Focused Emotional Intensity
How you feel about something is the crucial determinant, than what you think about something. 'The What' can always be modified. 'The How' is the guiding inspiration, motivation, and premises for what you think. It is the organic and visceral articulator of your intent.
There have been too many times I was ignorant to logically wrong. Because I had a genuine integrity of conviction for what I was doing 'things fortuitously happened'. Many times they were forebodings and warning. But there were as many, if not more times when significant serendipitous or synchronistic interventions turned what was a miserable prospect into a marvelous outlook, if not opportunity.
If you have read me prior to this, then you know of the genesis of this in January 1960 as a safety patrol on a blustery winter's pre-noon day at the corner of E. Genesee and Westcott Streets. I was out their sulking resentfully in the misery of missing who would become my all-time favorite teacher to the one who replaced her. On that particular pre-noon day the January winds were blowing unmercifully brutal through my well-bundled clothing. That ripping chill just accentuated my physical and emotional misery. At the peak of that distressing moment I heard the put-put-put of a small engine car coming up Genesee heading towards my corner. I turned to look over my left shoulder and there she was. My sainted teacher in her yellow VW-Bug turning off Genesee onto Westcott, right in front of me. I recognized her and yelled out her name. She saw me, grinned and waved back. Ohhhh! How joyous I was.
Though I made a vow of fealty to whatever conjured that, it was the intensity of the emphaticness of that vow which set the paradigm for me of believing strongly in what I was doing would have its ultimate rewards.
The rewards were a little more mundane and secularly-oriented between that January Day in 1960 to the next memorable one in May of 1967. Guileless infatuate-me had chosen to take someone, for whom I was a ticket and ride, to my Junior Prom. I was tolerable as a temporary ornament for the purpose of that date. I was treated as her go-fetch-dog which I civilly did in the name of the decorum's by which I was raised. The final indignity was when I was sent to fetch the coats for the party in which I was the odd-guy (figuratively and literally) out. WHEN I GOT TO THE HAT-CHECK GIRL AT THE COAT RETRIEVAL WINDOW, the evening turned into a 'Cinderella fantasy. The hat-check girl turned out to be the now more physically blossomed and equally enjoyable ex-neighborhood gal from the houses behind mine on Westcott Street. She recognized me and that began a marvelous communication for my soul [which would scores of years be recognized for its linguistic importance and potential in self-identity and self-defining]. What seemed like a forever moment was actually a few brief minutes before I returned to the table of my non-appreciated humanity.
I saw the finger-prints of mercy of that encounter being equivalent to what happened back in 1960. It was my further proto-initiation into what I'd come to know as the 'Oasis Doctrine'-the time between the obligatory mechanics of temporal social choreography to those moments of sublime comfort and self-realization for what I had the potential to be.
Flash forward to late September, early October in 1968. There I am a freshman at Yale, my parent's choice and wish for me. There's a 'Mixer', during the all-male years, females from regional women's colleges would be invited to a dance at the Residential Colleges (dormitories). I was there in the required suit-garb and being a wall-flower. I forget how I met her: was it me who asked her to dance or vice versa, or was it just making eye contact and starting a conversation. However it started, it was very much like the conversation I had with the hat-check girl at my Junior Prom a little over a year and a quarter past. Just being yourself without having pretensions of your own (which I had few of in my deferential ways of being that guy from Syracuse) to not having to meet another's expectations. It was an open honest, friendly conversation. A great departure from the toxic pseudo-machismo encountered on campus. It was nice being with her, whose name is lost to me in the fog of decades.
Jump ahead 12 months later, and I'm now a more cocky sophomore: with thanks to Reisman, Glazer, and Denney's 'The Lonely Crowd'; Camus' 'L'Etranger', and Shakespeare's 'King Lear'. Along with my own expansion of self-confidence from my facing-down my parent's micro-controls which they thought they could extend beyond the roof of the home residence and my own introduction to ideas not engaged in the home and certainly not in my secondary education at Nottingham High. I was returning to campus from a visit with a gal whom I met as a sales person at the Macy's in downtown New Haven. I'd spent the late afternoon to the early, pre-dusk evening with her. I guess I returned at that time for my own social agenda. There was a room party scheduled which would have been the aggregation of most of the new class of Black underclassmen and coeds. Most reminded me of my naïve innocence of a year earlier. As I approached York Street, I was spotted by some of the male freshman. They called out to me in the most surprising derogatory terms, calling me, "You Dog, You!". I laughed and said the equivalent of "WTF!". They explained as a prosecuting attorney would do at a trial. A half-hour earlier "I" had been seen leaving the party with "The finest gal there!". Now here I am cavalierly returning to the party as if it was a pickup bar at 'Happy Hour'. I busted out laughing at their stated indictment of me, and I told them I'd been over 2-miles away for the past two hour. So, it couldn't have been me. They didn't believe me. And even I believed in a corner of my mind that my intense feelings I had with the gal from Macy's off campus and my own guilt of social hypocrisy for indulging in affections with her, a white girl, could've projected the alter-ego of me to that party [though I pragmatically thought that some look-alike was in the area]. It did bring up the proposition of what strong emotional intensity might be able to do.
That same Autumn of '69 I was hounded by premonitions an bad omens. Blood-Sweat-and-Tears covering Laura Nyro's song 'And When I Die' had haunting lyrics
whose epitaphic lyrics weren't helped by my birthdate coming up #36 in the last selective service draft. I'm getting a bit a head of myself.That Macy's Gal I'd been seeing off campus had a boyfriend. I was her novelty side-piece which she flattered herself in her own way. Just as I was doing with her. Though I was totally unattached. Me and my roommates on a weed and psycho-pharma high decided to swing by there (unannounced, which proved disastrous). We got there and her main squeeze she'd been emotionally cuckolding was there. Bedlam up in the apartment and on the stairs.
I was crest-fallen and heart-broken. In that drug-amplified, depressed state we left that house for a midnight rendezvous with 'synchronicity'. We cut across streets which six months later would be the setting for later emotional acquaintances and lessons. We went passed the high school which looked like a landed spaceship, Lee High. Being thunderstruck by its architecture we headed across the highways to the downtown that was across the New Haven Green from the Old Campus at Yale-a route I'd incidentally would be taking a little over two-and a half years later with an even more profound emotional consequence.
We were still cruising on our high (or did we stop to toke-up at our room?). Our meanderings didn't end at dusk but continued into the evening and up Hillhouse Ave to the Yale Science Hill. Time must have flown by during our inebriated self-commiserations, because by after 11 o'clock were were still out there farting around on the side of Science Hill that faced East Rock and the lighted statue that overlooked Yale and downtown New Haven. All we were aware of and concerned with was that our evening and night had become a downer high from what happened up on Edgewood. Bitter and profane, we began cursing. It was a clear moonlit night when I looked up into the sky arbitrarily in the direction of East Rock and said "Fuck You, God!" At that exact moment the image of the lighted statue disappeared from sight, as if a hand had snatched it from the top of the mount. In fact, it was midnight. The lights had been turned off.
What had been in the moment of the statue's disappearance, the fear and trepidation of judgement descending, turned into relief by the reasoned coincidence of the lights being turned off around the statue. But the synchronicity of the phenomena was duly noted by me. The mundane could be used to send metaphysical signals. I was being rebuked by that demonstration of synchronistic signaling.
During my senior there were 3 events derived from intense emotional moments. The FIRST came near the end of winter in early March. I was terribly behind in composing my senior paper. And I had promised a gal I had been seeing in East New York off Van Siclen stop of the subway that I'd come to see her on this coming weekend. My organization process on my senior paper was so bad that I knew I shouldn't, if not couldn't, take the time off to go down to B'klyn that Saturday to see her. So, I made the call, and the gal didn't take it well at all. In fact, she berated me to the point that it provoked in me a raging response with me slamming the phone down on her. Moments after doing that the phone rang. Me, thinking it was her, picked up the phone and yelled "What!?". It wasn't her. My then-bud, Collins had made the call and came back with a Collinesque-like, deferential, fake-apology. After his fake apology he mentioned that his homegirl, whom I met at lunch, was impressed by my histrionics I did during the lunchtime conversations and wanted to know if she could come by and see me. Such a turn of events that became quite the compensation for the bitter loss of the 'Gal from B'klyn'.
The SECOND event happened a few weeks later. I was eating lunch with another crew of the freshman class. One thing I had to say about that class, in general, was that they were judgmentally opinionated about themselves. This one freshman was a formally religious person. My reputation was as a heathen-pagan. I became the target of his proselytizing that got us into an intense but friendly argument of the efficacy of his Christian Religion's power and my pagan-heathen ethos. I became and assumed a Bogart-Maltese Falcon-like bravado and got up with a flourish and swore that he and the other freshman would have no peace until they confessed the error of their thoughts. I left in a grinning huff to my post-lunch class. I was coming from class walking up toward Berkeley Residential College, where I had lunch and swore a vow on the two freshman co-diners. When those same two came out of the Berkley gateway, spotted me and started yelling out my name. I facetiously turned a ran a few steps in the other direction, but their urgent cries made me turn around and head toward them to see what the fuss was all about.
It turned out that when they decided to leave and cross at the Elm Street corner light the lunch hour traffic was running bumper to bumper and wouldn't let them-one of whom was visually disabled-cross the street. After several futile light changes at which they were continued to be obstructed from crossing, the called out my name in acknowledgement of what I said. When that was said, the traffic was no longer obstructing them and they were able to cross. I just grinned in smug vindication at that narration confession by those totally crestfallen smart-assed freshman.
The THIRD incident happened on the Friday night-Saturday noon of Memorial Day weekend of that year. I'd finished packing up my room and decided to relax and take a walk. I chose the Hill Neighborhood for all the poignant memories attached to it by me. I walked up the mostly empty streets that filled my head with the ghost remembrances of the past two years. I didn't run into anyone I knew during the walk in the Hill.
On my way back as I was crossing the New Haven Green at Temple Street and Chapel Ave the car at the light contained the youngster with whom I had a brief triste. She was as headstrong and self-indulgent as she'd been two years earlier. I attempted to speak to her but she was heated over something that had happened from where she'd been coming. Anyways, the light changed and they were moved off into the future and these memories.
I grimaced in nostalgic sadness about the seeming fatalistic cycle this woman-child would be headed, and continued my trek across the next patch of the Green to College Street. Amazingly at the next crossing there was another acquaintance with whom I had developed a casual rapport. She was equally peeved, also. An she , also, was in no mood to be bothered except on what was festering within her. My absence from being around her over the past year or so was no recommendation for her to have any more interest in me than I had neglectfully not shown to her.. So ended that event karma-back-atcha night.
The FINAL incident happened the next day I heard about the Memorial Day Parade that was going to be marching north on Chapel Street that borders the west side of the undergrad campus. I had the time and hadn't seen a parade before in person, that I could remember. So, I took myself the two blocks west to Chapel Street. It WAS your standard parade. Being a part of the crowd bystanders gave it a different impression than when I've watched it on the television. Little more than halfway through the parade I looked to my right and her came the Summer-of-'70 romance I had fucked-up. She was pushing a baby carriage of the child she'd had within the past two years. My heart went to my throat as I gulped at the thought of disturbing her with my presence. I should have gone ahead and tried to talk to her and celebrate the child. I was a moral coward at that moment and didn't. She walked past. It wouldn't be for another 13 years for me to get a chance to rectify this.
After that May morning in 1972 it would be another 7-years before I had an engagement with 'the mentors of my emotions'. What I'd acknowledged as quite to ultimately meaningful in those undergrad years had run aground in the apathetic topography of psyches whose focus was on the trappings of their here-and-now. I had placed the aspirations and ideals from those insights in my subconscious' attic, as I marginally participated with my contemporaries' celebration of temporal escapism as compensation for the 'hustle' they had to do work days to get by.
My escape and surrogate compensation focused on getting viscerally aroused for the pleasures of the moment. In this state of mind the first of two dream-events happened. I was back in my old neighborhood where I grew up between Westcott Street, E. Genesee St, Westmoreland Ave, and Harvard Place that's just east of Thornden Park and Syracuse University.
I was headed east towards Westmoreland Ave on Harvard Place and was just about at the corner of Fellows Ave when I looked and saw a mystical sight. To the east of Westmoreland the land rose to 30-to-50 Ft above Westmoreland. At the top of that summit was the personage of 'God on His Throne'. The whole glorious trappings of steely blue piercing eyes, flowing white hair and beard, cherubims and angels hovering close by were there. He looked at and into me as if he knew what I'd been thinking about: some voluptuous, buxom thing to debauch. Realizing I was facing THE non-verbal judgment. Needless to say, I found religion at that corner!
Not long after that dream, I dreamt I had walked 3 miles or so home from work. I'd reached my street and could hear the 630pm national news broadcast blaring from the homes. An earthquake (1979, not the 2016 Fukushima one) had occurred off the Japanese coast sending a massive tidal wave east. That wave drowned the Hawaiian
Islands and was due to hit California breaking it off at the San Andreas Fault leaving just a remnant of Cali attached to western Nevada and Arizona. Worse than that the whole national grid would be damaged or disrupted.
By the time I got home the news was over, and that necessitated me going back the 3-miles to the main paperstand on Salina & Jefferson Streets to get a late edition newspaper on this calamity.
I made it down there and grabbed a NY DAILY NEWS. Instead of their bold font captioning with a picture, there was a reduced full page bold font editorial on the front page. In summary it read,
"After a brutal winter that had us all looking forward to the mild weather of Spring, we face this calamitous end to civilization as we know it.
"Where are all those Sunday tele-evangelists? What intercession has their prayers accomplished. If only THERE WAS such a person.."
That's where I knew, both in the dream and out of the dream, that my slacker attitude towards the serendipity of the cosmic mystical had made mortal existence that much more vulnerable without the visceral connection. I somehow had gained with that state a signaling, if not a communication pipeline. During the last 7-years I'd neglected it because of others apathy and indifference. I had been so favored to know better. I had to get back on tract.
Getting on tract is easier said then done when you're immersed in secular trappings and mind language. I knew I was in a cultural dessert of reductionist materialism that gave lip service and moralizing posturings, but no grace was a part of either. There was this 'wild-child', Gabe. He approached me one day and told me about a treatise I might like reading. I was interested and accepted his offer. The next day he brought to me the Bhagavad Gita.
The verses so affirmed many of my past musings that I became a disciple of those verses and the discipline focus it reinforced in me.
That focus is attributed by others to be responsible for three events between 1987 to 1991. The FIRST was the strong physiological resonance I had with one patient whom the anesthetist found difficult to induce for surgery because of noise coming from her lungs. I had just met the patient when I went to bring her down to the surgical suite. We hit it off with the easy going rapport established with one another. I completed delivering her to the surgery room and went to do other duties. When finished with those duties that took close to 20 or so minutes I wandered the hallways to see what was going on. I found when I got to the room where I dropped off my buddy patient-delivery the surgery had not started and they were standing around with concerned frowns on their head. I put on a mask and came into the room. My buddette-patient recognized me and began a conversation with me. Being polite, I graciously answered her self-deprecating comment with a joke. So not to interfere with the flow of the induction I started to move away, when the anesthetist gestured for me to linger longer. I did and the anesthetist induced my buddette to be intubated for surgery.
The anesthetist told me that my presence had cleared the congested lungs which were threatening to have the operation canceled. I had been told of my 'strong vibes' before and I was a firm believer that a strong resonance between two people can have a physiological vibe between them. This was the first strong one I had with someone other than my first wife.
The next event occurred circa summer-autumn '87 with that same organization out on bivouac. I was told to report to the unit psychologist, who essentially told me that unless I became more socially engaged that she would recommend me for a medical discharge based on psychological unfitness. Since I hadn't had any previous contacts with her, I intuitively knew this originated from the Head Nurses' Office who'd been doing their best to provoke me to act in ways of their prejudiced view of me. I reported this to my sympathetic section OIC and ended the day in misery.
The next day I heard that coincidentally MANY OF those who'd been complicit with the Chief Nurse's office had experienced urgent family distress. The psychiatrist had been removed from her position. The rumor went around that my aura had been the cause or actor in those events. I had no idea, though I did enjoy the schadenfreude of they having those troubles.
That event along with rumors that the hospital commander had a dream warning that I 'shouldn't be persecuted as I'd been', generated some orders to the P-I, the Philippine Islands. Me thinking I finally had escaped this misery was very premature on my part. I would be learning that the kind of people in the H.W. Bush era Air Force were into their own ego-driven pecking order of elitism of one sort or another. This was not like the 'corps of maniacs-comrades' I encountered in the Army at Ft Lee and later Ft Dix at Walson Army Hospital. These were self-seeking, self-righteous S.O.B.'s for whom even transactional exchanges were a trial.
Though the P.I. was a marvelously tropical wonder for the little that I saw, the situation of Philippine leftist guerillas assassinate (white) American personnel and having the based being closed off from us leaving its confines, limited the enjoyment. What was behind the assassination of American personnel was that the lease for the base was up for renewal. There was political Filipino resistance to the terms of the renewal the U.S. wanted for the extension of the lease, along with the leftists wanting the base to be closed to the U.S., entirely. Then in early August of 1990 the volcano within 20 miles of the base, Pinatubo, announced its reawakening with a noticeable tremor, that created a venting for the volcano's gaseous exhaust. That prompted the placement of seismic monitors at the volcano that was giving off a constant plume of smoke. This was my and my accompanying dependent's status for most of our remaining time to the events of mid-June 1991.
At that time, the tremors at the volcano became stronger, indicating an eruption was quite likely in the offing. Shortly after mid-June the situation got more unstable at the volcano and the folks in charge told us to be ready for an evacuation. The volcano erupted just before a typhoon hit to compound the problems of the evacuation. We made it through and were evacuated with dependents and special needs persons going first and the active duty and contractors following.
[One interesting side-bar of this was an serendipitous offer brought to my attention from the wife of the Clark Base/PACAF Commander. I'd been directing my energies to things beyond the secular mundanities of base life. I had my opinions on the future geo-politics of the US Govt. and had relayed them to Congresswoman Pat Schroeder who'd been associated with a similar thought. Though my decision was based on more narrow personal grounds, underlying reason was an existential one. That reason would take me back to the introductory premise of the dialogue of the Bhagavad Gita.Underlying premise for me: was working up in the hierarchy no more than applying-at best-a short term-ameliorating stop gap measure to chronic problems that did little for the most vulnerable as I padded my resume and status with my contemporaries. Plus, was it no more than a different set of deck chair and still dealing with the toxic personalities involved?]
Though I had no inkling of my future, PERHAPS being favorable in my reply to what the Commander's wife had offered me would have given me the authority that goes with the status and title of my new position somewhere in DC. It would have been better, as far as convenience, to have been in that position of title and status and what ever incremental changes I'd have been the vehicle (along with the workings of my seeming serendipitous mentors-short of the suicide flight into the Pentagon on 9/11/01 that might have ended this story at that point!) than the unnecessary bullshit I endured staying with the trajectory of the status quo which is the basis of my present circumstances.
Was it better to endure the bullshit at the levers of power at which I might have had access for what in the long term would've have been no more than ego flattery of a padded resume of hollow changes? Or was enduring the indignities of an everyday anonymous person with the most sublime and contrastingly profound serendipities made me the better ethical and moral person? I'd have to choose the latter choice, though the former choice would have favored me in the circles of the influential yet superficial-such a recipe for cynical morality and opportunism! Plus also, the former would have made me more smugly agnostic about ethics and integrity, since the short-term ends would be justifying the means. The latter has this burning drive of unfinished and unvindicated efforts ala either the utopian, nirvana like consciousness code or the schadenfreude from the implosion of the present secular thought paradigm.
Be that as it was, my turning down that possible job reclassification was an implicit acceptance of the algorithms of the accepted status quo. I ended up in an even worse psychological detainment than the P.I. had been. Abridging the whole narrative of this "psychological detainment", say that it was enough that a third party notice the 'detainment abuse' that temporary duty [TDY] orders came up for me to go to March Air Base out in Southern California for 8-weeks. I was relieved. Others were so resentful, that the next time those orders came down one of my prime antagonists scooped them up for herself and left for SoCal. After she came back in the smugness of her escapade she had a dream. She caught me in the stairwell to tell me about the dream in which she was warned about her attitude and treatment towards me. I acknowledged the existence of such forces without relaying to her the events that probably precipitated my orders to go to the P.I. and the volcanic eruption which got me to be evacuated from the P.I.. As I didn't tell her of the synchronicity of coming to the conclusion of 'Foucault's Pendulum' which occurred as I was reading of it at the same time as in the book-noon on the day of the summer solstice.
Or had I mentioned the 6-pak gift grace. On a hot summer's day I finished mowing the grass on the west side of the house in the afternoon sun. While doing so a car of older teen-age boys pulled up to a stoplight and threw their cans of beer on my lawn. I soon found out that the 4-cans thrown out on my lawn were full, inferentially indicating that those boys took pity on me being out there lawn mowing in that hot sun. The mercy's of time were 'having my back'.
THAT SUMMARIZATION was 32 years in the future! Moving ahead from that point was a winding road of serendipitous encounters. The first came in the Fall of '94, a few months after my 44th birthday. My youngest sisters had tragically died from ovarian cancer a few weeks before her 41st birthday. I'd left my 2nd wife who was a chronic check forger in August. I was reliving life as a person on their own. I was working at a call center and one of my calls was with an 88 year old-timer, who was as spritely and sassy as someone less than half his age. There was I, being all glum about the subjectively sad turn of events in my life! Old-timer had already seen the next 44 years I had yet to live. I realized there was plenty of life to celebrate as the old-timer had just demonstrated to me.
In 1995 I was back in 'Cuse and was at some long time friends house washing clothes, as I had the keys to the house. I was listening to the NPR station program 'Talk of the Nation' out of WAMU. Their guest were proponents of the idea that the mystical and metaphysical were non-substantive. I strongly disagreed and was arguing to the audio feed coming out of the radio. The show ended and within 5 seconds after it ended the house phone rang. I was at my friends' house. The only reason I did answer the phone was because their Mom's was in a coma state at the nursing home and the phone call might be about her. When I did pick up to answer, the voice on the other end asked for me. I was offered a position with a security team-similar to a domestic, unarmed Black Hawk team. They were paying $1000 per week for 6-12 hour day shifts. Was that luck or another serendipity intervention beckoned by my defense of the metaphysical moments before with arguing with the audio of the guests who were deniers of such things.
In 1996, I wandered down to Corpus Christi TX, merely because the name of the town was translated 'the Body of Christ'. While there I tried to rekindle relations with an old flame from New Haven that went back to that day of the walk towards Howard & Congress Avenues. Having given no thought that she 'had a life' she was living with not a thought for ''what a fool believes'-me.
I wrote the letter that received a merciless put-down. OFCOURSE, crestfallen to shame I manned-up, took the slap-down stoically to bed and sleep. During the sleep I dreamed I was in a wooded glen sitting on a log when u pops an angel with the face of a gal from 'Ham '68. The angel asks me 'How ya doin'?' I shrug my shoulders, nod and say, staring at her, 'I'm OK'. The angel give me an incredulous look and says, 'You men! Always trying to act brave.' She kisses me on the cheek and the dream ends. I marvel at the morale-boosting of that dream and how the mind comes to the aid of the conscious.
WELL.... Later that day I THOUGHT I was supposed to be at a wake. I show up there, but don't see anyone recognizable at this gathering of Mexican Hispanics at a seeming memorial for some tragic death. After searching the INSIDES of the brochure I had picked up and finding no familiar names, I closed the brochure and saw the front of it for the first time . A related image, the image was showing the same juxtaposition that I had with the angel in the dream the night before. Was it coincidence or was this an intervention letting me know that 'the serendipitous moment' has and would communicate with me to let me know.
The 'Body of Christ' adventure was more that I could handle so I returned to Richmond VA, living on the near-east side. Now a developed section of the VCU (Virginia Commonwealth University) complex. Back in the mid-summer of 1996 it was a row of absentee-landlord frame and brick row houses on Jackson St. On this particular day I'd been just fired, for a just cause. I came 'home' to a neighborhood where even 'Granny' was selling crack and my hallway neighbor greeted me at the top of the stairs with an offer of taking a toke from his crack pipe at hearing the news of my firing. I declined the offer and went inside my 2nd floor apartment. When I entered I noticed the answering machine light was blinking. Trepidation filled me that the call left was an extension of the consequences of my firing. INSTEAD, it was a call from the VCU Hospital Surgical Sterile Supply manager, asking me to give him a call for a hiring interview. What a 180 degree turn in circumstances. From the precipice of disaster to a new start. This was even better than in 1994 when I was given the treatise of the Futuh al Ghaib.
I was coming around, though I had better idea of what the proposed would entail, than the offer proposed to me during the P.I. evacuation. I took the better title and status this time
as it was a substantive and quantitative improvement over my latest status.
Jump forward nearly five years. Rather, let's go just a little more than 2 1/2 years later to Memphis in early July. Memphis relocation had been good for me. Nice location not far from the riverfront and Beale Street. OK, job with no drama to me but with co-workers. My social justice-equity conscience had the prerogative to choose between staying and going. This time physiological than abstract principals were the factors. The physical resonance and congruence had been found in an online personal ad I answered. But she was in the suburbs of Denver-Littleton Co, ala Columbine High. What happens shows how the momentum of physical lust can overlook counter-signs. This counter-sign was the April '99 Columbine High School shooting.
Not the shooting itself, but the collateral effects with her family should have told me that she wasn't totally-though damn good-what I was seeking.
[Ed. note-I realized that even with those eager to have the ecstasy of an intense climax, there was more than some association or attribution to romance/love or repeated acute ecstatic physical moments. There was a journey ethos of a general, incidental attitude that was for being intensely passionate as the vehicle of means to that ecstasy.]
That, too, would be discovered by other things that expanded my context of receptive considerations from the consuming of a fetished indulgence. This intensity is superordinate to temporal traditions and obligations, as I learned by dismissing a dream premonition. The consequences necessarily delayed and obstructed me. The obstruction was in my attitude of intimacy's purpose that wasn't for physical availability but a mental connection of in-synch symmetry.
Was a stumble in'04 spraining my ankle and wrist was closer to a fortuity, because it kept me from being deployed to Iraq. Was the 2014 conversation the impetus for my survey of available properties that led me to this one that was underpriced due to the neighborhood market? What about the return phone call I received after a scammer for an employer got me in-debt of repayment for being duped, but the phone call as the earlier one in '96 gave me employment I needed? Does my viscera have a distress-signal mode. Is it standard equipment on other beings or am I particularly graced with this mechanism?
If the former, then knowing what 'flips the switch' would be beneficial for many. If a unique mechanism in me, then how did it come to be like that. One thing, I was conditioned and trained to care on an intimate level directly with others and on a socially abstract empathetic level. Connecting the intimate with the socially abstract helped develop the consistency of approach from the selfish to the altruistically selfless. The tributaries of passion came together with the connecting articulating consciousness in a confluence for an attitude which treasured and revered emotional arousal for intangibles as well as for the substance of tangibles..
With such intensity you generate an energy which effects susceptible 'matters' to that energy, and is drawn, involuntarily, like iron filing are drawn to a magnet. This attraction can come from planes of other dimensions as well as across what you know as the default plane of your logos-base
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