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.