To find a metaphor, a parable, a story to match, to compare with the negative, the bad things we feel when waking, our sins, the ways we let other people down, our faults, our bad choices...    Thus, the popularity of the figure of Jesus Christ, and what it is which makes him recognizable.  The sinners he falls in with, the people he falls in with, or who fall in with him...  whom he can only cure, save, through his presence, his patience, his teachings.

But sin is central to him to, central in his message, and it's always been obvious that he too must include himself in all human traits, the capacity for bad decisions and sinful choices.  He would not be real if he, Jesus, would not wake up from time to time with some gut sense, "maybe that wasn't the best use of my time..."  Jesus would not be real, unless he too did dumb things, personal things, mistakes, quirks of personality.  Why go to Jerusalem, why go then?



How much did it cost me to neglect reading and studious pursuits and academic gain to spend time with Willy P., who wanted to smoke weed and listen to the Stones at lunch time, and I humored him too much, and began some bad patterns for myself.  It would cost me forever, really, having to wake up remembering, realizing my faults, of how I let the bully types dictate my life for me, when I was more intent on being a quiet scholar, a distance athlete, a yoga person, perhaps more of a performer, a dancer, a musician...  He had sort of glommed on to me early on...

But oh, my sins...  Years and years, not being on the ball, economically, as you have to be, now what?

And my life as it is set-up in such a way as to continue the bad pattern, the fallen scholar, the wasted erudition, pissed away eloquence and abilities to learn, study, practice...  The night shifts nerve-wracking...  the temptations of pain relief right there in front of you, surrounding you even...



The artist's problem, of being a sensualist, an addictive personality type, who craves inspiration, not so good at postponing pleasure for the sake of the long-term benefit...


So, how to treat the inner light?  The light that must pass through every day...


They share with me their stories, up at the old wine bar.  My friend's father, French, loses the will to live, ashes into the sea...  My friend Drew has given up the friendly little white doggie he took custody from a departing girlfriend...  I have my stories to share, not too much, just a seasoning, yes, I get you.

Not much water flows through these pipes, no more, maybe never did.


Now when I visit her, I leave at four in the afternoon, or so, getting on the road for the drive back.  I get the car back, park by the apartment on MacArthur, unpack my stuff, and then I drive up Foxhall, up to Cathedral Avenue, across Wisconsin, down Massachusetts to get the car back on Calvert, near the Omni Shoreham.  At 12:30 at night, I find the doors of the parking garage are still up, open, so that I don't have to drive around to the top of the parking garage and descend down all six levels around the pillars and such.

I am shaky, not able to do much before getting to work, after the return.  Feeling stressed.  I get across the street to the little Korean market, for a little bit of roast beef and curry chicken salad.  The school kids are there, and I wait mildly at the counter, 'til my friend smiles at me, what would you like, nice to see you, how have you been.  One schoolgirl opens the paper wrapping of her roast beef sandwich on white, lettuce and tomato and dives in with a bit right there at the cash register counter.

The bus is crowded, noisy.