Ordinary

I had my astrological chart done once. It was a long time ago. I was hoping to find out how things would be in the future, which is now.

My glass was half-full then. Some of the substance has evaporated, and what's left isn't as fresh. Physical decline, left untended, poisons the stuff inside.

I knew that even when I was young. But I still needed to know my fate - as if I had nothing to do with it.

I listened to the astrologer. He was wrong about almost everything, about the past and the present. So I didn't hold much faith for what he said about the future, which is now.

I muttered little curses to myself.
What a waste of time.
What a waste of money.
What a waste.

I can tell you what you're afraid of, he said.
Oh yeah? I thought.
Enlighten me.
I dare you.

You're afraid of being ordinary.

For a moment the glass was full.
It made a good story, too.
My story.
A story of ordinary.

Tell your story, they say.
Tell your story.
So I take the classes, learn the lessons, obey the rules or not, and trace a life on paper.

Does a story well told make ordinary go away?
Will they listen when I speak?
Is it the same as seeing Karnak?
Surviving an earthquake?
Winning Olympic gold?

Does it deepen me?
Strengthen me?
Heal me?

What's a story for?
To flash wit and charm at parties?
To look good and hold half-empty glasses of wine amid a lot of been-there-done-that?
Better I say nothing. Hide in silence. Talk less. Listen more.
I'm unilingual and never been to Rome.

I know a woman who shook Hitler's hand.
She's not really my friend. Not really.
It's a story she can't tell.
So I tell it instead.
How do you like me now?

I get up in the morning, brush my teeth, wash my face, go to work, come home, pat the cat and watch t.v.
I use cliches and hoard the riches of my inner life.
I love breathing and walking, especially at the same time.
I do it every day. Always have.
And I bet I like it more than you.

My glass is still half-empty.
But sometimes I stir the contents.

- G. P.

It's All About Me

Sometimes I can be so full of myself. Despite present appearances to the contrary, this isn't one of those times. I posted this picture and wrote the title simply because I can't decide what I should write about next. I'm hoping that if I just sit here and type random, nonsensical words and thoughts, some vaguely meaningful ideas will eventually emerge.
Oh well, since I'm on the topic of me me me, I'll mention to you, oh my faithful, fanatical followers, that I'm on a brief sabbatical from the bookstore where I've been working for lo-these-many-years. I'll be writing a one-woman play about none other than yours truly. Yes, it's true, I'm going to add yet another self-important, self-centred vanity piece to the great canon of one person plays, about people real and fictional, great and small. Although I'm real enough, I can say without a moment's hesitation or a hint of hubris that I also belong in the "small" people category. (If I said "little people," it would suggest I'm some sort of an otherworldly spirit. That would be nice, but not true.)
Anyway, who the hell wants to sit and listen to some obscure, unknown actor/writer go on for 75 minutes about their not-so-interesting life? But I'm doing it anyway. If I can't get hired to perform on stage, or in a movie, or even in a commercial for goddess' sake, then I'll write my own damn play. I suspect that that's probably how a lot of those things got written in the first place. At least I hope so. I hate to think I'm the only failed-but-not-dead-yet-actor who's gone that route.
So why am I telling you this? Because if I announce my plans to my legion of followers it'll force me to work through whatever ennui, writer's block, laziness or any other manifestations of page fright that will no doubt assail me in the following weeks. After all, I don't want to make a public fool of myself, which may very well be happening right now, because I really am blathering on about nothing but me me me and what I want to do.
I know for sure I'm not alone in my need to tell my story. That's part of the reason I have this little web of mine. Every person who has lived a little while or a great long time has many stories, and most people would like to tell some of them in one way or another. Even the most seemingly uneventful lives can be transcribed into good stories if they are expressed with conviction and a modicum of passion. I've listened, completely rapt, to friends and strangers, who neither write nor act, describe some of their fascinating experiences. They don't consider themselves storytellers, but when they talk about their experiences so sincerely, they most surely are storytellers. And then there are humble, supposedly ordinary people, not normally given to talking about themselves, who have shared small moments of their lives with me. If I listen well enough, I always learn something. I like to think I've helped a person just by allowing him or her to be heard.
We all want to be heard and seen; not necessarily in a centre-stage, under-the-spotlight kind of way, but in a way that acknowledges our existence, and that we matter.
Good goddess, this entry really is a blathering blurb, because I've been writing for a while now and still haven't figured out what my point is. Hmm ... So what have I got so far? I've 1) declared my intention to write a one-woman show in the next couple of months, and 2) I've waxed enthusiastic about how everyone has stories, and 3) I've made brief mention of the art of listening. And it truly is an art. In fact, I find it more difficult to do well than telling stories. Having said that, I realize now that I've said all that I want to say right now, even though it didn't make a complete or cohesive narrative in this rambling, what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-write-about-today discussion.
Enough said. I'm going to go outside and listen to birds singing and trees rustling in the wind. Maybe if I listen hard enough, I'll understand what they're saying. But even I don't, I'll listen anyway.
- G. P.

My Body, My Country

My body is my first home, country and temple. It has an uncanny way of telling me what's going on in my mind and soul. I'm finally recovering from an onslaught of different kinds of angry, sore blisters and rashes on different parts of my body. In the space of three weeks I've had a nasty cold sore on my mouth, poison oak on my left arm, and poison ivy on my left leg.

I've been subject to cold sores all my life, so I wasn't too alarmed when a cold sore developed on my mouth. But it was quickly followed by poison oak rash I'd contracted a week and a half earlier suddenly flaring up again. A couple of days after the poison oak resurfaced, I developed a case of poison ivy. I've been walking in the same woods and lake district all my life and have never been a victim of these pernicious plants. Then all of a sudden I'm attacked twice in three weeks.
The blisters on my mouth, arm and leg are subsiding now, but I still have to be careful not to aggravate them. And calm. I must be calm, because I sure haven't been. In fact, I've been very angry and upset about certain conditions in my life and trying rather unsuccessfully to keep my anger to myself. I haven't fooled anybody with my feeble attempts at appearing to be okay - least of all my body, my self.

The body knows and the body talks. Lately it's been shouting at me, forcing me to listen. I heard it loud and clear (impossible not to), but I needed to listen to what it was saying. My body's been expressing what I've been feeling but trying to ignore. I should have been expressing my negative emotions in creative, constructive ways, instead of waiting until I couldn't suppress them anymore. So that's what I'm doing right here and now.
The mandate for this little web of mine is to be positive and cheerful and write about my metaphysical interpretations of everything I experience. Okay, so this particular yarn I'm weaving into my web isn't all that light and cheerful, but it's a good lesson in the body/mind connection. Although I've learned it the hard way, it's ultimately a good thing.
I've also observed that I sometimes reflect what's going on outside of me, and not just within me. In my part of the world we've just recently been through "interesting times," the kind referred to in the ancient Chinese curse - May you live in interesting times. I watched the shenanigans with what I thought was an objective, dispassionate eye, but I was actually very angry with my fellow human beings, and despaired for how stupid we can be. It wasn't the first time I noticed a correlation between my personal life and the world around me. Materialists scoff at this notion. But you know where I stand on that.
I'm writing these words to help me finish healing from the anger that has manifested on my body. It's a good day for it. It's July 1st. The first day of the month and the rest of my life. As this day goes, so do I. So I'm expressing myself creatively, and then going out into the world with cheerful greetings to friends and strangers alike to observe this special day in the country I call home. (I've tried to be "universal" and non-specific in my blurbs, but I know it's rather obvious where I live. Whatever. It's fun to keep up the charade.)
So there it is. For just today and all the moments it contains, I'm doing what I can to heal, move forward, and set the tone for the rest of my life. Blessed be.
- G.P.