What is it going to take? Who is going to heed the unheard? This BLOG is for you. Yes, you, young person. If these words—if these letters—have captured your eyes than a word to the wise would be to continue. Continue for the universes’ sake. And just so you will read on, I have thrown you a Scooby Snack. She is vivacious and tender and flavored for seduction. Her name is Gina. She is a buxom, twenty-two year old nurse working at the VA hospital and she slithers seductive catcalls for you. Ouch! Her cravings are like caramel syrup coated carefully on a warm, stiff banana. Her gushy softness can be yours if you read the next five pages. E-mail Gina at the VA hospital email@example.com
. She will sincerely and satisfyingly reply back with five tempting questions. Answer her five questions, which relate to the next five pages of this blog, and I promise she will be nursing your wicked soul back to wholesome health in no time ;)
To what extent has failure fostered friendship?
Haven’t you learned anything, yet?
All you all, stuck.
You want Chaos?
I am Jeremy, who are you?
WHO ARE YOU?
You say: I don’t understand any of this. This doesn’t make me happy. This is depressing. I want my MTV!
He says: You will die, in case you forgot. You are dead already because you hate.
You say: I don’t hate. Not me. I am a good person.
He says: Hah Hah Hah Hah Hah Hah Hah Hah Hah
You say: So what am I to do?
He says: Read more of this Blog—much more. The discomfort you feel is helpful. It’s like exercise for your baby mind. Read on. DO READ ON.
Samuel understands his thoughts.
Sees a great IBM calculating frantically.
Like the small, mustached wizard, exposed behind the velvet veil.
Samuel is acquiring control.
A Discourse on Youth (a found file)
Youth unstable, naïve POWER; whence have you come with all your sparkle—your pride? Why so closed to the blunders of the past. Are you the one who has unearthed the explanation—deciphered the code?
And what for the energy wasted? What for the monies earned later when your splendor, Youth, has eroded, as does a sand-covered beach following a tempest.
Your gossip, your vanity, your idols, your misunderstanding, your disrespect:
Remember sweet Youth; blind eyes are seen by the seers. What a struggle awaits you?
A fading curse, you are—a set up.
They say truth is stranger than fiction. We aren't quite sure of our take concerning this cliché. And we aren't quite sure whether the story I am about to tell is either truth or fiction.
A Jeremy spotting has been reported. Specifically, Jared Thalson of Bozeman, Montana fervently claims he saw Jeremy while vacationing in Tijuana, Mexico; he’s even got a snapshot to “prove” it. The photo is intriguing, but inconclusive to us.
Jared is a mutual acquaintance of ours who lived with Jeremy for about two weeks sometime in 1995. I don’t want to explain further Jeremy’s whereabouts these days. I’d rather let the novel at
http://www.jeremysprophecy.com/novel/novel.html tell his story. But I will say this: this is not the first type of “sightings” we’ve received regarding Jeremy.
If you have read the novel feel free to e-mail me firstname.lastname@example.org if you would like to discuss this topic or any other topic that interests you.
Twelve Rules for the Unruly Victim of Mood Disorder, prepared by JJ
1) You are not the Messiah.
2) You are not Satan.
3) Accept. (This acceptance of which I speak reaches further than the typical self-help motto. This acceptance of which I speak stems from courage and a complete withdrawal of desire for your life to be as you wish, hope, or want.)
4) This world; it's pleasures; pursuits, longings, etc. yield quite little. It is futile to be disappointed in this. One must not be deluded in believing other's passions as real or truth. They are not for you.
5) Be positive.
6) Be negative.
7) Fuck it.
8) Find a hobby and do it. (i.e. model airplanes, bird watching, tornado chasing.)
9) Stay with the man/woman who loves you!
10) Think not of saving the world from sin. Nobody cares.
11) If medication works take it.
12) Forget whatever Oprah says.
The following was written by Jeremy some time ago:
The devil dropped a cigarette on the tiled, checkered, sticky dance floor.
It was a Marlboro—a Marlboro light.
Crisp, golden, A-grade, North Carolinian, wrapped in those papers,
Not to mention a special spike for the Lucky cat who striked her.
Inhale, ummmmm, Inhale, ummmmm--
Consume the bitch; she’ll get you high.
Johnny heard the faint tempt, pounced upon the lone cigarette, and curled up for a smoke.
Red came first; like a tiger’s claw. Can’t turn back now.
Bip, slip, hide, confide.
Pop, stop, this bird, she wants me.
Circle her now.
She tastes like Juicy Fruit chewin’ gum.
Red rose, wine cellar. Frozen, spittoon.
Musty, musk, morose magic. Skotch.
Stay with me tempered humor.
Be my boss tonight.
Her sloppy petal squishes in surrendered delicious delight.
Gently he slides a finger’s worth, about, to tease.
He wants just a tease the anticipation worth a thousand thrusts.
Oh, the beats (these ethereal cries) sing mantras in his mind.
Please, Oh Brothers. Commune.
Paisley, peach, ruby. Ocean. Star fish.
Ruby—me my divine. I want more!
Psychosis, neurosis, a high-wired skull explodes.
Can’t question this. This is a funky cigarette.
To know to know nothing! That would be the cure.
Wasted. Caged. Grey feathers plucked.
Pimpled, dimpled, bird skin.
Sneaky smoke slithers succulently savoring sensible secrets.
Taste the treat, old foe.
Me cordial appetite yields not.
I will dine the fruit—
Soak prune a holy salt sea.
Steal your wish. He has ours.
Melt, float, merged, I beg where are you now?
Who dares to tempt the Sinai?
Could my sense have waned?
Caught encircling loins?
This frail, arid, place hurts. He remembers a potent, pious, person, prostrate with prosperity. A dream. A fantasy. No. No. He will not allow for the fade of fact. Was not he the one who did this?
My biology has been corrupted—my gray matter a damaged part. It is I who has driven this car down mangled traverses of pebbles and grit, lubricating thy machinery with fossil fuel. What mortal efforts heaven’s flesh, but even she corrodes. I lost. I ate. I lost. Late. Wait. Withered mineral fades. The mad men want a parade.
Remember—walk tight steps on this fertile soil, rich with satiation’s stare. My nose tickles with stickers. The purple midnight is so obvious. The UFO’s, the crimson rose, the paisley bush. The clarity. Oh, the clarity! She is mine. And I am that. Thus, shine these forgotten shoes.
"The difference between genius and madness is the difference between love and fear."
Sam and Alex have done us proud. As you can see, we have found another newspaper photo of them. This one was in the Orlando Sentinel. The word on the street is that more photos exist. We need your help. Scan your local papers. Canvas your University libraries. The Jeremy's Prophecy Dot Com photo album depends on it! Peace. And remember every mention of the “Proph” sends Jeremy’s message that much further. Folks, I think, together, we’re doing it.
A Note to Non-Believers.
We here in Never-Never Land feel compelled to exonerate any wrongdoing on the part of the nay saying community. In part, we accept our duty as human citizens to stand prostrate for most any justifiable cause. We, as may be noted, and would be only so, think denied alcoholism is a dangerous proposition, which will only lead to death.
Woah, hold your cynical horses, let’s slow down. We don’t want to hurt anybodies feelings. Hey only an alcoholic knows an alcoholic. Isn’t that what they say?
So please do not judge these loving words, because your trickery is seen by us who see. Do not manipulate this Gift because the sting stands silly like a sycophant snake. Hey, and if that doesn’t spook you, then who needs you anyway. I’ll just eat my broccoli and fade away. I’ve seen all your towns. I know your lovers, too. I sensor my words so you don’t get angry. I realize the power my words have over you. How very sad and silly and simple and seductive and sardonic and sexy. Sexy, what the hell is that? You troubled freeloader. You fascist, fecal, friendless, farm ferret.
Friday finds fiery fillies festering from fettered fracases. Fuck!
Well, so, be polite in your longings and cherish open candles. We are suddenly saved like seven saints.
A white God who winks at me. Who lets me know it is Okay right now. This is my doggy's poem. He writes these words for you:
Hi, my name is Bad Ass MPR and I'll let you know that you shouldn't pick on little dogs. We are freakin' cool. Yeah Motha Fucka.
Above is a snapshot of page 324 in Tom Robbins’ new novel, Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates.
May we say we adore this wordsmith for his passion and dedication to the joy and jubilee of linguistics? He has jump-started our language into its inevitable ride through hyperspace.
Nevertheless, we can’t help but notice Mr. Robbins’s reference to a specific date we are familiar with. What is it with
November 22, 1998?
Rasta. I am still hungry. Rasta. I am still hungry. Rasta. I am still hungry.
This is a tribute to 1970. No this is a tribute to Janis Joplin, a crusader waling the glory of blue—the juicy river of blues. Humble blues. No this is a tribute to Jimi Hendix—the original. You see, Jimi Hendrix was the maddest of the mad, the ether of the cosmos, the sun of the planets, the pacific ocean of the seas, and the gold of the metals.
He, not me, had the courage to fly. He died in combat. He left his roost and gave alcohol its do place in time. Praise merry alcohol. Drink luscious alcohol all night long. Quench it. Light it up.
Mollify me mother beer.
The following written by admitted bipolar individual:
I almost feel like life has taken its “toll,”
Life’s plan got to me and gripped,
Its clasp is so strong,
I feel nothing can escape it, or me?
I am clenched so hard,
My last breaths I can hear,
My heartbeat I can taste,
And my silent cries I can feel,
Yet I fear nothing,
‘Cause life taught me a lesson,
And that was to feel.
Always longing to ever encounter such a meaning,
A meaning in which I will always capture in memory,
And once destroyed me of mind,
A fearless fear never forgotten,
An impression left in time.
In which at one point in time I called “life.”
suicide is painless,
it brings on many changes,
I value my life very dearly,
so, suicide isn't the way for me.
and so you say life's hard to play,
for that I'll not doubt in any way,
never give up to kneel or lay,
this might be your very day
suicide is painless
it brings on many changes
I value my life very dearly
so, suicide just isn't for me.
so honor thyself or learn to be,
that perfect person,
well atleast within me,
I am so content I could probably teach you,
that suicide is non existent nor true,
for within self only destruction occurs,
through all your visions your fogs and your blurrs,
just think of me and how content I am
and in your mind you'll think "I can"
you'll pick up pace,
you'll take your seat,
be proud for self,
'cause now you beat:
your biggest fear in life I'll say,
for life to you was the own way,
to take that sword and pierce your skin,
but then who now is left to win?
the game is yours and always been,
within your heart,
for wind I say would only last,
your very words would be your past.
suicide is painless
it brings on many changes,
so leave it if you remotely please,
and think back on life as a pleasant tease.
In respect for Worlds AIDS Day, no blog will posted today.
Oh, lamentable laments! Oh, delicious, murky, voids! The black hue is rich as honey, fierce as tornado winds, potent as platinum armor. Hear not the attacks on my dark foe. He is I. Be joyous and jubilant in your vultures slumber. Happy. For all is the same here and this is the blessing. My god is black. My god is white.
This is A Call To Justice. After all, is that not the final judge? What is the final judge? Of all the triumphant declares. Which of these has merit? Which of these can I paint with sweet syrup of auburn molasses using a shed swan’s feather brush? Oh justice, who are thee when the filament of soft white bulbs extinguishes, when the untamed boy slides his chewed finger nail, sweat glistened, mud carrying, fingers over the stained ivory switch. To what end shall I declare my soul? To whom shall I entreat my passions? Fair and free, oh justice. Delight.
This political analyst is dismayed. Well, dismayed is not the word. Or maybe dismayed is one of the words. This political analyst is disgruntled, disheartened, disavowed, and disappointed. And this will be the last of it. Because if this political analyst talks anymore about the nonsense he has witnessed in Broward County, he would reluctantly and involuntarily plummet into the inevitable chasm of cliché. To which, all his efforts would be ignored like a clean shaven, half-baked, houseless, panhandler on a semi-suburban street corner.
There comes a point when one’s opinion rapes him of wholesome reality. Any man/woman who fervently expresses his/her passions for either Mr. Gore or Mr. W. Bush has little self-worth. Much more cannot be said without resorting to psychotic, inane antics that the above zealots are familiar with.
As the good fowl (although he wouldn’t know it) always and only says, “Peeple of zee wurl, relax!”
On November 22, 1998, our friend Jeremy Jacobs attempted to kill himself by ingesting toxic amounts of painkillers. He failed. He awoke in a mental institution where he resides to this day. Upon his awakening, he requested that we record his thoughts and publish them on the Internet. In hopes of his healing this is what we have done.
Two years and counting. The movement moves on.
They are catching on.
We would like to thank Ozier Muhammad, New York Times staff photographer, for the picture above, taken in front of the Florida Supreme Court. You can't stop the shinning! Go Sam. Go Alex.
ps What a surprise, Dick Cheny had another heart attack? Can this get any more maddening? Does anybody see it? Am I the only one?
The young man brings a volcano's worth of fire to his project. He just might change the world, or bite off more than he can chew, digesting weakly every pill, powder, elixir, and vitamin considered by you.
And he may attempt another meditation or read another verse. He may swear off the bottle to stop the wicked curse.
He may judge the populace and all their sins. He may toss a soda can (not in a recycle bin.)
And for all his efforts this bandage wears down. And the mist he ran away from reveals in a frown.
You can't think your work a success will be meant in a world littered with rank and steel and a tasteless hue of sidewalk cement.
The "Vote For Jeremy" phenomenon continues. And we will not stop! You'll know who we are by our hair. To those who think these are wigs, beware. These are fortified masses of unity riddled with folic falley not seen since Jesus Christ Superstar first appeared off Broadway.
See you in Palm Beach . . .
The follwing story was written about an event that immediately followed the gathering where the above picture of the great Reverend Jesse Jackson was taken.
Jackson, speaking on a stairway in the lobby of the Century Village auditorium, was introduced by Irv Slosberg, who carried one of his popular campaign schlepper bags and introduced Jackson as "a prophet." Slosberg became a state representative Tuesday and has been vocal in his opposition to the "butterfly ballot."
Are we on to something?
There are moments in time where all seems futile. These are the most beneficial, it seems. For here, the truth, (which, beyond it's many definiitions ultimately resides in one's utter, unique lonliness) reeks a bitter sweet.
You make me angry, thus I am angry.
You see little, thus I see little.
Depression, for all the awfulness it hinders on its victim, cannot be given bad merit. It must be praised.
Praise the dark Diablo and its puke.
Watch the circus jugglers Deny.
Eat the fruit of yesterdays labor.
The scale of darkness will weigh it back.
And those who have yet to taste will shake their skulls in wonder as to how earthly delights are not relished by all. They will not see the bound chains of our punishment.
There is no more food, nor smokes, nor drink, nor fuckin DRUG. Oh your manna will waste. Your shakes will pursue. Your small feet will dance to the decadence of some other's fury. You fucking whimp. Do it yourself. Do not bow to his wishes.
And the sparkle of passion which he embraces as a taste of golden pleasure; you will destroy with your insanity and envy and confusion.
Don't be confused sweet child. Eat your breakfast like a little boy, you monster, because pickles were once cucumbers and the crystal Myth continues to tempt the weakest of participants.
"Question authority," the bumper sticker read on the back of the relish green, 1978, pinto.
I want to make a bumper sticker that says:
"Question people who say I should, 'Question Authority.'
In my book, I am the authority.
She might as well have had a bumper sticker that read, "I will always think I am less than becuase I believe there is an authority, which I should be paranoid about and question. And look at my fuckin' car it is a piece of shit and I don't realize it but I like it that way."
I got something for you to question.
Economy is a myth. Economy is a security blanket. Economy is a chastity belt, which keeps folks in line. Economy keeps the cynics complaining the rich obsessing and most of all corrodes the journey with an infested, swampy mush like cholesterol buildup on coronary arterys.
This society will choose to go bust when this society feels like going bust. This society will go bust when that challenge is its desire. This society would never go bust if it didn't want to. This society would never go bust unless it believed in that sort of thing.
Like chickens with our heads cut off we run desperately looking for rotten seeds. Rotten.
Disclaimer: The following posts, from this day forward, are mere opinion, as is every word written. Of course, this disclaimer then would be an opinion and miserably lie in the frustrating abyss of limited human expression. But who's to say that limits exist?
Which brings me to here. Here! Ah, the relief. We are here. No mumbo jumbo, here. No need to put a finger on, here! Let there be there. For I am here.
I'm worried. I'm worried. I'm anxious. Alas, a real freak will soon run the United States. I'm worried.
Well. This is it. The weblog. Here is where the real fun begins. It's Halloween 2000. Did we remember the treat?