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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Saturday

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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Deactivation

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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Waiting

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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Motivation and Heart

 

“What is it that could be motivating them so much, so much where they have also sacrificed so much for their beliefs, for their agenda, for their evil plot of destruction and their quest for more money, power and control? They stop at nothing…”

This is the question you have asked us to comment on.

This is something I have also asked, in my own mind, as I listen to the “news,” or observe how people “act,” on stage, in daily interaction with each other, in the media, in our courts, on the street, and all those places I rarely encounter because I have retreated, that I may know some peace.

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