As If I Hadn't Noticed

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Recently, when I wrote about how I was raised to adulthood in the style of the Southern aristocracy, I commented that all I had to do to continue to live in that fashion would be to move to some part of the world where what I was taught to think was the proper way to be still was that way and it still is. If I was young and in my prime I could still move to a place like that, but now in my dotage I'd have to have a huge windfall to change my place of residence. Mostly due to the nature of my healthcare.

I am no longer an adventurer who stands up and walks out the door with nothing to sustain me but wit and grit. My body won't tolerate it anymore, and it punishes any idea that I get about moving it to a less comfortable place to be with pain. If I don't do what my body dictates, it hurts until I take steps to change it's attitude. The king is dead.

An academic video I found in Google Video about consciousness featured a talk by this science guy about birds. He seemed concerned about the very point of the song birds singing their songs. Why does the song bird sing? Basically, this expert submitted, it was through singing that the male song bird demonstrated for the female his fitness to be the male progenitor of her eggs.

It was pointed out by this fellow, who had literally spent his adult life studying why song birds sing (why would he not?) that the physical condition of a specific singer bird could be detected by analyzing it's song. How long it could sing at what velocity, for instance, would indicate the kind of stamina it would be transferring to their potential off-spring. It seemed to matter if the male invented some of it's song. That would display it had creative genes to offer the female. Why would I disagree, it worked for me even though I was faking.

Maybe I heard this sentence in a song, "Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone." When I submitted myself to having a vasectomy performed upon me, it was sorta like the same reason I committed myself to the insane asylum. I wanted to know by experience what kind of results I'd get for myself rather than having to depend on my interpretation of somebody else's opinion.

No sane reason was necessary. I just wanted to know. I expected the people who claimed to love me to understand that I didn't need their blessing. For someone to suggest that I might wanna wait until my next life or the one after that to give it a whirl was an indicator of real insanity for me. This is it for me. This life is all I have in the specious present, and if there's anything I need a physical body to accomplish to do, then I gotta do what I can now.

Getting old and developing rheumatoid arthritis is not the result of how moral or immoral my outlook is or has been. It doesn't have anything to do with whether I pushed the envelope by my odd commitments. It might have something to do with how many times I've slept without cover on the bare ground, but I doubt it. Illness is a limit imposed from the inside. As opposed to having a car wreck which imposes limits from the outside.

I've written my thoughts since I was a little boy. Up until I got online during my fifties I wrote most of my thoughts in poetry, and I did my best to come as close to revealing what they really were without actually doing it. That was the fun of it for me. Little did I know that there was no way in hell I could ever reveal the intent of my thoughts no matter if I tried to, instead of tried not to.

When I went online and subscribed to a series of e-mail discussion groups to find out about weird, esoteric interests of mine, little did I know that it would reveal a desire to out my ideas and tell on myself whatever the come. That's how I find out my occult studies had been for. They were done in the service of Me.

Like a car wreck might impose physical limits upon the body from the outside and diseases like arthritis impose limits from the inside, there is one part of the life on Earth that neither touches, and that's me. That it is the untouchable and my only identity can be very difficult to keep in mind.

The me is like a drone note on the sitar. The expert player attempts to divert the listener's attention away from the drone note by all the fantastic runs of notes and rhythms he uses to do it. Its like a contest between your will to not lose your conscious awareness of the drone note and his will to trick you into forgetting it.

Jazz does pretty much the sa-me trip. They start out playing a nursery rhyme most people remember from childhood, and then twist it around to lead you to musical landscapes you've never dreamed of. So-me-ti-me, and the living is easy... '-)

I spent thirty-six hours in bed since Friday. Saturday morning I woke up in deep pain and on top of that I had a hangover from too much wine Friday night. I went back to bed. Got up long enough to feed my brother's dogs and water the plants in the greenhouse, took a sleeping pill, and went back to bed. Finally, I woke up feeling human.

The pain from the arthritis has come back full force. The Humira is useless. I tried it for a month and ended up not able to wipe my own ass, and so I took some methotrexate to try to ease the pain. It's helped, but not that much.

My friend David visited me recently and told me reading my blog was all about sickness and death. As if I hadn't noticed.

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