Reflections Ressurected: Where Subject and Object Intersect

"In the thick of it, we either find clarity or doom."

I am only seven days from departure on a trip that will decide the course of events for the rest of my life.

Now, I know that that is a bit of a large and rather loaded statement, but in many ways it is true. I texted my friend today whom will be joining me on this excursion across western America, and I said, "we are 8 days away from our greatest achievement so far." He replied, "and death shall have no dominion." Fate is the strength in me that takes my burdens and turns them into this remarkable event that is near to unfold. I am, by my own governing nature, a body of creation and a seeker of truth and a lover of the written word. Something will happen very distinct and very real and very, very transitionally relevant that will come from me and my creative elements while I am away. He is right, not even death has a say in what performances of my exploratory heart consume me on this endeavor.

Digressing, and changing subjects, I just found this in my files and thought I would put it up to read.

"i dreamed that i was to die. Lying there, and a baby bird appeared,
but it was cast in a shell and helpless, so i freed it of its shell, so that it could fly away,
and to hope that i would not die so thoughtless and alone.
The bird flew away, aned i grew tired.
Each time i would near sleep an awkward noise aroused my ears,
so i fought to stay awake.
I did not know what i would meet upon my death, but i was not ready to forever sleep."

It was some time ago that I wrote that upon waking from sleep. I just thought it was interesting. Death is interesting, I suppose. I could understand how Poe's dominant bulk of work would be derived from such a subject. You can pray to a god and assume wherever it is you go when you die is something of their doing, good or bad, or you can simply think that when you die it is simply death, your system down, the lights out. At the end of the day it doesn't matter, because factually neither party truly knows what happens. It is perhaps the greatest of mysteries, never to be solved. In my time of passing, however near or far, I will call for God, simply because of a social upbringing inclusive and inviting towards such beliefs, but none the less I do not expect it to be so easy. I like the way Whitman puts it best though: "and to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier." If there is one many ever to exist that was an exemplary model for humanity and love it was that man. I hold my deepest respects and my fondest love for the written word because of his works.

I will conclude this entry with a very old poem I wrote when I was a senior in high school. I find it interesting, and I am just as happy with it now as I was when I first wrote it, minus some commas that need not apply. For that, I am sorry, just be patient and ignore them if they get to be too much.

I titled it, "A CALL FOR HELP"

I see the faint street lamps glow across the plane,
And hear a soft breeze that whispers something sacred.
The death of me to not hear its words!
For I see people,
Who reign in judgment,
And hide eyes,
That are too scared to look deep into the future,
And know truths but just ignore,
With actions, fronting feelings,
Pushing away all that is human,
For a feeling of belonging,
A feeling of false comfort,
And they know it is false,
But choose to fall into things anyways,
Forgetting all that they were taught by instinct,
For a fear of rejection.
I will not abide this,
Or allow or condone or promote these actions,
They are like machines,
Pretending to be human,
In any way that they can,
To find a plastic future,
In commodities and stock options,
And trades and commerce and income,
For retirement and social security,
Neglecting what is needed of their hearts and souls,
Through bodies that push so hard to carry on
The life-fulfilling task that daily time consumes
So they can live through unrest at night
And dwell on future failure and feel as if they falter
And beat their selves down until dignity is shouting out
In a call of feign sighs to be grasped and reformed,
To take years of life and leave and lastly, love;
Who know not what devotion is nor care what it is for,
Who live off their own problems, in a blame for blame maze
That repeats and never has an ending, and if so, usually tragic,
To indicate that we all will be saved by a profitable Jesus,
Who will save us with donations, if we give a little, we feel redeemed,
And more alive with passion that only lasts till next Sunday,
When Jesus saves again, and nativity scenes were never so lavished,
So as to reflect the amount of devotion the community has to Christ,
Through a beautiful chalice of baby saints and virgin wonders,
So I wonder why I am still here,
When no one really cares but rather doubts their fellow man,
Because they are too busy,
Distracted with dreams that never surface,
That only brings their quality of life down.
I have seen it, you know.
Marriage counseling after one year,
The couple resides on some alternate source,
Relying on something else to fix the problem,
They both know they can resolve.
I take my walks and see,
The glassy reflections of lost eyes,
They stare blankly as if at a canvas,
And cannot decide what the world really is,
Except a mass of dirt and water,
First discovered,
Then conquered,
Then explored for selfish reasons,
And stupid competition between nations,
Starting out for wealth and ending in blood,
With holy wars that only excuse the fighting,
For the fact that man has built a hate,
That spreads like a fire in all of us,
And soon sandy graves take stake in our soil,
And so we blame someone else,
And grow more hate inside,
Seeking vengeance on another’s’ actions,
While everything falls out of place
And I find no peace in any space
Except in my own heart
That aches to be called out of the corners
And scratched right down the center,
To beat back all the anger in this world,
With tears that never leave my languished eyes,
Confronting feelings I know too well but cannot control,
Or understand or comprehend or mend with simple actions;
I still believe in all of you, don't you know?

C.A. Dominick