I haven’t been much for blogging lately. For over a week I’ve been plagued by petite seizures, . . . again. For the most part I rarely have them any more. A couple of weeks every year they arrived like a shrimp fork poking my balls, leaving me disoriented, disturbed and petulant. Bah, humbug.
For those of you unaware, petite seizures are quite different from Grand-mals. Grand-mal seizures kick my ass, beat the snot out me, and leave me emotionally and physically drained. I fall head first, usually lacerating my scalp. (I’ve been lucky not to suffer from many concussions.) As I convulse, every muscle in my body flexes to its limit for nearly 5 minutes. When I awaken, the pain from the head wound is barely noticeable compared to torrential agony of my muscles as they scream from the forced work-out. I’ve bitten thru my tongue so many times the scars across my taste buds are only outdone by the cris-cross pattern of scars on my scalp. Even a short grand-mal seizure severely stresses my body. I am forced to drag myself home and sleep for 24 hours and then putter around the house for two days as my brain fully re-boots and my cognitive powers return. If that wasn’t enough, I receive a bill from the hospital as an souvenir of the experience. With that in mind, believe me when I write, petite seizures are much, much worse.
“Why me? What could God possibly gain my tormenting me?” – – – I hate it when people say things like this. Blaming a horrible experience on God is weak. My answer?: What? You’re too good to have the shit kicked out of you? Not hardly. Life isn’t suppose to be never ending bliss. What fun would that be? I like to imagine that we all knew the perils of suffering going in and we were ecstatic to get the chance.
If we live forever, even terrible moments will be remembered as fleeting orgasms compared to the entirety of our existence. If we take the perspective that our time on earth as only a speck on the time-line of our future lives, then we can easily equate the sorrow and grief we feel from losing a loved one with that of a toddler when he’s left with a baby sitter. Two hours away from mommy is a serious percentage of life time for the kid.
Dying isn’t easy. Sometimes it’s terrifying.
Next year I plan on trying my hand at stand-up comedy. I know that dying on stage will kill me emotionally, but my desire to enjoy that rare experience easily outweighs the humiliation and suffering involved. Patton Oswald spoke to my fear when he said how uber-cool it would be to die in the Apocalypse. He’s right, that would be a great way to die. So I thought I should learn how dying feels before my last day.
Back to petite seizures. Zap. Now, where was I?
Petite seizures slap me around like a Bangkok whore who’s been holding out on her transvestite pimp, Dick Cheney. (I have no idea what that means.) Usually lasting less than a second, petite seizures zap my consciousness, forcing me to re-boot my thoughts, over and over and over again. As an extra side dish of bitch slap, I am rewarded by annoying the hell out of anyone who is talking to me. Try losing an entire second, four or five times during a conversation. With no way to let the person know I’m being tortured by electricity, I am continually being regarded as a jerk for not listening. Ahh, good times.
It’s not all bad. Frustration from this predicament has given birth to a weird and fun sense of humor. I find myself laughing at the stupidest things. Schadenfreude forces absurdity to any kind of self-congratulatory dignified conventions. I’ve already written an award acceptance speech: “I’m drunk. But I’m not too drunk to notice this is the biggest circle jerk I’ve ever been a part of.”
I have faith in the ride.
What is faith?
Faith is throwing off the desire to interpret reality. I am convinced that this desire is instinctual. We do it all the time without thinking about it. Distressing, uneasy thoughts like, ‘What am I?’, ‘What am I experiencing?’, ‘Who am I?’, ‘Why do I suffer?’ is easily capable of stressing the psyche beyond reason. Desire for these unanswerable questions rises exponentially with the amount of suffering involved in our lives. It’s not hard to understand why. Even without intense suffering, questions like these can quickly become an obsession.
Ultimately, thoughts like these are self defeating. For the most part, they are unanswerable. The desire for faith comes from our desire to enjoy life without these god-damn nagging questions. It’s a form of personal torment to bring these thoughts to the forefront, making it a relief to believe these sufferings comes as part of a grand reason. Life is soooo much easier when organized religion dresses up all these sufferings as “God’s will.” Job done. Let’s go home.
I have faith in the ride. Irrationality can be invited along for the ride, but why would you want to obscure the view?
I asked and I received.
“Who am I?” was my question to God. Now, I’m not so sure I should have asked. But, since I did, and since I got an answer, I thought I’d pass it along.
You are not static
Ask yourself – – – Who are you if a serious blow to your brain can quickly re-define your thinking? It’s not uncommon for brain injury to result in changes in character, demeanor, and personality. A nice guy turning into an asshole is common in the world of brain trauma. Aaggressive extroverts suddenly becoming recluse introverts happens all the time. You are not who you think you are because you are not static. We are today who we were yesterday is a false impression. Try thinking in terms of who you were at 18. Is that you now? Who will you be ten years from now? Is that you then or is that you now?
On many occasions I have experienced parts of my brain corrupted and non-functioning. For instance, after waking up after a grand-mal seizure the language part of my brain is unavailable. I have thoughts, but without the ability to give them context or description. It’s a strange world, but it has happened to me so often the experience has become almost enjoyable. Are we nothing more than thoughts without words? Not hardly. But it’s important to understand that language is as subjective as anything else we experience.
With parts of my brain corrupted, rational thought becomes impaired. Sometimes the brain can recognize this. I can attest that, for brief periods, yes means no, up means down, monkeys are typewriters. And then I stop myself. Recognition of these incongruities forces re-examination. Yes doesn’t mean no. Up is not down. Who am I? What am I?
For me, this is part of the re-booting process.
Who are you?
You are everything. When you die your ego is stripped away. To understand you must ask yourself who you are without your individuality or even language. As part of everything, you are no longer an individual. – – – – Which makes living outside of oneness so very, very, precious. Enjoy the ride.
How do I know this? Read
Also, the ride isn’t as fun if you know how it ends.
Sing Along to the Galaxy Song:
Just remember that you’re standing on a planet that’s evolving
And revolving at nine hundred miles an hour,
That’s orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it’s reckoned,
A sun that is the source of all our power.
The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour,
Of the galaxy we call the ‘Milky Way’.
Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars.
It’s a hundred thousand light years side to side.
It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light years thick,
But out by us, it’s just three thousand light years wide.
We’re thirty thousand light years from galactic central point.
We go ’round every two hundred million years,
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding universe.
The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whizz
As fast as it can go, at the speed of light, you know,
Twelve million miles a minute, and that’s the fastest speed there is.
So remember, when you’re feeling very small and insecure,
How amazingly unlikely is your birth,
And pray that there’s intelligent life somewhere up in space,
‘Cause there’s bugger all down here on Earth.
On another note: My aggravation with the right-wing nonsense spewed regarding the coming Apocalypse has been pushing my buttons for years. And if it’s not the Apocalypse it’s something else. These delusional wackos are irritating the rationality right out of my existence. As far as I’m concerned their theories about God is mental masturbation. Forever my hero, Jacob over at Contextual Criticism has been keeping me sane. I need guys like him. Jacob reports from his heart about his objection to the hypocrisy birthed from the myriad of organized religions. (So many I have a hard time keeping track.) Contextual Criticism is a pleasure. If you have the chance, give him a read at: http://mythandhope.blogspot.com/