A Brief Word on Words Not Yet Spoken

9:44 PM. It was a good day, in that I experienced some contentment. I have decided I will read, later.

A brief word, ladies and gentlemen, if I may scrawl a bit. I confess to you that I just spent the previous ten minutes or so standing in my living room with a book in my hand and another in my head. I was reading the one and thinking about the other. The decision on which one to read kept me still.

I say book in my head, but there is a physical specimen on my shelf. Each of them is a tome of natural history, written by two different authors, each of whom I greatly admire. Different styles, the two of them, one austerely spiritual---is this possible? I think it is---the other poignant, sharp and comedic. One book is about the ends of the earth and the other a travelogue on the deep Congo. I was inspired to read at least one of them by words in my head and the silences between them.

What Antarctica and Africa have to do with the things I find myself wanting to say to the people in my life, including one who may not yet be of an age to receive these freighted words, I cannot tell. I simply don't know. I will do my best to find out.

Of late I am often possessed of the urge to write of the things I hear inside. I feel the pressure, I hear the shouts and whispers, the sighs and curses that my mouth-heart want to spill. There are many things to say. Yet I have not found the courage to speak. This is a dam I have not yet determined how to break.

In heartbeats the voice seeks itself. Mine pounds inside, seeking fulfillment on the outside. But I am not ready. The stories are not ready. The blood in my veins flows like water seeking its own level while my heart rehearses the words in silence. They will find the surface, when they are ready.

I place one book on the shelf, gripping another by the spine. It fits in my hand like a the nudge of a long-lost pet, finally arriving home. I will read of the silences at the bottom of the earth, and in them, perhaps break my own.

Electric Slumgullion

8:34 PM. Burning off the dross of the day, the sky is undecided. Rain is on the way, I think. But there is music.

Lately I have been looking in the mirror carefully, trying to see who might show up. Or what might show up. See, I've also been unable to shake off the notion that if I had a totem from the world of plants, it would be an onion. I stare into the silvered glass, watching the layers morph and ripple across my tired face.

To have my animal self replaced by a plant is deflating. It should not be, perhaps. We are all of us made of many things, and not all of them mammalian. The identity drawn therefrom can serve as a wellspring of strength, courage, energy. In my case, I fancied my animal self to be Panthera onca, the jaguar. Powerful, enigmatic, and possessed of a shamanic energy I crave and envy.

The jaguar has been scarce lately. I catch the occasional glimpse, but full sightings are scarce like iridium crystals. I hold the totem in my hands, but the eyes are dull. This troubles me.

The jaguar, it seems, has given way to the onion. How long this will last, none can say. All I  know is that the last year has peeled away a lot from my outer surfaces, exposing even more layers within as well as creating the occasional tears. I spend a lot of time meditating on these circumstances. It is important for me to plumb my depths. I have no desire to be caught from behind by things I did not know existed within.

This is not to say that these layers are always serious. While I certainly have the tendency to be too serious, there are things I keep finding that make me laugh, or marvel at the oddities that contribute to the mass of intriguing weirdness that resides in my heart and head.

Case in point tonight: on my way home this evening, I caught a musical snippet on "World Cafe with David Dye"---an interesting radio show hosted by WXPN---that made me sit up and take notice. It was this weird but likeable mix of what sounded like Indian-inspired dance hip-hop party music. I had no clue as to genre, and I missed the name of the group, but I wanted to hear it again. I felt I had to know who, what, and why.

So I turned to our friend the Internet and looked up the play schedule for WXPN. Turns out the music I heard was by a the group Red Baraat, a Brooklyn, NY-based outfit that combines Punjabi bhangra with New Orleans-style jazz, hip-hop, and go-go music. I couldn't even begin to tell you exactly what all of those styles encompass, but I can tell you this: the music made me happy and wanting to dance. And I'm not a dancer by any stretch.

Dig this, too. The leader of the band is named Sunny Jain. Born in the United States, his parents were Punjabi immigrants. He is trained as a jazz drummer. The band is heavy on percussion and brass, including a two-headed drum---the dhol---and a sousaphone.That's right, ladies and gents, a freakin' sousaphone. And the guy who plays it also raps.

I don't know what it is about stuff like this that draws me in. It makes me wish I could play a sousaphone, for crying out loud. It is weird. It is loopy.Which some might say are accurate descriptors of me.

It is this sort of thing that gives me hope for the future, for the world, and for myself. I like to think the one who likes all this weirdness is the poet in my soul, the one hidden behind all those layers, and that doesn't get to the surface as often as I wish. What I heard made the poet smile, making me okay with my weirdness.

I bounced in my chair for a bit, listening to the music and tucking into a digital bowl of electric slumgullion. After all, the jaguar is in there, too. He is hungry, he must be fed.

Belly Troubles, and the Tao of the Cure

May 24, 10:10 PM. Finally, finally settling down. And the belly is quiet. Finally.

If anyone had asked me to predict how the day would go based on how I felt upon awakening this morning, I would have told them it is going to be darkness and shadows all around. A semi-blind groping through half-lit corridors, looking for a half-open door leading into a room lit by a single weak bulb. I felt downright shabby and feeble. Poor sleep, anxiety, and obligations will do that to a man.

Having a belly that worships the Trickster is no help, either. My gut was expressing some grievance, and it put a certain dull sheen on the day. I had things to do, but no energy or motivation to do them. Some could wait, others could not. Through the fog I was determined to slog.

I think it is no secret, to those who have read this blog on a regular basis, that I struggle occasionally with anxiety and depression. Every now and then the "sheer hellishness of life" (to borrow a wonderful phrase from Jim Harrison) sneaks up on me and hijacks my better nature. I get wound around the axle of the truck that hit me and I find it hard to disentangle myself. Today was one of those days.

The month of May has been an emotional sine wave for me. I have been in hot pursuit of employment opportunities, working on a storyline for a book, and trying to make time for creative endeavors. I have traveled to see my lovely Wee Lass, and had a marvelous time in her company. I have lain awake at night with my breath just short of panting, overwhelmed by dreams and the fear of failure. When I awoke this morning, my belly walloped me with a low-grade murmur of discontent. Everything congealed in the clear light of day.

It wasn't enough to keep me off my feet. But it sure made walking a chore. It made being human being a chore. I was of no mind to spend time in my own company. So the carrying out of tasks for the day was nothing I looked forward to completing. There was no choice.

I ate a little breakfast, forcing it down with a cup of tea while I sat out on the front patio. I count it as a blessing that the weather was gorgeous and cool. The birds were making the right kind of noise, and actually kept my mind from wandering into some darker byways. Still, I was exhausted, sick and sleepy. No way to go through life.

I rested a bit before I left to take care of the major task for the day, a photography assignment that mercifully kept my mind focused (Ha! A photography pun!) and off my griping belly. I read somewhere long ago that it is impossible to be depressed when engaged in meaningful tasks, and in this case a truth. Hooray for that!

Some background, if I may. Many years ago, my physician told me that in my case, stress manifests itself in the gut. Unfortunately, his diagnosis was spot on. It has been a limitation on me for years. Feeling this way has in some fashion become the normal for me.

By the time I finished what I needed to do, it was early afternoon and my body, as wracked as it was, was still giving me indications that it needed calories. With resignation and no enthusiasm I ran a search on my phone for something close, cheap and hopefully easy on the stomach. The closest restaurant it found was a Chinese place I had heard of but never had the opportunity to try.

So it was I found myself standing in the parking lot of a slightly beat-up looking strip center, staring at a window full of picture cards of different dishes, the names written in that faux-Asian script that seems vaguely insulting to me, even though I can't say exactly why. The neon OPEN sign blinked off and on, and with my belly woes and lack of enthusiasm asserting themselves, I almost turned and left. Almost.

Something told me to go in. I was greeted by a sweet older Chinese woman and a low- to no-concept interior decor that had me wondering which kindergarten class had done the honors. I was the only customer in the joint, pondering again if I should leave. The hostess was very nice, though, and I did need to eat. She cheerfully handed me a menu, and I sat down to order.

A small bowl of hot-and-sour soup. A plate of chicken and broccoli on steamed rice, garnished with a single fried wonton. The food was served on a simple white plate. There were no frills.

The food smelled delicious. I sampled the vegetables and a bit of chicken. It tasted...wonderful. It avoided the typical trap of too much sauce, and too thick. The wonton was the ubiquitous crab Rangoon, but amazingly it was good. Crispy, non-greasy, light. I couldn't believe my tastebuds.

The portion was just right. I felt satisfied, not over full. My belly even relaxed, after a few initial protestations. Even though I wasn't prepared to admit it, the cloud hovering over me began to lift. I thanked the hostess, paid my bill and left.

Somewhere along the way home, I began to feel good. Tired, still, but good. The walls began to recede a bit, and the light seemed a little brighter. I finished my errands and went home, reveling in the luxury of a nap I wanted to take, instead of feeling I had to take. It was wonderful.

I don't know what triggered my ascent. Maybe it was the simple passage of time, maybe it was someone being nice to me, maybe it was just a simple plate of food done well and served with charm. Whatever it was, it sure felt good to take the cure. It felt good to find the Way, tricked out in Chinese food.

Plumbing the Weird

8:45 PM. Long day, much to do, lots of low cursing. Then, more thoughts.

I had a chance to review what I wrote for yesterday's post. I have to say, it was pretty weird. I mean, weird even for me. Why that is, I cannot rightly say.

What I can say is that it is the result of a maxim. To wit, I have been exhorted more than once and by more than one source to write every day. Even if I do not feel like it or am not inspired. Write. Write. WRITE. I've also been told to not worry if it isn't any good, or maybe doesn't make sense. One doesn't even need to know what to write about. Just. Do. It.

So I did. It was difficult. I was in no mood to write, had no plans to do so, certainly had no big ideas laying around in the junkyard of my mind. I went to my computer with the intention of doing some research on some trivial thing I thought I needed, or maybe it was online bill-paying I meant to do. It could have been something important, for all I know now.

All of that is not what happened, as we clearly see. Instead of turning right, I turned left. I zigged instead of zagged. My fingers started typing of seemingly their own volition, I entered a fugue state---that is what it felt like---and about an hour later that story is what left my head and ended up on the digital page. I can describe the episode as channeling rather than writing. Upon completion, I felt drained and exalted.

I also laughed at myself. It seemed so strange, so not where my head was going when I logged in. Often this sort of thing unnerves me and creates a little anxiety. I am not the type of person who easily makes leaps into the unknown, because it is so...well, so unknown. I realize how ridiculous I appear to acknowledge such absurdity.

But there it is, this rare attempt to just write, with no plan, no inspiration, no map. I have no idea what it means, or even if it means anything. This is okay, I think. If I am to make good on my aspirations to be an author I'll have to get used to plumbing weird. I hope I can bring guests.