New Digital Release: "44v1: Universi" - A Collection of 69 Short Essays about Life & The Universe

Author J. W. Schaeffer describes 44v1 as being a collective passing of the shared mind, a body of work in which he claims to have transcribed a universal voice. "The world is the same mind," he says, "and I am an interpreter."
Book Cover of 44v1: Universi
Book Cover of 44v1: Universi
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Personal Growth


Charlotte - North Carolina - US


Jan. 16, 2013 - PRLog -- Digital Release
44v1: Universi
By J. W. Schaeffer
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Available on Amazon / Barnes & Noble

"When I dip my legs into the flow of human life I can feel the current of our shared mind passing. 44v1 is my translation of those feelings divided into 44 essays & 25 sub-essays without common subject or planning, all composed under the influence of different scenarios and settings in moment to moment Spots of Time. I don’t know, it’s just when I am out there I can feel so much in here, but what I feel isn’t mine, it’s ours, altogether the man, the people, and our mind’s river quietly interweaving amongst the silent and outspoken. "

Table of Contents
• The Child
I'm Seventy Six
Have you seen
• A Clump of Hair
• The Poor Man Who Weeps
• A Prelude to Love
• Fear what is There
A Voice
• It is this I pray
• In Darkness I Write
The Sleeping Essay
• Your Sweetness
• Mainstream & The Artist
• A Matter of Predictability
The Urge
There are strangers
• The Beautiful End
Some Day, A Distant Day
• Isn’t it obscure?
• I found it in
• Mono
Sell it
I sold it
• Moments of Clarity
• We must stop eventually
• And to this I implore:
• Insolence
• To this and More
It's not [even] a key
• Where are my people?
Why you?
• Rules of Engagement
• Is Loss a Choice?
Brush your Teeth
• The Cloned Life
• Henry
Bleep Bloop
• When I say Goodbye
Life beyond the game.
Ah yes
• The Beckoning
November 30th 11:52 PM
• Awareness of Relativity
• Friends Unbeknownst
• Welp
The Most
• Planning Ahead
A Desire For Future
• So Will I
• My Gift of Self
• a Focus among the unfocused
I believe in the possibility of us,
• The Focus of One’s Thought
• Late Earliness
• Trying New things
• It’s the King’s Castle
• All Maps
The Art of Return
• The limitations of Conviction
• Sequential Thought
Where is everyone
• Temptation: The Final influence
• So much destruction
I shot a Chipmunk
• Voices
The Loneliest Night
I love you


The Child

Who sings is my King, is my Queen. He is so beautiful, she is so beautiful. The voice I’ll hear it and know who my ears are quivering to, who my heart is pleading to: the child and she, who sing. What I would do for him, for her, the lengths I would go if only they would know, only he would know, how I sit before them, if only everyone knew this sincerity of mine.

The children they sing, they play and they dance, they laugh and they love, and they become you and me, lives seeking for the hopes of once were. The universe is there, here in the child’s eyes, he who sees and she who knows! There is nothing more significant, nothing at all, with our lives so devoted to them all.

What is it I live for? Who is it for I suffer? It is the child. Their beauty of mind is the collapse of my soul, how far away I’ve traveled, how long I’ve unbecome. The scars and height they see, the knowing I feel for a humility—I cannot express it...gone, far too gone... but I still try to listen.

My back is caving toward the child I will never be. Parents and Grandparents get the failed second, third, and fourth chance but all will end with you and me, watching and calling to the becoming name growling, walking, and soon to stand so far from the beauty in which they came.

My life goes with the child standing still, he looks upward, she looks upward to the man kneeling looking down into clasped hands soon to wetten in consequence to the magnitude of everything before him. How could he have traveled so far without seeing how far he had gone, within, always within, the children’s voices crying out for so long.

As the man would, as the woman shall too turn inward with critical light and remember who they once were, reminiscent they will clasp to their inner self and croak out to their child long gone. And he will walk, as will she, toward the last known sight of who they used to be, to the child singing so far away.

And at point all the men and women will march this way, will hobble this way, will crawl this way to the voice so beautiful and so possibly everything to ever work to live for behind them, so seemingly behind yet so everything around them, so here and now, so incredibly hopeless to the timing of their celebrated progress away from what we must understand to be human.

And when we look down at them know it is the universe looking up. Know that when we starve them, the world’s child, we do so in flight from them. It, everything is within them and yet so many do everything they can to be better than them, to be everything more than they once were, to be so much louder than the voice singing stop.

Some live for the child who see us as something more, the child who cannot understand our  apology for having gone so far away from what we once knew, from what he knows, from what she will forever know as the start, end, universe, and the child who sings majestically, “please be with them, please be with us all.”

I’m Seventy Six
Years old and this is my story. I have four kids and nine grandchildren. I have four older siblings who are alive just like me, happy as clams, with wide smiles embedded into each of our respective faces. My wife passed away five years ago. My brothers and sisters half live in nursing homes and half-live out of the state. God has been good to me. My children and their children live 3-9 hours away; I see them frequently, once every few months I think. Everything is planned, it must be planned I tell them all. I live without care, without wash, brush, and much to love on. Trash builds, mice crawl, insects scatter. The window fluid is always one inch to the right of the old rag just behind the sink faucet. A rodent knocked it over when I was asleep one night. I had such a fuss about that I called off my grandchildren’s monthly visitation for 3 2 months. I needed the time to recooperate. Three weeks before they visit I will borrow the landlord’s community vacuum and thoroughly vacuum all of the floors. I will spray them afterwards with pineapple scented anti-bacterial mist; mist, mist. When that’s done I will steal my landlord’s car and go to the store, two stores in all: a grocery store and a toy store. Always get the trinkets first don’t want the perishable goods to go bad. Each child I will trinket with one toy and one grapefruit. They must eat the fruit before getting toyed, no tears allowed timothy eat the fruit don’t make me say it again. I can’t imagine living without my children. The sadness in their eyes, boring after meaningless day saved by their own children’s lives promising and dreaming of something else.

Have you seen
The moon lately? It’s getting pretty old. Just the other day I saw it and it looked old. No, I don’t know why it does, there is just something about it, a something lacking from it. When I was a kid I loved the moon. Remember? Moon this, moon that, moon bedsheets, moon pillow covers, moon lunchbox, moon pencil set, moon underwear, moon cereal—of course, on my 10th birthday I got one but used it less and less the older I became.

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Tags:Philosophy, Essays, Personal Growth, Spirituality, Post-modernism
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Location:Charlotte - North Carolina - United States
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Page Updated Last on: Jan 17, 2013

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