To sit here because I cannot sleep but having no internal conversation/storyline to share on e-ink…
No local/global discussions grab my attention.
With 14,216 days until […] occurs, blank dreams of a hermit disconnected from mass hypnosis fill the silence.
When life hands you lemons, make lemonade and watch the night sky.
While researching some messages from the not too distant moments behind us, I found the following interesting text:
Message-Id: <8905301533.AA19062@hpfcla.HP.COM>
Date: Tue, 30 May 89 10:58:05 edt
From: Eric Haines <eye!erich@spruce>
Subject: Rapture or Rupture?
Author: `Rapture’ will be on Sept. 1
————————————
NASHVILLE, Tenn. (AP) – A retired NASA engineer who predicted that the
beginning of the end of the world would occur in 1988 now says his forecast was
off by one year.
Edgar Whisenant said born-again Christians will be taken up into heaven Sept. 1
in the “rapture.”
Whisenant, 56, created a stir last year with the publication of “88 Reasons Why
the Rapture Will Be in 1988.” He estimated that he and the World Bible Society
here gave away or sold about 4.5 million copies of the booklet. “The Final
Shout–Rapture ’89 Report” is to be released this week, he said.
—–
So, does anyone know the address of the World Bible Society? It’s not in
_High Weirdness By Mail_.
–Eric Haines, 157th Incarnation of the Inexorable World Egg
It helps us to know what we’ve said to understand what we will say and do in the future, no matter how strange-sounding, weird or nonconventional.
For instance, in writing a storyline that takes all of us into account, the silent majority is just as interesting as the loud edges.
If Tina Fey wants Sarah Palin to remain in the public eye so she can keep making money the old-fashioned way, we can accommodate her wishes until she becomes a wealthy director/producer behind the camera, but does that mean Comedy or Relative Conservatism wins?
In the New World Order, what do the shareholders in the business of politics want? Government handouts during lean times or fighting for jobs in a competitive environment where government props do not exist?
And if there is no “either/or” involved, can we put the concept of politics aside and deal with the fact that politicians are symbols of people’s dreams and desires, switchboard operators or gatekeepers of the flow of diverted money-based information, nothing more?
“I WILL KEEP YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS ALIVE,” leaders shout in unison across the ages.
Time for more meditation, this time away from our species and into the bigger universe of non symbolic/memelike interaction of states of energy, unplugging from our shared madness of imaginable pasts/futures.
The existence of this post betrays its existence.
At the same time, the Anarchy Party is planning to…well, wait, isn’t anarchy about the lack of organisation?
The list goes on.
Poking fun at ourselves with complicated symbology is the best form of innerspecies flattery.
Pretending to be enraged/mad or insane/mad or happy/dull or unsharpened/dull.
Or just plain mad/dull.
Rewriting Lysistrata and the Art of War for the seventeen-thousandth time.
Or perhaps happy/mad.
The pursuit of the pursuers of happiness – that’s the sole purpose of the Patriot Act.
“By God, man, don’t you know my version of the Great American Way is the only true path to happiness?”
“I don’t know, boss. I’m too busy cleaning your floor while earning less than minimum wage and getting no benefits in order to feed my kids who dream of anything better than what I’m doing, even if they simply become slaves to technology and monthly roaming rates like you, rather than my parents, who were slaves to the dry soil and fickle weather of my home country, which inspires many there to seek the easy life of drugs and gun running, which your country buys from us and supplies to us, respectively. But, hey, I’m nobody, right?”
To stay on my path, which includes sitting here and watching a cicada body trapped in a spider thread spin in the wind, is what it is, neither THE way nor just any way to live in happiness and peace.
A person my age is the most-recognised political executive of the Western Hemisphere.
To control a vast network of people hidden from view is like being in charge of the Apathy Party – no one cares to know the truth because it would shatter every dream or wish we have in saying we are in control of our personal destinies.
I overheard an elderly person make a toast with a glass of wine:
“Here’s to those who wish me well,
The rest of you can go to hell.”
Then they proceeded with a fashion show at the assisted living facility, including a lady who wore a hat made of pill bottles, much more inventive than any of the haute couture creations that pass for wearable art these days.
I’m in a wickedly vicious mood, wanting more out of life than what a passive, nonadventurous, monotonously monogamous, family-oriented, suburban existence offers.
Let the moralists cry over the sex crimes of the IMF chief and others who make good conformist news headlines.
Quite frankly, I am not them, although I live among them and support their subculture like any other.
At the same time, I suffer buyer’s remorse over putting my mother in-law in a “cruise ship” firmly planted in the middle of urban sprawl, wondering if she’ll get the intellectual stimulus she’s enjoyed at a small town pace her whole life.
And finally, not worried about readership, I return to the life I had, coordinating with my network of nonconforming individualists to herd the lives of most of the rest of the seven billion of us states of energy hanging out around this orb, none of you fully aware of what’s really going on, some of you getting a rare glimpse behind the illusions you were handed in your formative years.
Time to complete a few tasks for my mother in-law’s move and then meditate on nothing in particular – the best part of being inactive and uncaring in relation to the voices of extremists and whiners.
Ahh…the house of cards is showing it’s emporial, temporal clothing again. I wouldn’t trust U.S. or Chinese companies, or any international banking/investment groups right now.
I sure wouldn’t allow the stench of auditors in my house.
Should I be mad as hell and not going to take it anymore?
Time to bury the rest of my money in them Mason jars I done drunk all my moonshine out of.
Good thing I got my money out of the mattress afore that there tornado took it away!
DSK has proved the IMF is a joke and the global currency market is full of whoring menfolk that my momma and daddy said to shy away from ‘cuz they ain’t never got your interest in their interest, know what I mean?
Glad I just finished my occasional viewing of “Network” – the Committee wants me back on the job now that I’ve just about got my mother in-law all settled nice and snug in her own instant community.
A nod to that actor/dancer, Kirstie, who lost all that weight, and all them other folk who earn a living in front of bright lights in the big city.
Keeps us country folk happily glued to the boob tube while we count our pennies left over after eating fast food on Googlefied EBT cards next to the cash-checking place that takes our weekly unemployment benefit payout for a small 25% fee.
Life is good, ain’t it?
My satellite in the sky guarantees the only real solar system currency that’s valid on any spaceship – no funny money involved.
This day I would prefer to avoid physical contact.
I want to clear my thoughts of male aggressiveness that has pervaded our culture in the news about Donald Trump, Sarah Palin, Charlie Sheen, and Arnold Schwarzenegger, to mention the latest usual suspects.
Above my head, it appears a raccoon coughed up a strawberry on a skylight (or gorged itself and couldn’t finish the feast of spoiled strawberries thrown out in the yard for the backyard wildlife, dropping one on the sunroom roof).
Flies finish the meal, one dissolved bite at a time.
On to another subject.
A dancer.
Started dancing lessons four years ago.
Then, a horrible automobile smashup.
“I share DNA with a road intersection,” she’s been quoted as saying, a large amount of blood spilled on the motoring surface.
Body damage, possible brain damage.
Permanent brain damage?
Hardly.
Not if she’s the graduate student in aerospace studies that they say she is.
Wears glasses and contact lenses.
When wearing the latter, her eyes shine bright.
Thus inspiring a dance partner to reminisce about youth.
Glad that a young driver recovered her form.
Days after days of physical therapy have paid off.
May she glide through life on light feet, finding the dance partner she’s suited to meet.
Life is full of missed opportunities. I have made only one commitment to myself and to society to which I hold my lifelong trust – marriage to one person until death, for better or worse, richer or poorer, etc.
Without that trust and that commitment, all other foundations that prop up the subculture I was given as a child have no meaning.
With no meaning, anything goes.
And if anything goes, there’s no end to the possibilities.
Only one life to live, forty-nine revolutions around the Sun old.
Better focus on something else, Rick. Otherwise, you’ll lose track of who you were raised to be and become those who dominate the news whose childhoods were not like yours, their parents giving guidance that made narcissistic headlines.
The choices we make in this moment create the next moment’s framework.
How do I want to be framed?
Did I watch a baseball game, softball game, basketball game, hockey game, golf game, tennis game, poker game, car race qualification or horse race today?
No, I stepped into a large room with a curved wall to watch a film about people pretending to live out the realities behind the characters of an amusement park ride.
Were these professional actors good at what they did?
I would venture they are better than average.
The movie itself was geared toward the 3D IMAX experience, I felt, giving a depth that a regular 2D experience would make flat.
A franchise from a franchise machine.
Otherwise, the story would make no sense.
Will people start building IMAX-type home theatres so they can enjoy these experiences with projectors built for the purpose?
“Honey, I’m converting the garage to a planetarium/IMAX theatre. I hope you don’t mind parking your car in the street.”
“Sure, dear, because I’ve contracted HGTV to record my converting your putting greens in the backyard to a re-creation of the gardens at Versaille.”
Let’s see…thanks to Lindsey, Robert, and Lindsay Blaire at RAVE; Stephanie at Beauregard’s; the 18-year old for graduating high school and getting a basketball scholarship at Belmont, working toward a degree in exercise science/physical therapy; Juliet and the owner of Carson’s Grille; so many more I’ve forgotten while managing an imminent family decision.
Speaking of which, time for some more jokes from the Grand Lady of Grinder’s Switch, or some she might’ve overheard:
There were two old men sitting on the front porch of their nursing home, rocking in their chairs and watching people pass by. Then one of the men said, “You know, I think I’ve got to get up. My hind end is falling asleep!” The other said, “I believe you. I think I just heard it snoring!”
* * *
A man and his wife were on vacation in the husband’s hometown. They hadn’t been back there for forty years. They enjoyed the trip so much that they went back the next year. They went to the same parks, cafes, and motel where they visited the year before. The wife even went back to the same beauty shop. While the wife was there, the owner asked the lady if she was from their town. Then the owner added, “I don’t know you, but you look familiar. Have you ever been here before?”
The woman replied, “Yes I have, but it’s been a year ago this month since you’ve done my hair.” Another lady in the shop, in a sweet, small, elderly voice, piped up and said, “Well I’ll be, Honey! It sure did keep good!”
* * *
A self-educated old farmer who had never owned a fancy car was looking at a brand new Cadillac. The salesman said, “This particular model will cost you $75,000.” So the farmer reached into his pocket and counted out $75,000. When the salesman saw this he said, “Well, if you’re paying cash, I can give you a discount.” Not knowing what the salesman meant, the farmer asked for a minute and went next door to the beauty shop. Inside, her asked the beautiful girl who worked there, “Do you know what the word discount means?” She explained, “It means to take something off.” So he asked her, “Well, how much would you take off if I gave you $75,000?” She answered, “Would you mind if I kept my earrings on?”
* * *
An older lady went on a routine visit to the new young doctor in town. After he checked her over he embarrassingly asked, “Because of your age I have to know if you have S.E.X.” She said, “Wait just a minute and I’ll see.” So she opened the door to the waiting room and yelled out to her husband, “Honey, the doctor wants to know if we have S.E.X.” He replied, “No! All we have is Blue Cross and Blue Shield.”
* * *
The Waltons or the Jeffersons, Sanford and Son or Chico and the Man, Are You Being Served or Fawlty Towers, You Can’t Do That on Television or The Brady Bunch, jokes like these vibrated over the airwaves to people’s homes when I was a kid.
In the current multichannel world of the Family Guy and Adult Swim, such jokes are tame, viewable on TV Land or your favourite Internet rebroadcast service.
But I don’t mind.
Just as I have friends from my boyhood school days who have same-sex relationships or seeking transgender changes, I have male friends who open doors for my women friends, say “Thank you” and “Yes, ma’am,” and read their religious texts with daily devotion.
Some are a mix of the above.
Such is the normal flow of civilisational growth.
And why I live with seven billion people, hoping I never ignore one group for the personal benefit of another.
How are we going to move with that flow and respect the rights of those who wish to preserve the beliefs and practices of decades or hundreds of years ago?
Just because you don’t condone someone’s behaviour in your subculture doesn’t mean you have to block that person from finding a place to fit in a subculture somewhere else.
Although the United States is more of a government-dependent population than we may like to think, where government employees and government contractors enjoy greater benefits than the average U.S. citizens who pay the taxes to support the government [I ought to know], wanting me to joke we’re similar to a socialist/communist country, “Animal Farm” style, like the USSR or Cuba of old, thus swapping places with former enemies…
Never mind, I promised myself not to talk about government or, by implication, politics.
Political entities are just another business, where executives and the legal staff are selected by eligible customers. You voting customers out there can decide what you want to do about your local political entity, or not – the repercussions are yours to enjoy/suffer – just like any shareholder.
Anyway, time to quiet down for the evening, prepare questions before a visit to yet another assisted living facility and finalise the spreadsheet from which my wife will use her wise financial judgement to select a place for her 93-year young mother to reside a while, if not for the rest of her life.
And then get back to composing my usual satirical riffs, from whence I derive my greatest joy, all while ruling the universe through a network of associates and computer programmers you see everyday but never notice!
Ahahahahaha…a pirate’s life for me, indeed!
If I am a prism or funhouse mirror, there is a film over my shiny surface.
A “fil-uhm,” if you will.
Not a movie or flick.
Not a celluloid or cellulose substance.
The film is made of a bunch of threads that say “what if…?”.
Some days, making my own way, having no signposts I consider permanent guides down a path because I’m mentally trailblazing, I get caught in webs of “what if…?” threads.
The threads become reality and reality is lost in a filmy haze, a background to minor mental dramas a spider or muddauber wasp would not understand.
Learning more about how my central nervous system works would not help me today.
Whether the brain is an imaginary center of my universe or a switchboard without a soul doesn’t matter.
I’m dimly making myself take steps – away, from, to, fast, slow…
Escape or rescue?
I’ve been here before and I still don’t know the answer.
The solution is to make myself disappear, become wallpaper, build a barrier that hides whatever is left of the self from the rest of a species of selves.
I do not exist.
I am unimportant.
These states of energy make their own way, slowly, carefully, a journey, sooner or later, to death.
Leaving?
A blog that gives thanks to others who do exist: Crystal at Apollo Cafe, CeCe’s yogurt shop, Lowe Mill, Flying Monkey Theatre and its support crew, Christabel and the Jons, Helen Keller’s Ukelele, Fred Bread.
To see the world of beautiful young people having fun on the dance floor…
I am an old man, older than I try to deny.
To see my time has come and gone, no longer able to create illusions of youthful hope for my grownup future…sigh…
Well…”my troubles are few,” I can console myself with, “I have an extremely comfortable life in comparison to most others of my species, no survival challenges, no children to worry about or grandchildren to dote upon. I have what I asked for, so be happy, dammit!”
The private self is in conflict with the public persona, that’s certain.
There are days when the simple act of socialising with others is uncomfortable because, as a person who tries to please everyone all the time, I can find no value in sharing my melancholy thoughts that sometimes border on depression and other less self-assuring attitudes.
To know I am not alone in this mood is even less assuring, due to imagining there’s got to be something about me that’s original even though I know nothing under the sun is completely new.
This mood shall pass.
I shall return to accepting the role I assigned myself a long time ago, making sure our species carves out resources for securing a place for us in the cosmos off this planet.
If that’s all I believe I’ve accomplished, I will not have lived as more than a weather vane that points wherever the winds of change are blowing.
I look across the room, briefly staring into the eyes of a singer who’s sung the same tunes many times, occasionally running into audiences that have no appreciation for the dance style that goes with the music she (or others) wrote but giving her best singing/acting performance every time, no matter what.
She looks back.
Normally, I would give her a look of reassurance.
But last night, I could not.
There was nothing inside me with which I could match/equal or exceed her place in the moment and into the next.
She’s living a real life, trying to earn enough money to go on to the next moment, traveling with her bandmates to strange or semifamiliar towns, seeking and giving honestly, not trying to steal money from LinkedIn through a botched IPO price fix, or selling a dream that the overpriced car in front of you will not only empty your bank account but also make you well-respected by other fools soon parted with their money, regardless of how they, too, acquired wealth from fools.
A look.
There’s no barter exchange in a look.
There’s just two people involved in external stimuli activating two central nervous systems.
Two sets of states of energy in a giant universe completely unaware of itself in any cognitive manner.
Is that too much to ask of me, to participate in that moment with another person, pushing aside a minor issue or two that pales in comparison to what that other person faces everyday?
I can’t wait until I get my mother in-law settled into wherever she and my wife will be happiest, taking into account as much as possible the feelings and wishes of a niece, a nephew and a sister in-law.
Then I can return to my imagination or even create a reality where looks become regular conversations, topics relatively unimportant in the moment, the future completely unknown.
Today’s cicada volume variation report:
98-108 dBA at 15:15 with ambient temperature around 89 deg F.
Life goes on…
Cats dart through house.
World pretends that Iran knows what spies are.
Wife cuts strawberries for freezing.
Yogurt shop opens down the street – that’s what I call rapture, here on Earth, at least.
treetrunkdings 