Last night, Stephen and I fought. (Again.) And then we talked. (Again.) And then we cried. (Again.) We are trying to figure out the apartment situation, as living together just doesn’t feel like a viable option any longer.
Ugh. This shit isn’t easy.
My side—my story—is based on my perspective. And perspective—by its very definition—is a limited view. It cannot be the whole truth because it is only a smaller part of the big picture. I’m still too close to it, but when I have those rare moments in between, when time seems to vanish, just for a moment, I can see that everything is going to move forward. This is the end of no one’s world. It is simply the close of one chapter, and the beginning of another.
I suppose that perhaps, the timing was all wrong for Stephen and myself. We both have a lot of growing to do. And neither of us is a monster for that. He did things. I did things. We both we’re not always pleasant. We both we’re not always loving. But I think we both tried our hardest. And in the end, isn’t that all anyone can really manage to do?
I wish I had this calm perspective more of the time. When it comes to Stephen, I am like this massive storm. There is no reason or logic, only emotional fury and passion. I am reduced to the five-year-old Rex who is desperately clinging to something he finds comfort in. He hasn’t yet learned the lesson that no one plays for keeps in this lifetime. Nothing stays forever. The rest is my ego screaming to win the competition. But there is no competition. There can be no winners here. And no losers either. We both had, and have, lessons to learn, and I think we’re still learning them. And then there's me, now, this calm rational buddhist, that is just smiling because he knows something the rest of my personalities have yet to grasp.
I miss him. Not just as a partner, but as a friend. And given time, I think we can be friends again. Easy task? Not right now. But with time, comes perspective. Time is the great expanse that one can either choose to learn from, or not. And some people stick to their guns, and think that they’ve learned all they need to know by kindergarten. But there’s a whole world out there. A whole stretch of knowledge and ideas and perspectives and art and landscapes and scents and tastes and senses. There’s a quote out there, and apologies if I butcher it, but it goes something like this:
There are angels out there whose only job is to keep people from falling asleep and missing their life.
And that’s what this big break-up was for me. A big wake-up. I was falling asleep at the wheel. And though it hurts at times, and I miss the “us” at times, I have to say—it’s good to be awake again. Even if it hurts sometimes. So I just have to remind myself to pull back, open my eyes, and remember that the sun never sets. On earth it may seem as though it does, but from space, the sun is always shining.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
REVERSE
As I walked to work this morning, I was considering perception. Our perception of reality governs the way we see the world. But what if we were seeing it all wrong?
What if we were seeing things in reverse?
Or more, what if the way we see things—in the chronology we believe to be adamant—is only temporary? Or superfluous? Take a step out of your consciousness, and just consider…
Billions of years ago, in a single flash, the universe exploded. The Big Bang. And the universe has been exploding outward ever since. What if one day, the universe could expand no more, and—like a balloon that can get no larger, and the air now being let out—it seeks to return to its original form. And everything starts going back to the way it was.
Those who had died, would return to living and age backward. Oxygen would and sun rays would not damage the body, as the energy would flow out and return to its source. We would take waste back into our bodies and our body would reinvigorate the animals parts and the plant pieces, and we would unchew it, and spit the food back onto our plates where it would be returned to the farm and the animals would be put back together and they would live again, and like us, be born of death and age in backwards until they rejoin their mother’s womb and shrink until they divide into an egg and their father’s seed.
All life would age backwards, in reverse, and return to the one source from which we all came.
There is a kind of beauty in it that makes me wish this were the way in which we lived. In reverse.
In that, rather than all of us aging towards death and the eventual fleeing of the spirit (or the energy that creates that spirit) from the body, we would return to our mothers who would in turn return to hers and so on, until we all became part of something greater than ourselves. Instead, we move “forward” towards being alone.
Or perhaps not.
This world is bigger than any of us can quite understand. And I suspect we know less about the true dynamics and physics of our universe than we suspect. We are but the most infantile children in the scope of knowledge of this place… Makes ya feel small, don’t it? Hehe.
-Wednesday, September 9, 2009
What if we were seeing things in reverse?
Or more, what if the way we see things—in the chronology we believe to be adamant—is only temporary? Or superfluous? Take a step out of your consciousness, and just consider…
Billions of years ago, in a single flash, the universe exploded. The Big Bang. And the universe has been exploding outward ever since. What if one day, the universe could expand no more, and—like a balloon that can get no larger, and the air now being let out—it seeks to return to its original form. And everything starts going back to the way it was.
Those who had died, would return to living and age backward. Oxygen would and sun rays would not damage the body, as the energy would flow out and return to its source. We would take waste back into our bodies and our body would reinvigorate the animals parts and the plant pieces, and we would unchew it, and spit the food back onto our plates where it would be returned to the farm and the animals would be put back together and they would live again, and like us, be born of death and age in backwards until they rejoin their mother’s womb and shrink until they divide into an egg and their father’s seed.
All life would age backwards, in reverse, and return to the one source from which we all came.
There is a kind of beauty in it that makes me wish this were the way in which we lived. In reverse.
In that, rather than all of us aging towards death and the eventual fleeing of the spirit (or the energy that creates that spirit) from the body, we would return to our mothers who would in turn return to hers and so on, until we all became part of something greater than ourselves. Instead, we move “forward” towards being alone.
Or perhaps not.
This world is bigger than any of us can quite understand. And I suspect we know less about the true dynamics and physics of our universe than we suspect. We are but the most infantile children in the scope of knowledge of this place… Makes ya feel small, don’t it? Hehe.
-Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
the perfect shower
Today might be the most beautiful morning I can remember here in New York in some time. Nothing has happened out of the ordinary, as I woke, showered, and came to work. But the weather outside—it is crisp and cool. The air soft. No, it isn’t the weather itself, but the way it touches on my memory.
This morning, as I showered, the bathroom door open, and all the house windows wide, the cool air from outside wafted in, moving the mist of the shower in settle random ways that only nature can achieve. As the hot water beat down on me, and the cool air dances across my naked flesh, memories stirred of San Francisco.
What was it? Eight years back I think. Staying at Brett’s house just off of Castro. His shower was hot, and there was a small window, cracked, where the cool air from outside came in, mingling with the hot water pouring down from overhead. What is it about the mixing of the elements that tantalizes? The air cool, the water warm, the porcelain beneath your feet solid. It’s perfect. Grounded and airy. My mind drifts.
San Fran isn’t the only time those elements have met and washed over me. I know of other memories, but they hesitate to come forward, instead letting me just relish in it. I know it might seem silly to write a journal entry about a good shower, but I can’t help but think it’s this kind of small stuff I haven’t been appreciating in my life.
That, and when memories stretch you backward across time, I can’t help but feel they do so for a reason. Eight years ago, I was such a different person, with such different perspectives, and still naïve in more ways that I can count. It was a lifetime ago. But one thing that hasn’t changed is that I’m a survivor. The pangs I suffer now can draw a parallel with the pains I suffered then, and be reminded, that I will get through this. These little trials are what life is made up of. They are part and parcel.
Last night, dinner with my best bud Victor at The Elephant in the East Village, Feist was playing overhead. And something in the song and in the air and in the meal hit me like a subtle wave of the lightest bricks. It was just one of those moments when you can’t wait to meet that new person who will make you believe in love again, even if only for a second. To go on that first date and reach out and touch fingertips or rub knees under the table. To get those texts and phone calls that you just can’t wait to answer. To be in bed with that person for the first time and be nervous be you actually care what’s going to happen and how nice it will be to wake up next to them in the morning. To have all that—HOPE. And it’s just amazing, the way it made me feel. So alive and scared (but not in the anxious way) and happy and giddy and horny and ready to just explode into a million little stars in the night sky.
And yeah, even though other stuff sucks right now, and things are confusing, and I worry that I’ll be alone when I’m eighty, it’s nice to have a reminder from the past that all this stuff is so transitory in the first place anyways. The only thing we can trust in is change and movement. Time doesn’t wait for us to make up our minds. So it’s better just to swim along with the current then try to stop and figure it out. And right now, I shouldn’t stop and try to sort it all out. I should just pick up my feet and let the river carry me where it will. And if something good comes along, I’ll plant my feet for a minute and just take it all in, and remember how great it is to have a nice hot shower in the cooling fall weather. The only thing that matters is now: this present moment.
-r
This morning, as I showered, the bathroom door open, and all the house windows wide, the cool air from outside wafted in, moving the mist of the shower in settle random ways that only nature can achieve. As the hot water beat down on me, and the cool air dances across my naked flesh, memories stirred of San Francisco.
What was it? Eight years back I think. Staying at Brett’s house just off of Castro. His shower was hot, and there was a small window, cracked, where the cool air from outside came in, mingling with the hot water pouring down from overhead. What is it about the mixing of the elements that tantalizes? The air cool, the water warm, the porcelain beneath your feet solid. It’s perfect. Grounded and airy. My mind drifts.
San Fran isn’t the only time those elements have met and washed over me. I know of other memories, but they hesitate to come forward, instead letting me just relish in it. I know it might seem silly to write a journal entry about a good shower, but I can’t help but think it’s this kind of small stuff I haven’t been appreciating in my life.
That, and when memories stretch you backward across time, I can’t help but feel they do so for a reason. Eight years ago, I was such a different person, with such different perspectives, and still naïve in more ways that I can count. It was a lifetime ago. But one thing that hasn’t changed is that I’m a survivor. The pangs I suffer now can draw a parallel with the pains I suffered then, and be reminded, that I will get through this. These little trials are what life is made up of. They are part and parcel.
Last night, dinner with my best bud Victor at The Elephant in the East Village, Feist was playing overhead. And something in the song and in the air and in the meal hit me like a subtle wave of the lightest bricks. It was just one of those moments when you can’t wait to meet that new person who will make you believe in love again, even if only for a second. To go on that first date and reach out and touch fingertips or rub knees under the table. To get those texts and phone calls that you just can’t wait to answer. To be in bed with that person for the first time and be nervous be you actually care what’s going to happen and how nice it will be to wake up next to them in the morning. To have all that—HOPE. And it’s just amazing, the way it made me feel. So alive and scared (but not in the anxious way) and happy and giddy and horny and ready to just explode into a million little stars in the night sky.
And yeah, even though other stuff sucks right now, and things are confusing, and I worry that I’ll be alone when I’m eighty, it’s nice to have a reminder from the past that all this stuff is so transitory in the first place anyways. The only thing we can trust in is change and movement. Time doesn’t wait for us to make up our minds. So it’s better just to swim along with the current then try to stop and figure it out. And right now, I shouldn’t stop and try to sort it all out. I should just pick up my feet and let the river carry me where it will. And if something good comes along, I’ll plant my feet for a minute and just take it all in, and remember how great it is to have a nice hot shower in the cooling fall weather. The only thing that matters is now: this present moment.
-r
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