notes from underground

I have been off track thus far in this blogging spree from the trajectory that I had initially intended; namely writing from Underground and inspired by Dostoevsky’s book Notes From Underground.  Today as I sat down to breakfast there was a calm in the restaurant full of people quietly munching on their breakfast, each guest quietly carrying on in subdued conversation and everything was rather peaceful.  My mind at that point strayed towards some metaphysical wall in which the process of eating, subsistence, and eventually existence became quite remarkable - as regularly occurs, in which the 3-D physical world is enchanted by thoughts of wonder and awe - which, in the end, to me is the equivalent of a sort of a pre-meal prayer or consecration.  At that time I matter of factly realized that Thanksgiving was just two days from now and something cold in me, something conditioned or obtained from the experience of life kicked in; a psychological program if you will.  I don’t celebrate any holidays, as a personal custom, and rather designate days on a personal basis like the Day of the Chipmunk. This day I sat outside of my house and a small chipmunk approached me, and quite aside from the regular behavior of being deathly scared of humans, sat just five feet in front of me for quite some time, unphased, as if greeting me, and then continued to run off and in doing so passing closer to me than before, again displaying a kind of kinship.  That day, I won’t mention any particular details, was a regular hell hole, and this event was quite uplifting and warm and provoked genuine smiles and laughter.  I can’t remember any holiday ever carrying this kind of weight in my life.  I am not close to any of my family members and would probably be closer to the characters of Fitzgerald’s, The Beautiful and Damned, in which the offspring of the rich gathered in California “awaiting the death of their parents.”  So much for Thanksgiving and family.  And even if Thanksgiving is a beacon in the year to give thanks, I look to Notes From Underground, and read these lines:  “But I repeat to you for the hundredth time, there is only one case, one only, when man may purposely, consciously wish for himself even the harmful, the stupid, even what is stupidest of all: namely, so as to have the right to wish for himself even what is stupidest of all and not be bound by an obligation to wish for himself only what is intelligent.  For this stupidest of all, this caprice of ours, gentleman, may in fact be the most profitable of anything on earth for our sort.”  And of course Thanksgiving seems like the simple rational equation of profitability established by mans rational system and the “crystal castle,” 2+2=4 (established in Notes From Underground), and of course this is not my way and I turn towards the alternative quoted above.  And as a result of this, what I would consider a spiritual experience occurring at breakfast in tune, so to speak, with the holiday, cascaded with the aid of  my psychological program in which such musings were quickly transformed into a desecration of life, of this holiday, this food, this wonder, this awe.  I am unsure how I became this way, perhaps it is simply an automatically programmed predisposition and a natural affinity to Notes From Underground.  Nevertheless, today I offer my happy desecration.