Focus By George S Geisinger

Focus
By
George S Geisinger


     My thoughts were disjoint, my focus was gone as gone gets. Baffled, not making decisions what to keep, or what to discard. Walked blindly away from a burgeoning two bedroom of blatant materialism. Spent what there was of my savings on remaining solvent without debt, converting to direct debit, the way things ought to be done. Let someone else do the managing.

     It was a hard lesson from the burden of the times. Most of it was an inability to make decisions. My thoughts ran wild in a million directions. My mind was baffled. Mostly I didn't talk to anyone on the phone. I could scarcely talk anyway, with a speech impediment. The neurologist called it aphasia and speech arrest. Had to have speech therapy. Like having my words locked up.

     Some long-awaited relief, like a breath of fresh air, a cold kiss of water. I wondered all my life, then suddenly knew. What was said several times over, finally made sense to me. She was not to be requited, but we came to quench her. We were her only chance. What was there, amounted to a loving
kindness from the least expected. We were her answer to prayer; we would be hers.

     She analyzed an irrational mind and came close enough to the right conclusions. There was a dream of exorbitant legal fees for a single reading and an old lady bearing a few old documents – what remained of a life's work. But doing this writing is not for that purpose. It's a rational conclusion, but
not its purpose. These writings are eking sanity out of what there is for madness.

     She's gone on to whatever is there. It's gotten so thinking about the hereafter doesn't scare me anymore. The threat of eternal torment is only propaganda. It's a part of controlling the masses, because most folks don't have sophistication to think beyond what they're told. Never are we told that we are eternal, or what becomes of our spirits in that place referred to as eternity.

     Well, whatever is there, my reader-friend has gone on to have to face it head-on. I honestly don't know what's there. Whatever idea I may have is only an idea, not based in any tangible experience. Yes, I have had an intangible experience along those lines and whatever that experience was, now doesn't concern yourself.

     It's nothing I could describe or defend, either one. Then there was another lady, a reader-friend, a natural-born editor. There was a time I would toss off a few pages, print them out and hand them over and she was regularly impassive about them. I think she believed she did a lot more, but she only read what I wrote
and gave it back to me.

     Then she lost her heart over me, in her old age and I just couldn't sanction the
sentiment in perspective. I had required her to be nothing more than an old lady.
She was in love with the life she read about, since it was a man's life I wrote down in endless stories in the first place. I couldn't let go of my childish perspectives, as it was certainly called upon for me to do in the long run. It was another one of those dear, sweet hearts, out of the many I so carelessly broke, for reasons I cannot account for nor make justifiable accounting.

     It can be supposed by onlookers that I didn't care when Gene passed, but my heart was cut to the quick. Gene had her final moments in the sun and I was a catalyst which both provided for and withdrew a final moment from her. There was no getting past her incidental statistics, like age, weight and other meaningless facts held against her as detriments. It was a prejudice.

     It's been hard for me to learn this in life. People are as they are, regardless of what they may be. I'm with someone now whose disorder is dismantling her, but people are whom they are, regardless of the things they cannot control. I want people to consider that argument with me, so what is it with me in regards to the same argument with them? Consider whom they might be.

     My commitment is a rock solid arrangement on my part, not because I love a person's body, but because I love a human being. She's a wonder, sensitive, kind individual who cannot disdain anything living. She loves others because they have life as it is and devotes her own life to those suffering and dying, because she will not have another individual suffer or die believing no one cares.

     We live in a retirement community, where we are not entirely self-determining.
The Parkinson's pain hits her now and then and she runs home like a homing pigeon, only to put her chair back into a resting position like she did at my place. Then she pines over the idea she can't be with me, when she's the one who left me. I plan on taking an easy chair to her place and digging in for the long haul when the time comes.

     There was a cat broke it's back falling through a tree. My love wouldn't leave that dying cat until long after animal control had taken it away to be put to sleep. She sat there crying for that cat, for a long time into the morning. I could not have her running away, to sit in her chair suffering because she was alone. Called upon to be there, I will withstand the torrent of her daughter's prejudice, to be there for beautiful, sweet love.

     We used to sit and talk for hours on end, peaceful blissful talking, not about much of anything but the way life is and the way things have happened to and around us. We've developed an understanding between us which has only strengthened over time. Our courtship was done the old fashioned way. After we took sacred vows between us, we enjoyed a blissful moment. Considering the urgency we experienced, it must have been that her need was as great as my
own, if not more so. We used to try our best to cheat all the silly rules and regulations, evading the cameras and staff who would not let us be, until I got the idea she should just tell assisted living how she felt about me. It was like calling off the dogs when they learned she loves me.

     It was a struggle exonerating myself of that pit I had somehow dug for myself. It was either that I had underestimated the toll my losses had taken on me, or that I was a victim of someone's bullying, taking advantage of my diagnosis for their own, sadistic purposes. There's one in my life who enjoys playing police and likes to lock me up in institutions, just because he knows he can.
     All my possessions were forfeit when I moved South, as well as the two people I was closest to in my family. It's amazing how thoughts of things I had kept cropping up. Also, that the last of my elders was gone was just about enough to take its toll on me. I could not understand her passing. Then, I do have the family cold, which seems to have been motive enough to incarcerate me. My insurance had insisted upon getting me hundreds of doses of my medications to keep in my
apartment at some point in time and I was apparently eating them unconsciously, as if they were candy.

     I became so sick I couldn't talk for months. I had to go off my psych meds in order to survive. The distortions in my mental processes, as well as my physiology were greatly disorienting. Then there was that type of institution I was going to have to make adjustment to and that would be the rehab. With the overdose I scarcely had a choice. My speech was forfeit for a long time. I had
another fall like my many falls and my hip finally gave way, which was another whole drain on my energy I wasn't planning on. Caught in the proverbial snowball, I was headed down hill.

     This was all accomplished before my great disruption in environments. I went from going to cookouts with friendships I'd been cultivating for years, to all this disruption to my environment going on in the basic context of my life. I did rehabs, one to adjust to from after the overdose and the other to relearn how to walk, all before I ever submitted to making the big move to the South.

     Unknown to me at the time, I was moving South into the clutches of a sort of sadism and that was just the way things turned out to be. I could have made it with the loss of one of my elders well enough, but to take the last of them was a great blow to my basic concept of reality. It was a time of making great adjustments to things and I was getting too old to make adjustments.

     My concept of reality has always been a little loose around the edges, but the loss of that final pillar of the substance in my family was a little more than I could easily adjust to. It was among that, losing of my friends and losing my possessions that I came unglued altogether. Considering this measure, it was not abuse to give me a tour of the psych facilities in the South.

     At least some of the hospitalizations I undertook after breaking my hip were warranted, but to establish hospitalization for every variation in my mood as a matter of course, was taking things more than a little too far. Having to adjust to all the losses I suffered up to that point was no small matter for me, but I was having to adjust to every volatile situation I had in Dixieland.

     Some people seem to have a real focus on life they pick up on in childhood. By the time they're old enough, these people have a whole game plan mapped out for the way they're going to proceed. Others don't manage as well as the ones you'd think had it all together. Some of the clueless ones in this world spend a lifetime in dreamland and never get anything constructive done.

     If they survive the confusion at all, it might seem to be the dreamers turn out to be something
none of us would have expected, as if it takes a lifetime to plan things for a going concern. Dreamers have a way of generating a fine-tuned perspective and nothing can beat having a lot of focus in any sort of field of endeavor. Some might spend half a lifetime languishing at others expense.

     The dreamers of this world are likely to surface one day when we least expect to see them showcasing themselves, taking on the oars to propel the boat of life, with little or no supporting cast to aid the procession. They seem to have been headed nowhere, but sure enough, they surface with the entire program of their industry mapped out, perched at the end of magical finger tips.

     Wandering in the dark all my life, I have finally found some tangible meaning in my life, not that my spiritual framework of meaning was ever in question. I've worked at life's struggles in the exact opposite way of anybody I ever met, that I knew of for sure. I always knew my maker and only needed some coaching on how to go about speaking in the presence of the Almighty.

     At least, I knew when I had to know. For a while there, the Almighty would spend a long time talking to me, but not so much anymore. I was a very confused individual for quite some time. It's the more tangible nuts and bolts of day to day living that baffle me. As long as I'm living in an institution, where some of the basic necessities of life are provided for me, I get along just fine.

     It's that my mind is busy with other things than the ordinary tasks of being. When I bring attention to them, they play cat and mouse games with me, until I'm not focused. Then I ponder the ethereal matters again, instead of reverting to a sort of pragmatism. Wouldn't you love to let yourself consider the wonders of astrophysics or the intricacies in the existence of the ladies?

     There's environmental science and anthropology to consider, rather than the mundane things of day to day life. At any rate, I have a terrible time focusing well enough to generate the basic tasks of making a living for myself. I've always delegated, even when there was no one to perform a task. In such case, tasks were really not accomplished. Now they are and I'm free to dream.

     That there is the abyss to be considered, the chasm of the direction I'm headed in, which is forever beyond the passage of time. The workings of my mind are more noticeably hampered, while nothing seems quite available to reason anymore. My contact with life and with the world are slipping away from this unavoidable experience, even though I'd rather be vital at certain times.

     Whenever I drop off beyond the crack between the worlds, I drop way out and away from being anything like alive or vital. Nothing whatever seems the slightest bit like the process of life. Mostly, it's a cozy, blissful sense of unknowing, of having known a blissful absence from any necessity of mundane tasks lurking or conflicting to have to strive against. I'm greatly liberated.

     This was the world I perceived on many occasions throughout my days – when either the idea of tripping or starving was concerned. Now I'm starved for a presence of mind to be able to deal with all the same in this life. There's the next story to have to generate from a meager glimpse at an ethereal eternity of existence I knew once and for just a moment there, it was a lifetime ago.
A glimpse, as intangible as it was, left an indelible footprint on my existence, such that I know what cannot be known in this clueless world, replete with all the games people play. When this is life and there may be no other, what difference is there among flags or steps or rank or file? When it is the moment in which we live, how can there be greater significance than the moment?

     Instead of pursuing the mark, striving to attain that heart of gold and traverse the sacred crack between the worlds, upon hearing the expressions themselves, people will proceed to do a lot of graphics of which they know nothing. They do a lot of talking, generating any sort of counterfeit of whatever it might have been, for the clueless, mindless masses of people to believe in.

     They'll do this task to take people's money, for as long as the coining of the metaphor generates money and the priests of the heart of gold and the crack between the worlds, end up with nothing but a colossal lie to take to their graves with them. Over the centuries the priests will distort and embellish
the revelation, until they've got something makes no sense to anyone who questions it.

     When people question the doctrine, they'll make it dogma and threaten them with what they themselves fear. Another several centuries later, the dogma, doctrine and fear are an integral part of an entire society's culture and way of thinking and reasoning, such that nobody dares question what no one dares claim doesn't make any sense anymore, similar to the idea in the beginning.

     How is it a man can make statement he can never recant and stake claim he cannot disqualify, over something as uncertain as his own life and retain confidence in things he dares say? When that veil drops over his whole life, that he does not know and things fade from existence, how can he rightfully claim to resurrect himself, wholly and complete from his own unknowing?

     Does one fabricate an entire religion of the few things he knows and perceives, or recall to himself some morbid oath? One finds himself isolated in his few convictions, not knowing in the least and yet understanding much. The concept of being able to see the object, well beyond the few things that happen to already be seen, is a redemption in itself from that which is in fact.

    One doesn't begin with knowing what one is going to say throughout his project, one begins on faith and hopes for the best statement of whatever is going to be said. There continues to be a hope I'll be able to shed some light on this reduced state of mind, but that's not a given either. With this state of
being, I keep hoping I'll leave a legacy of something besides unfinished work to do.

     Reaching for that indescribable something that's going to keep me on the ball another day, I sit down to work out each statement in the hopes of making a difference in my thinking. The idea I've got to be at least coherent is a concept more daunting than it may appear. With the intangibility of time eating away at my words, I work at an attempt at truly saying something of substance.

     Not knowing but only believing, I pursue the task of telling you something which is like nothing to the casual bystander, who is not likely to see anything in this vane attempt at verbalization. My point is like the water which runs through the fingers, leaving the fingers wet but going on through them by and large. One has enough moisture to cleanse oneself but not enough to drink.

     The thing I pursue is just as elusive and evasive as water, yet bears the telling all the same. This wounded mind of mine can only perceive within a moment and at that, one is fortunate the telling of the fact it might render itself to the page with as much profundity as ever. I might just as well fall off to sleep, as to try to tell you this, as I am to get it all done. How I proceed is a bit of mystery.

     In the interim, I have succumbed to some depth of slumber and cannot account for the passage of time. That I'm awake at all, I'll attribute to the dinner hour and not in the least to sensibility. My wakefulness has little to do with rational thought. My wife helped me surface from slumber effectively enough to take on some food with a minimal requirement of comprehension on my part.

     Recently, I feel an increasing detachment from the process of the writing itself, in that I'm almost submitting to a seizure in order to get the words set down into the text editor in the first place.

     This I cannot account for, since it's only been most recently I've sensed this problem at all. The other issue is my tendency to slip into a dream while I'm in the process of writing things down. All this is going on while I press to make coherent sense of my paragraphs within a line break and deliver a reasonable point to the writing besides. It's like learning to ride a bicycle, except the knack of it never really seems to set in much. I find it taxing enough and to finish becoming, is an
elusive task to undertake. I do not take to the finality of the task in the slightest measure.

     Even so, I am pressed to proceed with the entire process of the writing. I am doing just as I am and cannot be dissuaded from my task as it stands.

     Determined to finish the undertaking I've chosen, has only been a lesson to recently impress itself upon me. It may be I've exceeded my natural obligation in this regard, but I'm requiring to continue until some unforeseen point in time.

     For the writing process to have waxed fragile as it has, is an alarming surprise to even me, the author and finisher of instability. I find the volatility of the writing process takes on even more volatility at such eventuality as it independently pleases. It is as if the job has a barometer all its own, whereby all requirements of it complicate themselves as the time gets away in the project.

     Write and write and yet the simple truth of my little glimpse into eternity continues to escape being concise with its wit, but the verbiage itself expounds almost endlessly. The idea of it seems to lubricate my generating of thought into the text editor to almost infinity, but I have no idea how to make my point any more directly. I hope you don't lose too much patience with me like this.
I'll give the work a fresh go here, but I doubt I'll be anymore concise with the point of what is this glimpse into eternity as I call it. That I've had one is certain, but to define it is yet another matter altogether. It was a catharsis, a moment of truth of such proportions it effects my entire lifetime thereafter. I stepped into such a life-altering moment I struggle for a spiritual equilibrium.

     This moment as I call it, has even put Christianity itself into question so greatly my spiritual understanding extends far greater than anything the Bible even begins to address. The Bible has a wonderful code of deportment and has effected everyone of my possibilities of behavior. Having been well schooled in that regard, those lessons have not faltered. It's that my eyes were opened.

     The parameters of what I perceive as being real have blown wide open. The things I consider to be possibilities in this overall existence are greatly enhanced this ongoing state of mind, such that my concepts of what might be real have been greatly expanded over what once was. Molecular biology and astrophysics have taken on an overall profundity in my new-found perception of reality.

     In fact, this is my greatest task in life, to redefine such fresh take on reality. Someone's going to need it. The introduction of such a concept verbally defies the usage of this meager language of ours altogether. There are times I teeter on a threshold of something of such profundity I can scarcely articulate it, then I find myself repeating stupidly, thinking I'm saying something different.

     Making a novel setting for a concept of reality is the major task of my life.
What you might say I found in this multiple concept of reality is an image of the whole variety of realities. There is a reality within and a reality without each reality. There is the forever smaller and larger reality to consider. There are the multiple realities along the same plane of each reality as well, which provide for a multiplicity of realities within each one of the options of existence.

       We exist simultaneous to a living multiply and severally. Each major choice we make has been made each other way available to have been made on another plane of existence and each life has worked out severally according to each one of those major choices. When you were going to marry the girl you never married, there is another you who actually did marry that girl and so on.
When you never did go into the service or go to war, there was another you who did join up and did go to war, on another plane of your same existence. It's the reason our awareness is so acute, even though our specific knowledge is lacking in another sense. There are multiples of each one of us, who share the same birthday and have the one day of death set for each one to experience.

     We are responsible to each of ourselves to live as completely and entirely the way it is chosen for each of us to choose to live. It is that we become the quintessential self, according to something we continue to choose, until that set of choices becomes our signature lifestyle to have to follow through.

     We must reap the rewards and pay the dues involved in living that lifestyle of choices. This is just as applicable in the negative sense as it is in the positive one. He who continues to make bad choices must pay the dues of those bad choices, while he who chooses well reaps the benefits of choosing well. There comes a time when reversing that whole trend in your life takes a major amount of effort to effect a differing consequence to have to work out in your days.

     The negative karma keeps drawing you back toward that ever-familiar failure for each positive step you take toward your goal and turning your life around for the better has become as difficult to accomplish as turning a great ship in a small sea. At the same moment, there is an entirely other you on a different plane who is doing the same thing you attempt, in relative ease and alacrity.

     This multiplicity of existence brings about some fresh questions about the nature of existence on a basic level. It either simplifies or complicates choices, depending on how we end up looking at this basic construct of reality. I imagine trying to keep this mindset when it is actually someone else's belonging initially, might become a self-defeating complication to attempt to employ.

     We're venturing out into space now. Someone has got to redefine reality here.
There are multiples of each living creature on multiple planets on multiple planes of existence orbiting multiple suns similarly. Each individual living creature chooses differently than his many counterparts on similar circumstances generating different results based on the basic similitude of his choices. It's all one big experiment, to measure something for the Almighty's purposes.

     Not saying I know any of this, I'm only offering a theory for the sake of expostulation. Having had an experience with an acute unreality in this lifetime, I think I know a thing or two about the nature of reality vs unreality. My mind dares expostulate, pursuing multiple diversity in more directions than I know exist. I continue to consider multiple theories among this inquiry similarly.

     The idea of who we are and what we are capable of, has not entirely been defined of its own abilities, inabilities, capacities or limitations. Suppose there's a part of all of us, which establishes the contrary choice to each major decision we ever face in this existence? Isn't that a liberating thought?

     We might be just as free to let the other poor bastard take the most unnecessary risk. The concept of experiencing an unreality is not experiencing a lack of the reality know to ordinary men in some measure. It is a matter of knowing too much reality to be able to distinguish one measure of reality from another. This is the nature of hallucination also. One does not make strange
things out of nothing, but experiences a difficulty distinguishing one reality from another, in which all experience and imagination comprise the greater part and parcel of a greater reality.

     Hallucination is a matter of, while being in a process of journeying, having too much sensory input to be able to process it all successfully. The psychedelic experience has been identified and there will always be those who pursue it, in spite of the admonition that the human organism is not compatible with it. The psychedelic experience is basically at odds with human life.

     When every avenue of achievement in your field of endeavor has suddenly closed to you and your soundness of mind itself has faltered altogether, who are you? When all you had ever hoped to become has suddenly been rendered highly unlikely for you to ever be, who are you? These are questions I was pressed to face with no answer to present, in the infirmity of my youth.

     It was in that day and time when we were all doing such things and I was not about to be out-done. I dropped some really heavy electric chocolate and my mind suddenly went on vacation, forgetting to take the rest of me with it. In fact, I've been looking for that part of myself ever since, while I found I absolutely had to stop smoking and dropping for fear of my mortality.

     Whatever part of me it was I left behind when I dared drop out, I'll never really know. I am forever changed and forever new since that time in my life. We were looking for a fresh state of mind to look at life with and a fresh perspective to be imposed upon the two of us by the electric chocolate.

     It didn't happen that way with my partner. R dropped and forgot it. I'll never be the same.

 

 

You can pick up some more of George's work here: 

https://www.amazon.com/Hockenschmidt-George-Geisinger/dp/1533069212/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Gold-Anthology-George-Geisinger/dp/1497514819/


Leave a comment