Fibers splitting, forever torn.
Unalive without feeling, emotionless
Action upon them.
Crashing through, tireless push.
Supposed affectations of an end
Action upon them.
Weight thudding, ceaseless defiance.
Heavy under a placement, stacked
Action upon them.
Silent but the hollow shrill of metal.
Just a little less now
action upon them.
The picture is from a hike up Cascade Pass in North Cascades National Park, WA.
Fear of Consumption, does the drink hide?
Itself inside itself, never to share,
Its contents, for fear of the rising tide,
Of connection that shake forth our wares.
Open the lid, trepidation, but an easy task
Pour forth, till you are unmasked.
We are trapped together on this sea,
And together we are tethered inextricably.
The picture is from the top of a route I climbed in Leavenworth, WA. Overlooking the Kolchuk Peaks.
They is a comedy bit I love, not for the comedy but for the truth. The line is, “Do the shit out of your job, it is your job, so do the shit out of it.” I always do the shit out of my job.
So here I am, a young man on the promontory looking out at life, choosing the direction I will take to get to the next promontory, which will lead me to the next. The metaphor feels full of promise. But, like most metaphors of mine, it feels incomplete. (This is more of an exploratory rambling than anything, so stop now if you’re not into that kind of thing.) So the metaphor feels incomplete, why? what is missing? Well I don’t think I’m quite at that promontory yet.
I remember the first time I climbed Mt. Washington. I remember looking up at the summit and seeing the tower for the first time during our trek up. It was barely visible through the hurricane force winds pushing ice and snow all around. I remember thinking, “I’ve been there before, its not that far, maybe 50 feet or so.” That 50 feet took an eternity not fitting of the distance, of stopping, starting, stopping, heaving breath, starting, doubting, stopping, motivating, starting, stepping, scrambling, then we arrived at the top to the most inhospitable place we could think of, just so we could go down.
I’m going to unpack this a bit in the lens of the Whitman promontory metaphor. I feel like I’m not really on the promontory, but rather it has just come into my view, and now I have to slog more than ever before to get to it. School seems to have more pressure than ever before, loans, bills, papers, people, pressure. Pure pressure. Hurricane force winds swirl the ice to my face, my glasses frozen over. I haven’t felt my hands in a while, and I have become one dimensional.
I don’t doubt my ability to arrive at the promontory, I doubt the promontory itself. How do I know what the weather will be like at the top? So far its a whiteout. What is the use of the promontory for viewing if I am snow blind? I will have no idea where I am going after I get to the top, the top is merely a stop on my road trip. Something to check off, something that must be done in order to get further along towards the next promontory, the next safe place.
God I am exhausted.
Here I am at a concert for a friends’ band. I feel home. In the truest sense of the word, I am surrounded by people I love, and people that love me, I am surrounded by reciprocal vulnerability. It feels like a vaccine releasing itself into my body. I remember the last time I got a vaccine, it was a health study for Ebola. I felt the needle pushing the vaccine into me. I felt it move out into me like a ripple from a stone. These people are my vaccine and I need them, I want them, I love them. Where are they in regards to this promontory I am approaching?
The metaphor feels incomplete because I feel incomplete. Since I was a child I have consistently placed myself into relationships with people who make me feel inferior and insecure. Here I am talking to this beautiful person, who is remarkably interesting and charismatic, so full of life, full of spirit. I need to get to know her, more than that I want to be around her, I want to learn from her, I want to understand what I am seeing. Well there seem to be quite a few societal norms that would keep me from pursuing that endeavor, as in where I am in regards to the promontory. I decide against myself to just enjoy the concert and ignore whatever impulse seems to be in my mind.
That night as I am lying in bed, wishing for sleep, I have a moment that is incredibly rare for me. Extinct species rare. Why can’t I pursue this person? What is my reason for not even trying? Social norms, timing, fill in the blank? Social norms would want me to graduate university in four years, to not sleep in my car at graveyard in West Virginia, to not run away from everyone I know in a Thoreau like trance. Timing? Don’t make me laugh! When have I ever respected that beast that Roethke beat on my head? As an aside, literally everyone should burn that poem, it’s the worst. When have I ever done things the conventional way? The way everyone else does? Never, and I never will. Ole Henry would be proud, my deliberate nature.
That is some weird beta, but it worked.
So do I doubt? Does my hopelessly romantic soul doubt another person’s intentions? Do I doubt that vulnerability will be reciprocated? Of course I do! I am young but I have hurt and hurt others. I know how this thing works, but merely a working knowledge. But here is my problem and I dare say its a big problem when it comes to being used, or maybe its the solution. I don’t look for an excuse to end things, instead I look for excuses to keep them going. I always have and I always will. I believe in second, third, fourth chances, all they way to infinity. I have to. So here is to hoping for the best. Here is to being a bead on the string of life, that if only for a time gets to be next to another bead. Here is to infinity chances.
The car is on fire, and there’s no driver at the wheel.
And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides,
and a dark wind blows.
The government is corrupt, and we’re all selling drugs with the radio on
and the curtains drawn.
We are trapped in the belly of this horrible machine,
and the machine is bleeding to death.
The sun has fallen done, and the billboards are all leering, and the flags are all dead.
At the top of their poles.
It went like this,
the buildings toppled in on themselves, mothers clutching babies, picked through
the rubble and pulled out their hair, the skyline was beautiful on fire,
all twisted metal stretching upwards, everything washed in a thin orange haze.
I said kiss me you’re beautiful, these are truly the last days.
You grabbed my hand and we fell into it, like a daydream
or a fever.
We woke up one morning and fell a little further down.
For sure its the valley of death, I open up my wallet,
and its full of blood.
It is my hope that one day people realize the meaning of the phrase “end of days” and properly internalize it in order to bring about a legitimate change in behavior. The end of days is your death, not the apocalypse of all mankind. In light of the recent presidential election, many people are frustrated and certainly terrified at the ramifications of the 45th president. Allow me to try and be a reminder of hope and ultimately encouragement.
Your life will go on past this election. This leader will assume his position and his life will continue until it ends, as will yours. The leader will make decisions that will affect your life and you will also make decisions that will affect your life, perhaps even more so. Let that then be the focus, to bring about positive change as best as you can until the time allotted to you is done. Remember not to judge others use of life, but instead look to encourage, aid, love others as they also make their way into the end of days. We will soon face the end of days, so let us do so with joy, not sorrow.
You are a blink in the timeline of this universe. Perhaps you are even less. Perhaps you are the moment that the eyelash begins its involuntary motion to keep your eyes moist, perhaps you are the end of that. Regardless, the moments that make up the blink are crucial to making the blink. Do not forget that you matter, we all matter, and together we the collective voices, make up the human narrative. Know this as you enter into your last days.
When I Have Fears That I May Cease 