MORIANITY PART 5, CHAPTER 14

MORIANITY PART 5

CHAPTER XIV, no bells or whistles, YO.

3:56 AM-EDST, MARCH 20, 2013, WEDNESDAY MORNING

As told before, memory and time manipulation are like the coins in your pockets. There will never be one that does not have two sides, yet still being one coin. Two faces of the same thing is not always something that any of us think much about, and I am no exception whatsoever. If I was, I would not have isolated a lot of events in my own life in this current one, in the 4-5 dimensional mind of existence; said non college style, as me, or Mark Wayne Mohr. I would not have been the hugest asshole fool in the universe for so long, seeing the events from 1980 for example, as not all part of this one coin. I would not have said over and over on seven plus years of blogs now that there are so many things to tell, this is a lie I have now realized I've been telling myself. I can say let me share a trillion parts to my story, but single story it is ladies and gentlemen, this is not nor ever was or will be a bunch of books. I am not the great Patterson author, or any other for that matter, with various books written to share with you, this is all one thing, one true piece of reality, the name all along implies this is so, never calling it anything other than Morianity, no matter whaty chapter or part or other title is given. So for example, electrician Joe from the licorice plant in 1980 was told about a powerful entity from Atlantic City, and then the stranger not by Paula Twitchell's river, suddenly just ''pops up'' on Browning Road in Lawnside, New Jersey, be they townships or lawns, green, extra green, or brown in the doubt; but again, all things are but small little cosmic numbers, but who amongst us is ever going to be smart enough to be able to solve the greatest cosmic equation ever attempted, when the universe as a collective has only so far reached the point of where things all are, so am I running, or trying to, ahead of this flow, and could this be why things for me have been so ultra fucked up for 30-60 years? Who can ever know, or do enough breath echos, epitome tapes in the late eighties, or car commercials of recent times. Then there is fourteen years later past the year of 1980 and 1802 Robin Hill apartments of Voorhees, with or without crying Paula king's, or other strange unidentified royalty. Take the book I wrote in 1994 called, “The Permission Barrier”, as just one example. Of course, only the copyright examiners would know what I am talking about, or the powerful WO peeps who can go get any of my stuff and listen to it, at the LOC in Wash-Doc. My mind is as much trapped in illusions as anyone else's whether or not I realize it or wish to fucking admit this truth to my own dam self, Mister Buffetkeys. Of course, in a linear timeline illusion that waking conscious mind insists on creating for the creation of our normal everyday physical lives, these events tell a story, seem to make sense in a time order, and have more built in intrigue and mystery than any and all fictional books ever written, all combined. But it is normal while alive and awake, no matter how enlightened; to start looking at all of the things told on these 7+ years of blogs now of Mountainpen, without allowing it all to jump out as a oneness, as when one forces that issue, that is when the heart races, the palms sweat, and the mind is correctly translating the truths. This could be a 500 page blog without one single cut and paste, just from this little introduction and opening, but I choose for now, to merely say only these words, Mister Maverick Rockford, as later, we can always get back to this, with or without some loose teeth. We need not view photos of robin hill, or see my ugly old puss, or for that matter, view the Leprechauns of Jupiter Inlet, Florida. We don't need a lot of underscoring and highlighting, or capitalizing or larger font words or even altering hues, on the twenty-fifth of December or on any other day where mood elevation is required. This is a time to tell a short powerful truth, and really do it in as David Roth put it so well around 1997 give or take, in a madonnashell. Again, the farm in or outside of Haddonfield, New Jersey always is right there, but along with all the rest of it too. You cannot see it separately and expect the truth not to come out. Still, the reason I saw a lot of things as broken separate things is the same reason that human beings could not dare see Jesus with their eyes and not somehow see him a bit differently. This is so powerful. Jesus did not look one bit different. But people don't rise from the dead. So when things like this happen, we have to somehow believe around it and not directly 100% on it, as doing so would wipe out our sanity. I mean really folks, what possible reason would Orwell have for writing all that wild stuff, and then place it in the year of magic? Then going back again to eighty, what possible in a trillion eons reason, would I have out of nowhere, for falling asleep and dreaming the incredible Love is for Carpenters song, as well as the awesome girl singing it to me? Then finally, because the entire deal goes beyond what normally is allowed via the cosmic Lawtronic circuitry or AKA the seventh-dimension, I had to see it a bit separate and a little differently that it really was all along, just as the folks saw Jesus physically as appearing somewhat different, when in fact good people, he did not look at all differently. In a way, this is just a huge exaggeration of an equal truth that some may remember me discussing a while back when I was fifteen years old, and called it the Venka Strong-Girl Syndrome. In any event, at least she only opened a Mary Mick Paint jar in an art class, and did not throw a shark through a NYC condo window. Still, those pesky little TPB Numbers that are always endlessly attempting to fit so perfectly together, remain trapped inside the interaction of everything that includes all of us with no exception. If you let yourself dwell enough on it, a lot of stuff about STM will come much clearer in your mind, with or without Petee Pote, Sheri-Lee Pote, tap tiles, changing newspaper print, counting coins in a father's pocket, television imitators complimenting my great data, and on and on we could go, from here to crying Native Americans in canoes, hay, at least nobody shot the dam guy thinking he was cheating on a spouse when he was innocent. So go name your summer camp whatever you like, granddaddy, YO. It all fit as smoothly as a woman's expensive glove, from the swing bat. Not one thing was out of place. You couldn't knock a block out of the building, even if you had 1,000 Osama Bin Laden's to help you to do it, or letters to Samsonite Luggage, or NYC Architecture firms for name ideas. Then how can we forget hyperspace daughter Pee with her great E-Bay inventions. Now the 3-D laser printers are starting to happen. All that is left really, is for Professor Jackson to come onto the soon-scene, and go BOO. DUH, right Annie?