catatonic and gin
2002-08-01 - 6:18 p.m.
They says that the best way to find something is to get yourself lost; this theory hasn't failed me yet. But there are people out there looking for nirvana, and there are people who are rather lost, and in some persons those two groups must intersect. These are the catatons, the unmoving. where they looked for nirvana, they got lost...and in doing so, found what they were looking for, but at the price of never being able to find their way back. The result is one of constant-state nirvana, defined as negative-symptom schizophrenia in the united states.
It's like mowing your lawn in the dark...because you work during the daylight hours. Can't really see what you're getting and what your not...just have to trust in your instincts of straightness, middleism, and I've-done-this-before-ishness. Of course, you miss spots, but you can't go over the last row again, for fear of losing your place on what remains of the lawn. All you can do is hope that your next shot across the lawn will be that much more straight...but it never really matters, because all the spots of the past will show up when the sun gets back to his desk...And your neighbours wont be able to tell the best row from the worst.
Talking to Paula (secretary) today, about the death of her father. Had half of his mandible, tongue, and various neck organs removed to make way for lung cancer. Smoker, and Paula is too, but she's trying to cut back...always some good fruit at the end of the dark log, for the monkey intelligent enough to use a stick. But I realized while we were talking that people really Need to talk about this type of loss...a lot. And some people don't have anyone to talk to about it (especially after loosing a spouse). Walked downtown for lunch afterward, and the lady at the Salvation Army stopped me to talk about the troubles of the world today, what with all the child-stealings, and this recent highway murder in Maine, and three people who were close to her that died in the same month, some years ago. Seems everyone has their story, and every story has it's sorrow...unfortunately, not every sorrow has a person willing to listen to it, a person that will tell you that it'll be better, someday, but no one ever promised perfection.
It's like that guy who drove himself to the hospital because he got his head stuck in the steering wheel.
Parentes searched my room again, got pist when they found the road cones (why they didn't see them before, I have no idea). I had forgotten, dear Archibald, what a hell it was to live with these people. Of course, it was easier to lie about the cones than explain my values of entertainment and usefulness of form with the knucklewalkers; which slowly resulted in a normal/predictable explosive reaction...When I was younger, I thought psychology was power. I thought that if you knew what people had inside their heads, if you knew where their limits began and where their values blurred, you could predict their behaviour. Eventually, I thought, with enough psychology and understanding, a person could even control the actions of others. But even now, with all the psychology of five men and fifty years, I don't have any more control of this situation I've been in. People are just too radical...a practical proof for the impossibility of true artificial intelligence, if you will. Consider it anything other than a real-life situation, and if that doesn't help, try to forget it. If that doesn't help, bounce it off your head until it splits and you have two...or leave it be and wait for the re-enactment of Revelations. That's one thing that really gets me about the religies...they take the words that they want to literally, and leave other parts of the words up to metaphor, without realizing that each word, each tiny word, can be taken several different ways. And that's the thing that I can't stand about human minds...we get something that's too big to deal with, that's too big to fit in our head, and we run from it. We hide in familiar paradoxes and old lists of things we should have done. Think of anything, just not *this*. But who needs defenses, when you realize that the invaders are your brethren, are yourselves. �Jason. Jason! Why did you lie?!�
'...Because I have ceased to care.' Can't save these people, I never could. And it's not because they're past hope...but because I may very well be. Refused to apologize...wow, look at me, nineteen and not more than sixteen.
In my head, it's all getting disorganized (although the 'stuff' that's out of order, I'm not sure). My room is a mess, I hate my work (rather, the time it consumes). In short, I drop things and don't remember when I started letting go. It must be another human thing.
It's like buying a grain of rice with your name on it, and later finding out that your name was on it long before. That your name is on every peice of rice, and everyone's name is on a single grain of rice, if you know how to look. That the grain of rice you hold had your name on it before it existed. That you have the name of that grain of rice, somewhere on you, written small enough to be hidden in plain sight. And all the people who never ask 'why' shake their heads and refuse to open their microscopes.
Raised the artery just fine, for my first time. Actually, I have a harder time trying to tie the chords loosely around it, what with the large-rubber-gloves* and all.
'the end of your rope is a lonely place to be, unless someone else's rope ends nearby.' -Nemo
Car accident, take two. This time, I got sideswiped by the broad side of a warehouse. Snuck up on me, it did. And in the second that it took me to really realize this, I dropped back down into that puddle of 'what I'm doing isn't helping anyone, Tony would be better off without me'. Of course, fortunately, this statement has many logical fallacies (I make people smile, I give Wes and Tony time to be with their families, and I'm really working to learn and not to fuel someone else's pocketbook). Moreover, Tony insisted that he'd pay for it. Why cry over broken glass?
Church. It's an old religion, really...the He-created-everything attitude fails when we find that We can create everything, including life. One can argue that all things that we do are done Through god, but this is just as {frivolous} as the argument that women are god, because they have been making life for as long as complex organisms have existed.
Step-mother: *going through cupboards, complaining about different types of soup*
Me: 'Nono, that chicken noodle stuff is good, I eat that when I'm sick...which [granted] is only about once a year.'
Step-mother: *sub-breath* You're always siC.
This, according to my limited ability to remember, was the first serious attack on my sanity. Or maybe I'm wrong, and it was the 42nd.
Spontaneous do-see-do-ing in the kitchen with Father. Unfortunately, neither of us knew what happens after the lockarms-spin-switcharms-spin part. Guess that's what the little fiddler is there for, to tell you what to do. He's so much like me, it's almost scary.
Get more E(nergy) for your e(nergy). The more gas that's in the tank of the car, the more miles per gallon; at least that's what they says. I'm not a physicist (and I don't know anything about cars), but this might be because of the extra pressure created by the presence of the fluid...the less fluid, the harder the pistons have to work to create the pressure? Probably not how it works. But if it did work that way, I would start a tangent about subatomic 'pressure', defined as a value placed in how much a reaction 'wants' to happen...but really, this value would prubly end up being analagous to the speed of the reaction and directly related to the difference in electronegativity...and if you can't say sumthin' new you shouldn't waste time sayin' it at all, so I'll stop before I would have started.
It's like the bendy straw. The simplest of machines, yet more powereful than the lever and the pulley combined.
Today�s Neologisms&Acronyms: Slothful Urgency Syndrome (sus): Knowing that something needs to be done, but refusing to do more than delegate it to the inner beurcracies of your mind. One neuron tells another to do it's job, until the whole mind is waiting for the last neuron in the chain to do the job that so many before it could have done just as easily. The macroscopic results are observed as a person who says that something needs to be done, tells it to themselves, and when they finally get around to doing it, realize that it wasn't all that complicated (see: '83 Practical Methods To Get A Person Out Of Bed [plus 18 impractical methods]')
*There are five different sizes of 'glove', which I shall define here. Small: child-size gloves. Medium-sized: the basic disposable white glove. Tiny: one of those little quarter-machine monsters that sticks on your pinky. Huge: power-line proof gloves, 1/2 inch thick and covering the whole forearm. Gargantuan: another name for a full-body condom (see also: 'Radiology Suit'). Large: somewhere in-between medium and huge...covering half the forearm, being semi-disposable, and five times thicker than the basic white gloves.
