10,000 Days

by practicalspactical

I have lived for 10,000 days.

What do I have? Little. Much. Am I master of my own life? Self-Author? Do I want to be? No. Not really. Negation. Tunnel vision.

Problem with self-authorship, solipsism, is the ultimate impossibility of surprise. The death of newness. On the other hand — ranging out into the wide world, merely a one among many, provides for the possibility of endless surprises.

One of those surprises will no doubt kill me, and take me away from all this, but that is a risk that a) cannot be avoided, even if we lock ourselves in boxes, and b) even if it could be avoided, we wouldn’t want to.

Surrounded by loneliness, I return to my parent’s house. My soul expands to fill its rooms.

Two dimensional sprites dance on screens across my view.

Larry David cracks a joke on the telescreen.

I line up seven books on deliberative democracy.

Kant tells us that the only moral act is the one we don’t want to do. Sounds right, but where does it come from?

Read a science fiction book about Platonic ideas and multiple worlds. I do think morality may have something to do with that, with the human brain modeling all possible worlds and picking the best one — morality is a science that tells us which possible world to pick.

Choice. Action. The Matrix Trilogy, which began in 1999, before the Dream of Fire broke through the Worlds of If into our world, the world of action. It was a dream, those days, secret crushes on dark haired girls, laying in a Kibbutz House in Israel trying to figure out a way to express my tumultous hormone-influenced feelings — that sea has settled somewhat — I burn, but burn steadier —

Still — when I’m alone — and I’m alone now — I recede and become less capable of bridging the gaps between us — though empatheogens help — I was quite friendly that first night of 8, talking to Geraldine, and the couple from 2006, and the kid from the ranch in Florida — I interrogate you friendly-like, exploring the outside world —

Other people. Sun light at 3 PM dapples and shines through my window — burning bright colored leaves wave in wind and divide the light making light shows —

something is missing here — something burnt out — feels like jetlag, but could also be ruins of neural tissue — I think that’s fine — just tired — not enough coffee, not enough donuts —

My memory, legion, surrounds, but I am less interested in them now — things I could do to mark the day — drive out to Hawk Mountain, or the Delaware Water Gap — sit and watch the creek out the back window of this house — talk to me — my parents come in — showing me a coat — offering me a coat — my mom used to dress me in coats for fat people when I was young — before I could choose for myself — old mean joke two-fisted “your mom dresses you funny” — reading the Hobbit in my friend’s house in Ventnor, his dad asking me if I understood all the words — I said yes — maybe not — I’m not afraid to skim past the slow parts — might miss a little miss a lot — a sword for kings — my great unceasing ambition — my righteous anger — how shall I be good — stop eating animals — oh, the poor poor animals, engaging in some bloody industrial final solution — not as bad but it looks the same — industrialized killing — robotic death planes — 21st century — war in the desert — war of assassins — all these things are outside of me — do not touch me except through broadsheets and internets — tubes — where do we go from here —

tomorrow is the true day — 10,001. First day of the rest of my life. Why not now. Exercise. Beauty. Making myself strong. I need to be strong and knowledgeable and wise. Right click. Context sensitive. Enough to run. Manhattan, Great City. Yankees win the Pennant. Bloomberg takes the election. I dance on the graves of 10,000 Indians, gone to dust. Shiva, metaphor, enacts the Dance of the End of the World. What new world is sleeping, safe, in amniotic fluid with amniotic dreams — piercing pain and egg yolks — Do I want a Child? Yes, if I can care for it — I hold this life in trust for Something Greater —

Am I master of my life or servant? Great honor and dignity of being a servant, of serving the cause of life and happiness and justice — Ayn Rand never got that — she was riches to rags and never forgave the thieves who did it — and here, in land of freedom, where we are free to be cruel, she worshipped that — having a gold dollar sign in front of her grave — foolish. Gold enslaves as well. Half right. Half right. We must not be slaves. Servants, who serve freely. Beings, with Respect for that Beingness. Slavery is not a crime but a lie — man cannot be enslaved, he can only be imprisoned —

I am imprisoned, we all are, but I am not enslaved — must self-legislate — things are true that I forget, no one taught that to me yet — the lesson was to be serious, to be more serious — which does not denigate play, but we must be serious about our play, at least for the time being I must live strongly and fiercely and fully — I do not want to be safe — I must live out on the edge — when I read, I’ll take notes — when I dream, I will remember — I will discern what I desire, and get it — I will plan, and follow through on those plans — I will search out new things and learn about them — Arshile Gorky at the Philadelphia Museum of Art —

Coffee is ready. 1000 words. 10,000 hours. 10,000 days. I am an expert at life, 12 times over.