The Faux Pas Press #20: The New Year to Be

The Faux Pas Press #20

A Weekly Thought

By Jason Fresh

1 January 2010

The New Year to Be

I breathe deep and look at the ocean.

Today, for example, as I watched the breaks on Hawaii’s North Shore it was hard to see anything complicated in the world. So, I breathe deep because it feels good. Not because I have to breathe deep after years of abuse to these lungs but because it feels good to breathe. The expression in my face is something I will never know but what I do know is that it feels good to breathe deep, to go home to this first action that sustains human life, to feel this human being.

I want to express my gratitude to the ocean so I challenge it to a tug-of-war – a war that I lose. I’m okay with being a loser. I realize that the measurement of my life is mine alone. So, screw all the dramatics, all the discussions about good and bad. Just life, just life.

I raise my arms to the heavens. Again, here I am, a lunatic loser raising his arms to the heavens in public places, frightening small children and the elderly. I speak to the flush and foam of water; wait for no apologies because I am owed none now. That is the good thing about being a bitch-slave at the bottom of the barrel: you get to believe in something greater than what you are; others get to feel sorry for you.

You are not asking them to, but they might. You know that your place at the bottom of the barrel is an illusion as is a place at the top of the barrel. So, you get to look sorry and sad if you want. It is a shame but you are likely to get somewhere with this demeanor. Another lonely person will see and say, “Hey, there is someone who feels like me.” The only problem with this is that they will want to save you – do not let them because salvation is joke.

You don’t need saving. You need to make rational choices. You need not place your trust in the God or the Government – not Saint or Senator. Trust life and the reason of any predicament. If there is anger surging in your body – remember the emotional choice that brought you here and think about how you will never repeat it. The gods smile upon a reasoning mind, the artist sculpting order from the high line of chaos, a grandson of unintelligible banter, a grandson who has written pages upon pages trying to rid his soul of his grandfather’s pointless waste, the traditions of wars untold. The grandson must let all things fall away that do not support reason, order the chaos presented to him.

The money lender knows that I am not a good prey when I use reason. I am his worst enemy. I need no praise or scorn from anyone.

How can the mountain and the tall tree, the swift wind sweeping the country be anything more than what it is? Does apology surge from the mouth of the ocean after it has swallowed the human and taken him down to Poseidon?

The mass wearing Prada sunglasses, these folks might acknowledge your lack of flare, or prestige, your lack of notoriety, and think about all the big books they’ve read. And you will let them think what they will because you are a loser. And who gives a silly God damn anyway because they will always say something. Something is better than nothing. This is not always but most of the time. The Professor, the Preacher, the Prophet, the Prosecutor will all have a few words to say about you and your life.

I look out over the ocean on this New Year’s Eve. The breaks are big and potentially destructive, the chords of guitars playing at a furious speed, flaring instrumentation into my sinews. The ocean, the lovely ocean falling apart one fold at a time shows me that no man will escape its grasp, shows me that to scurry about is a tear full of fallacies. There are no comments that will last the test of time. Only the energy endures. So I examine my shadow’s discontent and ask him to come along with me this year – not to be funny, or good, the parade, the easiest show; no, I don’t have to be funny this year. I can be scared if I want, but scared of what? I have no need of fear anymore.

The beautiful piece of the puzzle has arrived. Even if I am called the scum, horrible father, drinker of many beers and lover of many women, even if I screw up everything I ever do, what will it matter? Just life, just life.

There is nothing wrong with owning sorrow. Sorrow is different than suffering. Sorrow is the reckoning, the face that you’ve been hiding from, the picture that you are too afraid to look at. Sorrow is real. It means that you don’t have to walk around with a smile on your face all the god-damn time, a fake smile, acting like you are not a slave to every emotional decision you’ve ever made. You get to stop the imaginary victory. You get to live in the reality of your current predicament. The suffering stops when you can reconcile with your choices. But you’re probably too smart for all of this, right? Go on. Keep dressing up in your fucking party dress, keep putting on your party face or church face (same thing), and believe the lie that your life has crystalline décor.

As for me, I am okay with my choices. There is nothing wrong with owning sorrow.

Happy New Year!

Green Lights,

Jason Fresh

www.fauxpaspress.com