Dear Something Else, vol. 1

in which I direct all my hatred at my anxiety, and then apologize to it.

I still pray. People ask me, to whom do you pray, you godless heathen? Well…idk. I just know it feels to me like there is Something Else. And yet that Something Else is also…just here, within me, not really Something Else at all. So what do you name that? Some people call it God. I don’t have a name for it. Often I do it by writing on my typewriter. I do this with no editing; it is mostly stream of consciousness, though typed slowly enough that I can capture some of the thoughts that are poking and pushing their way to the front of the crowd. I follow these wherever they lead, spending more time with a thought whenever it grows urgent. Free-writing. That is my prayer. It leads me inward and back outward again, sometimes more than once in a sit.

Here is a recent one. If you, like me, used to pray and don’t know how to anymore, maybe this practice could be something to try. Type or write slowly enough that you can get your thoughts out and fully let them breathe. Even if there’s something that comes out that sounds ridiculous or nonsensical…this is not a time to polish. This is a time to just let it out. Let your thoughts speak and see where they take you. It feels more like prayer to me than most things ever have.

Dear Something Else

I'm so f*cking sick of my own bullsh*t, man, I really am. Whatever comical voice you just read that in, be it that of an aging stoner in a Rastafarian-appropriated knit hat ... or maybe that of a four year old  boy wearing a leather jacket and red high top Converse (Converses? Converse'> Conversesez?) 

But anyway, I meander. That's just like digressing, except for romantics. I meander through my thoughts like I'm a lounging, molasses-sweet debutante at her first cotillion. Is that what debutants did? I can't remember, because I was high the whole time.

Just kidding. I've never been high for a cotillion.

To be an artist that says without saying. An artist who DOES. That's what I want. You ask me what my goals are. I want to be a priest without a vestment. I want to move hearts and mountains with my work. And it's not just because I want to be known as someone who can do that, although of course I confess that those ambitions and worldly conceits travel my thoughts at times. But beneath that, undergirding the very channel that ushers those thoughts along and through like a riverboat under a bridge and downstream, is Something Else. Something Else. The closer I get to it, the more it loses its shape. I am not not Something Else. I cannot tell whether Something Else comes from me or toward me, though I'm sure it's both. It's just that I can't quite name the sensation of it by using those concepts to describe it.

I just know that Something Else motivates me to make music. Not just my ego. Not just my ambition. Not just my survival drive.

I have felt this Something Else for so, so long. It is faded and worn, creased as a grandmother's wallet photograph. It is held in my belly like an organ; only a part of me, but it is a part I could not live without. 

So who is the god--the human or the organ?

god is my whole life and my whole life is god.

I have run out of ambition to get your approval. You have laughed at my goals, at all my overwrought confessions--you have laughed and run through the fields in the sun in slow motion. You have ripped up my poetry and disappeared when I needed you and shown up when I didn't even know how to stay. God of my understanding; God as I understand God. Thank you. And fuck you. And I love you. And I don't know you. And you have always been there. And I am. 

This how I pray now; meandering through my thoughts like a lounging, molasses-sweet debutante at her first ___________. 

Oh hey, anxiety. I feel you coming up like a flash flood. Bitch, welcome. Sit down and have a cup of tea. Oh, you want to make my throat hurt? Why don't you f*cking stop being like this? Don't you know anything? Aren't you tired of being stupid? What about annoying? What about predictable? What about immature? I really should know better. I've been spinning my wheels for thirty nine years, and I'm still letting you be here. 

...wait.

I'm so sorry, anxiety. It's not you. This is my ego shit coming up. Seriously, I'm so sorry. Can I repair this with you? I don't like how it feels when we're not on the same page. I'd really love to know how you feel. And you are welcome here. I know I don't always remember that. I'm so sorry.

You feel the void. You feel instability. You feel calamity. You feel enmity. You feel possibility. You feel potential. You feel success. You feel happiness. You feel love. 

I find that I now speak to you lovingly. And before I know it, you are a puddle at my feet, a dog in my lap, a candle in my window...twinkle lights on the lawn in winter...a belly breath. Thank you, anxiety. I'm sorry.

I don't need a lesson. I don't need a takeaway. Just being with feeling you, and trying not to judge you or myself, is enough. I know I will feel you again. Each time I feel you, I hope I find a little more harmony with you, a little more quickly. And if I don't, I know that I am okay anyway. 

I meander, like I said.

This all started with the intention I had of writing down goals, plans, ideas, and strategy. And then ... well, Something Else was there. It feels good to remember the mystery before jumping into the madness of goals, plans, ideas, and strategy. If I'm not playing a game, what am I doing? This is a simulator, right? Am I winning? Shit bro, I died again. I think I've got like one or two more turns in me, and then I wanna go to bed.

(LOL. My brain is feeling like a rubix cube rn.)

So what is god? Is god Something Else? 
Amen.