Jello Chronic Series IX: 42nd Street Is Where We Meet.

Suggestion: Turn off the blog mp3 player before watching the Jello Chronic Series IX video short. In today's episode (42nd Street Is Where We Meet), I focus on going with the flow of things. Riding life out without too much thought, if you will, is often the better solution when seemingly insurmountable odds gather on the perimeter. It's a better solution because in the end no one makes it out alive, anyway. Thus if life is a short movie as it really is when measured by the infinity of the universe, I am a firm believer of the self-production concept, during which we produce, direct, and star in our own movie more often than we think. Trying not to think about life too much (obsessively, per se) doesn't mean tuning out. Instead, when we naturally see colors, hear sounds, and just sit, observing all that is before us, we are tuning in and taking back what was ours all along. Own every breath, living life with each inhale-exhale. Take in all the experiences, encounters, and existential emotions. It can be so Jungian or life can be so dismal, bleak, and depressing. The personal struggles I have tend to slant toward Nietzsche, who is not a personal hero of mine. And if God is dead (Gott is tot, Section 108 Die fröhliche Wissenschaft) and Zarathustra, thus, does continue to speak then I am compelled to believe that I am not first and certainly not the last man to be losing his mind. I don't really care all that much about the mind but I wish the dead Gods (or God if we are arguing from a monotheistic-Judeo-Christian perspective) would leave my spirit alone. It's a poverty of spirit, a rundown of the soul that wears a man thin. I'm so thin, nowadays. It's probably a funky solar scriptura anorexia nervosa virus eating me up alive. I try to combat the lows and dark valleys by taking my digital camera almost every where I go, collecting seemingly random images of tastes, sounds, people, stuff and things on a curious memory stick that I use to beat myself with to renewed awakenings. I am my own roshi in a technical sense--Rinzai-Soto-Bodhidharma-meets-Kafka-Forrest-Gumpian emotional intelligence. There's an unpleasantly dark subway that lights up offbeat metropolitanical shadows. And then there's the curve of a woman's hips and the subtle nuisances of a shy smile and soft bedroom eyes, following always obligatory pillow talk. Even further into the lense and deeper into the megapixels are recorded images of two Latinas freak-dancing each other on yesterday's forgotten dance stage. Clubs, by the way, come and go in New York City like condoms in a whore's imitiation Gucci bag. Photography, art, and the whole surreality of (this) life can be full of distractions. But then again...I try to tune back in before the music fades, having always preferred hearing music in my heart over hearing (the) voices in my head. On a closing note to anyone reading this graphic comic book novella (posing cleverly as a blog)...it's okay...I scare myself too.

That's all I have to report for now from Planet Earth/North American Continental Exploration/Field Journal 2009/Dharma Warrior 214MAV/Last Outpost: Camp Jello Chronic.