“He judged the instant and let go; he flung himself loose into the stars.” ~ Annie Dillard
“I am very frustrated by fear of imagination, I don’t think that’s healthy.” ~J. K. Rowling
“Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull.” ~ Rod Serling
“I wanted to scream. The panic built inside me like a volcano, pressing up through the layers of closed throat and clenched teeth. And then I thought, in a kind of delirium – if I scream, what’s the worst that can happen? Someone might hear? Let them hear.” ~ Ruth Ware
Wow, seems I’m all about Enya this morning. Or rather one song in particular: “Only Time”. I’m guessing this is about my mother; she used to lean on Enya in the months immediately following dad’s death. I get it. The music fits. Mine was different, but Celtic music did indeed soothe me. It is a soul thing. When I get some of the rich and soulful music I breathe easier and suddenly feel at home. But with dad, for me, it was Vince Guaraldi. Imagine that. Dad died a week past his 67th birthday. I got him a CD of Vince Guaraldi’s Greatest Hits, which of course was mostly music from the Peanuts gang on TV specials. But it also contains Vince’s “Cast Your Fate to the Wind”. That’s the one. That’s what I did when dad died. One thing about casting your fears and frustration to the wind is that there is no way of knowing the probability of their return, or when. That’s where I am this morning. Friggin stuff is starting to blow back on me. Yeh, it’s what the late, great Stephen Levine called “unattended sorrow”. Grieving will wait, forever, if you so choose, with consciousness, or not. If you are lucky it will grab you by the collar and shake some life into you before you die. So here I sit, and it comes, blowing back. Not a lot of sadness, really. Not today. I think I’ll step away from the blog for a few minutes, go outside for a smoke, and to see if it is snowing yet. I love it. The advent of a storm is usually a kickass mind-duster for me. Geez, them little cobweb spiders are industrious little critters, right?
It was the Frenchman. I’ve got a sense of inner peace this morning that is totally unexpected. It was the Frenchman, I know it was. Couldn’t have been sweet dreams because by the looks of my hair upon waking, there was no peace involved. Whatever. I’m just playing here. Yesterday the Frenchman asked me what I did on my day off. I told him I slept a good part of the day, with zero resistance to snoozing at a moment’s notice. And I sat still. He said we don’t sit still near enough. I concurred, adding that we are also way slack on silence. We smiled at each other. Brief and to the point. Silence and stillness, I feel them both in my heart upon this Full Moon. Though my illness has passed, healing of the damage done by the bug is underway. Luckily I have no compulsory or urgent things on my plate, and I don’t have 23 people to call on my smartphone should I come across a spare few minutes. In fact I may do the incommunicado thing and turn off the ringer on my low-IQ smartphone. Stupid friggin device. I pick up my phone and I’m like all “don’t get smart with me!”. Whatever. I’ve gotta get to it. Chances of snow are looking good. I’ll keep, throughout my workday, my head down and my eyes on the prize, which is simply working on some active, conscious healing, all the while remembering what the Frenchman said. And to that I add: que sera, sera.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.