Meditations on a window-box

The world is a mess, and I just need to...rule it. - Dr. Horrible

Sitting here in the construction site (aka. my apartment), with the cat determinedly stalking some manner of flying thing (I am afraid to look; I dearly hope it's a bird), and waiting for the damn tea to steep so I can wake the hell up, I wonder where god went wrong.

Note that I do not capitalize, because a) I hate that word, and b) I am uncertain as to the nature of this creature's existence.

It's not that I'm an atheist, exactly, but, in the words of the immortal Inigo Montoya, "I do not think that word means what you think it means." Not that there is a specific "you" intended here.

And then at this exact moment, Nina Simone sings, "Sinnerman, you ought to be prayin'."

Yeah yeah.

I wasn't intending to talk about this at all, mind you. I was just going to put up some photos.

I guess what I think, though, is that we are here for various reasons known only (and occasionally, at that) to ourselves, and it's up to us to glean meaning out of our lives. I have a clue as to my reasons for being here, as I imagine most people do. But the terrifying and sad things that happen to people while they're here are as mysterious as they ever were.

I like movies that tackle this question, even (sometimes) the ones that do it ham-handedly. I've had disagreements over the movie Contact, for example. Boywich thinks it's rather silly (though he'll watch it with me), and I like it and can't especially articulate why. Sure, some of the characters are too black and white; it departs from Carl Sagan's book in some significant ways, and yet I like it.

And I don't think it's solely to do with the fact that I can watch almost anything Jodie Foster does because I like that gleam of intelligence in her sharp blue eyes.

I think it's actually the earnestness of the thing. It's so like Carl, for one, and like me, for another.

One thing I admire about Carl (yes, i know the verb ought to be past-tense, but I still admire him in the present tense, even though he is not himself in the present tense) is his lack of pussyfooting. He loves science, he loves the big questions, and he wants to share these things with Everyone.

I've been known to pussyfoot on occasion, to stick my toe in the sand and pretend lukewarmness when actually I am standing in a furnace like Liz. I guess I am working away from that.

But I don't see why caring about something should be cause for embarrassment. A friend of mine recently proclaimed that it's now cool to be obsessed with something. I don't know that he's right. Maybe it's cool to be obsessed with something material. But the very word "cool" gives the lie to the idea that being impassioned is ever going to be cool. Just look at how men react when they see you actually feeling something about them.

Everyone says they are looking for a passionate person, and one who will be passionate about them, but in the moment of seeing it, they realize they don't want it. It makes them nervous - even when it's purely physical passion. Honestly. I've seen it time and time again.

Real feeling makes people edgy. Does it remind them that we are actually here, that these are really our lives, that we might actually connect with one another? And does that, in turn, remind them that this is it, and it means something, because we are all going to die, and that very much sooner than we realize?

I was wondering where I was going with this, because I hadn't thought of anything in particular when I sat down, just that I had some photos to put up, and I just went with the stream to see where it led. Wondering, perhaps, if it had anything to do with death. Thought so.