One Man's Fate

                                                                     Tues March 15, 1836

                                                                     10 nm ssw of the Nantucket Shoal

We lost a shipmate, Edgar Reims of New Bedford, overboard today while reefing the fore tops'l in a freshening breeze.  There was no point in mounting a search as his head had made hard contact with the starboard rail before he entered the sea, which was very cold, and at the end of the first dog watch the sky was grey and the light was faltering.

His kit has already been distributed among his friends in the fo'c'sle.  It included a small tin whistle and a black onyx ring that he never wore when he might have to go aloft.

At the Sunday noon muster we will pray for the repose of his soul.

 

Watch Your Steps!

Even today, were you to be walking along a path in a German meadow, and you came upon a dilapidated wooden sign with a skull and crossbones in the middle and the words "Achtung Minen!" at top and bottom, respectively, I venture that you would steer well clear of the entire area.

Likewise there are minefields along the path that leads into the so-called paranormal, such that I sympathize with those who choose not to step onto the path at all.  As I have said before, once you are on it there is no natural place to step off, even as things get weirder and also often more sinister.

One dark spur on the path leads to the "secret societies," including the Rosicrucians, the Golden Dawn, the Skull & Bones, the Freemasons, the Theosophists, and those guys with the hoods and masks who scared the bejesus out of the Tom Cruise character in Stanley Kubrick's last film, the frustratingly enigmatic "Eyes Wide Shut."

And so if I should start referring to myself as "Frater Luminotrious" or some such, you have my permission to break my spell by hitting me in the face with a banana cream pie.

To my point, another frater has just instructed me via his podcast how to "cross the abyss" -- a spiritual journey not unlike C.J. Jung's, but inspired more directly by the philosophy that underlies the Kabbalah.  Specifically, in the Kabbalistic Tree of Life there are ten "sephirot" or emanations of the Divine.  In our spiritual development, we move from contact with the lower emanations to contact with the higher.  To reach the Top Three, which are capped by the Ultimate Godhead Itself, we must first cross the abyss between Lower Seven and Top Three, which entails utter ego dissolution.  The good frater avers that for everyone, it also entails a symbolic detachment from one's corrupt and disposable body; that detachment is acted out, within a separate reality that is more real than this one, as being torn apart by a swarm of crocodiles, to which swarm we voluntarily submit because it is the universal and mandatory path forward.

Baptisms of fire.  Violent ayahuasca vomiting fits.  Walking over burning coals.  Why is it that we cannot make our way to the Godhead in a Barcalounger that is attached to a cheery yellow conveyor belt?  Please do not reply "it is what it is."

 

 

I Wish that I Had the Talent, and the Energy, and the Time

To write a novel about an America that is deep into the demographic collapse that the experts are predicting (I know; beware the experts!), circa 2100.  

The population long ago peaked at about 340 million.  It is now 28 million.  Only six million are under age 25.  The major cities are completely hollowed out.  

The old infrastructure set aside for taking care of the elders is gone.  Robots ran it for a while, but they are largely gone as well.  Where there is family, family cares for the old folks, but for many reasons mean longevity has dropped to 58 for males and 64 for females.

People cluster in settlements.  The largest is near Tallahassee and comprises about 340,000 inhabitants.  Almost everywhere they are sustained by local agriculture.  Horses and oxen accordingly have made a comeback.

Conflict occasionally breaks out among the settlements.  In the main, the people are not culturally aggressive, but as in Native American times, competition for resources -- famine -- drives them to it.

In some places, certain women of strong constitution and character choose to be "breeders," each having ten children or more, often from as many fathers. Their fecundity allows them to accumulate power within the tribe.  Thus, in the sociology of the time, communities sometimes are classified first and foremost as matriarchal or patriarchal.

The children are raised communally, but the circumstances are such that infant mortality is high, and those that survive to seven or eight invariably are hard at work by then.

And yet I don't want my novel to be a novel of dystopia and despair a la Cormac McCarthy.  There is a spiritual resilience among the people.  Further, as in our time and in times past, passion sometimes evolves into love, and familial bonds awaken that cannot be broken.  Indeed, mirabile dictu, a long-dormant anthem of kitsch somehow has risen from the ashes to become our new, but informal, National Anthem, and it becomes the subtext for the novel -- "Que sera, sera."

 

What Makes a Caress?

A caress?  As opposed, that is, to a touch that is merely therapeutic?  The question can be an awkward one if you find yourself engaged with a massage therapist.  You, with your eyes closed and facing down, may feel that you are being caressed, while the masseuse may feel rather that she is kneading a loaf of pizza dough before putting it in the oven.

Intent and context certainly matter.  But Wittgenstein would remind us that the intent cannot be pulled out and abstracted from the context; we infer the intent in large part from the context.  

In the current New Age, it cannot be denied that a robot/android can be made whose caresses are indistinguishable from the real thing.  Another genius whose path crossed with Wittgenstein's, Alan Turing, would say that if you can't tell the difference, then there is no difference.

But I don't buy this particular and secondary Turing Test.  Must we really remember this, that a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh?  More fundamental things must apply.

 

Who Is the Conjurer?

Who is the conjurer of my dreamscape?  The tales are too complex and too creative to be my own. 

All in one night:

1.  A girlfriend from my youth materializes in my bed.  In the darkness she embraces me from behind.  This brings me peace and comfort.  Only later do I realize that she has taken six long, thin vials of blood from my back as part of a prank or worse, as part of a sinister experiment.  The next day I search for clues to her whereabouts.  I find an empty pack of Parliament filters, her favorite brand, on my table.

2.  I am waiting for an elevator on a high floor of my office, with a friend.  Suddenly a very petite young Asian girl joins us.  She is beyond distraught, stricken.  When she approaches me, I ask her if her distress is "personal," as opposed to, say, a colleague having had a heart attack at his desk.  But it immediately occurs to me that any such level of distress is personal.

We are in the elevator now.  Her eyes roll into her head and she collapses into me, still alive but unconscious.

3.  I am running my very first marathon.  But a half mile in, I decide to lie down in the fetal position in the middle of the course.  I am just resting to build my strength for the remainder, if I can do it.  I try not to call too much attention to myself.

4.  A man calls out to me -- "Have you seen these modern sailboats, with their flimsy construction?"  He is at the center of a cavernous wheelhouse in what appears to be an enormous Spanish galleon.  I climb towards him on a staircase within it that, like everything else around, is made of heavy, dark, ornate wood.  I then notice that, radiating out from the center, there are what he calls "belaying pins," but they are not of the usual sort.  Each is bigger than I am, and in the shape of a woman's arm.  Each ends in a delicate looking hand whose fingers are poised to grab something.  I surmise that these "pins" can be used somehow in the handling of the cordage of the massive vessel.

Night Two Addendum

We have a spectacular nighttime view of the city of Boston as we roll in by train from the west.  We can see the glow of Fenway Park far off in the distance.  When we get to Fenway, we hop off.  We find a bar within the park itself.  It is very crowded; my friend and I are well and truly belly up to the bar.

We order a round of pinot grigios.  When the barista returns with them, my friend asks her if she has something "special."  She comes back a minute later with a small tray of chocolate cupcakes, Hostess-like but without the squiggle.  She tells us that they are laced with a heavy dose of aphrodisiac and advises us not to drive after eating them.  I wrap mine in a paper napkin and stuff it in a pocket, never to be seen again.  I have a certain contempt, in the dream, for people who rely on such things.  (I do literally bump into a woman at the bar, by the way, but after tossing off a little half insult/half tease in my direction, she disappears as well.)

When I take out my wallet to settle up, I am more than a little annoyed at myself because it is stuffed to overflowing with random bills.  I must be carrying at least $1000 in cash for no good reason.

 

It's Not for Me

It's not for me to try to lead you on your own personal path to Enlightenment.  My own path suffers from a dark cast of mind and a lifelong lack of spiritual discipline.

But the Greatest Avatar Ever to Have Emerged from the State of New Jersey, Whose Multiplicity of Names Shall Remain Nameless, insisted in his lifetime on two things -- (1) that we empty our minds; and (2) that we unclench our minds.

The first is well understood, if extremely difficult in the execution.  It is the shutting down of the internal monologue, via meditation or tai chi, for example.

But what does it mean to unclench our minds?  

In that ancient and much-beloved documentary series, "The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau," Jacques and his minions would often find sea anemones on the ocean floor.  Their many tentacles waved in lovely patterns as they hunted for plankton or other little things to eat.  But if an intruder such as Jacques touched them even with a light finger, they would withdraw instantly into a tight, protective ball.

The New Jersey Avatar admonishes us to open up to the world, whatever it may bring.

 

At the Risk of Blasphemy

Could the intensity of the devotion to Jesus Christ as personal Savior that we have seen lately, and the sheer numbers of people who feel such devotion, conjure Him out of thin air, making Him real after all, for believer and non-believer alike?