You are here

Meaning of life: T*ts on purpose

I’m sitting in the park near Kensington market enjoying the sunshine and letting my thoughts drift.

As a result I am second-hand smoking a shit ton of weed, watching shirtless prophets and unwashed acoyltes, allowing myself to stop thinking as Frisbees whizz past and adults play like children.

I feel as innocent as an altar boy.

“It is a titty show,” says the scruffy man boy sharing the bench with me.

“Huh?”

Then I notice.

A girl with brilliant red hair is not wearing a shirt or bra.

Her breasts are everything breasts can be.

An elderly Chinese woman walks by and shakes her wizened face at the vision that fills my eyes with such rampant joy. Her expression says ‘fucking hippies’.

A handsome black man laughs like a schoolboy as he puffs deeply on a cigarette.  The laughter spreads from one person to the next.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Why is she doing that?”  says my bench brother.

I don’t respond.

He is missing the point and I’d prefer to ogle than answer.

I’m sure she has a reason and it’s possible that reason can be found at her rather hairy armpits or the look at me flame colored hair. This might be a statement but the way I feel about it has nothing to do with politics.

Like all great art, her tits meaning lies in the response of the audience rather than the artist’s intention.

I try not to stare and enjoy the sun and living art as sometimes the world allows us to.

The purpose of this has nothing to do with its meaning.

********************************************************

A few days ago, I saw a post on Facebook that pissed me off.

What pissed me off was photoshopped and aimed to make me a better person.

“You get there by realizing you are already there.”-Eckhart Tolle said next to some image.

“Hey Mike.  It’s me. Coffee,” says the fiery anger percolating through my veins. “You should find Eckhart Tolle, grab him by the nuts and squeeze until he admits he just wanted a pay check and a blow job from Oprah. Make sure that he understands he didn’t become a millionaire self help guru by realizing he was a millionaire self help guru. He did it by convincing us that simple answers would make us feel better. Hard work helps you get there. You aren’t anywhere without putting in some fucking effort. Nobody gives you anything.

Your turn,Mike. Go! Go! It’s your turn….GO!

I decide to give into coffee and indulge myself.

The person who posted this picture understood the Secret. Not that what you visualize becomes true. Or that you can sell self-help books about how you can sell self-help books.

But the secret to what makes us into a society of imbeciles.

The blue pill we all hold for moments of emergency.

The knowledge that one of our strangest and most essential desires inherent in our cognition is the desire to stop thinking.

And it’s possible to live this dream. Under the misapprehension that to be stupid is to be blissful.

This could be because surety just feels better.  Like being drunk makes you feel warm on a cold night and more likely to die of hypothermia, like righteous indignation feels like a storm of lightning and thunder sent from the Gods, rather than the other parts of our brains shutting down. Obviously we know that our feelings cannot be trusted.  We all have friends that have loved cocaine and felt moments of godlike confidence at their most pathetic. We crave cigarettes and they kill us, we love people who hurt us.  To feel happy and to be happy are not the same things.

By deifying our desire to be happy, we label feelings good and bad and create a world where our purpose is to suffer.

With the unconscious knowledge that our feelings cannot be trusted, we look for something outside of ourselves to trust.

We look for a purpose to our existence.  To God or Fate.

The Word created the world. Shortly afterwards someone set up a marketing firm in the Garden of Eden.  Someone told someone else that the purpose of life is to work to deserve to live in heaven, later it became a mansion.

And the idea spread throughout time.

With enough money we can outspend sadness. With enough accomplishment we can make the world love us.  We try to ignore how many famous and rich people kill themselves.  That once aboard this train of thought, they make themselves their work and lose the human connection that makes life liveable.  Work will make you free was written above Auschwitz. A belief in destiny has always resulted in the minimization of the importance of human life.

I have waited to live and defined myself by my job, my friends, by my loved ones and I lost the ability to sleep hoping to live in a dream. That one day you could do better than the universe and make a life you wanted to live in.

Unfortunately time makes all ends continue on past the point of purpose and failure is the guaranteed end for all of our endeavors. Every life ends in death, every moment ends in another, every word we say will be erased, and the universe continues on, so large and long that eternity won’t be able to hear our screams or love songs.

Silence lies at the end of all roads if you walk long enough.

We lose our youth, our love, even our work. The Pyramids will one day crumble to grains of sand.

So ultimately if our purpose is our meaning, we get to nihilism or a religious faith that this life is but an illusion or training camp for an afterlife where only good things happen. Where one day angels will paint graffiti on all the great museums, and Mona Lisa’s mysterious grin will becomes a yellow smiley face.

Coffee speaks, demanding one more soliloquy, as dopamine levels die down and anger is replaced with momentary revelation:

The value of life lies not in what we keep but what we lose. In moments and people that are irreplaceable. In moments that only happen once.

There is a reason you call it Colony of Losers and it’s based around the most meaningful events of your life. Tell them why it’s called Colony of Losers instead of Colony of Winners.  Besides that the acronym would be COW.  Tell them why, young Kimber. Give them your heart. 

Alright coffee and rapidly beating heart.

I will try to speak without becoming a motivational Facebook status.

Father’s Day is coming and it becomes clear that we never love our parents enough, because we don’t know what it would be like to have them absent until they are. That we assumed the purpose of their life was to raise us. That if we were conscious that they could be lost, we would understand all they lost to have us.  From their youth to the ability to pursue their dreams in exclusion of all else.  We forget that they are just people and that they were incredibly generous to give us more than their genetic material. Being a parent is more than buying a condom that broke or a belief in the rhtym method. The meaning comes not in the purpose of bringing us into the world.  But in how they showed the world to us. All they did that they did not have to do.

We forget that love is not a biological necessity, that we were lucky to be loved.

We lose our childhoods and will one day lose our parents.

The sweet memories of childhood vacations where my brother and sister convinced me they were murderers and I’d die in the next hotel pool, where my mother read to me as Aslan, where my father listened to me ramble about stories as we walked my insane dog Gabby, all of it exists in a past I can’t return to.

If we are lucky, time takes a lot away from us.

I can’t keep the feeling I had when I became a man and said I love you for the first time.  That massive feeling of letting go all of my fears, that strange sensation of being in exactly the right place and the right time. It was like an atomic bomb destroying my old life. The radiation of that moment will follow me for the rest of my life. Yet the moment was too heavy to stand still. It’s full weight exists only in that bedroom, where moonlight touched skin and there was nothing else in the world outside of it. It’s beyond memory’s ability to comprehend. Where you realize how lucky you are to be alive.

My memories of moonlight and blond hair touching my chest didn’t become a wedding dress and children in my arms. Most likely she will hold someone else’s hand and walk into a future I won’t be a part of.

Does that mean we failed in love?

Does that mean the most meaningful moments of my life were stepping-stones? That the meaning of our lives together is the love song I crafted when we parted ways? Did we love and laugh, go sleepless for love and pain, merely so that I would have enough heart to craft these words?  I have been told that this blog, our love song,  has saved lives.

Did I hurt so that you could live?

No.

I will not buy into bullshit.

I loved so that I could love. The meaning of that moment exceeds whatever purpose it failed or accomplished.

The easiest and most jarring example of this confusion between purpose and meaning is the idea that the meaning of sex is to procreate. I feel that if you truly believe this you haven’t had good sex.  That this might be why Republicans so strongly lobby against abortion and gay rights. Because they believe inherently that without birth, without a product to our labors, our life is meaningless.  I cling to the belief that if they fearlessly fucked they would understand the value of human life.

That if you think we love to be happy, you haven’t really loved.

We fuck because for a brief period of time, the rest of the world goes away, and we are down to the essentials of breath, sweat and scents, to feel our hearts pump blood to maintain our souls. Where we are beyond purpose, where we are alive. We love for the same reason.

Oscar Wilde said that art is purposeless and he didn’t mean that it was without meaning. That merely the pursuit was more important than the goal. That the value lay in the experience of doing it and not the result. The biological necessity behind our lives is to the need to survive in our children. This is not our meaning.

The meaning of life is life.

This orgiastic feast of sensations needs no narrative or subtitles.

There is no fairness in whether we grow up in a mansion or a warzone. Starving children in Africa aren’t put on Earth to teach white kids to eat their vegetables. Our friends don’t die to make us better people.

There is no moral or purpose to our existence, only a miraculously unlikely life we get to live.

Instead of purpose where we fail what we should have been, I submit luck as a new means of divinity.

The universe began in a moment that defies calculation. Science began when the laws of the universe that preceded it were defied.  Out of nothing, came everything. Without a guiding hand, every moment becomes a gift without expectation.

In choosing luck we can take gratitude over guilt and pride. We weren’t meant to be happy or miserable, tortured or blissful. We weren’t meant to be.

Our universe and lives begin and end by incalculably defying the odds.

Your parents have to meet and somehow their flaws and interlocking insecurities have to find a safe place and they have to have sex. Yes, I am saying that your parents fucking is a miracle.

Think of all the other options they must have had, the different accidents and failures that must have led to them feeling complete together, so that they could somehow create a life. Some were lucky enough to find love.  Many were conceived without it. Yet somehow more love entered the world than could possibly have been given in one embrace. Life was given and that life would be given to others.

And that life was yours. Consider that during each ejaculation 115 million sperm are desperately fighting for the right to see a sunset and have an orgasm and it often takes a year for parents to make a child. The odds against your existence are in the billions.

You made it.

You get to see a sunset, have an orgasm and complain about your life.  You were a good racer. You made it to the egg.  When trillions and trillions of young sperm didn’t get to have a life.

Follow chaos as it becomes poetry.

Stephen and Jeanie are born in Halifax and New York.  My father meets my mother when visiting his old girlfriend Martha.  Jeanie and Stephen fall in love and Matthew, Emily and Michael are born. Martha falls in love with Doug. Claire and David are born.  We live in on the same street and I make mud pies with David and ruin my sister’s shirt. Hockey games rage on into overtime between Peter Duke, Matthew Kimber and Cooper something, no one remembers the score and thirty years later weddings are attended and drinks are had. My brother hears a rap song and picks up a microphone. Thousands get through hard times. I want to be like my brother and years later I meet my best friends when I am following in his footsteps.  The worst moments of my life and the worst moments of hers, lead to that moment of moonlight. Not because we deserved it. But because we were lucky.

Do you need more than a miracle to justify your existence?

Tolle was right.

“You get there by realizing you are already there.”

Now it is time to find things to lose.