Another Sunday Morning

Hey, wait, I got a new complaint- forever in debt to your priceless advice. 

Oh, Kurt. 

I bought books and chocolate yesterday. Anything can sound like the first line of a poem. My mouth has a slight oily film. Muruku on a Sunday morning. That sounds Japanese, but it’s Indian. Japan, India, China. Nigeria. Countries of the world that don’t seem to speak as loud as the West, though we are, indefinitely, louder. 

Last week of class before Reading Week. Maybe I could fly out to Amsterdam. No, New Art Night. Looking up flights to Amsterdam. How can I full fill my desires? Though that’s not really a good goal, as desires are endless and not always meaningful. How can I satisfy my needs and my most important desires, which because of their potency are really just needs of the soul. 

Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl.A prominent Viennese psychiatrist before the war, Viktor Frankl was uniquely able to observe the way that both he and others in Auschwitz coped (or didn’t) with the experience. He noticed that it was the men who comforted others and who gave away their last piece of bread who survived the longest – and who offered proof that everything can be taken away from us except the ability to choose our attitude in any given set of circumstances. The sort of person the prisoner became was the result of an inner decision and not of camp influences alone. Only those who allowed their inner hold on their moral and spiritual selves to subside eventually fell victim to the camp’s degenerating influence – while those who made a victory of those experiences turned them into an inner triumph. Frankl came to believe man’s deepest desire is to search for meaning and purpose.

Somewhat akin to Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz. The people of the world have come to the same conclusions. When you chose kindness, you can triumph. 

I cut my nails the other day. I prefer them short. Less dirt and oil trapped in my body. 

Running out of money. Little lists in my mind. To go to the library, to walk to Shoppers to buy a sponge, to wash dishes, sing, read, run, what what what? These are the questions of my day. Trivial perhaps, but my day nonetheless. I don’t really believe anything is trivial. The details, the small accents, the tightness of one screw in the whole mechanism, very important. Under Milk Wood. How is it that the simplest things can seem so fearful? The joys of mental illness, I’m sure. It’s not laziness, it’s anxiety. That’s manageable. 

Okay, inaction is fear. Let’s go the Shoppers. Buy a sponge. Do the dishes. Memorize some Under Milk Wood. Do some Historical Imagination. And some Moment to Moment. And some  learning music. It will be summer soon. It will always be summer soon. I have always dreaded summers, and always loved summers. Always, always, dualism.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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