Crab Buckets

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What a weird morning. I sent out a post with my latest picture attached it entitled I Ain't Dead Yet to some older e-mail addresses I didn't know were active or not. Apparently they were still working, because I'm getting responses. It seems they're not dead yet either.

Maybe that's nice. I've been wondering about whether life can be "nice". It's always one thing or the other coming up or going down. Shit happens, Things change. Personally, it's how to control my reactions to what change offers up that is the deal about my so-called decisions. It's the only personal thing that matters in the sensory dimension.

Everything around me just happens of it's own accord without any input from me unless I just go batshit crazy. If it wasn't for my me I'd be a pill-popping drunk... oh, wait.... I am IS a pill-popping drunk. All legitimate as death can be, but no joy in Muddville. The pills I pop ain't euphoric. On the contrary they can be distressingly bland. I so-me-ti-me remind myself not to recommend my odd lifestyle to anyone else but masochists.

I know this weird guy who goes around telling people they're crazy to eat anything else but his greasy meat and potatoes 'soul food' diet. Never mind that he pops purple pills by the handful or would if he could afford them, do what he says do or you'll regret it like he does. I reckon misery does love company.

It was a great relief to me to change the settings on this blog to disallow comments on what I write. I've explained myself a couple of time and put my disclaimer up in the Header. Recently I added a quaint comment to the header that popped up in my writings one day. I gotta remember to look at it again when I publish this entry. It's very clever, but I would say that, wouldn't I?

Now, I've gone one step further and removed the link to my blogs in my signature file that's attached to each e-mail post I Send. All my .sig file says now is felix with a small "f" to indicate that I do actually give a fuck about the way the world goes, but not overly. It's that reactive mind all over again.

Some people seem convinced L. Ron Hubbard identified and labeled the way humans react to the stimuli of the world around them, but English-speaking nutcases have been addressing the reactive mind for as long as English was able to climb out of the crab bucket.

Have you ever literally seen crabs try to get out of the bucket they're placed in when they're caught by fishermen in order to take them to the fish market and sell for fun and profit? They climb all over each other's backs trying to get up to the lip of the bucket to afford a mad dash for the seawater again.

They're like the Jews in Krakow rebelling against being herded into a ghetto by the Nazis until they were shipped off to the gas chambers. They realized they were going to be murdered whether they fought back or not, so they tried to get out of the crab bucket, and just like the crabs on the crab boat, they all died anyway. Life is cheap. No blame.

I added a couple of paragraphs below after I published because I like the way I worded it and I wanna save it for posterity:

From a detached point of view it's easy to understand why you sought the protection of the state from the outside world. I sought to protect the outside world from me. When I was in the admissions center there were these two worried, worried men who followed me around the institutional walls in the large passageways we were permitted to freely walk. One walked in front of me looking back frequently as if to make sure I didn't turn off. If I stopped and squatted against the wall, they stopped too, and nervously squatted against the wall looking, looking, watching me like a hawk. If I stood up and walked in the opposite direction they changed to the opposite one looking back and the other trailing cautiously.

One day I tricked them and turn into a side hall way and waited until they scurried in behind me and I caught one of them by the arm and demanded to know why? They told me I was the only person there including the nurses and attendants they could trust not to hurt them. Stuff like that weirds me out sometime when I think about it. I have been accused of not having a conscience. I have admitted openly that I strive mightily to eliminate the rules of conscience I created to be-co-me my parent's child. Reading The Mysterious Stranger by Mark Twain made me wonder if I've accomplished my goal with flying colors.

I was accused of writing about myself a lot by some lout who tersely pushes the idea, herself, that she oughta know better. I just shined her on. What could I say so that she'd understand, that I use myself as an example, to keep from accusing other people of being me.

Bringing my projected idea of myself back ho-me where it be-longs is the entire point of even noticing that who I use as a mirror to do that. Longing (yearning) to be is what half of life is all about. It's mucho difficile to do that when I've be-co-me-d over into somebody else's Me, but not who they are in the first person singular.

Does that make sense? I am is writing about the sa-me crap I always get back to. Why would I not? The unity of life on Earth, and maybe the several universes, all depends on me. That's why the particular one of the Ten Commandments of Moses states explicitly, "Thou shall not worship any other God but me.", as if worshiping any other God was actually possible if there ain't but One me.

Homo sapiens, for the most part, it seems, don't appear to ken the notion that what they call themselves in the first person singular is a much bigger deal than they are personally. What they're labeling "me" as their own identity is anything but personal, and yet it is.

Life is what it ain't, and it ain't what it is. It seems to be extremely disparaging that there ain't but One me, because each of us cling to our own abstract opinion that the me we inimitably indicate as being individual to our persona is a joke we each play on ourselves for false pride. I reckon if I wanted to spend eternity going around bursting that bubble I could. But, when bursting bubbles ain't no fun no more, ti-me stops flying. Who wants that? Hell, that's how I alit here upon Earth in the bejinning.

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