Today God woke me up from the sleep of the dead, so to speak, with—what else?— a chain of thoughts. They came streaming down from on high fast and furiously as they do and I thought about how to add them my life’s story, which by now is more than a mere sea of stories; it’s the veritable mother of all oceans.
Awake, I kept dreaming up clever titles, Catchy “interesting” words that grab readers. Juicy sound bites that tickle auditory taste buds. Anyway, one thought kept appearing, “Why should I repeatedly teach zero-sum mantras and supply ‘for instances’ all my days? People should know all about it because zero-sum reality, like gravity, is hard at work day and night, the most obvious thing, yet no one thinks about it. Every sentence, more or less—paragraphs for sure—heralds it from the rooftops. “Hey you down there! Listen up! For every gain there’s a loss, for every high there’s a low. But don’t despair. Help is on the way!”
Mercifully, I’m not going to veer into my psychology just now. I intend to just keep observing and recording God’s thoughts for…what else?…the upliftment of humanity, which might benefit from a bit of uplifting, a Herculean, Sisyphean task if ever there was one.
Someone said, “And why deprive us of deep insights into your good self, James?”
And I replied, “Today is not about me. It is about God asking me to pass on the good zero-sum news.”
Unfortunately, passing on this message means the body/mind sense complex needs to shake off sleep, get up and write more essays on said topic, as my public demands. It’s what I’m destined to do because that is what happens every day of my tragi-comic life.
My apparent self finds itself quite pleased that it is out there in the cruel world hard at work making a difference. As they say, “dying with my boots on.” What other kind of dying is implied? Dying barefoot? Now, there’s a bad zero-sum joke. Come to think of it, most people probably die barefoot. Blessed with foresight, they’ve had the good sense to contact terminal illnesses and are more or less prone and pijama-ed by the time the grim reaper comes calling. Hey, another zero-sumism just popped up; doesn’t grim reaper imply a smiling or even a laughing reaper?
Not four meters from my workstation on one of our three-foot-thick stone walls lovingly painted burnt umber by my artistic wife… Oh, dear God, a possessive pronoun just snuck into my story! Forgive me, Lord. As the divine Miss Sundari is always happy to remind me, “I am not your wife, James! “
Good point that! It’s all God, right? Can’t claim anything or anyone in this world. God owns all the copyrights.
Anyway, on a cool and pleasant summer day, the longest of the year, in our finca hangs a tile, technically a bas-relief, of two happy skeletons dressed in matrimonial finery holding hands on their wedding day, which was sculpted by said darling “wife” under the spell of a memory of a certain mid-winter visit to Oaxaca, Mexico, where people actually find the idea of death entertaining. Just to worship death, these wise people set aside a whole day like Labor Day or Xmas, or Juneteenth. That aside, 7 years ago we had cabin fever bad thanks to below-zero temps and four feet of snow and we decided that White Xmas was for the birds and that torts and guacamole should be on the menu.
So, there we were in a small art gallery after our (typical) coffee and croissants in a (typical) warm sunny Mexican courtyard, looking at many happy skeletons (mixed in with typical Frida Khalo merch) happily doing all the typically monotonous touristy things that typically unhappy touristy people do. I will spare you the list, miserable people. Smiley here.
Smiley’s a nice tidbit of zero-sum trivia. You must sprinkle it liberally on emails or you will be trolled by frowny-faced but otherwise good people, who should know full well that life is zero sum. Prudent souls don’t make make cranky people crankier with seriously sensible statements. Be compassionate toward yourself, slather on the smileys and especially spread silly emoticons here and there throughout your text. Serious souls shouldn’t think you’re attempting to convert their grumpy selves into happy selves. HEAVEN FORBID!
That would be “FATHER FORBID, they know not what they do.” Thanks Jesus for that spectacular one-liner. I use it liberally to make people feel guilty for whining about the slings and arrows. It’s like saying, “Shut yo miserable mouths, you spoiled rotten entitled Mofos! You’ve got it made in the shade, far from the scorching rays of poverty and its litany of privations. You’re sick with affluenza, you dumb bastards!!! Show some gratitude, dudes and dudesses. Long line of exclamation points.
I didn’t put my boots on, on this the longest day of the year because I live in Spain and if today’s the day for shuffling off the mortal coil, I’m planning to shuffle off barefoot, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. Sorry for the mismatched metaphor I picked up in Montana during my misspent youth. No creeks here in this Saharan climate, not to mention that terra cotta tiles feel cool and pleasant on my 82-year-old feet this fine morning. I got up and brushed my teeth after sanding down my dentures with a nail file owing to the sad fact that I couldn’t eat properly because they were injuring my aging gums. You will have perhaps taken note by now that said grinding converted a sad fact into a happy fact. To whit: As God intended, I can now masticate with the best of them!
Then I q-tipped my ears. Sorry worriers; I know how dangerous that particular bit of well-meaning hygiene can be but I just can’t help living dangerously. It’s so exciting!!! Ears q-tipped and other small duties too quotidian to mention completed, I snuck down the short stairwell next to my (sleeping) darling bundle of joy’s bedroom, entered my dark office and booted up my computer in the orangy glow of a tidy row of LEDS.
Perhaps it’s premature and you will be justifiably distraught, but I’m going to chuck this story into the sea of stories that is life and get on with the hilarious here and now business of living from thought to thought. But first I need to apologize for the title. Woke is a bad word in certain circles these days, although the spiritual world is no stranger to mindless contrarians either. The woke word in the title means that sleeping stops, eyes open, and God’s thoughts start streaming through the mind.
Having done my day job, which is to alert you to the obvious ubiquitousness of zero-sum thinking, I will now do another job, which is to remind you to do your job, which is to look for my next post, which in some way or other will also remind you that for every sinner there is a saint and that joy follows every sorrow, which (finally) shows that the emptiness you feel so often is unborn blissful fullness, which means you can kick back and relax because God has your back. You can bank on it. In case you’re not convinced, think about it anyway. Until we meet again take it easy…or not.
