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Abstract

ent foisted on me by well meaning people, I become afraid to die, which means I eat healthy, try to get high quality sleep, take Elysium, try to put it off as long as I can and hope for the best.“We were afraid you were going to spoil everything by opening all the presents early. You can eat cake here, man. You don’t have a liver.”Chief feature is obscured because seeing it is going to trigger something really sensitive, without a trigger warning, and you will get ghosted.Imagine that you farted out your last tune and everything shut down from brain to heart and all the thinking came apart. And you hear a voice say,“That’s a partial. Recycle it.”There are so many ways it might go, but the worst way is having no imagination which might be sucked back into its seed, like a vast universe into a black hole, and compressed down to a pearl, inside which is the luminescence of love, waiting to exhale.Marie Louise von Franz, writing about dreams people have when they are near death, recounted that a common one is a field blackened by fire, decimated, lifeless … but on closer examination, there are little green shoots poking up through the surface.“Do you remember anything more, Cherie? The sound of a crop duster perhaps?”“Does Medicare pay for this?”<a href="undefined">Shadowgnosis</a><a href="undefined">Adelia Ritchie</a><div id="eec2" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/infrastructure-is-insidious-558be25fe465">

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Why do I feel happy when I sit down to write?

Inner Sunset District, San Francisco (photo by author)

When I write on Medium it’s like a letter to my friends at a point in my life where I have transcended privacy and intend to talk about anybody I know, or just pretend to know, without the filter of discretion. I know this is horrifying to both of my friends, but how do you think I feel? I am talking about the kind of honesty considered an onset symptom of dementia.

Imagine that you are dying and something which you kept behind a pay wall suddenly got free and infected your relatives who spread it to the general public? You lose your last feeble inhibitory response and blurt out what you are most horrified of saying. I’m not telling you what I’ll blurt out because I’d die shortly afterward, and I have dinner plans.

One gets very weak before admitting that the only one from whom we hide is ourselves. From the outside what we hide is both obvious and obscured. It’s obvious because it’s plain to see, and it’s obscured because other people don’t really care enough to not pretend they can’t see it. Those close to us learn it’s like touching a hot stove.

In esoteric Christianity this is called chief feature. Other people pretend to not see it because they instinctually know how upset you’d get if that foreign face popped into the window out of nowhere. So by secret agreement foisted on me by well meaning people, I become afraid to die, which means I eat healthy, try to get high quality sleep, take Elysium, try to put it off as long as I can and hope for the best.

“We were afraid you were going to spoil everything by opening all the presents early. You can eat cake here, man. You don’t have a liver.”

Chief feature is obscured because seeing it is going to trigger something really sensitive, without a trigger warning, and you will get ghosted.

Imagine that you farted out your last tune and everything shut down from brain to heart and all the thinking came apart. And you hear a voice say,

“That’s a partial. Recycle it.”

There are so many ways it might go, but the worst way is having no imagination which might be sucked back into its seed, like a vast universe into a black hole, and compressed down to a pearl, inside which is the luminescence of love, waiting to exhale.

Marie Louise von Franz, writing about dreams people have when they are near death, recounted that a common one is a field blackened by fire, decimated, lifeless … but on closer examination, there are little green shoots poking up through the surface.

“Do you remember anything more, Cherie? The sound of a crop duster perhaps?”

“Does Medicare pay for this?”