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This image comes from a recent NYT article on the role of the unconscious mind in our decision making process.

They said the current material-scientific model is basically that the unconcious mind decides what to do, and the conscious mind then quickly makes up a story about why it decided to do it.

The conscious mind and free will reduced to a silly monkey on the back of a tiger, with a fake steering wheel, making up a story about where it is headed and why it’s going there.

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I find the image almost too compelling.

I want to get it done as a full-color back piece.

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My ship of state is floundering on the rocks of late. I have been sick, am still sick, and I find that it is stripping me down to my basic feelings…

I want my mommy.

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Our lovely and challenging daughter is back home and since I’m away for another three weeks, I’m not home for the hard work of re-joining the unjoinable members of our little tribe. That kid of ours is really ours and she is like a furious toddler in the body of a twenty year old woman (no, that can not be the body of a fifteen year old girl!). She’s freedom bound and hell bent for leather and she brooks no fools; but she still needs somebody to remind her to change her panties and take a shower every day, and don’t eat dirt, and don’t hit, use your words….

My poor saint of a wife must deal with it all alone.

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I love them both so much it causes an exquisite pain in my heart day and night.

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Being locked out of my life for the past five weeks has been so strange. It’s been an odd object lesson in how imaginary even the most solid aspects of your life are. Everything really truly is little more than a dream, a wisp of scent and a fleeting feeling of tangible solidity.

I mean, I know this. Shit.

But to know it….

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Being sick has also stripped away my inclination to create and ability to enjoy anything in the world of art, poetry, literature, etc.

All I really enjoy now is a nap and my binky and a cup of hot tea and silence and more silence.

I’m like a whiny little monk in my apartment. Still and silent and contemplative on only the most subtle level.

I’ll soon be indistinguishable from the furniture.

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Still, my poor heart overflows with gratitude and love for this absurd and magical merry-go-round ride.

I love every single thing.

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