20060410   

Michael considered fate at 20:05   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

Am I crazy?

Yes.

Are you crazy?

Of course.

Do I feel like I'm not grounded, like I'm high as a kite, like I'm a crazy SOB with nuts rattling around upstairs?

Nonsense. I feel completely normal.

Nevertheless, we're all a bit batty in the brain. A consequence of our predilection for introspective thought. A reason for the seasons that are our moods, swinging in and out like a pendulum pushed sideways, sent spinning in weird circular back-and-forth motions.

Crazy? You can call it that, or just call it human to have odd thoughts and cheeky chirps in the subconscious.

Regardless, I feel a bit off. A little like the earth has tilt-a-whirled sideways and things are sliding off the edge. Somebody has come along and waxed the floors; they are slippery and I'm in my socks. A Cruise in his underwear with an invisible microphone to my mouth, screaming at it as if I were one of the Four Tops, the Four Seasons, a Temptation, a Monkey or even a.. modest mouse.

We're products of our own mind and if you buy philosophy you have to buy the idea that we could be nothing more. Might we be a simulation? Half the world believes in Intelligent Design and, if you excuse my methodology here, if you are one of them that really means you're like pac-man, you're a yellow circle chasing ghosts that are chasing you, a bad circular dream - a simulation, or at the very best a caged animal. An experiment.

I don't like the idea of being an experiment so maybe that's why I shy away from any sort of ideas about creationism, or god-like beings. I'd like to think all of my serendipitousness has come to me through chance and change, the small effects of domino-like cascades, building ever bigger until there are streaks and streaks of chain-reactions and chemical cataclysms. I don't want to think the world is a laboratory experiment.

So forgive me my mortal sings, for having a mouth and a mind attached, for believing (and saying, singing outloud) that I simply cannot believe there is anything more than simple synapses; the singular exchanges of electronic soup built up over several (and I mean many) layers to get this, us, humans, the brain. Forgive me my mental anguish; my believing in that human spirit that is not ethereal but in fact very grounded and routed in our very condition - the human comedy, the fugaciously brief play we have on this earth, the seemingly eternal yet fleetingly ephmerally short scene we, as individuals, play in the big production of life; truly, we're but a line, a quick gesture, a stage direction at best in an endeavour of such great proportions that we will never know even a tiny part of it.. And yet nobody and no thing (we would like to think very much otherwise) will ever know, as there is no higher being - there is no god - there is no pie in the sky, as the weakly Wobblies once were told. Forgive me my passion, my hunger, that we should all eat some humble pie, to release from us our special sentient self-indulgences, the sessions upon sessions of pseudo-intellectual swooning over creationist swill. We aren't special!

This, all of it, piled atop a mound of rubble, is not depressing nor saddening to me. I can accept this whimsical view I have of the human hubris, it's just the way things go, the more things change the more they stay the same, moss grows fat on a rolling stone, etc, ad infinitum.

And so I set out to write a post on love and leaving and what I got was nonsense about the incoherency of the supreme being. How did that happen? I meant to consider the places I've been and where I want to go, who is waiting there to see me, and instead I got more angry about intelligent design. I don't know what has happened that has killed my ability to write about those that make my heart tickle; it's a change that happened in my sleep when I wasn't paying attention. Perhaps my faith was stolen in the night or more likely in the very early morning, somewhere between wake and dream when my defenses were down and I thought the world hadn't yet turned and left me there, alone, naked, by the phone, listening, waiting, knowing that when I try to get through on the proverbial telephone to you, there always seems to be..

nobody home.