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shabd
September 30, 2006
there. i've finally made the time. a few parts luck, a few parts exercise of will.
an hour ago, i was becoming enveloped again in the false security of my apartment. not even home, but my apartment, for i've lacked that sense of home now for a while, and that explains a lot.
there was no run today. i woke at 6:30, and went to coach other runners, a new factor in my life that makes sense, that is one new piece of home for me. i went home afterwards, to clean, to organize a few things, to put together a handful of tasks for the day.
i did a good deal of all that, then i fell asleep in front of the t.v.
not again, not again, not another day. there aren't enough left.
i was feeling inertia again, anchoring me still. i made one movement at a time. feed the cats. get the backpack. iPod. computer. pet cats. door. car.
so there. now i'm here, at whole foods. the sun is getting increasingly warm on my legs as it sinks lower in the windows that portray the day, yes, another day, but i'm here, with a six pack of beer and my notebook computer and the word "shabd" echoing in my head - the sound, the word, before expression.
When we meditate on that light of God and that music, we will find access to God himself. The music we hear in this outer world is the outer expression of that inner music. In the Jap Ji, twenty-seventh stanza, you will find Nanak marveling at God's mansion...he says that in God's house he found all music, so many instruments, so many kinds and types of songs, and so many singers. Then Nanak further explains that all this universe, the Judge and air and fire and everything there is, is going on because of music...Everything is Music. God is also music and he controls everything with music. Singh, Thakar. And You Will Fly Up To God
but, what? i look back over two years of writing, and there is a story here. it's easy to write the pieces, the days, sitting here. see, i do it now. there you go. but i can't write it, because i don't know, and can't seem to say, what will happen next. fiction is easy, truth is hard.
when i wrote the story in the previous post, partial eclipses, ten years ago, it was easy, then it stopped, because while i never stalked a girl through downtown austin, it was still my story, and i didn't know how to end it, because i didn't know how my own true story would end. do i write the story, or does the story write me?
it's an opportunity for optimism and tony robbins-like empowered positivity. "YOU decide what ending you want, and YOU go make it happen, tiger!" but it's not that simple, is it? if it were, we'd all be god, or at least, i guess, tony robbins, which is a horrible, horrible thought.
shabd. everything is music. the universe is music and stories waiting to be sung, played, told. the word, the music, is in here, is out there, waiting to be given expression.
shh... i'm trying to hear.
Posted by Rob at September 30, 2006 05:55 PM
Comments
Sweet - I want to read this story!! The comment you made about whether the story is writing you or the other way around: have you heard of Will Farrell's new movie called "Stranger than Fiction"? It's not out yet, but it reminded me of that concept (check it out on-line). And what a massive amount of intense meaning is attached to this interesting name - that in itself is inspiring! So, set to writing this sucker!!! :), J
Posted by: Julia at October 2, 2006 05:13 PM
This reminds me of Kurt Vonnegut - he wants his tombstone epitaph to read THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDD OF THE EXISTENCE OF GOD WAS MUSIC.
Posted by: Jori at October 2, 2006 10:52 PM