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Book of
Februarys
Where have you been, Arthur
Friend?
3-20
- I
have this calendar on my desk at work -- one of those
'tear off a sheet for each day that goes by' things that
my brother got for me last Christmas. I brought it to
work with me after the holiday and began pulling pages
off of it each morning when I arrived at my
desk.
-
- It was only when I
got here today that I realized the date on it still reads
February 12th.
-
- As far as I can
remember, February 12th, 2001 wasn't any sort of special
time. I can't really remember anything earth-shattering
happening that day, and the only thing I have listed on
my planner was a two o'clock meeting that was postponed
and eventually canceled.
-
- But here, almost a
month later, it seems very clear that something
happened that day. Something that didn't make it on to my
planner, something that I didn't bother to write down
anywhere...
-
- I should
probably take this opportunity to mention the fact
that four years ago on the morning of February 12th, I
started writing entries for an on-line journal that I
decided to name after a certain Mike Keneally
song...
-
- I think there is a
point in your life where you start to feel like there is
much more to look back upon than there is to look forward
to. It's not a rational thing, not a natural feeling of
any kind; it just sorta comes upon you, in much the same
way that sleepiness seems to naturally follow a good
meal.
-
- I miss the
fire.
-
- I don't know how
else to put it. I can't seem to bring myself to the
wardance anymore. Let the young men fight, let them taste
the fumes and poisons in the air, let them shout their
defiance in the face of what sometimes seems like the
unyielding gravity of time....
-
- It's a horrible
way to feel. A listless, dark place where instead of
squinting your eyes and trying to make the most of
whatever faint light might be around, you decide instead
to find a corner to lean against, fall to your haunches
and wait for someone to come and rescue you.
-
- It's like I have
lost my faith in the two words that most inspired me the
most over the years:
-
- fuck
it
-
- There are so many
things I have wanted that involve some measure of risk,
some sense that winning the prize might come at the cost
of losing the securities that I have gathered all around
me.
-
- But I gotta tell
you, it used to be that the risk itself was the
thrill. Nothing else mattered but the feeling that my own
inertia would prevail, for no other reason than the fact
that I mattered. I believed deep in my heart that
my confidence in my own convictions was pure enough to
resonate, creating vibrations that would tear into the
very heart of anything that stood in my way and shake it
to pieces.
-
- But now I look at
these fragile, intricate things that I keep close to my
heart and I fear the vibrations. I worry about the
harmonics. I realize that my control over the physics is
theoretical at best, that the variables are all too
uncontrolled. Too many times have I read the page where
Malcolm refused the guards, pondered over the strange
sense of guilt that seemed to characterize Oppenhimer
once he realized what his creation meant for the world,
what it meant to the future.
-
- And suddenly it's
not about dissecting the fabric of god
anymore.
-
- Suddenly it's
about building churches out of the strongest rock that I
can find, pushing the ceilings so high into the air that
the spires scratch at the cloud-white bellies of the
watching angels all around. And outside of those churches
will be walls, and around those walls will be armies,
empires, and ideology that I will use at any cost
to protect
that which is mine.
-
- The calendar on my
desk says February 12.
-
- A February ago,
I stopped writing in the journal. Things at the
school had reached an ugly point, and the stresses of the
world seemed too much to bear. I took a month and
some change to go silent, but eventually found myself
back on the horse. And days past. My son was born,
I changed jobs, old crisis situations faded away and
new ones rose in their place.
-
- Then, a February
later, I shut it down again. Different reasons, same
sound of silence.
-
- Just the way it
goes, I guess.
-
- But here in late
March, I find myself pulled back. I need to write.
Despite the fact that I have somehow convinced myself
that writing down my concerns and fears only seems to
make them more real, I still believe that
I need this place.
-
- Sometimes I just
forget.
-
See
you next February.
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