In my recent post, Twitter Life, I write that my interest in some people of fame is based on a blend of factors. First, the general experience of ‘fans’ (“we see these folks everywhere, watch or listen to their creations, wish them success [or in darker moments, spectacular failure], escape the limitations of our current situation fantasizing about what we think their lives are like, etc.“) A more personal factor I mention in that post (and some others here) is the importance Mom placed on comedy and comedians. Also, I’ve pondered the question “[h]ow permanent (or ‘real’) is my life if it is but one facet of my totality? I wrote then about my professional sales career (Account Manager“) as well as professional entertainers and con artists.
Another subject of my posts over the past six months is my decision to engage in therapy “to help me reveal what is, clearly, hidden now” as I have blocked pretty much every memory before I entered Kindergarten. I’ve also written about newer memories I have, but have blocked any emotional response to them.
And, of course, I now realize these two threads merge- not only am I a person of many facets (personalities if you will) that are not all available to my consciousness; so is everyone else. The person(s) whose actions led to my younger self repressing memories and emotions is presumably in the same situation. As is anyone who shared that experience. Which leads to questioning what’s the real purpose/value of trying and punishing people, now senile, who committed crimes in their past- sexual assault, war crimes, etc. No answers today- just thoughts I need to scribble down and release into the universe (multiverse?).
Of course I’ve accepted the concept of the impermanence of life, the idea that we might never know or understand reality since we are actually experiencing our experience of events, and that solid objects are really collections of atoms and space and energy and not so solid. It’s easy to say, and yet we continue to behave as if we will never die, we all have the same experience of an event, that our collective brains can, in time, explain everything, and that the table holding up this keyboard is solid (and the pain I feel when I bang my knee into it is real).
This is the absurdity of ‘reality’ – providing comics with material until this form of existance ends.