In Between, Above and Beyond, Below and Beneath

In between packing and labeling cartons “Office” and ” Books,” the air conditioning system broke down and I need a new compressor; the “For Sale” sign has been removed as I am renting the house for at least five years to an elderly couple who are in love with the house; I am writing a continuing story about the Holocaust dealing with fear and flight, working on sections as it pleases me; moving through the stages of buying a new home; and registering the many anxieties that well up in me. I am observing myself as the same old shit arises, swells and recedes.

Tangentially, I refer you to the last two comments on the previous two blogs; apparently I trigger responses in cyberspace. The comments deal with freedom and religion. One I disagree with and one I admire for the struggle revealed.

The last decade has not been a good one for me. I met with adversity of all kinds, legal and emotional, but I have endured. Sometimes I cry to the heavens about a need for peace but I know full well that life precludes peace. Happiness is a like a dog barking, quick, ferocious and short. And, of course, serendipitous. I believe, given what good health I can muster, that I have found my direction and I sail to it. It has taken me all my life, but I sail on — what is life if not rueful, tinged with sadness, dramatically despairing at times.

I have been dipping into a book about the Kabbalah given to me by a real estate agent in Nevada. It is a system and I have real trouble with systems; it strikes me as it is a kind of Zen for Jews, for the parallels are similar. And like all systems it has “suggestions” to make as to how to live a good life, a fulfilling one. I often find that these systems are like AA, a systematic plan for the addictive; it helps the addictive. It does offer structure. However, I am not addictive, I am an Arabian steed, very wired and neurotically inflamed. I am also an artist, I pompously say, and there is no accounting for artistic behavior. Systems are not my fare.

I have no idea what you, the reader, feels would be the epiphany of a lifetime. Do you have an idea? If you give me ideas that are fibroid tumors of the brain, never mind. It can’t have anything to do with bling nor acquisitive treasures. It has to be substantial, worth a lifetime’s waiting. As you ponder, let me give you quite clearly what I would like to attain? arrive at?  I would like to have a series of awakenings — could be about me? or a significant other? about man? or woman? about existence. The thrill of coming to awareness, whether transcendental or not, would move me deeply. After that series of epiphanies, I would gladly kick off.

I have always had a philosophical cast to my thinking. So other than the pleasures of the body — good food for one, I am often satisfied by soul food. Other than being useful for creating free time and material pleasures of some measure and comfort, money does not control me. I am often generous. It is to be spent. I am also not good at making money, although others are very good at that. Money goes not to those who are smarter, brighter, quicker, cunning or conniving. Money goes to those who are lucky. Hard work does not a millionaire make. It is a grand mystery why jerks and morons are often wealthy — see any weekly New York Housewives to sample that. Or look at Aaron Spelling’s widow and her $150,000,000 house up for sale. A putz of the first order — and homely, to boot. Real wealth is not what we are about in this country — or most countries. Real wealth, in my opinion, is the awareness of self. I told you I don’t know how to make a buck.

As I age my needs grow few. I will end with this listing plucked out of my head: to have the awareness to create stories, novels, all kinds of fiction; to obtain insight when and where I can; to avoid becoming mellow or “wise,” but to stay the course, a thrashing crocodile, slashing away at life, unwilling to be tamed; questioning to the end; reconciling with loved ones alive and now dead; revising memories so that they carry more truth and honesty rather than the patina of prejudice and sweet caramel; to see ! The list is endless. I have been packing these for years into all kinds of mental cartons.

Adieu!

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