Calling all the rigid, sure-of, the certain and defensive! Don't be too sure of your so-called Truths leaking from the likes of astrophysicists defending the likes of Einstein, circling the drain. "Since when did Einstein have all the answers?" Ol' Albert the genius was more of a stumbler, stumbling over entropic notions, thermodynamics and their secondary laws. Perhaps they're just laws taken distinctly separate from such laws' exceptions to such laws' inclination to authorize and validate our Western separatist conception of the whole, that is existence, at least according to that one guy. "Remember when gravity was a choice?" If not a choice, merely a force in the making, but really only a weak force, if not the weakest of the forces, as if we know all the forces to be known. "There are so many armed forces these days." They pop up from the muck we call matter, the materialistic confusion of identity. They say we're only cells, I guess they try to tell us this when they themselves sound unconvinced. "I mean what are cells?" Bunches of atoms, when protons are only quarks and a quark is anti-matter? "What the fuck?" If gravity's the universe's glue the planets should be breaking apart in every direction we look. "Boom! Plow!" Saturn's rings are falling in my evening coffee, sub-zero tsunami gases in the mug, it's been cold for hours anyway. "Boom! Plow! Wonka wow!" Jupiter's unending storm, the red elliptical war of an anomaly we call weather, it's devouring our moon and up, up and away goes our ocean streaming into orbits nearby, exploding hydrogen glowing-red for the infrared sensors, it'd be so nice if they could work again. "Who turned down the lights?" But O no, so far, the lights remain up, the sun, it's there, O yes it's shining better than ever! Turning up the radiation particles while the sun spot cycles increase, while they reformulate our planet's all-encompassing electro-aethereal magnetic blanket we invisibly deny ourselves to contact. "Not even with satellites do we ever get close." Not that all the toys aren't bound to collide in the sky and come back to haunt us anyway. And now the Nature channel's claiming tornados require clouds three times their mass to spiral in a funnel to the floor, then why do they appear out of nowhere sometimes in Oklahoma on bright blue cloudless afternoons? "There goes a cow!" Why do they leave the house next door with its front porch bench swinging undeterred? "Swing, bench, swing!" How do they meld poker cards into tree bark, stick sticks through a plate glass window and leave them seemingly two in one and without a crack, without reason? "A cow! There goes another one!" And why the lightning up the spiral? CNN just mentioned lightning has been striking without scientifically worthwhile origins. Whips from Zeus, Perkwunos, Tlaloc, Futsu-Nushi to the peasants that are humans, the disappointment of a species pushed to digress separate from their nature, we think. That is of the fourth dimension. "Or is that where we're headed?" Either way we forget, we're forgetters, stumblers, we stumble and forget and look around pretending it's all done with clear intent, the great sloppy intent of humankind, kinda mankind, kinda history. Before it was His story, it was Hers. Thirteen moons a year before Sumerian men mistook a circle for 360 degrees, twelve months of thirty days a year. Close, but a little short. "The calendar keeps going back in time!" And so goes the Babylonian / Egyptian / Roman / Julian / Gregorian adjustments of measure, when every solar rotation there goes the moon, thirteen times ignored. "Why not measure what there is to see!" Now the BBC is blabbering about dark energy in the cosmos, but really what's so dark about it? I bet it's just too light, too bright, too fourth dimension for our third dimension machines to view its loving hue, its glow. "It feels so warm when we ask it to." It's just the unaccounted consideration to factor into our pineal glands. The one we deny in the West behind pocket protectors and particle accelerators and fluoride. It's what the Hindus call Brahman, or who the colonizers called the Hindus call Brahman, according to certain translations. Perhaps the Holy Spirit confused according to politick as one-of-three of a God-head three-in-one exception to common sense mythology. "Duh, permeating, it's the fulfiller of the highest Will!" That thing we rationalize as pantheism, as if our rationalization of real estate deserves praise, let alone that which we haven't had a clue about for eons. So we forget and stumble, but first we forget about the Source, the one unifying instrument, the blunt law that is the only Law, that is existence. At least according to that one guy. That awesome force all religious and scientific and science fiction ideas merely scrape at the surfaceless surface of. But still we remain dogmatized into geocentric confusion, because of what? We can realize physical progress into supplements for our dreams into machines? Tele-macro-microscopes and YouTube? "Since when have we been happier?" When most of the human creatures awake in agony. The condition we've allowed ourselves in delusional places -- all the familiar places -- to tolerate for the bank robbing bankers to smoke into their plump empty suits through cigars wrapped by women who'd been molested at young ages on the edges of the burning rainforest, brought back to their third-world cities to breathe dust and eat dirt. "How does she know to even smile?" How dare we assume to know what's best for us when these directionless women know how to smile and love their children during the infomercials, into the camera. These comforts, so we label them, isn't it about time the labels be torn from their stitches? 'Cause we forget right before we're baptized out of the womb with metal instruments, lit cigarettes in the hall, a cry, a wail, and a, "What the hell? How come I can't speak? Jesus, it's cold in here. I guess I'll scream for a what do they call it, blanket?" We forget and we stumble until we walk from a chair to a couch in a living room, drooling, slobbering into the carpet fuzzies. "They haven't always been so fuzzy." According to that one guy, even the Romans had carpets, though underneath were rat bones and insects in narrow proximity fucking in a muggy orgy between sandals stepping down as the procreating high-frequency screechers turn to goo, then crust. We forget, stumble, and later assume it all leads to our little confidences we broadcast our beautiful knowledge, when really, we're just guessing at best. We forget, stumble, assume, and ignore the great galactic spiral of which our biosphere's on the cusp, according to that one guy. Spiraling to the climax of technospheric matter, where the manic will to worship mechanized ethics, the will that began with the first technology, that was and has remained some form of projectable phallic-shaped fire, the excuse for defense to murder Atman. That Will will go from dimensions third to fourth to noosphere, according to that one guy. Spiraling, we are convinced of entropy to point zero density of material worship. Revelations, the Western glimpse at the whole, according to that one guy, we're likely on our way. "But what comes next?" Where and when the linear obsession with inventing a future reliant on electrical outlets might recycle in the soil. Where and when the physical instrument of vision might spiral down the figurative cosmic toilet while the great multidimensional flush reroutes all of our processes into the non-physical processes elevated out of today's relative black and white processes of a flatland paradigm fueled by mankind's unkind historic processes -- according to that one guy I see on the screen -- until we can no longer bring ourselves to guess, assume, or stumble. We'll simply remember not to forget to remember when gravity was a choice.