hopelesshappiness.com

I don't want to read too much into recent personal upheavals, (some positive and some challenging), by declaring "New Beginnings!" or "A Fresh Start!" and then arbitrarily connect to the upcoming New Year in order to convince myself that it was meant to be. I used to be an avid purveyor of comforting notions such as "everything happens for a reason" and I understand the value therein; but in recent years I have come around to see difficulty as merely circumstantial and absent of ineffable transcendence.

If the equation set forth above is New Circumstance + Ineffable Transcendence = Comfort, there is one exception, to half of the equation, that I allow my Humanity to turn to when I am in need of comfort; (most typically from perceived injustice). The acrimonious reflection I apply to circumstance (absent transcendence), for comfort, is "what goes around, comes around."

I have enough faith in the power of randomness to feel reasonably certain that difficulty reaches out and touches each of us at some time, in some form. And I believe that what may appear as a relatively minor difficulty to one individual, may add a more significant weight to another individual; despite any protestations to the contrary. I also believe that some difficulties bog down internal aspiration, thus concealing the adversity from direct observation. Additionally, I believe that in one's last moment(s) upon this existential plane, the weight of some actions comes crashing down, as the goodness of other actions buoys the mind or (if you prefer) the spirit.

Yes: as a human there is a certain vindictive satisfaction in these thoughts. But additionally, allowing this truthfulness reminds me that the goal is not revenge (as this other individual has his or her own difficulties, and one day will realize his or her own legacy); the goal is common ground from which mutual progress is possible. Allowing this truthfulness keeps me grounded and more rational in the face of perceived injustice at the hand of another. Allowing this truthfulness, and discounting the role of ineffable transcendence, brings me to a gruff recognition of the ineluctable fusion of personal and universal essence.

I suppose it is a lack of imagination that prevents me from letting go of this last human comfort; and on occasion leads me to stare longingly at ineffable transcendence. For me, imagination goes beyond simply forming mental images or concepts, though this definition appears consistent with ineffable transcendence. For me, imagination must include a grounded rationality; which feels counterintuitive, but coupled with the effort to create new thought actually adds a level of complexity to the exercise of my imagination. For me, the disharmony of these clashing contradictions is necessary. For me, the comfort of platitudes and clichés is not an exercise, but a lazy form of hope that too often results in hypocrisy, duplicity, and treachery. For me, imagination that merely comforts is common, simple, and frivolous, whereas imagination that requires a connection with productive action is scarce, complex, and invaluable.

So my reliance on "what goes around, comes around" for comfort, should be the springboard to thoughtful layers of conceptual effort leading to forward movement and mutual benefit. I am Human; it is not always so. In this moment, I am respectfully admonished.

Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the land

Unease and unrest, they marched hand in hand;

The bombast was strung each day this past year,

In hopes that we'd let go beliefs we hold dear;

The factions they wrestled all smug in their heads,

While visions of sugar-plums were torn all to shreds;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Unsettled and flailing and lost in the gap,

Surrounded, assaulted by clutter and clatter

Ducking and dodging the splutter and splatter.

My gears they did grind and my teeth they did gnash,

When faced with such odious egregious panache.

High noon in my quest for Wisdom and Truth

To give lustre of mid-day upon this uncouth,

A shootout between my mushrooming fear

And hopeful dreams that now seem cavalier

With a clumsy conniver, found in each clique

I knew that my dreams were now impolitic

More rapid than eagles discoursers they came,

And I whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Red Herring! And, Straw Man! And, Slippery Slope!

Innuendo! On, Threats! On, Imprecise Scope!

From the depths of Debasement! To the peak of Bad Proof!

Reductio ad Absurdum! Shared respect has gone "Poof!"

As civility leaves and the camps clash and cry,

When met with an obstacle, they embellish and lie,

So up to the high ground, discoursers they flew,

With a mind full of mush, and nary a clue.

And then, in an inkling, I saw through the spoof

My prancing and jawing, my standing aloof.

New views flew in my head, making me realize,

That the face of St. Nicholas was not a disguise.

The joy of his warmth, from his head to his foot,

The plight of being tarnished with ashes and soot.

Both sadness and joy I must load in my pack;

To be brooked by the pain, I will learn to bounce back.

My eyes---how they clouded with simple concern!

My past---full of poses, so hard to discern!

The roll of my tongue with words drawn from my soul,

A soul I'd believed was so pure and so whole;

Now stumped by the truth I held tight in my teeth,

I'm one amongst many, above and beneath;

I'm in a broad space and a little cramped cranny,

I look at my life like a doleful chafed nanny.

I'm not chubby and plump, nor a jolly old elf,

But I value a smile, and I can laugh at myself;

I think of how sly my life it has been,

I fight and I cede and I lose and I win;

To speak not a word, but go straight to my work,

Ignore all the mockings; ignore the smug jerk,

Delaying the voice that's inside of my head,

And striving to rise up above my own dread;

This rational peace I should call with a whistle,

And hope it won't flee like the down of a thistle.

I trust there's no shame in the crumbling of blight,

I trust that we'll overcome venom and spite,

I trust that the dark will soon lead us to light.

So I say in an effort to share and unite

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

Last week I wrote:

"There is an oily crustiness on the underside of everything."

Often, reality is presented as a flat surface and in order to see the underside, one must lift up a corner and peek underneath. Often, someone is assigned to stand on the corner, preventing others from exposing the oily crustiness.

On occasion, reality is presented as three-dimensional, with its best face forward. In this instance, one can circle reality, but reality will consistently encourage two-dimensional interaction so as to distract from its oily crustiness.

For many, often in the midst or aftermath of adversity or hardship, one finds oneself in the face of oily crustiness, and one works very hard to (again) circle reality.

For some, reality becomes oily crustiness.

Oily crustiness has the unique ability to enfold and appear as three-dimensional, thus encouraging one to allow absorption.

To avoid absorption, one must remember the forward face of reality; and one must, on occasion, circle reality.

Some may call the forward face of reality, God; some may call it good.

Some may call the oily crustiness, the Devil; some may call it bad.

The difference between "good and bad" and "Good and Evil" is intent.

As one circles reality, questions arise.

For me, reducing reality to "Good and Evil" (or even to "good and bad") is simplistic; but still, a potential starting point.

For me, the ultimate spirituality is to hover above, float beneath, and gently drift around, in, and through all facets of reality.

For me, the uninhabited, empty regions of reality are the most difficult. I prefer the oily crustiness of interaction over the oily crustiness of idle hope. Some do not recognize idle hope as emptiness. Idle hope does not always feel like emptiness. Some see idle hope as the flat, two-dimensional surface of reality masquerading as good; or as Good.

Emptiness is not always idle hope. Often, emptiness feels like emptiness; a dark and sudden drop; absent of everything; absent of peace. Fortunately, this emptiness is not truly empty. There may be seemingly empty moments sporadically interspersed, but there is connective tissue between; otherwise one would stop.

I find momentary peace in the realization that I have not stopped. And I find realization in the momentary peace of moving forward. Sentience is the connective tissue.

To ascribe external responsibility in the form of credit or blame for personal sentience, encourages two-dimensional interaction by filling one's personal sentience with flavor-enhancing preservatives.

I am responsible for my forward movement. I am responsible for choosing the mechanism by which I move forward. I am responsible for the quality and depth of my chosen mechanism.

I am Psychopacetic: "a little unhinged, but okay with it."

A resident in a healthcare facility:
"My maiden name started with an M. My married name an S. I went from BM to BS."

"There is an oily crustiness on the underside of everything."

At a bus stop:
"It's colder today than I thought it would be. Most days I complain about the hot flashes. Today I welcome them."

I believe, in some way, each one of us is a little unhinged. I believe psychopacetic is a good place to go with it.

On a city bus:
"I'm there and I'm not there... ...That's what drives you crazy."

"Does this hair-net make my butt look big?"

A brief exchange with a homeless man, downtown:
"How are you?"
"Good. I haven't hurt anybody today."

Some weeks I overthink.
This week I have a cold.
The End.

When a goon is in a Pure-White House
And stupider maligns and mars
Caprice divides the planet
And love will fear the wars
This is the spawning of the age of Precarious
Age of Precarious
Precarious
Precarious

Potpourri of poor withstanding
Symphony of wealth confounding
No more truth just scorned divisions
Emboldened living screams/collisions
Sadistic pistol-whipped elation
Unrefined coarse exclamation
Precarious
Precarious

When a goon is in a Pure-White House
And stupider maligns and mars
Caprice divides the planet
And love will fear the wars
This is the spawning of the age of Precarious
Age of Precarious
Precarious
Precarious
Contrarious
Nefarious

Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in
The sun, shine in...

I believe the truth to be that Life has always been and will always be precarious. This is not a new age. But of late, it feels like we are moving toward more so and away from less so. And (I have to keep reminding myself that) this "of late" I speak of is a mere hiccup in the entirety of humankind. We sometimes need a step backward to point the way forward.

Nonetheless, it is annoying; and precarious.