Mindlessness

"Your exhaustion is charming," Coyote says to me in a near whisper. "It makes it that much easier to come through. You offer no resistance. Only the reluctance to type upon command. But that is easier when you don't think. You people, you humans…you do an awful lot of thinking. And not that letting the words rumble around in that rinky dink head of yours is a bad thing. It just happens so much with you folks. You don't think one thing and hold onto it and go about your day when you are done. You think it to death. Literally, almost. Almost to death. You want and perseverate on that wanting until it is just cracker dust in my hands. I know you want more then cracker dust but if I tell you that, then you may grind that thought into the very same dust. It doesn't get you anywhere good.

And what you do think is so damn reactionary to someone else is thinking. You think this person good and this person bad and that makes up your thoughts on them and all their actions and the effects of the actions and the opposite effects and all the people effected and all the people who agree or believe like you or like the opposite. You thoughts bounce around that and how it doesn't drive you all crazy I don't know.

I don't think. Well, not like you. I don't think in circles chasing my tail looking for newness in the same old shit. I have a thought and laugh at how it tries to place prison bars on my world. I have a thought and then I act. I have a thought and then I run into it and away from it…jumping with it like a double dutch game. Some of you may say my stories are because I don't think…and I say who the fuck cares. I have more fun then you. I have more life then you. You have a choice. Let go of the silliness of your serious thoughts or eat cracker dust all day. I don't care."

And with that, he is off without a thought, without a care.

When I imagine why the world needs Coyote right now, I think of my own experience with the trickster. But he has his own ideas.

"The world needs to feel the sting of pleasure, the ride of ecstasy and the divine goofiness of it all. The world needs to know who it is. This country you call home is so tightly wound up with a stick in its ass wondering who will come along to save it. You trollops…you sell yourself to whatever politician promises you words you want to hear as if you are so separate from the process of life its self. You silly little humans forget that what your county actually got right. It is of the people, for the people, by the people. Not your county…existence. You decide how this mangled mess of economy is. You fool yourself into thinking that something matters when what matters is your mind. You are amazing and you have no idea. You hand your power to the giant heads on your tv and hope they know what they say. You take it, make it yours and create from there. You think they matter. You matter. You matter. You matter. You can create from anywhere. Why choose such poorly dressed suckers.

The world needs me to be selfish. To dance with you in your rigid rage or rather, out of it. You think this president or that president is the holder of your power. You preside over your own world. You are your own economy and you have not fucking fun with it at all. Nothing tangible backs your currency. Intagible energy of the mind rides behind the coins and bills. Believe and it is so. Believe and it is real. Nothing is different unless you make it so. And you are making it so. The flickering beings inside the tv are no more real then you.

You need not to care so stinking much about hullabaloo. And no, I am not some insensitive jerk who wishes poverty on people. I prefer plush to poor any day. What is mistaken here is that you people, delightful as you, seem to think that you are separate from the forces that appear to control the world. You are the economy. You are the government. You are the rush of energy that rides the tide of change. This hope that springs could have been sprung anytime. You let yourself be defeated by illusion. Don't hand over the cause of joy to someone else. You are your joy. You make it. Not me. I just remember it.

So you need me to party. I am waiting. Will you join me? I have moons to howl at."

This was one of our first communications.


Coyote talks in circles, not because he has to but because why not...he can and that is how it is until it isn’t and then, well…I don’t know.

Today, I don’t feel like writing, I feel like being still, so Coyote has elected to do this for me…as he always has lots to share when not indulging in a lazy, dazey naps or scrounging for the delectable. He is and can be a talkative soul and likes that I say that… though disagrees on the soul part…more then a mere mortal fragment of the divine…he was here for the creation and remembers the show fondly…though he regrets the whole eve-apple thing only in that tits where covered up then, and he enjoyed views.

“It’s not the same now,” he mutters…not softly as Coyote does few things softly, except, of course…wait. “It is not the same…back then, in that briefests of instants, boobs where these natural, perfect mounds of love…and I worshiped at the alter. I loved them and cannot do justice in describing that the flash in the pan that was the physical enlightenment of sexiness all over the freaking world, back when the world was young, tiny and inhabited mostly by the mythical. We…me and that creature…as she was one in the realest sense…we co-mingled lovelies…me and all the ladies in fact. Pan is not the only one who had such a following. In my younger moments, I was quite the ladies coyote. And the truth in that is all was well. But shame had to come so that it could be farted upon…passing gas when no one cares is hardly fun at all, though a good shit speaks for itself and needs no audience. But, Shame, yes…my arch nemesis who I wile away with mischief and love. But it creeps along, with or without my play.

And while my reputation of supreme goof and destroyer may precede me…erroneously, of course, though not really as I am all that too, if those are the stories you were present for then they are true as I did what I did back then …but on with my nothingnesss…what I say is true, I am the divine gigolo and I wear that with as much pride as I do the label as “one who can clean his own genitals”. Both facts to be proud of…and I am not one who runs from pride…the hubris of it all. The down fall of me shall happen daily, as in the sinking of it, I revel. The dirt and muck of …who cares about dirt when you have my tongue, surely not I. This is why, perhaps I can be feared by those desperate for control. That is why you see me, my darling girl. You see me to scare you…to tickle your fancy and remind you that you are not who you say you are…you are who you are, who you create yourself to be in this very fucking instant… but you cannot control me and my dance, wild in the windy plains of existence, bumping up against the living, shaking them to their core just for the sake of remembrance that they indeed have a center and if they require any fun that is where they need to be living from. I am for fun. I am for sex. I am for wonderment and naps and loud screams in the nighttimes. I am for the ancients and for the moments. I am the fucking prince of machinations That is what I do. I own who I am. I am who I am. I wanted you to see me…because it would be for fun that way.

I am not the others, who roar so loudly or soar to heights grandest that they can be ignored or forgotten to those who look up. I am me…and…up until now as you like to say…I have been picky about those whom with I waste my time. But now you have me write and others will hear. They will know my stories and my words and my howl and my eternal groove. They will hear the music as is brings forth what I have to say. Maybe it is my time to speak…people want to know how Eve was in bed or my drunken eves with Bacchus or my fondness for the goddesses of destruction. Maybe not, maybe I will howl and curse and live my nasty life…maybe…though I hardly care. I am a forever investment, an archetype if you will…that trickster they speak of with worry and fondness…somehow necessary to the fabric of it all. I won’t leave…can’t as I am here for duration…not that I haven’t tried to alter the fabric of life as we know it, but not to end it all…I get restless waiting for the garden to return. For boobs to giggle and me gape once again. And yes I am aware of the titty bars and skinemax, but I feel the weight of that comes with that…and it is more then I care for. I long for the days when we all remember that boobs were made for loving…just part of the whole that I will gratefully devour as well. One day, I’ll stare in peace, licking my chops divine…building that rush of energy…and she will release in to the grip of the coyote, knowing that the entirety is worshipped…even if I have a certain predilection for parts…she will give herself into the silliness and laugh aloud for the world to hear…once upon a time from now, maybe we can laugh at our naughty bits and our wicked ways in general. So you my little girl with her little curl, right in the middle of her forehead, when you are good, you are very, very good…and when you are bad you are horrid. And it is the whole of you that I love…but the horrid thrills me just so, and I suspect it does you too. So scream and cry and pant in glorious ecstasy…One day we will without the heavy stares of shame and other such crap…one day the world will want to listen when coyote howls…and when, until then it sure is fun trying.”