busted up body, embattled spirit, holding the line on dreams

Even with my eyes closed I can see how fortunate I am. Born into my good fortune, in a northern country where the air is relatively fresh and the people are relatively free. I try to watch the amount of complaining I do. These days there is much talk about our carbon "footprint". How much crap are we scattering onto the Mother? We should be aware of our bitching and moaning footprint as well.

What follows is a report, then. I know that the folks who read here are living the same life I am. I know you know. You know?

Most days I spend at least three hours behind the wheel, transporting my clients here and there. It can feel like much more than three hours. There is something about watching the traffic snake out in front of me that can lull me to sleep or invite my darker thoughts. It's related to exhaustion. It takes energy to stay civilized and keep the dark thoughts at bay. After awhile behind the wheel I lose focus. It might even be the fumes that surround me.

These days, as far back as I can remember, when I get out of the car, my body registers all the stiffness stored in my joints. Stiff from sitting too long. Pain knifes into my lower back. My elbows and shoulders are inflamed from lifting too much weight at the gym. The amount of weight I lift is a good and a bad thing:

It's good because it shows me I am still fighting back against the inertia and gravity that are taking me down. It's bad because I am causing damage to an already busted up body. I feel the pain from the outside in and from the inside out. My feelings are always a mystery to me. Always.

I know my feelings, sometimes, by the cravings they trigger. I've been craving carbohydrates. That's a sure sign I am depressed. I am depressed, as near I can tell, because I am loaded to my back teeth with unexpressed rage. I can't let the rage out safely, so I stuff it back down. Down. Depression.

And what is the cause of such rage? If I truly knew the answer to that question I might make more progress converting that rage to a more productive energy. My gut says something innocent that came to this world with me, when I was born, has been murdered. This violence enrages me. And so I have a compulsive need to know about violence all around me. I am amazed and fascinated by conflict and violence.

I am listening, this moment, to Neil Young singing "Flags Of Freedom Flying". My friend, Doug Lang, made me a collection of contemporary protest music. Listening to these songs just after Christmas inspired me. I received a tremendous uplift and I was catapulted deep into my own fantasy world of imagining. I began to write a short story called "Welcome To Goodle, USA (Weapons Are Strictly Prohibited)" It's not quite finished.

Doug may have some idea what a marvelous gift he has given. These songs feel to me like I am taking water after a long long dry spell. I am emotionally parched. This is the embattled spirit. This writing may be nothing fancier than my own cave art. Maybe it's a kind of folk art. I am a working man. The pain and disappointment I feel are the pain and disappointment of a working man.

I don't know what I expected of the work a day world of adult men and women. I had no idea how much of my energy and true spirit I would have to submerge and swallow back. I had no idea what the real loss of childhood innocence looked like. It's an ugly thing, the coal miner's trade off of self and soul for money earning.

I despise some of the folks I work alongside of. But there is no one I despise more than my own self for my inability and failure to find a way to integrate who I am with what it is. And, as we all know now, it is what it is.

Tomorrow is another day. I count my blessings. No one shot at me today. No one raped any loved ones I know. I have a shelter that is warm. I only want to turn my fatigued sense of gratitude to a recyling project. In this fortunate shelter I am surrounded with bits and pieces of things that remind me what I have been collecting and what I have been forgetting. It's time to take out the junk. One little step at a time.
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