Please Read These Words

            Having unique fingerprints or handwriting does not make me special.  What makes me special, makes everyone special—thereby negating all specialness.  The divinity that all religious traditions speak of is much cooler than being special.  We are a perfect human family.  We are unique beings when observed through the carnal lens, but much greater when seen as a web—connected not only to each other, but to every thing from sky scraper to dust mite.  

            Our consciousness indeed gets to “play the game” of being a separate body, with affinities for cats or dogs, chocolate or vanilla, etc.; but the “higher consciousness”—call it God or Gladys—keeps us plugged in to this thing called life.  When we experience this connection, and see the truth that all our actions affect the whole web, we don’t just play a good game, we begin to “play well with others.”  We build bridges, create paintings, celebrate birthdays and anniversaries; we reach out to other beings who may be experiencing the pain of separateness.

If you want a slice of eternity, all you have to do is one thing.  In the morning, take your alarm clock and throw it against the wall. 

 THE STOLEN HORSE

Visions were beginning to blur in the room of smoke and coke and cans and ashes; the curtains rippled over a sliding glass door leading to the balcony.  Overlooking the city, I started dreaming; I leaned over the railing into the wind and the whirling exhaust-ridden humidity, thick into a Friday night. 

We never really meant to kill anybody.  We never really meant to misunderstand the purpose.  Many moments of coincidence had been merging with grace.  There were  lots of shoulds of regret, and coulds of rusty ambition.  All that hair-club fruition among stolen cars, piss-stained bathrooms, and the trash on the stairs.  They were wishing we could be here in St. Croix.  It is beautiful.  It is pristine and clean, but your Uncle Al got sunburned on his bald spot the first day here.

Sometimes we wish we were there in the thick of things.  In the cockpit flying towards more friendly airspace.  Over the glacial gorges and fiords, the oceans and comets, avoiding all the asteroid-scattered space stations with enemy warships landing on moons.  We wanted to circle Jupiter in peace and make love on Venus on a Sunday afternoon.  It just didn’t work out.

The Gregorian chant echoed under the stars while the waterfalls hushed low far from the tenement screams.  They said everything was going to be fine now that the Go Go’s  are on the radio; because the music both comes from, and cures stomach discomfort.  But the blues welled up anyway in our eyes of heartache, just as we returned from the barn where we killed a man for his horse.

The cop car rolled by the silos and stopped.  The man got out. He walked toward Steve who had the horse at the end of the driveway tied to a mailbox.  The gravel crunched under the officer’s boots.  The Captain Crunch echoed under my sneakers on the linoleum.  Steve looked at the officer.  The officer looked at Steve.  You’re not from this town.  You were in the wrong place today. 

Why do you keep saying that?  How much do I get?  You said half, and you heard me say she’s a winner.  Why should I believe you?  James, give the officer the bag.  Put the horse in the trailer.  You know it’s time to leave.  Move along now trooper.  Start thinking about what your next move is.

Wait.  Hold it right there.  Where are you going?  What are you going to do when you get there?  How much money do you have?  Why are you going again?  Do you like Willie Nelson or The Rolling Stones? Are the city lights too bright to see the stars?  Where is your brother and sister and mama and papa?  Are they feeling OK?  Did you have breakfast this morning?  Did you sleep well last night?  Is your head on straight? Are you gonna be a dollar short for a ham and cheese sandwich from 7-11?  Do you wish you were someone else?  Do you wish you could touch someone else?  Do you get scared they won’t touch you back? 

The diesel whined behind the rush of taxis while the earth kept spinning. If it stood still there wouldn’t be enough room for everyone on the side where the sun shines.  They said things could always be very different if it were not for this or that little thing.  It was all a balancing act of balancing and symmetrizing all the unasymmetricalizing random entities which when somehow juxtaposed correctly, produced the sublime.  We were the rose peaches, the plums and frosted flakes squirming under fireworks.  We were about pancakes and fresh bacon.  Breakfast on the beach at sunrise.

It’s where I want to be with you.  And my new horse, of course, before I die.

            Am I to believe that my head is a problem?  My ego?  Well, yes.  There are two me’s.  There’s Pete, and there’s Mr. Alive.  Pete thinks he was born on such and such day, in this or that town, drives a car worth too much or not enough, and a has a job that makes him think he’s all that or not much of anything.  Mr. Alive doesn’t think.  He just is.  He’s been around for like forever, and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and—believe it or not—he hasn’t been anywhere before, because there are no before’s or future’s with this guy.  He’s the one moving the pen, and Pete is just the one who likes to think that Pete is periodically clever.  Mr. Alive on the other hand, is always clever, and never misses a beat. 

            That said, Pete does get to feel more like Mr. Alive when he listens better, when he creates, moves about, walking, talking, riding a bike or writing without too much thought.  Ahh, those are the moments.  However, here we are with the thoughts—like Beck the musician says, “Comin’ to you 1000 beats per minute…”

            On good days, Pete tries to let Mr. Alive run the show via activities like prayer, meditation, and aerobic exercise.  These activities—though they take longer than beer, but are free of hangovers and more extreme side effects like chronic depression and homelessness—scrub the brain of energy draining thoughts, and let the more easy-going ponderings of Mr. Alive come through.  And yes, writing is another good brain scrubber.  Mr. Alive and Pete work together in the editorial room, and the goal is for the words to reflect Mr. Alive’s sentiments; however, we realize Pete is bound to influence the process, and it can be great fun to work with Mr. Alive on which words get crossed out or set on fire.

            The message coming today is that thoughts are there for the taking or leaving, and Pete’s job is to let Mr. Alive decide which ones are important.  Simultaneously, Pete must not take this occupation too seriously; this is how Mr. Alive gets turned into “reasons” for spilling blood.  Guns don’t kill.  People with names like Pete kill.  Egos kill to protect what was never really there.  Egos protect stories we invent to make us feel more than—when we can never really feel more than Mr. Alive.  The Pete’s in the world are often more worried about making up these stories than appreciating the real spin behind it all.  Holy shit…  I’m alive!  What can I do to spread this news?