Morning Coffee (still hazy hum)

Good morning,
how well did you sleep?

I am sorry; I already drank my coffee. Is the coffee too cold for you now? How does it taste today? Is it normall or is it a tad bit too acidic today?


Is this becoming a part of my routine, my non-declarative memory session? The coffee drinking has been going on for sometime now and the writing too, but this sharing is new. A new routine. Isn't this what we are doing? All the misfits who don't have anything better to do?! I've always wanted to share, and the aggressive kids always took, not knowing that I didn't care. I will find something or someone else to play, to eat with. I love the kid with the initiative, the proven track record of leadership. He is my brother. Our different skill sets are coded there, in the DNA, in the organic continuation. You see it in your children's behavior, don't you? The sibling rivalry? We react. We teach them to share. We instill a routine. A pattern of movement and responses that are appropriate for this modern, humanity-dense, resource-still-rich world.

What are we to make of it? The selfish gene. Do we realize that the problem with models and theories are that they are not God. They are and will always be partial glimpses of God or Nature or the physical and non-physical world (which you might say is just another layer, dimension of the physical world for which we are not yet mature enough to see, touch, and ponder).

How do we grow-up? Do we become like those estranged brothers and sisters, who because of some trifle tiff have not spoken to each other in centuries? Do we pick favorites amongst our children. It is natural, the affinity for self, but I am certain that Ayn Rand and Thomas Szasa have only partial answers. And their solutions are quickly becoming dated. They provide partial answers for someone living "in continual fear, and danger of violent death", but must I remind the analytical mind of John Donne?

"No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...." 

Do I live increasingly on an island (even Gilligan's Island)? I don't want to live like that. I don't want the violence of technology to pattern my movement and routines into solitary ruts. My life is solitary, but it certainly is not and will not be "poor, nasty, brutish, and short". This current breathing space gives me time to share. The paradox of technology? It gives me time to connect yet pushes me into a plastic box with running wheels and wood chip bedding drenched in urine rich territorial stench.

Do you have an idea for a game? Here are the rules you say: "You go there, and I will go here. We build forts, and then throw dried pieces of dirt at each other. The one that can't bare the pain anymore, loses."

I liked this game. I played it once and played it well. I can throw. I am pretty accurate with my toss. But the pain. I just can't deal with the pain now, giving or receiving. We are not kids anymore and I don't want to hurt my brother. I am becoming a teenager with burgeoning real force.

You play your game. Have fun. I will be over here talking with Claire.