Assimilating Disturbing Information
Could you, if asked, look down on me - on the whole and rest of us - and at least feign the same reaction you had all those years ago? Back then, when someone asked if you thought we'd be perfect, if you though we could hope to be whole again; or if you'd just admit you loved us?
Well, maybe all of this is the sort of pointless drivel born out of nothing and headed nowhere in particular. But either way, look here. Here's a bit of a memory we used to talk about. Do you remember it? Remember when awkardness was new and the way you pranced around the stage made us laugh and smile and reach for you? Do you remember when memory was just happiness bottled up in green colored glass jars that we'd always come and have a drink from? Can you still recall the times when we sat you down in the cathedrals of your living space, stared back into your sorrowed eyes, and said we'd want you, desire you, keep you forever?
Well, maybe the proper admission now is that we lied.
I, like my counterparts, am bad liar, though. A bad actor and a bad pretender. I'm no good at the stage-show three-ring-circus version of life you portend we live. I'm not skilled at the running around, at the jumping through hoops, at the truly being clever, at the answering all the right questions in just the right way, so we can pretend you show us something.
These words, maybe I'm good enough at them, if you can still believe I'm good at all. Maybe okay at painting bad landscapes with ugly images, but at least - I suppose - they still stimulate the mind.
I wonder. Do I still stimulate you? Do I make you shiver or make you quake or make chills run down your proverbial unmarked spine? Do I make your knees weak and your blood run cold and everything in between tingle with some sort of excitement or enthrawled shock? Do I make your belly turn and your heart rate rise and your blood pressure put your life in danger any time I'm near enough to call to you?
Do you love me, love any of us in any of those sorts physical ways? The ones that make your eyes gloss over for a moment before responding to our questions and inquiries and concerns about where we're headed? Do you ever need us in that purely animalistic way, that makes a thing salivate and drown in mental passion whenever its lover is around? Do you think of us as something living, something breathing? Or are we just your version of some prized meat to be devoured at first sign of death?
Questions. Endless streams of them. And all the answers we could place in between come up startling or meaningless. Yet, there's something to it, isn't there? To words and exclamations that sound fine and pretty together. Something in the way our semantics and syntax and morphology tie our struggles together in just such a way that we can hope to still get at something.
Or, at least, it's arguably easier. Easier than just tackling the merry-go-round hopefulless existence that gets us back from the shallow end just to dump us in the drowning pool again; this hop-on-hop-off sort of riding the tide until we're sick to our stomachs will all the options we've had - that somehow, at some point and without ever really noticing, we left behind. Or just forgot about.
So then what, my darlin, my love, can we talk about? What sort of past, presently processed information can even hope to get at now?
Here, I'll just give you a mutliple choice answer sheet and you can mark down all the right answers -- all the "a"s and "b"s, maybe even a few "c"s and one "d", if you will. And when you're done, we'll sit down on a couch in your vastly littered lobby and we'll ruminate over them. And then, sooner than later, we'll go back home and we'll see you in another lifetime, - or another year. Whichever is more convenient, really.
Because we wouldn't want to pressure you into sharing any decisions. And we wouldn't want to push you to coming to reveal any real conclusions. And we'd hate to shove you off into any complicated explanations of things you probably don't want to have to explain, anyway.
Like, let's say, Love for example. But no, that shouldn't probably be capitalized, because then we could ascribe to saying that it "just exists". And you'd let us get away with that because no one likes to have to explain it any other way, because then it doesn't mean as much to us. So instead, we just talk about the abstractified, obsurified sort of lower-cased "love" that could be earth shattering just as much as made out of solid gold or worthless metal, like the same stainless steel our sinks drip into when the faucet doesn't turn off all the way. Because then, when we're vague about it, we can still practice our precious free will and dissassociate our guilt from it -- not "believe in it" anymore. As if that were a viable option.
Well, so there we are: it's clearly "love" and not "Love". And we'll leave it like that, so we can make cliquey little claims about it and how it affects or relates to the collective "they": like soceity or humanity. All because, somehow, that makes our assimilation to ideals we don't really want to ascribe to a little bit easier. And well hell, we're all probably still at least 75% human. So that means we still want life to be easy, and we still believe that we have our rights claimed for happiness. And not just the frugal fruitless pursuit of it, either - because if we can somehow avoid being realistic and yet still screw around with reality, we're fairly and pretty much generally happy beings.
Because in the end, we really all just want to be happy.
We want to drink our tea without boiling water. Want to enjoy our coffee without buying a brewer. Want to eat pastry without paying a baker.
And at the heart and soul of it all, we just want to claim oursevles living without needing or pursuing a maker.
-RK
Well, maybe all of this is the sort of pointless drivel born out of nothing and headed nowhere in particular. But either way, look here. Here's a bit of a memory we used to talk about. Do you remember it? Remember when awkardness was new and the way you pranced around the stage made us laugh and smile and reach for you? Do you remember when memory was just happiness bottled up in green colored glass jars that we'd always come and have a drink from? Can you still recall the times when we sat you down in the cathedrals of your living space, stared back into your sorrowed eyes, and said we'd want you, desire you, keep you forever?
Well, maybe the proper admission now is that we lied.
I, like my counterparts, am bad liar, though. A bad actor and a bad pretender. I'm no good at the stage-show three-ring-circus version of life you portend we live. I'm not skilled at the running around, at the jumping through hoops, at the truly being clever, at the answering all the right questions in just the right way, so we can pretend you show us something.
These words, maybe I'm good enough at them, if you can still believe I'm good at all. Maybe okay at painting bad landscapes with ugly images, but at least - I suppose - they still stimulate the mind.
I wonder. Do I still stimulate you? Do I make you shiver or make you quake or make chills run down your proverbial unmarked spine? Do I make your knees weak and your blood run cold and everything in between tingle with some sort of excitement or enthrawled shock? Do I make your belly turn and your heart rate rise and your blood pressure put your life in danger any time I'm near enough to call to you?
Do you love me, love any of us in any of those sorts physical ways? The ones that make your eyes gloss over for a moment before responding to our questions and inquiries and concerns about where we're headed? Do you ever need us in that purely animalistic way, that makes a thing salivate and drown in mental passion whenever its lover is around? Do you think of us as something living, something breathing? Or are we just your version of some prized meat to be devoured at first sign of death?
Questions. Endless streams of them. And all the answers we could place in between come up startling or meaningless. Yet, there's something to it, isn't there? To words and exclamations that sound fine and pretty together. Something in the way our semantics and syntax and morphology tie our struggles together in just such a way that we can hope to still get at something.
Or, at least, it's arguably easier. Easier than just tackling the merry-go-round hopefulless existence that gets us back from the shallow end just to dump us in the drowning pool again; this hop-on-hop-off sort of riding the tide until we're sick to our stomachs will all the options we've had - that somehow, at some point and without ever really noticing, we left behind. Or just forgot about.
So then what, my darlin, my love, can we talk about? What sort of past, presently processed information can even hope to get at now?
Here, I'll just give you a mutliple choice answer sheet and you can mark down all the right answers -- all the "a"s and "b"s, maybe even a few "c"s and one "d", if you will. And when you're done, we'll sit down on a couch in your vastly littered lobby and we'll ruminate over them. And then, sooner than later, we'll go back home and we'll see you in another lifetime, - or another year. Whichever is more convenient, really.
Because we wouldn't want to pressure you into sharing any decisions. And we wouldn't want to push you to coming to reveal any real conclusions. And we'd hate to shove you off into any complicated explanations of things you probably don't want to have to explain, anyway.
Like, let's say, Love for example. But no, that shouldn't probably be capitalized, because then we could ascribe to saying that it "just exists". And you'd let us get away with that because no one likes to have to explain it any other way, because then it doesn't mean as much to us. So instead, we just talk about the abstractified, obsurified sort of lower-cased "love" that could be earth shattering just as much as made out of solid gold or worthless metal, like the same stainless steel our sinks drip into when the faucet doesn't turn off all the way. Because then, when we're vague about it, we can still practice our precious free will and dissassociate our guilt from it -- not "believe in it" anymore. As if that were a viable option.
Well, so there we are: it's clearly "love" and not "Love". And we'll leave it like that, so we can make cliquey little claims about it and how it affects or relates to the collective "they": like soceity or humanity. All because, somehow, that makes our assimilation to ideals we don't really want to ascribe to a little bit easier. And well hell, we're all probably still at least 75% human. So that means we still want life to be easy, and we still believe that we have our rights claimed for happiness. And not just the frugal fruitless pursuit of it, either - because if we can somehow avoid being realistic and yet still screw around with reality, we're fairly and pretty much generally happy beings.
Because in the end, we really all just want to be happy.
We want to drink our tea without boiling water. Want to enjoy our coffee without buying a brewer. Want to eat pastry without paying a baker.
And at the heart and soul of it all, we just want to claim oursevles living without needing or pursuing a maker.
-RK
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