Happy as a Mormon

I want to be as happy as a fucking Mormon without the doctrinal chickenshit bullshit.  But I want to preserve my secular and honest intellect, too.  George Bernard Shaw proclaimed that the faithful folk are happier than non-believers to the extent that drunks are happier than sober people.  Words to that effect.  I rewind to the Mormons I've known, and they all have one thing in common:  they're ostensibly happy, funloving, but totally brainwashed people.

Now I'm not going to use Mitt Romney as an example because although he's a bona fide Mormon, he also happens to have at least $100 million dollars in his IRA's alone.  That kind of cash might even make Eor (the depressed donkey in Winnie the Pooh) click his hoofs.

I believe that religion gives its devout followers a sense of well-being that is simply not available to the faithless.  But that is not the point.  The point is this:  how do I achieve the level of contentment and happiness borne by these faithful Mormons without surrendering myself to their silly fantasy?

I could go to church now and then.  I know a couple of skeptics who attend regularly.  Their attendance is fueled by their spouses, who are indeed among the faithful so far as I know.  But, then again, these church-going atheists don't glow with that cult-like ardor I am referring to.  I want that Mormon glow.

I attended a funeral service in Morristown's First Baptist Church a year or two back.  The sanctuary where we were seated was cavernous.  It had that new sanctuary smell. And the air, it seemed pure; almost enriched.  In fact the air reminded me of a novel I read many years ago, entitled Fools Die, authored by Mario Puzzo, the author of The Godfather.  In it Puzzo claimed that the Las Vegas casinos piped pure oxygen into the air conditioning system so that the gamblers would be enlivened, and continue to gamble, which, mathematically means that the profits swell for the casinos.  I'll always be curious about the air at First Baptist Church.  I mean I really wanted to go back just to soak up the ambiance of the great chasm.  I suppose Baptists are happy, too.  But not like Mormons.  Mormons smile.  Baptists grin.

Mormons believe that a man, named Joseph Smith received a message from God himeself while Smith was residing in the United States, . . . well, you get the gist.
Since this post emerged, static impermanence has indeed delivered change, as it always has. Big change. You don't have to believe in silly nonsense to grab the smiling orb and swallow it whole. You just have press pause, get fit, stay fit, mentally, physically and aurally, then slide down the bank into the thing that apparently cannot be named, trusting its circuit absolutely.

Superimpositions: The Yin and Yang of Complementary Existence

Nature fatally superimposes itself on the life and death of a child in a mudslide.

Mankind superimposes itself on the life and death of nature in a strip-mine in eastern Kentucky.

The Hackensaw Boys - "Radio" @ Vera, Groningen, march 2011

Hackensaw Boys-Jonah

Across the street, Ms. Hazel's dogwood flower petals are hangin' on for dear life on this very windy day in April, here in East Tennessee.

The Hackensaw Boys - Box of Pine

Restaurant Girl

"I'm going to help myself if you don't mind if I do."

Aphex Twin - Stone In Focus

Snow monkeys are the world's most northern-living primates, beside humans, which means that they live in frigid conditions.  These areas are full of natural hot springs, known as "osen," where the water is heated by the earth's core.

We're in Deep Trouble: Boards Of Canada -- Amo Bishop Roden

A creepy anthem to the juxtapositions of the demands of social distancing and architecture hell bent on obscene profits vis-a-vis tighter and tighter work quarters and residential living spaces.

Boards of Canada - Everything You Do is a Balloon

I know intimately well this creepy daylight that emanates, in my own experience, from a recurring night terror, fully illuminated by retrofitted planks of ominous images of a horror that is so bold that it does not need the cover of darkness to do its frightful work.

Versions of My Mother. Versions of Myself. She'll Die in Three Days and I'll Freeze Into a Block from which I'll Soon Emerge.

When I was a boy, pink and white, I was her advocate.  As I got older, I was her protector, and sentinel of her honor.  That honor was born from a genetic axiom that boys don't understand, because it's their mother were talking about.  That's plenty.

I got a message from Emily yesterday.  She wanted me to call her.  I did.  My mother, she said, hasn't eaten since Wednesday.  Today is Sunday, so that's four days.  In other words, she's dying.

I put on WORAKLS, Joachim Pastor.  I sat back and kept the beat by rocking my head back and forth, side to side, perfect beat.  Like my head was dancing in the Underground.  Like I was on speedball, but sober.

I haven't seen her in almost eight years.  Almost eight years since the venomous fangs sank their poison into my world.  I should have been immunized.  After all, this was not the first time.  But, it was the worst.

'Hole things commin' to a head.  That what's happening.  Joachim Pastor is here for the event.  Crowded kay slayer. Slayer K.  Bleed.  It's good to bleed so long a you don't bleed out.  Bloody limitations.  Blood.  My blood is mixed with her blood.  I'm bleeding from my face. Spatter.  Patterns.  My mother is dying.  When will it say, "The End."  In France, "Fin."

I don't know what to do with myself, so I'll continue sitting.  Once upon a time hell came calling while I sat sitting.  So maybe this isn't a very good idea.  Glandular.

The human hands.  Goddamn!  What is the limbic system all about.  Ladies and Gentelmen, give it up for the Limbic Glands, singing their hit, Stinky Cheese.

Jeff and his family are there.

Jeff.  He has a different version of her.  But, my version includes his, too.  I'm older.  I've known her longer than anyone.  I get the questionably grand prize.  I just realized why Jeff went down.  For his father, Art, who must be a wreck.

I should be strong for Emily.  Must not let her detect the immense pain that I feel gathering below my feet.  Tectonic.

I should exercise.  Now!  'Cause I want a speedball.  I want a drink.  I don't want a drink.

thinkinboutallthisfucksmeupppppp

I cannot avoid this day, no matter what.

I bet her heart's still beating.  I am anxiety ridden on account of being told that her death is imminent.

RÜFÜS - Innerbloom

The Kindred Countenance of the Whitewing, Rich and Still Pissed Off

Their assholes are pinched so fucking tight that should they implode into themselves they would create black holes and swallow up their entire families, neighbors, mansions, BMW's, country clubs, golf clubs, summer homes, winter homes and, most sacred of all, their egomanical false assumptions about their own importance. It's funny. I have comletely forgotten the name of the lower's identity. Now that's sweet.

THE CHATS - SMOKO (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

Fundamentalist Fashion Week

This furry abomination is so goddamn stupid that it makes me mad.

Trauma (Worakls Remix)

Ralph Stanley Teaches Little Maggie

John Prine Died Today

Bill Withers Died Today