A person’s center can be found anywhere. I knew a guy once whose center was in a box of shredded wheat … he’d stare at that box, and talk about his center and how much he hated hookers.
Your “center” is your bond with the ALL. Everything in the all is balanced and good and harmonic man. Your love is bonded to toilet cover travelers leaving no trace of their dissension and their unwillingness to love man …
Don’t obviate the need for a CENTER, but change your batteries.
Find the quasi space where the scringle-rats live and crawl through the walls of your tenement looking for some un-watched baby to devour … DO YOU HEAR ITS SCREAM?
Couple yourself with a mondo-whore, one found slinking in the streets of jovial collapse. Take her to the dirty hotel off of 4th, and tie her to the bed. Give her gold for her moans, and grizzly-grease to suckle on. This is another way to find your center.
Most people who think about mindfulness are filled with a primal rage … a rage that is naturally directed at the people that live in nice houses and have families. The wisest thing we can do when traversing the lands of mindfulness is to find some goolak mindfulness douche and knock him out and toss him in the trunk … and see what happens.
Your brain contains memories. This is amazing. Your brain contains blood vessels, and fats, and cells, and all kinds of squishy shit. I’ve seen brains … brains pasting the walls like some Soho art shoppe where the freakers tweak out and stab their mommas for not making chili.
“NO CHILI!”, they shout … and the night is a rumpis beast covered in flames and nasty little secrets.
Your brain will tell you NOT to set yourself on fire … you must overcome this.
Your brain will tell you to stop beating that man to death with a lead pipe … this is negative-plateau-reasoning and has to be blocked using new style racialism.
Your brain is really a racism-engine.
Your brain wants to spur on some race war, trigger an uprising of whitey to wage war with people of color or african-americans or whatever …
Your brain is designed to generate, and respond to, racism.
Well – you can use X-LEVEL meditative reactions …
X-Level Meditative Reactions
There are 8 thrunket-levels that exist in your spleen for directed meditative transcendental racism …
- Toogas: a ringet assemblage of fears and concerns
- Frag Sweat: debris of a soul cut loose from the grip of horgig-night-trawlers …
- H’lepto Tunic Burials: the completion of a revenge task
- Chains: what you use to beat monks you meet along the road
- Pipe Land: where you buy pipe to beat monks with
- Victory Lap: the zen moment of showing your victim their still beating heart
- J-Sect: gringiz clan warriors of territory YOOG
- Ordis: the first leader of the treg land fuhrer-drogs …
You can’t just attain a level without accepting, and rejecting, and then accepting total racist awareness …
Merged Spirit Oil or MSO …
MSO is the key to next step mindfulness. This is stuff you get from Harry Jengo, who works out of the Pizza Hut near Boblimptock AVE … that place where those nuns were shot last week. You read about it, or heard about it …
MSO makes the brain case shiver, and you can grab your Colt 45 malt liquor and a 12 gauge sawed off shot gun and go stalking for the Templars. You take three sticks of dynamite to Porter’s welcome center, and end the term of enlightenment with ice cold nougat and wolf livers and hunters elf blood.
The thing that bothers people with mindfulness is all the haughty bullshit. “Hey, look how fucking mindful I am … you guys are a bunch of glumbo-dicks …”, and this pisses people off. It makes you want to hunt down that griz-boh and find where he lives and set fire to his home. But you don’t do this, and why?
Because seeing is believing.
Merged Spirit Oil is a connective juice harvested from old dead things that are long ago forgotten. Merged Spirit Oil, or MSO, is derived from beetle hearts and whale lungs and mushrooms that grow on the fetid imagination of a university sophomore …
MSO can SHAKE the world and break through your limits. But you have to be mindful of this. You can’t be full of shit …
If you are are full of shit, you will be murdered and dumped some place.
So be mindful.
Tell it to the SHRINK!
There’s an old diner near Shlimby’s in Chesterton. Gromack-flow guards would huddle there, tabulating the losses beyond their own buzzed out minds. They had crystal and PCP and crack cocaine and whatever “blues” or “reds” or “meanies” you could shove down the gumptus pipe on the way to heaven.
Tessa? The ER nurse? – she had a selection. And she’d suck your cock for $45 bucks … she’d let you cum in her for $100.
She told me once about Big Ed Sheridan, the guy that owned that gun and whiskey store near Tibble’s delicatessen in Trogle. He would spend time communing with yonder-beasts in the forest on the outskirts of town. He had arms filled with mucous sacks and a brain splitting open from too much vodka.
There’s no telling what demons will pierce your soul-wall.
You can’t forbid the dark weasel. It will burrow its way into your private gardens of distress. You can’t hide from those morbid-denizens, the strivers, the hurricane jongo-freaks, the naughty girls of Boston. All need submarines to view their lately christened membrane.
SO TAKE CHARGE AND BLOW THROUGH!
Kilo: “Professor Manson … ahem …”
Charlie: “yes … yes Kilo …”
Kilo: “How do you bring the mind into balance with problems of space-now-essence?”
Charlie: “I’m glad you asked … you have to separate the problem-creator from the food-digestion … and this means severing the head … clean off …”
Kilo: “Thank you …”