I watched the film version of the Broadway musical 'Rent' a couple of nights ago. I enjoyed it immensely and found myself in tears at times. Much of what this production is about is still so very relevant.
I pulled those words out and held them up for further evaluation. The whole concept of time and how we measure it.
It is a human thing? Or it is something is embedded in the D.N.A. of all living organisms?
We all adhere to cycles. We must, after all our very life is a cycle measured by an infinite number of events and factors but the two constants are birth and death.
When humans first began their journey in this world it was their tenacity, duplicity and rather conniving nature that assisted in the push up to the top of the food chain. That we are so good and creative when it comes to killing speaks volumes about our species. Equally our capacity to love and build a community is just as stellar a point in our evolution and its success.
Regarding the equation of time, however, our reign on this planet is but a nanosecond, a blip or a dot amongst trillions upon trillions.
Hell, we are not even a smudge.
Every part of my being is convinced that 'intelligent' life exists in the space that extends forever around us.
What is forever? And what is time?
Forever, by definition, has no beginning and no end. Time is a measurement of cycles, nothing more. Or is it?
Did forever and time have a beginning? Did they consummate their union to begin what we know as this universe? Perhaps combined they make up the energy and concept known as God.
Is this a logical contemplation?
The Mayan's developed a calendar that reflects a period of time, an era as it were that covers approximately 5,025 years. How did they come by this knowledge and what was the purpose of trying to preserve it?
We all recall a couple of years ago the doomsayers who insisted that the end of world would come when the calendar ended and that time for us would then die.
Time will never die. We will.
Time will never change. We will.
Time is a constant just as forever is.
In many ways they are interchangeable. We are all little specs of energy that collectively make up our consciousness. There have been moments when time crawled or at least it seemed as such.
These days it feels as if time is speeding up and we are all running at a break neck pace to keep up with it.
The deceptive perception of time overall lies in our imaginations. Or does it?
The questions that this phrase '…when time died' evoked are likely experienced by all of us at some point in our life.
We have all asked ourselves the universal question.
Now I'll go and ruminated on this for a while.
Have an awesome Sunday. Namaste.
The traffic was horrible on this evening. I left the office at 4:00 PM. I would have to navigate over two bridges on this evening's commute. I listened to the first traffic report that indicated a few issues on some of the bridges.
As I passed through the Cassiar Connector. which is a tunnel just past the Iron Workers Memorial bridge (a.k.a. 2nd Narrows), the traffic was backing up and beginning to resemble a parking lot. I opted to take the 1st Avenue exit and travel along Boundary Road to Marine Way and access the Queensborough Bridge via this route.
I was making a special trip this evening as I was on my way to pick up the books I'd ordered.
This would be the first time I saw my work in print.
I cruised along extremely well and motored to Big Bend shopping centre where the traffic kinda slowed to crawl and sorta stopped altogether at times.
I cranked the radio and checked the gas gauge. I had a 1/4 tank and should be just fine. I switched the engine onto economy the sat back and sang out of tune to the songs on the radio.
Time wise I really wasn't worried as U.P.S. closes at 8:00 PM and it was just 4:40 PM.
The minutes ticked by as the gas gauge slipped closer to empty. The wild imagination that inhabits this head of mine began to nibble anxiously as the possibility of running of gas surfaced.
I reassured myself and my vehicle that we would be fine.
An hour and half on the road and I was now approaching the bridge deck to the Queensborough.
Several traffic reports confirmed that accidents or breakdowns had somehow occurred on every bridge this day seemingly.
"You'll get there" I whispered and ran my hand along the steering column like I would a familiar lover.
I squirted past the accident scene, saying a prayer and hoping no one was hurt. I needed gas and I had to pee!
I seldom venture into this part of the world. Surely there was a gas station somewhere around here? Hadn't I noticed one at some point?
I was down to an 1/8 of a tank when I saw the U.P.S. building and pulled in.
There was a fellow in front of me wanting to courier a watch face embedded with diamonds. He wanted to insure it for more than $500 which was the limit U.P.S. apparently sets. A kindly woman was on the phone making an inquiry on his behalf.
Twisting my legs a little tighter, I really didn't mind waiting, I just need to pee!
The woman gave the fellow the phone so that the individual with the expertise could better explain to him why there was a cap on courier insurance.
I handed her the tickets then asked if there was a washroom I could use.
She showed me where I could find relief. Ahhhhhh!
Upon my return the fellow had left and the woman retrieved my package.
My heart suddenly skipped a beat and crazy excitement began to build.
Completing the transaction my final question was where I might locate a gas station.
She gave me directions and it really wasn't far. Now I had the car gassed up and a box full books…my books.
I got back on track and head home to New Westminster.
A warm pleasure ran through me then. I had been on the road for just over two hours and that was cool. I was now basking in a strange warm glow as I maneuvered back through rush hour traffic.
The euphoria was building as I crawled back over the bridge. I pulled out my nail clippers and opened the box then fished about and pulled out a book. Reaching out I ran my hands along the cover and felt the tears sting my eyes.
I needed to record this moment and I needed food. There was no way I could cook as every part of my being had surrendered to the sweet emotions that had engulfed me when I saw my first ever book in print.
I order some food and a beer then opened the book reverently.
I gazed down at the dedication page and burst into laughter. My first grammatical error glared at me.
I shook my head and smiled. That's just me trying so hard to get it right.
My daughter did the cover and I love it. It works.
I knew I would come across a few spelling and grammar issues but I did try my damnedest to get it right.
And then I was just so overwhelmed by all of it. I did it! I really did!
This is a first. This is a moment that will never come again.
Mistakes and all I've put it out there and bared my soul in the process.
While writing this book I found a strength and truth in my vulnerability that surprised me.
In doing this I am experiencing a rush so sweet and pure….this is the first time.
Let me savour this for just a moment or two.
Here I am on the edge about to plunge into the world of publishing.
I've crossed over from dreaming about it, to making it real. The book has now been published.
And there is this part of me that still doesn't quite believe it…pinch me!
There was for a moment that insecure part of me that insisted 'It's not good enough.' These are the demons that have bound me in 'If only…' for the majority of my life.
I've been thinking about some of the past conversations I've had with members of my writing groups. We've discussed success and what it means to each of us.
I can tell you this. Any one who writes a book and wants to publish it really does want to see their work do well.
We want to reach out to the masses and emote, entertain, touch and inspire.
We want our voice heard, understood in whatever genre we've chosen to express our creative self. We look for acknowledgement. In all the words we writers' pen, they hold a part of our soul.
I've read obscure books that were brilliant. I've read books so poorly written that were best sellers.
And the difference comes down to marketing.
A few years back a fellow who attended a couple meetings of our writing group had published a book on Amazon. Excitedly I asked several questions and then he told us that he'd taken it down after a week as there had been no sales. I pressed for more information wanting to know what his marketing strategy had been.
There in lay the problem…he didn't have one.
You can write the best book ever but you still have to market it and let the masses know its there.
Books do not and never will sell themselves.
Nothing will for that matter.
Vince appears on our TV screen and slices and dices his way into our homes convincing us that our lives will be so much better with this little gadget he's selling. How we've managed to get by without this item in our lives is really quite extraordinary.
I've watched infomercials and purchased items believing that I will benefit.
When the Dermawand was being marketed I had just entered into my 50's. With the promise of aging skin being tightened I had to at least give it a try, didn't I?
We've been inundated with products that will make our lives that much better.
Kitchen, beauty, diet and fitness items top the list.
Take this pill and lose all the weight you want. Workout just 15 minutes a day on this machine and you'll have that six pack you've always wanted…guaranteed.
And now I'm thinking how to market this book…honestly.
Will it change your life?
I don't know but it changed mine.
I hope that my book will bring some insight into the issue of abuse. I hope that it will offer comfort on some level to those who've experienced this. I hope they'll know they have choices and they are not alone.
I want to work toward a day where we move past judgments, move past negative energy and move past living as victims.
And while I've mentioned those demons that still haunt, still taunt, I do know that they will never take away what I've found. They are simply echoes from another time.
I hope you'll read my book and that you'll take something from the words I've written and the memories I've shared.
I can't ask for anything more than that.