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It's absolutely necessary for me to be a little insane to capture drifting thoughts with words. I can't be anybody's preconceived self to justify my need to shift-shapes in order just to keep up with the specious present. In order to do that I have to consider the incoming as if plausible, but not convincing.
That puts the responsibility of the incoming white noise to get more attention to itself than I'm purposefully not willing to give. I know the price this Terror asks of me for being it's bitch. The outgoing is just as determined to take my attention with it into the deluded realms of the past. I suspect that's the main motivation for the spiritual quest of some to remain objective of both this and this in the rest and motion of yin and yang.
I had to stop writing and insert foam earplugs into my ears to assist me in concentrating on the task at hand. The assholes over at the airport running that diesel-engined earth mover that has a deliberate, attention-getting warning signal when it enters it's reverse gear, doesn't know or give a shit that what he's doing a thousand meters away is fucking with my focus.
The ignorant son of a bitch with the deliberately loud mufflers on the car his daddy gave him. He races up and down the highway to attract some young girl's attention to himself, but only transmits the signal to me that he's earning the wrath of God upon himself at the same time he thinks he's entrancing the dumb-ass baby factory's fancy, and by doing so, he incurs my death wish upon his loutish soul.
The mindless asshole two miles away doesn't have a clue I spent a considerable amount of time using a Neurophone to learn how to "hear" through my skin, and that his loud muffler-deficient grass-mowing machine really needs a tune-up and an overhaul. Although he's only doing what he's doing to earn money to feed his family, I hope he gets the swine flu and takes that home to his constantly abused pregnant wife instead.
It's a good thing that I'm a powerless old man who doesn't rule the world. Not a has-been who whiles the rest of his useless life away yearning for the power he once possessed or thought he did, but a never-was whose inane stupidity still pretends to hope of immortality.
My plight of despair is an ongoing state of futility. It's futile because it's caused by the weather. The one thing that having satellite weather reports available 24/7 is that I don't even have to pay that much attention to associate the affect of the high and low weather systems on the ambient noise levels at my house.
When the clear blue skies of a high pressure system appears, the sounds and echos in the close and nearby neighborhood that drive me nuts disappears.
When a low system takes it's place and the humidity rises and the overcast clouds block out the Sun, a low-pressure system keeps the aforementioned ambient sounds (made by animals, especially human beings and their infernal machines) smothered and resoundingly close to Earth, and my own legally deaf ears... "I KNOW!"
It's the absurdity of a legally deaf old man whining and puling disgustingly about the unwanted noise in his neighborhood thats enough to make some people lose faith in mankind. If he lived in some war-torn area where bombs of every variety were constantly and unexpectedly going off at all times of the day and night, that might warrant some pity, but not this.
It's always this or that, you know? It's enough to drive a gentle soul mad as a hatter or cause a feral madman to fill the world with music to stop the madness. His madness. My madness.
I found myself sitting on the throne and suddenly recognizing that I'm still mulling over the comment by the news anchor Chris Matthews. He was muttering his agreement with one of the pundits appearing on his Sunday morning show on NBC, possibly to assist him in describing his opinion. He nodded, and said, "Yeah, he's like that kid who always argues with the teacher that everybody liked in high school."
I don't remember hearing that description before, but it rang a bell with me because of what happened at a high school class luncheon recently. I have a way of confronting whoever assumes authority at these affairs. It's made me wonder about myself previously, because it seems to be a sort of overall constant throughout my life.
It's confusing to me. I seem to jump in rudely and have my say no matter the results. Later, when I think about my total rejection of etiquette when I impulsively rock the boat to draw attention to myself, I feel ashamed. Why would I act like that if I have experienced that sa-me humiliating sha-me a thousand times a thousand times? Am I really that dense? Really? Or, am I incapable of anticipating shame?
One of the possibilities is autism. These assaults on various people's pomposity so-me-ti-me give the appearance that I don't care how what I do makes people feel. Thats one way of looking at it, and I have spent a lifetime of giving that point of view consideration. People bring it to me. I have no choice when they get in my face with it. Sometime I think they do that because they've just been shown how. It's easier to mimic some behavior if it's attempted mo' close to the bone. 924
Some people tell me I gotta lotta nerve. It sure can look that way at times. From my perspective it's not necessarily true. To me, my behavior is not complicit nor done with malice or aforethought. I march to a different drummer. I respond to images others either ignore or don't perceive, but they act like what I see is there because of my total sincerity. That's not exactly true either.
When I bring up the notion that my rude behavior results from autism, it can seem to be an insult to autistic people who have greater powers of focus than my form of autism. I'm not studied in autism. I don't think of it as anything abnormal from what many people consider "normal" behavior. In my opinion it's a matter of the lure of concentration and the intricacies rendered by repetition and redundancy.
Some topics and subject and specific objects in time/space require more concentration that others of like kind, and to bring the kind of focus necessary to stand in the middle of it and be-co-me it in real ti-me, social customs and cultural values have to be jettisoned in favor os the eternal now. Now... that... takes a lotta nerve. Why? Because you gonna get shunned and humiliated by those who have other values.
Why even try to describe such better than this?
The Holy Longing
Tell a wise person, or else keep silent
because the massman will mock it right way.
I praise what is truly alive,
what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm water of the love-nights,
where you were begotten, where you have begotten.
a strange feeling comes over you
when you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught
in the obsession with the darkness
and a desire for higher lovemaking
sweeps you upward.
Distance does not make you falter.
now, arriving in magic, flying,
and finally, insane for the light,
you are the butterfly and you are fare gone.
And so long as you haven't experienced
this, to die and so to grow.
you are only a troubled guest
on the dark earth.
Goethe
It was by being subjected to and constantly embroiled in the results of the massman that I concluded that the apprenticeship of be-co-me-ing a shaman is administered by them in order to watch those afflicted souls become what they cannot. Shamans don't teach their chelas to be shaman. They show their pupils how to turn shame and humiliation into prophecy and healing techniques that do what they do paradoxically. Understanding paradox is the path to atonement for so-me archetypes. Either shit or git off the pot!
I didn't know how signing up for this National Writing Month contest was gonna affect me here with my blog. The first thing that affected me was my need for a word counter. According to the rules, I read the entrant only turns in the word count of their effort up until the last couple of days when they turn the whole month's worth of writing in. I could be wrong about that. I haven't received any correspondence from anybody associated with this dealio. They could be a den full of thieves and murderers for all I know. I have only read about it in a MacWorld article where one of the editors is promoting it.
Once I did find an AppleScript that would count the words in Mac's TextEdit and began running the script to count how many words I write, finding out was my first real wake up call. I had randomly considered that the entries that I write for the blog were all over a thousand words each, so writing at least 1500 words a day should be a walk in the park.
Since I've been counting how many words I write each day for a few days now, it's become evident that I write more along the lines of a thousand words a day, and for the contest I'm gonna have to pump out half again that many to have 50,000 words in a single month. Just this many words is already 1,602, so I shouldn't have any problems. Sometimes I cut things off because I feel like even a thousand words a day is more than some of my readers wanna be exposed to in one sitting.
Will I type myself out of something to say even before the contest begins on the first of November. Stay tuned. Same Bat time. Same Bat station.
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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.
