2008 - 06
My Plan B - 2008-06-28 05:31
When asked, I tell people my retirement plan is the Apocalypse. "2012 tops," I say, "though I plan to work pretty steady up until then."
I don't have a plan B, don't think I'll need one to be honest.
Bob Marley talked of fulfilling the book as a reason for unthinkable things to exist. I believe him; Bush's win in 2004 was a forced-hand-of-god thing -- I have no other reason to think it happened on purpose, or due to any reasonable cause and effect -- it doesn't seem credible that so many people could be so stupid. It had to be an act of some god, his mighty wonders to perform, so mighty, and so near the end of things that he didn't even try to cover it up a bit-- unlike what he did when the Hubble went up too early and almost caught the contractors changing the scenery -- but don't get me started on THAT groundskeeper mistake by the great overseer...Let's just say, You can't fuck up a mirror twice unless you are asking for some weird kind of freak out from the science geeks.
and I just don't have the patience for it anymore.
We are drifting towards an end time, a finish. Nothing else makes sense to me. and if I'm wrong, and if it all holds together like it probably will, I'm no better off in the not knowing. But is that true? The implication is that I'm willing to take a drive -- to gently belly flop, in order to lay face down in shallow water until I'm dead -- no fight, no flight -- just a gentle into that goodnight, an anticipatory goodbye to a cruel world that doesn't play fair, or love me, or appreciate me, more to the point I think....
Seen this way, it seems a lame ass Nancy boy way of retirement -- but, then, that OJ thing -- how could that be possible if all of life weren't predetermined and a random piling pieces upon pieces until, like a good movie, it all comes together in and retrospectively obvious big bang of aha-ness ?
Only the illusion of free will has gotten me this far -- and self-delusion, and a sense of humor. is it that I'm tired? What's changed in the last ten years? Well, I stopped drugs and became a poor guy -- limited income -- hard work -- all that crap. That's got to wear on a guy. But no, don't think that's it -- maybe it has to do with a funny feeling that the deck is stacked -- the ball is rolling, that we, as a rule and a group, are a cancer on the things we touch -- a blight -- self-will fullness writ large in a life form of collectiveness.
What I do it not predetermined -- but what we do is -- is that it?
What is a man to do when he knows that life is just movement through time? That all decays and is broken down by both physical laws and common sense? That love is bearing a camel on your back while sand worms squirming in salty sand cane your soles with cattails--because all the really important things can't be said in words, only hormones that sometimes shoot your whole body with the illusion of meaning and the feeling of true joy with understanding? The poison from realities arrow or the transcending truthfulness of connecting?
I'm I too rough? Isn't good crowding out the bad? Sometimes I think it is, sometimes not -- but this conflict needs a resolution in my head -- how to approach the coming of the end with the proper etiquette. I could go small -- the Jimmy carter approach -- live within my means, repair the damage I have personally done to the things around me. Stewardship over the planet, that kind of stuff -- the heavy lifting-- do the next small thing until the weight of goodness and light overwhelms the shallow distractions that are killing me with fat and oil and tits and chrome.
The plug away at it school of life --it's attractive, and god knows it might be a way to go with this, but it's like that Dale Ornish diet plan --not fun and kind of chewy in a grass and wheat germ, lifeboat earth platform. This is the diet that makes a skill saw to the chest a more attractive option than eating better?
Where does the motivation come from -- how do I bootstrap into a change for the better, when bootstrapping itself comes from slutty ladies hiding drugs for their pimps by strapping booze to their ankles. Like legality itself, what's better really mean when it might just be a trendy snapshot of time?
Is it the as if reality? Make it so by believing it is the way I conceptualized it? Draw a picture of what I am and what it is and then blow it up from two to three dimensions by putting my meat into it?
This physical and emotional fatness needs to be lugged with pride to meet the great burning, or it needs to change. Or maybe I should just re-see the flames of hell into a more structured Disney-esque motif.
I stand on the edge and choose.