Another Little Account

Prior post, Odd Little Account. Heads up, touching on fear below. Angst alert. Life. The hollow, peering out. I have this overwhelming need for control, to never lose one. I know many here understand this, all people touch it, and in the work you do. It’s so precious, the chance at experience for each of us. No one is an object and no one should be rejected by life. But my control is futile. My anguish is futile. Did I do the deed I was to do? Did I pick up the transmission? Or do I intervene, a bull in a glass house smashing karma and divine will? Me again, affecting, having it my way, pounding down the world so it’s no longer real. Is the idea of forever so good? I force change on myself because I want to remind myself that I am alive and that I am participating on a fluid chance. I don’t want to waste my life in a fear of not knowing. The door is cast open and there’s no where else to go.

That’s probably why I write under an alias. I don’t want to be bound by a direction or bound by a name. My actions, deeds are the only reflection of who I am, and I don’t want to act with ill will, or in a need for control. I want to be guided, to lose my need for material domination to cause life, to force life. I don’t want to imprint myself on this existence, I’m a passenger and seems incredibly rude to carve and dig into my host’s gift, not knowing what’s intended, or what that is.

I only have my testimony, my charms on a bracelet of life. It was never about what I accomplished, only that I was a water bearer, a good sweeper, a shine in dark. I don’t know what tomorrow is, because I’ve never been there or heard of it. I’d like to see it. I’d wish us all to go there.

Can I be a good sweeper? I want to be. If dumping a bucket so a little life can live was my great contribution, then I am pleased. But what is really created is greater than life, a sweeter commodity. I know it grows a garden. I’ve seen the acknowledgement of the doors opening. It was never happenstance when I was supposed to participate. It was obvious. I just needed to change—I should say change my method—to see it.

Some days are ancient days, some days are new. Some days I was okay with living in this bubble, and others I wanted to break free, tired, done. You ever say, “I don’t want to know anymore. I don’t want to feel anymore.” Life, been there done that. I have no fear of death, just an immense fear that I didn’t do what I was supposed to do, that I screwed up, and I exerted myself. There’s no death rubbing its hands together, not when that moment exists and I saw all those doors opening, endless pathways that I found by trying to live.

I spent a moment imagining that this was death, what we live in now, that we had to be plunged into this existence, like filling up a toothpaste tube. When I looked around at the other beings here, my philosophy wasn’t correct. The evidence is all around us, we unfold, we blossom into this place. And it’s not all just fingers and toes, it’s us inside, at the wheel, how do we bloom—how do we mushroom in our appreciation, our impressions, our taste of bliss and sorrow? Inside is without and outside is within. As I live, the separation fades and I become immersed, without control. No more what if I did this differently? What if I said the wrong thing? What if I screwed up?

I know why hermits and monks live in monasteries and why they try to get close to understanding the divine, to learn unaffecting. And I know why nurses and doctors try to manage life, why they strive to harbor life and protect it. Somewhere in the middle there’s us, dumping a bucket and saving a squirrel, wondering if we did enough when we had the chance. Did we get the job because we were capable? I can only offer myself, offer my hands and feet, any wits I was given, to be there when we collide. I ask only to be led.

This morning, earlier, I was in court. Standing up for a guy who ran headlong into his own spiraling demise. I’ve known him a long time, so I made his plea in a letter and handed it to the crown attorney (the DA). My friend has multiple charges but they all stem from a serious head injury years ago that left him frustrated, anxious, disorientated and searching for himself. He was hurt on the job. Before that, he was a haven for the homeless, an employer, a mover. Now he’s confused and trying to regain something he can’t find. The people he helped robbed him and played him. In his quest he’s lashed out, and now he faces society. Society let him down. I intervened and gave the opposition his only defense. Now they know who they are dealing with and it can be on their conscience. It got him an adjournment, a chance to get legal aid and roll all the cases into one court appearance. It was my one shot to get to the crown and I took it. Wrote the truth and if it pleases the court, another hand took mine. It must have? Please don’t let me affect an other’s fate. But the deed is done.

There’s no savor the moment. Treasure it all. Hold everything dear, every experience, every sunlit angle and rustle. It was never live up, or live well, or live your dreams, or live for today. It was just live. Live and find the doors. Live and change. Live and blossom in this moment. When you turn to look, to want something different, to ask for something true, all was forgiven. All was okay, because you paused to ask and nothing ever mattered. We trapped ourselves and we’re only squatters here, no matter how fancy we screw up the hospitality.

How’s destiny working out? Yeah, I was into that. No more, thanks. I relinquished the steering wheel and the car didn’t go off the road.  Opted out. It began to feel like destiny was routine. There’s not the same sparkling surprises and woeful learning experiences that come without destiny, in the odd jobs and odd little accounts. Destiny seems too patterned into how long does it take to get there. Destiny seems such a personal issue, and I don’t have time to waste on myself. I don’t think I could be the poet that wonders on destiny all day. I’m the poet that digs and sweeps. I have a brown thumb because I want to control destiny and cook too hot because I want it fast. Therefore I’m better with a shovel or a broom, lower on the totem pole with clear instructions that appear around the next corner. With doorways everywhere, I learned fate and destiny don’t matter by the end of this sentence.

I never learned the art of savor and it’s probably time. Double entendre. I fear I’ve made you sad, or uneasy. I didn’t stick handle it right. It wasn’t my intention to spread angst—just reveal a dusting of wonder, when thoughts collide with the happening world. And I now wish that you know everything already and you only paused because you saw some angled sunlight that made you remember. Life is beautifully predictable without me intervening. So goes yet another prodigal child wide-eyed and into life.


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