Dear Mary Angel

I'm tired of just about everything. I can understand Luke 21:26 though it doesn't apply to the present; there is still a great deal of fear in the world today. I spend too much time worrying about the direction of this country than I do the direction of men's souls. I place too much value in the intransigencies of life than I do in life itself. How has this happened?

All I want is to be all that God made me to be, and to be loved by someone God would approve of. I don't think that's too much to ask.

I'm so tired and distracted I haven't been able to focus on work for a week now. There have been no looming deadlines, and those making their approach are nothing to worry over, nevertheless I can't focus on the tasks before me; they pale in comparison to the crisis currently facing me-- my own personal midlife crisis. And I have no one to share it with it.

What will that shore look like when I get to the other side of this? I think that answer worries more than anything else. This world is going to shit in a ziplock, And yes, that worries me, but I'm worried more about where I fit in all this. God doesn't make anything without specific purpose. Each of us have specific purpose, something we are meant to do. How many of us ever discover that purpose? I want to know my reason for being. He's given me so many talents... so many... but I've never known what to do with them, let alone use them for His glory. I wish I had done things differently when I was 17, 18, 20, 23. I wish I weren't the kind of person I was then. But I did meet you, didn't I? A blessing in every brier patch? And what's the point of having a midlife crisis if you don't even have cash enough for a motorcycle?

Something I've considered lately. We are all stimulus junkies; we are sensory beings owing our daily perceptions to the things we see, hear, taste, yada... and it is through these stimulus-imprinted perceptions we categorize it all: good days, bad days, and everything in between. And that's all a motorcycle would be, something mostly in between. I'm tired of being 'in between.' I just want to know who I am in Him.

There's a song getting some air on the radio where I'm at, something about ten-thousand fireflies? Well, the song is silly, but the last line speaks to where I am:

Because my dreams are bursting at the seams.

And my dilemma? Not enough net in which to catch them all.


Thank you for listening,

All my love,


Eric

Dearest Mary Angel

It's been almost a month since my last letter. I've been very busy of late so, many apologies for not writing sooner.

Work has been especially stressful. I have a webpage rollout that's due by 5pm this approaching Friday, and if I had to be completely honest I'd have to admit that I'm only fifty-percent there. If this project is not ready on time it could very well be job-threatening. Hence my unusually high stress level. When I was a mere production assistant the most I had to worry about was whether I had all my keys and graphics ready for the five and six news. Now that I'm in sales things are much more fluid; no longer am I under the gun of newcast deadlines, now I am faced with fluid deadlines-- not every deadline is solid, they usually creep forward or back. I say this one is solid, but it could well move forward OR back. My experience is that they tend to move forward more often than back.

When I began this "all things politics" page I saw an opportunity to do something I thought would be meaningful. I am an über conservative, naturally, so I thought of this as a way to have a voice. The only voice I've had thus far are the few choice quotes from certain founding fathers-- just picture me thumbing my nose at all those 'evil' liberals.

There are scheduled (though I could skate with fewer) six second tier pages from which the main page will link. Two of these pages can't even be populated till April 2nd when Florida's qualifying of candidates comes to an end, and the complete lack of issues and amendments scheduled for any of the three states I have to cover in all this.

So, realistically, I have only three more pages to build before deadline. But here's the problem: it took a solid eight hours to build the one from scratch, with sales agents bugging me to fix this or that. I have too many other distraction! I know I'll get through it all; I always do. My best work usually comes under pressure.

This past Friday I awoke so stressed that I couldn't even function when I arrived at work and had to take a thirty minute timeout the moment I arrived. I had to break free of the stress, and that meant I had to write.

So I gave myself 30 minutes, and here is the result...

In the Moment

They appear as threads
in the hackneyed tapestry
New, their life and end unfathomed
these moments when eyes first meet
hands first touch
lips first brush
And like that spark struck
burn quickly out
     ~the moment gone
Defined as the space between the when
of eyes meeting and parting
hands touching and parting
lips brushing and parting
Time is the beggar within these little ages
holding out its hand for more primacy
But it is Impression which sits upon
these thrones of relevance
Each new thread in our hackneyed tapestries
is experienced not in time
but in Impression
     ~duration goes hungry here
Moments are fleeting and singularly unique
Moments are texture
in the tapestry of our lives
Eyes see what hands feel what lips soon forget


ELAshley
031110.084502.1
Revisions:
031110.045926.6

031110.055152.6


Latter that day at my other blog I had this to say about the subject matter:

I thought back to a time several years ago when I took a lonesome trip to St. Petersburg to visit my grandfather. My little sister also happened to live there as did one of my aunts and uncle. So there I was the first late-afternoon of my weekend trip, visiting at my sister's place; a little hole in the wall that probably cost more to live in than what I currently pay. And when I say 'hole in the wall' I mean it was a typical 70-plus year-old Florida cinder-block building-- perhaps a small motel at one time --converted to tiny tiny apartments, hidden in the heart of the city by a small grove of oak and short palm.

There I was sitting on an old dog-hair covered couch considering the oppressive heat outside, the relative coolness of the apartment, and a KISS tune blaring from the speakers. And something clicked (as only some things can under these circumstances). I realized that Time has no bearing on 'the Moment'. That is to say, 'Moments' are not bound by any set length of time. Moments can be a split second in duration or several minutes, but the passing of time has no control or say as to how long the Moment can endure. Moments, they are fleeting, yes, but they cannot be truly measured, or their durations anticipated. The Moment begins and ends as it chooses, generally when something new intrudes, breaking the thread. And a new moment begins.

Fast forward quite a few years... this morning in fact. And I'm wondering about the moment I'm in; the one wherein I'm trying to hit the reset button. Trying to get past the log jam and the fear of failing at a task that MUST get done-- a Job-Killing 'must' should I fail. Well, writing has always been good for me in this respect. It always allows me to clear my head and reach that button-- you know, the one that says 'Reset'?

I know. I'm weirder than anyone you've probably ever known. But I can't help that; It's who I am.

Thanks for listening Mary Angel.


All my love,

Eric