[Her Name Is] I Think Penelope

I don’t understand.  By that I don’t mean I don’t understand it.  I have seen that phrase used by writers who were about to comment upon some absurdity of life, but really about living in our world, something they have noticed about it that doesn’t make sense to them.  I don’t understand as a person.  I recognize that I am that type, who consistently fails or refuses the strategy for success of understanding.

“We have told you what to do, why don’t you do it?”  You have told me what to do?  So, if your mouth were removed, you would no longer tell me what to do?  If your head were removed, you would not even think of telling me what to do?  I don’t know which I like better, but that is going to capture my full attention.  I don’t understand, and Steve does not like what he doesn’t understand.

Not everybody in society is a fruit.  You can only be gay about things you enjoy to extremes.  I say fruit because sexuality is the model for all other forms of compulsion.  Everyone can relate.  You do not need extra equipment.  The sexual organs of the body are the equipment.  There is a period in each life corresponding to the best use of sexuality, but most people aren’t in it, so an individual who is there now, who enhances what he perceives as his desirability, appears to those of us not in the market as fruity to the max, if you know what to look for, and of the wrong sex to begin with.  When being fruity is open to loving science, no one else is likely to be able to compete with it.

What others regard as dull, if someone has a gleam in his eye over it, he can have it.  The sexual behavior of animals is some of the hardest information to decipher.  New animals have to come from somewhere, so the observer perseveres until he understands all about it.

When my entire generation was young, our sexually-charged music was new.  This music is no longer relevant to today’s youth.  Today’s entire youth are the monster we created, and I regard what we have wrought with a shudder.  We were using stopgap measures to satisfy the needs of these dependents and concentrating on the androgeny of a David Bowie.  This isn’t 1972, but 1972 killed, it rocked.  Now look where it is.

I was not in 1972 when it was 1972, or my children would be 38.  They are 21 and 6.  I was down for anything sexual, but non-procreative, so it was affected.  Like, I’d like sex with midgets, working my way up from something the size of my hand, because that worked for me.  I want to smash my junk up against the inside of my skin-tight jeans so everybody has to see it.  I want to put it next to a girl who is not looking, so when she moves she will touch it.  I want to be short so nipples poke me in the eyes, all the time.

But I don’t like that.  I’m not like that.  That was a false me.  I didn’t get AIDS.  The big mistake was that science could produce drugs, something democratic, would work to produce pleasure in anyone.  I smoked so much marijuana that my memory was permanently impaired.  Not on difficult, science-related matters, but common, ordinary threads of talk, such that I am constantly struggling to remember, like a turtle on its back.  He’s not struggling to remember, just, ….well, if he couldn’t remember why he was struggling, what would he do?  Hopefully, he would flip over, and the disunderstanding I have is due to these hypothetical hopes different people have.  I recognize lunacy (in psychiatrists), but I don’t understand the death wish.  Apparently they don’t know this world.  The inventor of lobotomy passed away like everyone of his generation, but I think you will find his ass was stabbed to death, not a surprising nor real outcome, but a surreal outcome, one I can enjoy.

I am on a fast prior to a later appointment I have, for a PET/CT.  So, I got up early to eat.  I smelled the air, the people out at six are right, everything’s right.

I had been looking at rock songs for truths, not they contain, but truths in conjunction with playing them now.  Ziggy Stardust is a character created by Bowie, but the half-man got too far into it, and he couldn’t get back out.  Now he’s a billionaire.  I believe his child is named Ziggie.  Bowie, well, actually, Jones, refers to Ziggy in the third person in the song, but it’s him.  Ziggy played guitar?  I don’t think so.  On a show documentary about the Beatles, David Bowie is shown talking back in the day, before even ’72, and he has long red hair.  The Beatles brought in long hair, and everyone was remembering where they were when their hair grew out and what it meant to them.  Bowie was a true believer, very amped on the youth movement and taking over, and he was aying what we had to do next, do now, and so forth.  If he hadn’t been propelled to stardom, he’d be a hack like they are all over the internet.  I mention that in passing since I have recently been posting on a social group site about meth instead of here.  This is the kind of post I can’t put there.  Once I went there I was invited to others.  The old one’s Zone86, the new one’s The Collective.

I am dying, but I am living proof you don’t have to die young, I mean young-young.  I have always been interested in death, now I am a member of the club.  It amazes me that I can talk right now and there are people between now and next week who will be changing from perfectly healthy to dead.  Dio says ‘I got news, you never have to go’.  You do have to go, but you don’t has to go on fire or in excruciating pain, hopefully.  It’s not that way now.  That is, no satisfactory recognition of a person’s right to die is presently forthcoming in hospitals today.  I’d like that changed.  No harm reduction of illegal drugs is in the pipeline, either.  The news is now covering the elite exclusively, since the television news is irrelevant, and they can expect increasing attacks upon their persons by the poor.  I cheer that on.  I’m gay over it, but I am dreaming.  The deaths currently offerred are not sufficiently directed their way, IMHO.

I’m obsessive, so I could list all the factors, like tobacco, alcohol, fatness, poverty, drugs, …..they’re called preventable?  Preventable death is one thing, what about preventable FATE.  You better see preventable fate before it gets you in the form of an attack by a seriously pissed-off killer in human form, and the laws you stupidly wrote giving us rights are not working in your favor.  Be increasingly hypocritical, be wishy-washy.  Never say what you mean.  be inscrutable, like a Chink.  No real face can be put on my problems; problems is all I have.  I see the word problems in my mind’s eye, and the pattern in makes, the star, when I type it.  Create an unsustainable, surreal world.  That’s all you gonna do.

The Penelope I got from, “Strawberry Fields Forever”.  And, in the hash of forgetfulness, look past all the language we use.  All we do is to take sides.  If there aren’t two sides to an issue, we are lost.  Let’s do the division of an issue into 103 sides.  Even a computer, which fails at some things humans can do, would not be able to make us understand these 103 positions.  Actually, with 103 divisions, there are 104 positions.  They couldn’t take the form of making me choose intelligently from that high a number, so the computer fails.  Let God exist.  Even God could not help you if you can’t see what the problem is.

Here is that song; let us verify that “I think Penelope” was one way it could have been heard.  It was when I had made some speed and a couple who usually sold me speed came to buy it.  I couldn’t remember my friend’s wife’s name.  His was McLeod, “mccloud”, it sounds like.  John’s voice said I think penelope, which is pen-ell-o-pee, and i went, “No, that’s not it”, becuase, consider the source.  How could a random song help you in a particular moment?  It does not have a mind.  Minds are always used to help someone (kill someone).

I am tired of the use of the second person, “you”, in my  mind.  Who has the right to use, ‘you’, when speaking to themselves, and who is ‘we’, either?  I hear these.  I wake up and I am tired and bored with myself on account of this unstoppable language.  I used to wake up with images of  smashing myself, and I think some pixie read that and gave me the cancer I was asking for, since I didn’t have it in me to make my images a reality.  I finally figured out yesterday that the inner voice is only the verbal end of an argument with your body in it.  Body English is involved.  The body interjects, it “speaks”, but it won’t listen.  That puts you, even splitting the personality, with an unseen instigator of trouble.  The body starts arguments between the “I” and the “me” that it can’t finish.  It shrugs the shoulders, and you go, “I don’t know.”  A pause, and you say, “You don’t know what?”  “Well, I’m afraid to admit it.”   Then you go about your day scared of some unnamed dread.

Let me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverLiving is easy with eyes closedMisunderstanding all you seeIt’s getting hard to be someone, but it all works outIt doesn’t matter much to meLet me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverNo one, I think, is in my treeI mean, it must be high or lowThat is, you can’t, you know, tune in, but it’s alrightThat is, I think it’s not too badLet me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverAlways, no, sometimes, think it’s meBut, you know, I know when it’s a dreamI think, er, no, I mean, er, yes, but it’s all wrongThat is, I think I disagreeLet me take you down, ’cause I’m going toStrawberry fieldsNothing is realAnd nothing to get hung aboutStrawberry fields foreverStrawberry fields foreverStrawberry fields forever(cranberry sauce)

 No, I don’t hear “cranberry sauce”.  I hear, “I’m very absorbed”.  Absorbed in what I am doing, absorbed being a hit of LSD absorbed on a blotter paper, type of thing.  However, slime invaded John’s world, too, and they say he said it was cranberry sauce, so that ends it.  It doesn’t end there.  They aren’t perfect.  Perfect would have been “I’m very absorbed.”

1850



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9 Responses to “[Her Name Is] I Think Penelope”

  1. mika. Says:

    There’s an honesty in your voice that will echo in eternity.

  2. mika. Says:

    But where does this power come from?
    ==

    Money. Lots of it. It really is that simple, Steve.

    If you want to break this ugly system, you need to understand money. You need to understand what money really is, and where it really comes from. Here’s a good place to start in your path of understanding:

    Debunking Money (part 1):
    Money, Myth, and Machiavelli
    Council on Renewal – http://goo.gl/mrmm

    (Kuntsler is censoring my reply. Posting it here)

    • sbillinghurst Says:

      Thank you very much, Mika. I watched the video, and that was thought-provoking and I will watch more. Still, although power dictates the broad strokes of how the future goes, it doesn’t mandate any certain event. I am interested in reality, how an individual connects to all the rest of the population, how the individual dies but the larger organism of the society continues, and whether there are worlds and spaces like cyberspace which exist but bear no resemblance to things we see in life. Since elaborate systems fall victim to simple attacks, and all of earth’s people die every century, I have little contact with the power structure. The less I see of it, the less I need to further undermine it.

      • mika. Says:

        The power structure determines and undermines who and what you are, who and what we are. We are managed and manipulated on so many levels that we become blind to life. Even when we think that we’ve seen a glimpse of life, what we’ve really witnessed is another part of our soul dying.

      • sbillinghurst Says:

        The common power structure elements are things like teachers, doctors and police, who all are paid or licensed by the government. I want freedom, and by that I mean I want control over my own body, like a possession. The government wants control over it, too, so who has the power to bend the other one to its will has the power. I don’t believe in a life after death. The soul is a fiction, an idea dating from serfdom, when people were owned outright by the King. So, when you rename the person a soul, or rename the soul “the mind”, you are denying and splitting up something which scientifically remains whole, the body. Once that’s gone, I hope you don’t mean that you or I will be talking back and forth without them the way we are doing now. Do you believe you are communicating with angels, souls, God, etc. *in the same sense* that you and I are talking right now? All these things are specific words, and which ones mean what is the only way to break through the lies. Warm regards, Mika. This is a sunny day, on a point in the time line of our lives, in our country, the ownership and control of which, as are all things we know as possessions, subject to many operations, which themselves are secondary to who owns us. The mind is not, repeat not, a real thing. It is a verb, and there is no noun, “mind”. It is the soul again. The etiology of the death of religion by attacks from without, scientific attacks, is that everyone at one time believed in God, they broke away from that, and would always reflect that origin, but they used a certain method (see semiotics), a method designed to be the best method to think, like I’m doing, and respond. SEB

        You wrote, “witness a part of your soul dying,” a part of the soul is like a part of the dollar, it is how people are denominated by the power structure

  3. mika. Says:

    Yes, I agree. We are subjects and objects of slavery, physical and ideological. You’re obviously engaged in some very deep thinking on this. You’re deep in the ocean. I wish I had your nerve to venture that deeply into that ocean. The best that I can do is will the ocean to dry up. Maybe if enough of us will it away, it will. Warm regards, Steve. I wish you well.

    • sbillinghurst Says:

      I *am *thinking deeply, or way out on a limb. Those are metaphors. There’s no real depth. I’m just keeping in practice putting my thoughts down. I’d like to correspond on the subject matter here, roughly chemistry. But, yeah, maybe you read my post on Kunstler today and you brought it here—no, I see that is not the case. I am trying to gain fluency. I am not among the worst ripped-off people in the world, but I still study how they did it to me before. I’m a traitor and traitors don’t cheat. Who would they cheat who they have not betrayed? Most people want freedom but they don’t want others freely doing things. They think they have a right to put their money in a secure bank, not a free bank. That they want controlled.

      I was thinking about you. I wanted to post a reply to myself, and someone on Kunstler said you and Vlad were the same person, so I thought of you just a second before I opened my email, in a way. I thought it was unlikely you were a sockpuppet of Vlad, who used to be Jaego Scorzne. I wasn’t thinking you were one of my comments I had to answer, though, because like I say, I want to have a comment from somebody teaching me chemistry.

      I did one other psychic thing, in which experiments with Internet follow the outline set by WikiLeaks, whom I felt could cover as well as expose information traffic, so these are the most likely suspects for accomplishing rhe automated and hacked-into form of worldwide anonymous movement of drug precursors, although not their automated synthesis and sales, perhaps. On that thought, I experimented with tagging posts such that I could retrieve this information by searching a code in Google. I could reply to a post which dealt with sourcing but could not explicitly say that since talking about sourcing is generally banned, and the correct post would be the previous one in the thread.

      Of course, 1,2,3,4 is the simplest thing, so I chose that, and I Googled “meth code 1234”, and right now it returns two hits on the Da Vinci Code. Well, lo and behold, on tonight’s news, they said, “What’s Da Vinci’s REAL code?” nbc 12-13-10. Well, 4-15-1452 is Leonardo’s birthday, 4-16-1952 is mine. It was a coincidence that I was seeing it first.

      http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1337976/Real-life-Da-Vinci-Code-Tiny-numbers-letters-discovered-Mona-Lisa.html

      I glanced at it. I know there’s embedded text in graphics. I am interested in the general answer to the question, “How do hackers assist in the arrival of 500 tons of raw drug material to the destination set by drug cartels?”

      Well, it is ABC. I was waiting for it, but I must have been waiting only seconds and decided to turn the TV over to the kid. I thought I’d missed it in the previous half-hour.

      But something electronic is capable of imitating what ordinarily takes a lot of effort, like living your whole life and being counted as one cipher or even forgotten entirely. You can get opinions as fast as you can twist the radio dial.

      Good wishes to you too, Mika. You breathe air now.

      SEB

  4. Buckasswild Says:

    What is this fuck boy talking about. I thought this site is about meth manufacture

    • sbillinghurst Says:

      Yes. I do not trust raiding so-called “experts”. This, so, Straight-Up, real: Don’t playeth thee. See oval evee day!. I tried to call (have ’em looking for a truck). But, uh, you search diamond field in the search box. Butter, this is a woman’s world. Dyke, if this was a man’s world. I’m on set some recipe’s, some red & white Teflon. Huh! Blug.

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