Ready, Set, Wonderful

On occasion, I think I'm thinking too much.

I see a commercial for a new cereal, something about raisins or cranberries, the commercial isn't important to me — I'm not buying. But then I think, "berries!" immediately think of raspberries — how good they taste and why that is — ethyl formate. Naturally, it's impossible for me to think about raspberries without thinking about Star Trek. (most recently, the synergistic nature of TNG, DS9 and Voyager, and the dichotomous, Enterprise).

This connection exists because ethyl formate is the unique substance that adds vibrancy to the cosmos, the splashes of color we see from our little blue ball (aided by a telescope not-so-small). When I think of space, I think of deep space, and there's only way we could get there within a lifetime (and maybe get back): warp drive. I think warp drive, I think Star Trek... but not Star Wars. 'Wars happened a long time ago in a galaxy (other than ours) too far away to be relevant. (Geek joke)

Here I sit; in pain but able to focus and filter extraneous thought, but why? I am trapped by known and undiagnosed disabilities, unseen and difficult to quantify — I feel restrained by intangible chords of various lengths and strengths. At times, I can go for a short drive or walk; at times, I can't leave my bed — my freedom is retarded — but I don't let it stifle my mind. (There is something, ineffable to me, that could one day take from me the use of my favorite abilities, but presently, it's immaterial.)

Insert interesting segue, here. Hah. I almost wrote Segway. I could really use one of those.

At times I envy people with musical talent; specifically the ability to compose and sing. I lack those talents, and haven't developed any knack.

I can write a poem, but without a voice, I feel that it lacks empathy. I could draw, paint, maybe even sculpt; but I won't achieve the emotion delivered in song. Perhaps that's human nature — and why record sales and radio plays outnumber museum visits and talk radio shows.

I think a song could give me a branch to climb, a tree to lean on, and a stance against my condition. Maybe with a voice, I could build a connection to the world beyond my apartment walls. Then again, I've heard that the grass is always greener on the other side...

Isolation stimulates creativity but not necessarily relevance.

From outside, what a crazed, irrational mess my mind might seem. I put pen to paper or digital ink to tablet, share the result, and people say, "Wow, that's really cool... ummm... what's it supposed to be? What does that mean?" Sometimes people read my writing and conclude that I'm asynchronous with reality (sounds nicer than crazy); I hear second-hand, "what the heck is he talking about?" and think, it makes sense to me. Then I think what are they thinking, what kinds of secrets are locked in their minds, what are they afraid to share? Meanwhile, I visualize glass houses, all nearly identical, lined up in rows running down suburban streets and spread across a vast landscape like sheep across a field.

I'm not the crazy one, you are!

No, you're the crazy one, not me!

I'm crazy?! I'm not the one who...

– an excerpt from a conversation between him and himself.

Like Yin and Yang, I see an upside with every downside. Trying to make the best of something bad, finding the silver-lining (ooh, a cliché!), I attempt to convert disability and chronic pain into ideas and use the downtime to stimulate thought. Somewhere, in agony, I've lost my filter. I say things, occasionally (maybe often) annoying people — ruffling feathers (another one!) — because I want to promote exploration and generate new questions.

Once on a blue moon (hat trick!) I'll inspire or impress someone directly. However, I've also been told, more than once, that my writing is excessive, convoluted, or entirely unwanted. (I know, ouch.)

Mostly, negative comments remind me of cereal commercials for some-new-something, advertised as better than ever, while undoubtedly still made from the same grains and ingredients as the old stuff. That old, rebranded breakfast, complete with orange juice, milk and assorted fruit —surrounded by a fake family that never stops smiling — makes me think of berries...