|What? The Internet's Down? OMG!!
||[May. 15th, 2008|11:56 am]
What's wrong with this world? The crows are cawing in the yellow pines outside, but the internet don't work this morning. That doesn't happen very often. Nothing goes on around here in such a way as to prevent it from working. What the hell is going on? Is Bush making his final push to take over as dictator? |
I woke up too nervous to sit here and listen to the drum machine in the background. Never the less, something good was going on in my dream time just before I woke up. I was watching myself play scales on the piano keyboard. When I deliberately brought it up again, it came. I lay there for a while pushing my fingers through the C Major scale, and then the C# Major scale, got altogether too excited, and got outta bed.
If this arthritis will hold off from crippling me just a little longer, I might be able to do all this in my mind's eye, even if I'm crippled and kept from doing it with my hands. Maybe that's the whole point of getting a body. Ya git a body to learn how to do things you don't need a body for except how to do "things" in the first place. It's like having training wheels in order to learn how to ride a bike by yourself. Once you know how to coordinate the pedaling and the steering, then all you gotta think about is somewhere you wanna go.
Where do you go
when there is nowhere to go,
and the place that you're at
is kinda blue,
and you've been everywhere
but the stars up above,
and you feel like
you've been up there
I never see the lay of the land when I'm outta mah body. One time i was flying low over this lush, green, jungly place, and the pock-marked image of Noriego appeared translucently across the "sky" before me, and I "knew" that I was located over Panama. That's how silly things get sometime. I need a body with it's brain to figure things out as if I were embodied. If I'm outta body, then what's normally perceivable sensorially doesn't compute that way any more.
I think that's why I'm obsessed with writing. It's deliberate. I'm trying to "say" what I "see". Oh, I can say "something" deliberately, but I can't always say the something that actually sots itself before me grinning with a impudent dare.
That's what was going on when I saw the video of the Sea Folk with the yellow jackets playing. I "knew" the grin of the piano player. I once knew a man who looked like that. He graduated cum laude from a school in Missouri, and was at the head of his class in law school. What impressed me even more was that he taught himself to play classical guitar from reading a book.
People let go of their feigned appearances for all sorts of reasons. Some never come out to play at all, think what you like. I used to get my feelings hurt by people I thought would be okay to come out of myself and play with, but over time learned that was a mistake. I thought I had a friend in this guy whose mother used to make him come inside every day at four o'clock to practice his piano lessons. I thought that because he played the piano that he would naturally be a emotionally sensitive person like I think I am is. He hated playing the piano. He was being forced to do it. His mother, and her sister the piano teacher, thought that learning to play the piano might make him more emotionally responsive. It didn't.
I had the opportunity to meet with this person late in life. We hadn't seen or spoken with each other for nearly sixty years since we were boys together. He was sent to military school when he was sixteen years old, then went to the Navy academy, served six years in the military, and thereafter become a member of the military/industrial complex and a NeoCon. Why am I always the last to know?
The next to last time i saw him, he reminded me in so many words that he was "still the meanest little son-of-a-bitch" in the school group we had both belonged to. Just before he pridefully introduced me to his trophy wife who is probably twenty years younger than him.
How could I have not "seen" how he was, and thus his future? I was the new guy in town. I was desperate for a friend to play with. He was apparently so mean-spirited, nobody wanted to play with him. How was I supposed to know that? My family had just moved to this little town. We were a perfect match. He pretended to be my friend in order to cheat me out of all my marbles. I dumbed down to have a friend. I bet he is a great businessman.
Why not play with this? It suddenly crossed my mind that his family had moved to this little town after the Civil War during Reconstruction. They probably moved there to take advantage of the total failure of agrarian economic system due to having lost the war. No blame. Lots of carpet-baggers and bluebellies did that. I traveled to where there was economic opportunities all my adult life.
The local people in this small agricultural center probably knew his family came there to take advantage of them, but not anymore than Wal-Mart came here for the same reason. Who gets close to the Wal-Mart people who come and go through here. It's not like they're here to be good neighbors and find a house with a picket fence to settle down in.
I have stopped writing several times to see if the internet is back up. I don't remember it being off-line this long before. It was up just long enough to download my RSS feeds, but was gone again ere I could punch any of them up. At least from that I know the problem is not here on my end of the big show.
This drumbeat moves fast and furious, and because "it" is actually just a ROM program on steroids made up of ones and twos, it does that over and over again, and will, until either I turn it off or the power fails for one reason or the other. Do we make machines to do what we can't... out of pure spite... or romanticism?
I'm a great romanticizer. Not only am I able to make mountains out of molehills with aplomb, but I can furnish those mountains with secret hideaways that makes all the girls and boys in my mind's eye crazy with lust and dissatisfaction. It's all about that species flaw Sartre wrote about. You know. The flaw of not being able to see our own possibilities in real-time? What other species flaw have I been writing about for the last year?
I romanticize the events in my life in a frenetic effort to grasp or grok my possibles in real-time. Why else would I concern myself with always being the last to know? Romanticizing my unworthy life into The Hero's Journey is a fairly futile effort for me to indulge. Getting to the grail castle and sucking up well enow for a chance to sit down in it's inner courtyard (together with my own self-generated, phantasmagoric images) under the bow tree (yew/you/world tree) is one thing, but getting back ho-me (whole me) with my as yet unseen gift (Something simply fantastic and utterly supercilious, of course, a somethingness that might wow the current warlords, and earn me seventeen virgins on Earth while I'm still alive [and still have a horn to blow]), all without revealing what I experienced in the kingdom to show modesty and respect, is yet another variety of tomatoes altogether. I described this dilemma exactly in 1972. I didn't have a reason to live after that.
Maybe I couldn't get on the internet this morning because I needed to write something I needed to hear. Synaesthesia? I don't know. I tortured myself for a while. Got up and looked in the stubs in my checkbook to see if I'd paid my bill. I had. I called my brother to see if he was online. Yes. Then, I realized I'd telephoned my brother over the same internet connection I wasn't supposed to be getting, and rebooted my computer, and as you can readily see, it worked.