My Brain’s a Cyborg: Or, It Makes My Body Sick

TheOracle16

“The earth is my body; my head is in the stars.”
~ Maude, Harold and Maude. Image from The Matrix.

This is how it feels: going from working online all afternoon, to re-entry into physical reality. Small human interactions for a short time seem extra-curricular, strangely pleasurable but somehow messier and more fraught with variables.

I’ll hereby attempt a translation: the experience and sensations themselves, into meek old-fashioned words. On a newfangled screen of pixels & light.


Have to breathe: return to the body. Emerge like a character from Alien, nestled in a comfortable little plasma pod. Electrical-charged-superfluid-plasma. The nest: a cyber-place existent only through screen/eyes/neurons. Oddly disconnected from the body’s full scope. Don’t compute other sensations while in the zone .. hunger, temperature, foot falling asleep, fatigue. Just: the work. Focus on task at hand, and tune out all other physical considerations. In the screen -> eyes -> brain world of light & pixels

The directive: straight from cyber-land. Don’t drink or eat anything for six hours. Does the cyborg stretch, hydrate, rest, pee, breathe? No. Oh no. Oh where, oh where does the time go? So much seen, done, thought about, and so little fully soaked up. Image after image, task after task. And so, the work goes on. And it gets done. And it grows. And there is more. And on, and on.

The body needs a rest. Sunlight, water, nourishment, movement, and release. Sleep. And so, time to close the lid. Leave that world in its dormant circuitry. Leave the world of the matrix. Welcome back to the real world.

Close device. Now. Yes, just do it. And:

Ironically?

It will SLEEP.

Veteran’s Day

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To my favorite dearly departed WWII veteran:
Grandpa George Kelsey.

“Breakfast of champions,” he’d call it. He’d get up before the sun, and cook oatmeal with cinnamon for Grandma and himself. No sugar, no milk. And his eyebrows would raise, but he’d say nothing if you did dress it up. Sorry Gramps, had to add a little coconut almondmilk & brown sugar. Honoring his service and legacy today, and that of all our vets!

Zen Math

I’m sitting here quietly,
Warm cuppa green matcha tea,
Incense and candles
Breathing in and out.
Processing this day. This weekend.
Three days at a local art show.
Three photos I had on display.
Three days at a local hospital:
Mom’s got two new knees.
It’s been a rough but forward road
So far.
The numbers add up,
While the emotions do not.
I sit here tired worried happy sad
Spent hyper thinking not thinking
So I sip this tea
And breathe.
And remember, on this day:
I got to take a drive with Grandma. Take her to Big Boy.
Hold my mom’s hand
See my true love fuss after her
Talk with my stepdad
About football, basketball
Anything but what was really on our minds,
See an uncle and aunt with whom we get
All too little, precious time
And laugh, and laugh, and laugh
And Mom smiled. Through that post-op pill haze
That beats back the pain,
But floats her away.
Mom will be back soon –
All of her.
‘Til then, there’s all this love.
And that’s a lot.

Infinite Jest

I finally read Infinite Jest. Only a read nearly 20 years in the making.

I’m thinking now that David Foster Wallace meant the book itself to be a “jest” –

A jibe at the whole novel writing and publishing and promoting machine.

And — it certainly is damn well near infinite at 1,079 pages.

So then, in the immortal style of DFW himself, here’s my review.


He wanted to be our James Joyce. GenXJoyce. He is not. He was not. Cannot and never will be. Being James Joyce Ulysses style yeah, yeah right down to the “Madame Psychosis” for the Irishman’s “Metempsychosis. Met him pike hoses.” This big fat book lives a life like Ulysses gathering dust on bookshelves and bedside tables. Weirdos gathering for all night marathon reading sessions like moles with tiny unused eyes straining for the light. So ambitious they tell him, yes yes it was, it is, indeed it is true. Empty and without a soul. Is that the point? Maybe maybe just maybe, yeah it is. Brilliant speeding fast flashing light of a tortured brilliant mind out of control. So composed in life and so wild on the page. Images swirling dancing fast running faster from the Depend Adult Undergarment to the Dove mini chocolate bars, to the Year of the Whopper, the Tucks Medicated Pad and the Perdue Wonderchicken. I am glad I read this book. “Read” is a relative term. I looked at all the words. Looked at the words the pages word after word after page after page. Streams of language. Speaking. What? Full of that old sound and fury. Signifying if nothing else – REALLY and truly nothing else – absolutely nothing. Dracula himself, Anne Rice so wisely quips, that classic tome: the VULGAR FICTIONS OF A DEMENTED IRISHMAN. Yes, here too. Locked in his room typing and typing until the words spilled out of his skull like easy cheese. The vulgar fictions of a demented Midwesterner who burned bright and flamed out, leaving us with this 1079 page puzzle. For once, finally and for all – once he was gone, too soon – may DFW’s soul have finally rested in peace.