Caveat: this entry is a complaint. Skip it if you are looking for appreciations. In fact, you are likely in the wrong place altogether if that is the case. Happy trails.
As you may know, if you have meandered down the breadcrumb-laden trail of this narrative, I am fixed in a discomfited dispute with my corporeal entity, which has accused me of abandonment, neglect and mistreatment. Fair enough: everyone - or everything - has the right to their opinion, to their perceptions. But what about all those dead people walking around?
I am not talking about the discorporate souls, those semi-transparent spheres of colored light, or their full-fledged counterpart images of human form (if partially transparent and often lacking in gravity - or even feet). I'm talking about incarnate beings, steering their genetic entities around like sleepwalking geriatrics or dead-drunk fratboys. It took me a while to realize what was bothering me, but I finally hit upon it: Death on feet! Nobody home! Vacancy within, but the front desk is closed! The room is rented, but unused. What a waste.
Now, far be it for me to assert that there is a better way, I can barely navigate the occupation of my envelope, as evidenced by the current dispute in which I find myself entangled. But, for some reason, it infuriates me to see these half-occupied vehicles being driven about with seemingly little purpose, intention or self-awareness. I bet I could herd them all to the cliffside, and over, in a lemming-parade of joyous purposiveness! But what would that accomplish?
Just do me a favor: do your part to wake these poor buggers up. It makes me sick to see how pervasive this condition is, and I must not be the only one. As for me, I confess that such an awakening task is beyond my present capacity. If I can emerge from unconscousness at the start of each succesive day, that is probably as much triumph as I can acheive currently. But hopefully you are less afflicted, and can act with a sense of purpose. I sure hope someone can - for the walking dead surely cannot.
Apparently the contention between me and my corporeal entity has progressed to an extreme state. I awoke to a relentless pounding upon the door, where, to my shock, I was served with legal papers: a suit brought by my genetic envelope against me, claiming mistreatment, neglect and abandonment! My own corporeal form! Not revenge - betrayal. I am red with rage.
Actually, that is a misstatement, since the corporeal wrapper is required (as far as I know) to manifest the flushed colors of rage. And, to my knowledge, emotion sits in the body - so how can I be accused of abandoning it? If I had, surely my experience would be free of the confusing, distracting, intoxicating and tormenting parade of emotions which characterize physical life. But I am far from that - and thus, far from abandoning my earthly form! So, what about that, R. J. Llellewyn, Esq.? Huh?
So now I enter into the earthly hell of legal disputation. This is where Kafka was born! Better I had awoken with antennae and spasmodic tibia than with a neat sheaf of legalisms veiling a vicious emotional counterpunch. Sure, I am having second thoughts. Should I have been less aggressive in my complaints as to the torpidity and opacity of my envelope? Perhaps I could be more understanding, patient, kind - make amends, go forward anew?
Yes, that sounds like a good idea. As soon as I have found a way to migrate to another envelope altogether, I will flood my former domicile with loving waves of appreciation, in which it can awake to find its resident departed and its higher centers unmanned. I'm sure that will be a much improved situation - Right, Mr. Llellewyn? If you want me, I'll be in the bar, adjacent to - or hovering above - my slumped and disfunctional form.
My best friend died. No, it wasn't me, wasn't due to the termination of my corporeal entity; while I was bemoaning my personal condition, word came that my friend was dead. Totally unexpected. Well, not really; he had been dying for months, I just didn't know about it. How close could we be, you might ask, for me to be in such ignorance? That I cannot answer; I can only report that I learned of his death, having been unaware of his illness. Best friend? What kind of friend am I?
While I reflected on such things, we hastened to prepare for his funeral. No way was he going to be subjected to the American Way of Death, with its embalming, waxing, cosmetic retouching of the corpse; no, a traditional, ritualistic burial was in order. We decided to burn him at sea, as exemplified by our misconceptions of the East Indian tradition.
We were a ragtag group - six of us all told, each one more maladroit than the next. Logs - we needed logs! We had the foresight to put the body on ice - don't ask how, it's too weird. Well, OK - we "borrowed" a refrigerated meat truck. Any pangs we felt about our friend's corporeal envelope lying in wait where top-grade Angus steaks had recently dwelt was not long in our minds, as we were overwhelmed by our logging quest.
I won't bore you with the laborious details; sufffice it to say that we found ourselves struggling near shore, neck-deep in water, attempting to strap together half a dozen enormous logs with unsuitable materials and a striking lack of know-how. If the quest were not so serious, it would have been laughable. Well, OK: it was laughable. Sarah broke her thumb, and Wally skinned a goodly portion of his side, as we scrambled to control the logs in the admittedly mild current, certainly appearing as remarkably inept fools to any observer - although, to my knowledge, there were none. Eventually we achieved our goal: a six-log raft, surmounted with a bier of twigs and roots, atop which we placed our dear friend, wrapped foolishly in a plastic shroud.
Lighting the bier, as you can by now surmise, was similarly inept; we succeeded finally by dangerous overkill, and were lucky that Friedrich escaped with no more than first-degree burns across his hands and arms. And then: magnificent! The bier abalze in glory - although, in short order, the acrid stench of the burning plastic shroud dampened our spirits.
Nonetheless we commended our friend's soul to the afterworld, wherever and whatever that might be. The remains of the bier drifted off, and we returned to our mundane and, in most cases, tormented existences with welcome tokens of our efforts: broekn digits, seared bodies, confused and gladdened hearts. May he dwell in realms less deceptive than this one.
Talk about revenge.
Apparently miffed to the breaking point by my unconsidered comments, my corporeal form has shut down and appears to be on the verge of termination. This is extremely inconvenient. For example, I have to telegraph these keystrokes to the keyboard via some unexplainable telekinetic phenomena which would surely be mocked and dismissed by my more physically-oriented species-mates if I mentioned it - which is why I will not. All that being said, much water under the bridge, many moons to Chicago, etc., nonetheless: it would be really crippling to lack a physical vehicle, so I am going to attempt to make amends and repair the damage to our - uh - relationship. This is not my strong suit, so any suggestions are most welcome. If I fail, I will be seeking another vehicle, so if you know of one available, or even partially so, please notify.
It - the numbness - wore off. That MF didn't give me enough medication to get through whatever nonsense my corporeal form insists upon in order to right the wrongs I visited upon it. What is this, revenge? Fuck you, corporeal entity!
Hey - jk! No hard feelings.
I was lying in the existential dental chair, and the Dentist leaned in. "Feeling pain?", It asked me. I nodded, with appropriately weary resignation. "More numb?", asked the Dentist. Oh yes, I nodded: More Numb. As numb as possible.
Odd that the Dentist, who inflicts the pain to heal the ills that we have visited upon ourselves, also offers us cessation of sensation. We can do harm to ourselves, and request insulation from the pain that comes with self-awareness! Sweet!
Let me put it straight, right up front: I am an unreliable narrator. So read at your own risk: what follows may not be fact, it may only be my opinion. And, in fact, it may not even be my opinion - nothing is reliable here! Read at your own risk.