the (de)meaning of life

Our f(r)iend dolomitus abstainicus asks, "What is the best method by which one may discern the nature of one's path in life? To what standard must one adhere? Does God exist? Why? Does God like polka?"

These five questions are really one question, and that one question is really five steps, and those five steps are really the heart of the ladder, which, itself, is really the one thing needed to get to the ceiling. The problem, friends, is that most people spill the paint before they reach the top. Thus, the most that most of us will ever see is the blank under-roof. Which is why we sleep. But I will answer, and by doing so, let you in on the secret to awakening.

What is the best method by which one may discern the nature of one's path in life? This is a question by, for, and of science, which is merely the janitor's closet in the hallways of living. One's path in life does not have a nature, but is nature. If your nature is well-mulched and pruned, then discernment will come easily. Unfortunately, many people let the buckthorn of life invade their natures, and all becomes chaos. So, the only answer to this question: Always have a hoe by your side.

To what standard must one adhere? Friend, you must realize that the standards adhere to you. Unfortunately, while some people, like you, are glue, some are rubber, and the standards bounce off them and stick to you. You are doing as you should, and the only way to bring them to self-adherent-awakening is to walk side-by-side, occasionally rubbing yourself up against them.

Does God exist? In answer, I respond only with this: Are you reading this blog?

Why? Ohmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Does God like polka? He prefers the hokey pokey, but every time he sticks his left leg in, there's another typhoon, so he polka's only for love of his creation, not for preference.

I hope this clears things up, friend, and that you can now see the ceiling for the buckthorn.

Blissings,
Jimmi

Our co-enkwhyerer, roar(not lion), asks the following:

"What I need to know, your guru-magnificence, what does this mean?"

in a galaxy far away one speical picture

in the freaky regions of outer space one man goes up into the
celastreal attic comes one picture will be shown on earth to laugh at
humanity and all man kind shows a cruel space ship
that wont move a mussel one a 5 year old could drive to use a milk
beam at the earth one with a lazer that looks like bottle carrying milk
one amusment park called candeler park a park
that carrys the toodler a speicies that cold harm a aphid while other
kids cary on the purpuse to go on rocking horses a galactic evil
planing to scream at there mommy this footage was found 15 years
ago the spaceships name is the special bus killing freaks called
A.PHI.D alien physics
hard intelngince dead bugs this force is runned by a janitor nammed
kitty grits ducky the ducky family was 12 pepole Gertrude beunett
gruoge turnstone malfron nigel quint montogo all
amy hido goop silk and pole invented this spacepad of kids"


Roar(not lion), the question is not "what does this mean," but "what is the mean?" For, indeed, these words typify a set of questions about the meaning of life. This is no poem, but arche-poem, proto-dict, Gestaltameme. The measure of a sage is not in his interaction with the student, with the patron, or with the self, but with the mean, the mundane, the janitor, who has no name, but has been "nammed," spoonerised with "runned"--thus, a nunned janitor rammed kitty grits ducky, which is the bottle opener that reveals the mussel that throbs universally. This is alien physics, which requires of its subjects that when we consider this great spacepad of kids that we inhabit, we must, from all necessity and in all obeisance, get down on our knees and hug them.

blissings,
jimmi

dear children

our first reader, who calls herself emily, asks the following:

"are you on crack or do you have too much time on your hands?and also, what grad school should i go to? must be outside a radius of four-five hours of mississippi."

because of the ebullience of honey ash that flows from my hands, when the stars are aligned (and when they are not, it is only in your mind), my hands tend to dry out, so in answer to your first question, child, it is my hands that have cracks on them, and time's motion is the lotion. and you would realize, had you whispered through the spine in the crack's book, that the question is not what grad school you should attend, but whose geographical mind garden you should tend. in your situation, clearly feeling the pulse of leavings and the rub of cotton, my advice is to make your way to st. louis, stand beneath the arch, and train your eyes westward to the rectangular states. here, the geometry of wisdom will make plain the hands of the plains' cracks, and all will come to fruition.

blissings,
jimmi

now is won and three at present

you have finished and are ready to begin your journey, as all journeys are destined to do. so bring your questions and concerns to me now as you did then, and all things of manner will be well.

leave your questions and concerns as a comment, and i will respond, like the green turtle lost in the brownest tree, as quickly as possible in a new post, where i will, like seven digits on a microwave's portrait, repeat your question with my answer.

blissings,
jimmi