Being here, with me, an Internet radio station and the sun-fed trees outside my window, I’m free to expand my thought patterns upon this blank canvas of an electronic writing pad.
Mixing metaphors if I choose.
If still waters run deep, why do oceans have waves?
Mixing media of varying density and thickness.
My father…a year ago, we were working with medical professionals to seek a path of better health for Dad, “better” being a term we wished for and hoped for more than knew was an illusive condition.
My typical reaction to “serious” situations, the result of turning nervous worry into positive joking action, constantly kept me on the edge of making comments my father, should he have been in a better mood/thought set, would not have approved.
Our senses of humour were not aligned.
I can ask myself why at this point, without tears or sadness seeping into my wonderment, why Dad did not understand or chose not to encourage my funny side.
He implied more than said that the man of laughter has a harder way to tread to the pinnacle of success than a man who treats everyone with seriousness and respect for their emotions/life conditions (i.e., the burdens they bear that are eased with sympathy and empathy).
That is, of course, my interpretation.
But I have heard others tell me that laughing at the wrong time or not taking adult responsibilities is not what my physical presence inspires others to encourage.
I have had plenty enough of what others expect.
Splitting into nearly schizophrenic thought sets to accommodate others and myself at the same time is not the set of states of energy I want to maintain and nourish.
After all, the self is a self-delusional illusion, a trick of chemical reactions that has brought nature to this point, with black pixels outlined on a white-light background, to examine itself, without reproductive needs being met, to spin in place while setting conditions for the next outburst of creativity that knows no ethical/moral boundaries, no positive or negative thought patterns, simply taking the sets of states of energy as is and moving on into the next imaginary moment/time period.
While our species holds public discussions about the subcultural struggles of how to treat the non-heterosexual members, how do other species behave?
I, for one, have seven billion friends to spend time with, some I have been conditioned to treat as equals and some I have been conditioned to hold at arm’s length for at least a brief period of time because our differences are sufficient to keep me from immediately understanding what makes us members of the same species.
We invoke the ancient writings of our ancestors to protect us from having to question or having to accept that subcultures rise and fall in popularity.
We rarely see that talking about our “enemies,” whether with good or bad word patterns, gives them validity.
Memes…
Symbols…
From the 10,000 year/mile distance, the memes and symbols merge into bigger patterns.
Tempests in the teapot of a planet, barely making waves in a solar system, practically invisible in a galaxy, hardly discernible in a supercluster.
Entertaining, nonetheless.
Because I am comfortable in the meaninglessness of my insignificance, the self a temporary confluence of states of energy, I have found the longer view a driving force in my writing, in my [non]existence, seeing 13528 days, rotations of Earth upon its tilted axis, into an imaginary future while having fun laughing about the tragedies of the moment, including my own.
It is, at the same time, a self-examination of one as a member of a species.
Is it not statistically normal to want to reproduce and provide shelter for one’s mammalian offspring, the majority of whom are right-handed, heterosexual, male, dark-haired and dark-eyed non-alpha primates?
I am left-handed, heterosexual, male, red/white-haired, green-eyed and non-alpha, without children.
Thus, statistically, not normal. Abnormal.
Why, then, am I here recording my presence for the majority to, perhaps, read?
Why, indeed.
The confluence of states of energy, this “me” that “I” say does not exist, is the answer.
Avoiding the messy, daily adult responsibilities of an almost 51-year old man, that’s who and what.
Long ago mentally prepared to die at any time, having successfully achieved the goals of my childhood desire to be a published author.
The rest is an endless buffet of desserts filled with laughter and inappropriate humorous thoughts, thankful that the rest of the species is here to support me with characters and scenes to write during the remainder of my life.
treetrunkdings 