“I often like to think that our map of the world is so wrong that where we have centered physics, we should actually place literature as the central metaphor that we want to work out from. Because I think literature occupies the same relationship to life that life occupies to death. In the sense that a book is life with one dimension pulled out of it. And life is something which lacks a dimension which death will give it. I imagine death to be a kind of release into the imagination in the sense that, for characters in a book, what we experience is an unimaginable degree of freedom” ~ Terence McKenna
My mother, shortly before her actual death, said something quite similar: “Ken, after I am gone you will have more freedom than you can even imagine”. I had just been having a snit fit about how I had done nothing useful with my life. Here she was dying and I was being self-centered. I think it is supposed to be that way. Without the center of the self we have no reference point. Besides, I was also being self-ignorant in that I was helping to provide a palliative environment within which she could create the highest adventure in her life. That seems pretty useful to me. My emotional state at the time was pretty much on the brink of being all black hole like and stuff. It was so intense that it fractured my grip on linguistic proficiency, an injury from which I have yet to recover. Sure, I rationalize it as simply using the vernacular as a literary device. Luckily it is only a sporadic phenomenon. I wouldn’t like want to talk all goofy and stuff all the friggin time.
It’s the coldest morning in many weeks. At 11º the air feels edgy but clear. The star show at 3 AM was spectacular, with none of the haze or clouds that have been predominant. It’s a head full of cotton for me. The brain seems to be alright though. That’s good, I’ll likely need it at work today. The sense of novelty there these days is puzzling me but I feel it is wise to keep my feet firmly on the ground and my head just a little below the clouds. I’m used to my head being up that high, so I resist lowering it too much. The change of pressure alone could squeeze my brain down to the size of a raisin, which likely explains a lot. Don’t ask me what that just meant, I ain’t tellin’. But I was yakkin’ ’bout novelty. Patience I’m good at. Tolerance, pretty good. Overall whatever is novel will eventually not be. That’s the way it works. What am I so worried about anyway.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.