Today is my 54th birthday. On this day, a Friday in 1965, my mother gave birth to me, the records say, at the Cleveland Clinic in the holy hour (3-4 a.m.).
She was 16, my birth father, 17.
From what I could tell from the “non-identifying” information I was charged $50 for when I was 23,
Seemingly, I had more in common with my father. Height, basketball, class president, a penchant for trains. My mother, who sacrificed a semester to deal with me, was fond of camping and played a musical instrument.
The Children Services letterhead, since the Red Feather agency (I think that was the name) had long since disbanded adding yet another level of erasure to my already amorphous existential origin- the letterhead and contents of this letter are all I have of my heritage, my genealogy, my DNA. Who you would say I am.
Always watched but never seen
Records of our days, cataloged with no sentiment allowed to obscure the meta data (subjective conjecture need not apply) dot the landscape, forming an infinite grid of mortality.
Mortal implies limits, so an infinite grid of solely self-aware beings, our qualia, in particular, not involving anyone or anything else, carries each individual’s uniqueness, believing we are the onliestas our way of coping with the fact that as far as we know, this existence is finite.
I tell you bout the onliest man I knowed come from Virginia.
There are two broad categories of self-awareness: internal self-awareness and external self-awareness.
External self v Internal self
These mean very different things to you and me.
You see, by our society’s standards, I have no reference for the internal kind. Everything I got I learned without the leg up of familiar tradition, unspoken understanding and qualifying acceptance. In a way, I’ve always had to prove I am not amistake even though clearly that is all I amounted to in the end, a foolish mistake for my mother to regret.
For some adoptees, particularly those who’ve experienced early childhood trauma such as neglect or abuse, it may be difficult to form emotional bonds. Some studies suggest that adoptees may also be at higher risk for depression, anxiety, learning disabilities, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), or substance abuse.
This started as a very different piece but between the narcissist showing me his drawing without caring about my writing kind of interrupted the flow.
The fact that I can’t really ever relax or do something mildly extravagant because I can never seem to get ahead, I’m terrible at getting reimbursed and in general, there are a million things I want to do, see, hear, and learn and chasing down the ability to just survive (it’s been that way for 20 years in the film and television industry) isn’t really my thing-the fact that I can’t really celebrate isn’t where I had hoped to be by now.
I’m tired. Tired of this particular existence that, the longer I live, seems more and more futile. Everything we were told was either a lie or a myth and now I’m in no position to take on the world as I once was, having been severely beaten, tortured and most recrntly mugged and stabbed in the past three years.
That’s not even the half of it. That’s not even what makes me sad. It’s the lack of friends I find myself enduring these days. The sadness just never goes away.
Marlin Rand woke up, asleep, a dream within a living nightmare.
You like to daydream, huhn?
Head lost in the clouds.
Are you listening?
Listening not hearing. The world retracts into a distance illuminated by your reflection, the sun shaft reaching that taillight, sending shards of red through the blinds. Why do we call then blinds? Why are screen doors not calls deafs?
The noise is deafening.
The hard drive is named Friedrich Nietzsche, the router Liza Minnelli and the broadband a traveling troupe of Keynesian mechanics with carpetbaggers galore.
Absurd, says Cumquat Jones, the nommedeplume of Tennessee Williams’ unknown soldier.
… his “hypotheses” on the origins of morality to reading his friend Paul Rée’s book The Origin of the Moral Sensations (1877) and finding the “genealogical hypotheses” offered there unsatisfactory.
Nietzsche decided that “a critique of moral values” was needed, that “the value of these values themselves must be called into question”. To this end Nietzsche provides a history of morality, rather than a hypothetical account in the style of Rée, whom Nietzsche classifies as an “English psychologist” (using “English” to designate an intellectual temperament, as distinct from a nationality).
the faculty of the humanmindnecessary for understanding what istrueorreal.
man … how infinite infaculty—
The mass-center is a fixed property for a given rigid body (e.g. with no slosh or articulation), whereas the center-of-gravity may, in addition, depend upon its orientation in a non-uniform gravitational field.
The Human Auradescribed thought-forms as simple ethereal objects emanating from theauras surrounding people, generating from their thoughts and feelings.
the plan all along.
If only feelings and ideas and stories and history really could be contained in a block of marble—if only there could be a gathering up of permanence—how reassuring it would be, how comforting to think that something you loved could be held in place, moored and everlasting, rather than bobbing along on the slippery sea of reminiscence, where it could always drift out of reach.
“Well, they say youth is wasted on the young,” and my alter-ego who is more and more becoming my imaginary self, the one that actually lives not the one you think you know, which is made up of a bunch of things I can’t even understand much less fathom, fact-check, respond to or avenge myself of.
WHY ARE THERE ONLY SUPERHEROES NOW? It’s exhausting just trying to get by much less vie for a promotion over some sharing economy bitcoin sumggling operative for the new world disorder which I didn’t really think would accelerate this quickly which makes me think (literally I am thinking I wonder what this looks like because I don’t have my reading glasses, again, and am writing the way I want to write, which is the way I used to write, one where my hands – the vehicles of my thoughts, poor things — can barely get the words out fast enough without the requisite inline self-consciously fragile, proliferating a trail of tears, like peanut shells detonated with invisible nerve gas, killing you slowly in a veil of fake bliss. The Ether, they call it.
I always like using the wod ‘they’ because it’s so ridiculous. It’s the biggest network of know-it-a;;s the world has ever seen and, astoundingly, also the largest network of people who have nothing in common ever to be assembled on this planet, as far as we know.
My God, we are stupid. We want to blow each other up, we are parodies of ourselves by now with the beautiful warriors bombing the shit out of places named in the Bible or Nostradamus, an anagram for ghosts from faraway towns where you feel something lesft behind, possibly a chink in your armor from where a rip in your soul bled a little on wounded knee, by broken stone creek, in love with life, my lord my lemming my lesbos island l word for woman la la, it’s always an M, for some reason, and if it’s not, you’re the bad kind. The nasty grandmother knew her nomme de grandkid was a recognition of what a jerk she was, especially to my occasionally completely vacant farther (I called him that, he always used to say that was his name in reference to me, and I was therefore “nearer”).
But back to the use of the word “lord.” Well the God-particle equivalent is not Gaia for ‘she” is the planet itself which is eeming to die in its storyline, but like a human mother, we don’t know when and when we lose her, it will be the worst pain of our lives. And them, if we are lucky, gray matter jinxed in space where we send light out (instead of darkness, think about that — I do, every day — try to keep one good thought about this awful species we are stuck in called humans, I mean it’s hard, I have to go back in histroy and just conure up a list of my favorite artists – painters to jazz musicians to filmmakers -= and “all the science I don’t understand’ and some of it I do–all that I actually do, but still can’t really make sense of it.
Not in the way that saying and believing what you’re saying to be absolutely true, the absolute is incarnate, in that word “LORD’ when you beg–for a break, relief, a reprieve, an explanation, some retribution, restitution, alms, a vacation, some good news, one kid to survive another day in one of those wars our taxes pay for.
Why are we at war? It’s just what we do.
[The alien jots down notes in the background, some sort of Cyrillic whispy lettering that expresses the sentiment, she can see it in her mind’s eye–is there any other organ’s eye? If so, she didn’t even want to know. She was now officially ‘too old.” Thank God. Damnit. she thought, never one to press her luck in any language on an article of faith, proof from science, logical deduction or otherwise therefore and so forth and so on.
She was making herself sick avoiding this deadline. But yet she wasn’t going to climb up on a step stool (after fake sleeping when her evil-good-looking vacuous 80s cheating husband ‘went off to work’ although no one ever said what he did, just that he became a photographer, had been a baseball player…but imagine his leaving the room, thinking she’s asleep, he tells her mother who has been hovering, worried that the medication could be making it worse or the acid that Scottish boyfriend gave her good girl daughter back in the last stretch of the 70s, that was when she changed. HOW SO, you ask? Ah, but that is precisely what they will never tell you.]
The domesticated animal paces. He could kill his ‘master,” yet he chooses to rely on man for meat.
That could all easily change. She prefers not to think about that.
Yet, it is her job to think about it. In fact, she works for the Agency of DIsinformation classified sub-atomic particles and records or note subdivision, on the floor that doesn’t have a stop on the elevator but the fire escape is high tech. You just think it and you’re down, underground, in plebeian safety, that is until others like you run amok — they need little reason just a certain conglomeration of self-interests with enough oomph and looking for a fight, and you’ve got a pick pocket riot in the sewers of the sublime river. The other option is Elysian Fields, but unless your bloodline allows, you only are invited there for some feat to demonstrate your incalculable merit, undeniable talent and uniquely astonishing pizzazz.
Which you don’t want to come off as sass. So, that is the end of the sci-fi world for now, the dog wants at that very barky pit bull who lets everyone know she’s walking her two fat chicks, so then our dogs can pace and go nuts too, and the reason we are all up is because it’s ungodly hot during the day so we follow our man’s best friend’s lead and nap during the day then run amok throughout intervals of night.
Or what we think of as night. The whole planet hiding behind Pluto that is eating the sun and the illuminti spaceships converted dungeons — we can build it, they will come, what do they want that either we or our beautiful lovely life-sustaining miracle of a planet possess (if it’s uniquely human, it’s probably stupid) — because otherwise they would have dispensed with a life-defying death-chasing entity of a “thing” that isn’t quite a collective like a hive, or is it? A hive that cuts itself for being an adolescent and ends up witnessing things that would have been nice to skip over.
But doesn’t it just feelthat way now? Does it really matter who controls it – whether it’s the ad-lib-tard heavyweights or the dehydrated marshmallows (I still have no idea what a nowflake is having terminated any new vernacular in that sub-strata since ‘snow bunny’ was something around me said in the 80s and possibly as late as 91).
I have always been enamoured with words. Well, always is a meaningless word anyway, because there is no way we can say with certainty ‘always’ having forgotten quite a lot the more we live. It’s quite ironic really and can you imagine explaining irony to intra-terrestrial life? Will it look more like Sigourney Weaver’s Alien or cute little E.T.?
Revisiting strong imagery method meaning eyesight to the need reading glasses
Jesus Christ! I don’t want to know!
I’m sure Jesus must have thought that for a millisecond around that burning bush. The idea that the ‘tree of knowledge’ was forbidden but we don’t really know why except this snake which in every other culture is a sign of wisdom or something semi-psychic, not evil, which “Christianity” brought along with crusades and inquisitions and very bizarre things in the name of the Prince of Peace.
Jesus, what were you thinking?
The idea that one can be offended by words is absurd yet they are worse weapons than many spears, knives and hatchets combined (although not in succession with the same target — that would be far worse, admittedly, and this hyperbole is only for the purpose of sardonic satire which isn’t really satire because no one dies, relax, not yet anyway. It’s mostly Science Fiction meets The Year of Living Dangerously meets Plan 9 from OUter Space. I mean why not? WHy are we purporting angst?
Lord knows there’s plenty more where that came from.
More grief, more storm and fugue! More ego-laden hero-driven boasts and proclamations littering scarred neophytes in their wake, proclaiming was it worth it?
Was what worth what?
This was the last thing she heard before waking up.
As she stood behind the childproof gate, obsessing about imperfection, this chronic illness, she wanted to go back to purity if there was such a thing, it was intensity a drive to pain as some sort of self-inflected punishment for failing — at it all.
So brilliantly, so effectively, with such joie de vivre and flare!
Crash and burn, only the good die young.
No, she was not one to climb the step stool, deliberately place the terrycloth bathrobe belt around my neck and then decide to die. No, can’t do it, at least not yet.I found that out standing on the 9th floor of that hotel where they’d thrown a woman out the window (for not paying her debt) and looked out the unscreened window to the concrete parking lot, alley and Main Street below. I thought, within the first nano-second of the leap, I will want to undo it like control Z — which just gave me an idea for a zombie story — control z control z control z my life.