Demain, la prochain matin mon amoureux vas partir, comme j'aime dire,
Tonight, comme d'habitude, je suis bourré. Demain, la prochain matin, je vais aller au café rencontrer avec Sydney parler de la documentaire,
It's late and I remember this time in my life when I believed everything in life would connect. One moment to the next, a series of building moments, one reveal after another until actualization. But this could never explain the bitterness I witnessed with my paternal grandmother. The older I get the more I understand. A general disappointment in God maybe.
Jeff confirmed my early theory on connecting moments the other evening and I was half a beer in to rekindle that old hope. "A series of moments compiled and eventually they all make sense. You come back a seemingly innocuous experience and it makes something 'click' in the present." I had loved this word "click."
Have you ever replaced a windshield wiper blade? In 20 degree weather with a windchill factor that makes your hands yellow because your blood has given up on them? First you have to identify what blade you have, remove the old one, and screw around with it until it 'clicks.' The instructions says it will 'click' in place.
This is what it feels like to find truth, I imagine.
Sometimes I can picture that Dr. Suess waiting room. "...the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting." I'm just waiting for that 'click.'
And now, right now when writing this and laying out metaphors and theorheticals I realize things will never click until it's 20 degrees and my blood has given up on my hands. Real work. Fucking Steven. Ce m'est t'egale. Peut-être demain.
I know those moments when Jeff is right though. When you're in love and you get to tell that person the things. The big connects. I've only ever made sense of my experiences by being able to relate to people I love. My experiences become the conduits of the deep relativity of our connective archetypal experiences. It's only then, when the water is high, to our nostrils, that we 'click.'
I asked Caroline once if she felt she was walking the alchemist's path. "No," she admitted. I was. By some cosmic slight of hand I had tricked God into showing me the way. Golden roads. I could feel it in my bones. I remember breaking the spell and leaving the path to participate in life. Now I don't know how to get back.
A woman from Scott Carrier's novel, "Running After Antelope" speaks of being ravaged by angels. She takes pills for schizophrenia so the Mormon church won't take her daughter away. "So I ask her again why she stopped taking her pills and she says, 'I'm lonely. I miss them. I want them to come back.'" It's like that. The metaphor begs to be extended.
What is my windshield wiper? What is the marshmallow? I wish Anna could cater the waiting room. Today was an answer to some question far off. I believe. Jeff says so. He has three answers whirring in the world in the form of three children. A literate, an engineer, and an artist.
This is all I have to say now.
This other one writted days before
2.3.17- Last night, talking to Jeff, a regular at the brewery, we talked about being Awake. Awake being, productively making decisions and moving forward. Learning. Feeling the traction of the world under your feet. He talked about his son who just got a degree in English Lit. He finally hit a stride, Jeff said. Awake. Before I write another word, I tell myself, I want to be awake. Participation is necessary. It's impossible to be invisible as much as I try. As much as a mumble through my days and scrum scribbled notes on the margins. I'm mad. And scared. It's a luxury to be anything but. "Why should I care, it doesn't affect me." These cold words. Privilege. I'm imagining a way out and realizing how much more difficult denial is these days than it ever has been. White denial. White sensitivity. Scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing. New York Times review, "'I Am Not Your Negro' Will Make You Rethink Race." "The lengths that white people will go to wash themselves clean of their complicity in oppression." Last night's philosophy talk about reparations and collective responsibility in Tainted by the Sins of Our Fathers? Questions being addressed. The script is being changed. Set the old ones on fire. What does the new voice sound like? I want to be Awake.