Mortality

Now, brother and sister, let us turn in the lectionary to--

existential despair.

This will not be an amusing post for most folks, dear readers, so avert your eyes and view something funny if you will not be frozen in place by the cold that is the human soul.

Actually, I just wished that everyone could hear the voice that is constantly narrating in my head. It would make things a lot easier, and I wouldn't need to explain nearly as much. Experiments in allowing myself to narrate have resulted, mostly, in social dysfunction. So I avoid it.

I understand, Warnie, your emptiness. I think we all do. My situation currently isn't one related to love, but what Winston Churchill called "the black dog" comes down on me fairly frequently as well. It happens more now that I'm writing more--this is not a result of writing, but of forcing myself to more honestly investigate my feelings. As Alan Moore says, to "Be ruthless about this, and submit yourself to as much emotional pain as is necessary...". It brings it out. That's the difficulty with, for lack of a better term, mortality.

The wife (Pockets) and I were taking a spin around with her cousin the other day when I became inexplicably depressed. I was looking at the shoddy construction of the academic buildings here in the frozen north, and longing for marble/granite/stone in the construction, even real brick buildings, not merely brick facade. And suddenly, I saw corruption in everything. Everything was going to wash away and fade, everything was going to die. All the trees were dying as we speak, all the people in their cars were going to die in their stupid little boxes, even I was going to die, and what would I have written on my stone afterwards? I couldn't think of much, but more than that, I saw the fruitlessness of that construction as well. Books burn, buildings crumble, we don't even print on anything that will last more than 60 years without damage anymore.

(If I'd had the ability to look outside myself at the moment, I would have realized that this is a traditional Anglo-Saxon motif in poetry, and that might have pointed me in the right direction for solace--but I couldn't. The whirlpool of the emotion was too strong.)

So, long story short, I was a real mopey jackass for a while there. I snapped out of it enough to be civil for a while, but it wasn't until I went to church on Sunday that I really was able to be lifted out of it. The communal confession started off with, "Forgive us, Lord, as we easily despair." That was a real kick in the gut.

But I got to thinking, of course we do. Of course we despair, because we're right to if we limit ourselves to thinking, well, mortally. And I don't just mean about death, but in a sense of passing, of transition. And it ends up being a lack of faith. I despaired because I could not conceive of a purpose or meaning to life--well, bully for me. I don't have to conceive of a purpose, I merely need to divine His purpose. It's a little trite when put down in a blog, but it's true. And it's more than just an easy fix. I need to fix the eternal present in my mind ALWAYS, to be constantly praying. It's not about fear, like I think many fundamentalists and some of my friends think when they talk about constant prayer. It's...

It's like having your glasses on. It'd be stupid to go around without them, and the world is more beautiful and sharper with them.

So, anyway, that's not really helpful to your situation Warnie. You're in a difficult place and time right now, and your soul is naturally seeking some kind of comfort. I just wanted to say that even having the honest, wonderful companionship of Pockets, I still despair. We all do.

Anyway, good luck. And Boo, send along some pictures of your show.

Jack