Now More Than Ever

Now more than ever, I am struggling to find peace of mind.

James Taylor's voice helps.

Enough to Be on Your Way

 "So the sun shines on this funeral

Just the same as on a birth

The way it shines on everything

That happens here on earth

It rolls across the Western sky

And back into the sea

And spends the day's last rays

Upon this fucked-up family"

And later on in the song:

"They brought her back on a Friday night

Same day I was born

We sent her up the smokestack

Yes and back into the storm

She blew up over the San Juan mountains

She spent herself at last

The threat of heavy weather

That was what she knew best

Oh it's enough to be on your way

It's enough just to cover ground

It's enough to be moving on"

And:

"Home, boy, build it behind your eyes

Carry it in your heart

Safe among your own......................

So long, old gal"

Grappling with life and death in a heartfelt and poetic way.

James Taylor, Enough to Be on Your Way

I Sing Pretty Good

Had to run out to do errands.

Had to go to Lowe's to snag a barbecue grill cover before the massive rain storm rolls in. Armageddon, baby - keep your head down.

The old cover has a gaping rip in it, which I've been ignoring because procrastination is my strong point. In fact when I lifted it off, my poor grill was wet.

Had to stop by Walgreen's to pick up drugs for Carol. I just love the way that sounds.

It is 74 degrees. There is a pleasantly insistent breeze. Brilliant sunshine. Windows down, sun roof open.

So the errands didn't hurt as much as usual. In fact, they didn't hurt at all.

And then...................................I dialed up Classic Vinyl. A Hard Day's Night comes on.

Holy shit - suddenly 62 years of my life melted away. I was young again. I was smiling - until I started singing.

I sing pretty good. Maybe as good as a Beatle. I should have called them up and asked to join the band. Of course I was 10 years old at the time - I don't think my parents would have gone for it.

In any event, on September 25, 2026, I was cruising down the road, happy.

The magic never dies.

A Saturday Morning in September

 It was a fine September Saturday morning, the kind of day that deceptively teases a longer life for summer, while the truth is oncoming winter with all its misery.

Johann felt peaceful, he was day dreaming, giving his mind a break from poisons and terror. Tom popped into his head.

Tom was a guy who ripped through life on his terms and at his speed. He didn't drink, he didn't smoke, religion guided his every thought. He exercised relentlessly - running, hiking, climbing mountains - the man was in shape.

He was intense and quite disciplined, but he had a sense of humor. A sly, sneaky, delicious sense of humor.

Cancer killed him at the age of 70. For no particular reason. The man did everything right, he improved the world through the sheer force of his personality and his goodness, and cancer killed him anyway. He should have lived to be 97.

Johann compared his life to Tom's and came up short. Embarrassingly short. He did nothing, accomplished nothing, controlled nothing, achieved nothing. He was less than. The only attribute he ever perfected was whining. That, and wasting time. At these, he excelled.

He began to feel morose. He was much closer to death than he would have liked. The major drawback to whining and wasting time is that time itself is relentless. It doesn't stop, it doesn't wait, it doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath and change direction.

As Johann began to feel sorry for himself, to wallow in self-pity, inventing hollow excuses, it suddenly occurred to him that Tom's story was as inspirational as it was sad. Johann still had time. He could do, he could move, he could re-invent. With just a little of Tom's focus in his mind, Johann could change his life.

He was energized. He got up, shook off the wallowing, and started to consider options, determined to change his life in ways that would deliver him to pride and peace.

That's how you win the game.

Cake or Death

 "I'm so tired. Tired of all of it. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore. My whole life, my whole fucking life, I worked and paid bills and did what all the good little obedient people do. I don't know why. It ripped me apart. Every minute, every conversation, every obligation, every sacrifice. It ripped me all apart.

Because I knew better. This game we all play, it is futile. It is a sad, cruel joke. I knew that going in. But for unfathomable reasons, I put my head down, put one foot in front of the other, and marched dutifully forward towards regret. I built up mountains of it, regret, and carried it on my shoulders. I kept adding to it, growing it to skyscraper heights. My knees sagged and screamed under the weight. So I added more to the load, piled it even higher, and staggered forward. To nothingness.

There is no reward for this. Only emptiness. And suffocating suffering. You reach a point where you either give up and die, or keep on staggering forward to die. Neither one a pretty option. But sickeningly commonplace.

If I was smart I would have retired years ago. Many years ago. But I never made provisions. When you have nothing, you have to give everything. Physically, psychologically - trudging forward like a donkey with a broken back. Repeating the daily cycle. Getting nowhere, despising the obligation, mourning the lack of freedom, unable to escape it.

I don't want to do this anymore. But they make me do it. The people I owe money to. The people who control my life. The money lenders. The greedy, soulless monsters who take everything I earn, then demand more. The people who arbitrarily raise food prices, gas prices, interest rates, insurance costs. The people who keep me in my place, grinding, struggling, suffering the indignity of a shattered ego.

I am too old for this. I expected to retire. I thought it would happen. I know I deserved to. But I can't. They won't let me. I don't let me. Bad decisions, no passion or dream to drive me. A lost soul in a vacuum that sucks up lost souls.

I'm so tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore."

His words ran into silence.

Krakatoa Karl looked up to realize he was alone. Of course he was. He thought he was having a conversation with a loved one but there weren't any loved ones. Not anymore. He drove them all away.

Not purposefully. His wife - divorced. His kids - not speaking to him anymore. His friends - too embarrassed to come around. Even his enemies - did not feel he was worth the effort. 

Because he was a loser. No one likes a loser.

He did not see himself as a loser. He was just a guy. A guy who never fit in and did not know what to do about it. As a stranger in a strange land, you got to kick, scream, slice flesh and break bones to make a little space for yourself. If you don't do that, your bones get crushed. Your spine collapses and you crawl through every day dripping blood through broken teeth.

Karl shook his head. When he did, tears flew onto the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

In bed that night, he prayed to die. As he did every night. To close his eyes and never wake up.

The following morning, the alarm shocked him awake. He put his feet to the floor and wiped the first drops of blood from his lips. He staggered to the bathroom, a walking corpse enduring a life. Preparing for another day of drudgery.

What else could he do?

The Author Knows Me

 "No disrespect to the golfers and gardeners and so on but activities don't work for me. I don't want to go gently into a future of activities. I want a whole new life to replace the one that's wearing out. I know this is unrealistic. I'm not asking to be young again; I'm not asking to be exempt from time and its punishments. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life playing games or doing exercises or taking bus tours overseas. I want to find something that will kick my discontent in its fat ass and carry me to the finish line feeling that I'd finished strong, finally grasping some sort of intensity or richness or bold embrace of life that eluded or intimidated me when I was young."

From Falling Into The Mob by Steve Zousmer

Just Another Life

 A close friend said to me:

"I am barely functioning. I wake up in fear and go to sleep defeated. In between, I pray for a miracle."

I had no words of comfort for him.

So I left.