I hit the hay early last night. It was cold and heat pumps don’t work for shit below freezing. The weatherman was calling for 16 degrees. In a bold attempt to fuck with the heads of the plutocrats that own our electric company the little woman and I have been keeping the thermostat set at 60 degrees downstairs this winter. Upstairs catches what it can. The bedrooms are cold. I’m talking plaster & lath with no insulation. So, I was snugly supine and pressed like a flower, reading, beneath a mountain of blankets when I came around the corner of a paragraph and slid to a stop on this… “The big lesson of Anthropology 101 is that you can never know your own culture because you are it,”…
I drifted off and floated into dreamland thinking about that and awoke to find it still there, at the foot of the bed with the cat.
If that is true we are all something like those hands seen outlined on dark Paleolithic cave walls, by sprays of pigment, blown out of the mouths of our brutish ancestors. The universe of possible realities sprayed at our form and we became what we blocked from sticking. An outline. A silhouette surrounded by what we rejected. We did know it. We just rejected it. I just can’t say with any kind of objectivity what I am, but, I know I ain’t that.
Sanity, it seems to me, involves a turning away from the conflicting input. But when the born junky gets off the junk, when the TV and the radio and the books stop and the lap-top gets closed… it’s just terribly dark, deep in the cave where that hand print rests, half obscuring an extinct bison.
Precious little makes any sense to me any more. In another sense, nothing has ever been any clearer.