It is now 1:06am on Thursday.
My flight back to the sweltering heat is over. I have taken two baths today, dined at Taco Bell, and re-bandaged my self-inflicted head wound. I have ignored palm tree trimmers at my door, and used my verbal skills only when I ordered my breakfast, said hello to my mother-in-law (she was leaving as I was pulling into the driveway), ordered my dinner, spoke rhetorically to my dogs, and said hello to the self-serve yogurt guy.
All of this verbose behavior since 11:50pm last night.
All other dialogue has been in my brain.
Previous posts can attest to my mind-speak, so I shall not delve into it here.
Now I sit up in bed, in a dark room; the first actual darkness I have seen since leaving for Alaska a week ago. The only light emanates from the Bose radio’s digital readout, and from the screen of the iPad. The only noise comes from the consistent whooshing of the white noise caused by the ceiling fan, the spacey and calming sounds from the Sirius satellite station called The Spa (it fills my tiny house), my mind’s voice–always there, always present, always talking, and the gentle snoring and groaning of the old labrador retriever beside me.
My mind is making to-do lists for me, most of which will be soon forgotten: My home needs cleaning, my backyard needs tending, my Jeep needs washing, my life needs direction, I have to deliver the smoked salmon I brought home to my father, I need to go to my pen store to pick up some letter writing paper, why haven’t I written anything good or worthy yet, my boss needs an email with book chapter assignments, and I could type on until the battery dies.
I escaped this week in Alaska by finishing “Ghost Rider” by Neil Peart.
He poured his soul into the inkwell of his pen then let his heart guide its flow upon the paper. His soul was shaped, twisted and torn by the experiences he encountered during his time in 1997-1999 and on top of his BMW R1100GS in that time after the tragedies. His mind was the battleground where his soul and heart fought their bitter war for control, and it was the ink that brokered the truce. That simple yet most complex of personal tasks; writing his feelings, thoughts and soul-wounds onto paper created the healing place where the soul and the heart could finally come to peace. The journey kept the two at bay most of the day (whether that journey be controlling the motorcycle from Quebec to Anchorage to Arizona to Mexico City to Belize then home again, or simply snowshoeing in the Canadian winter) so he could simply survive, heal, and eventually come back from the dead–the world where his only company were the ghosts; the ghosts around him and inside him.
Turn off the brain and find a comfortable place to recline. Tomorrow is here.
