A Day In a Life

Journal, June 2, 2021, at 1:06 pm; finished group meditation with a gentle, soft breeze, velvet voice of a beautiful young lady, whose voice and presence equaled the future.  Some day we will all be like this; now it is the dark time, but gentle voices teaching we birds of the neighborhood, gnarly owls, grumpy sparrows, optimistic robins, gathered under a library tree of virtual wisdom; who knew Zoom could achieve so much. Such a Germanic name, such a whoosh of a sound, echoing an ethos that hangs over America: got to go, too busy; ain’t it awful, who knows what evil lurks behind these doors, and I being nonpolitical but educated, will say, ah the doors of Congress, where salacious desires, and leather souls, lob balls of spit at one another.  Oh dear, the boys at play, “looking for crocodile twine,” a written phrase of mine after 911 said.

I am like a cricket on a hot rock, another tired or over used phrase, but I have been searingly sensitive, and have endured requisite and no requisite trials and tribes.  I will probably mention this phrase often, as I am from that era where I said today; we of the era of late 30s and early 40s, if born Catholic in Boston, and Irish, knew we came in on the birth shoot with spit up on our stained t-shirts, and we knew not vistas of being, but now in my elder years, last chapters, gratitude for that May night, where I went to a squatty white building , with big black numbers, and letters, and it said, “West Hollywood Baha’I Center, and the door was closed, and I still wearing East Coast imperialism so well, thought, “How tacky,” and I hopped back in my VW convertible with Marx Nixt, sp sticks for directional, and they did not work.  Dare I mention, I was not working in the human sense, the where I am from, what is my purpose, but I had realized in Church, Catholic Church, that something was seriously wrong, and when the Apostle’s Creed arose, I thought I don’t believe in the physical resurrection of the body.

And I, who prayed to be a nun; who picked the confirmation name of Poor Clare, that devoted and maybe secret lusting follower of St. Francis of Assisi who saved the Catholic Church, was inwardly lonely, frightened, scared, stuttering inside emotionally, but brisque and ballsy on the outside, I stopped and said to myself, something is seriously wrong.  I am in California, and I meet Peg at my law firm where I am hired to work at a newly opening penthouse for a most distinguished law firm, and I am to work for the partner; never mind, that I don’t know litigation Never mind that he’s secretly dumping his old secretary who is humped devotedly over her typewriter keys, dedicating, no not dedicating but sacrificing her very being, her cells, her sweat, but is she too desiccated to perspire?  This lady is going to be sacrificed by me, a dodo who looks pretty, and is given to quippy remarks that present her façade as someone on the Good Ship Lollipop her soulmate would be Popeye.  All of which translates, dear reader – may I call you Reader?  I was a jagged, splintered inner mess, and did not know it.

So, let’s skip on, to 55 years of a belief in the oneness of humankind, of Faiths, of people, of everything.  Imagine paper clips altogether which would make a hell of a thrower for early childhood hopscotch but is my stop sign for visualizing quantum physics.  Are you with me boys and girls, I hope so.

I don’t know how I got invented, how I would have signed up to be a 4 pound baby.  All I know, I carry buoyant pathos very well, and I have known deep, deep sorrow for myself and mankind, but drip by drip, drop by drop, molecule by molecule, I have transmuted with the help of this Faith of mine and solid, solid therapy to arrive at patchy pale skin, long arms and legs, and a widow’s hump on my neck, but inside, I am a bird singing, Make that a bid singing.  I love to just play with words and observe the process.

I’d like to tell you we are all in the process of becoming our true selves; assuredly I’ll leave out those horrible souls who are wreaking havoc upon this mottled earth.  But I am living for the future; I also want generations ahead to know us, who we were; we were brave; I want to solace those in the future who don’t understand things, and tell them, “The Greatest Pilgrimage is to solace the Sorrow-Laden Soul) (AB Bahai Writings and tell you in the same breath. I am on my first day off, and find it incredible that I wrote a tribute to Elaine Pagels’ book, Why Religion and then wrote a literary, heart filled response to my free meditation at the Altadena Library today, and was filling out Stanford application for cert novel writing and willing to pay the $80 just to see if they liked it, but then life intervenes, and I an count on it. The printer jammed; I don’t know how to get it unjammed; will learn.

Computer wise, I have been like a lost soul, at the top of a soft hill where there is more soft dirt than grass, and my long arms, and long fingers, grip the elusive soil, taking more grass with me on the slide down, and that my dear readers, is an image of older women, or this older woman, sliding away from computer competency and how dare I write when I can’t even figure out how to publish pdf and trot back through wires to Stanford’s Ext class in novel writing.

But, never fear, my blog is being resurrected by someone I revere; I will publish for free, I just want to go out shouting; my writing is copywriter, so I can shout with certainty.   Time is too crucial not to share.  And that’s the facts Jack.