Thought for food – 3

Just for this moment be in the present; you have the rest of the day to tell yourself the story of your life.

OCD

Order born of fear.

Claiming the seconds that make up the minutes that make up a life.

Doubting, too, these thoughts.

Conversations with myself – #4

I’ve resisted writing. There is little new to say. Old terrain, worn terrain.

And I annoy myself. And how!

But it goes round. This thought.

And that.

Fueled by fear. Fear itself.

Fear of failure. Fear of embarrassment. Fear of weakness. Fear of being seen. Fear of second place, of ridicule, of pain. Fear of letting you down. Fear of expectations. Fear of correctness. Fear of rules. Fear and more fear. Fear in the day, as I fret over my place in this universe. Fear in the night, as my mind slowly consumes itself in waking nightmares.

EVERY SINGLE DAY, EVERY BLOODY NIGHT.

Oh nausea! Ennui! A restless rest and static floating!

Oh, would that I melt and become water, flowing downhill to rejoin the eternal ocean. Oh, would that my fear achieve its apparent aim, and utterly obliterate the connections that hold me together.

Obsession of obsessions: obsessed with my obsessions.

One day, I promise myself, I will release this fear and angst, baked and hardened kernel feeding my doubt. I will give it back, down through the ages.

No blame. No blame. As if the universe can be faulted for a thing!

I will return this gift bestowed upon me, the one that has consumed me, dictated my life, for thirty-five years and ten months to the day.

But right now, this instant, I am afraid.

Lyrics #10 – Visitor – Greg MacPherson

‘It’s not where you’re at my friend it’s who you are there that really matters
I’m going back to Nova Scotia just as soon as I serve my time’

Check song out here.

Visitor
The city sometimes is a backhanded invitation
It’s all just sitting there waiting for a man knows where it’s at
But if you want in there or anywhere you gotta be ready to pay for it
And there’s nothing that a poor man knows much better than that

I came up from the east coast following a woman that I’d met back home
She was the kind of girl could motivate a man beyond himself
A long year living in a run down basement suite with nothing
I tried looking for work and then I tried looking for someone else.

The way you’re looking at me…
You never know who you’ll turn out to be until you get there

I did a couple years working nights at a warehouse job I hated
I did a couple more serving drinks to people with more money than sense
I ran up quite a bill down at the bank that I probably should have paid
In a city like this it’s a wonder that I even paid my rent

I fell in with the wrong kind of crowd… who knows, maybe I’d been out looking
It’s hard living without when the good life’s laughing right in your face
It sits there with its long legs crossed saying you should
But you know you shouldn’t
If you stand there long enough you’ll do anything for a taste

The way you’re looking at me…
You never know who you’ll turn out to be until you get there
All along some part of me might have been wrong but I never noticed

This one night I made a call to a woman
Got dressed up and went out drinking
Things had gotten out of hand by then and I was in a little over my head
Someone offered me some money and in retrospect I guess I wasn’t thinking
In a city like this it’s a wonder that I didn’t just end up dead

You heard this story all before and my own version’s not much better
An hour in the spot light, an evening in a road, a minute in a line
It’s not where you’re at my friend it’s who you are there that really matters
I’m going back to Nova Scotia just as soon as I serve my time

The way you’re looking at me…
You never know who you’ll turn out to be until you get there
All along some part of me must have been wrong but I never noticed

Mission statement for 2019

Don’t mistake the crowd for the truth; failing to fit in does not mean you’re broken.

Your horizons might extend further than your neighbour’s, your colleague’s, your friend’s; trust in your own eyes, let others trust in theirs.

With deference to Hamlet, might I add: there is also nothing either right or wrong, but truth to one’s self makes it so.

The greatest gift

The greatest gift you can give another is a piece of your deepest self.

Not your time. Not your money; but something more precious still.

Is it understanding, or compassion, or attention that you offer? Is there a word bringing these together?

Love?

That piece you offer freely, that is the gift. You offer without reservation. You say ‘Do with it as you will’, though, of course, you hope and trust the other treads lightly.

And that’s the risk you take…

…and the pain you can inflict.

The wall

metaphor-existential-wall

Spent a lifetime talking to that metaphorical wall,

Beat my hands and head until they bled.

Through streaming tears pleaded desperately, 

‘WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME?’

Spent a lifetime talking to that metaphorical wall,

Until yesterday,

When I chose to listen.

Aphorisms – 2

Heed not too quickly the disapproving gaze, it may be the clearest proof yet you are on the correct way.

Quote #9

hope-national geographic

By showing up with hope to help others, I’m guaranteed that hope is present. Then my own hope increases. By creating hope for others, I end up awash in the stuff. – Anne Lamott

ILLUSTRATION BY ELEANOR DAVIS

Read her beautiful article in National Geographic’s October 2018 issue. 

The switch

The mind has made a switch,

From days inward searching spent,

To heed the call of assumed responsibilities,

And rejoin the careening wheels of society.

The mind has made a switch,

And slides sadly into this communal pit.

…rhyming Homer with Homer…

Insight my mind has not brought!

Endless loops with doubt fraught!

Infinite thoughts pitifully caught!

Stagnation has only wrought rot!

Catharsis

I’m not reaching out. I’m not playing the victim. I’m not drowning in self-pity (though my knees are definitely wet).

I’m reaching inward. I am fighting. I may be drowning in tears of frustration, sadness, hope, joy. I am suffering, but I am not only suffering. I am healing. Slowly, methodically, not always patiently, always hopefully.

I am reaching deep within. There is a drain that needs unclogging, a blockage that needs removing. It doesn’t flow. It doesn’t flow.

What doesn’t?

It. My breath, my optimism, my confidence, my self-esteem, my thoughts, my life. In short: my essence. It is laboured, shallow, unclear, overgrown.

It doesn’t flow.

I reach inward to purge myself of the undergrowth, the overgrowth, the malignant growth. I pull out all the doubt, the fear, the regret, the neglect, the loathing, the contempt, the anger and hate and jealousy. I excise the insecurity, the arrogance, the apathy, the dregs of my soul.

I pull it all out and assess it honestly; laid out before me, splayed and dissected and arranged in subjective orders only my mind can fully comprehend, I reward myself the final judgment.

GUILTY!

For crimes against my person – death.

Now GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!

And after the stinking fetid shit – the rotting carcasses of my demons – is carted away,  buried in pages and posts and amateur journals, covered in virtual soils of obscurity and indifference, I can finally breathe. In, out, in, out, free, with ease, the soothing airs of health and optimism.

4 am

I apologize in advance; I don’t want to bore you with these things. I know sooner than later I will be speaking alone to the abyss; my voice a fading echo traveling through stale air, reaching no ears.

Nobody will hear.

The pain, the fear. I want to run. Faster than the wind outside these walls. As fast as light. Maybe then I could assure escape from these heavy leaden thoughts weighing in the back of my head.

Have you ever felt invisible hands choking your neck, squeezing out infinite tears from below your eyes?

‘Look, it’s not so bad,’ they say. ‘At least you have your health.’ ‘Your youth.’ ‘Have not lost a child.’

Indeed.

But as surely as I cannot experience the world from your perspective, you can’t from mine. And yet I try, and ask for you to understand.

Here I am, at 4 am, waking, shaking, drenched in freezing sweat, hands fumbling, searching frantically for the light, terrified, desperately fumbling, frantically searching for the light.

Oh, that there were monsters under my bed, as when I was a child. Oh, that the rays of light could dispel these choking fears. Old habits die hard; my searching, fumbling hands. The light, like your words, is cold comfort.

The monsters are in my head.

To run. Faster than the wind outside these walls. As fast as light. Maybe then…

 

The fasting soul

There are words to capture how I feel,

I have lowered my caloric intake to zero

To discover what they are.

My mind and body are one,

Starving for nourishment,

Twisting into hungry knots.

What matters in this state?

This life is all I get,

And I fill it with emptiness;

Cardboard cutouts of complex carbohydrates,

And two-dimensional emotions.

In this hunger, there is clarity,

Moments and seconds filled with epiphany,

The animal, the rock, the clouded sky,

Atoms carrying wind whipping my shaven face,

Making it clean.

I have cried twenty kilos of thought and emotion and soaked the parched ground of my soul.

To bring me back into harmony with this universe,

To nurture and let grow the blissful blossoms of my heart,

Opening optimistic avenues awaiting exploration,

I carry lightness and vitality and strength and

Forgiveness.

Born into this world alone,

Alone I shall die.

I forgive.

I forgive you.

I forgive myself.