WE'RE GONE BUT WE DON'T KNOW WHERE

Another quiet, cold day. Although it was drizzly and misty, I took a 40-minute walk. The fresh air was rather bracing. I walked without listening to music or a book or anything else. I suppose it was a kind of walking meditation, as I continue to scour my mental walls, looking for breaks and cracks and possibilities for changes in my behavior. And to change my constant personal refrains about failure, aging, ineptitude, and all of that. 

My "spiritual advisors", C&J, and I talked last weekend about being in what we will call my "power." I feel that left me so long ago I cannot remember, at all, what it feels like, felt like. They suggested an addition to my morning cup of honey sweetness, an extender to that practice. This would be "I'm in my power and I ___________." I cannot say that I addressed this directly, did not add this to my practice, but I did think of it from time to time. 

And I thought about it quite a bit on my walk. We all see those admonitions to follow our bliss and our passion and to find what we love and do it. That mostly smacks of American delusional thinking. I am not convinced that the majority of the world thinks this or follows this advice. It seems mighty mighty privileged to me.

But still, I tried to find the fire I once had, the enthusiasm. The passion. Employers and co-workers were quite attracted to that enthusiasm and confidence. Touching some of that, whatever that was, would likely help me out of this long, deep trough of poverty and underachievement, under-utilization of self.

And what would I do if I could? To what do I really want to apply myself? Where do I feel whole and engaged? Where DID I feel whole and engaged? I must say I could not get in touch with that. I couldn't remember or, rather, if I could remember, it was as if it were distanced, someone else's experience or memory. Nothing within me.

I don't think I am depressed. All in all, I feel a bit lifted. I have a bit more energy, a bit more focus. I mean, hell, I made it through The Brothers Karamazov and Within a Budding Grove in the last twelve months. 

Cooder cannot get enough Greenies. I have a food dish and water for the kittehs up here for their convenience and it does get eaten, but I am not sure Cooder is living on much else. I think her sense of smell is diminishing and Greenies must be powerful. Sigh. I don't really know what it means, if it means anything. Maybe she's just bored. She finally doesn't smell at all and she is relaxed and much more the cuddly night kitty. The cats are very much enjoying a calm, warm, and stable environment.

The other morning, before I went to California, I was in the subway station early, on my way to Housing Court to file suit against B2 for throwing me out. I was in a strange and slightly elated mood, possibly because I was acting in my own self-interest, taking a stand against a major bully. At any rate, the station was busy in that holiday, early morning groggy way. A not-so-good musician was playing guitar down the way. And the song he played brought tears to my eyes. The Only Living Boy in New York.