San Fransico is horizontal-verticle concrete, steel, and people. There are some plants. There are a few animals. There is a lot of art.
What we do not express, we shove down into the depths. The unconscious is the stew of both creativity and violence.
A population of deer trapped on an island will breed until there is not enough food to support them. They will then become more violent, kill each other off; and the population will achieve equillibrium thusly. It is the same with mice.
Somehow, our social conventions are supposed to keep us from killing each other off once we have reached our environmental saturation point. We ship in food, we build layer-upon-layer upwards, we increase our din; somehow we attempt to cultivate a peace within.
I need a wide swath of space around me. San Fransico amps me up on adrenaline. I get the urge to shove people out of my way. I do it with my mind instead. It's creepy. Beer helps. A lot of people drink heavily in San Fransico. The shadows of the buildings are cold.
People sleep on the sidewalks, build little shanty-huts. They can actually sleep. If I can sleep scrunched up in coach on an airplane, I think I can sleep anywhere. We are adaptable, we can shove down discomfort: compartmentalize. But it takes a toll. Shadows looming for too long overwhelm: rape, inflation, genocide.
We are ticking, this can't be healthy. But we are adaptable. The connections of the world wide web look like a neural network. We are creative, and what we create is still nature.
National Geographic is blasting melting ice caps and dying polar bears. I don't even care about the presidential race. I'm more concerned with getting myself to not want applewood smoked chedder and gouda with fresh baked bread and whipped hippy butter, with luscious rich red wine. I don't want to want bacon.
Should I learn not to say "I should..." while somehow I still live by compassionate ecological principles? The demarcation is murky between 'being' and 'being unconscious'.
I'd rather be un-conscious, but then I feel like I have fangs. Maybe this is the 'left-hand path'. I think I fluctuate wildly between this and the 'right' way. Black and white have a hard time making red, which is many strong beautiful things. Like strawberries, and courage.
Some days I feel we're all doing wonderfully, doing whatever it is we're doing. What is that, anyway? Is it ocillating, 'being' something so that something can resonate us? The fox gloves and the sun outside my west window are very beautiful, rich, lively. The roses are a riot, and the raspberries are beginning to explode into ripeness. What is it I'm doing ruminating: working things out? For whom, beyond myself, when I'd probably be better off laying on the floor, with my cat, in the sun. I feel a goad: DO!!!! I must do, otherwise I am wasting time. What time? This time, when the world seems to be ending, but people are still joking about it, like it may not happen. There's still a chance that it's salvageable, that we can change our whole human cultural world-view and think in terms of seven future generations; that we can get everyone to live that way in twenty years.
Then, like Superman, we send the nuclear warheads into the sun, thereby saving the world.