Nothingness

Wednesday, Feb. 11, 2015,

I feel strangely discontented today. Odd that I would feel this way when just two nights ago; or rather, the wee-morning hours of Tuesday, it appears that I came close to accidentally killing myself by turning the study’s fireplace on, shutting both doors to the room and then falling asleep. Next thing I knew I was in the kitchen, staggering, nearly falling down and holding on to one of the chairs beside the counter. I had thoughts of going to bed but then I saw the lights were still on in the study. The fireplace was blazing when I went into the study to turn the lights out. That’s odd, I thought, I would never go to bed and leave the fireplace on. That’s when I realized I was either drunk, messed up on Ambien, or so sleepy I didn’t know what I was doing. But it had been several hours since I had had a shot of whisky, and I didn't take an Ambien until quite some had lapsed after drinking my bedtime toddy. It was troubling that I had nearly gone to bed with the fireplace burning. I am very safety conscious. This was not normal behavior for me. And even though I was staggering and confused as to why I was doing so, I did my best to lean over and turn the fireplace off.

I did not, however, feel confident that I had successfully turned the fireplace off, so when I went to bed, I woke Leslie and asked her to check it. She rose quickly. “Are you okay?” she asked. I told her yeah, but I felt a little dizzy and nauseous. She looked worried and said I smelled of natural gas. She rushed out of the room, checked the fireplace and then came back. I thought she was only gone for a few seconds, but apparently, she also took the time, rapidly I assume, to search the internet for signs of carbon monoxide poisoning because upon her return, she made me get up, get dressed and walked me outside into the freezing night air.

“I think you might have carbon monoxide poisoning,” she said. “You need to breath in the fresh air.”

I complained of being cold, but I didn’t really mind. It was kind of funny to be waltzing around on the back deck at four in the morning. But after a few minutes, I stepped back inside, complaining about the cold. She got me a coat, and put on one herself, and marched me back outside.

The jest of the story is that I lived. And yesterday, Tuesday, I thought about the event all day long, wondering what would’ve happened had I never woken up in the study and gone to the kitchen, wondering if I really did have carbon monoxide poisoning, or if the night-time toddy and the Ambien had just hit me hard, but it’s rather obvious that neither a whisky nor an Ambien would make me smell of gas.

So, I was thankful to be alive yesterday.

But today, I’m agitated, aggravated and discontented.

I’m going to do town for a haircut and, as usual, since I can no longer drive, it is a scheduling hassle. Leslie is leaving work at 12:30 to drive all the way to Rockfield to pick me up. Then she’s going to drop me off at the barber shop and go back to work. I’ll have to walk to her office at Western Kentucky University, or to whatever other place I might decide to visit during my big ‘downtown’ excursion. Not being able to drive is a hassle.

But I’m used to this, so why am I so discontented?

I guess it’s because I really never get anything done. I’m not writing on my book; I’m not playing drums. I’m not doing anything but writing a journal about my dissatisfaction with life: silly, stupid, and a superfluous waste of time. I have everything I’ve ever wanted but money. But I do want money, and why not? Arlo Guthrie is going to be in Nashville next week and I don’t have the money to buy a ticket, and I’m turning 59 Friday. But if I had died of carbon monoxide poisoning, I wouldn’t have to worry about missing Arlo, now would I? So does mean I should be thankful for what I can’t afford, or that I should wish I were dead? Or does it mean that I should get back to writing on my book in hopes of selling it? God, I’d love to be able to travel to Jamaica again. And I want to visit Ireland, and France, and Italy, and Norway, and all of Europe and Asia.

The secret is, I suppose, to find solace in contemplation.

Going to Nashville to see Arlo during the middle of the week would be a hassle. But there is no hassle in contemplating on the what it will be like for those who are there, or for how much simpler my life is by not going, or by not going to Europe, or Asia. Maybe that’s what George Harrison meant when he said, “The further one travels, the less one knows.”

I am a part of everything if I let everything become part of me. The only way to do that is to contemplate on nothing.

Maybe I’m agitated today because I didn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning, because death is the door to nothingness, and only in nothingness can we become part of everything.

The first of many

Monday, Feb. 9, 2015,

I turn 59 in four days. All day today, I’ve wondered how I should feel about this. I wonder if I’ll be any different if I make it to 69. This is my first attempt to write a journal, or a diary, if you will. If I have the opportunity to look back 10 years from now and read this, I wonder if I’ll be any different than I was 10 years ago, when I was nearing 49. But I really don’t remember how I felt then; at least, I’m not certain. I assumed I questioned many of the same things about my life then as I do now.

I walked Jack Smith Road today, as I try to do most days. As I did so, I thought of how I fear gaining weight and how I need to practice drums today in order to help me lose pounds because drumming is such good exercise. But then I remembered Saturday night when we visited Leslie’s friend, Melanie, and the great difficulty I had hearing the movie we watched at her house. Melanie knows I wear hearing aids, I believe she graciously turned her television’s volume up louder than normal because at times it seemed even too loud for me, as if it was almost distorting. But I still could not follow the movie’s dialogue well enough to keep up with the story line. At home, I always have the television’s closed-caption on, and even though I have blind spots in my vision, due to glaucoma, I have taught myself to move my eyes up and down very fast ( when I look at the closed-caption, I cannot see the people’s faces on the screen, and when I look at the faces, I cannot see the closed-caption ). But by the rapid eye movement, I am generally able to understand the dialogue. As the old saying goes, people hear what they see. And because I can usually see the caption, I think I can hear the dialogue; but nights such as last Saturday are a painful reminder that I cannot.

I probably knew this at age 49, too, but I haven’t wanted to accept it; I suppose because I’ve wanted to keep drumming. After all, drumming provided a great supplement to my income for several years of my life. And, as always we are in great want of money. But as I walked the road today, I thought that should forget drumming and pursue writing; and on this day, four days prior to my 59^th birthday, I thought that it would be a good idea to start a journal, or a diary of sorts; that way, if I live to be few years older, I can look back and see if I stayed the course. Of if, as usual, I fell victim to my lust for money and the accolades that drumming provides and went back to what I do best, which is of course drumming. After all, I started drumming professionally when I was 11. I only started writing in my mid to late 30s. But I want to hear my grandchildren years from now, and their children if I am that long for this life. So, here I sat, making my first entry into my journal. 

PS

I shall not post every entry on this blog because I hope to be completely open about life in this journal. 

American Sniper

I saw the movie, American Sniper, and I must admit that I do not understand the controversy surrounding this film at all. It is, as all movies, a story; in this case, a story about a man's life. It is no different than other stories about men who have served in the military, i.e., "Lawrence of Arabia, The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommel ( the German general who fought against the U.S. ), Sergent York, etc., etc., etc. Maybe those who claim the movie glorifies war see it as such because the protagonist, Chris Kyle, in American Sniper was extremely patriotic; but, I'd be willing to wager that most of the critics have not lived in Texas. Having lived there myself for several years, I can attest to the fact that patriotism is ingrained in Texas society much more so than any other state in the union, imo. You have to have lived there to understand it. As said, American Sniper is a story about a man's life, and judging from interviews of people who personally knew Chris Kyle, I'd say it is an accurate portrayal of the man. And I see nothing wrong with recording history on film, and I cannot help but to think of those who object to doing so as being narrow minded. I'm sure that someday, sooner than later, there will be movies made from the Iraqi or Afghan citizen/soldier/terrorists point of view. When that day comes, if it is a well written film, I'm sure I'll welcome it with the same enthusiasm that I welcomed Clint Eastwood's film, Letters From Iwo Jima, which was told from the perspective of the Japanese solders who fought against us. In other words, People, get over it, buy the ticket, get some popcorn, enjoy the movie and hopefully learn to see the world from a different point on view.

Empty Temples

All these people seem the same

They hug, they flatter and they kiss,

Say how much you’ve been missed

But I don’t think they’re real

I don’t think they can feel

Accepting accolades is their game

They host charities and claim to care

But they are full of hot air

Their eyes see in, not out

They know not what life is about

Empty Temples

Empty Temples

Tear your soul

Empty Temples

Empty Temples

Never feel whole

Mitchell Plumlee ( c ) 2015

Haunted

In a dream last night, I stood watching myself as a child, when I was three or four. My mother, grandmother and sister were there, too, but they could not see me. They were all encouraging me, or rather, taunting me to say or do some sort of act that they thought cute; but, the younger-me had grown weary of being on the spotlight and was visibly aggravated. I tried to encourage my younger-self. I did not speak aloud, but I knew my younger-self understood.

But now, upon waking, I'm not sure I understand. Something in their actions haunt me.

And so I live

All I could think about was dying as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep last night. Does that sound morbid? Yes, of course it does. But such was the case. I'm not sure why, but I don't feel like I'll live much longer. I turn 59 in February. In Medieval England, life expectancy was 64; the world average in 2010 was 69; so, historically speaking, I suppose it could be said that I've already lived a fair amount of my expected years. I've known so many that did not make it this long, so many that should still be here, so many that were so much better than me; yet, they are gone and I remain.

Please don't assume I want to die. I think in many ways, I've only just begun to live. I've only just recently stopped flogging myself for my failures, and decided to accept what I am and who I am.

But there's no doubt that some will assume that I want to die. My friends know that I have struggled with suicidal tendencies. But perhaps they don't know that my struggle was because I had failed to live up to my own expectations. People have often told me that they'd give anything if they could drum or write like me. I suppose I can certainly drum, maybe even better than most, but I was never able to really make a living at it, never able to pay my bills by only drumming. I always had to subsidize my income with some other form of employment, or depend on my wife, which was humiliating. And yes I've been known to string a sentence or two together. I have a degree in journalism and worked as a reporter for two years; but in my mind, I failed as a journalist.

I've suffered from hearing loss all my life, working in my family's welding shop and drumming only added to that loss. The struggle to hear what people were saying slowed me down as a reporter. It was very hard for me to meet the daily deadlines, although I did do it. But while I was at the newspaper, I started struggling with other health issues. I had two back surgeries and a series of eye surgeries to slow the progression of blindness in my eyes due to low-tension glaucoma. Other reporters were having to work extra to cover my time off. This weighed on me heavily so I resigned from the newspaper. That decision still haunts me. I should've hung in there; I should've kept fighting. For years, I thought it was one of the worst decisions of my life.

But it is what it is. And in recent days, I've found myself glad that I resigned, especially now that so much of the media has become a bastion of Right Wing lunatic politics. I became a journalist because I believe in fair and balanced reporting, but I see very little of that anymore.

So although I failed at being a drummer and a journalist, I have succeeded in being a moralist. And that's really all that ever mattered to me. I'm not saying that I'm without sin, or that I don't make a mistake, but I am saying that I try to do what is right, or at least what I think is right. I think that's all we have when we close our eyes for the last time. We all wonder what is on the other side, where we're going, what we're going to leave behind or what we're going to take with us, but those things don't really matter. But what does matter is that you lay your head down in peace, and that peace can only be found by doing what is right and what is true, and the only way we can know truth is by doing unto others as you'd have others do unto you.

So now I have no more regrets in life. Now I know I can die in peace. Maybe that's why I could not stop thinking about death last night. It's only when we accept death that we begin to live.

And so I live.

My first memory

My first memory is of my father beating me in a baby crib. I was in a house with Victorian doors that came out of the wall and closed in the center. Laughter came from the other room. I was alone and crying. I don’t remember why. The reason doesn’t matter anyway. All babies cry. Suddenly the doors flew open. My father stood over me, shouting at me to shut up. Somehow in my hysteria, I observed my surroundings. My mother and another couple were in the front room. My father’s hand came down on me hard. I cried louder. My mother fought with him and tried to grab me, but he kept spanking me, telling me to shut up.

The doors closed and I was alone again. The wallpaper was brown with a paisley pattern. Odd as it sounds, it comforted me to stare at it. I followed the patterns up the wall.

When I was six or seven, I shared this memory with my mother while riding in the backseat of her station wagon. She circled the town square in Bowing Green, Ky., and drove down Main Street. She talked incessantly whenever she had an audience. That day she bragged on her memory and said she never forgot anything. As all boys, I wanted to impress my mother, so I shared my earliest memory with her. She turned her head around and stared at me in disbelief, then suddenly veered into a parking space in front of the Spot Cash store, where she bought my Levis jeans.

“But you were just a baby,” she said. “You weren’t but a few months old. I can’t believe you remember that.” 

She said my father only beat me that one time, and that he felt sorry for it the next day when he sobered up. The two of them divorced soon afterwards, but she still loved him. You could hear it in her voice. She even said so. “There was a time when I’d have gone to the moon and back for your daddy,” she’d say. “I still love him, but I wouldn’t have him back for love nor money.”

I never really believed her. I think if he had only halfway tried, she would’ve jumped into his arms and never looked down. 

My dad loved his whiskey. I got to know him when I was in my twenties; some of my fondest memories are those of him sharing a drink with me. He was a good-hearted drinker and a happy-go-lucky sort of guy most of his life. I never mentioned my first memory to him. We all make mistakes.