Dear Sir, Madame, Fellow, or Lady, Whatsoever Which You Prefer,
This is not my first time writing. I have written before. You may remember me, you may not. My name is Ramadupa. I am a yogi living in the richest state of India.
I am not Indian, but I live here because a grand will last a year.
I am not American, either, except through citizenship, nor even Ukrainian, though that’s where all my blood came from. If you want to know what I am, you need only touch yourself. Lift your fingers to your lips. I am there. Feel your heart beat, fast or slow -- I am there. Read these words. I am here.
I have submitted numerous articles and stories, and several poems: you said you were interested in poetry, that you never get enough. But my poem, the Spiral Stair, which deals not just with the personal internal spiritual progress of a human being, but with the macrocosmic reflection of this progress in humanity, was not what you were looking for. At this time. Regrettably.
Yes, it is a sad thing, when in this age of computers, of airplanes, of transcontinental highways and byways, of the UN and the space shuttle, people do not recognize Truth and the Sublime. Weep with me. Feel the tears. Tat t’vam asi.
The world speeds up with every beating of the heart. With every beating of the heart, miracles are taken for the mundane excretions of science. With every beating of the heart, we grow closer to the grave. Not just you.
Not just me.
Because I tell you, that we are the eyes with which the universe sees itself. These eyes are going blind! In my story, Prometheus Lost, I detail this, through the saga of a robot gaining and then losing access to that universal wave of consciousness, to the realm of the gods in which we live, so many of us, unnoticing, uncaring, indifferent, slothful lazy wretched. No, of course you have no use for this at this time. But thank you. Thank you.
In my article, The Death of the Salesman, which I’d thought quite cleverly titled, I outlined the new economy which is coming into being. I mention the fact that anyone can start a viable business, anyone can host a website and go into business doing what they love, practicing their craft and living by it: Paradise. It has never been easier. Except for the regulations of government, national and international, keeping people stultified, terrified, of red tape and fines they did not know about.
Because how the Hell is anyone supposed to know? I sure don’t. And I’ve considered studying Law!
I also subjected you, to what I suppose must have been a torrid and pointless read entitled The Jet’s Son, in which I show (not tell about!) a society in which Stanley Meyer’s hadn’t died (mysteriously) but instead had made his invention (the engine which runs on straight water) public access, and everyone can fly around all they like, in cars with water tanks and which take vapor straight from the air to burn.
In such a society, energy is free, movement is painless, and the notion of countries and nations and states has become almost entirely meaningless. I can take a car and fly from Japan to Britain without once touching the ground to refuel. Imagine such a world! I have.
People no longer confined by place to find their jobs. Whole homes flying, powered by the solar energy, the infinite solar energy, which water molecules drink so thirstily. Completely clean. In this story, the NSA put out a warning that this free energy was dangerous, and then began confiscating people’s homes and cars. Jailing resisters.
My point is, that there is no separation anywhere. What is in your mind, is in mine, my mind. What’s in your heart is in my heart. What’s in your future is in my future. All that can be imagined, exists already, in exactly that capacity in which it is imagined. Is a picture of a word a real word?
You may be wondering now, why I am writing. Why are there people on the Earth? Because the Earth peoples the way a tree apples. Why do I write? Because I write the way the Earth peoples. Whether you can find a use for it or not is immaterial.
And I write from triumph. Because, you know, your way is the old way. In the future there will be no publishers, no editors, no high-handed judges of value and sense. I could write gibberish: namyohorengekyo -- and if it resignated with someone, that someone would have access to read it. Because the Internet!
Because the Internet is a real world.
This shit is real, son! I’m not playing with you. I am writing to you, in your New Jersey office from KERALA INDIA: do you even know where that is, without going to Goodle? I am writing to you from here, and you will have access to my words in less time than it takes me to make them. Because you just finally decided to open yourself to electronic submissions.
But it is too late. The Internet has connected all of us in this complex web. We’re stuck. There’s so much worthless garbage stuck with us up here. If you do not publish me, then my writing, my words, my message for the world, gets lost in the sewer. One day, I will not need you. A program will find people to read me, people to use me for advertising, people to pay me. But until then I am stuck with you.
Your profession will die without a kick a whimper or a scream. But before that, I ask you to read the writings which I have attached and publish them. Please send payment to my paypal account. Thank you.
I Bid You Good Day,