The Cosmic Improv Group— that gaggle of hallucinations inside my imagination and unheard by others– lives in the Cosmic Commune, where everything is free and money doesn’t exist. The Cosmic Commune lies outside time and space but contains it all. This is where katharineotto.us’ alter egos hang out, where they can pretend katharineotto.us is a figment of their imaginations. However, they can’t deny that katharineotto.us, the earthbound, integrated self, is the only one of the group with opposable thumbs.
I am the integrated self who can hold a pen and type on the computer, so I become a filter for CIG wit and wisdom, often at my expense. I become the secretary and all-purpose gofer who does the Cosmic Commune’s dirty work (including house cleaning) in the here and now (or tomorrow, whichever comes last).
You never know who might join the CIG, from which century or life dimension, and they allow me no rest. They tempt me to do my worst and advise me to watch my attitude, or I will suffer needlessly.
The still, small voice within is a persistent nag, so it’s impossible to block it out for long. I’m forced to hear the gossips whispering in the ethers, judging my progress in living, and giving me endless advice on how to do a better job.
These cosmic helpers speak through the living universe. In traffic, the mote under the contact lens warrants more respect than its size would suggest. Cosmic Communists believe in communal capitalism, where cooperation trumps competition, and everybody wins.
I’m to roll with the punches, find the ponies in the shit, listen to all the voices–even those without voices—and try to translate their messages in terms human beings can understand.
The Cosmic Improv Group speaks through every quark, every insect, every tool that captures my attention. It communicates through people, living and dead, the wind and the rain, and through the body parts that clamor for appreciation, when I’m tired or hungry.
The CIG sets me up for experiences that would test a saint, just to remind me I’m not one. It forces me to improvise, to escape the traps they lay, or to circumvent the land mines they set, in the landscape of life.
Unfortunately for me, members of the CIG can’t agree with each other about what I should do first. As there are only two opposable thumbs in this corner of the Cosmic Commune–both attached to my earthbound self–and only 86,400 seconds in an earth day, CIG members must content themselves with haggling in my mind until hands are free and time allows for the next “to do” on the endless list of helpful tips that keep me going, until they drive me crazy, if they haven’t already.
In true communal capitalistic fashion, I have calculated the cost-benefit ratio of going crazy. Bottom line is it pays more than being sane, and I don’t even have to be crazy full time to reap maximum benefits.