Cherry St. Storage

From the blog 'Alphonsus's Written Word' - read the poem by clicking the picture

It seems self-serving to vent in public.  And it gets a little tiresome, I know.  But I’ll vent anyway, because someone out there may read this and agree, and feel grateful they are not alone, like I feel I am right now.

I am afraid…afraid of so many things.  Afraid of facing work.  Afraid of facing people.   Afraid of taking action.  Afraid of failure (and maybe success).  Afraid of people that aren’t afraid.  Afraid of the pace.  Afraid of the noise.  Afraid of rejection.  So afraid…

And I mad.  Mad at the human race.  Mad we have a ruling class.  Mad at the race we are conditioned to run. Mad at the glorification of wealth.  Mad at the loss of patience. Mad at the loss of common sense.  Mad at the loss of charity.  Mad at greed.  Mad at corporate myopia.  Mad at social myopia.  Mad at those that think it’s all so exciting.   So mad…

And I’m feeling hopeless.  I feel like an alien that does not speak the language, or understand the customs.  I stand back and stare and all I see is a giant aluminum mountain that I will never be able to scale.  I watch the world whizz by and all I catch are flashes of images.  I don’t live here anymore – I’ve been shut out.  It’s someone else’s club, and I’m not going to be a member.  Ever.

So…this is the 21st century.  I remember dreaming about whether I’d live this long to see it for myself – it all seemed so far-fetched back then in the 70s.  How could I know that people are idiots here?  Life is about consumption here?  That sanity lies only in rare pockets you search for?  That mainstream is a polluted river of bilge?

What I’d really like?  I’d like the stock markets to really crash hard, and take all those that got rich by making money on money down to the bottom.  I’d like the poor to crush all the top-tier executives – maybe that would shake greed out of our genes.  I’d like a really fucking impressive natural disaster to weed out all those self-centered, possession-hungry “I’m the majority” voters – they can’t be smart enough to deal with it.  Really, what I wish for, is someone to make the entire f-ing planet stop in its tracks and teach it peace and serenity and sanity.  I’m secretly hoping the Mayans have it right and we’re done for soon.

All I can say right now is I want out.  I like the planet a lot, but I’m done with this weed called ‘human’.  It’s choking out all the good things that live here, and I’m sick of its smell.  It’s not lost on me that I’ve just condemned myself in that thought, since I am part of that species.  All the same…I want out.

Fear + Anger + Hopelessness.  Not the equation that any Oprah-wannabe would think we’ve written, but that’s what I see.  And, honestly, it don’t add up to much.

Mahalo.

photo credit: BL1961

On the eve of my 45th birthday, I stop to consider how many times I want to check out of the human race.  The selfishness, the myopia, the steady decline of civility, the increase of stupidity… all of it makes me angry that I have to face it every day.  My weakness, it is, that I prefer solitude to engagement.  I’m working on that, but it doesn’t erase my reasons for wanting to stay away.

That being said, it’s when I look up at the night sky that I realize there is more to life than being human.  There are the millions of species other than homo sapien that call this planet home.  There are the hundreds of miles of ocean depth that have yet to be seen or understood.  There are probably more modalities of life than we can see that are living with us – they may even be laughing silently as we run ourselves to extinction.

But, more than all of that, I look up at night and realize how small it all is in the face to the infinity above.  We are a tiny speck of dust swimming in a  vast particle sea.  We are but fuzz on a single peach in an endless ocean of fruit.  Held against the backdrop of the universe, we do not even cast a shadow.

And, knowing that, the fear and anger this century brings me drops away, if just for a moment.  Because, in the final rinse, it means nothing.  Only I remain, and that’s enough.

photo credit: iNelsonRocha

This is to the guy in the expensive import sports coupe that almost killed me this afternoon.  You – the guy that ran past the streetcar at 5pm today, on King Street at Parliament, as the doors were opening.  If the doors had opened a second earlier…if I had looked left instead of right…you would have taken me from my loved ones forever.  You SELFISH BASTARD!

What was so f-ing important that you can’t wait?  What makes you think that your time is more precious than my life, or anyone else’s that was descending to the street?  How f-ing self-centered and self-important are you that you are blind to the world around you?  Or is it…is it that you are so rich, so pampered, so self-absorbed, that the world is below you?  Are you so jacked up on greed that people are expendible?  Are you so deluded by your own wealth that you think the public should part before you?

I have to wonder…

Our world in North America has become so brutally fast, and the people in it so sickenlingly self-posessed.  The disease of entitlement is epidemic.  We glorify consumption, we deify greed, we sanctify wealth.  We define ourselves by what we own, what we do, where we live, how we look.  We run and we run and we run, and yet no one can answer why we should run.  No one questions why, so powerful is this delusion – no one seems to see the curtain hiding the imposter Wizard, never mind look behind it to unveil the truth.

It is a runaway train now – one so long no one can see the engine pulling it.  More and more, I see a fiery, calamitous end to this world, since so few can even sense the gathering wind in our faces.

So – to the idiot that decided his life was more important than mine today – if you ever read this – or if your friend’s friend’s friend reads this – I hope your license is stripped from you before you actually do kill someone.

And to anyone that may read this – scream with me.  Let your rage be seen for the blinded rich to fear.  Stand up to the lies your society has forced on you.  And for all our sakes, pull the brakes if you can reach them.  It’s time we stopped to live.

photo credit: karindalziel

Write.
Writing.
I should write.
Right.

Writing is good.  Even if no one reads it.  Right.  No one will read it.   Well, maybe one…but you asked him to.

So, put aside the fantasies of fame, and discovery.  You aren’t going to be on Oprah.  You aren’t going to be discovered by Vanity Fair.  You aren’t Carrie Bradshaw….even if you wanna be.  She always has the right words, the right summations, the perfect sentence so clever and coy.  Coy?  Maybe sharp, and smart.

Uh…jeez…who inside my head is talking me down to ground zero?  Who’s talking that is so intent on convincing me that this is useless?  It plays itself as modesty, but looking at the above, I wonder if it’s a lot more violent than that.  Someone in me wants me to stay hidden.  Someone in me thinks it’s safer to stay unscathed, or untested, or tethered.  Some part of me is a lot happier when I ‘face reality’.

So, then, why not start from the beginning like that voice isn’t there?  Like…

There is so much in the world that I want to touch and feel and breathe.  There’s a fabric to it all that’s invisible but inevitable.  I can feel myself reaching for it, desperate for it, wanting it badly.  The intangible beyond what mere mortals see – the magic behind the mirror.  There’s an electricity between souls that ignites light in the world, and it seems at times only a step away from where I stand.

And yet, desperate that I am to connect, I don’t quite know where the plug is.  That yearning to find that inner power  turns in on itself, frustrated and torn because there is no way in.  It’s like the veil I feel is a veil of steel – opaque, diaphonous, but oh, so impenetrable.

Maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way – it’s like taking lots and lots of pictures on vacation, only to discover they were all people-less scenery pix.  Beautiful as they are, they are devoid of life – they are static, frozen snaps of a flat world.  They don’t breathe like you thought they would when you were there with the things that you thought would live on there own.

Don’t collapse.  Push the words out if you have to, but don’t let despair shut you down.  Feed the voice that says, ‘maybe, someday, someone will see these words and smile’.  Dare to fill your sail with some wind.  Risk tipping the boat when it picks up speed.  It’s always easier to drop the mainsail and power in to harbour.  It’s a lot scarier to fly in on chance – with a sharp eye and a firm hand on the tillar (holy mixed metaphors, Batman).

Ok – entry done.  You did it.  It’s in print for someone to see.  Maybe God will read it – or..maybe, someone famous.  Or…maybe, someone in Botswana.  or…hmm…maybe someone lost in the world like you are, and you’ve just let them know they aren’t alone.  Like you feel you are so much of the time.

Write.  Right.  Right to write.  Wrong to weep.

Write.