And when you speak of real life you grasp the nettle, the sharp edge of everything that can make you bleed, no filter in between you and the truth, the dismal truth of failure. If we could simply begin with failure as a default, with doom as the sentence, with sadness as the underlying theme, we would be ahead of the game. Nothing would hurt us quite as much. Caring would not be a sin. Life facing reality would not cause one to shrink. Real life is what it always is. No different from days passed in illusory quests. Just seeing things with eyes more open. I was in Stockbridge not Chicago. I was moving forward in real steps not imagined leaps. I was seated in my plastic rolling chair in the rough-cut pine environs of my back building before my Smith-Corona, Gideon Bible open to a passage in Matthew. I was writing. Typing.
The smell of the desert was still on his cloak
The sound of the mountain you could hear as he spoke
A look of such love in his eyes I did see
And later I was sitting a few steps down in this wonderfully improvised old barn, my Martin D18 in hand.
I used to write the most poetic lines
But now they are all shattered
In the fragments of the chimes
Music. At first I kept it to myself. Almost somnambulant. Still shattered myself. I drove over to Monterey to Judy and David, my psychosynthesis friends, I smashed some pillows. I felt the twinges of release through all my body. I drove back. Someone had come. On the way up to Canada. Mark would shepherd him. The household was loose and peaceful. It wasn’t yet time for the realization to kick in. We were in that minor dark age Walter Lippmann said we were in. The poison of hate would not avoid this house on Cherry Street. I figured it would be 2020 before eyes would open to the mounting crimes and change would come. I continued to hate LBJ.
Continuing the unfolding of Book Nine of the Panflick History. The first 8 books are parked here.