The Super

Natural Wagon

super-wagon.com

Which is better, suicide, a mother, or a flare? The answer to this question is, “What kind of flare?” and the answer to the second question is, “Just go slow.”

I'm trying to illuminate the Door Into the Supernatural, because I'm convinced that's where all the action is. Sometimes I pause just to take a little nap. That's where I started. I was born, looked around, then took a little nap.

My mother thought she had post-party depression. What about me? I lost my PLACENTA! I haven't been the same since. There's this inner connection, from just an inch below your navel to the long ramp up your throat up into your tongue to the tip of which you alight like a little thrush. Spread your feathers there and nest if you don't have anything better to do.

Someone viciously cut my umbilical cord. I hope a bystander sealed my placenta inside an evidence envelope. It's got me written all over it. Definitely not to be fed to a fish!

I bet you think the name of this website is super-natural.com. Well it isn't! It's super-wagon.com. Hidden in plain sight.

I seem to be coexisting on this planet with total idiots. This brings about emotional and physical pain emanating from the center of my belly. A part of me sees this as jealousy, that the people I'm interested in wander off with other people, though another part of me realizes on some level they're all pulling for me. I can't have everything at once! That they're total idiots brings some consolation.

Today, at Bette's Oceanview Diner, the fellow sitting next to me at the counter said that he drank tequila with beer. I said, “Come on!” and the next thing he says is, “What did that mean?”

This is the source of most of my pain, that people can't seem to grasp ... me! Luckily, I've been working on the Backtalktionary for a number of years, so when I got home, I dutifully looked up, “what" “did” “that” “mean?” and came up with the following, the what-I-could-have-said:

Henry David Thoreau marched off to Walden Pond for a few years back in 1854 in order to “drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.”

Now, in 2019, I've got the idea that we're pulling art, literature, memories and intelligence from the past, from those people of the past who were writing for us, the people of the future, and we're literally pulling those elements into the present, as if by some sort of helpful force. By this reckoning, the past and the present merge or converge into a thin line of now.

So, by extrapolation, aren't future people pulling our present into their now? I'm calling this force, the force that's drawing our art of the present into the people-of-the-future's now, the Supernatural Wagon. And here's the idea: If we can somehow get aboard this Supernatural Wagon, we will be drawn into the future by this same helpful force of the Supernatural!

Get it? We've got the past, which is laying there, all dead, and we've got the future, into which, we can ride!

So in preparation, I've made some notes:

1. The Super-Meanness, up-elevator, blindly, rising to the surface of things, characterized by shadow-play, populated by hollow-man, resignation, and imprisonment.

2. The Super-Sublime, down-escalator, filled with awe, getting to the marrow of life, characterized by depth, populated by deliberate-man, fulfillment, and intimacy.

I think Mr. Thoreau had it right. There does exist a super-meanness and there does exist a super-sublime, and they're both out there. Luckily, as I've figured out in :: musical-table.com || c-luminous.com, “For the trip you want to bring intelligence and memory with you, keeping in mind there's no intelligence in either hatred or indifference.”

If you're ever looking for a place for playful frowns and happy inspiration, you don't have to go much further forward than into the Supernatural. It's where Google came from. Before people thought they had to have money. Google! Google! Yahoo! Now who on earth is having fun? Computer programmers, just maybe.

I had this odd idea today. A woman in the back seat of my taxicab said she was in a lot of pain, and I said to her, “I don't know why people have to suffer individually; it doesn't make sense.”

Then I went on to suggest to her, almost as if by hypnotic suggestion, that I intended to try to take on half her pain, because I knew how to take care of my own pain, and could afford to take on half of hers. Then I let the whole matter drop.

After I dropped her near the Sansome Street BART station, I got out of my taxi and went around to help her over to the subterranean staircase, then went back to my taxicab. And then I found, strangely enough, that I had somehow brought about some sort of emotional pain in myself, which I instantly dissipated by saying under my breath, “Another crybaby day!” which made me restore my body to the state of a well-earned sneeze. Pleasure, I mean to say. Just pleasure.

“We lie in the lap of immense intelligence, which makes us receivers of its truth and organs of its activity,” Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his essay, “Self-Reliance,” published in 1841. “If someone starts the music, you don't have to dance,” David Daniels said in one of his workshops, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1972. These two ideas carry me forward.