Reflectivesurfaces's Blog

I have been on a bit of an Ancient Roman mindset in the last month.  I have dabbled with learning a bit of latin…mostly amusing little sayings…and reread the mythology of this culture.  It has also led me to an ancient symbol of the ouroboros.  This symbol of a snake eating its own tale has found its way into modern culture in many venues.  It has been the cover of albums, the title of literary works and even Dana Scully of the X-files have chosen this symbol as her back tatoo.  So that means it must be a very important concept tied to this snake eating its own tail.

First, a little lesson in ouroboros.  This symbol has been around for not centuries, but for a couple thousand years.   It is believed that it illustrates the unending qualities of our world, or in things that seem to begin as soon as they end. It cannot be extinguished, or destroyed.  It is cyclic and continuous.  It is for all eternity that the process of renewal continues.   It has used as a symbol in many cultures:  Aztec, Egyptian, Roman, Hindu.  It has been used in science:  from the musing of Jung, to the discovery of benzene by Kekule, and all the way back to the alchemists of long ago.  It has been tied to those Harry Potter-ish ideas of phoenixes and philosopher stones.  It has been used in religions, secret organizations (hello there, Masons!) and as a literary device for numerous books, stories, songs, articles and poetry.  Even Plato had a lot to say about Ouroboros.

My first impression of  ouroboros is that it must have been an old joke.  Are we going in circles in this life caused by the biting of our own ass, as it were?  That the events of this life that seem to repeat are actually the creation of our own making?   Why choose a snake biting its own tail as a symbol of eternity?   The snake has been a sign of knowledge, from its beginning on the human stage as the sneaky serpent of the Garden of Eden.  It is used on the symbol of medical professionals everywhere.  But eating its own tail?  To me, it looks as if the ancients were saying; “Hey what’s eating you?  Oh, your life.”  Then some dude in a loincloth bursts into a serious set of the giggles at the ironic twist.  Or someone knocked him on the head with their club, causing the giggles as a precursor to a brain aneurism.  Hard to tell. 

I have never seen a snake in nature munch on its own hind end, so I sense this symbol wasn’t lifted from the world around them.  I haven’t seen a snake roll like a tire while holding it nether regions, except for the odd cartoon.  Yet this symbol shows up over thousands of years in very distance and diverse cultures around the globe.  It has a universal appeal that seems to inspire people.  The circle has always meant continuous.  It is the basis on the ring that married people wear on their left hand.  Eternity.  Dana Scully wouldn’t put just any old tattoo on her back.  Mulder wouldn’t understand it and it would start a whole new investigation. 

However, in my eyes, it is a snake biting its own ass, and I think the snake should have learned something from the entire experience.  Before you chomp down on something, check what it is first.  If it tastes like you, then immediately stop chewing.

Love that time of year
When the sound of sniffles
Is all that you hear.
When the one besides you
Turns their head
And lets out a big achoo.
It is then that you know
Without a doubt,
Your nose will be the next to blow.

It’s the Sneezle Measles
Spreads faster than a rash
And in only a few hours
It will sit you on your as..shoo!

Thanks to the kid
With the snotty little nose
Who with a swipe of the hand
Attempts to stop the flow
Before it reaches the chin

Of mucus and slime
And then with a pat
Will make the joy mine.

Sneezle Measles, what joys!
Germs running rampant on my toys.
When the sneezles hit
Don’t sneeze into your mitt.

Sometimes,  it is one large sniff.

Sometimes, you can’t catch a whiff.

Sometimes,  it shakes the house,

Before you can cover your mouth

Sneezle measles,

They are hard to beat.

Sometimes, it is easier

To just admit defeat.

I have re-read my entries in the blog reality and it is the strangest thing.  I don’ t recall even writing some of the stuff.  My language is different.  My syntax is different.  I am starting to wonder if I suffer from multiple personality disorder, but you would think there would be days that I would be better dressed than usual.  I do admit that sometimes I speak with funny accents (which are only funny to me, and not to people from the regions that I attempt to impersonate.  They would find them, I’m sure, to be distasteful.)  and sometimes I do burst into song, but I don’t think either of “eccentricities” would indicate a full blown personality disorder.  Maybe a little one, but some would say that is what makes me a little bit “interesting” (code word for harmless, garden-variety crazy). 

I have re-read the entries and I see another level of meaning that had not been the initial intent.  I admit that I try to approach this blogging as a release and allow the fingers to take the major part of responsibility for what ends on the “page”.  To let  go and just let it flow, as it were.  But now I am starting to wonder a bit about not myself, but  more about my mental health.  I mean, who doesn’t remember what they write?  And I know that I never edit these entries beyond typing and grammatical errors.  If I was an actor, I wouldn’t be able to watch myself either.  Too mortifying and I would spend way too much energy tearing myself apart.   I completely understand what the beautiful Megan Fox was saying when she stated she will never make a sex tape, or  even a semi clad love scene because she will see herself as a hippo having sex and it will put her off sex forevermore. 

Is it just me?  Or does everyone have this sense of insecurity?  It could be based in an undiagnosed  inferiority complex.  Or just an unwillingness to look objectively at one’s self.  Or perhaps, I am channeling someone else’s thoughts.  (And wouldn’t that be cool, but it wouldn’t be Hemingway.   It would be Hemingway’s untalented second cousin or something.)  I think ultimately it means that I must not know myself very well if I don’t recognize my voice.

Another learning experience.  Another lesson to learn.

As I sit watching the cursor blink repeatedly back at me, I wonder what people did before that little black line was invented.  Watching it reminds me that I should be doing something in order for it to move along the page, preferably followed by text of a profound nature, but nope, that is too much to expect.   The best I can hope for is something that is legible, which should be a given, since it is not my penmanship in question.  The best I can hope for is that it flows in some sort of coherent, grammatically correct fashion.  The best I can hope for is that it contains some self-evident truth that calls to the reader and makes them stop for a moment and reflect on their own experiences and say:  “Yup, that is true.”  But I don’t think that is going to be the case today.

The biggest part of this experience is to face those moments when your brain is too slow to form a thought train that others wish to jump aboard to see where you are going.  Instead, it ends up a thought train that never left the station.  It just sits there, waiting for someone or something to conduct it.  An inert pile of black swiggles sitting on a white background.  But to face that moment when you wonder if you will ever have anything interesting to share with others and share with yourself can be a liberating experience.  You just let go of the control that permeates your every day life and lose yourself in the repetition of fingers pressing keys and see what your fingers allow to show up on that blank space.  Sometimes, it amazes you what appears on the page.  Sometimes, it embarrasses you and in very rare moments, it sometimes opens up a part of yourself that is hidden from the view of  others and even of yourself.

Is the experience of the cursor blinking back at you going to be open up a therapeutic moment, or a truth long denied, or simply be a waste of time for a reader outside your headspace?  It is that uncertainty that frightens others away from the release of the words that come from the fingertips.  After all, fingertips are a very long way from your head and your heart, but when the cursor blinks back at you, for an instant, it can all connect. 

But never forget, there is still a reason why it is called a cursor.  It calls to mind the mysticism of a curse.  It can draw you in or it can force you away.  There are 60 blinks for every minute, and I know that to be truth because I timed it.  A blink for every second of your life.  It is only when you are doing something that it is arrested in its function.  That function, to remind me that time is slipping away and I am doing nothing of value during that space of time can be a curse.  It mocks me.  It nags me.  It inspires me.  It angers me.  It reminds me.  It moves me.

And all it is a  little, blinking, black line on a white background.  So much power infused into it for such an insignificant thing.

When life becomes a whirlwind
And you are swept out to sea,
It is in those moments
That you come to me.

To find the center of light
That rests at the core
And brightens your path,
And makes survival mean so much more.

It is that which I seek
And sometimes, can find
That little spark of illumination
That clears dark from the mind.

It is when it is bleakest,
And there is no where to turn
It is the spark of joy
That begins in my soul to burn.

So in the tempest blown
When far from friendly shore
I open my soul up
And find there is more.

Much, much more.

That might be a tad too unrealistic…to related Sherlock’s famous phrase to anything that I might be doing in my world.  But because my feet are so large, I am sure that it will figure prominently in any reports that  I might make in the future.  They could be rooting me to the ground, causing an incident either by inability to be in the right place or the right time, or could be helping me run away from my problems.  Or I bought a really nice pair of shoes that don’t have a rubber sole.  But there is a game on the go.  A challenge from a very old friend.  Well, not really old, but definitely in the grouping.  Whoops, now the foot is in my mouth.

The challenge is to not quit on the whole blogging idea.  Which shows how very well she knows me.  I am like a skydiver.  I start with great confidence and verve.  But as the ground starts rushing up on me, the confidence starts to get shaky.  When I pull the proverbial rip cord, I am already pretty sure at that point that I have made a bad choice.   Writing is a bit like that for me.  Free falling, followed by a brief panic and then an early pull of the parachute.  Apparently, my friend has over the last twenty years, noticed a pattern.  Thus the challenge.

Every week, there should be a new post here.  Every single week.  In a row.  Already, I am feeling around for the handle.  But the best part is the free-fall stage.  It is the time when you look around and see the world around you.  And feel the rush.  The roar in the ears.  Look around and just enjoy the experience.  So that is what I am planning to do.

And hope like hell that I land on my big old feet.

     I think it was Douglas Adams who first gave me the idea.  I am one of those science fiction geeks who can’t wait to read the next story about the world that is outside this world.  Douglas Adams had a writing style that felt real to me.  I could understand the seemingly unrelated connections of his tales because my mind always had a tendency to jump around too.   But it was the answer to life, the universe and everything that caught my imagination.  42.  That’s it.  42.  I have often over the years wondered what the ultimate question was.   Was it:  “How many important connections one makes in a lifetime?”  or “How many really stupid movies do you have to sit through before you received the enlightenment of the holy people?”  or maybe “What is the divisible number by the great number of factors?”.  Obviously, those are not the proper questions.  It is important that Mr Adams started his series with the demolition of planet Earth, which was to be a super computer created to formulate the answer to that age-old question of life, the universe and everything, in case you haven’t read it.  Maybe interpretation is everything, in this instance.

    I have been a bit obsessed with this number recently.  It would be because it happens to be my chronological age this annum.  I state chronological because everyone who has ever met me calls me immature, so obviously my “self” is aging at a different rate than the planet circles the sun.  I probably would have done better on Mars, with its longer rotation, but it is very cold and I am not a big fan of the cold.  Being a Canadian, withstanding.

I have thought that perhaps since I am a resident of Earth and am the chronological age of  the ultimate answer, that perhaps I have some great understanding that is hidden within me.  Perhaps, deep within my inner child is the response that people have been waiting to hear for generations.  I may be the next prophet of comprehension.  The Stephen Hawking of enlightenment for the average Joe and Joeleen (except that I would be able to keep my native accent).    I would state the GREAT TRUTH and everyone who heard it would turn to their neighbour and say:  “Yup, that sounds about right!”  And ticker-tape would fall, like manna, from the heavens and balloons would be released to the wind and I would get a pony.  But I think we all know that would never happen.  Ticker-tape is a dinosaur in the land of computer technology when your stock prices flow across the screen like…well… ticker-tape.  Balloons are frowned upon when released because some animal species out there really likes the taste of latex and will consume them, causing a really frightful tummy ache.   And the balloons were often not really impressed with the whole experience either.   The pony part is possible, but would have to be one of stouter stock to handle my less-than-waif-like frame.   But in my delusion, the GREAT TRUTH would turn out okay for me.

    This delusion has cause me to rethink my purpose.  I believe the technical phrase for it is  “Midlife crisis”.  This is a little known phenomenon that mostly seems to have an effect on men.  After becoming infected, the usual course of treatment is to run out and buy a fancy toy, often a convertible, and try to lure a young woman into it.  Not a very lurative sport for the rest of us.  I have no interest in luring young women, unless they would be interested in some light housekeeping duties, like my basement.  The odds of that are low.  My midlife crisis is taking a different form.  I have created a mantra for myself…At 42, start something new.  I repeat that daily.  To keep the panic at bay for tossing one career in hopes of finding something less combative.  ( I had an exciting career that I will have to tell you about one day, but has nothing to do with me becoming a prophet.  Except for a thorough understanding of the direction that shit will flow if left unhindered.)  But Mr. Adams knew there was a significance tied to that number.  He must have, or else why not pick a prime number, or at least an odd number, to suit the style of his writing.  It is my mission to uncover the truth of this number.  Or figure out the question that is related to this number.  Or, at the very least, keep myself from assuming some unnecessary car payments.

   So…this little adventure begins.