The Unbearable Lightness of Sanity
Just some random observations

Note: This topic is intended for random observations, speculations, meanderings, and other components forming the powder that fires the round with which we shoot the breeze.

Disclaimer: Nobody's forcing you to read this.

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The Seinfeld Effect: In the wake of television's classic "show about nothing", we now suffer through a culture about nothing. While this has generally been true of pop music for some time now, and thus should not be alarming inasmuch as it has thoroughly infested television, and furthermore while I do not wish to disparage certain shows, that Aqua Teen Hunger Force and rehashes like Sealab 2021 and Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law are among the most creative of creative television speaks ill for our sense of humor in general. "Thanks, Jerry."

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Stripping away all the rhetoric and hyperbole of the usual political arguments, one of the things I find intriguing about conservative political philosophy is that it is so fiercely attached to its goals that it often--even generally--overlooks certain ideas which could be helpful. These ideas get scooped up amid those things conservatives hold in contempt. Omni Syndrome, for instance. Had I read Benjamin Demott's book ten years ago, I might have chuckled at the notion, tsked it for its seeming cynicism. Nonetheless, the general whoredom of politics and celebrity alike, the caricaturized mudslung accusations of schmoozing, oozing elitism: it is Omni Syndrome, the most consistently troubling symptom of consumerism. Rich and poor alike aspiring to appear in sync with the middle, which bankrolls both of the others. Nobodies aspiring to fame only to bat their eyes coquettishly and pretend "middle American" modesty. Omni Syndrome. Yes, it's a stupid term, but more than likely it is held in contempt because, for all its simplicity, it is still too complex to work in a seven-second sound-bite.

Of course, liberals don't raise the issue, either. Democrats, as well, are afflicted. Nor have many of them read Demott's book, The Imperial Middle: Why Americans Can't Think Straight About Class. The only people I know who ever read the thing did so for college credit, and for some reason I just can't stand it. Perhaps it's one of those things that happen when someone explains something that seems as if it should be clearly obvious. But an aged elitist lecturing on the American perception of class structure? Just think how right-wing radio hosts could have bludgeoned Clinton with two words, "omni orgy (http://homepage.mac.com/bdhilling/sisyphus/OmniSyndrome.html)".

Maybe it's just the stroll down an unpleasant block of memory lane. Sigourney Weaver and Melanie Griffith in Working Girl? Who the hell wants to think back on that film?

Interesting idea, Tiassa.

Sex and vending machines have so much in common. You put in money and get a result. You either (a) get what you want, (b) get something else by mistake, or (c) freak out when it eats your change and panic because it was your last dollar.

A philosophical digression from grim reality:

Some days we watch the news and wonder why we ought to give a rat's nugget. When Fox's actual headline news shows become one's #2 source of television news trends, there's a problem, but CNN is just so damned annoying, and on two networks at once. And don't get me started on the broadcast networks.

But the superficiality of the news provides all sorts of gaps into which our thoughts can spiral, such as the melodrama surrounding Terry Schaivo. I actually got a chuckle from the attempt to subpoena her in order to keep the feeding tube in: sure, it seems a futile and even ridiculous maneuver, but for those who really and truly believe they must prevent this woman from passing, it was worth a shot.

And so I spun off into a sort of "Darkness at Noon" mood.°

The problem with the question is that it requires thought on the part of the one in the persistent vegetative state: quite obviously, that is an impossibility. And so we look to considerations and a presupposition of the soul.

And so the soul reflects on its condition. It is a human component, and still part of a mortal coil, and still ignorant of what happens to it when that shell sloughs away. Does it disperse like smoke, or transform like a butterfly and sprout wings? It would be an inevitable question.

But here's a fascinating question: at what point does the soul recognize the mortality of its familiar self. To start with the short-term: as the feeding tube is removed, the soul recognizes the process and knows that even should it change its mind, it can in no way preserve its fleeting mortality.

Let us presume that the living person did in history explain to the partner that the vegetative state should not be sustained, that the tubes and devices ought to be removed. And that soul is aware of that. Does it wonder at its mortal condition immediately after the event? Does it start counting its days from the moment the phrase "persistent vegetative state" is recognized? Would that knowledge over fifteen years drive the soul to madness?

Would there be inevitable regret? Would there be inevitable reconciliation? Would there be courage or cowardice?

Does the soul scream and weep in isolation, or face the unknown with harmonious comfort, the nearest thing to true understanding such an incomplete picture provides?

Does the soul progress psychologically, as such? Which phase would we on the outside honor? Fear and denial? One could argue those irrational, but we humans seem to have that right to a certain extent. Perhaps comfort and perhaps anticipation? Could that not be argued by those embroiled in the politics of the living world to be something akin to a psychological trauma? We can and do, in the living world, prosecute people over the objections of their victims, so how can we trust that comfort in the Truth of death?

It is perhaps a blessing that this soul is theoretic; exposed to such cynicism, it would surely flee toward the light.
____________________

Notes:

° "Darkness at Noon" mood - See Arthur Koestler's Darkness at Noon; see also George Orwell's essay on Koestler (http://www.george-orwell.org/Arthur_Koestler/0.html), although the common point is more generally-expressed. For a political grin, see Joseph Giardello's review (http://www.politicalusa.com/columnists/giardiello/giardiello_review_007.htm) of the novel.

I must disclaim clearly, however, that this mood has more to do with mortality in general than the philosophy of corruption. And it's morbid as Hell.

You'd think it was a good week ....

The Pope is dead. I thought I'd mention it, just in case you hadn't heard.

Yes, the Pope is dead. You'd think that would be a sign of a bad week, but I've been thinking about our stalwart television news agencies in the United States, and as far as I can tell, it's not.

Think about it this way: the last several years have seen unrest in Africa, Asia, and even violent dissent in Europe, wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, happy-face bombers, shoe bombers, corporate criminals, Martha Stewart ....

Last week the only thing happening in the world was that a woman was dying.

On Monday I actually watched five minutes' worth of coverage of the Michael Jackson trial because, well, the Pope is dead, and frankly I'm sick of hearing about it.

And as I was scarred for life, listening to Nancy Grace read portions of testimony in which a young man tells how Michael Jackson masturbated while fondling him, it struck me that I ought not complain.

After all, journalism is a noble business. We know that "liberal media bias" is a myth, and, well, many people seem to think a ratings-driven "money bias" beyond the dignity of consideration, so as far as I can tell, only two things of consequence have happened in the world this week: the Pope is dead, and Michael Jackson is on trial for touching little boys' peepees.

Fuck it. That's a good week for humanity.

We watched the tragedy unfold:
We did as we were told,
We bought and sold.
It was the greatest show on Earth!
But then it was over.
We ohhed and aahed,
We drove our racing cars,
We ate our last few jars of caviar;
And somewhere out there in the stars,
A keen-eyed look-out
Spied a flickering light--
Our last hurrah!
And when they found our shadows
Grouped around the TV sets,
They ran down every lead
They repeated every test.
They checked out all the data on their lists,
And then the alien anthropologists
Admitted they were still perplexed:
But on eliminating every other reason
For our sad demise,
They logged the only explanation left:
This species has amused itself to death.

Roger Waters (http://www.lyricsdepot.com/roger-waters/amused-to-death.html)

So I just caught a Diet Pepsi commercial featuring, I'm quite sure, P. Diddy. All is well and fine, except for some reason I'm also quite sure the last thing you hear in the commercial before the logo is Coolio.

Now, that's well and fine, I don't object. It's just that for advertising it seems counterintuitive.

So ... have I missed something?

Do you ever just catch a glimpse of something? A pattern or a cause? Something you observe that somehow filters down into what you believe. Changes who you are. Something that makes your heart feel like a stained glass window filtering gods light in beautiful and fantastic ways? Do the scaffolds ever tremble? Are you strapped to a religion? Science? An acceptance of death? Do your thoughts ever stray from underneath the canopy of time? Can I be cleaner, more tune, more awake? Do you ever have to say things like Man I just don't know? Are birth and death the bookends? Is god real? Is red really my favorite color? Do I look good in denim? All this while paying the bills. Feeding the kids. All this while clouds fast-foward to the setting sun. Is it just me or is life just to damn short? I would be interested in hearing of anyones daily observations that has changed in some way how you believe. Not neccessarily a religous belief. Just anything that may have been injected into the prism through which you view the world.

It just occured to me that I should not make such a request with nothing to offer myself. Its not much but that does'nt matter. Today I was thinking about how if there were no such thing as cars. Would there be adverts on tv for horses? This breed is better <playing Rolling Stones WILD HORSES in the background> and now with a full years supply of preformance enhancing drugs! And a six months supply of tungsten carbide shoes! Would famous people pay for laser eye surgery for their clydesdales? Would teenagers get laughed at for riding some bow backed pony to school? Would cops still be able to search you for 'safety' reasons? Would everyone still get to where they needed to be? I think yes. Mind you I am not anachronistic. But why should I pay 60 grand for a humvee that can't take where a horse can?

I had a moment the other night while sitting through the rehash of a Ty Pennington "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition". The family the crew set out to help was fairly unique, a mother with three adopted HIV+ daughters. And, of course, that issue really tugged at the designers, and one of them mentioned losing friends in the '80s and '90s, and a question occurred to me.

When HIV and AIDS enter someone's life indirectly, does it ever leave? Imagine one day in 1985, twenty years ago, finding out that your best friend has this scary disease. And this is the first. Several of your friends would suffer and die over the next years.

Does there come a day when it leaves you alone?

I had a flash-frame in my mind, because of the designer's use of the past tense, imagining the last funeral for a friend with AIDS.

It's 2005. If HIV first hit your circle of association in 1985, there is no guarantee that you've exited by today. Twenty years later, that first friend to be diagnosed, or even another of your friends, might still be alive.

Like right now: I know somebody being treated for cancer. It's been a few years since there was someone in my circle of association treated for cancer. But AIDS doesn't seem to be like that. From the day it walks in the door and touches one of your friends, does it ever leave? Or is there ever a last funeral until your own? Because even though we might take a tally of one's friends in 1985 and say, "These five people will die of AIDS," it seems to me that all but the most misanthropic will pick up enough new friends along the way that they may always, no matter how many die, have a friend who is fighting AIDS.

If I live long enough, and things go wrongly, I might have a day when I am utterly alone in the world. My parents long gone, my brother gone, my daughter gone, my lifelong friends gone. I might look around and say, "That was the last funeral that I must ever grieve, in all my life." And I might be able to believe it.

But this guy spoke in the past tense, and so I wondered if he did have that day, when he could walk out of the cemetery, have a drink, and look at the bartender and say, "For the first time in twenty years, I don't have to weep." If he can look at that quilt and know that he needs not stitch together another panel.

And maybe I'm wrong, but I'm not sure you can. But I don't know. I'm of the lucky breed: the disease has stayed away from me. I've known all of three people with AIDS, and none of them well. I don't even know if they're still alive.

Only God says jump,
So I set the time.
'Cause if He ever saw it, it was through these eyes of mine.
And if He ever suffered it was me who did His crying.

Concrete Blonde, "Tomorrow, Wendy" (http://www.lyricsfreak.com/c/concrete-blonde/33075.html)