IN THE COURSE of many, many a pleasant conversation with the late and great Kenneth Grant, he disclosed his thoughts about his books and reincarnation more than once.
And how interesting he was on the topic. Basically, he said that one of the reasons for writing his books was that when he reincarnated, he’d be able to piece together his last life.
There was another reason for writing his books, he said, all to do with digestion. He said that if you had loads of ideas and didn’t write them down, it was a kind of constipation. Scribbling was kind of like a laxative. Σ
That’s the way I think of my ideas and such, best to get them out so there’s room for more shit to be made.
‘Scuse me cribbing in the spirit of the alimentary metaphor (I’m wound up today), but how(?) would a migrative transformative encarmalised gobshite such as meself know in which of the Universe’s worlds, or dimensions, or realms of existence, I had been piled higher and deeper where to hit the fan on me wee wuttle metempsychosis a posteriori?
I’m not presuming meself in the presense of Kenneth Grant, but I am on about getting me cheeseburger in paradise…
“Get me a juice an slice of pie, would ye, lovely bodhicitta? A thousand pardons, seems I stepped on frog.”
Now, I am aware that me guardian angle hath a low opinion of me, and I him, so can’st I exchange the lout winced I’ve crossed over to the soul kitchen? There is no pleasing some purple.
“Reckon beanz on toast it is, your Heinzness.”
I reckon the boffins have not perfected the whole quantum leap of faith reincarnate as yet, as I would have read it on TechEye, where all the news hath the particle of trvth. And While they are eating away at it, have them bang one out as to revolve the Sun about the Earth, for clearly it makes more sense that creation was made for the {burp} Ba-buoyant soul consciousness of a man, than does a man any favour by Nature (“plus chips”).
I reckon a sort of gaseous emanated causal chain must exist from where you Occam’s razor what you eat, to where the ethereal new flashion Gordon honeynistas are, a next phase, new wave, anyways, it’s still the Bog Standard crock & rolls to me. The whole nutshell comes down to one question: ‘will it float?’
“Speakin of gaseous emanations, I’m off to spin a penny, full of sound and fury {but little money}, then is heard no more. Put the bill on Mike’s tab.”
“Siddhartha, you be cookin’ wi’ gas, bro.”
{grunt}
“Clearly, in a prior life, I stepped on a frog.”
I killed a frog a few months ago, accidentally. It made a difference to me but a vast difference to the frog.