Sunday, November 28, 2010

Sailor Sam was just passing by

..what a great title for a book. Maybe that is that is left ;  after my heavyhearted experience with the writer's colony.

It has been weighing me down, forcing me , painfully , to question my (slipping ??) grip on the world .  There are two alleyways of meditation. One is the realization, as if I have been asleep, of what I have done. Here is an online gathering of kind, supportive , creative souls, and I, I in creepy contradistinction to all that I affirm, so hold dear, have reacted, almost instantly,  to their kindness in the most derogatory way. I have operated  not from a place of peace,  but with an astonishing anger that many have found  disrespectful and hurtful.

I do recognize a hackneyed aspect of myself  here and it pains me. This terribly  fragile ego, this child who never fits in, this onetime worn-out somebody. No longer.

Stripped naked in the recent snow though, I do not feel the cold wind on my body. Driven by  the same lust for life that spoke to itself, up against the playground wall and in the loneliness of the railway station , one more kid who will never be cool,  I will always seek, in a self-destructive way, depending on your point of view   the solitude of the garden  and the company of  the old sea salt;  the Captain ,who knew a raging storm and survived to live with  starfish and shells on the sand, forever smoking his pipe  near a magic cave, presumably in Kent,  where it is always summer-time. That  is where the bears go .

It has always been so.

1 comment:

  1. Poignant post, Greg. It's a writer's lot to be an outsider.