Because I was foolish of bedtime and chocolate and etc deliciousnesses again and because my body belies the agnostic’s idea that evil does not exist in the flesh, my body went flop waiting for the flip.
Oh, but medicine is a good thing. Migraine meds are a sweet invention. And for this jaw that the dentist will look after, what a blessing is modern medicine. What other life might I have had if born a century too early. If I got to live a century from now how much more productive might I have been with advances that isolate aha, this simple gene switch or joint healing or or or is pure ore not gold.
Sometimes you pull in, put the tail over nose and wait. Then all the tough stuff isn’t anymore because you’re rested.
My cat is my allegorical self.
What a conflation.
But allegory takes less energy than true things.
Or no, second thought, it depends on the baseline of habits. If your habit is direct speech, allegory takes more energy. If your habit is allegory, to speak straight takes more effort.
I’ve been reading Mohandas Gandhi’s autobiography and we’ve been reading letter to, from and about Vincent Van Gogh.
What crazily similar minds. Both have a desire to be with the most poor. Insistent on getting rid of their birthright class and dressing as if more impoverished than the poorest. A need to equate themselves with any animal, erase the boundaries despite the time and place they lived.
Each with a conscience in overdrive, a bleeding heart they seek to continually prick to keep it bleeding. Gandhi carried with him a cow exploitation picture to steer him from cheese and milk.
Both had a claim to love rationality and to be a person of peace and believe that god is expressed in all things. And a view of women and sex as things to develop past spiritually, as they are contaminants of the body. And a need to eat as little as possible, equating morality and food, believing that if you enjoy it, you should avoid it. Anything more than survival is luxury and undeserved.
And yet their siblings developed normally. What caused such as cascade? How do such minds count as healthy? Is not narcissism and sociopathy the same continuum as low-self-worm?
The model of brokenness wants a confirmation of evidence, presumes something wrong and seeks signs, speculates on source.
What if all over the spectrum of conscience, self-relative-to-everyone-and-everything are all diversity and make no difference? We placate self or others or neither. Would that be nihilism that nothing matters.
How do we self-comfort? By “helping” others, by “helping ourselves”, being useful or treating ourselves, do what we should or indulging our ids. Or both.
With a bleeding heart, comfort is whatever is familiar. If you’re familiar with being in discomfort, that becomes your safe place which causes a tangled cross-wiring.
To change the default, it will take time for mental posture to adapt. You aren’t comfortable except in discomfort. You will unconsciously seek out discomfort, find ways to crop and prop up the “naturalness” of high stress and high threat because that’s your default speed.
To lower the stress bar, you have to hang in there through nice things until the brain rewires, persist in kindnesses and luxuries and happiness even when they feel wrong because the body will seek its old equilibrium of distress. How to get the body to accept acceptableness and flourish in wellness instead of seeking balance by soaking in negatives? What if self is fine and doesn’t need to have lows to feel comparatively high? There are always lesser than you and you compete to be recognized as the lowest because of that inverse ego.
Decades ago I may have toted out quotes of James T Kirk who says that the natural human state must have conflict because a gilded cage of fulfilled wishes is a cruel capture. You may feel that whatever others get, you are owed less of. One rule for me, one for the rest of universe. A status quo of depression wanting to rule as an unwise parasite who might kill the whole being with its leeching from the organism against its best interests.
Even the secondary discomfort is good things isn’t uncomfortable enough to offset the disorientation and mistrust of positives. When low the neutral seems giddily satirical.
Is it a temperament or a medical condition? Is it just a habit that can be tempered or exacerbated?
Gandhi lived long and without infuriating anyone to successfully assassinate him for some decades, despite being a control freak, say convincing his workers to be a vegetarian ashram and give up their own houses and personal chef while he was too busy with speaking engagements travelling and teaching to do the work that he asked them to do. He said we’ll clean the latrines, and by we, I mean my son because I personally am too busy/ill. A maddening human. For food, would he be treated in hospital for eating disorder? I wonder which of his obsessivenesses would get treatment these days.
Van Gogh could have lived much longer. His brain was alert, if given to fevers of obsessive cycles, when he was clear-headed he was alert and articulate and capable. If it’s true he was shot by accident by youth who he covered for so they wouldn’t lose their youth under charges of manslaughter, how long might he have lived? His painting wasn’t because of his mental illness. He was conscious of exploring colour theory, histories and contemporaries and when down with an attack, he didn’t produce and resented it.
Born to a different circumstance, would all or little change?
I am human, I swear, despite a growing propensity to seek out heat, purr and stretch. See, proof:
I didn’t get around to posting this here, but it’s been sweet for the hundred or so people to give a thumbs up or yay about it on FB and instagram. Within a couple days of release date, I sold 8 already. A good sign.
So, the pet radish, shrunken has rolled in. You can get it there, here, everywhere soon.
Cats are teachers. Nap gurus with short-memories for accidental kicks. Lucid waking, able to turn from drowsing to maximum speed leap if need or curiosity pricks.
I have so much to learn about being.
So much to listen to like Philip Levine tribute show that JM did last night.
Death on death. Is the pile high enough yet? Now, Leonard Nimoy, who said he could too?
My wisdom tooth’s filling broke and the dentist filled it yesterday. I’m good for reading, that’s about all so reading I did. Here’s the first 17 books of the year.
Like a toothache.
Back in the early 90s when I got a filling I remember the large grey rubber sheet that isolated the tooth with a round clamp, the plastic over my chin, cheeks, nose, part of my vision. The terrible fumes. Being exterior to the experience, all conversation addressed to the hygienist, all decisions theirs. The dentist joking he should wear thick leather gloves because I keep biting him. The hygienist whose heat of hand came through the latex and who saw my chipped lips and asked if I wanted balm and rubbed a finger of gloss onto my lips with a compassion that brought me into a present.
Now a tiny tooth-sized raincoat and small layers, one added with a slow-release pain killer inside the tooth to soothe the nerve from the jars of drilling. Fewer small stages, no shoving on my jaw as if it is sand to tamp, more layers of magic light to buccal and distil to cure it, let is set and settle. Conversation with both, asking questions, not letting myself passively receive. Realizing how much skill they have. Imagine, rebuilding a tooth.
Otherwise I read, scratched notes. I called all halt yesterday to the usual. I tallied, because tallying is what I do and I read 276 pages in a day. I thought I made a few scratch notes but copying over it added up to 8 poems. The more you read, the more you see, the more there is to process.
And the more for dreams to work on. The delicate balance of not letting perishables perish and yet hoarding what we can before it is stolen. Another night of living in a war-zone, bombed out city, part-buildings, broken infrastructure, communication networks gone, squatter communities in lofts, seeds made illegal except for overpriced sources, furtive scavenged cans in hiding, trying to give them sun and rain enough to live without getting caught growing food.
What does the cat dream of, her small toe motions half running? Does she pursue or is she pursued?
So far as new years resolutions go, I’m on track for work and life shape, but this exercise aspect…let’s just say that going out once a week to walk a couple blocks to eat is not quite up to the task of building rock hard abs.
But it is double-double season, that is double all items of clothes except for the underwear. (Wait, can bras be stacked?)
Doubled socks, two pairs of pants over long johns, two shirts, two sweaters, mitts with gloves inside. Forgot to do nested hats, but two hoods are better than one.