“Even with all our technology and the inventions that make modern life so much easier than it once was, it takes just one big natural disaster to wipe all that away and remind us that, here on Earth, we’re still at the mercy of nature.” ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson
“Relate to the fear, not just from it.” ~ Stephen Levine
I see fear, in my job at an animal shelter, five days a week. I know fear for seven. Since I know fear I tend to see animal fear more clearly than my own. Theirs is natural, but I am told by many New Age talking heads that mine is not, mine is an illusion. Okay, fine. Be that way. Be here, now. Those animals are not wrong, they know something that we don’t. Listen to them, I tell myself, because they listen to me, five days a week. The tremors of a Chihuahua or the belly-crawling of a traumatized German Shepard, visions of flesh made to cower. I respect any lingering dignity they display, penned up, waiting to go home. That is what we who care for them say instead of saying they got adopted: we say they are going home. There is a glaring semiotic difference between the the two phrases. Dogs and cats, when in captivity, are symbols of acceptance.
“Well, I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer
Well, I woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer
The future’s uncertain, and the end is always near” ~ Jim Morrison
A smooth cup of coffee sits before me this morning. Yesterday it was beer, just one can. I had what comedian Dana Carvey calls “a case of the fuck-its”. Now, here I sit slinging a metaphor as the egg-shaped moon looks down upon another beautiful day. My bad? No, not today. I’ve been fearful for days now, maybe seven, I don’t remember. In its tenacity fear has convinced me to let it “roll, baby, roll”. I’ve got things to do, right? Not really. These days have passed, through my haze-ridden head, all anesthetized and stuff. It’s like nobility, k? When nobility gets anesthetized all is not lost, rather suspended in the amber of self-despair. And that goes away, fast in some cases, but in mine is not so fast. It’s an investment that began with puberty and the annuities of the soul it pays are dull and restless, because grimness. Mine is not an isolated case. There are many of us, we seekers of hope, and we find it when our mercy goes home, like them doggies and kitties, our hours and years of belly-crawling determination bears fruit, finally, then we breathe, as if for the first time.
“Hear that lonesome violin play
See the notes float up into the overcast
And change to white birds as they sail on through
And soar away free into incandescent blue” ~ Bruce Cockburn
Okay, now, snap out of it. That’s what I like to hear, right? Not even. My sarcasm comes to bear, and rightly so, when I am afraid. I am often sarcastic, and round and round it goes. But not today. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do, real thinking, not that brain firing at random thing that usually charms me into joining it. With that kind of thinking you jump up and down and call it flying. I’m a gonna git me the real thing, use it wise like, and feel real good iffin I git that far, reckon?
What I need to think about, and really think about, is my upcoming neurological examinations, next Monday. It appears that I am afraid, even though there may be revealed a truth that can ease my worried mind. Anxious too. On the spectrum which spans the gap between clarity and mistiness, I’m usually down below, looking at the pretty colors. It’s all pretty from down there, and all at a distance as well. If you, at times, see me staring vacantly, you will find me there, or just wait for me to return. A little of that stuff goes a heck of a long way these days. With two suspected seizures under my metaphorical belt, and one brief though thorough stabbing burning pain deep in my head, which seemed to source from somewhere immediately up and to the right of my right eye – I umm, that sucker hurt! I had to lay my head down on the keyboard until it passed, which was only seconds, but it seemed like hours. Or maybe its all my imagination? Psychosomatic dreams, long after the “illusion” thingy became so popular. This body is not an illusion. Stop saying that, you guys, or at least take it out of my earshot. You’ll find no lack of willing ears. Until then, just stop it, k? I’m more of the persuasion that I have, somewhere, a crack in my hologram. How do you like that! And I need for the hologram to be real or that crack ain’t a gonna be worth a hoot. So if you hear me hoot, go away. I’ve no time for illusions right now. Yours or anybody else’s, and certainly not mine. Wink, wink.
I got so wrapped up in writing this post that I never made a second cup of coffee for myself. Imagine that. I can fix that by filling the hot pot, putting a filter in the Melita mini-cone, putting ground coffee into the filter, and gently pouring boiling water into the coffee grounds. There is a method to it. In fact I will do that right now, to address and hopefully ease the mistiness and headache that has blown in on the winds of – or was it chance? Was it chance? I’ll make the coffee while I try to figure out what the heck I was just talking about. Chance? I was like all what?
“The season rubs me wrong
The summer swells anon
So knock me down, tear me up,
But I would bear it all broken just to fill my cup” ~ the Decembrists
Somehow, as I lured the scalding water into the Starbuck’s continuum, the aroma reminded me of some other lure, took me back 27 years, and slipped me into a memory of sitting at the kitchen table, at #8 Plum Street, in Worcester, Massachusetts. This sitting would’ve been done at 3 AM, by the feel of it. Easing into the meat of the memory I can see the huge hydraulic machines lifting full semi-trailers onto the flatcars of a waiting train, long arms, rock-solid arms, yellow in color, all within the pale orange suffusion of sodium vapor lamps, calling out for, and then retaining, the rapt attention a sad sack dreamer oddly enough awake, dreaming of dreams, then failing. That time, on the top floor of an old triple-decker in the Italian district, I was only three years past my death. That is how I reckoned it was. My brain was foggy as shit. I could work my job as a shipping clerk in the warehouse of The Casual Male, and work it well, working my wages up from $7/hour to $15/hr over a period of six months. They loved my work, and as for me? It was the closest to real of anything I knew at the time, that and listening the the echoes of my boot steps matrixing through the cold night air as I walked across town to the Ben Franklin Bookstore at #21 Salem Street, across from the Worcester Library, walking on a Thursday night to purchase a fresh copy of the New York Times Sunday Review of Books, which was released on Thursday only to justify my walking in the night across town. I was so self-absorbed after the severe blow to my head, which happened three years earlier, that I probably believed that. The world was mine and it was fuzzy. Way fuzzy.
Writing that previous paragraph made me all misty-eyed and stuff. Y’know, that was not simply a memory. That man, on those streets, walking through the snow or along through a fresh summer breeze, that man still does that, I merely need to reach across time to shake his hand for being such a great companion in the quest to understand what happened when our collective heads were banged against Planet Earth, down in the islands, down south, at the edge of the Caribbean Basin, when my whole world changed, whereas the planet stood proper yet wild. Somehow Nature was at work in respect to that fall, that fall that brought Death into view before yanking it away unceremoniously.
Gosh dang, it’s nearly 10 AM and I’ve been sitting here and danged near wrote a whole book in one morning. Okay, okay, a very slim book; 1500 words, give or take. I’m just sayin’. All those words just to say that I am afraid about letting some tech rattle my electrons so they can get a good image of my brain, then to have a different tech wire up my head to listen and see if they can hear if anything’s really wrong in there. Something is wrong, then and now, across the 30 span that makes things feel wrong, and hopefully will soon make things right as well. Give or take.
“If there is a single definition of healing it is to enter with mercy and awareness those pains, mental and physical, from which we have withdrawn in judgment and dismay.” ~ Stephen Levine
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously too, k?