Notes on Existential/Ontological Crisis, i.e. Monday

10:07 PM (0 minutes ago)

9:31 PM (9 minutes ago)

to me
@faithghost: Is it absolutely necessary that I have an existential crisis of faith every fuckin’ Monday?
Seriously. Ach.
I am not so daft that I don’t see the tragedy here.
“I am not supposed to have crises of faith.”
What? Who told me that?
Why in the world should I believe that?
Crises of faith taught me everything I need to know about the world, because by Tuesday I always believe again…in something.
 038 This cloud looks like a dragon, among other things.
A big part of this story is about how messy, banal and fantastic our fragmented real and the real-real can be, how vast the distance between our hearts and the world, how fucking close…
It’s remarkable to me how I can sometimes feel so deeply mournful for people I’ve never known. I do, I feel, know them. They are ghosts, currents and signals, ways of seeing and feeling that shape our stories.
Do you have any idea how many people I have loved have died pointless and brutal deaths because of the way the world is?
I am aware that with a little bit of imagination this picture may suggest a skull-like visage, accompanied by the letter Y, which is often positioned near points of breath, if the clouds are shaped in such a way that suggests they could breathe. Really though, they’re, ahem, just clouds.
There are also some mighty fine little whispers of animal face up there, and the Y could just as easily be part of a 3.
It’s so strange, sometimes I get the deepest wrenching in my chest, some slow howling grief and I don’t know what to do with it.  So, I try to think of this feeling as proof of how much I love and feel the world…because I care to even think of all those stories and am sad to picture the ways they ended. I’m not death-obsessed. I’d prefer there to be no forced death on planet Earth.
There are some animal faces/forms in here, but only if you’re a surrealist that appreciates how much everything looks like something else.
So, that’s that.
Yeah, existential crisis…? Done. Fin.
Oh, clinically, my feelings (be they grievous or joyful) could be considered a symptom of schizophrenia or some other diagnostic classification that pathologizes our human experiences.
I feel deeply because of the way I process information, stimuli, and ideas. That’s not an “illness,” that’s part of who I am.

013 I am a person who saw this and it was all gigantic and moving. It is the sky.

8:56 PM (1 hour ago)

Hello, my name is Faith and I…

Oh, what am I doing? I need to go to bed, get to work on time tomorrow. I do not need to be trying to prove God…which is not even what I’m trying to do…except it is…because that, to me, is a far more compelling story than me just sitting here and talking about God, especially since I really do think that people ought to be reconsidering a few things.
The funny thing is that, in my proof, there is no God. There is life and there is death and there is whimsy and algorithm and current and force and…consciousness, the meaning we make and the feelings we feel, the thoughts that we think. The economies of myth and meaning, sense and story.
It’s all, in my mind, much more appealling than a blustering white man up in the clouds, telling people they are bound to burn. It’s incredible because it’s real and it is, it’s true, life and death…but, here life is fun and folly and foible and disaster rebounding and seeking and finding and hearing and seeing and serving-as-self and knowing and laughing…big, big love that never ever dies.
I suppose that I could find some cutting edge New Age community to join up with, a cozy universalist congregation to sit with.
Maybe I could read a Course in Miracles and talk about it endlessly, to everyone I meet?
I could get some Osho quotes on magnets. (Happy birthday, by the way.)
There are so many good and brilliant people in the world. So many have been saying the same thing and breathing the same breath for centuries.
Tonight, I was helping my daughter to put together a 3rd grade presentation on The Government. There, over the White House in the picture, was a cloud that looked – to my eyes – to be strung with all sorts of old holy figures around the head…um, the part of the cloud that would be the head, if the cloud were a person or body.
I remember seeing the shapes on my Microsoft screensaver, too and on album covers and in all sorts of videos and stills.
It’s just the sky.
Why, then, are these shapes so consistently hung above these past few years?
I’ve always watched the sky.
It has changed.
I have changed?
Why do I see the rudiments of language stretched in the ethers?
Why do I see faces push through the vapors?
Why are there such hard angles sometimes, such clean lines?
Why do these visions make me feel things?
Is it reactive amazement or is it sense from the heavens?
Is it God…or is it just me?
These are the same questions I’ve been asking for over two years.
I’m tired of asking them.
I know the answer and the answer is…
I desperately want the world to be okay.
I don’t know a more simple truth than that.
I am, right after I hit Publish, going to send those letters, because if nothing else…well, it makes a fine story.
(In my heart of hearts, I hope and hope that someone can see past all these F words and postmodern de-conceptualization, these conjectures on mechanic, meaning, and implication…(better than seeing past them, love me for them)…and just really look for a minute and think about paintings and stories, the walls of the sanctuaries. In my heart of hearts, I hope that someone will tell someone…something. I want, more than anything, for this subjective proof to be deemed real and for people to reckon with it in their own ways. I can’t stand that, one second after I hold this hope in my heart, the doubt seeps in, that dark and drowning reality that what is a dragon and a square and mustache in the sky could very well just be the synchronicities between imagination and sight…but, what about…and…? God, I want the world to be okay. For most of my whole fucking life, I have only wanted things to be okay.)
There are letters up there and I want to know why.
I want someone to prove me wrong. That was the name of this blog for a long time. PROVE ME WRONG.
I wanted someone to prove me wrong, but nobody did.
That’s the terrible thing about reaching a truth. You then must live with it.
“And do these dreams have any meaning?
No. No, I think it’s more like a ghost that’s been following us both.
Something vague that we’re not seeing,
Something more like a feeling.”                                            some Bright Eyes song that just came on

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