My mind is confused because my dreams are a muddle. I fear to dream a midnight dream and I fear to dream a waking dream. I fear to sleep and I fear to wake. I may be confusing my days with my nights. Or, maybe my life has slipped away and in the after world the days are nights and nights are days. Or, maybe there is no day and no night, but a twilight somewhere in between. A twilight where sleeping dreams are really waking dreams leaving my mind to wonder and wander through a world of cockamamie.
Thomas Wolfe wrote the novel "You Can't Go Home Again". It was was published posthumously in 1940, one year before I was born. I have understood the basics of this premise for most of my life, things change and you can never make them the same. They are what they are and as Pop Eye so eloquently puts it, "I yam what I yam". Even though I say that I have understood the premise, I still keep trying to change it or better yet, over come it. My most recent attempt was with an old friend from high school. We grew up, graduated from high school, went in the military, returned home and went to college together. We graduated in the same field, however he went on to get a doctorate and I quite and went to work. Naturally he has done much better financially than I have. That's fine with me. I pursued what I wanted from life and I achieved it. After I finished my college, our paths went in separate directions. Just recently he found me via "Face Book" and we started e-mailing one another. I was excited to have an old friendship rekindled. I thought we could get together on occasion and BS about old times. After several attempts to create a get together, it finally dawned on me that his wife doesn't feel that I am a worthy friend. I am not sure why and it really doesn't bother me except that I am disappointed. I was really excited about seeing him again. But alas, Thomas Wolfe was right, "You Can't Go Home Again"
I have a black Schnauzer named Shi-lo. she is the one on the right and she just had 7 puppies. They all look like the puppy on the left. They will be six weeks old on May 21. I have been trying to take pictures and I keep running into the same old problem. They are so black that they have no accent lines and the pictures lack good definition. This started me thinking that without definition we are all one blob disconnected from reality. So if a particular society wants to exclude all of those that are not exactly like them wouldn't they be disconnected with what is good in the world. You may be able to say that the reason we have so many ethnic groups is that someone is trying to tell us that with out different colors, shapes and beliefs the world would just be one big blog of ugliness. Disconnected we are nothing. Connected we are a beautiful force. Bloggers connect the world and as "Whitesnake" said, "we begin to care about one another"
I dread the thought of getting young. I have worked very hard to get old and I enjoy it. When someone says to me, "wouldn't it be great to be young again", I usually agree. But, I think, Why? Would being young now be better? Not for me. I do not understand young people. I would not fit in. I would stand out like some of the pimples I had when I was young. I just would not be happy. The real young would make fun of me because I acted different. I can hear them saying, "Why don't you go to an old fogies home? You do not belong here." If you become young again you still have all your memories. Also while you are struggling with the young people, your old friends would not like you anymore. "Did you hear about Old Grizz, he left us to become young again. I guess he thinks his ca-ca doesn't stink. Well we really don't need him anyway. Good riddance. I'm glad he's gone." Then I would be caught in never never land. To old to be young and to young to be old. No, being young again is not for me. I will be happy to keep growing older and stay with old goats like me.
Looking in a mirror sometimes has a strange affect. Most of the time you see the same old face looking right back at you. But sometimes you get a surprise. Sometimes you see someone else looking back at you, and that someone else is someone you will know or someone you once knew. It is you, either as you once were or as you will be. Sometimes you are looking into the future and sometimes your are looking into the past. You really hate to see the future you because it may be ashamed of you. That face knows all your secrets. That face is someone you cannot lie to. Sometimes you can lie to yourself but you cannot lie to your future. However, you can lie to your past. You can lie to the little boy with all the dreams because he doesn't know the future. He doesn't know you. He only knows his dreams. He only knows what he wanted to be. You can tell him that he made it . Go ahead and lie to him. There is no way he will ever catch you. There is no time travel. There is no way for him to see the real you. Today Joshua P. Kingsley was feeling good, he was looking at his past. A young Joshua, vibrant and full of life. Today he could look at young Joshua and he did not have to lie. He smiled. He smiled because he was happy when he thought about his youth. He had so much going for him. His family was well off. He was good looking. He was smart and he had talent, artistic talent. He could draw anything but more than that he could create. He did not just draw images that other people created. He created images that were amazing. He created images that made people think. They conveyed different meanings to everyone that viewed them. He created real art. He created art that spoke to you. He was a boy genius, the next Picasso. He loved the limelight. He dreamed of being a great artist. He was going to be a great artist. When he was fourteen he was accepted to the best art academy in New York. But, it went downhill from there. He had no structure. His was a free spirit art, created from the mind far advanced for his years. He did not like being told what to do. He did not need to learn about art from anyone. He left the school in less than six months. Looking into the mirror, his smile left him. He remembered his mistake and he felt sad. He had not fulfilled the boys dreams. In fact his life had gone downhill from the time he left the art academy. He got involved in the world of drugs. His parents abandoned him. They had no patience with drugs and they left him to the streets. He committed robbery and burglary to support his habit and of course he was caught, convicted and sent to prison for twenty years. Prison was a surprise to him. He did not like prison but after he got used to it he could accept it. In fact, prison was the best thing that could have happened to JP. He got to paint without the drugs. He could think again. He could create again. He became known as the "Prison Artist" He donated his paintings to charity and a New York Art House featured his paintings. He turned from the mirror and looked at the sky through his cell window. The sky was blue and the sun was shinning. That was a good omen. He smiled again and looked back at the mirror. The face was young again, young and innocent and he remembered his dreams. He said out loud, "you need not feel bad young man. I think that you could even feel proud if you want to. Tomorrow I am free. I have a job and I am a well known artist. I may even be able to create that master piece you dreamed about. Yes young man, you go ahead and dream and I will dream right along with you. I will even be able to look into the mirror and not be afraid to see the face of our future."
As an infant writer, I crawl around the world of blogging mumbling my words in a goo-goo and gaw-gaw kind of way. I try to stand and I trip and fall, splitting my infinitives on the coffee table and bruising my rhetoric on the hard cold floor. With my infinitives bleeding and my rhetoric all bruised and sore, I attempt to present myself as a blogger and sometimes fall flat on my butt. With my infant blogger status in mind, I ask the bloggers of "TAT" and the bloggers of"Sunday Scribblings" to forgive me for not acknowledging their comments about my blogs. I somehow had your comments sent to the nether-nether world of blogging and did not realize you were leaving me kind and positive comments. I was saying to my self, "self,. why are they not commenting on your blog? I must really be bad to be totally ignored." But, today while trying to upgrade my blog site I ran into all of these wonderful comments. All of these great words came rushing at me, engulfing me with delight and happiness. I was not being rejected. It was my own stupidity. Thanks to all of you that read my blogs and then took the time to say kind words. If I were a woman, I would say "Happy Mother's Day" to me.