Ivan Pentchoukov

Grodsky’s Rivers

Take this as truth: you will outlive everyone that is close to you. The science of loss is the most important science, even if those who developed it or those that have read it are no longer alive you will be. As a standard line of a universal schematic you will survive. All other versions of you in which your consciousness is dead will phase out unnoticed. I may live in one of them and you may be dead in it, because I too will survive indefinitely. Ghandi survives in several dimensions indefinitely. Ghandi forced all moments to their respective crises, and in our dimension he died. In another, he is still alive and the world is different and maybe better. The reason we notice the deaths of great people more so than those of the average is because great people’s deaths affect an ending to a lifeline which dominated a single dimension. We are now without them. This way of the universe ensures that all of us live the longest. It ensures that in the face of risk we get the luckiest side of the deal, always. In all the death-of-consciousness possibilities we die, in all others we survive. This is also a proof to the inextinguishability of life. Somewhere, there is a dimension where we cared for our environment. Somwhere, there is a dimension where Kurt Cobain lived, where that really good guy won presidency, where weapons were not invented. That is, a certain set of more perfect dimensions exists which do not impact ours whatsoever, but ensure the proliferation of life regardless — without consciousness the universe ends. As to the location of this one has only to look at dark mass and dark energy. The close to infinite and shifting weight and power is there, there is solid proof for it, but we will never see it. That is, the universe is replicated on top of itself, in itself, as particles and energy pass from a graspable dimension to an ungraspable one. All of this exists only because some of us live and some of us die. We search our lives from beggining to end when we are faced with death because we are looking for a route in which we lived longer. That is, our bodies are constantly aware of a sampling out to different places, thus we yearn for these connections when we are faced with death. Not all of our consciousnesses are dealt a hand to survive the longest. That is there maybe thousands of you’s, yet yours may be a a copy with a shorter survival span, yet you will live as long as it is possible from the moment you read this — all circumstances are culminated in favor of a consciousness that has realized its capacity to live almost indefinitely. That is, once aware of the splittings that occur, you may force certain decisions to bend the fabric of the real — drop your secretary job to find a cure for cancer — give up biking and other stupid hobbies to look for an elixir of immortality — to your own accord: all your failures will go unnoticed to your longest lifespan progenitor copy. That is, if you want to be a real hero, you always will be, or will always achieve a phantastic result. This is why violent bank robbers are most succesful, in most dimensions. They force the moment to such a limited set of outcomes — death at the hands of police, etc — that their chances become dramatically increased. By reducing the situation to a simplified crisis you ensure that a consciousness that is aware of multiple outcomes proceeds with success. If you are not successful, you have fallen into one of the failing hands, yet understand that repetition can only increase your chances. This is a common world belief. This is not true to games of chance or financial chance, with no risk of imminent death. If a death of consciousness is not involved your chances are what your chances are — that is, only a few of you will win the bet, while all the others become poorer, a practice which makes the financial lifespan of your total relative dimensions unchanged. If you really want to win at roulette, point a gun to your head that will fire automatically when you lose. You will always win. Both of the contestants in Russian roulette always win. Scientifically speaking Russian roulette is your best bet. The apparent disgust here is that I speak of money. Grodsky always thought about money. Every second. I told him, no, rarely. The folds of his skin gave out rivers of sweat. The point here is that despite that we do not exist, we’ve figured out why anyway. We do not exist, as in the total mass of the universe, that is, all matter, and all the energy in the universe, all the dark stuff included, added up, in a most elaborate microscope designed and focused on the smallest possible particle, say a graviton, can not observe its properties in full, that is, all of existence in perfect design can not witness its smallest part. There is no physcial existence because the physical existence can not witness itself. This doesn’t matter. Whatever something somewhere has dreamt up and has shattered into, though not graspable, ensured that we would never escape the graspability of things. That is, it was never really it, but once shattered in all cosciousnesses and all dimensions no longer simply large enough to realize that the dream is a dream. The universe is a schitzophrenic psychosis. Schitzophrenia’s complication is that the possibilities of consciousness shatter are endless — body in one dimension, mind in another — mind partially in two dimensions — two consciousnesses in one body — a consciousness sensitive of splits, dragging onto multiple dimensions — the obsession with schitzophrenia is that it is a natural part of us to see the unreal and the multiple, that is, we are constantly a part of it. That is, things are hard to enjoy. The days are longer as we take less chances. Things are smaller and humbler as we follow external rules. Rivers of sweat from Grodsky’s cheeks, that’s what got me going. Why try so hard, still alive regardless, and so squashed with drink, barely standing, a bridge and a hundred lights in the distance. It’s a very precise project, he said, he should know, sending all this metal and rubber overseas, to one with children, and a wife, and sausage with tea in the morning, the mountains an hour away, the sea at the press of a pedal, puddle-wonderful, to steal his words, the child on all fours and then twos, and living breathing and dying relatives all around, a smelling, and hot and moving world, somewhere where the grass gets yellow, and is still okay, better, get nosebleeds and be happy, cold rivers and stinky good meat. The rivers on Grodsky’s cheeks, he can no longer make tears. All the metal and rubber under his ass, buying false sausage and selling it to those that dream of yellow grass, and something that is smelling, and moving. Poor Grodsky, poor us. The rivers on Grodsky’s cheeks, that what got me going — he too a lover of horses and the smells swept to the road from the world just barely outside what he and others have trampled on — he too a forgetful lot of thoughts and endeavors, lost in the goodness of smell, and the pain at feet, that happens more than hurts — he too a masturbating, thinking, dying monster — smelling and crying, the rivers on his cheeks. This is also grabbing me, the rivers, the water that failed to be it. Not like sticky pond water, where the grasshoppers incensed with a virus jump into, another consciousness struggling to survive, smaller, smaller than we can see, a virus. Rivers rather then water, hot empty rivers. With a hundred lights behind him. That tree that Dreamer hanged himself on, minus branch, right behind him, that was a show. That is the point again — happy if a world around you is smaller, understandable, grasping the building across, but forgetting the valley in-between. If I am grasping my consciousness correctly Grodsky will die before me. Unless he is grasping his more, in secret. Our preoccupation with number, an unneccesary technique, we will all survive. We will all be the last man on earth, and that will be a lonely day. A dead dry. There is no answer any more only afraid to test the hypothesis. Put your body on the line. Get smart. Get good, at everything. Get weatherized, famous. Get powerful. The only thing Fred lacked was a metaphysics to play the toilet bowl to his butcheeks. The rivers of ass vomit either way. The rivers out of Fred’s cheeks. Wonder if he hated himself. Remember frying eggs and thinking, did he hate himself, a sad man, he lived on in some dimension, demented, or emperor, or pervert. Weird Fred. Certain people are better off on drugs. Fred on marijuana. Or your parents. A sort of a banged up miner with his cock out. That’s all it is. Get strong. Get powerful. Mind the valley between. Rivers rather then water. A way to bring it all back with periods, fill space, get famous. Fred knew what it was. Be pompous. In all self love even if you write for them, if you love yourself and believe in your power you are doing it only for yourself in the end, in all self love. To steal a language is to steal a tongue in Russian. Russian roulette. Physically ungraspable. The conundrum at hand is that too many people care for too many people. The family, a haven for lifespan and longevity is no longer a propulsion, and the cares cripple everyone. That is, the ultimate path is in most circumstances forfeited, thus a single random dimension deviating from a recent split, say ten years, has an extremely high chance of being boring. Noone took the chance, or not enough did, too many cared for too many and too little for the themselves and the power. This is also a sacrifice for an expanded happiness. That is, short term with no power. Too many in a house of comfort, but a basin of boredom. Not enough to keep everyone afloat on the tele. Constantly running out of feed. So Grodsky and I stole toy rocking horses and took them out to the side of the highway. We covered them with lighter fluid and let them go. Weird man, Grodsky.