Originally Posted Saturday, January 4, 2014
That's a headline from the New York Times this morning. I knew it! The emotional life is not connected to the brain at all. Brain dead but heart-a-pumpin'. Whenever I fall in love, my brain keeps saying, "Oh, slow down, slow down. . . we're going too fast. . . safety first. . . ," while my heart is screaming, "Shut up, shut up. . . I'm driving now. . . ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
If this were a bigger blog, of course, I could not link that headline to my irreverent joke without getting a ton of shit from concerned people going all Crispy Creme on me, comparing me Moloch or Beelzabub. And most of them would probably believe in evolution, too. The world's a bit confounding to me, really. And I guess, eventually, I would have to make a statement of some sort or go to an emotional rehab clinic. But we are of a kind. I've lost those with working gyroscopes along the way I'd guess. Ours are a bit wobbly, too close to strange magnetic forces or something. We are a-kilter.
I don't know if it was my post or not, but one of the Everly Brothers died yesterday. The brothers did not get along in the end. I'm not sure why. Nothing I've read details the fraternal disorder. Surely it was over a woman. The brain is dead, but the heart beats on.
I believe we must be irreverent about death. It is certain and wrong. It is a stain upon all of us. No wonder we are such a fucked up species. We are the only things cognizant that they live under a death sentence.
"You're gonna die. You won't know when, but you are. Act normal."
I'm not sure if most people who have lived are dead now or not. I once heard that over half the people ever born were still living. Is that possible? My friend used it as statistical proof of the uncertainty, but I've never been lucky that way. Not with money and eventually not with love. The money part I can almost understand. I'm not reverent enough about it. But love? That is not fair at all. I love better than anyone. Ask anybody. As with death, it is evidence of the wrongfulness of things.
None of today's post is my fault, really. Nor yesterday's. I am having trouble sleeping again. I go to bed earlier every night trying to fix it, but I wake up earlier every morning. I woke at four, rolled around 'til five. Even going to bed at ten (on a Friday night), I only got seven hours sleep. Researches say eight. Anything less is hazardous. I can understand getting less if you are doing something productive or fun, but I'm simply trying to heal and something won't let me.
Moloch!
I've given up most ways of the sinner. All that is left is to start going to the meetings on Sunday mornings. Perhaps then my soul will rest. I'll give up my blasphemous ideas. That is all that I have left, those pesky ideas, and what good have they done me? I should have been more like Mitt, perhaps. My mother says he is a good man. I'll quit thinking of him as the fellow who broke up big corporations for profit at the expense of thousands of jobs. I'll see him as what he is, a devoted and loved family man. I'll quit reading all those books and looking at all that art. I'll quit thinking all those thoughts.
I'll shut down my brain. The heart will beat on.
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