A Sore Throat’s Horoscope

I have trouble being loud,
and not only because of
my sore throat.
This is why I write.
These words are read
by the loudness of
your own mind,
not mine.

I could be screaming these words!

I could be whispering.

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Image

He puts his boots on slowly, methodically. Not procrastinating the day, but savoring the stillness of home. He looks up into the window and beyond into the bushes and beyond still to the road. Beyond even the road was his reflection.

He took a moment to study himself.

Why, if he hated the mirror, did he do this so often?

He looked at his necklace, his beanie, his yellow button up shirt.

“You lather yourself in image,” he said.

He swigged his coffee, letting his torpor drown under the tide of caffeine. It is the medicine of the work day, caffeine.

The method toward motivating his mediocre madness.

The keeping together all that is done apart overnight.

It is the sweeping away cobwebs to find spiders on his hands.

Poking the bull he is trying to ride with a red-hot iron.

It is- wait… Am I writing about image or caffeine? I forgot.

The Awkward

Do others feel it? The Awkward. It’s like saying the wrong thing. Or three different things in one spliced sentence. Or muttering a word and suddenly you don’t remember what word you were going to use. Or what the word you were going to use even means.

Do you feel it? The awkward?

Is it just me?

Maybe others feel awkward but only around me? Oh God, is it contagious? Should I keep the awkward to myself?

Why don’t I feel like doing that?

I want to flaunt it. I want to manifest the awkward. And then laugh about it. I want others who might feel the awkward realize that it’s fun, not awkward. It’s dorky, kooky, and fun. It’s what makes the world interesting. It’s what gives us compassion and relatable experience.

The Awkward. It isn’t awkward. It’s just how we do things in the realm of Drew.

Writing While Pooping

“I am a meditator and psychonaut the world is windy and kinda frightening the world is windy and kinda frightening.”

Those words are what my phone predicted to say next. I don’t ever remember saying that so that my phone should save it as a prediction, but there it is. Ah, how this keyboard thinks for me. Ah, how confused one should be if they hadn’t a clue about phone keyboards.

“The keyboard predicted those words? A madman! We have a madman in our clutches!”

Yes, yes, simmer down.

Whoop. Am I talking to myself again? Perhaps. I do this. I’m a writer… aren’t we writers told to talk to ourselves?

Who tells us?

Why then is it an odd thing to do? What are you that you are not me? You that should be of yourself but are instead of me? I, who is of you, that I should be me and myself indefinitely. Me? You ask. I say. But when I say, you are answering yourself. Ask again and you are talking to yourself.

Ask me now, these words that are me, and you should realize that it is not I who am talking to myself, but you, dear reader. This is your voice, not mine. Am I writing these words, or are you reading them then? Which comes first?

Let us sink in silent revelry for not having the answers. A day where I do not even have the questions. Oh, but to be without questions is to be without interest. I don’t care. I forgave my apathy, so therefore I condone it. I misunderstood my waking up this morning. I fell asleep as soon as I ceased dreaming. I fell asleep as soon as I swung my legs over the end of the bed.

And all day I have been asleep, wandering from here, thinking, and then wandering back. All the time moving sticks and objects, calling this organizing. Getting muddy and calling it work. Going insane over the fact that I’m sane today. Getting angry at my urge to be angry. Telling myself hateful things for having thought hateful thoughts toward somebody who was probably hating themselves for hating somebody else.

Do we not love any more?

What is love but the absence of uncertainty?

What is success but the absence of clumsiness?

I don’t know, why don’t you ask the cold what the absence of heat is.

Why don’t you ask the stars where in the world your mind is.

Ask the moon for a glimpse at the sun.

And your thoughts for the rhythm of words.

Ask ask ask, for then you can love.

Love love love, for then you can live.

Live , but be careful, you may be still asleep.

The Inevitable Untangling

I have fallen out of writing like one falls out of cleaning the house.

And like letting the house get dirty, I have let things return to chaos. Not bad chaos. Not scary chaos. Chaos such as, “Oh, see now. I have some dirt on the bottom of my feet from walking through my mind barefoot. Shall I sweep up?”

And writing is the broom.

Like chaos, my mind has become a tangled rope. And like chaos, I am only able to untangle it. It would be an interesting experiment to give a man a tangled rope and tell him he must tangle it further. I think that surely he would succeed! But if the experiment would last a lifetime (so to gather enough data as to use this analogy correctly) the man would end up not only untangling the rope, but learning how to tie knots.

The inevitable untangling (should this be a coined term?) is what I hypothesize as man’s cosmic function: to act as the mediator of turning chaos to order. Madness to method.

Let us take this madness of a thought experiment and untangle it further:

The rope can represent anything, but let us represent it as Mind.

We all are born with an untangled rope. Like a fresh rope coming from the threads-men, (or a more useful simile in these days is the new pair of head phones, with the cord carefully wrapped up) we are perfect.

Pure.

But our rope is in the hands of our parents then, and they have been pulling their own rope through tired fingers for long before we come along. So, our rope is handled craftily by them, but at the same time, sloppily.

It is in the later stages of life, where we find individuality (where I am now), that we are for the first time given our own rope. And then, we are expected to know what to do with it.

For me, I hadn’t a clue what to do with the rope, my mind.

I was dismayed to see that my rope was tangled. It hadn’t been. My parents had it all ordered out, looped and twisted around itself in a perfect knot and tie. But when somebody handles a rope and then hands the bundle to you, be fascinated at how intricate it is to unravel it. You must be very careful and know exactly how they wrapped the rope in order to do it.

With headphones, it is easier, but with 200 feet of rope (trust me), one wrong pull and you have a tangled mess.

This is life.

And I don’t think anybody has made it out tangle-free.

Since day one for me, the inevitable tangle tango had commenced. It is frustrating, yes, but it cannot remain tangled unless I completely give up. I keep working the rope, not worried about how skillfully I do this. I just pull and tug, flip and tie, loop and twist. And the rope begins to slacken over time.

I found that it is all one rope, though with the tangled knots it looked like many.

When it is all pulled out, the untangled mess turned into one long noodle of a rope, then you are able to do with it as you please. Tie things. Make knots. Do tricks with it. This is what these words are: the tricks with my rope. I’m not showing off, this is simply what I chose do with the rope, my mind.

Soon, after playing with it, though, I find it tangled again. A beautiful chaos, like the way a river goes, or the way a cookie crumbles.

The rope, my mind, will always need to be untangled.

I’ve heard it called agitated cord syndrome: where we do not know how these stupid headphones that we left in perfect order have become tangled again!

This is life.

The beauty of living isn’t having an untangled rope, or even doing cool tricks, the beauty is in the untangling of the rope. The tedious pulling, tugging, flipping, tying, looping, and twisting.

And then: slackening.

Getting “It”

I always fear that the reader “won’t get it.”

This is all I seem to hear from those I share my musing with. My writings are nothing but a monkey juggling to them.

“Ha ha ha ha,” they laugh. But they don’t get it.

“You’re so wise,” they say. But they don’t get it.

“Wow,” or “Whoa,” or “What?”

They don’t get it.

I don’t get that they can’t get it.

They can’t get that I don’t get that they can’t get it.

Get this:

I can’t even get that they can’t get that I don’t get that they can’t get it.

Get it?

Probably not.