Nosirrah Is Not
Publisher: Tragic Circumstances (not in print)
We are trying to get permission to place the entire text on this website, however we have not so far been successful. Under fair use law, we will put a sample text here for now.
"I lived my life backwards having died just after birth. For one such as me, who lived a lifetime in just days, there was no time to waste because there was no time left. This was not a Merlin life, moving ever younger with vision of what the future held, but a life so compressed, so dense, that time stopped, breath stop, and all of reality experienced and then collapsed into itself. The doctors couldn’t help because they ceased to be, the mother’s tears didn’t fall, there was nothing at all. It was so beautiful, so vast, so undifferentiated that nothing could describe it. Yet it did. Life moved without time or space, and created as that description. Breath moved. Time began. I am, yet I am not. I am, only as a description by the absolute beauty of nothing, the description by the undifferentiated everything.
Mine was a struggle not to transcend life, but to descend it, a journey not to enlightenment but to the darkest regions of embodiment, the ecstatic tortures of the flesh.”
Publisher: Tragic Circumstances (not in print)
We are trying to get permission to place the entire text on this website, however we have not so far been successful. Under fair use law, we will put a sample text here for now.
“You cannot know what awaits you. It is only in total ignorance veiled in the hubris of knowing that you would even suggest to yourself the possibility of this encounter.
Because you are young, and with that comes beauty and freshness, you think this will protect you from any fire. It will, most any fire. But not any fire. Not this fire.
I will meet you exactly where you are. You will know it is that moment. You will feel the power of contact, drawn in by you, controlled by you. Your beauty has won again, taking in the old , the weary, the spent, giving new life, new youth as freely as only the young do. And, of course, you are ready to spit me out, finished, discarded.
But, this time will be different, your juice will become warm, then hot, then boiling. Your desire will expand beyond your won power to control it. Your breath will deepen, then gasp in shallowness, then deepen again. You cry out in the intensity of it, or moan in the agony of the pressure to release.
You cannot control this encounter, you nave nothing, but must give everything. You have met eros hiding in the form of another, now released, now inhabiting you, now devouring you from inside. Eros leaves you no choice, no control, now power. You are only left drawn to more of it, always more. You are drawn to be erased. Your beauty, your youth, all gone. Now it is mine. I am Eros and I have taken you.
************************************************
Don’t ever ask me to solve your problem. You complain about your partner, your job, your money, your wretched soul and its spiritual needs.
You block the ejaculate, separating it from life, wrapping it in rubber as a safeguard. Your life is dead, only energetic onanism remains.
Eros will revive you, chronic eros, it will give you your life back, but it will also cost you your life. Eros takes your hand, it doesn’t care if you want to let go.”
Publisher: Tragic Circumstances (not in print)
We are trying to get permission to place the entire text on this website, however we have not so far been successful. Under fair use law, we will put a sample text here for now.
In addition, we do not have a complete copy of this book, which was apparently actively suppressed by Nosirrah who may have destroyed what copies he could find. If you find a complete copy of this book, please let us know, price will not be an issue.
You cannot hope to discover anything at all in this book.
Put this book down unless you cannot.
You cannot interpret these words, you can only read them.
You cannot read these words, you can only imagine that you are reading them.
You cannot imagine reading these words, you are being imagined.
Your imagination is not flexible enough to imagine itself.
Unless it is.
And then, it does not imagine, it only knows.
What it knows is that you are reading these words and interpreting them precisely.
What these words say is that they say nothing, that you say it all as you read them.
You construct the meaning that is not there unless you do, and is not there if you do. Meaning is not there, it is constructed as there. There is nothing before it, there is nothing after it, there is nothing during it. There is no it. It is just a word, without meaning unless you construct that meaning, and then it has none, it just has construction.
You cannot understand that there is nothing that is something; you can only understand that there is something, or that there is nothing. Either is a universe that you understand. Or is a universe that you understand. This is dual and what is dual can be understood. If you want understanding then you must find another source, another book, another group of words. These words cannot bring you understanding, only chaos.
Some say chaos is freedom, but it is not. There is no freedom because there is no prison, and no prisoner. Chaos doesn’t bring you freedom, it brings you nothing, and takes away everything, then it takes away the nothing.
***************
I visited Nothing, but you think I am joking. I found what I was looking for there. You might, too.You can go there yourself, although I don’t recommend it. It exists and it doesn’t exist at the same time, it is a place called Nothing, Arizona. Mile Post 148 1/2, Highway 93, Population 4 +/-.
But if you go there and there is nothing, it is because you are looking for something, and you won’t find it there, you will just find your looking. Go there looking for nothing and you will find Nothing, and it will be exactly what you are looking for, just as it is, just as you are, just nothing.You may think I am joking but I never visited Nothing and you will never visit there either. Send me a postcard when you get there, they sold them at the gas station when I was there last. I will tell that tale another time, in another way, the story of my life, the story of no life, the life I will write about in the future about my past which will always and forever be read in the present. I will call it Practical Obsession for life is exactly that, isn’t it.?
But I was a fool then, and a wanderer, just like the tarot card, with a dog nipping at me, walking along the edge of a cliff. Is it faith that allows us to walk on the edge of destruction in our lives, or is it naiveté? The Fool is oblivious to these categories, each step is its own adventure, its own moment, its own universe with only the dog of time, the hounding of reality taking a bite out of his Foolish ass here and there. And, of course, in the Tarot cards, the Fool is number 0, he is nothing and doesn’t seem to even notice.
Sentient Publications in print in new edition released June, 2008
Our many thanks to Sentient Publications for bringing Nosirrah into print and for giving us permission to publish these excerpts here. Please, please contact Sentient Publications to buy this book and thereby support the publication of more of Noisrrah, and let them know that you want more Nosirrah titles brought back into print.
To say this account is strange might give the reader a way to relate to it, but in fact, nothing will shift the burden away from the reader. In these pages, the world is bent around the reader’s mind until either the mind itself begins to bend, or indeed, breaks. This is a story without plot, characters, structure, or obvious purpose—an endless descent into the netherworlds of a dystopian mind, a soul adrift, a heart not so much shattered as unhinged. If a thousand monkeys typing endlessly would eventually produce all great works of literature, then this is their first draft.
I didn’t find this written on a Golden Tablet or by a burning bush. I didn’t fast in the desert or have some kind of revelation. I am not a prophet, a mystic, seer, or anything like that. I am a marginal writer with an irritated editor who works in a publishing company that can’t figure out how to go digital when the old people want books at a deep discount, but made out of paper, and the young people don’t read. My best days as a writer are so far behind me that I was closer to success in my last lifetime than I am to it in the current one.
I didn’t even recognize its importance when I found this scrawled on the door of a toilet stall in the Denver airport: “The religious and atheist are of the same order—believers. One believes in an idea called God, the other believes in an idea called rationality.” Its importance is that it adds an element of foreshadowing to my story that will later be seen as significant, and give my writing the sense of depth and quality, or at least the ambiguity that it might have depth and quality, which will make it worthy of freshman English literature classes.
I started noticing these kinds of messages all around. I saw this graffiti on the brick wall by the post office: “The end of the age of belief is near.” Here I repeat the foreshadowing just in case the earlier one was missed, and to build some tension.
But, back to the story itself.
Believers believe in their beliefs, unbelievers believe in their unbelief, and no one sees beyond the structures of belief itself. It got me thinking about the whole belief game and how we can get so caught up in the content of our belief.
It is better to believe in a compassionate God than to believe in a wrathful one. It is better to believe in Science, rather than to believe in an unprovable deity. It is better to live from Faith than to live from Mind. It is better to proceed from Scripture than to do so from Man’s Laws. It is better to live from the empirical than to live from the religious.
Each of these broad belief systems that we accept then breaks down into multiple belief components. Believer One may be a Christian who believes in Christ and an inerrant Bible. Believer Two may be a Christian who believes in Christ and that the Bible is open to interpretation. These two believers no doubt consider themselves in dispute, when in fact they are in profound agreement: their agreement is that they believe at all.
All of which leads me up to an incident that I will describe as best I can, and entirely subject to my editor’s mostly irrational and random acts of deletion, insertion and otherwise mucking about with my prose. Here it goes, and good luck:
I was talking to God the other night, when He told me something disturbing, and truthfully, somewhat baffling. Now, you probably doubt that I was talking to God, and likely think I was delusional, or talking to myself, and you might be right about that, but as I am trying to explain, in a way I don’t care what you believe, or what I believe for that matter. I only care what God believes, and that is what is so troubling. God told me he is an atheist, he doesn’t believe in himself, he doesn’t believe in belief, and he thinks that all the believing that people get into has caused nothing but problems.
The conversation threw me into a paroxysm of paradox and a quandary of conundrum. I had, after all, spent a great deal of my life seeking the truth of God, the ultimate answer to the meaning of life. Now I had, more by accident than by skill, finally bumped into God himself, more or less walking down the street, and the main message for me was to stop believing, not just in God but in anything and everything. It just didn’t add up. Here was God, in front of me, telling me he didn’t believe in God, he didn’t believe in me, He wasn’t, and neither was I.
**************
I had a dream last night (I think it was a dream in any case) and in it I was reading theSmokingGun.com where there was an account of Richard Dawkins and the Pope as secret lovers revealed, with photos of the two grinning in bed with their morning cappuccino, apparently listening to Puccini. They couldn’t reveal to the world their illicit love, both careers ruined, and yet they couldn’t live without the intense draw to the intellect and the passion of their belief and anti-belief. It was an erotic dream, I suppose, but not in the usual sense, only in the sense of the union of beliefs into something transcendent.
I awoke with a start, somehow realizing how shocking and inappropriate the imagery was, Richard Dawkins wasn’t the problem, but the Pope should be beyond these kinds of twists of the mind. But in that moment of waking, I saw the beauty of possibility where the two would be forced to admit in a press conference, broadcast live just about everywhere, that they really weren’t sure if they had it right philosophically, that truth is pretty illusive, but that when Richard saw the Pope in the full outfit there was something so clear in the fluttering of the heart. They held hands throughout, and Richard looked radiant, which he never really did as an atheist. The Pope always looked good, but now he looked a little worried, human, even nervous, but happy in that rottweiler kind of way, still ready to go for the throat, but only if you weren’t nice to Richard.
The reporters pushed in for the story, but they couldn’t figure out what to ask once they realized that neither of the two had any beliefs left, just each other and Puccini. I have to apologize for the account of all of this, to the affront to those who find these images insulting or worse, but I do think there is something instructive in the dream world, and in a way it prepared me to meet God.
****************
I mentioned that I ran into God, and it was almost literally so, more like I almost ran over God. You know the feeling when you sit at a complex intersection, you try to turn right-on-red, and there is suddenly a pedestrian almost under your wheels. That was me and God. Usually the pedestrian curses you, slaps your car hood or makes a face suggesting you are a low-life undeserving of substantial insight into the nature of existence. But when I almost ran over God, he didn’t do that. He also didn’t look kindly at me or with forgiveness or beatifically, He didn’t do anything but pause, then return to the curb so I could complete my turn without taking out the Creator of the universe. I figured this guy was different, although I didn’t realized how different, of course, so I pulled over and jumped out to apologize.
******************
My editor wants me to capitalize all the pronouns referencing God, He not he, Him not him, but I am going to ignore her most of the time. My editor would also probably tell me at this point that I am going to lose my readers, I am not putting enough detail into the God character, and the story needs dialog. But, you have to understand that you don’t converse with God like that, it isn’t a dialectical process, not a Q and A or anything like Neil Walsh would have you believe. That would sell better, and in my reveries I have imagined the version that my editor and the book buying public would want.
“How are You, God?”
“Pretty good, how about you?”
“Okay, but something has been bothering me my whole life, and I wonder if You can help me. What is the truth?
“The truth? I don’t think you are ready for it.”
“I have spent my whole life preparing for meeting You, for asking the deepest question I could speak, which is about truth, absolute truth. What is the truth?”
“You are not going to like it, but the truth is your penis is too small.”
“What? That’s the truth? That can’t be right, I don’t mean my penis size, but that can’t be what the truth is.”
“You’re right, but I like to bring that up, no pun intended, because a lot of My income depends on men having that idea. The latest survey I read had it that 55% of men believed that their male members were too small even though most women say they really don’t care about penis size as long as the men bathe occasionally and talk to them intelligently. That is My work, I created that, I had to, otherwise I couldn’t fund My whole operation.”
“What in God’s name are You talking about? What funds? What operation?”
“It’s not cheap being God, talk about entourage issues, security issues, staffing the branch offices and all of that. I have a huge overhead.”
“Don’t the churches, the temples, the mosques take care of that?”
“You don’t get it. Those are the Believers. I don’t want anything to do with that money. I won’t touch it, it’s the only way I can stay free to be Me, you can’t be God without artistic and creative freedom. Anyway they spend most of their money on marketing and building projects, as if that had something to do with Me.”
“So, how do You get your money?”
“That’s what I am trying to tell you, but you’re not listening because you have to pretend you’re a big dick, because deep down you know that your penis is too small.”
“Okay, I’ll listen but, uh, do you think you could do something for me in that size area—you are God after all.”
“Exactly. Penis extenders. That’s how I fund my operation. Penis extenders, pumps, other appliances to make your otherwise too small penis into something of colossal dimensions. I send out over thirty million discrete emails a day, you wouldn’t believe the business I do. It’s the answer to the prayers of the vast majority of men.”
“You! You are the one flooding my email inbox. I don’t believe it. That is the most bizarre thing I have ever heard. You’re telling me that first You convince men that they’re too small where it counts and then You provide appliances to fix it. Why do the women get let off of this scam?”
“They don’t.”
“You mean…”
“Right, weight loss products. Even better than penis extenders. If I weren’t so busy being God I could make a fortune just reinvesting the profits. Do you have any idea what the markup on these products is?” I fell silent, the kind of profound black hole silence in which there is no description that can escape its gravitational pull. There were so many questions I wanted to ask God at that point—like did those devices and ointments work? I suppose the real question was would they work on me. And maybe He could tell me why His spam always sounded like it came from an ESL training course with bad grammar and misspelled words, but that was probably well researched marketing.
Just hours before I had gotten God’s invitation by email, written so touchingly, so directly to the heart of the male psyche that it had seared itself in my memory with its redemptive promise. Titled, “Such a big size that she never felt before,” it went like this:
Dear Customer
Attention: new unequalled preparation will enlarge your phallus. It obtained popularity over the whole world and aided to many people-This is the MegaDik More than 80 000 men in the entire world have already been pleased by the quantity and efficacy of Mega Dik And this is a opportunity for you! Join to them.
I knew now that this, like all things in life, was a direct invitation from God, and a promise that faith upon Him and His works would lengthen my days and strengthen my seed, or something in that general direction.”
Publisher unknown, possibly unpublished
No known copies or fragments of this are in our possession
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