Metaautistic Vedas

May all the snow of my native Arctic melt if I can with certainty estimate the degree of my duplicity. May the settlers of Abrëville be doomed to eternal postcoital depression if I can claim that my interpretations of the Vedas legacy are correct. May the intermittent summer scorch the Café Club Museum if I can read with minimum understanding the unwritten Panapocalyptic Manifesto. Let alone recite verses from it from memory. Damned be me motherfuckin self. Yo!

: First off, one should once and for all inscribe in the cerebellum of one’s mind that under no fuckin circumstances will one accept to believe that absolute certainty is a possibility. Second, there is no force known to the human imagination that can impose on one the idea of the reign of decay in Arctic ye native. Thirdly, snow should by any stretch of imagination be equated with smoggy waters. Further, the only thing Abrëville can be doomed to is being haunted by the spirit of zarr(Y)e, Ye Grooviologist. Also, one should never forget Ye Metaautistic Vedas golden rule #1: What is correct!

Sure. But how can one think differently if time and again crass reality chex hurl at one’s face a potentiality of truthfulness of the claim that family history of postcoital depression phobia entails a hereditary disease called thirst for cuddling.

: You know what…Our grandmother’s grandfather on her mother’s father’s side was the prime expert in interpreting the ancient apocrypha entitled On How To Phunkie ReadwriteRemix (ØØØØ). One better keep in mind one of the many gems from that treasure chest. Namely, do pull out from the depths of your memory the diamond: Rule #7:

One’s ultimate goal in life must be radical alienation. Only that one can condition serious changes in the life of the community and individuals alike. Needless to say, this is made possible if the sine qua non called “indifference” is being substantiated through merciless destruction of the vital drive for bonding. Why > because the most abrasive ingredient in human relationships, enabling the visibility of the human face, is the delusion called “love,” which is only a masked authentic phenomenon called codependency. (“Nest’n’Burden” 15)

Like phunk!!! To hell with wanna be critics of metaautism who do not know that without criticality there is no criticism.

: Damn straight! Few are visitors of the Café Club Museum who know that the Crypts hide a testimonial to the wisdom of the organic processor on the beach of ye approximately following content:

All autistics are autistic in more-or-less the same way. Only some of them know that they are. That metaautistic awareness makes them self-interpretative critical mechanisms whose life is characterized by a constant bliss of the oscillation between reciting from memory and creating off-invention. This, in turn, is an incessant self-baptizing act naming them Mafokids Off-Invention. (n.page)

Like WOW…Crude as the fact may be, never did it occur to me that the mind’s exploration of its own fabric can indicate its own idiosyncratic idiom. WOW! This makes my breath easier. My eye more fierce. My voice crispier.

: Like who time it is! I’m asking you. Unowadamsayin…Those sterling thinkers knew how to think self-reflexivity and yet remain critically creative. If one aspires V anything, it should be living out at least a tiny chunk of that colossal, comagniY deskilling skill—a nanoliter of horsed blood.

Fifteen minutes ago I thought that all I ever ‘dl have wanted was to be an echo of those brainwave commotions. Now I know I do.

: Ma-fother-phunkie self, even if I mobilized all the imago-mental potentials, I could never even think that I could want anything but that.

As the bus is driving away from the infamous battlefield of skillful deskilling, the freshness of the warm air touched by light rain is caressing the grass indifferent to the endless procession of vehicles. All is floating in that still moment that smells of warm June rains from a couple of decades ago. And June rains always smell of salt. Because that’s the smell of the river. The window pane protects the eye of the traveler from the possible harshness of the air. On the other side of that glass shield the landscape is dilating. Branches of the trees become elongated blurs of green and brown, flowers become a bizzar(E) aquarelle of smudged pink and white. Houses krokies of their own sketches…vignettes   of their own becoming…

Behind the window a flower potbed with a bonsai linden tree in it on the sill. Rivers of raindrops are washing down the glassy surface. Almost watering that miniature giant safely seated in the silence of an afternoon, drifting along the edges of disjoined timespace. Miniscule chlorophyll colossus. Quiet manufacturer of mighty oxygen.  Nearly invisible cohabitant . Immobile sight of a musical vision. Its leaves like a trombone whispering a sad family saga. Its trunk like rhythmic movements of a swimmer lost in the relief of the twilight on a long summer day. Its bark the skin covering the shoulder blade yearning for a soft cushion to sink into. Its annual rings the frowning forehead  on the face of a child told a story insufficiently simple. Its roots a slow elevation of the air in a cathedral saturated with the vibrations from the organ.  Its crown a thought of you on a warm rainy night in winter. I met you on a summer day.

Next to the window sill a brown rocking chair. Underneath it a thick white rug. To the left the piano. Towards the door a bookshelf. Opposite the bookshelf a stereo. A poster on the wall. On it an orange with a human face. Sleeping. Below a purple chaise longue welcoming the reclining shoulder blade. Reclining to the sound of a bamboo xylophone.  

May all the snow of my native Arctic melt if I can with certainty estimate the degree of my duplicity…