So as it was, or as it came to be, or as it should not have been, I found myself, on a particular Wednesday evening, lying on my back, stuck halfway into this machine that can see through me—through my bones and muscles and tendons and into me. I was stuck in this machine that could see into me and, truthfully, through me. And rather than marveling over the power of this particular machine, I laid there on my back, completely still, completely unable to move—not because I couldn’t, but because they said I shouldn’t. I had no real stimulation; I couldn’t see much; my periphery was somehow narrowed. There was no one to talk or listen to.
And that’s how it was. That’s how it came to be that I should have nearly an hour’s worth of nothing but thought. Nothing but thought amid the bang kerbong of the machine that held me there.
And I thought. I thought about a lot.
I thought, more than anything, about right now. I let my mind move past the particulars of the machine, past its plastic or perhaps metal exterior and far beyond its magnetic force. I counted the bang kerbongs of the machine and I fell far away. I fell into thoughts of my now.
And there I was, and here I am now and here I am thinking of all those thoughts I had but did nothing about.
I thought of Scott. I thought of how it came to be that I should meet him in a bookstore and be his friend and fall in love and then how it came to be that one day—all at once—I should lose him. I thought of life and death and renewal. There I was, in the machine, caught in it, stuck in it, thinking about my life and Scott’s death. And I thought about how long it has been since he died and I thought about how much I think of him, how every day I still think of him, how every day I miss him and think of him.
I thought of Robin. I haven’t told you about Robin—at least I haven’t told you about Robin here. And right now I don’t know how to tell you, or what to tell you, about Robin. This just doesn’t feel quite like the place to begin to put down all those thoughts and happenings. For so long this blog has been about nothing, about one little piece of my day to day, about some random musing or observation that is somehow loosely tied to me.
But now that I’m revisiting this blog, now that I am here and now that I have had all this time to think, I am wondering about myself and, more, about my Self as writer. That is the person who laid on the table in the big machine—my writer Self. It was (is) the writer in me that composed those thoughts. It is the writer in me that, in spite of the noise and discomfort, was able to go so many places, to see my life as it has been and as it happened to be on that particular Wednesday evening.
And that is the self I want—no I need—to connect with most now I have so many things, so many good things going on right now and I feel centered. I feel centered and I feel connected and I feel good. It’s been a long time, a long, long time since I’ve felt good like this. Loss, grief and depression took a lot away from me, a lot I didn’t think I’d get back, not ever. But now I am aware of my capabilities, and I know I am capable of many things and I know of my abilities to give love and to be loved. I know who I am in my working life, and who I want to become. I know what I sound like to myself, even in spite of the clang and clatter of the machines that I am sometimes sucked into. I know, even when it is very loud, how to listen to myself.
And what I hear myself saying is this: Write.
So here I am, and here you are. And I thank you for reading something that likely makes sense only to my Self. I thank you for reading this, because you are the one who is urging me to write. You don’t say it often, but right now, as I am writing this and later, as you are reading it, I feel you asking me to write.
And so I will. I don’t know where this blog will go from here. More mindless ramblings are no doubt ahead. But there will also, very likely, be quite a few instances of the sort of thought that goes deeper. There will be truths you haven’t yet heard, or don’t yet know. There will be things that make sense only to me. There will be things that don’t make to me at all.
So call this a resolution, call it resolve, call it regimen—it doesn’t really matter what it is, only that I am doing it. Every day, I will write something here.