I don't really know if Jesus existed or not, to be honest. But I think about him a lot. And I love him. He feels like an old friend I've known for years who is really inspiring because it's like he totally got the whole non-violence thing and how necessary it is to practice it so as to jar the field into something new ... and how hard it is to practice it. Deny yourself. How he knew too that most people wouldn't even see that whole aspect of his life but would just turn aside in their refusal to give up their self-defences, their smelly, infested blanket that smells like dead dogs but feels like security, but is just hating and loathing and extricating yourself from that and those who you hate and loathe and despise. That is making the whole world blind and might blow the whole fucking thing up if we don't change our wily ways and surrender.
But ayup, easier to shore up your gun in your house and defend yourself that way from all them heathen non-Christian folks, or them horrible superstitious Christian folks, or them non-Islamic State folks, or them Iranian folks, or them white folks, or them black folks, or them men, or them women, or them gays, or them straights or them ...
Two men in the Aldi supermarket the other day were wearing rabbit ears while conducting their cashier work. I thought it was cute that they were wearing them and also at the very same time I wanted to rip them off their heads and chop them up with scissors. Because those rabbit ears are meaningless when you live in a country that is positioned on the revolving ball that is in autumn. The ears only make sense when you're celebrating Easter in the northern hemisphere because it's fucking well spring. Easter is another story that may make you think I'm a grouchy old woman but I'm sorry. As a story it's crappy. It's one more cobbled-together dumb nod to consumerism in the same way that Halloween is and they both need to be cut up with scissors and new wineskins instituted tout suite, Kimmoy.
But still, despite that, the part of me who is not an amateur anthropologist in despair at our cultural malaise and how we can't even see how dumb and stupid our cultural games are liked it because it was fun and because looking at the cracks in the story gets really dull after awhile and you need to go away and do something fun like putting ears on your head because it's fun and it makes your work day better so shut up, amateur anthropologist lady bore.
The old woman in front of me was taking ages to get herself sorted and move along so that I could put my trolley in position and the cashier could begin checking my onions and cornflour through in an appropriately paced fashion. I felt happy that the woman was taking so long because slowness is a cog in the wheel of efficiency and feels like an act of nonviolent resistance. The cashier with rabbit ears apologised for the extra 39 seconds I had to wait and I said, nay, 'tis not a burden to lump along at a snail's pace. It gives one opportunity to observe one's impatience and say, nay, impatience, you shall not be the master of me though you scratch me with your steely nails. It allows for daydreaming, which is a necessity for us to evolve into being able to flower big bunches of roses out the sides of our bodies for no apparent reason.
I didn't say all of that to the rabbit-eared cashier but I did say it's fine to go slow, and that we should all go at a quarter of the pace that we currently go at. And he laughed and said, nay, the good people at Aldi would not allow such a thing. And I said, then they be stupid buffoons who should be lined up and shot with flower guns and forced to go lie down for an afternoon nap.
I have been feeling in recent months like I wish to die. Not because life isn't worth living, because it wonderfullishly is, but because I haven't had enough of life. There are different lives that you get to live depending upon a massive amount of variables, and the door I've been subjected to walk through and down its dreary cobwebbed hallway is the one my malfunctioning body has forced me down. It's like living in a swamp where all the words get sucked out the soles of my feet.
It sounds very dramatic to say that I have been feeling like my body is slowly dying. But it has felt like that. My turning circle has been very small. I don't mind a small turning circle because at a size that looks small to the outside world is where the richest words flow in through the soles of your feet and up and out through the top of your head like a fountain. Small is good. But everything is relative. It gets scary when it gets exceedingly small because you know that the fabric that exists outside your window isn't enough to hold you rightly in the space in which you find yourself.
It should be. All cultures except our stupid one know this stuff. It's basic 101 stuff about illness, and supporting those who need it so that they strengthen and become exactly the sort of people who you would expect them to become when they know they live in a space that holds them up. They become people who do not look like politicians. Being ill in our culture is really fucked up and I'm only surprised that more people don't end their lives when they are in these chronically ill spaces.
That is hard to read, isn't it. It's stark and freaky, but I refuse to gloss over anything. I'm exhausted partially from living in a denialist culture and I quite simply refuse to deny what I see. I malfunction enough, thank you very much. To deny what you see is to open yourself up to all sorts of shenanigans devised by public relations departments. And anyway, I'm a little suspicious of anyone who hasn't at least once felt such despair that they wish to murder themselves. To not ever feel like that is to mean that you are removed from the goings on of crumbliness that we are subjected to. To not feel the despair may mean that you don't actually have any idealism left at all, that you don't even miss and lament that which you have never had and yearn for. To yearn for the beautiful is, to me, one of the sure signs of a living, breathing, heartbeating human being. It's not morbid to occasionally wish for death because the story you live in is so very ugly.
And so these words are my protest, though some of them be spiky and black and feel like evil. I'm sure they're not all that easy to read but then if one is after easy reading, that's what cereal boxes are for.
And anyway, now, suddenly and yet after months and months and months of trying to steady my body's ship, suddenly it's stopped grinding itself on the lap of an iceberg and all of a sudden I can feel the slow, small resurrection. It's a very tiny resurrection, with no brass instruments to be seen, but it does feel miraculous to me. All it is taking for the resurrection is tiny amounts of a dead cow's freeze-dried glandulars. I'm not happy about this situation. I resisted taking these things for years, but I got so desperate that my pragmatism kicked in.
It said the sacrificial cow would still be so regardless of my stance on how I loathe cows being slaughtered, loathe any animal being slaughtered for us to eat. It's so gross! How many thousands of cows are killed in the world every day and their adrenal glands removed? Is my one little stance going to change that? Well, maybe. I happen to be of the mystical persuasion who's glorying in slow scientific incursions into fields of the morphic variety. We are one! And we have more powerful effect on the collective than we think.
But I cast the morphic field aside because, dear reader, I am desperate. And so I'm taking the glandulars, in tiny amounts, with a break while I switch to a different type that suits me better. The sort I've been taking has hormones, and I have enough adrenaline coursing through my body already without any more. Their effects were waaaaaay too stimulating, so that I had the strange experience of feeling on the one hand like my body was beginning to wake up, but only being able to understand that once I delved underneath the large fuzzy frazzly nerve endings jangling like that jingle jangle scarecrow with a flippy floppy hat. Except the nerve endings didn't have a flippy floppy hat on their ends, they just had bzzzzzz and bzzzzz on them, which don't have the same smart but casual look as that of a flippy floppy hat.
But nevertheless, suddenly, I feel the life starts ebbing in again sideways, like spring. Like possibility. Like stability.
Like wow, wipeout.