I began writing almost three hours ago. But I stopped to experience the world around me to write these introductory words: Welcome to a tangle of anger, joy, calamity, serenity, and sorrow. Emotions wrap themselves in one another, confusing truth for toothpicks and honesty for oncology. Now, back to where I began, shortly after I awoke:
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Workers will arrive before long. Cold air will invade the house when they do. The garage door will be raised. The door between the garage and the rest of the house will be left open to make the workers’ treks between the garage and the house quicker and more efficient. The coldest room in the house—the “entertainment” room in which we spend time on the reclining loveseat to watch television, lounging, and the closest thing to a “retreat” to isolate us from the frenzy of remodeling—will become even colder and less private. I will shrink into what is left of my protective cocoon, unfolded and exposed, and silently curse the sacrifices required for improvement and enhancement. If my mind cooperates, I may imagine myself enjoying a different environment; a delightfully warm and cozy place protected from intrusion and noise by soft padding and pillows and darkness. A place where I can relax in comfort while soft, soothing music plays gently in the background. I may have to imagine the effects of an ample supply of morphine or fentanyl; otherwise, the pains in my lower back and my chest might prevent me from achieving a pleasant sense that all is right…at least briefly…with the world.
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How much energy, I wonder, is required to power memories and dreams? If it were possible to precisely measure the body’s consumption of energy, would energy usage increase significantly while dreaming or remembering, versus simply “being?” Does breathing require more energy than dreaming? Does the heart beating use more energy than does breathing? The answers to those questions seem, to me, both crucial and irrelevant. If I knew the answers, would that information change my life in measurable ways? Questions always prompt more questions. Answers do the same. Aimless curiosity is equivalent to the natural gas flared during oil exploration; could be used productively, but instead is wasted in creating cumbersome byproducts…pollution.
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The world at large is a dangerous and unpleasant place right now, thanks almost entirely to human behavior. The extinction of our species would permit other life forms to evolve, absent motives contrary to…what?
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Diversity is understood and appreciated only by intelligent, compassionate, and selfless people. But there comes a point at which valuing diversity can decay into acceptance of the unacceptable. It is at that point that gullibility or naivete permits an unintentional but ugly complicity with the underside of humanity. Beyond that point, solutions can be achieved only through brutal, merciless extraction of the underside.
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My back must have been salvaged from the rotting steel skeleton of a steamboat that sank in the Mississippi River long ago during a catastrophic flood. Coated with rust and rage, it shouts complaints, assigns blame, and curses the source of its distress. I protest that I am not responsible for the agony and, therefore, should not be punished for it. My protestations to the contrary, my back growls in response, insisting I must be held accountable for every mistake I ever made and every time I smiled when I should have frowned.
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Hatred has its place. And I know where it is. Hidden beneath an accommodating smile, hatred clings to the handle of a razor-sharp sickle. Clutching the trigger of an automatic weapon, hatred waits for the right moment to spring into action. A match in one hand and a can of gasoline in the other, hatred prepares to ignite a fountain of vengeance. Placing a wire garrote around a barbarous neck, hatred pulls the ends tight for as long as it takes. Forgiveness cannot break through hatred’s barrier; it does not even try.
