Thursday, March 8, 2012

Misses and Near Misses

Hello, me—you dirty old bat-shit crazy bag lady you! Not to go totally off the deep end, but wft cosmic karma, fate, God’s plan, divine intervener, call it what you want—why are you all up in my grill? Can’t you see that I am having an ontological debate with myself and losing the argument? Doesn’t this struggle make you laugh? I think it is totally hilarious.

Life is full of misses: missed buses, missed flights, lost tickets, missed love, missed opportunity, mistakes, missed joy, misplaced anger; and near misses: a brush with death (or many brushes), missing someone by 5 minutes only to find them again somewhere else 5 years later, the circles that we run in—looping around the freeway passing our friends and families unknowingly—zoom, zoom, zoom.  I am so glad that I caught you. What a funny thing to say.

I really like LOST until the 4th season. Once everything split into two, I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. As much as I wanted to “get it” the power of the show and the characters started to slip away. I don’t know that I can pretend that we live in two paradigms. I don’t buy it. We all live here and now. Anything else is fool’s gold. What if I am a really awesome successful thin intelligent writer who lives in Northern California and has unlimited books pouring out of my head/hands faster than I can type them? Guess what? That’s not what’s happening here.  What if your alternate universe still sucks? Then what LOST? What do I do when the fantasy universe and the real life that I am living are both rife with pain, and suffering, and loss, and lack of direction, and goalless vacuums of unhappiness?

I realize that this is very black today. But I must purge the bile just like those medieval freaks that sluiced the melancholy out of the poets by bloodletting---this blog for better or worse is my bloodletting. This and the gym and some beers and fresh air and walkabouts are the things keeping me sane—they bind me. My daughter too. Thankfully, for now, she seems not to care how crazy am I, just as long as I hold her and play with her and give her 100 or more kisses a day. She is the best.

This is my life. I want it back. No more silly dreaming. No more wishes and wanting.  This is it. It does not get better than this.  I am not that special. I am just like everybody else. So what? This is your life. No more philosophy or silly mind-fucking shows. No more la-la land. Wake up you fool. That’s not gold. 

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