Thinking is Glorious
21 Sept ‘18
My eye mask drops slightly over my right eye. As a result of an internet article I read some months ago, I now know that morning light pollution into the eye is the leading cause of FUCK THIS EYE MASK IS OVER MY EYE AGAIN FUCKING PIECE OF CRAP.
It definitely beats the dental head brace I wore every night from the ages of 13 and 14 though.
The cool breeze of my fan in my room, decorated elegantly by four pieces of silver foil I picked up off the ground while leaving my favourite musical at Edinburgh this August, brushes against my beard, then, as I adjust myself, my cheek.
These are some thoughts.
Thoughts I had last night
Lying in bed, wrapped up tight.
They pass from lobe to cortex
penetrating like a strobe light
fast as a textual message.
See that was thinking.
I actually thought so hard I swallowed some saliva down the wrong pipe and started violently chocking in bed. Go me.
But thinking is cool. It’s glorious in fact. I mean, it’s made hard by some of Freud’s characters, the superego, id, and ego. Each of them mediating, controlling, and battling one another for a chance to influence our thoughts, and therefore (in theory), our actions. But the less about that the better.
Consciousness, which provides us with thought (or is it the other way around?), is rather glorious.
But only if you can take a step back and have a birds eye view of it. Otherwise it’s confusing and wholly jumbled.
I can go through 5 emotional states in 5 seconds, or I can think about one thing, or person, in any number of compromising ways, for an hour. That’s consciousness. We have it, most other beings don’t, driven as they are by their needs. We have needs (which we oh so often surpress), but mostly we are driven by death-knowledge, time-running-out-knowledge (linked to the first), and community-relationship-pressure. Needs kind of slot in between all of those states.
And when I’m in bed, it’s all mine. I can control it. Sometimes well, sometimes not. But it’s night and nothing is coming to disturb me but the morning.
And when I wake up and woooooosh comes the world, I’m the same, but I assume the world wants me different. Why should I be different?
08 Sept '18
"So much anguish and outrage could be prevented", author Michael Foley writes in his book Age of Absurdity, "if towns and cities floated over their streets everyday three giant balloons."
It's a nice thought, to reach every person living in every town and every city. It harks back to a time when people felt they lived in one place, instead of having in their social media bios "worldwide traveller", or "currently in London, soon... who knows?" By people, I mean, me. By social media accounts, I mean my tinder profile. But the less about my dating life the better.
He goes on: "...three balloons showing the messages: 'Failure is more common than success'; ‘Many will dislike you whatever you do’; and, on a balloon even larger than the other two, ‘The world does not oblige.’
It's worth pondering on, and I interpret it in an uncomfortable way: Suffering grants more than pleasure.
Don't get me wrong. Pleasure's amazing, but to be uncomfortable, to swing and not hit, and to take responsibility instead of blaming the outside world, is where we discover more, and can reduce the clutter in our lives.
Also worth pondering: How would we produce this many balloons? How many fossil fuels would be used to get them all in the air? Who would drive them? What would happen if one of them malfunctioned and destroyed a small Swiss village?
I'm just trying to ask the important questions.