First and Third

IT IS EITHER A PLATEAU OR THE BEGINNING of an end. February brought with it this year a strange introspection (yes, beyond my normal, solipsistic overthinking), one of a higher intensity or order of magnitude than in years prior. I literally feel like some astral projection of myself, having taken a step back from my life, turning my domestic routines into a boring third-person shooter. It creates both a numbness and a calm, a balance and a borderline Surreal disconnect from work, cleaning, driving, what have you. 

I was reminded of a never-finished short story I started years ago about a man going through this very thing.

"And yet at the same time his patience seemed to be deepening. Someone had pointed the nozzle of his hostility for the banalities around us straight down or in. Moments what, at one time would have resulted in a display of emotional fireworks, now were sent straight into the ground or, God forbid, directly back into the host...It could be likened to the effect of drunkenness. Left floating int he eddies of the room, the world seemed to speed by oblivious to his needs or wants. For him the stings of failure, adversity, and even disgust had lost their barb, provoking a slower reaction and one always keening toward mere disappointment." (from "The Third Person" ca. 2009)

And so life becomes art. 

It feels also like change, a pupa stage. Maybe I'll use it to do things I normally wouldn't. Take chances normally eschewed because of routine. Who knows? Maybe I will.

The Music

Of Distance and Depth

Feeling my 49 years lately. It really does go by quickly. Writing a memoir requires you to cast your eye back behind. Climbing toward some unseen summit, they say don't look down. It is fascinating, sometimes sad, sometimes shattering.

I still remember the strange color of sunlight on adolescent grasses, the shape of that girl's face as she turned to smile on me. The pain of rejection and the shame of defeat without a fight. But, too, the feeling of lying in a woman's arms for the first time and feeling wave after wave lapping at my shore, returned in full.

You might call it time numb.




 I suppose that's what we think age can do for us. The hard times and the good test your heart and strengthen your spirit, toughening your leather with heat. Arrows don't seem to pierce the way they used to, at least that's what I've learned to say to myself. Love, however, seem to penetrate more easily than every before, so I wouldn't say numb. I love more deeply than ever before. Pain now has armies to oppose it. Maybe it is just perspective. That sounds better.

Lately, I feel like I have been floating above my life, looking down upon the black and red colonies as they scramble to finish life before nightfall. Floating higher still, organisms become electrical impulses of circuitous life, like thoughts jetting from one node to the next, synaptic train junctions of coming and going, myriad combinations propose and plan and permutations of spontaneous hope go awry. When I see things from this distant vantage, the earth grows this amazing exoskeleton of lightning and will and power. And, like some god, it must now deal with the consequence of its creation.

Good morning, friend.

Vein

Working on the memoir again. Trying to tell my story right again. Keep digging. Find a vein. Mine it. Bleed it.

Realization today:

When I think of my parents, there is a deep sense of sadness, of unresolved shame or guilt. I imagine a movie, in which I am the star, leaving my parents in some German fairy tale scenario, only to have me, in the last moments of their lives, attempt a hail Mary comeback to rectify all the wrong I feel I did them by leaving.

Sustenance

Loving the sunshine today. Let it fill us with a lust for life, a hunger for sustenance, a will to not only move forward, but to thrive.

The Words

http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/july-2015-michael-k-gause.html


The Music

Deadlift Blues

At some point you stop fearing, if only because the fear has gotten too great. Like some tribal rhythm which ceases, due to its length and constancy, ceases to distinguish itself from everything else. At some point you stand up and begin to walk. The blows, once avoided, are merely shrugged off as part of the movement.

I know people who are doing just that. From under crushing weights, they find the strength to deadlift dread and begin to move forward. They have the help of people who love them. Advocacy. Hell, maybe even something like victory. I know others who are doing the helping. In so doing, their strength and purity intensifies, and I am even prouder to have them in my life. They are the ones doing the hard work, yet the ripples of the situations in which they are involved issue out, and mix with other negativity muddying the waters of our daily lives. The current political situation. The almost constant news of violence that solves nothing. All of this becomes more crushing weight that we must carry. It is heavy and it is frightening.

At some point you stop fearing, if only because the fear has gotten too great.

Move forward, always forward. I'm doing it, and you are much stronger than I. Move forward because amidst all of this, there is love and support all around. I feel it, and I attempt to share it. Take the hits and advance. Echo all the negative that comes your way with humility and love. That's ours. That shit only gets snuffed if we let it. That's what I'm trying to do, and it feels right.

Go. Be awesome.

Getting Off the Bench

"Then will we dance? I cannot believe it is so far between knowing what must be done and doing it." ~ from River Notes by Barry Lopez

Reading on the train this morning, the line stopped me cold. It reached back years and rang a bell. The work itself, imposed and imposing, was the thing. Who am I to accomplish it? The eternal question, born of fearful messaging, reared on a healthy diet of ostracizing and bullying. The shying away from anything that might be witnessed. Winning was only considered in tiny realms supported by the few. Teachers, friends. I, the dust speck born to watch, reared to stand behind and monitor the rise and fall of things. Some find the strength to push through. I have had friends who disappeared. So strange to feel one's self created a sentinel only to observe, any visible accomplishment better left to the stronger ones, the ones who build the mountains.

But now I know that work and no work feel the same. Two sides of the coin in hand. Now it is the so-much-to-be-done that overwhelms, the knowledge that I can do it all. It is the focusing and moving forward amidst the confusion and white noise all around.

With this post comes a renewed attempt to post weekly.

Comments and suggestions from you, the ones who read, are appreciated.

Cheers

Happy Birthday, Pop

How old would you have been? I'm not even sure. 81? 82? Where were you? Your waning years were filled with invisible movement. You all but died in on me two years ago in that drab room. I drove down 14 hours straight to say stay, then when I saw you, to say goodbye. But you punked us, didn't you? I went back home and you got better. Lawns were mowed, meals half-eaten, cigarettes smoked end to end. But inside, only now, looking back, can I even begin to imagine the new struggle you had to take up. You smiled like never before, joked with all of us, you, weakened from climbing from your own grave.

There were many things I despised about you. I despised them in the way only a child who wants his father's approval can. I hated that you didn't understand me, and I felt less than for failing to understand you. Your ways seemed strong and right and solid, and they often fell at my feet, too heavy for me to lift. Your depression made you angry. I remember your deep voice at the breakfast table. I remember my mother's placating tones. Lying in that bed, I wracked my brain for what I must have done to make you so angry. I remember forgoing morning cartoons because I did not want to leave my room and face you. I had no desire to make myself a target. I already did that during the week at school. Later I would discover you had hit your thumb with a hammer; it had nothing to do with me. Your state of mind made silent mountains we all had to climb. Too often I saw you as a dark abyss where no one would want to be.

But I will always admire your spirit, Pop. When things were good, they were good. You shared things with me. I learned how to change the oil in our '73 Duster, the importance of spark plug gaps. Saying what you'll do and doing what you say. The best part of honor, you taught me. You provided, and we never went without. You didn't even get angry when Ken and I would lose our shit laughing every time you tried to read Twas the Night Before Christmas on Christmas Eve like we were the Waltons or something. You pushed us and often just the right amount. Looking back, I now can appreciate the patience you had for the world that got stranger around you as you aged into its future. That strangeness, beginning in whispers from the city, then entering your own town, and finally infiltrating our own home through newspapers and television. In the end, even moving out into the country, you knew there was no escaping it. The future was inexorable, as were you. One of you had to go.

Happy birthday, Pop. I miss you, but you are never far. I carry you forward into this future that vexed you so. It's not so bad. Wish I could have shown you some of it.

Here's something from my time I think you would've liked. Hope you're somewhere good, listening, tapping your foot and grinning ear to ear.