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9:57 a.m. / August 16, 2006 - - through the shit comes splendor

Magic happened at Wild Mountain amusement park a few days ago. I could feel everybody's energy, read their anxieties just by looking at their faces. I could see which people were dead inside and I took in the energy of those around me and tried to heal their souls. It was like a flame leaping forth from their bodies, coming out of their chests and flaring above their heads. I saw the giant grid on which everything rested, the giant program behind all things; for the first time in my life, I felt as if someone else had made this, us, everything, had programmed it all to some end (which I am unsure of).

Standing in line for the Go Karts was ridiculous. So many thoughts in such a small place, the speakers blaring over and over again some crappy song to call us in, telling us the same three rules repeatedly. Do not crash the karts. Aggressive driving will NOT be tolerated. So I T-boned some little kid in protest. I was stuck behind his car and he was free to drive, but he sat there for a little bit and the attendant ran out to help us. Then the kid drove away and I sat there staring at the attendant as he ran until finally he stopped, stared at me and said, "you can go!"

As I was looking at the life energy of all of the people there, I locked onto the vacant eyes of the former meth-addict Jason and could not see any life. All I saw was a shell where I soul used to be and I felt like crying for him. I also heard (probably in my head) a lot of people saying and thinking, "I can't believe they're doing it with this many people here; they just ate them".

I was walking back to my brother who ate the same as I did and stopped to stretch my calves by pushing off of a building; my brother saw me and said that my energy was tremendous, that he thought I was going to push the building over, saw me uprooting it.

I'm just a monkey like anyone else. I don't have any delusions about that. I don't feel like my own design is very grand. I'm a living creature capable of thought and feelings. I am not a wallet, a statistic, a paycheck. I am not a job, an apartment, some possessions. I am one of many of the chattering apes who hoot and laugh at their own designs. I love this world I am on and I want to see it flourish.

People think that they have it figured out, that they way we're doing things is the best way, right? Why else would we be doing it if we didn't think that? I don't think it is the best way. I think we'd be just as well off naked fucking in the jungle, eating insects from eachother's bodies.

Sometimes my expeditions are externalized physical voyages to new states and cities, sometimes my expeditions are spent travelling the inner workings of my own psyche, but I'm always exploring, always growing, always looking for more information with which to combat the idiocy of a capitalist consumer society that I don't agree with, that I in fact want no part of. Compassion and ideas are the most powerful weapons we have possession over.

I went to see Ben Jaman the Shaman in the psychiatric ward this morning. We're not sure why he was admitted, but it probably had to do with the fact that he says he is from another planet, that he is small and frail and twelve years old (to me he has always been tall and quiet and twenty-something, a culinary arts student with a penchant for chemicals with long names trailing into the night and healthy fruity foods). I met him at a rave in Illinois where I pushed my body to the point of death. And then we discovered that he lived about forty miles from us so we've been seeing him at least once a week since then. I don't think of him as crazy; the only reason I have to is because somebody else does. He exists on a different plane of thought, in a world that he has made for himself inside of his head. If he wants to say that he is condensed energy travelling from another place in this universe, that this body he has is only a weak physical manifestation, then that's fine by me. If he wants to tell me about his time travelling ways, reccommend that I read books that don't even exist yet, well, that's fine by me too. The human mind is such a strange, complex thing; the God brain is such a strange, complex thing. How can we expect to know everything about it? He can work your stupid job, earn money, be productive, associate with people; why lock him up? How is being in a quiet still room going to "help" him at all? The doctors are the sick ones. Their faces posted on the wall in a posed smile, what about THEIR problems? Are they without them?

Ridiculous. Break him out and bring him to Mexico. Ben Jaman the Shaman, be as free as you want to be.

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