The Intentional Flashback


“Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.” ~ Oliver Sachs

“Seven o’clock
In the morning here it comes I taste the warning
And I’m so amazed I’m here today
Seeing things so clear this way
In the car and on my way to Stonehenge” ~ Graham Nash, “Cathedral”

“If you don’t know the blues there’s no point in picking up the guitar and playing rock and roll or any other form of popular music.” ~ Keith Richards

Have you ever heard a mockingbird singing in the night? They do it. It’s the darnedest thing. There was one singing sparsely, just up the hill from here, about an hour ago. Now, he’s gone quiet. There is the ticking of my Baby Ben alarm clock, and the rather too dense micro-shreek of ringing and hissing in my ears, head, whatever. Plenty of sound to be heard. In one way of seeing it is all music. Music is a force that is singing this whole shouting match into existence. Whispering, loving, giving — it doesn’t have to be shouting, but much too often it seems there is a pathological level of shouting in the world, which is to say that those who shout but have no healthy need to shout seek to drown out those who need to shout from the Primal depths, as expression goes, because of the conditions of their lives. Now that is healthy. Ya gotta get it out. That’s what the blues is all about.

I had the day off yesterday; work today; off tomorrow. Grabbed a short nap late in the afternoon, but last night’s dreams seemed to be charged with psychic activity. A mind moving in ways unaccustomed. It’s the moving that holds the key. Without movement dreams go stale, if they occur at all. Stuff gets locked in. Soooo . . . . last night’s sleep, flushed with movement, was not the most fulfilling sleep. I don’t remember if the dreams were from anxiety or creation, but either way it’s what I have to work with. Yesterday changed a lot for me, rearranged stuff. The mundane part was that I filled out some paperwork. The person helping me through the simple process also gave me a questionnaire to fill out. It was basically a PTSD diagnostic questionnaire. Turns out I have PTSD, but I knew that. Rather strongly so. This work yesterday was verification. So what was it? The PTSD: what does it matter? I was applying for a “green card”, which is to say a medical marijuana card. I’ll qualify. No worries there. The hard part was that besides the questionnaire there was also a spoken interview, in which I recounted the events that set PTSD in motion, and made it a pervasive component in my life. I told her, during the interview, that I am a scardy cat, that I’m always afraid — which is true. The whole process got me stirred up, because in revealing what happened back then I had to rip open a few layers of feelings to get to the details. In a small way I had to relive the experience, to create my own intentional flashback. But that small way has large implications. Those implications point to the fact that something horrific happened to me back then. The application for a card provided validation of the experience, and boy howdy was I ever deeply moved. Gratitude . . . . and, of course, fear. Give it about 2.5-3 weeks, she said. Certified mail, down to Santa Fe. Then wait. I feel no eagerness to speak of. It’s a relief sorta feeling. And one of awe. I think I’ll leave rationality out of it for now. Yesterday was an adventure; a painful one, which colored my subsequent afternoon with rich, vivid emotions. And I had to go through the local dispensary to get to the interview. Interesting place. Smells good in there. Geez, I think I’ll get an early start for now. A bit of grooming never hurts. It is a workday. Back to the daily world. Whatever that means.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s