Is it Essential That We Wear Shirts?

There's something that has been bothering me the last 24 hours. I saw a black man walking down Sheffield street yesterday, a rather balmy afternoon, and he didn't have a shirt on. But that's not really what was so disturbing. Not as much as that I noticed him, and then he noticed me noticing him, and then he stopped walking away from where I was, and instead started walking toward me.

But that's not what disturbed me either. No, I was disturbed by my reaction to him. Alarmed by the fact that he looked like he may have been drunk, as he was swaggering to and fro, compounded by the fact that he had no shirt on, compounded by that I took him to be homeless, I panicked. And then I hurried off about my business, in a direction opposite from him. So, in essence, I was running away from him. But why?

He wanted to have a word with me it seemed, and I rejected the possibility of any discourse with him based on my judgments and fears. What was I afraid of? That he would spit on me? That he would talk at me nonsensically as so many 'street people' tend to do? That he would harm me, pull out a gun, flash me his wang? Who knows? Maybe he'd vomit on my shoes, or simply, ask me for some change. 

Though any of these outcomes are possible, I surmise that the latter is probably, in all its simplicity, the most likely. The poor no-shirted man probably just wanted me to give him a dollar or something. And would that be so bad? Couldn't I just offer up a tiny little George Washington so that he might believe the human race is not all about stinginess and greed? Maybe if nothing else, he felt lonely, and he'd find that he had a friend in the world...if only for a moment.

But I didn't offer that GW. I was too scared. I read recently that if we are to find the path of higher understanding, we must realize that human encounters are opportunities to unleash our full potential, to live among greater joy. Though it's one thing to understand that, and quite another it seems, to act accordingly. Oh well, this is a journey, this crazy life. I have no intentions of lambasting myself for not speaking to the shirtless man who wanted my ear. But I want to tell him, if he could ever read this, that I'm sorry I fled him. He deserves better.

And so do you. 

Who Knows, Death Could Be Friendly

As I walk along all these budding tree blossoms, inhaling the spring air and reflecting on joys that result from putting the winter down like a maimed mare, I've also been turning over a new topic in my mind: death.

I'm telling people lately that I might die young, before I'm 40 to be exact. They don't take well to that notion, particularly if they care a great deal about me, and even more particularly if they are my mother. This make sense. We don't like to think of losing someone from this world who we cherish. Who would we talk to with the same level of familiarity? How would we feel like we're not alone through life's adventures (and misadventures)?

For my part, I do feel alone a lot. The human spirit is conditioned to feel alone, lest he or she give up the rooted belief that nobody else has the same thoughts or feelings, or can understand the degree to his or her suffering. I understand this. I am one of these human spirits that clings to such a belief. But the belief is horsewash. Suffering is suffering, is it not?

I mean yeah some people might say they'd rather suffer a broken heart than deal with the death of a loved one. Try Jeopardy: broken heart for 500, or being a rape victim for 700? Broken heart, please. Sprain the ankle for 250, or be a part of a mass exodus as a result of your native country falling siege under a nasty, power hungry regime for 400? Twist my ankle, I'll take the ankle. Accidentally getting pepper-sprayed, or being fired from your favorite job? Who knows!

It's nuts when you try to compare levels of suffering, isn't i? The point is, suffering is suffering. We all feel it, and we all deal with it in different ways. But how is suffering linked to death in a direct way? Well, good question. In my experience, if I encounter too much suffering, I naturally feel like I want it to stop. But instead of thinking of ways to get myself out of the suffering, say, by sprinkling some faith over my head, I think: maybe it's time for me to die. Maybe it's my destiny to die young.

And so back to my mom. She would say, but you're too young, I can't believe that you'd want to give up at this point. Is death giving up in all cases? Surely no. I mean we all have to die sometime. I've recently been reading a fantastic find: 'Conversations with God' (book 1). One of the magnanimous ideas promulgated in this book is that we choose our path, we choose our life journey's components, and so naturally, we choose our death.

But a contingency to this concept, is that your soul has to really want to die in order that you find your way out of the breathing part of this life. So I wonder, when I'm walking down Clark street on a sunny Monday afternoon (Mondays are such fucking depressing days), and I'm thinking, I'm tired of being afflicted by the weight that I feel of the world, or the burden of my own internal suffering, I might just die soon so that I can stop this charade, does that mean I really want to die?

In that moment, I guess sure, I want to die, or maybe at the very least: I'm indifferent about life. But the next day, or two days later maybe, I'll be in touch with something more inspiring, something that looks more like faith. And I'll think, but I can't die yet, I have too much to do!

But does god take irrevocable requests? Like 'Monday, I got that yellow slip from Jinnene down in Chicago. She says she's tired and wants to die.' But then Wednesday I send a follow up note that says, hey it's me again. Scratch that last request. I'm all good now. If I can live a pretty long life replete with helping others any way I can, that's what I'd prefer.

But is it too late? Will death come knocking on my door, like a book from Amazon that I didn't cancel before the cancelation date? Woe is me, this is so complicated!

I'll help you along my little discussion here. The point is, and Neale Donald Walsch, 'Conversations' author, would agree, the soul has certain desires. If I choose to live a short life, and do what I can while I'm here, and then go, then so be it. But the truth is, I don't really think I have that in store for me. No, there's lots to do. I'll have to find a way to quiet the blue Mondays.

And speaking of blue, maybe I'll be like that adorable old lady from the film Titanic, the one with the gentle blue eyes. The one who had that sapphire stone. She died an old lady, quietly, and harmoniously, alone, in her sleep.

Imagination is Everything

It has been said by purveyors of truth that the key to life is to exercise imagination. Actually I don't think I recall hearing those exact words, and I'm not sure I even know a true purveyor of truth for that matter (do these people still exist?). Earlier in my blog, I think I said that the key to happiness was to not care what anyone thinks about you. And I really still believe that. I do. But today, I'm saying that I'm my own purveyor of truth, and I'm telling you: you could die if you don't use your imagination.

I recently did read, however, in a novel that I very much liked ('Winter's Tale' by Mark Helprin--pick it up, you can't be sorry that you did), that in order to find some sort of path to wisdom, we've first got to be willing to become a bit crazy. Doesn't Seal say something like that in a smash 90's hit too? I really feel bad that his face is so slashed about. I wonder if Heidi minded. Anyway, I believe in this concept of finding sensibility through insanity. And so, I'm afraid, if we want to be sensible, it seems that we've got to be okay with first (or concurrently) being crazy.

I personally would say that I'm pretty nuts. Not so much because most people don't understand me, but for my mom as a rare exception, but more because I do things that run in a river far away from the forest of the norm. I refuse to work in corporate jobs. I hate social activities. I'd rather eat razors than date regularly, just for the sake of it. I'm unpredictable. I flake out on people (not purposefully, but who knows how I'll feel any given day?). I send random texts that make no sense (to others, but they do to me) to test people. I truly believe in love even though I've not gotten a really good dose of it.

When I say love, I mean the most pure kind of love that you could possibly imagine. The kind of love that makes you feel like you'll live beyond this life, or that your love will outlast your mortal body. I believe in romance. The kind that can last a lifetime. I believe that one can love a person indefinitely; and that though there may be doubts, the feeling of certainty will always be stronger than the fear of failure to love, or the fear to lose.

I spent a long time being really cynical. But I'm starting to look around me, and I'm realizing how simple it is to be jaded. There are all kinds of reasons to be cynical and depressed and mean and bitter. There are countless ways to want to give up, to lose hope, to be sad, to believe in the worst in people. That's all easy.

But what's not easy, what's a challenge, what's sexy, is to believe in something better. In something deeper, something that will transcend the ages. Something that is pure and just and bright and awesome. I think this is love, no matter where it comes from, or who it's directed toward. Ideally, the feeling is directed toward everyone because everyone deserves to be loved.

Isn't this stuff crazy? My imagination sauteed it all together in a pan of hope. I'm pretty sure when I'm finished...it will be delicious. Either way, I'm certain it will end in something superiorly sensical.

Use your imagination too! It could really take years off your waist and add an entire new glow to your face.