Long ago, who knows how long really, the Iroquois told the story of creation with all the world upon the back of a turtle swimming through the heavens. Whether it’s a symbol or a metaphor is somewhat irrelevant, and whether you want to believe in that version of creation makes no difference in my life.

Ultimately, I believe in something, I know I do, but I don’t know what.

Today, I woke up with the mad mad mad (very mad) (oh so mad) (please stop the madness mad) mad desire to have faith. Instead, I found myself (no small task) staring into a mirror seeing only a man vaguely reminiscent of my father (and his father before him) wondering if this is what a jellyfish thinks about too.

I am not a jellyfish.

At least as far as I know, I’m not a jellyfish.

What if I am a jellyfish?

I consider shaving for a moment, then I’m grateful because I’m certain a jellyfish never considers shaving even for a moment.

I don’t shave. If I shaved, then tomorrow I wouldn’t consider shaving and maybe then I’d have no way to know I’m not a jellyfish.

I stomp my feet a little to scare away the soul of a cat lingering on the edge of my memory, and head out the door into the city of Lowell. To be more precise, I head out into the Pawtucketville neighborhood in the city of Lowell and start walking down University Ave toward the Merrimack River.

If this were a better story, I’d be doing this with a better reason, but as it stands, I’m heading to a little bookstore to pour coffee. If one of the many gods  running the world is aware of my steps, it is left unclear.

I think of eleven people as cross the bridge then walk down Merrimack Street. None of them are aware I’m thinking of them. Oddly, I am not entirely sure this means they aren’t a god. I’m not positive thinking of them means I’m not a jellyfish.

Whether I am or not doesn’t actually matter. Whether I want to be or not matters even less. I decide to believe in something and wonder if Buddha wants me to believe in something specific. I don’t actually care. I’ve been a Red Sox fan my whole life and I understand the nature of suffering is desire.

Once I’m behind the counter, I find the cloth the with the sanitizer. I find the cups. I find the coffee. I find a lot of things, but not myself.

Not the answers.

This is how a day begins.

“Hey! How are you today?” I ask the stranger being as unstrange as a stranger can be.

She smiles as if she knows me, as if I’m not a jellyfish (is that proof enough?), “Not bad, you?”

I laugh, “best day of my life, best day of my life.”

With her right eyebrow arched her long blond hair bounced just a bit as she tilts her head, “Really? This is the best day of your life?”

“Sure,” I tell her, “of course it is. I woke up breathing.”

She rolls all the eyes she has and continues on about the conversation as if I were real. I wonder, is this proof I’m real? Do unreal creatures even wonder, never mind wonder if they’re real?

“What can I get you?”

She tells me her holy litany of latte — a chanted benediction of steamed skim and a squirt of flavor over well-meaning espresso. I accept this as true. I accept that this is her desire. I accept that without this she will suffer.

I believe something.

I draw espresso into a cardboard cup, smile and demand she have a good day.

There is a poem in this moment, I know there has to be.

I am definitely not a Jellyfish, but I’ll be damned if I know why.

I’ll be damned either way.

I laugh.

You never really tell me why
you are here — I figure because
you don’t really know, or care

that we are riding on a turtles back
through the heavens. If this is true
the only god that matters is the story

the only demon is the breaking
of the silence as we drift ignorant
about the void between the stars.

If this is a lie and some other god
— angrier and more full
of rules and complex rituals —

will break us when we close our eyes
to sleep cold and ready to embrace
the eyeless worm of time.

He is dead, of course
by choice or circumstance
we all think we know.

I knew him as a rainbow
when I was young
and he was full of drugs

as I grew older, I did not know him
except as a crumbling edifice
made of laughter and forgotten
to the wind.

He is still dead, of course,
and I still do not know him
except as someone loved

by those who knew him
best and at his best
and those who knew him

not at all, except as an image
of a man who floated above us
like a red balloon

seen in the distance
seeming cheerful
being high so high and so alone

I believe something
perhaps it is nothing
important — though
it feels like something
necessary. If it is
all creation floating
through an endless sea
upon the back of a turtle
that would seem absurd.
If it is all creation falling
through an endless void
that would seem meaningless.
Given the choice
between absurdity and meaning
I ride the turtle’s back
and hope it’s not a dream.

Today, the sky is gray and I am floating about my ideas trying to figure out what is relevant and necessary to share for you to understand what is important in my story. Before I tell you my story, I want you to understand a few things — understanding those things isn’t necessary, but it will be helpful to understand that you don’t understand everything and that somethings must simply be accepted or rejected without understanding.

Some things about my story are exactly the same as any other story. Throughout the story things will happen and things will be done by characters. This is a matter of standard form for almost every story ever shared. Stories have characters. This is the widely accepted truth about stories, as is the fact that Stories have a point of view. My story is a story about a person. In my story that person is an ambiguous “I.”

Don’t assume anything about “I” other than the story is about them. Eventually, they will either be real or they will not, but that will happen as a matter of course in the telling of the story.

The story is not told from the point of view of “I” — the story is told by a turtle to an audience. What you need to know about this turtle will be told as the story unfolds. What you need to know about the audience is nothing. The audience is irrelevant.

The main characters in the story also don’t really matter, but for those of you that think such things are important to a story, I will explain who they are.

I. I is a person full of possibility, impossibility, and most common human traits. The defining characteristic of I is that they believe in something.

You. You is both singular and a plurality. Read that how you will. Understand it how you choose. Eventually it will either make sense or not. I would caution you to reserve judgment on You. You deserves better.

We. We may or may not exist, but throughout the story, the other characters believe We exists and that is enough.

Che. Che is clearly someone who thinks something about something and acts accordingly.

If you find any of this confusing, I offer my apologies. I am trapped in my shell and find it difficult to reveal what is inside.  It is my hope that as I tell my story, things will become more clear and that in the end, you’ll understand why I’m swimming here telling you a story.