Trying to Wake Myself Up

Control comes at a premium. I think we too seldom weigh the cost of being in control of our lives. Most of the time, I am not sure that this is what we think we are after. I only tentatively stand by the notion, myself. At the same time, what motivates us to follow convention? Why does social proof hold sway over our behavior, even after faith or feelings or even rational thought have postulated the opposite? I refuse to pick on smokers, this time. This time, I am willing to turn the lens of examination on myself and everyone I resemble. A mere glance at a media rich society reveals that we do take our stimulation, too often, vicariously. To be blunt, we count on getting some emotional contagion from the tellie—I've looked to cheap fictional involvement a great deal over the past three weeks. Cheap might be a little harsh. I caught the end of a cerebral thriller with my sister just a half hour ago (has it been that long already?). The cognitive effort is less than reading—and the creative effort is nil. No risk of failure.

May is what May has been, for me. I started quitting during finals week. To say "quitting" so generally is the easiest way to describe my demeanor. Predictably, I became dull in my disciplines. It doesn't surprise me anymore, or cause me to panic nearly as much as it ought. I am sure there is a May journal entry from two-thousand six or seven or five that reflects the post-semester angst (in eight I justified is as resting before my great trip south). My prayer and music life always seems to suffer as a microcosm of my self. Unfortunately, as my prayer and music life go, so goes the rest of my self.

Thoughts go unreflected (<--there is a red squigley here {and another under squigley}—what do you want from me, Microsoft word? Professor Balboni chastised me for my hyphens, yet you insist upon one? I am leaving it as it is. SIC. There is no reason that the prefix 'un' cannot attach to the front of 'reflected'. When a thought is not held next to a mirror, even one as imperfect as text, those thoughts remain without reflection—unreflected. Word can kiss-off...) during these junctures. Sometimes, trite makes right: I'm afraid of my own reflection. I prefer not to see these telling images.

Now is where I can get waxy with philosophizing and try to break down uncertainty and control and the whole of the universe. I could bifurcate the issue: "one must gain control and beat uncertainty either by exploring and conquering or by shrinking back to a minimal sphere and possessing it—obviously the former is best!" Well, every witty bifurcation possesses a true principle surrounded by a vacuous space that every qualitative element has been driven from. What about my bed, made the same each day? Am I possessing the minimal space? What about my trip to the publishing house in Indianapolis? Was that the kind of exploring and conquering that I was taking about? Let's let it alone. Action comes after thought.

Cutting to the intrapsychic core, I know better than to shrink from my disciplines, my mirrors and the possibilities of a new day. My excuses for remaining so relaxed are growing tired. My ankle hurts. My bowels hurt. I slept too long. I'll do something later. As usual, I write myself into one of these chains, get frustrated and start looking for an end to the entry. The text validates the reality. Control comes at a premium because when we have to limit our actions to really have it with certainty. This is the self-imposed restriction I suffer under. If I pick up an instrument, or take up the keyboard, or kneel to face God, then I am doing something that convention has not provided a sure heuristic with which to cope. Spirituality, creativity, wit: these take risk. Sleep and its related states (like media stupor, for example) are easily controlled.

Now is the part where I make some cryptic hopeful remark. My will to stay with a thought fades because I know that I have explored these places in journals before. Except, I'm laughing at myself a little better, today. Maybe the aching bowels really were just an opportunity to sit on the toilet and read snippets of Thurber and wonder if anyone would ever want to sit on their toilet and read Gore. In any case (my favorite prepositional phrase, which I try to avoid like the plague), this business of summing everything up in a page has never suited me. What is global ends up being so much about everything that it is about nothing you can get your hand on or your mind around.

Oh well. At least I got onto the word processor today (though it wouldn't let me use "intrapsychicly", even if intrapsychic is acceptable). I'm still unhappy with my writing voice. Go figure.