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Re: Mental weather

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  • bhvwd
    ... transition ... room, ... provided ... as ... which ... accustomed ... bouquets ... how ... in ... there ... which ... what ... of ... and ... to ... like,
    Message 1 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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