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Health & Fitness

from JWG's Willing to Believe

Wherein JWG, on vacation with René, listens to the World's oldest lullabye: one's own Heart.

San Francisco, California  Monday, June 10, 2013  6:46 a.m. PDT

The morphing of vacation into reality is occurring. René and I did not do too much yesterday except go out to breakfast at a small place on Church Street at Market Street and walk around a few blocks. At home, here at The Little Yellow House, I finished reading Isherwood’s Prater Violet, wrote poetry, and, with René, wrote postcards. I took a power nap of five minutes at seven o’clock which kept me awake to watch, believe it or not, television.

“The Simpsons” still have it. The commercials are still not a favorite of mine. The Tony Awards were handed out making me appreciate Broadway energy, but, not Broadway shows. I am feeling quite seasoned.

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This season, Spring, I have done much — collections of coins, books, and records have been culled. This next season, Summer, officially begins in a couple of weeks, although, in our Zwerglipatch Garden and our minds, Summer began ten days ago. Four Seasons in twelve months is easily divided. I shan’t bother reiterating what we have planned for this Summer.

I awoke with tired legs this morning. In fact, I am still in bed. My legs appreciate having no pressure on them. My mind is heavy with the simple act of considering what shift I shall place my energies. Shall I be a busy bee or a sloth? Methinks I shall intersperse the two. Reading, writing, sorting, typing, gardening, and whatevering will be, and always has been, my routine. When placed all together, they are my Life’s work.

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My past has had too, too many days when I accomplished absolutely nothing but gather material, so I thought, for my pipedream — writing.

Yesterday, I told René that I always wanted to write, but, and this is what stopped me, I did not wish to be read and misunderstood and pressured into doing, and being, something, and someone, I was not. My ability to stand on my own feet and say “No!” was nil. I became, practically, a zombie.

Even when I was alone, in Manhattan, what I wrote was read by those who had no consideration of why I was scribbling my thoughts.

I wish I still had many of my scribbles. When I went through a phase of wishing to destroy my place in the future, I destroyed much of  what I recorded. Tossing out papers was, for me, deleting my words. Today, as you know, I scribble and do not delete for paper has no button to push. Many of these words are not important, yet, I never know what will pour from this pen. Thus, I scribble each day. I do not have to scribble. I do not have to write more poetry. I do not have to do anything.

Why? Why do I continue with these routines knowing I dislike routine? Why do I collect objects and observations knowing I have collected more than sufficient? Why?

It is not for me to answer these questions. I have no reason. I do. Simple. I sketch thoughts with words. I have yet to be complete. I withhold most of my thoughts; many of which are nothing but drivel and bitchiness and apathy and empathy entwined into disbelief.

I do believe, as I have said too much, in hope. With Hope, I have walked hand-in-hand.

Last night, on the Tony Awards, I saw a brief scene from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “Cinderella”. I first saw this show, on television, with Lesley Ann Warren as Cinderella when I was at my lowest. “In My Own Little Corner” was a melody that rang true in my mind. It still does. It did. It did come true. My Hope is being fulfilled — thanks to television, Broadway, and most importantly, my own, personal, dashing Cavalier — René.

Here I am, in bed, scribbling in San Francisco, in the State of California, far away from Hancock, New  Hampshire, with a man born in Switzerland, who emigrated to these States, who happened to go to an Off-Broadway show, and see, and pursue, Me — a lonely, curly-haired pauper-puppeteer. And, more than thirty-years of living as one, we are married. Yes, with my Spouse beside me, I am truly living a Cinderella story. Dreaming of Hope did come true.

Is that why, for me, my reality, I, today, scribble? A large part of me does have that urge to share my story so others can realize that situations do change. Comfort is achievable. Belief may be hindered by not believing. For years, I did not believe that my place in my own life was worth living. Silly? Yes! If only one person reads my thoughts and realizes that silliness permeates a lonely life and can retain Hope and, most importantly, realize sooner than I did that Happiness is feasible and possible, than these scribbles have been worth my time.

Yesterday, I asked a question of René. It was, “What makes Time important? Why do we live with Time hanging like a noose over us? Why do we believe in an essence that does not exist?” (Well, I asked three questions — at once.)

Needless to say, I received no reply.

This morning, my answer is mechanical. I feel we have created Time to explain these machines of blood and muscle pumped by the engine we have entitled one of this World’s oldest words: Heart.

Heart is Time.

Each day, Time stops. We feel, deeply, some of this stoppage. Mostly, we feel nothing for we have no control. We wish to attain control of our Time in these Times.

Times. The Times We Live. The Times We, as a People, Lived. History. History is combined Time. The heart of History is accomplished by understanding the most simple of words: Heart.

Last night, before I slept, I listened to the beat of my Heart. It is a muscle over which I have no control. Yet, do I? I do think I was able to slow its beat a wee bit before I slept. My heartbeat is a lullabye. It is said our senses work while we are asleep. Do I listen to my Heart while I sleep? Is my Heart an alarm clock? Do I ask too many questions? Whether “yes” or “no”, I shall always question my Time and Place and the Luck I have had in holding Hope as a priority in my Heart. Hope is the ultimate vacation in Reality.

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