What is the ideology that sustains us? Is it rooted in compassion or fear?

Does it help or hurt people?

How do we rationalize the decision? What is the primordial emotion?

Do you seek to understand?

Media creates time, narrative, drama.

Sell time. They sell poison. Coca-Cola.

Advertisers: Waste your life.

Cultural ego: Do not serve Others, especially if they are Other, they are different.

The Cultural Republic appeals to different parts of ego, our fictions, our time based identities.

We can drink brews and watch the big game as the world starves, as the world burns.

We rationalize and think about what we need in lieu of what the world needs.

We have already made a subconscious decision that our entertainment is more important than the rest of the WORLD.

Our lives need endless stimulation and addiction to form: consumption.

We buy into things that are poisonous to ourselves and to the WORLD.

We entertain ourselves as the WORLD SLOWLY BURNS.

Their death is another world, another time, another people.

We blame them at OUR worst and pretend to give a shit at our best.

Our foreign and domestic policies are rooted in fear.

We do not recognize the god that resides in one another.

We only see that which is Other.

Purpose. Meaning. Connection.

Swing vine by vine, consciousness to consciousness.

Slow dance with a hooker.

Find home.


Capture and transcribe the essence of things.

Transformations in time.

Constructions in time.

The transformation of metaphor takes shape. Understand time. We are the ones who create worlds of time. Begin to unload meaning as it once was. Push for artistry that dissolves time — the literary and artistic cults that will transform the cultural republics. The Spiritual Awakening of a few daring artists. The transformation of time is anchored in your presence. Always, always strive towards immortality. Always, always create god level. Most will never meditate and will lose this dimension. Creating worlds beyond the one that is identified most. Writing literature is easy once you are out of the cave. Let’s talk about Samuel Beckett eating a sandwich. Let’s talk about James Joyce peeling a potato.

Write like an ancient alien.

Write like god depends on it, like every word, every breath, every sphere of time should be rattled by the force of your Being.

Accept the unknown.

Architecture of the heart’s content.

Become the god of things.

Once you are free, you will understand.

Imagine if Wittgenstein could speak.

Awakened or identified states of consciousness.

What the mind cannot accept, something seemingly imperceptible.

Beneath, beyond, away, under, across…

the timeless, indestructible essence.

Structures in time.

I am writing on floors:

Language is the fragmentation of time.

Language requires time.


You are not your mind.

Time is the lifeblood of mind.

Your life, my life, begins and ends in time.

The beginning and ending of things, of form, of Life.

What is the thinking thought that clings to identity?

We write fictions.

There exists the collective fiction.

The very idea exists only to fear extinction, to fear what exists beyond itself.

Imagine all that is beneath and beyond your thinking, beyond your fears.

The ‘I am’ that exists where there is no separation, where there is no time.

Timeless, indestructible Source.

The mind crawls through time.

Sometimes I feel more like shit after a meditation than before, yet I still feel like I learn a lot, am prepared for more. So here are things that my mind says. And yet, they are directed at myself, not the rest of the world. Even the ego state of deep unconsciousness sacrifices itself. The mind fears extinction, it fears change, it wants its own interpretation of reality to supersede alternatives. The mind claims attachment on cosmic grounds. It says one, there is the first primordial responsibility. I can barely articulate the level of guilt mom is successfully able to fully enable. Her illnesses and competence to chain my focus home. The endless series of limiting beliefs. The mind saying, ‘you are not enough here or anywhere.’ The dislocation of judgment, of objectivity.

The inability to transcend deep unconsciousness, to freely dismiss deeply embedded thought structures.

The mind saying, ‘you are chained to her illness, you are chained to your brother’s illness, you are chained to thought form, you will not be free.’

The mind saying, ‘you are not enough, you will never be enough, no one will ever love you, you will never be a success at anything.’ The mind always saying, ‘it is too late for you, for salvation, for absolutely anything.’

The expression of time is exhausting, is Spirit dying.

The condition for the expression of time is attachment to thought form.

The expression of time as is writing is literature aged in thought form, is the infinity pools of past, the thingness of the event endlessly. Articulating its walls, its borders, its limiting structural reality. Articulation of reality and perceptions thereof are filtered through ideology, the essence of unconscious addiction to mind. The perceptions of past becomes a narrative movie that replays an old scripted ideology en perpetuity. The conscious awareness of past, present, of awareness itself, is key to unidentified states of Being.

Breathe deeply, know to understand the take on the subject’s consciousness.

The goal of one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively is to join consciousness with one other of similar energy. The subjective experience of consciousness is the beginning of time based mind, is the beginning of the creation of narratives. Sometimes pain is a gift. The pain of fragmentation is the creation of time based mind narratives. The fragmentation of One consciousness into infinite minor, subjective mini consciousnesses is the creation of life, of Spirit animating form.

The pain of all infinite subjectivity is the crowds of narratives warring over symbolic systems created in ideological structures. The time based narrative is the first major identification that is unconscious. Unconscious identification with form is thought consciousness, is time, is how language and time is structured. To breathe freely in thought is only a possibility if unconsciousness is fully identified with form.

The language must access, unlock something essential.

The language itself must become sentient.

The beginning of Time is the beginning of the phantom realization. You can only experience that which is god beyond time. World consciousness is collective fragmentation.

We identify with machines. We identify with tribes and institutions.

We identify with things that are not Spirit.

We identify with systems that do not aid the collective well of Life.

Our priorities are not based on Life.

The triangle does not speak.

Endless, subconscious symbols, things unborn.

from Santanero Zine Issue No. 6.

Writing poetry the other day, I came to realize how important the other half of the equation has become. I mean, fiction has taken a backseat to all other forms. And even in these short sentences, I have already begun writing and rewriting and rewording what I feel has become an overly aggressive form of writer’s block, which, to be honest, doesn’t really exist. It’s a construction of the mind. To say, “I don’t know what to write about,” or anything closely related is complete and utter bullshit. One is always already thinking about something. It’s more apropos to say, “I have failed to make a decision.”

Now having said the aforementioned, I can say I will begin the 2nd novel that I have been attempting to construct for the past year now. I don’t have to choose one thing to write about. I mean, everything is everything I want to write about. I realize that now. The 2nd novel won’t be constricted by formatting or literary expectations. I will conclude everything as can be shown as can be written in a clearly honest manner, which means anything and everything.

The 1st novel was an experiment shaped by influence. It became fragments sculpted in the shaper’s eye. It was all the pieces of life falling into being, into place, and, for that matter, out of place. I tried to write what I thought would matter, that I would be able to find elements of my own life revealed.

The 2nd novel, I hope, will breakthrough where previously the 1st had failed. Mainly, I will continue to make mistakes I made with the 1st, sans looking for an answer, any answer in the pages exacting only the matters on stage. The self will not be the center. And even with that, the prospectus still feels radically incomplete– maybe because the 2nd novel will be incomplete, will be de-centered, will be a flawed attempt at the ideal just out of reach.

As for categorization, everything and all. Here, there, and now: The postmodern heart, bleeding, clawing, breaking. And, still, something more. The lyrical threading of everyday life. 


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