Famous Last Words

I've been wondering something, from the time we learn to speak until the day we die, how many words does the average person say?  I mean we talk and talk and talk and talk, filling up the ozone.  Secretly hoping that in those syllables, we've said something worthwhile.  But we know the truth, most of what we say is trash.


When someone dies, we look at the last thing he or she said, in hopes of finding a summation of life. A deep truth that those of us above ground can cling to.   Like the novelist Daniel Defoe, "I do not know which is more difficult- to live well or to die well."


Not everybody leaves this mortal coil miserable and confused.  Ethel Waters said, "I'm not afraid to die, honey.  In fact, I'm kinda looking forward to it. I know the Lord has his arms wrapped around this big black sparrow."


In 1955 James Dean said to a friend, "My fun days are over."  An hour later his car crashed and his was dead. A self fulfilling prophecy? Or just bad luck?


"I want to go back to my old home before I die.  I asked for the great white father to allow me to go back, but he said no." Geronimo.


Maybe what we say when we go is less important that what's said about us. When you die, what is the nicest thing that someone will utter about you?  What's the worst?  Somewhere in between is who you are.  Or maybe mere words aren't enough to define a life.  Maybe only ones actions can.

Conversions

The other night a group of friends and I were talking about religion and how we've come to define our beliefs based on our individual journeys of enlightenment.  As we conversed, the topic turned to our friend who still had strong beliefs that there was a God.  I was amazed at the lengths she was grilled on her continued belief in God.  It got me to thinking about conversions and the perception and aftermath a conversion can have on a person and to those around them.


Every person on the planet was raised to believe a version of the truth - about God, about mortality, about the purpose of life.  We usually call those beliefs 'religion'.  And if, over the course of living, those beliefs break down, they prove themselves not to be true, we search for a new religion or truth to follow, and we convert.  Now, that conversion can be traumatic, not only for ourselves, our souls, but for those around us.  We rarely take in to account the stress and agony we might be causing to those closest to us: our families.  It's not to say that your family should dictate your beliefs or their feelings should be taken in to account with your own personal journey to find a truth that works for you.


When Christopher Columbus landed in the new world, a Catholic priest was right alongside him.  From then on, the priests kept coming over to this continent, trying to convert the Indians.  Trying to get them to kiss the crucifix, to stop smoking peyote, to cover up their nakedness.  The Indians responded with great enthusiasm: They maimed, tortured and burned the priests, and then offered the bodies up to their own gods. In the culture I grew up in, we have our own version of spreading the Mormon faith on every continent.  You grew up hearing stories from your grandfather, father, uncles, brothers and so on, of the proselyting their faith in foreign lands and of hearing the rejection they would encounter.  From a simple "No, thank you." to someone chasing them down the street with a knife.  You instantly feel for your relative not being allowed to speak their truth, but on the flip-side of that, you rarely thought of those who they tried to introduce their beliefs to.  


Any convert, whether he goes from Communist to capitalist, Mormon to Buddhist or from six packs a day to smoke-free, ends up condemning his former practices.  Because those beliefs didn't work for him, they can't possibly work for anybody.  His vision becomes narrow, blinded by the light.  Whether he's transformed into a Hindu or joins AA, he becomes a fanatic.  It's the fanatics who think they've got God on their side.  As for me, I don't need divine light.  In the dark of the night, all I want is enough light so that I don't stub my toe on the way to the toilet.   

Hard To Pronounce

I have in my life the two most amazing best friends that anyone could ever ask for. They are both so similar while being completely polar opposites at the same time. Both have assisted me in my life during times where I felt that I've been my most vulnerable and my internal struggles have been at an all time high. There is only one problem, do they love me?

I know that they love me, I do. But, why can't they tell me that they love me? I don't know what one thing in our friendships prevents them vocalizing my importance to them in their own lives. In any friendship there's a take and give and how you're valued. What strikes me as odd is that both of them can say they love people they've known less time as friends when they talk to them. Sometimes I feel that maybe I'm too intense in friendships and that I almost become burdensome in nature because I need that love. And it's because of that innate need of love that my frustration manifests itself and my moods start to show. Am I neurotic individual for thinking that they don't love just because they don't vocalize it?

I want to know what it is and why they cannot say that they love me.

Logical

So wounds heal and scars become something to look at and reflect on what you've learned from your past trial and tribulations. I'm talking of course of emotional scars. Anyhow, that's the conclusion I came to last time. And the logic of it sat quite well with me for over a year.

That's the funny thing about logic, it makes plenty of sense for the time being and then it somehow becomes muddled and tangled like a fisherman's net in a rough sea. It constantly leaves you questioning reason itself and then you start to go brain dead from over thinking.

I'm not sure that I'm completely, 100% comfortable, accepting, sure, confident, without doubt, positive, clear, steadfast, firm, clear, persuaded, unwavering...yea, the mere fact that I'm using so many synonyms is a bad thing. I clearly lack focus and understanding of my current state.

Over a year ago, I initiated contact with Tom. You all remember Tom, right? From such blogs as Better Left Unknown, Part 1 and the bone chilling sequel: Better Left Unknown, Part 2. Riveting.

Well Tom surfaced again about a month ago. This time in the guise of his sister, Natalie. Natalie and I were very close when Tom and I were together. After the break-up, we lost contact of each other and I sorta moved on.

She called to tell me something I already knew:Tom was engaged. (Facebook has its benefits!) Anyhow, she proceeded to tell me that she thought it was giant mistake and that he still had feelings for me. OK. This is the part of the story where my legs turn to putty, I break out into a cold sweat and wished that I'd never answered a call from the blocked number on my phone.
I knew that I needed to proceed with caution as to not cause false hope on not only her part, but my own.

Specific questions were asked and feelings shared. I'm at a point in my life where I want companionship. I crave it. I'm not finding it and that's a big buzz kill in my life. Here was a golden opportunity to take a love lost and have it again. Wasn't it? From where I left off last time meeting with Tom, I'd made the decision that he was a changed person. No longer recognizable to me. But, here his sister was telling me that he was far from being anything but that.

Over the course of several phones calls with both parties and a handful of get together's, I'm still no closer to being completely accepting of my current viewpoint on the situation. Part of me knows that inviting Tom back in my life is a horrible, sure to fail scientific experiment that will blow up in my face or call for the school to be evacuated. Another part of me thinks that it could be an organic, growing experience getting back together with him. We could pick up where we left off and I could have my happy-ever-after ending.

I wrestle internally with the duality of the situation. I truly believe that my loneliness causes me to turn a blind eye to the pitfalls that are sure to come with allowing myself down the path of us dating again.

Logic tells me that if this is really what Tom wants, I should allow him the opportunity, but on my terms. I want him to be comfortable in his own skin. I want him to realize that who he is is something you can't change or hide forever. I want him to live his re-awakened self for a couple of years to ensure that it's going to be a part of him for life. But, as I stated earlier, logic becomes entangled and I'm not sure if I want to cut loose the fish and buy a new net or spend the time untangling it.

The Knight Mare

I've faced the fathoms in your deep

withstood the suitors quiet siege

pulled down the heavens just to please you, appease you

the winds blow and I know...

I can't go on, digging roses from your grave

to linger on, beyond the beyond

where the willows weep and the whirlpools sleep

you'll find me

the coarse tide reflects sky

and the knight mare rides on

and the night mare rides on

with a December black psalm

and the knight mare rides on

what I feel, is lost here

the wind blows and I know...

all you have to do is run away

and steal yourself from me

become a mystery to gaze into

you're so cruel in all you do

but still I believe, I believe in you

so may you come with your own knives

you'll never take me alive

with all the force of what is true

is there nothing I can do?

and the knight mare rides on

and the night mare rides on

with a December black psalm

and the nightmare rides on

the aeroplane flies high

the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the aeroplane knows that it is alone in its drama bones, madness, preconceptions, ray gun logics run and split and rationalized until a whole chorus of mug wumps, blue in the face from yelling their divisive mantras, run out of young breath and just plain give in to the spirit of the whole damn apple. face it, you love it, it's fun for one and all, and for all you know the earth spins on its rusty axis just because of it. the aeroplane moves whether you want it to or not. cram packed with fuel injected jet missile action, this is a war motherfucker and don't you forget it for one second. it is us versus them, and if you're giving in then you are giving up. all the names don't mean shit, ugly, beautiful, pretentious, arrogant, old, tired, see outs, careerists, transcendent, hypnotic, trippy, spellbinding, numb, egocentric, solipsistic, empty, hollow, shallow, superficial, lost, 70's, 60's, 80's, 20's, long winded, phony, grand, the worst, the best, creepy, cranky, desperate...the aeroplane just flies higher, faster, stronger. there isn't much time for maybes, even goodbyes sometimes. dust settles, the arcwelders come out and reconstruct the obvious, and we are all left holding the blur. life will always be a sentimental way, you can vivisect it all you want, blood and will are indivisible. the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right the world pisses a silver stream to let you know it is there. on the other side of the slipstream of countless thoughtless thoughts. it shatters and divides into a million fragments because life is not a lifestyle choice. we are not a fashion accessory. music is god's bones creaking pleasure, amusement, even occasional approval. we salute you all with a crack of the back, a baseball bat and smile. god bless us all, for what we think and feel is all we really have. but when is too far far enough. no limit I ever knew really matters, there is strength in the dirt of your garden sorrows, there are no more tomorrows, only blissed todays, purple and immeasurable in stature and stealth, because the sun is always sneaking behind your sneaky back. can you hear us because if you can't we will turn it up. will your ears bleed nascent approving harmony? it's all good, and don't you forget it. the fourth wall is down and deserves to stay down, because all you are really watching in others is yourself, the third generation t.v. reflection. time is never time at all. there is not time, no heartbeats, no babies, no french fries, just spider webs strung to osciliate the fever pitch of blandkind, oops I mean mankind. once the sonic dart leaves your fingers, it is hard to get back. scratch, sniff, observe, obey, deceive, distort, disarm it all, the bomb is on and ticking. we know but we ain't telling anyone because we know nothing. "t.v. generation x.y.u.," zero command calling, the alarm sounds, once it is gone there is no going back, and it is never ever the same. wave to the magic balloons with your names attached, 5 zillion strong circling the precious earth in search of a friend in search of another. i hope you all find what you need in whatever hole you peer down, whatever cloud you peek behind. let the dukes masticate on the green grass of hope and love. life is good bleats the bleating heart, and it keeps on bleating like an 808. never ever forever tomorrow comes, new dawns blister, new songs to be sung. the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the aeroplane knows you know, sings the song of truth, of redemption, of sorrow.

look no further than your dirty feet.

Bridges

Some people say that I like the most random things in the world and I'm OK with that. I often wonder if science would be interested in borrowing my brain and studying my thought patterns. I'm sure they could apply it to all sorts of interesting, useful solutions to world problems. Anyway, I was on a walk this evening, trying to shift some issues around inside my head and make sense of them and I got to thinking about bridges.

Bridges have existed since the day Earth began. A fallen tree instantly becomes a bridge, rocks in a river serve as stepping stones which are a type of bridge. Romans began building bridges as early as 1st century BC and some of them are still standing. It's a testament to remarkable engineering prowess they possessed and used throughout the cities they conquered.

I'm not a huge fan of the science of bridges or how they're built or when they fall or what specific purpose they serve. I just know that a bridges come in all shapes and sizes and for some reason or another people have used bridges as a metaphor since their inception. The obvious metaphors that exist are that they serve the purpose of connecting people to one another. Another classic metaphor is that they serve as a way to bridge the gaps that exist in ones self that would otherwise leave a person disconnected from the world they live in.

In my life, I feel like I'm constantly building, mending, patching, crossing, fixing all manner of bridges. And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to be satisfied with the results. Maybe some bridges are better left unattended and left to disrepair until they slowly erode away. I really just can't decide.