Mikarrhea

Join the Holy Orgy, Kamasutra
or
Masturbation Can Be Fun[ny]

I wrote this in my idea-journal this morning. It wasn't intended at first for publication, but as I got rolling I thought I might as well post it pretty much as is.

It really is amazing how much the blog has taken over this file (rereading this sentence, keep seeing "life," realize I wrote "file," then think, well I meant "life," and only the third or fourth time realize that I really did mean "file." But obviously "life" fits as well). What's a shame is how the character of the writing has changed somewhat. On the blog I'm aware of trying to be entertaining. Here I don't even care if if I spell words right (or double them). Just watned to get these ideas down though. This morning decided to masturbate. Beforfe last week I hadn't done so in ages--well, weeks. Then I masturbated a couple of days ago & now this AM. Is this the faint leading indicator of a new trend (or a very, very lagging indicator--blistered marathoner hobbling across finish line well past midnight--of a trend long putrifying)? Well, anyway, after coming--the orgasm, by the way, was fascinating:

[Hic multa desiderantur, Ed.]

As I was buzzing down, one of those laughs started up. (They cause problems in relationships. First, people are uncomfortable and think you're mocking them at an unspeakably tender moment. Then, as time goes by and they get it, it's always, "Hey, how come you didn't laugh that time?") And it wouldn't stop. It just got deeper and wilder (not a giggle, not a chortle, a really howling laugh). Of course, the laughter started being meta-laughter (as laughter tends to do, obeying the laws of emotional thermodynamics [where oh where is the Newton of emotional physics?--its not Freud, he's more like the Lucretius]) about the fact itself of laughing after orgasm, and then just about laughing at laughing at laughing period (when I told this to Leigh later, she compared it to her anxiety cycles, which in her case might better be termed whirlpools or even maelstroms. isn't it weird how quickly, exponentially, emotions become meta-emotions? doesn't that seem to support the dimasio-dennett view of consciousness? isn't the capacity for emotions to become meta [i actually typed "mega," which is spot-on in its own way, so we'll leave it parenthetically sous rature] the very driving force behind poetry, Mr. Preface-to-the-Lyrical-Ballads? And how's the old penis when you think about all these meta-cycles now, Professor Smullyan?)

I laughed for fifteen minutes. I couldn't catch my breath. My stomach really hurt. Maybe the serotonin-uptake-inhibiting has finally gotten completely nonselective. It's all inhibited. Like a show with a fabulous performer brought to you by a huge asshole promoter: absolutely no serotonin re-entry under any circumstances. Private function: bouncers not letting anybody in. Go ahead and riot outside if you want to, serotonin. No more room in the helicopters. You're all left behind on the embassy roof. Where ignorant ermines clash by night.

Maybe you saw this coming
So later I go into the living room. And guess what I trip over? A container full of BEADS, believe it or not. (My life conforms to Chekhov's dramatic rules.) Actually, the container had only a few dozen beads left in it, which I cyclotroned deftly to the here-there-be-monsters corners of the room. The cats (MewOn [The Runt] & RoarShock [The Blotch]) had evidently already knocked the container off the coffee-table in the middle of the night, bead-seeding the immediate vicinity, but dexterously managing to keep a sufficient quantity contained. (This passage, btw, is something like what Eliot--in "Hamlet & his Problems," which, along with "Tradition & the Individual Talent," forty years ago would have topped most lists like Kasey's, but i haven't noticed anyone's mentioning yet [which says something about something {my blindness, probably}]--would call an "objective correlative" for my scatter-shot mental state [cf. the dropped marbles figure, ante--I mean supra--I mean stand on your head and go ante/supra].)

OK, so, like a normal human being, I start crawling around naked on the carpet picking up beads. Beads, beads, beads . . . fine-motor control . . . just got out of bed . . . big orgasm . . . hard to focus . . . concentrate . . . bead . . . ouch, coffeetable . . . weird bead . . . weird bead . . . . I don't remember Max picking these out . . . . Oh, frijoles negros, that's why . . . from dinner last week (remember, my floor hasn't been vacuumed recently).

That done, into the kitchen for some coffee & cereal! which I'm very excited about because I have fresh blueberries to put on it (no, Max, the cereal). Back to the living room! Open the laptop to see who's posting what! What about the drugs? Oh yeah. Jump up and stride purposefully to the kitchen for the rainbow dolls of the morning, my foot giving a dead-on whack to the container of painstakingly gathered beads, which, because I'm a Harvard PhD, when the harvest was done I'd left sitting megalithic in the Salisbury of the floor. Field goal, fireplace! Big Bang, a galaxy, a Stephen-Hawking-speed o' light-expanding universe of beads!

I started laughing again and quickly ramped up the same meta-meta-meta hysterical cyclone. I saw myself, pistachio green, riding a broomstick, uproarious, maniacal, rapturously twistering ever faster round my gingham Dorothy heart. This went on for ten minutes more.

OK, so that's twice in one morning. Once after orgasm, once after mind-boggling stupidity. So here's the point: isn't it plausible (employing the oft-resorted-to Peirce-Eco abductor muscles) that we have the identical neurotransmitters involved on both occasions? Well, that's what I want to get a patent for bottling!