Recovering, Uncovering

Living with half a heart, part of a soul,

While another carries around a piece of you.

Meanwhile walking in shadows, the world moves . . . on. Leaves fall, seasons change. The winter winds breeze their icy

breath, whispering death.

And you have to keep moving, walking dead, waiting for the intake of breath and the coming spring, or hibernate in a cocoon of spent hope.

Beauty in pain. Growth in sadness. Many are afraid of it, shy away from it, run from it.

Take a pill, hide it, mask it, shoot it up, make it go away, they say.

Or feel it, swim in it, turn the memories over like a precious stone, grow from it, appreciate it, and become wise.

Punching hands, kicking feet, hammering down blows, just to feel . . . something.

Sweat, blood, muscles ache, jaws hurt, and sweep the wound clean.

Tears rain down, screams scrape heaven with their cries.

And then silence.

No answers, but peaceful nights. Sleep. Hope. Learning to value, to see. Abandonment of pride, and past pain.

Fighting to hold it close, letting it go, dreaming of days gone by and not yet come. Will this wrestling match ever end?

Laughing again. Silent peace. Trust. Healing.

Finding our Voice (and our heart)

This summer I wrote a story based on a dream I'd had, about a dragon coming to a village seeking sanctuary, initially as a small dragonling and then quickly growing, getting out of hand, and taking on the nature of a dragon (naturally). I was dating a woman at the time, and told her the idea. "You haven't found your voice," she said. "You're trying to be someone else. Your blogs are real, I can here you there, but not here."

I lost my voice. Somewhere along the way I stopped being alive. My closest friends have said I haven't been alive or real for a long time. "You have to start living again."

Here's where I lost it:

My job teaching in Michigan. I lived in one city, had an office an hour away, and taught in four different cities. I met students for six weeks, four hours a night, then drove home in the dark. No sooner had we met than we were saying goodbye. Again, and again . . . and again. After a while I disconnected, graded piles of papers in coffeehouses, drank more than I ever have in my life, and worked out hard just to feel something.

My friends' divorce. He was my brother. I was living at their house when they divorced. I watched as a "family" I knew fell apart before my eyes. I pulled back, isolated, didn't share what I was feeling and buried myself in trying to do well at my new job teaching. I lived out of the office, sometimes literally, sleeping overnight in the lazyboy.

My family. We were on the Oregon coast in a gift shop. I was in high school, my brothers were 5-7 years old. My aunt saw that my stepmom had bought my brothers gifts, and yet something for me was conspicuously absent. "Aren't you going to get Clifford something," my aunt asked.

"No," my stepmom replied. "He doesn't need it." My aunt was furious. She came to me and told me the conversation. I replied, "It's okay." I had gotten used to it. I no longer expected it.

Relationships. I can sweep a woman off her feet, I just don't have anywhere to take her. I pay attention, listen, meet her needs, and get lost in the process. I lose or forget who I am.

 

How I get it back:

Boise. I lived with my aunt and uncle for six months. My aunt (same aunt) confronted me. "It does matter what you think."

Martial arts. I'm physical, and passionate. Martial arts is something I do because I like to. I like to push my body to the limits (I've thrown up in class). I do it because I want to. I may teach at a college, but in class I'm just another student.

Riding a motorcycle. I'm learning to ride, and loving it. I don't care if some say it can be dangerous. The freedom is worth it.

Being honest. Some things do make me angry. I'm more honest now, but getting better. When my girlfriend became too controlling I told her. We almost broke up that night. Maybe we should have then.

Going skydiving. I've talked about it. It's time.

I want to go to Ireland. I want to visit, and maybe live there. I love going to Irish pubs and listening to music, or Irish fests. I love to dance when the music is compelling. I love music that gets inside your blood, makes you feel, makes you want to weep and sing at the same time.

I want to stand up against injustice. When the woman I was dating was dismissed from her job, I caved. Could I have said something? Should I? I might have lost my job, but I wouldn't have lost myself. Sometimes I've stood up, and gotten pounded down. It's a risk, but so is not being alive.

 

My girlfriend once asked if I was okay with wearing costumes to movies. "Isn't it weird? You wear a cloak. Don't you think that's weird."

"Yep," I said, smiling.

"Don't you worry about what people will think?"

"No. You worry too much about what people will think."

"I have to, and you should too."

"Why?"

"Well, because what other people think is important!"

"Is it?"

An Attempt at (Bad) Poetry

I told you that the world was before you, that you were free.

You looked at me with hope, with fear, and doubted if I wanted you.

I looked at you with joy, and saw you stretching your clipped wings.

It was just us two, and the world was crashing down around us, but for a while we were happy.

You asked me if I was lonely, and I said I was alone.

We loved, we fought, we clung to each other and pushed each other away until our world sometimes felt like a cage.

The door was always open. Seeing you fly through it into the open world has hurt more than you'll know.

The world is before you, and you're free.

Death of a Stoic

Sometimes we don't say what we feel to the people we care about until it's too late. And then they're gone, and we stuff it.

Bury it deep, we say, send it to the elephant bone graveyard, we say, alongside the donkey jawbones, and Yurik's skull (alas, I knew him well), hoping the maggots swallow down our fears. Pass the bottle and let's take a swim in the sea of forgetfulness. There are too many goodbyes, too many sorrows, too many disappointments, sometimes early, sometimes late, and so we say, "That's how it is; that's life. Better just accept it." We avoid funerals, avoid tearfilled goodbyes, avoid moving the last sofa onto the moving van.

And then sometimes someone notices the chink in the armor, behind the hard exterior, the face of stone, the laughter and jokes, and strange disappearances before the end of the night. There's the child weeping in the corner, afraid that someone will see their tears.

Is There Anybody Out There? Is There Anybody Listening?

If anyone still checks this, I've been on a writing hiatus (you already noticed). I may resume. I've been writing, but it's gone underground for a while. All the best . . .

Great song by the way (points to title).

Cheers,
The Madman Upstairs (think the Madwoman in the Attic, The Madman in Nietsche, Mad thoughts in the brain, or apartment dwellers who live on the top floors of buildings and you'd be on target, at least some of the time).