Work has been very stressful lately and a 2a.m. racing mind reminded me that sometimes the people I try to help can make my head hurt. Our treatment program is composed of a band of alcoholics, several homeless guys, a mental health client who needs more meds, an addict hooked on anything that will alter his state of mind, and a few others who can seem functional when they are not in the throes of their addiction. This mix makes for strange roommates who would never choose to live together in the small space we have. There are also recent grads of our program experiencing varies levels of success or bouts with failure. Herding the energy of these people in search of healing can leave the staff and myself worn out at the end of the day.
There is often this need for re-energization at the end of the workday and that got me thinking again about the boost I get from creative expression. No matter how tired I am I can almost always get charged up enough to enjoy writing this blog. So creativity is renewing and refreshing and I love that. So here we go again because it is time to explore some additional flow in the direction of page two of the novel approach.
I can feel the excitement in my body as I move toward this writing; let’s see how it flows this time:
All along the cliffs of my discursive thoughts stood my observer in search of emptiness and freedom from judging. Today I might have a glance of that potential then it would slip away into the habitual nonsense of conditioning and religious upbringing.
On the beach, my walks had rewired the busy mind toward a quiet revelry of the moment but that did little good when I had a tempest brewing inside because change was trying to bang down my door. So I did what had become natural. I laid my towel out on the sand and quickly fell asleep.
If my essence could have been seen by other than the ESP talented mutt just coming toward me after chasing a tennis ball into the surf, the world would have noticed that my life force had left the body and was traveling on an Air France Concord Jet into the past. There in Paris near the grave of Jim “the Doors” Morrison, I walked heading toward the beautiful church on the bluff.
Once inside even though a mass was going on I stared up at the dancing mosaic ceiling, which seem more like a make believe heaven of a make believe bible.
There was a noticeable pop like a muffled gunshot and the priest fell to the ground, screams broke out and in the ensuing chaos a mean-eyed man with a recently acquired limp heading down some stairs within the sanctuary. Where was professor Hanks when we needed him?
I am a good observer but I lack the craziness to chase him because that’s stuff secret agents like Bourne would do. Not me, besides that I don’t like mean people.
The French sirens drew closer and I left my towel on the beach as I went for a swim to clear the after affects of adrenaline of this Parisian encounter with my shadow. Even Jung would be confused by this manifestation so how in the world would I be able to figure it out.
Soon after my return home there was a knock at the door both familiar and knawing so I dismissed it but it grew in intensity and I made my way towards the child replica of Louie De Palma who I knew was outside. I opened the door to see this round mound of ectoplasm lift his nose like hound and say, “what’s up mister neighbor man?” Was this his arrogance or was his daddy’s genetic ego DNA link to a cigar face named Rush?
In the high pitched tone of Neil Young ballad came a noise that seem to emanate from a place not more than a ten yards off tackle ramble. Oh Louie, Louie, I gotta go now. Off I went in search of cement.
At the hardware store ring up a former Harvard librarian discussed current events and shed new light on ways to see what was unfolding on the political landscape but the bags of cement in my arms hurried the conversation toward the parking lot.
This is fun and I had a new idea of including people I know into the story and in unique ways tying these stories within stories together.