Note to Self

            In the 1980s, going to Mother’s restaurant was a dining event. There was something so familiar and quaint about the establishment that all my memories of the then franchise are warm and fuzzy. The Americanized Italian restaurant carried itself rather well. Each diner was essentially the same, with hardwood accents, faux Tiffany lamps and the feel of welcome. It was an experience, not just for the atmosphere but also for all that food. The menu was enormous, just like the portions. My personal favourite was the huge and very deluxe panzerotti. The salad bar sat dead centre of the restaurant and was something you would die for. Everyone I knew loved the place. In London, Ontario, there were several Mother’s restaurants. One was located in the far west end of the city, and was frequented by my family. Another was located in the downtown core and was a favourite hangout for travellers gone in too deep. My partner, then a young boy, knew only of the Brantford location. One day they all just disappeared, never to be heard from again (or so I thought). In 2008, the brand name was purchased and the process of reestablishment into the market began. Slowly, one diner after another reappeared throughout Ontario, including the Kitchener experience in 2014. We went in with great hopes for the place. I keep forgetting that when you hold out expectations, it usually means disappointment. We walked into the newly opened attraction and instantly realized something was missing. The place felt small and cramped and the plastic red and white checkered tablecloths made it look more like a cheap barbershop than the original splendour that was so vivid in my mind. Not a single Tiffany influence could be found. The menu was cliché, the portions had been drastically reduced in size and the prices overinflated.  It was more a homogenized disaster than a pleasant visitation. Still, the influence of the original remains quite present. When we bought our home, we installed a faux Tiffany lamp over our dining room table, specifically because of the original Mother’s layout. It joined our household not only because of its look but also for a sense of atmosphere (something so lacking in the new restaurant). Our choice was under direct influence, an amalgam of the Mother’s we once both loved when we were younger. A place, sadly, to which we have not returned.

Note to self:

You can never go home again.

            Come summer, most kids stick to ice cream and popsicles. Growing up, for the most part, I was one of those kids. Whether from the neighbourhood Dickie Dee ice cream cart, the local tuck shop, or even the ice cream truck, the standard fare was always familiar and always the same. Even the brands seemed to follow into each venue like a shadow would. I can’t recall that I ever noticed, like I do now.  Breaking away from the norm was an alien idea to me. One summer, I discovered something different. The cherry snow cone that I experienced at Ontario Place sent me on a slushy tangent. Every chance I got, I ordered one. The shaved ice, the sweet nectar, soon became my palette’s best friend. I tried raspberry blue and green lime. The cherry, that I mentioned, was without a doubt my favourite. At the Canadian National Exhibition I tried an orange-coloured mango, then at the London Western Fair I tried grape. A few years ago, I consumed a cranberry snow cone from a local booth, much to my delight. Throughout all these years, through the pear-flavoured and the chocolate-flavoured (ewww), I never realized that I had never tried the lemon snow cone. I like lemon, but I am not fond of sucking on sour things. It has never really been important to me to taste every flavour known to man. I just consumed whatever I would come across. The Paris, Ontario fairgrounds are located  almost directly across from the back of our home. Less than 1000 feet from the yard, every Labour Day week the fair comes with all its glory. We had been once before with my Dad and other family members, but this day the two of us ventured over just for the pleasantry. We didn’t go on any rides and the exhibits were very small town. It seemed destined to be a waste of money, but live and learn. On the way out, we stopped at the snow cone booth to have ourselves a little treat. Ben got himself a tangerine orange and I finally gave in to the temptation of bright lemon. It was good.

Note to self:

Sometimes, it’s okay to eat yellow snow.

            At this point in my life, there is little left for me to want and little left that I haven’t had. I find peace and harmony on most days. My relationships are both challenging and yet rewarding. I’m content for the most part. I have found the very things that I always looked for. On sunny days, I appreciate the warmth. On cooler days, I appreciate the cold. Despite all the things that have passed before me, I am able to seize the moment rather than fixating on the past. There are many things about my life that would be considered overwhelming and clouded when viewed by another. Most people don’t understand how I stayed afloat on stormy seas let alone managed to swim to shore. For all the moderation, regardless of the chaos, I strive to remain balanced and aware and even enlightened on the rare occasion. Life is good most days. It has not always been this way. Underneath it all, there is a volcano always ready to spew. The right circumstance, the perfect stimuli, and my world falls to pieces. Try as I may, the feelings just come and there is nothing I can do about it. I suppose if anyone else had to identify their frozen solid partner after they offed themselves, their experience would be close to mine. It’s been over 20 years and occasionally, I am still haunted. The grief found its place long ago. I am usually in a clear frame of mind when it comes to the reality of the situation and what happened. Sometimes, I am not so good. I am swallowed whole. I guess I need more therapy, but I would argue that most people who have survived such misery would be in the same boat. Sometimes, I see him, lying dead and lifeless. This picture appears before me with no warning. Sometimes all I need to do is close my eyes. I have tried a million times to just get past it. No matter how productive, no matter how positive my days become, it always returns, sometimes with a vengeance. I often wonder if other suicide survivors harp back on the event without giving conscious permission. Does their experience flash before their eyes like mine does? What exactly does it mean to carry such weight, such burden? Does it ever go away? Should I want it to go away? No matter the trying, no matter the exorcism, it remains.

Note to self:

It’s never easy, letting go.

            I’m not much for public displays of affection. Since I was a little boy they have made me uncomfortable and I usually cringe when someone does so in front of me. The other day, I walked past two young teenagers almost screwing on a bench in the middle of the food court. In the Wal-Mart, some girl stood feeling up her boyfriend right in front of her children.  I have to admit that in general, I have difficultly expressing myself in these terms, particularly in a public forum. Even in private, if there is the slightest angst or underlying issue, I have trouble expressing myself. I don’t mean on paper like with Valentine’s cards or sexually with my long-term partner. I have trouble expressing my feelings, especially when I am surrounded by gloom. I have built walls and no matter how I am criticized for them, it is these walls which served to make me so strong. It isn’t easy to dissuade them from building. They have been part of me for so long that my cold reactions are more a natural versus forced phenomena. While I am friendly, kind and rather approachable on my best days, when I turn myself off, the complete opposite occurs. I am bitch. I am asshole. I am a frozen ghost. It is not an easy feat for me to overcome this obstacle. I do try and I often fail. The slightest hint of anything out of the ordinary and I return to my tower, all alone way up high. I have been greatly criticized as of late, criticized for being so detached and distant. It’s just the way that I am sometimes. I guess some people believe that being a stone is the same thing as being like a stone. Unlike my alter ego, I breathe and I feel and I suffer. I’m just not going to show it under negative circumstances. It goes without having to say but I’ll say it anyway. I have the right to protect myself, even if you don’t like it.

Note to self:

A rock feels no pain.

            For several years in the early 1990s, I worked as the Media Coordinator of Student Affairs at Lambton College in Sarnia, Ontario. I published a monthly magazine, programmed the college radio station and was responsible for all sales and promotions. For most of my tenure, I was happy with my place in the scheme of things. I became close friends with all the office staff and spent a lot of my free time with them. I had close relationships, especially with the office secretary. Unfortunately, one of my co-workers decided to embezzle funds from the Student Association. I had a pretty good idea what was going on but I said nothing. It was hard to turn in a friend no matter what they may or may not have done. What a tangled web we weave. Soon enough, the blame began to shift to me. Like a good Bipolar would, I told them to stick it up their asses trying to damn me. I quit in the very same breath. Just a few months later, the police came and carried away the office manager. I had long ago moved on and found myself living in downtown Toronto. No matter where I have worked since and no matter who I worked with, I just don’t get involved like I did at Lambton College. I’m not a prick about it but I just don’t think mixing a work life with your private life is a very good idea. Something always rears its head and ends up biting you on the ass. I guess that you really do get what you pay for, even if you couldn’t see it coming. All these years later and I often warn my partner of doing the same thing I did back in the day. He laughs me off, convinced I am overreacting. People need to have their own experiences sometimes, at least when it comes to learning hard lessons. Whether it is someone in the neighbourhood, or a new colleague, even a professional you see on a regular basis, it is never a good idea to mix your private life in with your public persona. You might think the two mesh quite nicely but all you are doing is asking for trouble.

Note to self:

Don’t shit where you eat.

            I am always surprised when a social contact asks me if I know Jesus as my personal Lord and Saviour. Sometimes, I just say yes. After all, throughout my teenage years I took to altar call after altar call, trying to get The Christ to notice me. I was born again several times before my 21^st birthday. The truth is, these days I am so far away from Christianity that even the Devil leaves me alone. Damnation would be rather moot at this point. Even though I find myself thinking differently then during my fundamentalist days, I still hold the direct teachings of Jesus in high regard. I just realized a long time ago that most religions preach the same message as Him, just in a different bottle. I am no longer interested in searching for something that it is obvious no one can find. I still consider myself a theist, albeit an agnostic by nature. I want so much to embrace the idea of a personal God, in such an impersonal world, but I have never experienced this epiphany. I have studied religion from theology to cosmology, from Judaism to Waco, from Nietzsche to Swedenborg. I have come to recognize that even the worst esoteric example is simply trying to say the same things as the best example, just from a different perspective. It’s hard to trust a deity who would have people burn in hell because they didn’t follow the rules. If God is really like that, boy are we all in a lot of trouble. To some capacity, I still believe there is a personal god although I don’t think we have a clue what we are dealing with. I’m not sure that God is anything like what we would imagine it to be. So when I am approached by those intent on my salvation, I often tell them that it’s not that I don’t believe in God, I just don’t believe in their god.

Note to self:

Blind faith is better than no faith at all.

            It’s strange. I am uncomfortable with public displays of affection yet I don’t have the slightest issue talking about sex. I suppose my youth may be the reason I am so unencumbered. Let’s just say the mania that is so present when I’m not being treated for bipolar disorder is a driven bastard. I had no problem sneaking away from my traditional lifestyle and venturing into pure hedonism. Instant gratification just left me more time to keep playing. I prefer the term slut to manwhore. The truth be told, those terms barely touch the surface. It was a different time and yet it was somehow not completely satisfying. When I am sitting alone, drifting in my memories, I try not to envision any of these experiences. That was then, this is now. In truth, only a few are even memorable, and those were with my partners. Sex became my otherland, a pure escape. Add in some casual drug use and you have years of living dangerously. I’m not sure I want to know just how many people I touched in any sort of manner. Sexual promiscuity is one thing but the compulsion I experienced was often more than I could handle. I was possessed in a manner, all impulse and no instinct. The mistakes I made in my youth may have cemented the idea that love is all that matters but such excess comes with a price. It’s not a moral issue for me, I really was in no condition to control myself. If I was able to go back and change my life, I’m not sure I would. What I have done and who I was are only voices if I listen to them. It’s not shame or embarrassment that lingers, it’s regret. Sometimes it can be so hard that it hurts.

Note to self:

That’s what she said.

            You wake up in the morning, you do your work, you pay your bills and you come home at night. Day after day, we all repeat the same motion, just so that we can be happy. Unfortunately, most of us never are. All the time we spend gathering money, and things, only makes us want more. We need more so we take more. We all seem to be wishing for the things we already have. We justify living like this because it’s normal for everyone else, so why not us? There was a point in my life where I did not think it was possible for me to be normal and lead a normal life. Now that I have one it can be a little boring, if you ask me. Be careful what you wish for. I am not about to complain. This life that I  have been given is but a moment’s time. It has been a wonderful, breathtaking adventure that was simultaneously one major pain in the ass. I hope that my life is more than just a picture of me then. In the end, I am left standing at my window watching the birds, and the squirrels, feed as they please. My house is beautiful. It contains many things that are atheistically pleasing. It is my comfort zone, the place I can hide. I have rediscovered a boyhood joy, collecting comic books. I have my music, my friends and I have my writing. I gladly talk with my father every day. For the first time in a long time, I am content. I am content spiritually as well as circumstantially. All these things have completed me. I could not ask for more.

Note to self:

Good things come to those who wait.

Photos

http://drhelmspickett.com/note-to-self-hes-got-you

http://www.area10church.com/messages/2017/2/12/021217-note-to-self-the-friends-that-get-me

Bob

            Panpsychism is an ancient philosophy that is being re-examined by members of the modern scientific community. This school of thought claims that “everything material, however small, has an element of individual consciousness.” It is an evolving theory but one of the oldest. Great thinkers such as Parmenides, Spinoza and even Plato subscribed to the idea that “consciousness, mind or soul (psyche) is a universal and primordial feature of all things.” Plato himself was a staunch believer that “This world is indeed a living being endowed with a soul and intelligence ... a single visible living entity containing all other living entities, which by their nature are all related” (Timaeus, Plato). Traces of this ideology appear throughout antiquity, in doctrines found in Mahayana Buddhism, Taoism and Stoicism. Stoicism, for example, “developed a cosmology which held that the natural world was infused with a divine fiery essence called Pneuma, which was directed by a universal intelligence called Logos.” In Christianity,  Logos is the title given to Jesus “as the pre-existent second person of the Trinity.” Although there is slight correlation between those two, any real unifying factor was lost to more than 2000 years of a Patriarchal theocracy.

            In modern thinking, Panpsychism helps to explain the “hard problem of consciousness.” It has been concluded that human beings are “like the rest of the universe, in substance and in spirit.”  It is believed that a “proto-consciousness field” exerts itself throughout all time and all space. In a nutshell, the entirety of the universe is “self-aware.” For centuries we have accepted the “dominant theory,” that “consciousness is associated with complexity, with a system’s ability to act upon its own state and determine its own fate.” In principle, “some purely physical systems that are not biological or organic may also be conscious.” For hundreds of years, science has tried to explain away the universe. We have tried to come to an understanding regarding where we came from and why we are here. There always seems to be a missing link in all the thinking and all the study. In fact, Panpsychism can neither be “explained in terms of anything else nor be reduced to anything else.” To say that “consciousness is ubiquitous is to say that every aspect of concrete reality partakes of mentality in some way or in some measure.” So what does this mean to a mere mortal? If the universe is conscious then why has it been ignoring me? Who have I been talking to? If everything is one with each other, collective in a sense, then why do most human beings feel so alone? If the universe, like God, is out there, why does it seem that no one is listening? If the universe is alive, does that mean God is dead? Who do I pray to now? If the cosmos is aware and enlightened, then it surely must have a name. I think its name should be Bob.

I think I will call it Bob.

            What does it mean to have a conscious universe? Is this all merely another way of approaching the idea of divine omniscience or even Nirvana? Scientists have been working to understand the cosmos but the deeper they peer into it, the more questions seem to arise. The very idea of the entirety of everything being aware seems contradictive to most religious manifestations of God. I suppose science has always managed to get in God’s way. So then is the living, thinking universe God? Is this the unspoken truth, the “universal” idea underlying all the subjective interpretations? Over the centuries, there have been many theories which resonate with the idea of Panpsychism. The oldest, Animism, “predates even paganism.”  In Animism, “there exists no hard and fast distinction between the spiritual and physical (or material) world,” everything is sentient. Every person, every rock, every planet, even our shadows, the universe itself, all possess anima (Latin meaning breath, spirit, life) and are considered very much “animated and alive.” Animism is a supernatural belief system. A central force “organizes and animates the material universe.” This tradition remains “the belief system of many indigenous tribal peoples.” The Christian part of me was well trained to avoid these blasphemous and heathen ideas. They are considered evil, at least in the pages of the Bible.

“Ex nihilo nihil fit”

- Out of nothing comes nothing –

(Parmenides of Elea, pre-Socratic Greek philosopher)

            Sometimes it feels like the Universe is calling out to me.  I don’t hear voices. I don’t see visions. Occasionally, I sense a presence far greater than myself. I’m not sure if it is God or Jesus or Bob. I would like to know exactly what name I am supposed to worship under this week? Perhaps everyone sees fit to call “It” exactly what they want to. We insert coincidence and serendipity to give meaning to something we can never define.  I can only speak for myself but not once in all the years I have searched for meaning in the stars did one ever drop out the sky and teach me how to be a better person. Like happiness, God is something different to each of us. It is one thing to one person and something completely different to another. We are bound in our subjective nature, caught making up something in light of all the nothingness. In a sense, we all keep God in our very own otherland, explained away by our preconceived notions and the complexities of man. Let’s be honest, that is exactly where such esoteric interpretations belong. What we believe really has little to do with anything but our own folly. If the universe is sentient, if it is aware, it apparently has placed the same restrictions upon itself that anything Holy would. It doesn’t matter how much you cry out, or pray, or even beg, Bob (like Jesus) refuses to answer. We always get nothing out of nothing.

            I went for a walk last evening. The dusk held its own against the coming of the night. The view was clear and bright and full. Deep was the cosmos, raw and bleak and lonely. Nonetheless, the sky danced with stars and cosmic trails and planets hiding at a distance. I was surrounded by the beauty of it all. In a dark recess, I stood bewildered at the display. Under the moonless sky, I spied what felt like the reality of it all. The vastness and the overwhelming majesty of the night sky humbled me, as it always does. My nothingness was validated in the stardust. I tried to talk to it. I tried to listen. In the end, I got exactly the same thing from the “self-aware” universe that I always receive from whatever god I was praying to that day. Apparently, calling out for Bob offers me as much gratification as calling out for Jesus ever did.

I guess nothing really does beget nothing.

Photos

http://shidiq90.blogspot.ca/2011/04/

https://theelectricagora.com/2015/09/28/panpsychism-is-it-testable/

Sources

http://awarenessact.com/scientists-now-believe-the-universe-itself-may-be-conscious/?=ewao

https://www.google.ca/search?q=%E2%80%9Cpanpsychism.%E2%80%9D&rlz=1C1CHBD_enCA731CA731&oq=%E2%80%9Cpanpsychism.%E2%80%9D&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.5285j0j8&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panpsychism

https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/panpsychism/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Logos_(Christianity)

http://www.utsc.utoronto.ca/~seager/pan_seager.pdf

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Animism

By the Sea

“The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.”

(Ulysses, James Joyce 1922)

            He just sat there as she parked the car. It was always nice to find a spot close to the beach. There was no challenge from the vacant lot. This day the entire area was stark and quiet. Not a soul could be seen or heard or even imagined. The bright of the dawn gave way to the warm summer heat and the glare of morning began to fade as the sun rose higher in the sky. The world laid out before them. The sand seemed to go on forever, travelled by many but appreciated by few. He went with her as she left the safety of the automobile. They moved together, methodically, from asphalt to sand. They stopped at the very same spot every time. It was just past the lifeguard station, next to the warning sign and well before the rocky part of the shoreline. They came here so many times you could almost see their resting place heavy in the sand. This was their station, their space, this was where they rested. The same blanket they always used had been seized from the cargo space and fiercely shaken before spread out on the ocean side. They dropped down together, unmovable together, onto a silly old throw sitting down by the sea.

            The sky grew over as they stayed in their mooring. For hours they sat there, facing the water and dreaming. Dreaming of a time when everything was going to be okay. Dreaming of a time when it almost was. Memories moved like the waves before them, tides of emotion, tide to this moment. It had been difficult. It was the most difficult thing to face. The ride to their spot was quiet and awkwardly serene. She steered, leaving him to himself in the passenger seat. On approach, the ocean called out like it always did. The sun shone and the wind cooled and the sand grew warm and uncomfortable. They spent almost the entire day together sitting by the sea. It was a lovely way to say goodbye. As dusk moved in and the shadows started to form by night, she rose and took him to the shore with her. She opened it, breathed in deeply and poured him into the bay. Now he will always be part of this place. Now she could come here and somehow always be near him. On common days like this, you can find her sitting alone, watching the waves, watching the birds, watching the sand. He is there with her, he always will be. She is content to find him carried by the sea.

“The heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms,

it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too.”

(The Letters of Vincent van Gogh, Vincent van Gogh 1914)

            At twelve years of age, he was wonderstruck by it all. He had never been to the ocean before. He had never felt it, heard it or tasted it. Today was a day he would remember. He had always wanted to see the sea. The brisk New Brunswick morning caught heavy waves crashing against the shore. Debris floated randomly, harbingers of the danger out upon the reef. You could hear the undertow roaring like some beast. The water was dirty and brown from the turned up bottom and the waves crested rather foamy, also victims of the wind. A chill danced about the child, a cool breeze from out upon the waves. The scene was ugly and it was beautiful and it was all his for the taking. Everyone else had scrambled to find a place to play but the boy just stood there, mouth dropping more with each passing moment. He was bewildered and mesmerized by the motion of the ocean. For the longest time, he found  himself enchanted at the idea of it. He was posed and ready, eager to face the fury. Adults always seem to get in the way at the most inconvenient of times. He was forbidden to enter the water. Only his feet would ever know the cold Atlantic flow, at least at this time and in this place. He searched the shoreline for even the smallest of adventure. He had not come so far to just give in to nature. Disappointment was abandoned the moment he started his walk by the sea.

            Having been instructed to not leave the line of sight, he wandered down the coast like a vagabond. He examined every stick, every shell, every morsel tossed out of the murky and rampaging swell. He walked and he talked to himself. He even looked for God among all the majesty and seemingly endless beachfront. Every flat stone he came across was used to skip. Some of them scattered aimlessly while others bounced and tripped out into the rough. They all came out of nowhere. He was grossed out by the first one. He was intrigued by the second and then the third. As he carried on forward, more seemed to appear out of thin air. Some floated towards the shore, others rested on the beach. You could see them dangling in the surge, pushing back into the water deep. There appeared to be hundreds of them, most fading on the rocks and the unwelcoming sand. Most were dead, he supposed. He had never seen such a thing before. He was surprised, overwhelmed and fascinated. He would never forget poking some with a stick just to see if there was motion. All those countless creatures sprawled out on the shore, lost to the wind and lost to the tide. Of all the countless beaches he discovered over the years, few seem as memorable as the day he spent playing with all those jellyfish. Some of them surely died. Some may even have lived. Each one stamped in his mind, the little wonders that he saw that day, walking on the sand, exploring this world, down by the sea.

           

“My soul is full of longing

for the secret of the sea,

and the heart of the great ocean

sends a thrilling pulse through me.”

(The Secret of the Sea, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1893)

            There was great beauty between them. People noticed them, men especially. It wasn’t a secret but if those men really knew. They had met five years before, drawn together at the funeral of a common friend. They were almost inseparable, right from the start. Any life they had known fell behind them and the future appeared to be full of promise. They loved each other, that much was clear. You only had to look at them looking at each other, to see the resemblance. The beach house was part of a divorce settlement. Unlike hundreds of other cottages in the area, the private lagoon was large and elegant. The sand bounced back the light and the light became free. It was a beautiful, serene and charming spot, all nestled in and cozy by the sea. No matter the circumstance, no matter the schedule, no matter the matter, every evening they wandered down to the water to say goodnight. The timing would occasionally shift, sometimes people are called away but that’s just life flexing its muscle. If they were both home, they would saunter down and sit beneath the stars and the moon. Even in the rain they found their umbrella, and their place, and sat together on the sand. It was always the most romantic daily event, something to look forward to. You could find them resting on the shoreline, together, sitting by the sea.

            Life can be a complicated mess. We get so tide (get it?) down that we forget the things that really matter. First, it was a death in the family, then all that flooding caught them completely by surprise. Sick children, a fire at work, and all that paperwork, oh the paperwork; complications build great walls. One day things just changed. It really wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. Time does this to everyone. Suddenly, you get caught up in the way things are and you forget the way things should be. When you’re hit with one thing after another, any routine you had tends to suffer. Sometimes love suffers. As time passed, the lovely ladies settled into their life together. Between the daily grind and the daily struggle, those moments on the beach faded like shifting sands. The monotony of it all, the drain of it all, left little but dreams and hard cold dry land. She walked by the sea, alone and pensive. She had escaped only for a moment but the moment was bittersweet. It didn’t matter if she was alone. The moon cracked the water’s surface with a glimmer, a jubilation; you had to stop to notice it. She stood listening to the crashing waves, clutching the letter that she knew would eventually come. There had been a distance too far to conquer. Even love could not fill the void. She let the whisper of the wind caress her and she squished wet sand between her toes. She lingered down near the water, crushed between this new reality and their place by the sea.

“I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.” (Dracula, Bram Stoker 1897)

            I grew up swimming in freshwater lakes. Southern Ontario, Canada is surrounded by water. When I lived in Toronto, Lake Ontario cooled my childhood form. When I lived in Strathroy, Lake Huron was a chilly escape. Every summer my partner and I relax on the beach in Port Burwell, a cottage community on the north shore of Lake Erie. While Lake Michigan and Lake Superior are not frequent destinations, they are a mere drive away from my civilization. People drink the Great Lakes everyday. I have swam in the midst of each. There is nothing like swimming in the ocean. The buoyancy against my body has been a rush since the first time I swam in the Atlantic. One of my favourite places in all of this world is Big Sur. I consider the place the most beautiful destination along the Pacific coastline. I love the feel of the ocean. I love the taste of the ocean. I crave the constant thrill I experience as I swim out into the deep. I am ever wondering what creature may come up and bite me on the ass. There is something romantic in it all. Memories of soothing ripples and purple sands keep me California dreaming. It’s like an otherland, of sorts. Of all the time I have spent in the water, there is nothing more surreal than diving under and watching a shark or a dolphin pass by. Don’t get me wrong, the Great Lakes basin is one of the most stunning areas on the planet, and the Great Lakes are themselves something to behold, but I would rather be by the sea.

“I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favourite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.”

(All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr, 2014)

 Photos

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/dune-fence-on-the-beach-at-sunset-elizabeth-spencer.html

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/62839357275747640/

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9370856

Rabbit Hole

            Try as I may, life is often more than even I can handle. Sometimes it isn’t worth it. You struggle and you fight, but for what? Nothing lasts forever including each one of us. I don’t want to get into some diatribe like “we all live and we all die” so boo hoo to that. Yup, life is unfair. No shit. So is car insurance, what’s your point? Every once in awhile for me, the world I have created falls to pieces. I get lost in the discombobulating chaos that comes with each assigned day. You need fortitude to be a human being. You need fortitude and a survivor’s disposition.  Both are hard to maintain, at least some of the time. When the darkness comes, I tend to embrace it. I become a rock or an island, neither of which feel any pain nor cry. When things get too much for me, I try my best to float away. It’s not denial or avoidance that motivates me. I find peace in simple things and simpler notions. I try to find my Otherland but sometimes the noise is just too much. It doesn’t matter why, not really. The why is different for each of us. It’s the numbing, the constant numbing that makes us feel like surrender is our only option. Sometimes it all is too tough. I know there are times when I just want to lay down and die. 

            I  have to be careful while exploring an existential crisis. It may be a phase, it may be a notion, but if my depressive state takes over I am screwed, and not literally. More than ten years of successful treatment for my Bi-Polar disorder doesn’t mean the extremes of the disease are no longer a factor. I still suffer to varied degrees. Hypomania, for example, can evolve into mania but it can also “switch” to a serious depression. While hypomania is “a mood state characterized by persistent disinhibition and pervasive [euphoria],” it is still less severe than full mania. Progressive symptoms of depression, in the same manner, may become “hyper depressive.” It is still less severe than the full depressive state. Anything can tilt the balance, anything at all. I wish that I had surer footing, every time I fall into a rabbit hole. I just need to recognize that any focus on ideas such as defeat, surrender and hopelessness, manifests symptoms leading to and causing a general state of depression. I experience the same pain, the same confusion, the same withdrawal as anyone else would but it comes with a slippery slope. I have to be careful of walking too close to the edge.

            I want to believe that there is a goodness to this life. I want to but I’m not so sure.

Although good and evil are relative, just like morality, it seems that quite often all one can find is disdain and corruption. People seem so much more selfish than when I was growing up. We have all given in to the Dark Side. There are no angels left to save us. We all struggle but the majority of us feel we should not have to. We dwell in the shadow so that the shadow becomes what we are. We all like to swim in denial. The gloom is hanging everywhere, like a dense fog. Such sadness, such misery. It can be a challenge to not get sucked in. With so much heartache, we are bound to follow suit. There is always, always, a weight to it. I am often disheartened, stuck watching people watching life go by. No one seems to give a damn. Instead of life feeding hope and joy and gladness, it promotes sorrow and hated and much hubris. In a whirlpool, we circle until we flush down the sink. We all fall into that rabbit hole.

            The world seems to be falling apart. Of course, to one degree or another it has always appeared this way. There is always something that gives us validation to think so. It is true, in the past everything seemed to point to the end of the world. Not much has changed. It appears we all are doomed. This constant reality wears on us. What is the point of striving and sacrificing if all is lost? No wonder men live the way that they do. If there is no tomorrow then surely we must be merry before we all die. There is reckless abandon, everyone doing as they wish with a general disregard for their fellow man. The state of mankind is ruptured and broken. There is very little “we” left in the world. I often lose myself to the great “I”. We have become the apparition that Plato warned us about. We are self-absorbed and almost drained of our humanity. We are a shadow. The only person who seems to matter is us and sometimes not even. It’s enough to make one sad and very discouraged by it all. It sucks to be in the world yet be all alone. The burden of it can be heavy and only adds to the crisis being experienced. We think we are safe but no matter, something always manages to push us in.

            I get down and I get sad. No matter how balanced my life is, something always ends up throwing me out of sync. My equilibrium goes screwy. I start to panic. The complications are never worth the investment. It is rare that I think such things or ponder their meaning. I am a relatively happy person. I have made my way through the fire and simply wish to be warmed by it, not dwell within it. I live in the now well knowing that nothing is for sure and time is my only constant. It keeps moving and I keep dying, little by little, day after day, minute by minute, unto the end of my all. Despite my strength and the experiences of my life, there are moments of great weakness that I hide from the world. I doubt myself and I doubt most others. I am always looking for the real reason people act the way that they do. I have moments of such clarity and moments when I am

tossed out to sea, lost in the mist and the shadow of a moonless night. I flounder about in the meaning of it all. The secret of life is exclusive to those already long gone. So I wander, looking for a sign, looking for a breakthrough. All I have discovered is more chaos, more sorrow and more confusion. We are dashed against the shore not taken and never told exactly what we did to end up feeling this way.

            I try not to fall into too many rabbit holes. They seem to be everywhere in this modern world.  Just as my strut gets rhythm, I trip and drop down and down and farther still. I try to escape the pull but it seems impossible to do. This world is made for falling fools, fools who think that anything will ever be okay again. It never is. Unlike with Alice, there is no wonderland on the other side. In fact, there is bitter and lonely and helpless. There is only this grand sense of futility and emptiness for all to see. We are tossed and turned to get here and when we arrive, there is nothing for us. I don’t often get the blues and I have rarely, if ever, had a true existential crisis. I can cope far better than one might  think. I always manage to climb out of it, no worse for the wear. Life gets all of us down, no matter who you are. I suppose it is how you handle things that will determine any consequence. When I do feel the weight of the world, I tend to go with it. On occasion, I even choose to jump down the rabbit hole.

Photo

https://www.affordableaddictiontreatment.com/recovery-stories/crawling-out-the-rabbit-hole

Sources

http://www.webmd.com/bipolar-disorder/guide/hypomania-mania-symptoms

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disinhibition