This much I know.
You’re not that into me.
I think I’d know it if you were.
Here’s what I don’t know.
Why it is you keep me around.
Maybe you’re just undecided.
This is all brand new to me.
And so are you.
I’m a lousy guesser.
I’m guessing you are too.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
When they say that we can
leave it all behind,
we still
take it with us when we go.
And nothing is forgotten
that’s forgiven in my mind,
until
creation and us with it cease to know.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
I undergo profound changes every November.
Cataclysmic, visions-of-a-personal-apocalypse life changes. It’s happened three Novembers in a row now. Sure, it’s only a blog challenge, but I’m generally blog-challenged, being a poet and not really a blogger at all. So when November rolls around, it seems like I’m just not allowed to ignore all the seismic emotional upheaval that something of this creative magnitude rips open for 30 days straight.
See, here’s the thing, because you knew there’d be a thing, right? The thing is, I’m kind of an empath. Not the ‘I shake your hand and know where you’ve buried the bodies’ kind of empath. Just the ‘I feel things deeper than most people’ kind.
My feelings.
Your feelings.
Friends’ feelings.
Strangers’ feelings.
Hell, I even feel your dog’s feelings.
Did you ever see the movie “Species”? The original, where the government assembled a team of previous strangers with varied skill-sets to capture and/or kill the Escaped Sexy Female Alien Hybrid, on the loose and looking to mate? Then you remember the soft-spoken empath, played by Academy Award™ winning actor Forest Whitaker. This version of the B-movie empath wasn’t a psychic, or in touch with the spirit world, or whatever other way B-movies portray the empath. This version could simply feel what others around him were feeling, and tell you what those feeling meant.
I liked that interpretation.
Because at the roots, it’s the closet I’ve ever come to being introduced to mine.
And then there’s the downside.
The thing is, I’m kind of an empath. Not the ‘I shake your hand and know where you’ve buried the bodies’ kind of empath. Just the ‘I feel things deeper than most people’ kind.
My feelings.
Your feelings.
Friends’ feelings.
Strangers’ feelings.
Hell, I even feel your dog’s feelings.
Especially my feelings.
Which in the past, I could ignore for my own sanity’s sake. But last November, after writing a super-concentrated month’s-worth of feelings, I lost the ability to bury mine. No more clearly-marked boxes for emotions. No more handy compartments for feelings to go. No more mindless default ways to ignore them. They were, for the first time, all on the same great big plate like a 64-box of crayons melted together in a microwave oven, and it was a fucking mess.
My fucking mess.
And I had to choose my path before it killed me.
The title of this post is, “When an Empath has no Empathy”. It comes from a random thought that popped into my empath head a couple of days ago, about someone from my past, equally gifted with the ability to ‘feel all the feels’ like I do. A random thought that goes, “What if you were an empath with no empathy? Wouldn’t that just make you a sociopath?”
And after reading everything… okay, a few things on Reddit… my non-clinical, non-scientific answer is, “Yeah… I think it would.”
But is that how I want to live the rest of my life? Just surviving like a spiritual grifter, living off the feelings of others instead of feeling all the feels and helping those who need whatever it is I can do with all the messed up feelings.
My feelings.
Your feelings.
Friends’ feelings.
Strangers’ feelings.
Hell, I even feel your dog’s feelings.
Especially my feelings.
So this November, I was left with a choice. Do I want to spend the rest of my life finding new ways to shut off all the feelings and face the consequences of knowing and not caring? Or do I stay on the path, as I suppose was originally intended, and learn how to be who I am? Feeling, and dealing with my choices.
Like I said, I undergo profound changes every November.
And I can’t wait until December.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
Never have I ever taken in
more than
one breath at a time,
like all of the rest
of breathing creation.
One breath
at a time,
for a lifetime.
Never more,
and seldom less.
Always have I ever taken in
more than
one worry at a time,
like most of the rest
of breathing creation.
Every breath
all the time,
for a lifetime.
Always more,
and never less.
And now until forever will I take in
no more than
one worry at a time,
like the bless’ed best
of breathing creation.
My next breath
and for all time,
in this lifetime.
Forevermore,
until my rest.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
I don’t go near Black Friday anymore.
The last time was in ’08,
or maybe ’09.
I left the headlights on while I shopped,
didn’t have Triple-A,
and had to find a tow that would take cash.
Today, I don’t have cash.
But that’s okay,
because I got Black Friday out of my system.
After the split.
Before the long hours to pay for what I needed to dig out.
For what I still need to dig out.
Today, I don’t have cash.
I’m still tying off the loose ends of my life.
I’ll see the grandbabies for lunch,
kiss them,
and pretend that everything is good.
My own little girl will look me in the eyes,
and my eyes won’t lie to hers.
Today, I don’t need cash.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
Staring
into space as though,
in it,
you will see answers.
Wishing
in the dark,
because praying would
make you a hypocrite.
Asking
for help
is harder than needing help,
when you
don’t believe you deserve it.
Remembering
that making it this far is
not a guarantee
for tomorrow.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
This is a throw-away post.
It was bound to happen sometime this month. I just didn’t expect it to happen like this. To be brief, my computer and my phone are working. I still have the internet, and I’ve been good physically. I haven’t run out of ideas, and I haven’t run out of words, either.
What I’m out of is money.
And because I’m out of money, I am also out of time. I’m out of time to sit and contemplate what to write over the last week-and-change of National Blog Posting Month. I’ve been busy chasing the money necessary to keep the creditors at arm’s length while I complete my comeback from the work-related depression that forced me to quit my job last June. Yesterday, I sold my pickup truck to the highest retail bidder. Sold it for a couple grand less than it was worth, just to get the cash. The cash that won’t be in my hands until after some bills go to collection.
I’m not bitching about life. On the whole, life has been pretty good to me. For now, just not THIS part of life. I’ve been told, repeatedly, that life… God, the Universe, whatever floats your philosophical boat… takes care of me. But today, I can’t say I know that. Because today, I’m writing a post saying that I could be living in a twenty-year-old Dodge in a couple of weeks.
And the downside to all of this distraction is, I’ve got no time to sit and contemplate what to write. Not what to write for myself, because I do that every day, but what to write for you. Because some of you read me every day.
And I don’t want to let you down.
So for the rest of National Blog Posting Month, I’ll keep trying and meet you here, every day.
Even if I’m out of time.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
A post, in pictures, of my adopted home.
Long Beach, California.
PALM TREES HOLDING UP CLOUDS… Pacific Coast Highway near 2nd Street.
HALLOWEEN MOON… Redondo Avenue near 20th Street.
CITY LIGHTS – LONG BEACH TO DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES… Signal Hill.
BACK ALLEY… 4th Street near Cherry Avenue.
THE PHOTOGRAPHER… Home.
All photographs © Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
BILL is standing behind a podium at the front of a large meeting room. Before him is a roomful of folding chairs, all of them reserved for the bloggers of Nano Poblano 2017.
Bill is about to call the meeting to order.
Bill: Before we begin… where IS everybody?
Two people sitting in the room look around at dozens of other people sitting in folding chairs.
Woman: You don’t know?
Man: How many people do you think we’re missing?
Bill: Count the empty chairs.
The two people look at each other, then slowly, at Bill.
Bill: Why are you looking at ME like that?
From the back of the room, a voice speaks.
Voice: Ummm… Bill…?
Bill (looking for the voice): Who’s that?
Voice: It’s ME, Bill.
Bill (under his breath): Shit.
Voice: Shit is right, Bill.
The person who is The Voice stands up, and begins walking to where Bill is standing at the front of the room.
Voice: Have you looked in a mirror lately, Bill?
Bill: Huh? What does that even mean?
The Voice reaches the podium. He stands in front of Bill, looking at him with a face of knowing expectation.
Voice: Don’t you see what everyone else sees?
Bill: I see what I see.
Bill looks out at a roomful of empty chairs. Only the two people sitting in those chairs are the two from the beginning of the meeting.
Voice: Look again, Bill.
Bill looks at The Voice, then back at the room full of empty chairs. Each chair has someone sitting in it. Bill is looking at a roomful of people.
Bill (to The Voice): You look a lot like someone I know.
Voice: A lot like someone in a mirror?
Bill: I haven’t seen that guy in a long time.
Voice: Since the first of November?
Bill: About then.
Voice: He’ll be back.
Bill: You mean it?
Voice: Yeah, Bill. You mean it, too.
And The Voice disappears.
The original two people look at each other, then back at Bill, then at each other again. They seem confused, and a little bit like maybe they’ve seen a ghost.
Bill (to everyone in the room): Hello, Peppers. I’m Bill.
Peppers (in unison): HI, BILL!
Bill: Only ten days to go. You all hangin’ in there?
Nano Poblano ends November 30th. If you believe in ghosts, you might want to avoid mirrors until December 1st. But hang in there. Between you, me, and the voice in your head, everything’s going to be okay.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
I got burned
for getting
too close to fires,
but I won’t end up
one of those
sad-ass liars.
I’ve been a sucker
for as long
as I remember,
I’ll be a motherfucker
before the
first of December.
Because only
two things happen
when you’re unguarded.
You’re either loved
or you’re
brokenhearted.
© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday
