The Tyranny of Language

My lovely wife believes I am certifiably mentally ill. She has good reason. In all likelihood I still have outstanding papers for my containment back in The Peoples Republic of Massachusetts. The events leading up to my declaration, certification and subsequent break out of confinement is a story for another day. Suffice it to say that I have some quirks. I see things. And I often feel compelled to comment on them. Ad nauseam. Endless babble to anyone willing to listen. Babble about belief and knowledge. Babble about essence and silence. Babble about “The Hard Problem” of qualia, cosmology, and peeling potatoes, and love, and sex, and joy, and something called “The Prime Commandment”. I can prattle on and on and on.

My former wife used to simply tell me to please just shut the fuck up. But my dear Annie is too nice. She listens politely and assures me I am thinking great thoughts that she just doesn’t understand. What? I try to explain. Great thoughts? It isn’t that at all. I don’t understand anything. The reason it comes out all babble is we (I) don’t have the words to communicate its essence. It’s language that is at fault. How do you describe a blizzard to a person that has no word for snow? Or the colors that are at wavelengths we can’t see? Or baseball to a ladybug? I see things. They can not be discussed. The closest I can come is The Buddha.

I hope I haven’t scared you off. I’m a good person. I really hate this stuff. I don’t want to be aware in this way. But I am oh so in need of making a connection to someone that doesn’t think I’m mad. Or maybe someone that might celebrate madness with me. Or is even madder than I. A person that sees the same things, someone that I can (not) talk to and not have to babble and then explain why words are just so useless.

I’m babbling again aren’t I?

Sorry.

I’ll be silent now.