*some random photo from July 2010.
It’s been a while since I emailed myself. Actually, that’s not true. It’s only been about a week or so. The last post, My Mad Recovery, was written largely on my cell phone, as are the vast majority of the writings here.
Apparently, my thumbs are quite dexterous. This phone is, for me, a piece of technology with both benefits and hindrances. Because I can write quickly and somewhat effectively on this device, I am able to keep up with a lot of email. There is no possible way that I would have been able to accomplish what I have accomplished without the immediacy of “Send.” For better or for worse…
(I believe that my intent was to then discuss the less-appealing aspect of cellular techonology, but there are plenty of blogs about that. I was more interested, apparently, in discussing the bigger picture, so to speak. I haven’t done so directly in a while, though in many ways, it is a theme in almost everything. That comes with being a gestalt thinker, though one might say that awareness of the larger world in such a way that one is unable to dissociate themselves from the fascinating enormity of the history and future is, well…it can be a problem. However, there are many grounding mechanisms available to keep one relatively anchored (a double entendre, as in being in a constant state of relativity, existence that is relative to that which it is associated with.)
(I like to play with perspective and paradigm, and being mindful of how I view things is a tool that helps me to not get so swept up in my own delighted belief that I am unable to comprehend or conceive of the disbelief of others. Such things have been know to happen. Sometimes, I understood that they did not believe me, and tried my best to compensate for that, with either bravado, or sincere efforts to bridge worldview with poorly scaffolded innuendo about quantum mechanics, spirit, and communication. Apparently, referencing Pink Floyd and theosophy isn’t quite enough to normalize (in the minds of others) one’s thinking that perhaps the world is a fantastic place full of treacherous and perfect workings-just-like-magic and that we, somehow, are a part of it. Then again, there have also been times when I believed that people knew about things that they likely did not know about. I have done a lot of work in my boundaries of belief since then, but not so much that the world has become dull and insular and lifeless.)
As I was discussing, writing on my phone…
(I’ve since switched to laptop and am writing this as an addendum that will now sloppily transition to a disclosure of all the truly mad emails I’ve sent to strangers over the past 2 years.)
There has been a bit of earnest ostentation launched into unwitting inboxes. I never mean to bother anyone, per say. Then again, I will admit that sometimes I am not entirely opposed to bothering people. Though I may appear rude, by virtue of earnest and yet baffling unsolicited communique – one can easily appraise these messages – be they to newspaper or positive psychologist(s), or Harvard professors, or Oliver Sacks, or St. Pauls-Outside-the-Walls, or the Swiss Guard, or…um…you? Perhaps…and see that they meant no harm, though they may have been confusing. I went through a period in which I heartily believed in the power of bewilderment to act as a passive catalyst in transforming ideas.
I’ve thought about this, what the meaning of all those messages might have been…and you’ll be pleased to know that I knew at the time, as I know now, clearly and with great reason…that anything is possible in the world and that it’s fun to play with ideas. Only one or two people have ever replied, and I understand why. As I’ve expressed, people have very little imagination these days, and even less time.
I was experimenting. All day, everyday, corporations send me messages. I wanted to see what might happen if I sent some messages. More importantly, I genuinely wanted someone to help me, because it is not easy to hold a lot of sense/nonsense in one’s head and stories colliding with stories, a narrative particle accelerator. It was an experiment in asking for help in an anti-secular spiritual crisis and what might happen if I asked fairly directly for assistance in explanation and understanding. As it worked out, I’ve made my own sense of it, with the help of friends and mentors, some of which have come about through impulsive emails sent.
I did prove at least one thing: there is a culture of suspicion and malign that has colonized the minds of even those who claim to be enlightened…so much so that they can’t be burdened by the thought of a mighty fine story or a person who might need some help in grappling with some mighty big ideas and experiences.
To those who did write back, I thank you. To the person who sent me some random link, via text message, about muons, I thank you. To the ones in Russia, who had no reason to look, and were perhaps even criminals, I thank you. To Louisiana, I thank you, even though you wouldn’t call the Vatican for me.
To the people who voted, “Sweet Jesus, this girl is proving God!” – all 8 of you, or something or another, which was well over 1/2, a solid 60% at least, because not too many people bothered to vote…well, I certainly Thank You. As for the 3 that voted “Faith is Crazy” – you’ll be pleased to know, if you’ve read at all, that the phrase in three words speaks volumes in double entendre.
It is, you’re correct, not appropriate to believe in anything so profoundly perfect as a sense that the multiverse and all its gods and goddesses and forces by any name might just have some wondrous ways after all. Yet, billions of people know that they do, and they have so many stories about it all. How is it that to believe in something so vast and present and nuanced and sensibly eternal could be anything other than lofty, grandiose, beneficiently audacious…? To have faith in such a massive truth, in the midst of a world that increasingly cares less and less about truth, in a world that is, in fact largely built of lies…well, how…is it that FAITH is anti-sanity, because to believe in anything with your whole heart in a world riddled to death with doubt and fear is…hmmm, not crazy at all?
Maybe it’s just crazy if you have a diagnosis of bipolar disorder or schizophrenia?
I suppose if you’re a dull white preacher man, you can believe whatever you want, but if you are a sub/genius with a diagnosis, it’s crazy? Is that how it works?
It’s not crazy. In fact, it’s pretty fuckin’ beautiful. To see the world in a grain of sand and infinity in an hour. I believe that may have been Dickinson. I’m not sure. The world is full of mad ones. They wrote the best parts of our histories, and had a leading role in some of our worst.
If you can figure out how to see what’s coming, you can figure out what might lead to what. This no big trick. All you have to do is get a diverse news source (like scanning the radio and periodically glancing at the headlines)…and realize that 1/2 of what is said is profoundly not real at all, a thin sham of advertisements and celebrity gossip. The other half, unfortunately, is quite real. All you have to do is figure out the stories driving the stories and think about where they will mostly end up, given all known variables and their possible extrapolations. Once you figure out where the currents are, you can figure out the river. <~ to some, those with little sense of poetic resonance and METAphor, that would be read as an indicator of radioschizo-style paranoia. Git Yer Tinfoils hats! Calm down. It’s poetry. Information and event, catalyst and substrate, silt and tide, spill and eddy…rivers and currents. I’m just talking about the way that information tends to tell a story that branches and cycles, and from that, you can figure out the most likely outcomes and effects.
Of course, it’s much more complicated than that, because sometimes you seem to know things without knowing them, and then *whammo* there they are.
“How’d that happen?”
Did we make that happen? Nah, probably not. However, it’s possible that we contributed to it, because everything contributes to everything else around here. Very little little is null in effect, and even the most fleeting toxic plastic trinket is itself profound in its extravagant uselessness.
So, everything we “like” and everything we “share,” all the little thumbs up…it all gets spun in various ways, associations are made, ideas are reinforced or categorized, images are burnt into the collective mind…it all adds up to something, an algorithmic mechanism like everything in nature.
I’m not so good at math, so I can’t tell you any numbers. However, I’m sure there is somebody out there doing a trigonometric content analysis of information/meaning distribution patterns on facebook. There’s gotta be.
It’s the ultimate co-created universe, us against them, woven with bits of tooth and bone, glitter and skin, inspiration and despair…and, of course, a lot of utter horseshit.
Is this alchemy? No, it’s poetry and philosophy. It’s nothing new.
Garbage in, garbage out.
In a world increasingly fraught with spurious information, it can be very hard to discern what is real and what is not.
Is there something phenomenal about this story, in which a woman indulges in belief in ways that perhaps she shouldn’t? I’ve been discouraged from belief since I was a child, mostly because the world struck me as unbelievable from an early age. Why does this feel like such an outlandish project at times, when it’s not really a project at all, it’s just me writing emails and looking around? I stopped watching television almost 11 years ago, so I had to find new things to look at, new things to watch.
I’ve always known what was real.
In a crisis of simulacra, one doesn’t necessarily have a lot of certainty in the concreteness of many ideas. That’s what makes it a crisis. There is nothing so doubly-binding as not knowing what, or who, to believe.
There is a strong possibility that those who are watching the presidential debates and discussing such things are being driven slowly into a deep state of fractious unease, which is compounded with the already immeasurable strain in people’s lives, which is about to get exacerbated by BP and their need to maintain a healthy profit-margin in their hyper-phallic exploitation of the Gulf of Mexico and many other important and beautiful places that were here, in some form or fashion, long before we – the scourge of the earth and its kin – ever came onto the scene.
This is fact. Not fiction. Gas prices will be going up. Now, add that to the stress of back-to-school and the late summer drought and the goddam mosquitoes…the storms and the water…the fact that Louisiana is – again – fucked and the Reps don’t care and the Dems don’t care and it’s appalling that they would even have their little parties at a time like this. Disgusting, really. Much like it was disgusting that the president went to watch a basketball game on a retrofitted military aircraft carrier, prior to flying to Bali or some such place, on Veterans Day. 11-11-11. It’s true. When are things like this going to become rightfully surreal in the minds of the masses? When are they going to break through the bounds of reasonable reality and come storming across the lines?
On 11-11-11, I wore a picture of my favorite dead uncle and I thought about my first mad love’s father and all the people I know and love that have been hurt by war, even the strangers. It should have been enough, to go and hold a candle. It wasn’t though. We sang some songs and that was nice.
It made me want to sing some more. So, I did.
I took the list of names and I walked across the street and I sang every name of every soldier from NC who died in the Iraq war. I sang their name, their hometown, where they died, and how old they were. For the very young I hollered their age. It felt like the right thing to do.
Because I think in pictures, I couldn’t help to see the doors and the families. I couldn’t tell you what they look like. It wasn’t really them, it was a fleeting diaspora image of families being told that their loved one – their son, daughter, husband, mother, father, wife – had died in a pointless war about weapons that never existed and oil that very much does exist.
I don’t know how that feels. I do know how picturing it feels, and that alone was enough to make me sing as loud as could, even though I was shivering and had to pee.
I don’t exactly remember where exactly I was going with this. Flight of idea, you know…one thing leads to another and somethings feel more important than others.
That’s how I make my decisions and determine my direction, by what feels right. That’s probably a symptom of something, huh? I think it used to be called instinct? My instinct is very information-based, raw data from the world, some of which is seen and some of which is heard and some of which is smelled, and tasted, and FELT. I pay attention to that last one. Not the sense of touching something, of feeling something, or the sense of being touched, but the sense of FEELING. It’s something of an emotional reality, except it’s not emotional in the commonly thought realm of emotion. It’s definitely not sad, it’s not angry, it’s not frightened, it’s not grieving.
It is a new feeling. At least to me it is. It is the best feeling. Hmmm, my pathologized read-o-meter indicates that the simple statement “”It is the best feeling.” could be perceived as “manic.” How sad. It’s happiness and attunement, it’s a certain solid LOVE…with ample amazement over the realm of possible resolutions to the severe and persistent disorders that have been plaguing my mind since I was a child…
…like the military, for example…or churches that tell lies about God and hurt people in the name of God…or this issue with cutting off the tops of mountains and making people sick for profit…or little kids that don’t have any food, when other little kids can barely move because they have had too much food.
These things are not incurable, except for the mountains, and the cancers, and the millions of people who die or are maimed (in heart, mind, soul, and body) by the regimes that have taken over our planet. Yeah, those things are incurable. Death cannot be reversed, though things that cause death and illness can be remedied. There are assertive treatments available, which have been shown to effectively promote compassionate recovery.
Sigh…why is it that a person can’t write the word regimes without feeling a little hyper-sensitive? That’s what they are, isn’t it? Have they not taken over our planet? Is a person not allowed to discuss such things without some note made somewhere about “strange thinking, possible paranoia.”
Um, HELLO. My name is Faith and I’m a mental health professional.
I’m sorry, but I just have to laugh. Do you really, truly think that you can really truly, box me?
I’m a trained boxer.
I walked away from the practice ring with a lot of black eyes. I didn’t like to hit people. It wasn’t much fun. My heart wasn’t in it. However, I did like the strategy, and the fact that I kept going, until I stopped. I had learned what I needed to learn.
Oh, wasn’t I talking about feelings?
I am INCREDULOUS when I think about how LUDICROUS (oh, I’m not shouting, I’m emphasizing) it is that one should be expected to deny reality to such a tragic and deluded extent.
I understand that to affirm reality and to express experience and conceived-of-reality in ways that are interesting and enjoyable to a person may make the prone to being seen as MAD.
I think that’s silly.
Ah, anyway, so I was just writing myself this email, just to clear my head for a minute. It’s been a busy day.
At the end of work, my co-worker was in my little office and I don’t know how it came up, but we started talking about the Course in Miracles. I don’t know much of anything about it, other than that it seems to either save people or drive them into a state of semi-psychotic reckoning with the world and all its small signal and code, the identity politics of grace and meaning.
I told her some about this project, and I actually found myself explaining how it was that I came to believe that I had proved an ecosystemic god and the experience of a rapidly expanded and interpretive worldview, how I couldn’t believe in anything, except for what I knew was true…and that it was a very simple truth, when it all boils down and the trappings fall away. It is a truth without words, but a strong need to speak. It is a feeling that begs description. She actually was really awesome about the whole conversation and we ended it laughing about it, the sheer and glorious absurdity.
The feeling that begs description:
“Tell them, tell the world! We are more than what they make of us! Tell them that the best of the stories are true!”
It is a great lifting HOPE that maybe if everyone knew, and saw in their own way, if everyone healed and if everyone understood what LOVE really is…well, that maybe we’d have a FIGHTING chance to right this course.
WE ARE THE HISTORY OF THE FUTURE.
(I love writing in a lightly manifesto style. It makes me happy because it reminds me of all the inspired REVOLUTIONARY HEARTS that helped the world make sense to me.)
Do you have a problem with that? I should hope not.
Then again, what do I know…?
(That’s quite enough for now. Goodnight, Moon.)