Existential Crisis

Existential crisis.  Everyone has heard of it now.  Journalists love to use the phrase.  When they first began, and as it gained popularity, I was like, "Oh, wow. . . people are waking up to it."  But I realized eventually that they were not referring to Existentialism but only using the word "existential" to mean that something actually existed.  That's o.k.  Existence is a cornerstone of Existentialism.  Still, I was sorely disappointed.  

But I am, I have realized, having an Existential Crisis.  Maybe it was the hurricane that jolted me into awareness.  I don't know.  But a sense of isolation and independence has befallen me.  Independence, of course, is a double edged sword.  It is quite a step further than Thoreau's self-reliance.  It is a dreadful and lonesome responsibility.  

I have been like a child, I guess, in my psychological development.  A child is born with no concept of self.  So we are told.  The sense that the self is not part of the world develops over time.  There is the "me" and the "not me."  I may have only recently completely resolved this dilemma.  

It is horrifying.

The whole "Blue Zone" thing has been debunked according to a story Q sent me this morning from The Independent (link).  

Take for example the claim made on BlueZones.com that Okinawans are disproportionately filled with “Ikigai”, a sense of purpose in their life. That’s just not true: in fact, Okinawa has the 4th highest suicide rate in Japan. Similarly, claims that the area is particularly religious don’t hold water. “They’re the least religious place in Japan,” says Newman. “93% atheist.”

I passed this on to C.C. who texted back a link to Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium."  I was reminded that Yeats had a surgical procedure to implant monkey testicles in his abdomen to increase his "manliness."  That didn't work out so well for him, though. 

"I am a rock," I texted, "and a rock feels no pain."

Well, that led to a long exchange of passages from the song.  Now. . . I've buried the lede here, but, I somehow felt I had to.  

Don't talk of love. 
I've heard those words before. 
They are sleeping in my memory.

 And sure as shittin', they are.  

I was reminded of a recent "conversation" with Q to which I replied:

Love fails because it is an impossible dream.  Couples remain together for practical reasons as long as they stay out of each other's way and don't fight.  I've always been too much in love. 

And so, my isolation grows.  

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me
I am shielded in my armor
Hiding in my room safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me.

 When I think about it, though. . . there may be a very mundane explanation for my feelings right now.  Fucking Craig Ferguson!  I've been watching those clips of his show from 2004-2014, that "missing decade" of my life in public--"The Studio Years"-- and what I see are clips of a single guest over the span of that decade aging before my very eyes.  I hadn't realized it until last night.  It is like time lapse photography.  There they are, young and beautiful, silly and fun, then, over time, they get married, have babies, put on weight. . . and become something else.  Why, oh, why do they do that?  

Not every epiphany need be birthed by something profound.  

But they do that, all those born circa 1980.  

Not all of them, of course.  I was in love with a woman once. . . . But I know I must quit watching those YouTube Ferguson clips.  That condensed decade is too disturbing.  

Is it Columbus Day or Indigenous People's Day?  Why must things be so problematized?  Well, that's the Postmodern Way, I guess, and the world in which we must live.  Did you know that lesbians, gays, and trans people were at war?  It is true.  I read it right after the story about Kamala Harris losing the Black and Hispanic votes.  She is relying on liberal Whiteys now.  I'm going to make a MASA hat--Make America Stupid Again--and wear it wherever I go.  

Like everyone else, I have election fatigue.  

And yet, I should be happy.  7 come 11.  Baby needs booties.