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My Thoughts Since the Passing of Walter Becker

It seems we rarely give pause in respect to the passing of time, until we reach a certain point in our lives, and only then do we regard it peripherally. Additionally we give little thought to the passing of time in the lives of others as well. Especially those figures who are of the semi high-profile sort. As much as some of us like to think that we know about what they do, in the end, we find that we know very little, and that in reality they were little more than punctuation in our own lives.

The weight of this observation didn’t hit me until this past Sunday evening as I lay in bed. I had, as one could guess, been preoccupied with listening to music the majority of the day, and had not listened to the news until switching on my radio that night.

As soon as I heard the announcer mention the name of Walter Becker, I knew what words were to follow. Walter was one whose name would rarely be mentioned in context with anything else within the past forty years. One had to know who Walter was in order for his name to be familiar.

Walter looked like the guy you’d see in the seventies, sitting outside the mall waiting for a ride. One of the most unassuming bottom-to-top-to-bottom-to-top-again success stories in modern American music, Walter lived out his life in obscurity, in plain sight.

It occurred to me that this man had lived and died within a period of 67 years, and all that I knew about him could easily fit into a thimble. Even though throughout the years, I had painstakingly reverse-engineered his guitar leads and his bass licks, and had attempted to capture his ultra clean, rich lead tones to no avail.

Had Mr Becker not partnered with Donald Fagen during college, both men may have easily faded into the backdrop which is composed of the rest of us, and aja, one of my ten favorite albums of all time would never have materialised.

With the death of Glen Campbell last month, and now that of Walter Becker, the passing of time has become all too apparent to me.

We never know when we’ve caught our last trout, or completed our last composition.

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When I’m In the Hole Every Direction Is Uphill

I am writing this primarily for the benefit of other sufferers so that they know that they are not alone.

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Well – it’s one of those days, and has been for the past three days now. A storm front has been pushing in from the West, and it has been taking its sweet time. I feel as if I’m walking around with a lead blanket thrown over me, and even though the sun is bright, I cannot enjoy it, because it makes my eyes sting, and suppresses me as if I was having the lamp of an interrogator shown squarely into my face.

This is what I refer to as being in the Hole. Yeah, I know, Alice In Chains had a song by the same name. But this hole is not a drug-of-choice induced hell. I didn’t elect to go into this hole, I was pushed by an unknown force. I was dragged kicking and screaming into it.

But if you’re one of us, I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know about. I’m just here to tell you that I understand, and to reassure you that you are not mad. The Hole is real.

The problem with it, is that I never know where the edge is until I get there, and I never know how far I’m going to go in.

For the past three days, I’ve started out with the ‘Okay, I can do this’ attitude. But right in the middle of it, I slide directly down the dreaded ‘Okay fuck this’ slope of desperation within the span of a minute.

The only recourse is that damned bed. How I hate that freaking bed.

I’ve grown to where I even dread eating, because I know it is going to hit me like a sledgehammer. I like food, and I like to eat, I just hate what it does to me anymore.

This is what makes it so damned hard to plan anything. And we can try to explain it to others, but the usual response – the eye rolling, the sighs, and the ‘I’m tired too, after working all day’ lines – serve no other purpose but to anger, and farther isolate us.

And we begin to worry. Even close family members may become preoccupied with work, or find reasons to leave us alone. As they grow more distant, they do not realise that, when we are having bad days, ignoring and avoiding us makes our depression more difficult to manage.

We begin to wonder if cherished loved ones won’t suddenly abandon us on the days we need them most. We may even begin to fear that those same individuals may one day leave us completely. We have no reason to feel this way, and that, too, angers us.

We all know that no amount of work has ever left us feeling this drained. And we all know that when we wake up in the morning, we aren’t going to feel much better than we did the night before, irrespective how well or long we sleep.

Sometimes we wish we’d never wake up, because this kind of life leaves one very little to look forward to, especially when those who claim to love us push us away with their apathy.

Many days, we are left only to one another, and ofttimes, distance forbids us from sharing thoughts, tears, and the day with one another.

I do not know who many of you are; others, we have consoled one another late into the night on social media platforms. Our faces do not matter. Only our understanding. Because we are the only ones who truly believe one another without reservation.

Our club is not one of pride, and our bond is not one of secret handshakes, but of desperation.

If you are having one of those days, take heart. I go into that hole often. As lonely as it can sometimes feel, you are not alone.

What Is True Will?

You’ll often hear ads on television and radio which promote motivational speakers. These speakers often focus on the use of ‘will power’ in order to get monumental tasks accomplished. Thousands of posters, and countless memes have been dedicated to the use of positive thought and will power.

But what is will power, and is anyone actually in possession of true will?

How many times can you recall yourself saying something to the effect of, “I’ll never do that again”, or “From now on, I’m going to______________”? But how many times did you find yourself doing ‘that’ again, or forgetting the vow you solemnly made to yourself ‘from now on’?

These sorts of shattered illusions are what expose the true measure of our will.

When I was twenty years old, I made a short list of objectives that I fully intended to accomplish by the time I was thirty. I didn’t reach any of the goals. Not a single one.

But my intentions were good, of course. It seems that we always start out with the best of intentions in whatever we endeavour to do. Right before things go straight to hell.

So for the next thirty years, I was determined to see if there was one thing in my life that I could see through from beginning to end. One thing – surely couldn’t be too terribly difficult to accomplish. What, then, was the one thing that I was certain that I could devote the rest of my life to? Well, the one thing that I valued among everything else was music. I had begun my quest as a songwriter around the same age that I’d made my list, and it is true that I had not abandoned the journey. The fact was, that I had yet to be come successful at it. My dream was to be able to play several instruments tolerably, engineer sound, and produce my own material. Bands such as Todd Rundgren and Steely Dan were huge influences in this respect.

Success is a term that is generally associated with money and being well-known, respected among one’s peers, and the like.

Nonetheless, I persevered, and although I had learned a great many things in relation to the field – I was working in a retail establishment which sold musical instruments and sound equipment – I had still to make the strides that I had intended by the time that I was forty. Often it was necessary to remind myself why I had begun in the first place.

Throughout the course of rearing two children, and working all kinds of day jobs, I redoubled my efforts to set money aside for musical gear, and recording equipment. I also set aside one hour a day to practice at my craft, this was apart and completely different from the actual playing of music, which would consume even more of the time that I had precious little of.

By the time I was fifty years old, I had become connected to my Muse, and was writing profusely. The musical path that I had begun was a bit of a surprise, but I followed my Muse wherever it led without question. I completed my studio, which I christened Good Intentions, and chose ‘Hell Paving Company’ for the name of my publishing domain. It cannot be said that I was not acquainted with the irony of it all by this time.

In 2014, I tore my studio down with the intent of erecting it in another, more suitable room of the home. All of my gear sat in a corner collecting dust for the next three years. Chronic Fatigue is a cruel mistress, and my life had been slowing to a crawl since I had contracted it in November of 2007.

Then one night last month, while lying in bed, I was listening to the 20 odd sketches of tunes that I had recorded into my Android. I stared over into the dark corner that hid all of my recording equipment.

“Starting tomorrow, I’m going to start putting my studio back together, even if it kills me.” I told myself. The task was daunting.  But I knew that if I died before getting the tunes – which the Muse was still being so charitable in supplying me with – properly recorded, I would go to hell. Hell is a completely different place for writers. I imagine it to be a place where only poorly maintained manual typewriters exist, paper is at a premium, and the thoughts come too quickly to transcribe.

Mainly, however, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving these tunes orphaned. Nobody except I had heard them, and my task was to get them recorded and give everyone else a chance to hear the wonderful imagination that the Muse is so blessed with, for you see, I do not feel that these pieces of music are mine. I have been assigned a task, and it is up to me alone to complete these pieces.

Eight days later, although my back and shoulders were killing me, the studio was together, and I found myself becoming painfully reacquainted with the plethora of cables and the routing of which I had all but forgotten.

Today I fired up all of the components, and with the exception of the ancient synthesizer, everything seems to be working. Maybe if I just jiggle the handle….

So I have discovered that perhaps there is indeed a bit of true will left inside of me at the age of 61. And that I may have, in fact, discovered the meaning of true success.

 

The Chronic Fatigue Cycle of Life

I’ve felt horrible the last four days.

I’m lucky to have a peanut butter sandwich on days like those. Cooking a full meal is akin to climbing Mount Everest. If it weren’t for boiled eggs, oatmeal, and milk, I’d probably dry up completely.

This morning however, I woke up at 5:00 without a headache. This, in and of itself, already puts me in a more positive frame of mind. After cleaning litter boxes and filling food bowls, I sit to rest, and vape while I quaff two cups of coffee. These are the only two ‘treatments’ that I rely on to get me into ‘work’ mode. Sometimes they make a big difference. I don’t trust doctors or the FDA anymore. How can they prescribe something to treat my condition, when they claim that they don’t even know what the hell has caused it?

I look at the studio equipment that I disassembled over a year ago. I really want to put that thing back into the operational mode, but today there are more pressing matters to attend to. The house has gone to hell over the last four days and I simply have to clean up.

I start the dishwasher, and drag a load of clothes into the laundry room. As that process plays out, I run my big, yet lightweight microfibre floor duster, then draw a big pan of hot water, and add plenty of bleach.

I have a big kitchen, a big den, the laundry room, and a bathroom to mop.

I’ve been in the ‘process’ of tiling the floors for the past two years. A few years back, my son helped me take up all of the carpet, because vacuuming that nonsense was becoming close to impossible for me.

I have three portions of the kitchen in a sort of ‘grid’. I mop one grid, then rest, vape, and drink more coffee while it dries. Then move on to the next portion. I have the entire floor done within an hour. Sufficiently warmed up, I start on the den, which is also where I ‘live’. My bed and everything is in there.

The rhythmic back-and-forth motion of mopping is beginning to make my back ache and tire, but I do my best to ignore the pain.

Half-way through the den, the washer signals that the laundry is ready to go into the dryer, but it really is nice outside today, so I haul the bed linens out to hang up and dry. Sun dried bed sheets are one of the finer things in life.

Another hour later, the den and bathroom floors are finished. I rest up and look at the studio equipment again. I’ve got at least twelve sketches of new tunes recorded into my phone, and I feel pressed to get them properly recorded.

I haven’t produced a new CD in almost three years, and am beginning to think that the format is a waste of time and energy. Owing to the fact that I am a visual artist as well as a songwriter, it only follows that I feel it necessary to do all of the cover art and liner notes myself. I’d like to just quit production of CDs, however the artist in me eschews mp3 files, and feels that in order to truly release songs, they must at least be recorded to CD to count as a ‘work’. I come from an era that the purchase and ownership of a physical product was part and parcel of a ‘music collection’.

I reflect on my immortality, and hope to the heavens that I do not die, leaving a bunch of orphaned tunes on my phone.

After putting another load into the clothes washer, I sit down at my desktop to work on a generation of my on-line genealogical tree that has been giving me a problem, but this is not what I really want to do. I see enough of this on days that I can do little else. Besides, the light from the screen hurts my eyes.

I need to get back to work. After folding the dried clothes, I empty the dishwasher, and then sit down to rest and vape. Darn it. Where did the time go? It’s a quarter to eleven, I’ve drained an entire pot of coffee, and I need to cook something. Won’t everyone be surprised when they get home! Oh, boy! A hot meal.

But I’m already feeling the effects of my efforts, and I’m thinking that tacos sound extreme enough for what is left of my energy reserves, so I start cooking the meat and chopping the onions. Repetitive motion tasks seem to be the worst. Onion chopping kills my arm now. The onset of fatigue is so quick that it still leaves me incredulous, but there was a time that I was capable of butterfly curls – 50 reps of 25 pounds – without breaking a sweat. Glory days.

After eating, I’m shot. Food affects me like a Valium, and sleep becomes unavoidable. While lying in bed and checking my Twitter feed, I glance across the room at my recording equipment once more. How many times in the past few years has this scenario played out? I can only hope that tomorrow will be as productive as today was, but experience has taught me that tomorrow I’ll most likely feel as if I’ve been beaten with a rubber hose because of today’s efforts.

If I’m lucky, I’ll feel better in a few days and will be able to begin the cycle all over again, but my chance of ever getting the studio back together looks slim from this side of life.

By the way – in the event that something unexpectedly happens to me, the code to open my phone is PEnnsylvania 6 – 5000. If there are any tunes on there, I would like to think that one of my musically inclined colleagues will take it upon themselves to finish those tunes for me.

CFS Worst Case Scenario (Typical Day)

I’m going to write a bit today, not about music, but about this damned affliction that I have mysteriously been strapped with, generally referred to as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I’ve only attempted to relate this disease in one or two other blog entries, but it seems to garner a decent bit of attention when I do, so I’m going to take a stab at it today, primarily because today is one of those days that I almost think that I’d be better off dead, although that may sound a tad harsh.

No, I’m not contemplating suicide. I don’t have the guts to do that to everyone else involved in my life that such an action would inevitably and adversely effect. The stigma surrounding CFS alone is bad enough. The inability, or unwillingness, of the scientific community to get to the root cause of the disease is enough to drive an individual into deep depression, and to withdraw from society.

No fun can be had. No breaks can be taken. Nothing is available that will alleviate the constant dull headache – the constant pressure at the top of my eyeballs and consequential sensitivity to sunlight. Nothing can take away the God-awful feeling of constant sluggishness that I feel from the moment I rise to the time that I fall asleep.

I have most recently described the feeling as one of having a constant hangover, coupled with that of coming down with influenza. I am aware that this may be impossible for those who do not suffer from the affliction to identify with this notion, or even believe that it is possible to feel this way 100 percent of the time, but I can assure the reader that this is the way that it is.

And then, I have to awake and begin the day. The difficulty of having to get through a day, accompanied with these symptoms, cannot be over emphasised. There are things that need to be done around the house, and I have to do them. The smallest tasks are sometimes nearly impossible to surmount, because the symptoms that I have just outlined are only baseline symptoms. Sometimes they are considerably worse, and other days they are marginally better. On the better days, it almost reminds me of how good I used to feel. If one is not careful, this will bring on a bout of depression, and I learned that lesson the hard way, so I must put that out of my mind, and be glad that I’m having a “good” day. It is almost laughable to refer to it as good.

One has to rest several times while washing the dishes. One has to rest after cleaning the cats litter boxes. One has to rest while sweeping and mopping the floor. One has to take breaks while cooking a meal.

Some have asked, why not use a dishwasher? Because washing dishes gives me something to do.

Others have asked why I don’t order out. Because it’s too expensive, and again, cooking gives me something to do.

One inquired, “Why don’t you lose the cats, dude?” Because the cats give purpose to my life. I talk to them, I fuss at them, I cry to them, and I tell them my troubles, and they respond by nuzzling and marking me. Sometimes that in and of itself is annoying, but I tolerate it, because if I were completely alone, I would begin to question the value of my life, and that is best not to ponder.

What it seems that many do not understand, is that as humans, we want things to do. If we begin to strip away ‘doing’ in order to ‘not do’, then our lives reach a point to where we feel useless and unnecessary.

Lacking the ability to do an honest day’s work anymore, one’s life becomes amazingly empty. I used to imagine having nothing but all the time that I required to do nothing but write and record my music. Having reached this point however, has been a mixed blessing, as recording music has become a major task. Singing is a task. I have to pause the process and rest between verses, because singing requires an incredible amount of energy. Either it always did and I didn’t notice because I had a seemingly endless store of it, or it did but it didn’t matter because I had said endless store.

These dishes – the litter boxes – the mopping and the sweeping. These tasks have taken on new meaning in my life in the past nine years, and if you can’t imagine how that must feel… you should consider yourself very fortunate indeed.

A Sample Day In The World Of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

Successfully dragging myself from the bed at 6:58, I’d gotten dressed. As I sat there resting afterward, I found myself mulling over the discussion that I’d had with five new friends that I had discovered on Twitter the day before.

A lively exchange ensued, an we typed freely as if we’d known one another for years, and in a way – we had. We all suffer through the same relative hell. I can really connect with someone who speaks my language. No one else does.

“I need to get in there to try and start writing while my brain is fresh.” I told myself.

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‘Fresh’ is a relative term these days. I knew that by 11:30 – which in normality, would’ve been my “wide awake and running on all eight cylinders” time – I would be approaching worthlessness. On a good day, I might even be able to stave off ‘The Fog’ until 12:30 with the application of copious amounts of coffee and nicotine via vaping.

Here, one might say, “Oh, I have mornings like that all the time,” or “There are studies that suggest that too much coffee is bad for you,” or “nicotine is a dangerously addictive drug, and may be carcinogenic.”

Well, let me take this opportunity to clear up a few misunderstandings. I’ll take these in the order in which I presented them.

1) No, you don’t have mornings like this. Don’t patronise me because it pisses me off more than you could ever imagine.

In all of my 51 years before contracting CFS, I never ‘had days like that’. Never.

Not even on those ‘mornings after the night before’ when I was in my twenties. After playing music while sweating profusely, expending energy as if there were no tomorrow, drinking tons of beer afterwards, smoking cigarettes, and staying up until 2:00 in the morning.

2) Coffee and Nicotine are what keep me running – no – idling until the effect wears off. You have your drugs, I have mine, and I utilise them for a completely different reason now. My headache is usually anywhere between a dull ache above and behind the eyes, to a really bothersome piece of shit on the crown of my skull. Caffeine keeps it at bay. In my world, that nullifies all of the studies anyone can throw at me. I won’t take aspirin for reasons which I’ll outline later. Nicotine actually provides a bit of sharpness to otherwise dulled cognitive skills. Gives the brain a bit of an edge, albeit a dull one. Vaping removes all of the bad things relative to smoking and leaves you with the single saving grace. Besides, although it may be addictive, so are lots of things that the FDA approves, except that nicotine doesn’t come with a laundry list of side effects.

Besides, I’ve been through the entire health kick, beginning in my thirties. Lived the life. Quit drinking, quit smoking, quit eating at McDonald’s. You get the picture. But a little wasn’t enough, so I kept going. I lost a little bit of fat, began walking. Miles. After a few months, I began weight lifting. Then I bought the Trek 1000 and began the cycling routine I’ve written about before. I was in the best shape I’d ever been in. By God, I’d earned it too.

Until I was three months into my 51st year. Within a two week period, I went from 50 – 70 mile rides to feeling as if I were fighting the gravitational pull of Jupiter.

I had a doctor say, “Well, you are getting older…” Then I outlined the above scenario. No. Not that quickly did I ‘get older’.

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Okay! So I’m dressed and up. First order of the day: Make the freaking coffee. Drink a big glass of water. Then clean out the litter boxes, and fill the water bowls. Sitting down to rest afterward, of course. The activity that I just described ‘exhausts’ me. I inhale deeply, and blow out forcefully as if I’ve just completed a half days work.

Yes, it is embarrassing to admit. What else can one do? I’ve just gotten started, and already I feel the same way I felt when I finally lay down the night before. This is no exaggeration.

Nonetheless, having only begun I get up after a couple of minutes, grab the floor duster and do the kitchen. This is something that requires a serious application of sustained energy. Then sit down to rest. Huffing and puffing.

Repetitive actions are the worst. I used to do building renovation. Carpentry, drywall, painting, laying tile. All of those tasks require repetitive action. Hammering, sanding, sawing, or the constant back and forth motion of brushing or rolling paint onto a surface. Hell, I can’t even knead dough now without giving out, so I can’t enjoy baking bread like I once did. Sometimes preparing a meal takes two entire days.

The CFS affects every part of my life, and completely ruins what was once a great living.

But hey, I’ve got to begin writing, and it is now 7:30. Time’s a’wastin’ as my grandfather liked to say. So I park my ass in front of the computer. I have the screen turned down to perhaps 33% brightness because the disease has also affected my eyesight. Bright sunlight or artificial light makes my eyes burn and hastens the headache. Nobody knows why.

I gather my thoughts and begin typing. This time is crucial, because no one is up yet. It’s Saturday and the others are sleeping in. Which is groovy, because the slightest thing is capable of distracting me. Gone are the days of multi-tasking. I’m lucky to be able to concentrate well enough to do any one thing well.

Paleface is pawing at the water bowl. It is empty. Did I not fill that damn thing up? I stop what I’m doing to inspect. The one that he has chosen to drink from is bone dry. What the hell is wrong with me?

Did I not mention the constant forgetfulness that accompanies CFS? I look back across what I have typed. I haven’t mentioned it. What the hell is wrong with me?

I begin to type again. After two cups of coffee and working for some time, I ‘come to’. I am hunched over not unlike Quasimodo. I feel as if I’ve sat this way for a week. I straighten up and it hurts. I check my phone. Did I hear it alert? Where the hell is my coffee cup? Holy shit. It’s 9:30. I haven’t thought about what to do for dinner. If I don’t get cranking soon, I won’t have dinner done by 6:00 this evening. I’ll feel as if I’ve been beaten with a hose by then, so I have to start now.

And speaking of eating – sooner or later, one must eat. I hate eating these days, because this signals the end of my morning. Food does me the way that Valium used to. It hammers me like one cannot imagine. I have to lie down and sleep for two or three hours after eating, and I’ve tried everything. Eating lighter, different foods, nothing works. I can eat a few graham crackers with peanut butter (crunchy) and have a spoonful of honey. BOOM. The ‘edge’ afforded by the caffeine and nicotine becomes as dull as a rubber knife within fifteen minutes.

After I wake up around 4:00, I never regain the edge that I’d achieved that morning. It’s like running on fumes the rest of the day, until, finally, I will take two aspirin, one Benedryl, and go horizontal at 9:00. I’ll feel marginally better in the morning, but not for long.

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But that doesn’t matter. People are stirring now, and my concentration is shattered. I have to get dinner going.

You guys have a good day. Captain out.

The Benefits of Being a Student

I haven’t written lately. For those who have noticed and wondered why, the reasons are varied and legion, and have little to do with anything in particular. I did not plan on it, it just occurred, so there was little I could do in the way of informing anyone of any intent on my part; I simply went with the flow.

But whatever the case, I arrived at a point at which I felt I had said just about all that needed to be said. Until today.

I’ll be turning 60 years old this Summer, and it gives me cause to reflect. I’ve been kicking around in pretty good health most of my life – that is, until the CFS thing, which I’m still battling going on nine years now – but it has recently become apparent that I may be coming upon some of the most turbulent years of my life. There is also the realisation that I may only have twenty years left, at best.

I don’t need to tell you how quickly the last twenty years have passed. If you haven’t gotten here yet, it won’t be long, and if you have – well then, I don’t need to tell you about it.

It almost feels like a version of the ‘crossroads’ theme, wherein one begins to wonder if he has done everything that he intended to do when he was younger. Or perhaps, whether or not the things that he did was the right thing to do.

Recently, my daughter inadvertently caused me to call this thought to mind and inspect the content.

Neither of my two children have elected to have children of their own, which I happen to think is the ‘ultimate responsibility’ of one’s life. At the ripe ages of 32 and 36, I’m assuming they will never know the feeling, and will thus miss out on one of the most pleasurable, and in some ways tormenting, passages of life.

In a less therapeutic sense, this gives them nothing but themselves to think about, and thus they never will be able to truly remove themselves from the centre of their universe. An unfortunate circumstance to be sure. One day I fear they may find something missing that they cannot quite put their finger on; for at the very core of our existence rises the irrepressible urge to leave something of ourselves behind, and there is no better thing to leave but a living, breathing organism that is a product of oneself.

So, I suppose one could say that the last 59 years have been a learning experience.

I’m thinking that this was, at one time, something that was understood by those younger generations, and that they viewed older people as having good information to impart, simply for the asking. This at least appears to have been true in the culture of the Far East.

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During my twenties, I became more than ‘a little’ curious about the origins of religion, and studied each one with a voracity that I can no longer muster. I studied them all, attempting to find the common thread in each. Although raised in the Deep South in America, I could not embrace without question the Middle Eastern teachings of the Jews nor that of their rebellious son and miracle worker. Blind faith was required to swallow these pills, and this was something that was not a natural part of me, and attempts to instill it through fear had failed, and only succeeded in making me more determined. The only thing that I had carried away from all of the regularly scheduled programming was the quote, “Seek, and ye shall find. Knock, and the door will be opened”.

I studied Hinduism, bought the Rig Veda, and the Upanishads, but found the personification of man in deities far too dated and cryptic to my liking. I studied Islam, but quickly realised that there was nothing there of value. I burned my Koran. The author was clearly not writing as an enlightened individual, but one filled with hate for his fellow man.

When I found the Dhammapada, a Buddhist text, I began reading it expecting little in return. It took some while before I began to detect a certain ‘taste’ in these scriptures, but it was enough to keep me interested, as the translation was so incredibly clean and uncluttered. I also discovered that, at its core, Buddhism is not a religion, as many believe, but a philosophy of life. As I became more interested, I studied the different ‘branches’, and determined that Japanese Zazen seemed to me the purest form, and decided to attempt to practice the art.

Over the past thirty years, I have held to the philosophy, and, along with P. D. Ouspensky’s The Fourth Way, keep the Book of Buddha beside me on my bed, as it is one of my most beloved texts. At this point, I feel as if I have become a well versed student of the philosophy of Buddha. Enough so that I keep it to myself. I concluded that talking about Buddhism is the worst thing that one can do, so I’ll stop here.

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My oldest child, and only daughter, who lives many hundreds of miles away, visited last month. I was overjoyed, having been forced to live without her nearby for the majority of her life. My influence on her was not as I would have preferred it, but the cause for the distance between us was one of her choosing, as she freely admits. After she departed, it seemed like a dream, and I was saddened by the feeling that I no longer knew her.

As of late, I was contacted by her, and blindsided by her attempts at blaming me for all sorts of her personal suffering, the greatest transgression being that I was unavailable to her for the majority of her life. She then informed me that she had recently been studying Buddhism – Zen in particular – and implored that I ‘resume my studies’.

Ah – kids. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.

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Yes indeed. Wisdom is wasted on the elderly.