House at the end of the World

Day 9--

My spiritual Hunger strike has already out numbered both the days of the week and the mideval number of earthly vices. Now day nine, the number of the female godess. The number of incubation. The trinity cubed. The number of orifces to the house of worship, my destination for tomorrow en route to Uncle Mike's Lecture.

Day nine, almost a fourth of the way through my forty day self-realization binge. Lots of Drama here in Kamikaziville ( a close friends divorce, my inability to sleep, my ability to finally get an "A" in my intellectually steaming hot Pomo prof's class, rashes still dotting my skin) but here's what I've learned so far:

****If genetics has anything to do with it I'm already half way through my earthly trek. My Dad died suddenly when he was fifty-four. I'm twenty-seven. Dad seldom drank, never smoked, and drank coffee in moderation. This makes him look like Ned Flanders to his sons Ozzy Osborne.

I may be at the half-way oasis through my life where shit happens if I keep my head out of my arrogant ass. Dante was "midway" through his life when he realized it was too late. Instead of remaining stuck, he chose to forge a path which of course, commenced in hell.

*****Personal growth is difficult. It requires action; exertion, and it's so hard sometimes just to assert yourself. It's so hard to do the right thing. Pardon the cliche but I've been at a cross-road in my life for the past two years and instead of doing the right thing, I remain stuck. I make excuses. I blame people for my own foibles. I blame my parents, blame the high school I went to, blame the fact that sick things happened to me at a young age. That's all fine, but's it's the past. It's unarable soil. It's a place where nothing can grow.

My best friend had to kick his wife out for infidelity. She's been using him as financial furniture. Every six months she's been screwing around. She comes back, she makes excuses, rationalizes. At the end we discerned that the fact that they were married wasn't as important as the fact that she was an anchor in his life. As long as she was allowed to monthly manipulate him, he would never have a chance to grow, He would never have a chance to leave port. He would always stuck in a world where he felt like he did the right thing by staying with her.

Last night he called her (she was out with a "mutual" friend) and told them both to leave. To leave his life. That her shit was bagged up in hefty baggs. That the locks were change. That this has gone on long enough and that, even though he loves her, even though they're still pretty much bankrupt from the wedding, he can't live like this.

I could tell he wanted so bad to be a part of her. To grow with her. At the end, as my friend told me in all candor, the choise was hers. She was responsible for her actions. For her unfaithfulness.

It was so hard for him to do, but brother, your courage was a beacon. A bic.

*******I've learned that I've done exorbitant unhealthy things to my body over the past two years, most recently working all the time. My 80 hour work weeks have yielded nothing. In fact, I'm realizing only know that I've used them to hide. I even wrote a 300 page book last autumn where I hid. I hid behind every alphabetical curve. I hid behind the balcony of sentences and the stage curtain of imagery. I was afraid to reel back the pulley and see what was out there. Afraid to see the stage settings of my own emotions. Afraid, sadly, of the truth.


****** "To see something there needs to be shadow" remarks Campbell. I came to writing like I'm Peter pan. All of us feel like we're sometimes lost boys (Damnit, yer a true wayfarer then. If not "lost", how can you ever hope to find anything? After all, didn't the bloggers each find the Other by individually being "lost?"), All of us have moments of flight with makeshift Dedalus wings. Writing grants us all access to a timeless "never never land" where the scientific goverances of space and time become flaccid and our spirit freely soars.

Yet in my own Peter Pan (My bad boy Peter Pan knocked up your herbal tea Mara and then boasted about it in the lockerroom) is afraid of his shadow. He's scared shitless to discern the truth. scared shitless about a lot of things in this world

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Off to the house of Worship. I'll say a prayer of peace for all of my beloved bloggsters.

Peace