Whether we employ philosophy, humor or barbaric yawps of self-righteous indignation, it’s all just noise. Distraction. A source of temporary comfort, perhaps, but pragmatically impotent. That’s just fine with me. In fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
If you know of a better way to pass the time amidst this vast American Confederacy of Dunces, I’m all ears.
Covid has ensured that Thanksgiving is a wash this year, which is also just fine with me.
I don’t know about you, but I for one could not have predicted any of the last 12 months. Not an ounce of it. I look back at our epistolary exchange and wonder, how did we even survive, given the edge of existence we meandered along.
Wishing you twelve more wonderful months of existential crisis and questioning our place in the cosmos.
Say hi to Jesse.
[Rust is kicking my ass. I did manage to code up Conway’s Game of Death (Life for many of you). It’s wicked fast and entertaining to watch all those little virtual critters spawn, live and die. Hmm, sounds familiar.]
It sounds as if your recent health scare may have opened new perspectives for you, and that’s good. It also has you ruminating on your own mortality, naturally.
Have you ever wondered what would happen if you got locked into one oppressive perspective indefinitely?
Can you imagine someone that fears survival considerably more than he fears death?
Rhetorical queries, of course, designed to give some idea of the state of dull anhedonia in which I currently reside.
I don’t wish to start any new chapters. I don’t deign to imagine that my life has any purpose or that I have any legacy to fulfill. I’m not particularly sad or upset or desperate – just terminally jaded and absolutely disinterested in the pointless perpetual peregrinations of my own species. I can’t imagine starting a new career or a new romance or even a new hobby. Those are things in which people with a zest for life or a sense or purpose engage.
In fact, if I do manage to survive for another month or two, which I probably will, I shall have no choice but to embark upon a new chapter called homelessness. Somehow I don’t find myself very worried about this. Quoth the Retard: “It is what it is.”
I don’t talk to people anymore because I’ve almost forgotten how. Perhaps losing my ability to communicate completely can constitute some sort of a goal. Everyone’s gotta have a goal, right?
I think I hit the wall. Not at destructive speeds. But fast enough to shock me (as if I needed anymore disruptions) into an obvious realization: I’m old.
The weekend has arrived and I am thankful. Of the three hamsters I used to have spinning stationary laps in my head, two have died and the last is on oxygen. I recall reading about music, math and physics prodigies and how, if they didn’t publish by age thirty, were doom to never live up to their potential. At twice that age, I’m imagining how I might possibly keep up with the tasks I’m now charged with.
Oy! So much to learn. “We expect you to take two or three months to come up to speed,” they said. But I’ve already jumped in and am coding away at rush jobs. I only hope the Bumbling Orange Ball of Corpulent Covid lives to fail, so that you can join the ranks and become the Vet Tech we all know you can be… (And enjoy the challenges of mental exhaustion like me.)
In heart-related news, a new EchoCardioGram now shows full recovery of the damaged heart muscle. In contrast, the followup Zoom-Visit with the cardiologist was all, “yup, you’re now officially fucked up and will have to take meds, carry Nitro and worry about odd feelings in your chest — for the rest of your pathetic life!” Gee thanks, Doc. You’re a real glimmer of sunshine. But, the Stoic in me was, “that’s cool, who wants to live for fuckin’ ever anyway?”
Here’s Chip, the guy who’s powering the neurons for this brief post. Give it up for Chip.