Crazy is one of those words that’s not PC in some circles. One such in which I arced recently was talking about a future language that might do away with nouns, and ergo classification of those PP&Ts that Ns describe.
My thought was that it would be far more useful to do away with adjectives. The nouns supposedly (as I understand it) detract from the is-ness of a thing, its verbitude. Adjectives are far more judgmental, at least it seems that way to me. I’d be really happy with the noun-ness of my girlhood. It’s the pretty or smart or fit or funny or bitchy that leads to most of the problems beyond my nouns for me.
Of course Zombie had been a wee titch offensive. But it probably wouldn’t have been if I’d turned out to be one. I mean, WTF, might as well call the walking dead the walking dead, right? Same thing with the witches. A witch is a witch. The challenge is to be a good witch. There are apparently vampires, but I think they mostly suck energy. I’m quite confident I’ve encountered a few, some folks just wear me out.
But back to words.
Crazy I’ve never had any problem at all with. Gnarls Barkley’s song says it all, complete with the HAHAHA. Crazy is where it’s at. Even Willie Nelson had it right, and Patsy Cline saw that and the rest was country music history. In fact, Waylon Jennings said it best: I’ve always been crazy, it’s what keeps me from going insane. Jimmy Buffet, too. If we weren’t all crazy, we’d would go insane. Van Morrison told us all about Crazy Love, and Annie Wilson went crazy all over her man friend. Crazy Horse was the kind of guy who stood up to the US government when he’d had a bit more than he could stomach and said no, and backed up old Neil with lots of controlled feedback over the years. Nothing negative about any of that at all.
Crazy was not, however, a hypothesis I’d considered. That’s just the way I am, rational through and through. I mean, I’m an honest to goodness scientist, and as I turned out, that Story of B, which was about a priest who lost is faith, kind of goes hand in hand with the story of me, B, who lost her faith in science and found something much, much bigger instead.
Or I should probably say that it found me. The world really was talking to me, at least quite a bit of the time.
When all the stories came together, and all of them turned out to be true, the stories of ETs and NDEs and Channel Surfing and past lives and Angels and what’s in the stars and numbers and cards, well, all I could say was far out.
“Far out”. I said it out loud, to myself.
That was the one and only thing to say when I became absolutely, positively, probability less than point and a whole bunch of zeroes and then a one for sure certain and without a doubt about one thing: My faculties are intact, crazy as it all might be. I’m not a Zombie, nor a witch, don’t think I’m a vampire. I’m gratefully undead. It’s all right there in the cards and the numbers, right there in my name.
Even the Mayans knew it. I didn't know squat about my Mayan horoscope until I'd started telling this tale, and that was way after the guy gave me the eagle's feather. But I'm getting ahead of myself, or behind myself. It does get confusing.
I’d always been kind of amused by having the initials lbs and being a Libra, pounds and scales, haha, but then that I’m a Babbling Brooke and water, and an eagle, too, and just 8 all the way around, well, there you go.
Let’s see if I can explain.
As it turns out, I’d been paying attention to the wrong things, or at least a woefully incomplete and biased sample of the data available to me. And me a scientist, go figger. As it turned out, all that education I’d been so joyfully pursing in my quest to have the right answer had quite intentionally been steering me in the wrong direction, duping me even, all the while pointing at the obvious and telling me how silly it was.
It’s kind of like the apparent general consensus that the business ownership of the US government and the outright bravado of the corrupt political candidates and lies of the media which control the masses should be accepted as normal and fine and the way things are supposed to be, when clearly, that’s fucking nuts.
And oh yes, environmental destruction……maybe, just maybe it’s time to wonder if maybe rushing off the cliff is the best plan? Hello?
It’s kind of like a “health care” system that’s run by drug dealers and is the third leading cause of death in the country splitting its take with the actuaries who not only place a dollar value on a human life, they basically pay for it based on what a contract says and then just tell people to fuck off, all the time?
And we’re fine with this, while ignoring alternative therapies that work, because the drug dealers tell us to?
It’s like drugging our children, some huge percentage of them, so they’ll conform to the misery mills that our public schools have turned into, but since that’s where a good percentage of them get fed every day since both parents are working full time for gods know what….the right to be alive and have a roof and enough to eat while Sam Walton’s family could feed every hungry person on earth and doesn’t and we’re all okay with this?
And nobody really considers THAT to be insanity?
Guns are the hotshots of the day, no need to even go there.
But this interlude was not intended as a rant. No, it’s a transition.
The day that the Mayan horoscope and the good old Libran born in New Jersey on that day and time and the name and the numbers and the story of my life all came together, I knew it was all true, no matter how bizarre, no matter how many seeming coincidences.
That’s a story for another day.
In fact, the story I’ve been telling thus far has been pretty heavily embellished. It made it all more fun and interesting, a little game, and I could make myself have some heroic roles. Besides, I hadn’t quite teased out the difference between crazy and insane when I started telling this tale. But lots of it is true, verifiably true, weirdly and wonderfully true.
Just like my horoscopes and all that other fun stuff are pretty clearly spot on. And agree with each other. Those things don’t describe you, or most people, at all. They describe me. Truth. Those ancient ways of knowing, truth.
Not only did I once find myself standing at Tikal just before the end of time with two other people who shared my birthday, by complete accident, I once found myself standing in front of the former director of Quantico, number two guy of the whole bloody FBI, in a state of menopausally fueled meltdown fury at the fact that he’d just been given a half time position as a plant ecologist in our department…….my job. I didn’t quite tell him to fuck off, but neither was I silent, and the fuck off of my fury was pretty clear. And of course my original intent a decade before that had been to go into the business of growing plants, something soothing after all those years in healthcare, not find myself jumping through tenure hoops in Oklahoma.
Life is funny that way.
I was there being me, exactly the person my horoscope and name said I’d be. And probably not a whole lot like you at all. It was almost like I was in training, or playing a role that was written just for me.
I’m the Auntie Christ.
You’ve got a role, too, I guarantee it. Just listen.
Linda Brooke Stabler, Ph.D.