Saturday, August 15, 2015

Sustenance




Speak to me in the lowest voice you know...
speak to me with your breathing and your heart beating.
Speak to me with your silences, the rhythms of your passive moments, the poetry of your pensive gestures.
The world, as ever, is mad--both crazed and angry--but we need not agree to go along as well. We may resist firmly, without making a scene. We may simply persevere on our gentler paths.
The rest of the world doesn't need to know how it breaks our hearts, how it enrages our compassion, how in our weaker moments it fills us with despair.
It is not for us to solve the problems that bedevil humanity because we already understand that the solution is beyond legislation and the grand machinations of economies, governments, religions and even cultures.
It is up to each of us individually to choose to love, to be loving, to choose compassion, to be compassionate, to choose acceptance and eschew the desire to dominate any other being, to choose elevating everyone we come in contact with if we may, to never put another down or cause them to feel less or subjugated, to choose to be curious rather than afraid, to choose to be receptive rather than closed off.
The human world tends to behave as though such actions are impossible, but in reality, nothing is easier, nothing is more rewarding, and, if we allow it, nothing comes more naturally.
At least to us.
So let us not succumb to the chaos and turmoil, the vitriol and violence, the zealotry of every imaginable kind.
Remain steadfast in your beautiful, generous, loving, creative, redemptive, compassionate and passionate natures.
We are quiet and subtle and I believe we are absolutely more powerful than the ills that beset the world we live in.
Energy is infinite.
Sweet hearts: persevere.

Friday, April 6, 2012

On Romance

We share a rather curious, almost perfunctory sort of intimacy together:
we share mundane time.
We eat-and sometimes prepare-meals together; we shop for food together, which we are (in a mild way, admirably) committed to not wasting; we take walks; we sleep side by side most nights; we attend events but we do not discuss these events; we do not talk about the future; we do not traffic in conversation involving our idealism, our aspirations, our hopes, our fears...
We do, however, occasionally mention the details of a dream we've had.
We brush our teeth, we bathe, we dress in concert. We joke and laugh.
You say only a little about your family and I even less about mine.
We scarcely touch upon current events.
We never philosophize.
Yet, within all this-
which is to say, this something which is almost nothing in terms of passion or intellect or vivid experience-
there is a certain earthbound sincerity that I find moving, although it confounds me.
We are as united as two earthworms wriggling together in the soil or two bits of mist clinging to their individual motes of dust in the air, which is to say almost not at all.
Together or apart, we exist.
Together, we are islands who dimly acknowledge that though the depths of an ocean lie between us, even deeper still we are connected.

Monday, August 29, 2011

A moment


I want to dissolve into the wood of this ancient temple, to be such a true green made in a monk’s bowl and applied lovingly, with such devotion

It would be enough for me, just to be a spot of pure color in the midst of all the fine details, a background for everything else to shine against

Pigment dense within the grain, a saturated, living coolness pleasing to the eye, beckoning contemplation

The very shade of a certain kind of calm, alert and relaxed, filled with an undeniable vitality yet soft and yielding

Like fresh rice shoots in an early morning field against a crane’s legs that patiently awaits the subtle rustling of a frog.

Monday, June 13, 2011

a poem. yes, a poem.



okay.

so…there’s nothing.

there’s nothing to it.

sit upon a moment in time & pin it to a thought a process a page a desire another moment….

another moment passing & another & soon all the time in the world becomes no time & you look into your hands & find there’s nothing.

watch your mind wander lonely as Wordsworth’s cloud


attach to…

nothing.

okay.

but Wordsworth’s metaphorical you arrives in a field of floral gold & just like that:

there’s something.

there’s something you’re not going to quite pin down, a thought you can’t quite complete, a process of understanding never fully understood.


you & I are not the question asking we are the intaking thoughtbreaking wave thinking to formulate an answer

some method of response…


Sunday, June 12, 2011

A Consideration


There are hollows in bodies, and toughnesses, roughnesses, the scar tissues that develop to fill the empty spaces, to protect what's left,
to smooth over what is traumatized and broken.
Bodies have more than the bound muscles, the jittering tendons, the calcifications,
the inappropriate stockpiles of confused tissue.
They have experiences that take up virtually no space in the physical world of cells, bones, hair, teeth, skin, muscles, organs and brains.
Yet the same process, unexpectedly, applies.
Wherever the body retains its emotions and memories it also develops hollows and holes, protections, accretions, noumenal shields that ultimately help less than they harm, for all the well-intentioned generative energy inspiring them to form.

Wherein we learn how coming to the rescue is ideally the lightest of touches, a most delicate rebalancing.
How to convince the body of this?
That's "accepting the God that you are".
That is a stunningly powerful self-awareness.

But if we are more than an imprisoned consciousness in a body that is more than renegade mitochondria and viral invasions, we ought to convincingly direct the magical processes of this sentient organism in a holistic expression of selfhood that at least accepts when enough is enough and more is too much, is harmful, is self defeating.


Sunday, May 15, 2011

In Celebration of Naivete


Disturbance. A disturbance of factors, a chaos of challenges...what are the group names for packets of events in life??
A quantum of solace, indeed!
Buying time and gaining experience...
I feel chained to survival and absurdity.
I continue to feel that somehow, someway, it is possible to unleash a chain reaction of liberation, and I do not mean death, I mean embodied, vibrant, here and NOW change that can make living a coherent bliss.
Why not??

Naivete is another word for truth, one truth, the truth of the child.
And in the abstract, the child--as a sensory organ of the planet--is keen, uncorrupted. Lacking context in the adult regard, but having a much more basic contextual map for determining right and wrong, happiness and disappointment, for what enjoyment is and the purposes of a body and a consciousness.

I am grateful that I've retained a significant amount of my naivete into adulthood, even though it makes me churn through a lot of confusion often, even though I am made to feel the fool by people who are more pragmatic and realistic than I am.

We should have no desire at all to shackle the dreamers in the world.

I understand my value on that level, at least, although it makes me feel ashamed to admit it. But this knowledge encourages me to persevere...
which could be just another example of confirmation bias, but one must have an internal compass, a gut instinct to follow in life.

Tools for vanquishing fear.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Musing

The ivory is broken off, the tusks are all busted.
Enamel crumbles to cerulean dust in the temples.
All that ached to begin already began or it didn't, it hasn't, it won't.

The myths coalesced around whirlwinds of confusion and desire, they sped up, increased their gravity, collected debris, artifacts, hit escape velocity, forgot to look back.
How else do constellations form?

Energy must seek material expression,
just as matter must seek release,
or at least surrender to it,
dissolve into the unknown qualities of its own escape velocity.
That sigh is a first breath, not a cosmic wind but the originating tone of a new universe.

The deserts expand--it's immaterial.
Wood is only a substance for a moment, and then: nothing.
After the fire and smoke, not even the ash remains,
not even a whisper.

How much finer must we get with quantum physics to understand that it isn't the visible imprint that carries the content of anything we might call knowledge
or fact, or meaning,
it's the movement, the action, that ferries this burden, that traffics in actual significance.

The endpoint quantity we hope to arrive at is not anything static that may be captured.
Nothing of the sort.
If anything, it is that moment of escape and its echo.