Sunday, April 26, 2015

026

An excerpt from my text
Memoirs of A Walk Through November
Memoir 42

I don't know where this starts…or where it ends.  Actually, I suppose metaphysics tells us that a given point on the scale would represent both and neither, but that's for another time.  Funny.  For another time.  Ah, the pen is dead, my digital life, no inflection, no voice, no right brain on the paper.  It's not like Kurt Cobain anymore; he knew what he had to do.  He painted the room with his thoughts, scattered though they were, they moved me.  Although my words may seem staggered, I find them seamless, they transition through my mind effortlessly, and I glean some novel idea here, some unique insight there…it dances through my intellect so softly now, almost as if it refines itself to the sound of life in real time, the music we call existence.  If you cannot follow, simply consider that it is not my words that lack purpose and direction, but rather the perspective by which you take them.  Like space bends reality from our eyes, my mind bends language to my will, a gift from where I know not.  Where was I?  The beginning, perhaps the beginning is somewhere in the middle, like axes on a graph; the origin.  I suppose I'll begin with her…it seems a perfect place to start, good as any, perhaps.  She wears a red dress, in a sea of white dresses.  Her body so small, so fragile.  It matters not, because she has the soul of a pirate, her skin kissed by some sunlight from a distant land, her beauty knowing no equal.  I stand next to her, she doodles in her manual of all things that are and are not, because chemistry is small to her.  Her mind is fascinating, I think I feel her teleology, slipping through the air in compressions, wrought with profundity.   I wonder how she can be so wonderful.  If you've ever smelled the wind in the Midwest American spring, the smell of the Earth giving back the life she once swallowed, her voice would dance in my ears as this scent would dance in my primary cranial nerves, directly linked to my hippocampus, and the rest, dear friend, is just memory.  Maybe I'll never speak to her again…maybe I've learned how to harness a sensation that is forged for all time, unable to become dirtied and adulterated by our heartrending character.  Freeze it, so it may not breathe again, but there are many ways to cheat he who comes to take us into darkness.  Maybe if I could find a way for it to breathe…like it breathes in my slumber…Happiness is bittersweet, it seems the universe has a way of reaching equilibrium, a place where maybe Schrodinger would tell you the cake is both had, and had not, and Hawking would explain that eating it too is much more complicated, if only you understood space-time.  But she exists in all of my time, no matter my gravitational force, no matter my velocity or dimension.  Relativity loses itself, and there is no observer, only us.  In a moment, one single moment, I have an absolute.  Maybe I have omniscience for just one infinitesimal fraction of time, one wave of cesium dances, and in that instant, it is all so very clear.  And like moments often do, it vanishes, leaving behind perhaps a minute token, left to haunt my neurophysiology for all of my days, until my mechanics betray their purpose, and my days no longer measure.  And I seek these truths with fierce invasiveness, no cost too great.  When I feel tired, exhausted from this endeavor, I think of her, relentlessly I press on, and the brief peace is worth infinity, no matter the violence that rages through my mind.  I see her and imagine the rain on her face, how she has such a way about her, effortlessly making the world a more beautiful place.  Her smile offers light to the star, so that it too may shine bright, because she has kindness in her heart.  I don't recall the number of the days that I have spent there, somehow it evades me; the seasons don't change, where she is from.  See, it's always lovely in this place.  And then the rarefaction surges through my experience, I submit to existentialism.  And the moment is over, she's gone.  The happiness is gone, because I know it's always lovely there.  She's never seen the leaves burn like fire in the autumn throes, nor observed the blue moon hide behind the skeletons and snow.  She's never hurt so bad she broke, been so lost that she extinguished hope.  There is a place, if you could find a tree in this place, the tree would have no leaves. If you could find the sun in this place, it would be hard to see behind all of the grey. I go there sometimes, but it's empty, you see. My father takes the blade out of the razor, and hands it to me. He shows me how to shave my face. We shave together, just me and Dad. I'm just a child, so happy to spend time with his father, with a father patient enough to play a little game with shaving. That seems like an eternity ago, in a different world, with different people. My father grows older now, as do I. We don't shave together anymore...who has time to do a silly thing like that? This place is empty, you see, I just don't know if it's empty here or there...It would break my heart if hearts were broken in this place, but her red dress is just as red, her loving smile is just as soft, and she wanders through my hell.  And I grin, the story that etches my face cracks, I could never follow her, because where she goes is a mystery, the one mystery I dare not chase, because it's mine.  I digress; I lift The Giving Tree off of its place in my world, like often I have done so in the past.  It soothes my grieving soul, and I find what I am looking for, though what it is I cannot discern, and maybe I never will. 

Live long,

Spatter



Friday, April 24, 2015

025

One life comes into this world, while another is on its way out.  I suppose somewhere, lightning crashes.  That's what life is, isn't it?  A serendipitous mixture of hellos and goodbyes.  Some much harder than others.  One day you're alive and well, and the next day you've got a few weeks or months to live.  I guess we should make an effort to really live in the precious time between.  Most of us are guilty of planning for the future and forgetting the present.  We are guilty of letting ourselves be consumed by what is to come rather than what is here now.  Myself, I often live in the future.  Living in the present can be scary, and it can be so sad.  I think the present has for so many years been a difficult place, that I protected myself by transcending its grasp.  Better get used to it now, because later it will just become more difficult.  When it rains it tends to pour.  These last eight months have been one hell of a storm.  I suppose it would be possible to come out clean, unscathed.  I suppose I could walk out of this crisp and neat, head to toe.  I think I'd rather come out drenched, gasping for breath, carrying all the hurt of the world.  I think I'd rather come out alive than dead.  Don't run from pain, let it run its course, and look it straight in the eyes while it does.  As always, all my love to die, and live long.

Spatter

Sunday, April 19, 2015

024

As I read my journal, this passage strikes me, and there will be no sleep tonight.

"It is March 26, 2015.  Today is the second day.  We are about to go to psych services together.  I wonder whether or not it will help at all.  It feels like I’ve lost my whole identity.  I don’t know how to let go of you, but I know I must, because each day is closer to the last day, which I believe will approach rather quickly.   You whispered “I love you” to me while at psych.  You reached and held my hand as we walked.  You kissed me hello and goodbye.  You pulled my chair closer to you when I sat.  I wish I knew what it all meant.  I wish I knew who you were.  More than anything, I wish I didn’t know what is to come.  I’m going to lose you, and that will be my greatest regret."   

As I press ever closer to great change, I wonder how many years it will take before I turn and realize that this change was for the best, or if that day will ever come.  I remember being sentenced, I remember being away for so long, feeling such loss.  But that led me here, maybe this will lead me somewhere happier, somewhere better.  My life has always been intimately tied to extremes, I've not known how to live within the first standard deviation.  If it were my decision, everyday would be different, but it is not my decision. So the days feel wasted, and life again fades unto gray.  I find myself buried in the text again, hiding from the colors that were once my world, as if they never existed at all. Sometimes it rages through my mind and heart, tearing everything in its path apart, and sometimes it makes me smile, knowing that few people get to live as I have lived, to love as I have loved.  I suppose it makes me happy as it makes me sad.  Live long,

Spatter

Friday, April 17, 2015

023

The road has been long with twists and turns,
The mountains we have climbed...
With rotten hate the lesson's learned,
Love rapes you over time...
With open arms embrace the pain,
Struggle to endure...
Convey your tongue and taste the rain,
Nothing else is pure...
Scrub your body raw,
You can't wash the dirt away...
Dry your sorry eyes,
You can't cry my love out of your veins.
If I never knew your name...
I'd have loved you anyways...
If I knew my heart would break,
I'd have loved you just the same.

As always, all my love to Die, and live long.

Spatter

Thursday, April 16, 2015

022

The solace I find within the blank page is incredulous.  It has not yet been altered, it stands clean, it begs my attention.  I take care not to waste that cleanliness without purpose.  The writing helps me heal.  I let my mind speak itself, without reserve, without editing. Sometimes it reveals pain, sometimes beauty.  Sometimes it reveals nothing at all. Sometimes, it reveals the truth, and sometimes the anger bares its teeth.  No matter, I'm arriving at a strange and unfortunate realization: It is all too often that people are not who you would take them to be.  It is at the fault of many, sadly.  People consciously and unconsciously act in ways to appeal, it is human nature to please.  It is also human nature that to turn blind eye to one's own knowledge; you rationalize, or worse yet, completely disregard actions and behaviors that do not adhere to a standard of the decent and honest human being.  The discontinuities between philosophy and action run the soul raw, and run the heart weary.  Today has been a long day, and long days seldom find a peaceful end.  I suppose that somewhere, in some time, we all come to terms with our mistakes, and we all come to a place where we can forgive those who have hurt us so very deeply.  I would like to believe that, and so I shall.  It isn't the forgiveness that tends to be difficult, it's the reckoning.  It's accepting the end.  It's the battery acid that accumulates in your veins.

So I'll put it in a song, and leave it where stands, frozen, so I don't have to think about it anymore.

Die,
Oh, Die,
In my arms,
Like you do.
Them Christmas lights,
Won't burn as bright,
As in the stories,
I told you.
But every story's different,
Least that's what I'm told.
Every sunrise has a beauty,
But no beauty won't get old.
I guess that what I'm saying,
I'm finally letting go.
I hate everything about you,
Except what California stole.
Lies,
Your lips move,
But your actions
Speak a truth.
And I,
Struggle to find,
Who am I,
Without you?
But every story's different,
Least that's what I'm told.
Every sunset has a beauty,
But no beauty won't get old.
I guess that what I'm saying,
I'm finally letting go.
I hate everything about you,
Except what California stole.


I heard somewhere that the Pacific has no memory...that sounds about right.  Sometimes, she's my mom collecting snowmen, sometimes she's the wind that rakes the leaves.  Sometime's she's October, and she's the burn of all the trees.  Too often I see my future, and all that we'll miss.  I see the Christmas tree, the pretty lights.  I see us curled up by a fire, I see us sharing our lives.  I guess you can't lose something you never had.  I didn't know her back then, but I can see her peek through now and again.  Think she forgot that girl somewhere out on the Pacific, cause the Pacific has no memory.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

021

I have no poetry today.  I have no deeply moving words conjured for the page.  I have one simple word, an act that we must all carry out, a burden and a blessing.  Fail.  When life leaves you beaten and weary, fail to quit.  When love leaves you empty handed, fail to let it empty your heart.  When all seems irrevocably lost, fail to extinguish hope.  Realize that this universe needs you, by thermodynamic law and intrinsic metaphysical logic, you are invested into this great adventure.  The energy that is you could have been anything else, but it isn't, and this energy is fundamental to the existence of the entire cosmos.  You are here, you have life, fail to waste it.  Fail, and get to know who you are.  Live long,

Spatter

Saturday, April 11, 2015

020

It is of most importance to resolve to be mindful of your life’s direction.  I believe that seldom few people are in fact aware of that which they so seek.  Blindly wandering through what is, a reaction of this great universe, a propagating quantum of energy without intention, but rather purposelessness.  Like the string theorist, I search for the fundamental.  I subsist within a space riddled with question; I exist in curiosity that is insatiable.  Someday, many years from now, I hope to end my pursuit.  I will step aboard my vessel, without regret.  I don’t believe I’ll ever return, but simply chase the horizon for the rest of my days.  I lie beneath a blanket of the past, and as the starlight washes over me I experience 15 billion years, I absorb a life as old as time.  Your journey is over, dearest, little traveler of space.  If only you could speak to me, tell me of that which you’ve seen.  If only you could describe the face of Father Time when he was young; if only you could speak.  You carry the aroma of far corners, far further than I have ever imagined, I imagine.  But now you are a part of my story; and such is the subtle dance of existence.  How amazing it is to exist in this time, the time of relativity.  It is now that we look beyond the Greeks, as far back as Hesiod.  The problem with believing in any deity is that you must first quit believing in yourself.  As always, all my love to die, and live long.

Spatter 

Friday, April 10, 2015

019

Have you ever considered what your life will bring?  Have you ever measured your potential, pondered what impact you may have?  I walk quietly through peoples' lives, and I embody the change that comes to pass, I take responsibility for that which I am responsible.  The magnitude of the conscientiousness is magnificent, but we are all a part of this universe, and we all play our small roles about its singularity.  My words, my actions; my life sets a pistol on a nightstand here, provides the inspiration to lift a text there, and all that rests between the fine lines that separates the ambiguity between madness and genius, between righteousness and wickedness.  We all have a duty set before us, and I cannot begin to extrapolate its genesis, but I need not look that far to actualize and personify that which I wish to represent.  And I stand in no fear of my failure, because it is by my failures that I have grown.  It is through my pain that I have endured, and in my darkest moments that I grit my teeth and with a keen mind I chose and sought to pick myself up from that which brought me to my knees.  Like the light that transcends the windowpane, I also reflect.  Can you not discover the innumerable links, the truth speaks to me from its tangibility, and my fingers move across the keys that write the great volumes that they identify.  Like the light refracts perfectly in total internal reflection in response to media, I move in all directions across my actions.  I scour that which I have done, and that which I am prepared to do, critical to the very last moment, until I succumb to my own power, and decide.  And in this decision I solemnly promise to face the truth which I have now created.  There is an oak tree waiting for me somewhere, and it is time that I rest beneath its wonders, and soak in the waves that have carried me out to sea.

There is a philosophy in this world, one that resonates with meaning.  Some men, brilliant men, have argued that there is no proof that life carries meaning.  Some would call this cowardice, but this is ill advised.  Maybe life doesn’t have meaning, but is it not us that lend the meaning?  Perspective truly is everything.  Life only carries importance if you assign that importance.  Have you no feeling of responsibility?  I am not driven, though many claim that I am.  No, I am not motivated by self to do the things I do, I am compelled, and I simply embrace the byproduct of determination.  The riverbed is a dangerous place.  Full of jagged edges and drowning forces.  You can spend your life fighting the current, until you tire, and then what have you accomplished?  The same end achieved, but lacking any substance.  Friend, you may be doomed to do that for eternity.  No, I will let it take me places, and I will enjoy the intensity.  I will let these waves carry me into the great unknown.  Fear is only fear if you let it be as such, with just a slight modification in your view it becomes fear no longer, but excited anticipation.  I want to get back to who I once was, but there is not going back.  Onward, says the soul.  Onward, we are not yet finished.  Live long.

Spatter

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

018

As I have progressed through medical school, I cannot describe the change that has occurred in me.  Someone taught me about love, and unconditional care, and loss.  I would have sworn to you that I knew these things before, but in the world of the relative, I would be lying.

Before the age of 18 I was in rehab three times, county jail many more than that.  At 18 I was a soldier in the United States Army Infantry, 11B Active duty stationed out of Fort Benning 3rd ID.  I turned 19 in Basic Training and 20 on 48 hour Guard Duty.  When I turned 21 I was in prison, and at 23 I was married.  At 24 I was divorced, and accepted to college.  At 25 I was accepted to The Ohio State University for Biology and Chemistry.  I maintained a 4.0 GPA and was awarded a full academic scholarship.  By 26 I was in three honors organizations, the most prestigious being Golden Key.  At 27 I was doing research for Ohio State Medical Center, now the Wex.  I wrecked a motorcycle on the highway and was in critical condition.  I would take my MCAT just 27 days later, and score in the 84-92nd (estimated) percentile.  When I was 28 I was awarded First Place in Research at The Denman, and inducted into the most famous and honored research society, Sigma Xi, where I joined brothers in ranks such as Einstein, Fermi, Pauling, Watson, and Crick.  I was also accepted to medical school, with a combined masters in neurology.  This is the year I would meet her, after this crazy life, I would find peace in another.  This would be the hardest year.

I was blessed with the ability to do a great many things.  I would write you the most beautiful words, but words mean little to you.  I would sing you the sweetest song, but you have no place for music in your heart.  I would build you through my struggles, but my fight has been so very small to you.  I would draw you a Mona Lisa, but you don't care that I draw.  I would cure any disease for you, find any galaxy, but my mind doesn't stimulate you at all.  I would give my heart to you, but I'm afraid it's not worth much anymore.  Dearest Friend, for whom I've always been searching, you have come and gone so quickly, and I've been searching for so long.  It seems I've missed you.  I hope these words find and touch someone, and that you live long.

Spatter