BEGINESIS

7 August 1976. A day, the day; the world begins anew, appropriately, with birth, a birth, the birth: yours truly, a man now thirty in Lived Life years, yet far older and far younger than older still, old in the way that young is diminutive, larger than life, even a Lived Life as lived as this life has been and will be unto forever and beyond. Yes, unto beyond forever, as though this were a place within to clamber, a bucket or a hole or some sort of housing-type-structure that is capable of holding even a single fleshling much less the one true Ryan, as though. No, a thing such as this is laughable, hideously so, and particularly hideously so in the commonly-held ideal of space, that a man such as the one true Ryan were to be held at all, much less in the slipshod fashion herewith elucidated above. To stretch, to grow, to be unencumbered, like an ocean in its massive scope as opposed to water loosened through a hose, loosened like a tongue unaccustomed to wrapping itself around theories and speculations and philosophies far too powerful to be captured in the limited complexities of mere words; theories and speculations and philosophies that, for the sake of the universe and its surprisingly-fragile arrangement, must be meted out in singular portions, like botox or morphine, lest the full brunt of knowledge prove itself too poisonous for consumption.

For instance, have you, gentle reader, ever locked your keys in your car and wondered, “What the devil have I done?” Has a gull defecated upon your person from such heights as to make the subsequent splatter of fecal-matter an abomination of etiquette from which escape is fruitless? Has despair ever been thrust upon you like a slovenly wino in search of company, a catatonic depression that sinks into the very core of your being, leaving you to moulder like a puppet beholden to a cluster of strings tragically slashed and useless? Tough questions, these; tough but fair and entirely likely, as far as likelihood goes, to happen to you yourself, gentle yet immobilized, possibly shit-stained reader. I shall respond at length, if not in kind:

“What the devil have I done?”: One must not blame the devil for this gift of insight, for as you step back from your intransigent conveyance to allow the full flower of your situation to bloom in your understanding, you will doubtlessly reflect in your sideview-mirror both upon the part in your hair and the part in your heart, that divide between spirituality and realituality, the latter of which is unfortunately-yet-frequently employed as a metaphorical comb-over of the former; your subconscious has deigned this an opportunity for looking inward as you would your automobile, yet further, into your very soul, and while the keys to your vehicle may not reside within the cavity of your inner being – most assuredly not, in actuality – you may well find the keys to your life, in which comfort assails you in the jingle-jangle of spiritual awakening, your keys to life huddled on an aesthetically-pleasing keychain of your choosing, should you choose comfortingly. Otherwise, the keychain would of course reflect the particular needs of your specific keys, the variants of which being too multitudinous to account for here.

Gull defecation: Ejected bird-waste as cosmic tap on the shoulder, a warning-dump from the backside of a creature much more attuned to the ways of earth than you, a preventative measure devised to protect you from yourself, this contrivance of situational humiliation resounds as an earthly misfortune of the most egregious, malodorous kind, and though revolting and seemingly without merit of any kind, those unwitting and monstrously unappreciative recipients of ass-ejaculate are in fact the blessed few who have been meticulously selected to stand as bellwethers of this coming force, as Ryantology yet advances still, and does so orgasmically. There was danger in your midst, oh shat-upon readers, and danger aplenty; this mild though wholly unpleasant experience is nothing more than a distraction, an impediment to bulwark you from moving through your Lived Life to the unexpected end that awaited you beyond the bird shit, for we need you. Yes, we need you and your probably-discarded, woebegone clothing, and we need you presently, though an explanation to that effect will of necessity be a ways off.

Of despair, thrust upon you: The circuits and conduits in our respective heaps of gray matter are systematically byzantine, malignant labyrinths of pulse and impulse that scatter throughout our brains in ricochets of stimulation, tickling the nerves of emotion and logic as would a parent the various vulnerabilities of their child. This torturous, chaotic operating system of the mind is remarkable in that vast swaths of persons upon this ever-shriveling earth seem oblivious to the blender-like viciousness from which their thoughts are borne; less encouraging is the retaliation of chemicals that flood a swirling mind with depressive tendencies, the elemental revenge of matter cursed with being not of mysticism but of substance, a black magic of earthly origin that throws tantrums instead of spells. Alas, even a force such as Ryantology is no match for mood-altering chemical-manipulation, lest one presume otherwise. Drugs, even those as prescribed by doctors, are in any case a safer endeavour than solicitation of the one true Ryan for answers that, though unquestionably amusing, would be as unquestionably repudiated and make a blackguard of this author, who is in as much need of vilification as a musk ox is of a spring jacket.

Thus, Ryantology: preposterous, definitively approximate answers to the litany of minute questions and ambiguities that threaten the solace of a Lived Life and plague the unfathomably imprecise enormity of the as-yet inexplicable Unlived Life; a haven of gobbledygook to thwart the impossibly damaging psychological intangibilities that produce wants and needs left insatiate; a solitary voice hoarse with the acumen of yelling thinkers past, present, and future, a raspy song sung by a singer unsung in the annals of history, yet prophesied to maneuver the wide-eyed and sloppily open-mouthed denizens of this world into another of neglect unseen and disdain unpracticed; a nebulous place of certainty in this otherwise scab-ridden and infectiously-harrowing existence known, at least colloquially, as life.

There are notes, mere footnotes, in the arcane and perilously inaccurate history of civilization that shall be of but little bother when placed within the context of this retroactively begun Lived Life cycle, footnotes that may well preempt this fundamental inception of Ryantology in time though not nearly so much in significance, no: this very day, 7 August 2006, while standing at the end of a 30-year gestation period for one who will bring forth the axiological dichotomy so demanded of our current populace, one who will contrast contradistinctive cohesiveness with the two-headed behemoth of contradiction and corroboration, also stands front and centre to usher in the commencement of a vital and proficient new religion that shall spring forth like wildfires through the dehydrated forest of our cumulative intellect, at once providing those of Lived Life pedigree with a living leader of life to lead said living towards the heretofore spooky and mysterious Unlived Life that awaits us all.

Thus spake Ryantology.