In one, I answered a series of health questions in a linear, rational, consensus-reality style: this did that, the other happened, and this twisted disease all makes sense to the crowd outside Wendy’s.
In another, I discussed the comparative neurogenetics of mice and men like a hardcore science geek, all Cartesian assumptions and classical physics.
Then there was Firefly and Terry Pratchett, fine examples of satire that manage to be curiously strengthening rather than cutting anyone down.
Then a writer friend asked about the 2012 thing (maybe I should capitalize that: The 2012 Thing) and that led to a little discourse on Mayan numerics and calendar theory, galactic astronomy, and the quantum physics behind astrology.
For one thing, I’ve found that reality is a lot weirder than I was ever told. For another, I rather like being what I am: a translator. I can explain neonatal cardiology to a soccer mom, Hunab Ku to a lawyer, international politics to a meth head.
So where do I stand? It just dawned on me that I stand on understanding. (Look at that again, because I just did: stand…on…under…standing. I love it when patterns emerge, even if they’re Moebius strips.) That stance often puts me between two extremes, bridging them with the clarity of the best words I can find at the time.
I don’t need a creed of my own beyond “do no intentional harm”, “we’re all part of something larger (details vary)”, and the like. This adogmatic flexibility is where my balance is. That’s pretty cool. Not normal — normal doesn’t seem to work for me. But that’s fine. This does.