Morning Crazies

So many thoughts are swirling around my crazy head this morning that it is difficult to lasso any single one of them. For instance that last sentence just sent a kangaroo scurrying across the horizon and kangaroos are dreadfully elusive unless you are driving a rent a car across the Australian outback in which case they are peskier than mosquitoes and prefer to attempt embracing your vehicle when it is moving at a great rate of speed. But this isn’t what we intended to speak of.

We intended other things not so clearly defined. Like the horrific memory of an early teacher pounding into our heads the idea of prepositions and prepositional phrases – and the doom that would rain down upon us should we dare to end our sentences in such a state. It has stayed with me, though not in its intended form. I learned more about the nature of people than words in those two years. They can’t be trusted. They are all insane.

I’ve lost faith in medicine. Another notch on the wall. I wonder whether all hands immediately reach for their pockets, billfolds, wallets, etc. etcetera ETCERA!!!!

I’ve lost faith in nearly all things, and now I stand silent, a black hole on a beautiful day. I can trust in normalities – the beauty of a bird’s song is simple to behold, much more complex to appreciate.

I can’t, however, trust that this one particular squirrel doesn’t understand me. I spoke to him moments ago as he clung to a tree, startled that I had pulled back the door to allow the slight breeze to fill my nostrils with the pleasantries of spring. He did not move. He only fixed himself upon the bark and stared at me. At other times he would chatter – but this time he seemed to be listening.

I know it is the same squirrel. He became trapped in our home a few months ago. Somehow he had managed to get caught in a conduit leading to the furnace. (the furnace has a shut off safety precaution whenever something is blocking its main vessel, so he was not toasted squirrel) In freeing him from his captivity – a process that involved my father’s old army duffel bag and increasing amounts of adrenaline – part of his tail became shorn. I’m not sure what freed those fibers from that feeble creature, a creature not so much feeble as demanding a poetic line, but to this day his lack of tail cover serves as an identifier.

He is more deliberate in his motions than the other squirrels. He will sit for hours at the feeder. He often sits so that he may look in through the glass door to spot whomever may be seated at the kitchen table. In this case, me.

I wish I could communicate with that squirrel. Right now it seems we just have an “understanding.” Understandings are things meant to be misunderstood. I try not to reach these artificial understandings with people anymore because they are simply a means of saying “let me get what I want and if you get something out of it as well, so be it, but this is about me, even though we’ll say its about us.”

There is something magical about this relationship I have with this squirrel. Something in distance and lack that creates momentum for sentiment.

There is so much more I want to say, but I’m beginning to scrape the bottom of the well. Things aren’t as lucid as they were moments ago, if lucid could be the term. Millions of zany dots crashing about and into each other, some occasionally screaming to be heard. Now there are relatively few thoughts. I had zoned in on the squirrel and everything else seemed to move away to give me my space. Is this meditation? Is this controlled thought?

I’m intrigued by the possibilities of thought control exercises. I’d intended to research it. I intend to research lots of things. I am plagued by curiosity. Since I moved up here I have yet to remove my favorite childhood toy, a Curious George doll from its perch in the back of my Focus. I think I’ll do that now. So that I may take a picture of it. Oh, but perhaps I should stay. I wouldn’t want to just walk away from this exercise and lose all motivation to continue. Standing and moving about may be just the sort of thing my attention requires to ignore things that I find pleasant.

If I do move about, the headache will certainly become much more prominent. With nothing to occupy my mind but destination, I’ll have more cognizance relegated toward physical ailments – of which I obsess over quite a few right now – particularly in the nether regions. The unspeakable. Those invisible pieces of ourselves that only the doctors we no longer trust have complete knowledge of. And there is another preposition. And there is another fear. And another complaint. A gripe. Collected so many of those I made a category for them in this here CMS.

Managing content. Ha. Can I manage this? I can’t even manage myself. Oooooo! Jerry! Jerry! You see? Things are supposed to be superfantastic, but I leap at the opportunity to hurl insults at myself, possibly to deflect your chance. I imagine when I begin something like this, that I feel is earnest and honest, a queue of people ready to unleash their own slings. And this isn’t “cool” to be discussed. It isn’t sage. And yet I’m firing it out and into the open abyss of the world this afternoon – with but a fleeting glimpse into the future of how it will come back to haunt me when seeking employment at the great salvation location that as yet has to be determined.

Employment. Classes. Stress. Erratic physical abuse.

Now I have switched trains and am moving about the tracks of which there are several tunnels in succession that grow darker with each passing moment. It starts with feelings of worthlessness, which are only accentuated by ruminating on my age. And time. And you just can’t stop it.

Lately I’ve given up on people. I think they all hear what they want to hear – and there is nothing you can do to stop that. I am in doubt as to the strength of any of my friendships. I only hear intermittently from those I love. And if I keep talking about this I’ll start crying again. And that’s just what we need. Another 28 year old man child crying into the internet.

I’m only able to look back, it seems. This all started because I took the time, a considerable amount of time – about 4 years now, to think about what I wanted to do with myself and what I enjoy. That vision has remained constant. But it is shrouded in a “Gaussian blur” behind several other layers with similar effects employed. It is an image of aspiration, a goal, but isn’t clearly defined. I’m losing sight of the dream when I stare directly at it because I can’t pick out the details.

Ultimately it is going to come down to me. To my motion in the world. Frenetic Kinetics. What will happen then? I can’t even depend on myself now. I fail so often at the little things. Oh. Wait. Wait for it. Yes! There it is — a welling in the eye. pathetic.

There is a space between the brain and the skull. I think my mind is stuck there. Cycling round and round. Claustrophobic.

I’m screaming into the void. I’m screaming into the void. I’m screaming into the void.

I got in trouble for this once. I got grounded for a while. I wrote what I thought was an artistic piece and sent it off to that same teacher we mentioned before. I remember only that it included a phrase turning about something like “the grass was like razor blades, cutting into the sole.” Mother got a call and the nuns were passionate in declaring that they could have called the police. That this could be perceived as a threat. I was stunned. I was then very angry. I was forced to write an apology for something I wasn’t sorry for. Someone had misinterpreted what I was saying and I was cubbyholed and made to apologize.

I’d see that teacher every so often in the years that followed. The strangest emotions would always creep up. There was something in it similar to the feelings you go through when seeing an ex shortly after a breakup. Only I had no love for this teacher. Looking back I wonder whether I can push her over into the crazy lady pile. Looking back I wonder whether any of those women teaching at the school had any sanity. And I feel bad for the counselor. Who was learning. And was assigned me. And tape recorded me. And I don’t know how anyone can’t put on a show when they are told they are being tape recorded. What could her class possibly learn from me? People hear what they want to hear, and sometimes people say things just to be heard — but I don’t know that you can ever say that people say things clearly. Words are symbols. Yada yada yada.

Where is this coming from? Is it a natural response to the guilt I have for over-exposing myself to helpings of wine last night? What is it with wine that I can’t restrain myself? Was that masochistic?

Should I just delete this entire rant? This is going to come back to haunt me, isn’t it? Because, heaven forbid we should ever be honest with anyone.

Oh there’s a lot of anger in me. I shouldn’t leave off so angry. I should exercise some thought control and see if I can’t walk away from this feeling superfantastic.

Even though I can’t see it clearly, I know I have a plan. I also know that I have a lot of growing up to do – and a lot of inner objections to that Idea. Perhaps my notion of growing up is skewed. I know I’m a different person than I was ten years ago. I think I’m wound tighter now. I think a lot of that has to do with how I spent (that squirrel is freaking out. But it’s not the same squirrel. What is he so pissed off about now? There. I took a picture of him. But he is the impostor squirrel – so don’t get the wrong idea.) Now for a loaded question – what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah — how I spent the last four years of my life. If there is one thing to put my finger on to get a pulse of a direction my life should have avoided — it would be my last job. I should’ve walked out of that place and never looked back the minute I got that paper degree. That paper degree that says that I can read and think real good. Yeah. Reaaaaaaal good.

I think that place gave me a lot of issues that I’m still holding onto today. Issues of respect and self-respect. I think it tore me up and spit me out and didn’t have a problem in the process.

That squirrel is freaking out again. This is why children torment animals. This is why we can’t live in communion with them. Their words don’t register as symbols with us, just as annoyances.

Whatever. I’m done with this. I can’t talk about the deli anymore. That will just make me start feeling more pathetic and angry all over again. If there was one thing Mark McGuire had going for him during his testimony – it was that he wasn’t there to talk about the past. I wish I could say it as clearly as him, and mean it — “I’m not here to talk about the past.” I think that perhaps healing whatever is wrong with me starts with figuring out why I’m here. I’d like to work myself toward a more spiritual life — but I think my issues with my fellow man make a common spirituality impossible. I could ramble on about God here — but the phone is ringing.

It was Uncle Larry. He left a message. Hi Uncle Larry. Sorry I didn’t pick up the phone to talk to you – but I really don’t think I could handle it right now. This is making me laugh. I think that’s a good sign. We’re headed toward the land of the superfantastic.

Yeah. So. God. I’d love it if I had faith – but at the same time — something about God makes me think of Horses and blinders. God’s path is a different story. You can walk the path of God — and you can walk that path alone. I think I believe the bit about God being within us a tad more than the rest of it. I tend to associate God with will. And as should be evident – my will is not strong. Faith in myself is near rock bottom. I am not the same person I was a decade ago. I’ve been defeated many times. But this spiritual side is something that has been missing for probably fourteen years now. I guess that’s basically when I lost faith.

Funny — that’s also when I ran into crazy lady and the nuns.

Is faith meant to be shared? I think faith is meant to be shared in the sense that you let your actions dictate your faith, and your faith dictate your actions. The latter portion is where I’m falling short. I have a profound lack of faith in my will – which is weak – and I haven’t come to know God in any sense.

I can’t go back to the church. I hold beliefs in the rights of men that would be grounds for excommunication. The church is supposed to be about a community — but lately it seems to be an exclusive club. Built with walls of shame.

So I want to exercise my spirituality. I want to feel a keener sense of it while I’m carrying out my daily activities. I want to begin to appreciate life again – and perhaps more important — appreciate myself.

I think we can leave off here. We’ve come to a better place than where we started. We’ll see how this plays out in the coming days. Thanks for sticking around.