Lonesome Coyote's History of Chains
Some mighty heavy burdens - self-inflicted burdens - have been lifted from me in the last few years . I can thank Peter Weiss, Ed Sheldon, Paxil, and insightful talks with Peter for that.
Originally I went to the Health Coop's Mental Health department to work out my counting obsession, which was taking over my conscious thought processes after hiding for so long in my subconscious mind. Turned out it resulted in drawing aside a curtain that had covered a multitude of skeletons and festering parasites.
Since at least the summer before starting high school, my feelings of inadequacy mounted, feeding on each perceived failure, threatening clear thinking and even my life. Burden after burden I piled on myself - endless tiny links in an enormous growing chain.
How did I survive? I couldn't bear it without complaining, and I didn't know how to complain to people. When I tried, it came out as as whining. So I complained in my dreams.
- The chasms I teetered on, frozen while hoards of ordinary people paraded cheerfully past, unburdened as I was.
- The increasingly dilapidated, falling apart houses I wandered around in, marvelling over the vast spaces inside, only scattered junk relieving the emptiness. The collapsing infrastructure. The rotting or wind-blown external skin.
- The long, empty fields I had to traverse to get to the far-distant but clearly visible street car or buildings, the great number of them I wandered about in, overwhelmed by the labyrinthine hallways and multiple doorways, never remembering the path I took to get someplace and so not knowing how to get back. Meeting lots of people, interacting cheerily but never knowing why they were here or why they (some of them celebrities) had any interest in me at all.
- And a few outdoor dreams, climbing slippery rocks up a steep slope against a torrent of falling water, with dozens of kids sliding down with great glee as I struggled against them.
It all built up to a gigantic plug in the artery of my reasoning and creativity. Paxil and Peter and Ed and talking nudged the plug enough to let some fluid flow. I mentioned to Peter how amazed I was, that it took me 45 years to get to that tiny opening in the plug.
The plug dissolves gradually. Very gradually I see my underlying powers exposed. As I described myself in the early 60's, "I am an angel". But not as I saw it then - so different from most other people that it hurt hurt hurt - but rather different in that my powers are more than most have. I am a person like others. But I also am different - not a different type of being.
Today, I continue to carry the enormous loads I accumulated over those long, dark years. I even add a few more. But I do cast some off. And the mountain of them is becoming more clearly seen as mostly useless, infuriatingly burdensome junk.
Can I just take some dynamite to the plug and let the juice flow free? Would it kill me? make me nuts? drive me to refuge in conservative Christianity? The limited knowledge I have of myself allows for all these possibilities and an unknown number of others.
So for now I pick away at the pile of items. It takes as much of my resources to do that, as it did to accumulate them in the first place.
Just pulling away the plug is a notion I entertain but feel inadequate to do, or feel overwhlemingly fearful of doing. So instead I write this and add one more tiny link to the chain that circles my world. I will add this little note to my Web site and build yet another link. Ah, but it is slow, here in the Horse Beatitudes. Yet there is a glimmer of light in it.
A Selective History ...
Way out in the wilderness
a Lone Coyote Calls.
Your eyes fix on the shotgun
that's a-hangin' on the wall.
- B Dylan