Philosophillustrations #1: The Train (© November 2013)

The wait is over...here is what took so long. This is "The Train", the child of and solution to a troubling thought in the middle of the night many weeks ago. Sometimes I think the hardest thoughts are better grappled with with as few words as possible. Words often sully meaning (she wrote, in her long-winded introduction to something presumably meaningful). Today, I have questions. What does Time mean to you? Feel free to question conventional ideas about it. How do you feel when you think about the passage of time and your place within it? Terrified? Curious? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Go forth and be wonderful.

I'm Workin' On It

       You'll notice this post is very very short. That is because it isn't one. I'm just writing to let you know that there WON'T be a post today, probably not tomorrow either, and probably not even the next day. That's because the probably-a-week-late post that was meant for today is, I assure you, extra wonderful (at least I think so). It's something very different (and a little more labor intensive) than I've done in the past, but trust me, it's at least a distant relative of lovely. I think you'll really like it. I hope you will.

You're dying to know what it is.

I'm not telling you.

But here's a hint-

Here's another- Hint #1 is so obscure, it's entirely unhelpful. You're welcome.

Now, Go forth and be wonderful.

Abstract Shapes and Superhumanity

       I'm on vacation. So my head's everywhere. Thusly, dear reader, welcome to the pits of hell :). As you read, I invite you to ponder- Do you know any superhumans? How are you a superhuman? Tell me in the comments!

      Yesterday, I was in the family car listening to music when I started thinking about the Spy vs. Spy comic from Mad Magazine. And how the shapes of the Spys' heads has always reminded me of Hate. And vice versa. I sketched the shape in my notebook:

Then I sketched some more shapes that I connect to Hate:

And then all this happened:

As I sat there furiously visualizing abstract concepts, tearing out pages, and realizing I plunge further into insanity with each passing moment, I remembered one day on the school bus when my brain exploded. 

      Bit of background. Synesthesia (the cognitive disorder) has always fascinated me , for a number of reasons. As a small child, I wouldn't have understood what was disorderly about strongly associating colors/sounds/etc. with numbers/situations/etc. It would have seemed familiar, perfectly logical, and even downright awesome. That way of perceiving had been underscoring my entire young life beautifully. That was one of the best things about being a kid- how my brain didn't really care to separate vermillion from the number 5, or the feeling of a fever from the sound of clinking metal. I learned about synesthesia  later on, when I was about 12. Let's get on the bus now.

    I had a friend-she's called "Inky" from now on-who, if she didn't have to be doing anything else, was definitely reading. If she DID have to be doing something else, she was still probably reading. It is because Inky was reading one day on the school bus that I discovered synesthetic perception was not always a poetic, colorful walk in the woods. The book Inky was reading on that particular field trip was the story of a girl living with synesthesia. Inky did occasionally grow tired of literature and turned to trying to get people to understand what the heck she was talking about. I FREQUENTLY grew tired of trying to get people to understand what the heck I was talking about and turned to literature (At this point in time, I don't think Inky or I had quite mastered the art of concealing our respective cases of wonderful, kaleidoscopic insanity). Through a strange an unexpected exchange of words and bus ride agendas I do not exactly recall , she ended up bookless, chattering abstractly, and not really sitting down all the way. I ended up confused, silent, and fully seated with Inky's book on my lap. I opened it up.

    I don't think I got too far. But the first quarter of the book was enough to jar me a little. In my mind, the book's protagonist (and anyone else with synesthesia) was diagnosed with a disorder just for thinking differently. Also, I had a burning doubt, something I was certain ought be in the back of absolutely everyone's mind- What if some "disorders" are actually gifts, and we're ostracizing superheroes? Or, even more chillingly, what if all these supposed victims of cognitive malfunction are right, and everyone else is just blind? I could not concentrate on the book, and was a little upset until I got home and told my dad about this horrible inconsistency I'd released into my psyche. To be honest, I remained skeptical even after he assured me that "no, you don't have synesthesia. You can turn off your synesthetic thinking if you have to. It doesn't impact your ability to function out in the world". But it was a little too late. I'd opened up a wormhole that was too immense for my developing 12-year-old-mind to handle. One thing led to another and I eventually arrived at "What if right and wrong don't even exist? What if it all depends on  perception?". I was soon feverishly pondering a scenario in which most people had synesthesia, and there were kids in schools getting made fun of for thinking the sound of a hammer was colorless. Now, this kind of idea would just be an interesting adventure. But then, it was the end of the world. I mean, my skull had only fully fused about a year before. I was overwhelmed.

    These days, it makes sense to me that Synesthesia is considered a disorder. But hold on.

 I actually have a firm belief that the following is the case, but for the sake of fairness and open-mindedness I'll use the phrase "What if".

      What if the only reason some folks have to struggle with their abnormalities is because "normality" is entirely fabricated? Do animals ever have synesthesia (google doesn't know)? And if so, does it matter to them? And what if certain "disorders" are only a problem because in our society, majority always rules? Imagine a world where the fact that everyone thinks totally differently is not only common knowledge, but expected. Where different IS normal. 

    On this blog, in my head, in my life, everything is linked to the next thing even if it's in an abstract way. Kind of a sporadic linearity. I'm going to ignore for a moment the likelihood that this entire post is probably one big soup of "HAHaHahahaHa-Shapes-Society-Conflict-Colors-Sounds-giggledygiggledyHAhaWUt?". In fact, I challenge you, dear reader, to discover the sneaky little metaphor that's lurking around in here. 

      Shout out to the Superhero Graphic Novel fans. This is a "Save the Superhero" PSA. We comic fans  know that superheroes have it rough. They are indeed SUPER human. They're freaks. Their lives are dramatic and complicated. 

     I'm going back to the SUPER human thing for a second. Those sad heroes are humans, amplified. But not always in the areas folks want them to. They've been told all their lives that they're freaks. That's part of why Doctor McCoy doesn't hop out of bed singing "I'm an extremely intelligent human, but I also can climb really well and I'm covered in bright blue fur". Blue fur and monkey feet are not normal, and not something anyone else wants to use. But that shouldn't matter. People who don't try to hurt other people should just be allowed to be, even if they struggle with Geometry and they have a big gross mole on their face. That big gross mole could be getting in the way of people noticing a knack for screenwriting or quantum physics.   Tragic superheroes are symbolic  for lots of these real live people. People who get bullied or looked at weird or have no friends. People like the girl from that book I started to read. It's wrong. No one deserves that. 

     And goddamnit, a superhero should have some friends. They're frikin' superheroes!! So learn people's stories. Go form a team of formerly friendless, sulky superheroes with crooked noses and/or marfans syndrome and serious acting skills and/or original designs for a highly functional engine. We're all endowed with incredible gifts (or mutations) and we're all easy to misunderstand and mislabel in a world of close- mindedness. Dear reader, I invite you to open your mind. Hear orange. Say hi to wolverine. Write an equation using 18 different carefully chosen shades. Realize that the gnarled birthmark on your foot is probably a tiny map of somewhere in the universe that doesn't exist yet (or does in another one). Know that right and wrong might just be relative.

       And know that Nostradamus loves you.

Go forth and be wonderful.

Death and I

      So, I had planned to make today's post a bit more lighthearted. But I've decided that the previously scheduled post, entitled "The Tofurkey Box Toad Cadaver", isn't ready for the world yet. So this week, I've rewritten and jazzed up something I wrote a few months ago for a youth service at my church, using some new brain juice and ideas. Enjoy. And please share your thoughts/revelations/anxieties/stories etc. concerning death in the comments, or  send me a message. I'd love to hear from you.
     Many of the people I know were introduced to death slowly. They, you know, looked at it from a distance a couple times a week, maybe it smashed into their window on a particularly windy day and left a mark. For others, it was sharp and painful, a cloud hanging over them every minute of every day, as they watched their parents, their children taking the hand of death and falling away at a moments notice. We've all lain awake at night, mulling over it, maybe sweating a bit, even feeling for a fleeting moment that we understand it, before it slaps us awake and shuffles eerily out the window. No one can successfully ignore death. Death is like one of those really wonderful teachers that has a unique relationship with each and every one of his or her students. The whole world is death's classroom. And attendance, as we all know, is mandatory.
     When I was 7 years old, death decided to make a flamboyant crash landing right in front of my half-toothless, freckley face. I had just migrated from the colorful, explosive culture wonderland of my birthplace to the poetic cataract of quiet that is my current location. Death started out slow. I saw it creeping about in Hurricane Katrina's wake, waving coyly at our old friends and neighbors with fingers the size of a FEMA truck. Through rose-colored glasses, these things are nothing more than a bad dream. I knew I should be upset. I was. But only because I didn't understand what had happened. I tucked death's first attempt at a conversation into one of the empty folds of my tiny cranium and made things and talked to animals and sang and told stories and giggled. But death was still trying. This time, it won. First, my beloved four-year old rat died. She had developed an enormous tumor on her chest and died in surgery. I was devastated. I simply couldn't fathom why the whole world didn't just stop with her. Why I didn't stop. And then PEOPLE started stopping. My grandmother, my great-grandfather. I suddenly became terrified of stopping. I realized I would stop one day and couldn't do anything about it. By the time I was nine, I was obsessed with death. I would have panic attacks at ungodly hours. I wouldn't allow myself to be alone in a room with knives, or I would become petrified, tremble, push them away. I wanted so badly to know about death, know why it did what it did, know exactly what it felt like to stop. I was afraid I would stop myself. I thought about it. Not because I didn't want to live, because I didn't want to live without knowing.
     It haunted me for a good long while. Then, right around my 15th birthday, things started to change. I realized there was no use spending the limited amount of time one has to live worrying about what will happen when one won't anymore. I started to identify what DID matter, what made life worth living, and most importantly, what a gift it was just to be alive. All the time I would have been spending fretting about my own mortality and that of others was now open for recognizing other mysterious and/or unbelievable things. I made it my mission to search for the beauty in every concept, being, or situation I come across, and to help others do the same. I suddenly had time for kindness. There is something so very nourishing, so intensely gratifying, about coaxing out smiles or laughter or even tears of joy in others. Thus, I reached a certain peace. And this peace helped me to understand, from my own perspective, an essential facet of death's great mystery. It is this-
     If I were to die this very minute, without warning, I would not have been cheated. Firstly,Because I've chosen to have faith that one person's tragedy might just be another's Shrodinger-esque opportunity. In other words, my hypothetical death could by extension contribute to the discovery of a cure for cancer eleven galaxies away -more on this in a future post ;)- Or maybe the equilibrium of the universe is being disturbed by the fact that my right foot is bigger than my left foot (fact) and it's just got to go. It's probably not even that complicated. But I choose to believe that good and evil are balanced in the grand scheme of things. Even if life sucks sometimes and I get super crazy upset and depressed about it. We've all got that right. We're not the Universe. We can't possibly understand the reasons behind the horrible/wonderful things that happen. Especially not death.
     This is not to say that I haven't got a whole lot of living left to do, or that I don't still lay awake at night thinking about death or panicking about it till it drives me crazy, or that I don't have years and years of things to offer to the world as a whole. It's just that Death is not a criminal. Death does what death must do in order to offer the gift of life again and again. Death is an essential element in maintaining the balance of the Universe. And the second revelation I had is that because I have facilitated happiness, and I have given of myself to make life as beautiful a thing as I can for anyone and everyone I can, and thus, myself... I have lived. And if a life has not been wasted, if a life has been spent learning and giving and doing and growing to that life's fullest capacity, death is not merely the cutting of a thread. It is in fact the completion of a marvelous tapestry, to hang beside others of its kind eternally in a massive mural of intricate stitching, indeed more magnificent than any of us can begin to comprehend.

I leave you today with a fractal giraffe:






Go forth and be wonderful.

Post Intense Enlightenment Syndrome (PIES)

Disclaimer: I am brand new at this. Some kinds of art took centuries for people to appreciate. With that in mind, the following is impressionistic coherence and organization. 
      So it begins. Welcome to the psychotropic labyrinth that is my cranium. At this time I invite you (if anyone is indeed reading this and intends to continue doing so regularly) to become familiar with the particular breed of deliciously frustrating nonsense that you are about to be exposed to. Because, dear reader, deliciously frustrating nonsense built a wonderfully comfy nest in my frontal lobe the very moment it became official that I even had a frontal lobe. And it has been living there happily for over sixteen years. It is not going anywhere. My very first post/the beginning of this crazy idea is about something I've decided to call PIES, or Post Intense Enlightenment Syndrome.
        A few days ago, I came back from the most spiritually intense/enlightening/beautiful/happy/ILikeUsingSlashesALot/crazy/amazing experiences of my life. This experience was QUUest camp, a weeklong Unitarian Universalist leadership camp that happens in Colorado anually. Dear QUUest-Prepare to get exalteded (definitely a word). There's really no words I could use that would work to explain how unbelievable it was, but I'm going to give in-a-nutshell-ing a shot here.
       Over the week, I meditated into the fourth world of my mind, Found out that my true form is a trippy cross between a ball of multicolored molten glass and a strobe light (Say no to drugs, kids. And open guided meditation, apparently ). I learned how to fool my body into releasing insane animal emotions by simply breathing. I found my self a few times, had multiple epiphanies, went insane (literally, but briefly), high fived and hugged suspended 40 feet in the air. I wrote a cooperative song about squirrels and equality, danced until sweat burned my eyes, rediscovered and reconnected with my body, (get your mind out of the gutter. Catharsis, not home-alone-and-bored-at-the-age-of-ten. Jesus, people). I Killed white walkers, Laughed hysterically, Sang myself nearly to tears, Walked in space. I forged friendships far deeper than I thought possible, got scared out of my mind, participated in an actually successful rain dance, ate too much, felt like exploding with happiness, grew a mustache...And a novel of other amazing things. The Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day and whatnot. Anyway, I could go on forever. But the long and short of it is that my life was changed for the better.
      You are probably thinking "Okay, so where's the part where they all had to make a blood offering to Lord Funkenfoodle and drink goat's bile from the skull of a virgin?". Keep your shirt on. That's next.

Just kidding.

   I'm not part of a cult. Yeah yeah, "Unitarian Universalism IS a cult, you cult follower. You're a creepy freak cult follower (1). And you're a gay hippie tranny(2). And I did things with your mom(3)." Let's talk about that for a second. To the individual who is thinking about clumsily misspelling the above thoughts into a comment or an email (anywhere on the internet, not just here) I would like to say some helpful things, because I'm just nice like that.

1. Call it what you will. Cult is a fun word for religion sometimes. Both things have a very bad reputation and are a little weird. I will occasionally make reference to my UUism on this blog, like right now.  I'm saying these things now so its not all awkward when you find out later. If you're a UU who doesn't like my kind of UUism or how I talk about it, and feels the need to say mean things , I invite you to review the seven principles, homefry. If you're not a UU but you are part of a religion that feels I'm on the road to a fiery or unpleasant afterlife as a result of my beliefs, That's okay, just keep it to yourself because it's not nice. To you I say this: I love you anyway and I hope things work out. If you give no shits about what other people believe as long as they leave you alone, Yay! Welcome to the club. If you happen to be disappointed that someone so incredibly awesome would go to church, I have some suggestions. You can keep feeling that way, you're entitled to your opinion. OR you can wikipedia "Unitarian Universalist" and make a decision after some research.OR If you're curious, you can ask me about it, but everyone's version is different.  OR you could go to a UU church sometime and see for yourself. UU's love to feel like people know they exist. And who knows, you might like it. Lots of them also love to talk about themselves *ahem*, so that's another great way to learn more about them. Lastly, many UU's love feeling like they are being really good people, so if you really want to give a UU a I'mAwesomeAndTheWorldIsFabulousGasm, tell them how being religious is dumb. They will Universal Love the shit out of you.  What I'm really trying to say here is open your mind and don't be a troll. Because you will fail.
2. Homosexuals, Hippies, and those who do not fit the gender binary are, by definition, welcome. Here on this blog, in my life, in my church,etc. Thus I won't be offended if you call me a gay homo hippie fag manwoman. In fact...thanks!
3. My mom is a pretty rad lady. Think yourself lucky.

Allright. Now that that's out of the way...

     The experience I had at QUUest was incredible, and I believe that as a result, I have stepped into the next level of my spiritual journey. And my brain expanded, as did my heart. My capacity for listening and loving and feeling has blown through the roof. I'd like to talk about the exact moment the shingles started tentatively falling off.
    There was a person at camp that I had noticed the first day and not talked to. Actually there were lots of people like that. I'm a little shy sometimes. Anyway, embarrassingly enough, the first thing I noticed about this person was not a deep or insightful in the slightest. It was very superficial. I noticed that the person was probably about a foot taller than me an that their hair was the same color as my sister's. All I thought at the time was "huh". I then proceeded to notice other stupid things about other people, like beards and glasses and large feet. The following evening, as I meandered contentedly about in a roomful of other exited, sleep- deprived teenagers who's collective sound was slightly oppressive and who's collective smell was indisputably so, I somehow ended up speaking with person-who-is-very-tall-and-has-hair-the-same-color-as-my-sister. (Dear said person: If you are reading this, I apologize for not remembering how we ended up speaking, because I feel like it might be worth remembering. I attribute this loss of memory to the truly awesome conversation that followed). Little did I know that, paraphrasing the words person-who-is-very-tall-and-has-hair-the-same-color-as-my-sister used later on, my cortex was about to "Blow a fuse and start glowing". In interest of being respectful, because I certainly I owe it to Person-who-is-very-tall-and-has-hair-the-same-color-as-my-sister to be at least respectful if not reverent, he will henceforth be known as Mr. Ace (Dear Person:You're welcome. Lots of thought went into that one.) I won't write a summary of the exact content of the conversation between Mr.Ace and I because 1) It was a long and intense one and 2)I want to keep Mr. Ace's brilliant intellectual property safe. I'm the one putting my brain on the internet, not him. The jist of it is this: First, Mr. Ace enlightened me to quantum universe theory. This part of the conversation brought me into a state of manic peace that I have not yet escaped. The second part of the conversation consisted of Mr. Ace's own original theory that had to do with how incredible the number Pi is. This part really did it. My path for the rest of QUUest and how I would experience it was made at exactly this moment. Because my mind had been primed for things it was not used to. For those of you who have read "The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy" (Maybe it's in "Restaurant at the End of The Universe", not sure), Imagine the part about what happens when infinity is revealed to you, and then imagine it doesn't completely fry your brain. This is what Mr.Ace caused to happen.  I could not stop thinking about it. Needless to say, Mr. Ace and I became fast friends. This level of intensity remained the norm for most of the things I experienced during the week. Dear Mr. Ace- Just in case it didn't sink in the first time, you're one of my favorite people ever.
      So now I'd like to explain PIES. It stands for Post Intense Enlightenment Syndrome. I don't know whether it will last, but it seems as though my experience/ taste of enlightenment last week has left me in a state of impenetrable depth, perpetual metaphor, obsession with the metaphysical, and most prominently, an uncontrollable urge to compassionately bring others along for the ride. So, today, I'd like to end by sharing one of the many conclusions I came to during this amazing time. Maybe this will become a "thing" on this blog-ending with an inspirational concept. Let me know if that sounds good to you all.
     I just think it's awesome that one person was able to contribute so significantly to what I now consider something of a vision quest/spirit journey/fork in the road. And along that same vein, how valuable talking to other humans is. We spend a lot of time worrying about ourselves and what people think of us, and being terrified that we're not good enough, but the simple gesture of listening to what someone has to say is so empowering for both parties. The world is full of kingmakers. And  I think now that being the person who inspires someone else to do/experience something amazing is just as valuable as being the inspired one. I've often beat myself up about not being a "leader" type or not contributing enough to society, but I'm reminding myself now about all the times someone has told me that I inspired them or brightened their day or helped them out of a rut. So, dear reader, whoever you are, I'd like to plant the idea that you don't have to be at the podium or on the ballot to be worthy of love and acceptance. Without us kingmakers, the kings don't exist. You are powerful, and you are worth it. Trust me. I have no credentials. And I don't follow my own advice.

      Yikes. That wasn't so reassuring.
 
       I hope, however, that even if I'm not exactly Lao Tzu, I've turned on some lights or dusted off some lamps or opened up some old boxes in your psyche.  Because that kind of thing is so refreshing. And with that, I believe we've reached a good resting point in the folds of my rapidly spinning mind.

I leave you today with a picture of Spock holding a kitty:



   

Go forth and be wonderful.