a bittersweet journey
to a place that could never exist
lies repeated untold times
to me, by me, until I believed.
it's a place for two
difficult to reach
but worth the effort and pain
only if two want it enough.
another gray and lifeless dawn breaks
realization and surrender
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Dawn Breaks
Dawn breaks
And with it, my spirit
Prayers and dreams
Unanswered
Confusion, doubt
Settling slowly
Blanketing my heart
Suffocating
Gasping breath
I'm still alive !
Wallowing not an option
Determination
Hope arises
And with it, my spirit
Movement's the key
Forward
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Carnival Ride
I'm not a big fan of most carnival rides - or at least I wasn't. Many new things appeal to me now, so who knows ? I didn't mind the occasional run down the Log Flume, or the Tilt-a-Whirl, or White Water Rafting, but nothing really intense. Nothing that flips me upside down or rushes me towards my death at the bottom of a roller-coaster.
Lately, I've had this recurrent dream, or snippets of a dream. There's a ride called "The Roundup". It's a circular ride. You stand up and hold some bars next to you. I'm sure there is a belt or a bar or something in front of you as well. The wheel starts to spin around, faster and faster, and the centrifugal force starts to press you back against the wall behind you.
If you concentrate, the people across from you are still in focus, because they are moving at the same rate of speed. Then, to add to the drama, the bottom starts to open and the wheel tilts, and images creep into your mind about falling out of the bottom if the wheel suddenly slows or stops. The whirring gears below you look like the teeth of some ravenous dinosaur just waiting for the first tasty snack to drop in.
As you strain against the G-force and to turn your head to either side to compare your level of uncertainty with your neighbor, your eyes are distracted from their focus by images of other rides and faces and lights whipping by. And now even that person across the way, traveling at the exact same speed as you are, starts to blur.
My dream doesn't end there, however. Suddenly, my handles start to recede into the wall behind me. The restraints unbuckle themselves and follow the handles. The ride is spinning faster now, and I feel the forces starting to tug me towards the upper edge of the wall behind me. I start to panic about being sling-shotted up and out of the ride, and come crashing down through the top of a large tent, killing not only myself, but a poor unsuspecting throng watching the 4-H junior pig raising competition, including the blue medal winner, Peggy Ann and her beloved pig Adelaide Marie.
Somehow, I suspect that this dream isn't too literal. As far as I know and believe, I will never again go on such a ride (allowing for the slight possibilities indicated in sentences one and two above). I suspect it has something to do with the fact that my life feels like it is spinning out of control, and I can't find my own handles to grab a hold and save myself from being unceremoniously tossed onto the hard pavement of life. Somehow, I need to program this dream to include the bit about looking to either side, where I will find my family and friends along for the ride. And look down to see that they have already grabbed my hands, and collar, and belt, and secured me against an untimely demise.
I'm starting to think that, the scarier the ride, the more I need to let go of the handles. And trust.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Someone's Pain
It is said that the realization that you're losing the person you love more than anyone or anything you've ever known is excruciating. That doing so through a slow process of evaporation of feelings, and a leakage of those comfortable moments that were so special, is the worst pain imaginable. And that the anguish is only magnified when that love never had the chance it deserved to blossom.
The pain is described as a choking, claustrophobic, systematic crushing of your heart, like a boa constrictor squeezing the life and love out of your soul. And as this love slips further and further away, it is replaced by a yawning emptiness and desolation, like some snowy wind swept plateau in the Antarctic.
Your tears are gone again, the ducts dried out from overuse. All that remains is the shaking, and sobbing, and gagging, and dry heaving, whose ugly sounds echo through your emotional cell and keep you company.
They say that you feel like there is no hope ahead - no vision of a future filled with happiness. The planets were all aligned, your lottery numbers came in, the tumblers fell into place and the locks around your heart opened for the first time ever. God blessed you with this unimaginably special person in your life, only to pull her slowly away to remind you of the lesson your cancer was supposed to have taught you - to serve the one you vowed to, even if it was a mistake.
Oh, you know there may be some small smiles ahead, maybe grandchildren and a few more weddings. A funny movie perhaps. And you will both remain dear and trusted friends. But nothing will ever again reach that place that is in us all, the one that radiates with joy merely being in that special someone's presence, with no words or gestures needed. You just know that is where you are supposed to be.
It seems that looking back becomes less painful than the void ahead. Numbness eventually becomes it's own perverted kind of comfort, to be shared with the one next to you, like some furtive glance to a stranger you pass in a dark, rain soaked, debris filled back alley.
In a pattern all too familiar in a jaded world; fear and uncertainty have conquered love again, and two people that should be happy aren't.
To paraphrase a military term, your life, your head, your heart and this world are FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all reality. Hope is anathema. This is all there is.
So it's said. Hopefully, it's only heresay.
The pain is described as a choking, claustrophobic, systematic crushing of your heart, like a boa constrictor squeezing the life and love out of your soul. And as this love slips further and further away, it is replaced by a yawning emptiness and desolation, like some snowy wind swept plateau in the Antarctic.
Your tears are gone again, the ducts dried out from overuse. All that remains is the shaking, and sobbing, and gagging, and dry heaving, whose ugly sounds echo through your emotional cell and keep you company.
They say that you feel like there is no hope ahead - no vision of a future filled with happiness. The planets were all aligned, your lottery numbers came in, the tumblers fell into place and the locks around your heart opened for the first time ever. God blessed you with this unimaginably special person in your life, only to pull her slowly away to remind you of the lesson your cancer was supposed to have taught you - to serve the one you vowed to, even if it was a mistake.
Oh, you know there may be some small smiles ahead, maybe grandchildren and a few more weddings. A funny movie perhaps. And you will both remain dear and trusted friends. But nothing will ever again reach that place that is in us all, the one that radiates with joy merely being in that special someone's presence, with no words or gestures needed. You just know that is where you are supposed to be.
It seems that looking back becomes less painful than the void ahead. Numbness eventually becomes it's own perverted kind of comfort, to be shared with the one next to you, like some furtive glance to a stranger you pass in a dark, rain soaked, debris filled back alley.
In a pattern all too familiar in a jaded world; fear and uncertainty have conquered love again, and two people that should be happy aren't.
To paraphrase a military term, your life, your head, your heart and this world are FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all reality. Hope is anathema. This is all there is.
So it's said. Hopefully, it's only heresay.
Awake !
My eyes snap open. My first groggy sensation is the dull ache in my right shoulder. My night time companion has failed me again. She knows that she is supposed to press against me, comforting me, and keep me from rolling too far over on my shoulder. Was it something I said that struck the wrong chord; a perceived slight ? Indifference to my condition ? Did I unknowingly get too familiar in the middle of the night and she wasn't in the mood to be poked ? Sometimes she just lays there like a pillow !
I roll to my back, realizing that nature has put in an early morning alarm to recycle. The room is very dark, the way I like to sleep. Black plastic sheeting covers my bedroom window, efficiently doing its job of shielding me from the bright porch light placed considerately right outside.
Slowly, I sit up and drop my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the time on my cell phone. 4:11 am. Sudden disorientation. The dark that allows me to sleep better, also robs me of any visual clue on awakening. Where did I sleep tonight ? The trazadone that enables me to sleep worry-free contributes to my confusion at this hour. Am I in my own bed, in my cozy little apartment? Am I at the house? While auto-pilot can negotiate me safely with my eyes closed to either recycling facility, the paths are quite different. Turn on the light stupid. Remember that time early on in this adventure, when you you carefully took the required three steps to the right to avoid the bed's corner post, so thoroughly rehearsed over 20 years, and walked straight into the closed, mirrored closet door of your apartment. Turn on the light, stupid !
At least this once, I practice what I preach, and gratefully recognize the confines of my little abode. I stand up, squinting against the light, and take care of business, wanting to get back under the covers before I wake up too much. I return, switch off the light, and it feels even warmer under the covers after the short trip has cooled my skin. Mmmmm, I love falling back asleep even more than falling asleep.
Too late. The fog is lifting, and ghostly apparitions start to materialize out of the mist, like Ingrid Bergman walking up to Humphrey Bogart near the end of Casablanca. As the images come into focus, they start to queue up chaotically, menacingly, like the 3:00 am crowd in front of Best Buy on Black Friday. There's Perry's email to Joe about a certificate, and reissuing that bond. Then the decaying bottom panels of the garage door, and that rep from Bank of America seeing if we want to refinance yet. Then the pastor, holding the hand of Cynthia, next to Sue, who can't hold hands with anyone as she carries a sign that says "How did that make you feel" followed by a gaggle of people all with the same name tag that says "Relationship Issues". Mike and his lawyer. Unseen people still in the mist shouting something about 10 salted and two plain to stand 115, and the idiot who stacks his greasy pans on top of the clean ones. I can see that the line continues, but it is increasingly shrouded by the fog once you get past "greasy". I have a strong twist in my gut that says the line is long and antsy.
Damn it. I stand on my toes to peer over the top of this crowd, trying to find a friendly face, or someone holding up a poster of a nice beach or mountain stream. I strain to hear a beautiful guitar melody floating on the wind, but it's drowned out by the loud murmur of the crowd, and which is getting threateningly close to a roar.
Nope, there will be no more sleep this morning. it's now 4:45 and I've looked at this mob long enough. I get up, resigned to my fate for another day. And I vow, again, to deal with these things and people clamoring for my attention one-at-a-time, and I remind myself I'm only human, and not alone in this condition.
Oh, but there is one significant difference this morning. I got up, and made a cup of coffee, and sat down to write this little story. Looking at it in black and white, static, quiet and clear, makes the day a little less scary.
I roll to my back, realizing that nature has put in an early morning alarm to recycle. The room is very dark, the way I like to sleep. Black plastic sheeting covers my bedroom window, efficiently doing its job of shielding me from the bright porch light placed considerately right outside.
Slowly, I sit up and drop my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the time on my cell phone. 4:11 am. Sudden disorientation. The dark that allows me to sleep better, also robs me of any visual clue on awakening. Where did I sleep tonight ? The trazadone that enables me to sleep worry-free contributes to my confusion at this hour. Am I in my own bed, in my cozy little apartment? Am I at the house? While auto-pilot can negotiate me safely with my eyes closed to either recycling facility, the paths are quite different. Turn on the light stupid. Remember that time early on in this adventure, when you you carefully took the required three steps to the right to avoid the bed's corner post, so thoroughly rehearsed over 20 years, and walked straight into the closed, mirrored closet door of your apartment. Turn on the light, stupid !
At least this once, I practice what I preach, and gratefully recognize the confines of my little abode. I stand up, squinting against the light, and take care of business, wanting to get back under the covers before I wake up too much. I return, switch off the light, and it feels even warmer under the covers after the short trip has cooled my skin. Mmmmm, I love falling back asleep even more than falling asleep.
Too late. The fog is lifting, and ghostly apparitions start to materialize out of the mist, like Ingrid Bergman walking up to Humphrey Bogart near the end of Casablanca. As the images come into focus, they start to queue up chaotically, menacingly, like the 3:00 am crowd in front of Best Buy on Black Friday. There's Perry's email to Joe about a certificate, and reissuing that bond. Then the decaying bottom panels of the garage door, and that rep from Bank of America seeing if we want to refinance yet. Then the pastor, holding the hand of Cynthia, next to Sue, who can't hold hands with anyone as she carries a sign that says "How did that make you feel" followed by a gaggle of people all with the same name tag that says "Relationship Issues". Mike and his lawyer. Unseen people still in the mist shouting something about 10 salted and two plain to stand 115, and the idiot who stacks his greasy pans on top of the clean ones. I can see that the line continues, but it is increasingly shrouded by the fog once you get past "greasy". I have a strong twist in my gut that says the line is long and antsy.
Damn it. I stand on my toes to peer over the top of this crowd, trying to find a friendly face, or someone holding up a poster of a nice beach or mountain stream. I strain to hear a beautiful guitar melody floating on the wind, but it's drowned out by the loud murmur of the crowd, and which is getting threateningly close to a roar.
Nope, there will be no more sleep this morning. it's now 4:45 and I've looked at this mob long enough. I get up, resigned to my fate for another day. And I vow, again, to deal with these things and people clamoring for my attention one-at-a-time, and I remind myself I'm only human, and not alone in this condition.
Oh, but there is one significant difference this morning. I got up, and made a cup of coffee, and sat down to write this little story. Looking at it in black and white, static, quiet and clear, makes the day a little less scary.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Cold and Dreary December
A late fall rain is cascading from the sky. The air is chilled already, seemingly ahead of schedule for a North Carolina December; the cold dampness seems to penetrate my jacket as easily as a breeze through a window screen, and settle directly into my bones.
The December chill finds comfort and companionship inside me. It's not alone. It meets and is befriended by a cold and dreary depression that has also settled into my being, soaking into bones and tissue, heart and soul. Like a stalled weather front, it slowly rotates but never seems to really move on to the next place.
My life and path at times seem like a weather report; my predictions for improving conditions no more accurate. The report says partly cloudy, and I base my day's journey on that assumption. But I never look out my window onto the world to see that it is already raining and prepare accordingly.
Occasionally, an unexpected warm front will come through, in the form of a hug, or words from a friend or loved one. Or perhaps a beautiful piece of music or nature will be lying in my emotional storm's path and disrupt the eye of the hurricane for a while, until it re-organizes and gains strength again.
All I can do is prepare for today's emotional weather, and get through this cold, dreary December and the wintry months that are sure to follow. I can choose to surrender myself to the penetrating cold, and fade slowly from consciousness into an emotional coma. Or I can wrap myself in the warm and comforting blankets of friends and family, while continuing to search for renewable ways to generate my own warmth.
The emotional joys of Spring are out there ahead of me. The calendar dictates the start of Spring as a date certain, but it doesn't guaranty the conditions. I'm looking ahead to an early Spring, with gentle spring rains, and warm breezes; new life and wonderful smells, and the blossoming colors of happiness among the tulips and daffodils, and violets.
The December chill finds comfort and companionship inside me. It's not alone. It meets and is befriended by a cold and dreary depression that has also settled into my being, soaking into bones and tissue, heart and soul. Like a stalled weather front, it slowly rotates but never seems to really move on to the next place.
My life and path at times seem like a weather report; my predictions for improving conditions no more accurate. The report says partly cloudy, and I base my day's journey on that assumption. But I never look out my window onto the world to see that it is already raining and prepare accordingly.
Occasionally, an unexpected warm front will come through, in the form of a hug, or words from a friend or loved one. Or perhaps a beautiful piece of music or nature will be lying in my emotional storm's path and disrupt the eye of the hurricane for a while, until it re-organizes and gains strength again.
All I can do is prepare for today's emotional weather, and get through this cold, dreary December and the wintry months that are sure to follow. I can choose to surrender myself to the penetrating cold, and fade slowly from consciousness into an emotional coma. Or I can wrap myself in the warm and comforting blankets of friends and family, while continuing to search for renewable ways to generate my own warmth.
The emotional joys of Spring are out there ahead of me. The calendar dictates the start of Spring as a date certain, but it doesn't guaranty the conditions. I'm looking ahead to an early Spring, with gentle spring rains, and warm breezes; new life and wonderful smells, and the blossoming colors of happiness among the tulips and daffodils, and violets.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Love & Music
Love. Music.
The lives of two people run along together, following a melody that can change from brooding to light-hearted and back. Or linger through a single theme or mood for an entire piece. Perhaps a melancholy sound suggesting introspection while gazing at the leaves of fall, or a bright spirited piece reminiscent of giggling while playing hooky on a beautiful spring day.
The song of love may start and stay as a soft, leisurely adagio. Comfortable. Familiar. Continuous. Or it may escalate into a crescendo of emotions, then suddenly fall off and fade. The possibilities and combinations, like songs, are countless.
The common usage of the word "vibes" in modern vernacular is most often used to describe the comfort level between people, such as "I had a good vibe about Charlie". The syncopation of "vibrations" between two people defines the relationship. So what the heck does this have to do with music and love ?
All musical instruments - in one way or another, depend on vibrations to create sound. Percussion, strings and wind instruments create sound waves by vibrating the air around them, and the speed of the vibration determines the note. When a chord is struck, different strings vibrate at different speeds, and when the notes are complimentary, produce a beautiful , resonant sound. When two of the same notes are struck together, even in different octaves, their vibrations feed off of each other, sustaining the vibrations and notes longer than two different ones.
Now think of friendship, or romance. Two people meet, and at first, they are each playing their own notes, tying to find a common melody. Attempting to match tempo and mood. Eventually, they hit some common notes together. Perhaps randomly at first, but steadily more and more commonalities are discovered, and melodies merge into a new theme, parts familiar to each but new as one. When they are together, their vibrations seem to merge, minds and bodies echoing each other, the harmony is palpable, words and emotions flow like a waterfall symphony.
Music. Love. Harmony.
The lives of two people run along together, following a melody that can change from brooding to light-hearted and back. Or linger through a single theme or mood for an entire piece. Perhaps a melancholy sound suggesting introspection while gazing at the leaves of fall, or a bright spirited piece reminiscent of giggling while playing hooky on a beautiful spring day.
The song of love may start and stay as a soft, leisurely adagio. Comfortable. Familiar. Continuous. Or it may escalate into a crescendo of emotions, then suddenly fall off and fade. The possibilities and combinations, like songs, are countless.
The common usage of the word "vibes" in modern vernacular is most often used to describe the comfort level between people, such as "I had a good vibe about Charlie". The syncopation of "vibrations" between two people defines the relationship. So what the heck does this have to do with music and love ?
All musical instruments - in one way or another, depend on vibrations to create sound. Percussion, strings and wind instruments create sound waves by vibrating the air around them, and the speed of the vibration determines the note. When a chord is struck, different strings vibrate at different speeds, and when the notes are complimentary, produce a beautiful , resonant sound. When two of the same notes are struck together, even in different octaves, their vibrations feed off of each other, sustaining the vibrations and notes longer than two different ones.
Now think of friendship, or romance. Two people meet, and at first, they are each playing their own notes, tying to find a common melody. Attempting to match tempo and mood. Eventually, they hit some common notes together. Perhaps randomly at first, but steadily more and more commonalities are discovered, and melodies merge into a new theme, parts familiar to each but new as one. When they are together, their vibrations seem to merge, minds and bodies echoing each other, the harmony is palpable, words and emotions flow like a waterfall symphony.
Music. Love. Harmony.
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