Into the Void: On having the malaise of a hungry hole in one's soul and other minutias and things.

 

Of course, there's something we all know, lament, pound the posts, and we chortle and guffaw as others fall, too.  One could look back on days wasted on dreams, but even Relativity was Einstein's dream, even radiation poisoning was Madam Curie's dream.

What is it?  The flick of a switch, yer know, yarblockos, and the thing is come off, and there is the solemnity and immediacy of always living in the present moment, kind of a drifting about somewhere of the fruit plane and all, the humboldt waves of pain, and so forth.

In the immediacy of the moment, I'm kind of in a pleasant mind about it, being who I am, and you, who you are.

I comes to me that in many ways I've sort of wandered along, drifting too, but not waves of tv signals, but on my own ideas, my spleen, intellectual whims, or whims that pretend to be intellectual, but at bottom are contorting themselves to feed the scrotum head with its own immediacy.

Actives and Contemplatives.  I think, therefore I am, and does action form as a manifestation, however immediate, of thought?  To change my nature would come from within, not without, and to manifest however, mentally, physically, metaphysically in the think meats, however we bring that off.  Meanwhile debates about ships crossing datelines, latitudes and longitudes that define something of the moment to moment, something of the same thing changing, established thousands of years ago, or something being destroyed in an instance, while alive in another instance, old instance's disappearing, and the thinking disease, an erasure of the past by biology itself as it marches uncertainly into new frontiers.

That kind of immediacy: touch a hot stove to bring oneself to the moment perhaps, as I found a new mantra, complete with God-man circles on my thumb and index finger.  Kind of come to it, inhale and wait, exhale and wait and the active mind comes forward into the very new now and waggles and flails in the light of the sun that had heretofore been avoiding.

Might Alzheimer's Disease just be a kind of metaphysic outcropping of the glut of information and history in our world today?  How it grows, billions of souls, coming to being, coming to fruition, then coming to death, being uncertain of the ending and completely forgetful about the beginning, kind of another form of celestial rebuke that reminds of the titanic gravity of the present moment, and at any old given time.

The Wolverine would sit, a man with memories of the past demolished and cleared away, and an uncertain future as he reckons haphazardly with his past.  Indeed for him, the present moment grows more and more into Deadpool 3, a movie production.

Others yet kick against the pricks and gnash their teefies, only to be found at any time, only able to recall so much of the past, at once, and with a kind of odd working space of little nothings and junk data in which they hope to thrive.