Gmail gives me a Zen moment.
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
by Mary Oliver
A foray into a new genre. I don’t know what it is.
Sometimes, when you are dead, you just don’t know it. Your mind continues to believe in your life, despite the irrefutable proof lying in a wreck on the roadside. You ignore the clues, carry on in a dazed trance, doing work that does not need doing, and which is never noticed. You raise imaginary dahlias and runner beans and children. You still believe in Love, Family, Friends. Hope. You believe in Truth and Balance and Justice. They are ideal, because they are not real. You take foolish risks for their sake, not realising it matters nought. For you have nothing to lose that is not already lost.© S.P. Nov, 2019
You edge sometimes towards an unwilling awareness of your sad condition, this seemingly human condition. When you do, you seek diversion. You lose yourself in fiction, for deep inside you know that only in the imagination is found the Happy Ending. Every book you think you read, is one you write yourself. Every movie you watch is no more than your own reimagining of all you missed while you were still alive. Your own mind sometimes produces that rare masterpiece, a dream so moving, so sweeping, with such an epic, tragic, sad or bitter-sweet finale, that you weep. You weep. You feel. Because despite being dead, on some unconscious level of your non-existential soul you are aware you have just realised the Truth.
Entropy rules. Decay. That is how you should know you are dead. There is no other condition.
And the only question for you, Zombie, is “When was it that you died?”
There, perversely, paradoxically, is your true immortality.
You were, you are, you shall be – always – nothing more – and nothing less – than a skin cell shed from the Universe as it searches for meaning.
“The Martini; the only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.”
H. L. Mencken
I think that I shall never see
A Bottle lovelier than thee
And this companion by thy side
Is quite thine equal, undenied
And though some might discuss the merit
Of lesser, Cossack potato spirit
It’s you the connoisseur preferred
Either shaken, or just stirred.
Either way is just as nice,
In a glass of chinkling ice.
But if one to six I mix you in
I’ll need another five bottles of gin.
For most of my life I have been trying to earn someone’s respect, friendship, love, or even just their acceptance. The great Zhòngní said If a man is respectful he will not be treated with insolence. If he is tolerant he will win the multitude.
Under the ocean is where I have found the greatest peace and self confidence. Down there I have never been afraid, even when I got into tricky situations such as the time we were cave diving and I got stuck so I had to take off my tank and carry it in front of me. On confidence the great man says Education breeds confidence. Confidence breeds hope. Hope breeds peace.
Constantly, I have tried to live up to the ideal of the Superior Man. The superior man is distressed by the limitations of his ability; he is not distressed by the fact that men do not recognise the ability he has.
Knowing what I know and what I don’t has been the basis of my confidence. The Master said, You! [由], shall I teach you about knowing? To regard knowing it as knowing it; to regard not knowing it as not knowing it—this is knowing.
In the End, it all comes down to just one thing; Have I learned anything? By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.
The question is; How many times have I done this before in my posts without anyone noticing?
I’ve been a wanderer all of my life, and many’s the sight I’ve seen…
There is no Aberdeen to which I long to return. My whole life has been spent moving on. There has never been anywhere for me to return to, because it was no longer there after I left.
I can remember two homes in England before I was five. We had five more homes in four towns in New Zealand before I was eleven.
The most stable period of my youth was my teenage years in West Auckland. After that I moved around a lot again, until I acquired a family and had a second, relatively stable, period with them in only three locations. And that didn’t last either. Not nearly as long as I wanted. It was not my choice. Which does not mean it was not my fault. I don’t know.
What I do know is there is nowhere to which I can return. No family seat, no family. Just scattered relatives. A few friends.
In the small hours I wonder “What if?” There is no answer except the soft early call of the magpie who roosts in the trees behind my caravan.
I ponder the events that led me here. Living with anyone is difficult. When does the effort become too much? Is the person wiser who decides “enough” or the one who keeps trying? Who is at fault, when someone calls enough? Perhaps the fault must always be borne by both.
I am trying to be more zen in my introspection and self-appraisal. I accept what is, but still can’t help wondering what if? I am the sum of my memories. I owe it to myself and the world to ensure my memories are honest and clear.
I was not a good son, I was not a good brother, I proved to be a poor husband, Twice. I truly don’t know any more what kind of father I was. I want to write accurately about my memories. Of what made me what I am. That will not always put me in a good light, but it also may not please those who get to see themselves as I saw them. They may see my perception of causality as blame. But one does not blame the sun for sunburn. It is what happens.
Well. Wow. I didn’t know that was where I was going when I started this post.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
EDGAR ALLAN POE