Long ago in an agency far, far away?

I’m having the dream again.  I’m in a maze.  Not the scary type, like the one in the Jim Henson movie, Labyrinth, well, not mortally scary anyways.  It’s just empty, plain, cold.  There’s a long corridor of gray stones, infinitely long it seems, and I’m standing in it.  The ground is crushed gravel of the same stone.  When I walk my footsteps follow me, grating, mocking me.  One listening to my footsteps would assume I was going somewhere, that I was a person in action.  But really, I’m in inaction, or useless action, like struggling in quicksand, or a hamster on a wheel.  As far as the eye can see, in either direction, there are paths off the corridor.  I’ve tried going down a few, yet have had the same outcome each time.  Dead end.  Sometimes I can see the ending, and I don’t go down the path.  Sometimes I haven’t been able to see the end, so charge blindly on, till I hit the wall.  I want so badly to get out of the maze.  Not for survival.  On the contrary, I seem quite comfortable overall.  I hunger for nothing.  The temperature is unnoticeable, like when you dip your foot into a still pool of tepid water, and barely notice it’s submersed, the temperature is such a match to your own.  The air is still, no breeze to chill me, or tickle my skin.  I have the sense I could exist in the maze forever without physically wanting.  In fact, it’s as if my physical being no longer exists.  I know it’s there, I can see it, and touch it, but it matters none; I’m completely numb.  Only my fear of passing my years away uselessly, in this isolated gray world, feeds the urgency of my escape.  My footsteps on the sharp stones leave no trace in this world.

A long time ago, I would wake up every morning, greeting the day with enthusiasm, thinking about the things I looked forward to that day.  This was not some exercise a therapist made me conduct.  This was genuine happiness with my life.  These things were not necessary big things.  Sometimes they were very small things, like the knowing a graded test would be returned in class that day and feeling confident that I’d aced it, or a promise that Mom made that she’d buy me a new outfit for school, or that they were serving chicken nuggets in the school cafeteria for lunch.  Sometimes they were bigger things, at least in my mind, like in elementary school, when I’d jump out of bed for a fieldtrip downtown to the National Mall, where I could visit the American History Museum and see my favorite exhibits.  Like the huge dollhouse, taller than myself, where every little detail was recreated in miniature so lifelike, even down to the tiny, motionless fish in the aquarium, as if you could jump in and live in that perfect little world.  The father sitting in the armchair reading some newsprint, the mother cooking miniature cherry pies and cookies in the kitchen, while the children play with alphabet blocks on the floor.  I longed to make myself tiny, like Alice In Wonderland shrinking down at the bite of a pill, to explore and live in that great bourgeois house, from cellar to attic, with all its elaborate treasures.  Or the movie memorabilia exhibit, which consisted of such relics as Fonzi’s cool leather jacket from Happy Days, Harrison Ford’s jaunty hat and whip from Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Dorothy’s magic ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz.  For some reason I adored the latter, despite my shock at their ragged appearance, discovering that there was nothing really special about them.  They were old and rusty looking, not rubies at all but faded sequins hanging by worn threads to plain ladies pumps; rust-touched plastic turning transparent.  They seemed to hold the promise of good things, that the right pair of shoes could make your life’s voyage safe, even take you over the rainbow.  What I should have learned then though, was that things weren’t as beautiful as they were made to seem, that most things were shabby under their polished façade.  That there were very few truly special things in the world.

Then there was a period of sudden change in my psyche, brought on by deep currents of uncertainty and fear in my world and the world at large, amplified by personal failure and loneliness.  A feeling of despair, and the revelation that I would flounder in this life, that I was ordinary, and nothing I did would ever amount to anything notable, so there was certainly no need to put forth any effort.  In this dark time, I hated mornings, wishing as I climbed out of bed that the day were ending rather than beginning, that I was once again returning to my blanket cocoon, so I could hide face-down in my tear-stained pillow until sleep relieved my mind of its cheerless wanderings.  Mercifully, this period was not too long in duration, continuing for less than a year, after which I returned to a state of mental equilibrium.  Gone was the bright enthusiasm, optimism, and contentment of my younger years, but gone also were the depths of despair.  Most mornings I greet the day with indifference, peppered with days of happiness, mainly those days when I’m free from the chains of my futile job.

I cope with my job in much the same way I imagine people remove themselves from mortal pain.  My mind wanders free from my body, drifting aimlessly over ways for me to escape my current life path, while my fingers do what’s required of them, the smallest portion of my mental capacity committed to work.  And yet, I still perform at a higher level than most of my coworkers.  I wonder if this is because of my relative youth, whether they are just so much more removed from their work after years and years of boredom, or whether it is a matter of aptitude.  I have no definite answer for this question.  Upon overhearing most of their hallway discussions I am inclined to believe the latter, but then, who am I to know?  My guess, and an admittedly conceited one at that, is that it’s a combination of both.

No pain, no gain.  That’s what my track coach used to say.  So I worked and labored, really felt the burn.  And I gained, yes, the work paid off!  But it was clear in my head what the goal was.  To be the winner of the race, to run the fastest, was the goal.  And I trained for every scenario I might encounter in a race.  Ran uphill, downhill, around the track, over logs, on the street, on the path, in a pack, alone.  Based on the success of my running training regiment, I took care to apply the same principles to life.  Labored at everything I put my mind too.  Whatever I did, I tried to do it the best, thinking that must be the secret to life, to do everything the best.  But inexplicably, it wasn’t!  Not at all!  Much to my surprise and discouragement, unlike in running, effort did not seem to have the same effect on outcome of job, life happiness, health, wealth, etc.. Even more annoying, was the realization that not everybody started from the same point.  In a race, there was a set start line, and every runner had their toes on it, not one inch farther ahead or behind anyone else.  Fair.  In life, some people were just ahead to begin with.  Their Daddy owned the family company, their sister could hook them up with a great job, their grandparents left them tons of money.  Rarely, they were just born with extraordinary talent, but usually even this gift was ineffective when not coupled with effort, so I never begrudged people with great talent.  I knew that without some lucky turn of stars, or the correct mind-set and will-power, they could be in the same boat as me, as the talentless.  The only thing I envied about people with great talent is that their path in life, their proper labyrinth corridor if you will, seemed pre-chosen for them.  At least to start, maybe their path grew gray and the air dull after awhile too.

And yet I could walk in a day like this, among the sunlight and the trees, and not care what I did for a living, whether I’d failed or succeeded.  In fact, maybe I should thank my stars I had time to enjoy it.

Amused

I remain fascinated with old yearbooks tucked away, forgotten on bookshelves in almost every home. Every yearbook filled with the dead, staring out of the page at you like frozen caricatures of their once youthful self. As the years pass, more and more of the faces fall. How often does the last face know they are the last? If they did, would they care? Would the scribblings from days long forgotten provide them with comfort or sorrow?

So many people spend their lives making as much noise as they can in the dark nothingness of this world, as if trying to swim against an obvious and overwhelming current. Desperately clinging to a vain hope that their life will be remembered, allowing them to somehow cheat the inevitable death that constantly looms, failing to realize that memories and pictures can capture no more than a feeble distortion of identity through the narrow lens of common experience.

I wish more than anything for my life to pass like an whisper amongst the clamor. Like an unremarkable whisp of smoke rising from a raging forest fire. A broken shell washed on the beach, passed over again and again, and cast into the sea upon further examination.

We obediently march to the death of all.

Hey, guess what? I'm at work late again. Today the big climate summit is all the news. Well, that and Tiger being a possible sex addict. So it is with great mirth that I read through WWE's post below. Hilarious. Don't expect much from me on this post. I've got nothing worthwhile to write about really. But I wish I did. Or maybe I don't. Who knows anymore? More importantly who cares? But thoughts like that aren't original, are they?

I've been pondering the idea of potential. You see it all the time -- smart, talented, or just lucky people who seem to throw it all away and crash and burn or let the rest of their lives just rot away. They could have done a lot more, but they chose not to. But actually, these "tragic" cases really don't usually turn out that way because of a conscious choice. They turn out that way because the person was weak.

But what of the more subtle folks who have all of that potential with the strength they need, and simply choose not to use it? It's just not worth it to them. Let's face it, the reason the weak ones fail is that living up to all of that potential is hard. It can have huge rewards, or none, but it's not easy. So maybe you can just stifle that potential and slide through life at an enjoyable tempo. Maybe those people are the ones who have it all figured out.

Wait, isn't that a bit selfish of them? These people could go on to lead, to heal, to build, to enlighten. But they keep it to themselves. Do they realize that they're hurting the rest of us? The ones who would be the true beneficiaries of their potential? Or perhaps some of them do realize these truths. And there lies the problem. The only ones that really benefit from their extra efforts are others.

With human civilization one big evolving disaster, some realize that their little drop in the bucket won't change much for the world. But they sure will be giving a lot of themselves to try. Instead, keeping that potential close to home and improving their own little world while they still can might at least make for a pleasant spot from which to watch humanity's death spiral. Then again, maybe they're just smart enough to realize they may not be strong enough.

So here I am, back looking at the clock over my desk. I have some of that potential. Heck, let's me be modest -- I have a lot of that potential. As I move into management and try to fix the problems around me I get nothing but great reviews. And even more opportunities to improve things. I can see my way up an impressive career path. But I'm starting to ask why? This shit sucks. Maybe I can make a big difference some day, but probably not. Politics will probably end up overshadowing anything meaningful.

Meanwhile I have a comfortable income at a secure job. I make more than I need to, why do I need a promotion except to assuage my (not necessarily insignificant) ego? I'm starting to think that I should transfer back to some of the technical work that I was so good at before and enjoyed the most. To hell with realizing my potential. I mean, "Why?"

Duty

When you look at the world, what do you see? Can you justify the current state of our civilization? Can you accept the state of affairs? Do you see any way in which you can affect change?

What I see is rot, filth, disease, suffering, and death. Our human "civilization" has grown out of control to absolute and cannot be sustained. Any rational observer, of which I woefully admit there are precious few, should be able to see that the current state of affairs cannot and should not be maintained. Sadly, any rational observer will also admit that they are powerless to change anything.

To be able to affect change one needs power, and to achieve power you need support from a multitude of followers, or perhaps one large corporation. The problem with gaining the support of followers is that a) most people are not rational and b) the rational people are unlikely to truly want change. A majority of people believe the Bible or Koran or some other monkey shit-stained babble written by people who were still half in the tree. These people don't even trust themselves to know right from wrong, and their minds are already fully controlled by religious zealots, massive media conglomerates, and political pundits. Rational people, as they tend to be more intelligent, are bribed by society a generally higher standard of living and have no real incentive to affect change. The large corporation would stop supporting you immediately if you proposed a change that could negatively affect profit margins.

I've always liked the idea of the voluntary human extinction movement. Within one generation we could bring an end to all this unnecessary suffering that is human existence. This method would probably involve the least suffering, however it is ultimately impracticable unless you could implode the nearest star and bombard Earth with enough radiation to sterilize every human on earth. However, since NASA engineers can't do unit conversions correctly, my hopes for them igniting Jupiter are scattered by the wayside, unless it is by accident.

You see, humans are very good at reproducing, especially the dumb ones. Average I.Q. levels will continuously drop from this day forward. If you think the people around you are idiots now, just wait until their kids take over. There's no end to what they can't do!

Humans really are stupid animals. We will happily march to our ultimate destruction, even if there are ways to avoid it. People will fight common sense just on principle, even when the truth unblinkingly stares them in the face. They won't even move out of the way of a steamroller they own barreling their way if it means admitting they were wrong to buy it in the first place. Hubris is out of control, and the system is so stagnant and self-perpetuating that all reason for hope is truly lost.

Our feeble attempts to curb our pending destruction are laughable. The only way to get back to true sustainability is to have a truly massive die-off of the human race. We need a virus that wipes out 99% of humans. The total destruction of all major cities in every country in an all-out thermonuclear war and subsequent mass starvation could also work. The problem in either case is there would be survivors who would undoubtedly reproduce, build the world back up, and screw things up all over again. I suppose if we burned all the oil first at least they would be unable to secure a power source for industrialization. But why risk it, humans are such crafty swine.

Or, we could simply admit a seemingly simple and obvious fact, that this sad experiment called humanity has passed its useful life and should be immediately and irrevocably terminated.

It's 1921 on Sunday. I'm at work. I work for the government. 'Nuff said about that.

Above my monitor is my Despair.com custom calendar. (For those of you unfamiliar with Despair.com, just think of all those motivational posters that people recaption for humorous purposes. Now make a business out of it.) August is, "Insanity - It's difficult to comprehend how insane some people can be. Especially when you're insane."

It's not the caption that speaks to me. It's the picture. Somebody is basejumping off a waterfall/cliff a couple thousand feet above what looks like a jungle. I'm imagining somewhere on the edge of the Andes. But that's besides the point.

Every so often I cross that mental barrier that keeps most people clinging to the handrail of life. You know, that self-preservation instinct. Yes, the guy in the picture has his parachute as his handrail. When I'm 80' up in a tree with a running chainsaw and crashing logs I'm tied in. But sometimes that doesn't matter. When I'm 80' up and I just unclip to move around a branch. Or when I go down a small road in Sicily at night at crazy speeds and the road takes a sharp left. And I don't. And my first thought is how cool would it be if this was a cliff? And my second thought was I hope the asshole in the backseat gets thrown from the car and dies slowly and painfully.

When you're a kid, it's just not the same thing. Maybe it's because you can't comprehend your own mortality. But during those times when when you come to terms with it, accept it, and even welcome it (and not in a suicidal way), the feeling is truly euphoric and memorable.

This should be a good drive home tonight.

PS - As I was about to hit "Publish Post", my boss walks in and says, "Just shoot me. Just fucking shoot me." Maybe my next post WILL BE on that suicidal way....

Word of the Day

Here is the word of the day from my inbox:

stultify \STUHL-tuh-fahy\, verb:
1. To render useless or ineffectual; cripple.
2. To cause to appear stupid, inconsistent, or ridiculous.
3. Law To allege or prove insane and so not legally responsible.

But even better was one of the quotes that went with it....

The word "civilization" to my mind is coupled with death. When I use the word, I see civilization as a crippling, thwarting thing, a stultifying thing. For me it was always so. I don't believe in the golden ages, you see... civilization is the arteriosclerosis of culture.
-- Henry Miller

Good Old Days . . .

I was looking through some boxes and came across my old graduate school lab notebook. On the front of the notebook in large letters are the words "Everything You Know Is Wrong." At the top, "Lab Notebook" is crossed out and replaced with "Exercises in Futility." Three underlined quotes are on the cover:

Do you really think this crazy world will get better?

All our potential is wasted on trivial problems.

Fluids is a dead science.

In the inner pages, amongst to do lists, hand-drawn sketches, derivations, and occasional discussion of Poincare mappings and cross correlation, there are several pages of rants. On one page, there is simply an encircled list of quotes, which I have included below for your pleasure:

Religion is a club.
Contradiction is balance.
Civilization is only skin deep.
Guilt is not of God.
Watch more TV.
Everything is bullshit.
The worst thing you can call me is human.
The world is over.
Religion is evil.
Believe the lie.
Stealing from the thieves.
Thought is for suckers.
Science is narcissism.
Work is for fools.
We are out of control.
Human nature is constant.
Money is the cure.
Money is power.
Money controls us all.
Death is the only way out.
Leave me alone.
There is no solution.
I'm not like you.
People cannot accept change.
Stupidity reigns today.
These are the end times.
End game.
Can't you see it's over.
Can't you see we are all doomed.
Why try.
It's no use.

Outside of the list is one final quote:

Depression is a medical term for seeing what's really there. . .

To anyone reading this that is considering graduate work or expending any sort of effort in an attempt to further science, make a difference, or toil for any number of outrageously unworthy causes: Stop now. Save yourself the trouble. Get a drink. And enjoy your life, if it's not too late.