It's Coming Any Second

My head turns, and
I can take no more meds,
Missing Some Bricksstarting to lose me.
But turning again,
I can’t take any more days,
Where I continue to lose you.

The center will not hold,
an arc bending not cracking.
Such a swing of stasis
of balance and finess.
By matching ignorance to apathy
Held into dysfunctional bliss.

The change had to be coming
Silence and rage filled the cracks
Expanding and pushing apart the bricks
The mortar was sand and washed away
Leaving weakness in its placed.
A bridge of tired spans
that no longer cover the breach.

I fear the stumbling feet below me now,
the trip and fall that follow.
And what shall replace the balance,
When I look up from the trance?


Facing Fear – Day #4

Fear At NightHere we are at day number four just rocking and rolling along in this exercise of writing and self-exploration. According to the list, which you can find back on day one, today I am supposed to expound on what I fear. That shouldn’t be so bad.

We can start with an easy one, spiders. Fairly common I think. And I really don’t so much fear them as hate the little bastards. Sure I fear the big ones, the ones that lurk in your bathroom like something out of Harry Potter, but I still think that is common and to be expected.

Moving to a more true phobia, I have a fear of heights. I have always dreaded high places. Maybe it comes from being born and growing up at sea level. Maybe I just don’t like the idea of the sudden stop at the end of the fall. No idea. Not going to therapy. Not doing group acrophobia sessions. I am afraid of heights, and I am ok with that. But, this is still a pretty mundane fear.

So digging in further to more personal fears, one that troubles me as I lie in bed at night, is the fear of a being stuck in a dead end job or life. Hey, it is my exercise and I can fear what I want! Seriously. I really do fear waking up when I am in my sixties doing the same old job in a polyester shirt and clip-on tie. If that is all there is to life then please shoot me now. I have done some fun things over the years, I just don’t want all of the good times and contributions to be behind me. I don’t fear getting old, I fear growing old, boring and useless. Of dying before I am dead.

But, if we want to talk scary; a fear that leaves me feeling sick to my stomach and hopeless, there is something else. Something all too common, too real, and too possible. That fear is that something bad might happen to my kids or my wife. I guess it is the dad in me kicking in, but I can’t imagine anything worse than what could happen to any of them. My duty, and my privilege, as a father is to take care of them all. But I also know that at some point I won’t be able to. It is that helplessness, that impotence, that I fear. I only pray that it never happens, or that if it does happen that I can find a way to deal with it.

Ok, now you know to much and this has gotten a bit on the depressing side. But that is what happens when we talk about fear. True fear. Luckily tomorrow we are talking music, so that should be a bit on the brighter side. Maybe.


Nightmares of Our Own Making

We torture ourselves far more than any one else ever could. When we read The Scarlet Letter back in high school (at least by then hopefully) we marvel at the Reverend Dimmesdale’s self mutulation. “How could someone do that to Henry Fuseli, The Nightmare, circa 1781themselves?” the young voices in the classroom ask. But, we do far worse to ourselves with amazing regularity – instead of the welts and bruises being hidden by our clothes, they are concealed deep within us.

We use our hopes, fears, loves and doubts to brutalize out egos and self-worth. We find the possibilities our hearts fear the most and dwell on them until our world swells with an anxiousness that anticipates with far greater magnifications the outcomes of what will happen. And then we pull ourselves back from the brink. We find reason, small shards of the glass we view reality through, reasons to hold out that what we want may be real or at least possible. And what we fear the most isn’t so.

That zigzag, too and fro, yo-yo of the emotions is what breaks us in the end. Holding a strip of tin maybe, no a paper clip, in our hands we bend it back and forth. This paper clip that should be holding the pages of our life together. Keeping everything neat and tidy and it the right order, but we are bending the metal back and forth. Bored? Expectant? Why do we do it? Hell, who knows, but we keep on flipping fore and back. Watching the joint, the bend, slowly turn murky and white as the structure weakens. And we keep going. With some perverse pleasure we wait for that small sound. That little click that accompanies the severing of the strand. And now it is apart. And can’t be put back.

Continue reading “Nightmares of Our Own Making”