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by Sean Warner Book Opening: I’ve had a lot of restless nights, since the divorce. When my body has burned off the alcohol from two gin-and-tonics at happy hour and from two or three glasses of Pinot Grigio with dinner it comes awake. Usually about 2 or 2:30 in the middle of the night. My organs’ elimination of alcohol must be a five- or six-hour process. I go to the bathroom and crawl back into bed, ever optimistic about being able to resume the dreamless sleep. But, most of the time, the dark bedroom becomes a boxing arena where my ego and my soul slug it out.
Pardon the jock analogy. Blame it on two decades of sports writing. The ego, of course, is what’s throwing the punches, desperate as it is to avoid being ignored, a frantic Sugar Ray Robinson jabbing away, one-two, one-two, rat-a-tat-tat, take that and that. In contrast, the soul weaves and dances around the ego, graceful in its reason and purity and goodness, absorbing hooks and right-crosses in a rope-a-dope defense which never fails to exhaust and vanquish its opponent. It’s a predictable TKO. The winner and still champion. The ego fights for what feels good. The soul wants to do good. The ego doesn’t have a chance, unless I throw the fight.
In this arena, I’m the referee and the ring announcer and I’m the cut-man working in the corner of both combatants. Plus, I analyze the bout from ringside. I can also be the promoter, a pillow-haired Don King arranging early-morning quests for answers. What are the questions?
I just want to know how the universe works. That’s all. |
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NOTE: All material is copyright protected. No portion of this material may be copied or reproduced, either electronically, mechanically, or by any other means, for resale or distribution without the written consent of the author. All copy has been dated and registered with the American Society of Authors and Writers. Copyright 2007 by The Swetky Agency |
