autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

I feel ya, Mr. Carrey

I just finished watching Mr. Carrey’s documentary on Netflix, “Jim & Andy” and it made me recognize Mr. Carrey as himself. I find that rich and enjoyable, so I feel thankful to Mr. Carrey for the sharing, even as I acknowledge and tip my hat to the skillful publicity and all the usual unmentioned and unknown that goes behind any such endeavor… it seems rightfully motivated and almost cunningly prescribed at once. I have appreciation for that, too. 

Since way back when, I’ve been writing about this concept of “becoming yourself”; in particular, about all the ways our entire lives are refractions and reflections, bouncing and colliding and eventually, coming to rest. 

It all gets so wearisome after a while; all the spectrum of being remains, all the personification, and quite tenaciously unchanging, too. It becomes a joke, really – like the humor of fool’s gold – no matter how many times it tricks you, you’ll always give hope, give a gasp; willing belief fueled by desire.

The many rebukes of desire we deliver, like the bejangled fool, pronouncing. Everyone recognizes The Fool; hates it lovingly, loves it with the rage of a thousand suns.

Be. As. I. Desire.

Ah, fool’s gold! 

I once met a man who gasped after fool’s gold, but it wasn’t until I recognized myself in him that I understood how little humor the entire analogy holds. And perhaps that’s it at the end of any given day, hmm? There comes, after time, a somewhat vaguely disgruntled resignation that no thing, understood, can ever be conveyed to another and, heaviest of all, that we humans, to a one, are utterly incapable of just enjoying the glimmer of possibility, at distance, unconfirmed and unknown, Schrödinger’s Pyrite.

The painful humor is that last, lingering pantomime, reaching. 

The remainder? Why nothing, actually; and everything. The ultimate herald, quietly, “Yes. No. Neither. Both.”

I’d be lying if I said I lost the ability to gasp. Or to grasp. Or the willingness to stumble about attempting the impossible, as do we all. 

But I saw clearly for a moment in that cast down gaze, the frustrated submission to the moment; I saw that “now” and that “then” and this “now”, soon to follow the tense progression, and I laughed the laugh of ultimate and insistently splendid impotence bragging itself importance.

And I laughed and laughed and laughed.

I feel ya, Mr. Carrey. Thanks for being a stubborn ass just like me, just like the rest of us. I appreciate the glimpse into your struggle. May you kill the buddha the moment you meet it.

Thank you. Namaste. Thank you.