Musings and Prose of Greg Gough

An opportunity to experience my world

Archive for March, 2008

The Bridge

Posted by ggough56 on March 17, 2008

“I’ve seen the bridge and the bridge is long
And they build it high and they build it strong
Strong enough to hold the weight of time
Long enough to leave some of us behind”

– B. Taupin

Sometimes the fact that the bridge is so long is discouraging.  It’s almost like it’s long just to be a discouragement to cross.  It’s daunting task to traverse it cold, hard iron.  It has this call to cross or not.  It’s often our perception of the bridge that either empowers us to cross it or keeps us from it.  I’m comforted by the fact that the bridge is strong to hold the weight of time, all of our times.

“Standing on the bridge looking at the waves
Seen so many jump, never seen one saved
On a distant beach your song can die
On a bitter wind or a cruel tide”

– B. Taupin

Even when you begin the journey to traverse the bridge, you leave behind your shore, it grows distant, you can grow fearful to leave behind what you’ve known.  You see the waves, you see others fears played out in actions.  You really have no confirmation that anyone traverses the bridge to safety, if it’s safety that the bridge promises.  This all depends on your perception of the shores.  Your song can certainly be death on a shore that does not promise it life.  How sad to see a song die.  How sad to be consumed by bitter winds and cruel tide.  The bridge represents a lot that cannot be known, intellectually, experientially and otherwise.  Some rely on experience, never understanding that foundation in experience could be faulty or circular, only confirming what’s been done before.  Intellect can be deceiving because it relies on what is known.  Our own poison can be what is known, never understanding what we don’t know or even that which we don’t know we don’t know.

“The bridge it shines
Cold, hard iron
Saying, ’come and risk it all
Or die trying’”

– B. Taupin

The bridge beckons each of us, some see it shining, some see it as cold, hard iron.  Some are drawn to it’s hope, some are bittered by it’s austere and disturbing presence.  Some have a good mix of both.  The key is our perception of the bridge and how it plays into our lives.  Why do we see the bridge the way that we do?  Why do we become bittered and discouraged regarding the bridge?  Why is the suggestion of the bridge sometimes offensive to people?

Either way….

“Everyone of us has to face that day
Do you cross the bridge or do you fade away?
And everyone of us that ever came to play
Has to cross the bridge or fade away”

– B. Taupin

Embracing choice in our lives, rejecting choice in our lives, remaining ambivolent to choice in our lives, these are all realities for us.  I don’t need to even offer proof for the bridge, the bridge stands as it does.  I don’t need to offer evidence for choice, we all experience choice everyday.  The question is what are you choosing?  Are you choosing to be right?  Are you choosing to control your influences?  Are you choosing to be angry?  Are you choosing to be offended?  Are you choosing to be abandoned?  Are you choosing to alienate?  Are you choosing to abandon others?  Do you root your choices in yourself or something outside of yourself?

I guess I don’t want to fade away, but maybe that’s the essense of the bridge and the offense it brings to my life.  That I must choose to cross or fade away doesn’t seem fair and just.  I could see many of my life choices as being unfair, the notion of my life itself could be seen as unfair.


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the story….

Posted by ggough56 on March 15, 2008

I wrote a story in highschool creative writing that I was rather impressed with, but there was something about it that made it impressive. I fabricated details in my story to make it more appealing and interesting. I realised that offering a real story, that reflected what was going on in my life at the time would have been rather uninteresting, in my opinion, to the average reader.

So the story was rather sadistic and it was a sharp turn for me because at that time I would have never expected to see me write anything like that. I fondly look upon that moment as the production of a great story that did catch a lot of attention. The teacher I had for that creative writing class died a few years after I graduated and I remember thinking about that story that I wrote.

Let me dwell a moment on fabrication. The substance of fabrication doesn’t exist, it’s illusive because it has no grounds or foundation. Though, I thought to myself, “how do I create appeal in my story?” At the time, I had seen some interesting movies and I like a flair of psychological thrillers, so I put a few things together to create this story of a woman who died tragically, but not one person seemed to care. Actually, the events of the story communicate directly about something else that the story is not even about.

I’m always amazed that everyone tells someone everything they need to know about them. Though, one might think that I was not communicating, through my story in highschool, my fear of being overlooked or neglected, they were, in fact, wrong. It was evidenced throughout my entire prose. My entire story, though fabricated in detail was very explicit to how I was offended.

My eyes read the stories of those around me in this same fashion. I don’t see any means of hiding behind fabrication, though I understand it’s appealing. Unfortunately, it’s a fabricated idea — to hide within one’s own fabrication. All I can say is thank you for the honesty in the story told. I’m actually glad to be benefited by a deeper understanding of what’s underneath and between the lines.

Honestly, I’d rather pursue a conversation surrounding fabricated stories and listen to the unrevealed heart. My voice is silenced, by me, but my ear is tuned to listen.

My friends, I charge you to write your stories, fabricated or not. It is not in the fabrication that I’m concerned it’s what you might reveal about yourself that you would not in any other context. An opportunity for vulerability, maybe the only kind you’ve known….

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The dream

Posted by ggough56 on March 10, 2008

“Last night I had the strangest dream
I dreamt I sailed to China
On a little rowboat to find ya
And you said you had to get your laundry cleaned”

– Men at Work

So last night I had a dream that everyone in my life was just pretending to like me. It wasn’t like they really did like me or they were honest with me about it, they just pretended to like me and did everything they needed to do to make me feel that I was liked or loved by them. It was haunting because I thought to myself, how much of the world is encompassed by that mentality? Maybe it’s simply that I put too much stock in how other people make me feel or that people like me. It was a bit of an eye opener because I realised that I had nothing when I found out that everyone was pretending to like me.

Decidedly I move forward to figure out what is going on. Ironically, given two unrelated circumstances, I had a conversation with myself about one of my friends on my drive around town today. I decided I would tell him that I’m glad he needed me in his life. Then my horror struck. What if he didn’t need me? What if I could not provide for him what I thouht he desired? What if it was in fact the case that he actually wanted me, not needed me. It was rather horrifying, especially for someone who has very low self esteem and self worth issues. I have decided that I am going to live in the “wants” though, if you will. I am going to more readily embrace relationships where I’m wanted, rather than needed. The other circumstance was getting a phone call, after my drive, from a friend who told me they loved me for who I am. That it’s not because of what we talk about or what we do together, but it’s for me just being me. I shared my internal conversation in the car with her and it was interesting that they were related. I was called by them because of something totally unrelated that they felt they needed to apologize for. Just when I need reminding, there is reminding.

“Talking to me in the things I know
You are the Lover of my soul”

– W. Kirkpatrick

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