Groan Sound...

Let me warn you: this, chances are, is going to make very little sense. And on that note, I proceed.

I'm in a little bit of a funk. Not just today, but in general. Not necessarily a bad funk. But a funky funk. The kind of funk that makes you sit there and go: dude, this sure is a funk. You know that kind of funk?

And in that funk, I feel like I'm stuck. But I suppose that'd be the definition of a funk. I feel like I'm running, but instead of going towards the horizon (which at least gives the illusion of approaching me for my efforts), I'm running on a treadmill: there isn't even the illusion of progress. Everything just is, and I am. And that's all that I know. And that's all there is. No point. No goal. Very "existential." Very bitchy.

But while this whole "funkiness" is going on, I've been incubating an idea about being a change artist. The idea goes something like this: the universe itself is a creative force. Everything is constantly changing. Nothing stays the same. Equilibrium is death. No moment (however YOU define a moment [yes, that was for you Ed]) is exactly the same. There have been trillions of trillions of novel moments since the Big Bang. Maybe a few more before then. But the point is that change and the universe are synonymous.

And if change is what the universe is about, and if I contain the universe in myself, shouldn't I be a change-ist. Someone that is constantly testing the stormy seas, constantly going for the brass (gold?) ring. Shouldn't change be my purpose in life? Change, in the name of Love, of course. But change nevertheless.

I haven't fleshed out this whole change artist thing yet. It's just like everything else in my life: I find it much more exciting to think about than to actually do it. I'm so f-ing addicted to dreaming about things instead of doing them. It's got to be pathological. I don't know what they call it, but I'm sure they call it something.

And now that I've gotten all this bitching out of the way, do I know what tomorrow is? It's mother f-ing Thanksgiving. The day I give thanks for everything. I don't usually do Thanksgiving all that well. I just kinda eat the food (food I don't especially enjoy), have fun with the family, and enjoy the time off. And then the next day I just plunge into the great unknown, or more often than not, sit on the shores of the great unknown and pick my nose. What the f.

How beautiful is existence? How beautiful is my life? How beautiful is this universe I call home. I'll tell you right now: it's infinitely beautiful. And I don't stop to see that anywhere near enough. It's a f-ing amazing place. And I'm lucky to be a part of it, now. The only time I could ever be a part of it: now.

But at the same time, aching in the back of my mind, is this feeling of jizzing all my energy away in some sort of great spiritual masturbation. I read a great poem at Slate.com called "Self-Portrait, Masturbating." I've never summed up how I feel about my life at this moment better than that. Here it is, thanks to Mr. Steve Gehrke.

Self-Portrait, Masturbating by Steve Gehrke

Here he is again, distracted, lonely,
pulling at the doll-strings of desire,

fingering his sheet music of moans,
whispers, his holy name, the whole choir

trying to sing the body from its cave,
to ignite the risen body into flames,

though the self, to flee its own decay,
must be beaten, must bloody the reins,

which is why he collapses on the spill-
cloth when he's done, his body half-exhumed

from the mirror, the painting like a meal
half-eaten on the canvas, sloppy, ungroomed,

his eyes deadened, pupils like swatted flies,
and the opened robe swanning from his sides.

Holy poo, there it is in black and white. But God is my life so much better than it has been. Life is beautiful, fun, joyful, and kickass.

And still I find time to bitch. :)