entombed in the shrine of zeroes and ones

We move from a state of ignorance to a state of doubt. A state of certainty is ephemeral; if it persists, it is unnatural and must be shunned.

I always remember my mother's admonition that i should never forget what it was like to be young whenever i felt the urge to criticize a child or teenager. And i haven't. What i do seem to be having a problem nowadays is remembering what a dumbass i was in my early 20s. So when i'm faced with young folks at that age doing dumb shit, my first reaction isn't, "Oh, well, i probably did the same," but, "Christ, what a fucking retard." I'm so damned crotchety...

I have a small theory that posits that irrationality is most often a misnomer; almost everything we do consciously is done rationally, at some level in our mind. The process might not be familiar, but that does not mean that there is no process.

Intuition is just the subconscious processing minutiae and spitting up a conclusion. There is nothing particularly supernatural or instinctual about it. It is simply a side effect of the schizoid nature of our minds and how poorly we understand it. Intuition is not the opposite of sensory perception; they go hand in hand.

When i was very young, i was afraid of the dark.  I saw large skeletons behind doors with not-so-friendly intentions.  Fortunately, i found out that closing my eyes would make them go away.

As i grew up, i felt that phobias of the dark, heights, et cetera, were silly and something that would impede my enjoyment of life.  So i resolved not to have any.  And somehow i thought that by taking that decision, i would never again be afraid in my life.

I hadn't gotten into any fights in school until my mom got me transferred in midyear to Colegio Americano during 4th grade.  I got angry with a friend over a discussion of which soccer team was better.  I'll always remember the first time i smelled my own fear; that bitter odor that feels like it's firmly pinching your septum, and makes your eyes water, your stomach turn, and your limbs tremble.  Hell, it was hard to forget it, considering how often i started getting into fights after that.

Fast forward to the first fight i actually won.  7th grade, and some stupid dispute over a soccer ball.  Fear at first, but somehow, i was not only holding my own, but i was kicking this guy's ass.  That was the first time i smelled my rage.  If fear was trying to creep its way up my nostrils, rage was like a nosebleed, the exhaust that my body put out as it burned my opponent.

Now, of course, i'm a model of emotional balance; where there was fear, there is now worrisome anxiety; where there was rage, there is now frustration and tepid anger with a side order of despair.  Where fear was an inhibitor and rage was a motivator, now i have emotions that sometimes blur, provoke nothing, and have no smell worth describing.  No, not balance; stasis and stagnation.  Oh, i can FEEL it, you know, but sometimes i wonder, why do i bother to feel?

I don't want to become an adrenalin junkie, someone who has to do something mindnumbingly risky/stupid just to feel the thrill.  Not the least because that thrill is anything but cheap, nowadays.  But i don't want to return to the days when my skin would prickle and my blood boil at the slightest stimulus, either; i don't want the fear to paralyze me, nor the rage consume me.

Sometimes, though, you don't get what you want.

Anger is energy.  Someone or something interacts with you and suddenly, boom, it's there, building up inside.  And you start to seethe, and you start to burn up, and you've got to let it out.  Somehow.  Or it'll consume you and leave nothing behind but the ashes of your soul.

But you can't let it all out at once; the river cannot let all its water flow to the ocean simultaneously, for it leaves a dry bed and the mouth is flooded.  Anger is energy.  Let it flow; do not let it explode.  And as it flows, think of how good it feels to let it go; and as it ends, notice the feeling of wholeness you now have.

The river of anger flows in and out of you; you are nothing but a port on its bank.  Do not dam it, or it will flood you over.  Build your levees to prepare for the sudden storms.  And, above all, let the river nourish you as it passes by.  A little burn is always good for the heart.

Händel and Grendel traipsed into the city, despite the warning their psychotherapist gave them ("The city is populated by the tasteless and ignorant; entering it will bring you nothing but waste and ire.").

And they saw gladiators
                        and cathedrals
                                      and soldiers
                                                    and pipelayers.

And they came upon the Sports Bar and Choir, and they did drool at the sight of the Altar B-Boys.  The Händel, he did lust, and the Grendel, she did hunger.  And the Barman saw this, and smiled a secret smile, and ordered the B-Boys to reenact their births, as if they were enduring it again.  And as the Händel and the Grendel became engrossed in the staged rebirth, the Barman put a spell on them, to make them his.  And the Händel and the Grendel were so captured, and their helplessness was so vexing, but ALAS!

The Monk, as he took the psychotherapist in penance, was told about the perilous and unwise journey the Händel and the Grendel had taken, interrupted his task, and set out immediately to seek and deliver them, for they both had been set aside by him, anointed, to reign in Heaven and Hell respectively after the world ended for the third and last time.

And he did slay the misguided and greedy Barman, and he did take him, and he did rescue the Händel and the Grendel, and he did chastise them, and he did then, satisfied with his saga, set them free.

Händel then went back to the psychotherapist and confessed his sins. His penance was the music, which would outlive them all.

Grendel then disemboweled the Monk.

And all was well.

Pain is funny.  Perhaps less in the weird sense than in the humorous
sense.  Pain can make you laugh, when someone takes that tender spot
and squeezes it and gives you that special smile, and your suffering
suddenly becomes amusing as all hell and you laugh and shake and the
pressure on your bruise turns into shearing stress and the pain goes
through a tonal change and you see stars, whole galaxies before your
eyes and the laughter paralyzes your diaphragm and you hurt SO much.

Pain is a remembrance, a sign: "A battle here was once fought."  Ow.
As your flesh or your soul changes colors, so does the memory of the
incident; how badly were you hurt?  It's ok, i'm fine now.  But deep
down, the tissue beneath the surface has scarred; the callus will be
there and will not let you forget that you were battered.  Your pain
will not have been in vain.  Recall, and learn: it may not hurt less
the next time it occurs but the pain will most certainly be funnier.