MIDNIGHT PONDERATIONS . . .

Hooch and I are big jokesters, but once in a while we have some pretty groovy, interesting conversations about the "hot" topics of the day. Often we hold opposite or near-opposite positions and perspectives, always touched with understanding and almost-agreement.

Some of the things we chatted about lately were the scientific discovery that monkeys' thoughts -- yes, their thoughts -- can move robotic limbs, and the revelation that a new island is being birthed via volcano in the waters near Antigua/Montserrat. So we mulled, we discussed, we hypothesized and we joked . . . and these questions arose:

1. Doesn't that freak the bejesus out of you, that THOUGHTS can be channeled and USED? Well, doesn't it?! I mean, I know this bodes well for folks with limb disorders, amputated limbs, paralysis, etc. It bodes REALLY well, and thank God for scientists who work with the interests of humanity in mind -- they really are a gift and a blessing. But what about those who would take this knowledge, this -- dare I say -- power, and (forgive the non-facetious facetious use of the phrase) use it for evil? To me, anything is within the realm of possibilty, so I pose to you this hypothetical: what if I become somehow significant enough to be kidnappable, and my kidnappers attach little electrodes or whatever to my head or the insides of my brains, and MAKE me do evil things? You scoff and wonder at exactly how far my conspiracy theories and wild imagination will stretch, but really . . . . what if? Come on, admit it: you're freaked out.

I'm fascinated in general with us humans and our thoughts/feelings anyway. Where DO thoughts come from? Where DO our emotions live? Why DO our hearts actually ache when we are suffering a heartache? Why DO I have a wild imagination? And how can it be that these things, or some of these things, can now apparently be tapped into and used? It's amazing. Freaky as all hell, but amazing.

2. What, if anything, is left to discover? For some naive reason, I thought we were done. I thought Earth was done when God created it (alright, alright, beat up on me, I'm a Creationist) and everything in it. Europe goes here, the Pacific can float around here, Antarctica can freeze down here . . . North America breaks off at the Bering Strait, good, good . . . oops, part of Italy is sinking, but that's ok, part of California is too, so it all balances out . . . but no! I am lately informed that a new island is popping up, probably within the next couple of decades, spurred by volcanic activity that pushes the land up, up and up until it's "oh, hello, neighboring tropical island that will soon be purchased and developed into an exclusive getaway for the wealthy!"

That's just plain cool. That this planet, this home we are given to care for temporarily, is still moving, still changing, still birthing itself over and over again. That our children's children and their children will have whole new maps to study, whole new ecosystems to delve into, a whole new world of which to take stewardship. To think that it's part of God's enormous plan is even cooler -- Somebody PLANNED all this. You couldn't make this stuff up.

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Side note: I am watching Jack Black assist in Dave Letterman's Top Ten list by heckling customers in the Virgin Megastore in Manhattan. He -- Jack Black -- is simply brilliant. Can I have him over for dinner and have him heckle me?

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To tangentialize . . . I have been amazed twice in my life now that when my heart is breaking, my heart actually aches. Maybe it's not my heart. Maybe it's the muscles around my heart. Maybe it's acid reflux caused by agita and emotion-induced indigestion. Maybe it's air trapped in my esophagus and lungs from crying or hiccupping or simply being tense from trying to hold myself together. Whatever it is . . . I see now where they get the word "heartache."

Heartache is not fun. It truly does feel like my heart is breaking exactly in half, as depicted so poignantly in those cheesy tattoos. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't focus on the things upon which I need to focus. I put up a fake face to my friends and family in vain efforts to be myself, when in fact, I am feeling very much like someone else, with someone else's personality, in someone else'e body. I cry myself to sleep, rubbing at my heart (or where I think my heart is) to try to ease the clench. I wake up numb, wondering if the ache will ease up that day. I wish I could reach in there with a big tube of Neosporin (always the True Wonder Drug) and slather my breaking heart so that it will heal in two days, with minimal scarring. And strangely, I also take the time to think in wonderment, "so THIS is what heartache feels like! Weird! My heart IS aching!" Nope, it ain't fun.

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Side note: I want a tattoo. I know where I would put it, but I don't yet have an actual design in mind, nor have I mustered up the balls necessary to actually go and get it done. Also, I'm pain averse, although I enjoy needles. OK, that makes me sound psychotic, but . . . well, stay tuned in the continuing tattoo saga of ChaEsq.

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The New York Philharmonic is performing on Letterman right now. Man, I love classical music. I love live classical performances. I love seeing how talented these musicians are, how they have devoted their lives to practice, interpretation, performance, pleasing audiences near and far, even through the television set. I love seeing how into the music they are, how even on top of the roof of the Ed Sullivan Theater in the middle of Manhattan, they are pouring their souls into "The Marriage of Figaro."

It makes me so nostalgic for my high school days when I was in the Concert Band, the Orchestra, the Chorus and an a cappella group. Sure, back then, it was just another class, another activity, but . . . I wish I had appreciated THEN the reward of practicing and rehearsing, the satisfaction of hearing the music come together and start to sound like what it was supposed to sound like, the thrill of performing on stage and sounding pretty damn good, even for a high school organization. I miss being part of a group effort like that. I miss performing and making music. Hmmmm . . . I wonder if this is enough to make me polish my music chops and find a local music group to glom onto . . .

So, in case I forget to in the future, here's a big shout-out and thank-you to Dr. Ray Lucia, Mr. H. Davis Knobloch, Mr. Ronald Dunn, and the ladies of the Quaker Notes. Sweet, sweet music, always . . .

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Side note: I think I'm going to look for tickets to "La Traviata" anyway, despite the horror otherwise known as Renee Fleming. I'm jonesing for some culture . . .