The origins of the word belief come from the root words “to wish”. ” I wish” in God. “I wish in the Bible, “i wish in the resurrection of Christ”. There’s a decree that says your humanity is not enough, that to be truly in sync, you need to worship and “wish” in a far greater power than yourself. A cosmic taskmaster. A powerful Lord to whom you must pay respect or burn in the fires of eternal damnation.

Human beings have been coerced, by force, by torture, by war, to believe in and worship something greater than themselves.This something is invisible and lives in the sky somewhere. Its truly silly and coercive when you think about it. Imagine going through life with some dark shadow hovering above you, keeping track of your soul, your mind, your feelings, emotions, and desires. Keeping track of all that you do so a final judgement can be rendered when your heart stops beating and you brain shuts down

Thats horrible. Why put up with it? Why view life as a ditch through which you must drag a dead ox? Why? Because some feudal priest employed by the Lord of the Kingdom told you that was your way to salvation? To suffer, to whimper before a being greater than yourself, to cower in fear of an invisible sky judge?

My friend Big John in Atlanta was raised under traditional Christian values. There was good and there was bad and nothing in-between. Yet John saw there were grey areas where neither good nor bad measured up. He saw hypocrisy all around him though the people portended piety. So he read books about religion, something few Christians do. In fact, Christians know less about other world religions than any other religious group.

John concluded that despite his religious upbringing, he was, of himself, a good, thoughtful individual that lived successfully by principle and not superstition. He didn’t need a higher power keeping track of his intentions because he didn’t feel the need to bow before something in order to live life. He didn’t need devotion to anything other than living life well and treating other people respectfully. John’s reading also gave him the rigorous intellectual acuity to assess his existential worth without viewing it through the complex and confusing moral prism of religious ambiguity.

The idea that we have to subject ourselves to the code of conduct ordered by an unseen being in the sky contradicts everything freedom means to me. And by reading about religion, I tried to grab that feeling so many people claimed they felt from religious devotion. Relief because of the belief in a being greater than themselves. Someone they could bow before and be granted grace from the misery of life. Someone to whom they prayed to change what cannot, according to their religious imperatives, be changed because of pre-determined destiny. I never got the feeling, never felt that supposedly explosive Christian holey moley. All I understood was that Aunt Ethyl is on her way to the boneyard. Pray all you want. She’s shutting down. And isn’t that supposed to be a joyous time? A time when we get to bury the bullshit and hang with the Creator for all eternity?

Theres only so much matter in an expanding universe which Im sorry to say seems to indicate that we will be incarnated millions of times before we reach the finish line. When the universe decides to stop expanding. So hanging out with the Almighty seems unlikely if we apply the science of proven physics. Matter reforms whether we want it to or not.

Think about the origins of believing or wishing in a greater power than yourself. Its a tradition among the powerful to create order among those they have conquered with myth and superstitious baloney. These traditions settle in as history progresses from one prosperous money making victory over others to the next. And if keeping them afraid of an invisible old man in the sky keeps them from being free, then the powerful will continue to refine the definition of what it means to bow and to scrape before an imagined super something greater than your insignificant self.

We both agree theres a persistent weirdness about Sunday that people like us just can’t shake. I’ve written about it before. Sunday is the weirdest fucking day of the week. Period. Even if its sunny and pleasant as it was today, Sunday’s mojo is sideways, tilted, loopy, most times dark,and unpredictable. Riding a motorcycle is different on a Sunday than any other day of the week. Give me a warm Saturday and thousands of miles of hot asphalt and I’m good to go. Make it a hot Sunday afternoon and i”m uncomfortable. I’m probably not happy either. I feel riding a motorcycle on a Sunday afternoon is an inherently dangerous act simply because it’s Sunday.

Mike agrees. He knows theres a marked difference between a Saturday afternoon in the sun and a Sunday afternoon under the same conditions. ” Crazy people”, he says, ” People like us. Sunday kills us. Its always tough for us. And yes, theres a difference between the same afternoon on a Saturday and the same afternoon on a Sunday.”

My friend Ralph and I ran the rocks on the Big Stewart river in Minnesota on a sunburnt Saturday afternoon on acid. The two deer grazing in the woods were used to us. Their smooth beige heads lifted together and their slow eyes followed us as we ran from one slippery exposed rock to the next. The sun glistened off soft pools of clear Minnesota river water, highlighting snags of neon green moss bobbing off the sides of wet rock walls.

The roll of the river down into Superior was elegant. We were flying. Recklessly lifting our bodies into the air as our feet briefly touched the tips of wet, exposed river rock. One slip, one acid lit electric second of thinking about what it was we were doing would doom us to screwing up. If you thought about running rocks, you couldn’t do it.You’d get hurt. Seriously hurt. The brain’s unasked for system of quick intervention would put a stop to it. Thats why we never touched down with all our weight on a rock. Make contact and you’ll slip. Your head will split in half on the rocks and you’ll probably die right there.
Running rocks is extremely dangerous. But enormously entertaining especially if you can empty your mind of the thought of the danger.You trick your mind into thinking its flying. And it is.

It’s mindless delight. The birds whistling and singing is clear and brilliant. Nature’s chaotic opera lifts the canyons of heat in the four o’clock afternoon light with a choir of cheer as warm winds hustle in time through the tops of the pines. Its Saturday and its amazing.

We never ran rocks on a Sunday. Never dropped acid on a Sunday. Just survived Sunday in a mopey,dopey, dumb ass sort of funk. Even surfing on a Sunday is a different wave.. There’s something in the scent of the salt in sea spray and the way it crisps up on your skin that says its Sunday. Something that hovers above the sea between the water and the sky. Something that affects the way people move. Something that affects the way they behave.

Thats what Mike says. ” Its the way people behave on Sunday that makes it a crazy day for crazy people like us.”

And that makes sense. Sunday is a crazy day. Its almost over. And thats good for all people who either are, or would like to be, crazy.

My house is on the market. I can’t afford to live in it anymore. The price is right. The home is immaculate. The lawn is well groomed and the roof has many more years to go before it needs to be replaced. I’ve had a few people look at it. Most like it. Its just a matter of whether its the right place at the right time for the right buyer. When that happens, the house will sell.

I write everyday. Right now I’m at the point where the protagonist in my novel is about to take his financially train wrecked life into his own hands. The problem is he’s suffering psychological trauma and is loaded on all sorts of medication. His efforts to make decisions and keep his physical and mental balance in order are complicated by his ongoing anxiety and passive suicidal depressions.

I don’t always know where the story is headed because the character often takes me in an unexpected direction.

Write what you know. I know what depression is so I know what its like to imagine taking my own life. We all do. Is it depressing writing about someone who’s suicidal? Not if its good writing. If its good writing about someone contemplating ending their life or the lives of others, then it feels good writing about it.

A friend of mine was 22 when he shot himself to death. He was bright, friendly, not at all moody. He was a good swimmer and a scholastic success. But something about life bothered him. I don’t know if he left a note behind or not. I wasn’t around when he pulled the trigger. But out of a line up of eight people, you’d never pick Bruce as the one to put a gun to his own head. My Uncle Art ended his life with a long stick and a shotgun in an empty one car garage. No one saw that coming either just as no one sees whats coming from the character in my novel.

Including me.

I write whether I feel like it or not. More than likely I’ll feel like it after writing a simple sentence. That leads to another sentence and so forth and soon it’s all aggressively engaged despite my previous apprehensions.

I write everyday. Not because I feel driven to write every day but because its fun. Most of the time I have no idea where the ideas I write about will lead which is just as intriguing to me as I hope it is to the reader. I’m as much a part of the adventure as the reader is. I assume thats the lure of most fiction to the successful writers of the genre. They cant wait to see what happens to their protagonist. I have no idea whats happening to the character in the book I’m writing now and i don’t intend to find out until it’s time for that character to decide for himself. The character in my book is a separate entity than I am. As his character develops, so does his destiny. I’m anxious to find out and I hope the readers are eventually as anxious as well.

I’m provoked to write because it feels good. Especially when words work effortlessly to convey thoughts and convey those thoughts in a way that makes me feel complete.

My realtor had an Open House at my home today. I need to sell my house because i want to downsize life to something more manageable. Caring for a house takes time and I’m not so sure i want to take the time to do that anymore. So selling makes sense. A houseboat in Fort Lauderdale makes sense. A smaller living space makes sense. But a house for one guy to roam around in alone makes nonsense.

While my home was being shown, I drove to the parking lot of the radio station where I work and drank coffee and wrote in my IPad. A book of fiction about a guy trying to decide whether or not to end his life. A parking lot is a good place to write about being alone, especially when the lot is empty. I consumed a large black coffee and wrote well for an hour and a half and then drove home.

This Sunday has been easier to glide into and out of than other Sundays. I’ll feel better after daylight fades completely and Sunday evening consumes everything. I’ll write and make myself busy doing nothing.

Monday mornings arrive early inside my Sunday night mind. I don’t suffer on Mondays. To me Monday is no different than any other weekday except for the guilt free zest of Friday.There’s more human drama during the work week. The imagination is expansive, optimally definitive. The workweek has a contagious, infamous energy to it.

Sunday’s an empty vessel settled into the sand of a dried up sea of expectations. I expect little from Sunday night’s menu of obvious entrees. I’ll dine on the fleeting optimism of daylight while I digest the thought of the intrusion of another Sunday night into my already eager Monday morning mind. >

Its warm out. In the seventies. I think about hopping on my Superbike and taking a ride. Im not sure Im bright enough right this moment to deal with all that horsepower. Its early spring, both seasonally and soulfully. Theres a chill in the air despite the sunlight. I experience discomforting confusion in cold air and warm light. I’ve done it. Its okay. But its not the way I like to ride. Perhaps its the asphalt, still defrosting from frigid nights and a relentless winter battering. Tires can’t quite get grip. The edge is treacherous, dusted with road salt and sand.

Im spoiled by good weather and kicked in the ass by cold and rain. I have a weather affective disorder. If its nice out, Im energized. If not, no drug in any medicine cabinet is going to make a difference.

A motorcycle just roared past on the road outside. Its exhaust crackled with cold air, the motor perfectly tuned. It made me think that maybe I could go for a ride, handle the bike like i know I can, and have some fun.

I get in the way of my own life. Its a habit I have. My therapist told me that. I’ve been in my own way since I was a child. My responsible adult, filled with personal demerits, gets into a useless debate with my irresponsible, guilt free kid. Prescription drugs temper the arguments. At least I think they do.

I like those drugs that affect you within moments of ingesting them. That helps convince me of their effectiveness rather than those long term medications that are much more difficult to judge since their effect takes weeks to envelope the mind. I like feeling better right away. I have no patience with long term anxiety or waiting rooms inside the mind crowded with dead thoughts of doubt.

Getting motivated to engage the weekend has become an annoying disability. Though I’m busier now creatively during the week, Im usually motivated on the weekends to do something for myself. The past month or so I’ve spent weekends alone, on the couch, writing and thinking. Those activities lack the physical life force of riding the break of a wave or the slope of a road.

I’m writing a book. I keep my mind roaming around the edges of the plot by wondering what the main character is going to do about his life and the situation he finds himself in. I’ll follow him around this afternoon.

I think about going somewhere though I have nowhere to go. It engages my moody optimism. It eases anxiety though not without side effects. Lets me sit here without being nagged by thoughts that I’m wasting away a sunny day. If I have nowhere to go, why would I walk somewhere aimlessly unless it made me feel better? Does walking lighten my mood? No. Does it brighten my outlook? Not necessarily. Do I want to rake the yard? No. I like being on the water. A kayak in the sun when its 90 degrees in Belize makes feel authentically alive.

I’m content to write now and not to think about being outside. Its an easy way to body surf a Saturday. Nowhere to go unless its somewhere with nothing to do.

I remember the essence of my dreams but not necessarily the message. Last night I was traveling in a foreign city. A strange woman with long dark hair wearing an ankle length apron appeared in the background. She seemed out of place. From another era. Her expression was stern. She was glancing down at something. She didn’t notice me.

I was in the light. She was surrounded by shadows. The scene didn’t bother me. Just a strange woman in an unwary situation that had nothing to do with me.

I woke up around six in the morning filled with sleepy anxiety. The worst kind. You’re still asleep but anxiety drags you from the warm, drowsy comfort of going back to sleep into the cold reality of being wide awake.

If I open my eyes without them slowly closing, then I know i’m awake. I hate that. I want to sleep a few more hours but now I’m just moving from one side to another, pushing in the pillows. Knowing it won’t work. The day is here and unfortunately, I’m awake.

I’m not always ready for another day. Like anything else, it takes preparation. If I’m up too early its weird. Sleep in too late and i wonder what it was I did to deserve such luxury. What did I do the night before so that i slept so late into the morning instead of waking to the sounds of birds beginning to chirp before sunrise? Exercise? Medication? Both?

I love to sleep. Being awake has its drawbacks but deep sleep has none. Even frivolous sleep has its moody advantages. Jet lag sleep has few substitutes.

Research indicates too much sleep isn’t healthy. About seven hours is more than enough. I’m more of a twelve hours on, twelve hours off man. I know thats too much sleep but screw it. If it kills me, fine. I’ll die cuddled up in a weightless comforter. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the last time I slept twelve hours but I do remember the pure, deep ecstasy of the experience. Even pills won’t put me down for twelve hours anymore.

I’m grateful for all the sleep I can grab. I’m a sleeper, not a waker. I love drifting off. I’m not always ready to float back in.

A recent segment featured unemployed older workers and their desperate search for career and job opportunities. Their persistence was inspiring and their stories frightening. Here were experienced people with tremendous skills who were suddenly out of a job because experience took a backseat to cheaper hires of people with practically no experience whatsoever. As one commentator made clear, ” Its not about experience or loyalty. Its about cheaper.”

Thats business today.The effect of younger, unexperienced workers in positions of management has yet to reveal the broader impact on the bottom line of businesses who hire these people. In most studies, younger workers seem to lack a work ethic developed over the years by older workers. This ethic is the ability to think outside the rigorous boundaries that seduce younger workers into complacency.

Younger workers are less likely to be patient, lacking seasoned understanding of employees concerns.

Many workers over the age of fifty will never work again. If thats the case, and studies are conclusive, what is this country going to do about it? There are millions of these baby boomers that may never find employment unless its a part time, semi often, no guarantee of longevity temporary hire.

What happens when these people begin to default on their lives. Will the pain be too much causing breakdowns and social instability? What will the government do because they have just as much as stake as the unemployed older workers? Its older workers votes and activism that determine most political outcomes. And with their livelihoods at stake, government will need to take notice of whats happening to people who still have the energy and the ability to perform successfully in the work place even though their longevity with the company means higher pay and because of that salary, they may be fired or downsized.

The ripple effect is contagious. Both the private sector and the government need to deal with this burgeoning problem now before this developing crises becomes unmanageable and financially devastating to the nation and the millions of older unemployed who may never work again.