Let the stream begin. Some body, some things, life and me, communicated the idea to talk now, not to leave it, to stay, and face up to the past, the places, the people, the pain, the many reasons why I left my home and family, all those years ago, to become a drug addict, an alcoholic, a wanderer, move nomadically from house to house, year to year, to live inside a prison, real and imaginary. I met hell. I met the devil. I met them both inside my head. I found out the hard way that humans could easily imagine evil. The path forward comes from the push to write and to deal. Yes, I felt happy in between the miserable spaces. My family helped me to survive and still do now, even more so than before. Without them, I would not exist, for in the darkest moments I realised that they kept me breathing. I want the virtual picket fence, ideal partner, children and career. They may or may not eventuate. Now as I regroup, look upon me with sober, straight and clear eyes, I can have anything. I walk to a lake, to sense nature, to allow the anxiety to live on these pages, to take shape, and mould into a form that speaks atonement.
I sit on a bench in a sheltered jetty, look over the local lake and write the thoughts that yearn for release. Many years have passed in which I have tried to make sense of locations in time and space. I need to succeed in this endeavour or else I cannot return home. The idea of the prodigal son performing a biblical-like return warms me, yet it necessitates an understanding of me to recover and find the right mental balance to move from the old life to an enriched new one amongst those who support and love me unconditionally.
The watered breeze marks the air as another augments the view, a jogger, young, white sing...
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...arate occasions; first time in the late nineties, as a betrothed, migrating temporarily to the western state; second time four years later, a ring added, and everything else the same. She lured me into her sensuous web with promises of heathen desire. Now U2 plays and other memories from my teens and early twenties come as I race across streets, bang on cars, rush to join a crowd that I no longer see, so keen and now … different. The girl, English accent, cute in my shirt, stands on the front porch after one of the many sexual expeditions, a relationship based on sex, drunken sex, never sober, and I have the customary cigarette while two other friends sit inside my shadowy glow. They feel my passion, or the remnants.
The cool breeze off the lake brings me back to the present, as a duck with a blue bill paddles past on the way to another place. I want to follow.
Life tends to put stepping stones in one path to help one grow. Sometimes it can feel like nothing is ever going to be okay but do not ever let that be the case. Sonny, who was going through a trapped feeling found his way of dealing through a good and bad way. Isabel cries every night and has occurring nightmares but she is dealing with the death of her daughter. Sonny’s brother, the narrator, even though it took him a while to deal with his suffering, he cried and finally understood why Sonny tried so hard to say free through music. Suffering can be truly difficult but dealing with it will help you continue to move forward in life.
Reality and consciousness has been a philosophical debate for centuries. Reality is described as the state of things like they actually exist, rather than as they may appear or might be imagined. It includes everything that is and has been beyond observable or comprehensible proof. Consciousness is difficult to define, it can be the state or quality of awareness, or being aware of externalities beyond yourself. They can be viewed as opposing ideas and can also be considered dependents, one requiring the other: ‘consciousness creates reality’. Philosopher George Berkely argued that the world is a figment of our minds and solipsism’s philosophical theory states that only one’s own mind is sure to exist, “while not a complete figment of our imagination,
The Augustian form of the prodigal son path is one of losing oneself and finding yourself once again. The way that one becomes inauthentic is that the person follows what ...
“Keep all special thoughts and memories for lifetimes to come. Share these keepsakes with others to inspire hope and build from the past, which can bridge to the future.” Returning to a place where one once experienced an event after several years, allows for the regeneration of memories, specifically those from childhood. The article “Once More to the Lake” written by E.B. White, shares a story about a man, who goes back to the lake that he visited every summer with his Dad when he was a child. Now, as a father himself, he ventures back with his own son. The story takes the reader down memory lane with the adult man reminiscing about his childhood, as the sights, sounds, and smells of the woods bring back fond memories. Although time has
Significant increases in soft drink and popcorn sales are noted after directives to "Drink Coke" and "Eat Popcorn" were subliminally projected onto a movie screen over a six week period. The duration of the messages were so short that they were never consciously perceived. Despite admission of a hoax, the sales of popcorn rose 57.7% and the sales of Coca-Cola reportedly rose 18.1%. (Williamson, 1984)
The melodies and harmonies woke him up from his deep slumber, creeping into the small cottage through the bedroom window. He rose to his elbows and listened intently; it wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t soft, either. It was like a missed lover come home, calling to him, missing him. His thoughts flew to the girl that occupied his bed with him the night before, and called out her name.
The place is busy, men and women mingling to my left, and to my right dancing to the jazz music that filled the air, played by an all negro band. I spent an unknown amount of time staring into space until I poured the last glass the bottle has to offer. Just as I took the last sip, a woman arrived, catching my eye. She's a keen little thing, petite and blonde. She reminded me of the women I'd checked out on the street earlier, but there was something interesting about her, something I couldn't get enough of. I watch her saunter over to the bar and pull herself up onto a stool. I'm impressed as I watch her down an entire first glass. With a bit of a buzz going, I had no problem gathering the confidence to approach her. Before standing from my lonesome table, I slip my wedding band into my pocket.
A new melody started up and like the wave at a baseball game the “ooohhs” and “aaahhs” from the crowd started on one side and ended on the other. From around the corner I could see the very top of a balding head. After they came around the corner of the crowd, I could see the wonderful sight of my stunning new bride accompanied by her father, a tall rugged man who is slightly balding. They walked towards me one step at a time slowly, but surely. It felt like time had slowed to a crawl as I waited for her to reach me.
Nothing has changed my life more since the realization that I had to make who I was something that I chose, and not something that just happened. Since this revelation nothing seemed the same anymore, as though I could see the world through new eyes. It changed everything from my taste in music, literature, and movies. Things of a dark and pessimistic nature used to hold a strong allure for me, and yet I found much of things I once enjoyed didn't seem to entertain me anymore. I remembered the mental state that I once held and now seeing how I have changed, know that I can never return to the prison I came from.
I pass a shop display and view my reflection in the glass-a well built man of thirty with a tanned complexion, dark eyes and hair. I seem to have a certain charm and grace that can-and does-go down very well with the ladies. I open the door, pull out the chair, buy the drinks and surprise them with gifts. I stay at their flats after a night out; I leave my belongings there. You could say that I’m just a bachelor with a lust for living-if I wasn’t married.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
“The Journey Home” book is not only easy to read and hard to put down, but the wisdom and insights shared along the way are sublime. I felt myself growing every time I read the book as I experienced his journey with him.
The water beats at the bank feel gently, and resides carefully to avoid over soaking it. The air is fresh and overwhelming with cool gushes of wind blowing past, provoking the trees to yawn and some times sleep. It was a lovely Valentine day and perfect for a picnic at Lake Lavon.
I pulled into the driveway and staggered into the loud, large and mysterious place. I was surprised at how many people were there. It could have been about twenty or so. I would not know because I am not highly educated. My education actually collapsed after being involved with you. I put all my attention and focus towards you. I can’t count the amount of times I missed class or skipped school. Whilst thinking of this, a young girl came strolling over. She had dark, long hair, brown eyes and a slim figure nearly identical to my own appearance. She wore a white garment matched with pure, silk shoes. Her glamour attracted people from all directions. She looked about twenty five years old.
I wandered around the path near the lake because it was always peaceful and quiet there in the morning and the trees that hung over the wide walkway only drew me in more. The cool wind blew continuously, and some of the leaves that barely hung on to the branches were pulled along with it. They floated while dropping slowly, and one of the leaves chose my head as a landing spot. I brushed my hair with my hand, not caring if doing so messes up my hair, since the wind already accomplished that job the second I took a step outside my house.