Weirdo Mantra

We are just weirdos traveling in a weird world. –Maureen Owen’s Grandkids. (Thank you, forever!)

We are, indeed.

I’m now teaching “things” that were once way over my head; high school chemistry could have crowned me the Village Ion Idiot.  The relative weightlessness of electrons in their hopeless orbit (more like “reality” than most admit?) in mostly empty space gave rise to weighty brain-cramps.  Said brain is un-cramping a decade later.

And it is very good to be wrong about where your head can reach—that is, if it doesn’t involve injury to your cervical spine.  Actually, it is great to be wrong.  Knock the stars with your exalted head, Horace advised.  I’m not sure I’ve reached the stars, but perhaps the ring of ozone.

J’aime cette fille. J is learning French off You-tube as of this morning.  You-tube: the fondue pot unto which all seekers of knowledge can dip their e-fingers.  Each French word he repeats knocks a mini-star.

When you lie in bed at night and find yourself suddenly reduced to fat tears over the wonder of the ATP cycle, the broken nature of the glucose (ah!), it is a sure sign that you are a little too in touch with the evocative mystery of life’s transitory nature—say nothing of the transience of all molecules and their electrical affinities.  Feeling those mitochondria at their inherent business, the phosphate groups cycling through marriage and divorce, marriage and divorce, with no legal recourse.

On You-tube, further windows into all mutations of weirdness: two camera-men take to the streets and candidly quiz Boston pedestrians on the Krebs cycle.  Excuse me; can you tell me what ATP is? My academic instincts tell me these students are smugly trying to prove something about relevance and lack thereof, instead of studying for their exam.

This unpleasant question interrupts normal people going about their normal grazing of the world’s plentiful meadow of maya (illusion, or just: what is).  Result?  A vague cloud of biological implication immediately passes over the faces of the luckless pedestrians, as inner and outer briefly and inconsequentially fuse—shit, I should know this, I even did know this, it has something to do with my molecular existence…

And after fishing around in the dead-fish tank of their surprised brains, most come out with something like the following:  “ATP…it’s that thing….

Not wrong, not right.  The best kind of answer.

Proof that ignorance doesn’t jeopardize survival?

ATP: one of the many Facts we take in about the body, which eventually lump themselves into paradigms (sorry: there is no medicine for fact-clotting!).  Mt. Fact looms so high that there is no way to see around it to the clear, empty, prescription-free space on the “other” side.  There isn’t, in fact-world, an “other” side.

Life is two minutes long, says Patabhi Jois, and many others, and yogis measure life not by years lived but breaths taken.

The chance to love, then, is incredibly small, and we have so much to learn in this arena that even chemistry and its junkyard of molecular formulas pales by comparison.  The covalent bonds will keep on needing each other; the ionic bonds will keep on working out the awkwardness of attraction; the polar groups will keep on being pulled towards negative forces in the hood.  And the mind fares no better; it too keeps on needing stuff outside itself, it is floored by attraction and attraction’s antithesis, and it just can’t resist those enduring negative declarations about itself.  What fun, what fun.

Namastasyai namastasyai namo namaha.  I bow to the light in you.  I bow to the buzzing phosphate groups in you.  And the time for bowing is now, the star-staccato-ed interim between the first and the second second allotted to us!  For the flood of feeling(s) can drown anything, anyone.

Noah, at his eternal chore, marches the animals two by two by two, a zoological class trip.  Animals: You want me to get on what?  A bark?  Bateau? The elephants raise their elephant-brows.  But if all your friends are boarding the arc ushered aboard by a rainbow-wielding dude, won’t you go too?

Or will you?

I wonder if the flood were now— the planetary incontinence of global warming–bye bye, ice-caps!–what animal would hold my hand?  Would Noah let me pee first before I boarded?  Could I bring the six-euro wine, if I promised to share it round as the last sacrament?

Noah: Lions?

Lions: Check!

Noah: Tigers?

Tigers: Check!

Noah: Weirdos?

Weirdos: Two weirdos in a weird world.

Noah:  Infinite Consciousness?

I.C: Check!

Noah:  Did you bring your partner?

I.C.: Not two!  We are not two!

Noah: Enh?

I don’t think the arc is coming and I also think it’s coming immediately.  Metaphors about the river of life abound so wholly since the first proverb ever squeaked into its linguistic existence that one has to—eventually—find the label of metaphor a mere convenience.

There is a definite chemistry to weirdness, but it takes all your allotted seconds to learn it thoroughly.  It is a fine balance.  So, as Plautus says, via a greeting card of quotables (thank you Mom and Dad!) gathered from humanity’s long history of saying stuff, “It’s that thing…” but, more acutely: “Let us celebrate with wine and sweet words.”

Sweet, my sweet weirdo.


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3 Responses to “Weirdo Mantra”

  1. rickyb Says:

    This is penetrating & funny, well, like you are. I love the transit from molecules to Noah. “Lovers?” “Check!” ” No, not you, Bob Marley (Mr. “One Love”)– I need two!”

    I love watching your book grow…



  2. marie Says:

    this makes me miss you sooooo much!! where is your green dot, my love?

  3. (0v0) Says:

    You made me laugh–not chuckle–laugh out loud in a cafe! Just now!

    This is why I use the internet. In hopes that, some times, some one will metaphor about the old testament and body chemistry simultaneously, in order that I might, for that moment, understand again the nature of love.

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