I haven’t published anything online recently. I write that without apology and most certainly without remorse.

Simply put, I did not feel like writing. I’ve been adjusting to the new prison of my life, where I now no longer need worry about what comes next as much as paying attention to the now and also reflecting on the past through different eyes.

It has been sort of like the tilt-shift photo here at top. It looks nice, but that lack of symmetry of the plants is not quite right.

Not long ago, I almost broke my silence to write about the experience of using up a bottle of dish washing detergent in my new home – my first permanent home – and the feeling of permanence it gave. But that feeling past, and therefore wasn’t permanent, which in itself is irony. The litany of bottles of dishwashing detergent that I have used since has become the norm, and that becoming the norm is itself the change.

Most of my life, I gauged the size of the bottle of the dish washing detergent I purchased to how long I expected to be at a place. I do not do this anymore.

There are other small things that cropped up like these, novelties to me, but I imagine so normal for others. That the way I am now living is closer to what most consider normal is actually a collection of small treasures and poisons for me.

Most of my life – why does the phrase ‘natural life’ get used, as if an unnatural life were possible – I have effectively lived by what I could carry to the next place, and the next place.

That affects how you deal with everything. If you’re constantly on the move, you compartmentalize, always ready for that next leap, always ready to jump at an opportunity regardless of geography, or relationships.

Part of the latter, too, is that what I do at any given moment has always been more important than the people. My life has taught me that people leave, that we leave, and that nothing stays the same no matter how strong of a connection.

The last season of ‘Ray Donovan’ on Netflix was great writing this way. “Forgive yourself” was a large part of it, but then, if and when we do forgive ourselves, what is left? If we forgive ourselves, what happens to us? And in my own way, I’m finding that out too. Brilliant writing for that show, by the way, worth watching. 

I’ve been reading as well, of course. This book, while not an original thought to me (similar to some things I have learned over time), was also an enjoyable read.

 

Where I live now – allegedly a community – there are people at different levels of the social structure of society. Some are great, some are annoying, but I have the luxury to contemplate them all in the solitude of my new world. Each a character, each with their own stories. And, as I fall into place in my own world, water filling a depression, I cannot help but love the fact that not caring as much about them leaves me understanding them better. Their passions and loves on their sleeves, they run amok.

And I see pain, and sometimes I feel that pain, which is yet another reason I stay to myself. Buddha was on to something, and maybe Buddha did right by himself or not – we will never know.

So I don’t know exactly what is coming next. I am slowly returning from my submarine view of myself, my life, and the people around me.

Sometimes it’s pleasant, sometimes not, and without anger or regret, my tropisms will lead me to what is more pleasant to me. That, in and of itself, is a new novelty…