The Memory of Eating Chocolate

3 Nov

The trouble with lucidity is that it always comes at the most inopportune times. Usually when you are suffering through and from some kind of physical immobilization, and so there isn’t much action you can ultimately take. Other than conceptual, intellectual…
Or spiritual.
I argue that because, as an atheist, lucidity is a solid concept for replacing spiritual life or thought, effectively erasing the immobilizing, redeeming seduction of shamanism or the fantastic, or the boring occult. I was never scared as a child of the Bogeyman or Chupacabra or the Wicked Witch of Whatever Compass Direction. My biggest fear was being crushed and ground down by the vise-like beak of a giant octopus while on a scientific dive with Jacques Cousteau. My second-biggest fear was stalling the Nautilus under the polar ice cap, not having made concessions for the exorbitant consumption of stored and limited fuel (you see, I was an aggressive environmentalist even then, as a child; even in my dreams), and energy expended in cutting through the forces of a gargantuan maelstrom and reversing the fate of the Nautilus crew only to be exchanged for the horrific checkmate of asphyxiation by means of water in the lung sacks.
But I was telling you about lucidity and how it always seems to come to someone who is incapable of any more physical action, and therefore relegated to the suspect label of mere pollution as the overrated result of an overblown, over-advertised, and guaranteed evolutionary concept of self-preservation.
It is not overrated.
It is when it can be transcended by logic. Overridden like a system put in place in a complicated machine. Like a more intricate version of an easy button.
You will not argue instinct.
I will. It’s the direct consequence of lucidity, but with a much unfortunate limitation of physical immobility—as in my case now. Which brings the logical realization of having been transformed from a widely-accepted consumer of already depleted natural resources—albeit with a somewhat redeemable label of producer—to a mere source of pollution. Rational and intellectual, yes, but most tragically physical. You see, in my current state or, rather, the disease’s current stage, I am rendered to an absolute pollutant.

Here I am able to walk away from this pointless drivel, this pseudo-intellectual oratory, this bullshit. I am able to do that. I was always a master at detaching. In the best of ways. Like that time at Deep Creek when all the others dropped acid and encountered God in His various forms or incarnations or fabled versions, but I was able to walk away from the ridiculous scene filled with boyish confessions and drug-induced spirituality; just walk away and down the elevation, to the rocks, and onto the water. What I want to do most now is live. I want time. The worst thing about this finite cycle is its ability to render every action inconsequential with its mastery of time. I want it. So I can conquer it. So I can understand it purely and simply. So I can render it obsolete. Like Einstein. Like the universe. So I can destroy its fundamental concept by fully realizing it. I started out talking about lucidity as it occurs to a suicidal, wheelchair bound invalid seemingly fearless of death, but really what I’m doing is excusing my lack of action; passing it off onto the shoulders of fate. I would turn off the lights, only I cannot reach the dimmer. I am no different than the others. I am scared and full of regret for not having had accomplished anything of value in almost forty years.
I’m sorry, I didn’t think.
He says that to me and he squeezes the last third of the chocolate bar into its wrapper, then throws it away gently into the metal receptacle by the bed. I am looking at his mouth and his fingers. His upper lip has a tiny line of chocolate running lengthwise from corner to corner. He reminds me of the twelve-year-old boy he was when I met him. But I’m not hungry. I haven’t been in many weeks, although the hospital provides three trays with compartmentalized assortments of overcooked mush each day. It’s the memory of eating chocolate that pushes me into the lethal bout of afternoon melancholy.
I begin to fuss. This will be my last year. Two thousand and eight. The year of nothingness.


2 Responses to “The Memory of Eating Chocolate”

  1. Slyboots 03/11/2008 at 10:25 PM #

    Ohhh- we’re back here again! Yay for despair and fury and death and life!

  2. (S)wine 04/11/2008 at 6:59 AM #

    Well you know…it’s getting cold, dark, been raining, and we’re sliding into November so…

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