Serenity

I guess my blog has a grand total of 2 readers. It kind of makes my stomach queasy, having people read this junk, but I suppose that's one of the reasons I did this in the first place. As I told Shasta once, I have a subliminal desire to strip myself naked and stand before the world. I guess that's why I'm writing this in blog form instead of in the safety of my pen-and-paper journal. It's therapeutic for me but it scares me to death.

In my last entry I explained why I liked a certain painting. I word-painted this sappy (but true) scenario the painting made me think of: projecting my own emotions onto the woman, instilling her with some of my own Romantic escapism.

Part of me has always wanted to run away. Whether it was into my books or an actual, Chris McCandless escape, I've often had that desire (One reason my sister's ex-boyfriend fascinated me was because he had actually hitchhiked across the country).

I remember this one winter when it hit me really bad, so I took a walk down by the river and across the bridge into this forgotten little park. The trees were flocked with ice and the grass was hidden beneath a thin layer of snow. The snow was uneven, broken up by splashes of color. I looked closer and saw they were ducks. Ducks huddled together for warmth, their heads bowed and tucked under their wings, like they were waiting for the winter to pass.

I looked at them and thought, "Stupid ducks! Why are you still here and not south? Isn't that where you're supposed to go when it gets cold?"

For a while that was me. I was a duck.

But the funny thing is, deep down I'm one of those tragically dramatic people who is only happy when things are tragic. All my best poems were written when I was depressed ... and my favorite stories are about people who live in misery or have deep emotional struggles, like Potok's My Name is Asher Lev. So it makes me wonder if I could be truly happy if I were happy. That's why my image of heaven is not of a perfect place. My heaven has flaws in it, mistakes. Otherwise, what do you write poetry about in heaven?

But that's what's so stupid about me. I am a big idiot. All people who are tragic and deep and emotional are stupid. There's no reason to be like that. It's addictive but it makes no sense. It's inane.

Why should we be miserable and suffer? It's not for our benefit -- it's for the benefit of those around us. We want them to see us suffer and think, "Wow! That guy is tragic and deep and artistic." That feeling - that feeling of wanting people to watch us - is what is addictive. That's what's ironic about when people like us were in High School and made fun of the kids who were addicted to popularity. We made fun of them or, at least, felt bigger than them. But we weren't bigger. We noticed them just as much as they noticed each other.

To be truly free of these emotions would be incredible. That's the true escape I need, and I can't find it by taking a Kerouacian leap into the unknown or in a book or a painting. It's called "serenity," and it's what makes people climb mountains or wander in the wilderness. Serenity isn't a place; it's a level of consciousness most often found alone, though sometimes found with a friend or a lover.

Serenity is more than peace. It's more than a lack of turbulence. Serenity is internal peace -- aloof and gentle and easy. It's the peace you see in Buddhist monks or a flower or a tree. It's the Tao.

The times I feel most serene are when I'm reading a book, cuddled in a quilt and it's raining outside. Or one time when my friend and I were skiing and called it a day, so we sat by a fireplace with our ski bibs unzipped, our feet up, eating sandwiches and listening to "Soul to Squeeze" on the jukebox. I want that feeling, only for the rest of my life.