|Some notes of mine.|
* * *
It is an old prayer: Let death hit a moving target. The idea that you'd sit and wait is anathema to me. If I have my mind, I pray I am at work. And this, this, this is my work, my joy, my reason.
To be fucked is to be without work or joy or reason. Just excuses.
* * *
Every life holds within it the possibility of living out its fullest potential, the fullness of its name. The problem arises when we learn fear, when we doubt our potential, doubt our name and succumb to our circumstances. Here's a question: what is more real, the knowledge you hold within you, or the knowledge of all that is external? For us fucked fuckers we hold the knowledge of the external to be primary, but if you would be unfucked you must rely instead on the sure knowledge that is known only within you, within your mind, within your soul. Knowledge such as that is free of all external considerations. Free, I say. Free.
Make no mistake, what is external can limit, even destroy life, your life, but is your body your life? The fucked confuse physical realities and prerogatives (money, success, politics) with internal realities and prerogatives (authenticity, freedom, communion). You are both, not one or the other. Your task is to move through the world and find your work, your joy, your reason so that what is known in your soul in made known in the world.
Oh, yeah, and this is a timed test.
* * *
My father worked his entire adult life in the funeral business - almost all of it as an embalmer. He was good at it, too. He chose the profession after getting out of the Navy and the Second World War because he figured he'd always have work. As a child of both divorce and the Depression, he craved stability. Despite how good he was at it, despite his willingness to do such a gruesome task routinely and without complaint, he was no embalmer. His work was something else. He was a pilot, a sky-jockey, Icarus, and he died a bit each day he was away from flight and he stopped flying almost thirty years before his body gave out.
How do I know this? Look at the picture below. That's 999 Mike Pop. His last plane.
After he sold it in 1967 he kept track of who owned her, how many times she changed hands and where she was hangered for the rest of his life. He loved flight and could not find a way to keep at it. A month or so before his death he said he had no regrets. After listing family and friends he said he had no regrets about any of it because he'd flown.
What was in him was in the skies.
What, oh what, is in you?