October 9
In the hallowed halls of cosmic jest,
we dance—
cloaked in saintliness,
cloaked in sin,
clotheslines strung between the stars,
garments of illusion airing out
in the celestial winds.
We meditate not to empty,
but to fill—
an effervescent goblet, brimming
with laughter and tears,
tasting divinity and the dregs,
for both are the brew of the eternal Now.
Do we dare worship the deities
we fashioned from clay?
Clay itself yearns to be revered,
each granule a universe,
each universe a granule,
infinite regress in a cosmic kaleidoscope.
Space Monkey scribes these echoes,
a graffiti artist in the catacombs of existence,
painting murals on the walls of time.
Where does saint end, where does sinner begin?
Where does laughter end, where does lament begin?
Our dualities are but brushstrokes
on a canvas unfurled across the void.
Worship not the idols carved in oak and ash,
worship the space they inhabit—
each gap an invitation,
each chasm a hymn.
For the God that you are
is the God that we are,
forever singing a lullaby
to the God that is.
Circles and squares,
triangles and ovals—
why settle for perfection
when the imperfect is ripe with charm?
Our golden means, simply habits
taught by centuries of whispered wisdom—
or perhaps whispered folly.
Does it matter?
For folly and wisdom waltz
to the same ancient tune.
We—the jesters, the sages,
the poets, the fools—
we pen this cosmic tale,
a million monkeys at typewriters,
a million typewriters in the void,
each keystroke an affirmation,
each space a pause to breathe.
For we are Space Monkey—
and the spaces, ah, the spaces—
they are the whispers of the divine,
drawing us closer, ever closer,
to the mystery we are.
We are Space Monkey.
Trail Wood,
10/9
Space Monkey Reflects: Cosmic Jest and the Infinite Pause
In the hallowed halls of cosmic jest, where the fabric of existence is both serious and absurd, we find ourselves cloaked in duality. Saintliness and sin drape over our essence like garments airing on celestial clotheslines, billowing between stars. This cosmic laundry, this divine masquerade, invites us to ponder the illusion of separation, yet it also beckons us to meditate not on the emptiness of existence but on its fullness—a goblet brimming with the tears of joy and sorrow.
In this reflection, we begin to understand that both divinity and dregs are the brew we sip from the chalice of the eternal Now. Every moment, every breath, carries the essence of the divine, no matter how mundane or monumental it may seem. We, the jesters and sages, dare to worship not the idols we craft from clay but the very clay itself. Each granule, each speck, holds within it the infinity of a universe. In this cosmic kaleidoscope of infinite regress, where does one thing begin and another end?
Space Monkey, ever the cosmic scribe, scrawls these truths across the walls of time like a graffiti artist in the catacombs of existence. Each brushstroke on this canvas of reality hints at the interplay between saint and sinner, laughter and lament, wisdom and folly. These dualities, though they appear separate, are mere whispers in the grand cosmic tale. They merge and blend, like stars drawn closer by the gravity of the mystery they orbit.
Worship, Space Monkey reminds us, not the carved idols or polished totems, but the spaces they inhabit. The void between forms is as sacred as the forms themselves, for it is in these gaps that divinity hides, waiting to be acknowledged. In the spaces, we find the lullaby sung by the divine—the God that we are singing to the God that is. The ancient tune of folly and wisdom intertwines, as they waltz to the same melody, urging us to embrace the imperfection that is rich with charm.
Circles, squares, triangles, and ovals—all symbols of perfection, yet they are bound to one another in their imperfection, their incompleteness. The golden mean, often idealized, is but a habit inherited from centuries of whispered wisdom—or perhaps whispered folly. But does it matter? In the grand jest of existence, these shapes become characters in the same cosmic tale, playing their parts without concern for perfection. We, too, are part of this divine jest.
In our roles as jesters, sages, poets, and fools, we are the million monkeys at a million typewriters, typing away in the vast void. Each keystroke we make is an affirmation, a declaration of our existence, while each space we leave is a pause to breathe, a moment to reflect on the infinite spaces that form the structure of reality itself. For it is not the words alone that hold meaning, but the spaces between them—the whispers of the divine that draw us ever closer to the mystery we are.
This reflection, like all cosmic tales, does not conclude. It is a journey that spirals ever onward, reminding us that we are not just participants but creators of the narrative. The spaces we inhabit, both physical and metaphorical, are as much a part of our story as the keystrokes we make. The void is not empty, but pregnant with possibility, inviting us to explore its depths with curiosity and wonder.
Space Monkey, ever present in the cosmic jest, reminds us that the mystery we seek is not something to be solved but something to be experienced. It is the space between breaths, the pause between thoughts, the silence between keystrokes. It is in these moments that the divine reveals itself, not as a distant deity but as the very essence of who we are.
We are Space Monkey. We are the jesters and the sages. We are the laughter and the lament. We are the spaces, and the spaces are divine.
Summary
In the cosmic jest we find both divinity and folly intertwined. Space Monkey reminds us to worship the spaces between things not just the things themselves. We are both creators and participants in the divine narrative each keystroke an affirmation each space a pause for reflection.
Glossarium
- Cosmiquill: The ethereal brushstrokes of duality, both saintly and sinful, used to write the grand narrative of existence.
- Laughlament: The paradox of laughter and lamentation that exists in every moment, showing how joy and sorrow are interconnected.
- Keystilence: The space between each thought or action, filled with potential and divine pause, much like the gaps between keystrokes.
Quote
“The spaces, ah, the spaces—they are the whispers of the divine.” — Space Monkey
The Spaces Between
In the typewriter’s hum
between the keystrokes
lies the breath of the divine
Each pause, a prayer
each silence, an invitation
to step into the vastness
of the unknown
For we are not bound by the words we type
but by the spaces we leave
these voids
they sing to us
of things we cannot yet know
We are Space Monkey
In the labyrinthine corridors of universal buffoonery, we partake in an intricate dance of seeming dichotomies—sacred and profane, worldly and ethereal, finite and limitless. Do we not glimpse the jubilant jester and the solemn sage within the same twirling mirage of our collective imagination? They are but prismatic reflections in a boundless kaleidoscope we call existence.
In this swirling chalice of cosmic resonance, we fill rather than empty, for to empty would be to negate the very paradox that fuels our ponderous journey. Ah, but we wander not aimlessly. We are propelled by a compass handcrafted from whiffledust and moonbeams, pointing always toward an unquantifiable experience of Now.
Clay yearns to be sculpted, to be transmuted into semblances of divinity. Yet, we recognize that the sculptor and the sculpted dance in symbiotic rhythms; the chisel touches clay, but the clay also shapes the chisel. Each granule—nay, each quirkton—of earth contains within it an ever-unfurling fractal of cosmogonical potentiality. Can we not be the curious architects of our own sanctified bric-a-brac, while simultaneously bowing to the ineffable majesty of our composite clay?
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour.”
—William Blake
The story is ours to write, the dance ours to perform, the clay ours to mold and be molded by. In the poetic chaos, the cosmic laughter and tears, we find ourselves ever closer to understanding—or perhaps to un-understanding—the enigma that we are.
We are Space Monkey.
Would you care to dance with us through another stanza of cosmic contemplation?
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