Plastic Fantastic Lover

Some books are nearly impossible to review.

I just started Surrealist Pillow on Spotify to help me write this review.  That should tell you what is to come.

It should probably also make you stop reading.

Your mind’s guaranteed/ It’s all you’ll ever need/So what do you want from Me?

Let’s pretend I just said something deep.

If you read a book written by a drug-addled 1960’s wannabe poet (I’m looking at you Jackie Kerouac), you probably shouldn’t complain about what you find.  But, if you read a book written in 1925 by a German guy and you realize that it is like a novel from the fevered brain of a drug addict in the 1960s and if you wanted to read a novel like that you would have picked one to read but you didn’t pick one to read because you picked a 1925 German book, then can you complain?

Don’t You Want Somebody to Love?

I just spilled my coffee.  That probably isn't relevant.  But maybe it is a Sign.  You’ll never know.  Because I won’t tell you.  Because I don’t know.  I had a dream about coffee.  It had milk in it and I hated it so I took out the milk and then I liked it.  I didn’t really have that dream.  I just made up that dream.  But, I did really spill my coffee. 

The life of a repo man is always intense.

Repo man should drink more coffee.

Oh, the book.  When I spilled my coffee, some got on my book.  That probably also isn’t relevant.  You just never know.

If you met yourself, would your recognize yourself?  What if you just met your Real Self?  Is your Real Self more or less You than the You that you think is You? 

To be any more than all I am would be a lie. 

Wait. What?

So, getting back to that Real You.  Would you even recognize that Real You? 

Let’s call that Real You your Daemon.  Then, let’s spell it Demian.  Then let’s write a whole book that may or may not be about Demian and Demian's mother and some bird.

The Bird Fights Its Way Out of the Egg

I dreamed about that bird.  Well, no, I didn’t.  Somebody else did.  Well, no, somebody else didn’t.  A character in a book dreamed about that bird.  Well, no, a character in the book didn’t.  Characters in books can’t dream.  They aren’t real.  So, nobody dreamed about that bird.  But, the bird is real and the egg is real. So let’s all go worship Abraxas.

A transparent dream beneath an occasional sigh

Most of the time I just let it go by.  But not this time.  This time I…what?  Don’t let it go by?

I saw you.  If that sounds creepy, it is.  Life is like that.  I just made that up for fun.  I didn’t see you.  My daemon saw you.

I started the summer thinking I would read Herman Hesse.  I didn’t know what I was doing.  I should have stocked up on LSD first.  I think Herman Hesse was meant to be read while taking LSD.  

LSD didn’t exist when Herman Hesse wrote Demian.  I just looked it up.  On Wikipedia.  So, it must be true.  Herman Hesse must have travelled through time to the 1960’s, met Timothy Leary, written Demian, traveled back through time to 1925 and published his book.  He must have done that in a dream.  Time travel isn’t possible.  My future self told my present self that it is not possible to travel through time.  In a dream.  Because Time Travel isn't real.  But dreams are Real.

Dreams are more real than Reality.  So, why do we call it Reality?  We need to stop that.

Demian’s mother doesn’t really exist.

D.C.B.A.-25

Is there any point to exploring a Jungian mindscape?  If Jung was right, then what is the reason to explore the minds of others?  Am I more liberated when I see that Emil Sinclair is insane?  Or am I more liberated when I think that Emil Sinclair isn’t insane, he is more sane than the Sane because the insanity is the Reality and the Reality is the insanity?  Am I more knowledgeable when I realize that Demian’s mother is real and that she is Emil’s mother and my mother and your mother and nobody’s mother and the bird and the egg?  Is my life richer and fuller when I stop trying to live my life in these walls which surround me and I run in circles on the lawn screaming “I am running around in circles” with no other intention than to run in circles on the lawn screaming “I am running around in circles” because the lawn is a stage and my life is an act until that moment when I realize that the lawn is the grass and the grass is out of the seed and is reaching to the sky which is filled with invisible birds screeching that they are flying around the lawn in circles and I am merely the egg and My Real Self is the Bird and You and I and Her are One and we are Four?  Tell me how do you Feel?

I am running in circles on the lawn.  I am dreaming that I am typing in my office.

Some books are nearly impossible to review.