OK

May 7, 2010

Anyone living on the edge of Reality, feet in the living room and head in a digital cloud, does not bother whether or not his glass of milk has been pumped with bovine growth hormone.

Nothing, in fact, really matters except getting to the next level; in his fathers house there are many mansions and all he has to do, to lick the bastards, is to download a key of sorts.

Nature is drowned out by the sounds of androids and electric fire. Its up time in no mans land while the gray Lords harvest what is left between heaven and Hell.

He gets up, in real time, for a biscuit of bleached wheat with chocolate taste, a glass of E numbers and a bag of what carries artificial food only to get back to feed his hard drive.

Protected from the perception of the growing waste around him he is happy as can be. His living space is a capsule that filters out any news of lakes become gelatin and oceans glistening in black.

Nature could disappear around him, he would still be OK.

Just as Aspartame can give you a sense of sweetness without being sugar the realism of a life that is never really over amply satisfies a nervous system that doesn’t care where the pleasure comes from as long as it keeps coming.

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New World Order

May 5, 2010

Novus Ordo Seclorum

Here is one possible source for the ideological mantra so scorned by conspiracy theorists, the Talmud:

“A person must draw strength from the understanding of the purpose of creation, rejoicing in advance in the inevitable reformation of the entire world and the arrival of peace for humanity.”

Talmud, Truma

Sounds like a New World Order to me; a better world to come.

31 years ago six weeks of high fever and an inability to swallow anything from water to bread left me lying in a state of utter exhaustion, emaciated, between this and the multiple other worlds of our Universe.

Before that event I had been known to read, enjoy and commit to memory 700 pages in less than four sittings, now I found it impossible to assemble even a headline in a newspaper.

Performance, in every aspect of my life, dropped and I began to count the stairs to my third floor apartment which took me for ever; taking two steps – it was more like climbing two steps – sufficed to produce a racy heart and a lack of breath. In conclusion: At 19 years of age I was only slightly less than dead having barely crossed the golden gate into adult life.

The Gates of Hell: ”La Porte de l’Enfer” by Auguste Rodin, inspired by Dante Alighieri’s Inferno

Premedical abilities to diagnose my extraordinary and sudden make over, from a swift and haughty intelligence to a point nil stand still, had the doctor look at what he supposed to be another hypochondriac; me.

I can still remember his quizzical looks and suggestive comments. Blood works showed no known markers; they didn’t know what they were looking for nor how I felt. I had sprung out in winter only to wither.

Gloom and a sense of doom accompanied  my next semester at school and all through the following summer. How I graduated is an absolute mystery to me. Long term memory seemed intact but my short term memory, responsible for any new cognitive  intake and uptake, had become a dead end, a dysfunctional and dangling reference.

Full stop.

It took me about ten years to get back to a reasonable and well working cognitive state. What a furnace of fever can do to you.

By then I suspect my brain had wound itself over and around whatever had happened during my bout of cerebral heat. I was back, but different.

One thing that happened was a change in my capacity to recover and store energy. The electric potential, built up with ion flux between intra and extra cellular fluid divided by the cell membrane, was excruciatingly slow to form – picture this: A week to recover from a little fun with your girlfriend –  and, taking a comparison from rechargeable batteries, I perceived myself, and performed, physically as if changed from a high performance 3500 mAh to a leaky 1800 mAh. The ion pump for sodium and potassium was not working well.

Slow motion; small steps, short distances and reading snippets. A rather embarrassing comparison to my class mates. A sail with no wind and tied to port.

Did I stay that way?
No, thankfully not. I got drafted into the army for a welcome cerebral rest while practicing the obligatory trench digging. You also do not need to think while marching. Push ups, breathing and the timely suspension of any noticeable  cognitive effort during 18 months, paired with natural medicine and a vegetarian dietary regimen, eventually led me back to The Brothers Karamazov and my  personal library.

It takes a while but you can beat chronic fatigue.

I’m going to take a break now.