Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Re: The Height of Beatitude

Hellooo, brethren and sustren. I have finally come into a great abundance, and received a great supply of That Which I Love Most Dear. Hence this offering, and installment of the chronicle.

My soul is rising to the height of beatitude.

My lungs are prepared for a great and glorious harvest.

"KNOWLEDGE," I just said aloud to my computer Charles FitzGerald for no reason. It is because I was reading too much feminism and postmodernism over the last several hours. The thing about postmodernism is that sometimes people just get lost in it and never come back, and in that way it is more potent than psychedelic DRUGS.

Oops, I just accidentally blew potent smoke right into Margery Kempe's face, because she was crouching in the dark bathroom and hiding from me in order to spring out and surprise me at a later point in time, because she is a playful cat who loves to cut capers, and chase figments, and play endless games. That is why philosophers do not usually have cats, because cats try to distract the philosophers from the writing of their philosophy. But I am not a philosopher, because I do not have the proper spirit for a lot of patriarchal Western philosophies, like Kant and Hegel and Aristotle and their ilk, so I just read them and get all salty and pissed-off, and do not feel particularly receptive to their ideas, because you shouldn't be an asshole and then expect people to be all receptive to your ideas. It can create discord.

Anyways, what I had started out to say was that I just blew smoke in Margery's face by accident because I did not see her, and she blinked at me and squinted as her head was enveloped by a huge cloud of smoke. "Uh, sorry, Margery," I said. "I did not see you there." She just gave me a look in response. Cats often give looks with a lot of meaning, and import, and expression.

Sometimes (especially in the middle of the night, when I was the only one up), Tasty and I would look at each other and
commune with each other through out looks. It is true.

Although once last winter I was really high and I turned on the tv guide channel and got really excited about what was about to come on television, and I started yelling excitedly to Tasty about it because I forgot for a moment that he was not a person, and I was like, "Tasty, I'm so excited about the great television that's coming on tonight! Can you BELIEVE it?" and Tasty looked at me in alarm and leapt down from the television (where he had been perched) and with his look he said, "Woman, you're scaring me. Calm down," and I was like, "Sorry, Tasty. I kind of got carried away, and forgot you weren't a true person."

In the olden times, people did not have to remember quite as many passwords.

Haa, I hear Margery Kempe madly eating her dry food. We must have hotboxed the apartment by accident (for it is only a studio), for she has the munchies. Haaa. I have corrupted a medieval mystic. On The Flavor of Love 2 , after getting drunk in the limo on the way to the airport, Flavor Flav flopped in his seat on the flight to Belize and just kept saying, "Flav's been InTOXICATED!" over and over and over again in a joyful voice. It was a great and outrageous season, and I am sad that it is over. For although I do not have a television (because it is like a temptress), episodes of that show are available online

A small envelope just fell down on me like a spirit.

"Your eyes are bright with care," I said to Margery when she woke up from her nap, and I laughed.

Margery and I did not come from the same womb, but our souls are still on one accord.
When the radiator first comes on, the apartment smells like burning ghosts for a while, for it is an old and hearty building.

And that is all. There is a lot more postmodernism at hand, but at least it is baked in the delicious spiced cake of feminism.

Haa, Sage Out.