The Walking Dead…

I was watching The Walking Dead tonight and Michonne who plays a sword wielding Zombie killer, was having a dream about a normal life. Maybe from her past as a flashback or maybe not. She was in a beautiful white kitchen making dinner for a friend and her “lover” Mike . They discuss not staying in camp or going out “there” and Mike says, “Where is the happy ending here? “This isn’t life”. Then asks “whats the answer?”, and his friend replies back, “whats the damn question?!” Michonne tries to ignore the comments and her dream turns nasty when she looks up and sees the two men sitting with there arms hacked off like her “pets”. She screams…

I sat there with my ginger ale, thinking, heres a show about a bunch of people who used to have lives with families, friends, jobs, houses, chores, hobbies, and pets. A show about the loss of everything they thought important and the simple struggle to survive. There have been others who have written about this subject, Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” comes to mind. No zombies but the struggle for survival and the loss of familiarity.

And, without much effort, my inner voice said, “hmmm…Thats depression”. That same loss of the familiar coupled with little if any hope. And I thought about what Mike said “This isn’t life”. As in, the loss of what we all consider the normal experience of happiness through the way we interact with our surroundings, families and friends that we find comfortable and/or meaningful. I mean, imagine taking away everything that you work for everyday? The reason you get up in the morning and there are no other options, no other jobs, no cars, houses or resorts to visit in the winter. Once you remove the trappings of our modern world and the constant way we are taught to achieve this dream at all costs, what’s left? Do you suddenly have no reason to live? Of course not, but it really made me think about our purpose, and how the dissolution in the belief of that purpose can cause disparity. 

What is life? Well, I guess life is what we have since we have a beating heart. Living is a different thing; it’s what we do while our heart beats. When you distill it down, we human beings are all all the same. Our blood is red and our bones are white.  We live, we die.

So whether you live in a beautiful condo with a giant mortgage, an apartment on a small subsidy, or are running around in a post apocalyptic world trying to find a safe place to live, or are inside the walls of your troubled mind, it’s simply survival. 

What makes it bearable, and has the ability to bring us real happiness are the connections to each other that we make along the way. Our need for love and friendship. Everything else means… quite literally, nothing. 

So, where’s your happy ending?

Winters Desire…

Winters cold wind spreads across a field of summer fallow,

as snow falls gently,

softly tapping on shoulders that have bourn so much,

and whisper cold memories of warmer times.

Landing on tongues, as we giggled,

and caught the low January sun through a dappled forest light,

shimmering as it fell on its way

to the dance floor,

the flash of light and the beat of my heart to the rhythms of this one,

true desire.

And in the grey of my voice calling out to this wind,

and the frigid illusions of these now, tepid dreams,

I am unable to move.

And staring out to what, I’m not sure,

hidden by layers of lies, I can only imagine what awaits.

And with this knowing doubt, I am frozen in my own fear.

Feet always moving towards a simple end,

but a mind stationary, and unable to reconcile the truths of where I am…

And more simply,
why…

Grant Waddell

Wading…

She stands at waters edge, leaning into the cool morning air…waiting for him to return. Stepping onto the dock and into the sun, she can hear water lapping and birds in the trees across the lake, their calls echoing over the still water.  Snapping turtles rest on a partially submerged log, wary of passing boats and the bullfrog croaks loudly from some reeds to her left and she wonders if they really do taste like chicken like she’d heard. The smell of burning Alder wood hangs in the air and reminds her of, those days.

He wades back into her thoughts. Hands pressed to her lips, then open palms towards winters lake.

He’s been gone too long…

Frozen Lake and Dock

Clarity…

Solid grounds not so solid. A false sense of safety gives rise to beliefs and expectations not supported.

You run and, with reckless abandon, play loose with your life because it will never happen to you. Until…

It’s completely unexpected. You never really see it coming. Never fully realize whats at work, flowing swiftly and powerfully and smooth. Eroding silently, the ground you stand on. Unseen…

Ripped from light, darkness pulls fast from below and all you’ve built drops into the blackest part of who you are. Falling…

This unwanted transformation is, just maybe……………… exactly what you need.

Because, as you lay in the dark amidst what remains, you become aware of the light that shines down into where you are, and looking up, eyes fixed, you see a bit of clear blue clarity above, that beckons you out…

to a new beginning.

Stream of Consciousness Writing…Latte

The latte tastes rich, hot over tongue and beyond. Warming my insides and letting the feeling grow. The foam is light and was adorned with a leaf, which looked great till my spoon dumped a teaspoon of sugar onto it taking it to the bottom of the cup. I sipped gently, listening to the chatter around me and the jazz playing over the speakers.

I wait in anticipation. A few more sips, cooling as I go.

Finally I savour the last of it and I’m saddened to discover that the leaf is not where I hoped it to be.

“Stream of Consciousness Writing”

I’ve been doing this for some time and sat at my local cafe this morning and decided to write one and share it. For those not familiar, stream of consciousness writing is simply beginning to write and not stopping. Whatever flows into your head, you write. Some are short, and some are very long. I started doing this after reading Julia Cameron’s –  The Artists Way.

______________________

The coffee shop clatters of cups and saucer, spoon and mug and the never ending chatter of hopped up patrons that blend into a sea of sound like no other. Babbling brook, water flows over bedrock and pebbles that form bubbles that collect in murky eddies constantly being replaced by new as old bubbles pop, which was not the intent of the bubble. What am I talking about? Small conversations in my head as I write. Can’t stop, those are the rules. Free flow. Like the brook, or the stream, thoughts rain out and run downhill towards some book and pen, like a lake or ocean that collects the rain from days or weeks past. Thoughts gather in murky eddies while others flow. These stuck thoughts don’t pop like the bubble which was their intent all along.