jagged edges of the mind

no sequence to memories, some lived and some mythologized in time

i wonder if Olympus is next door to Valhalla in some unknown metaphysical corner

every passing day is one closer to eternal return, and every day, the idea is a little more disturbing.

the words come easier when they're not forced, but still, you have to sit down and apply yourself to them, little by little.

comic book movies and computerized blockbusters to populate a brand new religion that is neither worshipped nor directly ascribed to, but apparently all-consuming.

the god of abraham claims that fear of the lord is the beginning of knowledge: but thou shalt not question the lord.

Nietzsche will only state that the single truth is that the truth is deadly.

i'm not interested in the beginning of anything. i want to see how deep the rabbit hole goes. but there are no journeys without destinations; no plot without development, no evolution without change.

the concept of the poetical is the natural response to the hemlock. in the most open society ever conceived, there will still be things you shouldn't know--things you shouldn't say. things you can barely allude to.

the rulers, the celebrities, the premier artists alike are all mere janitors and waiters to the prevailing zeitgeist--the mass culture.

no genuine honesty unmired by consequence. no forthrightness that is not greeted with all the vices of the accompanying naivete.

the deadly truth is simply that the enlightened society depends infinitely more greatly upon fundamental Christian assumptions than the college professor and the arm chair philosopher will ever admit to.

but if the Jesus of Suburbia is a lie: then so, by implication, is his morality.

if the Jesus of Suburbia is a lie, then what, finally, is the backstop for this so-called dignity of 'man?' what is this 'man,' and what, in a non-teleological universe, is the guarantee that he is rational? that he or she is 'empowered?' that he or she is in control of much of anything?

the green screens and the glamor are for a center that cannot hold--the new religion is a band-aid for a gunshot wound.

the deadly truth is that the only thing separating 1524 from 2024 is the abundance of shiny new consumer electronics. only two or three catastrophes away from burning each other at the stake for these golden calves.

Bumpy Johnson was always right. there's no one in charge. an entire universe spinning out of orbit. out of control.

and at the end of the day, no parish priest or itinerant monk to reveal anything. no one knows what they're talking about. we only know that no one is answering our questions.

no sequence to memories. some lived and some mythologized over time. memories that fall out of the head one or two at a time like tripped dominoes.

Olympus and Valhalla, lost memories, obliterated by Disney and the Marvel Studios.

no hero should bleed. no hero should die, no villainy should ever endure with the prospect of sustained success. the specter of Don Draper: everything you're doing is ok, none of your mistakes will truly matter.

but i can't believe in this new religion anymore.