Any vigorously vital bellwether that is as heavy with vicissitude as Ryantology can seem overly intimidating, not unlike talking-down a suicidal sphinx with broken wings and a flair for the dramatic from the top of a pyramid on a rainy day while writing-out complex math problems in longhand on a disintegrating piece of foolscap.
Tsk.
Ryantology is excessively accessible; the incogitable impossibility of dis-inclusion is so laughably antonymic to the innumerable purposes heretofore put forth that the impending thunderstorms that routinely pummel the earth will prove to not be the cleansing shower of water slaking the thirst of parched terra, but rather the universe crying out, weeping in a downpour of angst because it has been misjudged so.
A thought-process heavy in Rydealism hastens the transubstantiation of untoward unjustness, of arrogant erroneousness, of apoplectic crises, into the hard-edged, inquisitive catechism steadfastly rooting the overpowering peach tree of Ryantology.
We are all of us Rydealists...we just disagree as to our distinct levels of acquiescence.
Are you unafraid of nonsense?
Are you averse to banality?
Are you not unsurprised by human nature?
Welcome; the whole Rydealogical world is at your doorstep – banging, hard, like you owe it money.
Don’t disappoint it by pretending you don’t know what the score is.
16 July 2007
25 June 2007
RYATROGENIC
If one were to present a rabbit with both a rubberized carrot chew-toy and a lovingly-sugared, home-made carrot-cake, the poor bunny would confuse itself to such a degree that the entirety of its decision-making processes would be flushed from its brain like bacon-grease down the pork-fat-gilded-lines of an improperly-used toilet.
If one were to present the masses with convoluted, otiose, imprudent, impetuous, irresponsible but exciting solutions to age-old questions with an indifference rivaling that of a metropolitan-pigeon, the widespread panic, abysmally-brief introspection and universal bewailing would be akin to a rotted skunk-corpse fished out of a lake of coyote-diarrhea, thrown into a recently-fertilized, hyper-odiferous mushroom-farm, and found by Nosar, King of the Land of Smells:
The instant shutdown of all working physical senses.
The probability of Ryantology grinding into the collective-psyche like the teeth of a tethered, sleeping, criminally-insane mental-patient is about equal to a four-year-old child surviving three nights in the wilderness with two handfuls of honey, which is, mathematically-speaking, one in ten.
Still, should the world be bedazzled by the blinking lights and velvety-feel of Ryantology, however late, chances go up considerably that I, myself, would be treated to a deaf, dumb and blind populace, walking dizzily in front of idiot type-A personalities in careening SUVs that have appointments to keep though the world has collapsed; to woebegone children eating dirt, dandelions and other children due to a complete lack of smell or taste; to all manner of whimpering and kvetching that is audible to no-one but I.
Indemnification is a necessary foulness in a world of unspeakable putridity; if the good doctor leaves his stethoscope, and, possibly, his wristwatch in your open wound before ultimately deciding to sew you up anyway, well, them’s the breaks. Maybe a return visit will help, or maybe you move on to a less-audacious, more self-effacing medical facility.
The double-edged sword of Ryantology is, indeed, a bitter paradox...and a haven for metaphors mixed and similes unbound.
If one were to present the masses with convoluted, otiose, imprudent, impetuous, irresponsible but exciting solutions to age-old questions with an indifference rivaling that of a metropolitan-pigeon, the widespread panic, abysmally-brief introspection and universal bewailing would be akin to a rotted skunk-corpse fished out of a lake of coyote-diarrhea, thrown into a recently-fertilized, hyper-odiferous mushroom-farm, and found by Nosar, King of the Land of Smells:
The instant shutdown of all working physical senses.
The probability of Ryantology grinding into the collective-psyche like the teeth of a tethered, sleeping, criminally-insane mental-patient is about equal to a four-year-old child surviving three nights in the wilderness with two handfuls of honey, which is, mathematically-speaking, one in ten.
Still, should the world be bedazzled by the blinking lights and velvety-feel of Ryantology, however late, chances go up considerably that I, myself, would be treated to a deaf, dumb and blind populace, walking dizzily in front of idiot type-A personalities in careening SUVs that have appointments to keep though the world has collapsed; to woebegone children eating dirt, dandelions and other children due to a complete lack of smell or taste; to all manner of whimpering and kvetching that is audible to no-one but I.
Indemnification is a necessary foulness in a world of unspeakable putridity; if the good doctor leaves his stethoscope, and, possibly, his wristwatch in your open wound before ultimately deciding to sew you up anyway, well, them’s the breaks. Maybe a return visit will help, or maybe you move on to a less-audacious, more self-effacing medical facility.
The double-edged sword of Ryantology is, indeed, a bitter paradox...and a haven for metaphors mixed and similes unbound.
29 March 2007
RYDACTICS
Interruptation.
Akin to address-hunting through a cinder-block-hailstorm, one's focus must be divided if one is inclined to fully apprehend the individual prisoners of the jail-break that is Ryantology; these micro-cosmically generalized, adroitly vague texts have been written, are being written, to be interpreted with rational, interrupted studiousness...not unlike translating Japanese to German whilst in the midst of a violent typhoon.
Over-stimulation is essential; a profound over-saturation, the mind adrift in a sea of fundamental Ryconoclasm, directing the vast ocean-waters of indecision into the aqueduct of Ryligion, soaking up the sickly, bilious mess of abashment, of confusion, of mystification, with the finely-woven towel of one's opiate-grasping brain.
Admittedly, this takes some practice.
Taking into consideration the conspicuously fluid nature of Ryantology, that answers required of questions can be, fastidiously, elucidated at any and all times, there still exists an inventory of common, situational occurrences; circumstances that, having already been postulated and considered in all the absolutes and textural-richness of the Ryconoclastic mind, demonstrate a crooked bell-curve of concern - a blackened smear of anxiety across the whitewashed fence of tranquility.
Some of these paradigmal archetypes are easily managed:
Akin to address-hunting through a cinder-block-hailstorm, one's focus must be divided if one is inclined to fully apprehend the individual prisoners of the jail-break that is Ryantology; these micro-cosmically generalized, adroitly vague texts have been written, are being written, to be interpreted with rational, interrupted studiousness...not unlike translating Japanese to German whilst in the midst of a violent typhoon.
Over-stimulation is essential; a profound over-saturation, the mind adrift in a sea of fundamental Ryconoclasm, directing the vast ocean-waters of indecision into the aqueduct of Ryligion, soaking up the sickly, bilious mess of abashment, of confusion, of mystification, with the finely-woven towel of one's opiate-grasping brain.
Admittedly, this takes some practice.
Taking into consideration the conspicuously fluid nature of Ryantology, that answers required of questions can be, fastidiously, elucidated at any and all times, there still exists an inventory of common, situational occurrences; circumstances that, having already been postulated and considered in all the absolutes and textural-richness of the Ryconoclastic mind, demonstrate a crooked bell-curve of concern - a blackened smear of anxiety across the whitewashed fence of tranquility.
Some of these paradigmal archetypes are easily managed:
- Fear, more often than not, directly leads to cretinism
- Humour is the quickly-hardening putty that fills the holes of consternation in the Lived Life bumper of one’s 1995 Ford Contour
- Morality & Nobility are often, and repulsively, misused
- Slavishness is abhorrent in the most heinous of ways
- Vices are a vital and congenital demand
Other examples, particularly those that swing to the "extremely specific" side, are more difficult, but what kind of Ryantologist isn’t overwhelmingly accepting of a challenge?
They don’t exist; Ryantologists regard slipshoddiness with the same repugnance customarily reserved for those who slap the asses of waitresses.
Inquisitive?
Ask away.
08 March 2007
EQUIDISTANTERNAL
It is no mere coincidence that the world began to shrink during the middlemost-point of the adolescence of Ryantology...the tendrils of true religious acumen and sophistication began to worm their way into the mind of the primogenial Ryconoclast in that essential, palindromic year 1991.
As well, the birth of an approaching acronym, the soon-applauded WWW prefix, was short-sighted as pertaining to some "World Wide Web", when, in fact, said jubilacious jargon truly stood as an admission of Past Wrongs - covered up by a vast conspiracy of anti-confirmists and history-deniers, all spider-webs to the tarantula of Evolutionary Treachery - while also revealing the attempted-acquiescence of those who were tRYing to right said wrongs:
We Were Worse.
And though we were, no matter; spilt milk is the last adage a Ryantologist would sully his efficient Ryconoclastic mind with, no matter the sweetness of the tears wept. Moreover, the significance of the internet’s exordium was entirely lost on both Idealites & Pragmantarians alike, as this technological advancement was vitiated with millions upon millions of "fan sites" and developmentally-disadvantageous "nudie pics"...which was, to share another favourite Ryantologist proverb, "fair enough".
As a group, those adherents to Ryantology know now what that incipient Ryconoclast was eruditely forming in his too-besieged brain in 1991: acknowledgment that We Were Worse shouldn’t lead us collectively to the "utopia" of We Are Better; rather, it should lead us backwards, to when theoretical-anarchy was the fall-back, the default-setting, where questions were asked, and then asked again, if for no other reason than to annoy the questioned, where acceptance came with a shit-eating grin, where information wasn’t glossed-over and forgotten by peons with attention-spans comparable to fifteen jackrabbits on crystal-meth...to a place that never existed exactly the way that it’s just been described, but a place that nevertheless has the capacity TO exist.
To do this, we need, nay, must Make Matters Worse.
And by just reading this, by some miraculous equation of mathematical-madness, you’re halfway there.
Congratulations!
As well, the birth of an approaching acronym, the soon-applauded WWW prefix, was short-sighted as pertaining to some "World Wide Web", when, in fact, said jubilacious jargon truly stood as an admission of Past Wrongs - covered up by a vast conspiracy of anti-confirmists and history-deniers, all spider-webs to the tarantula of Evolutionary Treachery - while also revealing the attempted-acquiescence of those who were tRYing to right said wrongs:
We Were Worse.
And though we were, no matter; spilt milk is the last adage a Ryantologist would sully his efficient Ryconoclastic mind with, no matter the sweetness of the tears wept. Moreover, the significance of the internet’s exordium was entirely lost on both Idealites & Pragmantarians alike, as this technological advancement was vitiated with millions upon millions of "fan sites" and developmentally-disadvantageous "nudie pics"...which was, to share another favourite Ryantologist proverb, "fair enough".
As a group, those adherents to Ryantology know now what that incipient Ryconoclast was eruditely forming in his too-besieged brain in 1991: acknowledgment that We Were Worse shouldn’t lead us collectively to the "utopia" of We Are Better; rather, it should lead us backwards, to when theoretical-anarchy was the fall-back, the default-setting, where questions were asked, and then asked again, if for no other reason than to annoy the questioned, where acceptance came with a shit-eating grin, where information wasn’t glossed-over and forgotten by peons with attention-spans comparable to fifteen jackrabbits on crystal-meth...to a place that never existed exactly the way that it’s just been described, but a place that nevertheless has the capacity TO exist.
To do this, we need, nay, must Make Matters Worse.
And by just reading this, by some miraculous equation of mathematical-madness, you’re halfway there.
Congratulations!
04 March 2007
RYCONOCLAST
Tradition? Beliefs? Superstition?
Please.
Yes, the followers, the fervent Ryconoclasts, they are legion...even if many of them don’t yet exist in the traditional sense. However, the way in which they DO exist far outweighs any dialogue, any argument, as to their ethereal validity.
Ryconoclasts exist in the same way acrimony, or reverence, or enervation exists: as a feeling culled from the experience of feelings past.
There are no Ryconoclasts without emotion, without some incredible combination of agitation and acceptance; the red shirts of malevolence tumbling in with the white socks of benevolence create a washing-machine soapy with Ryconoclasm, and that frothy discharge is an agent of Change - of breaking down the barriers of traditionalocity and superstitiality for our collective stroll into Ryantology.
There is an old adage that we as Ryconoclasts hold dear, and it goes thusly:
"You can lie to your friends, and you can lie to yourself, but don’t lie to a Ryconoclast"
At inception, this proverb was much less threatening when escaping the lips of an infant in the cataclysmic year 1976, and though it remains less an exhortation than a urging, the vigorousness of its message stands as a testament to Ryantology’s inherent inclusionary beauty; Ryconoclasts know what you mean...you don’t have to fabricate an excuse to pretend otherwise.
It’s fine.
Sometimes, like everyone who shares this Lived Life with you, we’re just looking for a hearty "thank you". And, though Ryconoclasts are the harbingers of a capricious journey through the LabRYinth that is Ryantology, we need a little love.
Ryconoclast. Ryantology. Love.
Think about it.
Ryconoclasts do.
Please.
Yes, the followers, the fervent Ryconoclasts, they are legion...even if many of them don’t yet exist in the traditional sense. However, the way in which they DO exist far outweighs any dialogue, any argument, as to their ethereal validity.
Ryconoclasts exist in the same way acrimony, or reverence, or enervation exists: as a feeling culled from the experience of feelings past.
There are no Ryconoclasts without emotion, without some incredible combination of agitation and acceptance; the red shirts of malevolence tumbling in with the white socks of benevolence create a washing-machine soapy with Ryconoclasm, and that frothy discharge is an agent of Change - of breaking down the barriers of traditionalocity and superstitiality for our collective stroll into Ryantology.
There is an old adage that we as Ryconoclasts hold dear, and it goes thusly:
"You can lie to your friends, and you can lie to yourself, but don’t lie to a Ryconoclast"
At inception, this proverb was much less threatening when escaping the lips of an infant in the cataclysmic year 1976, and though it remains less an exhortation than a urging, the vigorousness of its message stands as a testament to Ryantology’s inherent inclusionary beauty; Ryconoclasts know what you mean...you don’t have to fabricate an excuse to pretend otherwise.
It’s fine.
Sometimes, like everyone who shares this Lived Life with you, we’re just looking for a hearty "thank you". And, though Ryconoclasts are the harbingers of a capricious journey through the LabRYinth that is Ryantology, we need a little love.
Ryconoclast. Ryantology. Love.
Think about it.
Ryconoclasts do.
04 December 2006
RYANETICS
The differences between the Lived Life and Unlived Life are as misunderstood as a parakeet jumping on the keyboard having an epileptic seizure while ordering ruby-hued face-towels over a slow modem hookup. Alive or dead, conscious or sub/unconscious, real or imagined...these terms are all far too linear to support the thought process needed to fully invest one’s self in the feckless chaos that is Ryanetics.
The indolence of relegating one’s self to the mirthless lineup unto death is to do a great disservice to that same unimaginative self; the "ending" that you march towards while accumulating humanly wealth, proposed esteem, transparent prestige and trophy-wife trade-ins is, in all actuality, not the octagon stop sign of annihilation, but the sprightly triangular yield sign of The Subsequent Step; it is but the third Elevation Ascent through the Six Sublimities of Life:
The Anteceded Life
You become; your Beginesis is that nulling first thought of the unthinkable, the cogitation of cerebration that doesn’t yet exist. This is the time in which you metaphysically bash on the doors of the Lived Life, kicking at the back-entrances of the sperm-meeting-egg congregation, planning your arrival into the Subsequent Step where you will eventually be free to spend your time doing something other than thinking about the non-thoughts that don’t exist in the pre-Lived Life void of the Anteceded Life. This Elevation coagulates your desire, your hunger to be birthed into a little diamond of will through sheer boredom alone.
The Lived Life
You, as you read this, are either gestating towards the age of 30 and the peak of your Lived Life vigor, or are tumbling down the hill of ignorance, unsure of what lies ahead or what you’ll be leaving behind. This is the most misused of the Elevations, climaxing in the façade of happiness that comes with a big house and three-car garage. It’s not "Did I enjoy myself?" on your death bed; it’s "What‘s next, and will my asshole neighbour be there?", because that figures very heavily into your personal status over the next four Sublimities of Life.
The Unlived Life
Remember that time you were in a hurry for that big meeting and you ran that crosswalk, missing that backpacked, school-bound kid by mere feet, and having to shove your fleeting guilt down your gullet with your too-expensive coffee? The same day that you side-stepped an old lady to the door of your office-building, letting it close on the backs of her grasping, arthritis-ridden hands, only to have the elevator take forever, and while you feigned interest in the blinking floor-numbers, she finally made it up the three unwieldy steps of the foyer only to have the elevator arrive...and while she watched you jump inside and hammer on the "door close" button, you felt one more tiny pang of remorse, but it still wasn’t enough to prevent you from getting those steel-trap doors shut while looking directly into her increasingly hateful eyes with all the care of a ten-year-old punk at an anthill with a magnifying glass. Remember? You never got called on any of that because you took the back-exit out at the end of the day, and everyone just shakes their heads at cars speeding through school zones rather than taking down license plate numbers.
Well, here at the Unlived Life Elevation, you will indeed get called out like the panty-sniffer you are. Make no mistake. This is PurgatoRy, and your next step up is going to take a lot longer than you’d have any reason to suspect.
In a hurry? Prepare to wait until your patience liquefies to get a call for ascent that may never come. Your body becomes an abstraction, as does the theoretical water-cooler that you sit around with all the other small but like-minded Lived Life Wasters that make it to this Elevation, drinking cheap coffee and complaining as to their lot in the Unlived Life; this is a holding pattern for the television channel of Life, and those who don’t figure so low on the gradation scale of Lived Life Wasters will only be emboldened and better served an Elevation Ascension if not only for their comparison to the above-mentioned decaying absolutes of stagnant Life.
Did you stop to smell the metaphorical roses? Well, then...enjoy your time bumming around the gorgeous fields of the best that abstract existence has to offer. Just relax, put your feet up, and slug back a few until Ascension. You’ll have the time of your Unlived Life.
The Supraliminal Life
The tap on the ephemeral shoulder calling you up to the Supraliminal Life is the last earthy sensation you will ever feel - in the conventional sense. You’ll spin your head around, because you’ll most certainly be startled, and that very motion that would have left you dizzy, confused, and a little be bit irritated during your Lived Life will be replaced by colours you can’t see, music you can’t hear, anti-exasperation you can’t grasp.
Sensation of stimuli is replaced by being; the movements performed by your astral-form will resemble swimming, yet there is nothing to "swim" through; you will be moving upwards without the hindrance of direction, volitant without a diametric.
This Life is a Learning Life, to prepare you for the penultimate Realm of Ryantology...
The Abortive Life Lived on Outer-Zaelion Seventy6 (AKA, "The Zaelion Millennia")
Giant dragons shaped as mushroom-clouds greet you as you cross the threshold into Outer-Zaelion Seventy-6, smiles of pure light and vindictive-less energy loud as a bomb across what would be their wind-swept faces; whole expanses of strawberry-coloured bamboo-stalks shiver in anticipation of being brushed aside by you, the next Abortive Life; unicorn-horns capture the giggling noises of a hundred-billion ecstatic waterfalls and shoot them through the lenses of their eyes to tickle the salty under-carriages of crescent-shaped moon-women with hundred-foot-streams of green-tinged flame for arms; your entire family, mom, dad, and sister, standing in front of you as one being, dancing at a breakneck pace to a multitude of different-sized pins dropping upwards, all while standing and remaining perfectly calm...
Ruled by a leader of pure omnipotence, Jbz1, a self-enveloping being of dimensionally-pure white-hot flatness with ideas for a body and comfort for words, you will be taught the ways of absurdity; the reasons you were treated to withstand sensation-provocation was to be overpowered by any stimulus that your Abortive Mind can fire from its core like so much excrement once you entered Outer-Zaelion Seventy6, leaking out what might be left of your imagination into your "reality". Ascension to the final Sublimity of Life requires a passport stamped with the ink of over-stimulation on paper made from supraliminality and a head-nod from Jbz1...all of which takes exactly, to the second, one-thousand Lived Life years.
The Longtime Lastingness Life of Living
Omnipotence.
Call now for your free pamphlet.
The indolence of relegating one’s self to the mirthless lineup unto death is to do a great disservice to that same unimaginative self; the "ending" that you march towards while accumulating humanly wealth, proposed esteem, transparent prestige and trophy-wife trade-ins is, in all actuality, not the octagon stop sign of annihilation, but the sprightly triangular yield sign of The Subsequent Step; it is but the third Elevation Ascent through the Six Sublimities of Life:
The Anteceded Life
You become; your Beginesis is that nulling first thought of the unthinkable, the cogitation of cerebration that doesn’t yet exist. This is the time in which you metaphysically bash on the doors of the Lived Life, kicking at the back-entrances of the sperm-meeting-egg congregation, planning your arrival into the Subsequent Step where you will eventually be free to spend your time doing something other than thinking about the non-thoughts that don’t exist in the pre-Lived Life void of the Anteceded Life. This Elevation coagulates your desire, your hunger to be birthed into a little diamond of will through sheer boredom alone.
The Lived Life
You, as you read this, are either gestating towards the age of 30 and the peak of your Lived Life vigor, or are tumbling down the hill of ignorance, unsure of what lies ahead or what you’ll be leaving behind. This is the most misused of the Elevations, climaxing in the façade of happiness that comes with a big house and three-car garage. It’s not "Did I enjoy myself?" on your death bed; it’s "What‘s next, and will my asshole neighbour be there?", because that figures very heavily into your personal status over the next four Sublimities of Life.
The Unlived Life
Remember that time you were in a hurry for that big meeting and you ran that crosswalk, missing that backpacked, school-bound kid by mere feet, and having to shove your fleeting guilt down your gullet with your too-expensive coffee? The same day that you side-stepped an old lady to the door of your office-building, letting it close on the backs of her grasping, arthritis-ridden hands, only to have the elevator take forever, and while you feigned interest in the blinking floor-numbers, she finally made it up the three unwieldy steps of the foyer only to have the elevator arrive...and while she watched you jump inside and hammer on the "door close" button, you felt one more tiny pang of remorse, but it still wasn’t enough to prevent you from getting those steel-trap doors shut while looking directly into her increasingly hateful eyes with all the care of a ten-year-old punk at an anthill with a magnifying glass. Remember? You never got called on any of that because you took the back-exit out at the end of the day, and everyone just shakes their heads at cars speeding through school zones rather than taking down license plate numbers.
Well, here at the Unlived Life Elevation, you will indeed get called out like the panty-sniffer you are. Make no mistake. This is PurgatoRy, and your next step up is going to take a lot longer than you’d have any reason to suspect.
In a hurry? Prepare to wait until your patience liquefies to get a call for ascent that may never come. Your body becomes an abstraction, as does the theoretical water-cooler that you sit around with all the other small but like-minded Lived Life Wasters that make it to this Elevation, drinking cheap coffee and complaining as to their lot in the Unlived Life; this is a holding pattern for the television channel of Life, and those who don’t figure so low on the gradation scale of Lived Life Wasters will only be emboldened and better served an Elevation Ascension if not only for their comparison to the above-mentioned decaying absolutes of stagnant Life.
Did you stop to smell the metaphorical roses? Well, then...enjoy your time bumming around the gorgeous fields of the best that abstract existence has to offer. Just relax, put your feet up, and slug back a few until Ascension. You’ll have the time of your Unlived Life.
The Supraliminal Life
The tap on the ephemeral shoulder calling you up to the Supraliminal Life is the last earthy sensation you will ever feel - in the conventional sense. You’ll spin your head around, because you’ll most certainly be startled, and that very motion that would have left you dizzy, confused, and a little be bit irritated during your Lived Life will be replaced by colours you can’t see, music you can’t hear, anti-exasperation you can’t grasp.
Sensation of stimuli is replaced by being; the movements performed by your astral-form will resemble swimming, yet there is nothing to "swim" through; you will be moving upwards without the hindrance of direction, volitant without a diametric.
This Life is a Learning Life, to prepare you for the penultimate Realm of Ryantology...
The Abortive Life Lived on Outer-Zaelion Seventy6 (AKA, "The Zaelion Millennia")
Giant dragons shaped as mushroom-clouds greet you as you cross the threshold into Outer-Zaelion Seventy-6, smiles of pure light and vindictive-less energy loud as a bomb across what would be their wind-swept faces; whole expanses of strawberry-coloured bamboo-stalks shiver in anticipation of being brushed aside by you, the next Abortive Life; unicorn-horns capture the giggling noises of a hundred-billion ecstatic waterfalls and shoot them through the lenses of their eyes to tickle the salty under-carriages of crescent-shaped moon-women with hundred-foot-streams of green-tinged flame for arms; your entire family, mom, dad, and sister, standing in front of you as one being, dancing at a breakneck pace to a multitude of different-sized pins dropping upwards, all while standing and remaining perfectly calm...
Ruled by a leader of pure omnipotence, Jbz1, a self-enveloping being of dimensionally-pure white-hot flatness with ideas for a body and comfort for words, you will be taught the ways of absurdity; the reasons you were treated to withstand sensation-provocation was to be overpowered by any stimulus that your Abortive Mind can fire from its core like so much excrement once you entered Outer-Zaelion Seventy6, leaking out what might be left of your imagination into your "reality". Ascension to the final Sublimity of Life requires a passport stamped with the ink of over-stimulation on paper made from supraliminality and a head-nod from Jbz1...all of which takes exactly, to the second, one-thousand Lived Life years.
The Longtime Lastingness Life of Living
Omnipotence.
Call now for your free pamphlet.
02 October 2006
RYNAMICS
It all began with a pre-infomercial, pre-everything exclamation of,
"There’s got to be a better way!"
The thought soundlessly echoed throughout the swirling nothingness of inexistence, developing into doubtful regret even as the universe was steadfastly creating itself.
Was there, indeed, a better way?
Was all of this creation, possibly, for naught?
What would a voice sound like when sound itself hadn’t yet materialized?
Before any of these questions could have been properly answered, BOOM! The universe existed...but it wasn’t right. No, sir, it was as full of holes as a howler-monkey filled with 10-gauge buckshot.
Millions of years passed, and many attempts at quality-control were met with hearty acceptance at first, but the excitement then faded into a much more tepid, lukewarm response; A jesus here, a mohammed there, a buddha behind the bookracks, but none managed to give more of themselves then the static words torn from their un-updateable books. None were able to deal with the ambiguities of a Lived Life; to answer, specifically, any somewhat-to-not-at-all pertinent questions that the leadership-hungry masses might be asking, regardless of their personal-odour-issues.
Worry not.
Ryantology has arrived to squelch the queries, to help in any non-physically-demanding way that is possible if worked into a legitimate time-table, to answer both the questions asked and the questions almost-thought, to bedevil the non-believers and back-slap those in the know, to parry and thrust against the opposition comprised most certainly of out-of-date, mechanical replies from long dead "prophets"...do you really want to pray 45 times before you eat a cup of soup? Or would you rather just ask, as dear Sally did in this undated correspondence:
----------------------------------
Dear Ryantology,
Should I get an abortion?
Signed,
Sally
---------------------------------
Dear Sally,
Are you pregnant?
Ryantology
---------------------------------
Dear Ryantology,
No.
Signed,
Sally
---------------------------------
Dear Sally,
Then, no.
Ryantology
----------------------------------
It’s just that easy. No more rummaging through dusty books for insipid advice; no more canceling dinner plans to meet with some strawberry-eating, freckle-handed priest; no more wondering why "god" has forsaken you...all you need to do is ask, and you’ll get a litany of reasons.
Once the clear-headed has opened up to the Rightfulness of Ryantology, the creation and constant being of the universe begins to make a whole lot of sense, as do the boundaries of the Lived Life to the Unlived Life, even though, at this point, neither one has been properly explained...but that is neither here nor there, as allusion creates more than just mere suspense;
It creates belief.
And, coincidentally, internal fluid-buildup, usually centralized in the brain pan.
"There’s got to be a better way!"
The thought soundlessly echoed throughout the swirling nothingness of inexistence, developing into doubtful regret even as the universe was steadfastly creating itself.
Was there, indeed, a better way?
Was all of this creation, possibly, for naught?
What would a voice sound like when sound itself hadn’t yet materialized?
Before any of these questions could have been properly answered, BOOM! The universe existed...but it wasn’t right. No, sir, it was as full of holes as a howler-monkey filled with 10-gauge buckshot.
Millions of years passed, and many attempts at quality-control were met with hearty acceptance at first, but the excitement then faded into a much more tepid, lukewarm response; A jesus here, a mohammed there, a buddha behind the bookracks, but none managed to give more of themselves then the static words torn from their un-updateable books. None were able to deal with the ambiguities of a Lived Life; to answer, specifically, any somewhat-to-not-at-all pertinent questions that the leadership-hungry masses might be asking, regardless of their personal-odour-issues.
Worry not.
Ryantology has arrived to squelch the queries, to help in any non-physically-demanding way that is possible if worked into a legitimate time-table, to answer both the questions asked and the questions almost-thought, to bedevil the non-believers and back-slap those in the know, to parry and thrust against the opposition comprised most certainly of out-of-date, mechanical replies from long dead "prophets"...do you really want to pray 45 times before you eat a cup of soup? Or would you rather just ask, as dear Sally did in this undated correspondence:
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Dear Ryantology,
Should I get an abortion?
Signed,
Sally
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Dear Sally,
Are you pregnant?
Ryantology
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Dear Ryantology,
No.
Signed,
Sally
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Dear Sally,
Then, no.
Ryantology
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It’s just that easy. No more rummaging through dusty books for insipid advice; no more canceling dinner plans to meet with some strawberry-eating, freckle-handed priest; no more wondering why "god" has forsaken you...all you need to do is ask, and you’ll get a litany of reasons.
Once the clear-headed has opened up to the Rightfulness of Ryantology, the creation and constant being of the universe begins to make a whole lot of sense, as do the boundaries of the Lived Life to the Unlived Life, even though, at this point, neither one has been properly explained...but that is neither here nor there, as allusion creates more than just mere suspense;
It creates belief.
And, coincidentally, internal fluid-buildup, usually centralized in the brain pan.
07 August 2006
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.
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