Chances were that I would never break that doubt, not for lack of desire to mend a repetitious lifestyle of separation, but I wanted to quit being dichronous. That’s what The Smiths would say, anyway.
Today is the first day of the rest of your series of other first days of your life. You always can be uncertain whether or not you have this particular day to begin again. You always may be certain that you will always be uncertain. You start planning immediately; you have an unmeasured time allotted for this interpretation of the state of your fixation. You sit in front of whatever clever type of technology or paper or sticky-note system which provides you with the encouragement to begin your plan. But after a few scribbles and a change in barometric pressure, you decide that you have accomplished a decent amount of planning, just by the act of starting to think about planning. Then you walk into your backyard to see if there is enough gas in the lawn mower to do a few rows, and your phone rings.
The silence on the other end of your line is intolerable, so you utter a short sequence of charming un-thank yous and you realize that you have to call your friend in Chicago who is sick and could be dying; meanwhile your guitar looks like it needs to be played. You can’t figure out a chord, so you pick up the remote control, but nothing is on except your love’s favorite show, which you can’t watch because this is the first day of the rest of your year, and so you think about ordering a pizza but your debit card is downstairs and the cat just puked and the ice has already melted in your glass.
You walk around in circles until you decide it’s not worth it, and maybe the tag phrase should be, “today is the last day of your life” but that seems psychologically unhealthy and you need to sleep it off.
The challenges to which you shall open your sleepy eyes are self-imposed. For instance, you must own your own mind. You can’t always control it, but you have got to own it. You have to obey or disobey its compulsions, and you have to accept its troubles and randomizations. You can’t organize it, but you can know the danger of its capacity to scramble and ramble. You can tell yourself many things you want to believe, but unless you compromise with it, your intentions wont be articulated as obligations. You have to be consistent, impressionistic, reasonable, adjustable, and playful. No one can think for oneself without wandering about some madness, and at times madness may be the purpose, the map, the ambiguity that makes all challenges the exact electricity which makes your minds universe.
So! Before you retrace your steps, either find the nearest exit or forgive yourself for thinking that you are completely capable of withstanding any retrospection. We all have a certain level of faith and love for ourselves, but we hesitate to remember (time after time) that our minds love is unrequited at times.
I found myself today. I found myself yesterday. Don’t worry about how or where or why. You need to worry about yourself. I am in good standing with myself. I don’t know how you see me, but I need you to look at yourself instead of me. I am lost and found, and the circle will never be unbroken.
Ask yourself questions; but believe nothing you say is universal truth. Again, I don’t know how you see me, I only see what I ask of you to see me as, and I ask you to see me without judgment, without pity, without expectations; I will in turn see you just as I see myself. I will see a conjunction of suggestion, a highway overlooking the inexactness which I gander and gather, and I will speak no evil, see no evil, nor hear no evil. I will tell myself to have an open mind, an unspoken heart, and a thousand broken souls unnerving me at every moment I let myself go. I will obey and deceive while I coincide and conflict. I will not hurt you any more or less unless I am hurting. But, thats me. I will listen, confide, retreat, capture, release, stalk, haunt, freak, steal, believe, deny, accuse, refuse, abuse, lose, win, practice, preach, reach, storm, mourn, shock, fall, get up, fall again, risk, gamble, promise, forget, relive, regret, write, ask, answer, explain, walk away, run away, stumble back, call, hang up, create, criticize, speculate, spit it out, move, stay, fear, hope, play, work, tumble, crumble, relive, revive, listen, whisper, break, shake, ache, take, fake, love, shove, test, quiz, examine, graduate, imitate, cringe, cry, die, believe, remind, reconsider, reconsider, reconsider, reconsider, prove, contend, mend, bend, reason, rationalize, agonize, plead, please, smile, agree, follow, lead, rock, roll, and rest. I will be on my own side of my mind, the inside of whats truly only mine, and I will have to be patient until you find me there: for you and I will celebrate your own story.
What are you going to do to make yourself feel real?
Then sometimes the stories tell themselves much faster than you can possibly imagine which is where the story begins. The story begins somewhere near the middle because something’s got to be happening in order for a story to come in context of the conversation; what I mean is that I think you must have some reason to tell a story - a tale - an anecdote, unless you just are plain bored anyway, but my story starts because the time has come when I realized I had one to tell. Yeah, of course I have had many, just like we all have our stories, but this was one that made it even worthwhile to write.
Fact is that I love to write but not much inspires me these days to do the actual deed, I write in my notebook and it never seems to get typed therefore it is never really out there, except in a song or twenty, but any how, I would like to explain things in a way that aren’t too abstract, so please stop if you get lost in my balderdash, if you can.
But you can’t, so joke’s on you, I s’pose.
Shakespeare in my lap under my bluish lighted lamp, I was on Act Two of The Tempest, trying to not only just read Shakespeare, but trying to enjoy it. This was a ritual of mine - one of many - I had these rituals that I practiced because I philosophized (being the philosopher who I was) that this was the delivery which would demand my sense of learning to enjoy the elements of existence which would make me virtuouso, a sultan, a reason for all to see that I have an itinerary - most of all a method.
I have a ritual. I was three days a college graduate, after five and a half years of university life, two majors and two minors (balance is important to me), I am able to write in present tense, say that I have been rigidly educated, and have my whole life ahead of me.
So, I write this as I say to you and the world, I am a philosopher. I make this decision because I strode off into the world just like that, the intentionally, and my screen door slammed shut, or whacked itself hard and the cat meowed and I headed up toward the outside off near campus in my new Converse, staring down at the un-kept sidewalk, grateful that that type of maintenance didn’t bother me. I didn’t look up and the sidewalk grooves moved beneath me at exceedingly faster lines of distance, which made me realize the physics of it all - but of course, as a philosopher, it may have mattered more or less, but that made me clearly apathetic philosopher, one who hasn’t determined their actual “category” or “trade” or whatever; all I knew is that I wanted to study Ritual.
What in the hell does that mean?
I lifted my head as I approached Tennessee Street and some kids in a four door navy Taurus waved and yelled my name. I waved back, and couldn’t figure out who they were. I am not foreshadowing here so don’t get any ideas. Let me do the thinking. I have been practicing.
The coffee shop steps had been freshly painted and I had to go in there
“Why you look so down?’ peaches asked
“No serious-like - you’re always lookin’ at the ground.”
“I-” I looked at the ceiling and laughed at the irony of the situation “Look at the ceiling, Peaches, the disgust, the mold, the cigarette-“
She made an indistinct snort and said, “People are talking, you know, you just have to look at more than them nice converse and sidewalks and cats and stuff. It’s a shame we never see your eyes.”
“Where’s my coffee?” I knew I didn’t order any.
“Do you just want some “grounds”“, she laughed as she swayed away to some older chap, who looked like my Modern Lit professor.
“And what is a Ritual, anyway?”
The humming of the ceiling fans and the odor of the coffee and the ambience of the conversation found myself out the door and back up the hill, using my eyesight properly, staring ahead, then at the cloudless sky.
How dull, thought I.
How dull is this?
By Wendy Clark ritual.jimdo.com