25 July 2017

Progenitors and their issues


we finally finished installing our fake wood floor boards. It wasn't too hard, but it took a certain amount of energy; and we took our sweet time on the job, in order to avoid stressing out over the newness of it, being first-timers at this; so now that it's over, although I'm satisfied in a stupid way, I feel that I deserve a far more significant compensation. But that's how I feel about everything, so maybe I should just chill out and write a blog post, let time pass.

OK well I woke up and felt well-rested, even though it was only 5:30 a.m. and the sun is not going to come up today, it's raining, and there's a constant murmur in the distance of a loud truck engine plus rhythmic banging either of subwoofers playing techno or roofers roofing.

We're at a point in the novel that we're reading aloud together (mine helpmeet and I), The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler, where its main character decides to abandon his parents. It's hard not to find the concept attractive. I almost want to begin my next thought here by saying something like "I love my family, but..."; and it's true that I don't hate or despise or loathe any member of my family; but there's more of a mutual respect between us, at best (as opposed to true LOVE), and, at worst, a willingness to "put up with" each other. One solid observation: it's not a passionate bond.

And that's why I don't feel the strong need to leave them, to estrange myself from them, to divorce them, to part ways, to say sayonara. In truth, I wish that I were more successful in a worldly sense, so that I could bring gifts and astound them with glittery possessions, gold frankincense and myrrh, to establish my affection the easy way. For such gifts eventually rust and fall victim to moths.

This morning I have a strong feeling that I'd like to join one of those churches that are comprised of members and leaders from varieties of different religions, because I miss the community of believers but I can't stomach the self-deceptions required to be part of a place that propounds just one single blameless omnipresent rascal.

No, I already change my mind. That word "leaders" kills me. I don't fancy anyone leading me or guiding me; I take no comfort at all in "thy rod and thy staff"; I only like fellowship and conversation, people to bounce ideas off of, a group to argue amiably with.

What if the dreaded outcome would have occurred, during the "red scare" era, and the U.S. would have actually turned communistic! What would be the difference today?

Whenever anyone visits a foreign place, no matter how remote and strange, they always return reporting that the folks who live there are just like you and I: they want to work and care for their families, raise their children and provide for their basic needs. So where do all our "enemies" come from? I think maybe the handful of royals who govern the domains of the globe use their populaces like game pieces: they're playing a big game of chess. Which isn't necessarily bad for us pawns. If we like to fight each other, it's a good time. My problem is that I don't want to fight anyone physically: as I repeat every Tuesday morn like clockwork, I prefer mental sparring. If you call that cowardly, then I'm a coward. But I would heartily engage in battle, were I one of the farmers in the village that the seven samurai are helping to protect, if I saw the raiders coming over the hills: I'd fight like a martian. I'd be one of the best farmer combatants you'd ever seen. You'd be proud to say you're my trainer, Toshiro Mifune.

And when one needs to screw something, one purchases a drill. So we bought a drill with a soft trigger and a clutch with various speeds. This occurred back in the day when I built my deck. (I'm really quite a handyman, come to think of it; although my handiness is capped at par-adequacy, or somewhat less.) This was on my mind because two days ago I advised my mom to drill a hole and use a drywall anchor to hang up her picture, which she was trying to attach to the wall with Velcro strips, and she said: "But I don't own a drill." She has ample cash to retire on; her house is paid off; but she won't fork out twenty bucks to blah blah blah. So the picture fell down and glass from its frame shattered everywhere. And my mom didn't clean the site right away, because she was preoccupied with the gossip that she was relaying to us at the moment; meanwhile my sister comes home from work, and she walks into the room barefoot—I swear this is true—just like the scene at the midpoint of Persona (1966) where the nurse, instead of sweeping them, leaves some shards from a broken goblet on the ground, despite her unsuspecting patient who has gone mysteriously mute, and the filmstrip itself snaps and melts as if in reaction to all this trauma. Spoiler alert. But my late grandfather passed down a manual drill to me which is non-electric: you use the strength of your arm to power it; and it looks like an eggbeater. So I should re-bequeath that to my mom, as a half-sincere hand-me-up.

I don't know about you, gentle reader, but I'd rather cut thin vinyl with a handheld switchblade than use an electric table saw on thick wood, because I dislike loud noises. I never understand how birds can nest in the apex of the ceiling of a church when a punk band is playing, for punk rock is loud, and I'd assume that the birds would be scared and flee from the racket; but they remain there, biting the worm that hangs from their beak: they seem simply happy to have sustenance; as long as the music doesn't pragmatically harm them, they're indifferent to it. Yes, maybe smart creatures don't care about the aesthetics of a situation, so long as all their bodily needs are met. So why am I bothered so much by the sound of banging bass drums? It's because it reminds me of the sound of bandits coming over the mountains to invade my farm. Plus, from what I understand, sound is the result of air molecules vibrating, which is a violent occurrence; and if these molecules vibrate too roughly into your being, it feels unpleasant. Not as bad as a sword wound thru your abdomen, but there's a reason that people yearn for peace and QUIET. Caretakers of children especially treasure oases that are devoid of commotion.

In that last sentence, I almost specified young children but then dropped the adjective upon reflecting that all children are annoying. And you never stop being the child of your parents, so this annoyance hounds them all the way to the grave. And when one's parent gives up the ghost, what then? Then their spirit returns to God who first breathed it out, and their body atomizes. Tho I'm still puzzled about what happens to the atoms themselves after this process of natural decay. What happened to The First Created Human ADAM's atoms; are they still with us? I've asked this again and again in these diary pages, but I can't stop myself from pursuing a genuine obsession: Were our building blocks built with building blocks? Do they endure a cycle of life and death, analogous to ours? I want to know whether, on some level, even if only sub-sub-sub-subatomic, there is a style of energy that deserves the label of changeless. A permanent mode.

Then I always ask this question next (my philosophical rut is become like a dance routine with an obvious choreography, or rather like a fit of compulsion): Why should changelessness be attractive? I like change. If everything were immune from the vicissitudes of destiny and flux, we'd all be rock. Not punk noise but the actual item: beings of stone: graven images: statuary. Like a pleasure dome in Xanadu populated by so many Davids of Michelangelo. Sublime in every way from the day of our making.

Thou sealest up the sum, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty. Thou hast been in Eden the garden of God; every precious stone was thy covering, the sardius, topaz, and the diamond, the beryl, the onyx, and the jasper, the sapphire, the emerald, and the carbuncle, and gold: the workmanship of thy tabrets and of thy pipes was prepared in thee in the day that thou wast created. Thou art the anointed cherub that covereth; and I have set thee so: thou wast upon the holy mountain of God; thou hast walked up and down in the midst of the stones of fire. Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created. (Ezekiel 28:12-15)

My point is this: marble statues never engage in sexual intercourse, unless they were chiseled initially in that position. For an excellent sculpture that gives birth to another excellent sculpture only inherits competition: what will we judges do with a double serving of excellence but contrast the souls as if it's a beauty pageant; and one of the twain shall inevitably be found lacking. So this is why parents hate children, and children hate parents: everything's a contest; there's not enough fame to go around; and money doesn't grow on trees; Exodus 20:5

...for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.

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