Hope you have got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die...
That's what was playing this morning at 5:45 at the Pack of Stanleys this morning.
Not Suzie Q.
Not Down On The Corner.
Bad Moon Rising.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
I'm a superstitious motherfucker on a good day and today isn't really a good day. It's not a bad day. It's an average day really. It's not a day I really needed to hear, "hope you have got your things together." Remembering my dreams may or may not help. Recalling where it is I travel when I sleep might explain why it is that I wake up so often feeling gloomy and creepy.
I've got the fear. That's going to be hard to explain. It's not even fear of dying, though a warning that one should be "quite prepared" to die isn't welcome before the sun. It's bigger than that. It's the infinite possibilities that exist between right at that moment, and that can be any given moment, and dying. It's what remains unknown. It's a black hole of maybe and the gravitational pull of not knowing is unrelenting and unavoidable.
Conversation with an ex last night. Ex-what? Not really sure. Let's not get into that. A conversation with an ex about someone else whose life, to a very large degree, she still holds quite a bit of sway over. She says to me, "Well he's not the only one I was trying to save from themselves is it?" Or something close to that. Whatever. The difference is, because she meant me, I never asked to be saved from myself. I don't need to be saved from myself, not in a way that anyone else can help with anyway. It was never her place to decide what needed fixing. What I needed was a little extra help with what I was already doing right because sometimes doing things right isn't always enough. It's often a question of too little too late, but you don't get to decide for another person what needs to be fixed, unless they ask. I never asked. I took suggestions and stuck with what worked and let the rest go.
That's not really what's on my mind though. That's a tangent. Water chooses the course of least resistance and it's definitely easier to sway into a bit of a resentment towards someone else. It's not even that big a resentment but it's there. And she may be surprised to know that I was doing the same thing in the other direction. I had decided what was in dire need of fixing and was working on that. C'est la vie. A couple if tinkerers working on their fixer-uppers. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, with a side order of narcissism peppered liberally with ego.
There's a bad moon on the rise though. This is, in spite of my superstitions, clear. How do you get "quite prepared" when you don't know what's coming? You get the shit you do know in order. Time to make a list. Avoid the fuck-its and just move. The only bad action is no action.
And so on...
Let's leave it with this: I often wake up in the morning with a sense of dread. It's rarely something tangible. There is rarely a cause or a trigger that can be pinpointed.
Oh, oh, oh, oh! Trigger warning! There's a phrase that I've heard at least a half dozen times in the last few days, from at least a half dozen different unrelated sources. How does that happen? It's not that it's an uncommon phrase. It's just one that I haven't heard used in ages and then all of a sudden it's all around me. Mornings should come with a trigger warning:
"Warning: Opening your eyes will fill you with a sense of dread and foreboding and before the sun actually shows his shiny, orange arse over your window ledge, you're going to wish you could stay in bed. And listen up numbnuts! Your window faces west so if by chance the sun does appear over your window ledge in the morning, you've gone and proper fucked up the day."
Looks like, we're in for nasty weather. All inside your big, fat head.
It's funny too... most Sunday mornings I walk up through Flatbush past all the God Shops and the people giving thanks and praise or whatever it might be that they're really doing. There are churches in churches and there are churches in storefronts and lately there are churches in big tents and people are singing and shouting. Shouting away the fear maybe. Sometimes they extend an invite and the line that goes through my head every time is "Jesus doesn't want me for his sunbeam." Nah, not ready to head in that direction. Maybe were I actually afraid of death? Dunno. I do spend a lot of time looking up and wondering.