Ass like that makes the world go round (it): Introducing...Skeleton Jack!

Ghosts, an overview

GHOSTS FLOAT FREE, GHOSTS

lack solid grips on worlds inhabit. Ghosts manage sans solidity. Within every breath we breathe in & out souls of ancestors, ancient enemies, et al. We respire the evaporated remains of the dead. This is a fact of the world. Later facts may contradict.

Ghosts lack free-movement, lacking as they do basic motor function, musculature and a nervous system of real substance. No one knows if they can even conceive of movement or any concept at all conceivable for that matter or whether their solitary sojourn around and about the world is nothing more than a series of sensations. Brutest of realities. Sensum Sensorium of data. Greatest of our minds'll know one day as will we all. Experience: the best teacher. Same sayable of all tokens of post-experience which no past-experience can alter.

Ghosts have no memory, ever in want as they are of brain tissue. Each moment stands alone. What constitutes a moment? At present epochs unknown.

Enters the ghost, wafted inward He is and hither in the wake of the gleeful child. Now in a new home the ghost flails buffeted by a new storm. Ages spent lifeless, longer than lifespans of deathless bloodlines, outlasting the acoustic ripples of the breath of the humanity He loved when His thoughts were cogent and His heart was of flesh. Eyeless eternal eyefuls enjoys He of the best/worst His flock has blithely offered Him this latest infinity. His ethereal sensitivities have felt each curve of Earth. No thought put to how much longer His curse must last. This, His curse of love for these, His children, for these, these kids in this house, for this His world.

From creation until His birth He lofted along the winds of this at-that-point--on-an-epic-scale-truly--empty Earth. Betwixt patchworks of humanity lay eternities to scatter in the wind.

From Ascension onward He’s confronted life well and poorly lived and if His thoughts were graspable, by Him even, even in this state, they’d be troubled. For a week now He’s floated in the countless countermanding streams that circumscribe and contrascribe this exurban town. Today this is His home and once more He is static sensation.

A woman sits at a computer-desk in front of a computer. He’s seen many times this object and understands intuitively it without ever having the slightest awareness that such a thing exists. He’s seen such a thing thousands of times, has absorbed its electric essence as he has beheld and felt the hurricane-birthing disturbance of the furious tapping of the keys, rapidfire the flesh of these strangers He worships, even those that know him naught. He knows nothing of this, though. Currently He lacks a frontal cortex. Its physical imprint lay deep underground and far away. It itself has less a hold on existence than He Himself does in this cross-dimensional chemical-electric state. Some day, if He could think to Himself he would think, it will return. All of I will. But for now the ghost floats. A dog jumps through Him as through a fog and out this house He once more exits only to return through a kitchen window on the surf of a mid-day breeze shortly thereafter.

All life is eternal. It exists in a matter imperceptible but for its susceptibility to the air currents and magnetism and chemical electrical activity and gravity. But strangely each and every ghost “lives” in its own spatial-temporal dimension. To each ghost there is an identical earth. Each ghost wanders the world alone. If ghosts could feel they might care.

That fact of the world may have contradicted.

This ghost has no recollection of His creation, has no idea to what extent He played an active role in creation. He was born to a Semitic woman in what He will one day recall as being the Middle East, a name-phrase he has picked up oblivious to its import as much as to its object as much as to the touch of the sound of it on the electro-magnetic echo of His worm-devoured ear a hundred thousand times the past century. Upon His birth He recalled all history, syncretized what wisdom He could from the vast data collated in His being, and brought light to an en-shadowed people.

His next coming will be His first opportunity for regret.

The Clown (I)...

has nothing to say but says it loudly. Boldly so. The clown is a mash-up of the trappings of society and the joy of our escape. Society's eventual abandonment. The clown is as pure as an implosion. To laugh at the clown is to laugh with the clown, which is to exult in gaudy doom and demonstrative deconstruction.

The Jester was the most honest figure in the court of the King. Voltaire was by far the most honest of the jesters.

If a derivative of chess were introduced with the jester available as a piece it would be playable nur (only) by children and the illiterate or the overly literate perhaps. The clown is a locus of disease and disgust. Job was the first clown, having finally elicited from God His first laugh.

The clown wears clothing two sizes too big so as better to catch the wind, be blown ever about by it and to grip free of hand the very air as if it were the ethereal manifestation of the glorious grail. Yet when the clown happens upon a stream or some such a body of water (a lake?) he flops in and prays his loose garments heavy enough to weigh him down to a mirthless death. Rather instead but of course as is the way of things, his pockets buoy him up and ever onward like a ghost flushed from his watery grave.

The clown shuffles as he walks for fear of being mistaken for a goose-stepper, a duck-traipser or an emu-gallivanter.

The clown doesn't tell jokes, he reveals them in reverse and revels in them and with his trumpet plays a brash reverie, revolving his torso all the while to this, his joke. And the clown's jokes aren't jokes in truth so much as sibilant whispers lisped upon the cheeks of the curious innocent. Follows forth a hearty guffah (HY'A)

The clown: an elemental force of nature, a deviant and a trickster-god and: know you this: he loves you madly.

If you're bored with your clown you're boring. 100 years from now devils and clowns will be warring. Age old story. True fact of the etherworld.

Clowns come in all shapes and sizes. Objects come in shapes and sizes too. Subjects come in shapes and sizes. Clowns mimic objects and subjects and shapes and sizes. Precisely just what a clown would do.

Beneath the veil of sensory experience there exists only a laugh. The thing in-itself is a loud, coarse rumbling, echoed laugh. Nothing was really real before Job. The clown granted uncertain permanence to God's daydream. Now there exists a laugh. And of and upon this laugh we all live, in a true factual way. We feed on this His ancient laugh. Maybe the laugh killed Him. Who's to say? Questions best left to the future minds of tomorrow. Why not?

Kevin Bacon & Family Wish You The Best This XMAS

Space Tyger One

Time keeps on slipping into something more comfortable/ Call off your dogs, I am feeling contortable/ I wrote my laws. My lie's inscrutable/

..Don't you wish for yourself a life maneuv'rable?/ In my time of dying I make up for yo' lack o' trying/ Don't give up on giving up 'cuz...

...I breathe in all your sighin'/ I inhale the final breaths of all the finally dying/ and exhale bears, space tigers and fearless fucking lions

Space Tiger : mad mirage of a fever-addled mind or the greatest discovery in the history of interstellar zoology?

A Cover! To Be Continued...

Nothing Sane About That Sleep

My dream was a set of unrelated, tonally-inconsistent dreams under the matrix of one dream (My writing style is influencing my subconscious)

Was back in school and each chapter was like an f'd up class I was taking, but never in a classroom: theater, some girl's bedroom, TV, etc.

One stands out: in some living room. Class on home-econ, had to make soup out of certain important body part (not vitally important, but..)

Careful slicing along axis, mindful of tips teach gave. Mom walks by to get mail, keep self covered but tell her what I'm doing. Cool w/ it.

Oh, and a shaggy dog shot or something (ever mind your lolz. dick-slicing stories only so-so entertaining on their own)

Filing that away w/ my most memorable, unsettling dreams. I don't dream too often, far as I can tell.

Another dream jammed in that drawer: Being lost in an amusement park. Seeing the bird's I view of population, me screaming deep within.

Or: That early dream with the Porky-like pig smiling from a portrait on my bedroom wall. My bedroom was simple like a stage...

...And one dimensional so it shouldn't have felt as awful as I did seeing him emerge from his frame, big round eyes on me in my bed.

When I saw The Ring I thought of that dream.

Chasing the trenchcoated shadowy type chasing my sister in a comic book noir cityscape, alley after alley. He catches her before I catch up.

He takes her hand and places it on an iron pedestal/stump and holds a knife up and the dream ends. I don't dream that much anymore.

And a shaggy dog shot or something.

Hal. Shows his rings, his age, his teeth just perfect and his eyes. Look how smooth his upperlip.

Welcome.Wilkommen.Bienvenidos. Come.

Goodness. Gracious. Thank you. I'm glad you could be so gracious and giving with your valuable time. Thank you.

I'm Henry May Horseffer. I will be contributing to this blog as often as I'm permitted. Also, my good friend and sister will be contributing. I wish she were here -you'd just adore her- so that I could introduce -honestly, she's swell- you to her, but say la vie.

Now, right now I'm not going to waste your time with nervous rambling so once again, just thank you and God Bless.
We appreciate your visit.

-Henry Horseffer