The Pursuit of Not Knowing it All

In that vestige of twilight, did conscience and consciousness meet? Did an oddly timed hiatus from life and critical thought accomplish anything? Is insomnia actually insomnia if the inability to sleep is near wholly self-influenced? Self-driven? Is there anything less attractive than self-pity?

Oh the lifetime two months make. Decisions were made that have altered lives. A beloved Boy turned four. A hobbled Jeep grew tires and also now sports a new sexually suggestive “Serpentine Belt.” A dear friend tolerated seven weeks of chemotherapy only to have his blood counts fall to new lows. His only selfish wish? To watch his own four-year old son grow up.

So again, I ask—in that vestige of twilight, did conscience and consciousness meet?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

And perhaps I will spend the effort of a lifetime trying to answer that question for myself. And perhaps I will not—but will acknowledge my break from the all of it for what it was. A poor, half-successful attempt to minister my wounded psyche. An attempt to bridge the spillway that is my wandering thought.

I find that I still have fewer answers than I do questions. And is not that a glorious thing? What a grand, uplifting, and destructive voyage is the pursuit of answers. I cannot fathom a world void of such quest. I have spent time with people who do know all there is to know. I must admit—I prefer the company of others. I know just enough to be dangerous. And I know enough to recognize that I want to know more. And that, thankfully, I will never know everything. I don’t think I could handle it.

I still know simple pleasures are the best. Whiskey, cigars, music, and literature remain highly ranked. But nothing bests the grasp of the Boy’s hand in mine, the goodnight brush of a son’s lips, the image of him dancing himself to exhaustion as Robert Earl Keen and Todd Snider hide in a stereo somewhere in West Nashville.

He is a light, that Boy. From him I will never take a break. Jesus, how I would hate to miss anything. Like my compromised friend, I long to see what my son sees. And what he will see. I long to protect him from some of the answers he is bound to find. And yet I know I could do nothing worse for him. So I will not protect him from answers but encourage him to ask more questions. For he is likely the link between conscience and consciousness.


I’m back, Baby.