Erik Jespersen
5 min readMar 7, 2022

So here I sit in Kutner’s office { The surgeon’s tremulous hands shook the scalpel as they approached the chest cavity… } — one with white walls, soft Muzak, and no clocks. { Yet I hear the ticking of dog tags wrapped around stationary toes, lost their boots in the muck of the bogs, Einstein in a pram, tocking down the steps of Odessa, because the aggression is beginning again. } It’s true that doctors never have clocks in the area, they want to teach their patients the virtue of patience although they themselves have never heard hide nor tail of it. As you can see, I write awful words on an ordinary page. Take me only for granted and I can heal thee.

Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash

It has become more apparent to me the paradox of God. Is there a conscious, sympathetic Being called Yahweh, or whatever label you seek to pin upon him? There is the age-old answer ‘no’ — how could there be a holocaust/Hitler/death/devil if there were? Others say that this is all confined in the grand scheme { Visit grandscheme.org today! } of things and that there must be good to balance evil and the verse to vice. I believe this line, but not in coordination with the will of God! { So, rude and cro-mentally speaking, what is there to believe? That there is life, joy, suffering and death? Pianissimo brave poet! The greatest coda known is yet to come. I Put-in [ Say its name! ] for overtime, but they just handed me a clock and told me to take a seat. } — [ Was the queue long? ] — { And hard. } — { To wait. Shifting uncomfortably on a bus seat before pandemics. Reading about the salvation of the god’s-honest real and once-living reconstructed Christ. Crucifixi lounged in every bosom, sexy and nurse-like. An old man reaches tentatively for orange juice from a hospital bed to crack a gnawing thirst right in the throat, but it will never go away, that chapped dryness, desiccating from the inside. My words are just hot smoke into a ventilator. A film digests pupils and spits back a life lived backwards, as if the end was suddenly where the whole thing started, buttoned up in a pinstriped suit of Benjamin’s Hollowcost, where pay-pal Hitler danced on the banana-leafed head of sick o’ Moors’ shit-hole-o-rama, where you get banged for a buck and pissed on a stick. }

If God were all-knowing, then he could not relate to our concerns — { Even Juniper Bondsmith, the wholesome sweater-girl next door, knew of our concerns, and the truth about how the grievance of concern was brought to the neighborhood children. } God has manifest problems/emotions, thoughts/ that we, as molds, cannot grasp. He has the burden of the universe | I, only the burden of mankind | If God were to lower himself to be concerned and sympathetic to our petty needs, God would simplify himself into ignorance. He is too above them to drip downwards — we are the drip and he is the ocean. [ I’m sure we went over this in Earth Science class, class. The water cycle represents a system in harmonic balance, a balanced ledger where the assets meet the albatross with a crucifix around its neck and try and ascertain who rides the donkey.

Who me? } — [ Doth protest too much. ] — { Egyptian sweat spoke of labor pains. } Now — for the all-powerful, all-knowing omniscient consciousness, ignorance is the only option that is not an option in our vision of perfect knowledge. { I forgot my PIN code for a moment and had to rely on my reflexes. } — { We were just talking about this as regards Death, the other dark nomenclature, that we’ll need to figure out the paradox reconciliation where Schrödinger's Cake is both present and digested. } So the perfection must be nature which embodies in its life perfect knowledge and in its faults of partial consciousness it is also ignorant [ Arrogant. ] — here is the ultimate balance — the last grading of the scales. Nature, and with it the good | the perfect | and the ugly. As intellects, we cannot understand completely the simpleton. We cannot live for a time as a simpleton and expect to one day reinherit wisdom. { You should speak to a couple of nucleic acids I passed on once. } If we could relate, we would then be simple with no choice of choosing again. This, then, is the paradox of a conscious, sympathetic God. [ Case closed. Next? ]

Where does the meaning of life lie? To imagine what it is, we might try to imagine what it is not, for perspective’s sake. If we had no corporeal constraints , only free-floating wills in constant communication with all other of our race (as we seek to be alone from nature this may be our end goal) we would have no conviction or directions | Would we all be philosophers? | { At the bottom of the Euphrates lies a very particular stone, fashioned from asteroid, poisoning the basin with its decay… } The conviction lies in our reality. We have a job — I have a life and a death to pursue. If we didn’t have things to do physically, we would not know how to survive. Do we survive on stress? As floating minds, we would find new responsibilities — ones I could only guess at now. [ Please take the jar of strawberry preserves off the shelf and place it next to the embroidered pillow. The one that lives, loves and laughs at our artistic ambitions. The one on which I furiously place my mind, rejecting this waking wakefulness, this whizzing, dizzying bier strewn with half-remembered dreams, praying for a lightning-lit twig to start the blaze that Prometheus promised us. ] — { Are we forsaken or forgotten? } — [ We are neither, we are paradisaically tacked to the Purgatory, so which ever way the captain steers, we maidenheads will veer. ]

{ These balloon animals, blown with helium, strike out with teethless paws at one another to escape this earthly shell, the curse of the flesh frustrates the future, knowing that the farther it floats, the colder it gets, until the skein’s surface tension cannot no longer weld its own project together, and erupts into a thousand buffer-flies nibbling at the edges of atmosphere, hungry for barbiturate nitrogen to parachute home. }



Erik Jespersen

MyLife Founder, humanist, futurist, posthumanist philosopher, software engineer, novelist, composer