Insomnia has never been one of my problems. I’m more of a somniac, the kind of guy who gets weird looks from the pharmacist when he goes in and asks for a bottle of waking pills. You got anything that can help me wake? A master of sleep, that’s me. Unconsciousness has always been my favorite state of mind, since you don’t have to deal with gravity when you’re unconscious. Gravity, that bane of lazy people.

Plus when you’re unconscious you get to dream, and dreams are the best because they end. No matter how bad they are, and mine are usually great, they end. As far as I can tell so far, life never ends. People say it does, but they say a lot of things. Life strikes me as a series of getting up to go to work that never ends. Whew, being unconscious is mo betta.

Of course, what am I whining about? I’m a writer. I don’t have to get up to go to work anymore, all I do is sit around and blab with my fingers, any time of the day or night. My only concern right now is whether I’ll be perky enough to enjoy the Broncos game later on the telly. Oh woe is me.

Anyway, not sure what this blog was about except maybe being awake. Sorry to have to discuss such a disturbing subject.

Your partially wakened,

LWIII

Hmm…you know, I’m not sure, I may have to check with my butler.

“Hey Zippo, what was that thing we were talking about?”

“The roses, sir?”

“No, that’s not it, that other thing.”

“Oh, ahem. Perhaps you were referring to the unfortunate incident with the….”

“No, shhh, no, not that either.”

“Ah, then you mean the (mumble mumble mumble).”

“Oh, ah…ah ha, hem, haw….”

Oops, nevermind.

LWIII

“Darling?” asked my wife, Lady Belvedere.

“Yes dear?”

“Be a sweetheart and pass me the caviar.”

“Of course, my love.”

I passed her the caviar. All our bearers had been murdered or driven off during the attack except the caviar-bearer, so we were down to a diet of strict fish eggs: which may not sound especially arduous in contemplation, as they were the best black Beluga, of course, but at the time such spartan fare had begun to wear upon my spirits.

Luckily our chef had survived – the only other of our group besides Laura and myself and the witch doctor Oo-oo-Koracheese – and had been able to cobble together some sort of cracker out of a sliced and toasted local fruit or legume.

But a superb saucier is not necessarily much of a jungle guide, and ours fit the mold. So we were lost, and without a single glass of champagne to wash down the Beluga. A drop of sweat trickled down Laura’s flawless patrician nose and hung on the end of it, glistening like an evanescent nacreous pearl in the subdued sunlight under the deep green canopy of jungle.

“Cambooba! Jungo jungo ya peep bogo.” The witch doctor spoke.

“Come again?” I asked politely.

To be continued (in another dimension)

LWIII

Is that so? Seems that way to me. I sure love smooth stuff. My crystalline spheres are smooth as glass. I can hold one in my hands and groove on the smoothness, rotate and slide the spherical smooth – sworchorsch my fingers across nothing and still feel it. Maybe that’s it. Smooth is good because there’s nothing in the way. Try that with rough and something stops you.

Women are smooth. That’s one good thing about them. They may be kinda lumpy and curvy, but they’re still smooth. And they smell good. Guess when God was making us he held back the good-smelling part until he came to Eve. Of course babies smell good, even boy babies, so that can’t be it.

Could be that guys are rough, so we have more places for bad smells to hang out in. Gals are so smooth that bad smells roll off their back like water off a duck.

Another mystery,

LWIII

Here I am, having the grandest few months of my life, long may they last, and I’m still thinking bad thoughts about people. What’s up with that?

What’s the point, for one thing? I goes against all my instincts, principles, and thought-system, as well as my general good humor these days. These are people I don’t even know, for goodness sake. I may be ragging on Jesus himself when I am annoyed by some innocuous thing about somebody and natter about him in my mind. Oh wow, that guy looks different than me. He must be an a-hole.

I don’t mind it so much when I call myself an a-hole, or a b-hole, or even a c-hole, because I know I am one, at least occasionally. But some utter stranger? Just because of a series of advertisements or what I learned in schooldays or the way my mommy held me wrong?

Dude.

It’s not like I go around thinking massive bad thoughts about folks. Usually the opposite. But where do those bad thoughts come from? My brain is used to them for one thing. I think it may be that sometimes the things our conciousness experiences which we blame ourselves for are neurological, and something to be ignored until they go away, which will happen sooner if you ignore them.

Purity, to me, is thinking nice thoughts about people, because it turns out they are Jesus after all.

Your unpure,

LWIII

Football is football and that’s NFL football. This is the last week of the season, very exciting this year. Our poor benighted and running-back-less Broncs have been amazingly spotty this season. No idea why, other than they had more injuries than I’ve ever seen.

Miracles can happen. Maybe not today in San Diego, though, since that would not only be a miracle if we won, it would go against all the laws of nature. But we may still do it, if Cutler goes off on Rivers.

Interesting personal grudge-match.

Your fan,

LWIII

One might call this blog an assignment, since it is one. “Do a blog entry about what’s been going on in your mind.” Not being one to burden my friends unnecessarily with worthless dogcrap, I will fudge a bit with that and include an image on the mind front.

The mind is a funny thing. Hard to define, since so much of it is body. Some people say that minds exist without bodies, indeed that mind itself is the organizing principle of all things, that the basic building blocks of matter are units of consciousness. I can’t say for sure, but it would be nice.

Mind over matter,

LWIII

The truth. Give me a break. Like you even know what it is. Oh, I don’t mind a minor truth now and then, such as, “I ate eggs for breakfast,” though I’d rather hear what artistical yearnaments arose in your breast while you were masticating the eggs. More salt? It’s those truths that come out of books or someone’s mouth or specific societies that make me hurl and recoil. Hate to say it, but even a truth that emerged from measurement, experience, or sacred inner knowing is nothing to me but more goddamn truth. It’s your truth, you keep it.

What, is truth like some special jam you can spread wherever you want so everything is more to your taste? If there actually was some really really accurate final and ever-forever universal truth to be gleaned, don’t you think there might be at least some uniformity about what that was? Truth is fine, if there’s one person in the room. Get ten in there and you’re totally screwed, truth-wise.

If science is the truth, why are scientists continually wrangling like a gaggle of old ladies? If religion is the truth, why do religionists murder one another with such gay abandon? If politics is the truth…well, now I’m getting silly.

Face it, truth sucks.

Your big fat liar,

LWIII

I love that question. Brings up philosophical musings for me. Plus it’s poetical and kinda humorous. Just how far is it to Wilbur?

If I ever get my own planet I think I’ll call it Wilbur. Friendly name for a planet, Wilbur. I love Uranus, but I like Wilbur better. Besides, Uranus is already taken. As is Earth, O holy sphere.

Sorry about the missed days, but the tenuous wireless connection at the crystalline forest of the mind-seekers crapped out finally. Our last night amongst the godlings was way beyond superb, much better than fabulous, more than mind-blowing, even better than supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. I would call it sacred mystic communion with yearning itself. Decaphonic music of the spheres, played by Jesus and his band on the catgut of the universal soul.

It’s taken some time for my astral brain to return from its vibrational sojourn around the moon and back. (Actually it was considerably farther than that, but don’t want to brag.) I have no idea how I got so lucky as to get to have such an experience, but feel it leaves me with no small responsibility. I have to pay back somebody, not sure who. You, maybe. Positive thankage, you-wise.

A brief thirteen-hour drive tomorrow, and I’ll return to the bat-cave, so more on this amazing amazathon later. Right now I need to sleep like an insane dog.

Sixty-two miles, fyi.

Your traveling ambulator (on wheels),

LWIII