Inside My Brain

I'm convinced that if I wait five minutes, what I'll write on a topic will be completely different. There is a consistency of worldview in these pages, but I don't plan these efforts. Yesterday's bit on Neo-racism -- I chopped it out in about 15 minutes, then had to rush away. You can always tell when I do that, because there are typos. I do go back to fix them, and maybe add a few sentences, but I virtually never reorganize. That would be work. That's not what this blog is about. Don't like it? Go read Kos, where all your perfectionist fantasies are laid out in pornographic detail. Of course, pornography is all about imagination -- not that the images leave anything out, but they go into your head. You make me sick. My point, if you'll let me make it, is that the lag time between when I get the impulse to write and when my fingers start moving is about 20 seconds. Do you like the inside of my brain? Beautiful, isn't it. Sorry there's so little porn for you though.

Just a few personal observations this time. First, I've given myself a nickname. Makes me uneasy. It's a good nickname, great even, but I've had issues with the matter, as you, diligent reader, will know. But maybe I'm growing. I've been noticeably less reserved in the past few days. It's not an improvement -- I'm just loud -- but it is something different. We'll see if it lasts, and if anything good comes of it. But I'm not really Razerbones. My bones are no different than anyone else's. Longer, but plenty of muscle where people have muscle. I don't know what the complaints are about. It must just be that there is more length, so more bone to make contact with. What a bunch of whiners. So soft, these nose-hair shavers.

The other night I hung around for a while and chatted with a fella. I'd mentioned earlier how JFK was killed by Oswald alone, in a general reference to conspiracies, and later he asked my opinion about UFOs. Well. That was quite a disquisition. I tried to keep it short. Considering I've written five books on issues tangential to such matters, I think I can say I kept it brief. But I revealed more about my worldview than I ever have, to any of these fellas, and that makes me uneasy as well. I don't have to try to be weird. I'm so weird that I just keep my mouth shut most of the time. More and more, with time, I just want to be unnoticed.

And then he asked me one of those what-if party-conversation questions. I never play those games -- I guess because I never go to parties. The question was, if I could have any superpower, what would it be. Ah, the fun part of childhood. You zip through the obvious things, like invisibility and knowing the future, and get to what matters. Took me five or ten seconds of thought. "I'd like to be able to heal." I hadn't known that about myself. But it came into such clear focus. And it almost makes me weep. There's so much suffering, most of it self-administered, but even so mine is a religion of grace. Jesus didn't come as a healer, but it's a job he was drafted into. There's such a need. If we can relieve misery, something greater might be learned, and even if not, happiness is a good second place.

My young friend mocked himself a little, supposing that his choice would seem unworthy. But having a superpower that's less altruistic isn't really any more selfish, it just might be less universally useful. And the pleasure I'd get from my choice would be so much greater to me, than if I'd chosen something else. So I'd be making myself feel good, see? It's selfish, and it's not selfish. Like capitalism.

Well, I've gotta get up in three hours and ten minutes and go roll, so I suppose that's it. Some things that have wiggled out of my brain into the sunlight. They're not creepy at all. And here I was, thinking I was weird.


J