The cable guy came, replaced the old modem with a modern one, and reconnected me to the wired world. Nothing feels different really, but it's one less thing I have to think about. Thank you, sir.
Tomorrow night it's up to Maine again to volunteer. Ceremonial space should do me some good.
At this job, I drive each way one hour with the sun at my back lighting the frosted field and the river fog and the yellow forest. It’s far superior to the last job which I drove to and from in slow and angry traffic for hours directly into the rising and setting sun. This morning I saw this beauty through my eyes alone. There was no one to share it with and no need to share it with anyone. I saw it. I felt it. I loved it. I’ve been reading things that seem to reinforce the view that people fall away from you and you ultimately find yourself alone and that there’s a truth revealed to the one who can live in that place. Lately, I’ve felt mostly well there but I’m not at all immune to fluctuations in mood, to depressions, to moments of loneliness. Tonight, I thought of a woman sitting quietly sideways on my lap and resting her head against me. The feeling associated with the image startled me. Any similar experience is so remote now it’s hard to know if it ever actually occurred. For a moment, in its absence, I felt like I had no life at all.
What happened is my computer died and then something happened to my internet connection - the modem, the router, some freaking thing. I’ve been having trouble with technology lately. Money hasn’t really been cooperating either. But I still walked in the woods yesterday under a cloudless blue sky and saw and heard and felt and smelled and connected. And I was, to a large degree, restored.
Yes, I did hear the sound recorded in that Martian crater. I recognized it. It's the sound you hear when all the doors have closed behind you and you find yourself outside. I mean really outside. Disconnected. People die out here. They freeze. They become skeletons, dust piles, scarecrows. They sing sad songs that no one hears. They erase themselves slowly.
There's the question of who closed those doors on you of course. There was an original action which prompted a fear, and then there was an interpretation, then a conclusion, then a generalization, then a coherent storyline that became essential to your personal lore. Something you'd read aloud on the holidays in the future. An internal family tradition.
And by reading the story aloud, through practice, you became the Closer of Doors. I'm writing about resentment now. I'm examining my role in the conspiracy. It wasn't your fault. You were framed. I wanted to play my saddest song for you. To write you into the latest verse. And that's just what I did..
I'm sorry. I love you. I forgive you. I release you.
Setbacks to test the mindset, I suppose. Alright then, I accept and choose my response. Ain't nothin' but a thang.
October and it's passing quickly. A bit of a crash or a hangover or a let down or something else I'm not going to attach any particular significance to. I'm here. That counts.
