The Night of Walpurgis...

Believe it or not, meditation isn't always relaxing.

Sometimes, there is no void.  Sometimes, there is instead a flood of creative energy.  Sometimes, meditation can be almost overwhelmingly stimulating.

And today was one of those times.

The rush of ideas was so intense that I could barely concentrate on my breathing, and frequently lost focus.  And count - I counted to 108 breaths, but I'm sure I actually breathed twice that many.  And the inspiration was as varied as it was relentless.  I had ideas for stories I want to write, people I want to contact and the reasons why and the things I want to say to them, projects I want to work on and how I want to go about them, reminders, notes, insights and realizations of every sort.  For a while, try as I might to ignore it and focus on counting my breaths, I was even aware of this very post writing itself out in my head.  But the biggest and most immediate idea that occurred to me during this creative blitzkrieg, and the subject of this entry, is how I'm going to handle the Walpurgisnacht.

So, I had my last drink this past Sunday, and I had my last toke the Sunday before that (that's a story for another post), though it's been many months since I've smoked on a regular basis.  The plan was/is to spend a full year completely sober for the first time in my adult life.  This is something I've known I needed to do for a long time.  I'm a particular kind of addict (I'm sure there's a word for it, but I don't know what it is) - I can be addicted to this for awhile and then put it down, and then be addicted to that for awhile and then put it down, and so on.  I don't really have a drug of choice, per se, though I do have preferences, and there's some drugs I absolutely can't stand.  But what I'm actually addicted to, is getting high, however that happens.  When I quit smoking cigarettes, I compensated by smoking more pot.  When I quit smoking pot, I compensated by drinking more.  And I always knew I was robbing Peter to pay Paul, but at the time Paul was the one threatening to break my kneecaps, so I just told myself I'd deal with Peter later.  But I'm getting older now, and feeling more mortal by the day, and it's time to finally deal with my addictive behavior at the root, rather than dealing with any given addiction to a particular substance one at a time.

But there are some other reasons to do it, as well.  Purely from a health perspective, it'd just be good to give my body a bit of a rest from all the punishment I've put it through the last twenty years or so, now that I'm getting older.  It's also partly an experiment - I just want to see what will happen if I stay completely sober for a year.  It's partly to give my brain chemistry a chance to return to some semblance of normal, and then to re-evaluate and see how I feel, and who I feel I am.  And in part it's also a test - I want to see if I can do this.

Ok, so what does all that have to do with Walpurgisnacht?  The night of April 30th*, aka Walpurgisnacht, or Hexennacht, or Witches' Night, or May Eve, is a very important holy day on the Heathen calendar.  It is the counterpart to Yule, the holiest season of the year, and marks the other pole of the ancient pagan year (the two holidays being approximately six months apart).  As during Yule, it is believed that the barriers between the material world and the spirit world are more permeable on the Night of Walpurgis.  The Eddas (ancient Heathen holy epic lore-poems that comprise much of our knowledge of their religion and culture) tell us that it was on Walpurgisnacht that Odin earned the knowledge and power of the Runes.  He stabbed himself through the chest with his spear, pinning himself upside-down to the World Tree, Yggdrasil, and hung there for nine nights.  On the ninth night, May Eve, he "died" as much as a god-creator can, his consciousness leaving his body and descending to the three wells at the root of the World Tree, wherein he found and took up the Runes.

I know that I hung on a windy tree

nine long nights,

wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,

sacrifice self to myself,

on that tree of which no man knows

from where its roots run.

No bread did they give me nor a drink from a horn,

downwards I peered;

I took up the runes, screaming I took them,

then I fell back from there.

                                      -Runatal ("Odin's Rune Song")
                                        The Havamal


It is also the night before May Day (hence "May Eve"), which is, of course, the generative fertility holiday of Spring that gives us Easter and Beltane and all of the other "sex and babies" holidays associated with this time of year in the West.  And so for all of these reasons, Walpurgisnacht is traditionally associated with magick and sorcery (magick, like sex, being another form of creation).

For almost ten years now, I have celebrated Walpurgisnacht in the same way:  enjoying a specific psychedelic sacrament, and performing all manner of sorcery and divination and psycho-spiritual exploration until the Sun comes up on May Day.  So that's put me in a bit of a dilemma regarding how to celebrate this year.  Because I don't want to break this spiritual tradition that I have kept for so long now, but I also don't want to fail at staying sober almost immediately after I've started.  And it's further complicated by the fact that, though I realize it is technically a drug, and would affect my neurochemistry in the exact way I'm trying not to do right now, I really do not view this particular experience to be at all related to what I'm currently attempting to avoid.  What I'm struggling with right now is regular, recreational drug-use, and this is neither of those things.  This is not a fun, pleasurable drug that makes me feel good so that I want to do it all the time.  This drug is an intense, exhausting, highly spiritual experience for me, and more often than not Walpurgisnacht is the one and only time I'll do it all year.  It is impossible to get addicted to it, and I have never craved it.  So, while treating it the same as booze and pot might not be comparing apples and oranges exactly, it certainly doesn't feel like comparing oranges to oranges, either.  More like oranges to tangerines, perhaps.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and it's been weighing on my mind heavily.  My gut, my sense of flow, my sense of my Tao was telling me to go through with it, but when it comes to my instincts telling me to use drugs, it's hard to tell whether it's really my Tao or my addiction masquerading as such.  And I've spent so long training myself to ignore that voice inside me telling me to get high, and I'm focused so much on doing that right now, that even though I felt so strongly in my heart and my gut that it was the right thing to do, in my mind it's seemed like a death-sentence.  But when I examine my feelings, I really do not want to drink or get high right now, which leads me to believe that my desire to do this must be about something more than that.  But then again, "Denial is how it kills you," and I've learned to never let myself accept even the possibility of living in denial.  And so lately I've been leaning towards a compromise, wherein I celebrate the holiday as normal, only minus the sacrament.  It seemed like the only way to do it, really, but it left me feeling very sad for the loss of this unbroken chain of tradition (almost ten years!) and I just could not shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong.

But now I know what to do.  In that lightening storm of ideas that assaulted me during my meditation, it hit me.  And, as so often seems to happen with those "Eureka!" moments, the solution seems so obvious now that I cannot believe I couldn't see it earlier.

I will stay sober from now until Walpurgisnacht, as planned.  And I will celebrate that night, as usual, as I have so many years before.  And then I will start counting my one year of sobriety from the next day, May Day, the day of birth and re-birth and life and renewal.  I'm not really losing anything by restarting my year-countdown on May Day (oh, woe is me, I had to stay sober one year and two weeks minus one day, instead of just one straight year - waah), and I'm gaining a lot more in return.  And the spiritual meaning of it all lines up so nicely:  my year of sobriety, a year of monasticism and self-sacrifice, will span from Walpurgis to Walpurgis, the holy day celebrating self-sacrifice for the acquisition of power and wisdom; and it will begin on May Day, the holy day celebrating life and love and creation.  And having this period of sobriety line up with my spiritual model so well will give me another powerful incentive to see it through, and will significantly increase my chances of success.

It's perfect.  And in my heart, I feel it's true.  I feel it in my gut.  And I feel it too, in my head.  It all lines up.  It all feels right.  It flows, finally.

To sacrifice Self to my Self, with no drink from a horn, until screaming, I fall back from there.

This is my Tao.

...

*corrected from 31st - duh - 4/23/12

Busy Good...

I spent most of my work day on an urgent task that has to be done by tomorrow.  And then I took a long lunch with a dear friend whom I love very much (hi, C!) and don't get to see near often enough.  And now I need to hurry up and get out of here because She and I are going to see this tonight.

So, no time to write a nice post, unfortunately.  But all for good reasons.

So for now I'll just post this here, because it is the thing that moved me the most today.  I hope it touches you, too.

It Wasn't Enough.

Dry: Day 3...

So far, the only noticeable side-effect of laying off the booze, is that for the last couple of days I've been insatiably hungry.  I can't seem to eat enough.  Even when I'm so full I can't eat anymore, I'm still hungry.  It's fairly annoying, to say the least.

I'm dealing with it, first and foremost, by trying to simply accept it and not let it get to me.  And when I do eat, I'm eating healthy and lo-cal, lo-carb, lo-fat, etc.; all the good lo-'s.  And that's really not that difficult, because those are actually the foods that I've been craving lately.  I'm eating salads and yogurt and fruit smoothies the way I used to eat barbeque and burgers and fries.  And I've noticed that I've suddenly become really grossed out by a lot of the food I used to crave.  Fried foods, especially, have been turning my stomach lately, when recently they were a staple of my diet.  The last few times I ate anything fried, I felt horribly sick for the next several hours.  I was trying to figure out why, and it occurred to me that the drugs and alcohol were actually what made it possible for me to enjoy fried foods.  They made the food taste better than it normally would, and they masked the feelings of nausea that would come after.  Quite an unexpected benefit that I am taking full advantage of now.

It also helps that I started working out again the very day before this condition began.  (In fact, it just occurs to me now that the increased expenditure of energy and subsequent increase in metabolic rate might have just as much to do with my new ravenous appetite as does the sudden lack of ethanol's carbohydrates and sugars.)  So, I might be eating a bit more, but I'm actually slowly, but surely, losing weight.  And the workouts are going well.  Other than that first day, I've had no scary sensations in my chest or anywhere else, and the last two days I've actually been able to do a full half-hour on the elliptical.  As always, it feels really, really good to be back.  My whole day always feels better when I start with a workout in the morning.  There's really nothing else like it.

It's almost like getting high.

Except, you know, it makes me stronger instead of weaker.  And I actually manage to get some shit done with my day.  But, yeah, other than that, it's almost like getting high.  Sort of.

Confessions #2...

"What did you take?," the doctor asked, sounding bored, not bothering to look up from her computer screen.  I was in her office for the first time, for a check-up following my overdose the week before.

"I snorted 75 milligrams of Oxycontin, and drank three-quarters of a fifth of bourbon."

"Well, why did you do that?," she asked, with a note of condescension in her tone, still not looking up.

That seemed like a pretty stupid question to me.  "Because I'm a drug addict," I replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  That seemed to get her attention; she finally looked up at me.

She stared at me, as if sizing me up.  As if she'd never heard anybody say that before.  I didn't understand what the big deal was.  Of course I was a drug addict.  Why else would I do that?  Why else would I be here?  What was I supposed to do, lie?  Tell her that it was an accident?  "Honestly, Doctor, I have no idea how all those powdered narcotics managed to get up my nose!"

She continued to stare at me for a long moment.  She was looking me straight in the eye.  It was very odd; I couldn't remember anyone ever looking at me in quite that way before.  I imagine she must've been measuring me up, testing me, trying to determine if I was being serious or just fucking with her.  I didn't flinch.  Eventually, she smiled softly.

"Well, how do you feel about that?," she asked.

"I'm not happy about it, if that's what you're asking."

"Do you want to continue to be a drug addict?"

"No, I don't.  I've been an addict for a long time, but this is the first time I nearly died because of it.  That was terrifying.  I don't want to go through anything like this ever again."

"I can help you, if you want."

"Please.  I need to stop."

Over the next few years, she helped me to stop abusing drugs and alcohol, got me to start exercising every day, and taught me how to not only eat healthy, but how to enjoy it, too.  I lost weight, and I felt strong and healthy and happy in a way that I couldn't remember feeling since I was a child.  Every time I'd go into her office for a check-up, she would stare at me in the same intense, probing way for a few moments, sizing me up, and then give me that soft smile.  She was the first doctor I've ever had that seemed to actually care about me, and want me to succeed at being well.

But nothing lasts forever.  After a few years, she left my HMO for private practice, and I was assigned to a new doctor.  Not wanting to start over with someone new, I found "better things" to do with my time than go for my check-ups.

Recently, after 5 years of sobriety, thinking I had everything under control, I relapsed.  Three days later, I was back in that same office, having overdosed again, for the second time in my life.

"What did you take?," the new doctor asked, sounding bored, not bothering to look up from her computer screen.

"About 600 milligrams of Tramadol, a six-pack of beer, and a dozen-or-so tequila shots, over the course of the day."

"Hmm... you should make an appointment with a counselor in Behavioral Health.  Your stats look fine.  I don't think you're in any danger.  Do you need the number for Behavioral Health?"

"Um, no, I have it."

"Ok, I'll see you in six months, then."

As I watched her walk out of the office, I couldn't help but think, She never even asked me why I did it.  I felt as if, were I to die tomorrow, she wouldn't care less.

This time, I thought, I'm on my own.

A Big, Fat Case of the Mondays...

Today was one of those mornings where everything seems to go wrong.

I got up at 5:30 to try to get back to the gym before work.  (Finally!  I need it!)  As I was getting ready, I was hit with a sudden attack of a severely upset stomach, and so by the time I managed to take care of that I was very late.  Still, I wasn't down about it.

On my new, beauteous back road commute, I almost immediately found myself about 15th in line behind a very, very slow-moving dump truck.  We're talking an average of 20 mph below the speed-limit here.  The guy in the Subaru Imprezza behind him was riding his tail viciously, but for some reason, he wouldn't pass the truck.  There were plenty of opportunities.  And I know an Imprezza can outrun me, so I know it can pass a freaking dump truck.  And the guy was obviously pissed off at going so slow, judging by his tailgating.  So why wouldn't he pass the truck??  And, of course, being 15th in line, several people up front were going to need to pass before I was going to have any chance of making it myself.  So, if they didn't pass, I couldn't pass.  The truck didn't turn off the road until about two miles from my work.  It was frustrating, but still, I didn't let it get to me.

Got to the office/gym late, but still with enough time to get in a workout.  Got down to the gym, grabbed a locker, suited up, put everything else in the locker, clicked the lock closed... and realized that I no longer remembered the combination.  I tried several combos that I thought might be it, but no dice.  Ok, no problem - I've got the combo recorded on my computer upstairs in my office.  ...But my office is locked, and the key is now locked in my gym locker.  Damn.  I spent the next fifteen minutes trying various combos I thought might be the one, but I couldn't find it.  So, ok, that's pretty damn frustrating, and I feel like an idiot now, but still, nothing to get upset about really; just a minor glitch.  Might as well get a workout in anyways.  I'm all suited up for it, and I've got nothing else to do right now.

I haven't worked out in several months.  In fact, I've gained back all of the weight I lost last Summer, plus a few pounds.  And I haven't exactly been what you'd call "active" in the meantime.  So, just fifteen minutes into my workout, I start to feel a tightening in my chest, and my left arm and shoulder start to hurt.  Doesn't take a cardiologist to figure out what that means.  So, ok, that's pretty scary, and a little daunting, but what's the sense in getting upset about it?  I just stopped what I was doing and went into my cool-down a little early.  No point in over-doing it.  Gotta crawl before you can walk.  Tomorrow, or someday soon, I'll be able to do twenty minutes, and then thirty, and that's how you get stronger.

So then my workout was over, and it was time to try and figure out what to do about my locker situation.  By this point in the morning, our secretary is supposed to be in, and she has a skeleton key.  So, I figured that I could just get her to let me into my office, get my combo, and then head back down to the gym to open up my locker and proceed with my post-workout clean-up.  So I exit the gym and head up the stairs towards my office... until I get to the first locked door.  My key card for opening our electronic security doors is on the same key ring as my office key, which previously mentioned is now locked in my gym locker.  And I can't get back into the gym, because that door is electronically locked, as well.  So, now I'm locked in a stairwell.  Ok, so, clearly, this is not my day.  But, it's early in the morning, someone is sure to be by soon.  I'll just have to wait here for a little bit, that's all.  I decided to take the opportunity to rest against a wall and have a morning meditation.

A note about my appearance:  I honestly don't care what I look like while I work out.  I don't bother to do my hair before my workout, because I'm just going to shower afterwards and have to do it again.  So, I had wet, sweaty bedhead.  And my workout clothes serve exactly one purpose:  to keep me as cool and comfortable as possible while I'm working out.  They are not meant to look attractive.  My running shirt is thin and sleeveless, and you can clearly see my man-tits outlined against the... whatever the hell fabric that shirt is made of.  And my shorts are, well, shorts; they do an excellent job of showing off my pasty-white, nearly hairless, and overly large legs.

Now, this is all fine, when I'm down in the gym and everyone else around me is also all sweaty and not-looking-their-best, but now I had to leave that specialized attire area, and venture out into the rest of the office.  I felt a bit conspicuous, to say the least.  After a few minutes, someone came along and let me in, and in short order I managed to get the skeleton key from our secretary, unlock my office, and retrieve the combo from my computer.  (My earlier guesses hadn't even been close, by the way.)  But now I had to get that knowledge back through all the electronically-locked security doors, and into the gym locker room.

I made my way down the back stairway and out into the parking garage, and around to the front door of the gym.  I took this route specifically to avoid the more direct route, which would lead me straight through the crowded cafeteria where so many of my co-workers would be having breakfast right about now.  But unbeknownst to me (because I always enter the gym through the back way), the main entrance into the gym lobby is also sealed with an electronic lock.  And unlike the stairwell I was trapped in earlier, I can't expect someone to be coming by this way very soon.  Almost everyone uses the back entrance, because it's attached to the office, the parking deck and the cafeteria; the front entrance is attached to the visitor parking lot.  So, I'm going to need a new way in.

At this point, standing in my gym clothes on the front lawn, facing yet another locked door, the absurdity of the situation is beginning to sink in.  I decide to see if the receptionist in the office building's main lobby (the one and only area of the our building that one can enter without a key card) would be able to let me into the gym.  When she tells me she can't do that, I actually start to laugh.  And not in a if-you-don't-laugh-you'll-cry kind of way, either.  I was genuinely amused.  I mean, how is this not funny at this point?

What the receptionist can do, she tells me, is to let me into the building so that I can go up through the cafeteria and down into the gym lobby that I was locked out of; then I should be able to knock on the door of the gym's workout area and get someone's attention to let me back in.  She lets me into the building and I bypass the elevators and head up the stairwell, just like I normally do, thinking about the fact that I will now have to go through the cafeteria in my sweaty workout clothes, just as I'd been trying to avoid.  Unfortunately, because I was thinking about that little unpleasantness, I failed to realize that I would, of course, need a key card in order to exit the stairwell and therefore enter the cafeteria.  I did realize this as soon as I walked the three flights of stairs to the locked door, however.

So, I had to find my way out of the stairwell and into the parking garage, again, walk down the parking garage and out to the front of the building, again, and get the receptionist to let me into the lobby, again.  I was actually enjoying myself by this point!  As soon as I walked into the main lobby, the receptionist reminded me that I would need to take the elevators in order to reach the cafeteria without a key card, and I thanked her for delivering that information that would have been so useful five minutes earlier.  But, after passing through the cafeteria, and enduring some disgusted stares, I finally made it back into the gym, and managed to open my locker.  I almost danced the Dance of Joy on the spot.

But after my shower, as I was getting dressed, I realized something important.  After that whole ridiculous comedy of errors that was my Monday morning, I felt great.  I was happy.  I wasn't frustrated or upset or irritated or anxious or any of the things I would've predicted I'd have felt after going through all of this.  Throughout the entire ordeal, I naturally responded in a completely different way than I normally would have, without trying to.  I had Brightsided my way through a rather hellish Monday morning and into a fabulous mood, without having to think about it once.

And here I thought this day couldn't get any better.

April in the Park...

Today is the warmest day of the year so far.

High was a lovely 83 degrees.  We spent our afternoon in the park.  They had a ribbon-cutting ceremony for some cherry trees they planted, to complement the ones given to us as a gift by the people of Japan in the early 1900's.  Afterwards, we watched a taiko drum performance by an amazingly talented group of middle-schoolers from Fukushima.  She took a short video with her camera phone.  Maybe I'll post it at some point.  Oh, and in a just a little while here, I'm going to have my last beer in who knows how long.  It's really been a wonderful day.

What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Living Contentedly.

And I think that's all I have to say about that for now.

Please enjoy yourselves this week.

Confessions #1...

A couple of hours after writing this post, I was reading an issue of The Sun, a non-profit literary magazine I subscribe to.  In every issue, they have a section called Readers Write, where they publish true stories sent in by readers, and related to a different topic each month.  At the bottom of the first page of the Readers Write section, I saw the list of upcoming topics and submission deadlines, and I thought, Well here's a ready-made list of ideas for whenever I have a day like today where I can't think of anything to write about.  How perfect!

So, I think I'm going to start trying to do that for a while.  As always, we'll see how it goes.  The first topic on the list is "Confessions," and the submission deadline is May 1st.  I've got a few ideas, and we'll see how many I post in the next couple of weeks.  For now, here's my first submission:

...

"I'm Suzanne, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Suzanne!"

My mother and I had always been very close.  I was her first-born, and my father worked three jobs to support our family, so my mother practically raised me herself.  She was my best friend, and we shared everything with each other.  So when she finally had to give up drinking and drugs, after her gall bladder had failed and had to be removed, it seemed completely natural when she invited me to attend some of her AA meetings with her.  I was ten years-old.

I think she wanted to share this new world of hers with me.  And I imagine that she wanted to show me that she was different now, that she was getting better.  I was curious, too, and I enjoyed being included in her new grown-up world of church basements and coffee urns and chain smokers.  And I have to admit, there was a definite voyeuristic thrill in spending an hour listening to strangers' sordid tales of addiction and despair.

Every story began the same way.  The person would stand up and state their name, followed by, "...and I'm an alcoholic."  Then the entire group would respond by saying, "Hi," always using the person's name back at them.  "Hi, Suzanne!"  And then they would tell whatever story was on their mind to tell that day.  There was no judgement, no disapproval.  Everyone understood what everyone else had been through, because they'd all been through the same thing at some point.  They were there to take care of each other.  "Keep coming back," they'd say.

We weren't Catholic, but I'd seen the ritual of confession enough times in movies to understand that these meetings served a similar purpose.  Everyone there all seemed to feel very guilty about who they'd been and the things they'd done.  And so they were confessing their sins.  Not to a God, but to their peers; people who had suffered in the same way, who understood their pain intimately, and who could provide immediate feedback in the form of reassurance and support and compassion.  And forgiveness.

As I got older, I stopped going to the meetings with my mother.  And she stopped going, as well.  Over the next ten years, she would fall back into drinking and getting high again and again.  And in her brief periods of sobriety between relapses, she would go back to the meetings for a while, until the next time she fell back off the wagon.

On December 31, 1999, she went to her last meeting.  She left that particular basement room that day, checked herself into a local Holiday Inn, and took her life with a bottle of sleeping pills purchased at a nearby grocery store.

Now it's my turn to stand up at the front of one of those rooms and state my name.  But I can't bring myself to do it.  Because I can't find any comfort or solace in that ritual of confession.  Hearing those familiar calls and responses, all I can think of, is the life I've lost.

Life on Mars?!...

"Scientists have discovered life on Mars."

Dozing on the couch early this morning, between snooze alarms, I hear that sentence come from the newscast on my television, and I am instantly awake.  My eyes pop open and I sit bolt-upright, throwing the blanket off my chest.

"Scientists are now saying they believe a lander sent over 30 years ago actually did discover life on Mars.  Now, this isn't the little-green-men kind of life, but they say they have found evidence of biological activity on the Red Planet.  In other news..."

"That's IT?!"

I'm all at once astounded, amazed, and outraged. We found life on another fucking planet - and not just any other planet, but one of the closest planets to us - and it gets a less-than-10-second blurb between the Weather and the latest update on the Gingrich "campaign"?  What the fuck is wrong with that picture?!

Finding life on Mars is a HUUUGE deal!  Astronomically huge, you could say, pun completely intended.  Because, first of all, finding any life anywhere else would change everything we now know about our place in the universe.  It would change the entire outlook of every single religion practiced by humanity!  For the first time in the entire history of life on Earth, we would know that we are not alone!  So, yeah, kind of a big deal.

But then to find life on Mars, specifically, would increase the importance of that discovery by an order of magnitude.  Because it could mean one of two things:  either, A) life actually began on Mars, and later traveled to Earth, essentially changing our entire concept of the origin of our species (for instance, a large asteroid slams into Mars, blowing chunks of it out into space, which later hit Earth as meteorites [we've already found Martian-meteorites in Antarctica]; and some of the bacteria or other organisms on some of those Martian-meteorites could've survived the trip, essentially becoming "seeds" that later flowered in our environment); or B) if life actually formed on two-out-of-eight planets in our incredibly-ordinary-solar-system - if we found evidence of a second genesis right next-door to us - then life must be incredibly common in the universe.

So hopefully you can understand why I'm a little upset that they didn't think this story warranted more than just a headline.

I have to know more.  So I grab my laptop and start searching the news feeds.  Doesn't take long to find an article that goes into a lot more depth.  And I'm disappointed (though, I hate to say, not surprised) to discover that once again, the media has simultaneously dumbed-down and overblown another science story.

No one has discovered any life on Mars.  The actual story, beyond the sensational headline, turns out to be that a team of mathematicians took another look at the hard-copy data of the soil samples taken by the two Viking landers back in 1976.  They analyzed these numbers to determine their level of complexity, using a new theory that biological systems are much more complex than non-biological ones.  And, using this new theory, they found data that was so complex, that they believe the only explanation is that it shows evidence of biological life-forms.

So, at most, what they've actually discovered is evidence of the possibility of some sort of biology on Mars, at some point.  Hardly the same thing as finding "life on Mars."  But then on top of that, this mathematical-complexity-theory of biological systems that they've based all of their findings on, hasn't even been proven to work on Earth!  So all of their findings are based on a method that they haven't even proven yet!

How in the fuck do you get from "mathematicians have used an unproven theory on 36 year-old data to suggest the possibility that life may have existed on Mars at some point" to "Scientists have discovered life on Mars?!"

Unfortunately, this is something I see time and again from the mainstream news media.  They did it with the whole "Large Hadron Collider May Create Black Hole and Destroy Earth" story (no, it won't).  And they did it again recently with the "Scientists Have Discovered Particles Traveling Faster Than Light" story (no, they didn't).  They never report actual scientific findings.  Instead, at the barest hint of only the most sensational stories (black holes gobbling up the planet, speed-of-light barrier broken, life on Mars, etc.) they jump all over it, remove anything resembling context, evidence, or truth, and splash the tabloid-esque headline across the front page or the evening newscast:  "Bat Boy Found on Mars Travelling Faster Than Light!  'Trying to Destroy Earth,' Say 'Scientists'!"

Ugh.

It's mornings like this that I weep for my species.

< /nerdrant >

The Itch...

I haven't found any inspiration today.

I got a lot accomplished, ticked a lot of items off of my to-do list, laughed and cried at various Moth stories that I listened to all day long, and in just about every way had a wonderful day.  But the whole time, there was this nagging voice in the back of my brain reminding me, "You have to come up with something to write about."  And, I just never did.

It was very frustrating.  But, at the same time, I know that creativity and insight can't be forced.  We can encourage them, but not make them happen.

When I got home, still with no ideas, and the pressure to post mounting, I decided to meditate.  Truthfully, I would've done that anyways, because I had both the time and the desire just then, but I couldn't help but hope that possibly, as an added bonus, the meditation might help spur something creative in me.  Not necessarily give me an idea for something to write about, but maybe make me more receptive to ideas, so that one would be more likely to arise spontaneously.  Or, at the very least, I could write about my meditation; might be kinda boring, but at least it's something to post.

But my attempt to meditate was a complete failure.  I was plagued by physical problems the entire time.  My back started hurting almost immediately, I couldn't find a comfortable position for my legs, and to top it off, there was something irritating my eye that I just could not seem to fix.  I couldn't concentrate at all, and on my fifth attempt of not getting past twenty breaths, I just gave up.  (This is a pattern.  I always have a session like this one - failure due to physical issues - within my first handful of sessions after I start meditating again.)

I could've forced myself to continue if I'd wanted, but there's really no point.  Meditating isn't like exercising, it's not about working through the pain.  It's about relaxing and letting go.  And so if there's some issue that's preventing you from doing that, then it's best to simply stop, and try again later.  I remember my teacher telling me, "If you have an itch while meditating, scratch it.  Do not try to simply ignore it.  That will only make the itch grow and grow until you are entirely focused on it, and are unable to concentrate on anything else.  And then you are not meditating.  It is much better to stop for a moment and scratch the itch.  Then it will go away, and you can return to meditation."

What I realize as I observe all of this, is the Tao of Scratching the Itch.

Sometimes, I'm not going to be able to meditate successfully for one reason or another.  And this is inherent in the practice of meditating - I will not always succeed, anymore than I will always fail, and that is just the Way of Things.  And so when that happens, the best thing to do is not waste any more time or energy than is absolutely necessary trying to do something that isn't working.  As soon as I realize that it isn't working, it is best for me to simply stop, and try again some other time.

Similarly, sometimes I'm not going to be inspired to write anything.  And this is inherent in the practice of writing.  Sometimes I will have something I feel a need to write about, and sometimes I will not, and that is just the Way of Things.  And so when I have nothing to write about, it is best not to waste any more time or energy worrying about it than is absolutely necessary.  Pressuring myself to come up with something meaningful or worthwhile or inspiring to write every day, when I'm not having any meaningful or worthwhile or inspiring ideas, is like trying to resist scratching an itch - soon the pressure to write becomes all I can feel, and being inspired then becomes impossible.  So it is best to simply let it go, and walk away, and try again later.

Go with the Flow.  Take what you get.  Remain open and receptive.  Do not want.  Do not force.  Do not expect.  Let it come as it will, and it will come.

That is The Way.

...

Addendum:  when I read that, it sounds like I'm saying I don't feel the need to post here every day.  That's not what I'm trying to say, but I didn't want to rewrite the above to try and make that clear.  I like the way what I wrote above stands, and so I want to leave it at that.  But please understand that I still intend to try to post something every day.  All I'm trying to change is the way I respond to the pressure inherent in that situation, and to my feeling that anything I post here needs to be somehow insightful or meaningful to a certain degree in order to be worth posting.  Sometimes, my posts might need to be mundane, and I should learn to accept that and be ok with that, because it is an absolutely necessary part of the process.

I do apologize in advance, however, to all three of my readers, for any future posts that might be less than thrilling.

Access...

I really enjoyed writing code today.

I get to do a lot of different kinds of programming for my job.  That's one of the things I like about it, actually - the variety keeps me interested.  But there are definitely some jobs that I like better than others, and today was one of those lucky days where I get to just pour myself into one of those jobs I really enjoy.

I have a love/hate relationship with Microsoft Access.  I hate it, because it is buggy as all fuck.  But I also love it, because I know it.  I'm intimately familiar with all of its quirks and eccentricities (READ: bugs), and I know how to program an Access database/application system better than I can do just about any other kind of coding.  There's also just something satisfying about it.  I build the database from the ground up, one-step-at-a-time, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, and by the end I have an application that works, that does what the client wants and that anyone can use, and it's streamlined, and it even looks good.  It's a creative process.  I get the same sense of satisfaction and accomplishment from building a really good database application as I do from writing something that I enjoy and think I did a good job on.   More, actually.  Because coding a good app takes more time and effort for me than it does to write something.  And also, I'm better at it.

So today I got to work on one of my old database apps, adding in some new features that the client was asking for.  The features they were asking for were not things I'd ever done before, so I got to learn something new, which is always a plus, and happens less and less with Access lately.  And, of course, Access threw me a series of its usual curveballs, giving me several WTF-is-going-on??-problems to try and work out.  Which is another one of the things I enjoy about Access, actually.  I never know what to expect (except the unexpected), and anytime I work on an app, I get to spend a significant amount of time just sitting, pondering some completely impossible error, trying to solve this unsolvable puzzle.  And when I finally figure it out, when I have that Eureka!-moment - ooh, baby! - that's what I live for.  Those moments are why I can still enjoy my job.

I realize this was a ridiculously nerdy post, but it's what I was inspired by today.  It can't all be deep-spiritual-exploration all the time.

Sometimes, it's just gotta be about, "Today, I really enjoyed my job."

Rocks From Outer Space...

I've purchased two meteorite fragments in the past week.

I've never bought a meteorite before, and until recently, hadn't given them much thought.  But as my interest in astronomy and astrophysics has grown, so has my fascination with meteorites.  The idea of being able to touch, to hold in my hand, a piece of material that was formed in outer space, has thrilled me in a way that I find hard to describe.

Somewhere in the Milky Way, billions of years ago, a gigantic star a million times larger than our Sun ran out of fuel.  It had burned through all of its helium and hydrogen, producing heavier elements in the fusion process:  nitrogen and oxygen, then silicon and carbon.  Then it had burned through all of those elements, as well, producing yet heavier elements such as neon and magnesium.  This process continued for billions of years, creating heavier and heavier elements, until finally, the nuclear core of that giant star produced an element that it could no longer fuse for fuel:  iron.  And this infinitesimal speck of iron upset the delicate balance between gravity and atomic explosion that had been that star, causing it to explode in the most violent and catastrophic event in the known universe:  a supernova.

That explosion sent elemental material careening out through space, all throughout that local area of the galaxy, where it eventually cooled, and mixed with other material from other exploded stars, to form enormous clouds of dust and debris.  Pieces of this debris clumped together, attracted by their gravitational pull in the vacuum - the bigger the clumps got, the more mass they had, so the stronger their gravity, so the more debris they pulled into them, so the bigger they got.  Every planet was produced in this way, including our own.  But this particular clump of debris - iron and nickel and stone by this point, among other things - never became a planet.  It was simply a large asteroid.

Approximately 700,000 years ago, that asteroid came just a hair too close to Earth, and fell down our planet's gravity well, becoming a meteoroid as it hit our atmosphere, and exploding into fragments as the force of our gravity and the heat of re-entry combined to tear it apart.  The fragments slammed into the planet north of the Arctic Circle, near what is now Norbbotten, Sweden, making it a meteorite.  Over the next 700 millenia, those fragments were pushed and pulled this way and that again and again by glaciers, and tectonic shifts, and an Ice Age or two.  Then, in 1906, two children tending cattle in a field discovered the first fragment of this gigantic rock from outer space.

And in a few days, I will be able to hold a slice of it in my hand.

Isn't it beautiful?

It's now known as the Muonionalusta meteorite, and it's the oldest meteorite ever discovered.  The pattern of lines visible on the slice in the image above is known as a Widmanstätten Pattern.  It's produced by bathing the slice of meteorite in nitric acid, to oxidize the metals it is composed of.  The nickel and iron oxidize at different rates, creating the pattern, which outlines the nickel-iron crystals that formed as the asteroid grew in that dust cloud so long ago.

I don't know what exactly it is that fascinates me so much about this.  It's almost as if this tiny piece of metal and stone is a tangible piece of the forces of creation.  That vast majority of Nature, of Tao, that dominates the rest of the universe outside of our microscopic little blue bubble of air and water.  And I want to know that Nature, to understand it, to be able to visualize it, to feel it.  And this solid evidence, this proof of that Nature, somehow takes it out of the realm of abstract contemplations, and makes it real for me.  It's like faith becoming fact.  It seems almost impossible somehow, and yet there it is, undeniably real.  Iron crystals, from a long dead star, touching my skin.

Like a kiss from Creation.

It's Not A River, It's A Bullet...

"Denial is how it kills you," he said.

They were sitting on the beach, watching the waves, the Sun setting behind them, feeling the cool, salty air on their faces, and discussing their respective abuses.  They were three days into their week-long vacation, the first the three brothers had taken together since the youngest was still a baby, and the first they had ever taken together as adults.  The youngest had just recently graduated college, and this trip was a sort of present for him from the older two.  At that moment, he was back up at the cottage, enjoying his girlfriend, while the older two were on the beach, the eldest trying his best to educate the middle brother with whatever bullshit-wisdom he'd managed to glean by that point in his life.  He felt it was his duty, in some way, as the oldest.  Especially now that their parents were gone.

"Yeah, it's the denial that gets you.  That's the one thing they got right in those meetings.  You can have a relatively easy time of things, and keep using for a long, long time, so long as you don't start lying to yourself about it.  But the second you start thinking, 'I don't have a problem,' then the drug's got you, and you're done for."

The waves crashed on the beach in a constant rhythm, like the slow, steady heartbeat of the world.  A young family flew a kite together some yards away down the beach from where the two brothers sat, and a man fished the surf down in the other direction.  The middle brother sat silent, listening, not knowing what to say; not sure if he should.

"It starts off, you're just having a good time.  Being young and reckless and free, and feeling as good as you possibly can.  Nothin' wrong with that.  But, it's inevitable - at some point, it's going to change you.  That 'want' is going to slowly turn into 'need.'  And it's so hard to tell when that's happening.  And if you're not looking for it, you'll never see it.  So that's the thing - you have to always be looking for it.  Always.  You have to be constantly asking yourself, 'Am I addicted to this?  Am I starting to need it?'  And the first time you're not 100% certain that the answer is 'No,' then the answer is 'Yes.'"

The waves crashed, and the breeze kissed their faces.  The little girl screamed happily as she flew her kite, and a gull cried somewhere over the water.  The middle brother stared out across the ocean at the blurry blue line of the horizon, feeling sheepish and guilty, and more than a little stupid, as he so often did when he talked with his older brother.  He realized he'd never even thought of these things, let alone asked himself these questions.  Am I an addict?, he asked himself.  And he realized, he didn't know the answer.

"So, that's the key:  near-constant self-reflection, combined with brutal honesty.  It's the only way to do this shit, and be able to enjoy it, and not end up fuckin' dyin' from it.  'The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.'  You have to be able to look at yourself and say 'I'm an addict.  I'm a drunk.  I'm a fuckin' junkie.'  You have to be able to recognize that, and to accept it about yourself.  That doesn't excuse it, of course.  Doesn't make it ok just because you can admit it.  But, if you can't say that to yourself, then you'll never even have a chance to make it right, because you'll never even know that anything was wrong."

The sky was slowly progressing from yellow to orange, and the breeze was starting to pick up.  It was going to be a beautiful night.  The middle brother didn't think he could ask himself those questions.  And he was sure he couldn't answer them correctly.  His whole life, his brothers had always seemed to do everything better than he did. And he looked up to them both, and loved them both so much.  He felt surrounded by their greatness; almost comforted by it, in a way.  But that only made his feeling of mediocrity that much more acute by comparison.  He's talking about this like it's the easiest thing in the fucking world to do.  But I can't stand to think about myself at all, so how the fuck am I supposed to be able to do it constantly?  Hell, that's one of the reasons I like getting high so much in the first place, so I don't have to think about this shit.

"That is the only thing that keeps this urge in check.  Without it, you've got no reason to resist at all.  Remember, getting high is a constant downward slide, and at the bottom is degradation, at best; death, at worst.  You wanna stay up near the top of that slide, where it's all still fun and games.  Where it isn't consuming you, taking over your whole life.  And that honest self-reflection, that willingness to admit to yourself, and the world, that you have a problem, is the one and only tool you have to keep yourself from sailing off down that slide and into nothing."

A constant downward slide, huh?  Well, thanks for telling me that now, big brother.  He watched as the fisherman down the beach wrestled to bring in a sandshark, and remembered the first time he'd gotten high.  He'd been fifteen at the time, and it had been a Summer night, a lot like this one.  Big brother had said, "Yeah, I guess you're about old enough now," as though he were answering a question that no one had asked.  Then he'd said, "Follow me," and they'd walked out into the woods behind their family's house.  They'd sat down against the base of a big tree, and passed a joint, watching the fireflies come on.  To this day, it was one of the greatest nights of his life.  He couldn't help but feel that this warning was coming a bit too late.

"Drugs are a tool; they serve a purpose.  They're not inherently good or bad.  It's all in how you use them.  But they're a dangerous tool.  Like a gun.  And like a gun, you have to treat them carefully, and with respect, or they'll kill you.  If you don't ask yourself these questions, constantly - or if you can't answer them honestly - then you're done for.  You won't have any reason to slow down at all, and you'll use more and more, needing more and more to get less and less out of it, as it eats away at your body; your mind.  Your soul, even.  You'll lose your Self.  And then what've you got?  Because that's all you ever had, right?  I'm speakin' from experience here.  It's so easy to think you've got everything under control, and it's everyone else who has the problem, not you.  But that's the Need talkin'.  And you can't listen to it.  You just gotta keep asking yourself those questions, never stop wondering if this is the day it's finally happened to you - because it will, eventually, some day."

He'd heard this gun metaphor before.  It was one of big brother's favorites.  He honestly didn't know if he had a problem or not, but how could he say that out loud, to this man he'd looked up to his entire life?  This person whose approval he had sought for as long as he could remember, almost even more than he had their parents'?  He watched the little girl flying her kite, as happy as a person ever could be, and he thought about it, really thought about it for the first time.  He knew he didn't use anywhere near as much as either of his brothers, but he also knew that they were both a lot more successful than he was, and that they didn't struggle with anything the way he always seemed to.  And this had always seemed to come so easily to them.  But lately, it'd been all he could do to make sure he didn't get sick at work.  He could even remember a couple of times where he'd had to choose between getting high and getting groceries.  It hadn't been that hard to bum food off of people.  Easier than he'd thought.  Definitely easier than bumming dope.  He was sure his brothers had never been in a similar situation.  They'd never allow it.

"But as long as you can do that, as long as you can ask and answer those difficult questions without flinching, then you'll be alright.  You'll be able to see the bottom of that slide coming at you, and you'll have a chance to do something about it.  You'll be able to say, 'Whoa, hold on a minute here!  This isn't what I want.  I gotta cut this shit out for a while.'  But you have to be able to recognize that there's a problem before you can hope to do anything about it.  Ha, don't look so worried, little brother.  We come from a long line of drunks and junkies and users - it's in our blood.  Their voices are inside of us.  Listen to them, and they'll tell you what to do.  They'll steer you right."

He didn't know what to say.  What could he say?  He understood, and on some level he already knew.  But he couldn't do anything about it.  He wasn't like them.  He couldn't be honest with himself that way.  He didn't want to.  He knew he felt safe when he was with his brothers, like they'd be able to take care of everything.  And he knew he never felt that way when he was by himself.  His whole life, he'd wanted nothing more than to be like the two of them.  But he knew he never would be.  And now, he also knew, that would be the end of him.

I need to say something, he thought.  He watched that little girl with her kite and he remembered those days, what that felt like, and he knew they were gone, and he wanted to be like her.  And he felt the sting in his eye and he felt his lip begin to curl and he thought, I need to say it, I need to say it now, I need to say it right now... And he felt the breeze come on strong all of a sudden, in the opposite direction, a gust of moist brine blowing through him.  And he saw the kite dive from the sky in the sudden reversal of force, saw it dive straight at her, saw it smash her in the face and knock her to the sand.  Her shrill screams filled the beach, and the gulls took flight in alarm, screaming with her, as if they knew.

"Come on," big brother said, standing up and brushing the sand from his legs.  "I bet those two're done by now.  Let's see if baby brother has any of those joints left.  We'll get twisted before dinner."

...

This story was inspired by a piece of my dreaming last night.  In the dream, I was one of the two characters on the beach (not saying which), but I decided to write it in third person, just as an exercise.  As before, I just let it come to me, one piece at a time, sort of letting the story tell itself.

As much as I enjoyed writing this, I can't wait to have something else to write about.  It can't all be drug addiction and death.  I know I must have something else to say, some other story to tell.

Patience, child...

The Old Cherry Tree By The Lake...

Dead tree, blossoming
Twisted trunk, pink flower buds
Like a corpse breathing

Ancient and rotten
Split and stunted, bent and burnt
This is surely death

Yet blossoms burst forth
Pink and fragrant, life from death
Impossible bloom

This, here, is the Tao
From dead Yin flowers Yang life
Fire roars from ashes

I see this, and know
I am this tree; my Tao flows
From root to petal

...

Just posted this yesterday, and I'm already editing it.  I posted it too quickly, and almost immediately saw changes I wanted to make.  Doesn't help that haiku is about the most immature, Creative Writing 101 style of poetry, either.  But, I'm not a poet, and I've never claimed to be.  The thing I like about haiku, is that it isn't necessarily about being pretty or poignant or profound.  A lot of the power is inherent in the form itself; anyone can do it.  It lends this almost zen-like quality to whatever you say.  So, I find it's perfect for expressing zen-like thoughts and emotions.

I found this tree on my way back from my old high school during my St. Patrick's Day drift, after sitting for a while under the tree where She and I first fell in love a couple of decades ago.  I was stunned, at first, to see something so blatantly impossible.  Then I was attracted to it, because I found it so amazing.  Then I felt an intense kinship with this tree, as though we'd shared similar lives, and were both going through the same experience just then.  I would've taken a picture of it, so that I could share this amazing sight with others, but my phone had just died the day before, so I didn't have a working camera on me for once.  Seems oddly like provenance, now, that this mystical vision should only exist in my memory.  I have this strange feeling that if I went back to that spot, the tree wouldn't be there anymore.

I'd been planning to write a full entry about the experience at some point, but during meditation yesterday afternoon, the seeds of this haiku began to form inside of me, and by the time I was finished meditation, I knew I had to express them.

Contemplations of Liu I-Ming...

Dead Trees, Cold Ashes

     When a tree is dead there is no flame when you burn it; when ashes are cold there is no warmth when you stir them.  What I realize as I observe this is the Tao of transformation of temperament.

     When people become temperamental, the harm is very great; the slightest offense sets them off into a rage.  It damages nature and inures reason, so that they are unaware of their own greed and passion, they do not understand their own narrowness, they do not care about essential life, they are not mindful of life and death.  The troubles this causes are not simple.

     If one can master oneself and exercise restraint, turn back from inflexibility and become yielding, sweep away all anger, resentment, and annoyance, get rid of all contentiousness, change the aggressive and violent nature back into a gentle taciturn nature, concentrate the energy and make it flexible, empty the mind and nutrure the spirit, be selfless and impersonal, not discriminate between self and others, view one's own body as having no such body, view one's mind as having no such mind, have no discrimination and no knowledge, and be empty and open, this like dead wood not flaming when burnt, like cold ashes yielding no warmth when stirred.

     One can thereby be in the midst of Creation without being influenced by Creation, be in the midst of yin and yang without being constrained by yin and yang.

...

Drawing Water with a Well Sweep

     When a well sweep draws water, the bucket goes down empty and comes up full, drawing water in a continuous cycle to water the fields.

     What I realize as I observe this is the Tao of the twin functions of emptying and filling.

     If people can empty their hearts and be humble towards others, they will receive benefits that will fill them within and elevate them beyond others.  The more they become empty and humble, the more they are fulfilled and elevated.

     Continually becoming empty, continually being fulfilled, continually becoming humble, continually being elevated, so that one is empty yet full, full yet empty, low yet high, high yet low, one attains to a state in which above and below are in communion, emptiness and fulfillment correspond.

     Filled with the qualities of the Tao, those who reach this state never fail to ascend to lofty and clear perception.

                                                                                              -Liu I-Ming  (~1737 - ~1830)

                                                                                                translated by Thomas Cleary

The Moth Presents...

Franny's Last Ride.

Post No Meanings...

I can't write today.

I'm still posting, obviously, but it's basically worthless.  I've been busy with work, and with a massive computer task, and all of my writing today (along with all of the time I would've spent writing something to post here) has been spent on an urgent personal correspondence.

I will try not to let myself feel too down about this, or any of the rest of it.  And I will try to do better tomorrow.

Springtime Blues...

I'm all washed out by the side of the road.
Broken-bones Matilda left a note and a rose.
Saying "Baby, honey child, I love you so long,

 but you deserve much better than me."

So I'm just burning all around, all the miles in the road.
And I'm never going back, and I'm never going home.
I've been gone too long. 

I've been less right than wrong.
I lost so much blood in the falling out.

And I lit a fire that wouldn't go out,
Until it consumed the walls and roof of this house.
Until all I remember was burning away.
And all I remember, you burnt it away.

See, for ten long years, I've been hustling around.
Tryin' to wash the sins and the sweat from my brow.
Just trying to find a better life for me and my own.
Just some rest for these tired working fingers.

But nobody never gonna tell you the way.
You gotta figure it out, boys, and suffer the rain,
And the fools in the night,

And the heat of the day.
When all you ever really wanted was for someone to understand.

And I lit a fire that wouldn't go out,

 Until it consumed the walls and roof of this house.
Until all I remembered was burning away.
And all I remember, you burnt it away.
But don't you take it so hard, and baby don't you cry.
Cross your hard heart and hope to die.
Don't you tell me no more lies, you lied all the time.
Don't you tell me no more lies, you lied every night.

And you're sugar and spice, and everything nice.
You got Monroe hips, your poison lips and eyes.
And you're sugar and spice, and everything nice.
You got open wounds in a young boy's pride.

And I lit a fire that wouldn't go out,
Until it consumed the walls and roof of this house.
Until all I remember was burning away.
And all that you left me, you burnt it away.
But don't you take it so hard, and baby don't you cry.
You cross your hard heart and you hope to die.
Don't you tell me no more lies, you lied all the time.
Don't you tell me no more lies, you lied every night.

                                                             -Film Noir

                                                                               The Gaslight Anthem

...   ...   ...

Like Miles Davis, I been swayed by the Cool.
There's just something 'bout the summertime.
There's just something 'bout the moon.
So I lay a kiss on this stone,
Toss it upside your window, by the roof.
Before you change your mind, 

Miles, bring in the Cool.

Now honey, put on your red dress,
and your diamond-soled shoes.
Climb on down from that window,
climb on out of your room.
'Cause I never had a good thing,
and I always had the blues.
And I heard that you always kinda wondered -
Miles, strike up the Cool.

Don't wait too long to come home.
My how the years and our youth pass on.
Don't wait too long to come home,
I will leave the front light on.
If the night is all wrong,
don't wait too long.

Like Poor Mr. Pitiful, I can't turn you loose
You move like a dream I had, 

woke up sweating in my room.
But your Mama's got plans, 

and your Daddy's aim is true.
But she never understood that it ain't no good,
and Papa never heard the Cool.

So now I got up my nerve, 

and found me a stone.
With a flick of the wrist 

and a turn of the key 

you just fall in my arms.

And don't wait too long to come home.
My how the years and our youth pass on.
Don't wait too long to come home,
I will leave the front light on.
If the night is all wrong,
you don't wait too long.

So why don't you sing to me 

on this long drive home?
Let the sound of your voice

sway sweet and slow,
As we go down, down, down from our youth to the ground,
Down, down, down from our youth to the ground.
We might always be blue...

So don't wait too long to come home.
My how the years and our youth pass on.
Don't wait too long to come home,
I will leave the front light on.
  No don't wait too long to come home.
My how the years and our youth pass on.
Don't wait too long to come home,
I will leave the front light on.

As we go down, down, down from our youth to the ground.
Down, down, down from our youth to the ground.
Down, down, down from our youth to the ground.
Down, down, down, down, down... 

                                                             -Miles Davis and The Cool

                                                      The Gaslight Anthem

Hurt...

I faced a big test today.  And I failed it.

I started a fight with Her.  I had a pretty good idea how she'd respond, and I had a pretty good idea that I wouldn't like it, but I set her up, anyways.  I served her the line, and she hit it back to me in the exact way I knew she would, and then I got mad at her for it.  Her response was hurtful, true, but I shouldn't have gotten angry with her for it.  And I definitely shouldn't have yelled at her for it.  Especially since I saw it coming from a mile away.  I knew it was coming, so I had every opportunity to prepare myself to respond appropriately.  But I didn't.

Instead, I yelled at her, and hurt her back.  I failed.  I failed Her, and I failed myself.

When someone I care about hurts me (which is redundant - I can't be hurt by someone I don't already care about first), I don't actually feel hurt.  Because feeling hurt is a vulnerable feeling; a weak feeling.  Instead, I skip straight over "hurt" and go right to "angry."  Because "angry" is a strong feeling - a powerful feeling.  When someone hurts me, I feel attacked by them.  And so I respond by attacking them right back.  I stand up for myself.  I defend myself.  The last thing I'm going to do in that situation is roll over and expose my belly and take it, suck it up, allow them to continue hurting me.  This behavior was ingrained in me by years of childhood abuse, at the hands of people I cared about - my mother, especially, but also the childhood bullies, who were invariably the "cool kids" that I wanted so much to like me.  But that's an explanation, not an excuse.  Knowing why I do it doesn't make it okay.

Because this behavior hurts the people I care about.  And there's just no reason for it.  I'm hurt and I'm scared.  I'm hurt by what you did, and I'm scared that you can hurt me.  What's wrong with that?  Why can't I just say that?  Why can't I just feel that?  Why do I have to jump straight to this macho "You can't hurt me!" place, like you're some asshole bully trying to make me feel like I'm nothing - like I'm completely powerless - as though you weren't, in reality, someone I care very deeply for, who means a great deal to me, and who simply made a mistake?

I'm trying.  That's all I can do.  I'm trying.  I really am.

I didn't recognize what I was doing in the moment, and in that I failed.  I allowed myself to fall back into old, destructive habits, and in that I failed.  I hurt Her, and in that I failed.  But as soon as it was over - as soon as we walked away - I looked back at everything I had said and done, and it all became clear to me.  And I immediately apologized for it.  Before now, I would've held onto that anger, allowed it to fuel my sense of self-righteousness.  But today, almost the instant it began to wane, I let it all go.  And I allowed myself to feel, simply, hurt.  It's far from perfect, but it's still an undeniable improvement.

I'm not giving myself any credit for this here.  I still failed, and I still have a lot of work to do.  I'm just trying to take an honest assessment of myself.  Nothing is entirely good, and nothing is entirely bad.  Everything is both good and bad.  I failed, but I learned.  I hurt her, but I quickly realized my mistake and stopped doing it.  And next time, I will try to do better.

That's all I can do.

Kentucky's Finest...

I had my last drink of bourbon for a good, long while last night.

Made sure it was a good one to go out on, too.  Pappy Van Winkle's 12 year-old Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, Special Reserve.  Charred oak and molasses, with some notes of vanilla on the finish.  A damn fine whiskey.  I'm not really going to miss much about drinking during this upcoming period of personal prohibition, but I am really, really going to miss bourbon.

And it honestly has nothing to do with the drunk of it.  When it comes to the inebriation of the drink, bourbon is hardly my favorite.  I don't hate it, but it just makes me kind of relaxed and sleepy; it's nothing special.  When it comes to drinking for the feeling of it, I much prefer vodka, tequila, red wine, or even scotch over bourbon.

No, what I'm going to miss about bourbon, is the taste.  It's the only alcohol I drink almost entirely just for the taste of it.  (Though a fine cognac can be really delicious, as well.)  It's the taste of a Summer's night at the cabin by the lake.  Woodsmoke and caramel.  Oak and cedar and hazelnut and charred barleycorn.  To me, the taste of a good bourbon - and I'm talking a good bourbon here, not Jim Beam or Bullitt or some rotgut like that - is one of life's greatest pleasures.  And I know this Summer is going to feel the lesser for its absence from my palette.

But I'm prepared for that.  And I'm okay with it.  Because what I'm going to gain through this sacrifice is worth a lot more to me.  Giving up one pleasure, temporarily - even one that I enjoy as much as I do a glass of Kentucky's finest - is a ridiculously small price to pay to stop feeling like a drunk.

Wish me luck.

The Tao of Rejuvenation...

I felt really sick this morning for some reason.

Chills and queasiness, lethargic and drained.  I didn't know what was wrong, or what to do about it, but I knew I wanted to feel better.  I decided to try and meditate, and see if that helped.

Fell right into it, perfectly.  Sometimes it takes a while to get into it, you end up adjusting your position here and there a bunch of times, trying to find that sweet spot of comfortableness, or it takes a few tries to focus on your breathing, etc.  But there are also times like today, where you sit down straight into the perfect position, drop your eyelids, and fall right into it, like you've never left.  I immediately started to relax, and feel better.

Went for 216 breaths - 2 full mala.  I probably could've gone for a while longer, and I considered it, but by that point it was beginning to get a little more intense, and I didn't want to push it; this was about relaxation, not psychospiritual exploration.  I'll save that for another day.

When I came back to myself, I found that I did, indeed, feel better.  Not great, but a lot better.  No more chills or queasiness.  Still a bit lethargic, but it was much more like a pleasant relaxation than a forced sleepiness.

What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Rejuvenation, through Centering in the Void.

The period of meditation acted almost like a restart to my system.  I emptied myself of all the unpleasantness I was experiencing, centered and stabilized myself within the void of perception I'd created, and returned to myself, almost as new, cleared of a lot of the gunk I had been holding onto, and ready to move forward again.  I still only had so much to work with at the time, so I wasn't going to make myself feel completely 100% fantastic.  And I didn't get anywhere near experiencing a mystical moment of complete ego-dissolution, so it wasn't like I became an entirely new person or anything.  But that was never the goal.

I let go to create a void within myself, and allowed myself to relax into that void and simply experience it.  And when I allowed myself to return from that void, I felt renewed, and rejuvenated, and I found that the worst of my bad feelings had melted away.

And undeniably, I feel much better now.

Barbershop...

There's a barbershop on my street.

Not a hair salon, not a hair stylist, but an honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned barbershop.  Opened in 1952.  And it looks like it hasn't changed much since then, with the exception of several framed pictures of the Obamas added to the walls.

And the walls are packed.  You know that old-timey kitsch that places like T.G.I.Friday's and Applebee's try to capture with all that faux-historic, pre-packaged, plastic junk they hang all over their walls?  This place is what those poseurs are trying to replicate.  Framed pictures of Martin and Malcolm (and now Barack and Michelle), Hall of Fame plaques from old football and baseball players, signed jersyes and ballcaps, framed newspaper clippings spanning the last 50 years, and all mixed in with portraits of his family, his sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters, and their spelling bee ribbons, and A+ report cards, and other tokens of their achievements.  It's cliché, but true - it felt like stepping back in time.

The barber's name is Buddy.  Which, again, seems so perfect that it's almost cliché.  Of course his name is Buddy - how could it have been anything else?  A slim, older black gentleman, with a thin mustache, he took over the shop from his uncle in 1960, when he was just 16 years-old, and he's been running it ever since.  He lives upstairs, and there's a beauty parlor for the ladies in the back.

There's just the one barber chair.  He's the barber, so why would he need more than that?  Made of steel and cast iron, it looks like it dates to the '30s or '40s.  It even has an extra footrest above the normal one, where you would rest your feet in order to get your shoes shined, while you got a cut or a shave.  It's too bad that service was no longer offered.  The pricelist on the wall said, "Haircut - $10, Shave - $4, Afro shaping/trim - $15."

I could tell it's been a while since Buddy cut a white boy's hair.  His scissors were a bit rusty, and more than a little bit dull.  After a while, he just gave up and went to work on me with the clippers.  After all these years, he's a master with the clippers.  He's got 4 different kinds, and dozens of guards, and he can do things with electric clippers that they were never intended for.  When he's cutting your hair, he stands between the chair and the mirror, and he has you facing out into the room, with the mirror at your back; the exact opposite of every haircut I've ever had.  As I sat in his chair, looking at the empty room, and the line of empty chairs in front of me, I couldn't help imagining what it must've been like 20, 30, 40 years ago.  (Hell, with the way the neighborhood has changed recently, in part because of me I'm more than a little ashamed to say, we could probably even say just 5 or 10 years ago.)  At some point it must've been a center of local men's culture.  People hanging out, reading the paper, bullshitting about politics and local gossip, waiting for their turn in Buddy's chair.  There's an obvious quiet sadness to Buddy's demeanor, and looking out at that empty line of chairs, it was easy to imagine why that might be.

When he was finished with my hair, he gave me a shave.  Trimmed up my mustache and beard real nicely.  It's the first time since I grew them that I don't look like a hippie!  (Or, at least, someone trying to look like a hippie.  Thirty-six years-old, and I still can't grow a full goatee, much less a beard.)  When he was finished, he rubbed down my scalp with a lotion that smelled a little like roses, and dabbed my face with some sort of tonic that felt like an alcohol and smelled vaguely of eucalyptus.  Then he handed me a hand-mirror to examine his work.  (He never did turn me around to face the wall mirror behind the chair.)

He gave me a $10 haircut, straight out of the 1960s.  And it looks like a $10 haircut.  Too high in the back, way too high around the ears; a little too bushy here, a little too thin over there.  And it is awesome.  Exactly what I wanted.  Simple, and classic.  And more than a little nerdy.

I'm really looking forward to the next time I get to spend some time in Buddy's chair.

The Empty Bottle...

She said the bubbles tickled her nose.

Then she'd giggle.  Every time.

In general, she didn't really like to drink.  Didn't like the way it made her feel, all confused and dizzy, and sometimes a little sick.  When it came to partying, she was always more of a "passing a joint with some friends on the back porch of a summer evening, listening to the crickets, and watching the fireflies" kind of girl.  But she liked champagne.  She liked the dry, crisp, tangy bite of it.  She said she liked the way it made her feel like someone who was "all rich and fancy."  And she liked the way the bubbles tickled her nose.  And she'd tell me that, every time.  And then she'd giggle.  And it was the most adorable thing in the world.

I was the one who liked to drink.  Pot just made me paranoid.  And outrageously hungry.  I just didn't see the point of it.  But booze... a good scotch, a fine brandy, a properly-poured Guinness - these were some of life's greatest pleasures.  They had a romance, and a history about them.  And they brought relaxation, and ambiance, and character, and perspective.  The only thing I loved more than a good drink, was her.

And I guess that's why I'm here, walking alone in the woods, in the middle of the night, in my best suit, carrying a bottle of her favorite champagne.

...

She'd said it was my drinking.  That night, at the restaurant, when she'd found the ring I'd managed to slip into the bottom of her glass of champagne.  When she'd gotten this look when she first saw it, this look I'd never seen before, like she'd lost something forever.  When she'd handed the ring back to me, saying, "I'm sorry, but I can't."  I'd asked her, "Why?  Why not?"  She'd said it was my drinking.

I hadn't seen it coming, at all.  We'd been so happy for so many years now.  The years we'd spent together had been the best of my life.  She said they were hers, too.  "But, I can't marry a drunk."

"I'm not a drunk," I said, startled.  She'd never said that to me before.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," I said, starting to get a little angry, feeling more than a little hurt, and betrayed.  How could she be rejecting me like this, all of a sudden, after all these years?  "Yes, I drink, but so do most people."

"Most people don't drink the way you do."  Staring down at her plate; she wouldn't even look at me.

"Look, just because you don't like to drink, doesn't make me a drunk!  This is ridiculous!"  My voice was rising now.

"I'm sorry, I just can't."

"So, what, that's it??  We're just over now??  You'd throw everything we have away, just like that?!"

"No, of course not.  I just can't marry you.  Not right now.  Not when you're drinking like this.  Marriage means forever, and I don't know what you'll be like down the road if you keep drinking.  Haven't you noticed how it's changed you?  Haven't you noticed how much more quickly you get angry now?  How much less affectionate you are?  Can you even remember the last time we made love?  And I'm not counting the times that you tried, but were too drunk."

"Fine!," I barked, dodging her questions, wounded by her accusations.  I brought my hand down a little too hard on the table when I said it, and the dishes rattled.  People were starting to look at us now.  And the irony of it all, was that now I really needed a drink.

"Fine," I said, quieter this time.  "Enjoy your dinner.  I'll be at the bar."

...

Walking down the path through the trees, the heavy weight of the bottle swinging in my hand, I remembered it all with sobriety's stark clarity.  Felt it all over again, as if for the first time.  The hurt, the sadness, the regret, the loss, the shock, the betrayal.  And the warm relief of the double-scotch-on-the-rocks afterwards.

...

I'd done it almost to spite her.  Left her sitting there at our table-for-two in her best dress, all alone.  An eye for an eye; humiliation in kind.  If she thinks I'm such a drunk, then fine, might as well get drunk, then.  She thinks she knows everything.  She doesn't know a goddamned thing.  She doesn't even like drinking, so what the fuck does she know about it?

I took a seat at the polished bar, with its upholstered seats and brass rails, and ordered my usual.

Mmmm... That first sip is always the best.  Before the ice has had a chance to start melting, diluting the heat of it.  Taste like liquid woodsmoke.  Tongue of flame snaking down my throat, into my belly, and up my spine.  Warm dopamine rush cascading from my brain, down through my limbs.  Ecstasy and nirvana all rolled up into one glass of amber peace.

I can't believe she said that.  What the fuck does she know, anyways?  I don't drink that much.  Hell, I only really started drinking a few years ago, anyways.  I mean, yeah, there we times we snuck Dad's beer here and there when we were kids, but all kids do that.  It's not like I raided their liquor cabinet or anything.  I mean, every once in a while I'd steal a sip of this or that, but just because I liked the warm feeling it gave me.  It's not like I was getting drunk off of it or anything.

And yeah, I went to a few keg parties in high school.  But, again, so did everyone.  Hell, so did she!  How the fuck am I the bad guy here??  And I did the usual pushing-your-limits thing that everyone does in college, but still - I only got blackout drunk a handful of times the entire time I was there!  I knew guys in some of the frats who would do that every weekend.  Now that is a drunk!

And after college, I really didn't drink hardly at all.  I'd go to happy hour with the guys from work every once in a blue moon, and maybe we'd have some beer or wine with dinner occasionally, but that was it.  I really didn't even start drinking until... well, I guess I started soon after I lost that job, didn't I?  But, I mean, that's understandable, right?  Laid off, couldn't find work, my girlfriend supporting me - it's understandable that a guy would try to drink that off, right?  I mean, that's not easy to deal with.  I needed something to help me relax and forget about how much I felt like a failure.  And besides, it all worked out in the end.  I mean, that was years ago, and I got a new job, a better job.  A job that can support us both, and a family, too.  So, what the fuck is she so upset about?!

I swirl the ice around in my glass, drawing curly-ques on the bar-top.  The ice makes a delicate, crystalline tinkling as it knocks gently against the sides of the glass.  I love that sound so much.  It makes me feel safe and warm to hear it, like the sound of a mother's voice to her child.  tinka-tink-ta-tink  Like the sound of an angel, tip-toeing.  I signal the bartender for a refill.

Ok, so, after I got the new job, I didn't cut down on my drinking.  But so what?  I mean, I had every reason to be a little nervous, a little gun-shy, after just losing the job before that.  And, yeah, ok, so, I drink every night, but it's not like I'm getting drunk all the time.  I mean, a few beers, then a few whiskeys, and then I'm off to bed.  It's just my routine.  I don't see what's wrong with that.  Ok, so, that might sound like a lot when you lay it all out like that, but that's only because I've been doing it for years.  I mean, that's the equivalent of what one beer and one whiskey used to be for me a couple of years ago.  It's not really that much.  And she has to be able to see that!  She's been there the whole time!  She knows this was a gradual increase over a long period.  And she knows I'm not getting wasted every night or anything.  Why is she making such a big deal out of this?

Ok, ok, ok - so I like to get drunk on the weekends.  So.  Fucking.  WHAT?  I work hard, and I need to relax!  That is completely normal.  I don't understand what her problem is.  It's not like I'm a violent drunk who beats her up or some shit.  I mean, yeah, we've been fighting a lot more lately, that's true, I guess.  But it's not because of my drinking.  It's because she's always nagging me about shit when I'm trying to relax!  "No, I don't wanna mow the fucking lawn right now!  Can't you see I'm watching the game, you stupid bitch??"  "Can't you walk the fucking dog yourself?!  Jesus fucking christ, you've got legs, don't you?!  I'm sitting here, nice and relaxed, and you've always gotta come in here with some fucking thing to try and get me to do!  Take care of your fucking self for once, for a fucking change, why don't you!"  "I swear to fucking God, if you tell me to fix that fucking drawer one more motherfucking time I will break your fucking legs, DO YOU HEAR ME?!!"

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Wow.  Ok.  So, maybe I might need to cut back a little.  Maybe.  I mean, it's completely ridiculous to call me a drunk, or treat me like I'm one of those poor, pathetic losers who have to go to those stupid meetings all the time or something.  But, yeah, I've probably been a little hard on her.  And, yeah, I guess I probably wouldn't have gotten that upset if I hadn't been that drunk.  And, yeah, maybe I...

"Hey."

I look up from my empty glass, snapped out of my reverie, to find her standing next to my stool.

...

It's so dark out here.  The trees block what little light the Moon might've provided.  I'm pretty sure I'm still going the right way, though.  I see what looks like a bit of a clearing up ahead.  I make my way through the last of the brush, and come out into the open air; the night and noise.  Yes.  Yes, this is it.  This is where it happened.

...

"I want to leave."  She looks so sad.

"Yeah, well, I'm not done yet."  I can't let it go.  I'm just so pissed at her for treating me like that.  In public, no less!

"Fine, stay here, then.  But I'm leaving.  You can find your own way home."

"No, you're not!"  How dare her!  "You're not taking the fucking car and leaving me here!  Fine, you want to fucking go, let's fucking go!!"  I jump off my barstool, stumbling a bit on the landing.  How many drinks did I have?  Thirty oughtta cover it.  I slam the money down on the bar and stomp off toward the front entrance.

In the parking lot, trying to get my key into the door.  "DAMMIT!," as I drop them for the second time.  She's got me so fucking mad I'm shaking!

"Please, let me drive."

"No!  Fuck you!  I can drive.  I'm not a fucking DRUNK!"

"It's not that.  I'm worried about you driving when you're this angry."

"Fuck you, I can fucking drive."  Bitch fucking calls me a drunk, completely fucking rejects me, humiliates me in public, and now she won't even let me drive!  I have the doors open by now.

"Fine.  Just please be careful."  I see her look at me for a moment before she gets into the car.  I have no idea what she's feeling just then.  I don't care, either.

Gunning the engine, I squeal out of the parking lot.

"Please!  Be careful!"

"Shut up!  When you yell at me like that it makes me nervous!"  Rounding the corner through the yellow light at 35 miles-per-hour.  "You keep distracting me like that and we will get in a fucking accident!"

We drive down the dark two-lane in blessed silence for a while.  I'm pushing the limits of what our little car can do, but it feels good.  I can see her gripping the door handle tightly when I round the corners.  That feels good, too.  I push it a little harder, the highbeams cutting a tunnel of light down the dark, wooded road.

"Please!  Just slow down!"

"I fucking told you..."

A flash of white outside the windshield fills my vision for a split-second.  I panic, and swerve.  I hear a scream, and the world goes completely insane.

...

It was a long walk from the reception to this lonely stretch of wooded road, and I'm all sweaty in my suit.  I had no idea what that flash was at the time, but I can see it so clearly now in my mind, as if it were in slow motion.  An owl.  A white owl, riding the updraft over my windshield, wings spread wide.  I guess it must've been diving for a mouse in the road or something.  I wonder if that mouse made it, like I did.

It's one of life's cruelest ironies that it's usually the drunk driver who survives the wreck.  The theory is, they're more relaxed, and they don't tense up as quickly, so they kind of "go with the flow," as it were, and so often just bounce around a bit, but don't break.  I woke up here, in the middle of this road, and I had a few bumps and bruises, and a cut on my scalp, but that's all.  They tell me I was actually thrown clear of the wreckage, and that it probably saved my life.  She was wearing her seat-belt.  She was trapped as the car rolled over and over down the road, smashing down onto the asphalt again and again.

I might've walked away from that wreck, but I never really left it.  No more than she did.

When I saw they were serving her favorite champagne at the funeral reception, I realized I couldn't take this anymore.  All the false sympathies, all the accusing stares.  I know it was my fault!  You think I don't fucking know that?!  You think I need you looking at me like I'm a murderer in order to know what I've done?!  I know what I've fucking done!  I threw everything that meant anything to me in this whole fucking world away, forever, for nothing!!  I killed your little girl, and your sister, and your friend, because I was a fucking drunk, and I was too goddamned stupid to know what I had!  I picked up one of the bottles, and walked out into the night.

I'd intended to drink the whole thing sitting by the side of this road, here, where my life ended.  Where I'd ended her.  But now that I'm here, I can't seem to bring myself to do it.  I haven't had a drink since that night.  I'd wanted to celebrate her by drinking her favorite.  But now it feels more like I'd be killing her all over again, somehow. 

I don't understand what she ever saw in me.  Lord knows I didn't deserve her.  The fact that she cared about me at all, that she wanted to help me, that she loved me, is a fucking miracle.  Another miracle I threw away, because it meant nothing to me.

What the fuck am I doing feeling sorry for myself??  What the fuck am I doing, sitting here, crying by the side of the road?  You think you've lost everything?  Fuck you.  She lost everything.  Because of you.  For you.  She loved you and she wanted to take care of you.  She wanted you to get better.  And you killed her.  So now you have a choice.  You can sit here, and keep pretending this is all about you, or you can get the fuck up, and keep fucking living, and make sure that your life is worth the price she paid for it.  Get off your ass, and live a life she would've been proud of you for.  Live the life she gave you.

I stand up and brush myself off.  I pick up the bottle of champagne and walk out into the middle of the lonely road.  I remove the gold foil from around the neck of the bottle.  Holding it in both hands, pushing on the cork with both thumbs, the white plastic stopper suddenly explodes and rockets out into the night and disappears.  The bottle ejaculates cold, white, foamy bubbles all over my hands, pouring down onto the road.

I hold the bottle up, looking at it closely.  I want to remember this moment forever, as vividly as I remember her final night.  I look straight up at the sky and, with my mouth closed and my eyes wide open, I upend the bottle, and pour the champagne into my face.

It's cold, and it stings my eyes badly.  I keep pouring.  It goes up my nose and I start to choke.  I cough and I choke, but I keep pouring.  It's streaming off of me, soaking my suit, and splashing all over the road.  Finally, the bottle is empty.  I stagger and cough and blink my eyes, trying to get a hold of myself.

When I can finally breathe again, bent over double in the middle of the road, I realize, that the bubbles are tickling my nose.  And I laugh, like I can't remember ever laughing before.  I laugh and I laugh and I laugh into the night until I am completely empty.  Until there's nothing left of me.

I set the bottle down on the side of the road, and start walking.

...
...
...

It's common to see trash along the side of the road.  Any road.  But this morning, I saw an empty champagne bottle of all things, along the side of the twisting farm-country road of my new commute.  Never seen that before.  And I thought to myself, "Ok, there's got to be an interesting story behind that."  So I decided to try and make one up.  I'm guessing the real story is probably much better than mine.

I didn't plan this out at all, didn't have an outline or a clear story in my mind when I started.  I just let it come to me, one piece at a time.  I kind of feel like I let the story tell itself, through me.  And this is what came out.

So, if you didn't like it, don't blame me.

I'm just the messenger.

Take What You Can Get...

Well, it was inevitable, really.

Day's almost over, and I've really got to concentrate on my work.  I've got an appointment right after work, and by the time I get out of there I'm going to need to eat dinner.  And then by the time I'm done with that it's going to be nine-thirty or ten o'clock, and I'm fairly certain I'm not going to feel like writing anything at that point.  So, it's now or never.

But despite the fact that I've remained open all day to any form of inspiration that might happen to come to me... nothing has.  So, here I am, feeling like I have to write something, but not having anything to say.

What I realize as I observe this, is the Tao of Acceptance.

I made the effort, but I can't force the issue.  Inspiration is not an act of Will.  All I can do, is try my best, and try to be happy with the results.  And I've done that.  Sure, I would've preferred to have written something meaningful, or beautiful, or profound, or poetic.  But I gave it my best effort.  And in the end, I still took what was inside of me, however mundane it might feel, and cast it out into the world.

And I'm satisfied with that.