Thursday, July 18, 1996
I am floating in a sea of unattached
ideas, of unfinished projects, of unfulfilled promises, of unpaid debts.
These sea creatures, like sharks, circle around me in the murky waters,
waiting for signs of weakness, just a little blood. I dodge them as best
I can, but they bite frequently, tearing off chunks of my mental body
as they do. It just gets so damned hard to swim — one grows tired, weak,
anguished.
Sometimes, the waters are clear, and I am a sailboat pushed
effortlessly across the surface of the waters. My rudder cuts through
the dark sea creatures, and I eat the resultant sushi hungrily. But it’s
so hard to find a good wind, and sometimes impossible to avoid a squall.
How does one harness the energy of this sea? Control it? No, one can
only learn it’s ways, hopefully retaining its lessons in order to avoid
the disasters the sea can consign.
And so I wake each morning in the midst of the waters, reluctantly
prepared to discern the character of the day. It takes a long while.
Sometimes I swim frantically for hours before I get anywhere,
perpetually late to crawl onto some desert island populated only with
waiting and wanting machines. And even there, out of the waters, the
atmosphere is thick with mechanical birds of prey whirring and flashing,
demanding me, demanding me. Luckily, I am largely able to meet their
demands, though sometimes only after a struggle through a thick fog,
when the machines’ logic alludes me. Then I put my feet in the waters
again, testing them, and try to carefully make my way home to repeat the
process again and again...
