Virtually Emty Handed

I have four brothers.

I have two sisters.

I have two parents.

Considering these eight people we have seven plus nine makes sixteen offspring from various members of the group.

I so want my life. One of the reasons I have so much fun being me is because I'm part of this.

I enjoy being rich ... -ly blessed with caring family.

Here ... Now

I so want my life.

Quixotic Ideology

I think maybe I am just another freak in a world where everybody but me is actually normal and not freakish. You know, as if these are two different things- normalcy and freakishness.

And furthermore, I am no longer haunted by feelings of being right or correct or brave. I am starting to realise my cowardice. It shows itself as avoidance. There is avoidance of confrontation and avoidance of finality and avoidance of frustration and avoidance of not getting as far as I would like to get if I did try and push harder at the things I am not quite managing to really push hard enough at. These are all the same though, basically. Basically I am afraid of being real, being less than what I delusionally/deludedly imagine I could be.

Really though, what else could I be beside real? I am really honestly here typing this. Even if it is done half heartedly, or in bad faith or what ever, it is what I am doing, and I'm doing it now. I'm starting to think that the text should run back and forth, instead of always going in the same direction. Does that make me freakish? I mean the eye is already at the right side of the page... why not start reading from that side at the next line? But so is it normal to think like that? I do get a little worried that actually creating text like this might put me in a separate category from "normal" ... because doing so sounds like a good idea to me.

Like maybe it would be heroic to make a text editor that ran back and forth from either side of the page. Like maybe it would be a grand social experiment in making human life better, more comfortable- like learning to use fire and nuclear energy and stuff. But maybe actually making that text editor would be a sign of insanity. Now I'm thinking such software would be Quixotic Ideology at it's best. Rolling my wheelchair-bahh .... I need to become a proper software engineer.

Sightedness & Sighted-not-ness

I look at my arm. There are red spots on it. No, silly, it's not measels- it's the sun shining through the little holes where the venetiain blind peices are connected by their string. Now I'm noticing red light splayed out on the counter- not a counter but a wooden radiator cover constructed by my adroit brother Tom. geez, it's on the pillow now also. God it's on my shoulder now.

What is up with life being super wonderful? Ehat need is there of rhetoric when we have beautiful red light to look at first thing after sunrise? Aw no, it's orange already. Soon it will be yellow and then just plain old white.

Anyway, thank you powers-that-be, Mr. God, Mrs. God .... whoever is responsible.

How many times have I marveled at redness in evening light? When ever have I felt grateful for the rednessw of morning light? How will I keep my physics-of-dust-accumulating-throughout-the-day-explanation of redness at evening?

It's like yellowish orange on the pillow. The wooden top is in shadow. My arm bears no jewels, not red ones, not orange ones, none.

It's practically white on the pillow, but there are slightly yellowish beads on my arm. They're shrinking.

Life is lived in gulps and moments and the spaces in between these.

The pillow is in shadow. I've got little bits of light on my torso with a hint of color. That must mean it's time for bed.

Wheelchair-athon

Lately legal pads have been outdoing computer keys by far.

Legal pads are good for half thought ideas, or maybe fully thought thoughts which are floating in the myth of later completion., and greater conection. I've got lots of pieces and parts but it seems that the pile of legal pads is doubling up and I still have not properly sorted through the earlier ones. Now is this the case with creativity or am I in denial or avoidance or is reality simply my sarcophagus......

Anyway, the legal pads are doing good and I'm anxious that I don't connect things together into longer things and stronger things.

Physical activity, endurance: I did 22 or so miles on Sunday last. I'd been wanting to for two weeks before that, a fortnight it would be if I were doing my wanting from within the UK.

So it was good. I put my cash up for cancer research and got my number, my two numbers actually- two twin numbers, each number identical to the other. It reminded me of waiting backstage to dance. I sat amongst the ghordes of bicyclists and stretched my arms while they stretched their legs. I drank my water and didn't look too urgently into the eyes of the others. Then son enough, after another couple pages of Life of Pi, it was over to the start line as time inched closer to the 10 AM start.

The compliments and flattery started early and flowed freely all day. I was the oddball, twice as many wheels, four or five times as much seating area and no gears whatsoever. Anyway, folks were jazzed to pass me by. People were calling me hero and inspirational and thanking me for existing. I did my best to say thank you and remind people that they also were doing good. Secretly I enjoyed the heck out of the attention. The last mile in toward the finish line I got a lot of beeping from cyclists in thier cars, heading on home. All these people had pased me on thrir way in. I started getting a kick out of the special treatment (the bicyclists were not getting beeps). The last two hundred yards, maybe four hundred yards, were fairly thunderous, loads of applause, the level picking up as I approached. Now I was grinning, not even bothering to feel embarassed or such, just basking in the fun of it all.

Then finally beyond the finish line, I caught up with family. They'd all passed me on the way in. I actually surprised them by being there at al. I hadn't revealed my plans and started two hours later than them from 35 miles closer. Everybody was pleased to see me except maybe Becca who puzzlingly said, "Unca Sean what are you doin' ?" My brother Bill was kind enough to double back and do the gauntlet of well-wishing alongside me. It was fun having my brother beside me

As I settled down I took off my pack and pulled out a towel. I wet the towel some and wiped my face and arms. Of course I removed my shirt and further wiped down. Then I noticed I was not so humble after all. I can kid myself if I want, but I was well aware of the group of female cyclists sitting not far away.

All in all, partly I'm a show off, partly I'm an exhibitionist, but partly also I am humble and I do enjoy the physical exertion and the mental discipline of continuing when it gets uncomfortable, and even partly I am a bit of a hero. Little me in my wheelchair, I had the oppurtunity to stop and loan out my pump and help a bicyclist fix a flat. Lowly me, I had the oppurtunity to help a walking bicyclist fuel up with my gatoraid and remount his steed. He was between chemo treatments, he was my hero.

Wanting to Write

I didn't sleep till past 7 AM.
I cried before I slept.

The fuzzy-dizzy feeling, it is like the feeling of accelerating.

The feeling of excitement at the start of a love relationship. This can create the dizzyness.

To learn something in axiomatic fashion, to stack ideas and climb to height-- this makes me dizzy.

To look deep in the sky or far down to earth-- again I am euphoric, again I am moved, again there is a changing, a differing.


To be again as I once was

To have been as I will be

When shall I know and what shall I see

Now I am nothing although this is something

I want to go to sleep
I wish to feel protected
I desire to be held

Am I more than what I am not
Is there anything beyond
That which I am

Having change: sensing sensing

Is there stillness
Is there quiet
Is there there, or is there only here?