The Big Meaning and Meaningless Books

I picked up the damp leather
bound book from the puddle
and no matter whether
I was puzzled, perplexed and
confused. But Mildly.

It was not disturbing, it was rather pleasant to feel the pulsing
in my head.
It felt as if I could see inside my head.

In fact I Lie! I lie today and tommorow and ever second that I tell this story. Or any story for that matter Brother! The book was in no puddle, it was in no rain. I put it in the sink to cleanse it from it's torturous pages that haunted me. All the supposedly interesting passages that I highlighted were telling me more than I wished to know.

So this is how it began:

Two months ago I began to take the railway system into New York City. I wasn't very fond of riding with the local-yokals but it beat spending time in traffic and further more it gave me more time to work towards my goal of reading as many books as I could possibly handle. I had this thought that I needed to read. It just sort of happened. One morning I remember thinking to myself, "I will start reading". Call it a message from God or what have you, but that day while driving to work, my car got rear ended on the New Jersey Turnpike. Not only did I find myself reading in the tow-truck that day, but I found myself reading that whole day... into the night.

It was very strange for me to spend so much time concentrating on one thing for hours at a time. I got my car fixed but I wanted to keep reading, - more and more. When I first started riding the train I was feeling self-conscious about what sort of reading material I brought. I thought I would be judged and criticized based on what I read. At least I know I always watched what others read. The family man types usually read some biography of a current sports star or CEO. I found it amusing as they plucked through pages about Tiger Woods and Gordon Bethune. So amusing to compare yourself to exceptional greats like those.

I made my mind up, to not read these types of self-improvement books that posed as business essentials. Instead I would limit myself to only the masters of Great Literature. What I defined great included all of the traditional Greek Writers including Sophocles and his Theban Plays, to the English Masters like John Keats and his Endymions. As I read, I looked deeper into what the author was trying to convey to me. Each author was talking specifically to me. I realized this a few weeks into this reading fiasco - that something greater than myself was at work.

I started to highlight things that were true proof that this was no coincidence, and that someone or something was communicating thoughts to me. The patterns and clues became more self-evident as I read more and more. I began to read for the sake of finding more meaning regardless of the novel or play. I am not sure if I cared about my original goal anymore. This I highly rationalized by proving to myself that the original goal was part of the plan. This I proved through statements made by Lord Byron:

Nothing so difficult as the beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The Race, he sprains a wing and down
We tend.

And Yes the beginning was a step needed to reach this point. But the ending is more difficult, and this is why it must be carefully tended to. Everything is like a step and now I am falling many fathoms into the sea, looking for that next step. Something made me feel like Ulysses, returning home is disguise after a twenty year absence, and to be recognized by my aged dog. I felt wanted, loved, and that I had some purpose.

For the most part I read and cried. Most of my pages filled with wrinkled spots that were rained on with my salty tears. This generally happened at home when the feeling of meaning was at it's greatest. Seldom did I allow myself on the train to breakdown. If I started to get very excited or emotionally stirred, I would again fixate on the names and titles of books being read by the other passengers. And what a joke it was to me. How could they concentrate earnestly on adventures of greater men, or on ways to beat the Standard and Poor's 500 ? I mean here we are in the present with forces surrounding us and asking for us to learn the truth --- you almost feel sorry for the poor saps.

Emotionally I was drained. Today I sat at the park on a bench, reading of course, and puzzled at the big meaning. "The Big Meaning", is how I began to refer to the feeling of realization of how small I was. After eating my tuna with lettuce and tomato that I brought with me, I strolled through the wooded area of the park. There were a few leaves on the ground and trail that crunched as I walked. I felt smaller in the woods. The small feeling felt rewarding. It was like I constantly felt like I was growing too large for my own good in normal surroundings, and the woods put me back in my place. It may have felt like going to confession and feeling like all your wrong has been forgiven. It felt good to be small.

When choosing passages in the books to highlight, my hand felt like it was guided. I do not mean to sound as if to say I was possessed or that physically someone was pushing the pen as if I were summoning the other side with a Ouji board. It was far more subtle. I knew something but I didn't know why. I knew which passages to highlight, but I did not know why they meant any more than the other surrounding text.

"Water, pure cane sugar, red grape ...", the ingredients of a Nantucket Nectar I was drinking. "Made with twenty-percent fruit juice". So used to reading everything for meaning. I just dont find it in everything but the greats. Other letters look foreign to me. It now takes me several minutes to read a simple nutritional fact list on a glass of juice.

My eyes were stinging and dry from lack of sleep. It didn't help that I wore contacts. The dry plastic disks on my eyeballs felt like sandpaper. Probably had massive protein buildup as well, everything looked so blurry. This afternoon I lay down and talked myself to sleep. I tried to remember the last time I slept. I had trouble, and it troubled me. Was I questioning my sanity ? Sort of. I just needed to reassure myself and gather my senses. I faded into half-sleep, when I heard some weird sound. It sounded electrical by nature, but way too close for comfort. Then I went to sleep.

Pounding out of bed is how I woke. My upper torso swung forward as my lungs gasped for air, and my jaw protruded in neandrathal-style. I coughed and swung my right leg out of the bed, next my left and stood. Something felt wrong. My head did not feel right. My thoughts did not feel right. I felt afraid with fear that no man should have to face, even unjust men. And for a man that had done no wrong but follow what he believes to be the word of God, why must I face this overwhelming fear ? Wait! Wait! Was this fear from guilt ? Had I actually done something to deserve this ? Had I pierced the side of Jesus ? No, I was a man of a modern time where sinners were easy to identify. The media, the politician, sport stars, and the poor. I was none of these. I demanded an answer from someone. O how the pain felt to be suffocating me and draining my life.

I heard that electrical sound again, this time while being fully awake. Interestingly enough I could not determine the location of the sound. It lasted only a second or two, but the loudness of it gave the impression that neighbors should be able to hear it.

Sleep was not even enjoyable anymore. I didn't even want to rest my head again, today or even tonight. I suppose I could stay awake and remain productive. I used to drink coffee when I attended a few twelve step meetings. I would make the coffee before the others came in, and boy did I make it strong. I liked strong coffee, thick and black. But it's like, it didn't even do anything to me anymore. It took some serious caffeine to shake me up. Possibly if I had those concentrated caffeine pills, I could spend a few days actually finishing a few books strait, instead of reading, working, and reading again. The work part pissed me off.

In the morning I was microwaving some pop-tarts on the rotating tray and watching the dim light inside. The slow and shakey rotation stirred my imagination like a painfully sweet cup of coffee. I thought of a time when I felt relaxed. I was spinning the wheels on my bicycle, while it sat upside down. "Making ice cream" is what I called it. Possibly it was the cranking or churning method that gave my mind the conception that I was creating ice cream. It amused me in more ways that one. BEEP!. And the food was done.

And as I ate the warm toasted pastry I felt that I was becoming too large. The best way I can describe this feeling of largeness was with my feeling in the woods. You see, when I centered on myself and did pleasing acts, I felt guilty. It annoyed me that I could allow myself to eat this food when I should be doing something important. I could be reading or working on the railroad, all the live long day. I could be breaking stones at the county jail. Do they still do that ? Well at least I could make license plates.

So was reading like a duty ? Well, I did not feel that I was doing it for me. It was for God. Over the past two books that I read last night, I knew the message was becoming clearer and clearer. I found statements that were explaining my positions in life in various passages. The predictable electrical buzz in my head was becoming more common. Every other day I would experience it, and it would bring my body to an awkward position on the ground. Things were flashing, and the back of my neck felt like it was beaten. I walked to the sink and filled a glass of water. Cold water always made me feel better.

I had my battered copy of William Woodsworth's Character of a Happy Warrior. Inside, my tired eyes fixated on the paragraph before me.

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he that
every man in arms should wish to be ?
It is the generous spirit, who
when brought among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought.

Again, in my dreamlike mind state that I never could seems to shake, my eyes parsed through the highlighted text. Something or someone was communicating with me. It was so self-evident now. Clearly this was forming a sentence or message from some intelligible mind. What made me feel overwhelmed was the relation or closeness to spiritual concepts that the text referenced. Was I special? Or had I done something to deserve this attention ? Possibly I had done something wrong, or I was heading down the wrong path. Possibly I was like Jimmy Stuart and someone was just trying to get their wings...

That morning was one of the longest mornings I can remember. I felt that if I left the house I would miss the greatness in my reading, or I would offend God. Everything I looked at had a different tint to it. Not so much in the visual sense, it was my emotions. I felt different about all the things I looked at. In my kitchen I had a new respect for my Iron. Every morning it served me flawlessly. It didn't give a different response every time I wanted to use it. I should be more like the iron. Steady and predictable, reliable, dependable, and all those positive things. God was expecting those things, and I should deliver.

My intellectual concepts now were swayed with emotions and constant spiritual awakenings. At times I wished I could inject holy water from a syringe into my veins. Maybe this could help to cleanse my guilt. My guilt stemmed far. Too far for me to remember. There were constant pictorial images that would flash before my eyes and show me my wrong doing. At every flash I would here the constant electrical buzz. The pounding of my veins and the overwhelming feeling of self guilt was taking me to the edge.

Around the room lay books that had the answers, - directly from the father, but I could not open a page. If I could open a page, maybe there would be salvation and I could once again be a free man. But I was scared, too scared to dare. Maybe it was my mind saving itself from all this fear and pain, because my thoughts changed with the same intensity, but in a different light.

I thought of a girl I once dated. Her mind raced faster than mine. The mathematical complexities of her thought frame was bewildering. I knew that it was fear that powered my thoughts. I was very scared to not know. I wanted to know everything. Something about the way she phrased things and approached topics was genius. I think she moved ten steps ahead of me. When I thought I was leading the conversation, something told me she was laying the groundwork. She could make me say things. I think she understood me and probably everything about, more than myself. A few times I would think I was catching her being sly - but again she would know when I was thinking I knew, and in a few more exchanges of sentences, I again was lost.

I wondered how her mind worked, and what she really thought about. I doubted most words she said, but they were comforting. So I remained quiet and allowed her to tell false promises. I wished them to be true, but I was satisfied that they were said. At least she could give me the pleasure of denial. I thought maybe I should call her. What was it, three years since we last spoke ? How insane I would sound calling her now. What would I even say ? And why did I want to call her ? I think I associated comfort with her. And here I was in so much discomfort, it just made sense.

I picked up the handset and dialed all but the last digit. In my thoughts I rehearsed my greeting. I went through all the different permutations of 'Hello'. It wasn't worth it. I put the handset down.

I gathered my wits and picked up Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. I had left off right before chapter six. I was feeling a bit exhausted, and I pledged to read one more paragraph before making my way to the train station. I read:

We have as yet hardly spoken of the infant,
that little creature, whose innocent life had sprung,
by the inscrutable decree of providence, a lovely
and immortal flower, out of the rank
luxuriance of a guilty passion.

My underlined statements read as follows: "We have immortal rank". I was baffled. I wanted something more meaningful. It seemed obvious that this being communicating with me was working with a different set of rules, a set of rules that could easily not be bound by such Earthly restrictions as limitations on duration of life. It angered me to be taunted by such patronizing remarks. I filled myself another treat, a glass of hydrogens and oxygens. Cool , refreshing, and pleasing for a stressed mind. My mind felt like it could think no more. Complete confusion. I just could stare at things and awe at them.

When you think of situations from the view of the third person, it either makes things much more clearer or completely confuses you. There is very little grey area in between. I have often heard from knowledgeable sources that you should not look at yourself from other people's eyes. Something to the effect of how it makes you lose touch with who you really are.

On my way to the station I cried with overflowing emotions listening to Odis Redding. The music was just to much feeling for me. I wanted to be everyone's friend, and riding on a float in a parade, waving ... waving to a crowd of friends. I wanted to see smiling kids and families. I wanted Dads to pick kids on their shoulders to see above the crowd. Where did all this come from ?

I thought checking into the rear view mirror would verify my sanity. Starring into the eyes of a paranoid man, and they starred right back. I wasn't being "smoo-oo-ooth". In the late forties this was known as the thing to be. I knew luscious tidbits of information and trivia. All of it I would trade at the Grand Bartering Table of Knowledge for one syllabal of knowledge of The Big Meaning. My mind, annoyed with both outside influences and itself, shuttered at the thought of that much information. It was like one thousand back scratching orgasms at once, the sheer depth of the comprehension made me numb. It was pleasure beyond any Earthly stimuli. It made me feel like a Greek God.

But where was I ? I realized by now I was into the office, sitting at my desk, starring into the doorway. Familiar faces were starring back, co-workers I finally figured out. Certain names came to mind, but they just didn't fit. I kept thinking 'Creon', 'Theseus', 'Apollo', and 'Homer'. No, it was all wrong. But I remembered that I had worked with these people for over three years of my life, non-the-less, in an office of around thirty employees, and nothing but madness came to mind. How long had I lived in my books ?

I sat there starring at them. I really could not understand what they were saying. There mouths were moving and a few of them were pointing. There eyes became the focal point. How puzzled and jealous they seemed. I think they knew how great I had become. How dare they point at me with their fingers, fingers as long as they are worthy ?! Why did they look concerned ? They cuddled near each other like five scared little bunnies in a cage. Each one using the other as a shield. They were approaching me. My chest muscles clenched as I feared their questions and my answer. I don't know which part most worried me, but if I had to choose, I would opt for the latter. I didn't know much what was going on, so I feared myself. I feared who I was and could I even speak...

Oh shit! When is the last time I even tried to speak, I could not remember ? Just trivial adventures in Roman days and battles fought in foreign lands came to mind. Yet they kept approaching. I knew what those bastards wanted. My original The Lotus Eaters by Lord Tennyson Alfred, they eyed it with delight. I was to protect the word of God from destruction and interference.

I eyed the first passage over and over:

"Courage!", he said and pointed to the land. "The mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon".

With more and more speed the images flashed before my eyes of the oncoming battle and of rolling waves. Each image faster and faster with more and more terror. The group was now within an arms length of my desk when I stood. Everything felt different. The air seemed to taste different. Perhaps a little salty. I felt like a man again and shouted, "Courage! This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon". I grabbed my book and made for the doorway. The scared bunnies remained at the desk in awe at the sign of a true conquistador !

I made my way down the hallway, pushed my way through the stairway door and galloped down the steps. At each landing I held the handrail and delivered a powerful side kick to the oncoming wall. Proving to each and every bunny that I was chosen, and that they should be respectful.

The concrete blocks moved nowhere, but the feeling of acceptance was starting to sink in. I accepted my fate, my destiny. I somehow found myself running the parking lot in figure eights, splashing through puddles. Thinking to myself, how I must have courage, and that each wave was rolling us forward still. My feet splashed puddles that rolled a thousand ships forward at speeds that would please the gods.

A deep feeling of guilt engulphed my heart as I thought about my responsibilities and the people I have blocked out of my life. Life was more than just me and my relationship with God. It was with living, feeling, needing human beings that I had disregarded as unworthy obstacles in my journey. I wanted to be free of this sin. I pushed my face against the ground, while I knelt in a puddle. The hard stones felt so deserving to me. My book had minor splash spots on it, but my hands were filthy.

I walked back into the building, carrying the book. By now there were several more employees standing in the hallway looking. Some stood at the entrance to my office, blocking the way. They were saying something, but I could not make it out. They just kept looking angry and pointing away. They looked like they were angry with what my book had to say. I walked to the Men's room and looked into the mirror. There were stains all over my clothes. I really looked terrible. So is the cost of being the messenger. Must I also wear a crown of thorns ?

I began washing my hands. I rolled my sleeves up and washed the puddles and grime off my arms. I then grabbed my book and dunked it under the running faucet. I turned the heat up in the water temperature and watched the paper get flimsy and weak.

I got weak like the paper and felt sick. I leaned over the sink and held my stomach. I felt my eyes start to roll back, and I began dry heaving. I lost feeling in my legs. The pain of the heaving made tears come to my eyes and I wished to be home in bed, eating Vienna Fingers. It must have been a day or so until I actually came to. This is all I remember Officer ....

Originally published on truman.net. See the archived copy. The original page carried no date; this is the date it was first archived.