Some Sunday in Normal entries

  • Feb. 8, 2015, 9:56 a.m.
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  • Public

The best laid plans of mice and men — that’s right I had planned on spending the month in a cage eating cheese and learning to push the reward lever instead of the punishment lever, and maybe running a maze or two. Or, you know, writing more often in this thing. Back spasm. Yeah, I know, my back is always in some level of chronic pain, but once, maybe twice a year, the muscles go all batshit katywumpus to add a fresh level of hell.

So, I’ve been watching comedies and crime dramas. It all becomes formulaic when you held prisoner even if also held in thrall. Most true life crimes are visceral and poorly planned. That wouldn’t make for a very good hour of programming, let alone an hour a week for season upon season.

It figures back spasm comes this close to my birthday. Every year since I’ve had an on-line journal I bitch about my birthday; car wrecks, wallet thefts, losing loved ones (um, misplacing them, no one I know, that I’m aware has died on my birthday) damage to my property, and so on and so forth. In that respect having a tweaked back is a bit of a godsend, keeps me from the temptation of poking the bear. I am not going into a birthday whine.

Energy does weird shit, so does the lack thereof. Energy moves around, energy is outside morality (e.g. there is no energy with inherent ‘good’ or ‘bad’ intent) I’m sure this is true just as I’m sure a lot of folks idea of spirituality comes from this, sort of a formulaic crime-drama approach to the unknown. Some things are immutable, they remain as real as perception allows, like gravity, though, the rules for gravity are guided by proximity to bodies in motion. I don’t say this to be rationale though I’m pretty sure it’s rationale. I say this because I should probably write in this thing now and again.

Everything that happens has already happened and will happen again. The convolutions of a crime drama are meant as fantasy, to woo us into the idea that occams razor is dull and anything could break out at any time like a flash mob. It’s the difference between popular art and real art. Real art doesn’t try to create some flight of fancy, it tries to capture the common in a three dimensional way that gives insight into how things really happen, not how they’d happen if, say, we won the cosmic lottery.

Ok. Be nice to one another; I’m spent.


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