The physical pain I experience from the rheumatoid arthritis is real and 24/7. Obviously, if I'm asleep then I'm not conscious of the pain, but when I wake up at the end of each 90 minute sleep cycle it's ghoulishly waiting for me. If I have to urinate, then this interlude between sleep cycles is when I'm going to become aware of bladder discomfort also. When I swing my legs over the side of the bed to get up, all the pain memores pop back into consciousness, but taking care of business in the bathroom seems to go okay until I crawl back into bed and go to pull the covers back over my body to warm back up after peeing.
Writing, for the most part, is about the only activity that allows me to let go of my body enough to make time fly. As I've noted continuously I don't care if what I'm writing is considered to be true or false. That's not up to me, but to my reader. Yes, if you're reading this, then you're my reader. For the period of time you attempt to cogitate this tossed word salad I own you. So does any other writer you read, and if we don't own you it's not your fault when you go looking for another temporary top to take your attention away from you for a while. Writing makes time fly for writers just as reading makes time fly for readers. Some people are both. All writers read what they wright. Playwrights not withstanding.
I drove to Wilmington to get out of the environment that seemed to have me trapped in it's conventions, and the change of scenery seemed to do what I've always relied upon it to do. I use self-conversations as a ritual to segue from one set and setting of catastrophe to the next. I have read where some Asian cultures consider self-conversations to be an enemy to rid oneself of, but I disagree. If I had been raised in a culture that supported those particular rules of conscience, then resorting to them for comfort might be used to change my mood toward some sort of righteousness, but that's not the case. I was raised most poignantly in the Southern United States in what's commonly referred to (for good reasons) as the "Bible Belt".
If I am in pain, discomfort, and dis-ease, and I wanna reach for something familiar as a way to concoct an attitude that will make me feel better, I have to reach for what's already there for me as raw materials. My subjective experiential database of past experiences. The very source of where I get the materials I use to accuse other people of my own self-generated "problems".
I gotta accuse other people of being who-I-think-I-am-is or I'd never find out which rules of conscience I adopted to become like the people who "have it made". When I meet or hear about somebody who has it made I try to put myself in the position of witnessing how they do what they do, and start imitating who-I-think-they-are. Why would I not? It's why I majored in Drama and Speech in college, and it's how I eventually became a homo sapiens after arriving on the planet Earth (fairly late in the ga-me) as a teeny tiny black hole and immediately began drawing stardust within my event horizon to make something out of nothing. It wasn't my idea. I just imitated the other teeny tiny black holes that arrived before me and did what they were doing.
Do not for a moment think I don't know how crazy this seems to many people, but for everything one group of people think I'm nuts for believing, there's an equal number of people who wanna put me on a pedestal for exhibiting the very same trait. Double-bind. Damned if I do; damned if I don't. There's no exclusivity to go along with this condition. I'm willing to believe there are not many exceptions to the rule, and if there are, I'm apparently not worthy enow to gnow.
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.
