Sex. Now that I have your attention, let’s talk about sex. According to the moral high ground, that being the Lord’s, we are not to have sex outside of marriage. Or put a different way, a lifetime commitment. Now he does seem to forgive cases that don’t make the grade at all. He was known to dine with sinners. He said of the adulterous woman, let him without sin cast the first stone, and that he did not condemn her. We will get back to this point. But for now, suffice it that the bar exists that is high, but he understands if we can’t reach it. And he said nothing about homosexuality. As it stands, after all is said, only sex within a lifetime commitment is right. But he will forgive we who fail to meet such a demanding virtue. Do your best.

There is a reason why sex should not happen outside of marriage. And why generally we shouldn’t be shooting up heroin. Let’s take the second: it was described to me once that an addict quit Mr. Brownstone because the feeling was so good that it made everything else secondary by comparison. Thus, such an ecstatic feeling — meant, in fact, for perhaps such experiences as true religious ecstasy — this became the mundane. Such pleasure was not meant for such base circumstances, see? Now we go to sex: this was meant for what, naturally, leads to a commitment that is signified by its procreative aspect. And children are meant for a lifetime. Outside of that, we are not meant to experience that kind of gratification. I understand today that such things are cheap. It doesn’t mean that we lower the standard of what is supposed to be. Some things are right. Some are not. It’s not all relative, though we must listen to context. Good is not a myth.

What is true love? It is the meaning of life. Everything you’ve heard about it is true, even the lies. All contradictions apply, all at once. You find it by drinking unicorn blood on a full moon, and it eats your babies, causes nuclear war, and has been known to sew buttons in strange places. It is the meaning of life. None of you will ever find it. Even I will never find it, and I’m the one who discovered it. With Joan of Arc. Me and her. See? I’ll not have the experience of it till I shuffle off this mortal coil. This to explain why the meaning of life, the universe, and everything will always only be 42. It will never happen to anyone on earth, ever, until there is Heaven on earth for all foretold to be a part of. And I will say it again: it is the meaning of life. And you will never understand it because you will never discover it. I should know: I discovered it, and I still don’t understand it. It is not meant for this world. And this world is meaningless without it.

I was shown some things about thinking in scale. That there might be a model of an idea in, for instance, the form of a rather plain circle. That idea, however, might be representative of such a thing as how to raise oneself from the dead. Another circle, on the other hand, may be just a circle. Some figures had potence, others were models of those models. Infinite things could be held in words, if those words had potence (for instance, the tetragrammaton: YHVH). The entirety of the Kingdom of Heaven could be expressed as a single yellow dot. This becomes very important, and relates to Philip K. Dick and the secret society of Christians I ended up joining, as he did. Very very important.

Philip K. Dick wrote about a… place… called the Black Iron Prison. My own first experience of it came during a time of high drug consumption. I was tripping on LSD like I was wont to do on the weekend, during my junior year of college in Pittsburgh. This was nowhere near my first time. This time, however, I happened to glance out the window — and it wasn’t Pittsburgh. It wasn’t earth. There were bars on my window, now, where normally… not so much. It was an evil place, the sky was dark but dim with red, the buildings of an architecture of claws clasped over the joints of all the black iron, of which all exterior was composed. I was convinced I was in Hell. “Abandon all hope,” and so forth… I visited the place a few times, and the last time I was there, I got out when I heard a whisper, like someone were letting me in on the secret, “Walt Disney is God.”

Dick wrote about when he started having his own visions how he was explained that the fish amulet worn by the girl delivering his meds was an ancient symbol of Christianity. Whereupon he was told in some secret voice that he were being initiated into a underground sect of secret Christians. That’s how things started for him. I got into it 25 years after I had my light from God experience. That was the day I later went into angel proving grounds. But introduced into it I was, and I was told just after a voice informed me of its presence that I were finally safe if I were to die — only then would I have been able to escape the Black Iron Prison on my death, and welcome in Paradise. And my initiation ended up being that I purposefully peed my pants and actually enjoyed the experience. That was not even near the strangest thing I’ve done. For the faith, or whatever…

If you have in mind to make sense of things, one should go the path of faith and reason. If you need to pick one of the two, pick reason; but if both are available, put faith first. Further, if you go deeply enough into reason, you will end up in the layer of science. This means you’re deadly serious about wanting to make sense of things. Similarly, if you go deeply enough into faith, you will hit the height of sainthood, which I think is pretty much universally acclaimed as a “way to be”, if we’re talking the real deal. It was thus I set a goal for myself in this life: to be a scientist saint. I might actually get there, too. It’s sort of a scary thought.

there are zero matadors
dancing on zero tables
fighting zero ferocious bulls
zero bloodthirsty spectators
carried by zero flying carpets
yelling zero metaphysical truths
and the zero of the countdown
makes much of such nothings
as zero approaches in secret
the flip of a dread switch
when everything happens
and the crowd goes wild
at the slaying of the bulls
while the matadors dance
while we fly into oblivion

How long had I been searching for true love? All my life. Maybe longer. That’s what it seemed like. Growing up, yes, I did think about sex a lot. A lot. But I did conceive it were a better thing to have one with whom to share such an experience, than desire a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you. I always wanted to be the character in the movie who got the girl in the end. And then I saw The Princess Bride, and I am one of the few who also read the book from which it is based. There was a name to my desire: true love. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the story books say, Prince Humperdink said. Women are captivated by Romeo & Juliet, but that’s not where the stuff is. Everybody dies at the end of that. The Princess Bride is where the guy gets the girl. That’s where the stuff is. They live. And I had a twist to it, no matter what Humperdink said: what if everyone could have it?

The original document that contained the contract for true love basically held the names of me & Jeanne, in the style of Native Americans. Eagle Feather and Rose. To reach even this, I actually performed what I call a Love Dance, similar I guess to the Rain Dance that you might have heard of. Instead of a beating drum and chanting, I did it to the song, “In Your Eyes,” by Peter Gabriel, a song about Rosanna Arquette. Upon my completion, she had our names ready, me to transform from crowfeather to eagle feather, she from angeleye to rose (there’s also more to this particular name). Later, I had thought that I had written more, and I ended up bringing together heaven and earth, but I remember that dance, or at least, what came about from the motions of love that is true.

About the name “rose”, it comes from my idea of thinking of a flower to all the women I’d been involved with. I’d never found my rose, before Jeanne. The closest I had come was orchid, a woman I almost married, whom I’d believed true love lay with. Rosanna Arquette was oleander, the woman (aside from Jeanne) whom I’d known longest, even if it were just a part of my visions she’d been in. I’d known a tulip, and a daffodil, and lily (who blew the best kisses). Jeanne d’Arc I’d always had trouble with, defining her as a flower. I’d once chosen bird of paradise. I dunno, she never fit with anything. Until I discovered she’d always been in love with me. Then it was quite clear. My rose.