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A Resurrected Adam (Part Four)

A Crucifixion and A Resurrection (For the first part of this five-parted series, click here and for the second installment, click here and for the preceding entry, click here.) “Man Alive!” I sigh, free-falling in Life’s silver linings, lifted into the sky and received after 40 or fewer (or more!) diurnal courses in my 39th read more..


A Crucifixion and A Resurrection


(For the first part of this five-parted series, click here and for the second installment, click here and for the preceding entry, click here.)

“Man Alive!” I sigh, free-falling in Life’s silver linings, lifted into the sky and received after 40 or fewer (or more!) diurnal courses in my 39th floor aerie-in-the-clouds, this shroud spreading my sentimental sentience out over tinted glass and cracked concrete on down to six-laned, one-way free-for-alls of goings and comings of go-getters gridlocked in a tacit agreement to not deliberate Death – disillusioned in an era defined by rapid dissolution and empty feeling. Holed up in my sylvan haven – a fool in the fetter, holding down my feelings – I at times feel more treed than freed in the shade of the shadow of an inter-crossed Cosmos – hung heavy and hard, unsteady here in the dust-to-dust, as a man-fueled change blows through us all like leaves on trees and feathers in the breeze in a tarred, high-risen city. So I branch out and stretch – stretch past light pollution toward darkened stars veiled but for a visible moon soon to be purely recalled by one rising sun.


I sense a sideways grazing – a tug from a forged-into ahead and a nudge from one doubtful behind as I flail and fail to be in the middle of the moment I’m in – dead-set on centering myself as I fumblingly nail this account down, stumbling upon – um – a struggling to fully capture how I feel a furry presence more in her absence than when she had shielded my childhood from an adulthood I’m all in.

And can I forgive Feather her trespasses as I wash my hands of unrepentant betrayals of the silver coined kind (that is those of Self in this backslid hymn to a beautified Him)? That pained man who endured the indignities of a plagued boyhood who, post-fallout, unashamedly contacted me over the years in deception-denying technological distraction. Bryan – mythically, miraculously seeking salvation here as I listen to the new Sufjan Stevens record in religiously regional reverence for that celestially Middle Western connection.

Those fuzzy flashes of a past of Now-Told Myths with my old dog and my old man – and that young man who continues to encapsulate the whole doggone experience.


It seems we bear our losses, feeling so alone on collective crosses, only to wear Life most in this connectional, Self-correctional Micro of a Macrocosmos. Ghosts and men come again and again in this Eternal Moment to rise up within me – hosting memories of a bloodied body on a road and a photo of a bruised face on a hospital bed. No – at nine and 31 they didn’t go before their time. Yea – they met themselves, as they did me, before time and within this Mid-Instant, surrounded only by unoccupied space – intertwining moments to interstellar months to interwoven minutes to… second ME! And they remain firstly to revive the revision of a fixation on a crucifixion as the crucible of a fiction that Death surpasses any carried execution of a resurrection of the doggedly divine Human Spirit in fissured future and pilfered prediction. Heaven and Nature, men of old and all of modernity sing from the womb to the tomb, our eyes rise to the skies, and – in a blink and an inkling of Insight – return to an eternity of Form, and come again and again to a rebirth of Sorts – born again and again into the memory of All That Is despite this limited view of Limitlessness –


As I expand within space and time, insufficiently epitomizing epiphanies of hallowed “AHA!”s indicative of every reverie that syncopates the synchronous as I long for leisure and prolong pleasure in the flow of an immeasurable moment – in the criminally minimal middle of my Almighty Self as a belated someday becomes riddled with the belaboredness of a blog-writing Today!

Oh, Daisy – from those early years! And Feather, forced in half-way moments! The departed lessen all fears of lessons of Death as they familiarize Infinitude. Every crane that threatens to prick my sky-lined view and those cancer scares that possessed a panicked present highlight how I have clung to Life as a man would have himself hung on a cross.


Resurrect yourselves, Men Alive! All live on in our synapses and in the activated and “accidental” synchronicities of these moments. Oh! – the sanctified constancy of the Day-To-Day and the trustworthiness of Transformation! Let’s make up for ourselves a Hominid Heaven, down for this Revealing through the Ancestral Tree to an Anthropomorphous Promise. Still in this Stillness. Present in this Instant.

Chance after change, I show gains through growing pains, perchance father-bothered further into a forming of a heightened know-how in a culture that normally hastens the hour as though Time-as-Man is boundless in our broadening Universe.

You, a Millennial Man, who came to be where and when and how you are. Me, the same, hunkered at my desk, under Grandma’s last painting of the perennial that bears her maiden name –


And I’m immortally – perpetually self-deprecatingly! – stoned, steering the wheel of my green Beetle, Frou Frou, with my enzian-hued “clichéd” plate, zealously down gray-laned, two-way M-43 – verily veering from Kalamazoo to Saugatuck that downright uptight, fucked-up summer of 2006 – high, here, as I stay the in-lane course on cruise control, ceding to concrete streets, sandwiched by the deliciously deciduous with a jealous Bryan as we pit-stoppedly munch a bunch as I reminisce on days with Daisy in back of Jim’s jeep in the high-seat, with deep-seated remembrances of nighttimed coniferous outlines from northward highways.

Me and Bryan – egocentric roadkill en competitive route to a conformist roadstead of silver foxes instead of disclosing ourselves to ourselves as unchecked unboxes as we playfully – gayfully! – painfully – I know now what. “I mean not what! Personhood! Something about definition – less-ness)!” Animal impulse, animism personified, Bryan and I wasting away into a rejection of Nothingness in this elongated down-and-out middle-of-the-road hesitancy. Puffed up, puffing enough to neglect mention of unforgiven, unforgiving fathers while forgetting – for the moment! – unrealized mothers who knew not their fragile selves as/from abused little girls –


Bound for absolution of forbears’ denials while found in a failed, absolved solution of needy, motherly frailty – knowing that every road leads to an end.

Death. Depression. A repression of ungrasped grief and a groping for truth – coming again and again to this loneliness of Love and Life mongrelly transmogrified into a loss of what was once Now, only Then – wrapping my forlorn Self around formed Ephemera – brain-racked and heart-attacked – humanly confronted in Life what spiritedly comforts us in Death. Yes! In unabashedly grieving over the deceased I weep under a whole wide world that wondrously – thunderously! – spins perilously, preciously within a heart-shape-created All That Is!

“EUREKA!” I know IT, and I know it beyond the shadow of a dogmatic, man-delivered doubt!

(To conclude this five-part series, click here.)

Add a Response 12 thoughts on “A Resurrected Adam (Part Four)

  1. Dear Adam, Profound and I think Chris said it for me. Resurrections, rebirths and living with Joy. So looking forward to feeling your arms around me tonight and living life with Joy in that moment!! Big Hugs

  2. Dear Adam:
    ” Where is the life we have lost in living”? Oh, Eliot, how much incertitude in so few words…… Oh, Adam, the always beloved and at the same time imperfect words. From a pragmatic positivism to a metaphysical interpretation in our latent ineptitude to find comfort. Life as an ephemeral incident-accident that we experience through our prone to get distorted senses, as we continue to struggle with our incapacity to find logic in inexplicable departures. Finally, the remains of those painstakingly dissatisfactions left by withheld actions in the timidity and hesitancy of definitely unrepeatable moments………..
    Ready for the fifth entry!

    • Oh, Gilbert – you just took me on a trip! Yes… Struggling within this limited capacity, sensing the limitlessness we are inextricably linked to. It’s harrowing and hallowed, and enough to make me want to hug you tightly. 🙂 Adam

  3. Wonderful entry, as always, Adam. I, like you and Chris stated, am asking myself on a daily basis, “Is that me.” It’s the only way to grow! Can’t wait for next week’s finale.

    • Thank you, John! And it’s all about growth! To our communal evolution of self-analysis and soulful expansiveness… Adam

  4. “They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.”

    ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

    I remember not too long ago showing you a photo of myself at 19, Adam, and telling you that I had to e-mail it to a couple of friends and ask, “Is this me, in this photo? Do you recognize me?”

    Dark as those things you are writing about, you contrast it with an intensity of words and images, as if that’s life, itself. The pleasure of loss. As someone who is in his sixty-fifth year, I can assure you that one day you’ll be looking at a photo, perhaps from one of your wonderful trips from a year ago, and admiring the young man in it, and thinking how familiar he looks and wondering, is that me?

    You’re writing about the deaths of two creatures you loved, and still love, and perhaps the grieving, which is so much on the surface in “A Resurrected Adam” is also for that boy and that teenager who losing others, found he lost himself. At least in time.

    Here’s to resurrections! rebirths. And living with joy. And tears.

    • Chris – I live in a state of “Is that me?” 🙂 It is the losing ourselves in time that I think we most mourn… and then mourn them into today’s connections. Yes. The pleasure of loss is the elation in gain. Tears of joy shed with you, dear man… Adam

  5. I dont have anything profound to say this week (do I ever?)–still processing everything you wrote. But thanks, as always, for these glimpses into your life. You are a continual reminder of all the things that unite us, what is truly universal in the human experience, whether our individual stories are similar or vastly different. Can’t wait to see how this one concludes next week. All my best.


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