Sunday, January 18, 2009

No Time for Thoughts

After the Holidays, deep in a cold snap, I may be the only person who mourns when the days start shifting longer. Well, no, that could hardly be, since 'everyone' mourns the passing of Christmas in at least the sense that they looked forward to it so strongly. Signal of solstice.  Soul stasis. Hearth warming.

There's no time for reflection, so close among the family network, and now after they are all dispersed, I might as well re-decrease my cellular plan for all those unused minutes. Minutes when I might have talked and therefore felt the better for the money spent? Or am I not more content silent, in a sort of hibernation, not wishing to be in contact with anyone at all. Digesting. In. We've talked enough. How much would I - do I - pay for that?

The teeth fall apart, despite the insurance disclaimer. I mean literally fall apart, as in the tongue now catches on what's left. The car will likely be repaired in allegiance to the one most certain financial management principal, which is to delay all expenditures whenever possible and to the last possible minute, well except in the case of tires when there's snow, but even that excites my perversity. The bank account unaccountably heads south, despite my best prophylactic calculations and absence of car payments. I dance opposite a control freak, and giving in is always preferable, even while going into serious debt.

There surely is something beastly about our matured and now perhaps dead and gone savage capitalism. Along with those few who mourn the days getting longer, I find it actually hard to mourn the collapse of our economy. Sure, I am terrified of all that I will lose, and maybe I will lose it all (not quite possible, since I actually have nothing to lose - no equity in a house, no retirement funds to speak of - of the 10K I track, 2.5K evaporated in a couple of nostril clearing months  - and now only the remnants of cars).

The thing I sense the strongest need to take care of now, before other priorities swamp their importance, is my teeth.  Sensing somehow that the descent to pre-modernism will hit me just there more than anywhere else, tending my victory garden with a toothache in fear of pliers without anesthesia just as much as I live in fear of having to roast and eat rodents, say. But at least symbolically, they are my purchase on the raw it of life, which is what has to be gotten on with. I fear dental fixatives, for Chrissakes. For sure I fear being toothless in a dog eat dog world.

But please now, the very reason that I, Ivy educated and by all accounts quite well wired in the overall field of human competency. I mean I get things, I drive well, I'm politically savvy, and in general, as the complaint goes, I could do anything I put my mind to (perhaps most frequently goes from the ex- - I like that - my barber refers to his suddenly dead partner as "the girlfriend".  So cave-mannish somehow. So de-identifying - but canonically by my mother). And so why don't I? Why haven't I? Why won't I?

Well, neurosis, of course. Neurasthenia, anhedonia, dysthymia - other terms I cannot understand, and likely won't, tied as they have become to industrial drugs. But surely hanging on to idealized versions of some self the actualization of which would have to mean the leaving aside those unrealized others which might have been. Fear of "success", which simply means fixation. The success. The fix. Fixative of life and therefore loss of potential. Lost minutes. Rooted in boundary issues from narcissistic parenting, right? Emotional incest. This burden to carry out some family promise, but which promise still defines the burden. Without which there would be what? Drugs pure and simple? Would I rather be cast loose?

I hole up to resist proddings toward all those things I might do, duh. And I do tightly prefer narrative fixations of terminology over the latinate pseudo-technical cataloged precision of medicine.  Holding on for one more Freudian year of endurance up against the ex's money mediated control freakishness, to where I pay the child support and the transportation and buy the kids' clothes when they ask and have to work a job which leaves me without energy at the end of the day to think.  

No time for thought.

But as my wallup-packing gut continues to grow, perhaps in simple response to emotional tranference to food, but I think more likely as the camel-like response to intake only of diuretics such as beer and coffee which makes a hump necessary to homeostasis, I do actually prefer to think my enslavement is quite simply the mandated cost of participation in savage capitalism.  

The beastly part.  You are meant to have no time to think, and to be reduced, finally, to a kind of 24/7 productivity and certainly availability in enthusiastic competitive service to whatever globally relevant corporate entity whose boxer shorts you wear.  (In my case, the oldest. Getting self-referential here, who who, except I can't find the reference - it must have been in some email) Unless you're the boss, in which case your teeth are bloody, right?

I work for the Church, whose servers also crash, giving me opportunity for elated triumph over the dull machinery, but exhausted at the end of the day, and only the weekends, but rarely even those, to blog and think. I work for the Man, then don't I?

Surely there is no question that it organizes us best, this perfected global marketplace. But for what?

At bottom, the assignment of particulate precision oscillates between the ons and offs of digital simulacra which must exist in the ideal realm alone, and the very real sub-atomic particules whose final finality must be postponed yet again while fated breakdowns get repaired. This narrative so much like any personal narrative, leading back to familial conception and onward towards something never quite other enough.

I, however, am quite finished. The fixing of terminology quite sufficient. Higgs bosons be damned, I think it's long past time to admit the self-referential nature of our continued discoveries in that particulate direction.

And so with family heritage, I was spooked when handed my mother's high school portrait, as descended through my friend's Mom's sister to her and finally then to me after the funeral of my friend's Mom, who was my own mother's best friend's sister.  Whose best friend, my Mom's, died from precisely the same medical condition which nearly killed my ex - preeclampsia - and caused my own daughter to be so prematurely born.

I was spooked because there was a portrait of my daughter, though in fact my Mom, and I'd never seen it before - the portrait nor the resemblance.

What sexual vectors pull me and where with all these Freudian interoperable interpretable possibilities, and which have left me now bereft of pull, stomach particulate in round stolidity. Wiener stowed. Weiner?  Hot dog! This is no mystery.

Nor either the end of discovery, scientifically.

My poor dear other daughter, post discussion of what to do about control freak Mom, does admonish and implore that what my stomach signifies is the very absence of justdoitism, as in getting it on with life, were almost her very words just now. Get out there.

When there is no want.

So, turning a corner back from technically mediated rape, which is just the breach of trust at the most basic level, which means that what is really wanted is some sense of trust. Some sense of what trust is.

Interlude to rush out to push out the car of the open-hearted (I mean literally with cracked rib cage for the triple bypass) neighbor and sometime sailing cohort who I was so glad to see just now alive, but after returning from talking with I now must contend with chest tightening broken promises to myself.

Back to thinking.

I surely don't want to break my daughters' hearts. On my own account, I don't very much feel something there to lose, though between Buffalo Wings and Lipitor aversion which pleasure must I abjure? Which potential in the absence of actual is the one actually wanting? If only.

Another interlude to read the Scientology pamphlet, disavowed on the back as not religulous - meaning it's L.Ron at his honest best or what? - , though come on people, we aren't that stupid, are we, which I uncovered while blithely shovelling snow, heart be damned, just before the contracted young snow machine wielder showed up. Is he happy or annoyed to follow my work? Four-wheel-drive-contemptous as I remain, doubly so, for snow throwing machines when the shovel almost invariably works as quickly, never needs starting, and keeps the devil of artery clogging at bay to boot, you'd think. Or what are we really doing here with all this machinery?

And another interlude, sub interlude to eat heartery clogging pizza, which is all that was ready to hand, and a sub sub to write a quick email.  Now I'm back - to reading the non-scientology screed.  Hang on just a minute . . . . 

OK, well, on the topic of trust there may be some relevance.  Are the techniques of scientology all about hypnosis? Where does that leave the believer, in relation to himself? Certainly, the entire superstructure of belief violates Occam's Razor, which might be a good clue as to its trustworthiness; the superstructure's. Not to mention the pyramidal scheme of penetration to some sort of inner sanctum of revelation.

Enough of that shit. I think I'm all about Occam's Razor, and these guys are all about competition with the Churches that is.  Are.  Um.

Sanctums. Trust. Adept. Adroit. Watching me learn grace with words is about like watching me learn grace with dance, which I hope you never have to do.  Especially beer belied.

As you can see, dear reader, there is not time for thought here.  No time for composition. No time to pull the threads together. No time to make sense.

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