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The Care and Feeding of an American Messiah.

Write what you know, they say.
Souls marked with righteous regret are walking down the street. Everyone is at least 30 years older than me. I walk to the coffee shop alone through the crowded residential area. There are usually not this many people on the street. It must be because the sun is out.

This winter was long and cold this year. This was unusual as the last few years have been legitimate examples of global warming. I hadn’t seen snow like that since I was a child. Crises were created and life was averted for another year so that I could write something meaningful. There is a chance that I did.

I recall a mania that occurred about a year ago that lead to long rambling notes regarding eternity and the colors of life, which destroyed my psyche for the rest of the year making me fritter away my time wishing that grandeur were true. The colors have fallen back to their resting positions and I cannot any longer see God. This is very well and good, as when I was close to God I was driven insane by knowing some kind of truth. My mind was not capable of comprehending what I saw. The doctors that took care of me called it bipolar mania, which is apparently an addictive drug.

The only problem with seeing the light so brightly in my mania is that I lose the ability to function in the real world. I am being abducted by aliens and walking around Syria with a light saber saving the world and ending wars, bi-locating to do the work of great spirits of white magick and writing books and plays regarding my adventure, but I am not making sense to the people who can see me and care about me nor actually recording the notes of my adventure. This is a valuable source of creativity, as it serves as cannon fodder to fill the notebooks and documents throughout the rest of the year.

There is meaning to life. There is a beautiful cause brought by reasonable ones. The British insomniacs are on the same page as me. There is no reason to feed blame. There are only we, those wicked souls of prediction and the land of the Sumers, those who lack the will to change and run away. We are people who find fury within graceful lines. I will find the truth, of course, like my ancestors that came to the new world hoping to build a better life. They want things only dreamed of and brought the silence of Northern Russia with them.

Who am I, really? Where do these parts go? Where is the one that works to get to that spot on the horizon that watches and waits for the passing of time? Where are the fearsome kinds of beast that take the manic witches and drag us to the hellish spaces of darkness that come with the blindness of mania? Who are the other people like me? Where are these strange memories from? Where do they fit?

These mistakes must have a hidden beauty. When they speak to me I am hidden. When they move I leave without them. Those who you fall asleep thinking about have given you either joy or pain, and in some case both. It is my mistake that makes these manic cries for someone to love me back. All I can do is love someone who also loves me. There is a nice space there, and it keeps a madman warm, even if I still smoke.

There is no careless effort afforded to me here. There is only a need for a massive lifestyle change. This one has been happening slowly for the last two years.

There is no hope to change my past. There is no wandering that can bleed these wounds and fear the change of lust in the ego. Bothersome, sacred matters are, while the righteous thoughts of faith and empirical space wraps the reader their white linen and calls out the in light shadows without their righteous fodder. We have no weather that bares my collar. There are members of the fighting stance that knead the brass as it drips from my shattered soul. I gave away everything that I could.

Gentle love shapes my mind. I cannot believe that these are the wide-open spaces that the divine wanted every day, between the faithful way and the shadows now. I cannot think that these divine gifts have wrapped me without leaving a trail. I must follow their ether and try to find the love and grace of the potential for tea in the afternoon. There is an old woman finally whole, with white wine and vinegar while the mighty fell.


the fear

This is what gives me the fear – a scalding note from a superior regarding the place that I want to receive as an important nuance. There are other things, but I regrettably cannot feel those right now, only the pure jealous knowing that nothing will relate with me like the chaotic failed potential. I cannot relate. That is okay, though – I am not meant to be like the rest. Finding this out, I cannot rejoice in the valor of accomplishment, not without knowing that I am only one sainted member of this team, not able to speak, but high on righteous indignation. All he can do is hate me.

Some time soon the pale veil of fog will encompass this valley, and the news will come that all I have tried to accomplish is not available to the righteous ones. I can concern myself with the resources found near the ghost of the Chinese bookstore that used to sit on the corner where that ailing old man now sells his drugs. They always invite me to the shadow, hoping that I can be another place for them to find a heartless badger, made for shadowed laughs and turbulent niceties. There is no point.

What are we doing here? Why should I try to be the potent mid-life rapture that envelops that piece of resistance deep in my drawl? I cannot be trusted. Only the shining light takes their spot. Without the rapturous lift to heaven, the stubborn must believe. The rose finds it’s hope and I cry. There is a weapon somewhere for me to fight through these details. It is deep within my cell memory of Catholic guilt. I cannot belong to any of the other veins. They are deep blue and have mystery. This one is purple and chokes.