“Man suffers only because he takes seriously
what the gods made for fun.” – Alan Watts.
“Time spent with cats is never wasted.”
– Sigmund Freud
Why do we love to administer into each others purview
what we claim to be incontrovertible evidence
we have amassed from our deepest most intimately
undergone undertakings that prove every motive,
including those mean silent buggers about whose existence
we hadn’t a clue (that is, Dr. Freud, until we met you)
inventively steaming up toxically harrowing mixes
of Sinister Mulligan Stew we’re force-fed from the outset,
against which we have no defense, so fastidiously
and insidiously is it hell-bent on vengeance, replenishing
all of the menaced and menacing slew of effects
that have passed both in public and private as “you.”
I’ll tell you why: it’s fun.
Fun is what we can’t not have.
(“Doctor Freud? Mr. Watts.”)
What’s the best way to take on a conundrum? Divinities
flare when you dare to come up with new methods
to scare that they wouldn’t dare, or when you aren’t scared
when They traumatize. But you learn their trick, how
to catalyze anyone near – ignite what incites their worst fear
(and in private excites them) – whatever thing threatens
what you call “the best of me”: that thing you learn is a joke,
not a destiny. Sob becomes laugh. No other parts in the heart
of the Spirit’s Anatomy get this job done, not by half.
Alan Watts measured and weighed up the sum of what
Makes this Methuselah run: having a shit load of fun.
How many of you knew that too?
Seven bazillion and one?
You saw it coming: None.
Come, overjoyed! - to the void!
(“Alan Watts? Sigmund Freud.”).