The wind outside of my third floor apartment whistles through the windows. I leave them open just enough so it does.
I find the sound calming, letting me know all I need to about life still happening outside. I realize that I don’t really need or want to know all that I can – not in the way most people think they know things these days, anyway.
I don’t need to know about that video, that funny or stupid thing someone I don’t know did, or even the picture of the cute and adorable anything. Though I venture over to the place with those things from time to time, the whistle, the rain, the sunshine or a good walk with the cute thing that I *do* know are enough, at least for the most part.
Sometimes I get really sick of the flat little people on the screen spouting all that they possibly can out of their flat, immobile mouths and minds.
Too much information has clogged the paths to intelligence and creativity, wrapping itself around our minds like soap and hair in a shower drain. We forget that the world isn’t full of little flat people, the horizon of our computer screens pushing us back to the days before Eratosthenes. (Not Columbus – who not only stole the global credit in most flat history books, but oh, so much more…)
I think that, somehow, books should be round. At least the good ones. It sure would make it a pain in the ass for libraries though, having all of those books rolling around.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I don’t know how it happened, but lately I have been cursed with perhaps the most ridiculous and pathetic of maladies – writers block concerning my own life. It seems as if, for a while now, I had nothing more to say, nor the inspiration to say even the little one-line thoughts that came into my head. I’m trying to remedy that now.
Once I had found my mother, talked to her… the foundation that I had built the thing called ‘me’ on crumbled, bringing down all the things that made up my identity. The monster I devoted my life to destroying had been destroyed. My Everest has been climbed. My white whale is now perfume, lamp oil and scrimshaw…
and I don’t know why I am anymore.
Finding my mother was everything in my life. I never stopped to think about what would happen when – or if – this quest was accomplished. Perhaps because there was no way of knowing how I would actually feel when I found her – if she would be accepting, or if I would be abandoned again, this time forever and without hope.
There was a point years ago when simply the thought of finding my mother brought me to tears, a crumbling mess of a child’s heart in a man’s body, and so I believe I expected myself to explode with uncontrollable emotion when she was found – but that didn’t happen.
Of course, I can’t describe the happiness I felt when she was found, nor how overwhelmed I was reading her first letter to me, or our first conversation – but it’s almost as if it were too easy, too calm.
Over the past weeks I’ve been looking inside of me as well as I can, searching for the abandoned child, the broken boy, or trying to determine if these pieces of me were shut away again.
It really *can’t* be this calm inside of me, can it? Me, with the barrel of my .38 pressed against the roof of my mouth; Me, the actions of a fool not caring if I lived or died; Me, up to my ears in abandonment issues; and Me, needing so desperately to live, if only just to find her, to know her, to have a Mother…
Have I become a man, without the perpetual abandoned child eating away at my heart? Conquered all of the things I once hid inside of myself? Walked through all of my hells and come out the other side complete?
Honestly, I don’t know – although I’ve searched, and found nothing hidden.
Yet the question remains – who am I now? My identity, the reason for my existence has, in a way, been wiped away. Everything I was, everything I did for as long as I can remember had somewhere buried inside of it either the hopelessness of trying to make my adoptive family proud of me, or becoming someone that my Birth Mother would accept if she was ever found alive.
I’ve wisely given up on my adoptive family, and… although my Birth Mother seems to actually care, somehow, about the son she hasn’t known for forty-five years, I’ve got a feeling that she simply wants me to be genuinely happy.
Never in my life have I truly felt that before. Nor have I ever felt like I was beginning again, completely from scratch.
I have the ingredients to make anything I want out of the pieces of me I have… I just need to remember how to heed the wind, and follow the direction it blows…