I finally got the first good night's sleep in eight days of jet lag. I coulda pushed it and got even crazier. I won't describe how attractive that can be for me. Particularly with the demise of some respectable measure of rutting urges. God! Impotency can be sooo embarrassing. Fatigue, however, doesn't appear to require a turgid penis to reach for the stars. I get tired enow and physically exhausted, and I'm seeing and hearing stars across the entire breadth and depth of my senses, and I don't have to consciously know where I am is to be there. Your experience may vary.
This is sensory deprivation by proxy at it's finest. I learned about it being a homeless bum on the road for years. This was before psychedelics made dismissal of one's critical faculties de jour, but this path-with-heart is fraught with physical dangers such that perseverance for the ti-me it takes to get over the hump with fear and frustration is heart-breaking and shamefully daunting.
Some say the nomad is mad...
I would deliberately get so tired I couldn't keep my eyelids open. Once, I pushed the envelope for six continuous days and nights with no place to securely call my temporary home, and I would get so tired I couldn't listen to anything about anything anymore, even though a couple of days previously I might have seemed meltingly enamored of the sound of your voice calling my nayme.
Eventually, I would just wanna curl up into a fetal position in some relatively safe place, and die to the world of the senses, but I didn't. Again and again, I would just say no. Six days and nights, and on the seventh I rested. Before the sabbath, however, I hallucinated the souls of the dead screeching, "The fear of God is the bejinning of wisdom. It may be spoken."
"Really? No shit? Spoken?"
How the hell would I know? I'm just pretending to be the disinterested typist. Watching what appears on my monitor screen as I listen to my fingers going clickety clack on my fairly new, less noisy, aluminum-framed Apple USB-wired keyboard. Love it. I can't gnow what I'm writing about ahead of ti-me or the flow that gets me off won't happen. Presuming, of course, that I am is the culprit who feigns truth as a value-added, yet heretofore, unmarketed and/or unmarketable product.
Obviously, I'm capitalizing "The Terror" just to make the term special in some way. I'm using this expression to indicate God in it's negative aspect. It's as good a metaphor as any, as far as I'm concerned, but then again, I'm pretty lazy. I mean to relate this to a saying sung by the I seem familiar with that goes "The fear of God is the bejinning of wisdom.". Okay, so maybe "bejinning" is supposed to be spelled with a "g", but I have loved every story or myth I've ever encountered involving "the jinn" and I feel compelled to sot it before myself frequently to conjure their geni-us. Whatta you want from a drama major?
I am has got exotic tastes only the mystery of life can satisfy. Nobody knows. Yes. Again and again. Exactly so. Yes. You can't know my tastes, my way, even when I put it in writing. You still have to interpret what I attempt to entomb by description. Your idea of what I write just ain't me, silly. I am never was behind the rolled-in-place stone. You only got your own subjective idea of what you'd have meant if you wrote the sa-me thang you "think" I wrote. Or, maybe that's just me. Do you gnow me or just think you do? There is more-of-me (me-mores) than you can "see", is there not? How about "you"?
Sometime I think my job on Earth is to provoke the other into answering their own questions. Candidly, in my opinion, they won't really listen to anything else. If they don't come up with the descriptors needed to satisfy their own urge to institute an irrefutable ground-of-being, then perspective of the more flimsy dimensions disappears softly, as if plausible, but unconvincing. Henceforth, discredited by introspection and the numbness of over-trafficking, resolve in desperation to only go bump in the night.
The problem I've had describing The Terror is that I've only experienced it in retrospect, and mindlessly find myself writing history instead of actualizing accounts of the specious present. Sort of like being left with a silver bullet and an odd, brow-scowling question, "Who was that masked man?"
The void IS a nothingness I only re-alize (re-member, re-align [The cosmic soup can accommodate any sort of tampering for either good or ill.]), after the fact. How could I possibly invite nothingness to supper, when my sensory modalities are filled to the brim with preconceived eye-mages who act as irate warlords over-guarding their political boundaries in my weary psyche.
I don't experience fear of The Terror when I am is it's sole (soul) occupant. Not when I am is lost as an individual in the great cosmic soup. The fear of God is not discovered in the void of it's present being. Fear can't be routed out from the inside. I'm just a babe in swaddling clothes there, innocently unaware of being in the belly of the whale.
How can I entice the drunken, directionless stupor of nothingness to co-me ho-me a'drinking, with loving on mah mind? How can I use emptiness (the state of no fear) as a defense against the Jungian "experience of God"?
A lot of what I attempt to do with these blogs has to do with writing things off. I'm throwing off ballast to ride high in the water. The passage to the other side is shallow, but doable, if I can just jettison some of this abstract baggage of crude constructs. If, indeed, familiarity breeds contempt. I yearn to become contemptuous of it's original value to me by repetition and redundancy.
This is a theme I've re-encountered in a book entitled Blink I bought at the airport in Detroit. $10 off retail. How could I resist? I've read several reviews and seen lots of positive comments about the meat it brings to the table.
I've only read about half of it so far, but the central theme appears to basically be stating that when too much data is taken into account when making a decision, the unnecessary material can be as delusory as safety in numbers can sometime prove to be. It depends on how much I can let pass without being duped.
The endgame of the contempt I arouse by super-familiarity, is to discredit the original excitement of the overly long honeymoon I take with new and exciting ideas, that keep on giving even after I've thoroughly disproved their true worth to me. I have a tendency to make a tempest out of every teapot I meet as if on some supercilious quest to turn blue (argyria). Okay, so maybe I wasn't born a blueblood. My complexion is ruddy. But, if I can get enough silver colloids under my skin, I can fake it until I make it. ruddy skin is said to produce the best shade of blue. I wonder what happens with olive-colored skin with argyria. Purple? Real royal blood?
I intentionally try to get people to remember when they have overdosed on fatigue earlier in their lives. Life changing stuff happens in the ensuing melee if confusion, that might not get recorded in the usual way by reason, thus they can't be re-membered (re-constituted) by logic. It's a defense against their playing God with me. An offer they can't resist. Unless a person is brain-dead, they got Lazurus' laying all over the back burners of they mind, and if they are brain dead, it's probably due to an overdose of ideas that have curiously seen their better days. Like the intricacies of changing the spark plugs in a Model T when it's actually fired by a magneto. Is there a way to reset the BIOS of human computers by enchantment?
Usually, the incident of chronic fatigue my hapless victims retrieve is an event they can consciously re-member only because the emotion of such encounters with God has settled down to manageable proportions, and they can approach the stench of phantasmagoric images with less hyper-ventilating terror. The more recent encounters with God still need ti-me to grow where they're planted.
For me, the real breakthrough was to fathom the dynamics of the situation such that I can recover from my new, unwanted wisdom quickly enough to get a closer "look" at the quickly fading, cloaked figure of the interloping perpetrator of my astonishment.
To allow this to happen, a lotta rabble rousing in my lexicon gotta shake, rattle, and roll. It's probably the same mechanics involved in dissipating the influence of any instinct I wanna disregard for the sake of a deeper look into who-I-think-I-am-is or it's doppelganger as a second-hand rose.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
