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.