Rainy Day Religion #24 and #42: Windowless Monads and Digitless Nomads…

IMG_0738So this is what it’s like, I guess, to die so alone so far from home with no crib for a bed no greatest hits from the Grateful Dead, just four walls and two sheets and an extra pillow might work I guess in a pinch in a delirious state of mind where a thing anything soft and curvy might satisfy the existential need to put hard things in soft places, beats the current rage of scurvy and influenza, dengue and consumption ravaging my body with its heartless tentacles eating my soul and leaving me alone dying trying…

so this is how it all ends, does it (?), under the weather under the gun under anything but the godforsaken sun, out there somewhere the brilliant fiery orb symbol of our existence and our insistence at certainty in the face of things that could only be described by the word God if indeed it is a real word, not just some feel-good mechanism manufactured by the conspiracy know-it-alls and designed for immediate consumption…

even John Glenn had a window in his capsule’s cockpit so he’d know when to smile and when to frown when his spacecraft took off and touched down, must be some kind of vicarious thrill available in knowing your geo-position at any given moment in any given universe, but the people who build these windowless monads for nomads have created the perfect cell-block that perfectly erases the fine line between life and death…

my head is splitting and my voice is cracked, every bone in my body aches and the walls are getting narrower; just fine, thank you and how are you? And how is that fine home in the suburbs, and that fine Mitsubishi and that fine Samsung and that fine Mercedes? Is your life everything you thought it’d be? Is your lawn finely manicured? And are your sheets freshly washed? I certainly hope so…

because things are just peaches and cream in this windowless hole of a hard swallow’s nest egg, where maybe there is a world outside and maybe there is not, because I’m too weak to go check and I’m not certain I could trust my senses anyway, since there is no absolute proof of an objective existence any way you want to look at it, though I’d certainly prefer looking at it through an open window…

I mean: you can take all the air-conditioners in the world, and you’ve only multiplied the madness, exponentially logarithmically so now we all go rhythmically since Al-Khwarizmi had his shitty little revelations way back when while listening to Muhammad’s radio and getting a good buzz on, they always say to take the shots of course but do I listen? I don’t need no stinkin’ jab from Big Pharma…

I’ll never see my friends again, my friends and family should know by now that I’ll never see them again, that bridge has long ago been crossed and the sail set on another course, and someone will find me sooner or later I suppose but it could be days since I’m paid up, or even weeks if they’re lazy they’re always alerted to the smell THAT SMELL that no walls nor enclosures could ever hope to contain—and what have I gained?

I’ve made money and I’ve lost money, made friends and lost them, too, lived in big houses and lived in tiny shacks, possessed them re-assessed them and never looked back, dined on fine foods and scavenged for berries, lain with fine ladies and sullen wenches flat-backing, slept on park benches and got smothered in frills and laces, won a few awards then lost it all at races…

even chatted with rock-and-roll heroes and hung with literary legends, and you know what? it’s all the same to me and more, equally expedient on the scorecard of experience, almost anyway except for those barefoot walks with orange robes and brass bowls, ready to receive what is offered and no more, from life and its livers…

no, this is not how it all ends, and yes still another morning comes, and another day passes, or so the clock says, just like God’s plan, if there really is a God and he really has a plan, hard to believe at times, so I twitch a muscle and it’s true, I’m still alive, and the body still functions, and the door has a knob, so I go outside and there it is, proof of all that we’ve ever been told, frequencies of blue and legends of gold, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows, and other things that won’t hurt you…

yes, every day is a miracle and more, and maybe if I had one wish, then what would I ask for? I’d probably start with a room with a view, and a plate of fresh fruit, and the right to serve others, and the common good, since there is nothing else worth chasing: no car no crib that will give me anything that I don’t already have, just maybe those orange robes to try on for a fitting…

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