The Get Back Sessions

For some reason I've been waking up somewhere between half-an-hour to an hour before my alarm goes off at 6. This despite falling asleep around 2. Not sure why. I haven't changed anything about my habits. I open my eyes and look at the clock then roll onto my back. Instead of drifting back off my consciousness goes knocking about the room next door until it comes crashing into my bed. All the jumbled pieces of dream assemble and fade. I don't remember the dreams other than I know I did dream.
Sit up on the edge of the bed for a bit, find my glasses, coffee and cigarettes. My head is already giving me instructions, reminders and such. Switch on the desktop, music is needed. Couple of games of Sudoku to get the neurons oiled and turning. News and blog posts to read. Already have blog ideas drifting in and out. Put together some more images to print off for my design notebook. An hour later my tongue is coffee-stained. Still need more caffeine.
Writing occasionally grabs me while I plot out the day. My head runs through the work I need to do today. Haven't dressed yet and the ashtray is already getting full. The cats are roaming, on the desk and off. One occasionally curls up in my lap just as I'm finishing my third (fourth?) cup of coffee. Volume goes up incrementally. The blinds go open at once. Still not dressed. Someone has emptied the coffeepot.
There are pills to start taking. Timing is everything. Weather reports, traffic reports, people walking on the street, people walking in the house. God, I'm running out of cigarettes. The mild melodic drone shifts into faster tempos, higher volumes. Hand claps and hi-hats. Muscles call for strain and stress then settle into a relaxed state. I start to lose the thread. More pills. On goes the shiny new album. On goes the fresh post of coffee.
Clothing becomes a necessity rather than an option. Damn wrinkled shirt needs a hot iron. Wrinkled hair just needs a beating. Choices: razor burn or a bit of stubble? The fog that fell in my mind an hour ago lifts. Pills start to kick in. More volume. I'm chewing on my lip again. Need to stop that. More smoke in my lungs. Don't want to stop that. Sort out my bag. Someone reset the clock, it's later than I thought. Sunglasses, keys, cat. Switch out the cat for my wallet. Then the door.
That's my morning, longer now with extra lack of sleep. Very confused about that.

The Get Back Sessions

I'm a terrible kisser. It's all lips and tongue and knocking of teeth. I breathe in the person almost like I was trying to suck their soul into me. True, I kiss like I mean it. That doesn't excuse sloppiness though. See, passion needs a sense of control. Not self-restraint per se, but direction and intention. I kiss with uncontrolled intensity. I like the feel of a woman's tongue, of tongue entwined. When I'm breathing in I'm also soaking my nose in her oder. It's as if I want each kiss to take a little part of her with me. I want her touch and taste and smell to form a permanent impression in my mind. Perhaps this is due to my ever-present fear that each kiss is the last one. I kiss like I mean it because I kiss as someone with everything to lose. For when that last kiss comes I want to remember it. That, I think, is the problem. Holding back would mean I thought future kisses were to come. But maybe that's what I should do. A kiss should not result in the abandonment of all reason. And still I kiss with such abandonment because I fear abandonment.

The Get Back Sessions

My family is coming up on the one year anniversary of my father and then grandfather's death this month (a father should never have to see his youngest son die first and I suppose my grandfather felt the same). The month of May has traditionally been the hardest month for my family. Can't say why, but that's how it goes. While my father and grandfather are not going to die again we have entered this month with a grave sense of life and its burdens. Yet my heart feels light right now. I think my father and grandfather have a hand in that. Their strength has become our strength. And while they now live in the light and glory they also have chosen to do what they can to ease our burdens. It's just something I feel and have no other explanation for it.
My thinking on death has slowly formed to the belief that whatever happens after our bodies stop doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter because you only get this life once. Even if you buy into Nietzsche's eternal recurrence you still only get one shot at this life. So my father and grandfather are dead. That's part of my life now. In the face of death and suffering I can either cry or laugh and carry on. I'll laugh even if there are tears in my eyes. And knowing I have a trio of loving fathers--God, my father and grandfather--looking out for me makes that laughter all the more joyful. I stopped fearing death when I realized I'll only have this life once. That's the freedom I believe Christ showed to us. That's the freedom I believe my dad and granddad are guiding me toward.
This life I have now will one day stop and even if that's the end of it I will still live this life as well as I can. Honestly, is there a better way to live? I may end up in misery, I may get swept up accidentally and sent to Gitmo, I may find myself in a real Holocaust style concentration camp. There are so many ways life can all go wrong. But it's still life, still my life, still this life. So what I fear isn't death but failing to live this life I have right now. Salvation may lie only through the grace of God but I don't have time to seek salvation. God gave me something better. God gave me life. So rather than insult God I'm going to damn well live this life. And the loss of my father and grandfather a year ago only strengthens my resolve to live as well as I can. Anything less is simply an insult to God and those who have died before us.