Intentional actions. Loving kindness.
Discharge the discomfort and pain so you can feel again at full volume.
It’s time for me to Shut The Fuck Up.
I’ve learned over the last few years how my need for attention is unmanageable. What I’ve done to address this within myself is to quit looking for validation and recognition from those around me. It’s okay that you don’t know my creative work. Perfectly okay.
In many ways I am flying under the radar. I might like to get above the noise floor at some point, but I’m not rushing. Instead of seeking a partner who can embrace all of my pain, all of my joy, all of my love, I am learning to find that comfort within. Perhaps that’s an internal conversation I have with god. For me, it’s not Jesus. In the same way, for my daughter, I am just her dad. I’m not the central support system in her life. That is her mom. I’m okay with that. Maybe even saddened by the funny but dismissive inclusion of her dog as one of her two main supporters, in her recognition and thank you slide.
Many of the graduates thanked moms, dads, fiancés and new husbands or wives. My daughter thanked her mom and her dog. The dog I gave her two years ago. My mom, her grandmother would not be pleased. It was cute. It was funny. It was a painful reminder of my marginalization after the divorce.
Of course, Mom arrived a day early. Of course, Mom went out with the kids and partied. Of course, Mom and my daughter were still trying to leave Lubbock a day late at 2 pm. I called to see how far along the 7-hour drive she had progressed. They were still “fixin to leave.”
I cannot manage anyone else’s journey. I am responsible for my own actions. Even my words, which I can acknowlege would not be viewed with empathy by anyone in my family’s orbit.
That’s what I’ve heard. Nobody likes a writer in the family. Shit’s gonna come out at some point, and everyone’s going to play their part on the public stage of a published book. Similar to my newly divorced ex-wife’s violent response when she discovered my initial PRIVATE blog, a few months after the divorce.
At one point, the Today Show was doing a segment on me and my blog, she even hinted at legal action. It still makes me chuckle today. My moment of fame never arrived. A shooting at a discotheque in Berlin took the news cycle for an entire week. The producer responded a few times and then went silent. My moment had passed.
And perhaps, this moment, this ship, this testament, has also fulfilled its purpose. Examine the old wounds, the new understandings, and the peace I alone can find.
Is god giving me comfort? Am I manufacturing my own serenity? Have I jumped the track of lucidity into some rant? Either way, it has come to an end. Maybe not a peaceful end. Not the loving and hopeful finale I had hoped for. But I do understand myself and the cast of characters more deeply.
I have my own actions. I have my words. I have my response to the world and people around me. And in someways, I’m feeling attacked on all sides. Even the soft underbelly of my father-daughter connection seems imaginary. Tentative.
I seek to understand myself. I seek to find a higher meaning in life, my life, and the life of those around me. But I can only interpret this life in my own words, my songs, my poetry, and these ramblings. A song of myself. I sing gleefully at times. Regretfully at times.
Always hopeful. That’s my mom. She gave me the hope to continue despite tragedy and loss. She gave me language and music and then couldnt’ accept where I took her gift of fire and creativity. My favorite sister, the other artist, did understand. She surrounded me with appreciation and comfort. She also jumped off a bridge when she was 32. I was 22 and getting ready to marry a woman I should never have considered. But she was thin, beautiful, and an artist. I thought that’s what I needed to be happy.
I’m still seeking my sister’s love. Still imagine a hippy partner arriving to welcome me home. I know home is here. Home is this. Words. Expression. My happy place is typing coded messages to myself. If they are read by others, great, but that is no longer my goal.
I pray for contentment.
There is a scene from twenty years ago. My son was two. He and my wife traveled with me to Hollywood to see me play a music gig with my band Buzzie. They left a day after my show. And in a car ride across town, a fan asked me and MC (another musician) this question that was like a zen koan.
“Would you rather have ambition or contentment?”
Still riles me up a bit today. But twenty years ago, it hit me hard. Am I striving for ambition to be famous and loved by everyone? Or is my goal some form of contentment? I couldn’t answer the question for years. It rolled around in my neural soup, seeking resolution.
Here’s the answer I came up with a few years ago.
I am most content when I’m creating. I am not striving for fame. My ambition is more self-centered. Even the uneasiness of incomplete works, is a part of the journey, a part of the pain-pleasure cycle that is art.
I am an artist. I was raised by two artists, my mom and my oldest sister. With them both gone, I am raising myself. Up from my own misery and longing. I am finding the contentment even in the uncertainty and pain of everyday life. Of losses. Of missed connections.
I wanted to feel loved by everyone. I wanted to be famous.
Today, my god is this. *here* Doing what I love, two cats curled and warming on my legs. Perhaps in a near future there will be a hand I can hold for both the fun and hard bits. I aspire to be a lover. Beloved. Loving.
Today, that’s with myself. I know god is listening, comforting, and encouraging me. I cannot comprehend his plan for me. That unknowing is also part of the gift, the beauty of life. The plan is beyond my comprehension. That I do know as a truth. Sure, I’m not aligned with my Presbyterian upbringing. I’m more of a Gnostic. Seeking god in everything. Seeking god in everyone and every action.
At least, that’s how it appears to me.
People are leaving. Dying. Graduating. Losing. Forgetting. It is up to us to remember. We learn things, then we forget them. By writing, I can occasionally retain some of what I’ve learned. Map a path for the journey ahead, by informing myself with the failures and triumphs of my past.
I walk brightly into the sun. It is a cold clear day on the Texas coast. December. The world might be ending in a few weeks. The woman might not arrive in time.
I will not be saved. This is it. This is what I’ve got. Two cats, a laptop, and a fist full of ideas.
fear : god > what’s next?| index
