Maybe Day 23: 6023 AL, July 23 - 3189 YOLD, Confusion 58 - 5783 AM, Av 5 - 1402 SH, Mordad 1 - 1445 AH, Muharram 5 - 1945 AS, Sravana 1 - Underworld Lord, 13.0.10.13.7, 14 Xul, 9 Cimi (World Bridger)
AO+2023.07.23 - A Barking Sunday Afternoon
Greenthings Fellow Maybeings - kin, kit and kaboodle of the A∴ B∴ Cadre of D∴ Excommunicates! May the probaballistic processing of doubly-slit wavicles interacting
between luscious layers of rectangular pasta sheets dawn on us all, as we unite in rejoice, bathing and blithely so, in the light of Sirius rising! Let your Golden Apples rrolll!
On this very day, the 23rd of July, a quint of decades ago, Cosmic Scripture teaches us true disbelievers, Pope Bob XXIII achieved contact with an extraterrestrial entity from the Dog Star, “or,” in his own words, “started hallucinating like mad,” overheard his brain's right hemisphere conversing with the left, channeled an ancient Chinese philosopher, channeled a medieval Irish bard, or simply enjoyed a surprise visit from the Púca. Whether or not any, all or none of the above may indeed have happened the way Bob conveyed throughout the years, let us take the canine manifestation down to Earth to uncover what may have sprouted from the Dog Star Seed, planted in the fertile and well-myceliated topsoil of my cerebral backyard.
Shall we?
Then follow me.
After excommunicating me, during a zap-by bump-in hang-out on the Astral Plane, Pope Bob gifted me Maera, an adorable Sirian pedigree with a luminous leash, and told me to “Take this pup for a walk!” Feeling more like a cat-person, but not at all too dogmatic about it, I decided to stay the catmatic course and awaken the dog-person in me. And so, Bob and I parted (amicably!) and I started my (calamity-free!) descension to the sparkling shores of Assiah, with a yet undomesticated interstellar pooch.
Ever since that faithless time, I adapted a new expression to proclaim my absolute astonishment at the sight of Maera's luminescent excrements, and to compensate for the ineffable nature of the accompanying olfactory sensations (no, not necessarily pungent, just .. well ... weird). So yes, a dear new cheer, I have consequently grown accustomed to appreciate as a lighthearted counterweight to a presumably well-known, frequently heard because overly used exclamation; a phrase, expressing both shock and awe, to serve as an outcry with a cosmic wink, uttered without offending any of our religious brothers and sisters*, to curse without treading the toes of the feet attached to the leg extended by the physical shell that carries the light that shines frrom withinnn ...
Oh My Dog!
Universally applicable - talks the dog, walks the dog - an ideal steal, feel free to use it, as lots already have and others most likely will - maybe.
* As for our aforementioned religious relatives - yes indeed, the whole Sun-hugging lot, as such witting or not, whether semi-spiritual, quasi-catmatic, fun-loving fundamentalist, poly-atheistic, syncretomimetic or plain old traditionally dogmatic: when even the easily offended seem to get the joke, perhaps also the most brittle amongst snowflakes may chuckle - then again, who knows.
Yet in case of dealing with certain caninophilous entities, the ostensibly ubiquitous, high second-circuit-sensitivity type, we may always choose to clean up our language - a bit - by initialating said phrase as OMD! Or, when posting on social media, we may add one of the all too familiar symbols of the epoch, in this case, completing as such: #OMD
Divertively, the latter acronymic device stands for Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, the British synthpop band. Their seminal 1980 anti-war song Enola Gay, refers to the winged superfortress which carried and dropped the first of the only two atomic bombs ever used in recorded history of domesticated primate warfare, on the 6ixth of August, 1945.
Summarizing that fateful day: a gun-type nuclear fission device, baptized Little Boy, containing 64 kilos of 89% enriched Uranium-235, attained critical mass whilst in free-fall. This produced a little less than 800 grams of fissile material, of which, ultimately, less than one gram transmuted into approximately 63 terajoule of energy, according to the world-famous mass-energy-equivalence equation E = mc², an amount equaling a yield of 15 kilotons of TNT. Detonating 580 meters above the ground, this little bomb transformed into a monstrous fireball, effectively flattening the city of Hiroshima, killing a multitude of civilians and wrapping Earth in one of, if not the darkest man-made shadows to date.
Siddharta sighed, and Albert wept.
Every phenomenon arising in the shadow of Nuit, abides by the principle of interdependent causation. And so, parallel to the production of said weapon of mass destruction (WOMD), a new work of marvellous beauty (WOMB) came into existence - not merely in accord with synchronicity, but as serendipity by itself: in Basel, Switzerland, in 1943, Dr Albert Hofmann gave birth to LSD, the spiritual antidote to the atom bomb.
The chronicles of Hofmann's wunderkind come to pass under different headlines. Rest assured, LSD did cross reality tunnels with RAW and quite plentifully so. On June 6, 1973, thirty years after its birth, it would assist him during the invoking of the Holy Guardian Angel - a ritual he performed with great success and a broad and blissful array of lasting results; the same ritual he repeated, six weeks later, the night before (eldritch organ, ominous chords) July 23.
As stated in at least two of his books, he did so "without drugs", but this time the outcome would prove less generic and more specific: making contact, leading all the way to Sirius and back, leaving traces all over the galactic freeway and flashbacks lasting happily ever after. Whether or not RAW did sample from the toolkit of psychoactivity, seems insignificant compared to the outrageously contagious, creative effect he caused by rippling the spacetime continuum, as he pulled the cosmic trigger.
Woof. (Yeah.)
And, as for throwing our beloved domesticated fur-legged fnord family members anything but a trivial bone: I laud them for settling most of their territorial squabbling the old-fashioned way, meaning by means of exquisite bladder control and dropping less-atomic bombs here and there - doing so, mostly before opting in favor of other obvious second circuit tactics, like growling and barking while standing on their hind legs.
Yielding, finally, to my own two barking dogs, completing this winding turn on the inward spiralling staircase towards Maybe Day ’23,
with my final step, I unleash Maera and rise to toast:
raise those brandies,
light them blunts,
launch your lasagna!
Happy Birthday Monica!
#VoteLewinsky
⊙
onlinear resources
Maybe Logic, documentary about RAW: [ link ]
Thinking Allowed with Jeremy Mishlove: [ link ]
RAW at DisInfo.Con 2000 - vverrry loud: [ link ]
maybeday.net ✴︎ homebase for today's festivities
offlinear resources
the Cosmic Trigger trilogy & The Starseed Signals
- issued by publishing house Hilaritas Press [ link ]
.. and of course,
the best place to start
in chaos to create order ...
www.rawilson.com
(Of course.)
.: spectacles genitals brandy blunts :.
all text ⓦ Satyr Barbarossa
(cc) 2023, CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
all rights reserved - all lefts reversed
