My Epitaph

If you don't question everything, you will know nothing and believe anything!

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

A facade

This little space of mine in the online ether represents a facade of how I wish to be perceived.  This perception management limits my ability to make posts, because I intend to not engage in expressing the rage and hatred I strive to suppress with every breath in these posts and pages.  Some of the most optimistic parts of "My First 100 Days" were active daydreams to fight some of the worst times I have faced: what better inspiration for dreaming a better civilization than to be among the flotsam and jetsam of a failing social experiment?  I suppose maybe I had it conditioned into my young mind that if you don't have anything nice to say to not say anything at all?  (Thank's Cowboy Bob!)  This might explain why my posts are not as regular as even I would like to make them: I don't want to use this blog as my venting of hatred towards the world and most of the people that happen to inhabit it.

I forgave an old woman for changing my life over 11 years ago because I didn't think that hating her would be good for my soul and spirit (or ka and ba, if those two are the appropriate Egyptian aspects).  However, I do not know if I would forgive her if given the chance again because it might be better for me if I had a focus for the hatred I strive and struggle to suppress.  I never wanted to have a rage and hatred seeking any minuscule fracture in my facade to boil up, and I thought I was making the right choice at the time to escape a hatred for having my health stolen from me in a moment.  I suppose I should have guessed my actions would fail in the efforts I hoped to attain because I had harbored a hatred of the social structure into which I was born since rejecting the corporate indoctrination while attending a business school at university and the pointless consumerism and false belief in perpetual economic growth that define the "culture" of the United States.

One of my motives for getting employed on a cruise ship was to further reject the corporate culture that seems to have enslaved at least the USA if not the world.  Not only was my health stolen from me, but so were my principles because I used a bicycle as transportation in part of the world where that form of active commuting is ridiculed because it's one of the fattest and dumbest geographic regions on this planet (sure, now there's a bike trail in the ditch I shattered a helmet in back when a bicycle had to ride on the road) - a place I am known to refer to as The Black Hole.  So, I suppose I have always harbored a hatred of the world into which I was born, but in the past decade sometimes that hatred gets so enraged that the only thing I know to do is to try and remove myself from all human contact until I can regain composure.

I am still a people person, it's just I now prefer when they aren't around!

I have yet to fail to awaken on a day I was really looking forward to living, but I cannot begin to count how many days I have awoken when I really wished I hadn't.

So, if you, as a reader, ever wonder why I may not be as good as regular posts as other blogs, it may have to do with my mental state being unstable enough that I don't want to actually type out my hatred and rage against the world.  Maybe if I hadn't forgiven that told woman, I wouldn't have to work so hard at suppressing a magma field of hatred below my surface because I could focus that hatred (like even chiseling graffiti onto a gravestone one letter at a time might be saner than the unfocused loathing rage that so easily rises up).

My facade may appear cool enough to walk on, but like the lava breaking through in this photo, I possess a rage and hatred that's always seeking the slightest crack in the facade to pour through and consume my spirit until I can cool it back to solid.

When I was burning the pittance of a settlement I received for having 5 spinal fractures by driving a motorhome across the US (fuel across the country was over $3.00/gallon at the time instead of the $2.25 I filled up with last!), I think the longest I went without saying a word to another human was about 3 weeks.  I cherished the solitude at the time and look back upon that period as a highlight of my life.  Granted, I was in natural beauty of the land early in spring when a mirror would be the only sight of a human I would have, and I still don't seem to struggle with suppressing the hatred and rage so much the further I am away from "civilization" and into nature.

Not that I didn't have my issues before that accident, but in the last decade of my life I seem to truly have vacated giving people the benefit of the doubt.  Instead, I doubt their benefit (not just to me, but to our nation, let alone the future of humanity: John Stuart Mill would question their utility).  When I wish too much to be able to eradicate DNA combinations from the overall gene pool based solely upon a specific DNA combination's (in)abilities to drive intelligently (I actually look forward to AI driving because artificial intelligence should be of higher intelligence than most licensed drivers) and the most common phrase I seem to be screaming while driving seems to be "I fucking hate people!!!" - in times like those I refrain from using this webspace for rants against humanity.

Maybe I should vent my rage, frustration and hatreds via this blog?  It might make some of you feel I am more human than the cold intellect I usually try to convey here.  I still want to be the man I was 20 years ago when I working at sea: I still prefer laughing to loathing and loving life over not wanting to wakeup another day.  It just has become a breath-to-breath struggle somedays and I don't always win the struggle to not be a miserable, bitter, mean old man filled with hatred and contempt to the world and its inhabitants because of chronic back pains.

Once, what I now consider my facade was my entirety, but I was wrong in believing the volcanic island of my life was an extinct volcano instead of just dormant.  My hatred and rage can cripple me until I can finally cool down the edge enough to rest upon "dry land" again of newly cooled lava.  I don't like being overcome with that hatred and rage, but as with any Post Traumatic Stress, all one can do seems to limit the triggers as best one can, and try not to literally kill anyone when triggered.

However, I suppose with my Bachelor of Science in Marketing, it might be a far better medium for me to share that magma of hate and rage to attract larger numbers of readers because I remain fairly certain that I am not the only one who struggles with having to be victim of human stupidity (even if only the stupidity of other drivers on the roads), but it would still be best to find a way to use it in standup, or other entertaining form versus a typed medium (I was hoping to film part of my last road trip for inventory and begin vlogging, but I was pretty much yelling in road rage and just not in a place where anyone would want to ride along with me and all I was seeking was the next hit in the greatest addiction I have known: proclaiming another day as being the greatest/best day of my life!).  If the medium is the message, as proclaimed in the 60s, then the tone of voice (let alone the tears of rage that have poured from my eyes) must be included if I were to expose what I hate about my life: I absolutely loathe - to the infinite degree - how I feel when that hatred breaks through a fracture in my facade because I don't want to be the bitter, spiteful old man wearing the look of a rattlesnake rattling its rattler on my face trying to warn off humans that I am ready to strike with a hate filled venom.

I thought I was taking the higher road when I forgave that old woman, but maybe I would be better off psychologically if I hadn't so I could vent my hatred and rage by desecrating her grave (if she's passed yet, I don't know) because I thought by forgiving her I wouldn't have this rage and hatred.  But, in my defense, I also didn't know that it would take about 6 months to find a competent enough spinal specialist to place me in a back brace, and I have thought about finding the first specialist's grave to desecrate/defecate because he could have put me in the brace I asked him for and maybe it wouldn't have resulted in requiring pain management for life because everything could have healed before I went through the physical therapy to touch my toes again instead of having to go back through PT a second time after wearing a back brace for 3 months.  I wonder how much chronic pain would exist had I been braced within a few weeks instead of after 6 months, but lying in that ditch, I had forgotten just how incompetent many doctors are, and was optimistic that I could be healed in a timely fashion.

I prefer to share the parts of me that I used to be all the time, but to do so, I must limit myself to the times where I feel my old self instead of the bitter, spiteful old man hiding under my veneer.  I don't feel much like sharing with the world the days I wish I hadn't awakened, and I just went through a bad spell of not wanting to wake up I still don't know if I am completely over, yet.

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