I am a fish judged by how well I can climb trees. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of climbing trees. For a fish. But the apes get the fruit.
Today I was hanging laundry out. As I reached up to pin a sock to the line, a dragonfly lighted on my wrist. I froze. The sun reflected on its wings, its brilliant eyes. It cocked its head with manifest intelligence. It knows its surroundings, exquisitely adapted to do what it must. It was so beautiful, I wept.
Why do people keep doing the same thing over and over when it clearly doesn’t work? Perhaps because it’s all they know how to do, and they feel they must do something. Perhaps what they ought to do is nothing.
The smaller my world gets, the better I can hear the birds singing.
I have poured into this website hours of work, carefully choosing the best bits of my writing to share, crafting blogs, praising the triumphs of others, speaking out, singing and sometimes sobbing. My stats consistently report that the highest number of hits by an appalling margin are on the photo “Brony Party 2”.
I would like to be able to go through one entire day without crying.
What gives me the right to feel this way? There are those who’ve suffered far worse than I, and they manage to keep their act together. I suppose we weren’t all issued the same brain and nervous system at the factory. Some aren’t quite up to spec. Some got dropped on the floor before installation. Some got made on a Monday. Or some dork spilled his Monster drink while doing the wiring. Nothing to be done about it. Non-refundable, no returns. Got to work with the equipment handed to us.
Personal suffering is like dirty underwear. You’d be embarrassed to let it show in public, and rightly so, because frankly, nobody wants to see it.
My sixteen-year-old Aspie son understands me better than most adults, including the therapists. Especially the therapists. Is he old beyond his years, or am I young before my time?
People whose chosen activities interfere, often egregiously, with other people’s happiness, enjoy the same freedom to do their thing as people whose chosen activities do no one any harm. I’m thinking of the noise and stink of ATVs being driven around in circles in someone’s back yard, while in the next yard over Captain America is shooting off every weapon in his arsenal, presumably to be ready for the Socialist Revolution, Alien Invasion, or Zombie Apocalypse, whichever comes first. Meanwhile, all I want to do is perhaps a bit of gardening or enjoy a cup of tea on my back porch. True, I could buy some heavy-duty ear protection, but that makes it difficult to listen to the birds and the hum of the bees in the flowers. If I asked them nicely they’d just yell back that they’ve got every legal right to do as they please, and if I don’t like it, then I can just shut up or get out. Alas, the curse of the quiet soul in a culture that revels in noise.
How does one forgive? I can say the words with earnest sincerity, but how does one reach down into the mind and memory and uncouple the pain from the person who caused it?
Defrosting the freezer, listening to the steady drip, drip punctuated by clang! as a chunk of ice drops loose from the coils and hits the wire rack below. What a perfect metaphor for a mind coming apart. Drip, drip, drip go the moments, the thoughts, the solid, messy, irregular accretion of a lifetime’s beliefs eroded by the relentless hot breath of stress, of contradiction, of suffering. Crack, there goes another piece. Clang, an episode of sobbing, gasping, clutching to any comfort, any solidity, but whoops! down we go. Finally all that is left is stark, empty. Cleaned out. Ready to be chilled and filled again neatly.
There is too much rage, too much fear, too much stress, and too many people with guns. I’m hunkered down in a munitions dump surrounded by people in flames screaming accusations at each other. No kill I.
Why shouldn’t my behavior be erratic? Where is there any consistency in the world? Reality is just one great, shrieking, mosh pit.
I want my mind back. The pills kind of work, but it’s like using a crutch instead of putting in the effort to strengthen the limb so you can use it again. Pills are easy. Exercise is hard. It’s also difficult to focus with jays in my face. Riding the unicycle through the mine field. Maybe I can trick the weeping angels into looking at each other long enough for me to sneak away and regenerate.