Monday, June 27, 2005

I am I be

This gonna be a tumultuous, shambolic, conveniently insight-free repository of the behaviours of my deranged and stoopid whirling dervish of a brain as it chases what few parts of it contain such valuable things as sense and sensibility round and round in circles. My brain will wag its tongue. It will jump up and down and screech like a bandit. This will be a place where the air tastes like blueberries and honey, at least when it doesn't taste like jaguar sweat.

I'm Bart Simpson. Who the hell are you?

Eye is Mu, an' eye be rockin' this at the dropuva dime, baby.


Give me more detail, you dillweed. I'm not made of time, you know.

Of course you are. The mind is time, the mind is space, and it's running and passing and passing and running...

Fuck you and everything you stand for. Say something remotely coherent or I will send your asscrack to its new home at the nape of your neck.

Yo, cool out, money! More on the nature of time at a date when I am sufficiently blunted. Ahem...

Who is me? I am Noah Aaron Musa Shalom Qahir Abdellatif Danté Amazu Domevlo Erasto Dingus Goodbaum, Esquire, son of Mama Avivah (al'lashalom) and Daddyfather Jell Singh, aka Zelek, the world-reknowned viking samurai warrior. I be the world's rootin'est tootin'est humanist. I love people, and I love being human. I'm glad I'm alive and able to think and feel, and I'm glad they are, too. It's fuckin' righteous. Doncha think? I mean really, there's nothing quite like developing a meaningful relationship with another person, knamsayin'?

You're a fucking fruitcake, aren't you? What are you, the patron saint of universal love?

Perhaps. I believe in the preservation and encouragement of genuine, unadulterated, bona fide love. I wish to restore that most vital of vessels of warmth- the hug- to its vaunted historic plateau as a marker of meaningful affection, as opposed to a disposable commodity. I abhor cruelty, the one abiding sin for which the heavens shit on us. I believe in the innate right of every human being to be treated with dignity, respect, kindness, and equity, irrespective of personal distinctions.

Fuckwad. Say your piece and leave me the hell alone! Don't you dare launch off into a stream-of-consciouness tangent, or...

I love exploring the cultures, religions, music, literature and cinema of the world. I like stuff that can make me marvel at the intelligence, honesty, or wit that went into its making. I have a thirst for knowledge like a gypsy dervish's thirst for dance, and also, incidentally, a thirst for dance. I try to keep my understanding of the world nuanced and warm and mindful of the fair and foul that comprises our existence pretty much eternally. I look for rhythm everywhere.

Frankly, I'm into broadening my intellectual and emotional horizons by any means necessary. I can't always dictate what that involves. I know only this: It involves beats, rhymes, and love. Damned straight it involves love. That whole thing. That whole fuckin' ahimsa satyagraha benevolence thing? Compassion? That's water. It's funk. It's Mecca. Life may be a rapscallion, and love a Machiavellia cunt, but life is naught without love. Love is funky, funky, funky, funky business. And it's mine.

So I be a zany cat, word is bond.I am court jester to infinity. I bleed liquid hellfire out my ass. I'm ridiculously warm and affectionate, socially awkward, not remotely as wise or mature as I am unaccountably given credit for, lacking in several key life skills, and generally rather an uncouth and silly panda bear. I am permanently worried about everything that could ever possibly make anyone sad, and have no idea how to behave, seeing as I'm having a tough time doing the right thing in the day to day, yet I have no idea whether I have the right to weep, because I have food on my table, a roof over my head, and an affluent enough social position that I barely need to work whatsoever to earn my daily bread an' butter. I am not suffering, but I do experience paralyzing spasms of loneliness, doubt, and fear. Yet with every breath I take, I remember my mother's lullabies, and I strive-- whether or not I've been successful is another matter entirely-- to make her proud. And that somehow makes it better.

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