Language, Music, Consciousness, and the Brain

I took an IQ test today. I got a score of 30! That made me a very stupid idiot, considering anybody who scores 70 is considered an imbecile already. I don't know what happened to my brain. About seven years ago, I scored 135 twice with on the same test, taken two months apart. I am not worried about the deterioration of my brain. I know I am getting smarter albeit slower. I mean to say I think more deeply and more incisively. I use language more correctly. Better yet, I have more empathy, so I lie better, too. That made me realize I used to be very stupid and dumb. Anyway, I know I am quite special by virtue of my realization that not only I pay attention to language in general and nine languages (Vietnamese, English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese, Italian, Portuguese, and Latin), I also contemplate on the nature of consciousness and music.

If I seem to be bragging of my mental prowess, it ain't so. I am just taking stock of where I am. So, now you know besides talking ad nauseam about lost loves and exploring the contours of grief, I spend my time thinking about language, consciousness, and music. Yes, I know they are related. Actually, all mental processes are related in some form.

I just watched a show on History channel, talking about 2012, supposedly about prophecies of the end of time, at least on this planet. I don't believe in prophecies and all this shit about apocalypse. All this fascination about the end reflects fear and a carryover of the pernicious effects of the superstitions in the Book, that compilation of pseudo-history and bullshit, replete of tales of supposed miracles. It was designed to fool infantile minds. Still, as I watched the program, I paid attention to the reactions of my own mind, the repository of awareness and lingering rationality. Then I suddenly remembered the incredible arrogance of the dude who tried to evince that he was superior to the rest of mankind for having supposedly come up with a new theory of linguistics, but he never specified what the fucking new theory was all about. He was just being coy and cryptic while being smug that he alone possessed the key to the portal of new knowledge about linguistics. His attitude reflected nothing but intellectual dishonesty and delusions.

My mind didn't just stop there. It made a leap into the mysteries of psychedelic drugs, the pain I went through at the hands of Laurence, the deviousness of certain bitches, and the incipient doubts I am having towards Harriet for her failure to keep her word. Of course, as my mind raced through all those unpleasant memories involving human duplicity, I felt alone, very much alone.

I always have good insights while taking a dump. I don't know why. Anyway, ten minutes ago when I was sitting on the toilet, I thought about the nature of true love. True love always, to me, involves a certain irrationality and pain and anger and mixed feelings from the one who loves and a tremendous amount of inspiration and contemplation from the love object. We love others for what we long to have and and we hate them for what we hate within ourselves. I strongly disagree with a reviewer (Cathleen Schine) of Joan Didion's Blue Nights, who wrote that "there can be no preparation for tragedy, no protection from it, and so, finally, no consolation." Cathleen, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. With a proper preparation for a certain mindset (Buddhist, for instance), you can deal with anything, including death. The world we inhabit is full of surprises, but at least there is one certainty, and that is our life is finite and there are moments of pain. We just have to learn to go with the flow and maintain equanimity. Pain usually comes from a having a sense of grievance and entitlement. You don't love me so I am sad and even angry at you for your stupidity of not seeing how much I love you. That's absurd! The proper response is okay, you don't appreciate who I am. That's okay, I will just have to move on. I don't know if I can ever forget you, but I will try. I once loved Laura for over 30 years because I thought she was good and kind and worthy of my love. One Sunday morning after a good night sleep, I woke up and looked outside the window. A solitary bird was streaking across the empty vast blue sky. I had my moment of satori. I was free. I stopped loving Laura because I suddenly saw her for what she was. As simple as that. Enlightenment came from understanding. Now I'm busy working on my health, my mind, and my financial well-being. I don't give a shit about love anymore. And yet, unexpectedly, women of all ages and stripes of political and religious persuasions are falling for me. I'm shunning them all. I tell myself, "where was the fuck you women were when I was blue and stupid, lonely and dumb?"

Yesterday, a casual woman friend called me out of the blue and asked me if I wanted to fuck. I said, "No thanks, what for? Not at my age. Besides, I hardly know you. Call me back six months later. By then, I might change my mind." She said, "Fuck you!" and clicked off the phone. Some people are so predictable. I am not. People think I am, but actually I am not.

Turning down an opportunity for a free sex just like that made me realize that I have arrived, that I have made it in the art of living. Now I just have to be equally good in the art of dying. I mean, everyday I have to be calm and unperturbed, disciplined and focused, while waiting for death. It sounds morbid, but in reality (my reality, anyway) it is a lot of fun. You should try it. You might like it. People have their blogs and write all kinds of political essays. They get famous. They feel gratified. Here I write in my blog all kinds of shit but not politics. No wonder I have two followers. One is about to drop out because she is tired of waiting. Waiting for what?I wonder. Everybody thinks they are charming and pretty and desirable. I said, " Please! Look at yourself in the mirror. Examine your bank statement. Look into your mind. Be honest with yourself." The other day Kim told me that I was easy to seduce. I countered, "Try me!" Shit, does anybody really understand me?

I am tired now. Writing all these words took a lot out of me. I need to repose. I'll be back, if you're still around. If you're not, I don't give a fuck. An asshole read my blog. He called me up and said, "Who do you think you are? Another Dostoevsky." "No", I replied. He waited for me to say something more, but I didn't. He then asked me why I wrote the way I did. I told him I didn't need to explain to him. If he had to ask, he would not be able to understand my answer. Then I clicked off the phone.



(to be continued)