V. A Joy Ride Through Eternity!
It is an icy, frigid night. I crashed early, like 6 pm, then woke up disoriented at 9 pm, thinking it was 9 am, wondering why the alarm didn't go off. I fell back asleep and woke again at 11 pm, realizing it was still Sunday night, not Monday morning.
When I awoke, Teacup was nursing on the blanket by my chin. She paused in her busy kneading and purring to raise her fuzzy little dust bunny head and smile. Junior and Boogers are sleeping curled in furry striped spirals.
Teacup went somewhere else when I sat up and turned the light on. She always does that. Smoky is here, slinking into the warm spot Teacup left. She is watching me with those big yellow saucer eyes in that smudgy, indefinable, calico clown face. Fancy approaches, across the crackling beer can steppingstones left by Dolly and Spike.
It's been a long journey, not only this past year and a half, but this life. It's been a spectacular life! I talk like I'm gonna die.
I am, someday. We all are. Sorry to break the news. Don't be sad. Be here now, as Ram Dass said over and over until it became a maudlin cliché'.
Time and commercialism have that effect.
I am very proud and feel very privileged to be here now in this frozen pleasue dome, like the frozen "summer house in winter" from Dr. Zhivago. If only Lara were here.
Proud and privileged to sell paintings for happy survival money.
There was a time when I wouldn't have been proud to sell anything because I felt it was some artistic sin, "selling out" (another maudlin cliché'!). I think I also felt less confident and like it was a sin to be confident, like it was vanity and arrogance. Being a musician playing in rock and roll bands for some thirty odd years gave me issues to overcome in those areas of pride, arrogance and greed. I a,ways remained the purist, the stubborn Don Quixote fighting the even more stubborn windmill of the ego. And the windmill of survival.
Teacup is back, purring under my arm. She has no ego. Neither have I, really, I think it's just something we humans made up.
So, really, there is no windmill. Just thoughts, an endless flow of thought moments without pause, a river of time as Joyce described, riverun, past Eve and Adam's...until those thought moments stop. Like dad just stopped. The dead continue living through the thought moments of the living. Their stories live here, in this book, in my soul's cache' of treasures...
How Teacup smiles. How I feel when I hear those beautiful harmonized train horns late at night. How my dad sang put your little foot. How, when I was seven, I played sick at school to keep from being beat up by Fannie Mae Chiselm, only to end up at my aunt's trailer when the Candlestick Park tornado hit us. How my mom used to make cream of wheat early before school and its smell got mixed up in my brain with my dad's English Leather to where now, when I smell English Leather I think of cream of wheat and my stomach growls. How Kerry told me about fnords and now I see them all the time. How Hank and I ate forty big psilocybe cubensis (magic) mushrooms and completely lost the earth and sky and how I saw the alpha, the omega, the birth and death and rebirth of the universe, the fire dance of Shiva, the endless perpetually metamorphic macrocosm and microcosm, never static, even in my cells, my atoms, my spinning, time-deceiving electrons.
How I landed here with a rucksack full of paper and long threads leading back to the beginning of time (and forward to the end!) looping around into this moebius strip to end up here at the beginning and end of nothing.
How damn cold it is tonight!
How Boogers seems old and wise at the ripe old age of 2!
How I've loved and loved and loved and never stopped and never gave up loving. How I loved Mica even though she was gay and how Mica loved me even though she was gay. How Melissa's dad tried to run over me with his pickup truck because I loved her. How I loved Maggie before I ever met her by the stories about her and her bright smile in her photograph. How Maggie startled and surprised me by loving me even though I looked like a horrible stitched-up Frankenstein after the wreck and how I sang to Maggie with my jaws wired shut. How she was the model for "Bathsheba", not the real Bathsheba whom I loved more than life and nearly married and nearly had a child with. How I found Bathsheba bleeding into hot water in our huge clawfoot tub and grabbed her up in a blanket and rushed her to the emergency room. How she was four and a half months pregnant and then she wasn't. How they showed us a tiny worm on the screen whose feeding tube had disconnected from the uterine wall that gave it life. How life and death are one and the same. Here and gone and here again.
"And when I die, and when I'm gone...
there'll be one child born in this world to carry on,
to carry on..."
There's your happy ending, Chickenlady!
This moment...
The End?????
Copy & paste to friend: (Click inside box; Ctrl + C to copy; Ctrl + V to paste)
|
|
read more blogs!
Blogs by BionicCouple:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Runamuck Diaries : Part 5 [Formerly Zen and the Art of Cat Wrangling] |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|