The pressure’s on. Have some friends coming over in a bit, so we’ll have to get ourselves through all this existential woe and wonder within a reasonable timeframe. As though a chunk of an evening, let alone an entire human lifetime would be enough to wrap one’s noodle about the conundrums I regular battle with and against- but what the hell?

I’ll chalk it up to being an optimist, believe it or not.

So, what is on the philosophical menu for this evening?

Should be something substantial, considering that I’ve been putzing about, thinking all day. Moving stones up hill, listening to the Cure, thinking about my position in my own mind, in the lives of others, and the universe as a whole, and so on.

Real hot guy thirties stuff, you know?

Nearing the end of my sabbatical, a term someone else started using that I feel fits quite exquisitely, I think of the full return to the grind. This was not a total break from life in its entirety, not even close. I can’t really afford such things. My duties and obligations are ever permeating. This is just my contractually obligated vacation time from the labor that keeps the bills paid. And as the gods of good humor would have it, the timing seems to be just right, even amid all my regular chaos.

So, what have I been pondering all this time, aside from how patchy my facial hair is when I let it grow in a bit?

Aside from the obvious holiday, with all its importance- I have two very dear friends who have anniversaries today. One wedding, one record. Both of seismic importance, though I hope for everyone that I love that they have more records than marriages.

You know what, I think I’ll play that record in the background. Be the third time listening to it today, and although I don’t write with music playing much these days- something about this feels right. And I already looked at the photo album of disposable camera pictures produced at the other friend’s wedding afterparty last night. Funny enough, not realizing the anniversary at the time.

I was wondering earlier about why we humans do such things, making records, write, draw and paint and such. Continuous at the attempts to stave away the oblivion via expression. That oblivion we are all destined to return to, as it is from whence we had originally arrived. These barbaric yawps, to be just enough cliched- these self-made cries out against the abyss. Even when we know so much of it, if not all of it ends in failure. Whether it be our dreams or internal organs, something eventually quits on the whole experiment.

I don’t deny the drive of it. I hold it near and dear to my heart. Our attempts at immortalizing our spirits, encapsulated in whatever amber we see fit. Enough of that ambition exists in plenty within me, or else we wouldn’t be here, would we? But allow your humble narrator to quote a tune shared via another treasured soul on this day.

‘Does the story die with its narrator?’

Considering my own first-person use of such a moniker, the line hit quite potently. As wouldn’t be hard to imagine.

Ah, it just got to the tune that got to me earlier today. Driving down a road I hadn’t known existed not all that long ago, to my home in a town that I couldn’t have found on a map a decade ago- the words cut in a way that inspired goosebumps. Might have even been a tear, if you can keep a secret.

‘Faith and certainty are at war within me, maybe honesty sleeps alone.’

Not bad, right? Kid’s good, don’t let him tell you otherwise.

Maybe we’ll break that down a bit, maybe get to why it got to me- other than the very apparent beauty of the composition.

Faith, and certainty. Funny enough duality for a recovering catholic, such as your humble narrator.

Faith is a trust, and generally a trust in the good of things. Heaven, nirvana, etc. These mythic, poetic, bright ideas that we all return to warmth, a warmth that perhaps has never been felt in actuality. We have faith in gods and people and ourselves, depending on your particular persuasions. We believe that what is to come will ultimately be a step towards something brighter. Something better.

Then, there’s certainty. The word that arrives immediately after writing that out, is entropy. The destined demise. That it all runs out, no matter how long it might end up running. All is for naught, ultimately.

What a dichotomy, huh? Like I said, kid’s good.

But that isn’t the string of words that provoked my emotions of this variety that I generally keep to myself. No, that would be the last bit.

It was last week, or the week before, I think, that we talked about the difference between honesty and truth.

‘Maybe honesty sleeps alone.’

Thinking of records and weddings, I suppose my self-reflection guides me to be swayed by such statements.

Perhaps the truth is that I am alone, that we are all alone. That no matter how close you ever manage to get to someone, you will always be at least the slightest amount of separate. That as far as how this existence gets digested by the individual, educated assumptions are as far as we ever get to knowing what anyone else ever thinks about any damn thing. That even in the words and gestures expressed outward by those we know and love, there is something still set in reserve for them, something that must not ever be shown.

Or maybe I’m just talking about myself. Again.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is something in the unspoken eyes of another soul. The ocular expression that says what words might fall short of ever being able to say. That truth that we play at understanding with our words and well-balanced tones.

I’ve been playing with symbolism a lot these past few weeks. Physical symbols, you know, books and colors and seasons. And those more metaphysical types. Ideas, and such. Time, love, friendship and purpose. The driving factor, though often times inexplicable, for why we ever get about to doing anything at all.

Easy enough to do, if you were me today. Barren trees, and the brightest blue skies. And because of our march to the less lit solstice, sunlight that never gets to be much more than a long sunrise, to a longer sunset. The sky made me think of Denmark. The air made me think of Galway. And of my old neighborhood, where I would stumble back drunk and sad to my basement apartment. And the weights within my heart had hints of Bay Ridge, or some mythical, unfulfilled yesteryear. And even further back, to a rival high school, a million years ago. Outside an auditorium, after a play, etc.

But none of that would make much sense to you, I’d suppose. But these aren’t sold as statements, only thoughts.

     I was in my parents’ home, a few days ago. In the home that I grew up in. Picking up my daughter, which is still wild thing to think. It is not a place that I return to as often as a lot of my peers, and is not something I aim to break apart the whys of this evening. The part that struck is something else.

Above the television, in a frame, are several pictures. One of these pictures, is of myself. High school senior year portrait. Several dozen pounds ago. Pervious to several of the life defining occurrences that now dictate so much of my existence. There he was, so certain. So filled with faith in himself, that all could be accomplished. That all could be idealistic and real with the right effort and attention. Poor fool, beautiful though he might be. He had no idea that the capacity to engage in life was still several traumas and cataclysms away, along with all that good stuff. He had no idea how unimportant he would be in the ways he thought importance would be sure, and how important he would be in the ways that feeble mind could never even attempt to grasp. He was a nice kid, good and honest, with a lot of growing up to do. Thankfully, I have no intention of ever really growing up.

That might just be the same way I look back at some picture from today. More weathered, more learned- I might look back at this still young man I am today and say, boy, howdy, did he have no idea what he was in for.

Because I don’t.

I don’t know what tomorrow might bring. Might be better than I imagine, or worse than my greatest paranoia. Might be all of those things and more. But either way, it will be. And I shall face it, for certain. With faith within myself that unbreakable I still can be.

Because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I have some ideas. And who says a cataclysm can’t be good? Reworking the landscape, and all that? Or maybe it’s alright to let the good be good, for as long as it can, don’t you think?