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Mental weather

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  • louise
    Waking up, this morning, in the fog of subdued terror, with its shifting associations in word and image characteristic of transition from psychotic exaltation
    Message 1 of 2 , Feb 6, 2008
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      Waking up, this morning, in the fog of subdued terror, with its
      shifting associations in word and image characteristic of transition
      from psychotic exaltation to a more normalised brain function, I
      found possible a return to enclosed inwardness, that consciousness
      should reinstate the boundary of self. Putting on my slippers, I
      retrieved a copy of the Bible from the bookshelf in the living-room,
      and, propping a pillow at my back, settled to read the book of
      Ephesians from the warmth of my bed. Pondering the words, the
      atmosphere, of this epistle, against the backcloth of memory provided
      by years of experience listening to sermons in chapel, conversing
      with churched people, working alongside them, I then took to
      contemplating the patterned detail of my continental quilt. This
      particular item was purchased on my behalf, after a brief enquiry as
      to my own preference, by the housing staff at the hostel run by the
      mental health charity which oversees the specialised flats here. I
      was looking at the small flowers, represented in lilac, against a
      white background, and all at once came to realise something rather
      simple. Flowers make me happy. Then I thought of the ways in which
      flowers variously encounter a town-dweller like myself, so accustomed
      to the landscape of brick and concrete, tarmac and metal, glass and
      slate. I thought of pot plants and cut flowers in vases, of bouquets
      given to dancers and singers on a stage visible to me only through
      the medium of television; then of flowers growing in a garden, of how
      in the course of time I might be able to see such a garden develop in
      the small enclosure at the back of this property, where already there
      is a small tree and some ground cover. The meaning of Voltaire's
      novel, "Candide", seemed suddenly, clearly, present. "Il faut
      cultiver notre jardin". Most happily, though, and dimly seen, came
      the images, soft and blue, of wildflowers in a green meadow, and I
      knew that this, too, was included in the 'devoir', the 'ought', which
      is also, essentially, a permission, that belongs to existence, so
      naturally, feelingly, expressed, in the French tongue, by 'il
      faut'. My life is not lived among meadows. I only know, so to
      speak, that they are out there, that what men and women do, and what
      they omit to do, affects, every day, whether flowers bloom in the
      meadows, whether each particular meadow continues its green life,
      busy with winged insects and creeping things, alive with the song of
      birds. Yet that is not exactly what I thought, no, not about men and
      women in the abstract. I thought about myself, how I could begin to
      imagine the meadows, to understand that they are physical, that my
      link to them, through, for instance, supporting a charitable trust,
      possibly in time even travelling and working, where there are
      meadows, is actually intrinsic to the world. I am putting it as
      simply as I can, for those who may not imagine what it might be like,
      inside a prison of life without sensory reality, driven deeper in by
      the fears and hostilities of those whose physical reality is all too
      evident, whose health overflows, and empties out their tenderness,
      for what is, so manifestly, other. The apparent world is the real
      world, yet we are talking materials here. Philosophy is like a
      spectrum, many-banded. Amid the desperation of want, the undeniable
      power of realistic image, the slowness of thought seeks a hearing,
      for explanation. I don't know if it is, for me, some sort of step
      toward a concept of humanity as family, a paradigm normally apt to
      fill me with suspicion, polemic at the ready. Philosophy is
      different, though. Always a potential enemy to religion (the apostle
      Paul himself draws attention to the necessary conflict), it
      nevertheless shares with any genuine human faith, the chance of
      discoursing from outside the political universe, without resort to
      false claim about those material realities with which politics has to
      do. Some kind of step, anyway. This is what it means to me,
      existentialism, to talk about living, the experience of thought
      included. Back to the old theme, "in existence thought is in a
      foreign medium". Which is actually related, in a sort of
      philosophical, family way, to "he who does not work, shall not eat".
      Another intuition which will take precious time, to explain.

      Louise
    • bhvwd
      ... transition ... room, ... provided ... as ... which ... accustomed ... bouquets ... how ... in ... there ... which ... what ... of ... and ... to ... like,
      Message 2 of 2 , Feb 6, 2008
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        --- In existlist@yahoogroups.com, "louise" <hecubatoher@...> wrote:
        >
        > Waking up, this morning, in the fog of subdued terror, with its
        > shifting associations in word and image characteristic of
        transition
        > from psychotic exaltation to a more normalised brain function, I
        > found possible a return to enclosed inwardness, that consciousness
        > should reinstate the boundary of self. Putting on my slippers, I
        > retrieved a copy of the Bible from the bookshelf in the living-
        room,
        > and, propping a pillow at my back, settled to read the book of
        > Ephesians from the warmth of my bed. Pondering the words, the
        > atmosphere, of this epistle, against the backcloth of memory
        provided
        > by years of experience listening to sermons in chapel, conversing
        > with churched people, working alongside them, I then took to
        > contemplating the patterned detail of my continental quilt. This
        > particular item was purchased on my behalf, after a brief enquiry
        as
        > to my own preference, by the housing staff at the hostel run by the
        > mental health charity which oversees the specialised flats here. I
        > was looking at the small flowers, represented in lilac, against a
        > white background, and all at once came to realise something rather
        > simple. Flowers make me happy. Then I thought of the ways in
        which
        > flowers variously encounter a town-dweller like myself, so
        accustomed
        > to the landscape of brick and concrete, tarmac and metal, glass and
        > slate. I thought of pot plants and cut flowers in vases, of
        bouquets
        > given to dancers and singers on a stage visible to me only through
        > the medium of television; then of flowers growing in a garden, of
        how
        > in the course of time I might be able to see such a garden develop
        in
        > the small enclosure at the back of this property, where already
        there
        > is a small tree and some ground cover. The meaning of Voltaire's
        > novel, "Candide", seemed suddenly, clearly, present. "Il faut
        > cultiver notre jardin". Most happily, though, and dimly seen, came
        > the images, soft and blue, of wildflowers in a green meadow, and I
        > knew that this, too, was included in the 'devoir', the 'ought',
        which
        > is also, essentially, a permission, that belongs to existence, so
        > naturally, feelingly, expressed, in the French tongue, by 'il
        > faut'. My life is not lived among meadows. I only know, so to
        > speak, that they are out there, that what men and women do, and
        what
        > they omit to do, affects, every day, whether flowers bloom in the
        > meadows, whether each particular meadow continues its green life,
        > busy with winged insects and creeping things, alive with the song
        of
        > birds. Yet that is not exactly what I thought, no, not about men
        and
        > women in the abstract. I thought about myself, how I could begin
        to
        > imagine the meadows, to understand that they are physical, that my
        > link to them, through, for instance, supporting a charitable trust,
        > possibly in time even travelling and working, where there are
        > meadows, is actually intrinsic to the world. I am putting it as
        > simply as I can, for those who may not imagine what it might be
        like,
        > inside a prison of life without sensory reality, driven deeper in
        by
        > the fears and hostilities of those whose physical reality is all
        too
        > evident, whose health overflows, and empties out their tenderness,
        > for what is, so manifestly, other. The apparent world is the real
        > world, yet we are talking materials here. Philosophy is like a
        > spectrum, many-banded. Amid the desperation of want, the
        undeniable
        > power of realistic image, the slowness of thought seeks a hearing,
        > for explanation. I don't know if it is, for me, some sort of step
        > toward a concept of humanity as family, a paradigm normally apt to
        > fill me with suspicion, polemic at the ready. Philosophy is
        > different, though. Always a potential enemy to religion (the
        apostle
        > Paul himself draws attention to the necessary conflict), it
        > nevertheless shares with any genuine human faith, the chance of
        > discoursing from outside the political universe, without resort to
        > false claim about those material realities with which politics has
        to
        > do. Some kind of step, anyway. This is what it means to me,
        > existentialism, to talk about living, the experience of thought
        > included. Back to the old theme, "in existence thought is in a
        > foreign medium". Which is actually related, in a sort of
        > philosophical, family way, to "he who does not work, shall not
        eat".
        > Another intuition which will take precious time, to explain.
        >
        > Louise
        >Real weather,here.Eight in. snow and now, according to script in
        this frozen hell, tempertures will drop . I am truly more healthy
        than in years as I could shovel the mass and not succom to heart
        failure. I can think of worse ways to bow out than croak in a snow
        storm. I have come close several times but the will hung on and
        final peace still eludes.
        The snow plough is here and I will need go back out to crumb up his
        labor .He will not exit his truck to engage with the monster manno a
        manno. It is forecast to snow for the next four days so we need
        dispose with this first blast so as to have any chance of winning
        later battles. This place is only partially under the control of
        humanity as we are only an agricultural outpost, in the center of a
        vast tundra.
        Last night Priscilla freaked and began cursing the storm. She felt
        better after the Johnnie Walker.
        Survivalist thinking seems an existential companion. The
        pragmatics of selecting and preforming very specific actions frees
        the mind from the scurrolous diversions into gods and fantastic
        visions. It is the idle mind that posits fantastic metaphysics and
        there is little time for such adventures in a blizzard.Besides the
        weather ,I am in negotiation with the Army for my final disposal. I
        try to be gentle with Army as the monster has tempers. The city is
        slowly coming back from the storm but it has been a very hard
        winter, business and commerce are lagging but since the corn,beans
        and politicians are gone we are at our own ends. Retirement seems
        impossible as I have no idea how to close out the business,
        professional and military lives. The things I could say, the things I
        could not say and the things I dare not think dance in a vision like
        the Inferno.
        So it is back to the parka and boots so Priscilla can get in. She
        could hardly wait to take her Hummer out into the battle. She will
        be cold and crazy and the biteing abloution will need application.
        Life is battle. Bill
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