"Whatever you believe about the idea of God, I can assure you of one thing; (s)he is either monumentally inept or sadistically cruel." - Me at some point in time.
If (s)he exists at all.
Aside from everything else that makes absolutely no sense when viewing the world through a filter that alleges divine and infinite love of all creation, that so many of people in this world never have the opportunity to pursue their passions and die having only toiled away their too few years at a job that barely sustains them (while enriching others) is a cosmic crime.
For others, opportunities come truculently late in life, where evidence of our inevitable demise begins revealing itself in our struggling eyesight or increasingly frequent visits to MDs. And invariably at a time when we no longer have the time to pursue them.
That a creator allows this to be, setting up a universe in which a very few enjoy all the good things in life, while the vast majority struggle and suffer, lays threadbare claims of universal love and, to my mind, says that the creator is either indifferent and detached or quite simply depraved.
I'm one of the lucky ones. After forty-seven years on this earth I may finally begin to realize a lifelong passion: sailing. However, this new found opportunity has given rise to an internal conflict. I find myself radicalized by the experience of life and defiant of its inevitabilities. Each morning that I find myself still alive, I challenge the universe to kill me now or, if not, grant me another hour to pursue the subjects of the daydream world that I created toiling my life away for others. As I will explain later, I refuse to waste away. And while my defiance in the sight of the creator is the engine that today, more than anything else (except perhaps for my child) drives me forward, I am also infinitely thankful that I have the new day and the time time and (finally - purely a matter of serendipitous happenstance) the resources to begin chasing in earnest my daydream world.
All my life I've dreamed of the sea and held close to my heart the legendary seafarers of old. During my high school years, I expressed this passion through art. I remember painting in water colors many, many variants of the old square riggers muscling their way through defiant seas. I've dreamt for countless years of the opportunity to sail. But these dreams were confined to my imagination. If a film featured prominently sailing vessels or life at sea, I would place myself at the helm or in the wheelhouse as the boats heeled under the force of the wind and waves, and the sea-spray rushed over the decks. From Captain Ahab to Peter Quint, my heroes, both fictional and real, have most often been men of the sea.
All my life I've wanted to step aboard a sailing ship, sheet in and head for open waters. And for all of my life, the economic and social oscillations and vicissitudes of working-class life have cruelly denied me this opportunity. Until now. I'm forty-seven years old, defiant in the face of time, and little more than a week ago, I finally stepped aboard a sailboat, raised and trimmed the sails and felt the force on the tiller as we tacked into the wind in blustery, if protected, waters. Witness here the birth of great passion. Witness here the rebirth of inspiration in a life otherwise shunned by indifferent Muses.
Not long ago, a medical scare forced my to reassess everything about my life. Thankfully, it was just that - a scare. At least this time. I decided at that point to throw caution to the wind. I spent that long week waiting on the test results living hard - heavy drinking and engaging in other "edgy" behaviors that require no public explanation. If you're going to die, I say flip the universe the one-fingered salute and go down hard and fast. I refuse to die wasting away, covered in bedsores on a sterile hospital bed. To paraphrase Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet, "Fuck that shit, Pabst Blue Ribbon!" Fuck that shit, in very deed.
It's hard for many of us to accept, but someday, it won't be just a scare. We are all in the same grim parade, marching in lockstep towards a stolid grave. Facing this fact in earnest horrified me and virtually froze me in time. This was the beginning of my reawakening. This was the moment in time where I decided that I would live hard, and make every day a life or death risk. I watched a parent die a slow death at an early age, without having ever experienced their dreams. That won't be me. If I die, it will because my body is suddenly too broken to go on - not due to progressive and painful decomposition brought on by disease. No, my life has just begun. Age be damned, I won't stop until god, the creator, or the universe reaches out and snaps my straining neck. Aging is for the dead.
This is where I meet the mysterious depths. This is where I begin to realize my dreamworld and push my mind and body to the limit in relation to the currents and whitecaps of life whose seraphim feet dance to the call of the gulls. I think of myself as the Aging Mariner and this blog is a chronicle of my reawakening. I'm casting off the albatross of caution and fear.
"All men live enveloped in the whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life." - Herman Melville, "Moby Dick"
Aside from everything else that makes absolutely no sense when viewing the world through a filter that alleges divine and infinite love of all creation, that so many of people in this world never have the opportunity to pursue their passions and die having only toiled away their too few years at a job that barely sustains them (while enriching others) is a cosmic crime.
For others, opportunities come truculently late in life, where evidence of our inevitable demise begins revealing itself in our struggling eyesight or increasingly frequent visits to MDs. And invariably at a time when we no longer have the time to pursue them.
That a creator allows this to be, setting up a universe in which a very few enjoy all the good things in life, while the vast majority struggle and suffer, lays threadbare claims of universal love and, to my mind, says that the creator is either indifferent and detached or quite simply depraved.
I'm one of the lucky ones. After forty-seven years on this earth I may finally begin to realize a lifelong passion: sailing. However, this new found opportunity has given rise to an internal conflict. I find myself radicalized by the experience of life and defiant of its inevitabilities. Each morning that I find myself still alive, I challenge the universe to kill me now or, if not, grant me another hour to pursue the subjects of the daydream world that I created toiling my life away for others. As I will explain later, I refuse to waste away. And while my defiance in the sight of the creator is the engine that today, more than anything else (except perhaps for my child) drives me forward, I am also infinitely thankful that I have the new day and the time time and (finally - purely a matter of serendipitous happenstance) the resources to begin chasing in earnest my daydream world.
All my life I've dreamed of the sea and held close to my heart the legendary seafarers of old. During my high school years, I expressed this passion through art. I remember painting in water colors many, many variants of the old square riggers muscling their way through defiant seas. I've dreamt for countless years of the opportunity to sail. But these dreams were confined to my imagination. If a film featured prominently sailing vessels or life at sea, I would place myself at the helm or in the wheelhouse as the boats heeled under the force of the wind and waves, and the sea-spray rushed over the decks. From Captain Ahab to Peter Quint, my heroes, both fictional and real, have most often been men of the sea.
All my life I've wanted to step aboard a sailing ship, sheet in and head for open waters. And for all of my life, the economic and social oscillations and vicissitudes of working-class life have cruelly denied me this opportunity. Until now. I'm forty-seven years old, defiant in the face of time, and little more than a week ago, I finally stepped aboard a sailboat, raised and trimmed the sails and felt the force on the tiller as we tacked into the wind in blustery, if protected, waters. Witness here the birth of great passion. Witness here the rebirth of inspiration in a life otherwise shunned by indifferent Muses.
Not long ago, a medical scare forced my to reassess everything about my life. Thankfully, it was just that - a scare. At least this time. I decided at that point to throw caution to the wind. I spent that long week waiting on the test results living hard - heavy drinking and engaging in other "edgy" behaviors that require no public explanation. If you're going to die, I say flip the universe the one-fingered salute and go down hard and fast. I refuse to die wasting away, covered in bedsores on a sterile hospital bed. To paraphrase Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet, "Fuck that shit, Pabst Blue Ribbon!" Fuck that shit, in very deed.
It's hard for many of us to accept, but someday, it won't be just a scare. We are all in the same grim parade, marching in lockstep towards a stolid grave. Facing this fact in earnest horrified me and virtually froze me in time. This was the beginning of my reawakening. This was the moment in time where I decided that I would live hard, and make every day a life or death risk. I watched a parent die a slow death at an early age, without having ever experienced their dreams. That won't be me. If I die, it will because my body is suddenly too broken to go on - not due to progressive and painful decomposition brought on by disease. No, my life has just begun. Age be damned, I won't stop until god, the creator, or the universe reaches out and snaps my straining neck. Aging is for the dead.
This is where I meet the mysterious depths. This is where I begin to realize my dreamworld and push my mind and body to the limit in relation to the currents and whitecaps of life whose seraphim feet dance to the call of the gulls. I think of myself as the Aging Mariner and this blog is a chronicle of my reawakening. I'm casting off the albatross of caution and fear.
"All men live enveloped in the whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life." - Herman Melville, "Moby Dick"
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