Cerebelum, 66

It’s reassuring to find affirmation that intelligent people can feel passion as anyone else. Sure, perhaps some of us are all thought. The wife of a professor of mine divorced him because he was sucked up into his mind (to use a phrase from David Bowie). Then there are the opposites of them.

And you? Are you split into Cartesian halves – mind and body – without any friendship between the two, carrying on an internecine war wherein the North would just as well kill off the south? Did you ever read Twain’s Puddenhead Wilson? One loafer says to another about a dog they see, “I wish I owned half that dog.” –“Why?” asks his friend. “Cuz I’d kill my half.” Interesting idea. That one half could live without the other (a political statement for Twain but borrowed by me as a symbol of the fallacy of increasing intelligence correlates inversely with deceasing libido).

I had a dream once in which I was screaming at myself, “why must we be trapped in our bodies.” But theme was incongruous with the passion of my rage. So how do we interpret that? At face value? That my body was merely a jail cell for my mind. Or that I was angry that my body wasn’t getting enough of what it wanted and needed and so I rebelled against it for making me miserable?

That was a long time ago. Today, I can say I am both highly intelligent and highly passionate. Oh the ideas going through my mind right now!

I'm no nerd. I exercise. I learn to play the drums. I have fun using my turn what I know into comedy for friends. At once they know it comes from intelligence and high learning, but that's mostly Oz (if he ever had sense of humor), and yet my thoughts are like literature in translation. And I can turn moments into into the most romantic interpretations on the spot for the woman I'm with. I'm waiting for her. If she's a nerdy PhD, fine. I can have fun with that. But the screamer in my dreams begs for more. Femininity. A figure. A cuteness. But a woman who will challenge me.