Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Reflecting Pools and the Sorcery Within

MID-FORTIES.
                 Time for introspection.


As self-obsessed as I have been throughout my life, somehow I thought this wouldn't happen to me.  Midlife introspection is for people who have had it easy in their life and never really had to think about anything.  It's usually brought on by a gray hair, a love handle growing at glacial speeds, a death in the family.  Midlife introspection happens to the people on Thirty Something.

Surely not to me.  


Not to someone who spent so much time and money in therapy, bars, and lovers' arms.  Not me.  But there is that death.  Is that when it started?  When my little worlds I had spent years carefully creating and protecting with iron bars of will collided.  You might think that the merging of worlds would strengthen my sense of identity, purpose, and direction not weaken it, produce sometimes insurmountable walls of distraction.

Who I am in all of this?
                                   
                                   I AM LOVED.
In spite of me many times.


I am an endless source of potential.  Potential I rarely live up to.  I am a promise whispered in the evening air before a storm.  Sometimes I have the strangest sensation that I will dissolve into the ether like an expanding cloud of smoke.  Other times my mind lies frozen in a still, vapid lake of distraction as if time itself is
   holding
               its
                    breath.  

I keep a calendar.  It keeps me on course.  Prevents me from stagnation.  The demands of it disturb my mental lethargy and keep me moving forward.  At least I think it is forward.  Have you ever walked a road long and straight enough that you can see neither the beginning nor the end?

Actually it reminds me of middle school.  Back then the buses picked you up if you lived two miles or more from the school.  I lived two miles less 500 feet.  So I walked to and from school Monday through Friday down this two mile dirt road.  I COULD see the beginning and the end.  Fortunately, unfortunately, I can't say.  There was a stop sign at each.  So for however long twice a day, I watched a stop sign gradually get bigger.

I wonder what the best analogy for life is?

Is it a race to the end?
Is it to grow closer to enlightenment?
Is it a cosmic accident, a typographical error that we just will NOT let go?


It's probably an indie flick where nothing happens except two characters drinking coffee, smoking hand rolled cigarettes in a dingy kitchen of an aging farmhouse.
                        ...And...Scene...

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Well, fuck.

I was really hoping that was going to turn out differently.  In fact, I would have bet my life on it.  Then again, I have never been a good gambler.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Son of a Beach

I have been here twice already during this trip to Tx to sell the house.  But I am all weird and don't really know where else to go, what else to do.

When I come out here by myself, it gives me that feeling.  The one from the river banks and afternoons spent fossil hunting.  Looking for shells and shark teeth is pretty much the same thing except they're not as old and when I look up there is no dirt bank rising up a few dozen feet away.  Today when I look up, stretching my back stiff from the shore (soul) searching, the distant image of a shrimp boat stares back across the expanse of small, lustily and lazily rolling waves.

Its been hours.  I want to stop.  My legs and back want it even more.  But when I look across the brown beach, my gaze flitting from shell pile to shell pile, I wonder where it is.  How close am I to the one great find?  The object that I rose so early and drove so far to find.  I can't move.  I look back the way I came and forward to where I have yet to go.

Is it fear that drives me on?  Fear that I will turn back just steps away from the sandy grail?  Or is it hope?  Hope that my search is not in vain.  That some indescribable hand of fate or whatever has guided my course to this spot and this decision thereby giving me a momentary false sense of control over my actions.

Whether it be hope or fear, I do not know.  At this point, here on this beach, I'm not even sure there is a difference between the two beyond an Emily Post politeness of word choice.  Is this the force that moves us through our lives?  All of us, the lucky, the charmed, the forgotten, the unforgivable, thinking we all exist so separately and distinct, shrouded by clouds of fortune or pain.  Are we all riding silently on a united force of hope and fear, dutifully keeping our heads down never seeing the other passengers?

Is this feeling a source of inspiration or a universal shock to keep our muscles moving automatically forward.  Lurching like spiritual zombies.

Watching the waves, stretching my back; I wonder what happens next.