Read more: psych2go.me
It’s Tuesday. 6 am.
The Metro-North train arrives at Grand Central.
I’m walking across town.
Today. It’s back.
The energy geyser bursting from the Center.
The Possibilities? Endless.
Hope? Springs eternal.
Mystery source? Soul. Powered. Soulerpowered.*
The cauldron bubbles.
The witches’ brew stews.
Lethargy. Worry. Anxiety. Fatigue. Doubt.
Fully Present, in a Civil War of One.
It? It’s just not there.
William James had a bead on it. The Human energizing. The sum-total of activities. Some outer. Some inner. Some muscular. Some emotional. Some moral. Some spiritual. The waxing and waning in himself he is at times so well aware. How to keep it an appreciable maximum? How not to let the level lapse? That is the great problem.
I feel this lapsing.
Mr. Miyagi’s Wax On, Wax off. [Read more…]
It’s difficult to understand how an innocuous glance out the window could start a cascade of nonsense. But, it did. And it does.
It’s Tuesday. I’m home on a late evening conference call. I see him through the window in the backyard. He’s chubby-cheeked, hanging upside down, and clutching the iron cover of the bird feeder.
My call continued. And so did Chubby-Cheeks. The bird feeder is swinging from the pole. He’s shaking the cr*p out of it. And gorging on prime seed intended for goldfinches. Had I been outside and not two floors up, I would have run the S.O.B. down.
My call continued. I watched him. And wondered how this creature could manage to raise my ire. This man, a college educated adult, 210 pounds (and counting) vs. a foot-long squirrel weighing a pound or two. There he was. Blissfully feeding. And I’m clenching a pencil between my teeth, tasting graphite on my tongue.
The call ended. I ran down the stairs and out the door to find that he had vanished. Squirrel 483. DK: O.
Fast forward to Wednesday morning. I’m heading out the door to walk to the train station.
There he was to my right. Staring at me from the base of the evergreen tree in the front yard. Beady eyes. His under carriage dragging on the grass, belly bursting from the bird seed. [Read more…]
I open up my body,
whole and spit-shined eager
and inside there is only a mouth.
The mouth says
You are not an easy person to love.
Curious, I reach into this mouth
and pull out the tongue.
I make the tongue say it again, and again.
You are not an easy person…
You are not an easy person to…
And it’s so silly looking.
This little flip-flopping thing
in the palm of my hand.”
– Clementine von Radics, “A Bad Weekend in Three Parts,” published in Drunk in a Midnight Choir
It’s incredible how one runs about frantically at times like a rat in a maze, not really knowing right from wrong (and often really not caring), victim of one’s own passions and instincts rather than master of one’s own soul. I suppose the proper thing to do is just to stop every now and then and say, Where am I heading? Actually, though I’m still much like the psychologist’s rat, I find myself asking myself that question almost too often. I suppose the very fact that I realize my indulgence in too much introspection is another sign (I hope) of maturity. Too much brooding is unhealthy and, although I still have my slumps, I’ve begun to realize that one of the great secrets is striking a balance between thought and action… Living, acting, thinking; not just vegetating neurotically, on one hand, or blundering about, on the other hand, like so many people do, like trapped flies. It’s a hard balance to strike, but I think it can be done, and that in this exciting-sorrowful age of ours it can make great literature.
~ William Styron, 1967 Pulitzer Prize winner, in a letter to his Father in 1949