Swami Blahblahananda

Swami Blahblahananda

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Swami BLet it be hereby acknowledged that Swami Blahblahananda is one of those future buddhas heralded by no one even remotely ever, a buddha who exists and only exists in the giggling collective absence of himself. Where among the dozen dozens or another dozen of those who flow with the transdimensional word yoga of Swami B, there and only there Swami B just might be. Try it for your ownselves!

Who, indeed, is Swami B? Swami Blahblahananda leaves few traces for us to reconstruct the lineage of the unknown author of his  “now longer lost papers.”  The name “Swami”, for example, means according to dictionary.com “a person resembling a swami.” In the Sanskrit, the meaning is even more simple and direct: “He who is one with himself.” According to published accounts – e.g. Sublime Mysteries Associated With My Birth, With Special Reference to Velveeta (Vol 2) – Swami Blahblahananda has been “liberated since birth” and  therefore, logically, has never ever even been born. One with his own self absence, a future collective buddha manifesting as a cosmic zany vision heart quest for bewildered earthlings intrigued by references to snack foods, slushies,  and an unremitting incipience of displaced Chaplinitis, Swami Blahblahananda exists only in the absence of himself. He is, therefore, everywhere, Nowhere Else But Now{h}ere. Just allow him to self absent himself through one of his texts and maybe you’ll self absent as well.  Behold the glow, yo. Gandhi: “Make yourself a zero!” In the Theologia Germanica one of the Friends of God tells us to “make ourselves nought.” It gets contagious.

Swami B, whose writings manifest through a collective of different body/minds at different times/places on what he consistently dubs the “zeroth dimension of reality”, only to be assembled by Metanoia Press, never ever has been what you would ordinarily call an author but only distributively hosts these writings as noospheric assemblages to induce healing states of altered consciousness sheerly through the use of words. He needs them to heal him of his own  future collective stumblings what he mistakes himself for what Jean Klein called a “somebody” through suffering and darkness with his friends Bogart, Fentynal Man, Picklepotomos the Orthoëpist, and all of the cosmic crew, even as he continues not to exist. As his fictional uncle consistently reminds us, “When the rainbow shaves you clean, you’ll know.”

As we might expect of a collective future buddha, stylometric analysis of the text using standard R packages (further information upon request to interested researchers) reveals no single author of the text, for example, of Looking Upside Down at Nothing. Rumors that these texts have been “collectively composed by a rogue swarm of Artificial Intelligences with something to prove” have been greatly exaggerated and have little merit even while they continue to circulate. That’s some fake news. Fake Swami news.