Monday, August 27, 2012

It is a Sunday, and I wanted to find my disjointed thoughts in front of me. For me.

There was an old wicker bird cage, canary yellow, that sat on some unnecessary piece of furniture in a lovely, but unnecessary room we fittingly dubbed the "Sun room".   A dusty, pretty stage for moments to play on.  Cast by my mother, directed by my father, written by whatever.  The cage was fragile and curious and never held a bird.  The room itself was fragile, curious, and could never hold the sun.  But, ah, how they held us.  Transfixed our eyes with their shapes and the way the light lavishly slid across it all--so convincing they had a purpose, a necessity, and we were convinced.  And we are still transfixed.

Time is intricate, right?  Well, she has the ability to be.  She is so natural at trickery.  She is lulling, she is comforting, she is terrifying.  Time is debatable but fixed.  She is a piece of art nailed to a white-washed wall, open to all interpretations but solid in her own state.  So really, she is everything and nothing, so, everything.   She is as much or as little of a necessity as the wicker canary cage and the Sun-room.  Time is a stage, and we can chose to have a hand in her performance, or we can watch, as she dances around us.  

At this point in Time, I know less about life then I ever have.  I know almost nothing about what things are.  Things like time, reality, friends, love, responsibility, loneliness, fears, strength, courage, emotions, sex, pain, elation, family...nothing about what these things are.  Of course, I constantly use analogies for all of them, and usually discuss them with some sort of well-shaped opinion, but that is in convenience  for everyday conversation.  I've known life, at one point.  Then I learned a few things, and now,  I'm thinking that all of life is no different then myself in that things constantly change, every moment.  So, oh!  Oh, oh look, there's that--I know change pretty well.  But I do not wish to know life, fully.  Not now.  That seems limiting.  What would I have left to discover?  To know nothing is so incredibly interesting to me.  Fascinating.  I strive to be fascinated with everything.

From now on, what I say I know, I know I do not know fully: I know enough to understand.  To know is beyond us, but to understand seems incredibly human.  To know just enough that we can relate to one another, to the point of knowing each other.  

I wish I could know you.  You must have so many wonderful caverns in your mind.  Simple and straight or curved and dark, light, bright, pale.  Thoughts that are caked in the dirt of the past or dreams that gleam brilliant as steel but are equally as unapproachable.  Memories in boxes on shelves with candles and musical and antique banks with bears and painted iron because why now--your mind can be anything.  I wish I could know you.  Instead, I will try and understand you.  Your looks and your eyebrow raises.  Your hand movements.  Your pauses.  Your choices.  The way you stand up, open a door, look at a note, look at yourself, look out a window, look at me.  The way you are curious.

If I do not try to know you, I will not fully know myself.  To try and know a person should be more enlightening, more educational then any book or other tool.  We meet a different world of experience with every handshake.  Every person is an opportunity to know life.

Please, let me know you.  


Friday, March 23, 2012

Please Return To Sender

I've been meaning to address a few things. My laundry. My broken coffee maker. The smell in my car. A thick stack of crumpled receipts and a pile of unread books. A closet full of hangers and a floor full of clothes. A cockroach I named Tootie. A rematch with my mother in Words With Friends. The purchase of a banjo. A collection of dust coated "need-to-watch" films. A peculiar stain on my coach pillow. The telemarketer that keeps calling me Phil something...

I'll eventually get these things addressed. Eventually. Well, all right, maybe not the telemarketer thing because, to be honest, I like the quick and odd phone banter as I politely explain I am not Phil. I do not know Phil. At least stop calling me Phil if you DO call me....this has become a comfortable regiment. But in any case, these are all fine things to address. To get done. To acknowledge, process, organize, do. Simple, is all of this.

Simple, sure. But I have not been able to DO any of that. Instead, I have been running then
frantically power-walking and at times electric sliding (a wonderful way to get to any destination, albeit a slow one) all over everywhere...stuck, stuck, stuck in my head. In a moment of temporary sanity, I came to the conclusion that I probably need some Drain-o for the mind. No, no--not the self administered alcoholic version known to leave those who over indulge in its' effects buckled over on some bathroom floor, laden with clipped nose hairs and peculiar stains, all the while in a state of self loathing, I'll pass. I mean this. A flush of thought. You see, my head becomes so clogged with unprocessed emotions. Maybe you might relate. We're busy. We're busy, complicated, tired, intricate things and I for one, rather watch some
television show about other people unclogging their overly dramatic emotional pipes than do my own damn mental processing....stuff is exhausting and as I just said--we're tired! Whatever, it eventually gets to this point, and it's time for some, ah, over dramatic, fear-based, Eckhart Tolle challenging, emotional cleansing, void of most intellectual rationality..heavily based in fluff. Head fluff. Fluffy, flower, human stuff. Human marshmallow heart and head healing fluff, is fine, from time to time. Too much, and we become the giant Stay Puft marshmallow man from Ghost Busters. Or the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Or a combination of the two and then you'll just be chased around your whole life by creepy people who want to shoot you, and simultaneously tickle your belly.

SIDE RANT: It is, apparently, a comma, filled, day, and, will probably, continue to be one. I urge you, to not, take an actually breath, between each one of my terribly placed punctuation, marks, or, you might, just pass out. Back, to....

But a blog, let's be honest, is not a good place to set ones emotional drainage free. Messy stuff, that is. So to clarify, this is not any drainage--this is the cleanse. My Brain-Drain-O itself. The solution that I use to break the head knots down. Aspects of my life I should address regularly (there are many more than the ones, work, peace, health, etc, but, bup-bup-bup, those are tended to, thank you) but, well, plain have not. And what better way to address something than in the form of a letter. My Love, my Mind and You are quite general things that apply to very specific pieces of my life--but maybe, just maybe, you are either bored and annoyed out of your mind--that's fine by me, I'm good, here on my end, with my coffee--or, you'll be able to relate to it.

Dear Mind,

I wish you would settle. To quiet. To curl yourself up in the inviting warmth of existence and allow yourself to indulge in soft details of the present scenery. I wish that you would form yourself more definitively. To pronounce yourself more distinctively. To judge yourself less harshly. To finish your many ventures. To process and file and organize yourself. I want that you should not have the needs you do. I want that you would not need reassurance. I want that you would not need structure. But I can tell you, as much as you loose yourself, I will be sure to find you. I owe it to you, to appreciate you. I might not always like you, but I will a
lways love you. You have built me a world of color and creation, shadows, monsters, magic...the ability to choose: everything a miracle, or nothing...Simple, is this.

Dear You,

I may not know you, I probably do not. The world, after all, is quite large. And if I do know you, I am sorry if I will never fully see you, or you, me. The universes between us seem endless. Each molecule, each atom, representing endless difference. You are so fascinating, so unknown. I never know what to say to you, and I wish I could understand you more accurately. Then again, our inevitable difference is the most significant connection. As we are all of us alone in our minds, we are linked in the common and singular unknown. And I hope wit
h all my heart, that when I meet you, we can be at ease there. At ease in the unfamiliarity. Without fear and so, without judgement. I will be excited by the surprise of you. You will surprise me by simply existing. Simple, is this.

Dear Love,

I wish for nothing more than to tell you everything, fearlessly. Every feeling. Every pain. Every joy. Every moment. The things I do not understand, the things I cannot admit. My insanity. My conclusions. I want to go on an endless adventure with you as my destination. I w
ant to grow with you. Fight and laugh with you. I want to be angry at you, and fall back with you and laugh on top of you. I want to see you work, breathing imagination effortlessly into each moment as you do. I want to destroy my walls so that you can come in. I hate these walls. And you noticed. I want you to be the person that I see, because you destroy your walls, and you invite me in. When I say, Love, I love you--reality will blink, but so natural is such, that nothing fantastical need be acknowledge. Simple, is this.