There Are No Ordinary Moments

It's strange how quickly things can change. I realized, last night, why I had to wake up in a bad mood yesterday. I realized why I had to fight it all day--working so hard to change it into a good mood and being swatted down, back into the bad one. I realized why the uphill struggle is unending; it is because the journey is unending. I had to have a bad day to realize that this is the way it is--for everyone. Good day, bad day; chaos, control; learning, teaching. Chop wood and carry water. It is our journey. Without that unexplainable bad mood, whether it is caused by hormones, diet, heat, exhaustion, whatever outside forces affect our moods--they (the moods) can be changed by a little thing. Angry and cranky while at the gym, something that one of the men at the gym did made me laugh out loud and my mood changed. Having the song on my Ipod change to Shirley Bassey made my mood change. Learning an inmportant life lesson changed my mood. It is simple and strange, the moments of clarity. I am so grateful for them and for this life. It made me think of the following story, written in 1999, about life and the journey. I went into my archives and found it and re read it.

There are things about myself that have changed since I wrote it; there are things about myself that have not changed since I wrote it. The core of this person I am and of this story I wrote are, essentially, the same.

There is comfort in that.

I heard the words at Barnes and noble today.

I went there in search of a copy of the grass harp. finding it missing from their shelves, I was, at first, shocked; then, irritated. one of the largest chains in the country and they couldn't even keep a copy of the grass harp on the shelves? all they could offer me were one a Christmas memory and seven breakfast at tiffany's. wait...there was an in cold blood two shelves down and five authors away. having just been discussing in cold blood with Vince, I reached for the book. it was thicker than I thought it would be. I lifted it from the shelves, admiring the graphic design and the feel of the matte finish on its soft paper cover. flipping through, I noticed how tiny the print was. not with these overworked eyes. the book went back, though it went back to the shelf on which it belonged. still miffed, I tried to think of something else I had been wanting, so that my trip uptown would not have been in vain. while standing there, I felt the urge, the call of nature. since I know that there is a men's room one level down, the question of whether or not my trip was a wasted one became a secondary consideration. minutes later, I entered the surprisingly clean necessary room. shortly thereafter, I found myself wandering around the self help and new age titles. this corner of the book store can never hold my attention for long, so I wandered...women's studies, gay themes, art, fashion, photography. there. over by the sitting area. a long display of art books; no doubt one or two of them photography related. I strode over, a man with a purpose, ready to find some new treasure. no. no interesting . titles. I turned to quit the room and that's when I heard the words.

"Living IS Waiting To Die"

it was an involuntary reaction. I stopped. simply stopped. I stood there, next to the cart full of books that some poor clerk was having to return to shelves and had, momentarily escaped from, either by finding a client to assist or by hiding. I did not turn right around, because I, truly, wasn't sure of what I had heard. the voices coming from behind me were carrying on a conversation that did, indeed, follow this line of thought. when I thought I couldn't bear it for another moment, I turned--only my head, there was no reason for the philosopher to see that he had acquired an audience. there, in the open space of the sitting area, seated, sprawled, were five youths. high school? possibly. college? probably. it looked like it could be a discussion group but I saw no books, no homework, nothing, in fact, that made me think this was a scholarly discussion. they may have thought it was an intellectual discussion but, having, at one time, been there myself, I knew that this was no intellectual discussion. this was a discussion taking place by sheer virtue of the fact that here were three people on the verge of adulthood--no, they were adults but adults who still had no idea that this kind of chatter is not what makes you an intellectual or an adult, even; it just makes you think you are talking about something that is your philosophy, your thought, your viewpoint. here were these three adults, to finish my earlier thought, who wanted, so anxiously, so desperately to have a philosophy, an opinion, that they chose, or at least this one did, to have a belief that is so very wrong. not wrong in a sense of right and wrong. but wrong in a more valuable sense; a sense of hopefulness versus disparity, a sense of positive versus negative, in essence, a sense of what is life itself.

imagine a life where you believed that all you were here to do is die. imagine that this is what you really BELIEVE. if this is all life is, why bother to do anything? why bother to wake up every day? why bother to learn, to grow, to seek out a higher wisdom for yourself and your children, your spouse, your fellow man? if life is just the systematic waiting for the day when you get recalled, then why not just sit and wait, in a window, watching as your neighbors come and go, as the delivery man brings to you the meals which you have requested be delivered to your lifeless existence? watching as the sun rises down that end of the street and sets again at the other end. watching as the children walk up the steps of the school each morning and walk down them again each afternoon. imagine a life where you have nothing which makes you, even for the slightest of moments, very excited; or one which makes you, even for a moment, a little teary eyed. imagine a world where you believed that what this young woman has talked herself into believing: life is waiting to die.

well, I'm an impatient person. and if life is waiting to die, I don't want to wait. I best get it on with, now. ah-ha. but, you see, I have. I have been at the hands of this which most of us aspire to escape. I have had the luxury of attempting to take my life. yes, I said luxury. it was a luxury because I learned how precious a gift this is. I've learned, on more than one occasion, that it can be gone in a minute. just-like-that. is that what this young woman thinks is what it's all for? because I assure you, it is not. it is to be lived, to be learned, to be enjoyed, to be hated and to be cherished. and if anyone ever has a day when they think otherwise, I've only this to say: call me. I have the answers. about this one, I really do.

and if you're anything like me, you'll agree and, like me, they will have to drag you kicking and screaming from this place. because, while I want to see what's next, while I want to meet the great obi wan upstairs; I never have desert without finishing the main course.

ps. I went back for a copy of Prayer For Owen Meany--they didn't have that either! I swear...

photo by David Cerame