Thursday, November 30, 2000

 

 

11:20 p.m. Yes, slipping in just under the wire, I'm writing an entry *and* I'm participating in a collab *and* I went and voted in the Diarist.net awards *and* I went out to dinner *and* I made my Christmas decorations for December *and* I washed my hair and curled it *and* I took a shower and ate a hot dog earlier in the day.

Sure, I'm tired and sure, I'd like to get to bed and read another couple lines of Valis and drop down down down into the pillows and sure, I'd even like a nice down comforter as I drop ... but first I'd like to talk about what I'm not thankful for in this season of great sumptuous excess.

I am, naturally, an optimist. I pretty much like everything about my life here on this earth. I'm also not a fool -- do you think I'd ever make a fist and shake it at the sky and threaten the powers that be watching me? Not likely. So, you know I'm going to say that everything is just happy-do, and I'm pretty content with my lot here in this life.

But there is one little teeny tiny complaint I have ...

I'm not particularly thrilled with the idea that we all must die. And so far, I haven't really been able to see the value of it.

The whole universe of time moves us from day to day rather quickly and unceremoniously, and even if we don't know the whys and the wherefores, we all most certainly know where we're being shuttled. We're all glued onto a slow-moving conveyer belt and whether we smile or we scream, we're all rolling, rolling relentlessly forward.

It seems odd to believe we possess free will in a situation in which we have no options. Not a single one. Oh, sure -- we can be pleasant and constructive; we can obey every single road sign and keep our bodies fit and our minds occupied and we can lovingly create and tend countless personal replicants of our own special selves ... but when the time comes, off we go ...

There has to be some purpose to our moment here. There just has to be. This seething, calculating, justifying brain that can't figure out this one simple conundrum can't be a mistake. Nothing in nature is too big or too small or too red or too late. There has got to be some reason for our awareness of our own mortality.

We're all on the Titanic; we're all in the lifeboat, the freezing waters, the oblivion. Odd, indeed. Why bring us here, only to drown us? Hmmmm, I say. Must think about this some more. It's more than unfair -- it's illogical.

Of course, that's the secret. Since nothing in nature is ever really illogical except us, it's obvious to me that there's a simple explanation for our termination. I haven't figured it out yet, but I'm musing on it. I'm hoping it doesn't have too much to do with compost.

Other than that one measly complaint, I'm thankful for everything you can imagine: for soft air and hard candies, for erasers and elbows and for everything else that's within my allotment between now and however many tomorrows are mine to squander.