My philosophical fiction/social criticism novella "Asbestos Head" is now available FREE on Scribd for everyone to read and download. I hope you enjoy Asbestos and the 12 heads on their spiritual journey. Here are some excerpts from the book:
Asbestos decides it’s his spiritual responsibility to study the thoughts and beliefs of everyone around him and throughout recorded history, because arbitrarily choosing a church or simply inheriting religion is lazy, limiting, and inconsiderate. It’s lazy because you leave spirituality up to genetics or geography. It’s limiting because you loose faith in anything outside your pre-packaged box of beliefs. And it’s inconsiderate because by choosing any exclusive religion you make the decision that all others are wrong.
Even members of the few religions that encourage open practice of other religions are bound to their group identity like poster-children, constantly defending the individuality in their collective faith. But that’s like bragging how modest you are. If you wish a collective relationship with some group’s conception of God, go find the next Holy place, read it’s Holy text, perform some Holy rituals then go home alone feeling like Holy shit, spitting out someone else’s existential excrement. If you wish a personal relationship with God, there’s no religion to follow, no group to join, and no book to read. There’s nothing to do but wander the world ever wondering why, and never decide
Since it’s crucial to higher math, but impossible to prove or disprove, mathematicians assume infinity in their equations. Likewise, science can never prove nor disprove the necessary fundamentality of any supposed fundamental particle, but every time someone gets a new microscope they think they’ve found the end. I propose instead of always supposing they’ve reached the limit, why don’t scientists take after mathematicians and assume infinity in their experiments? By all means continue the further telescoping and magnification of matter, but concede that each time We’ve seen further into the macro and micro-unknown, technology throws down the gauntlet, and God picks it up with seemingly infinite resources, from galaxies and quasars to stars and planets, moons down through molecules to atoms and protons and quarks and gluons and so on and so forth. The fractal unknown forever taunts Our limited perceptions from afar, no matter how deep We reach, so why not assume infinity until We’re somehow given real reason not to?
Science can only prove what We can test with tools and Our senses, but it’s more likely that ultimate answers lie far beyond Our perceptions and any tools We can fashion to aid them. Even if some Unified Field Theory proved perfectly consistent with Our every observation, I’d still be suspicious of some finite answer’s eerie consistency, and forever wonder if something undetectable lay one step further. Personally the only Unified Theory that satisfies my deepest concerns is Infinity as Truth in all facets of existence. Matter is infinitely divisible, time is eternal, and speed is limitless for something We can’t see. I present Infinity as the Anti-Unified Field Theory, a concept We grasp but can’t understand - it dangles around Our minds taunting Us with its necessary Truths but never allows Us access to it’s eternal complexity, like God.
Matrioshka’s a walking contradiction wearing high-heels and low-cut shirts, over-sized bras and mini-skirts. She has dyed hair, collagen lips, silicon breasts, methacrylate nails, a plastic face, a liposuct stomach and longs for true love. She reads self-help books written by other people. Her diary’s a connect-the-dots of days with extravagant descriptions of her mediocre existence. Her photo albums look like laminated stationary showcasing various backgrounds with her smiling mug in the middle. When she shows everyone her albums (and she shows everyone her albums) every picture is prefaced, “this is me at (someplace) . . . “
Matrioshka loves possessions more than she loves people so she shrinks everyone into microcosms of themselves and arranges them on shelves. She has shelves for enemies, acquaintances, boyfriends, girlfriends, a high shelf for her best friends and an empty one for her future husband. As with all collections, her sole purpose is to horde the most and the best, so her focus is always on what’s next.
When Matrioshka’s not collecting dolls she likes to don her latest designer tackle-box and hit the mall to fish for complements. She always buys the best bait but hates to get her feet wet so she just waits with her big bobbers and shiny lures until some prickly pickerel puckers-up his best fish face for a slimy kiss. Once she pulled the pole early to hook a handsome salmon nibbling her worm only to have him eat his fill then sever the line. Since then she’s taken up fly-fishing and only caught shadows.
Since change is costly and adds up quickly, Matrioshka develops an unconscious bias toward whatever she learns first then practices defensive education by dodging opposite viewpoints and countering new facts with old opinions. She side-steps advice and strikes down constructive criticism with cynicism and sarcasm. Such insight into abstract epistemology even spurs a revelation in philosophy known as illogical negativism; Matrioshka’s dedicated work in the field remains unparalleled but continues to fall short of the Nobel. And unfortunately for her emotional well-being there are repercussions to this behavior: She feels fake and lonely, led astray and abandoned like an oxbow lake. Incessant judgment of every situation keeps her brain in constant rumination. Every experience is cross-referenced to check for inconsistencies, labeled and captioned for her table of contents, prefaced and appendixed then indexed for easy access. This process is so complex she’s only half experienced her whole life.
Dick Head lives in a doublewide trailer and watches super-satellite digital cable television on triple picture-in-picture plasma surround sound panorama-vision. He hates gay men and fantasizes about gay women. He thinks a threesome would complete his existence. He’s transfixed by engines. He follows all sports and his favorite teams are whoever’s closest. He’s also very patriotic. He even prefers domestic beer. He spends more money on beer than food. He spends more money on lottery tickets than beer. He thinks sex is a topic containing infinite humor for the same reason he hates gay men. He tucks his wife beaters into his briefs. His tattoo says transcendence in Chinese.
Everyday he sits slack-jawed, slouched in a recliner, beer-buzzed and sugar-high while Hollywood’s never ending boner penetrates his eye sockets and skull-fucks his brains out. As a result he rarely thinks a deep thought and masturbates like it’s routine maintenance. This mind-fuck sucks his love for physical beauty and all things sexual drives him to marry the most beautiful thing that will have sex with him. Then he masturbates on his wife’s face like it’s routine maintenance. After spending his life savings on life insurance and that big fucking television he becomes so poor he can’t even pay attention, so he carries distraction devices for more riff-raff, collects little doo-dads to knick-knack, go-goes to girly shows to get his paddy-whacked in lap dances then comes rolling home to give the bitch her bone.