25 April 2012

Perfecting the Art of Mediocrity is Not A Proper Alternative to Kissing Your Craziness

"If a man wanted to wear a monocle or carry a cane, he did not hesitate to do it, and no one gave him a second glance." William S. Burroughs in 'Queer.'

Friend of mine has it all. And nothing. He's created a world out of his own sanity that perplexes the madness in us all. There is confusion everywhere. And he can't see it. Because he talks and talks and talks and says nothing. Never asking, never seeking beyond numbers, he is numb to the external. The twisted membranes of his logic will never snap. And so he cries.

A member of my my beloved major league baseball club skipped out on the team because of "anxiety issues." It is utterly confounding that this sort of dropping out doesn't happen a hundred times more. A thousand. It can take courage to face the fact that you're not coping. Or a real blast of a panic attack. Stupid people can even mask those. Wow there's a lot of medication to blot out true feelings and allow the brain to passively pass the time.

Take it from someone who knows.

Spending a large portion of one's life trying to maintain a tenuous grip on reality makes one appreciate how fragile our brains are. (Here's a thought: try psychedelics at the same time you're still wrestling with acne. Oh God, then look in the mirror and watch those pimples pulsate. Trippy to the max. Consciousness in. Consciousness out. Weird wild wonderful world.) Fuel your troubled psyche with an addiction. Feed it. feed it. Come on now. More, more, more. You can handle it. You are the drugs. You don't need it. It needs you. Okay. Done. Now try to live without your fix. See ya sanity. I'm taking my neurosis for a walk, baby. Look at my rage and watch my confusion. I'm clean. Now I just get high by being a jerk. Give an honest account.

Hey then...you get blindsided by pure white lightening panic. You don't know where your brain went and you can really imagine a straight jacket being rather snug. Not so bad. Anxiety to the nth degree -- baby. That's it. You can't take much more. How about some xanax? Call me Mister Comatose if you please and note that I'm a functioning member of society. If a zombie at that.

Oh by the way. I've got a respectable job in a respectable neighborhood. Member, like of the community. Family man, even. I can make it here. Whatta trip. Maybe you'll develop a tic or a twitch or predilection to shutting yourself in the house like all the time you can so you don't have to deal with too many too often too bad. And woe be to you if something throws a wrench into your work life or family life or health because you just don't need anything else right now. Did I mention money? Oh there you go. The clean junkie lookin' for a monkey. Dollars and sense, nonsense. Let me outta here.

But you go on.

You go on because the alternative SUCKS. You go on and carry on and take care of business because there's no other way and that straight jacket doesn't look so snug after all. And the longer you carry on (and stay calm) the more convinced you become that you can really do this. Really manage. It's all just an illusion but what the heck, we all make fool ourselves one way or another. At least we aren't doing it in church.

So many people. So little sanity. But so few people able to dance with their demons. They can't even see them. It's better this way. Really. Look those monsters square in the eye. Sure you flinch, you blink, you even freak a little (a lot!), but you know you're alive. That's what its all about. All the crazy you endure is life's way of saying-- you m*therf*cker, are part of this. Lucky! And you embrace the day you were born and all the pain you've been through ever since because now you know you are indeed part of those lucky few. The living.

Congratulations to anyone who takes a powder for a day or week or month or year to deal with their crazy. You are so cool.

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