October 2007

Tonight I’m driving 2 hours to Gooding, ID where I’ll be the guest speaker at the Walker Center, the treatment center I went to. Pray that I am effective at sharing a message of hope because honestly, I’m a little nervous.

I’ve observed that, when it comes to travel, there are two kinds of people; journey people and destination people. Road and rail people and the jet set. It’s a subtle difference. I like to get places fast. I’m not a roadside attraction kind of guy. I’d like to think I am, but truth be known, I just want to get there with as little inconvenience as possible. The TSA actually appeared on the list for my first 4th step inventory. My brother on the other hand, can always be counted on to take the road less traveled. It makes all the difference. He reports wonderful journeys. To us destination people he is simply late.

Ultimately we all are aiming for the same end. We’re all travelers. It amuses me that before the TSA and before flight delays, sigalerts and $3.11/gallon gas that the the word travel originated in 13th century French word meaning “painful effort.” Whether it be by train or plane or automobile, every one of us it headed somewhere; whether it’s Halcion, Chardonnay and Paris, International, First Class or Nice to Santiago on foot, on the journey of life, we’re all travelers and we all have a destination.

One of my favorite poets, Constantin Cavafy. I like Cavafy largely because of his point of view. He seems to stand at a slight angle to the universe which seems to heighten the detail that is essential but not obvious. And among my favorite Cavafy poems is Ithaca, where he suggests that we pray the road is long. My first willingness to change my mode of travel originated in this poem.

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon — do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

C. Cavafy 1911

Keeping my Ithaca, my life in recovery, in mind, learning that it’s not the destination is not what is essential in travel but the journey, perhaps I ought to slow down and pay attention.

A friend of mine said recently that gifts are ‘way overdone, nowadays, in our culture’ and have become meaningless. I disagree. It isn’t that gifts are overdone. It’s that they’re given thoughtlessly, that they are meaningless gifts. People I know maintain entire closets and chests filled with little ‘can’t go empty handeds.’ These items are often purchased the season before, from the after-holiday clearance tables, or re-gifts, often very nice stuff, but thoughtless. Receiving any such gift, in my mind, constitutes an insult. They are gifts of selfishness, kept track of and counted and used to support the delusion that everyone is inferior to them. The same epidemic of selfishness manifests itself in other ways; conspicuous recycling (driving the Escalade to the supermarket to recycle the wine bottles – I call them EcoYuppies), manipulative and artificial humility and self-effacement, etc. Guided to recovery for any reason, yet having reservations about stopping drinking and using permanently, these people usually become members of, as I once was once a member of, nice, middle class, church meeting, “MY” program, “MY” higher power, “MY” crack in the driveway problems, high bottom, “I’m doing this for ME,” “I Can’t Believe It’s AA!”

Three and a half years of that, never really knowing what it was to take a step, having read but never studied the book though I could quote it extensively, doing a program of fellowship-ishness and osmosis and in spite of myself, I managed to get God in my head and move God to my heart, but couldn’t even understand, I had no conception whatever, of what it was to have God move from my heart to my gut. Three and a half years of that and I wanted to die.

Even the Welbutrin that kept me happy enough to avoid the work stopped working. By then big enough chunks of my life had fallen into place that I thought I could manage better on my own. Thanks for the info. I’m sure it doesn’t apply to me. I began a rigorous course of controlled drinking and in short order ‘proved’ I was NOT an alcoholic. Armed with that information I could drink like I wanted to, which is to say I was more or less insanely drunk all the time. Now, I’m the kind of drunk that likes to get high, and I pretty soon decided that this alcohol shit really wasn’t hitting the receptors I wanted it to hit so I found some crystal meth and it was on. The craving had kicked in with more force than ever before. The desire to stay sober vanished. I had at last found the thing that was going turn me into the person I knew I was meant to be. Hot, funny, ambitious.

Crystal meth turns on an addict, often, more quickly than other drugs. My best friend became my demon almost immediately. I cannot even parse the losses I’ve survived in the three or four years I was out. All I know is that it brought me to my knees, but not without a fight. I’m smart and I’m stubborn. I’m not used to losing – well, actually I am but that’s part of the denial that kept me trying to control my need to get high. I suffered more and I lost more than should have been necessary. I believe all real alcoholics and addicts do.

It’s strange, though, how one’s demon, at least in 12 step recovery, becomes one’s best friend, how all that loss ultimately amounts to a gift from God, the gift of a first step. All that negative really did become a positive in the sense that it “bears witness to those I would help” introduce to God.

There is nothing quite so delicious as a stolen hour of sleep on a Saturday morning, particularly when one needs it. Yesterday I would have been dishonest if, well. Wait. I was dishonest when I told people that I was feeling better. I know I sounded a bit better yet my lungs and sinuses were still encased in an intractable tegument of rubber cement. This morning I may actually be getting better, though as scales of that coating are finding their way out, in various, attractive ways. There is a distinct rumbling when I breathe followed by the curious sensation of oxygenated blood flowing through my brain. It’s a little tingly. You and I know it’s just oxygen but the addict in me? Is like, “Oh! Yeah!!!”

And now that the health thing is being restored I can think about restoring the (piddling) income that needs to be restored. This is a simple enough task. There are places that will hire me on the spot. Places that will actually pay me enough to keep my nose above water. I just have to show up at their door. I don’t really want to do any of those jobs, but it’s an income I’m replacing, not a career. My only career right now is making my way through the step work and perhaps returning to school (spring enrollment deadline is Nov. 29 – it’s sooner than I think!). Can you see me as a drug and alcohol counselor? Hmmmm. That’s what my dad thinks I should do. He may have something there.

This afternoon at the club there is a pot luck in celebration of Halloween. Good chance to be “a part of” so I suppose I’ll do that. I also need to do laundry. Need. Need to go buy bleach this morning, too. The sky is still that heartbreaking shade of blue. I’ll miss it when it ends. But I am not going to miss being sick. And I’m not going to miss being fired.

Just when I think I’ve got Him nailed down (no pun intended), what I think I know about God changes. That is to say, for me at least, God is in the act of seeking, not the finding. There are aspects of Buddhism that I find very attractive for that reason. Coming to meditation with a ‘beginner’s mind,’ for example. Or the prayer some people in AA, and perhaps other 12 step programs, call the set-aside prayer. Nothing quite beats a fresh start.

My sister sent me this little story the other day. I’m the kind of guy who secretly likes to watch Little House on the Prairie but I do it alone because I don’t want anyone to see me cry. This story had me crying like that, and though it is told from a Christian philosophy it’s not hard to see the universal spiritual truth in it. It’s a 3rd and 11th step story. For all the looking for God in the pages of the Big Book, and others, in prayer, in writing and in the stories of others who travel this curious path, I ultimately find that all these things provide a framework, or a frame, for my understanding of God to exist in. But I don’t find God in the framework, not in the words of a prayer or the words in a book, not in the words of someone’s story. I find God in the space in between; in the silence. I find God in what is not said but is understood.

My first step was like that. I mentioned Phillip Glass in another post and I mention it again for the more curious and adventurous among you. There is a Glass piece called “Pruitt Igoe” that would be the soundtrack if the moment of my first step were a movie. Tension. Repetition. Intensification. Intensification. Intensification and . . . . silence. Longer silence than one might expect. Longer than is even comfortable. Profound silence. And a return to the tension and repetition, but more slowly, more quietly. Transformed. I could neither quiet the noise in my head or the pain in my heart till my heart finally broke. Then I could have heard snow falling. And I could feel God move into the broken space. It took another month to stay sober, to get myself physically removed from harm’s way and somewhere that sobriety was valued and expected.

Now I never know where I’ll find God, but it’s always in the white space.

I’ve been thinking for the last little while about why I write and I can’t seem to come up with a satisfactory answer; at least not an answer that fits nicely into a package. I think I write because I have to. When I’m doing really good writing that’s absolutely true. I simply become the instrument. Jung talked about art being innate in the artist. Writing seems to be innate in me and oddly, I am usually it’s audience. The most effective writing happens when something clicks inside my head and my fingers are at a keyboard. Any delay destroys the opportunity for that click to have any lasting meaning. Any time to think about what’s happening removes it from the truth and the closer I remain to the truth, the more I allow myself to be vulnerable, to be authentic, to be honest, the closer I am to touching something real inside other people. That tiny delay is all it seems to take to alienate myself from the rest of the world. Just a fraction of an hour spent too much in thought allows my brain to paint something shiny on the cover and to cheat myself out of whatever may have been useful in the experience. It is an amazingly difficult practice. Even sitting here now I can see that I’m trying to craft a message rather that allowing the message to craft itself.

DeeK mentioned that he/she? doesn’t blog in part because of the ego factor. I have to admit that writing publicly opens me up to feeling like I should always be good; always have something useful or witty to say. The more I think about that the farther I get from the truth. Even correcting my typing as I go seems to be a hindrance to getting to the truth. But not writing publicly, only writing for my own eyes, doesn’t really improve the quality. I seem to be out to impress myself as much as anyone. I want to read what I wrote three or six months ago and think I’m brilliant. I’ve actually picked up old journals before, thought what I was reading was brilliant and had no recollection whatsoever of even having had the thoughts I’d set to paper. Actually wondered who wrote them. I think I maybe was really, really smart when I was younger, before the current extensive brain damage which addles me. I know, I know. Everyone assures me that I’m smart as a whip, but trust me, TRUST ME, the lights have dimmed quite a bit.

Bill W. talked once about his need to live in a universe that makes sense and to have faith in a God that intended for him to grow in His own image. A beautiful and comforting thought. I don’t even know how one grows in the image of infinite but thats the thing I want and I can’t even begin to make sense out of the universe. Something about writing turns the chaos into little stars and planets and fills the darkness with order and with light. For me. And not always. Or I can’t always do it.

I wish I had more time to just write. But I wish I could take the time to do it whenever the click happened, when the little flash of spiritual truth was there for me to grab. I wish I could write and stay closer to the truth and could do that more often. And I wish that when I do have time to write that I’d be able to just do it. I spend an unbelievable amount of time avoiding writing. Oh! I have to go smoke a cigarette. Oh! There’s apple pie on the counter. Oh! Look, my sister signed us up for myfamily.com (which is very cool, btw). Hours go in to not writing.

Ultimately I write to find God. And I seem to find God best in the white space on the page, not in the black. And I seem to find God most especially when I come with a broken heart. There is an old Carly Simon song, “Coming Around Again” that says that exact thing. There’s more room in a broken heart. More room for a God I don’t understand to work.

If I come to the table, or the keyboard, and put aside my ideas about what I’m supposed to be or have or do or know, and let you see the real me, the me that is broken beyond repair, the me that is terrified that I’ll never stay sober and never have a life and never love again, then God has more room to work. The minute I think I have any answers at all or think that things are great, I’ve decided that God is done here. It’s strange to me that the greatest love I’ve ever felt is so close to the greatest pain I’ve ever felt.

So I’m giving myself permission to fall apart for awhile because I need to make some more room for God to work. I’m giving myself permission to stop making sense, stop worrying what I’ll think of this 6 months from now or what any of you will think. I’m not checking grammar or sentence structure or clause agreement. I’m just on a quest to follow that star. Not that I think I’m the Sober Blogger of La Mancha or something, but isn’t that what sober blogging and steps 4-9 are all about? Marching through hell for a heavenly cause?

I have this friend, Owen, whom I have always loved for his wit, his charm, his fashion sense and his grasp of the program. Owen’s affection for vintage Pendelton shirts and nice shoes has set him apart from the pack as my favorite, my only, Retro-Sexual. The label reconciles the odd conjunction of his impeccable yet quirky taste with his heterosexuality. The only thing of Owen’s sharper than his dress is his tongue.

We are great friends. Obviously.

Since Owen is studying English literature at university, I sometimes ask him for his input regarding style or some technical point of grammar in my writing. After this evenings little suggestion about the editing of some words or the placement of commas, I have decided that Owen really needs to meet Virginia. Wolf. And since one of my favorite sentences, yes, sentences, by Ms. Wolf is about illness I thought it might be fun to share with all of you, now.

Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to light, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us in the act of sickness, how we go down into the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist’s arm-chair and confuse his “Rinse the mouth – rinse the mouth” with the greeting of the Deity stooping on the floor of Heaven to welcome us, -when we think of this and infinitely more as we are so frequently forced to think of it, it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love, battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature.

Now, if you should say my sentences run on or I should need a comma or take out a clause or if you say that the extra words I use add nothing to the point I am trying to make, then I shall simply fill my pockets with rocks and walk into the river. Please play something by Phillip Glass as I go.