There are some really incredibly beautiful things in life and I can’t seem to get at them because I’m so busy watching. Observing. Being me. This body is such a wall – a shell. A prison. I can’t break through my awareness of it and just touch what I know exists – what is out there and how it’s in me. Having this body is like pounding a key on the keyboard over and over, and having it fail to type.
I know I sound like I’m on acid but I’m not. I was on acid once, years ago, and it was hell; I hated it. I was trapped in my head and I couldn’t get out. This body feels like an extension of that trip. My eyes are just two holes in my head, pools of visual awareness, that show me everything from heaven to hell but keep me from it all. My mind is like this giant feeler, taking stuff in, touching stuff, but unable to penetrate it and know it, to feel it from it’s own perspective. From the reality of what it is.
No matter what I say, it’s just words. Just more of the same. More begging for attention, or a need for affirmation of existence, or the sense of having an affect. Just blither-blather hitting cobblestones in a cyber world that goes on and on and on, because there’s no end to time and people and perception, and the cyber world just makes that small quaint cobblestone road between your house and the corner grocers a million miles longer, with that many more people in between. That many more houses. That many more strangers.
That many more voices. People, just like you. Or me.
Blogging is a new dimension. It’s a walk on the beach with a million grains of sand, but this time each grain has a history, a life, a world of trouble, happiness, joy, fear , love, humor, opinion… everything. Maybe I’m giving too much credit to the idea of blogging.
I’ve been in the Midwest – my real home – for three years now – and suddenly I miss my beach. The one that used to restore my sanity. The one I used to go to and cry on alone. Where I would go and wish I was back here in Minnesota. Back home, where things made sense. That beach was the only sane person in the world. The rocks, the sand, the waves rolling in like slow, steady breaths, one after another. I knew every rock on that beach – every log…until a really big tide would change them all around. And then I’d find them scattered here and there. It never failed to amaze me how that water could rearrange a beach. The power of the ocean is so beautiful. And frightening. And profound. And reassuring.
I can’t believe I actually miss the ocean. I never thought I would. Damn. That’s what happens when your hours are cut. You have time to think. Oh boy.
I wish summer would come so I could go camping in a thunderstorm. So I could have my sanity restored before I go and do something crazy…like move back to the west coast so I can hear the ocean breath.
P. S. I’m not stoned either. Can’t do that - not with this mind. I think I’m coming down with the flu. (it’s so much easier to say that, than “I think I’m coming down with an extreme case of vulnerability.”)
Anyways, I think it’s beddy-by time for me. Nighty night to all you late night bloggers (and thinkers)
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