The Lost Pedestrian

After the massive explosion of the canyon of fire on the Sun earlier this week, all is quiet right now. 

could somebody tell me why writing has suddenly become like this scary thing to me?  is there something that triggered it? the idea of focusing upon something feels hugely impossible because i tend to stray somewhere else.

maybe i’ve become overly reliant upon text messaging, which is where I feel I am at my best. What is up with that?

but even there, focus is difficult to maintain. i have one friend who keeps pointing out to me that I am repeating something i had already said 5 texts before that, on the same day, within the same hour. Or if I express amusement at something she said, she points out that she is simply repeating something I said earlier in the conversation, of which i have no memory.

maybe it’s a good thing. the concept of tossing thoughts and words out into the stratosphere and then completely forgetting about them. another form of non-possesssivenes, egolessness, which is something i always strive toward.

maybe i am getting too good at non-possessiveness. maybe it’s not really all that it’s made out to be. maybe the best thing would be for me to return to smoking weed as I did ages ago…. when I really had focus.

sometimes when you are focusing upon your survival, as you navigate from one breath to the next, it’s easy to lose sight of all that surrounds you. all of the people who keep you afloat. if you could be just like them, that would solve everything.

as the plane began its descent to Minnesota, the pilot announced his apologies for the turbulence. i wish i could have told him that, really, he had nothing to feel sorry about. if anyone was to blame, it was The Wind. but i was convinced that not even this would reassure the pilot. what could i do to help him through this?

if he were flying alone, the concept of “turbulence” would never have occurred to him. he might feel less self-reproach, which would have awakened a greater sense of affinity with The Wind. there would be no passengers such as myself around to worry about. and maybe if there were no passengers, he might not feel so inclined to wander from one quadrant to the next. he could build a home here, make friends, learn how to cook, build a cathedral, rescue greyhounds, find a partner, find a calling, learn Italian, unlearn everything he had no use for.

Please stop apologizing, I called out, but not in a scolding way.

i am trying to feel more hopeful about things in a way that feels genuine. not as a way to sidestep around a history of losses and disappointments i feel powerless to overcome. not as a pretend hopefulness that cannot acknowledge this history.

but i am not sure what to do with this history. it confounds me. i want it to be something else. i want it to not be. anywhere. there is no place for a history such as this.

i just want to be lighter. I want to shed it all.

somewhere, under the sky, i ceased to feel alone. it was a watershed moment. there was nothing to eclipse it. i thought, what if this moment were taken away? I would have no idea how to replace it, not one. It’s best just to be in it.

i knew there would be emptiness in the days following the closing of my performance, but i did not quite expect the emptiness to be quite so emptying. it’s like the performance never existed. nothing magical, nothing transforming, no major shifts have occurred. the performance was this joyous aspiration. but now i am back on earth and dealing with taxes and medical appointments and job interviews and possible relocations, and delayed flights, and missed connections with flights and humans,  all of the elements that converge into Samsara, and the perpetual search for liberation from the constraints of all of my protective mechanisms.

my stomach seems to be making its way through the day without any excess delusions. now i am just hoping the rest of me will follow that lead.

have you ever been so spell bound by beauty that you don’t quite know what to do with it because you can’t contain it all? and it needs some sort of outlet for expression. but it’s so difficult to identify, to pinpoint, what that outlet would be, because it feels like it is so far beyond your experiences and perceptions. it feels impossible. what do people do when they’re in these kinds of situations? and where do they go for help? if only i could help them.

“what will become of us when this performance is over?,” they shuddered to ask.

And I said, “which performance?”

Then they said, “The one we’re in.”

“What about the one you’re not in? Isn’t it a natural progression to move from one to the other?”

That feels really unnatural, they replied.

And I said, “I guess that’s what makes it a performance.”

tonight, i’ve been trying to figure out ways for me to pay people back who have given me things. and it feels impossible. my resources are so scarce and i ask for so much and i like to think that someday i can return the favors, maybe not today or tomorrow. but someday. at least i hope i can.

i don’t think it would be very wise to stop asking or to stop receiving. i am only composed of what i have been given. without them, i would be utterly bereft of everything. of most things.

but somewhere along the way it would be very wise for me to give. i hope i can. i hope i am up to the task. to the challenge. there’s a lot to live up to. i hope i can do it. i want to just say i can.