Globetrotter of the mind

Nice one today although it’s a bit hairy in the shade and brisk in the tender bits. Otherwise, it’s a pleasure doing business with the day.

Weight. Sound. And appearance. The weight of some words make me drop my will to go on. The sound of some have me singing. And the appearance of the rest make me hide my own face in shame.

The perfectly constructed sentence. Which one of these is the odd one out? The Holy Grail. The wife as prostitute and beloved. The ideal. An utopia. A white spot on a crow. Das superman. Charlie Chaplin twirling his stick. The Garden of Eden. Paradise. Paris Hilton’s hidden talent. Rent a cop. A street car called Desire. The whole world and some fish. The restaurant at the end of Rte 1.

When a sentence comes together, nothing is wrong with the world. When it doesn’t, damn the whole world and the whole idea that it was sound that created life. Why couldn’t it have been a hat and a scarf? I have both of those.

I have no time for people who bemoan their life. Give it meaning, rather than just smothering it on any one so that you can be saved or simply felt sorry for. I admire any one who can break free of their life situations: stuck in a class, religion, dead-end town — stuck, stuck, stuck.

Jeanette Winterson has written a lot about her life, and she was stuck in many ways. But she believed in this: “I can change the story. I am the story.”

And that’s what a person has to do. And then no one can fault you for exercising your own free will.

Those who come from nothing and are considered worthless and not worth society’s attention will always get my ear compared to the privileged who get good educations, Ivy League degrees, secured jobs, home in the suburbs with money flowing in like a stream in spate. And then they get lauded when they have done nothing but reach out to the rope that’s always there for them and then haul themselves along. They may get the occasional rope burn, but really, what is there to laud?

Take someone who has had nothing and has nothing expected of them and even expected to fail and stay stuck in whatever but decides on their own without any prompting from anyone to change the story. Well, those are the people I want in this world.

Hardships are born not from situations but from the lack of any hope. I think most people just give in and accept the story.

Everyone begins as a story. The trick is to end as a story, too. Keep the story going. But what is important is to be willing to change it if you decide the one you are given is not for you. Stories are given not because we must accept them as facts but because we have to receive them as imagination.

I want something better for myself. A way not only to make a story for myself that sounds true and believable but to also, in a way, alleviate the suffering of all those in my family who had to sacrifice something for me to understand that I could be different, that life is not the same or should it be.

Jesus, we are stuck in the womb for nine months, surely as soon as we pop out into the world the last thing we would want to be again is stuck.

Life is the story. What we do with it is the narrative. And even if we do nothing still the story is told. I have to change the story so that I have a story worth telling.

That’s why I’ve always enjoyed the story of Jesus’ birth. He was born in a stable with lowly cattle and a donkey. Work animals with hot breath and dung. Father a simple carpenter. Mother less than that. No room at the inn for them. (There never is.) And then what happens? Magi arrive bearing gifts. And then the babe wrapped in swaddling and whose birth is witnessed by animals turns out to be a saviour. Mystical revelations and religious fingers stripping and embellishing aside, this story is about a man who changes his story for the betterment of all mankind! If the story says anything, it tells that we can change our story and make our simple births glorious.

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