Sunday, December 28, 2014
It might have something to do with staying up late last night to finish The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy, where protagonist Billy Parham, finally back from his third trip to Mexico, this time to bring the bones of his dead brother back to the US for a 'decent' burial, ends up on his knees, hat in hand, in the middle of the road in the pouring rain, weeping for his lack of understanding, or complete understanding, of life and death. Mostly death. He wants desperately to know more of this elusive secret.
That is what I tried to deal with last night, the first in my new abode. With chest pressure and inability to relax to the point of sleep, I rise from the never-world of half asleep and half not, I stand and consider that reality of the fact that I am closing in on death with every breath, coming to the here and now conclusion that this might just be that. Caught in the double-blind I fully accept the situation for what it is, or might be; When at deep rest my heart is incapable of regulating blood flow, causing abnormal periods of lack of oxygenated blood to brain. This causes a subliminal physiological reaction know as the nightmare. I mean seriously, what is it like to die in your sleep? Is that myth about dreaming of your death causing its waking reality true? Additionally, why (the heck) is this plaguing me so? Why just at night (mostly?)
I have no idea as to the accuracy of the above prognosis. I may be off my a mile. But I know my dream mode of operation. I have been paying close attention to them since my days as Carlos Castaneda's literary apprentice. I really don't know why this is so. I wish I did.
My spin is that even more attention must be paid to every waking moment, and then try (or try less) to relax into rejuvenation and restoration with the rise of every moon.
I may be apprehensive. I might be scared. I might be missing one critical element in all this. Dunno.
Today I will continue the move, more boxes migrating North and South on SR 305. I try to lesson the load of keepsakes. I have become better at this, deciding to give a lot away instead of hoarding. I don't need a tenth of what I have found. I did stumble upon some long lost and almost forgotten mementos in my addition by subtraction drill last night. I am treading lighter on this path. Every time I find a picture of an old friend, a lettre d' amour, a magazine article, a journal entry or artifact from the past tense, I smile and thank whomever for their part in my puny drama. A lot is leaving fast, but the past is generating present joy.
Still I wake at midnight with history at hand, heart trying to keep pace, heroically but in vain.
What is all this about?