Postulatin'

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Postulatin’

I had been working on something entirely different, but, like most of the disjointed crap I write, something else came and sat on my head. The only way to get rid of that which sits on my bone head is to rip it off and write it. You get, thereby, to suffer with me.

The topic of the moment is postulating. It’s not quite theorizing, which sounds scientific, and with science it always helps if you can accompany whatever it is, with mathematics that support the theory. I don’t have any of that. Then, there’s hypothesizing, which is somehow different too.

Postulating is sorta the way people think. You get an idea and that’s that. The Cambridge Dictionary doesn’t make the distinction, as follows: “to suggest a basic theory, idea etc. as a basic principle from which another idea is formed or developed.” It says other stuff too, but screw that. See? I’m just unloading this task, here.

Poet Philip says he writes aphorisms, and he does it poetically. He’s good at that, too. Well I’m no poet unless I didn’t knoet. So aphorisms it is, just to see if I can do that. But like Philip I have been tanking these up for a period of time, and they’re part of what’s sitting on my feeble brain, so here goes. I’m postulatin’ that I can do this.

If you want to read something that’s at least, close to the truth, read things that you aren’t required to pay to read. This seems axiomatic to me. Some peeps with 19,000 subscribers feel obligated to lie their asses off, just because other peeps like to imagine crazy stuff.

Crazy or not, behavior is distinctly a matter of choice.

There’s absolutely a reason for everything, even if it isn’t a particularly good one. Even if it sucks. Even if it’s an excuse.

There’s a trick to functioning when you’ve gotten old. After you’ve completed some significant task that inevitably, saps your energy, you either soak up an energy drink or chomp down an energy bar, then you go sit and rest, till it takes effect. But that’s not the trick.

The tricky part is staying awake till it does. Especially, with a warm cat purring in your lap. Otherwise, you might wake up tomorrow morning, and the animals will think you were dead, and they were probably gonna starve. Stay awake and you won’t put ‘em through that bit of terror.

As one ages, it becomes increasingly important to re-evaluate one's place in the world. It can be harsh. For example, there are plenty of young people who likely wouldn't look good without their clothing. But among older people there's almost nobody who would. Using the word “almost” is being nice. Yeah, sometimes I can do that, if I’m among those who are impacted thus. Guys, this is why you don’t chase young women when you get old. Have a heart. Something I’ve always seen as a conundrum is using "older and wiser" in combination. Stupid people get old too. Although, not as many. Such is life, until stupid asserts itself at the right moment, so maybe “older and luckier” works better. You don't have to believe in a god or a heaven if you choose not to, but I'm quite sure the soul is immortal. Overlooking the aches and pains that can come with age, how much older do you really feel on the inside? That doesn’t change. Not at any point before death, anyway. My own father expressed that, at ninety-six. We always think we have tomorrow. Then, suddenly, we don’t. Breathe.

Genuine discourse on science, medicine, the arts, literature, philosophy, politics or anything you like can be constructive, informative, meaningful, educational and therefore, worthwhile.

Hysteria, on the other hand, is none of that, and it knows no bounds.

Sneering hatred expressed in text is the most ridiculous kind. It’s also the funniest.

A close friend expressed incredulity over the drop in the birth rate. “Without sex, you die,” he asserted. If that’s really so, I am totally fucked.

Why in the world do people, on an American website, post titles in French? I don’t speak French. I don’t write it, or read it, so it must not be for me. Otherwise they’d think I am willing to punch up a translator to see what they’ve written about. The French, I’ve been told, don’t really care for Americans much at all, so I think I’ll return the favor. They make too much radioactive waste and ship it to Siberia, build towers that rust, and they talk funny. If not for fries, toast, or salad dressing there’d be no use for them at all, and California wines are better anyway. The same can not be said for Italians, whose fare only begins with awesome pizza. Also, they produce some of the world’s finest hit men. Tea, and Brits? The jury’s still out. That’s where people say I came from, but I can’t imagine. To them “world” is pronounced “wailed” and I can’t quite wrap my head around that.

Americans, as a general rule, are comparatively crass, but what would one expect? Most of us were troublesome outcasts when we came here. And a majority, at least, still don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of us. Apologies to those who do.

I’ve often been labeled a congenital dissenter. I vehemently disagree, and I always have.

I hate weddings. What a terrible waste of a Saturday. At least at funerals, somebody’s suffering is over.

Same line of thinking, why not support gay marriage? Why should only straights suffer?

Individualism is just fine with everyone, as long as nobody tries it.

You can say anything against the government you want, as long as nobody’s paying attention. That spawned “shadow-banning.” On this particular media venue, your silly note just scrolls out of sight, instantly. This venue is for writers, dammit, not cartoons. Yeah, I know. Write on Substack, forget the funnies. I happen to like the funnies. I think it was novelist Roald Dahl who rhymed, “A little nonsense now and then, is relished by the wisest men.” Clearly, ol’ Roald wouldn’t have made it here.

Sometimes I wonder if it's even possible for men to make peace with women. But if one could, would it be better to attempt it, or simply to dismiss it and enjoy the sex? I don't know the answer. I do know which option is more fun. That is to say, I still remember.

On a serious note, Valentine's Day is about things that can't be bought. Love. Trust. Honesty. Friendship. Money and purchased gifts are completely unrelated to any of them. Oh, I know. Gifts are symbolic. I'm just sayin'. It’s important to place value where it belongs.

I know two things about human sexuality, one: It’s like breathing, it’s a part of every human being, and two: How one deals with sex and sexuality is governed by a mindset. It’s possible to obsess on it or to completely dismiss it, or to live anywhere in between the two extremes. If the former, like any addiction it can be terribly debilitating and damaging. No substance in existence has greater potential to damage the human spirit. If, however, it is controlled by the common sense with which (I think) we have all been gifted, it has massive and almost unbelievable potential to provide the deepest fulfillment human beings can ever experience in life.

But beyond common sense, the control of emotion related to one’s sexuality is of the most critical importance, that is, to control it instead of allowing it to control you.

It was a really long time ago, that much is true. I'd known somehow, a change was coming. Then one afternoon late in December, the change showed up at my back door. In a skirt.

It was a really tough day, but not a total loss. I discovered something about a lady I'd admired that just wouldn't work. On the upside though, Facebook showed me a pic of someone with the same surname who has fantastic, um, breasts. Can you say “tits” here?

Like a lot of people, I've been doing battle with the inevitable: aging. I guess it's no use, and it's useless to let your hair get long just because you're getting older, and that fact pisses you off. But that's what I did. I stopped in at the local convenience store a few months back, and the big stocky high school kid behind the counter seemed visibly amused at my appearance. I realized my hair was sticking out around my stocking cap, and it must have looked ridiculous. I really didn't appreciate his reaction, not at all. So a few days later, when I went back inside to pay for my gas, I suppose I shouldn't have laughed out loud at the sparkling new set of 8 millimeter diameter cubic zirconia posts in his ears. He wasn’t particularly appreciative, either.

When anyone gives you shit, remember the common name of the orifice from which shit emanates. There's the problem.

There exists a blend of the unknown and the improbable that science will never fully quantify.

Without exception, every problem ever caused by humans has always had the same origin, which either is or was, misplaced priorities. Think about it.

I’m seldom fooled, and it’s always been so. I remember telling my mom, that carriage was always a fuckin’ pumpkin. I still remember the look on her face. I don’t think I’ve seen that degree of surprise, since. Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I got the language from neighborhood kids, not my folks. Had no idea what it meant, so I just used it. I still do that. You’d think I would learn.

If a thousand different people read a story, they will by their individual natures generate a thousand different mental representations of the thing they’ve read in their thousand different minds. This is the thing I love best about writing.

The first half of my life was full of passion and music. I had believed the passion was gone. But I've found it has simply become embedded in the music, some of it, in my writing. Here and there. No, really.

Finally, flush up against the end of my tiny trove of “sorta” wisdoms, I will offer this silly little poem, since I can’t be poetic with my aphorisms. I know. I’m no poet, unless I didn’t knoet.

The Night

 Softly through darkness, many small footsteps 

Cries of wild creatures in the night 

Far they are from endless struggles 

That salve the pangs of human lusts.     

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Benjamin Trayne