My worst 4 days

(backstory) I have always reviled hospitals for nearly as long as I can remember. The cold, lackluster halls drenched in a sterile stench that draws on the soul- like a cord to the blinds. When I was in high school, a dear friend of mine was placed in one for having the condition of bipolar disorder, and though I did not understand, I empathised and shared a burden that was not mine. His pain was my pain, but my sanity remained my own for me to lose at another turn.

It has been three years now, in a life measured in three year cycles, since I made the turn that landed me in a similar position: locked behind double doors with nothing to do but walk the circular hallway and sip on a variety of carbonated drinks. It was then that I fully understood the burden which had been heaped upon my good-natured friend. The hours were long, still they are long, and the numbness, induced by the combination of medication and sterile air, induced tremors and constipated thought (mostly it was the medication). It was the furthest from myself I have ever traveled. It was the absolute worst 4 days of my life. I often complain that life is cage; that the rules we live by constrict us so much that I am often bewildered that we do not suffocate; but when I remember these days, even with great languishing and shallow breaths, I understand that, given a choice between the two cages, I have yet to suffocate here.

Life got you down??

Yeah, I've been there, in the not too distant past-ever not so distant past. May I advise for your consumption a honey packet or two to start your morning off a little sweeter, a little slower- the lower me would say life is long enough without slowing it down any. True, life is long, but it is the enjoyment that seems to shorten the distance, the sweetness that slower steps would allow us to enjoy all the more. So a honey packet or two should do; a honey packet or two.

On a side note: I'm listening to Peter Cincotti's rendition of "Rainbow Connection" and I can't stop picturing a young Kermit on a log in the intro to "Swamp Years"

Sanded Wood

I am hickory split from the tree: odd in shape and texture, and as hard as I may try to bend my vision to suit my shape, I am still oddly complex and difficult to find a place amongst the whittled and sanded timbers- guided and leveled and nailed into place. I don't really know why I'm writing this, I think I'm merely trying to work my way around a poem, the beginnings of which formed in the faint hours of starlight:
The carpenter works to a sanded board/ never an enigmatic smile adored
true it doesn't make much sense, but often I attribute this to the mixture of several unmixable ideas- such as blue, red, and yellow (making brown) when you're trying for a faded violet, or earthy orange or green- never sure which color you really wish to use, so you end up with all of them.
It reminds me of a line from a Remy Zero song, "we're built from the old frames"

Have you ever seen the bark of a tree to flow like a river (up and it's the Nile, down and its much less intriguing) or do you only see a trunk, a shield, if it were Norse, from the weather?

Smile...

Denial,
Anger,
Bargaining,
Depression,
Acceptance,

This comes to light after certain thought- concerted thought, about the behavior I've been exhibiting, and brought to the front of my mind with the passing of my Aunt's father. I did not know him well, but he seemed of the friendly sort as we would often intermingle at larger family events- usually surrounding the holidays.

I am trying to transition from 4 to 5 but find it difficult as certain ideas remain unanswered, such as: is it all in my mind. My mind is an elaborate mixture, perhaps concocted by some mad scientist, or it is the result of my giving it free reign- allowing it to wander where it pleases as opposed to controlling the line of thought. It is my nature to see the worst, and believe it, regardless of whether the continuity of events supports it.

thank you

I wish to extend thanks to anyone who may have read even the glimmer of a letter here on my blog. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I feel I have nothing left to say that may bear any consequence on future events. Although I believe in hope, seeing it daily, and bear a faint hope that someday I may stumble upon some words, or that the wind may carry them to me lightly and with the fresh scent of spring, I also believe that they shall not be transcribed here. Thank you again, and though I know you are few, there is only that much more thanks to be divided amongst you.

The Mirror Grave

Samuel Oliveri had trouble sleeping. It always starts this way, and with the haunting dreams. He had found that the only remedy worth pursuing were midnight walks around town. It was quiet and calm, and the heavy air of the night seemed to slow his mind enough to allow an adequate amount of sleep.

The city’s greenway trail, though not really green, cut through the southern corner of the cemetery. It never troubled him before, nor did it this night, until he approached a peculiar headstone that he had not seen before. It was on the edge of the greenway and stood alone, away from the others. As he approached it he read the inscription with great wonder. The granite headstone reflected his name: Samuel W. Oliveri, there were no dates, no in memoriam, no last words.

The grass grew plentiful beneath the moon-cast shadow, thick and leaning over from the weight of the dew. Leaning lightly against the headstone was a spade shovel with a wooden handle, slightly worn, and it begged as it stood there to be used, and he begged from the inside wanting only to know. It would be hours before the sun would lighten the sky, and there was nobody to be seen walking around.

The shovel felt proper in his hands, as if it were his own, the same one he had used to tend to his garden at home. With a thrust downward he stabbed at the soil, then hesitated before pulling back on the handle leveraging up the soil so unfortunate to be chosen first. The hole started small and grew wider and deeper in an awkward manner- as if there was no real intent, just a raucous digging. But deeper and wider the hole became, and the mounds of soil placed on either side of the headstone grew proportionally bigger. The shovel made an awful broken sound when it hit bottom, and was cast up and over the ledge onto a patch of dirty grass after Samuel remove what he could from atop the casket. Kneeling down, he brushed the layer of dirt off to the side as he searched for an opening.

The casket was simple but sturdy, and he was unsure of what he would find. A thousand images flashed through his mind as to what the outcome of the next moments would be. His heart palpitated. His throat clamped down. His breaths became shallow and forced. His eyes widened as his hand found the latch, and when his fingers began to pull- at this point he tried to stop but his hand was in control- he shut his eyes tighter than he did as a child in the dark. Only the top half opened. He slowly, squeamishly, began to open his eyes and turn away in disgust before even he could see. The casket was empty, but contained this oddity: the bottom of the casket was a mirror, and as he looked at it, befuddled and amazed, his face attained a slight smile only the moment after his heart gave out.

another week

Another week has passed in seemingly slow motion. I fear I may be living in a school zone, in fact, there is one around the corner- James Whitcomb Riley Elementary, I think the name is a disservice to the namesake, almost like creating an Albert Einstein pre-school. My taskboard, created to own preformed ideas for writing, is doing nothing to encourage me to write. It sits idle above my desk nearly filled- Winter bloom; A steeple in the distance; Hold the line; Sickle and Wheat; Linear Causality and Spatial relationships; A weathered copper soul; and several other ideas. I have, on top of my file cabinet, a few unfinished poems; at night they cry for attention, but I am heartless towards them, and deride them under my breath as I try to go to sleep.
At work on Friday the tension of the workers was high. A rumour had been floated that it would be known as "black friday"- the day when the corporate structure would be lightened by 80 or so bodies- for the most part, I knew it to be untrue, having knowledge that this day won't come until the end of March, but I still waited to see if I would receive word of my departure. I almost hoped for it, and still do. It isn't that I dislike my job, in fact, of all the positions I've held, it is the most enjoyable, but still... it is something to consider.
My Sunday shows only disturbed me. I reached the point of trying to go back to bed, with hopes of starting my day all over at a later time, but I was already awake, and nothing can be done for the morning once it arrives; nothing can be done for the mourning once it dies. (?) I'm not sure what that's about, perhaps my own meaning can be revealed at a later time; a drawback to writing without concerted thought.

Leaning the other way

Today I had planned on railing against logic but, instead, I shall lean the other way, having doubts about my own: in understanding that I may be the only one who thinks the way I do- who reasons the way I do- I have decided that, according to the common logic, I must be wrong. So now, having to rebuild the mental algorithms and synapses of the brain, I digress into mental oblivion: a wasteland of lucidity and doubt.

So the other way shall we. I stayed at my parents' last night, coming home to a powerless home (man, the analogies never cease!), I wanted coffee and was in no position to fulfill my desires (shaking my head). I stepped outside to smoke around 10 or 11 and while sitting on the back steps I was frightened when an owl glided from a set of trees the border the property up to the peak of roof that runs the depth of the garage. I should not have been startled, having planned for his arrival-the hoots had continued for some time- but the stealth of the owl never fails to surprise: ninjas of the night sky. Shall I take it as omen? Or shall I simply, as the Beatles sang, "let it be." I shall break the chain of events to let you know that this isn't the first time this has happened to me in exactly the same spot, also I have been stared down, in this exact location, by a peregrine falcon who had made its way to an antanae located above the same peak. But I can't let anything be, it is not in my nature. If ever there was a chance to go internal with a sledghammer, I would take it. Archaeology of the self is not nearly as delicate as dealing with dwindling carbon. So I took the bait- again I am a sucker for that line and reel- and decided to look up several omens and dream interpretations. So here is the owl (its application has limited value):

Stupid Nova

The best/worst thing about getting older has to be the increasing affinity for programs such as Nova and those on the History Channel and NatGeo. Last night I was sucked in to the Nova program on the debate between Evolution and Intelligent Design. I am sure, assuming you have read my blog, that you know where I stand. But frequently in such instances when this debate is raging, the first ammendment is thrown into the mix (The applicable section reads, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;") Now, I am not a student of law, and my level of intelligence seems to diminish with each passing day, but I liken this portion of the first ammendment to sugar and tea. Often this is referred to as the separation of church and state, and I believe this does mean a mutual exclusion the way it is written, I find the sugar and tea to be a more ideal analogy. Sugar is religion and tea is government. You do not want to put tea in the sugar bowl because you will ruin the sugar, but occasionally you put some sugar in your tea. I think the problem with this clause, in these times, is that too many people enjoy want their tea without sugar.

Impossibility...

one of my all time favorites

youtube... remy zero impossibility

The way it has to be.

Today I was driving down to my parents' home, to pick up my new phone, listening to the droll voices of talk radio and drifting in and out of thoughts, like a fish unsure of taking the bait. I'm a sucker, of course I bit, but here are the thoughts of that catch:

I have heard people discuss the implications of prophecies, both of God and men (most notably Nostradamus), and frequently in these discussions the debate ensues about whether they are destined to be, or merely warnings so that we may turn our course. Inevitably someone will state that these are warnings for our benefit, that we may glance upon ourselves as a race and determine that the road we're heading down leads to destruction, change, and continue on. But I must tell you that, at least in my view, and I cannot speak on all prophetics, the prophecies of both God and Nostradamus are destined to be. They cannot be changed or manipulated (of course agreement is based upon a basic understanding that God exists). This is because a fundamental purpose of the prophecies revealed to the prophets of biblical times by God is to turn the hearts of men to him; to provide proof of his existence. Also, in keeping with the above understanding, God created the stars by which Nostradamus came to his quattrains (Genesis 1:14 allows the lights of the sky to be for signs), so we could accept Nostradamus as someone who had a great understanding of the design of the universe, being able to discern the signs of the skies and thus being the plan laid out from the beginning. So, you see, everything that is has been planned, at least in a general sense, and the things to come are destined to be, so that as time goes on, more may come unto Him, seeing the things He has done.

Two Wishes

I have two secret wishes, though, I suspect, they are secrets no longer; one is to be a tree, the other is to be a superhero. It occurs to me that they are connected on a fundamental level, at least in the way my logic functions. In my very first post, I believe, I attached my 'study of tree,' and find its content sufficient for this cause. I often slip into daydream of the things I might be able to do, things far beyond the acceptance of mind; to touch the brick of a hospital and heal all within, to fly, to comfort, to protect, to uphold justice, to feed and clothe, and remain anonymous behind a cleverly unwrapped persona. There are times when I feel so close to these ideas, these dreams, that I sit and wait to levitate from my resting place and begin a new task, a new phase. But alas (sigh), I sit firmly planted- a victim of gravity- and slowly grind away from the inside.
Every spring, before the leaves bud, I renew hope that this year I will be unshackled and sprout in season, bear fruit in season, and lose my leaves in turn.

The Pristine Brothers

In reflection upon my recent ideological binge (drinking provides too much of a hangover), I noticed a symmetry, and decided to share:

Philosophy is like newtonian physics in that there is a special set of circumstances separate from everyday life that are needed to make them true. They are classical music in a world where jazz is the rule. They are perfect and pristine in their place, but when offbeat life is applied they seem both immaculate and implausible.

It is easy enough to disect life into its separate parts, maintaining a level of emotional detachment, and step, one foot then the other, up onto a soapbox and preach as if the truth flowed from your lips (pen) and your words could make everything right in the world. I know this statement to be true by the uncountable numbers that have done precisely that, and those that still do, but life (ideological statment to follow), for everyman, is an unexplored land where his path is determined every second, with every step, and the only thing he may know is the direction in which he travels. "I would like to go that-a-way."

The Past and Linear Causality

"... to know a thing's nature is to know the reason why it is..." - Aristotle

Certainly it is safe to presume that we were all born, and from that moment, even before that moment, from before conception, a line of causality originates, veering off from the intersection of two lines (mother and father), here a third line starts, you as the observer of your own life. Every moment of everyday is a cause, for we are all influenced by everything, consciously or subconsciously. Not only does what you do have impact, but also what you think, because thought, necessarily, is the basis of action and reaction. We must also note that the way you experience something is a cause of how future experinces will be reacted to or acted upon. The actions of others, even their presence, are causes, the effects of which may not be known immediately. But a person is not capable of weeding through all the causes of their situation, but can understand the larger scope of their linear direction, and plot a course for the future, thereby having some idea of what may become of their life.

First, one must understand who they are (an eternal question), and how they respond to stimuli or causes, and then presume to understand the causes of their current state of being. Progression, regression, and decadence; often applied to social stages, these ideas can be applied to the individual within a society, also a cause, as the issues immediate to that society also contribute to the thoughts of a person. Account must be taken of those things which have not provided an accounting of cause. Then plot away, and determine if this is where you wish to go, much like navigating a ship.

Take time from a day to think upon your situation, upon the events, even the small ones, of that day, of previous days, and imagine the ways it has contributed to your path. No man can see with precision the things that lay ahead, but he can, by seeking out to cause, change the way he reacts; thus helping to steer his own ship, rather than be driven by another. (for some reason I keep coming back to the ship metaphor). But, to tie in the quote at the top, to know where you're going, in general terms, is to know the general effect you'll cause; the nature of your being, and, finally, why you are.

Have you ever hoped for flying cars? They're called airplanes. The future is here!! :)

Ship to sail

Baton down the hatches, cast off the mooring lines, and man the helm. The ship is heading to sea, with victuals stored and a mind to search it out, to seek out a share. The winds may blow, the waves may crash or be calm, but what eye has seen the sea so deep the surface appears black? So vast that the land becomes forgotten? Two things may come of a man on such a journey, either he will find himself, there in the depths and vastness or he will be eternally lost, crushed beneath the weight of his worries.
I have been to such a place, and felt complete for that brief moment. Though I was surrounded by people, I was alone (Alone with Everybody is the title to an album I enjoy). There was a serenity, a peace, and a purity of thought which I have been unable to duplicate. There were no shadows of consequence, just a man and his own thoughts, his own truths, and the shackles of his own creation.

This Experiment of Life

A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions--as attempts to find out something. Success and failure are for him answers above all. -Frederich Nietzsche

The light of day casts shadows about truth, and night envelopes all in shade, so how, then, are we to decide the truth of a matter? Patience, I suppose... waiting, for in the completeness of a day all areas see light as the shadow moves from west to east, the sun from east to west. The shadow is not the tree, and the tree not the light, but, in time, all may be viewed in their fullness. It may be for this reason that I enjoy time-lapse photography.

I live out my wildest fantasies in my head, honestly it is the only place where it should occur for me- I am a victim of fear, bound by the chains and shackles. But, it is also in my head that I am a victim of torture, my own sort of punishment, creating my own hell, my own heaven, here inside me. I have visualized more than my share. The colors go from dim to vivid like the opening of an umbrella, but no sunny day will destroy- for the need is not there, but a windy, rainy day will ruin your umbrella-your protection- and then you're left to be soaked by the rain, and beaten by the wind. I would like to think that this is an experiment, and I must formulate the hypothesis in my head. Only those theories which bear within them a glimmer of truth require me to proceed to the next step in the scientific method: testing. This belief is made all the more difficult with the understanding that in everything there is a truth, behind everything is a meaning. I have conversations with people in my head. No not fictitious people, people I know. It's how I socialize in solitude. Sometimes they provide guidance, other times consolation, and still other times are simply an annoyance.

Are humility and pride diametrically opposed? Or more like two parts of an equilateral triangle I should hope, as I consider myself to posess both traits.

the 10 minute storm

I was sitting at work today, swamped for most of it, but, finding a short lull, managed to slip away to the atrium to enjoy a fine winter display. The snow moved in like a fog from the west, barrelling down Indiana Avenue, and disseminated near-blizzard conditions for the better part of ten minutes. I stood at the window watching the flakes, larger than normal, dash and dive and lean on the wind current for strength. The buildings in the downtown area create havoc of even the mildest wind. I applied my vague knowledge of Brownian motion to their movements but couldn't come to a determination as to whether they were in pursuit or flight. There were lines of strong currents that moved the snowflakes entangled nearly horizontal to the ground. In contrast, just below the window, a pattern of lulls became apparent- like the beat of song. As the storm moved past, short clouds and blue sky, the seeds of a beautiful afternoon, began to stand at the origin of the storm, and just as quickly as it came, it departed, like an unwelcome guest who knows his time to leave. I went back to work in a solemn mood. I had lost a friend.

A Door with randomness

It is simple enough: place your hand on the handle and turn, while simultaneously pushing or pulling, depending on the architectural setup. Maybe it isn't so simple. Maybe the difficulty lies in the moment before the reach, before the turn, and before the push/pull.

I am always fascinated by doors. They come in a variety of flavors that would put Baskin-Robbins to shame. A door can be simple, elaborate, small, large, light, heavy, made from different materials of wood, metal, paper, or glass; but no matter the flavor, the purpose remains the same: separation.

A door provides entry and exit, and a path to and from. (Please forgive me, my thoughts have become convoluted. "The switch is on the wrong side.") To and from what? (instigating my own thought). Precisely, I say. Only a few can speak of the things the door has separated from us. But it is quite the predicament to find out what lay on the other side. Shall we submit to fear in those moments and hesitate, only to turn away? Or shall we be courageous, genius even?

I have often thought in these terms, and considered the notion of a door not seen- though I imagined it to be green with six inlaid panels- sitting in the middle of your yard, connecting the world with the water, a sort of pathway, bearing in mind Plato's philosophy of Forms. The door lies in the middle of your yard, unlocked, waiting for you to enter, waiting to expose the wonders it conceals. (then I say) Is it yours? mine? or communal? I suppose it depends on whether you share your findings.

Randomness:
I do enjoy vails, and smoke, and the obscurity of thought.

The snow inches up the birch in pursuit
the birch leans, from the burden, over
the creek, over the idle fountain, and peels
under the mounting pressure, revealing
the softer side.

O sweet irony! the bitter taste
of swords and shields beaten back
by servants in far off places
run away with the masters' power.

The robin eyed me from a distance
standing on the foot of snow below the
crabtree-he expected the bloom
"Why so early?" I pondered
"I'm not early. I missed my flight."