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Stupid cartoon, Laurence Harvey, the weather and what's wrong with everybody.
I finally got to sleep kind of sleep last night... the kind I imagine is most like everyone else's sleep... but was forced out of it by the rapidly rising temperature here. It was 72º at noon. It was 79º at noon thirty or so. And not a half an hour on it was 83º. There was a sudden intense gust of wind and it dropped to 81º... and stayed that way. It was a little less miserable than usual for me physically, but I still don't like it one little bit.
It's 71º right this now, which is usually the temperature where I start feeling it's getting stuffy... but, of course, it's not feeling stuffy to me at this moment. It's feeling almost like relief.
I knew yesterday it was coming. I could feel it. It was too warm for a light sweater already and that means... this. I hope the inland heat will suck the marine layer over me before it gets this hot again tomorrow, but seems the past couple years I have not been having enough luck with that.
Whatever the hell they're doing with our weather, seems to me, messes it up for even when they are not at that moment doing anything to screw it up. That's just, of course, how it feels... and, strikes me, I am mentioning more and more how things feel rather than how things are according to the book. Maybe I've been doing it for a long time and just didn't notice it as much as I'm noticing it now, but it seems like progress to me.
My whole life, the whole thing, I feel things. That's how I know them. Messes me up to have to study what everyone else has said about them in books put together specifically for that purpose. I mean, yes, maybe some good leads for my feelers are in order, but I still don't see much point in rigorous authorities unless you're trying to get someone out of major legal trouble... and having to be creative.... Research is magic! I love, love, love it, but I suspect few on earth experience it the same way I do.
I aim myself at the question and if the answer doesn't hurdle out of some quadrant of the galaxy straight into my head, the needed information usually in a fairly timely manner just gets in touch with my eyeprints or my earprints and... pft... I feel it! I've had some accolades in my day for my spectacular finds and people have asked me how did I come up with that blisteringly cogent bit. Their avidity seems to ebb when I tell them I was just drawn to that particular section of the stacks and that particular slim volume seemed to me to be worth opening to the right page.
And, honestly, it's both as simple as that and not as simple as that because my brain is steaming around in consensus land, feeling the dread of not being up to the task, while my body does actually get in front of the needed thing, no matter how huge the library is, pretty much without fail. I don't know how I do it. I don't even know how it's done. I just do it, and I have never tried to hone this toward any form of personal profit. Maybe I'm superstitious, but I do actually think it wouldn't work then.
Or maybe that's what you do to hone it... get to the point where it doesn't shy away when someone's hanging over you... like how your seventy-words a minute drops to twenty-six when some asshole personnel director is standing over you... that sort of thing.
Anyway, a long time ago I did figure out that a huge part of my problem with people is that I feel them... don't really rely on what they say... know them immediately... and, actually, it has come to pass that if it's big I will know them before I ever see or hear them... I will know them the first time I hear somebody say their name.
This goes directly in with my discovery that the reason all these gorgeous poems that would pop into my head would never make it to paper was because they did not come into my head in language. It is SO intimate I never even noticed that until I was, like, thirty-four or five or so. Sheesh.
This is the one who knows everything there is to know. Everything. This is the one countless monks and nuns throughout history have spent their lives trying to learn to communicate with... how to be... even as they had all been that since before they were born!
I'll shut up now because you won't have the first part of a clue what I'm talking about if you are too busy being who you were conditioned to be. Just try to take my word for it that secrets could not be kept if we were not conditioned to be so oblivious, not kept so busy on the project of surviving in this world we never have the time to stop and consider it, not so afraid of everything, not being kept so afraid of everything, or so sick, we cannot seem to manage to pull our heads out of our existential terror long enough to take a step in the right direction.
