Real Things

    Today I'm writing about real things.  Or unreal things.  Or why it is that unreal things are, so often, the closet we can get to real things.

    Do you ever read fiction that is more real than anything you've ever seen or heard or touched?  You don't know why it's real, and yet the world brightens because you finally know something that you've known all along.  The feeling of separateness leaves for a moment, because someone understands what it's all about.  Someone understands that everything is either meaningless or essential.  There is no in between.

     And then you want to share it.  Try to tell people.  Try to write a blog post about it.  But there is no answer.  Most try to get it.  They'll nod, furrow their eyebrows.  "Yeah, I see what you mean."  Try and  try again to explain, but then it leaves you.  You think you still have it, but it's gone.  Or someone goes off on it quite academically, and you're so excited until finding the spark in your eye missing in your companion's.  "Yes, yes a bit like that, but not exactly.  More this way."  But the spark never comes.  Maybe it wasn't that great after all.  So simple; everyone knows that.  You pick up the book, sad and enlightened, but as the words climb up through your fingers your heart begins once more to race, and that invisible hand comes around your shoulder.  You weren't wrong.  It's right here.

     I meant this to be a rather lengthy post, but my subject limits me.  I can't explain what I say.  I keep trying, but find myself exhausted.  Falling asleep on the keys; it's not even noon.

    I find real things and I must write about them.  I must give Afton his voice and let him speak for me.  I must remember Meadow and the tight embrace she gave me--I must remember so that I can write her a story about real things.  About why she is real.  That real things are never understood.

     Then I can't write about unreal things.  Suddenly essays are incredibly hard.  My sentences are choppy.  I've no flow between ideas.  I sound half-asleep.  Wandering.  As if I can't write directly.  All must be inference.  I try to be conversational, but none care for my conversation.  The assignment is to be self-revealing, but I'm not vulnerable in the right way.  My self isn't worth revealing.  I used to be a "good writer," and so without really trying I could do well on assignments.  Now, if I don't try, I'm hardly coherent.  There are little pockets of care: groups of two or three sentences which sound like me.  But so quickly they drop away.  Not fade, not step: drop.  A bubble of over-zealous passion, forcing it's way up through my tired and whitewashed blabbering.

     I guess I must find something to care about.  Something real when it all seems unreal.  Curdie or Psyche or Sam in the false brilliance.  It's still there.  Not hurt, just a bit harder to find.

     This reminds me of a truly wonderful experience I recently experienced.  That was me making fun of myself: I can't stand it when I repeat words, yet do it all the time.  Anyway, I recently visited an art house.  The owners of the house, both artists, turned their entire home into a gallery.  Many of their works had religious influences, from quite a number of religions.  In one corner of the house was what I think is most clearly described as an altar.  It held candles, incense, and small statues of Jesus, Buddha, and a few others.

     Just typing that freaked me out a little.  It feels weird to capitalize "Jesus" and then capitalize "Buddha."  It feels weird putting "Jesus" in quotation marks.  Not that I hold disrespect for religions other than my own, but    I cannot separate myself from what I believe.  The Buddha shouldn't be anywhere near Jesus.  But that's just me; a personal struggle.  As you guessed, I'm sure, an altar dedicated to both Jesus and numerous other gods would completely unnerve me.  But I heard something.  That doesn't usually happen to me; I'm not one who often receives revelations.  But this was the most wonderful experience.  I heard, very clearly, I'm still here.  It didn't matter that the statue of God was displayed as equal with all these others.  He was still there.  I didn't need to protect Him.  He will always be right there.

     My goodness.  Thank you, this has been stream-of-consciousness blogging.  Wow.  But a post about real things has to end with God, doesn't it?  That's what this is really all about.  It's what this is all about even when we don't know or don't acknowledge it as so.