Safe Asleep

Well, what do you know?  It’s the Angst-giving Season again and the days are short and getting colder.  At this time of year, as is my way, I look forward to going to bed at night.  It’s a big production.  We live in an 85 year old house with plaster and lath walls, and no insulation.  We keep the downstairs toasty with a beautiful new wood stove, and leave the upstairs bedrooms to fend for themselves and pick up what heat they can manage from the sun, and what heat seeps up through the floors.

The high tomorrow is going to be 34 degrees, and the low tomorrow night will be 17 degrees.  Fifteen degrees below freezing will be keenly noticed by those sleeping in unheated bedrooms.  They must dress appropreately.   One might be tempted to think that this will be inconvenient.  One would be wrong.

This is a bit of a story now,… involving a small cast of characters.  I promise to keep it as short as I can.  You see, two years ago, while floating on her back, backwards, and unrolling the solar cover on top of the swimming pool, poor Mrs. N. felt something “rip” down deep in her innards, and experienced some rather intense pain.  Since that time she found that she was unable to eat, and then bend over, or, lay down without extreme pain after eating.   Like an idiot, the pain was so intense, and against her better judgement, she consulted a physician who prescribed a strong medication intended to greatly inhibit the production of acid in her stomach.  It was his reasoning that poor Mrs. N. had inflicted grievous damage on her diaphragm, and the valve that closes off the top of her stomach.  The one that keeps our stomach acid from rising up our esophagus, and eating nasty holes in our plumbing.   That was poor Mrs. N.’s self diagnosis too.  The only difference was, she did it for free.

The medication prescribed only had a few, slight, side effects.   Nothing to complain about really, but, perhaps worth mentioning.  First of all, 24 hours a day, if felt like someone just punched poor Mrs. N. in the gut, like maybe Mike Tyson.  Second, rather than defecating with the precise regularity of a Swiss watch, as was formally her way, she considered herself fortunate to move her bowels once every week to ten days.  When that magic and much anticipated time came to pass there was no putting it off…  AND, it was wise to inform the workers down at the sewerage plant that… something absolutely astounding was coming their way!  I advised them not to be frightened, but, after the first episode, I don’t think my advice did any good.  Other than that, and this may fall under the heading of nit-picking to some readers, poor Mrs. N. found that she was farting uncontrollably, and at the least appropriate moments.  In the middle of conversations.   On the advice of licensed professionals poor Mrs. N. endured this absurd and painful scenario for months… until her body became accustomed to the medication, is what they strongly advised.

Then came the day… (and I promise I will get back to the story of loving to go to bed at night and the new wood stove.)…  Where was I…?  Oh yes…

…Then came the day Mrs. N. said  FUCK THIS  and threw away the nasty pills.   She ordered a wedge from Amazon.com to elevate her upper fuselage at night, only slept on her back with a pillow under her knees, and never ate a bite after 3:00pm.  Safe, tucked in bed at 9:00pm with Itzie the Cat curled up like a well cooked shrimp on her chest, she slept very deeply, and well.   Positioned on her bed snugly, like an expensive antique pistol would be fit in a custom made velvet lined case, Mrs. N. sailed off to Dreamland promptly at nine.  Her health improved.  She came to love the routine.  Reading a bit before casting off the line and letting the current take her she ended each day by thinking deep thoughts.

Itzie the Cat

Mrs. N. sailed away last night thinking about how much of who and what she was as a person was the product of her unconscious mind.    Itzie the Cat purred and purred…

The Dawn

Dawn came this morning, and eight hours after falling asleep, Mrs. N. awoke EXACTLY in the same spot she lost consciousness in the night before.  If she hadn’t become accustomed to this happening every morning, over the past months, it would have seemed freaky.   She had, so, it didn’t.

Finding herself with a powerful hankering for mixed nuts Mrs. N. piloted her internal combustion vehicle to the High Temple of American culture.   She went to WalMart.  There she found the two primary poisons that are eating away at the flesh and bones of this once great and powerful republic known as The U S of A..

Jesus, it appears, has been swallowed whole by a middle aged black woman.  This explains the strange, Jesus wants you to consume resources, and gather great piles of crap together, turn Christianity has taken as of late.  No one of any competence what so ever is at the wheel of our vast universe.  It’s a runaway train.

And Gluttony.  What can you say about containers of cheap ice cream large enough to be cornerstones in some frozen construction project, perhaps at one of our two poles?  …”Momma loves nothing more than to sit herself down in front of the TV with her ice cream and a big spoon.”…  And Momma looks it…

The flags wave proudly over the cash registers down at The Temple of Consumption.  Patriotism is in the air so thick it’s hard to move.  The Christmas Trees are all lined up for sale outside.  It’s more than a month till Christmas.  The “Beautiful People” are nowhere in sight, and the children seem strangely detached, and not at all handsome, or, innocent any more at all.

I Pledge Allegiance to the Stuff, and to the concept, for which it stands.

The bed will begin to call me early tonight I think.  Itzie already has that look in her eye.  As I settle myself into position with the full realization that I will awaken, six to eight hours in the future, in exactly the same physical place.   I realize that I have begun a journey that may end far, far from where it began.  Some nights, after I turn out the lights, I picture myself cocooned in some vehicle, sailing out alone in the vastness of uncharted space.   It’s warm, I’m snug, and I’m speeding on my way to where I know not.  Itzie is sleeping on my chest.  I’m like Sigourney Weaver in ALIEN, after she has jettisoned herself, in the escape pod of The Nostromo.  Except I’m not dressed in panties and an undershirt, and no hideous space creature has been chasing me.

Or, maybe it has, and that is what all this is really about.  A seasonal rehearsal of an escape, from a long standing situation, that can only end badly.  A little death.  Not as anything permanent, but, rather a way to get more comfortable with the whole idea of endings, and being done with seasons when it is obvious they are done with you.

The monsters are always out there.  It’s wise to have some sort of escape craft.  Mrs. N. doesn’t worry because she knows that her and Itzie the Cat will wake up after traveling miles from here, tomorrow morning.  It’s funny how some things that start off as a real pain in the ass can end up being quite enjoyable.  Quite enjoyable indeed.

Kiss, kiss

Mrs. N.

Mrs. N. lost weight, not that she was fat to begin with, mind you.  She hopes you enjoy the song.

Thoughts on how it all went wrong…

There once was a time when a person could be unhappy.  If they took the wrong turn in the road, or, made some bad choices it would usually lead to a life that did not produce happiness in sufficient quantities for them to feel good about themselves and the life they were living.  They ended up “unhappy” as a result, at least in part, of choices that they themselves had made.

Today, thanks to a partnership between pharmaceutical manufacturers, health care practitioners, and consumers, unhappiness has gone the way of smallpox.   It no longer exists in nature.   Unhappiness was conquered by science when it was finally recognized for what it really was… a disease.  No longer must sufferers of what used to be called unhappiness carry the blame for any of their own suffering.   As it turns out what human beings used to call unhappiness was really a condition that can only be cured by doctors.  We call it “depression” today, and it is caused by improper chemicals in your brain that, in more cases than not, are a result of genetic factors far beyond your control.

I submit to my gentle readers that, in todays world, this is a VERY GOOD thing to know.   Honestly, it sucked being responsible for our own happiness.  To be unhappy meant we were failures at life.  It meant that we ourselves recognized that we were not capable of playing our part effectively, and competently, in our consumer culture.  Quite frankly it was nothing less than wonderful to learn that we were off the hook .   It wasn’t our fault after all.

In a sense this knowledge and the new found scientific ability to alter our consciousness chemically has immunized us to the inherent dangers of consumer culture.  The dangerous discontent, generated by advertising, that is the basic driving force and operating principle of consumer capitalism can, thankfully, be rendered harmless with the two edged sword of education and pharmaceuticals.  Education tells us that hope springs eternal.  All of us are “special”.  Even the poorest of the poor can win fame and happiness through the purchase of lottery tickets and even the abysmally ignorant can become sports heros, or, outrageously wealthy media phenomena.    Who, with eyes to see and ears to hear and a functioning TV can ever doubt this?  Who does not know that happiness rests just over the horizon awaiting our arrival?

Today there is simply no need to be a slave to any faulty mix of brain chemicals our genes may have dealt us.  There is no need to feel “bad” about anything in a culture where anything is possible and, thanks to modern science, purchasable.

Discontent…  of course must remain alive in its purest sense because it is what keeps the American Dream going.  Unless we all WANT things we do not yet have there can be no perpetual progress, no jobs producing things, no creation of wealth, no viable economy.     If one is not discontent… we are forced to conclude one is simply not paying attention.

Happy… but, discontent is what we are looking for, and at just the proper mix.  We must guard ourselves never to admit to being unhappy, to admit that would be to announce to the world that we were a loser.   The stench of unhappiness on a person is today as a bell on a leper once was.  UNCLEAN!

Proper mental hygiene demands that we want the things that we do not have.  Discontent at not having important things to have, must, if we are normal,  drive us to work harder, longer and with more ingenuity.  Desiring and acquiring,… to live to desire and acquire again another day are the kind of meat machines we are.  If one day we find that we are not humming along nicely, sporting a happy face and acquiring sufficient things, with decent cultural value… we should consult a physician.  The chemicals in our head are almost certainly out of whack, scientifically speaking, and the proper adjustments need to be made.  Failure to do so means we will become, if we have not already become… depressed.

That’s how it works.  Be careful.  Work hard.  Don’t fuck around.  If everything goes to shit in spite of your best efforts, don’t worry about it because it isn’t your fault anyway.

THE END

Kiss, kiss

Mrs. N.

( As the days get darker and shorter Mrs. N. finds herself taking great joy in being unpleasant to the annoying who, at this festive time of year, seem to circulate more abundantly among us…  )

Thought you had problems then?

The unwavering disciples of the Prince of Darkness performed a Pink Mass over the grave of Catherine Idalette Johnston, the mother of Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps Jr.  Westboro has yet to officially comment on the eternal gaying of its leader’s dead mom, but the owner of the cemetery where the ceremony was performed has filed charges with the local police department.

http://www.vice.com/read/mississippi-police-want-to-arrest-the-satanists-who-turn-dead-people-gay

It’s a good thing Mrs. N. isn’t the “I told you so” kind of person.   It isn’t like Mrs. N. didn’t try to warn people when the Fundamentalist Christian scholars over at Liberty University started praying Gay people Straight.  Don’t you remember?  And, it isn’t like she didn’t warn you all about the shenanigans those Mormons get up to out in Salt Lake City with that Mormon Pumpernickel Choir of theirs.  Marrying their dead Mormon relatives to non-Mormon dead people so that they can get into Mormon Heaven (where ever the fuck that is).  Them and their magic underpants and all.

It was only a matter of time until someone put all this religious mumbo-jumbo together.  It was inevitable that Freedom of Religion, that ridiculous notion that America was supposedly founded upon, showed its true colors.  Sure, people of different religious allegiances and persuasions can be expected to hate and kill each other over actual, or, perceived insults, and unavoidable lapses in polite conduct… behavior… manners are all sure to end badly.  That kind of stuff is, more or less, a given.  But, as Mrs. N. knew all along… It was bound to get silly.

“Give them an inch and they will take a yard”  How many times have you heard that said.  Well!  THIS is exactly the kind of shit you get when you let more than one brand of CRAZY, more than one breed of dog, loose in the yard unsupervised.  This is the kind of misbehavior the deeply religious will get up to if you let them… and BOY do we let them!

It’s the same kind of baloney we get up to when we discuss kids.  How many times have you heard it?  “Oh, they are all special in their own way.”    Sure they are.  All special…

Now all this bullshitting each other in the name of Freedom and Liberty is really starting to take its toll on a persons ability to take ANYTHING seriously.   We are beginning to learn that the more times you say yes to crazy… the harder it gets to ever say no.  We are living the nightmare of our own design.  We are adrift, all alone, in our own little flimsy boats in a vast and rolling sea of bullshit.  Anything Goes… as it turns out, in the end, means everything goes.

For all any of you know, tomorrow morning, you could wake up to not only find yourself dead, but, Gay and Mormon TOO!

Don’t you dare say I didn’t warn you.

Kiss, kiss

Mrs. N.