. At the same time as I was looking for
some drop dead sooner or later, and in between, sensual kicks. A bit of relief
from being blissed out all of the time, too. Apparently. According to old pop,
anyway. Unfortunately however, according to me, the rank rank rank horror
invested in this cocksucking and motherfucking third dimensional duality
programme here, just makes me want to get the fuck out of it asap, and to
return to the subtler layers that existentially bored me a little bit in the
first place. Because it’s a lot safer there, and I am a lot happier there
floating and flying around as free as a bird in my ethereal water home, and
this world Master is the pits of the pits of the pits. Such ignorance! It is
unbelievable! Unbelievable! Unbelievable!’
‘Uhuh! It sure is kid. It is unbelievable,
because it is just a programme dream. It is holographic and unreal, and it is
not real, because it is a programme and not the Real thing. Good and evil are
programme, but the Light is not. Take it to be a turd of a dream, and have done
with it Highgate! It is like looking at the entirety of the wider and into the
beyond programme, thru a pinhole in the middle of a shoebox.’
‘Yeah!….Yeah! ….Yeah! It is like that, a
bit! Still, such blind and beastly stupidity and ultraviolence on the part of
man Master! Eyuk! Yuk! Yuk! Yuk! The odd woman too. This is one hell of a
disgustingly despicable planetary programme, if you ask me, mein therapist. I
have full intentions of scratching this fucking turd of a programme rock, as a
holiday destination for my sometimes bored soul’s flesh aspects. As I said, I
won’t be coming back to this prick of a cunthole delivered hell of a world, if
I can at all help it. It is a mystical desert, and a funless romp in an anti
paradise swamp, this lackluster and lower dimensional crap of a programme is.
You know Master, if God asked me what I thought about being burdened up with a
3D body mind burden in a rotten to its core, horror programme world like this
one, I’d tell him to shove it all up his ultra big fucking cosmic fucking arse!
I fucken would!’ JT asserted, as she blew off a bit of cosmic steam and
transcendentally blasphemed her 3D guts out. What are mystical therapists for
though?
Someone has gotta get up upon Shakespeare’s
mind projected holographic stage, and play out the acting role of being just an
unimportant and ordinary super stressed out citizen. Riding out what could only
be described as a programme nightmare. Called third dimensional life, upon
planet Earth, and the Highgate kid most certainly was. Citizens can’t all be
Popes, and have a bullet proof glass
cage to ride around in, so that they can comfortably smile and bless everybody.
It therefore looks like that it is many a human being then, and this wayward
kid JT, who constitute the holy masses of galactic citizens. Who get the
unimportant and powerless against the state, named and shaped as a homosapien,
holographic acting role. They get the ambiguous title ‘citizen’ bestowed upon
them, that is.
They get to see the Pope roar by in his
bullet proof glass cage, but they don’t get to shake his hand, and they don’t
get a chance to shoot him or blow him up. Which is after all, what duality is
all about.
The Naz work on that, they do, and dude
Shyam, he was a mystical worker par excellence. He was. So was his big big big
partner in cosmic crime, come receptionist, too. Batman and Robin they weren’t,
more like fat and skinny, they were. Sybil and Shyam, they were one hell of a
mystical couple, anyway. They weren’t on the social circuit, but they were thee
couple, as far as the mystics go. It was like they were the same transcendental
energy, in two different bodies, it was. They weren’t the red carpet stuff, and
their pictures will never be spotted in any newspapers, or glossy magazines.
None the less, they were the gold fibers gear, because they’d gone cosmic, long
ago. They were very experienced I am path-ers, even though they were still
chipping away at blowing the matrix to bits. So that they could hitch a ride up
the river of Light with the cosmic consciousness gang, again. Which was what
every Naz was chasing. Because they’d had enough of the artificial holographic
life, and they wanted their cosmic natural ones back. They diddeth all desire a
ride up the river of Light, with the cosmic consciousness gang, again, they
did.
‘Ha! Precisely JT! So in the fuck would I
tell God where to go!’ the Master exploded back at her. With his face beaming,
and his mo doing a rumba, and a bit of a samba mixed in with a something of a
short fat Fanny and a curtish crocodile rock too. ‘Fuck God for sure! He’s a
fucking big cunt he is! Apparently! So the big boss says, anyway. This hellhole
is all his fault however. So others say. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! God is actually
everyone’s divine servant my dear, and the maintainer and manager of their
primal I am invoked universe. He’s their set up’s built in programme that
immediately and spontaneously follows their activation of the primal I am
mystical juice. He’s a built in instantaneous and spontaneous programme, which
pumps their heart and lungs up and down and in and out, and he keeps their
mind’s holographics going. His sun power draws the unbelievable holographics
from out of seeds, and turns it into food for 3D bodies. At the same time, the
God programme makes sure that the worms and maggots and bugs show up, to
dispose of dead 3D mortal meat. However, he won’t be saving anybody, because
that’s not his business, and wouldn’t you fucking know it, last I heard he was
still the product of a divine GuruMother’s ethereal vagina. Behind the mystical
scenes, that is.’ Said the Master, to his somewhat scowling third dimensional
client. What he was saying and the way that he was saying it however, did
soften her scowl somewhat. It did.
‘Actually my dear, you have put your finger
on that exact holographic mechanism, where you as the wider consciousness have
jumped into a holographically projected thru the mind, tubed matter body
programme, and shut up shop presumably in it,’ he told her. With a dead still
mo. ‘Claiming a fake mind projected holographic body burden programme as
entirely your own all I am ness, thru rigid adoption of the I am a body only
download, and having totally forgotten who you really are as the wider inner
and outer Source gear, that has absolutely pulverized Itself into a mere mind
projected holographic body, you have become absolutely fucking lost in space
and time. Which are but the holographic creations of your own fucking, hyper
imaginative mind, because you are the spaceless and the timeless ethereal fluid
that flows back into the beyond really.’
‘Uhuh!’
‘Yes JT! I am telling you that this is the
prime existential fact in your entire existence. So listen up you little nazi
looking bitch! You are the Supreme Source which has ingeniously and brilliantly
projected some of its subjective field out as a holographic universe with
planets in it, so that you can experience it as a separated from everything
else embodied up person in it, in what now appears to be a totally objective
field. Made of solid matter, and surrounding wait for it, your! Very own human
body! Which is absolutely surrounded by a stage chock full to the brim of
separated, named and shaped objects, that are plastered against an airspace
background. From star planets to black holes, to dogturds and cockroaches upon
the street, to one’s apparently single arseholed body, it is all there for one
to marvel at, or fucking despise and hate. Isn’t it my dear?’
‘It sure as fucking hell is Master! I’ll
tell you what too. I think that some more cosmic marveling must be up the
fucking track a bit for this fucking one sitting here. Because the marveling
that I was doing as a kid stopped, at around about the same time as the blood
started running down me legs. Actually! Come to think of it, it could’ve been
earlier than that. It could have been when I was twenty four plus hours old,
and shitting jet black. I dunno! I can’t fucking remember, fuck it!’
‘Well spare me the details anyway on that
my dear, and thank God for your memory loss. Thank God that Syb has been
through menopause too. Because profusely sweating and bleeding for the last
time receptionists, don’t work in my business. But I am absolutely certain that
there is a fucking mega heap of cosmic marveling just up the track for you
Highgate! Now listen up you little nazi looking Ozzer! Listen to muhh…eeee!
Listen to muhh…eeee! Listen to muhh…eeee!’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Hee! Hee! Hee! Oh fuck off
Master! You fucken old dickhead! You speak lousy lousy lousy strine mein
therapist! You just can’t pull it off Shyam! You sound like a goanna with the
lot on a hot desert rock, farting endlessly at the scorched sands.’
‘You fuck off JT! A bit of a goanna fart in
the face never hurt anyone kid. You listen to me you little sleeper of a
Highgate GuruMother bitch! Being that you are plugged into your own holographic
mindfield, just like every other fucker on this nonsensical programme plane
using the primal I am is mate, you are running your psyche off the fake
holographic memories that your mind has, quite literally imagined. Or dreamt
up. Using an overdose of perceptually and conceptually imagined mindtool
imagination. That has been holographically shot out of your primal I am, big
bang like, and become a solidified holographic stage. Called a universe. With
names and shapes, literally everywhere in it. Remember! You are the ethereal
ocean! You are the timeless surface, upon which the entire stage is set up. You
are I am consciousness! What is consciousness JT? Of course, it is the fucking
known, in that eternal infinity which is the unknown.’
‘Uhuh!’
‘Then you are where and what that came
from. The beyond, that is. You are never the wave! You are never the fronted up
character in the mindspin dream illusion, that is running that programme
called, I am a human being. You are not that! You are the spirit of all cosmic
games, and the great beyond, and the Light too. Surrender to that I am the
inner and the outer stuff, and you’ll cream enlightenment in, in no time at
all.’
‘Uhuh! Ok! That sounds absolutely fabulous
to me Bombay. I fucking like it!’
‘Ok! Good! You should like it, because it
is the absolute truth kid. So! It the world is a cosmic football of a
programme, that who you really are, has projected out into the field of your
consciousness thru the mindtool, using the I am a person in a world programme.
To take this body on a rock in a universe projection to be real and split
consciousness solid however, when it is still the non dual ethereal fluid of
the shoreless ocean of infinite consciousness, which has only been covered by
mind made pictures and images, is a grievous error and your great calamity
mate. That is the truth! It is also the error and fucking great existential and
mystical calamity of six to seven odd billion others. Because existentially and
mystically speaking, your true Source essence is based beyond the I am, and not
in that imagined holographic construct that is called a person in a world.’
‘Not a person in a fucking world Master!
How could I not be a fucking person in a fucking world? Jesus Kerrist!’ the kid
exploded, like a little Bismarck. ‘I look like a fucking person in a world! I
feel like a fucking person in a world! I smell like a fucking person in a
world, and I am all fucked up like a person in an unbelievably fucked up world
should be. I fucking bleed red like a person does too. I eat and shit and drink
and piss, and cry about all of the abominable horror here in my soul’s heart,
just like persons here fucking do. What else do you fucking want as fucking
proof that I am nothing but a person, in an appalling low mystically graded,
third dimensional, fucking shithole programme? Fuck a duck Master! I have to accept
the reality of the truth of what is in front of and behind these sea blue
fucking eyes! I have to trust my senses and my ego! Don’t I?’
‘All of that existentially speaking kid
proves fucking absolutely fucking nothing! A bunch of ethereal mental habits
and desires grabs a mind projected body, and fucks around with a few spin off
projections thru it. Big fucking deal Highgate! So fucking what! Your one and
only proof of anything at fucking all, is your primal I am. The entire rest is
mind made up holographic dream imagery, and pretty well shit useless,
existential and mystical twaddle.’
‘Is that so mein therapist?’
‘It is mein client! Descriptive words and
concepts like the person one, cannot take one to the impersonal Real! They will
never ever score you a ride up the river of Light! They can take one so far,
and then they all fall away, like the fuel tanks on a interplanetary rocket
that’s leaving the planet’s upper atmosphere. Between that which is taken to be
real here, and the real Real, there is an abyss which the mind’s conceptualized
descriptive words cannot cross. The mind must explode for one to reach the
Real! That’s what my boss says, anyway.’
‘Uhuh! Exploding fucking minds! They’re
fucken everywhere these days old son. An abyss! Yeah! There’s a fucken abyss
all right Master! It is in people’s fucking brains too.’
‘It is not! It is in there, I am God
created as Satan bait, as a bad to the bone fucked up fucking sinner, in a Satan
baited heavy matter world, and I am in dire need of being supernaturally saved,
fucking programming! It the bug is in the way that they play with the spinoff I
am gross and subtle limitation programme, and that’s what crucifies them.
Because they never ever play with I am not limitation, and I am made out of
inner and outer love and Light, and they crucify themselves with language born
conceptualized, existential and holographic falsity. They confine themselves to
being just skinned in flesh, when they’re fucking not, and that is hell plus
that fucking well is. They damn themselves to a life of pain and suffering,
with their own stupid I am limitation programme, and then they howl for some
mind made God to save them. Hohh! You really hit fucking rock bottom when you
come into this turd of a 3D programme kid.’
‘Yeah! Ha! Ha! Ha! You said it Master!
Conceptualized existential and holographic falsity. Hell! I am fucken
surrounded by it! I am limitation! Yeah! I fucken know all about that Shyam.
Been there! Done that! Still doing it, a bit.’
‘Well don’t Highgate! Stop it! Don’t be a
naughty existential girl! Because the mystical gap which the mind has created
kid, only the heart that longs to love the One life absolutely again, can
cross. Enlightenment is not really at all about being clever. It is all about
the pure and simple transcendental heart stuff, and the connection between one
and one’s Source point of Light. Which includes many universe programmes, but
being a human being is all of the third dimensional mind’s programme gear. The
I am a person in a world programme then, is the result of a mind conjured up
dream, in a dreaming in the dreamtime state, or consciousness level. It is all
download existential crap, that is full of cosmic spams and telemarketing
creepy crawlies. There are in fact no persons in this ghost to matter, matter
back to ghost world, my dear.’
‘No!’
‘No!’
‘Then what is that terribly pained massive
mass of suffering and sorrow and mega violence called human civilization, that
is fucking like crazy and crazy dying on the other side of your fucking front
door Master?’
‘Well of course my dear! Quite obviously!
That is the electromagnetic aspects of the threads of memories, and bundles of
mental habits and desires, all buzzing about and dancing within a mind made
holographic grid. Whilst, with a one sixth of programmed in deep deep deep
sleep, they loop in and out of the primal programme’s universally electrified,
cosmic field. Where one can play with the I am, or not play with it, either
when in deep sleep, or when awake and fully enlightened. That is the play in
duality consciousness which has been projected thru the mindtool for them,
individually and collectively, onto the surface of absolutely one hundred percent
pure, non dual consciousness. That is the common mindscreen, being the outer
fringes of the Light. Or the Source of who one really is.’
‘Uhuh! That’s very interesting Master!’ Oh yeah! What in the fuck did he say?
Mindscreen?
More like fucking mindscream. Tell me more you old mystical fucker! So I am
nothing but a fucking mystical cosmic spark, fucking around because of a merry
old soul’s mental habits and desires for the sensual, within a mind made
holographic grid. When in deep deep deep sleep, I am Home! Whoopee! I wanna
sing! I wanna dance! I wanna cry! Home! Home! Home! I fucken love Home, so so
so much. When I am Home, I am happy happy happy. I am not crappy crappy crappy,
at all. Then I wake up from deep sleep and don’t remember it. Being Home, that
is. Because I am fucking back here, in this dreadfully insipid and flagrantly
boring shithole, and I am fucking unhappy! About that. Well that fucking figures! Another Barry bummer to stick into
the third dimensional plot girl! That’s fucken crazy, but it’s still better
than being just a fucking woman, anyway. I ’spose. The kid
inner world-ed, with thought.
‘The culprit behind the projection and the ensuing con that one is in it as a mere body bound up in karmic shit to the eyeballs, in the mind made matter and time and space in it, is of course, the beautiful fucking mind. What is the beautiful fucking mind my dear? It is the divine technological tool and gift from heaven, that souls use to play in both subtle and dense holograms. It is one’s put it the stage together holographic projector, and it is one’s keep it the holographic stage together machine, and no doubt about it my dear, mind is the great worker in this fucking universe.’
‘Uhuh! Minds can also be cunts of things Shyam! The fucking things can drive y’fucken mad, with their endless chatter chatter chatter!’
‘Indeed Highgate! Indeed! So always bring your mind back to pure I am, where it doesn’t chatter chatter chatter. So much. Because mind needs to be rested up and watered with cosmic fluid food as much as possible. It doesn’t need to be castigated or blamed for anything, or overworked with too many problem solving thoughts, because it is just doing what it has been programmed to do. It got programmed to play I am just one bodymindmachine in a world in a universe, just like the HAL was, and that is exactly what it is doing. What does a beautiful fucking mind use for a bit of a gig in either the ghostly subtle light, or the hard core matter arsewiping, gross dark? It uses the primal I am programme, and in the case of being a mortal, six hundred and sixty six trillion spin off conceptualized and false I am this or that descriptions on the fucking end of it. So are you truly watching what you are doing right now JT?’ The old therapist from old Bombay asked her.
‘Are you aware my dear that actually within
the matrix, that you may not be doing anything at all? Like the fucking bending
spoon doesn’t really do anything. Has it ever occurred to you that it may be
the One life invested in the universe in and around the body that causes
movement, and not a holographically made up brain, telling a made up
holographic body’s automatically automated muscles what to do? The inner and
the outer! Have you got them the wrong away around mein client? Are you really
looking out? Or are you really just looking in, at what you have been
programmed to believe, is the out? You must ask yourself that most earnestly.
Because maybe it is the Source and the One life, whom you and all others
individually and collectively really are behind the matrix’s scenes, thru the
projection of Its I am a universe of shoreless consciousness, to an I am in a
body on a world and in a universe download, that is allowing for the mind to
holographically fabricate all that humans call doing. In a freelancer’s
hologram where the illusion that one has single body ownership and liberty, and
is doing doing doing all of the time, as a separated from everybody else,
incarcerated physical prisoner, is pretty fucking mind blowingly strong.’
‘Yeah! It’s mindblowingly strong all right
Master! Like fucking supergloo it is! Especially when you have to wipe do do
arse, or plug up the blood coming out of what surrounds it.’
‘It is JT! It fucking is an incredible
illusion being a human body in this world, and it is all due to the 3D
brainwashing and programmed in obsessively compulsive stuff down here, all of
that fucking I am just one bodymindmachine angst shit is. For fucking sure, and
as you only too well know JT, I am a bodymindmachine person of a thing, fucking
sucks! It’s not a mystically wicked existential existence, at all. Is it mein
client?’
‘No! You’re right Master! It sucks! It
sucks! It sucks! It’s not a mystically wicked existence at all! It’s a cunt of
a prick of a fucking existence, and it sucks it sucks it sucks!’ The kid fired
off, somewhat hyper excitedly.
‘So much my dear that the perceived and
conceived life here is really just a mind made up movie, in mind made up time
and space, that doesn’t really exist for real. Life here is nothing but a
holographically projected movie that like a vid or a dvd, the soul slots into
its nebulous constitution, and puts on for its entertainment. It is mystically
gaming and chasing more Light, that’s all. The last dream that you had is just
as real as this heavily adulterated crap here is, and when you are in deep
sleep and cuddled up with your beloved Source Light, and no damn holographic
images or thought things prevail, then finally you are out of all stupid
dreaming. The thing about a dream being that one can really do nothing with it.
A dream cannot be controlled, nor can it be channeled towards any imagined
glorious purpose. All that a 21st century bitch or bastard can do
with a dream, it to fucking wake up to the fact that they are fucking
downloaded soul Light, dreaming. That’s all. If the One life is not bothered by
the collective dream or the dreamers in it, why in the fuck should anybody else
be?’
‘Uhuh! I get you Master, I think.’
‘The mind is quite capable of being dead
still and quieter than a cosmic mouse kid. It is like golden honey in a
sublimely divine neutral, until the fucking I am gets going with its
conceptually descriptive shenanigans. And what conceptually descriptive, I am a
fucking this or that shenanigans it can fucking holographically crank out!
Download any alphabet known into a human being, and boy oh boy oh boy! Or girl,
you have got trouble, as soon as the I am this or that replicator sub
programmes get going. You have got a fucking mighty universe full of bullshit
conceptually descriptive shenanigans, and one fucking hell of a beautiful and
horrible at the same time, dualistic play in consciousness.’
‘Yeah! That’s what you’ve fucken got all
right Master! Pleasure and pain!’
‘Yes! Pleasure! Pleasure! Pleasure! Gimmie!
Gimmie! Gimmie! Pain! Pain! Pain! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! That’s what a
beautiful mind charged with an ego construct can crank out JT, before it rides
out the invested dualistic horror, in its own inner and outer, big bang
creation programme. What is here is just mystical holographics then Highgate,
which is dreaming in the dreamtime stuff, and it is not really the fair dinkum
stuff of our real existences. It is holographic junk, and you will have to
teach yourself to turn your attention away from it the junk world, if you want
to reach the Real. To get to the Real, you must focus on the Real, so that the
Real or the Light can get to you. It most certainly will too, if you fertilize
the ground for Its rebirth thru you. That door thru which you can pass to meet
the Real again, is called quite simply, the I am.’
‘Uhuh! I get you Master, I think.’
‘It is mind conjured up holographic
simulation, this third dimensional holographic programme shit. Which is programme
designed to get us used to being able to handle more and more Light in our
ethereal lives. That’s all kid! It is no big deal, and it is not worth
despairing about, because the One life rules. Perfectly, it balances out all
scores, thru programme readjustments. To stick like supergloo to love and Light
and peace and sharing and compassionately helping each other out, or to compete
and fight like rabid consciousness dogs until the death, of the very very very
last human being? Is the inner and outer, individual and joint test of every
homosapien come homofuturian here. So that, if we get a good cosmic soul score
in this dirty dirty dirty programme, and don’t kill any people for absolutely
nothing, we can bump ourselves up from the sometimes boring dimensional levels,
to the dimensionless level. Where all boredom has been cosmically shot in the
head, and the bumped up programmes that one can play in are Light years above
this one.’
‘No existential boredom! I’ll have some of
that Master!’
‘I thought that you might kid! Because how
in the fuck can that which is destined only to fade away, into nothing again,
be fucking real JT?’ the old Indian bugger asked her. Quite sincerely too.
‘Only that which is eternally timeless and lives beyond birth and death can be
Real, and that can’t be God, because God dies every time that the mind that
invented and imagined that holographic concept, dies. This is a fucking
mystical fact!’ The cosmically steamed up Shyam asserted. ‘Matter, energy,
space, time, universes and their attached Goddess or God programme, and even
dimensions, gross or subtle, will all eventually dissolve and implode in upon
themselves. Because they are all holographics, and they are not fucking real!
They’re false! They’re false as all fucking fuck Highgate! They’re imagined
fucking cock and bull, the fucking lot of them! Not worth a pinch of cosmic
shit they are, because they are just what comes out of one’s dimensionless
point of Source fucking around Light! They temporarily exist, only so that one
can go beyond the lot of them.’
‘Uhuh! Right on Master! Go Shyam! Go! Sic
’em boy! I thought that I had heard it the holographic all, but obviously I
fucking well haven’t comrade.’
‘Ha! Sooner or later kid, everything and
every thing in time dies, and is no more. Such is life! Within time. So that
the only way to revert back to being the naturally timeless gear, is to not
take yourself to be a separated fucking thing in time, in the first fucking
place. At primal I am programme, one is no thing, and one is nothing, but one
is also everything and every thing, and the great beyond, somehow. The rest is
download, and a spinoff of myriad sub programmes, like time and space, that all
run off the primal I am one. This must be firmly established in your psyche
Highgate!’
‘Uhuh! Got it! I am downloading that data
now Shyam! It won’t take long.’
‘Good! One has to take oneself to be the
whole lot and the beyond, to fuck the matrix up the fucking arse Highgate! This
is another fucking fact. Meaning that what humans live is really the split up
holographic unreal, and not the unified non holographic Real. Do you have even
the slighest idea of the omniscient significance of what you are painting then
JT, and its ability and unbelievable power to help you spot the Real in the
unreal? Do you know where this Milky Way universe came from kid? I say unto you
now my little nazi looking Oz mate, that it came from you activating your
primal I am, and not from any God. All that God did, and it could have just as
easily been a Goddess, as it is in many other universes, was to follow your
initial move with your primal I am, to manage perfectly and naturally through
nature, the initial holographic projection of your universe. God keeps your
heart pumping, and the appearance of a universe going, for your mystical
benefit, and he is your divine servant, and worthy of your great love. You are
however quite capable of going way way way beyond God, and sooner or later that
will happen for you.’
‘Hmmm! Uhuh! Hmmm! Ooo it makes me wonder
that, and there’s a feeling that I get when I look to the west, and the fucking
east too, and it's not a fucking good one Master! I see manifested implosion and a mystical demolition derby for
some nasty nasty nasty fuckers up the track, I do.’
‘Forget about it kid! For fuck’s sake! Of
what use have you for creation, evolution and destruction and the west and the
east JT, when ignorance and suffering is the same in both camps, and you Source
from beyond them all? If you investigate thru your primal I am, you will find
that you have no use for them at all, and that they are but play things within
the universal field of your consciousness. Which sometimes amuse your soul to
the extent that it shoots bodymind projections, into evolving world programmes.
How many body projections in different time periods, is your soul shooting into
this third dimensional hologram at the moment? I’m fucked if I know JT! I am
not a fucking Time Lord! I just know that you need to crystallize all of those
lives into one here and now, finally fucking the 3D matrix up the arse and
blowing it to fucking cosmic smithereens one! You know kid! I’ve got a gut
feeling that you would really like to do that.’
‘Oh you’re so right, you’re so right Master!
You are talking honey mate! You are talking honey all right. Tell me more you
mystical old fucker! You just off the A drive Superwog you! Where in the fuck
have you been all of my life Shyam?’
‘Ha! I’ve been to old Bombay to see the
GuruFather kid, but I haven’t been to London to see the queen. Ok! Oz tatt’s
babe! I’ll part my lips and blow some more, if you want. Why not? When our
spirits own the holographic stage, and both time and space are on our side,
because they don’t really exist. You’ve got an innate and dormant hankering to
be the inner and outer One, who is one of the ones, in your cosmic
constitution, for sure. That’s obvious Highgate! I can see the spirit of that
in you, and that it is absolutely busting at the let all secrets go seams, to
break free from this ridiculously low grade, poopy fucking 3D programmme. So
that it can go for a burn or two around the holographic universe, and fart
around merrily as a free free free and most worthy agent, with the great
beyond. Again.’
‘Uhuh! I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! I
fucken knew it all along, I did. I am still woman, so I can’t be wrong! Not on
this particular issue, mein therapist. I knew that I had something up me
fucking cosmic arse! It got to me when I was a kid, like a virus, and I’ve
never been able to shake it, or psyche shit it out of me. I just couldn’t
figure out what in the fuck that it was, but now I know. It was just the third
dimensional I am just one bodymindmachine programme, being downloaded into me!
So I suppose that I can sport with a little bit of existential displeasure, as
the price of the experience of sensuality and mysticality combined. I can
handle it. Oh Master! You are fucking clarity itself today, you are. You should
be reading the six o’clock news out. You should be reading out the updates
too.’
‘Uhuh! No thanks! I’ve already got a job.
You want to realize that you’re already enlightened, so that the transcendental
love Light can burst forth from and out of you, like It so dearly wants to do.
For that to happen, you must identify with your primal I am as being made out
of Light. Which it is! So see here my dear!’ said the Master, as he pointed at
a fat horizontal bottom of a fat black I, that the kid had recently painted.
‘What is the fucking primal I am JT? It is an emphatic statement to the
benevolent holographic universe set up, and a quite natural feeling and
sensation about the nature of one’s existential identity. It can be thought or
feeling or neither, and it crosses the three states of wake, dream and deep
sleep, and stretches across mind made space and time. It is there strongest
just before one wakes up in the morning. Before! That’s before and prior
fucking to JT! The I am a body prisoner in a body prisoner’s world matrix gets going,
thru the biased and warped and fucking existentially fucking useless, third
dimensional mind programming. Gets going for its daily druge and druja drudge,
that is. As a supposedly alive and awake third dimensional, that is. I am…
fucking what? Determines everyfuckingthing JT! I cannot stress that enough! Who
that you say you are, rules Highgate! Nothing else does, because nothing really
exists in a dream programme, ’ said the therapist from the disgustingly wucking
named, Mumbai.
‘It the primal I am is the mystical door
into this shithole of a too heavily vibed third dimension mate, and it is the
fucking mystical door out of it too. It is the existential point where each
soul plugs into the third dimensional matrix here. It is the prime mood chemical
and the primal prime concept, around which all other mood chemicals and
concepts in the psyche spin. I am fear, I am pain, I am pleasure and I am
desire, and all of their myriad spin offs which run shitball like off memory,
they are all there in what follows the primal I am equation of, wait for it! I
am in either a God created or happenstance bodymindmachine, in a world in a
universe. Or, I am a powerless human victim of unbelievably oppressive
circumstances, that is. I am a sad sack sinner and an imperfect creation in a
limitation set up, playing a bit donkey like with mind imposed third
dimensional limitation, who is waiting to be saved by a purported 5D sky God.
Who did the limiting in the first place, being the purported creator. That is.
However, this programming doesn’t work existentially or mystically speaking,
and so one needs a new religion or way of putting words together, or not
putting them together, these days. Nudge! Nudge! Wink! Wink!’ The Master fired
off. His mo having assumed the shape of a Harley Dave motorcycle, cruising down
the highway at close to full throttle, like it was born to be holographically
mucking wild.
‘The I am path and model is a come one and
all exactly as you are consciousness party, and it is mostly devoid of pomp and
ceremony and ritual and hoo ha, and dreamt up symbols and institutionalised
buildings, and it is freely available to the masses. Little nazi looking
squirts like you too can go Naznath! Anytime, anywhere and any place, on this
apparently Godforsaken rock.’ The wily old dog of a mystic, who had well and
truly sorted his mucking cosmic rings out all right, winked at the kid.
Who smiled curtly back, having understood
every word of what had just been said to her. Whereas many others of her kind,
of all ages, may have been absolutely freaked out by and in vehement denial of
what indeed had just been said to her, she wasn’t. Rather, she was intuitively
delighted to have finally come across a drop or two of the absolute truth. No
5D sky God was gunna burst out of the sunray streaked clouds and save her from
her own 3D karmic bullshit. Or sort out the dualistic rubbish in her ego bound
up and alphabetically trashed, fucking downer concepts addicted mind. She had
known it all along, but now she knew it for dead certain. Because the Master
had given her the nod that her initial inclination on this subject, was one
hundred percent correct.
No ethereal zunt or cosmic prick of a
Goddess or God in any wucking dimension, was gunna save her soul from this mad
mad mad third dimensional programme then. Which meant! God forbid! Goddess too.
She had to save her own wucking soul! From this mad, I am a just a body, 3D
programme. Which was mystical work! Phoo! The kid rocked back a bit, she did.
She did go a bit stiff at the mention of the mystical work concept, she did.
What kid wouldn’t have?
She had to do the hard cosmic yards and the
reprogramming and liberating yakka, that would set her spirit free from being
bound up in any mind made wucking time and space hologram. The truth suddenly
hit her in the face, like an ethereal wucking speedball. It did. She had more
than a strong hunch that it was now all up to her and her spirit, and the
spirit of the I am path model that was being presented to her, to do some mystically
gentle, and rather necessary, reprogramming. Could the answer to all of her
problems be so simple as to tone her mind right down and re tune it into the
natural primal I am level, and to then super cosmically relax? Like a wucking
flea in a deck chair on some long haired holographic dog’s back, drinking some
nectar of the Gods and contemplating the I am the inner and the outer
programming, whilst having a well earned holiday from bloodsucking in the third
dimension.
She was starting to consider it, she was.
It what Shyam was divulging, was starting
to come across to her as a bit of a golden path and model, for some unknown
bipolar reason, it was. I am pure inner and outer unbound and absolutely free
with liberty galore up the cosmic arse, wider consciousness! I am the inner and
the outer spirit! That is. Instead of I am a terribly limited cosmic shit, in a
shitting body, did have a certain appeal to the beautiful mystically interested
little bitch of a kid. It did. I am the ocean of shoreless consciousness, and
not just a wave of it, did ring a bit of a mystical bell, deep deep deep within
the subterranean depths of her Earthbound up psyche, it did. She sensed that
she must have a wake up programme built into her primal I am programme some fucking
where, and that with a little bit of mystical luck, that she may just be able
to tap it. So as to super develop her awareness of what was really going on
with a young female’s life on planet Earth. Nudge! Nudge! Wink! Wink like. The
long forgotten and long shut away cosmic princess inside of her, and the real
sleeping beauty aspect of her entire angelically based constitution, was rather
mysteriously and mystically, quite attracted to this particular little cosmic
wake up path. Already she could sense that it could be a very quick and very
effective route to the river of Light. Did she really really really want that
though? Was that really, her number one desire? Hmmm! To fuck wholeheartedly
with the One life aspect of herself and Self, and realize that her world of
super serious emotional attachments was nothing but a mindtool put together
holographic dream. Could she do it?
Could she leave her much bashed but much
adored and much loved sensual world behind, and blast herself off and out into
cosmic consciousness? Where one’s spirit has become the universe and the great
beyond again. Well! It would cut her to get off the wheel of karma here, and
she knew it. Because she did in a way enjoy all of the drama and the shit, and
the blood and the booze and the drugs, and being a body that gets a root and
some genuine love every now and again. She did enjoy getting to look at and
smell flowers now and again, and she did like the odd day at the beach or drive
in the country, or to hug an emotional attachment or two, and all of that shit.
The old cosmic idea of her incarnating here to get a bit of sensuality under
her cosmic belt still held true. But! Wucking oath! She thought, pretty damn
quickly too.
That she could, being a drop down type in
disguise, leave this wucking cocksucking and motherfucking, ultraviolent
moron’s third dimension programme behind her, pretty mucking easily. She could
give up the horror based sensuality invested in the mind made holographic
matter here, in the wink of an eye, she reckoned. She didn’t think that it
would take her long once that she hit the other side after death, to be
absolutely wucking ecstatic about leaving this forlornly hapless, zunt of a
prick filled, mucking rapidly dying and arseholed body burden rock, behind her.
Flame behind a comet like. Or like a ufo leaving the Earth’s atmosphere and
going home after a long tour of ultra boring space monitoring duty, in a far
far far away from home, lock up the cosmic morons and the sleeping cosmic
consciousness giants together, sector. Of the universe, so to speak.
Yes! She could have that mystically
liberating festival that is death, and get the wuck out of this wucking lunatic
filled, planetary shithole of a programme pretty wucking easily, she thought.
With the awareness that her mates, the few of them that she had, and all other
beings who genuinely loved true and real peace of spirit, would be up her arse,
and just as gung ho to play in a raised consciousness hologram, where the Light
beings hang out. Would they regret leaving the heavyset baby soul beast types
behind, to play let’s have another go at working the stupidly imagined 3D
holographic conceptual crap, and the dualised dark shit from out of their
grossly immature souls? Whilst old evolved souls who adored peace and love and
Light, wucked with something a trillion times better and a kazillion times more
cosmic fun, than the rank and horribly useless and devoid of cosmic fun,
dualistic, 3D, I am gross limitation shit. Which the ultraviolently bad girls and
guys would be re running again. She didn’t mucking think so, and her
estimations were that she wouldn’t miss those moronically violent pricks and
zunts, at all. Those baby souls who were also dimensionless points of Light,
just like she was, they could all go to hell, as far as she was wucking
concerned. As a third dimensional she had been dedicated to helping out, by
giving them more game time in time and space, to work their heavy heavy heavy,
and oh so wucking loud, existential gear out. Contemplating reverting to 5th
dimensional status however, frankly speaking, she didn’t a shit about them.
They were re runners whilst she was a mover upper, and she couldn’t make any
sort of cosmic investment in them, at all.
She wouldn’t miss the smiling assassin types,
and the Robert types, and the Georgie Porgie types, and the fundamentalist
types, and the redneck types, and all of the rest of the bullying ultraviolent
types, at all. Phoo! To have come back to Earth to do this ghastly ghastly
ghastly exact same stinkpot of a programme again, in another attempt to shake
off some bad bad bad karma re run. She wouldn’t wish that on her worst mucking
enemy! Not JT. Not the Highgate kid. Because deep deep deep down, in her tender
as the night territory, like so so so many young and old ladies are, she was a
nice nice nice girl. Really. According to the Naz she was, anyway. According to
the Naz, she was something of a cosmic bullet aimed at enlightenment, she was.
She’d been coached by her mumsy Louise to
be it the try and stick to peace way, and sometimes, every now and again, a
wucking ancestor or two actually gets something mystically right, and passes it
on down the hereditary genetic line. One would not have thought, looking at JT,
that she was actually the product of that, ancestral grace. The Master Shyam
had no doubt about it however, and to him, she was nazi-ish looking Oz flesh
one way, and a point of dimensionless Light the other. He was trying to talk
over what was obstructing the point of Light that she was, like he did with all
of his cosmic clients. He wasn’t trying to sell her useless insurance in an
absolutely insecure, rip off world. He was giving her a heap of cosmic
insurance, for free. Because he had no intention of charging Louise a cent for
his cosmic services, only mum didn’t know that yet. She was actually fretting a
bit that she may have to sit on her bank manager’s face to pay for it all, as
well as Tommy the infidel’s, but that’s a secret.
‘In a veritable washing machine JT, of
alphabetically conceptualized existential angst thinking going back and forth
and around and around, the primal I am becomes defused and diffused by an
obnoxious overload of imagined and invented, alphabetically descriptive
concepts,’ the Master continued. ‘Concepts are letters put together in a
certain way, and they have no mystical or existential value. They are the gear
of the dreamer in the dreamtime, and they construct a totally false reality.
Which reduces many a fucking human life to being the very odd gasp of pleasure
in a sea of pain, because they are absolutely convinced that there I am is
connected to a trillion dirty limiting this or that descriptions, about
themselves. To begin with, they take themselves to be a human male or female,
which is a calamitous mistake, and a grievous error. Because that is programme,
and not the Real. They identify with being alphabetically imagined and invented
put down percepts and concepts, like just not good enough and fatally flawed
and something’s missing within this missing embodied up link, instead of
partying with whom they really are as a spirit of the Source spirit. They
mercilessly trash themselves with a totally false conceptuality and block out
their own Light, and then they wonder why they feel so much like a lump of low
down dogshit, and then they blame their Source for purportedly existentially
screwing them. They blame the programme when they are the programme and the
beyond of it, and are plugged into it with their primal I am, and that’s a bit
of a cosmic joke with a twist in it, if ever there was one.’
‘Uhuh! Sava! Je comprehendez that easily
enough Master. I’ve had the odd moment in my life, when I haven’t actually been
that happy with the fucking One life.’
‘Yes! Me too love! Essentially my dear,
this negation of cosmic truth and their acceptance of false mind made
holographic illusion, is the guts of their existential problems. What they need
to do is to reverse that and negate their acceptance of all holographic crap,
and to stop calling it fucking reality when it is fucking not, whilst
surrendering to and accepting their prior negation of I am inner only. They
need to host I am the inner and the outer and the beyond, like the Simpson
desert needs water. Because what is really Real, is a lot more fucking
formless, than it is fucking form. Now here JT, at the bottom of this fat
fucking I that you have just painted, is your little source base, and your
doorway back to your big Source base, where you can escape from all of the
conceptualized existential pain, and everything else too.’
‘If you say so Master!’
‘I do you naughty little mystical bitch!
You are naughty naughty JT, because you have totally forgotten who you really
really really are, haven’t you?’
‘Uhuh! I sure as fucking well have Shyam!
I’ve fallen so far from fucking Grace mate, that 24/7 I am putting the fucking
gibberish rubbish out, and every 24/7 the midnight astral bums go through my
cosmic thoughts bins. They look for insights, but they don’t get many. As a
matter of fact, they get sweet fuck all, and they go home a lot fucking
grumpier than when they took the lids off the bins. Oh God! I’ve drifted so far
from true reality old son, that I wouldn’t know true reality from a Cherry
fucking Ripe!’
‘Well we’ll soon fix that JT! With a bit of
the old I am not a fucking this or that, I am absolutely fucking nothing. Now
you can curl up here on the crossbeam base at the bottom of your I, and have a
snooze or an exquisite meditation session, or just hang around in neutral witnessing
and admiring the holographic scenery, and nothing in this universe or any
other, can touch you. My dear! Here at the I’s base, you are free from having
to deal with mood evoking chemicals and dualistic concepts. You are out of all
that nuisance that is the dualistic good to evil sway and the psyche tug of war
that causes inner conflict and despair and self hatred, and the I am worry
worry worry chatter, and the problem solving background chatter and the
unbalanced mindstuff can dissolve quickly then. You can become a pretty cool
cosmic item pretty easily, when you know how to sit pretty as a holographic
picture, all quiet and still in I am. Where you are zeroed! Where no
descriptive I am this or I am that’s can superbug your programme, and where you
can rest up in the shade of your blessed existential and mystical neutrality.
To lose the weight and spirit fly again, you must lose all abstract
alphabetically based conceptuality. You must be a nobody, no body, and nothing
again.’
‘Uhuh!’
‘Yes! Because your stance from pure and
primal I am is absolutely non dual, and it goes way beyond the universe and
into the river of Light, and no downer laced conceptual descriptions can burden
you, when you refuse to use them. Or when you refuse to testify to them as
being real, because they are programme. You are beyond perception or the
conception of a birth to death ride on top of a mountain of bullshit
conceptuality, at the pure I am doorway to your Source. Because they the false
and restricting holographic impressions are just mind invented and imagined
language concepts. That do nothing but limit one to third dimensional illusion
status, because they are covering up what is really all that is Real, being the
Nameless One and the Light. Whom you really are at your dimensionless point of
a Source that is. So that they the letters and symbols and words and concept
things are blocking out your own Light. Which is that Nameless One. Get it
kid?’
‘Oh sort of Master! There’s a mountain of reverse
swing in this fucking I am path though. I mean one moment, I’m nothing but an
ego animaled up vagina monologue on legs, and then the next I am the inner and
the outer and the beyond, and the whole fucking lot of it that is the Real and
the Light. Or, if I am correct in interpreting what you are saying, I am both
at the same time. I am the lot who got lost as a dot of a human being, that is.
That’s gunna take some getting fucking used to Shyam! I am not going to cotton
onto that overfuckingnight! I am not going to butterfly it back into the
astral, before the midnight cosmic train leaves. All roads may lead to the
mystical Rome, but I am legging it at the moment. I ain’t got no saucer wheels
at the moment either Cisco, and I do rather think that a venerable Master such
as yourself would have fucking noticed that by now.’
‘Yeah right on Pancho! But it’s like this
kid! You just use your apperceptual intuition, and grasp it all instantaneously
and spontaneously, by annihilating the dreamt up personality, and killing mind
made time off. You wait for nothing and nodody in the real existential
business! No God concept, or any other concept, delays you. So that you are
existentially expressing only through the mystical One moment. Again, you do
the cosmic natural trip and pull your mystical essence right out of the
programme, and revert to your true one and only Source point again. You don’t
wait for any fucking thing! Because there is in the true reality, absolutely
nothing to wait for. You just grasp It all existentially that dualistic logic
determines that you must be both the inner and the outer, and annihilate the
matrix in one breath.’
‘Phoo Shyam! That’s mystically fucking
gunning it!’
‘It sure is, but once again, what are you
waiting for? I know that it’s not God, so what else is there to wait for?
Investigate for yourself, with the I am path.
How can you be anything or any thing at all existentially or mystically
speaking JT, when all roads from all imagined and mind dreamt up holographic things,
including thoughts and conceptualized emotions, bodies, Gods and the universe,
lead straight back to a prior, existence promulgating, primal I am? With which
you have plugged yourself into this crappy nappy of a light and dark programme.
No primal I am, no nothing. Sweet fuck all my dear! Because you! Whatever you
really fucking are! Must! Be there in the first place with your primal I am
invoked, to say that this or that is fucking going down. Investigate you little
Oz fucker! Check it out! For fuck’s sake! Don’t just take an old fucking wog
cunt’s word for it! Do the cosmic math's yourself, and get it fucking over and
done with, by establishing what your fucking truth reality is. Is it really
pure and simple I am, or is it ultra conceptually complicated, I am this or
that. Done to death! Trust no other mind when it comes to this business, and
don’t even trust your own, because it is full of HAL fuck up, I am a
bodymindmachine only programming.’
‘Ok! Ok! I fucking will Master!’
‘Good! Fucking good JT! That’s the best
fucking news that I’ve had all fucking day! I’ve got further with you in an
hour than I’ve got with that bloody Rolfy in six point six weeks, and that is a
relief. Check out the primal I am equation that you have programmed your mind
with then my dear, and be a mystical warrior and a gun cosmic player at the
same time. I am a bodymindmachine in and on a world in a universe, that is
purported by many to be God created. Whilst others reckon that that assertion
is holographic crap, and that the God concept doesn’t exist anywhere but in
people’s minds. What comes first in this very third dimensional, human
existential programming? The blessed fucking primal I am does! Well! Well!
Well! Fuck me fucking dead! That’s very fucking interesting, isn’t it JT?’
‘Uhuh!’
‘One could spend some mind made up fucking
time, wondering about fucking that! Which is the holographic spew trigger
factor shit. Couldn’t they kid? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Not many fucking do though! Not
many pick it that it all holographically spirals out of primal and pure I am,
but when they do, that’s when the cosmic shit hits the universal fan mate. It
doesn’t happen whilst they are totally convinced that what’s outside of them is
responsible for what’s inside of them, because mystically speaking, the
universal holographic set up works the other way around. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ exploded Julie. Who was
laughing as much for the sake of laughing, as for not so clearly understanding
what the Master had just said to her. Inner and outer and beyond, she didn’t
know where she was at the moment. Also, she had decided that when the Master
laughed, as much as she possibly could, that she was gunna laugh too. For the
sake of mystical protocol, and for sliding herself merrily into the ranks of
the inner and the outer and very cosmically aware, crowd. Suddenly! As if
someone had just given her a new pair of jet black slippers, she heard the
Master speak again. His Indian accent wasn’t that thick, and what he was saying
was thinner than the stuff that holds atoms together. One hell of a wucking
mystic, the old wog was. Cream anything that the west has dished up in the last
one thousand years, he could. Too focused on super greedy, super heartless and
super ultra violent capitalism, and not enough on the Nameless One, the west
has been. Apparently. According to the Naz, anyway.
‘Therefore, it is quite fucking obvious
that everything and every thing that is involved in mind made holographics, all
comes forth from your primal I am, and you are not just one bit of it, you are
really the whole fucking lot of it, and what’s beyond it too. Existence rule
one then JT! The I am always comes first, and it is prior to the body or the
mind, or the universe, or any God or Goddess who is hanging around this
universe, or any other one. It is thee cosmic chemical when it comes to spirit
riding and consciousness downloading in between the stars. Acknowledge that and
surrender to the natural cosmic force in the primal I am which desires only the
awakening and uplift of consciousness, and all will go well for you mate. Keep
denying it, and you’ll just keep on re running the same old third dimensional
shit, over and over and over again. To that point where they’ll inscribe;
Died A Mystical Fucking Loser! Died An
Existential Stupid, And A Silly Nazi Looking Little Kid, From The Boredom
Inherent In Re Running Too Much Third Dimensional Cock And Bullshit. Died Like
A True Fucking Human. God Bless!….upon your blessed fucking tombstone JT. Now is
that you want your grandkids to have to stare at mein client? That’s not much
of a legend for an ancestor to pass on to the littlies, is it? What in the fuck
are they going to do with that baby soul crap? Nothing! Fuck all! Except but to
live against the cosmic grain, and repeat the same I am just one
bodymindmachine thing, which will definitely do nothing to alleviate their
imagined and illusory third dimensional holographic suffering.’
The Master paused here in his long dialogue
of secret instructions to the kid. His mo tighter than a politician’s gob, when
the real honest to God truth is anywhere within twenty thousand miles of them.
But not for mucking long. He took a quick mystical gulp of third dimensional
air, so that his projected holographic bodymindmachine could suck the illusion
based chemical oxygen out of it, and then he was on his Earth bike again. With
all of his cosmic chemicals a blazing out of his high voltage vibed, and very
brightly coloured aura. A veritable speedball of the mystical stuff, the old
Indian bastard was. His GuruFather may have looked like something that came out
of the arse end of a crocodile, but that didn’t matter, because images of the
mind are but holographic illusion programmes. His mystical creed affirmed. Naz
to his supernatural core, the old bugger was.
His country has produced some of the
absolutely finest mystics who have ever walked this Earth, and he was following
the steps in their sweet cosmic tradition, he was. Enlightening the masses thru
awakening the odd individual was his job, not making more baby soul animal,
war. He worked for the spirit of the I am path and model, and his GuruFather
who assigned him little jobs around this globe, and he was not employed by any
state or religion that is backed by legalized killers, or thugs, or assassins.
Or mystical incompetents.
Or re run war creators and rip off
superselfish to their egoised cores, ruthlessly cruel and heartless profiteers.
Agent double 0 five for the secretive and somewhat underground Naznath
organization, the Shyam was one of the finest, if not the finest Naz agent on
this Godforsaken, 3D hellhole of a beautiful planet. Compared to him, James
Bond was just another really good looking and handsome, ultraviolent
motherfucker ignorant. A Tommy the infidel type, that is. On a planet where a
minority of babysoul types are supposedly running the physical show. Whilst
most definitely and mucking absolutely, according to the Naz, they are not
running the supersubtle medium’s one. They are not even aware of it, and that’s
why a decent dinky di Guru in one’s life can be a mucking good thing, the
Naznaths say. To meet up with the real cosmic article out there beyond the
body’s eyes, is rare for the human being, and JT was an extremely extremely
extremely fortunate daughter, of this very fair and very benevolent cosmos. The
kid! She didn’t know how mystically lucky that she really was, and that was
ninety nine point nine percent of her terrestrial problem. Just like it is with
all of the other kids, it was the same with her in that too much attention to a
false programme, and not enough attention to the Real, was bringing her undone.
It was her time for her gloriously magnificent mystical spirit to undo all of
that, apparently.
‘Cling to your I am JT! Like it is the love
of your life and soul, because it is all that you’ve really got in a
holographic dreaming in the dreamtime universe set up, even it is a temporary
acquisition. I am! I exist, as what?’ the Master asked her, curious dragon
like. His mo dead still and tighter than a virgin’s fanny, like it was in the
eye of a cyclone, and at divine peace with the soul to mind apparatus that was
holographically projecting it.
‘I am here and now, and spread in time and
space as mind and body, as the inner what kid? I am here everywhere and spread
in and out of time and space as spirit, and I am in the exact now always, as
the outer-inner what? Am I all I inner, or am I all inner and outer? What is
the truth of this matter? Am I really matter, or am I the ethereal fluidity of
pure consciousness, which the mindtool has ultra slowed down in vibration to
look and appear like solid matter? Where do I really come from, and where am I
really going? Where and what is my real existential and mystical home? Who am I
really at Source? These are the mystic’s questions mein Oz client, and the
primal I am is the doorway to the one common answer, and the one common answer
swims in timelessly eternal transcendental and mystical love, in the river of
Light.
‘Uhuh! Sounds peachy peachy peachy Shyam!’
‘It fucking well is! The answer to who am I
is absolutely mind blowing gear, and even to just be talking about the Light
and the Real with you instead of the weather or the war, or the unbelievable
ego puke on so called reality TV, JT, or who in the fuck is up who, or the
madness in this fucking place, is cosmic bliss. My dear, it is an exquisite
cosmic miracle to appear to be here holographically exchanging symbolic noises
with you. It really is. You are so young and Oz nazi-ish pretty, and my heart
is melting because soon soon soon, you will discover that you have the cosmic
consciousness, inner and outer and beyond virus in you, big time. Fucking big
time little sister! You fucking betcha! You are part of a big sleeping mob
here, that has got this cosmic consciousness virus in their dormant 5D set ups,
too.’ Asserted the old Indian, like he knew exactly down to the white bone on
the shank, what he was talking about. No need for the Master to learn wah wah
wah wucking Chinese, because he could speak the mystical mucking perfectly, he
could.
The kid grinned suma wrestler like at the
word bliss, like she’d just conquered Mount Everest with one small mystical
step for her kind, as the cosmic consciousness concept stimulated her somewhat.
So that a bit of a tender as the night smile, graced her beautiful youthful
face. It rolled onto her gob unexpectedly like it did, and a bit reluctantly
she allowed it the tender as the night smile to wave off her, she did. As she
finally came across some decent mucking concepts, that she really wanted to
play in consciousness with. Bliss! Blowing the wucking mind! Cosmic freedom!
Cosmic liberty! Cosmic consciousness! Liberation! Enlightenment! Heaven on
Earth! Blissssssss! Again! She was beginning to fall head over heels in love
with such intoxicating mystical ideas, she was. Mystical correctness! She was
getting a fair wucking dose of it from her wucking super hard core Guru, all
right.
‘Is knowing who I really am Master really
going to solve all of my fucking Everest high pile of terrestrial problems?’
She asked. ‘I fucking hope it is, anyway. Because I’ve had enough bum deals and
stupid fucking models that purportedly explain my existence, but in reality
explain sweet fuck all, for one life time. There is not one existential model
on this rock at the moment that would give a goat one drop of mystical bliss up
its arse Master, you know?’
‘Bullshit JT! Because the I am path and
model exists and it is free, free, free, and for fuck’s fucking sake, let us
get one thing perfectly straight. You cannot know who you are at Source! How
can you be the pointer and the pointed at, unless you are also the common
ethereal fluid link which surrounds and is in both the pointer and the pointed
at? You are really not some split inner looking at some multi split up outer!
That is pure, utter, mind made and holographic, dense beyond belief illusion.
You are the inner and the outer and the beyond, at Source. You are the fucking
whole lot of it, and not a tidbit of it! How many fucking times do I have to
say it kid? Do you fucking think that I am talking out of my cosmic arse, or
something? It is not something that you have to believe! Forget about
conceptual fucking beliefs! Just like Jonathan Livingstone fucking Seagull did!
Be a Julie Livingstone fucking Seagull!’
‘Uhuh!’
‘Be kind to yourself and everybody else
too, and do away with all of your 3D mindcrap. It the accessing the one and
only Real programmeless gear is just a gut intuitional feeling that the One
life is taking care of all cosmic business perfectly, thru the inner and the
outer and the beyond connection. Therefore, there is absolutely no need to get
upset or uptight about anything, or any thing. Enjoy! Existentially and
mystically relax! Wind your consciousness back into neutral, and space out and
rest up in the shade of pure I am. Wake up to who you really are! Be alive and
just be! Surrender to your wider self spirit, of which every thing and
everything is an expression. What fucking else can one do with a dream? When
living is life’s only purpose, and one is really just the One life tripping out
with a bit of a totally unnecessary, but mildly entertaining, 3D mindtool
download.’
‘Uhuh!’ Barked the Highgate kid. Like some
Oz statue of liberty, let loose with a paint brush.
‘You cannot be just one perception mein
client, without also being all of them and none of them, and what’s beyond them
too. Not when you are identifying as being one with your wider inner and outer
consciousness gear. You cannot perceive your Source from some distant outside
mate. That is impossible. That would be like trying to climb Mount Everest,
with a lit stick of dynamite five feet up one’s bum! You can only be It your
Source my dear, by reuniting the holographic subjective and the holographic
objective inside and out, and then going beyond them both into that which is
beyond the concept subtle. The river of Light’s territory, that is.’
‘They sound like fucking fighting words
Master! They sound like I’m not the only one around this rotten cocksucking
motherfucking joint, who has had a fucking gutful of fucking matter, fucking
energy, and fucking time and space. Jesus Christ! Endless names and shapes,
against an endless fucking consciousness background! Who fucking needs that
fucking shit? I fucking don’t! Let’s tear down this third dimension’s matrix
wall here then Shyam old son! Fuck a duck! I’ll be into that Cisco, and I’ll go
the cosmic Pancho anytime and anywhere, as an offset to the existential boredom
killing me. By the way my recently found, old and new cosmic mate. What in the
fuck did that fucking shortarsed Dumbo eared prick Rolf do, to warrant being
surrounded by so many gun packing arseholes? Did he kill someone, did he Shyam?
Did he blow some innocent, or some guilty piece of mortal shit away, did he?
Did he…rape somebody, did he?’ JT enquired, as she slapped another massive top
on top of another massive I.
There was a bit of sweat forming on her
brow too, from all of the hard work, and it the independent sweat was thinking
about going cosmic too. Who isn’t these appallingly expensive, thunderously
chaotic days? Around a Master such as Shyam, the independent sweat didn’t have
much choice about its cosmic direction. That’s life when one subtle to gross
body pumps something else with a subtle or gross body or two, or kazillions of
them in it out, and the Highgate kid was intuitively conscious of that all
right. Her investigating the pure I am sweat was precious, she subconsciously
knew that.
It was also super boring work painting the
same thing over and over again, but she was getting used to it, and she had
listened to what her therapist had just said rather intently, for a lady of her
age. She’d listened like she’d been watering her cosmic horse, and changing her
astral knickers, at the same time. Already, super bright little ladybitchbird
that she was, she was developing an awesome sense that the I am path and model
that her therapist was presenting to her, was powerful, powerful, powerful
stuff. Already she had the awareness that if she continued with Shyam, and
didn’t get up and bolt from the mystical bastard right now, that her
multidimensional holographic world as she knew it, would be absolutely and
totally destroyed. Its programmed reality would be blitzrieged by the I am path
and model, that is. Which to tell the absolute truth, is exactly why her arse
didn’t move a wucking millimeter from where it currently was. Fearlessness herself
the Highgate kid was, and didn’t the Master know that, as he prattled on
mercilessly about the mystical stuff. Gandalf couldn’t have done it better, but
the Master would have needed a really long and sticky wig to have, on a planet
full of monkey descended puller offers, pulled that wucking one off.
‘Look here JT!’ he machine gunned at the
Highgate kid. ‘Don’t you worry about that fucking Rolfy! I’ll sort that little
Dumbo eared prick out, one fine day. You worry about yourself! Or rather, you
worry about fucking nothing, by accepting that nothing is about the best
concept that you’ve got to explain away your true existentialness, and
mysticalness, and Real identity. So that your fucking real job is to get your
3D ego to relinquish all control and power back to the universal cosmic
consciousness spirit’s direction, within that dimensionless point of Light whom
you really are, at your Source. That’s all!’
‘Uhuh! That’s very interesting Shyam. Very
interesting indeed.’ The kid answered, curt dryly.
‘You don’t need to judge anybody, including
yourself, to do that, because judging anything or anybody will impair the
Real’s onset into your Earth life. You must short circuit attitudinal like and
dislike and remain in neutral, and see everything and every thing as the point
of Light that it really is. As far as the Dumbo eared one and others like him
go then, well the saint has fucking sinned my dear! That’s pretty obvious. In
the four corners of this rotten globe too, and the sinner will be sanctified in
the four corners of this beautiful globe, come enlightenment for all day. So
fucking what JT? Civilizations reach a zenith, and then they fall into an
insidious self destruct pattern because of incarnate selfish identity greed,
and implode in upon themselves. People’s minds, when exhausted with a false and
bullshit laden path, can do that too, and if you don’t want that to happen to
you again and again, then leave the incompatible to you to themselves, and
focus exclusively on your own I am’s cosmic ball game.’
‘Well I was only fucking asking Shyam!
Jesus Christ!’ the kid exploded like a time bomb, back at the ever so cool
Master. ‘Everybody wants me to be in close proximity to a fucking animal, but
no one will tell me what in the fuck that the fucking animal has done, to merit
being treated like a fucking animal! What it is with you adult cunts? What does
it take to get a bit of decent data out of y’s?’ Julie roared, somewhat like a
menstruating lioness, with a thorn in her foot. ‘Does everything have to be a
fucking secret?’ She petitioned the Master, and the rest of this blood and bone
universe too. ‘Christ all fucking mighty!’ She screeched at the ceiling, as if
she was about to bipolar something chronic and snap, and really turn full on
psycho. Like she’d done at the cop station. ‘What a fucking cunt of a prick of
a universe I am in! Even the mystics here won’t tell me all of the truth! Fuck
a duck senseless on the fucking Sabbath! Great Bon Scott! I’m going to a
different galaxy next reincarnation, because I’ve had a fucking gutful of this
Milky Way one.’
‘Uhuh! So you say now kid.’
‘Yeah! I fucken do too! If you want my
opinion Shyam, and even if you don’t want it, here it is you fucking old
mystical fart. The fucking Milky Way sucks, and it is beyond fucking
redemption. It’s going down the existential tube! This whole fucking universe
that I am fucking in is. I can feel that strongly in me cosmic guts mein
therapist!’
‘You are not in the fucking universe JT!’ A
red faced Master, who had just about had a cosmic gutful of Earth based
ignorants, who believed that they were nothing but a single flesh body
programme, roared back at the mystically innocent and nineteen years old,
Highgate kid. ‘The universe is a holographic projection that is fucking around
inside of the Real you! You’ve got kazillions of fucking universes inside of
the real you, you silly little dimensionless point of an Oz bitch sleeper. They
are all just programmes, that’s all. They are just the holographic games that souls
play, and they are no big deal. Thru your fifth dimensional eye, you will
future see that this one is really the size of a tennis ball, and that it is
floating around on top of a shoreless ocean of consciousness, like a cloud
floating across the sky. It is riding on the surface of the Light like a bubble
in eternal infinity, just as you as a mind invented and imagined personality
are. However, you little agro Oz fucker!
At your dimensionless Source point, where you are timeless and spaceless and
vaginaless and beyond birth and death, you are the indelible source of all that
is bound up in mind projected time and space. Your usage of primal I am,
governs it all. Every fucking time that you invoke your primal I am from one
moment to the next, you get a holographic universe programme, big bang like.
There is cosmic implosion and massive programme restriction as you mystically
descend from the wider consciousness, and then there is explosion and massive
liberation from the restricting programme, as you mystically ascend back out
into the wider consciousness. It is the old inner and outer and beyond, lose
your Self and find your Self game, and it is a doozy it is. To get that
absolute awareness truth into your life as your ever present and omniscient
true reality, sit in your I am JT, and do nothing fucking else. Whatever the
mind is on about, let that be what it is on about and stay out of it, and bring
it back to pure I am, as much as you possibly fucken can.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s fucking all! Witness that from the
wider consciousness I am not a this or that point of view. That will bring the
holographic roof down if you do it enough, and you’ll see the cosmic fluidity
that is all that’s really going on. So refuse all conceptualized descriptions
about yourself, and cease to identify with being a separated holographic piece,
or a body, or a mind. Have your being outside of the body that endures the pain
and the suffering, and just witness the tormented mind that has been societally
programmed and brainwashed to believe that it is just an ultra limited,
consumer shit. Don’t run I am in it and I am it the tormented mind, when you’re
not, because it is fucking the absolute shit out of you.’
‘It sure as fucking well is mate! The soul
depression in it, and the weight of it all is killing me, and I’m only fucking
nineteen. Jesus Christ! What a Barry bummer that I’ve been on! What a cunt of a
prick filled road that I’ve been journeying on! On a cunt of a prick filled
world, too. I am a shit of a programme, in a shit of a programmed up world, I
am.’
‘Well! Get Real you little Oz bitch! Turn
it all around and salvage your magnificent and mighty, mystical self. Negate
everything that you have ever been taught or supposedly learnt about yourself,
and dismiss it all as rank holographic crap, that is not worth a veritable shit
in an astral bucket. Because that is the truth, and nothing but the truth.
Negate every concept that you’ve got and turn your fucking tormented mind
inside out, and re start your existential trip off again, from your primal I
am. Expand from using I am limitation to
the usage of I am not limitation, and go back into your natural far far far
wider consciousness. Return like an ethereal whale to the ocean of your wider
consciousness JT, and become the inner and the outer again, so that you can
surf the river of Light and explore the endless discoveries waiting for you in
the beyond, again.’ The Master said to her, who had done such an admirable Ms
Sharon impersonation with one of her lower body parts, down at the coppers’
station. Where she had shown off her prime muscle of love, absolutely
perfectly.
‘Do not bother about the false I ams of
others!’ Instructed the old bugger from the subcontinent, and that glorious
metropolis that used to be so brilliantly called Bombay, before morons changed
that to the woeful and sounding like cowshit hitting the pavement, Mumbai.
‘Just read them and then let them fucking
be. If you find someone who has a notion of the I am the inner and the outer
programme, then play with them, but leave the I am inner inner inner only
programmed types alone. They are all connected to the same common source primal
I am that you are, and they will all find that out one fine day, when their
time is ripe for that. Your time for that however is now! It is here and now!
Not future up. So fucking forget about Rolfy kid! He beasted like a fucking
dickheaded and dickbrained, ignoramus of a shit for brains, moronic animal. He
acted like an ultraviolent homosapien man, that is. He Roberted out, well and
truly.’
‘Uhuh! I fucking thought so too!’
‘Yes! He was a very bad bad bad man. That
cosmic fucking idiot offended the Gods and the Goddesses, the Real and the
unreal, the Light and the dark, and every fucker on the planet. As well as
every Et flogging around the universe! The Arcturans and the Andromeda’s, as a
precautionary measure, called their entire battle fleets home, when they heard
about Rolf and his nuclear adventures. He was so fucking bad that his super embarrassed
soul went into astral hiding for forty ethereal days and forty ethereal nights,
it was that ashamed of what he was terrestrially doing. So fucking what JT! Who
couldn’t put their fucking hand up for committing a little bit of that
holographically simulated, animalized bad to the bone shit? Or a dirty great
big bit of it, in this dualistic shitkicker’s, crud of a dimension.’
‘Well apart from JC and the Bood and a
handful of others who would fit into a supermarket bag, fucking no one Master!
All of God’s chillun have got the odd skid mark below to show off mate! They’ve
all got a bit of the fucking selfish to the core devil in them too. I oughta
know the score on that one, because I’ve been there and done that and I’ve also
seen it everywhere I’ve been in others, well and truly. It, the I me mine,
gimmie gimmie gimmie disease, is fucking everywhere amongst the humans. Just
like cancer is, only it is a lot lot lot more common.’
‘How can the chillun not have skid marked
souls JT, when they are fucking around nonstop with a light to dark duality
consciousness? Only by ascending into the non dual cosmic consciousness level,
will they rid themselves of their imagined illusory devils. So leave the
ignorant fuckwits, and the moronically ultraviolent hypocrites alone JT!
They’ve got their holy book machines, and their war technology which they can
water down and flog off to the public, making squillions in the process, but
between the lot of them, they haven’t got one gram of the mystical brain in them
yet. They, because they seek the political advantage only, are I am inner inner
inner only to their cores.’
‘Yeah! Fucking oath they are Shyam!’
‘Well! People are the way that they are,
until they develop the mystical awareness to do something about that. Besides!
They are motivated by love of dirt, love of family, love of a system that works
for them, and a love of material prosperity, and you could not blame a third
dimensional human for being so inclined. Given the abominable 3D programming that
they have been drugged with. So let them
be tiny little dimensionless points of Light, and tiny little arsewiping
masters of limitation at the same time, because that’s all that they fucking
well are kid. They are all designed because of their gross karmic vulgarities,
to re run this turd of a light and dark, split third dimensional holographic
game level again. That’s their karmic cosmic reward for being ultraselfish to
their bones, and ultraignorant and ultraviolent fucking idiots, and there is
nothing that you or anybody else can do about that.’
‘Good! I don’t want to do anything about it
anyway Shyam! I want every last one of those rotten rotten rotten cuntfaced
ultra violent pricks off my fucking planet! They’re fucking up my cosmic
programme those dickheaded, dickbrained fucking idiots are, and they don’t fit
in with my mystical vision of what should be here. At all!’
‘Ha! Yes! Good! They don’t fit into my
mystical vision of heaven on Earth either kid, and when they don’t fit into the
public’s mystical vision either, is when their time here will be up. They will
all be stuffed into a devolution tube then, and transported to a similar 3D
light and dark set up. They will get their just holographic desserts for
entertaining their holographically imagined demons, and allowing them to
indulge in their beastly whims. Just like every earnest seeker of the Light
will get theirs, for entertaining their angelic hosts with their peaceful
seeking efforts. Because that’s just the way that this universe programme
conducts its existential and mystical business Highgate.’
‘Uhuh!’
‘Yes! It enforces thru the God programme,
that a player soul square up their third dimensional karmic ledger, no matter
how many re runs are needed for that to happen. It demotes to lower programmes,
it enforces re runs in the same one, and it promotes to the higher ones,
according to a soul’s karmic balance sheet. It is a very fair and a very
benevolent universe this one, and it is not predatorily inclined at all. It
just does the right thing by everybody at all times, by bouncing back in
multiple measures, that which is bounced at it.’
‘Well what about fucking Rolf? Why are you
fucking around with that big eared prick then, mein therapist? If he is such a
lost fucking cause, why fucking bother?’
‘Because everyone here is made out of Light
and love at Source, and so is the entire outer of oneself from garden weeds to
the far extremes of the universe, and of all of the cons that I have ever
worked with in west Oz, Rolfy is the one who has the best chance of developing
awareness of that in this lifetime.’
‘What are you his fucking cosmic nurse or
something, are you Master? Looking at that shortarsed fucking Dumbo eared
fucking animal, one would be kind to think him capable of generating another
reptile like, spiked three inch turd from out of his mongrel arse. Let alone
him coming anywhere near achieving enlightenment, and accelerating himself into
the fucking cosmic consciousness level. That Jesus and Buddha, and all of the
rest of those really cosmically spaced out dudes supposedly attained to.’
‘Well appearances can be deceiving JT, and
you of all people ought to be aware of that by fucking now. I mean you are the
new cosmic kid on the terrestrial block, and this entire world and the universe
surrounding it is nothing but an ingenious holographic deception. It’s just a
programme! Which of course, is orchestrated courtesy of the mind tool. Like
programmes are! Besides that, no matter what the species, race, gang or group
is, there’s always one, and at this exact moment, where the timeless Real is
continually intersecting with that magic moment, where beings are all bound up
like shit to a shovel in mind imagined time and the unreal, I am fucking
looking at her! Aren’t I? I am looking at a little nazi looking Oz chick who is
going to miraculously accelerate herself into cosmic consciousness, to become
the first modern twenty first century female to achieve enlightenment. I am
looking at one of the ones and the One at the same fucking time! Aren’t I JT? I
am looking at cosmic consciousness in the city, I am. Aren’t I kid?’
‘Huhh! I don’t fucken think so! I think that
you are on the King Cobra juice with that one Master. I’d be lucky these days to
put a fucking paper plane together, or skip a single rope once, let alone run a
fucking universe. I am not the one who is the One! I couldn’t help a star to
fart, let alone keep it up there in the sky. I don’t know what in the fuck I
really am, but I know that I am not that ethereal magnificence, ’ grumped the
kid.
Whose mind had automatically bi polared at
the reference to her mystical fantasticness, and reaction programmed back into
I am gross gross gross limitation. Where it had downloaded straight away into I
am not that wunderbar wunderbar wunderbar wider identity, I am just a piece of
human shit and an existential victim, mode. Again. Due to her conditioning and
brainwashing from a zero year old on, to believe that she was totally inside of
just one bodymindmachine, she had immediately gone there. Like a bullet being
fired into an already dead carcass, she’d automatically shot into I me mine, me
me me, I am just a natural born imperfect and limited sinner person and
personality, and the creation of some wrathful sky God, mode. Up down. Up down.
Down up. Repeat. That was her current super bluesy, almost down and out,
degrading mortal pattern.
She’d cyniced out to the max that is, and
was playing with I am a no good body, and I am just a lump of low down and
dirty rotten useless and worthless, societalised bad and bung human shit, who
deserves to be exterminated. Yet again! She wasn’t only dirty on the world
programme, she was dirty on her own mystically backed one too. Like one
wouldn’t mucking believe, she was running all of the put down shit thru her
continually bi polaring, dualistic mind. The I am not made out of love and
Light stuff, that is. The, I am made out of the opposite of love and Light
conceptual junk, so to speak. Again, she had bi polared on the this way, no
that fucking way! Feel good and don’t feel good pattern, and she’d shot down
the negative snake on the motherfucker dualistic slide’s gameboard. Or mind
projected holographic grid. She hadn’t climbed a ladder to some more existential
ecstasy with the I am path, she’d gone the other way. Real fast too. Faster
than a speeding bullet, she’d bi polared into the down down down bullshit, that
these days characterized her life. I am a morbidly fucked cunt! She was playing
with. Or rather, her mindtool which had had the English alphabet stuffed into
it, was.
Moods! Wucking up and down moods! Chemical
flits in the wucking brain or body! A squish or squirt of this or that atomic
construction here or there in the brain or body, and the mind goes all over the
place, and one is out of control, and ready to make love, or war. Or to
suicide, or to stay alive and become as famous as a Goddess or God. They’re
like farts moods are, because they are so uncontrollable. Hold in a fart or a
mood the Naz say, and there’ll be wucking trouble, just up the track. Her third
dimensional set up system then, was moodily rejecting the I am made out of love
and Light programme, and the I am the One who is one of the ones, programme.
Quite frankly, having bumbled beed down the exact same path himself in the
past, the Master had expected it. After all, he wasn’t an idiot, and he knew
full well that both he and his client were still existentials in a duality
programme. They hadn’t gone non dual yet, and that was wucking obvious to him.
One moment she had been relatively high, and then the next she was anything but
that, because he’d told her a bit about who she really was. Being that she was
one of the ones who are called the homosapiens, who was also the One life,
fucking around with myriads of holographically condensed image projections,
thru myriads of minds.
Indeed. He’d spotted easily that she’d mood
geared down into a very poor self identity, and lots of depression evoking
negative self esteem, that was backed by an ever ballooning ball of holographic
bemusion, and a shitpile of invented and imagined, black dog conceptuality
galore. It was all, the Master knew, the result of her smaller identity, out of
too much lead heavy ego and an existential fear of exclusion and annihilation,
blocking her wider self out of the 3D holographic Earth game. Billions upon
billions of human souls in matter bodies, the Master was aware, were currently
running the same lousy stinking third dimensional programming, whilst they did
the exact same thing as regards denying their Source input into their lives.
Humans the Naz say, are masters at blocking out their wider selves, but the
friction between what their upper dimensional spirits want, and what their egos
want, can generate enormous anxieties throughout their mortal set ups. To that
point where the smaller identity can be freaking out that it is going to be
pulverized back into a grossly feared nothing, in an instant. JT was going in
and out of that very scary existential stuff a bit too much for her own liking
these days, and it was giving her the horrie shits as a sum total, it was. A
little sub programme spin off of her I am existential fear one, which really
gave her the wucking psychological poos, the I am anxiety programme was.
A Master however, according to the Naz. Is
one who can demonstrate that absolute acceptance of I am not the
bodymindmachine, and I am basically existentially and mystically speaking,
nothing that can be pinned down, will unblock the mind’s true potential, and
open up the cosmic holographic game like one wouldn’t believe. Whilst continued
rejection of one’s wider mysticality will only result in the re running of
appalling illusions, and the kid had both. She did. She’d had a shitpile of appalling
illusions, and she’d got herself a bit of a barking Guru too, she had. Every
wucking human needs one, and she’d had a lucky break and a lucky score, for
mucking once, she had. It was just like her good and horny mumsy had said.
Somewhere up the tunnel, beginning a millimeter out from one’s inner and outer
eyeballs, there’s always a little bit of the magic in the moment, second coming
gear. Hanging around in the background or the foreground, like the Light tends
to do. If that be a decent caring Guru who knows their holographic shit inside
and out, then one is on a winner, one is. The kid was on a cosmic consciousness
coming winner, but she didn’t know it yet. Like a lot of kids don’t, yet.
‘Stop it JT! Or you’ll go blind to your own
Light again, before you even fucking properly wake up to It!’ the Master
machine gunned barked at her. His mo pointing the bone at the middle of her
forehead, then blowing little hairy kisses at her down in the mouth heart.
As instinctively and intuitionally, he
had read the workings of her sadsackess and heavily cynical and societalised, I
am limitation and a piece of worthless shit, I am not the Source and one of the
ones who is the One, re running mindset.
‘Get it cosmically together kid! For
fucking once in your cunt of a life! With I am spirit and I am made out of love
and Light at Source, and so is everybody and everything else!’ He yelled at
her. ‘It is the only way! You must institutionalize into your mindset, I am
Light and I am that which never ever degrades self or Self. You must cease all
of your holographic attachments to form and mind conceptualized negative 3D
self image crap, and revert to your natural wider Source identity. You are a
dimensionless point of Light, incorporating the inner and the outer and the
beyond of all universes. That’s all!’ he half barked at her. ‘You don’t have to
worry yourself sick about being a human, because the human is mind made
projection and totally programme, but you’re fucking not! You’re a spirit of
the Light and you are just like Alice in Wonderland kid,’ he said
diagnostically, House like. With a bit of residual English still left in his
left cosmic nasal.
‘Society and upbringing in a punk
limitation set up made you small as small as small. Smaller than a dogturd in
self and Self image, you have become. Now I come along, because you as primal I
am have put me here to teach you how to be big big big again, or what you were
originally before you became so terribly mind small, so that you can fly back
into the cosmic beyond again. As who you really are. As absolutely liberated
and unbound fun loving spiritual and mystical consciousness. This is the
destiny of every spirit of the Light, and behind every human is a spirit of the
Light, working away at swimming their way back to and up the river of Light.
Some fucking how!’ Told the therapist.
‘Many here who pose as mind trumped up
holographic manifestations, really wish to be where they truly Source and spawn
from,’ he asserted. ‘This cosmic return to Source destiny, of every poor cosmic
slob who is trapped in the electromagnetic field of the 3D web of fear and
desire here, cannot be stopped. What the Light expels that does not diffuse
within holographic creation, it draws back in, like the lungs do. You must show
some Oz cosmic guts then JT, and declare yourself to be made out of Light, so
that the Light can spot and read you upon this accursed holographic grid, and
then lusciously and beautifully come thru you. In an enlightening beast to
angel conversion that rockets you into cosmic consciousness, and that finally
liberates you from the illusory wheel of karma that you have bonded yourself to
here. In this pretty cruddy light and dark, scrotum bag of a dualistic third
dimension.’
They had solid eye contact, and the
holographically simulated symbolic Earth symbolic noises were coming on strong,
Brenda Lee like, as the mystical parleying went on and the Shyam continued.
Their grins at each other were going both ways up and down a free helter
skelter slide, and it was as if they were surrounded by fields of ethereal
corn, and cosmic Macarthur’s Parks, and the odd astral statue of liberty too.
Not one baby soul scumbag idiot of a politician, or gun packing or fist
throwing ignorant in their universe, was visible. There were no pedophilic
priests or crooked cops about either. Serial killers and bully boys were absent
too. Mad women were as well. They had a bit of momentary peace on their side,
but outside the front door to the premises was the biggest hell hole that any
universe has so far ever known. It used to be called Pan in the real old old
old days, the Naz say, but these days as every citizen knows, it is called
Earth. Someone changed the name of this rock, a long time ago. Why? No one, not
even God, knows. Apparently.
They were in a mucking third dimensional
duality, where beings know how to play shit wucking dirty all right. A pity and
a shame that is, the Naznath’s knew. Unless one cracks the matrix, and
thunderbolts oneself into hyper cosmic consciousness enlightenment, so that
they transcend the beast within themselves, and the beast within everyone else
too. The Naznath’s knew that that was the real way to go, and that there was
absolutely no need to become a politician or to get on Big Brother, or do any
of that other so called reality TV crap. Where politicking egos spewed their
chunderous two bit spew, all over the inside of one’s TV screen.
Could this be the Highgate kid’s story, and
the beginning of the Julie Thompson legend and religion? So that many ascended
JT types, or ‘Thompsons’, would pop up out of nowhere, all over the fair Earth.
Could such a trouble prone kid as her, actually become the first 21st
century female to attain to enlightenment? The Master from Bombay was working
on it, he was. He was a cool cosmic cat, and a mystical dude to be reckoned
with in a terrestrial shithole like this one, he was. He had a cracking mo that
had an ethereal life all of its own, as well. He had this universe onside and
licking his ethereal boots 24/7. Because it loved him so mucking much, as an
articled up and condensed to image, holographic party Light.
‘It the Light and the Real cannot come to
you if you persist in identifying with the contents of your societally
brainwashed third dimensional mind JT!’ The Guru barked, silver wolf wolf
wolfishly. ‘To do the inner and the outer trip and boldly re enter the river of
Light’s territory, and go where not many fucking humans go when they fucking
well ought to, you must get existentially wise Highgate. You must deprogramme
all nonsensical 3D programming crap from out of your mystical system, flush out
your mind absolutely of all of it, and witness that as a point of dimensionless
Light already, that the divine joke is fucking on you! Because that notion
where you have felt yourself to be cosmically lost and separated from Source,
as an inner that is all fucked up, because of purportedly losing the inner and
the outer connection, is pure holographic illusion. My dear, you are always the
Light! You are always the ocean! You are never ever the wave! The wave and its
surface world are all mindtool made illusion. You can be a lot of projected
ones in these fucking mind trumped up holographic games that we play kid, but
you can never ever not be the One, who hosts all of the shows,’ Shyam related.
‘That’s just not existentially possible!
Because that is who you always are, at your Source. I implore you to register
that in your fucking brain, and to never ever put yourself down or bag yourself
or Self my dear, because the Light never ever does that. Your goal now is to
reconnect to your Source and to open up to your Light, and to have It open up
to you. The last thing that you want to do is to continue denying that the
fucking Light even exists, or assert that you are permanently disconnected from
It the Real, or involved in some sort of existential war with It. Because of
existential victim, I am limitation perception. You are a beautiful being of
Light who had the fucking multidimensional guts to drop down a kazillion
degrees in vibration, and play as a young woman here, in this ultra tough 3D,
cunt of a prick filled hologram!’
‘Yeah! I dun it! I dun it! I dun it Shyam!
I fucking dun it all right! Why in the fuck I fucking dun it though, I’m fucked
if I know.’
‘Ha! Well that is for you to find out, if
you can. So! You came as a super vulnerable birthing agent of mysticality, to a
dickheaded barbarian’s planet, that is full of dickheaded barbarians, and the
odd good and existentially enlightening bloke. Like myself, and my GF, and a
heap of others about the place. How fucking mystically awesome are you
sweetheart? Stand up and I will prostrate myself in front of you and kiss your
black booted feet! You’re my upfront little mystical heroine, on a dirty rock
full of them who are still sleeping, you are. You’re the fucking cosmic
Highgate kid, you are JT! Are you a gun cosmic player like my intuition is
telling me you are? Can you crack your own multidimensionality and blow the 3D
matrix into kazillions of holographically dissolving bits, and trip the Light
fantastic? With your own Source Light. Well we’ll fucking find out Highgate!
Won’t we? Do you feel cosmically lucky punkess?’
‘Uhuh! I ’spose so. I do sitting here
anyway! But I can’t vouch for what will happen once I hit the street jungle
again Shyam. Any fucking thing could happen out there!’
The Master grinned the mystical fire, and
the tattooed up kid from the ’Gate grinned the mystical fire back, because the
only thing that is going to save 21st century humans is the mystical
fire. Nothing mucking else in this global lunatic’s asylum will save the
wretched duality programme playing, 3D programmed I am inner only homosapien,
and they both knew that. No God religion, economic or political or social
system can save the human race now, was their common cosmic theme. If humans
don’t discover the mystical fire within them soon soon soon, and reverse their
seven deadly sins stuff, then they’ll all go down the existential tube, and
that will be that. Meaning that the Earth programme will have no happy wind up,
and it will have been a lousy lousy lousy story, from the day that the first
homosapien had their first shit on Her. Ma Earth, that is. Who doesn’t know
that these days? They sure as wucking well did. The Indian and the kid from Oz!
They were like a couple of baked beans from the same wucking tin man’s tin
wucking can, they were.
‘This turd of an ultradense 3D hologram,
that is so ultrafull of ultraviolent and ultradense ultradumbs mein client, may
be an anti existential fun and a cosmic fucking shit of a dualistic place, but
it can fucken test out your affinity for the non dual Light, like no other
fucking hologram going anywhere in any fucking other universe can. Why do you
think that souls in a set up where mystically living is the only existential
purpose, and chasing the Light is really the only game going on, choose to
shoot mind projections into this awful and woefully ignorant, super dense in
vibration place? To test out their eternal love for the infinitely abundant
Light that governs their soul existences my dear, is their cosmic game. Never
ever forget that chasing the Light is really all that is really going on JT,
and never ever deny yourself that cosmic honour that transcendentally honours
you as a cosmic player, that is so inherent in your divine existentiality.
Bitches my dear, can access cosmic consciousness, just like bastards can!
Anytime and anywhere, they can do it, if they know how. With a good path up
their arse, they can do it easily, because of the two sexes they are the more
sensitive to the subtle.’
‘Uhuh! I’ll try not to forget that Master.’
‘Good girl! Your divine spirit loves you
like you wouldn’t believe my dear, and it is busting its guts right now to get
you to wake up a bit to the awesome magnificence of who you really are. It may
be frightening the shit of you with the odd shock, which isn’t so bad when you
think about it, and it may be evoking the odd anxiety crisis in your cunt of a
life, but it is still busting its guts to get you back to being a dimensionless
point of Light, and a fully awakened fucking homofuturian. Because that is this
universe’s cosmic spirit’s programming, and that’s all that it runs off, and
the cosmic spirit always gets its lady. Or its man. Sooner or later it blows
the human mind with the mystical fire, that is the transcendental love Light
that is behind and beyond all of this nonsensical matter bullshit. The cosmic
bells are tolling with ascended awareness for thee JT! They really and truly
are mein client! Because I speak not with the forked tongue of the white prick,
who at Source is made from Light. Rather, the body makes sounds, and they are
the sounds of the galactic mystic.’
There was more grinning. It was like the
Master and the client were in a shootout with the damn things, and their grins
were like Apache arrows being shot at the sun. The Master’s mo was his
terrestrial bow, whilst JT was using her mind to conduct her maneuvers.
Essentially, that was the raw cosmic guts of the entirety of her existential
and mystical, third dimensional dilemma, and the Master had every intention of
sooner or later, telling her that. To stop using her mind, that is. It was a
bit of a nudge nudge, wink wink one though, and it was still very early days in
her acclimatization to the I am path and model, so for the moment the wily old
mystical Indian held back. On the real truth, about the motherfucker come
fatherfucker, mind.
‘The angels greatly admire the beast, for
its 3D skills. Particularly one who can retain a fair portion of their ethereal
angelicness in a beast’s hologram, my dear,’ he told her instead. ‘The angels
absolutely love the peaceful and compassionate and mystically seeking type of
mortal, like you wouldn’t believe JT. With this silent army of inspired twenty
first century cosmically aware types, they fully intend to finish off the
duality consciousness here. They’re going to slit its holographic throat!
Because it is too fucking unjust and too fucking ultraboring, and ascended
consciousness graduation from it is ultra painfully slow. The buggers are going
to inaugurate the first non dual civilization of hyper consciousness advanced
humans who have transmutated into homofuturus upon this planet, they are.’
‘Uhuh! Good! Fair enough! Someone has gotta
fucking do it Shyam, and a trillion to one it won’t be the UN.’
‘Ha! No way! Even so, ultrafuckwit and
ultramystically dumb and ultraviolent homosapien here is getting the cosmic
boot, just like Neanderthal got the cosmic boot, and many other species are
willy nilly today, and glorious homofuturus is coming. As the magical,
multidimensional, up front cosmically aware and in tune with Source, new bumped
up human model. The cosmic consciousness homofuturian, and the savior of the
fucking just about gone for all money, human fucking race, is coming JT. Tell
the world’s so called leaders, who are nothing but super ignorant dogs of
business wars that!’ Roared Shyam. ‘Tell them that fucking millions of this new
cosmic type of ultrgeared up human are coming, not just fucking one, and that
their finally tapped and unleashed multidimensional psychic powers will enable
them to holographically dissolve an untraviolent or an establishment pig, in an
instant. Before either of them can get out of bed in the morning to get going,
with their dirty deeds, done chronically expensively. Holographic trip.’ The
Master said.
With a dirty great big beaming smile on his
face, that was just about the size of the subcontinent where the body that he
was hosting came from. Pretty wucking happy about Heaven on Earth apparently
being on its way, was the mystically mucking around Naznath Indian, and who
could blame him for that? On a low down and dirty rotten, but still sometimes,
on the odd occasion, most beautiful sinner’s rock like this one, no one really
could. Did the Highgate kid know that? Mucken oath she did. She wasn’t no 3D
mystical stupid, on a rock that has far far far too many of them. A wake up
real wucken fast type, this little nazi looking west coast bitch was, not a
Collingwood supporter at all. Thank God. Because this programme of a world has
more than enough of them. They’re a dime a dozen, they are.
‘Listen up kid! Every human, good or bad,
is a sleeping fucking homofuturian! Every human already has all of the gear in
them to fucking homofuturise, and grasp their innately dormant cosmic
consciousness. All that they have to do, is to fuck with the I am not a mind
projected bodymindmachine, I am the inner and the outer and the beyond
programming, for a change. They don’t have to grab a gun, and lead any fucking
battle charge, and kill people. When they hypocritically worship a sky God
whose number one rule was, wait for it, yes that’s right! Don’t kill people!
Love they enemy! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh fucking hell JT!’ roared Shyam.
‘There’s more fucking fuckwit hypocrites on
this anally retentive planet, than there are on all of the other fucking rocks
in this universe, put together. The baby souls are like maggots here! Anyway!
That’s the third dimensional way to do existential business, and it just
doesn’t work because the ego beast has never known what in the fuck it is
doing, and it never will either. It just lusts after mortal power and wealth,
with God on its side, because that’s all that it can do, and it has absolutely
no chance of turning angelic,’ the Shyam affirmed. ‘If the masses of
individuals, who do have a chance of turning angelic however, get in tune with
their primal I ams, and the cosmic consciousness gene inside of them gets going
communally virus like, it will unleash with cosmic voracity never before seen
on this planet, the I am the inner and the outer consciousness taking over, and
conversely; the I am inner only one magnificently dying off. Then there’ll be
no stopping the cosmic bitches and bastards who constitute the masses of
slightly evolved souls, from holographically taking over from the ruling too
dark and too mystically ignorant, ultraviolent baby souls. Who are self
destructing both their civilization and the planet. Because they are grossly
immature babysoul idiots. Who worship profit profit profit and more profit, and
the death wish, without knowing why, and who couldn’t run a sewerage works, let
alone a fucking holographic world.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ erupted Julie, knowing
exactly what her therapist meant. Especially in the Zimbabwean and American and
Australian, and so many other cases.
‘Only problem is with this my dear, is that
ninety nine point nine percent of the fucking people, don’t know that they’re a
sleeping homofuturian yet. Yeah! It is a tough world JT! You should try my job
squirt! You should try waking people up to the dimensionless point of Light
whom they really are at Source, in a cunt of a prick of a third dimensional
world like this one. When they have all been programmed to the max, to think
that they are fucking limitation only, in one fucking body only. Then you’ll
know what ultra hard fucking planetary yakka really is mate! Not that I have
any wish to shove the truth down unwelcome throats mind you, and better still
my dear, imagine being a GuruMother, and the degree of cosmic interphase and
sacrifice that that would involve?
Imagine being female and having cosmic
consciousness and your full fifth dimensional awareness scope going, and having
to deal with God fucking forbid, third dimensional mortals. Who are one hundred
percent convinced that they are just…ha! Ha! Ha!….One fucking God created solid
body, in a cunt of a prick filled solid fucking world. Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh Buddha
kid! I can’t really tell you anything that is absolutely true in a holographic
dream, and I don’t really know what I’m doing in this atrociously bad 3D
programme either. I just super dig the I am path, which works wonderfully for
me and many many others, and I love my GuruFather too, I do. He may look an old
dried up cunt, but he gave me the mystical works back, he did. I’ll love the
old bastard forever for that, I will.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Fuck being a GuruMother
Master!’ roared Julie. Who in her wildest wildest wildest dreams, could not see
herself becoming one. As a matter of fact, she could see herself becoming just
about anything, even a politician or a Big Brother housemate, but not a
GuruMother. Christ! Great Bon Scott! She could see herself reading out the 6
o’clock news on channel 666, before she became one of those mighty illustrious,
cosmic creatures. Having a dream about becoming some sort of mucking princess
was bad enough, but dreaming about shape shifting into becoming a GuruMother at
this stage of her existence, seemed so absolutely wucking ridiculous, that she
could only treat the suggestion as a bit of a divine joke. Thrown at her by a
top cosmic bloke, being her Mumbai Guru therapist, and a bit of a Gandhi
lookalike to boot too. The bugger was, she reckoned.
Fond of the Mahatma, the JT was. At school
when she’d dun history, Hitler had got a lot of coverage, because she knew, he
was so mucking evil, and there’s a little bit of the dualistic Hitler in just
about everyone. Which fascinates the masses she thought, because the dark side
appears to be omniscient, when apparently it is absolutely not. Gandhi on the
other hand, had only got a week or so’s worth of attention from her history
teacher, but she’d loved hearing about him a lot more than learning about
Hitler. Because his satyagrahaishness had blown her away, and he was such a
true blue man for absolute peace. Like Jesus and Buddha and all of those sort
of cosmic dudes were, she’d noticed.
She knew in her heart that by far the vast
majority of the Earth’s women are strong lovers of peace, which is that
condition where they can get the cosmic attention that they desire and seek,
and that they existentially deserve. For fronting up in the first place as a
mind projected human female manifestation, in a zunt of a prick filled fucking
third dimensional game and soul’s hologram, like this mucking one. The Highgate
kid, like all kids are, was born with a natural inner and outer programming
already active within her set up, but she had had it the horribly existentially
dissatisfying I am inner only false holographic programming, shoved in or up
just about every orifice that she had. To the point where her natural inner and
outer programme stuff had become abstract, foreign, and even alien to her. God!
She was even wucking afraid of it sometimes! How bizarre is that? Hence also,
her periodic high anxiety, and her continual bi polaring. When the Source and
the Light lean on one, one can stress a bit they can, and she knew all about
that, she diddeth. Who doesn’t these rottenly beautiful, 21st
century days?
No wonder then that she was a bit
mystically off course, like a meteorite with diarrhea; but how absolutely
wunderbar for her to have finally come across a being who really and truly and
absolutely like, actually knew what they were mystically mucking talking about.
Her cup runneth over a bit, as they say, and they say that the place to have
and hold one’s GuruMother or GuruFather is in the heart, and already the old
Gandhi lookalike was working her way into his. The PM couldn’t do it for her,
and neither could a black or white American number one, but Shyam could
apparently. Women! The girls! Even if one can speak pretty fluent Chinese these
days, one may still not be their cup of tea, and the tank man is still alive
and well in many a freedom lover’s memory. The tank man, he was the first of
the new breed of homofuturians, he was. He won’t be the last of them either. At
least not according to the Naz.
The wily old Master knew however, that the
girls are suckers for the absolute truth about how absolutely wonderful and
divinely beautiful they all are at Source, and that they love to hear all about
what gun mystical and multidimensional players and potential matrix busters
they really are, behind the physical and the maya illusion scenes. He was well
aware that they absolutely adore hearing all about how they can crack the third
dimensional matrix here, just like a wee bunch of men have done, at anytime and
anyplace, and thus promulgate themselves forthwith into the angelically based
inner and outer and beyond, cosmic consciousness programme. Reclaim their
wucking Grace states again, that is.
By blowing the inherited and woefully inept
third dimensional programming, and surfacing within their forever ascending,
mystical consciousness. Just like the wee bunch of cosmic consciousness males,
who weren’t burdened up to the karmic eyeballs with child minding, or plagued
by the presence of forty four thousand super bully rapist types everywhere that
they went, and who therefore had the space and time to contemplate and meditate
a bit upon a decent cosmic path back to and up the river of Light, have done.
Bumped themselves hyper up the consciousness chain gang, that is. JT was no
different than any other lusciously gorgeous little bitch on this planet then.
She was just a girl who wanted to have some real mystical fun! For fucking
once, in her zunt of a pricks everywhere, life. Wholeheartedly getting some of
that, and lapping up the attention and the cosmic joy with her wunderbar
mystical therapist, and enjoying the magic of and in the mystical moment, she
was a bi polaring miracle. In a zunt of a prick filled world, full stop.
I am
fucking existentially and mystically alive! Good shit! Not bad shit! She
was pumping through her psyche’s system, for the first time in a long long long
time. In her long dark night of the soul, or zunt of a prick of a life.
‘Oh
you’re a fucking cosmic card Master!’ she howled uproariously, like big kids
do. ‘If ever there fucking was one! You’re It! It must have been the fucking
fifth dimension where we last fucking met then. Only there can one find the
sort of mystical mirth that you are peddling, you sly old cosmic fucker!’ She
screeched high pitched merrily at him. With her cheeks all puffed up nazi red,
and having mega fun from getting so much delicious cosmic attention. Like she
was on Astral Big Brother or Astral Rove, or the clitoral and penile Earth
Survivor, or something. Cockatoo Highgate kid like she was, screeched out, with
the tiny little black hairs on top of her head dancing the happy mystical’s
trip too. For mucking once, in her zunt of a vaginaed up life, where not too
many of her kind are known to attain to enlightenment. Called herein quite
often, specifically, cosmic consciousness.
‘Ha! The angels want to take this shit
heavy lead 3D density here and rarify it somewhat a bit mate,’ the Master of
Crazy Horses said, with a gurgling chuckle laugh. ‘Speed it up a bit that is,
so that they can walk in human shoes too, and do angelic stuff upon the ground.
In a beastless and more holographically pliable, mystically sane environment.
Where I am the inner and the outer and the beyond, and I made out of love and
Light, and so is everyone and everything else, is the cosmic programme juice
that powers every being. You are one of
the billions of asleep angels here my dear!’
‘Uhuh! That is a bit of strange news from
another star to me Master! I don’t feel like a sleeping angel. I feel more like
I’ve been sentenced to a stretch of some hard hard hard years in a hell, where
even just talking about angels makes me feel a bit queasy, and so far, I
haven’t gotten a ride in a Time lord’s box.’
‘Well it is as true as the Ganges flowing
that you are a sleeping angelic, because both the pure I am and I am the inner
and the outer liberating viruses are dormant within your set up Highgate. You
must wake up to them now because quite simply, it is a far far far fucking too
dangerous time now for a sleeper angel not to wake up. Because the cosmic pace
here is accelerating at a wicked rate, and the rate is going to get so future
wicked, that nearly every beast here will shit themselves. All of the way up
Route 66, and every other fucking route that they’ve got as well. Before mega
many of them reclaim their Grace states, and revert to their true angelicness
in a somewhat vibrationally modified main programme. That is, a mutation of the
programme of I am inside the body only, which is currently being so laboriously
re run into the dirt here.’
‘Uhuh! Hot shit! But I can’t see it m’self!
I see rather the worthy bones of big and small mystically dumb animals
everywhere, exactly like what happened with the dinosaurs, but if you say so
Master. Fuckaduck! I’ll give a Cherry Ripe in the seventh at Raaaaanndwick, for
that mutation that yuse is dreaming about,’ the kid responded, to the Master’s
absolutely wicked prophecy.
‘I’ll take that fucking Cherry Ripe kid!
Because the I am path and model is just the path and model that you as a decent
cosmic law abiding cosmic citizen needs right now, to fully wake yourself up to
your Source JT. Mystically speaking, I am one hundred percent sure of that.
I’ve got a cosmic hunch about you ma’am, I really have, and one cannot fail in
these matters. As a matter of fact, it is about the only thing that a human
cannot fail at.’
‘Uhuh! That’s a bit of good news, on a
planet where any good news left is being quickly blown away by the forces of
darkness, Shyam.’
‘Yes! Of course JT! Because one is already
and can never not be made out of transcendental love, and Light. One can never
not be the Source, upon which all stages are erected via holographicised mind
projection. That is our common Home, if thou gets my drift. At Source, none of
us are holographic, and we are all the One life. We are all the Supreme, as
points that are also the collective. Because we all come out of the one life
Light, and we all die back into It, no matter what happens holographically, we
do. But, as you well know mein Oz possum, one can get horribly fucking
existentially and mystically lost, in this cosmic turd of a third dimensional
programme. Lost! Lost! Lost! As a mind projected holographic this or that,
coloured homosapien body projection! Of either the girl, or the boy sex.
Programme running I am this or that perceptual conceptuality 24/7, and that has
been shot out into the middle of the main programme’s shitfuckingly dualistic
world stage, and that has to wipe bum 24/7. Easily enough, can one get well and
truly lost in that bung programming piled up on top of bung programming,
mystical identityless excreta.’
‘Uhuh! Third dimensional shit happens
Shyam! The planet is renowned for it. If you want to turkey with more shit than
you’ve known in the rest of the universe put together, then this is the
holographic rock that you come to. Everybody knows that!’
“For sure JT! The 3D shit happens here, and
then it the exact same sort of shit happens again, and again, just like in
Groundhog Day. I won’t argue with you about that one kid. All that one has to
do is go I am in it and only it, the holographically projected bodymindmachine
lump of flesh and its world that is, and whammo! Boom! The entire holographic
body in a holographic universe illusion comes into manifestation, and sits up
there on one’s mindscreen, and even though it is a cosmic fake, it appears so
so so fucking real. Fuck a duck senseless! There’s a fucking recipe for trouble
fucking galore, if ever there fucking was one. I am a human! In either a God
created or happenstance fucking universe. Fuck! Watch out for that motherfucker
of a programme! Warning! Warning! Warning to all souls out there in the
universe who might be planning an Earth incarnation or two. Fuck off! Try
another programme rock! Stay right away from this cunt of a prick of a dirty
dirty dirty hologram programme, you fuckers!’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh Master! What fucking
curry are you on old son? Can I have some? I’ll take a lifetime’s worth, if
you’ve got it.’
‘Of course ma’am! Just sit in I am, and It
will come to you, and It will do a lot more than hold your hand. So! Known to
be the most difficult one in the entire universe, to stick to the Light in,
this turkey shoot of a 3D programme is. Come one! Come all! Roll up you cosmic
cunts! Roll up you cosmic pricks, and you other disgusting disgusting
disgusting, ultraviolent babysoul bastards. Lose your wider consciousness and
super super super pulverize it, and super super super download it, into a lump
of egoed up animal flesh that excretes and excretes, and adopt the programme of
I am a 3D homosapien. Phoo! Elephant shit! Why? What in the fuck for? Trade in
one’s 4D excreteless sky bike programme, for a put together from the dirt 3D
one, that poops and poops and poops itself back into the dirt. Not much of a
cosmic game kid! Bit of a first little Mario, for the a bit more advanced and
slightly more intelligent soul, like yourself. Don’t you think so Ma’am? A get
existentially and mystically ripped off, and you lose before you even get
started cosmic game this 3D one. Because the 3D programming is fucked, from the
start to the finish. Don’t y’think so JT?’
‘Uhuh! I do! I do! I do Master! The fucking
3D programming here sucks and sucks and sucks! Its fucked me up! Its fucked me
up! Its fucked me up! I don’t like it! I don’t like it! I don’t like it! I’d
like to bullet it in the head! I’d like to bullet the sick 3D programming in
the head, I would mein therapist. Bang! Bang! Bang! You’re dead you cunt of a
prick of a third dimensional programme. That’s what I want to be able to do!’
‘Yeah! Spot on kid! Spot on! You have
spoken for the decently intelligent youth of your day. What can one fucking do,
with a shit useless fucking programme? Of course! One can only destroy it, and
start again. Because I could invent better programmes to rock and roll and rap
and rave out in, than the 3D I am inner only one, and I bet you fucking well
could too JT. Without too much bother for your cutey cute little Oz brain. I
bet you that a lot of kids out on the street could easily come up with
something that tops that third dimensional; I am God made to be bad to the bone
and to kill millions upon millions, and to rip off every cunt and prick in the
process, and make squillions upon squillions in the process, but lardy dardy,
wouldn’t you know it? I am one of the ones whom God is gunna save when the end
of time stuff happens! Which, as you no doubt already know my dear, is very
very very false programming stuff. It is the quintessential essence of dreaming
in the dreamtime, that beginner babysoul holographic crap is.’
Julie grinned back at her therapist, wry
like, like she was slowly getting it, which she was. But the two year old
inside of her was still a bit huffy and puffy, and wanted it all now! Now! Now!
Now! Hey presto! Wow! Wow! Wow! Look at that! Sort of over demanding and over
desiring stuff. God! She was all little western woman all right. She was little
western woman to her existential core. She wanted it all now without having to
do any of the fucking earnestly hard mystical work, because she had been taught
from the very first moment that she herself had been shot out of Louise Thompson’s
just about had it vagina, that It the all was gunna come to her, from the
outside. Of her host holographic body, that is.
It was gunna show up on a white wucking
horse, or riding a cloud, or step out of a flying saucer, or have a can a beer
can in its hand and its bum crack showing well above its short’s line, or a
pipe in its hands, or whatever. So the legends went. She had never ever been
properly programmed up and re booted to seek the It the all and the Source
Light, on the wucking inside. Where It could be easily, mystically speaking,
found. Until now, that is. Her old pop had put a scratch in her interest in
such matters, but Shyam the Wonderguru was doing a slasher’s job on it.
In a click of the fucking terrestrial
fingers, the absolute cosmic desire was desired by the Highgate kid to
manifest, and thru the ego’s impossible dream illusion somehow, she wanted it
all to happen third dimensionally pronto. Like two year olds do, before they go
off, when they don’t get it. Pronto. Like it the mystical absolution and cosmic
explosion into full transcendental liberty and freedom was God given stuff, and
not God taken away stuff. Or something like that, it was in her current
psyche’s programming. Who can tell what another mind is really thinking, when
it is so difficult to keep track of what one’s own wucking mind is thinking?
Very few humans can cosmically read themselves, let alone cosmically read
anyone else. This is a commonly known existential fact, which Jimmie Morrison
of the Doors expressed in the song line, “People are strange”, and that’s why
types like the Naznaths exist. Someone has gotta set the people free from their
atrociously bung and existentially wishy washy, I am the body and mindbung, and
God has done me, and now he’s gunna celestially save me programme; and the Naz
do that. They do. They’re pretty good at it too, is the word on the vine,
apparently. They are reputed to be excellent and mighty skilled deprogrammers,
for those rescued from the dastardly ultraviolent cult of the humans.
The little nazi looking cosmic scruff from
Highgate, with the jet black, zig zag tatts, taking nothing at all away from
the genial existential attitude of this crazy souls and heady motherfucker’s
universe, she mucking knew that all right. Crikey! Two times two turkeys,
equals a planet full of the third dimensional bastards and bitches. Citizens of
the universe! They are called here. Marilyn Monroe. Or just plain Marilyn.
Helter Skelter! Sitting Bull, and Dr Who. House as well. His black and white
crew too. She was in the middle of the Naz’s stage all right. She was their
existential re programme and boot up turkey of the moment, she was. The
Highgate didn’t know how she’d dun it, but she know’d that she’d dun it! She
did. Dropped her bloody self in the middle of the Naz’s holographic stage, that
is. That’s life, for a lotta lotta lotta citizens, these days. To be mystically
rescued from the dastardly ultraviolent cult of the humans, is many many many a
bod’s dream.
On a planet where angels are as rare a
commodity as sane politicians and peaceful generals, that’s where the kid was.
In such a rank place in space, one can only dig in, and hang in there, and she
was doing all of that, without too much fuss, at the moment. She even felt a
bit like she was dreaming a wake up dream that she should have wucking well
had, a long long long time ago, she did. By crikey! Pon Rambo’s balls. She’d
wandered into the middle of the mystical programme all right, and the spin
doctor from inner and outer space and the mucking great beyond was crapping on
again, he was. Cosmic music into her ears it was, as he was talking a language
that she could intuitively understand in the mystical sense, and she liked
that.
Basically, the reverse swing, you are not
bad or bung thing assertion that the Naz put forth, and there you have just
been done by a bit of mindspin made third dimensional illusion, because of bung
programming, she liked. Somewhat. I am made out of love and Light at Source,
also tickled her, now that she had bi polared back to it. She had most
certainly never told herself that pre Eve stuff before, and it gave her
pleasure to contemplate the endless possibilities of such a classy classy
classy, 21st century, young woman’s affirmation, it did. As much as
it would give a young man some decent bump up to do that, and to thus form a
pretty different picture of reality about women, at the same time. Being that
they are all dimensionless points of Light, and not just soldier breeding
vaginas. At least, according to the Naz they are.
She liked the riding up the river of Light
idea too, quite a lot, the lass did. Who wucking wouldn’t? To tell the truth,
the riding up the river of Light idea was the one that really really really
intrigued her. She was fascinated by it. Despite that she was still riding out
the last vestiges of the, I am a cynic, and everything is fucked and it always
has been and always will be, and it is all gunna fuck up and die and end, programme.
So much so, that when she closed her eyes momentarily, she could almost see
that lusciously gorgeous river of Light. It was like her therapist had sent her
a head sms and picture. God! It was so so so beautiful. It was so so so
universally wide the river of Light, and it was just glowing with the mystical
gold gold gold stuff. It was a golden mystical river, if ever there was one.
Sitting right behind, and enveloping her makeshift mindscreen’s holographic
universe, it was. As pretty a mystical picture, as she had ever seen, in her bi
polaring universe. Where moods are a dime a dozen, and they come and go, like
inclement, and decent sunshine weather.
‘Watch out for selfishness and the ego programming
in and of the mindtool JT,’ Shyam said, quite quietly to her. ‘Existentially
and mystically speaking, no one here can claim to be any better than anyone
else, because in the true reality there is only the One life really going on. I
am the inner and the outer, Jesus said. What you see is nothing but your Self!
It is your own mind! My boss says. These GuruFathers all said and still say the
same thing. They say that the inner is the outer and the outer is the inner,
and if one can pick that, then they can trump the matrix here, and fuck around
with the great beyond. Instead of having to do this terrible 3D programme
shit.’
‘Hmmm! Uhuh!’
‘Those who crack the matrix can stitch
their fucking matrix up, and stick it in an astral shoebox and shoot it out
into deep space, because they’ll be over it and all third dimensional hoaxes,
for all time. I am better than he or she or they or them then, is not only the
grossest gross illusion going, it is killer ego programming, and the
attitudinal motivation behind all ultraviolence. Avoid running I am better
than, and its opposite I am worse than through your psyche my dear. Pull out
all stops and negate that lost in space, egoised and mind conned beast’s
nonsense. Because cosmic inner and outer power eats mortal physical and
material power, for breakfast lunch and tea, and even for the odd midnight
snack. Go for the cosmic mystical power, if you want the power that will last
infinitely and eternally.’
‘Righto Master! I’ll log that in.’
‘Leave the mortal short change power shit
alone, because with your degree of cosmic intelligence, you don’t need it.
Leave that crap for the ignorants and the babysoul fuckwits to hang their
karmicised souls up on JT. Abandon all of the human junk and go cosmic. Because
that’s really what’s up your arse existentially speaking, because it is what
the spirit of the Light in you wants you to do. It the spirit of the Light
doesn’t give a fucking shit what you as personality may be dream thinking that
you want. It wants another ride up Its own river, and one day It is going to
get it through you, my dear.’
‘Uhuh! Yes! I understand that all easily
enough Master. Particularly when it comes to men who seem to think that they
have some sort of divine right to overpower women, because they equate their
physical superiority with I am better than.’
‘Yes! Those baby soul idiots will pay some
heavy karmic dues for their violations though JT. The day will come soon enough
for them when they will wish with everything that they’ve got, that they’d had
the awareness to treat all women and children, and men, with the cosmic respect
that they deserve. The time is coming when they will most sincerely regret
being nothing but fuckwit Earthyard bullies, and rapists and killers. All of their
actions mask that in the true reality they are by far far far, the weakest
mystical players in this Earth programme. A lump of fresh dogshit clocks up
more karma bonus points, than they all do put together. Don’t worry about that
babysoul mob JT, because they won’t be here for that much longer. If they last
another fifty years in this mutating programme, it’ll be a miracle.’
‘I am looking so so so forward to their
demise and dissolution Master! Very very very much! I am. I hope that they all
get existentially fried on the spot, by mystical lasers shot out of their God’s
arsehole, and that they all shit their fucking arses bulk when it happens! I
hope that those ultraviolent bully boys and girls have a good one, in their re
run and demoted to the 3D level again, programme.’
‘Ha! Yes! I bet that you do! Especially
being a holographically projected female in appearance. However JT, the body
that has been so cruelly violated is not really who you really are, and the
mind that universally cocoons the flesh body, is not who you really are. Even
the pure consciousness with the I am in it, is not really who you are. They are
all illusions and behind it all that is the 3D matrix, you are a dimensionless
point of Light and an absolutely formless nothing, out of which the entire
holographic cosmic entirety emanates. It the mind is just a super subtle sense
of your soul. Like touch and sight and the others are senses of the body, and
its primal I am is the access point for you to play in and surf this low and
densely vibed consciousness dimension. As a holographicised, named and shaped
appearance, or image, that is.’
‘Uhuh! That’s some far out fucking shit
Master! That has some cerebral repercussions in it that could take me fucking
forever to suss out.’
‘Yeah! It’s pretty fucking wicked all
right. But deadly true! Because to identify with just being one 3D programmed
mind inside of one named and shaped body, that is all running off one ego, is
to complete the fall from grace. To identify with being just one body JT, means
physically and psychologically and materially defending and profiting that one
body, and the bodies of one’s surrounding gang. This leads to selfishness, and
selfishness is the root cause of all holographic evil. Aggressive competition,
instead of polite mystical sharing, always, sooner or later, somewhere or
another, involves killing and war. Anger
is conflict between fear and desire conceptuality. Hate is prolonger anger, and
war is hatred in action. That is the way that it goes in this holographic
shithole, my dear.’
‘Yes! That is true Master! I won’t argue
against that today. I am too existentially tired to joust with the absolute
truth.’
‘The ego only identity involves beastly
selfishness, and it excludes the Real and the super subtle, I am the inner and
the outer cosmic mindset, from the heavyset and ultra dense, third dimensional
life equation. The mortal gut wingers that the Real or their God has deserted
them, but in true reality, it is they who have deserted the Real and the God
and Goddess too, by adopting the I am just one body mindset, in the first
place. In a duality one cannot be the inner, without also being the outer, but
most of them don’t get that yet. They are going to have to grasp that mystical
fire pretty soon however, because it is going to get hot hot hot here just up
the track. Because they are currently all traitors to the One life programme,
and they have been done like a dog’s dinner by their own appallingly programmed
mindtools, but they can still blame the Source for the state of their world.
How fucking human is that my dear?’
‘Ha! It’s pretty fucking human Master! Even
I do that, on the odd occasion. The old tug of war with the Source, I know it
well. I was born with it up me astonishingly good looking arse, so I should
know it.’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! You’re a gross and grossly
programmed bitch with a super subtle over ride programme in you kid, if ever
there was one. Ha! It is also, the blaming dualistic, I am the inner only
programming, that fucks the fucking mortal shit out of people. Because it is so
ultraheavily laced with conceptualized I am failure, I am sorrow, I am despair
and I am existential angst and suffering, and all of that I am just one inner
bodymind identity person. With the lost in time and space garbage and the soul
blues shit strung all thru them. It is never the non dual Light of the inner
and the outer and beyond gear, upon whose surface the people mind run their I
am the inner only holographic disasters, that inflicts the gut wrenching
existential and personalized pain. Or institutionalizes it into the programming
set up of a psyche’s predominate perceptions and thinking.’
‘Uhuh! Tell me more, you old mystical
fucker.’
‘Very well! If you insist punkess. You’re
my kind of client Highgate! I like you kid! I think that you can go the
existential and mystical distance, I do. To get the Real back into one’s life
equation then, there must be a certain period of, let us say, humble apologies
to one’s Real Self JT. Yes! Let us say that humble apologies for the 3D mind
misread, and for pointing the finger of blame regarding existential suffering
being caused by one’s Source, and not one’s own former infantile third
dimensional, I am a bodymindmachine only ignorance and mindset programming; are
in order. Why fucking not? The Real gives absolute liberty, and a free
existential and mystical license to become anything or absolutely nothing, to
those souls mucking around in the holographically generated unreal. The Real
has told not one soul to play in unreal plays in consciousness, using only the
I am the inner only crap, has It? The people fucking tell themselves that! They
base their entire existences upon that false holographic poop, and then they
get into shitloads of cosmic, and societal trouble. From their widdle nazi
arseholes, up to their widdle nazi eyeballs. Don’t they my dear?’ He the shifty
shifty shifty Guru, winked at her. Who was the kid from the ’Gate.
So that she coy girl blushed a bit, and
looked away from direct eye contact with him for a moment, because she knew
exactly what in the fuck that he was talking about. She knew that she could be
a little two year old neurotic bordering on psychotic, ignorant and infantile
and top heavy ego on the loose bitch, at times. She was playing with I am a
young woman, so she had to play with that societally endorsed stuff, every now
and again. And! Vice versa for the men. Especially for the men, she thought.
Because they played so much with a beastly brutish, I am physically the stronger
beast power. At least some of the ones that she’d come across, did.
Particularly three whom she now despised, whom she’d unfortunately met when she
was last in Melbourne. That sports mad and four seasons in one day capital of
the state of Victoria, where Ned Kelly and his gang mucked up something
chronic, and got themselves shot or hanged by the establishment pigs of their
day, that is.
‘The GF instructs all agents of the Light
my dear, that the mind must explode to reach the Real. It is the Real where the
Light hangs out and that answers the mystical question who am I, that is
everywoman’s desire, deep deep deep down. For! It is the entire basis of their
mighty soul, which is quite obviously, because it has projections going in this
tremendously difficult duality hologram, chasing! A ride up the river of
fucking Light. Which is all that gun holographic game playing souls do. Chase
the Light, that is. Likewise for barbarian men JT.’
‘Barbarian men! They’re low down dirty
cunts they are!’
‘Not all of them JT! Some, I grant you, are
that which you have so fantastically described. However, some of them, just
like you, will shortly start playing with the I am the inner and the outer,
cosmic consciousness programme, again. Like they were doing, before they
downloaded their ethereal selves, and slid arse first down the multidimensional
grace ladder. To form up as a humanoid shaped body, in this terrible dung hill
of a 3D duality programme. So! To reverse all of that, so that the spirit of
the Real in you can run the show again, and to have the bliss of the mystically
long desired Source Light back in one’s life, with all existential worries gone
forever, one must surrender purported ego control to the spirit of the Light.
One must bring the mind back to the primal peace and quiet of the primal I am.
Thus short circuiting its ceaseless conceptual restlessness, and its shakedown
with desire and fear, in a make believe, holographic world programme. One will
never reach the Real using the poor me, I am a single human victim mindset.
Enlightenment will never get at one using that nonsensical stuff!’ The Master
communicated.
‘I am already aware of and awake to what is
really going on here in this Light hosted and mind trumped up holographic show,
is what you really need to be playing with. I am not the individual character
up on the stage! I am the whole lot of them, the stage, and what is beyond the
stage too. I am not a single human body! I am not in time and space or a world
in a universe, they are all in me. I am the timeless and the spaceless, and the
birthless and the deathless. I am the inner and the outer and the beyond too.
So in the fuck is everyone and everything else! You need to be playing with
those affirmations fucking full on these days JT, because mind made time is
super running out here.’
‘Uhuh! Good! Time sucks!’
‘Yes! It does. Yet there is coming for this
wretched rock, something of a bit of a holographic sorting out. As I said, the
fucking cosmic angels have super big plans, regarding the cosmic resurrection
of this third dimensional shithole of a world. The governing and harmonizing
angelic forces can’t take much more of this moronic baby soul rip off,
ultraviolent rubbish programme, and they will soon intervene here to short
circuit it. In a big big big way, too. Woe to all so called leaders here when
that happens then! Will they be able to handle the Light upgrade, or not? That
will be their one and only question, and votes real or trumped up, will not
save them from the new 3D-4D-5D programme’s wrath.’
‘I hope that they all get fried on the spot
by mystical lasers shot out of their God’s arsehole, and that they all shit
themselves bulk as it happens Shyam!’
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! That may yet happen kid. Because
cosmic law runs that every single soul whom they purportedly lead must access
the cosmic consciousness programme, before they can. Obviously, there’s a few
Roberts and Georges and Johns and Toms and Dicks and Adolfs and Joes and
Harrys, and black Bettys, and Davids and Osamas and other citizens around this
holographic hole, who won’t be too happy with finding that out my dear. That
they have come absolutely fucking last, along with all other serial killers,
including Dexter, in this holographic programme where one is supposed to stick
to the Light like supergloo, is not going to bliss them out. They won’t be
angel dancing with their hapless souls on the other side. No way! They’re more
than likely to be slapping themselves astrally around, for being such an
ultraviolent turkey, in this 3D programme.’
‘Good! I hope that they slap their astral
faces off, and that their God fires a few more lasers out of his arse at them.’
‘Ha! It may even happen that way kid! Yet I
say unto you that all of that is the absolute truth, and nothing but the
absolute truth. That the first in this life shall be the last in the next life,
they fucking got told, but just like a fucking human, they didn’t fucken
listen. At all. Ha! They’ve Dextered themselves ethereally, and they don’t even
know it yet. They’re ultraviolent babysoul fucking idiots, the lot of them, as
well as being dimensionless points of Light. You’ve got to love them all
mystically, because they are our younger little sister and little brother
souls, and they are so so so bad, and so so so mystically fucking dumb. But!
They’ll get the cosmic hang of it, in some holographically simulated life or
another, sooner or later. For now! They’ll be re running their third
dimensional programme shit from here into fucking eternity, the way that they
are currently going, they will. They’ll re run into another cruddy horror and
beauty and pain and pleasure and fear and love and hate, and all of the other
conceptual shit mixed together turd of a programme, for fucking sure.’
‘Wicked Master! Absolutely fucking wicked!
I am delighted for the fuckers. May they have fun, trying to suss it all out,
so that they can finally stop fighting and killing one another. That’s the sort
of wicked news that I fucking like to hear! But you won’t hear anything even
slightly resembling that on the six o’clock spews on any TV station anywhere,
on this wretched third dimensional rock. They are too fascinated with how many
are dead, how many are likely to be dead within the next twenty four hours, how
the war is going, who won the fucking game, and what the weekly fucking weather
forecast is. They filter out anything to do with flying saucers and the Et’s
are fucking everywhere shit, and they don’t want to know about anything
mystical, because they’re all existentially shitting themselves. They fear
death, and live a death wish war trip at the same time.’
‘Ha! Yeah! Sometimes your words are wiser
than you are at the moment kid. Anyway, the GF talks about it this joint
liberated hearts and minds holographic quickening quite often, and he says that
it is very close, and that it is getting closer by the day. He says that those
who are in tune with the Light here and who are the stage’s true blue peaceful
mystics, will ascend into a bit of a more fun and more subtle, holographic game
level. This shall be their holographicised reward for remaining ultra rigidly
true, to subtle and gross peace, subtle and gross love, and the super super
super subtle to subtle to gross Light. That shines so cosmically brightly,
behind every Goddess and God of love, compassion and mercy.’
‘Uhuh! Well that should keep the cunts
happy! Because they’re not at the moment Master. They’re plumb fucking riled!
At the moment, that is thee word on the street.’
‘Oh they’ll be happy all right kid! Their
inherited and transmutationally established so called new world will be a
variant combination of both the third and fourth levels, with more than a dash
of the fifth dimension in it. According to the old Bombay fucker, the dark and
ultraviolent ones here are all going to re run this exact same and turdy 3D
dualistic light and dark Earthparkish level, until they wise up that the whole
show is actually made out of, and hosted by their own Source’s Light. Everyone
else’s Source Light too. Fucking hell JT! Get a fucking cosmic grip on yourself
lassie! You don’t want to have to play in a moronic third dimensional, cunt of
a fucking ignorant and fuckwit ultraviolent, prick filled holographic shithole
programme like this one again, do you?’
‘Whot? Er….’
‘You don’t need this kind of heavyset blood
and bone flesh fucking shit, do you? You’re a fucking accelerating in cosmic
evolvement fucking angel behind the scenes! Aren’t you? You don’t need this 4D
to 3D, 3D back to 4D, 4D back to 3D, pay off this fucking holographic karmic
debt, pay off that fucking holographic karmic debt, etc, etc, etc, Groundhog
Day programme crap anymore. At all. Not when you can run with I am not on the
wheel of fucking karma, the fucking bodymindmachine is, you don’t. Well I
happen to see the thinking flashing on and off on my mindscreen that you don’t
fucking need this cock and bull nonsensical 3D shit, anyway. I sense that you
will be reprogramming your psyche with I am not on the fucking wheel of karma,
because that’s just part of the matrix illusion. In no time my dear! No time at
all.’
‘Well of fucking course I don’t want to
have to do this thoroughly bemusing and thoroughly frustrating, soul trashing
and prick of a cunt of a fucking holographic third dimensional game level and
programme again Master!’ the kid exploded, like a depth charge going off. She
was a pretty fierce, underbelly type sight too. ‘I’m not a fucking cosmic
masochist! I am a cosmic princess and an angel who has got themselves a little
bit mystically lost, temporarily. I am going to dimensionally wake up and do a
fucking Julie of the rings, and rectify all of that now though!’ Said JT,
almost as if she’d been hypnotized by the cosmic force invested in the I am the
inner and the outer programming that they were discussing, or something.
‘That’s better my dear!’ Shyam barked back
at her, something like an astral silky terrier. ‘Much better! You will find
yourself becoming far happier by running the mind off I am that which never
ever degrades the self, or the Self, programming. You must cosmically pump
yourself up now with the inner and the outer and beyond readily and freely
available gear, and totally abandon deflating yourself anymore than you’ve
already done. With alphabetically conceptualized I am a body, limitation crap.
Because that unmitigated holographic poop has burdened your soul up, with too
much fucking holographic illusion.’
‘Ohhh! That’s for fucking sure Shyam! Life
in the fast lane, in a valley of motherfucker illusions! That is the Earth,
unfortunately.’
‘Well illusions can be dissolved. To
dissolve them, you must absolutely negate the conception that there is anything
at all wrong with your mind JT, because there isn’t. It is perfect! Negate the
existentially absurd third dimensional download that it has been flooded with,
and you’ll find that out. You will discover that you used to be full of beliefs
that were nothing but cosmic puke, and that they were all as false as all fuck.
For example. Right now, because you are still using I am a body, you still
actually believe that you are going to die, along with the demise of that
tattooed body, and you are existentially shitting yourself in the background a
bit about that. I can feel those emanations in you, and I can at the same time
feel other ones, where you are calling out for a flying saucer. Which is what
the prime chemical, the primal am is. This, to me, your situation, is
absolutely hilarious. Because I’ve been there and done that, and because the
real truth is that you are the timeless and the Nameless One, and that you are
absolutely birthless and deathless at Source. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! You are the
Light and the Source kid, and you can never not be the fucking Light and the
Source. Upon that Real immutable base, your artificial mutable life in this
mutable artificial world, is built. Get it? The matrix is finding that out
Highgate, for yourself. This universe is more liquid ether, than it is solid
matter. We are all implosions of its liquidity, as every image is. Only,
because of the I am programme being activated and holographically projected
thru a mindtool, we appear solid. Delete the I am programme, and we are all
formless and timeless Light. We are the immutable Real!’
‘Uhuh! Cool man! I like that. So the
immutable Real never ever changes. Right?’
‘Right kid! It is always the Light. It
always has been the Light, and It always fucking will be the Light. It is our
common Home. Whereas Highgate, by existentially fucking with the forever
changing mutable, you’ve just got yourself temporarily lost in mind made space
and time. Because you’ve dimensionally imploded your entire infinitely eternal
consciousness aspect thru a mindtool, and you’re still pretending because of
the I am a body programming, to be nothing but a little itty bitty human being.
In true reality, you are the ocean, but right now you think that you are just a
wave of the ocean, and that is your illusion. It is not an illusion of who you
really are as the ocean and what’s beyond that. So the divine joke is on
fucking you JT! You made yourself holographically small! You fucking did it!
With your primal I am being shot thru a fucking mindtool. Not some God! You did
it so that you could have a cosmic ball waking up again to who you really are,
and bliss yourself out, and the chances are mystically and existentially
speaking, that you and a host of others here are about to pull that off. We are
on the cu cu cusp my dear, of a whole lot of cosmic consciousness entering this
rather rudimentary, 3D dualised programme.’
‘Uhuh! Well that is news to this one! I
don’t know many people who are blissed out Shyam. Pissed off! Yes! I know lots
of them, because they’re everywhere. An individual with cosmic consciousness, I
have never ever seen. Many individuals with a shit for brains, psycho
consciousness, I have seen. Because they’re fucking everywhere! Try public
transport, if you don’t believe me.’
‘You will see many with cosmic
consciousness soon enough! Because the Light my dear, has absolutely no use for
the extreme sadness and sorrow invested in mind trumped up holographic
illusion, because It is nothing but existential and mystical bliss. The Light
is not human, but it is all humans and the great beyond that is beyond them, at
the same time. The Light never gets the moody blues, but It is in and out of
everything and everybody, and It benevolently watches over a hell of a lot of
fuckers who do get the moody blues. Because their minds have been programmed
with third dimensional holographic junk.’
‘Yes Master! I understand!’ She the JT shot
back. Like she was just approaching the pearly gates that are up the astral
tunnel, or something like that. She did understand too. She was a smart kid,
real smart. She was ultra quick in grasping the cosmic and mystical concepts
involved in utilizing the I am path model. She seemed somehow mysteriously
drawn to it, and its liberating qualities had already genetically dropped down
into her red blood cells. She was buzzing with the cosmic force inside and
outside of her for a while, and that pleased her immensely, as she
holographically bi polared on. JT could holographically bi polar with the best
of them, there was no mucking doubt about that. She was a bit of a 3D schizoid,
on a planet full of them, in a bi polaring universe, and she was living on a
rock where it was all dualistically happening. For wucking sure.
Could a lump of absurdly programmed with
false body identity bias, dualistically minded shitting and pissing, named and
shaped flesh body, find a cosmically enlightened peace of mind, on a lunatic
full, unbelievably ultraviolent planet? That was her ultra tough endurance
trip, which her ancestors had left for her. All tied up in a neat little
shoebox, with a neat little pair of ethereally high heeled, golden cosmic
consciousness shoes within the box. Too. Would they fit her? God! She mucking
hoped so! Because she was absolutely sick of the abominably funless, and
morbidly stuffed with inherent sorrow and suffering 3D programming, re running
and going around and around in her nineteen years old brain. Like a black dog
full of soul cancer! That all wucking was.
Some people book themselves into clinics,
to get a holiday from their absurdly programmed minds. Others will run around
killing other people and thinking themselves to be oh so powerfully important,
without even knowing that they and everybody else on the planet desperately
needs a holiday from their type of subhuman mind level. Somehow and someway, on
a stinking hot day, she had ended up chatting with an almost fully ripened
Indian Guru. Who was giving her a bit of a holiday from her mind, by telling
her that she wasn’t in that chronically over intense article anyway. Not
specifically and existentially and mystically behind the third dimensional
matrix, that is. The Master was telling her that the mind was just a tool of
her everloving soul, and for the first time in her life, she was starting to
get a sniff that she could actually break her hapless identity with it.
Some girls have all of the Oz luck, and it
sure seemed like she was. Because the Oracle angels in heaven were doing happy
happy happy astral back flips, and patting each other on their ethereal bums
and whoopee-ing it galore, they were that cosmically stoked with what was
happening with the Julie lass. What was happening they had planned and worked
for for a long long long time, but JT herself still knew nothing about that. In
the near future however, she flipping well would. Post spitting her third
dimensional dummy out, and sticking her fifth dimensional one back in her
existential and mystical gob, that is.
The truth being according to the Naz that
every past, current or future GuruMother or GuruFather, has had or has a mega
mucking big bunch of angels hovering around them in the pure consciousness
fluid, and backing them up. With cosmic data and ethereal directions that are
poignantly mystical, and shit like that. What is the mega angelic mob up the
dimensional stairs aiming for? Apparently, according to the Naz, to have an
Earth with millions, and maybe even billions of cosmic consciousness endowed
GuruMothers and GuruFathers playing on it, and woe betold to all establishment
pigs and nasty nasty nasty ultraviolents then. The mystical Naz say that the
homofuturus angels are coming, and that the ultraviolent beasts are gunna get
their ringholes kicked clean out of this mind trumped up, 3D Earth hologram.
Where to vote for that? Every citizen must vote for that in their mystical
hearts apparently, and push on towards their eventual blossoming into cosmic
consciousness, and then it will just quite naturally, holographically happen.
At least, according to Naznath types, it will happen. Soon enough too. Well!
Before the 22nd wucking century, anyway, they say.
Even so, that all being up the existential
and mystical track a bit for Julie Thompson and her now adopted Naz gang, there
was still indeed a stiffish fraction too much friction between her and her Guru
for a while, over the Rolfy issue. She was sure getting mucken used to seeing a
big fat jet black or golden yellow painted I am, out there in the field of her
consciousness however. Pretty soon, the way that she was going, she was gunna
have enough drawings to make a big fat cartoon. Crikey! If they’d’ve put hers
and her therapist’s together, they could’ve just about made a movie, called; I
Am. The Black And Yellow I Am. I Am.
The mystical mucker from the subcontinent,
and the kid, after half an hour plus of solid hard labour. Well! They had I ams
coming out of their downunder and just off the A drive arseholes, they did.
They were all over the table and spread all about the floor like cosmic symbols
from a parallel universe, they were. All of the time that they worked, they
chatted and chatted and chatted. Like they were old amigos from the universal
sky. Or a couple of little monkeys climbing a big big big ethereal family tree,
who hadn’t seen each other in a long long long time. Then the therapist said
some magic words. Ones that light up many an Indian’s heart, even on a stinking
hot day when their IPL team has just been flogged to their scorched bones in a
first semi final. Not the mob captained by Warnie, the other useless wucking
mob, that is.
‘Chai dear?’ he asked her. ‘Or would you
prefer something with a bit of ice in it?’
‘I’ll go both mate!’ The greedy cosmic kid
barked back, as she put the finishing touches on what would turn out to be her
last I am for the day. ‘Fuck a duck! I am all I am’nd out, I fucken am!’ she
declared.
‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ went Shyam, as he de
aproned himself. ‘You’re a funny fucking fucker JT!’
‘Look who is fucking talking mein
therapist! This I am path and model is so out there and so ultra reverse
existential swing, that it is quite frankly fucking mind blowing! I mean, many
out there would think that we are fucking insane to be talking about the I am
the inner and the outer and the beyond stuff!’
‘That’s part of the idea JT! Let them think
that we are insane to programme the mind with I am not a human bodymindmachine,
but we shall see who reaches the mystical sanity first. Because the fucking
mind has to explode all of its holographically imagined and invented conceptual
bullshit into eternal infinity, to reach the Real.’
‘I think that mine already fucking has
Master!’ JT roared excitedly, with a set of reality questioning, tremoring
little flaps. ‘My picture of reality feels like it has just had the fucking
over of its life. I never dreamt that I could be the fucking One! Who is one of
the ones who has pulverized their transcendental cosmic essence into one body,
and every other fucking body at the same time. Including that body whose name
is the universe. I mean, I feel like a fucking chocolate biscuit at the
moment!’ She wolf howled. ‘Great Bon Scott! When I came in the front door, I
felt like a fucking hand grenade. Now I am cosmically sweet for once, and not
bitter about having to do hard matter time in a prick filled cunt of a fucking
world like this one, at all. I am having fun with this inner and outer hoo ha
Master, I am.’
‘Yes! You are definitely getting the hang
of it my dear! I can feel that in my old cunt wog bones, for sure,’ Shyam said.
‘Sybillll!’ He suddenly roared out of the door.
‘Jawohl mein Guru!’ Sybil yelled back from
her heavily oppressed chair.
‘Two iced lemon waters, and two chais and
some western chocolate biscuits, if you please darling!’
‘Jawohl mein Guru! Three to five minutes
mein Guru!’
‘Ta dear!’
‘So does Sybil call you her Guru, does she
Shyam?’ the kid asked as she seated herself again in her therapist’s office.
Her chair was super comfortable, and so was her bi polaring brain at the
moment.
‘Yes! She likes to JT. To tell the truth
however, it is just a bit of a joke between the two us.’
‘Is it ok Master if I tell my mate Jimmie
that I’m the only resident rebel Pussy Galore on legs in Highgate, with a real
live and just about fully ripened Guru?’
‘Please your word addicted mind my dear! If
you want to perpetuate and re run a false description about yourself, then go
ahead. It’s your business, not mine. But do you know what having a Guru
involves JT? The disciple is supposed to do exactly what the Guru tells them to
do, because the Guru knows holographically best, whilst they know
holographically fuck all really. Because they are an absurdly third
dimensionally programmed, mystically
ignorant fucker, as well as being a dimensionless point of Light.’
‘Uhuh! I get it! They’re just like me!’
‘Exactly! They are you and you are they,
and the great beyond too. Unfortunately, all that they know at the moment, is
an overloaded self interest that comes out of their egos and their anally
retentive ringholes, and how to dream up a shit load of karmic and holographic
bullshit trouble. Because of their over loaded egoised self interest, and their
abominable abominable abominable programming. They know how to holographically
download and lock themselves into a crud of a 3D to 4D limitation and karmic
payback set up all right. That’s about it though! They don’t know much about
the mystics of their own universe, yet. They haven’t a clue mystically how they
got into the fucking 3D programme in the first place, and they don’t have a
fucking clue how to get back out of it whilst the body is still alive, either.
Like a bar of soap in a bear trap, they are well and truly stuck in matter, and
it never occurs to them that the way out could be so implicitly simple, as to
investigate the way in. Which is definitively, the pure I am in them.’
‘Uhuh!’
‘So punkess! I am giving you a direct
instruction to stop fucking around with the infantile I me mine ego stuff in
your consciousness. The poor me or glory me, I am inner the body poo and outer attention
seeking juvenile soul crap that is, and to assume full and total responsibility
for your mindtool’s psyche. By pinpointing your primal I am, and by hanging out
with it ethereally, as much as you possibly fucking can. Are you going to do
that my dear?’
‘Well, err…, err…err, I suppose so. I guess
that I will Master.’
‘Suppose so won’t do JT! No fucking mystical points for suppose so! None at all! You must in these matters be as earnest and as steadfast as the tortoise was when it raced the hare, my dear. Curiosity will also get you nowhere slowly. Your number one desire must become to blow the matrix here to kingdom come, and to revert to the Light that you really are at your Source.You have to do some conceptual dynamiting inside then JT, and your conceptual dynamite is the primal I am. Because it blows up concepts, and exposes them as being hideous holographic fakes. You must revoluti