Meatship

I’ve been using my inner monologue to discuss my inner monologue. It never shuts up anyway, so I figure I could at least direct it to some cherished purpose. It is said that we suffer more in imagination than in reality, so if I am suffering in reality I am forced to consider that I might be suffering more than is absolutely necessary by imagination. Also, according to quantum science, thoughts are matter, and create a physical output, so there is the question of what I am putting out into the world that requires some rumination.

I’m presently rereading Gabor Mate’s wonderful first book Scattered Minds: The Origins and Healing of Attention Deficit Disorder. It was the first book I ever read on the topic following my diagnosis a few years ago at the age of 46, and I find it’s thorough and compassionate tone to be immensely comforting while, at the same time confronting. It’s nice to hear that the issues you have struggled with forever have definable roots, but it is also challenging to accept that, despite the realities of how you got here, how you were formed, this form still has responsibility and accountability, and I think that’s exciting.
I actually like it. I might as well, right?

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, or worrying about what is going on in other people’s brains, but other people’s brains are impenetrable halls of mirrors that, if I were given all of time, would never find myself fully into, or ever find my way out of. But I do it anyway because I’m bored with hurting my own feelings with some of the fanciful crap I come up with, and I begin to look at the world outside in a very strange way, as an entity that is out to get me.

The world, the universe, is out to get me.

Hahahahahahaha!

It’s not, and I know that. If anything, it’s the opposite. I am an extremely unlikely amalgamation of recycled particles that wanders around thinking about itself. That’s hilarious. I am a meatship, and that’s as far as I care to go into that metaphor.

Actually, no. I’m going to flog this one into absurdity because I need to have fun and smile, or at least smirk.

The meatship 7 Record Players was unleashed into the vastness with a singular directive which is, as yet, unknown to it and its enthusiastic crew, which numbers in the hundreds, none of who know who’s in charge, and are in a near constant state of high alert, have free access to coms and the public address system, and different taste in music. 7 Record Players is well appointed, with life support systems, well used virtual reality holodeck, science labs, and weapons. Nobody ever turns the radar off, and every time it beeps, every crew member that can crowd around the screen does just that, and they all talk at once over the PA system about what they see, while simultaneously trying to make eye contact with each other to see who the current captain is, and what he has to say about the Meatship Man Bun, or the Dreadnought Collagen Lips Crazy Eyebrows, or the sleek Corvette Curly Hair, or the cargo hauler Dad Issues. Do they open a channel and hail them, do they observe and analyze, send them a message, send someone over to knock on the hull, are they dangerous? Should we blast them, run away, or just fire up the conjector again?

There is a captain, he’s in the holodeck in some prolonged quasi dream state from which he rarely emerges except to tell everyone to fuck right off.

Well, that’s the way it used to be anyway.

I have no intention of writing the Meatship Chronicles, but it doesn’t mean I won’t think about it more than absolutely necessary.

So you never know.