by rthieme on October 14, 2014

Apparently Jack Teufel, who comes he is certain from another system, another point space-time as it were, and who will appear in a fictionalized account (to protect the never-innocent, above all himself) called FOAM, has begun to write a blog. It can be found here:



The End of the Greeks! Interesting!


I have been reading a graphic novel about the Greeks. The older ones, as you count years, not the swarthy hairy bumblers of the present day who cannot even calibrate their commerce to the moment or the real. Then they fill the streets with cries and shouts, selfish whining clods upset with the world for not devoting itself to their mama-baby-happiness.

But I digress.

The rationality of Greeks, it went away and the mind of society dissolved into a new way of thinking about things for about a thousand years. Not one single Greek or Greek-like other took on apocalyptic stories because they were so absurd. They didn’t compute. The rational Greeks could not comprehend the absurd, so the 78% of the human brain, as I think about my own human brain and use it for a template to understand others (how else does a human do it, after all? Mirror neurons and all that), that 78% was disengaged, so I infer that those four fifths of the lobes and folds unused by the Greeks were tuned in that detour into the “supernatural” (which is natural) and the “paranormal” (which is normal), tuned to the architectonic structure of something more than space-time and therefore opened the portal to the deep transformational power of that realm … they could not comprehend that. Nor understand the necessity of entering absurd worlds in order to leapfrog tiddlywinkwise the limitations of their “upper-level” thinking.

The challenge then to the one reader reading these words – you! I mean – is to entertain those worlds, enter into the images of those wild-assed imaginative adventures, while at the same time not believing too much in what you must believe in order to do that.

This practice requires a precarious balance on the cusp. That takes practice, yes, looking at where the water goes and not at the rocks. Then you can go where the water goes.

Humans in their twenty-first (ha!) century are on the cusp again. They have been on the cusp before. Many times, in point of fact. They think of it as a fork in the road but it is more like standing at five or six points and having more choices than binary thinking allows. Regardless of what humans choose, this time, if you do not factor in that crazy realm with harlequin colors spattered throughout, in which richer reality resides, then you doom yourselves like the Greeks to a dead-end. You will hit the wall with the kind of splat! with which my graphic novel is filled.

 Splat!  Pow! Wham!


Such creative evocative words from the pens and inks of tale-tellers, emphasis when needed, to make exclamatory points. And yes, I the casual reader from a different system, approve this message.


But why, you may ask, do such thoughts fill my head, even before the first latte or cappuccino of the day? On which I now depend to kickstart my brain?

This is why …



Heidi came by after her massage class. I could smell the scented oil on her hands and reflect with regret that I was not the body on which those hands worked their supple magic. She is learning massage in fact, not as a pretense to bring the lonely client to a come, after which he is lonelier than before. She studies the magical arts of the ancients in order to reiki their major centers even when they don’t know it.

When she bustled into the coffee shop in her blue parka, the furry hood up, her eyes full of light, exuding life and a warmth for which we in this deadly cold city must otherwise wait many months, I felt an updraft, a warm springlike breeze and I smelled the scent of blossoms despite the icy streets outside. That was a new feeling and I log it here for reference. In what you call the “future.”

She told me of an exchange of energies with her sample client that was for once reciprocal. It moved like a loop of infinity, an eight on its side, from her hands through the energies arranged as a body and back through her hands to her brain. That was pretty interesting, in itself. Could she discern the meaning or intent of the energy? I asked. She thought for a pretty little moment, then shook her bleached blonde middle-aged head—young middle-aged, she makes me say, late thirties, we pretend. No, not that I’m aware of, said the woman onto whom I latched from the moment I rose on the steps at the station, tired from my long journey from Utah and beyond. Ah ha, said her new fond friend (that’s me). Then the energy never turned the corner. Never became information, I mean. That is quite a primordial experience, good for building on but not an end in itself.


Uh-huh, she said, as if she understood. Which she could not do, of course, until it does turn into information that she can receive and integrate into her thoughts as best she can. That for some reason made her speak of religions (you see the link with the prior page) and why she can not belong to one. She was ready to confide that the men to whom she like a magnet went boing! sprong! and bounded toward their attracting force, a Lorenz attractor as it were which she could never reach, had used or abused her, one way or another, some with subtlety and guile, playing with her brain, one bad actor more overtly with the back of his dastardly hand, so she was reluctant to enter into systems headed by domineering men like Jesus or Mohammad or Moses, all of whom could be … well, she paused, insufferable, as we were discussing, because they felt so superior to normal human beings like me.

She went on in that vein with energy and vigor for quite some time. But this is what I noticed most.

My body as I mentioned was already trained by her skillful hand to crave and expect sex, to love the rituals she made, building through subtle interaction until I was well inside her spell, every time I saw her. But it was quite a while, sitting there and listening, before I even thought of that. Before I thought of sex, I am saying. Huh! I said to myself. I had fallen into listening, don’t you see, and in my attentive focus, was attuned to my friend Heidi and her alacrity of spirit and her energy and strength and the way her face, so animated, tickled me quite pink. And in that attentiveness, my dick did not even stir, not for a while, as I said, because I was lost in the folds of her soul. Manifesting itself in words and gestures and demeanor, all at once. When I realized that, of course, it sprang to life, but it did not seem right to act on the impulse. Whoa! I said to myself. Because that too was a new thing.

This seems worthy of remarking. It seems important to me as I continue to try to understand humans from within their own frame. A frame I try at the same time to build out into dimensions they cannot comprehend as we interact in a casual manner, spylike so they don’t suspect they are being played, like pulling a single point on the screen slowly with my mouse and watching the rhombus on the monitor change how it defines … everything.

Everything. I am saying. Everything that is.

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