169. BLIND SUNSETS
I think two parts of
me - at least two -
have always been
at work, warily
one circling the
other. I've had
to come to grips
with that, and
it's taken a long
time. I think
now I have. There
have been, because
of the ongoing of that
'conflict', some tough
and confusing times.
Things I look back on
now and maybe wince
over. That dichotomy,
the roiling difference
inside me, has been as
symbolic of me as
the stark symbolism
woven through my
life between places
as varied and apart
as - yes - Avenel
and New York. It was
my path : with some
honorary detours to
other little lands called
'seminaryville' and
'Columbia Crossroads.'
Everything had its own
weight and substance.
Nice guy. Weird guy.
Do-nothing. Over-achiever.
-
Once I got to Pennsylvania,
there were many long
nights of nothing much to
do but cold-weather
thinking. (It was January
19, and it immediately
stayed about 12 degrees
below zero, overnights,
to perhaps 12 above, in
the day. I undertook, as
if some isolated, emergent
Zen master, the deepest
and trickiest moment by
moment review of my
days that I could muster.
Sort of, in a very medieval
sense, I was cloistered, alone
with my soul and spirit, as
they devolved into Reality
for me. No guidebook, no
guide-lines; in fact just an
'empty' books of dreams
and revelation. That's what
pushed me along. When
this sort of thing happens,
you either get fat - like
those pictures and drawings
you see of happy, roly-poly
mountaintop monks, or
seriously skinny, like you're
dying - from all that 'dark
night of the soul' stuff and
the emaciated psychological
ways that underpin it. Maybe
you come out a butterfly,
maybe a dead worm.
-
My first month up there, the
cold, crystalline air was
always a'flutter. It wasn't
what we call 'snow' (like
the language of the Eskimos
or Aleuts, of whose tongues
it's erroneously said have
some hundred plus words
for 'snow' - all the different
varieties and categories) -
this particular 'crystallized
cold air' would need a word
of its own. It was more like
tiny suspended ice crystals,
formed from the moisture
inherent in the air, turned
to ice, and looking like
tiny diamonds just staying
a'float or suspended in
place. Night after night
of this - it was very
strange. There was a
complete silence. It was
pretty much black-dark,
except for some stupid
light the previous owner
had installed on the front
walkway area, out at the
dirt road, and which ruined
everything until I had it
disconnected by 'Tuscarora
Power and Light', which
was, I guess, their sort of
electric company. I was
about to shoot it out
anyway. This ice-stuff
never accumulated; it just
hoar-frosted on everything,
in the same way, say, an
old chocolate bar turns
white from dryness or
something, that starchy,
white coating. Don't get
me wrong, when the real
snows came, the kind that
accumulates, it was fierce
and with a vengeance,
(which is His, sayeth the
Lord. He can have it). A
few mornings I awoke to
nothing but walls of white.
It took a solid week before
anything resembled planet
Earth again. So, like
Thoreau at Walden
Pond, in some ways,
I sat there obsessing
over each and every
little, incidental
aspect of the new
reality before me. If
you've ever read 'Walden'
he goes on for quite a
spell about how, for his
lack of much else to do,
he developed a measuring
and sounding system of
his own and set about
determining, and than
mapping, the floor of the
Pond, by its depth and
width and all that. The
most surprising thing, to
him, found was the little
'geography' underneath
the pond - rises and
hillocks and ridges and
deep spots. Big deal. I
never quite understood
how he could be that
dumb, or bored. What
did he think it was down
there, a smooth swimming
pool bottom? Of course,
!idiot!, it's submerged
land. Some people get
credit for the strangest
things. (Mainly because
most people never really
'read' this stuff, they just
run around saying they did
because it's cool and they're
supposed to be too. Lots of
misinformation thereby).
-
So I sat there, in deep thought.
I survived. I got skinny. I got
pale, watchful, nervous. I came
through, eventually, the other
end and started even liking
the ice and snow. There are
times when words make all
the sense, and other times
when words are useless.
This is one of the useless
times. No words can get
across where I got to or
what I found and what I
determined. However, this
being a sort-of peep show,
I guess I better start disrobing:
-
I figured that, in creating our
own 'reality' as it were, it's what
we 'believe' in that builds for
each of us our personal worlds.
Your beliefs can increase your
vision, or diminish it. Like, if
you 'think' that when you get
old your hearing is supposed
to diminish, and your eye-sight
begin to decline, that will
begin happening. You'll take
on that assumed 'burden' and
it actually will become real.
Functions, in this particular
regard, are just habits. As
poor thinking too is a habit.
Hard to break, yes, but
able to be broken. You simply
forget how to hear properly,
following your belief. Or see.
All from the same junky
toolkit. The physical
deterioration does occur,
but it follows, doesn't
lead. In the other direction,
as well, you may believe
that wisdom grows with age
or that self-understanding
brings a peace of mind not
earlier known - those
conditions, then, will be
met in your physical world.
The physical apparatus, in
line with your beliefs, will
prosper. That was pretty
wicked stuff : me, in my
new Pennsylvania bunker,
forming my damn world!
Energy as the one creative
force-field n the make-up
of all things. Bodily
electromagnetic realities!
One thing after the other.
Life was sweet. All energy
at the inner self's disposal
is concentrated to bring
about the results asked
by the conscious mind.
What a challenge that
was, immediately.
-
I could, if I dared, step
outside; but I coudn't
certainly go up to any of
those new Pennsylvania
people and assert : 'Hey,
by the way Jethro, - and
how's the family, wife's
looking nice, always
does, new car is nice -
did you ever realize that
the end result of your
own thought pattern is
the electro-magnetic
manifestation of the
changing reality around
you, which you can
change by altering
your own thought
patterns, you big
huckleberry you.'
-
Nope, that wouldn't get
across. Might as well talk
to a blind guy about the
sunset colors. I had met
checkmate, so soon and
so early on. I had locked
my own little room around
me yet had forgotten to worry
about 'egress', about a way out,
an escape hatch, instead of
just worrying about what and
how the front, 'come-on-in'
doorway looked like. Big
trouble in Little China, or
at first that part of me thought.
But I punched my way out of
that bag soon enough.
Playing my own both ends
against my own middle.
Playing my own both ends
against my own middle.
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