Bob Diamond
Being from Earth as you are,
and using as little of your brain as you do…
…your life is devoted to dealing with fear.
Daniel
It has?
Bob Diamond
Everybody on Earth deals with fear.
That’s what Little Brains do.
Daniel
What are “Little Brains”?
Bob Diamond
That’s what we call you folks behind your back.
_________________
Daniel
What are you eating?
Bob Diamond
You wouldn’t like this.
Daniel
What does it taste like?
Bob Diamond
You’re curious, aren’t you? I like that.
Want to try?
Daniel
Yeah. Looks so weird.
Oh, my God!
Bob Diamond
Like horseshit, huh?
As you get smarter, you manipulate your senses.
This tastes different to me than to you.
Daniel
This is what smart people eat?
Bob Diamond
So talk to me. Tell me about your life.
from Defending Your Life
Written and Directed by Albert Brooks
Have you ever felt like you were part of something wonderful only to discover you were unnecessary? Like watching a sunset or meteor shower; for a time you feel connected, whole, real, alive, full of invincible dreams. And then it’s over. You go back inside, blink to adjust your eyes to the harsh artificial light, and remember. This is what you have, who you are, where you belong. Everything special about your experience only happened for you - the universe’s light show is public art, an A-ticket ride for everyone. It doesn’t mean the moment is meaningless, only that your ability to recognize beauty doesn’t mean you’re a part of it - the sun will rise and set without you. Your one great contribution to that which we call existence is to live the gift.
That’s how I’ve been, where I’m at, how I am. I laugh more than I smile, get angry for people instead of with them, at them, and keep to myself as much as possible. It sounds bad, when in reality it’s just reality, life catching up with art, or art catching up with life. Me noticing time again, or it noticing me…something simple, mundane, ordinary like disliking pancakes or war. Stupid, human things we feel and do, believe we know why, when it’s all a matter of preference, personal choice. Certain species eat their young, we eat pancakes. Some people are good, others - not so much. I think I know what motivates me, why my choices are right for me, but I only have today’s knowledge to base my judgments on - maybe tomorrow I’ll know more, be closer to being part of something. However, if there is an evolutionary benefit to self-destructive tendencies like infanticide, homicide, or genocide, I’ll never understand them. I’m a “little brain”. I don’t eat what smart people eat. Manipulating my senses to make horseshit taste like something other than horseshit doesn’t make it so.
So much happens without me, yet I get praised or blamed as if I had something to do with it. Does the sun feel this way? Tired of being inspiring? Tired of being an annoying reminder that it’s time to get up and go to work? I’ve discovered it’s possible to feel like I’m part of something wonderful when I’m not. I’ve also discovered it’s possible to be that wonderful or awful others feel part of, when I’m not. It’s hard to understand how a dedicated recluse like myself factors or matters in any way, yet somehow simply because I exist, I find I’m credited or accused of things I couldn’t possibly be involved in. I haven’t responded to an email I received weeks ago because I’m not sure I know how. On the surface it’s purely complimentary; thank you for writing something that reminded me of something, etcetera. If I accept his thanks, does that also mean in the future I must accept responsibility when things don’t go well for him, when I fail to do whatever I did before? The question is not about him, or me, but where we draw the line of responsibility as writers, artists, religions, nations. Most of what I write feels fairly benign, harmless, pointless. But what of the girl whose parents say she suicided because someone wrote something bad about her on the Internet? Kids gossip about each other all the time. If we criminalize writing bitchy opinions about one another, why stop there? Why not criminalize saying bitchy things? Where do we draw the line between people who are simply mean and those whose written and spoken machinations are intended to inflict emotional or physical harm? How do we determine which personal opinions are expressed with criminal intent? Who will judge the gray areas, what we deem good or bad things to say, good or bad opinions to have specific to regional class, religious, or social standards? Saying something is queer means different things to different people. There are people who teach “Queer theory” in San Francisco. This is difficult to explain to someone who lives in NH. It’s an old argument in a new medium. What’s the difference between free speech and directive or suggestive speech, i.e., things said intended to influence behavior. Law books are filled with cases arguing for and against people who are accused of inspiring others to do bad things.
(For the record: be nice to persons, places, and things. Mean people really fucking suck.)
Hop, skip, jump.
There are some who know me that have decided to gauge my mental and emotional status based not only on what I write for this site, but what I don’t - if I don’t post for a while, something is wrong. (The definition of absurd is in constant flux.) I didn’t share my writing with anyone until the age of 31. This space began as experiment and few in my life know it exists even now. I’m an intensely private person, and although this seems like a very public thing to do, I could print this out, toss copies out my window, and more people would read it. In a way it’s more of the same - a great way to pretend I’m being brave when really I’m hiding in the crowd. This is not my journal. Although I understand why it’s easier to find me here than reach me on the telephone, anyone who reads this shit and thinks they know how I’m doing, doesn’t know me as well as they think they do.
However…
…None of this is why I haven’t been posting. I’ve been gone because of a dream. A bad one.
A few weeks ago I had a nightmare. Not unusual, I’ve had them regularly since early childhood. I usually forget them by my second cup of coffee, but this one’s haunted me.
We were driving on a highway in a convertible, I in the passenger seat. Apartment buildings with balconies lined both sides of the road, and as far as I could see, tall buildings with similar balconies covered the hills. Something terrible happened but we didn’t know what. TV and radio stations were down. We kept the radio off and waited. It was eerily quiet. The sky was the color of rust. We hadn’t seen anything for miles. Then a man walked out onto his balcony, picked up a chair and used it to smash railing, (the balconies were made of glass), and jumped onto the road in front of us. A car hit him. And suddenly everyone was on their balcony, whole families jumping in unison, some hesitating, but most jumping without stopping to break the glass - they ran through it. I closed my eyes, not wanting blood splattered on the windshield to get in them, then opened them, and watched in shocked silence. People everywhere, in a panic, silently jumped to their death. I looked at the radio, turned to my companions and said, “Whatever we hear, no matter what they say, or how bad it is, we have to survive. We have to find a way to live.”
I woke up after this. I never heard the news so terrible it drove people to suicide en masse. Around this time I discovered I’m probably allergic to chocolate (I told you the gods hate me), so more than likely a precipitating factor of my post apocalyptic vision was indigestion. The other stuff…well, methinks it’s pretty obvious - In an end-of-the world scenario, I’m a passenger in a car with people I can’t identify driving aimlessly into the unknown. I feel like everyone around me is giving up while I struggle to survive, like I’m always waiting to hear and preparing for bad news, and even though I’m terrified, I try to encourage the people with me because… I don’t know why. I’d like to say I do it because I don’t want to survive alone, but that isn’t it. Freud-Lily needs to go back to the drawing board with this tasty subconscious treat. Maybe it’s easier to focus on the fear of others rather than my own. I don’t know. I do know that I haven’t been able to forget the dream, haven’t been able to write without writing about it, and haven’t wanted to write about it because I always end up writing this dumb fucking paragraph. There. It’s done. Tormented inner self - you win.
What’s next for me? Another sunrise. Another sunset.
Praise and Blame