Oh, So...
This is a the randomness I need to blurt out
so that I can let my brain get on to bigger and better things. Don't take it too seriously.
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Does this path have a heart?
Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself, and yourself alone, one question. This question is one that only a very old man asks. My benefactor told me about it once when I was young, and my blood was too vigorous for me to understand it. Now I do understand it. I will tell you what it is: Does this path have a heart? All paths are the same: they lead nowhere. They are paths going through the bush. In my own life I could say I have traversed long, long paths, but I am not anywhere. My benefactor’s question has meaning now. Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn’t, it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other doesn’t. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life. One makes you strong; the other weakens you.
—Carlos Castaneda, from The Teachings of Don Juan
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SETTIN' THE TONE FOR THE WEEKEND
SO RAD. My bike and I will be reunited in less than 36 hours. If you want to think about me riding around on my super-awesome 80s motorcycle this weekend, this is the proper theme song for that scenario.
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…sleepy
This has nothing to do with you or the internet or anything cool in this world. I had a dream last night and I want to record it somewhere so I can remember it later.
Feel free to stop reading now.
I woke up this morning after a vivid dream, the kind where the feeling sticks with you all day. I wanted to stay in it. I had fallen asleep feeling very hurt and lost, so it was fairly appropriate that in my dream my friends took my hands and led me out of a black, dark room. They said there was someone they wanted me to meet, and took me into a hospital room. There was a young man there who had been in a terrible accident. He was broken and nobody would look at him. I just stared-he looked so small and shattered, but not in a gory physical way. My friends tried to lead me someplace else, but I pulled away from them and went to his bedside, knelt down and took his hand. For some reason I didn’t see his injuries as much as other people did, or at least they didn’t seem to bother me. He turned his head and looked in my eyes, and then he struggled and got up out of the bed. We all moved back a little as he did-it was quite a process because of his injuries. When he was up I saw what a big person he actually was. He walked slowly towards me, then pulled me up to stand next to him. Then he wrapped his arms around me and we stood there, not saying anything. He was leaning on me a little, and I buried my face in his chest. The rest of the world sort of faded away. It felt like if either one of us moved we would both fall to pieces, but as it was, in that bear hug, I felt incredibly safe and warm.
So there it is. Don’t try to psychoanalyze it or I’ll have to slap your little hand. My dreams are tiny movies that play in my head at night, just for me. I wanted to keep this one, so I wrote it down.
After I woke up from that dream, I fell back asleep long enough to have another dream.
I was in the middle of a survival-style reality game show, and on a break out in the middle of a dirty, muddy arena my friend was showing me the creative movies he was taking of his kids. They were artistic and had amazing soundtracks. I was so impressed! The one I remember most was a video of their hands, stop-motion style, shuffling through and displaying the contents of a school pencil box full of brand-new art supplies, to a peppy instrumental beat.
I had the following thought as I woke up: “Damn. Even in my dreams my friends are doing more amazing, creative stuff than I could ever dream of.” Funny. But I did dream it, so I’m going to own it.
Goodnight.
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…some things don’t change
I found an old journal full of lists from when I was in college.
They still feel pretty accurate—maybe because they’re vague, or maybe because some things don’t really change.
THINGS I LIKE
WARM RAIN SMELL
PEOPLE WHO ARE FUN TO BE WITH
TALKING TO KIDS
SMILING AND MEANING IT.
LAUGHING SO HARD I START TO CRY (this is still my absolute favorite)
KEPT PROMISES
the BEACH
SNOW
A WARM FIREPLACE ON A COLD WET DAY
DRIVING
SLEEPING IN THE SUN
DRESSING UP
PEOPLE WHO UNDERSTAND
CARTOONS
CLAY
HOW A SONG CAN BRING BACK MEMORIES
COOKING A NICE DINNER FOR SOMEONE
TRUST
THINGS I DON’T LIKEFINDING AN UN-RIPE BLACK OLIVE
BEING THE ONLY ONE WHO THINKS IT’S FUNNY
FEELING HELPLESS
PEOPLE SAYING “CHEER UP” or “SMILE” WHEN YOU’RE NOT SAD
MOSQUITOES
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…restless
“
It wasn’t a real bird; it was a creature that filled him with darkness. The bird had restless wings. It was trapped inside him. It wanted out, it wanted to get away. Sometimes I could sense its desperation at having to live inside the chest of a man. It shrieked, it beat it’s wings, it refused to leave him in peace. The Scoundrel tried to escape the bird through drink, but the bird stayed there inside his chest. When he awoke in the morning, the bird was still there. When he vomited the bird whispered: “You can’t drive me out. I’m still inside of you.”
But one day the bird flew away. I don’t know how it got out of the Scoundrel’s chest, but it rose up like a stork, it flew up toward the safety of the sky and disappeared into the clouds. At first the Scoundrel was relieved. He celebrated his freedom, he drank himself into a stupor, he awoke without hearing wings.
In the beginning he thought the pain was gone, but slowly he discovered it wasn’t. The Scoundrel began to miss the bird. How could it have gotten out? He thought that it was chained to his body. In some way the bird had kept him in check. Now there was nothing. Only dreary nights in the damp cellar, only the cloying smell of aquavit and candles, only the sense that he was alone, that no one lived inside of him, that nothing could grow.
That was what he tried to tell me whenever he drank until he was drunk.
About the bird inside of his chest. About how he suffered when it was there. And how he suffered when it was gone.
“
From The Tsar’s Dwarf by Peter H. Fogtdal
