Last week I stood on the rim of a desert mountain valley, tanning myself in the ultraviolet radiance of a salt lake pan, the existence of which I had allowed myself the luxury of forgetting. This forgetting is either conceit or folly, I know not which for certain. Perhaps the surprise its discovery creates is a product of willfulness, slag and dross generated by a desire to avoid the unknown irrational roots that anchor a soul to the world.
Queries will be met with neither-confirm-nor-deny. Yes, it is there, people know it by its present absence. This is how I myself know it. Explanation is futile. How does the heart describe the strange machines seen at distance, the enigmatic materials moving under darkness, dissections of mythical extraterrestrials? Who would believe it? Who wants to try, for fear of being branded a flake at best?
I cannot answer in confidence. I look at the dry lake in my heart and marvel at its strangeness. My mouth strains towards words to vocalize what my inward eyes are seeing. My hands trace glyphs in the air and I interrogate myself in my sleep. The dreams. I want to understand why I dream what I dream. There is this underlying belief that my dreams would make sense if only my heart had the vocabulary to parse them.
It does not. Not yet, or perhaps more accurately, my mind does not yet understand the language being spoken. So I wander. No, damn it, not I, it is my mind that wanders. The trail it breaks veers from pampas to forest to lush jungles, yet is always taken aback by the sudden bursting into the arid flatness of a lake gone dry so long ago that the vanishing is lost from memory.
Yet, it is there. It is in the diamond core of my heart, like the grain of sand in the center of a pearl. It is good fortune to laminate life with the bright and the shiny. Mirrors and polish presented to the world in the hope that there will be no misunderstanding or misinterpretation by the world around us. By world, read those we love and humanity in general.
But that is the ideal. Too many strange things happen in this heart-that-is-and-is-not. Phenomena occur that I cannot explain to myself, much less to those around me. It becomes a race between what my heart shows to the world and what the world, in its information vacuum, makes up about my heart. Whispers behind hands, looks of concern or affectionate bemusement, irritated impatience: these are the usual currency of emotional trade when discussing my own personal theater of classified operations.
So last week, I stood once again on the shore of that dry lake bed, the one in my heart, and baked in the sun. Black machines moved in the shimmer, far away across the plain. I wondered if there might be aliens here. I pondered the existence of emotional programs so secret that even my own mind would be at a loss to explain why they are or what they do. Officially, this place doesn't exist.
Unofficially, it does. It is vital to my existence, even if there is no way to describe why. I do not ask questions of it as much as in the past, and that is a good thing, I think. The heart has to learn to accept its own terrain even if that spot on the map is marked 'Unknown', and trust the things that spring from it.
Showing posts with label im rambling and i cant shut up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label im rambling and i cant shut up. Show all posts
14 November 2013
26 September 2013
If Only I Could Stop...
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics,Yeah, well there is the problem. I can't stop thinking about music and politics, even when I so desperately desire it. Part of that is just my own weirdness, part of it is the incessant yammering of pop culture and social media not giving it a rest. There is so much going on that I feel compelled to comment on, so many distractions, I cannot get it together. If I was paid for each reaction I have to the latest nuggets about gun control, Kanye West, Syria, or Miley Cyrus, I'd probably be wealthy enough to be "financially independent".
I would tell you that music is the expression of emotion
And that politics is merely the decoy of perception.*
But I am not paid for my exertions. Thus, I am not wealthy in that regard.
I have been silent for weeks now because I am overwhelmed by the blathering that passes for discourse in our shared media environment. So many things I could comment on, but I do not have the time or energy. So I'll leave it to the pundits, talking heads and chattering masses. Politics lately is making me tired, and music, well, music is making me slightly sad.
Do-nothings and twerking are not the breakfast of champions. Right now, so much has been said by others I feel there is nothing I can add without shrieking or weeping. And no one, especially me, wants to see that debacle.
I believe this state of affairs exists because of the tensions that bind me. Politics I can ignore to no great harm to my psyche, but music means too much to just set it aside. Coupled with my obsessions about food, I am all set to be uneasy in the media environment these days.
So, I won't use this post to rant about music and politics. As to food, let me say that I have been thinking about it in the gaps where I was not thinking about music and politics. About what other people are eating, what I want to eat and where I can get it. This has given me the urge to write about food, which I must say I have been doing, just not here.
And that is a story for another time. I'll keep you posted on that score.
Suffice to say that all this mental meandering has left me in quite a state. Thinking about food often leads me to thinking about travel, because much of what I am curious to eat is better experienced in its native surroundings. Plus, there are people I want to meet in those places I want to eat. Here, there, and everywhere, food is often better when shared. My difficulty in traveling, meeting and eating is that difficulty common to the modern era: the lack of time and money.
So what is this all about? Ladies and gentlemen and those in between, I really do not know. This ramble of mine had no specific agenda, I simply felt the need to communicate to you where I my head and heart seem to be. Where they are, is somewhere between the poles and the equator, wishing I could break bread with you all.
That, and wishing I could stop thinking about music and politics.
*Lyrics quoted from "Music and Politics" by The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy
10 March 2013
The Stay-at-Home Nomad (Sunday Meditation #28)
If the redwoods questioned their roots as often as it seems I question mine, the forest would be full of giants crashed to the ground, howling at the moon about the indignity of the craters at their feet. There would be no grandeur, only solipsistic anguish.
The weather, damp and dreich outside the walls. Gazing out the windows at the sodden yard, trying to get a grip on the untethered balloon that is my soul. Perhaps the better analogy would be blowing about like a plastic shopping bag caught in a dust devil. I feel like that, sometimes. This floating, flying, whirling sensation has acquired a life of its own in recent weeks. Often it is triggered by the weather, like today.
I am not blaming the rain for my dislocation. The rain has no motive, no desire. I would be quite the fool to think the dull gray clouds and the drops were out to get me. No, I don't blame it.
After all, think positive, right? It could have been more snow, right? I actually manage a smile or two. Given the choice I would take rain over snow most every time. The deep snow of the past two weeks has mostly melted, under the influence of warmish temperatures and now rain for much of the day. The thrum of the sump pumps in the basement offers its own commentary on my ruminations. I shiver to think what might happen if the pumps failed. The groundwater is running fast from snow melt and the rain.
To be fair, the weather isn't the catalyst of my rootless funk, it is only the familiar of the extraordinary pressures I find my self battling at the moment. Life has been a swirl of change. Tax season is upon us, and I will not fare well this time around. I am still searching for the right combination of jobs to resume truly useful employment. There are many irons in the fire but no clarity.
Nights are spent chasing sleep, and believe it or not, dear readers, I have been wishing to not dream so much. This is unusual. Up until about the end of last year I hadn't dreamed much at all for quite some time. Long enough that lack of dreams became the new normal. But then something changed. The dreams came back. Frequent, disjointed, erratic
My dreams, dressed in harlequin, enrobing the motley fool that is my mind. All possessed of a common theme, in myriad variation. I am searching, I am hunting, I am lost, I am prey. It is a terrible quest to find something you cannot name while being hunted by something you cannot identify. I search and search, only to awake empty handed and weary, wondering what just happened.
Bah. It wasn't really dreams about which I wanted to write. I am not certain now what it was I wanted when I sat down to empty my head. I wish it could have been fiction (I have a number of things floating around in my head), as I am sure it would have been much more edifying for all of us. But the fiction just wouldn't free itself up. I tried, but I couldn't get the snow out of my mind.
The snow. Yes, that is it. The snow that had been on the ground is what triggered this funk. I know why. It came up in a recent conversation I had with someone I love, in which we were discussing our respective reactions to the heavy snow. Hers was more gleeful and upbeat, mine was grouchy and less than cheerful. Mine involved expletives.
The significant thing was not my surliness. It was something I said, the import of which did not fully catch up to me until yesterday. I said out loud that the snow made me unhappy because I have now, in my life, seen more snows as an adult than I ever did as a kid; snow means something very different to those stages of my life. Snow as a kid means playtime and wonder. Snow as an adult means (at least to this adult) inconvenience and stress. The melting drifts reminded me that I have been an adult for many moons now.
The full realization of that revelation hit me hard today when the pewter skies opened up and the rain began to fall. I listen to drops fall, snow of a different genus, and the water hitting the ground became the scissors that cut the string holding me to the ground. My body stayed put, but my mind went whirling away, spiraling up into the sky. I felt weightless, rudderless, wondering when the roots I am desperate to grow will spread themselves firmly into the soil that surrounds me.
The chair creaks softly under the weight of my body, a corporeal anchor to my nomad soul. I'll open the window tonight so I can hear the rain while I drift off to sleep, perchance not to dream.
The weather, damp and dreich outside the walls. Gazing out the windows at the sodden yard, trying to get a grip on the untethered balloon that is my soul. Perhaps the better analogy would be blowing about like a plastic shopping bag caught in a dust devil. I feel like that, sometimes. This floating, flying, whirling sensation has acquired a life of its own in recent weeks. Often it is triggered by the weather, like today.
I am not blaming the rain for my dislocation. The rain has no motive, no desire. I would be quite the fool to think the dull gray clouds and the drops were out to get me. No, I don't blame it.
After all, think positive, right? It could have been more snow, right? I actually manage a smile or two. Given the choice I would take rain over snow most every time. The deep snow of the past two weeks has mostly melted, under the influence of warmish temperatures and now rain for much of the day. The thrum of the sump pumps in the basement offers its own commentary on my ruminations. I shiver to think what might happen if the pumps failed. The groundwater is running fast from snow melt and the rain.
To be fair, the weather isn't the catalyst of my rootless funk, it is only the familiar of the extraordinary pressures I find my self battling at the moment. Life has been a swirl of change. Tax season is upon us, and I will not fare well this time around. I am still searching for the right combination of jobs to resume truly useful employment. There are many irons in the fire but no clarity.
Nights are spent chasing sleep, and believe it or not, dear readers, I have been wishing to not dream so much. This is unusual. Up until about the end of last year I hadn't dreamed much at all for quite some time. Long enough that lack of dreams became the new normal. But then something changed. The dreams came back. Frequent, disjointed, erratic
My dreams, dressed in harlequin, enrobing the motley fool that is my mind. All possessed of a common theme, in myriad variation. I am searching, I am hunting, I am lost, I am prey. It is a terrible quest to find something you cannot name while being hunted by something you cannot identify. I search and search, only to awake empty handed and weary, wondering what just happened.
Bah. It wasn't really dreams about which I wanted to write. I am not certain now what it was I wanted when I sat down to empty my head. I wish it could have been fiction (I have a number of things floating around in my head), as I am sure it would have been much more edifying for all of us. But the fiction just wouldn't free itself up. I tried, but I couldn't get the snow out of my mind.
The snow. Yes, that is it. The snow that had been on the ground is what triggered this funk. I know why. It came up in a recent conversation I had with someone I love, in which we were discussing our respective reactions to the heavy snow. Hers was more gleeful and upbeat, mine was grouchy and less than cheerful. Mine involved expletives.
The significant thing was not my surliness. It was something I said, the import of which did not fully catch up to me until yesterday. I said out loud that the snow made me unhappy because I have now, in my life, seen more snows as an adult than I ever did as a kid; snow means something very different to those stages of my life. Snow as a kid means playtime and wonder. Snow as an adult means (at least to this adult) inconvenience and stress. The melting drifts reminded me that I have been an adult for many moons now.
The full realization of that revelation hit me hard today when the pewter skies opened up and the rain began to fall. I listen to drops fall, snow of a different genus, and the water hitting the ground became the scissors that cut the string holding me to the ground. My body stayed put, but my mind went whirling away, spiraling up into the sky. I felt weightless, rudderless, wondering when the roots I am desperate to grow will spread themselves firmly into the soil that surrounds me.
The chair creaks softly under the weight of my body, a corporeal anchor to my nomad soul. I'll open the window tonight so I can hear the rain while I drift off to sleep, perchance not to dream.
06 February 2013
Traveller's Blues
...Blue, blue, electric blue...that's the colour of my room...
...Off we go into the wild blue yonder...
...Remember watching while your lightning blue eyes reflected sunrise...
Blues. Blues. I got the blues. Not a 'down-in-the-dumps' sort of blues. No, no, this is more a hankering, yearning kind of blues. Traveling blues, you might say. And it is not my fault. The precipitation of this state of mind I can lay squarely on the (digital) shoulders of the illustrious Braja...and for good reason. Because of something she did, I find I want to travel the world.
Travel the world and take pictures, that is. All because of a picture she posted, that shows the color blue. Not just any blue. A vibrant blue that made me ache to want to lay eyes on it in person. I don't have a link to it here, because the picture was taken by another person and posted on Facebook, and for some reason I did not feel right to copy paste it from another person's media feed. Silly, perhaps, but there you have it.
Anyway, the picture shows a blue she christened India blue, and I can believe it. Blue is my favorite color, hands down, so it is no surprise I found the image attractive. Yet, this picture transcended something in my mind, some threshold I knew was there but had not often noticed. This blue made me want to hop on a plane or a ship and go where I could see the color in morning light and sunset light and maybe that twilight shade as the sun slips below the horizon with the moon on the way up. I want to touch it.
I sat entranced by that color and wanted to touch all colors. I want to see the orange in a Siberian tiger's fur lit by the morning light. I want to see the the blue morpho butterfly in its natural habitat. I want to see the moon shine on the Grand Canyon, the color of old freighter's hull as it passes through the Bosporus, and the green sod of Ireland. It has become imperative that I see the opalescence of Lake Louise in Canada, and the saffron colored robes of monks in Tibet. I need to know the color of the Pacific while watching a sunset in Tierra Del Fuego.
I want to know the color of moss in the garden of a Buddhist shrine, somewhere in Japan. And I cannot clearly tell you why. I just know I need to know. I feel this need to travel the world and take pictures of these colors that inhabit my mind, fill my heart, exalt my soul.
I want to know blue. All the blues in the world, and the people who know those shades the best. Someday, if I am fortunate, I'll do just that. Until then, I'll continue to plot and dream of the day my rainbow heart can scatter itself into the world, and return home with some stories to tell of the colors I have seen. Join me, perhaps?
(And many thanks to Braja, and her opening of the window for me...)
...Off we go into the wild blue yonder...
...Remember watching while your lightning blue eyes reflected sunrise...
Blues. Blues. I got the blues. Not a 'down-in-the-dumps' sort of blues. No, no, this is more a hankering, yearning kind of blues. Traveling blues, you might say. And it is not my fault. The precipitation of this state of mind I can lay squarely on the (digital) shoulders of the illustrious Braja...and for good reason. Because of something she did, I find I want to travel the world.
Travel the world and take pictures, that is. All because of a picture she posted, that shows the color blue. Not just any blue. A vibrant blue that made me ache to want to lay eyes on it in person. I don't have a link to it here, because the picture was taken by another person and posted on Facebook, and for some reason I did not feel right to copy paste it from another person's media feed. Silly, perhaps, but there you have it.
Anyway, the picture shows a blue she christened India blue, and I can believe it. Blue is my favorite color, hands down, so it is no surprise I found the image attractive. Yet, this picture transcended something in my mind, some threshold I knew was there but had not often noticed. This blue made me want to hop on a plane or a ship and go where I could see the color in morning light and sunset light and maybe that twilight shade as the sun slips below the horizon with the moon on the way up. I want to touch it.
I sat entranced by that color and wanted to touch all colors. I want to see the orange in a Siberian tiger's fur lit by the morning light. I want to see the the blue morpho butterfly in its natural habitat. I want to see the moon shine on the Grand Canyon, the color of old freighter's hull as it passes through the Bosporus, and the green sod of Ireland. It has become imperative that I see the opalescence of Lake Louise in Canada, and the saffron colored robes of monks in Tibet. I need to know the color of the Pacific while watching a sunset in Tierra Del Fuego.
I want to know the color of moss in the garden of a Buddhist shrine, somewhere in Japan. And I cannot clearly tell you why. I just know I need to know. I feel this need to travel the world and take pictures of these colors that inhabit my mind, fill my heart, exalt my soul.
I want to know blue. All the blues in the world, and the people who know those shades the best. Someday, if I am fortunate, I'll do just that. Until then, I'll continue to plot and dream of the day my rainbow heart can scatter itself into the world, and return home with some stories to tell of the colors I have seen. Join me, perhaps?
(And many thanks to Braja, and her opening of the window for me...)
17 January 2013
On What We Could Be Doing
Dear readers, I know my posting of things has been rather sparse, and for that I offer my regrets. The usual suspects are involved: life events, job search pressures, the endless search for food and revenue. I do not offer them as excuses, only factors. But those factors alone do not account for my relative silence.
No, it is more. Two things at odds with each other.
It is the Buddhist idea of "mindfulness" versus the overbearing, seemingly endless paranoia and violence of the culture surrounding me in these here United States. I'm at a bit of impasse as to how to resolve the tension. It is giving me tremendous food for thought, yet stifling my creativity and energy.
I am trying to practice mindfulness (the awareness of one's body, one's feelings, one's thoughts and perceptions, and consciousness itself), because I am becoming aware of how it may help me in my quest for inner peace. It helps me realize peace and appreciate beauty in ways that escaped me as a younger man.
But it has made me more aware...of everything. Or almost everything. This means that the overload of information from events over the past two or so years, such as vitriolic politics seemingly devoid of reason and the horrific acts of gun violence (and the continued willfully irrational fallout from both) have strained my internal resources close to the point of non-functioning.
This makes me sad.
When I consider all the wonderful things we could be doing with our time, like caring more for our fellow humans, creating beauty, working constructively for a better future for all of us in this supposedly free society in contrast to what actually happens (violence, hatred, partisanship)...I lose energy and motivation.
There is much beauty to be had, love to be shared, yet we spend our time building walls, digging trenches and tearing down others. So many advantages and blessings, squandered.
Bah. It is winter and I am feeling tired. I am mindful of that, and know that it will pass. Perhaps the practice of mindfulness will teach me to celebrate what I can do, rather than mourn what others cannot seem to do. This is my hope.
No, it is more. Two things at odds with each other.
It is the Buddhist idea of "mindfulness" versus the overbearing, seemingly endless paranoia and violence of the culture surrounding me in these here United States. I'm at a bit of impasse as to how to resolve the tension. It is giving me tremendous food for thought, yet stifling my creativity and energy.
I am trying to practice mindfulness (the awareness of one's body, one's feelings, one's thoughts and perceptions, and consciousness itself), because I am becoming aware of how it may help me in my quest for inner peace. It helps me realize peace and appreciate beauty in ways that escaped me as a younger man.
But it has made me more aware...of everything. Or almost everything. This means that the overload of information from events over the past two or so years, such as vitriolic politics seemingly devoid of reason and the horrific acts of gun violence (and the continued willfully irrational fallout from both) have strained my internal resources close to the point of non-functioning.
This makes me sad.
When I consider all the wonderful things we could be doing with our time, like caring more for our fellow humans, creating beauty, working constructively for a better future for all of us in this supposedly free society in contrast to what actually happens (violence, hatred, partisanship)...I lose energy and motivation.
There is much beauty to be had, love to be shared, yet we spend our time building walls, digging trenches and tearing down others. So many advantages and blessings, squandered.
Bah. It is winter and I am feeling tired. I am mindful of that, and know that it will pass. Perhaps the practice of mindfulness will teach me to celebrate what I can do, rather than mourn what others cannot seem to do. This is my hope.
16 February 2012
Cobwebs
Dear readers, it has been a slow month here in the Republic of Gumbolia. Slow in a writerly sense, I mean. I want to offer up something for the edification and delight of you. But I'm blocked. Or maybe just lazy.
My mind is a shattered mirror tumbling through space. The sun, moon and stars reflected by a thousand brilliant shards to diffuse their light across the ether. Gah.
Around the end of January I went for a walk along my beloved Patapsco River. I was of a mind to catch some fresh air and sunlight on an unusually warm winter day. Good for the body and soul, it was. I saw not one but two freight trains as I ambled. Two trains in one afternoon was also somewhat unusual.
The second train was stopped on the tracks, up the embankment from the river where the swinging footbridge crosses the water. I could hear the thrumming of the idle engines as I strolled up the path to the bridge. I scaled the small slope to the tracks for a better view. The locomotive was right there, the head of a long line of what appeared to be ore or coal carriers. The cab brooded over the tracks with a slight ominous air caused by the deep tint of the windshields. Eyes of a giant, holding me in its gaze.
It was the engine noise that gave me the analogy I was looking for. Deep, edging into that which is more felt than heard, the locomotive hummed and hissed. There was no mistaking the feeling of great power held in check, awaiting release.
I stood on the gravel bed and felt the power vibrate up through my boots. I yearned for it. I wished for some way to store it for later, but there was no container that would hold such energy.
A vibration in the earth. Hulking machinery idling in a river valley among the leafless trees. Waiting, brooding. This is me, shifting and ticking over while awaiting a signal to let the power go. This is my winter. Winter will be over soon. I sense spring in the roots of me, ready to sweep away the cobwebs.
My mind is a shattered mirror tumbling through space. The sun, moon and stars reflected by a thousand brilliant shards to diffuse their light across the ether. Gah.
Around the end of January I went for a walk along my beloved Patapsco River. I was of a mind to catch some fresh air and sunlight on an unusually warm winter day. Good for the body and soul, it was. I saw not one but two freight trains as I ambled. Two trains in one afternoon was also somewhat unusual.
The second train was stopped on the tracks, up the embankment from the river where the swinging footbridge crosses the water. I could hear the thrumming of the idle engines as I strolled up the path to the bridge. I scaled the small slope to the tracks for a better view. The locomotive was right there, the head of a long line of what appeared to be ore or coal carriers. The cab brooded over the tracks with a slight ominous air caused by the deep tint of the windshields. Eyes of a giant, holding me in its gaze.
It was the engine noise that gave me the analogy I was looking for. Deep, edging into that which is more felt than heard, the locomotive hummed and hissed. There was no mistaking the feeling of great power held in check, awaiting release.
I stood on the gravel bed and felt the power vibrate up through my boots. I yearned for it. I wished for some way to store it for later, but there was no container that would hold such energy.
A vibration in the earth. Hulking machinery idling in a river valley among the leafless trees. Waiting, brooding. This is me, shifting and ticking over while awaiting a signal to let the power go. This is my winter. Winter will be over soon. I sense spring in the roots of me, ready to sweep away the cobwebs.
12 January 2012
Momma Ain't In The Big House
Today was a ridiculous cliche, couldn't look out the window or listen to the sounds of the day without feeling like I was stuck in the middle of an old-school country song. If my mom had gotten thrown in prison, I believe the day would have come full circle.
I had woken up with a bad headache, feeling a bit sickly with a stuffy nose and that washed out lethargy that often precedes a cold. The little bit of sunshine we had around here disappeared before the morning was half over. The sky turned the color of a old ash pail. My house turned chill and grey. Admittedly, part of that is due to my stubbornness at not cranking the heat so as to enable making it through winter on only one tankful of heating oil. Even with an undershirt, a shirt and sweater, jeans and socks, it was still cold. A dampish, steely feeling that worked itself into my bones.
The rain that had been predicted for later in the afternoon started before noon, something I did not pick up on until I finally snapped out of the fog I was in, staring out the window at my neighbor's house. The little dots I was seeing? Hey, those are raindrops! Yeah, I'm observant like that.
The morning was full of sighs and ennui, Internet time wasting, and some half-hearted soul searching. I listened to the rain, drummed my fingers on the table. I went off the rails a bit, not really sure of what to do next, what obstacles I should try to remove. It then hit me hard: it was now just over three months since I was let go from my job. Three. Months. And no prospects, yet, for a new one.
Three. Goddamn. Months.
I put my head in my head in my hands to keep it from hitting the table. That was when I began to hear the faint strains of a mournful steel guitar in the back of my mind. I chuckled, a bitter laugh, when I thought about the fact that I don't have a dog, either. So I could say it was missing.
To ice that particular cake, as I sat there writing the country soundtrack to my life, I heard from across the river valley the plaintive sound of (you guessed it) a train horn. "Really?" I said to myself, looking up at the ceiling, "I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, and there's a frickin' TRAIN out there?"
It was at that point I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was feeling ill on a cold, rainy day, lonely and jobless and without a dog or a truck, listening to the train fade away in the distance. If Hank Williams or Johnny Cash had come on the radio about then, I probably would have wet myself.
As it was, though, I sat there and quietly stepped away from the edge of the darkness, smiling and thankful that my mom was at home and not in prison.
I had woken up with a bad headache, feeling a bit sickly with a stuffy nose and that washed out lethargy that often precedes a cold. The little bit of sunshine we had around here disappeared before the morning was half over. The sky turned the color of a old ash pail. My house turned chill and grey. Admittedly, part of that is due to my stubbornness at not cranking the heat so as to enable making it through winter on only one tankful of heating oil. Even with an undershirt, a shirt and sweater, jeans and socks, it was still cold. A dampish, steely feeling that worked itself into my bones.
The rain that had been predicted for later in the afternoon started before noon, something I did not pick up on until I finally snapped out of the fog I was in, staring out the window at my neighbor's house. The little dots I was seeing? Hey, those are raindrops! Yeah, I'm observant like that.
The morning was full of sighs and ennui, Internet time wasting, and some half-hearted soul searching. I listened to the rain, drummed my fingers on the table. I went off the rails a bit, not really sure of what to do next, what obstacles I should try to remove. It then hit me hard: it was now just over three months since I was let go from my job. Three. Months. And no prospects, yet, for a new one.
Three. Goddamn. Months.
I put my head in my head in my hands to keep it from hitting the table. That was when I began to hear the faint strains of a mournful steel guitar in the back of my mind. I chuckled, a bitter laugh, when I thought about the fact that I don't have a dog, either. So I could say it was missing.
To ice that particular cake, as I sat there writing the country soundtrack to my life, I heard from across the river valley the plaintive sound of (you guessed it) a train horn. "Really?" I said to myself, looking up at the ceiling, "I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, and there's a frickin' TRAIN out there?"
It was at that point I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was feeling ill on a cold, rainy day, lonely and jobless and without a dog or a truck, listening to the train fade away in the distance. If Hank Williams or Johnny Cash had come on the radio about then, I probably would have wet myself.
As it was, though, I sat there and quietly stepped away from the edge of the darkness, smiling and thankful that my mom was at home and not in prison.
08 November 2011
Stumbling Around The Block
This is serious, folks. This is the worst case of writer's block I've had in three years. The weather is foggy in my head. I cannot figure out how to make it lift.
I know this is a first-world problem, and it doesn't threaten to destabilize anything else in my life. So I am grateful for it to be so. It does have me troubled. I like to write. Writing has come to mean much to me, catharsis, therapy, creative fulfillment, quiet joy. Exploring the Cave of Wonders that is my head provides me with heat and light for the soul.
The hearth is getting cooler. The fire is burning low. In the little cottage of my heart, I lie on the bunk huddled under blankets and watch the tiny flames sputter and dim. I want to arise and throw more wood on the embers, but the bin is empty save for a few twigs and a scrap of bark. Wind knocks on the door, beckoning me outside to forage for fuel.
But it is warm here under the blankets, and I am tired.
I know this is a first-world problem, and it doesn't threaten to destabilize anything else in my life. So I am grateful for it to be so. It does have me troubled. I like to write. Writing has come to mean much to me, catharsis, therapy, creative fulfillment, quiet joy. Exploring the Cave of Wonders that is my head provides me with heat and light for the soul.
The hearth is getting cooler. The fire is burning low. In the little cottage of my heart, I lie on the bunk huddled under blankets and watch the tiny flames sputter and dim. I want to arise and throw more wood on the embers, but the bin is empty save for a few twigs and a scrap of bark. Wind knocks on the door, beckoning me outside to forage for fuel.
But it is warm here under the blankets, and I am tired.
02 October 2011
Sunday Meditation #8: Water Through Stone and Tree
September 11th, 2011, along the Patapsco River. Morning, standing on railroad tracks.
For the first time in a long time I was just far enough away from the roads and the machines of modern life that I could truly hear the sounds of nature. The river was some tens of yards away, and the valley was thick with green leaves. It was some minutes before it sank in to my head that the only sounds I could hear were my breathing, the crunch of boots on gravel, the trill of water over rocks and the cries of birds out in the trees. I stopped to consider this small miracle.
I was on my way to the ruins of an abandoned hospital for a photo shoot. The path I took to get there was along the rail line that followed the river. The route took me across a bridge and through a short tunnel bored under a small hill. The tunnel was made of brick, stone and concrete, constructed in 1903. I was slightly nervous approaching the tunnel. As short as it was, I had the small fear that a train would come along as I was in the middle of it. It was wide enough to step safely away from the tracks, with small niches in the brick for a person to stand, presumably out of range of coal smoke and steam back in the early days.
I hurried through, just the same.
It was as I approached the far end of the tunnel that I heard it all. Drip, drip, drip.
Water was seeping through the arched roof overhead. Small puddles on the rail ties, glimmering like mercury in the light shining in from outside. I slowed down a little to watch my footing. As my breathing slowed, my hearing became more acute. There, I heard it!
It was a hawk, keening from the trees ahead. Its sharp cry put all other sounds in sharp relief. My pace slackened further as I stepped out in to the silvery daylight from the overcast sky. The hawk cried again, and I could hear the river murmuring sweet nothings to the rocks over which it flowed. I ceased walking, and stood still.
I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. A faint rustling from the trees as a small breeze blew. I could not see the sun, the clouds were opaque, but its presence was known. Another cry from the hawk. I stood and listened, to the water through stone and tree. I heard no cars, no planes, no raised voices.
I heard peace.
For the first time in a long time I was just far enough away from the roads and the machines of modern life that I could truly hear the sounds of nature. The river was some tens of yards away, and the valley was thick with green leaves. It was some minutes before it sank in to my head that the only sounds I could hear were my breathing, the crunch of boots on gravel, the trill of water over rocks and the cries of birds out in the trees. I stopped to consider this small miracle.
I was on my way to the ruins of an abandoned hospital for a photo shoot. The path I took to get there was along the rail line that followed the river. The route took me across a bridge and through a short tunnel bored under a small hill. The tunnel was made of brick, stone and concrete, constructed in 1903. I was slightly nervous approaching the tunnel. As short as it was, I had the small fear that a train would come along as I was in the middle of it. It was wide enough to step safely away from the tracks, with small niches in the brick for a person to stand, presumably out of range of coal smoke and steam back in the early days.
I hurried through, just the same.
It was as I approached the far end of the tunnel that I heard it all. Drip, drip, drip.
Water was seeping through the arched roof overhead. Small puddles on the rail ties, glimmering like mercury in the light shining in from outside. I slowed down a little to watch my footing. As my breathing slowed, my hearing became more acute. There, I heard it!
It was a hawk, keening from the trees ahead. Its sharp cry put all other sounds in sharp relief. My pace slackened further as I stepped out in to the silvery daylight from the overcast sky. The hawk cried again, and I could hear the river murmuring sweet nothings to the rocks over which it flowed. I ceased walking, and stood still.
I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. A faint rustling from the trees as a small breeze blew. I could not see the sun, the clouds were opaque, but its presence was known. Another cry from the hawk. I stood and listened, to the water through stone and tree. I heard no cars, no planes, no raised voices.
I heard peace.
24 September 2011
Living In The Synapse
An odd phenomenon here on the People's Republic of Gumbolia. I had approached the computer with vigor and purpose, certain I had a gem of story to tell, and when I sat down to write it, it disappeared. This pleases me not. I felt no need to reach for a notebook, because I was convinced the story would make it to the page.
I was wrong. I should have known better.
This happens to me on a regular basis, that I have a great idea, only to have it vanish. Well, who knows if it was great, if I can't write it down for all to see. Not to worry, I suppose. It's Saturday, the weekend is in full swing. Perhaps I'll live a little...then come back to tell the tale.
I was wrong. I should have known better.
This happens to me on a regular basis, that I have a great idea, only to have it vanish. Well, who knows if it was great, if I can't write it down for all to see. Not to worry, I suppose. It's Saturday, the weekend is in full swing. Perhaps I'll live a little...then come back to tell the tale.
20 September 2011
Another Train Song
A busy day for moi, le President-For-Life of the People's Republic of Gumbolia, and I am winding down. It feels good to stop, sometimes, and just rest or let the heart have its lead. A hurried dinner of reheated last night's fettucine Genovese (from a local eatery), then it was out the door to cut the grass before it was too dark to see. I finished my grass cutting adventures tout de suite, and then indulged in the luxury in a little websurfing time wasting. I really hadn't wanted anything more.
I skimmed a lot of stuff, some fluff and some weightier material. It was while reading that I became aware of just how tired I felt, and how quiet the house seemed. The quiet was not unexpected, the weather has been mild enough the past four or so days that the air conditioning has been off the entire time. Open windows and comfortable night air, along with a serenade of crickets. Very serene.
For some reason I began to wonder about an issue that has been nagging me for quite some time, and that in the form of a question:
Why are so much of human relations tied up in the exercise of power?
It deflated me. I felt wearier than before. The deluge of information I had been absorbing, reading the news and op-ed pundits and lifestyle snippets...and it all seems to go back to power. Who has power over whom. Whom is getting power. Exercising power over others as a form of social climbing and ego gratification. Even who has power in that most basic of human relationships: that of being in love.
From those struggling against the ruling power structure, both malignant and benevolent (benevolent, at least, from outward appearances) all the way down to who is trying to leverage whom in bed, the majority of the world seems to be addicted to power: acquiring, enhancing, wielding, amassing.
It never seems to stop. The subtle corrosions of it seem to have infiltrated all levels of human interaction. Some forms of it I can understand and accept, but much of it just makes me sad. I have very little interest in power, and even that is primarily limited to the effort I have to take in order to keep others from exerting too much power over me. And I am ever alert to keeping the taint of it out of the love in my heart.
I feel myself winding down. I'm wearier, in the good way of effort making itself known in the muscles I used to cut my grass. I stopped reading stuff on the web a while ago, just so I could think and listen. Cool night air and sounds soothe me. Off in the distance, across the river, the low hoot of a train horn carries wistfully in the suburban blackness outside my windows. The thrum of the engine backed it up and I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples. I feel my heart begin to lift, carried away on the wheels of steel and the bittersweet promise of another train song, one that lets me know there are places in this universe where Love triumphs over Power. It is a dear wish of mine that one of those places is my heart.
I skimmed a lot of stuff, some fluff and some weightier material. It was while reading that I became aware of just how tired I felt, and how quiet the house seemed. The quiet was not unexpected, the weather has been mild enough the past four or so days that the air conditioning has been off the entire time. Open windows and comfortable night air, along with a serenade of crickets. Very serene.
For some reason I began to wonder about an issue that has been nagging me for quite some time, and that in the form of a question:
Why are so much of human relations tied up in the exercise of power?
It deflated me. I felt wearier than before. The deluge of information I had been absorbing, reading the news and op-ed pundits and lifestyle snippets...and it all seems to go back to power. Who has power over whom. Whom is getting power. Exercising power over others as a form of social climbing and ego gratification. Even who has power in that most basic of human relationships: that of being in love.
From those struggling against the ruling power structure, both malignant and benevolent (benevolent, at least, from outward appearances) all the way down to who is trying to leverage whom in bed, the majority of the world seems to be addicted to power: acquiring, enhancing, wielding, amassing.
It never seems to stop. The subtle corrosions of it seem to have infiltrated all levels of human interaction. Some forms of it I can understand and accept, but much of it just makes me sad. I have very little interest in power, and even that is primarily limited to the effort I have to take in order to keep others from exerting too much power over me. And I am ever alert to keeping the taint of it out of the love in my heart.
I feel myself winding down. I'm wearier, in the good way of effort making itself known in the muscles I used to cut my grass. I stopped reading stuff on the web a while ago, just so I could think and listen. Cool night air and sounds soothe me. Off in the distance, across the river, the low hoot of a train horn carries wistfully in the suburban blackness outside my windows. The thrum of the engine backed it up and I closed my eyes, rubbing my temples. I feel my heart begin to lift, carried away on the wheels of steel and the bittersweet promise of another train song, one that lets me know there are places in this universe where Love triumphs over Power. It is a dear wish of mine that one of those places is my heart.
14 September 2011
Falling Water
September 5th, 2011, 7:01 p.m.
Rain falling from the sky as I arrive home with full belly and half-empty heart. The sky was pewter-white, the drops pregnantly silver. They fell soft in an aqueous sibilance that I've yet to decide reminds me of the sound of frying bacon or a crowd of people whispering all at once.
I looked up once to gauge the heaviness of the clouds. A fat drop on my glasses caused me to flinch a little. I hurried down my front steps to enter the house. My first thought was that I wanted to sit at my little table on the porch, and listen to the rain.
The crickets and birds were striking up the band. In the tree just in front I could hear something rustling around and squawking. At me or the cats across the street, I don't know. There are enough trees and shrubs near my house that being outside in the evenings the acoustics almost sound like being in the woods. I enjoy that timbre, that pitch. I often fantasize that I have my own little writing studio, surrounded by or near to a substantial grove of trees. There are two windows I can open, right in front of my desk, and the sound and the breeze please me when I write.
In my fantasy, of course. For now, I make do with a console in my dining room and the occasional stint in the wire mesh chairs at the slate tile covered table on the porch. It is my hope that it will not be that way for much longer, that someday my computer and my notebooks and my pens will have a permanent eyrie in which to nest. Portability has its charms, but I crave that special place for them to rest. To know that I won't essentially be restarting every time I sit down to write.
I must rephrase. This wasn't intended to be quite so much about writing. Wait...a cicada is chirruping loudly, and it has distracted me. Ah. There. It has stopped.
No, this wasn't supposed to be so much about writing. It was supposed to be about the profundity of rainfall, the knowledge and calm to be found in listening to its journey to the earth. It is a sound I had forgotten on my way to becoming a man in his 40's, sitting in a chair and trying to make sense of the clamor in his head. It is a sound I heard in my youth, but didn't listen to when I should.
The rain falls now, my head and my heart sit up and take notice. Rain, silver from blue into green, giving gloss and depth to the world. This is what rain does: it has spoken the secrets in my heart. I do not bemoan that I cannot fall from the sky to do the same; instead, I fall into the page, seeking gloss and depth, and secrets.
Rain falling from the sky as I arrive home with full belly and half-empty heart. The sky was pewter-white, the drops pregnantly silver. They fell soft in an aqueous sibilance that I've yet to decide reminds me of the sound of frying bacon or a crowd of people whispering all at once.
I looked up once to gauge the heaviness of the clouds. A fat drop on my glasses caused me to flinch a little. I hurried down my front steps to enter the house. My first thought was that I wanted to sit at my little table on the porch, and listen to the rain.
The crickets and birds were striking up the band. In the tree just in front I could hear something rustling around and squawking. At me or the cats across the street, I don't know. There are enough trees and shrubs near my house that being outside in the evenings the acoustics almost sound like being in the woods. I enjoy that timbre, that pitch. I often fantasize that I have my own little writing studio, surrounded by or near to a substantial grove of trees. There are two windows I can open, right in front of my desk, and the sound and the breeze please me when I write.
In my fantasy, of course. For now, I make do with a console in my dining room and the occasional stint in the wire mesh chairs at the slate tile covered table on the porch. It is my hope that it will not be that way for much longer, that someday my computer and my notebooks and my pens will have a permanent eyrie in which to nest. Portability has its charms, but I crave that special place for them to rest. To know that I won't essentially be restarting every time I sit down to write.
I must rephrase. This wasn't intended to be quite so much about writing. Wait...a cicada is chirruping loudly, and it has distracted me. Ah. There. It has stopped.
No, this wasn't supposed to be so much about writing. It was supposed to be about the profundity of rainfall, the knowledge and calm to be found in listening to its journey to the earth. It is a sound I had forgotten on my way to becoming a man in his 40's, sitting in a chair and trying to make sense of the clamor in his head. It is a sound I heard in my youth, but didn't listen to when I should.
The rain falls now, my head and my heart sit up and take notice. Rain, silver from blue into green, giving gloss and depth to the world. This is what rain does: it has spoken the secrets in my heart. I do not bemoan that I cannot fall from the sky to do the same; instead, I fall into the page, seeking gloss and depth, and secrets.
01 September 2011
On The Cusp Of Fall
So here it is, September. How about that, dear readers? A lot of water has passed under the bridge since last September, some of it fresh and sweet, some of it sour and poison. I'm just glad to still be standing on the bridge, watching the water flow. Perhaps playing the adult version of "Pooh Sticks", tossing the twigs in the water and seeing which one comes out the other side first.
Yet it doesn't matter all that much, which comes out first. All the twigs are in the same water, the same river, the same flow toward the ocean. The analogy holds for me. I have been swept along by the current and finally learning to relax into it. I fear the river less than I used to, these days. It is the journey, after all, that counts. The currents of the past year have been strong and unpredictable, but never could be said to be boring.
September. Summer on the cusp of fall. Having raised my head to the wind, I can smell something in the air. Something crisp and clean, hinting of fall and the harvest. Good green things are growing, and I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into their savor.
Yet it doesn't matter all that much, which comes out first. All the twigs are in the same water, the same river, the same flow toward the ocean. The analogy holds for me. I have been swept along by the current and finally learning to relax into it. I fear the river less than I used to, these days. It is the journey, after all, that counts. The currents of the past year have been strong and unpredictable, but never could be said to be boring.
September. Summer on the cusp of fall. Having raised my head to the wind, I can smell something in the air. Something crisp and clean, hinting of fall and the harvest. Good green things are growing, and I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into their savor.
30 August 2011
New for 2012: The 2-Door (Hatch) Back Spasm!
Maybe its just me. Whenever I see the little car known as the Fit (by a car maker whose name rhymes with "Rhonda"), I cannot help but laugh.
You see, when I read the word Fit, I don't think of it in the senses of "appropriate for the circumstances" or "suiting the dimensions and shape of something". I mean, I do, but not when I see that word applied to car. When I see it capitalized and in a logo, my mind automatically leaps to the definition of fit as in "having a tantrum" or "a state of being characterized by involuntary spasms, tics or outbursts, and usually associated with extreme emotional upset".
So when I see the Fit on the roadways? I laugh, and I hope there won't be a fit. What about you?
You see, when I read the word Fit, I don't think of it in the senses of "appropriate for the circumstances" or "suiting the dimensions and shape of something". I mean, I do, but not when I see that word applied to car. When I see it capitalized and in a logo, my mind automatically leaps to the definition of fit as in "having a tantrum" or "a state of being characterized by involuntary spasms, tics or outbursts, and usually associated with extreme emotional upset".
So when I see the Fit on the roadways? I laugh, and I hope there won't be a fit. What about you?
25 August 2011
Scent of Canini
They were back, briefly. Their scent raised the hackles on my neck. My stomach still flutters.
I wasn't expecting them, although to be fair I rarely do. They tend to show up unannounced, by stealth. Its what makes them successful at their what they do. I know it isn't personal. It would be foolish and dangerous to take it personally. After all, we are all part of the same mental ecosystem, aren't we? We are all fulfilling our niche in the system, right? Then I shall not fight it. I shall attempt to deal with them with as much aplomb and dignity I can muster. They are not my enemies. They are simply part of me that occasionally takes leave of the wilderness within, to arrive in my backyard. Hungry, maybe. Watching. Waiting.
This time, I felt them before I saw them. Silently padding out to the edge of the woods that ring the safe haven in my mind. I was thinking about change in my life. I was thinking about pasts and futures and the Now in between. The bridge of the Now. I had my eyes closed at first. But then that scent crept into my nostrils, that peculiar combination of musk and iron and anxiety. The breath caught in my throat and I had to force myself to swallow and open my lungs. Months since the last visit and I had no desire to see them again. A deep breath and I told myself to not panic. I would not run. I would not cower. I would deal with them straight away.
The eyes in the theater of my mind snapped open. I rose from my chair, in the shade of the trees where I also hang the mental hammock. Gazing across the meadow of my mind, the wolves were there arrayed against the tree line like soldiers, low-slung and furry. They had been padding forward, but stopped when they saw me get up. I took a step or two forward, and they stopped. They all sat down on their haunches, eyes clear and bright and fixed on me.
I may have trembled, briefly.
For a score of heartbeats, we stared at one another, the wolves and I. I stood still as I could manage. They sat, placid in their presence. Sweat trickled from my brow. My legs twitched, as did their flanks. This Now would be different. I would not run.
I took a step toward them. And another. They began to rise to their feet. I kept going. My furred visitors backed away. I broke into a jog, and they turned away suddenly, pausing at the edge of the woods. I actually laughed, at which point the pack bolted into the woods.
The Fear ebbed away. It was there, like a whisper, but not so insistent. The wolves and I, we have an understanding. Sometimes, they get me.
But sometimes, I get them.
I wasn't expecting them, although to be fair I rarely do. They tend to show up unannounced, by stealth. Its what makes them successful at their what they do. I know it isn't personal. It would be foolish and dangerous to take it personally. After all, we are all part of the same mental ecosystem, aren't we? We are all fulfilling our niche in the system, right? Then I shall not fight it. I shall attempt to deal with them with as much aplomb and dignity I can muster. They are not my enemies. They are simply part of me that occasionally takes leave of the wilderness within, to arrive in my backyard. Hungry, maybe. Watching. Waiting.
This time, I felt them before I saw them. Silently padding out to the edge of the woods that ring the safe haven in my mind. I was thinking about change in my life. I was thinking about pasts and futures and the Now in between. The bridge of the Now. I had my eyes closed at first. But then that scent crept into my nostrils, that peculiar combination of musk and iron and anxiety. The breath caught in my throat and I had to force myself to swallow and open my lungs. Months since the last visit and I had no desire to see them again. A deep breath and I told myself to not panic. I would not run. I would not cower. I would deal with them straight away.
The eyes in the theater of my mind snapped open. I rose from my chair, in the shade of the trees where I also hang the mental hammock. Gazing across the meadow of my mind, the wolves were there arrayed against the tree line like soldiers, low-slung and furry. They had been padding forward, but stopped when they saw me get up. I took a step or two forward, and they stopped. They all sat down on their haunches, eyes clear and bright and fixed on me.
I may have trembled, briefly.
For a score of heartbeats, we stared at one another, the wolves and I. I stood still as I could manage. They sat, placid in their presence. Sweat trickled from my brow. My legs twitched, as did their flanks. This Now would be different. I would not run.
I took a step toward them. And another. They began to rise to their feet. I kept going. My furred visitors backed away. I broke into a jog, and they turned away suddenly, pausing at the edge of the woods. I actually laughed, at which point the pack bolted into the woods.
The Fear ebbed away. It was there, like a whisper, but not so insistent. The wolves and I, we have an understanding. Sometimes, they get me.
But sometimes, I get them.
18 August 2011
I Am Both
The physicist Murray Gell-Mann wrote an entire book about systems simple and complex, entitled The Quark and The Jaguar, and I rediscovered it recently, sitting on the bookshelf where I stored it many months ago. The cover is adorned with a marvelous photograph of a jaguar. I like to take the book out and look at the picture, occasionally.
I needed to look up a word, so I was standing at the shelf with the dictionary in hand when I absentmindedly picked up the Gell-Mann book. The eyes of the jaguar flashed in the low light of the wall sconce, and I imagined a growl in my mind...
...the fatigue of recent days carried me off in a swirl of memories and questions and wondering just how I got to be Here, as I Am, in this Now. Right Here. Wondering how, what, why. And who.
The notion came to mind that I am the simple, and the complex. The quantam wavefronts that coalesced into the pattern of Me is what makes me Me.
I am the quark and the jaguar.
I needed to look up a word, so I was standing at the shelf with the dictionary in hand when I absentmindedly picked up the Gell-Mann book. The eyes of the jaguar flashed in the low light of the wall sconce, and I imagined a growl in my mind...
...the fatigue of recent days carried me off in a swirl of memories and questions and wondering just how I got to be Here, as I Am, in this Now. Right Here. Wondering how, what, why. And who.
The notion came to mind that I am the simple, and the complex. The quantam wavefronts that coalesced into the pattern of Me is what makes me Me.
I am the quark and the jaguar.
16 August 2011
Now I Don't Know What To Put On My French Fries
WTH, G**gl*?
The targeted ads? You think you could improve the algorithms that govern how the sidebar ads get selected? Because I've seem some bizarro stuff in my sidebar, but this takes the cake.
Right now, on the side of my email window are four ads. Three of them are for new cars. Nothing in the email that was on display said anything about new cars, but not so out there, ya know?
The fourth ad?
It says "Vinegar Douche: Learn about new ways to freshness."
I didn't see any references to condiments, seasonings or flavorings. How does this even happen?
(sigh)
I'm feeling a little uncomfortable about my next order of fries. Thanks, G**gl*.
The targeted ads? You think you could improve the algorithms that govern how the sidebar ads get selected? Because I've seem some bizarro stuff in my sidebar, but this takes the cake.
Right now, on the side of my email window are four ads. Three of them are for new cars. Nothing in the email that was on display said anything about new cars, but not so out there, ya know?
The fourth ad?
It says "Vinegar Douche: Learn about new ways to freshness."
I didn't see any references to condiments, seasonings or flavorings. How does this even happen?
(sigh)
I'm feeling a little uncomfortable about my next order of fries. Thanks, G**gl*.
01 August 2011
This Hemic Burn
I questioned myself, tonight, if my heart was really in the writing. I have been on a quest, informal, to post something every day for a year. I am just under two months away from achieving that goal. This quest came about accidentally, as I had made no plans to do such a thing. Now, I wonder if it matters for any reason at all.
That is not to say I have no wish to write. Quite the contrary. The path of my life as of late has been such that the creativity and the ideas, that noise which drives me to distraction when the demands of the real world come calling, have been building up faster than I can process them. Even when I sit at my desk at my day job, my back brain is whispering new things that must see the electronic and paper pages that wrap my life. My mind's eye sees things that beg to be photographed, to be recorded in that fleeting moment of light and shadow in which beauty or truth can be found.
But tonight, I sat down at my desk and felt the imp of the perverse tugging at my ambitions. The weekend, much to my chagrin, was over. The crickets outside I can hear faintly over the hum of the air conditioning, and there seemed to be faint music coming from somewhere.
Perhaps the music was all in my head. My tired and dizzy head.
In the light of my banker's lamp, here next to the keyboard and journal which seem to be the palimpsests of my heart, I rubbed my temples and wondered where next for my wandering mind. I could feel the veil of weariness descending upon my eyes as thoughts of bed and rest crept in on little cats' feet. Unbidden, a small smile came to my lips. I listened to the susurrus of blood wending through my skin in threadlets of soft fire. Feeling the warmth of the hemic burn radiating outward through the canopy of my veins, I knew that whatever my heart has in store for me, it is and will be good. It will be the stuff of life.
The words will take care of themselves.
That is not to say I have no wish to write. Quite the contrary. The path of my life as of late has been such that the creativity and the ideas, that noise which drives me to distraction when the demands of the real world come calling, have been building up faster than I can process them. Even when I sit at my desk at my day job, my back brain is whispering new things that must see the electronic and paper pages that wrap my life. My mind's eye sees things that beg to be photographed, to be recorded in that fleeting moment of light and shadow in which beauty or truth can be found.
But tonight, I sat down at my desk and felt the imp of the perverse tugging at my ambitions. The weekend, much to my chagrin, was over. The crickets outside I can hear faintly over the hum of the air conditioning, and there seemed to be faint music coming from somewhere.
Perhaps the music was all in my head. My tired and dizzy head.
In the light of my banker's lamp, here next to the keyboard and journal which seem to be the palimpsests of my heart, I rubbed my temples and wondered where next for my wandering mind. I could feel the veil of weariness descending upon my eyes as thoughts of bed and rest crept in on little cats' feet. Unbidden, a small smile came to my lips. I listened to the susurrus of blood wending through my skin in threadlets of soft fire. Feeling the warmth of the hemic burn radiating outward through the canopy of my veins, I knew that whatever my heart has in store for me, it is and will be good. It will be the stuff of life.
The words will take care of themselves.
15 July 2011
Bumblebee Blues: Sip and Gulp
So I'm watching out the kitchen window, where I can see this crepe myrtle bush (or is it a tree? What the hell is a crepe myrtle, anyway? Sounds like it could be someones grandmother) and it finally dawns on me that it is bigger than it was back in the beginning of spring. Which is probably not unusual, considering that it is a green, growing thing, and by their inherent nature they tend to grow. And be green. In this case, what piqued my interest, what got all up in my grille as it were, was that it seemed a lot bigger. Really. Considering that I had cropped it back, given it the arborist's equivalent of a flattop fade, I was expecting that there bush to behave itself this summer. So I wouldn't have to cut it back again. Well, fuggedaboutit, paisanos, it looks like Gumbo the Gardener will have to engage in some more horticultural ass-whoopin' to get things under control.
So it is that I take on the natural world. To be fair, the crepe myrtle doesn't bother me that much. It has grown fast since I cut it back, but it also has a burgeoned with a thick layer of flowers on the branches. Deep magenta or crimson, I don't know, but there are a lot of them. As a consequence of all this floral exuberance there have been a plethora of bees flitting about on the bush. There may have been a hummingbird, too, but I cannot confirm it. But a hummingbird would be cool.
It was while watching the birds and the bees do their dance (no, sillies, not that dance), on a hot, sunny afternoon that I was granted an insight. A brief glimpse of the inner workings of life. The bees were lazily circling about, landing now and them to ravish their chosen dance partners, seeking pollen and being profligate with their affections. I took to meditating on those bees, wondering if I had been doing the same thing with my life: sipping lightly from so many things and never really staying put with my emotions. Never taking a break and drinking the nectar of life. Never grabbing the cup with both hands and just sucking down a few huge gulps, for the sheer sake of knowing I could, and thereby drink deep. The bees, whether they knew it or not, had just taught me a lesson about gusto.
From small creatures do great lessons flow. I watched the bees sip from the flowers and considered that maybe, just maybe, I was ready to fill my belly with a few swigs of Life. Forget finesse, forget being too delicate, too scared of it, I realized it is high time I grab a cup and drink my fill.
It really is too short, ignore the cliche and absorb the truth. Time to raise a toast to life.
So it is that I take on the natural world. To be fair, the crepe myrtle doesn't bother me that much. It has grown fast since I cut it back, but it also has a burgeoned with a thick layer of flowers on the branches. Deep magenta or crimson, I don't know, but there are a lot of them. As a consequence of all this floral exuberance there have been a plethora of bees flitting about on the bush. There may have been a hummingbird, too, but I cannot confirm it. But a hummingbird would be cool.
It was while watching the birds and the bees do their dance (no, sillies, not that dance), on a hot, sunny afternoon that I was granted an insight. A brief glimpse of the inner workings of life. The bees were lazily circling about, landing now and them to ravish their chosen dance partners, seeking pollen and being profligate with their affections. I took to meditating on those bees, wondering if I had been doing the same thing with my life: sipping lightly from so many things and never really staying put with my emotions. Never taking a break and drinking the nectar of life. Never grabbing the cup with both hands and just sucking down a few huge gulps, for the sheer sake of knowing I could, and thereby drink deep. The bees, whether they knew it or not, had just taught me a lesson about gusto.
From small creatures do great lessons flow. I watched the bees sip from the flowers and considered that maybe, just maybe, I was ready to fill my belly with a few swigs of Life. Forget finesse, forget being too delicate, too scared of it, I realized it is high time I grab a cup and drink my fill.
It really is too short, ignore the cliche and absorb the truth. Time to raise a toast to life.
14 July 2011
Chaff and Scatter
There somewhere on the dining table, are the fragments of a life, small drifts of notes and business cards, detritus of the loose ends never quite in control. The occasional berg of paper shoved from one side of the table to another, depending on mood and circumstance. Or size of the project to be undertaken.
Funny. Funny peculiar, not funny as in laughing. The big stuff has been moved out of the way, finally, picked up in a blizzard of ambition and moved to a nearby cabinet. Took long enough, he mutters, maybe next year, a desk! Bah. The table serves as desk in the mornings, well, desk and buffet. Breakfast now consumed facing the windows and a copy of something to read off to the side. Quiet. He wants quiet now, but the chaff is loud without saying a word. It whispers of laziness and fractured attention...it highlights the need for quiet.
The thought raises a smile. Quiet? Yes, quiet. Lately the radio has stayed off, for the first time in months. Unusual, perhaps, for the man, but not unwelcome. He sits quietly, slowly chewing the cud of oat cereal, and realizes that the radio stayed off because for the first time in months...his mind was quiet enough that he wanted to listen to it instead.
He sweeps his hands across the table, scattering the chaff, and reveling in serenity. It is a good morning.
Funny. Funny peculiar, not funny as in laughing. The big stuff has been moved out of the way, finally, picked up in a blizzard of ambition and moved to a nearby cabinet. Took long enough, he mutters, maybe next year, a desk! Bah. The table serves as desk in the mornings, well, desk and buffet. Breakfast now consumed facing the windows and a copy of something to read off to the side. Quiet. He wants quiet now, but the chaff is loud without saying a word. It whispers of laziness and fractured attention...it highlights the need for quiet.
The thought raises a smile. Quiet? Yes, quiet. Lately the radio has stayed off, for the first time in months. Unusual, perhaps, for the man, but not unwelcome. He sits quietly, slowly chewing the cud of oat cereal, and realizes that the radio stayed off because for the first time in months...his mind was quiet enough that he wanted to listen to it instead.
He sweeps his hands across the table, scattering the chaff, and reveling in serenity. It is a good morning.
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