Written as a stream of consciousness.
These were my thoughts as I had them today.
Wednesday . . . Thank God, the week is almost over.
“Take a deep breath.”
I got this
Standing on Franklin—waiting for a morning bus into the city, I watching gray morning clouds drift across the top of Harriman Mountain. The trees on the mountain have all become green, which makes for a pretty contrast beneath the gray rainy sky and the strands of long, cotton like clouds that drift by.
Spring . . .
I am at a moment where time overlaps with lessons I have learned and mistakes I seem to forget.
This, as they say, is why history repeats itself.
“When am I gonna learn?”
How many times will we give ourselves without being given?
How many times will we include ourselves without being invited?
Above all, when will we understand the important difference between want and need as it relates to life the things we deem necessary?
Somewhere, I read, “The first shall be last and the last will be first.”
This is a text about humility and the need to always be, “In.”
I’m curious; where are we in this sort of line?
I don’t want to get on the bus.
I want to sit here and feel the trickle of tiny raindrops. I want to watch the gray clouds drift passed the mountains, and then I want to contemplate my next move.
What is our next move?
I wonder . . .
8:03 and the bus is late already 10 minutes late.
Maybe I should stay home.
Maybe I should sit in the loft and stare out the front window of my home. I could look out at the old Church across the street from my house and watch the rain dampen the granite tombstones in the churchyard.
No one ever came to clean the leaves from the tiny graveyard. Maybe no one cares anymore. Maybe the headstones are too old.
After all, the place is historic.
No one ever visits the old Church during the winter either
They only have masses on Sunday mornings when the weather is nice and warm.
I don’t think I like that.
It seems everyone wants to be around when the weather is nice and warm. Unfortunately, no one is there when the storm clouds roll in. When it gets cold or when the storms come; isn’t that when you need people most?
Still no sign of the bus.
“Leave me alone,” I’m thinking to myself.
I’m not even sure who I’m talking to anymore
It’s a weird thing to talk to yourself and still feel like no one is listening.
I want to be reminded of what I need to do.
I already know—I don’t need anyone to tell me.
I know the difference between right and wrong.
I also know there’s no gray are between the two
But I like the gray.
I liked the gray of my Grandmother’s hair.
I liked the gray sweatshirt The Old Man used to wear whenever he was sick.
I like the gray clouds because the remind me of God the Father’s beard.
“Damn bus! Still not here.”
One by one, more passengers arrive and wait to take the same trip as me.
I hope the woman on her cell phone doesn’t sit anywhere near me.
She’s too loud.
I should have stayed home.
I could have sat in my loft and wrote a few thoughts.
I could have listened to Bach, or maybe Beethoven, and then follow it up with Vivaldi.
I like doing that.
It makes me feel creative.
I can see the bus coming down the street.
It stops at a traffic light and I’m thinking, “Dammit.”
“Oh well. So much for staying home.”
If it’s available, I usually sit in the same seat when I get on the bus. I lean my head against the window and look outward.
There it is. That’s my seat
Hard to believe I moved here six months ago.
Hard to believe they took down my friend The Old Tree across the street from my old house. I loved that tree.
And The Old Tree loved me too.
To hell with it. No one really understands
“It’s a tree for Christ’s sake!”
Yeah, but it was my tree
and that tree meant everything to me . . .
I suppose all things pass.
So does opportunity.
I don’t want to miss anything anymore.
I don’t want to be afraid or worry about whether I’m first or last in line.
I don’t want to worry about my own beauty
I don’t want to wonder if I’m ugly to someone unimportant
I want to feel beautiful and not concern myself with the, “I told you so,” kind of society we live in.
I don’t want to worry about success, or listen to someone else tell me what I “Should,” or, “Should not,” be doing.
To hell with The Jones’s.
I’m tired of trying to keep up with them.
Who cares if the grass is always greener on the other side?
I don’t live on the other side
I live here—with you.
“Maybe I should write about this.”
Maybe this is something people would read and say, “Hey, I know how that feels.”
Or, maybe someone will read and not get one single word of what I’m saying—and then I’ll be right back where I started from—wondering if there’s anyone out there that knows what it’s like to think too much and feel so completely misunderstood.
“Leave me alone.”
I don’t need you to tell me about myself.
Hell with it.
I’m on a roll.
Maybe I should keep going
I have to stop listening to Ginsberg’s poetry readings
I feel too introspective . . .
Man, this lady is still on her cell phone.
No one on the bus says anything to her.
Even if they did, I wonder if she would care.
Would I care?
I still have the ticket in my pocket from a show I saw the other night. I’m keeping it in trust so that if I need to feel something free and beautiful, I can reach in my pocket and touch the serrated edges of the ticket. This way, I can be reminded of what music does to the soul or what it’s like to stand in front of a stage and hear a stadium roar.
“You do know nobody cares about this, right?”
To hell with who cares and who doesn’t
The truth is I care.
No matter how I try to pretend . . .
I really do care.
I care if I’m beautiful or ugly
I care where I am in that line; whether I’m first or last, liked or hated.
I care about the friends that don’t care about me
I care about my family and the people I never speak to anymore.
“But what if they called you? Would you call them back?”
“Weird, isn’t it?”
Yes it is . . .
Almost at work
I can see the city now and then I’m thinking about you again.
I love you and your long hair
I love the way your skin smells.
I just wish I felt like I was enough for you.
By enough I mean enough to feel better, or be better, and overcome anything and everything that stands in your way.
Maybe this is why I’m scared sometimes
Maybe I worry that I’m not enough for you.
More accurately, maybe I worry I’m not enough for myself.
“At least, I’m honest about it.”
Most people lie to themselves their entire life.
I don’t want to do that anymore
Bus enters the tunnel and I will be at work in 10 minutes. I went from the mountains to the city in the blink of an eye. There is a piece of me though that still stands at the bus stop on Franklin, looking at strips of gray clouds as they drift passed the green trees on the tops of Harriman Mountain. There is a piece of me wishing I was there—right now
I have to believe this is all heading somewhere.
Today is only a seed that’s been placed in tomorrow’s womb.
If I want to cultivate anything, then I better do all I can to make it grow.
It’s hard to stay motivated on days like this
It’s hard to get out of bed when the sky is gray and the light rain falls from the sky.
It’s like a lullaby
It makes me want to curl up in a ball . . .
and sleep in the palm
of God the Father’s hand.
Maybe I should write about this