Why should I give a shit about eternity?, Part 3: Why I give a shit about eternity

I was thinking about suicide bombers the other day because that's what I do: I think about the moral psychology of fundamental terrorists while on the shitter.  There is the expectation of 42 virgins in heaven (of course, at 3 virgins a day, that exact scenario would only work for 14 days; then what're you gonna do for eternity minus 14 days?), but the real value is an abstracted personal concept: honor, glory, whatever.  These intangibles are immortal.  The suicide bomber lives on eternally through these abstract ideals.  (Unfortunately it breaks down when one realizes that the immortal abstractions require mortal beings to carry them; the sun will eventually burn out, ya know...)

I think glory, honor, celebrity, freedom, pride, etc. is a bunch of bullshit.  It is the quasi-religious currency used for mass manipulation.  Your concept of personal glory dies with you.  The fundamental terrorist's ameliorated personal identity stuffed silly with honor incinerates itself when the bomb explodes.     

But I can't pretend that eternity doesn't matter to me.  Consciously or unconsciously, my baby girl represents a future beyond my future.  She carries my intangible currency: my semi-immortal genetic makeup.  Subjectively, eternity matters; objectively, it means nothing.  Eternity may mean dick, but the concept means everything.  The fact that eternity is somehow an innate part of my emotional existence, drives my actions now.  My irrational belief in a perpetual future shapes my present.  That's why I give a shit about eternity: because as a human being, I contradict myself and make no fucking sense.

Just in case...

I fucking hate "just in case."  The phrase implies a certain laissez-faire attitude, yet you are actively probing the unlikely (i.e. shitting on the concept of come what may).  "Just in case" gives primacy to impossibility.  It teases fear out of complacency.  "Just in case" is the seat of a hypochondriac's psychosis: it is unlikely that you have the rare sub-saharan plague that is butchering small puppy liver's throughout midwestern China, but let's check you JUST IN CASE!  Better run just in case I decide to shove my fist up your ass for freaking me out.

I wrote this piece just in case someone is reading my blog.

A selfless rhythm

I remember there were times during football games in high school where I seemed to function independent of conscious thought.  My body was in rhythm with it's environment and acted without restraint.  I had the the perfect economy of motion.  I was invincible.  (You may cite my several concussions as a counterargument to my claims of invincibility, but my response would be that I have no recollection of these purported concussive events.  No really, I don't remember them at all.)

Oddly enough, I was reminded of this economy of motion at the VA hospital the other day.  To briefly acquaint you with the Vets, they are a wonderful group of guys (mainly guys anyway) who performed a remarkable service for the rest of us and are now suffering the mental and physical consequences of their efforts.  Diabetes, heart disease, obesity, hypertension, depression and numerous other ailments run rampant throughout the system.  Despite the seriousness of their disease states, the Vets are oddly robust.  They seem able to survive an acute decompensation of their physical status much better than most of the rest of us could. And when I ask a Vet what type of medical problems he has, the majority of the time he will respond with "none".  True, certain diseases in this group are so common they almost seem like they are not diseases at all (if everyone had diabetes, would we have a name for it?), but they appear truly unaware that anything could be wrong.  Or maybe they are ware but just don't care, brushing me off with "do what ya gotta do doc."

It makes me wonder if they have a certain economy of motion to their lives.  Having experienced an intensity that is not replicable, life now simply comes to them.  They move through it with a rhythm that lacks self-awareness.  Life comes and goes and they accept and release it.  The question that follows is, does this lack of self-consciousness effort strengthen an individual?  Is a lack of a self-concept and thus a fear of loss of that self, the key to prolonging life?

Why should I give a shit about eternity? Part II: The passion of Buddha

So I shouldn't give a shit about eternity.  But, of course I do.  It makes me wonder if I have been giving religion an unnecessarily bad rap.  Religion's purpose is to provide purpose.  It hides the existential emptiness inherent to self-consciousness under a pillow of soft, warm bullshit.  The bullshit bothers me. It enrages me.  It blinds me to the actual value:  the ritual.  Through ritual, religion provides purpose by eliminating purpose.  The genius of Hemingway, Picasso, Matisse, Neruda was not the actuality of their creations, but the ability to commit to their ritual and give it direction.  One cannot expect everyone to possess this genius.  It may come as shock, but I am not a genius.  I can't commit to my passion.  Hell, I don't even know what my passion is.  Maybe I need a helping hand, someone to provide me with self-effacing ritual.  Maybe if I had a passion for Christ or Mohammed or Buddha, I would have eternity.  Not the 40 virgins in heaven type of eternity, but the eternity I could hold in my hand now like Matisse did his paintbrush.  Maybe religion was meant to give us passion and ritual and not dogma.  Maybe religion was meant to make us all forget about ourselves. 

And maybe we should think about this next time we use religion to create counterfeit pedestals from which to judge the "non-believers" and thus individuate ourselves that much more.

Why should I give a shit about eternity?

I've totally figured out immortality and I'm going to share it with you.

You're welcome America.

John Logan pointed it out in his new-ish play "Red" about Rothko and some random guy who bitch at each other about the nature of art, change, and death (excellent play).  In it the random guy talks about Matisse and how fierce the colors of his later paintings were despite the fact that he knew he was dying.  And when he was to ill to paint, he took some scissors and made collages.  He made collages until he died.  That is immortality.

It certainly would be wonderful if this blog were dipped in titanium and bolted to the White House steps for eternity.  But why should I give a shit about eternity?  I'll be dead.  I won't care who reads the immortalized yet under-recognized genius of this blog.  Nor will I care about the millions of lives this blog will save through it's brilliant insight into the human condition.  Again: I'll be dead.

At this moment, Matisse doesn't care about his paintings nor his fame.  Matisse's a sense of immortality came from passion and the consequent loss of self.  Painting wasn't about creating a personal image.  It wasn't about demarcating a past or impregnating a future.  It was about a ritual.  The dipping of a brush into paint, into canvas, into self.  The ritual eliminated self-consciousness.  Death, illness, body, identity were meaningless.  And when the ritual became impossible, he developed a new one.  Death meant nothing.  That is immortality: not that something is left behind, but that you don't care if it is or not.  Immortality is now.

Should I Jump?, or Rocks Sure Have It Good

Like I said the other day, I'm constantly hunting for methods to create purpose (i.e. meaning) in my life.  Methods to the madness.  Better yet, methods to the meaninglessness.    I firmly believe that I create the meaning in my life.  But creation is irrational and exploratory not logical and systematic.  In other words, I don't know what I'm thinking when I create meaning.  I kind of dick around until something fits (what a fantastically inappropriate way of saying that; so inappropriate, I can't bring myself to delete it).

So I get frustrated.  Nothing except my daughter adequately fits a satisfactory sense of purpose in my life.  Much comes close, but there is always some microscopic failure that I cannot articulate.  I try and fail.  I try.  And fail.  However, no matter how many times I fail, I can't stop.  I require meaning like I require air.

There is a sadistic piece of me, albeit barely perceptible, that unconsciously fantasizes about the demise of meaning in my life.  It's like the itch you get in your feet when standing on a ledge: what if I jumped?  What would really happen?  The irrational (stronger) part of my brain insists on the existence of meaning.  The logical (weaker) part of my brain knows meaning is just a conglomerate of distinct fragments of bullshit glued together on a background of nothingness in my brain. My life will eventually end in meaninglessness.  Any thoughts of immortality are a joke.  (What do you think about your great grandparents?  Probably don't make a meaningful impact on your daily life.)  So why struggle with it so much now?  Why cling to the impossible?

I do not want to lose that which is meaningful in my life (see Babies and Suicide).  I wonder if there is something in between?  An intensity of being.  An existence with an imperceptible self.  A purposeless now.  I wonder if there is a way to be a rock.

I've got a lot of shit

It's true.  I've got a lot of shit.  I've got a lot of shit because I have big plans.  Big plans I tell you!!  

I'm going to be a martial arts master.  I've got the belt, the gloves, the tape, the bag, the pads, and the timer.  I'm going to be a philosopher.  I've got Nietzsche, Sartre, Camus, Heidegger, Aristotle, and Plato.  I'm going to look like Hugh Jackman in Wolverine.  I've got random shit for pull-ups, push-ups, swimming, running, biking, kayaking, surfing, and SCUBA diving.  And I've got a full length mirror.  I'm going to be a writer.  I've got plays, screenplays, novels, short stories, children's  and how-to's stacked shoulder high.  I'm going to be a musician.  I've got a bass guitar.  (I know that is a little weak, but in my defense, it's an expensive bass guitar.)  I'm even going to be a better clinician.  I've got books on neuro, cardio, trauma, pharm, GI, babies, vaginas, exams, machines, and books on books I can't live without.

Alright!  So I'm ready to fulfill my big plans: the writing, philosophizing, rock-star anesthesiologist who can beat your ass if you weren't so paralyzed by the sight of his monster pecs.  

I'm ready....but I'm pretty sure there is a new book on the minute pharmacologic digitization of cerebral membrane proteins in the perioperative period.  Can't be an anesthesiologist without it.  Of course, there is also the handheld Swedish sure-grip ab builder and a 2-week camp on the Tao of fucking some fools up.  Can't forget the neon green dive computer for existential treasure hunters (the treasure, in the end, is meaningless) nor the guitar hero heavy bag that you pound to the beats of Jay-Z.

I'm piling shit upon shit in preparation for my future self.  I'm building an anti-existentialist bomb shelter: when meaningless overtakes us,  I've got enough crap to pretend I have purpose for years.

But what about right now?  What am I doing this second?  I'm writing.  I am a "writer" because I am writing, not because the Art of Dramatic Writing or the Marshal Plan are collecting dust on my shelf.

So as of yesterday, I don't have as much shit.  The local charity does.  And hopefully I'm not just making room for different shit.  Hopefully I'll start looking at who I am and what I'm doing instead who I could be and what I'll do.