What is This Life?!?

What is this life?

Having fallen asleep in my chair, I wake up at 2 a.m. and go to my bed.  After an hour of not being able to sleep, I get up and make coffee and toast leftover biscuits.  I decide to build a fire in the wood stove and go to that corner of the room where it sits.  The wet puddle the cat left right at the edge of the plastic I keep under the litter box catches my eye.  What is it with this cat that she will not go in the litter box and do her thing?  The rage I feel at finding her urine on the floor causes me to forget building that fire.  I clean up the piss, growling loudly as I pour bleach on the spot I have just sopped up with kitty litter.  She knows I am angry.  When I go to find her on my bed upstairs, she sees me coming and runs under the bed.  I am determined I will catch her and throw her outdoors, this time for good.  She knows the drill and is not having it.  I go back downstairs and drink my coffee, eat my toasted biscuits, wondering if I will ever sit and eat at my table with a sense of peace.  I rarely sit at the table; I stand at the stove and scarf whatever I am having for breakfast.  That is because, ordinarily, my dining table is covered up with too much stuff: mail I have not sorted, wrapping paper I used weeks ago, pens, scissors, tape, clipboard, applications, books, purse, kerosene lamps, plants.  Two days ago I organized the stuff on the table, clearing a spot where I might sit and eat.  It makes no difference.  I know no peace, and I muse on how a cat can infuriate me so.

The few extra dollars from unemployment no longer come.  I look for a job online, daily.  I have had two interviews thus far.  It does not look promising, as I am a lousy typist and my nerves are easily frazzled.  I have considered relocating to Fayetteville in order to work, if I can actually land a job.  I met a fellow offering a room in his house but the room is taken already, so I applied with the Fayetteville Housing Authority, since my income is way below the poverty line.  When I went in person, after a two hour drive to get there, the woman I spoke with wanted my birth certificate to confirm who I am.  I told her my birth certificate had burned up in the clinic in Venezuela, where I was born, but that I have a passport.  “That’ll do,” she says brightly and takes it to make a copy of it.  She returns, saying, “Your passport has expired, so I can’t accept it as proof.”  I respond, “Really?!?  Am I not here in front of you, and that passport was given me, somehow, telling you I exist!  Really?!?”  She says, “My boss won’t allow it, and I can’t go behind my boss!”  She keeps my application and says “You will have to get the passport renewed before I can accept it as proof.”  I say, “It costs over $100 to renew a passport and I am here applying for low income housing.  This makes no sense!”  Inside my head I am screaming at her, telling her what idiots she and her bosses and all the bureaucracy of the government are.  She says, “There is a three to nine month waiting list.”  I look at her and say, “Thanks for nothing!”  I leave, wishing I could hear the heavy glass door slam loudly behind me.  Instead, I hear a muted thud as it closes.  Damn!  What is the point of trying to do anything?  I can’t even get a door to slam properly!

At least it is not zero degrees outside.  These last few days have been warmer, compared to two weeks ago when it was three degrees one morning.  Twice the sun has been out long enough to allow my going in to the woods behind the cabin to cut a couple of wheelbarrows full of wood.  I stacked it on the porch, quite high, so when the next cold front arrives, I will be ready.  I figure that weather is just around the unseen corner.  For now, I sit here in my leather jacket over the two layers of clothing I have worn for at least two days now.  In a way, it is almost easier to keep going on as I have, all these years.  I rough it through the winter months that, when it is so cold, feel interminable, but once signs of spring appear, I feel I may make it through.  If it were not for the fact that I am now closer to seventy and move with rickety knees, I would not even consider going to a city to live and work.  The carrying of water and not having a bathroom is nothing when I think about all the screwed up people I might run into in the city.  I am blessed to live here in these woods, in spite of the lack of amenities.  At least I do not have to talk to people who are not logical and are so fear-ridden they cannot see or hear anybody else.  I rev myself up to go work for an organization or a corporation, thinking I can stay focused and keep a clear mind and then I have encounters like the one a couple of days back and I think, “Right!  You are better off where you are, with or without money, with or without food!”  If necessity dictates, I will find a way to work with what I have already, which, in my estimation, is a lot.  I simply need to break free of my conditioning that judges how my environment appears, both to myself, and possibly, to others, although the latter does not really count, since nobody ever comes to visit me anyway!  What is this life?  It is a mess, a farce, a laugh, some woe, some awareness, a lot of solitude, and less sleep.

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Reading Between the Lines

Learning to read “between the lines” apparently takes a lifetime, although we all do this from early on; it takes a while to consciously do so.  It also takes some gumption to decide to believe what you see there, because it sometimes is not a very pleasant level of awareness.  However, as I get older, I am more willing to take what I see as valid, despite how another might argue against “my take” on things.

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The Mystery of Life and Death

The mystery of life and death, being in the present moment, seems, at times, so profound.

I am writing, high from a couple of cups of red wine, using the energy from the battery bank a friend set up for me twenty years ago, (solar panels and inverter, the wiring of the house) that is needing recharging, yet, I am compelled to use the energy left to express.  I just raced back home from the memorial held for my friend, Jimis Damet., who passed into the mysterious unknown on August 11.  I left the memorial abruptly, having set a time to meet another friend who said he would come at this time to help me get the generator going, so I could recharge the system, since it has been raining for two days and the system needs charging.

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What is Real?

What is real?  Is it the conversation I am having with someone as I deeply sleep, where I am explaining my plight in this existence to someone who might actually care, or am I simply talking to myself?  That is no different from my sitting here writing to myself.  I am having a hard time figuring out things, this life I live, the lives we all live, although I seem to have very little to do with anyone else.

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A Blank Page

This morning I face a blank page.  Being alone, having morning coffee, listening to the birds chirping out in the forest, I come to write, to somehow appease this deep sense that I am forever alone.  Why do I feel the need to appease this sense of loneliness?  It is not something I can eliminate, for it is with me when I go to my bed at night; it is still with me when I encounter another day.

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This Saturday we are having the second day of cool weather, extraordinary for one of the first days of summer.  The last two nights, cool enough to have several layers of lightweight linens over me, have been super for sleeping and dreaming.  How long will this last?  I cannot say.  Right now, it feels good to be here, carefree.

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It Is All The Same

It is all the same, is it not?  The words of the old folk song come to mind, “De Midnight Special“:  “Well, you wake up in the morning’, you hear the ding-dong ring, you go over to the table, You see the same damn thing.”  It is one of the songs about being in prison, longing for the sense of freedom that comes into an imprisoned heart as the Midnight Special thunders past, its lights coming through barred prison windows, as described by John and Alan Lomax in their book, Folk Song U.S.A., The New American Library, 1966, p. 371.

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That I May Live

Soften my heart, Source of my Being, so that I may live.  Help me to lose this tendency I have toward anger, first off.  When the memories of being bullied, treated badly, abused are fresh, still, in my cells, it is so hard to not feel hardened and angry.  I fathom the anger of those who lash out.  About the only way to not end up in a corner, back against the wall, on the defense against all these demons, is to submit.

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Today we say “Happy Memorial Day!  Thank you for dying!”  I mean, really?  Is this a celebratory occasion worthy of my participation?  Do I really wish to celebrate another person’s deactivation in life?

It was supposed to rain yesterday.  I worked in the heat of the day, planting sweet potato slips, thinking it would be just in time for the rain.  It never rained and I think I experienced a little brain damage, I got so bloody hot.  Today it is also supposed to rain, and just to be sure, I did laundry and hung it out on the lines to dry in the humidity.  Whether or not my action will encourage rain to fall is all in my mind and is of no consequence, just like my life, my little egocentric, isolated life.  Inconsequential.  I am tempted to deactivate it.

My thoughts can have consequences, of course.  I went on Face Book, waiting for the last load of laundry to finish.  There, I saw photos of people I know, everyone enjoying each others’ company, two days ago, celebrating a lovely couple’s 50th wedding anniversary.  Immediately I felt tears well up, realizing how much I am not included in anyone’s life, how inconsequential my living here is turning out to be.  I immediately wanted to deactivate my account on Face Book, just so I would not have to be aware of how I do not exist for anyone.  But then, how would I have a way to let anyone know how I feel, (as though it matters..), and damn!  I am screwed, no matter which way I look at it.  It crossed my mind to deactivate myself, instead, like I said.

More tears, imagining the pleasure it would give my sisters to hear I am dead and then they could, like vultures, come and invade my privacy, because a dead body cannot fight back.  But then, I realized that my sisters are just as egocentric as I and they would sooner die before admitting to being the least bit interested in who I REALLY, TRULY ever was.  That thought made me even more unhappy, if that is possible.  I already know what their take on my suicide would be:  “What a cop-out!”  “Poor thing, she always was a bit troubled.”  Oh my god!  Too bad she did not find a better way to kill herself!  She looks horrible!”  “Why do you think she did this?!?”

Forget it, I will talk myself out of this one, at this time.  I will reconcile myself to being inconsequential, unimportant, not popular, isolated, demoralized, defunct as a human being worth having around, unattractive, sexually dead, did I say isolated?  Right, it is bad enough I have such thoughts, especially when the only ONE who loves me can hear them.  But we all know that if it is a sin to have bad thoughts, we are, in turn, forgiven.  After all, we are just human, fucked-up beings, who on this particular week-end every year, celebrate people who died .  We do not celebrate their lives when they are with us.  No, we send them off to a war to end up dead, and THEN we celebrate their lives.  A lot of good THAT does!~

Right, so if I wish to be celebrated, I must keep my account active on Face Book, let everyone I know beforehand that I am going to be dead, and then designate who may have what of my shit, and then I can die and never know if ANYONE celebrated my poor little life anyway!  Whatever.  Too much trouble.  My life will end sooner or later and it will not make any difference.  I will know some things about myself by then, and just to stay consistent with how my life has always been, I will keep it to myself, since nobody gives a damn anyway!  An egocentric life is deeply personal, active or inactive.  Memorial Day is a depressing farce, which is why I will choose another time to deactivate, thank you very much.  Happy Unhappy Memorial Day!

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I am waiting for the cake to bake.  It is an “apple dapple” cake, full of sugar, fruit, and nuts.  This morning was wonderfully cool when I opened the front door for my dog.  The rose and azalea I transplanted yesterday looked happy; in fact they both bloomed this morning!  As I went back inside, I remembered it is a birthday today that I rarely forget.

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