Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Thoughts From An Abandoned Mindshaft

I used to just start blog entries not knowing where they would go, or where they would stop. I've gotten away from that.



I was just thinking about this: It is so hard to find out what I really want. It is hard to know what I really like. It is hard to be this inarticulate.



We take the garbage & recycle out every Wednesday—but how often do we do the same for our soul?



We cut our cable TV this week. TV is worthless except to serve the purpose of entertainment. We all need entertainment—the only problem is that we need about this much:



And most of us feed on a supply of about this much:













So if we only need the smaller dot, then Netflix will more than suffice.



That leads us to addiction. We are so addicted we don't even know we're addicted, which is the hallmark of an addict, of course. Addicted to comfort, entertainment, food, distraction, technology, money. I only recently broke my 32-year-old addiction to food. Haven't broken it, just quelled it, significantly. No one had ever suggested to me that I should change my diet to alleviate my severe acid reflux. We get fat, we have bad digestion, bad posture. We're not trained to fix the problem, we are trained to treat the symptoms.



I had thought for years that I should change my diet—but I didn't want to. It sounded like death. I didn't want to give up cheeseburgers, fettuccine alfredo, butter chicken, bacon wrapped anything, pepperoni/olive/jalapeno pizza, ketchup, mayonnaise, blue cheese, grease, microwaved chimichangas loaded with cheese, ranch, lasagna, butter. Giving these up would be death. So all the while I was willing to wreak death on my body. It's a funny thing—real death, well, it's for real, and there is no getting away from it—but exiting from a false death (addiction), well I have found that it is the shortest trip home that you can make. From inside, it doesn't look like a short trip, it isn't even a trip; from inside the death of addiction the bright sunshine of reality is what looks like death. But if you can exit, you will soon find that the light of reality has an eerie, familiar quality to it. There is a vague understanding that this is where you were supposed to be. This feeling is made all the more weirder by your remembrance that you spent years insisting that up was down, left was right, and wallowing in addiction was all the bliss in the world you could afford.



I can hear our pair of hamsters bickering and fighting with each other. I noticed that the same feeling arose in my chest that I would feel when listening to my parents, as a child, do the same thing. That is profoundly weird.



I'm trying to decide if I have anything to add to this. Thank you for attending this colloquy of thoughts. Beck got away with writing nonsense. Maybe that's the easier thing to do. But if someone's nonsense is comforting, and it resonates, it spreads—can we still call it nonsense? I used to write a lot more nonsense. Little descriptive clusters of nothing. Like I was digging for something, didn't know what, and kept pulling out bits of broken pottery.

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