Monthly Archives: May 2009

sick.

Whenever I get sick to my stomach I also hallucinate. Today, after a particularly violent spell of regurgitation…sorry…I passed out on the couch. (Having to go up and down a spiral staircase when you’re already nauseated is a cruel joke.)

The tv came on by itself…then there was someone playing mario on it…then the house phone we don’t have rang and the answering machine that isn’t there answered and I listened to see if they’d added my name to the list of people you might have been wanting to contact.
Half awake half asleep, the door finally opened, this time for real. It was just my roommate Bonnie. I politely waited for her to leave before I resumed the position kneeling in front of the toilet.

I’m reading this book. This is a quote I like from it. “where are we headed? ‘I don’t know’ he said. ‘What do you mean? You know the past and future of things. You know exactly where we’re going.’ He sighed, ‘Yeah. But I try not to think about it.'”

I like the idea that the way God handles knowing the end from the beginning is just not thinking about it. I feel like I do that somehow. Avoid acknowledging what I know is true as it i could surprise myself.

I bought the book at a Goodwill for a quarter. I like buying used books, especially if someone has marked it up or written in it. Last night I found this inscribed on the opposite side of the title page:

“Dearest Pam
Welcome home,
within this book lies my truth-our truth
if you choose it to be.
We can and will become the dreams
we dream.
Remember my message with the orange?
Forever,
Me 96

If each life is but a moment it wasn’t long ago,
though the wood has turned to concrete
still the magick flows
and in the end it’s true – all things they do return
life a cosmic spiral, we climb, we fall, we learn. (welcome home)”

I wonder who is Pam? Who is me 96? Where was she coming home from? India? The Hospital? What was his (or her I guess) message with the orange?

In the preface the author writes about his belief in fate. He says, “we magnetize into our lives whatever we hold in our thought, for instance–if that is true, then somehow I have brought myself to this moment for a reason, and so have you. [Me 96 underlined that]; perhaps there’s something about these adventures that you came here to remember. I choose to think so.”

You can choose to think or you can choose to not think. I can choose my truth, or just avoid thinking about it. In fact, right now I’m choosing not to apply this practically to my life in anyway, letting it skim the surface of my interest without actually ingesting it.
I’m just too sick to my stomach to consume it. Too nauseated to move up the cosmic spiral staircase, if you will.
I’m just making a mental note to think about this later. After my brother brings me some gatorade and I’m not dehydrated anymore.

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Everyone is someone before they become who they are becoming.

People don’t start out the way they end up nor do they end up the way they start out.

The way they start out however in a large part determines how they will end up.

I don’t know how to start this entry, so I’ll go with…

Once upon a time…

there lived a little boy. Prone to clumsiness and full of curiosity and compassion, he found the world to at once be a constant obstacle, fascinating to the touch and full of tragedy and humor.

Bartholomew, was bright, and might be considered a jack of all trades. However, he was more importantly a master of none. Second place (and sometimes 4th or 5th) seemed to always be calling his name. Mediocrity haunted him following him every day like a dutiful, unrelenting shadow. He fenced, he studied, he painted, he strummed, he baked, but if not always failing he always fell short. Sometimes quite literally. He was not a lofty fellow.

Bartholomew indeed failed at everything but it wasn’t for lack of trying. And along the way he made many new friends. That he had a real knack for.

I have come into the possession of a large cedar chest full of Bartholomew’s things. A collection of varied sorts, paintbrushes, musical instruments, sports equipment, etc. I like to sift through it time and again and remind myself of what kind of a boy turns into a man like Bartholomew.

I suppose it wasn’t just who he was that predestined him to become who he became, it must have been a result of circumstance and situation too. Bartholomew’s father passed away when he was only 19. Cutting his childhood short. And tainting the rest of his life with a dismal gloom.

With every passing milestone, graduation, love, marriage his happiness was harnessed with a regret that his father was not there to see it. The first five years were the hardest.

Bart lost himself in every way imaginable. He was sorry that he would never be the way he once was. Bitter that loss and grief had robbed him of even himself.

I am certain, had he not already been who he was before his father’s passing, he would not have become who he became.

What may be reverenced in Bartholomew was his response to sorrow and grief. He allowed it to fill him from his head to his toes. Despair woke him some nights and every morning, it shadowed him rain or shine.

(to be continued)

to sit and stew

Tom O’Leery is a man who sits in front of the ruins of his home. He has been sitting there for 3 years. He sat down the morning after the storm and to my knowledge he has not gotten up since. The whole city used to look like his plot of land. No one escaped unscathed. We all lost something that night; homes, businesses, family, friends. If a stranger drove through our main street today though, they would never know that deep in the hearts of the people who lived here was a common hole that could never be filled. Like a painting you hang to cover a hole in the wall…everyone smiles and waves and gets on with life. Everyone rebuilt what they could and tried to make the best of a future that was headed somewhere different than where they’d originally planned.

Except for Tom O’ Leery, he didn’t lose as much as some did, although he didn’t have much to lose in the first place, just a dog and Joe. Tom had moved in with his best friend Joe after Joe’s divorce. The economy 30 years ago wasn’t what it is today. People had to bind together and help one another out. They farmed the land together and split the profits. It was only supposed to be temporary until Tom could get back on his feet, but I supposed they just preferred the company to being alone.

After the storm, Mr. O’Leery, as he was to me, just didn’t see the point. Didn’t see the point in climbing a mountain over and over again just to be pushed down each time you summit. He figured he only had a few months left in life, and if he lived any longer than that our country was waiting for the bombs to start falling like rain any day. Tom saw it on the news. The war was raging and no one knew how much longer we had.

I guess that’s why Tom didn’t start rebuilding with the rest of us. People were funny about him; and not all funny in the same way. Some felt so bad for him they just broke down into tears at the sight of him sitting on a pile of debris. Others were angry. I overheard a conversation once where a man asked his friends, “Who the hell does he think he is? He’s no better than the rest of us! He isn’t the only one who is hurting! Damn that selfish son of …” I suppose to some he was forcing us to think about what we were trying not to think about. Not altogether forget, just take a break from.

He just scared me. The way he just sat there starin’ at something only he could see. Lookin’ right through you; dead, but not all. I grew up just thinking about that man and learning what it means to have a spirit and have it be dead inside of you but your heart is still beating.