Pan Bashers

"Panoosh."

What is it?

Of course, a one-word answer would be too much and infinite explanations would never be enough.

Perhaps today we should examine a simple, tangible scenario in which I attempt to flow Nooshin' "poetry" off the cusp:

"Panoosh? Rhetoric meets its pissed-off, deformed stepbrother. Basement of the cathedral."

Nope. Too much. Excessive. Not panoosh. The end got too angsty.

PANOOSH: The fact that we're analyzing this at all and the fact that the strongest element driving Panoosh is the simple search for what IT IS in the first place, thus giving it an even more infinite and baffling purpose than any arguement a Pan Basher could throw at it
PANOOSH: The fact that the Pan Bashers are the most Panoosh
PANOOSH: The fact that it is not Panoosh to rate things on the 'Noosh scale, though breaking Panoosh rules is a necessity and the fact that it was necessary to rate on the 'Noosh scale in order to illustrate the idea that it is not Panoosh to rate things on the 'Noosh scale
PANOOSH: You know all of this.

Introduction to Panooshing as an Environment

"Meaning is in its use." -Wittgenstein

The meaning of Panoosh appears directly through its use; thus, it would be useless to try and outline "what is IS." Because it's everything, and it's nothing.

Words, gestures, expressions come alive only within this Language Game- this culture- this Environment.

Why do we say Panoosh is a "made-up" word? Aren't all words made up in correlation with concepts and things in external reality?

Communication is impossible lest we all agree to agree on certain topics, like colors.

Enter another country and you will experience different customs and laws governing interactions. Upon Panooshing, you agree to operate under the local laws of Chance, Cut-up, Re-invention, and Knowledge Expansion.

Wittgenstein has discussed "private knowledge," in reference to forms of communication only understood by the private users.

Picture a solitary individual, born and raised isolated from the laws of language- how would he/she invent a language? As with Cavemen, inventing one would involve inventing MEANING- and that's exactly what they did.

Or imagine a man who wrote "S" in his diary every time he felt a sensation. This sensation has no neutral expression, and "S" cannot be defined in words. The only judge of whether "S" is used correctly is the inventor of "S."

Panooshing is a sensation, an activity, an experience, and a way of moving about life. Each Panoosher holds a different idea of what it means to Panoosh; but overall, we can agree that its function (as a verb) is to help reconcile the complex outer world with our inner creativity and desire to break out of the general laws (passed down to us through convention/society) and create our own.

Of course, even as I write, I am making use of agreed-upon concepts, but what if I...
pause, stop
destruction of a sentence as it happens
speak in pitter p a t t e r
sunglasses high upon head,
smiling, with poetry in eyes
moving above the clouds and landing back in the sentence I just left off at.

That is to say, Panooshing is not mere "randomness," but rather a purported, directed effort to jump out of the language and laws that entangle us - even if for an hour and a half - and return to society with a greater appreciation of one's own essence.

To put it bluntly, what counts is not what is "true" or "right" (or independent of humans in some universal form), but instead what we can get away with - or get others to accept.

What does Panoosh mean to you?

In the upcoming class, the boundaries of language do run deep, so a majority of our time will be spent doing only body movement as a form of expression.

To rest upon Schopenhaur for a bit- Art is an attempt to communicate to an audience a certain existential angst. Panooshing is the acknowledgment of this angst, but the artful destruction of everything that commonly causes that angst.

Vague city?

Perhaps.

You see, a lot of living can be fundamentally frustration-filled: a mind game with yourself- painful, and confusing. Panooshing seeks to multiply the spontaneous, playful, and unique parts of ourselves that lie dormant underneath a rhetoric of JOBS, FUTURE, PLANS, LABELS, GOALS, STABILITY, and PURPOSE.

Will it be successful? YES, according to your SUCCESS label. Or NO, if you keep your shades comfortably on.

What if the purpose is that there is no purpose, but then even then that is a purpose, so instead we say Cheese.

Panoon is Sweeping the Naysh

If you haven't heard, Panoosh/oon is echoing throughout the corners of Berkeley. To my chagrin, Panoon has once again multiplied in its usage, becoming an adjective used by people in times of need. For example, a friend told me today that she heard a guy remark, "Does anyone know how to Panoosh with these lights?" Yes, Ladies & gentlemen, it is now an adjective referring to "savvy ability, or the skills to reckon with difficult situations"

Of course, the situations are endless. I live for the day when Berkeleyeans near and far will exclaim with sheer brilliance, "dude, that shit is so Panoosh!"

Just wait..

From Noonie to Wifey

I recently wrote this panoon message to a friend who I haven't really payed any attention to lately and I want to share it with all the the nooshers out there:

and so this. i miss you. three words maybe four. sounding this bell. like i should have heard it. i perform on a stage. and you remind me. i miss shit. it's not always. but my cell alarms. i ignore it. busy again of course. and then what? nothing that's what. fuck it again. write a poem. don't say act. and see her. does that work?

Head in the Clouds, Feet on the Ground

This is what we've been doing all along. And Burroughs and Ginsberg reach their long arms forward in history, poking and nudging us along this moving sidewalk. The robotic lurkers will forever stomp along, weary, living in treehouses with their feet in someone else's shoes.

We cut up the sky with man-made purple paper cutters and everything is 

not groovy-

the mass is sticky, ugly, and somehow alluring- so we jump in and stir about.

Whoa and they'll always bottle it up and sell it for double its worth, as we unwittingly become the poster children for a better life.

There is always a THEY, a blind mass of volunteers who want to become right and powerful and print textbooks that smirk at you and hit you when you bend down.

Impatient for illustration, craving categories, and pushing around carts of other humans too sad to jump off and hitch-hike back through the desert.

Panooshing, zooming, sitting, luxuriating in the clouds with our feet on the ground- 

we scare the successful with our electronic tools of transcendence.

What a world one can enter while Panooshing, and quick you better buy this shit, he says, "lest you end up unhappy and succesful, huh?" 

You say Panoon is the way to go, we say it's a way of going. And we're gone.

Coming this week...

Coming this week: observations on the youth's only tool for survival: irony (the embodiment= rado); reflections on the "Protean Man," aka the new process of understanding the "Self" as a constantly changing identity with no authentic core...in other words, we are a multiplicity of ideas, objects, pop culture references, and shifting values, despite the fact that many of us claim that we're living "true" to ourselves.

THERE IS NO SELF! We change each moment, put on a new mask around different people, and are fine with it..in fact, we're hyper-aware of it..Media has become an extension of our bodies, multiplying our identities and sending them off around the world. and still, we sit, over-aware and reveling in the absurdity of this-- we crack a joke, and move on. it is the way of the ironist. we operate between the divine and the mortal with our heads in the clouds and our feet on the ground. we distrust the things of this world, yet our way of operating is only IN THIS WORLD. we cannot stand inauthenticity, becoming authentic by parodying superficiality. we adopt the shallow in order to showcase the deep, but the deep isn't really meant to be deep..the ironist straddles a gray gap between giving a shit and going to a movie. Making a claim about God, and then going to the bathroom. we resist commitment in constant movement, experiencing, bouncing, bouncing. seinfeld is never in a true relationship, never makes serious claims about life, but if he does he follows it up with a mundane comment about a soup nazi. same with woody allen: "how can i believe in god when just last week i got my tongue caught in the roller of a typewriter?" "How is it possible to find meaning in the world given my waist and shirt size?" "I am at two with nature" With every pun, he resists sounding too deep, but through his usage of irony is able to make claims about the world. that's how we do it. in order to be serious, one has to not be serious. in this jaded, overly smart up and coming world, people freak out when TRUTH is thrown upon them...so we do it in backhanded artistic ways...sorta like this entire Buffalo Son movie..the dialogue, no doubt, will be laced with funny HAOJ/SALTY moments, but the ultimate portrayal will hit upon some deep shit. but the trick is, it can never be bashed over the head. by NOT SAYING something, one is able to say it. By showing...and lastly, Socrates has already been down this road-- instead of worshipping Che Guevara for his vaguely appealing revolutionary sentiments (and thusly supporting capitalism by buying a red shirt with his face on it from Hot Topic), we should be lookin back further..this desire to know the divine through the very lives we live was started by SOCRATES! that motherfucker had the balls to claim that "the only thing I know is that i know nothing." everything he says in his writing cancels itself out. like woody allen. is he serious, or is he playful? WHY NOT BOTH? By speaking multiply, one can show they give a shit, but duck out the back door just as the existentialist know-it-all kid tries to categorize "your angle." Man, it's all a dance. Livin in the in-between, smack dab in the middle of serious and play is the way to go. Every word I type also cancels itself out because who is to say that FLOWER refers to an actual flower?? We merely throw around a bunch of linked up, historicized concepts in a web of Truth Building and Faith Fucking. The entire structure of scientific knowledge must be looked at as a beautiful fucking structure, because if anything, humans are damn smart to have been able to create millions of textbooks with LAWS, LAWS, LAWS and theories about motion, and sickness, and string theory. don't get me wrong, it's great what scientists are doing with stem cell research, but the entire foundation of knowledge is a massive construction sight for the RICH AND POWERFUL. Institutionalized authorities share this approach. Who is to say "what is crazy?" He's not behaving according to the norm, therefore we stick him down the willy wonka chute to crazy land, USA. Nietzsche was the one to spin this game man. He said, why not look at all life as ART??? As beautiful fucking art! The scattered asians who plan for a lifetime in medicine or engineering are the greatest artists of all! Contributing to this ever-growing FAKE AND MADE-UP mass of human knowledge, they construct more and more towers of knowledge. and in this way, Nietzsche speaks NON-MORALLY. He looks at what they do not in terms of if it's right or wrong, but instead of how complicated and beautiful it is! Here we are flung at random amidst this profusion of land and stars and dust and are given this faculty to speak, to write thousands of treatises on economics, fight battles, and then RECORD our goddamn battles and test future generations of "The Significance of the War of 1812" according to this General (and this General only!) when we really have NO IDEA WHATSOEVER if any of this is true-- but guess what, it's pretty freaking impressive isn't it? That we can spin and give momentum to our populace by testing it on events that happened 400 years ago, or creating a code to study the embryos of baby centipedes and their internal process of Mitosis-- or that we may gather up all the reflections on life from Descartes, Hume, Kant, Hobbes, Spinoza, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle and condense them in a way that gives no less clarity to the students studying the information than the authors writing the theories!-- is pretty damn impressive. and beautiful. Do not be afraid. looking at life non-morally is the way of the artist and the way of the ironist. We scramble categories of expectation, dropping a line like "That sounds particularly interesting; however, I have to go take a shit" is prime example of the lovely and irreplacable irony of our culture. Do not be afraid to embrace these contradictions. The key now, and Nietzsche was one smartass jew to figure this out, is that the TRUE originality comes when one takes these buildings of knowledge and scrambles them up completely. The Life Aquatic of Steve Zissou- perfect example of life on the nonmoral path. (and that has a bad connotation, but to live non-morally is to live ironically). example: "Mr. Zissou, was it a deliberate choice to not show the shark?" Steve (played by Bill Murray, responding to reporters' questions about his new documentary): "No, I just dropped the camera." Here we see such confusion and scrambling! The truth-worshippers do not and will not understand this response. Steve is just operating in the adventures of (gasp!) The Live Moment! Every nuance in a film, every comment in a piece of writing, is ultimately part of it and does not have to have a fucking "UNDERLYING MEANING TO BE INTERPRETED!" The interpretation lies in the WAY in which the information is presented-- why this transition here? Look at these colors? Look at that ironic response! "I dropped the camera." all at once, an unintentional diss of the Truth Monger...he hops out the back door. Like Bugs Bunny. We know the road runner is gonna get killed, because he does every episode, but BUGS..damn, that bunny..he always finds a way to EVADE the situation altogether! "Are you for or against abortion?" Already the question is framed based on someone else's conception of right vs. wrong. WHat do you mean, I have to choose? What if I believe in abortion AFTER the baby is born? (Well, for some known as Carl Linder, that's murder!!!). But it's still evading the question. Don't ask me a question with only 2 possible answers, because LIFE is made up on the spot man! the challenge is to see the world not in terms of the concepts that have been laid out before us, but instead from a 3rd, 4th, 5th approach..constantly re-inventing! You only feel guilt when you think you don't fit in to one of the categories. You only feel odd when you diverge from the norm. But I'll tell you a little secret: there is no norm! (except for norm crosby, or norm our cousin who has a particularly odd yet invigorating obsession with old cars and hand guns). But that's another story! I'm gonna take a minute to jump outside this text. Did you just see how i followed up a seemingly serious remark with something, quite frankly, uselessly comedic? It's the process of CANCELING OUT YOURSELF, of BOUNCING between spaces..you are unconscious of the fact that all your friends operate in this plain of Ironic sarcasm (with a hint of narcissism in some). It is the risk of seeming inauthentic, OR WORSE- appearing too troubled over "important" or "deep" issues that drives this mode of communication! But man, there are also the ironists who are known to themselves only as outlaws, as artists destined to forever roam the Great Plains. And here I think it's safe to say that Sam France is the last of the great outlaws..unfortunatly for him, he lives in a society that craves direction, purpose, restraint, and meaning. Well maybe the meaning is in the massage? (That's a book by Marshall McLuhan). Meaning, in other words, the true "MEANING" comes through the MASSAGE, or the way in which something AFFECTS YOU. Who the fuck cares if Fred Armisen is speaking coherently as Nichlas Feign-- it is the WAY in which he delivers his lines, stutters, expresses his face, that gets the meaning across. SO as the sprinkler systems start back up again for the 2008 season of Indie Baseball, there's a new team in town, straight from Australia, the outback of American Idealism and the pro-pitchers of a new and un-hittable fastball: The Ironic Spin. Better warn the managers, or get St. Clair to set up a music store outside the baseball diamond, because the fans are gonna need something homogenously entertaining as they struggle in the stands to see this battling team and weird mix of up-and-coming free floaters take the field. "And it's day 4 of the Indie Basball craze..." the announcer's voice drifts over the new steel stadium. The sprinkler system is started up by a stoic Morgan Freeman, who saunters over to the pitching mound with the great Shoeless Joe Jackson, and announces the starting lineup. As Micky Mantle and Todd Rundgerton climb out of the duggout, young Holden sits up top left and watches as The Buffalo Son rises behind left field.

Anti-Pro-Israel

The Men Can Crash Like the Waves.
Women can be as vast as the ocean itself.

Piece.

Hello Comfort, the Motherfucking Truth Drive

That which shall count as Truth from now on will be available in aisle four, shelf Ten. 

Give me proof of the existence of minds and bodies--

fabricated fort sheets of filled classroom seats,

staring strangely to the board above;

Give me proof [in writing] of the existence of God

and let me shrink out the back window

and yell at my pillow

Because this whole madness of organized concepts on 

Truth, Reality, and Academic Pursuits of infinite proportion 

whirl us right back around after pumping up the thinking device up

with prideful strength--

Giving us the Audacity to jump on a jet into Descartes' old, wrinkly mind

and pull out a theorum & enter it into our ipods. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

So this is it- 

this self-referential giggly madness 

huddling, sweaty, under the stacks of books and echoes of 

dead Russian scholars. 

Generation "Nowers," slinging virtual ropes around

intangible why's, owned by fabricated "Why Not's?"

Whipping up a stew of comforting 

banter, enforcing their minimally present 

identities with possible hopes for the future. 

The pain of being held up with the 

same questions, without the

arrogant plastered smirks on walls 

of virtual community blog posts- 

Inside Jokes against history- 

An eternal selfishness of NOW

saluting Steve Jobs

making love to a nightly array of 

biblically enforced 24-minute 

time periods of human drama in a case, 

eating the intestines of their insecurities 

and drinking the bubbling vodka and redbull 

of an insatiable desire to be loved.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  --  - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - 

Holy shit 

there's this moment when the rain stops

silence on the streets 

and you ask, is this what we do? 

"Do"?

Think...What should we do or think?

Engraved in the concrete as water pools up in the M of AD I N F N I T U M and drips onto my shoe.

In these words, I climb in 

and out of a jungle gym.

__________________________________________________________________

That which shall count as Truth will be, from now on, known as Lies, and Lies are the ultimate Truth- button it around you now before you forget. Fire burns away arbitrary assignments, and when every Tree can speak for itself, you don't need me anymore. It's a weird, whimsical place this parade of people painting masterpieces of deception and protection against attacks. Feeling cold now is better than waking up as a hot, quivering human mask with dignified, symmetrical features. 

And now we see eye to eye, rejecting all that was once a Tree. Dusty dark road under the summer skies winds away from this town and it makes me happy. I'm happy now, are you? Drowning in an animal soup of concepts, falling slowly apart and loving the sparkly pieces that tinker to the ground and explode in a pool of cellophane smartness. The only thing now is a suitcase, really, and it's gotten too heavy to bring around everywhere. Fuck get off me with the lies, morally speaking, I own you. Letting it all come from within, I see with glasses and an open heart the brutal sadness humans inflect on themselves because of a desire to be free from long established modes of "Living." Thinking you're attached to an ideal, finding it, and losing it- sadness floods but it means nothing! Until you've learned to truly (TRUE-LY) as opposed to FAKE-LY shed the layers of abstractions and defenses against misfortune, you can glide over razors with poise, shit if I had that, we'd all be in heaven, right? 

The point is, none exists. Organization of sorrows, maybe, cubby-hole placement of emotion and car key validation of pocket sized triumphs and failures, yes. Trekking through each day like it's a damn jungle out there-- living in accordance with someone's rules who you've never meet, helping yourself to a giant plate of Security, Satisfaction, and Subtle Escape-- there's no wonder we live in a self-made garden of constantly sprouting truths- which one will you choose today? 

And more importantly, there's nothing more important if you let it be.

Dig deep into the roots of the earth, Brother, and see that this Drive is the very core of our weird, mangled, playhouse production. And who are you today?

The Rise and Fall of Pan

In order to reach the state of nothingness, you have to fuck everything you were taught. 

"Never trust a thought you get while sitting." -Nietzsche

Get up and pace. Look around and ask one thing- Why?

There is no truth. <-- And yet look at that fatass smirking generalization!! Caught up in this sticky, odorless circle of triangles and reocurring squares, we ask: 

What are you left with after you: 

Fuck those loosely clad mannequins with worried smiles and myspace santas with whitened bronzed purple eyes staring into the abyss of nameless digital cameras, wholesome clean cut IG skater hollister sweet vanilla sephora juicy sweatpants milky pen highlighted gelled promanade mammath vacation exclamations of summer camp tousled with a million "likes," defenses, ashamed chuckles, loud, smooth, piercing monotones, pronouncing back like "Baach" (it's a fucking part of the body, not a dead classical composer), perpetual Dudish chuckling, when activities become auctivities, auctions to save the fucking human english dialect from drowning in fake sand at lizard exhibits, buuulikke..no..I liked it, I mean I loved it, seriously, don't make fun of me, that camp (Cooomp) was rellay, rellay fun!- weeliike got to do things, and be captains (Cawptons), fuck scene kids with tats and perfectly tousled hair, sauntering, goddamn sauntering (a form of indie floating, but with more smirks and reckless abandonment),  pseudo-aura of being high, dudeiwas goooona do thaa..buuliikee//then I didn't..hahaa it was epicc//** ~~@@! Whoohoo!! fuck college kids who come back and walk in like ASB lazy boyz with no sandles to mess with the teachers they once feared, fuck people who laugh at the accepted formula of dane cook humor, or create hypothetical humorous traps for themselves to fall into and then comment on ("the fact that you just said that makes me really, really scared." "I know, I'm starting to get scared myself." Cue forceful self-conscious laughter), fuck skinny cokehead girls with arms the size of my forefinger cuz it's cool to fuck the world (but not that way), fuck certain sorority girls who pride on kugel and their smirky boy counterparts who try to be jon stewart but fail miserably, fuck jittery scattery asian chicks with jansport backpacks grasping onto that 6th cup of tea as organic chemistry and electrical engineering textbooks sadle up to fuck them in the ass and they like it, fuck nagging, and seriously fuck people who text and then don't pick up their phones, or people who pretend not to receive texts to avoid plans, fuck suburban living crouching away from the world so sad with no other option but to buy that gym membership, fuck text messaged love, drawn out for hours while driving, fuck texting in general, fuck unnecessary exclamation points and people who drink them like water, fuck wood ranch and BJs and other mass produced valley big kid hangouts where hostesses prance around like dogs at a show, fuck hilary clinton she's a hybrid, fuck people who can't look you in the eye you goddamn doll, fuck that girl who can "either be" an architect or a lawyer- for what?- make laws or design the buildings that house the people who make the laws?, it's all connected, fuck corporate lobbying firms who buy oil from fake countries in Kazakstan and finance our bulging economy behind curtains, fuck raised pimped out white trucks and the people who drive them, fuck 2 am meaningless hookups with users (actually KILL them), fuck blonde agricultural pseudo hippies who raise their hands in class to question everything, fuck actresses who don't know who their character is or what the movie was or why they're sitting on the fake couch of an old guy as millions of tivo'd nacho fatass whores tune in to snicker and judge her every hesitation, fuck glazed over lurkers who stare at you, fuck emo people who mumble and hate the world (this isn't emo hating, this is liberating rantaging), fuck the mindless mannequins workers at urban outfitters who think they're edgy but look like everyone else, fuck state standards, fuck being cold, hot, fuck being sleepy, fuck possessions, and fuck the entire Material World?

I'll tell you what. Once you're human you can't go back to being an animal. Right David Lynch's Elephant Man? Right. Once you start fucking, you can't go back to being a mindless, grazing, innocent glossy eyes prick who barrels through freeways in circles. Once you start questioning, there's no turning back- the ominous WHY? For what? Why not? How? Now? Yes? No? Maybe? Why? You see, there are so many steps, steps, steps one can take, but these steps- are they not steps backward when one HAS asked, has started to fuck the world, but keeps on doin' the same thing, stayin' on the same path, with that cute little hiding "Why" packaged tightly in his/her pocket? Damn. The fuckers don't wanna settle for a WHY through organized religion, theories about the afterlife, rhetoric on personal growth and pop psychology paths to self-betterment and the development of "real" relationships. What is real anyway, if not the emotions we create? "I think, therefore I am."- Descartes. Well at least he was an observant little fucker. Greatest thinker of all time, right. Again- "I'm like a man rushing about, longing to find his way and knowing that every step is leading him into deeper confusions, yet he cannot help rushing about."- Leo Tolstoy. 

See, there have been many fuckers in the world, most of whom living comfortably in the back indexes of our history books or on History Channel specials. But what about the rest? The millions of ants living underground have no way of showing their disillusionment with the system, for most lack the balls to nail their '91 Theses' to the Catholic Church (thank you Martin Luther), or starve themselves till their bones pop out like daggers, pointing at the fat and powerful rulers just chillin' on their thrones with their guns, or spears, what have you. So what comes next?

Fuckers unite man and find this internal dharma. Living in the dharma means we are constantly bouncing. This is our practice. In this state, you experience birth and death directly, pleasure and pain, happiness and great sorrow. Every single moment is birth and death, bounce, birth and death, bounce, constantly working, constantly fucking. But what we need to to now is start to UN-FUCK the world. Why? Because once you've already dominated and slashed everything to pieces, you've got to build up from somewhere, right? So, our UN-FUCKING shall no be accomplished by un-doing all that has been asked, but re-charting and re-fucking everything else........the PANOON way.

Human beings reflect constantly. So there is always suffering. You cannot get rid of human consciousness permanently, but you can alter it and paint over it and fancy it up with drugs and hallucinatory momentary escapes into parallel universes. But too much of something might ultimately prevent the process of UN-FUCKING all that we have already done, no? yes? That's how I like it. Either. But reflections deepens and enhances our lives. Why? Dharma/Panoon/Rhetoric/Multivalent Nameless Arguments or states of mind- they're all the same- they create reflection and reflection creates suffering and pain. BUT!! They also create opportunities to investigate the root of your life. Daily quests for the dharma are Panooshing (Progressive Action Now- Online, On-Stage, Hyperactive, Intergallactic Networking..Globally). Or any other name. Labels are illusory. Make up your own.

So then maybe our lives are like bottles, waiting to be filled up with these momentary, daily, hourly elixirs of Pan.

I wish I wasn't Blank. I wish it wasn't Blank now. I wish I wish I wish I wish things weren't the way they are now. I hear this everyday, sometimes in my head, but mostly around me. I can be happy when. I can't wait for dinner so I can excavate. I can't wait to go out and get drunk. I can't wait to do this and this and this so I can feel Blank.  Don't get me wrong, sometimes these pursuits greatly add to the big quest--

But what if the answer lies right here?

Is this any better? Writing to an anonymous Internet world about the contradictions of life?

And furthermore man, why is it that the mind always demands it should be occupied?? Do you understand? My mind says, "I must be occupied with something- with worry, with memory, with a passion, or with how not to be passionate, or how to get rid of something, etc." If it will not be occupied, says the Mind, it will do mischief...it will drift away. It says, if the mind is not occupied, then, what is the purpose of life?-- So then it invents a purpose and clings to it, thus becoming occupied.

Is this a purpose? Are you clinging now baby? Don't! Resist that magical shit, but dig it too.

We know movement-- we all want "more! more! more!" But maybe we need to be empty first in order to receive and not gather. Stop comparing, condemning, demanding, hoping, planning...and...just...BE. At once in a state of Panoon or whatever the fuck pops into you with open arms. And these states appear and you love them and cling to them too, but you canot force them because they are ethereal, fleeting, and so sweet- the very opposite of everything Material and Concrete and Sensible. The trick is, once empty, you fill up Pandora's Box with delicious panoon bread (wtf, riiiiiiiight?) and undergo a daily cleansing of Pan's Enemy, helping you to return to an ultimate and perpetual state of empty readiness- you're clear, you're here, and you're poised for anything that comes your way. You can now proceed to un-fuck everything you've learned by Panooooooooshing yourself out of ASB underwear, out of sweaty, cheap child labor gym outfits, out of voting booths (but if you must stay, just get out of Romney's, Gulianni's, McCains, etc etc), out of pointless mathematical equations, and our of this Mr. Roger's Wizard of Oz Landscape of pilgrimmages and slaughtering chicken days and rambling fake ass liberals with no knowledge behind their non-prescription, and thusly, pointless spectacles.

Sounds like a cult, eh? Fuck it. I hate panoon. That's the point. I fucking hate everything I'm writing right now.

The ultimate goal though, if you try this shit, is dharma- it is Enlightenment- it is (the act of) Pan Rising (bread levitating). Impossible. But this state cannot be reached by circuitous angry rat race Apprentice Who Wants to be the Next Psychic cool Hippie Ass Chick Missionaire who sits in the corner with no knowledge of Pan, but knows that somehow the shit that's goin' down is "so" not Society, so maybe she should sit in. And you welcome her for trying. Always be open. We try to participate in the ongoing act of panoooshing and re-panooshing in order to create for ourselves because we are individuals, right? We are in America, right? We should just be a Society of Individuals, fuck these borders and states and groups. Use this as a springboard to find your own path. You have to talk to yourself, knock on your soul, say hello to him (or her), ask him WHAT IS UP (!) and what the fuck you wanna do today man?!, then go out the door and be led to other Panoon Practitioners so that you may participate in the collective transendental state of Group Pan Happenings, the most reachable category of Panoon, but still real. This whole Panoon deal is not real. There is no definition and if you try to write one down as I am doing now, it is not real and I am OK. Everything I am doing is fine and illusory, but you must be OK with the fact that you can and will contradict yourself and you should not be scared. 

Should anyone know? Can anyone know? That's the beauty. No. You can create, play, destroy- sorta what like thousands of Christians and Jews and Protestants and Presidents do every day, but it's the damn pundits and disciples who have tacked on labels and mass produced brochures to sell as modern day versions of Indulgences from the Church of Martin Luther (not King), with the AUDACITY to claim ONE TRUTH from ONE path-- Life never will be one path with one clear end. And that's so goddamn scary for some. They want a definitive point, and origin, and scientific proof of the brain's psychological activity when experiencing Panoon to somehow prove that it exists. But can you go up into the sky, the air, the trees,--LOVE?-- and try to extract a Petri dish of Panoon cells to study under a microscope?? Fuck no you can't. But I admire those who have tried to chart the essence of this unnamable QUEST, sorta like that I'm doin' now, and I smile because I know it can never be articulated, only FELT. But we stillr ead the bibles of our predeccesors, philosophers, psychologists, and literary artists with awe, enjoyment, and reckless glorious abandonment because they help us get closer, son.

Shit, but the progression into Panoon is somewhat sequential, though I'm sure (not sure), that there are other entrances into this pool of wonder. As we have stated (and I hate typing rules so feel free to ignore or embellish or believe everything), you must simply get up and ask yourself: WHY? WHY HERE? WHY NOW? WHY NOT? WHY NOT BEFORE, AFTER, IN BETWEEN, OR ALL OVER? And you won't know. But once you reach rock bottom through incessant, annoying, ugly, unearthed, sober, drunk, high, maniac, insane, sane, painful, tearful, beauteous, dirty, real questioning, you learn to live with incessant, annoying, ugly, unearthed, sober, drunk, high, maniac, insane, sane, painful, tearful, beauteous, dirty, real questioning every minute of the day so that one moment you wake up and open your eyes and look around at this fucking weird ass Panoon Land that cannot and will not stop smiling!! You become sad, sad for yourself, happy for yourself, but sad for the others who live just across the state line and don't see the jewels of the earth, even though they'd probably throw up or go into convulsions if they adopted the momentary capacity to somewhat dig (literally) into Pan's moist earth. The daily activities in this land again (haha, ingrained little filler word to show the reader that yes, you are AWARE you are repeating yourself but must do so in order to stress a point-ew, not a true Panoonie sentence)- will ultimately help the Fucked status of the world slowly but surely become UN-FUCKED. But it shall take a while. All things come in time though, right? Fuck you cliche, starin' at me with a grin, you know you're in a land of contradiction when every word you type becomes an animal.

Anyway, the thing about Panooshing is that it takes partners, so I'm on a worldwide journey to seek out others who "get it." Sounds like damn Greenpeace International. 

To put it generally, everything is particular.

And at this point, I have to leave. What calls me? Nothing. Nothingness. The knowledge that any more words will wrinkle up Pan's smooth, rough exterior.

Constantly evolving, this mass sits and stands with open arms.

(Do you now notice that every attempt to find clarity just serves up another hot plate of seemingly comforting knitted blankets of generalizations?)

"Always, no, sometimes, I think it's me. But, you know, I know when it's a dream. I think, er, no, I mean, er, yes, but it's all wrong. That is, I think I disagree." Strawberry Fields Forever..

Man, shit, from dust we come and to dust we shall return.