A Life Less Blog


Predestination
September 12, 2010, 7:54 pm
Filed under: Life, Philosophy, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tags: ,

Every dawning of a new day is looked upon with surprise.

The sun rising and setting is just a marking of time.

Every breath that is consumed and expelled depreciates the body,

withers the husk, loosens the bonds that ground us to the earth.

The seasons changing show us how Nature carries on independently of our plans for it,

and doesn’t need any help from us to do what comes naturally.

Every step that is taken is another step closer, another jaunt, another skip, another

bend in the road, another obstacle to challenge us as the sands of time run through the hourglass of our lives.

One day we will look out of our window and the light will no longer blind us because there will be another figure to absorb our attention.

The figure will beckon and we will not be afraid, we will realize we have reached the next step in our lives…we will have ascended as high as we can on our current plane.

Every moment will melt away.

Time will have no meaning.

Food will not be needed.

Drink will seem a distant memory, as will everything else that seemed to be so important;

caused us so much stress.

We will exhale all of the anxiety, fear, loss, depression, negativity

and inhale calm, serenity, love, and grace.

We will shed all of the possessions we accumulated making us lighter and lighter,

causing us to lift off the ground, and push up against the ceiling like a hot air balloon pulling at

the weighted lines that hold it to the earth.

This is when our skin and our minds will expand to become so thin and so full of hidden knowledge that the

substances of our body will cease to be solid.

We will feel ourselves pass through the walls of our homes,

fly through the roof and rise up to the clouds.

Nothing will be holding us down, not worry, nor heavy change in our pockets,

we can just float up and up and

glide on the wind watching our energy dissipate into all directions

knowing that eventually all our parts will come back together

finding their way as if by instinct,

to the same destination.



Spotting
July 26, 2010, 6:23 am
Filed under: Emotions, Life, Uncategorized | Tags: , ,

i never knew

boy or girl

i only knew i loved you

i only knew i wanted you

i only knew the feelings you made me feel

the foods i wanted to eat so you

would grow big and strong

i made you eat your vegetables too early…

is that why you left?

i never knew that a bond with you could be so strong

boy or girl

son or daughter

my blood rushed in my veins

it scared me how fast my heat beat for you

did it scare you too?

is that why you left?

i tried to calm my breathing

and take it easy;

to fill my head with benign thoughts and

empty my brain of worry.

i was too much of a

mother

to you, before you were even born…

is that why you left?

did the walls of your safe haven

feel like they were closing in?

did you feel smothered or chastised?

did i love you too much?

did i not eat enough?

eat too much?

worry too much?

love too much?

cry too much?

did you look deep into my mind and

find you were not planned and

take this as a sign to start your

departure?

when i  noticed the blood,

i knew something was wrong

i knew you weren’t happy,

i knew you

boy

or

girl

son or

daughter

had

already

left.



Mag 24 – Waking Sleep
July 24, 2010, 12:43 pm
Filed under: Emotions, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tags: ,

your side of the bed was cold when i woke up today
i reached over for the reassurance of your hand and
grabbed only sheets

i didn’t want to open my eyes because then i
would have to see the lack of your breathing, bump of covers

i clapped my hands over my ears, because i didn’t want
to not hear the soothing rhythm of your breath
in and out, out and in, your leg jerking periodically
as you fought your own demons in your dreams.

i stayed still, forcing my legs to press together tightly
instead of allowing my curious foot to wander over to your side
and my disreputable leg to try to twine around your own leg, pulling
you toward me, your warm half-sleep filled arms wrapping around my waist
and your scratchy morning beard tickling my neck as you buried your face in my back.

i didn’t want to wake up today and face another day without you
so i stayed in bed, drew the curtains, and hoped to see you, and feel you again in my dreams.



Purity of Communication?
July 15, 2010, 9:26 am
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags:

In order to write down the thoughts in one’s head all of the thoughts must
be sifted through, strained, and boiled to the consistency of taffy. This
way they can be stretched out and examined and all of the excess dribble
that hangs on somewhere in the middle will be heavy enough to drip down and
break off, thus leaving the mind clear for exploration without all the
clutter. You will find that people very rarely know what it is they are
thinking about and are able to voice it or give it a structure. We have all
grown up with an idea of what is right and what is proper and voicing one’s
thoughts out loud goes right up there with not feeding your vegetables to
the dog under the table (at least not when anyone can see you); but what
about when they can? I think that even when they are able to see you, there
is still a need to hide what you are doing. Does this then mean that no one
is honest with anyone else…or just that no one really cares enough to
really check up on everyone? Is there such a thing as PURE communication? Is
there a way that we can say what we mean and mean what we say, or is the
thought of being so honest with ourselves and others completely terrifying
that we will mentally repress the need to express ourselves or fill our
lives with other things just so we don’t think about it? What are we afraid
of? Rejection, laughter, humiliation…all these reactions are possible, but
so are acceptance, understanding, the need for comfort and connection with
another. Is it possible to stretch a thought so much that the meaning of it
alludes us to the point where we have forgotten what the thought signifies,
or worse make a thought signify something it isn’t just so another person
finds it valid?! I want to be able to think without the voices of other
people encroaching on what is right and proper and yet I want others to
think that what I think is right and proper so I feel connected to them.
Thinking this way is very isolating. I feel alone in my observation of
others, cut off from experiencing life in a relaxed way while feeling the
need to analyze why I am not relaxed in my own experience. I want to relax.
I want to feel connected to the world and its inhabitants while still being
able to create and thrive off of the energy around me. Is there energy
enough around to sustain my own thoughts and give them meaning to me? Or
does the meaning elude me just as much as it seems to allude others? It is
important for me to have someone witness my life and understand my thoughts,
so that I do not feel that when I die I would not have contributed something
to the world, or given something of myself that others could look to and be
comforted by or something which they could learn from and use to make their
life easier. It is difficult to think that there is nothing at the end
besides darkness or the disintegration of the body into the energy around
us. I hope that the energy I dissipate into is not filled with “bad vibes”
or negative thoughts. I want my spirit and my essence to surround others and
inspire them to do something with their lives! To create, and live everyday
experiencing new and awe-inspiring wonders that surround them; even in
everyday objects. The world is pulsating with beauty, pulsating and bursting
with creative force! All one has to do is tap into it in order to feel
engulfed with positivity and drive. I feel this alternate plane of existence
running parallel with ours and sitting just below the surface of our
consciousness, I only wish that there was a way that I could make this
apparent to others, to enhance the experience of it for everyone. There is
too much beauty to take in at once, and too much energy to store up for a
time when I can process it and figure out what it means. I want someone to
share it with. I want someone to tell about it. I want to be able to
communicate with another person, if only to tell them what I feel around us
all the time and try to understand if they feel the same thing?



Blueprints
July 14, 2010, 12:47 pm
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There is a tenuous thread that connects us all to life.  When that thread is severed what do we become?  Does our spirit float away on a cloud, does an echo of the energy contained within us hang around our loved ones and whisper memories of what once was?  How much of us really lingers once our body has decomposed?  I keep thinking about why I write, which is then expanded into why does ANYONE write?  There are so many reasons to write, but one of the most important reasons I can think of is to have a record of the existence of our individual thought processes when we pass on.  What is more immortal than the written word?  We are still reading Shakespeare, Plato, Darwin…these were all the great thinkers and original ideamen of years gone by.  I write to create a framework, or a blueprint of my mind that hopefully will still be here years after I have left this earth.  I write so others can read and hopefully understand what I was thinking about and wondering about and learning about while I was striving for recognition in this huge sea of people called Earth.  It is so easy to slip through the cracks in this society, so easy to become a number or a statistic.  What is originality really?  It is not productive to try to be original, trying to be original completely negates the whole concept of originality.  Writing should not be a quest to be the most original it should just happen naturally, like breathing in and out, and opening our eyes.  I think it is becoming original to be observant.  The world goes by so fast, and the time to shine seems to shrink day by day.  Is there a window for everyone to be noticed…if I died tomorrow would anyone besides my family and friends know my name?

We uncover artifacts and tools from our ancestors in archaeological digs that helps us to piece together what life must have been like for the people of Pompeii and the commoners of ancient Egypt.  I don’t think these people were going about their day thinking I am going to make this bowl of pottery so future generations of civilization will know our society was not barbaric but intelligent and skilled craftsman…no, he made the  bowl of pottery to feed his family and he probably made thousands of bowls like it throughout his lifetime.  It is interesting to me that one man’s treasure is another man’s mundane livelihood.  What if scientists are wrong about the reason pottery bowls were even made at all, what if they were very popular hats worn by certain villagers to distinguish craftsmen from bakers and homebuilders?  There are no pictures of popular ancient Egyptian fashion to draw upon that are a testament to this, but who knows.  What if those gold collars Cleopatra wears in all the movies weren’t jewelry at all, but wall art or used to pull bread out of the oven?  We could have the entirely wrong idea about ancient Egyptian civilization!  It is very easy to have a skewed outlook on things based on preconceived notions and to assign  cultures already established roles based on our realm of experience.

Back to writing; I think it is important to be clear about what it is we want to communicate about ourselves to those who will be reading about us years after we are gone.  The books, music, artifacts, tools, and surviving accessories of our culture are going to be the blueprint that others will use to piece together who we really were as a culture.  We are all searching for a way to make our mark in stone.  If we write our names in the sand, they are too easily swept away with the tide.



Burned
July 13, 2010, 10:31 pm
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I couldn’t bear to have her cremated.  Just the thought of flames consuming her and the idea of her flesh turning into ashes was too much.  I want to be able to look into her face on the day of her funeral.  I want to be able to kiss her cold, cheek and wipe away the tears of mine that have fallen across her brow.  I don’t want to be one of those creepers who carry home an urn of ashes.  Ashes cannot be viewed by family and friends.  Ashes cannot be remembered.

I am already forgetting the exact lines of her face.  I can still call it to mind but it is getting fuzzy around the edges.  Hopefully, when I see her open casket tomorrow it will all come rushing back.  I wish they could have a camera that continuously runs and broadcasts what is going on in her casket.  This way when I go to her gravestone and can’t remember her face, I can gaze upon it as it ages naturally.  I mean, eventually she will turn to ashes and dust…but by that time I will be lying next to her and it won’t matter anymore.  It doesn’t seem fair, the husk of ourselves that is left behind for our loved ones to “dispose of.”  Almost like a last minute thing, or an afterthought, an “oh, by the way, would you mind cremating my body for me, thanks.”  I see now why the Egyptians mummified their corpses; this way they could look at them longer and spend time with their loved ones even after they had been dead for some time.  Have you ever noticed the beautiful sarcophagi of Egyptians?  I would rather visit something like that, than a drab, cold, stone any day.

I just wish there was some way to see her again whenever I wanted.  I mean, I hate to admit it, but she is actually easier to talk to this way.  I have told her things today I never would have shared with her when she was alive.  I mean, one, she can’t interrupt me, and two, she can’t criticize or make fun of what I am saying.  It is like she is silently agreeing with everything I say and do.  It is kinda liberating.  I mean, when she was alive, I couldn’t wear this one pair of sneakers because they were “old” and they reminded her of “a homeless man’s shoes,” but I could wear those sneakers to her funeral tomorrow and she wouldn’t be able to chastise me for it.

She always did criticize me when she was alive.  She never seemed particularly happy with anything I did.  Sure, I probably could have been more attentive and brought her more flowers…taken her out more.  We used to go more places.  We used to just get in the car and drive without a care as to where we were going.  We had so many adventures together.  Of course, lately she would never have gotten in a car without a destination in mind…”Gas is expensive,” she’d say; “Do you know where you are going? Or are we just going to drive around aimlessly.” Yeah, she wasn’t too into spontaneity anymore.  But now that she’s gone I could just get into the car and drive.  I could just leave her funeral tomorrow and head north and if I felt like it I could turn left or right or left again and it wouldn’t even matter.  I could drive all day, and who cares about the cost of gas.  That would be a good homage to her, I think.  If I just took off after the funeral and drove to all the spots around the country she wanted to visit.  There were so many places we wanted to go together, but we never had the time; she was working, or I was working, or we had to pay the cable bill instead.  Life just got in the way.  I think if I left tomorrow, it would be like she was sitting next to me, living again, living vicariously through me.  I can see her now, with the windows down and her hand pushing up against the wind outside as we glide down the coast.  I can see her smiling underneath some silly ostentatious sign advertising shrimp, or the world’s biggest thermometer.

Why did she want to be cremated anyway?  How unfair to deny her family and especially me, one last look before she is lowered into the ground.  What am I supposed to do with an urn, set it on the shelf by her favorite books?  Light a candle and say a prayer?  Dust it every Saturday and strap it into a seatbelt on Sundays for church?  I think if there is even the smallest piece of her left for me to hold onto it would be too painful.  It would be like she isn’t really dead but set up inside an urn staring at me through an invisible lens, daring me not to pick my socks up off the floor, reminding me to hang my wet towel back on the rack after a shower.  All those petty little annoyances I dealt with when she was alive amplified in my mind.  I wouldn’t be able to move on or to let her go.

I don’t want to take her home in a vase.  I don’t want to forget she is in there one day and start to fill her up with water and shove stems into her base.  I mean what is the alternative?  A plastic bag?  A mason jar?  How can one person’s entire being fit inside a mason jar?  What happens to her teeth?  If I get a see-through container will I see bits of her bones sticking out?  Will the cleaning lady think I emptied out the vacuum cleaner bag one day and just toss her out with the trash?  This is too ridiculous!  She is not a pile of ashes; she’s the love of my life!  I have to start remembering to refer to her in the past tense.  Do I love her enough to cremate her, if that was her wish?  Do I love her enough to burn her up? Would she be able to do the same thing for me, if that was my wish?  She is not an object, something to be put on a shelf and gather dust.  I can’t think of her as a decoration, I would rather remember her as my wife.