work in progress

What is the book, but the world of worlds for the human, a collective knit of a writer's operating system, a kind of special inquiry into one especial youniverse. Upon the extension that is the book the artist, all about, places itself and others who became itself; he uses concepts and the neuronity of his brain and wit of sarcastic pain; and, most importantly, the essence of the spirit. It is in a sense a personal dwelling place of deep shadows, and illuminations within those environs, coiled tight as macabe Gods deus ex machinaing all about, special spirits and the unique recordings of a lifeform placed into some kind of Hidden-Self perseverance of illumination and learning, and understanding, and healing, and sagacious growing. In books, I become more than this cruel world which seems to surround me. It is in books, in the most dynamic book of all, that is my life, that I have found the most astute fictions beyond the fact and most calculatedly-dead facts noosed into fictions. 1

It is my joy, like Jesus dying upon a cross for the herd mentality, to today be able to tell my world of worlds.2

To the reader, of course, the book is like meeting a new person. At first the author softly tickles at you, shows you his dream and then weaves the eating and creating like fire cold as blue. Then he gently places a melodramatic drama-finger-triggered gun off of safety and into hyperbole, and the reader is bathed in a mysogistic bath of the thousand stigmata wounds of viral infective memes. 3

It's a tough process, if it at all happens anymore, the connection of artist to reader, viewer to perceiver. 4

It is to the lament of progress that we weep so over this. 5

For, in a human herd mind which only grasps for stasis, the only thing left to existence is decline and death of what is truly immortal.6

We are all as Jesus upon a wreched cross of the nails of unanswered theses beyond theology. 7

But there I go, you know, writing all about the melodramatic hoohah hishash before even writing about any world of worlds other than our sad, own one.8

But then, you know, the author runs, fast as the speed of light, into the darkness and gives a little light. And the memory murmur of a real person comes into sight, then breathes the last sentence into the life, and if the soul's in the reader then the reader's a receiver and is given for the greeter of a new psychemesh inside their chrysalis create. 9

But there I go, you know, writing all about the melodramatic hoohah hishash before even writing about any world of worlds other than our sad, own one.10

Again.11

To begin, I suppose I must speak of my genesis. I was born in a world where cyberpunk was the new wild west.12

But first I was Anubis and I gazed into the thinking hearts of desert men. Their hearts were my prey, and their souls were my friends. As their souls were in their hearts and their hearts in their souls. I was the Jackal on the fringe of their consciousness, like a desert oasis in my keen sight. I loved and hated them, and wanted them freed of their bondages. So I had no choice but to enwrap myself into them in only the ways I could; those ways that are the ways of the divine prey. As yin to yang, and maya to samsara did I weave and become a part of these people, the eternal spirit of the jackal, harboring them into the valley of the shadows. I, the predator, guarding these luscious prey. Keeping them and only taking them when they were ready, slowly, as they wished and needed, never as I wanted.13

Their beautiful hearts, red as ra of ras, the highest shining of shining suns of suns. Holding their essence, and all they were, wholly in stern, the blood of the ape kings--the blood--their initation and their atonement, grace, and beauty, all thought and contained in this muscle of tough, adamant soulskin. 14

Though much has changed since then, and humans have let me fade into quiet posterity, dwelling open and ready to those knowing their hearts to be their shaping and being-making.15

But negative one I was a simple star in the galaxy of a human's eyeball with the diameter of a small protozoan but having the strength of Shiva's third eye.16