Sunday, December 22, 2013
Dec 12, 2013—An Instigation
Still don't know what I want to do. I might retire, I might not. Tonight is bitter cold. I might bundle up and go out, fresh air could do me good, or I might not. Right now what I really want is a cup of coffee. The pot is empty. It is very silent in the house. The light from the barn is flooding the snow in the dooryard. The curtain to the window beside me is open just enough. Christmas is in the air. Time and space glimmer on ice. It is about 1a. I am thinking about a coffee and a snack. I truly have nothing to do but think, and all I can think about is a hot coffee and a snack. My brother calls up. As I am working my overnight, he is working his, driving his truck toward Detroit. He is on the web trying to find his way. He does not think the directions he has been given are right. Night workers work in a world of incomplete or incorrect directions. Life often does not come with directions, either right or wrong. God leaves it up to us to find our way. I have been instructed that there is a plan but I see very little evidence of it. We fumble around, all of us in whichever shoes, feeling a way, and when true to our feelings, God provides the smallest push, a surprising instigation that cannot be ignored. If ignored we go slowly insane; if obeyed God lifts us out of the commonplace into wisdom. In the end we do the heavy lifting, we perspire. There is the process, a vision or a dream to stumble toward. Seems as if I have been awake all my life, and I have done work, it is important to me to do work, so I know I can explain the work right. And I have struggled with the writing and the thinking, which I could not ignore, it has followed me close, close like the back pocket in my trousers. There is a process. I know enough about the process to hate the irrelevancies that beset it. I hate the fillers, the illusions. But the self criticism hurts. It is brutal; it is like walking through fire. There is so much that is just junk you have to scrap and toss out. You cut down by half and there is still a half more to cut down. You build with the sentences. You are the sentences you build with. No filler; no irrelevancies; no cliché. I have done the work on this winter night. I am the only one left who can be me, Pablo. These sentences belong to Pablo from the top of his skull to the soles of his feet. Yet what does he know which can be true? Is Pablo an encyclopedia of cliché? He clings to the irrelevant with a demon's ferocity. Every roadblock to put up from the greater world he clings to. Maybe he really does not want to know. I am sick of words that don't mean anything. Now on this bitter winter night I think about a cup of coffee and buttered toast.