A year after my death … in pretend. Or premonition?

“A year after your death, …” (after Czeslaw Milosz)

– Jan. 4 prompt from “A Writer’s Book of Days”

Okay, before I proceed, who’s Czeslaw Milosz?! {quick Google} Esteemed Polish poet and prose writer. Okay.

A year after your death …

The world is little changed and really no better than when I left it. I hover from time to time from way way way up here in the ethers. Check in like a grandma might check in on her grandchildren playing dominoes in the living room. Does anyone even play dominoes in Western culture any more?  The Asians have their own version. Mahjong. They love it to pieces. Word play not intended. Okay, perhaps a little. 🙂

My love for words has gone nowhere. Only I have. My love of words from here, on the other side, hasn’t intensified. It couldn’t. In life, the love was saturated.

It has, a year after my death, however, expanded. Become liberated from the — and I’m selecting these words with care and precision — Stupid on planet earth.

See, for me, I hated Stupid. Hated it vigorously. It’s complicated. I do not wish to rattle that hornet’s nest. Rather, it must suffice to say that earthlings as a whole were no true friends of mine. Kinship was infrequent, sparse, the meeting of minds a delight but rare.

Some were friends of course. Some glorious souls, rich in intelligence, compassion, thought, caring, insight. Kindness. That went a very long ways with me during my time on the planet. A very very long ways.

I wish not to stray from the topic. I hated Stupid, yes. Vigorously.

Yet what pained me most was not being listened to. It was a cross I bore in that lifetime. An affliction, in the Biblical sense. It was other things too. A burden. A wound inherited and imposed upon by my parents, both of whom have too passed from earthly residency. An imprint of experience that would not be shaken or erased or forgotten, only, eventually, understood, healed and forgiven from all sides.

I hated that hurt. I hated that I hurt. I hated my parents for not listening. Not seeing me. I hated them for imposing and giving me that one word even still is the most traumatic word I know in a grounded and extensive vocabulary: isolation.

Images from that lifetime, released a year ago, come flooding back. They’re not pretty. The emotions are wreckage. I’ve much to sift through and sort still from this side.

To return to point.

A year after my death, and looking in from the other side. Yes, I hated Stupid. Hated it vigorously. And I hated that so many, “the world at large,” couldn’t hear a single word I wrote. Too, many were the incidences where they couldn’t understand what I was speaking either, even though it was in our shared native tongue and with simple language. However, it was in writing where my gift, passions, purpose and undying love lay.

In humanity, it is within our strengths and gifts where the greatest tenderness and vulnerabilities lie and therefore where the deepest and lasting pains occur, are imprinted and stored until they can be loved back into the light by the soul who so chooses that journey.

Speaking but especially writing was like talking to a wall. A wall of Stupidity. A blank wall where often the simplest thought or concept, expressed simply and articulately, drew a blank.

Or where an alleged listener / reader so twisted and misperceived and mucked with and misconstrued my words in spite of their conciseness and exactness (points of great pride for me as a thinker and a writer) that  the whole “talking to a blank wall” was made moot. Instead, it was talking to an idiot. Lord they were EVERYWHERE. God what a fucking waste of a talent. “One cannot sew a silken purse from a sow’s ear.” Whoever penned that ought be commended.

God, I hated Stupid then. I felt so extraordinarily out of my element. Different. Sometimes like a convict in a prison called earth. Sometimes like a traveler yearning to be freed and go home. Always like a writer. Always like a visitor from elsewhere far far far away from a different plane and place.

My regret — though there are no regrets here, all things and all experiences be they perceived as positive or negative are for learning — is that I let Stupid get to me. Erode my innate sense of wonder and exuberant and unbounded curiosity. I was bright. Quick. My mercurial mind processed rapidly. “You only have to explain it once. I get it,” I used to say. Not that anyone listened. An aptitude little valued and appreciated I’d noticed as Western culture took off into Dumbed-Down. At light speed, I might add. Or is that dark speed?

Yes, a year after my death, my view on things is shifting. I see that I did let Stupid get to me. Erode the good, the beautiful, the articulate, the powerful, the expressive, the wonderment, the sheer enjoyment of life, pleasures tapped and untapped.

Were I to go back — there is no desire to return, only continuing to be the storyteller that I am and was — I’d do a few things differently. Perhaps many things.

Pertaining to writing and storytelling and the infinite love of both, I’d … I’d return to my innate and inbred attitude, spirit and mindset of a rebel and nonconformist {wait, aren’t they pretty much identical?} … that spirit that said Fuck You to the world.

And meant it.

Then too often failed to act on it in ways meaningful, purposeful and positively life-changing for me.

Yes, I allowed Stupid to eat away at my greatest gifts. It ought not to have happened. It wasn’t in the cards. Wasn’t my calling in that lifetime, neither my destiny.

I’m seeing now with a clarity, increased wisdom and understanding of the way things work that being on the other side affords that my inner rebel, albeit much much maligned by earthlings and sometimes my self, was not my enemy. Or my saboteur. Or a criminal to be shunted into darkness buried alive.

She who could say Fuck You to the world and do what was written to do, was preordained — do is the key word there — that was my ticket to freedom and fulfillment of purpose and destiny.

A year after my death, the world is little changed and no different than it was when I left it. Or how it’s been for eons. People are still people. They still do “bad” things and “good” things. They still kill one another. They still harm one another. They still violate, oppress, suppress and destroy one another in life. They still love one another, help one another, support one another. In short, they are no different this moment than they were when the prehistoric cultures existed.

What is changed is me.


2 thoughts on “A year after my death … in pretend. Or premonition?

  1. Why thank you! It’s nice when the words flow out nicely and clearly the first time (no rewrites or editing needed). 🙂 Enjoy the book! Reckon you’ll find it a quite different creature from the WP writing prompts.

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