These days I feel a bit at sea. I feel like I should be doing something, yet all I want to do mostly is sleep. Partly this is due to the Grand Jury duty I've volunteered for, and that time-shift of which I spoke. But I've been feeling this at-sea condition for awhile now.
I've been musing about what actions, if any, I could be taking right now. I could be seeking more ways to have fun. I could be seeking a new line of work. I could be seriously acting upon my wishes to live in a smaller city, or even somewhere outlandish like North Dakota. I could be doing a lot of things. But nothing feels absolutely right.
I do ask my dreams for guidance. Today I dreamt I wanted to get permission from some people I know in my various programs to commit suicide due to powerless rage. (Josh Marshall on TPM wrote that in 2002 the Democrats were enraged, because they felt powerless. Today, they're angry but not enraged, because they see they have power. Guess that idea permeated to the bottom of my consciousness!) The two people I talked with were non-committal about the idea.
Even though I'm feeling "lost"--and I put it in quotes because it feels right--I don't really feel the need to do anything about it at this point. It's uncomfortable and all, but so far I just don't see the need to simply take any old action just to do it. There are a couple of actions I'm contemplating, but they are for once I've started my ninth step or for the fall, which I always feel is some sort of beginning. I'm curious to see how I shall feel once we pass 15-degrees of Leo, around August 5 or so, for that is spiritually the beginning of fall. Lammas/Lughnasadh is this coming Sunday and is the celebration of the first harvest. The Equinox will be only 6 short weeks from thence. Last year, I felt some sort of excitement for fall kindle in me in August. I wanted to start eating fall foods then--squash, apples, turkey, etc. I bet I shall feel the same sort of energy again.
For now, the thing that is keeping me tethered is trying to listen for Gaia/Sol's will for me. It requires I spend time with the grass and the trees, which I've not been doing as much due to G.J. duty. I did talk to the trees in a park across the street from 100 Centre Street the other day, though. Felt good. That's one thing I'm not lost about, is that nature is to be more central to my life. It's just how do I bring that center and what do I do with all the other stuff I'm required to do to survive in this necrivilization?
Friday, July 30, 2004
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Feeling Fat vs. Feeling Soft
Since having lost a significant amount of weight, there are days when I feel trim, there are days when I feel "fat"--which is really more about what's in my head and some residue of low self-esteem--and then there are days like today, when I feel "soft" of belly and tone.
I walk a lot, and I carry a lot of stuff. For being a forty year-old man I am pretty fit, but I could be moreso. I'm wearing a pair of pants that feels a bit tight for allegedly being size 34. I have a size 32 pair of jeans that frequently feels loose on me, and when I wear my belt with it, I attach the fastener to the penultimate hole. On this pair of pants, even the last hole makes it rather loose. Wearing this enigmatic pair, I can't help but feel a little soft, and it reminds me of the days when I was wearing size 48's and my belly hung over them.
I look in the mirror at my body these days, and I see an guy who's pretty average-looking for my age. Or was average-looking at one time--I think the average now is someone who has maybe 35 pounds on me. I might be wrong about that, but I think I'm at least average for New York City, which is a relief. I walked past a couple of hot gay men who looked to be in their mid-30s--maybe one of them was my age! I know a couple of vain men in their 40s who look fairly well-preserved. I know of others who chase after chicken. (Whatever...)
I could be doing more for my body, I know. I saw a factoid today on the elevator that it's a good idea when flying from one place to another, to workout when you land. It helps to relieve the jet lag. I bet that it would help someone like me too, who goes on extended periods of jet-lag when I switch my schedule around. Like now, with my work and jury duties, I've had to shift my schedule back an hour. I'm not grumbling about it at all! I like the extra hour of sunlight, actually. It's nice to see 1:30 in the afternoon once in a blue moon. (Literally, actually, as the blue moon is this Saturday night!) But I'm so tired all the time because of this seemingly small shift. As far as time goes, I'm princess and that hour is the pea in my bed. So for the next few days I'll be draggy, and I don't like it.
So. The sleepiness, the tightish pants, the lack of exercise--they all combine to render my mental state as registering of physical softness as opposed to overweight. The belly and the chest are desirous of some vigorous exercise, I can tell. Something more vigorous than my walk down to Centre Street. Guess I'll have to suck up my complaining and carry that Trek down to the street and take it out for a spin soon. I owe it to my body and to my connection to Gaia to ride along the western perimeter of Manhattan. Connect with nature on my two-wheeler and give my lungs and belly and legs some aerobic respiration.
I walk a lot, and I carry a lot of stuff. For being a forty year-old man I am pretty fit, but I could be moreso. I'm wearing a pair of pants that feels a bit tight for allegedly being size 34. I have a size 32 pair of jeans that frequently feels loose on me, and when I wear my belt with it, I attach the fastener to the penultimate hole. On this pair of pants, even the last hole makes it rather loose. Wearing this enigmatic pair, I can't help but feel a little soft, and it reminds me of the days when I was wearing size 48's and my belly hung over them.
I look in the mirror at my body these days, and I see an guy who's pretty average-looking for my age. Or was average-looking at one time--I think the average now is someone who has maybe 35 pounds on me. I might be wrong about that, but I think I'm at least average for New York City, which is a relief. I walked past a couple of hot gay men who looked to be in their mid-30s--maybe one of them was my age! I know a couple of vain men in their 40s who look fairly well-preserved. I know of others who chase after chicken. (Whatever...)
I could be doing more for my body, I know. I saw a factoid today on the elevator that it's a good idea when flying from one place to another, to workout when you land. It helps to relieve the jet lag. I bet that it would help someone like me too, who goes on extended periods of jet-lag when I switch my schedule around. Like now, with my work and jury duties, I've had to shift my schedule back an hour. I'm not grumbling about it at all! I like the extra hour of sunlight, actually. It's nice to see 1:30 in the afternoon once in a blue moon. (Literally, actually, as the blue moon is this Saturday night!) But I'm so tired all the time because of this seemingly small shift. As far as time goes, I'm princess and that hour is the pea in my bed. So for the next few days I'll be draggy, and I don't like it.
So. The sleepiness, the tightish pants, the lack of exercise--they all combine to render my mental state as registering of physical softness as opposed to overweight. The belly and the chest are desirous of some vigorous exercise, I can tell. Something more vigorous than my walk down to Centre Street. Guess I'll have to suck up my complaining and carry that Trek down to the street and take it out for a spin soon. I owe it to my body and to my connection to Gaia to ride along the western perimeter of Manhattan. Connect with nature on my two-wheeler and give my lungs and belly and legs some aerobic respiration.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Civilization Anonymous
Right now I'm reading Gary Jennings's novel Aztec, which makes for a fascinating read on the mysterious Mesoamerican civilization which participated in huge human sacrifices as part of their religion. With the structure that Jennings employs, I see an implicit critique of "civilizing factors" that play with the populace of a given region. Whether it's an Aztec civilizing method, a Maya one, or a Spanish one, it seems that the same devotion to creating an empire and enslaving as many people as possible follows the same trajectories no matter where civilization goes. And it creates similar kinds of craziness along the way, especially among the elite classes who walk around thinking they can do whatever they wish. All the elites are are thugs who have a bloodline to support.
As I read the novel, I feel a tremendous loss actually. There are all sorts of cultures that got lost in the mad dash to civilize. The Aztecs at least never tried to obliterate other cultures, only insisting that they pay tribute once they'd been properly dominated and once they'd taken enough prisoners for their bloodthirsty sacrifices.
All of us who have been civilized have ancestors from way, way back who were at one point indigenous to some area, whether it was in the Americas or Eurasia or Africa, or more rarely Australia or Pacific/Indian/Atlantic islands. If a person is a white or Asian or African-American then it's pretty much assumed that somewhere in the Eastern hemisphere is our ancestral home, but if you're like me, you must have more than a couple. I'm part Swede, Italian, French, English, Scot and Irish. For all I know, my ancestors could also include Russian or Slovene or Basque people or what have you. Civilization has flattened us all into cutouts. From civilization's point-of-view, most of us are interchangeable. Actually, all of us are, just that some are interchangeable at a higher level or a lower level. Rarely do people cross across the chasm of class anymore, though the hero of Aztec is just such a fellow. He's got a fascinating and rich history to draw from. But he is a Cassandra sort of figure, one who is doomed to be a truthteller and whose ability to see things as they are, up close and without judgment, will bring him to a fate easily foretold. (Maybe that's not fair--I checked out the blurb for the second of Jennings's Aztec books, I know Mixtli will be executed at the end of this one. However, I think Jennings sets up the expectation fairly well.)
The seductiveness of civilization as we know it is difficult to pass up. Mixtli judges a lot of the tribes he encounters through that lens, especially the Maya who at one point knew the glory of a former day. There is no record of what happened to the Maya--they just disappeared. Daniel Quinn hypothesizes they just walked back into the jungle, that they decided civilization was a fool's errand. A friend of mine who studied anthropology said there would be some sort of record of that in what they left behind. Even though this is the case, I'm intrigued by the idea that the Maya might have just decided "Feh! Let's get out of here and go dance with the monkeys!" I don't know.
Still the seductiveness of civilization doesn't adequately cover for the wounds we've all suffered to become civilized (synonyms: domesticated, socialized, addicted, insane). On my way in to work tonight, I was musing that all Americans are de facto qualifiers for Al-Anon because of the man sitting in the Oval Office. Because of the dry-drunk pResident of the quickly Unraveling States of Addiction, we can all legitimately claim to be members of Al-Anon because it only requires there be a problem of alcoholism/addiction in a relative or loved one. Now, I'm being molto generous with describing Arbusto as a "loved one", but because we are all enjoined to be in relation to the psychic vampire (or "cunt", rather-- the onomatopoetic/metonymic representation for bloodsuckers of all Republicunt striping), we can I think dispense with formalities.
Perhaps though, it would be better to create a new fellowship to address the deeper problem that is our notion of civilization. I admit I'm powerless over civilization, and that my life has become unmanageable, and I dream that Gaia and Sol and the Space-Between will deliver me from its grasping and necrotizing claws. I can make the decision to turn my will and my life over to Gaia and Sol and trust they will lead me out of civilization into a new freedom and a new happiness. I can take my moral inventory and own up to it and admit my civilized character defenses and acquire new behaviors that will put me on the path toward living a life that is constant prayer and meditation. I choose today not to take things personally, as much as I am tempted down that path. Please let me put my energies toward scaling the wall and getting beyond "toxivilizaton." ("Toxevilization" anyone?)
As I read the novel, I feel a tremendous loss actually. There are all sorts of cultures that got lost in the mad dash to civilize. The Aztecs at least never tried to obliterate other cultures, only insisting that they pay tribute once they'd been properly dominated and once they'd taken enough prisoners for their bloodthirsty sacrifices.
All of us who have been civilized have ancestors from way, way back who were at one point indigenous to some area, whether it was in the Americas or Eurasia or Africa, or more rarely Australia or Pacific/Indian/Atlantic islands. If a person is a white or Asian or African-American then it's pretty much assumed that somewhere in the Eastern hemisphere is our ancestral home, but if you're like me, you must have more than a couple. I'm part Swede, Italian, French, English, Scot and Irish. For all I know, my ancestors could also include Russian or Slovene or Basque people or what have you. Civilization has flattened us all into cutouts. From civilization's point-of-view, most of us are interchangeable. Actually, all of us are, just that some are interchangeable at a higher level or a lower level. Rarely do people cross across the chasm of class anymore, though the hero of Aztec is just such a fellow. He's got a fascinating and rich history to draw from. But he is a Cassandra sort of figure, one who is doomed to be a truthteller and whose ability to see things as they are, up close and without judgment, will bring him to a fate easily foretold. (Maybe that's not fair--I checked out the blurb for the second of Jennings's Aztec books, I know Mixtli will be executed at the end of this one. However, I think Jennings sets up the expectation fairly well.)
The seductiveness of civilization as we know it is difficult to pass up. Mixtli judges a lot of the tribes he encounters through that lens, especially the Maya who at one point knew the glory of a former day. There is no record of what happened to the Maya--they just disappeared. Daniel Quinn hypothesizes they just walked back into the jungle, that they decided civilization was a fool's errand. A friend of mine who studied anthropology said there would be some sort of record of that in what they left behind. Even though this is the case, I'm intrigued by the idea that the Maya might have just decided "Feh! Let's get out of here and go dance with the monkeys!" I don't know.
Still the seductiveness of civilization doesn't adequately cover for the wounds we've all suffered to become civilized (synonyms: domesticated, socialized, addicted, insane). On my way in to work tonight, I was musing that all Americans are de facto qualifiers for Al-Anon because of the man sitting in the Oval Office. Because of the dry-drunk pResident of the quickly Unraveling States of Addiction, we can all legitimately claim to be members of Al-Anon because it only requires there be a problem of alcoholism/addiction in a relative or loved one. Now, I'm being molto generous with describing Arbusto as a "loved one", but because we are all enjoined to be in relation to the psychic vampire (or "cunt", rather-- the onomatopoetic/metonymic representation for bloodsuckers of all Republicunt striping), we can I think dispense with formalities.
Perhaps though, it would be better to create a new fellowship to address the deeper problem that is our notion of civilization. I admit I'm powerless over civilization, and that my life has become unmanageable, and I dream that Gaia and Sol and the Space-Between will deliver me from its grasping and necrotizing claws. I can make the decision to turn my will and my life over to Gaia and Sol and trust they will lead me out of civilization into a new freedom and a new happiness. I can take my moral inventory and own up to it and admit my civilized character defenses and acquire new behaviors that will put me on the path toward living a life that is constant prayer and meditation. I choose today not to take things personally, as much as I am tempted down that path. Please let me put my energies toward scaling the wall and getting beyond "toxivilizaton." ("Toxevilization" anyone?)
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Wearing a Superman T-shirt
Years ago, my friend Peggy gave me a Superman T-shirt for my birthday. I thrill when I wear it, but I sometimes forget I have an odd sort of responsibility when I don the azure shirt with flaming-red S over yellow field up-front-center.
Tonight as I was coming to work, I needed to duck into an ATM and get some money. It being Saturday night, there are a lot of inebriates out and about. ("Amateur night.") Well, these four dudes pounded on the ATM kiosk as I was withdrawing money and they were all pretty well in-spirited. They were all sort of cheering me on in wearing my shirt, which never fails to catch me off guard. Even when I want the attention, I still expect to be ignored. So I was a beat behind tonight when these guys were showing their approval. One guy hung around to make sure I got it, and I gave him the thumbs up, but I was kind of distracted too, what with getting my money and being visible, getting my money. Something that we all have to do and I sort of expect privacy as I'm sure most others do. But drinkers being drinkers, it's all about them, so I had to pay Dionysus what was Dionysus's as it were.
The funny thing was that after I got my money, I couldn't get out of the ATM kiosk area. I kept hitting that button to exit, but it was inoperable I guess. I had to wait for the next ATM customer to rescue me. (Hilarious. A man in a Superman T needs to be delivered from the clutches of Washington Mutual. Damn that Lex Lucre!)
As I continued on to work, I pondered this responsibility of wearing the t-shirt. I decided to wear this one specifically tonight. I wondered whether I was really up to the task. This week I've been doing the Grand Jury. I'm the foreman and I get to swear the witnesses in. (It can be interesting, but we basically get the same kind of cases again and again. If there weren't any drug laws, we would have almost nothing to do. Guess that applies to the ADAs and the Judges too, eh?) When it comes to deliberation, I'm Argument Traffic Control, making sure everyone gets their say and that any confusions are addressed, at least as we can address them. And the fact is, it's service to my fellow citizens, pure and simple. I'm getting a small stipend for doing this, but nothing major. It will give me a nice little check come late September/early October, right when I'll need it too. I see that Gaia/Sol is watching out for me.
My momentary insecurity led me down a somewhat sad path. I'm someone who can wear this Superman T with confidence and grace. But for a couple of moments there I was Mr. Unsure, not because of anything specific other than my general low self-regard. It's a tonic for me to wear this t-shirt, especially when I own it as true to my soul and spirit. It can be an ego trip to wear it, but sometimes it's about recognizing some truths about myself. It's in that spirit that I wear this shirt this evening.
Tonight as I was coming to work, I needed to duck into an ATM and get some money. It being Saturday night, there are a lot of inebriates out and about. ("Amateur night.") Well, these four dudes pounded on the ATM kiosk as I was withdrawing money and they were all pretty well in-spirited. They were all sort of cheering me on in wearing my shirt, which never fails to catch me off guard. Even when I want the attention, I still expect to be ignored. So I was a beat behind tonight when these guys were showing their approval. One guy hung around to make sure I got it, and I gave him the thumbs up, but I was kind of distracted too, what with getting my money and being visible, getting my money. Something that we all have to do and I sort of expect privacy as I'm sure most others do. But drinkers being drinkers, it's all about them, so I had to pay Dionysus what was Dionysus's as it were.
The funny thing was that after I got my money, I couldn't get out of the ATM kiosk area. I kept hitting that button to exit, but it was inoperable I guess. I had to wait for the next ATM customer to rescue me. (Hilarious. A man in a Superman T needs to be delivered from the clutches of Washington Mutual. Damn that Lex Lucre!)
As I continued on to work, I pondered this responsibility of wearing the t-shirt. I decided to wear this one specifically tonight. I wondered whether I was really up to the task. This week I've been doing the Grand Jury. I'm the foreman and I get to swear the witnesses in. (It can be interesting, but we basically get the same kind of cases again and again. If there weren't any drug laws, we would have almost nothing to do. Guess that applies to the ADAs and the Judges too, eh?) When it comes to deliberation, I'm Argument Traffic Control, making sure everyone gets their say and that any confusions are addressed, at least as we can address them. And the fact is, it's service to my fellow citizens, pure and simple. I'm getting a small stipend for doing this, but nothing major. It will give me a nice little check come late September/early October, right when I'll need it too. I see that Gaia/Sol is watching out for me.
My momentary insecurity led me down a somewhat sad path. I'm someone who can wear this Superman T with confidence and grace. But for a couple of moments there I was Mr. Unsure, not because of anything specific other than my general low self-regard. It's a tonic for me to wear this t-shirt, especially when I own it as true to my soul and spirit. It can be an ego trip to wear it, but sometimes it's about recognizing some truths about myself. It's in that spirit that I wear this shirt this evening.
Experiment with Food
The other day I decided to try something. I don't know what to call this, maybe Orange Unlovely, because it didn't look all that appetizing.
Ingredients:
4 oz. ricotta cheese
2 eggs
1 cup butternut squash
1 cup cooked millet (with 1 packet of Splenda and apple pie spice)
1 cup shredded carrots
2 T walnuts
2 tsp butter
1 apple, diced
1 tsp Atkins sugar-free vanilla syrup
1 tsp sugar-free maple syrup
Preheat oven to 350. Use butter to grease the baking dish. Mix ricotta with the syrups, squash and spices. In a separate bowl whip the eggs, then fold into the ricotta-squash mixture. Fold in the carrots and apples. Sprinkle walnuts on top. Bake for 45 minutes. Then let cool.
***
I did this the other day, and it satisfied me, but I got impatient. I took it out of the oven at about a half an hour. Don't think it would have changed the taste any, but there you are.
2 proteins
2 grain
2 vegetable
1 fruit
4 fats
Ingredients:
4 oz. ricotta cheese
2 eggs
1 cup butternut squash
1 cup cooked millet (with 1 packet of Splenda and apple pie spice)
1 cup shredded carrots
2 T walnuts
2 tsp butter
1 apple, diced
1 tsp Atkins sugar-free vanilla syrup
1 tsp sugar-free maple syrup
Preheat oven to 350. Use butter to grease the baking dish. Mix ricotta with the syrups, squash and spices. In a separate bowl whip the eggs, then fold into the ricotta-squash mixture. Fold in the carrots and apples. Sprinkle walnuts on top. Bake for 45 minutes. Then let cool.
***
I did this the other day, and it satisfied me, but I got impatient. I took it out of the oven at about a half an hour. Don't think it would have changed the taste any, but there you are.
2 proteins
2 grain
2 vegetable
1 fruit
4 fats
Saturday, July 24, 2004
"The 'Enemy'"
Here's the beginning of the poem. I'll probably be amending it as I go. Found a unique structure, too.
Really, opposition does not exist.
Adversaries contracy with us to move
us further along in our unfolding,
adn we have likewise bonded, reciprocal
agreements to annoy, hassle, bother
and otherwise entertain the others
who pain us so, from whom our suffering
increases, our fear extrapolates, rage
clouding clear judgment in a grey eclipse.
An emotional fog settles into
our sorest hearts, waiting for a wisdom
to dislodge the hardening cancerous
growth before it metastasizes throughout.
Why a body politic of humans,
individual collections of cells
each one a cell unto themselves together
striving, struggling, fighting, clawing, dying--
distracted by survival needs intesne.
We've forgotten the reason we are here:
to revel in a corporeal turn
and negotiate a sexual corpus
amidst this merriest menagerie.
These self-same tissues, completing organs
assembling systems, cohering wholesome
remember the ancestray in glad play
with other carnal and coherent wholes.
I wish to revisit ten thousand years
ago, to the original Addict--
that primal Jeckla/Ms. Hyde who foisted
upon us her vision diabolique
that everyday janes and joes pay in work
in reckless obeisance to serpentine
royalty, a thuggery in purple
robes resplendent with laborers' blood, sweat
that constructed a toilet of Babel
where the elite's drunken shitbrains can rest
easy upon pancreal daises,
sip from grunted spinal fluids, eat
hearts exhausted long days sleepless nights.
Slavery or crime? Not much of a choice
to simple folks wishing for love in life,
to frolic in a tantalus-eden
where las agricolas fascistas bar
the way out of the gate, bleating thurd'rous
about moral obligations to "progress"
as if having the technology luxe
to decimate our poluation, fix
a goodly amount into eternal
servitude, that a small number
indeed can assume our human birthright
and pretend with our blindest consent
that only they earned the right to be gods.
Who was that most well-meanign gluten slut?
SHe hard longed for natural abundance
to consistently provide the substance
that sosoothed her sensitive nerves, enthralled
her nascent interior cyst, precancer
uncaught before the later irruption.
Perhaps she partook of more fermented
pleasures as well, and participated
in altered states brought through fundal
promiscuity in the earth passim?
For our dire story, all she need have wrong
to spark the essential character change
is the sweet and refined powder agents.
The sugar and the flour, milk and honey
these may not stir a Hyde-some altering
in Adam, but our own Evaddicta
holds that genetic code, its unfortunate
demands for the tortuous middle way.
She carried a misplaced guanine perhaps
that doomed so many of us to soul-hole
awareness, to desire desperate salves for
wounds torn by isolate-cuddle parent
unconscience permeating generations
through cultural corridor cellular
memories holding empty vacuoles
emblematic of our abyss symptoms.
Before the dawn of glazed-donut eyes, she
saw the permissive beauty of Gaian
creation. She may have a been creating
from holy visions herself, implanted
in her by Mother-Father of us all.
All great plans for, but the conduit
to her Goddess-God, the aliment snake
coiled for miles within her, became stopped up
with glutinous mayhem. The allergy
overtook her reason and before long,
Even never could get enough, of what she
need have none in the first place. Got off track
and thus abandoned her most sacred self.
We know how this part of the story goes.
Everywhere before had been plenty.
Now to her besotted eyse, she saw lack.
She saw others muscling in on her fair
share (which was everything granary, sweet,
millable into elegant powder
forms, could assemble cute cakes and pies)
to keep her hole's newest wounds from aching
after the earlier connections, simpler
ways, and she connived a new structure, where
she could have the control of the food stuffs.
Though we may not wish to own up to it,
yes: Ultimately, Eve was one of us.
Alone she could not accomplish her need
to keep the supply chain's constant assent.
She got the help she soughtfrom other slaves
to other substances, she talked up lords,
set vicious contests where necessary
and lapped up the food with potent power,
voracious serpents within settling not
for simple control, there was always more
territory, more sugar, dominion--
newer fixes to dirstract and enthrall!
Our pioneering Eve, cast us all forwards
an ever-expansive empire--Sumer,
Babylon, Rome, Spain, Holland, England,
Taxalaskafornia and onward!
If we survive the Dauphin du Crawford
years, China, India, Brazil. Then what?
This behemoth can not sustain itself.
Big Brother demands self-selection. Did
we not comprehend this? Can we learn now
this brutal lesson before the heat-death
overtakes the planet, rendering life
forms chitonous our earthly successors?
Only roaches, ants and beetles to eke
out a brand new reality on earth
unsuitable for hard-hearted soft-skinned
animals? Will the warm-bloods vanish then?
*****
That's it for now. More to come. To be revised, most probably.
"The 'Enemy'"
I
Really, opposition does not exist.
Adversaries contracy with us to move
us further along in our unfolding,
adn we have likewise bonded, reciprocal
agreements to annoy, hassle, bother
and otherwise entertain the others
who pain us so, from whom our suffering
increases, our fear extrapolates, rage
clouding clear judgment in a grey eclipse.
An emotional fog settles into
our sorest hearts, waiting for a wisdom
to dislodge the hardening cancerous
growth before it metastasizes throughout.
Why a body politic of humans,
individual collections of cells
each one a cell unto themselves together
striving, struggling, fighting, clawing, dying--
distracted by survival needs intesne.
We've forgotten the reason we are here:
to revel in a corporeal turn
and negotiate a sexual corpus
amidst this merriest menagerie.
These self-same tissues, completing organs
assembling systems, cohering wholesome
remember the ancestray in glad play
with other carnal and coherent wholes.
II
I wish to revisit ten thousand years
ago, to the original Addict--
that primal Jeckla/Ms. Hyde who foisted
upon us her vision diabolique
that everyday janes and joes pay in work
in reckless obeisance to serpentine
royalty, a thuggery in purple
robes resplendent with laborers' blood, sweat
that constructed a toilet of Babel
where the elite's drunken shitbrains can rest
easy upon pancreal daises,
sip from grunted spinal fluids, eat
hearts exhausted long days sleepless nights.
Slavery or crime? Not much of a choice
to simple folks wishing for love in life,
to frolic in a tantalus-eden
where las agricolas fascistas bar
the way out of the gate, bleating thurd'rous
about moral obligations to "progress"
as if having the technology luxe
to decimate our poluation, fix
a goodly amount into eternal
servitude, that a small number
indeed can assume our human birthright
and pretend with our blindest consent
that only they earned the right to be gods.
III
Who was that most well-meanign gluten slut?
SHe hard longed for natural abundance
to consistently provide the substance
that sosoothed her sensitive nerves, enthralled
her nascent interior cyst, precancer
uncaught before the later irruption.
Perhaps she partook of more fermented
pleasures as well, and participated
in altered states brought through fundal
promiscuity in the earth passim?
For our dire story, all she need have wrong
to spark the essential character change
is the sweet and refined powder agents.
The sugar and the flour, milk and honey
these may not stir a Hyde-some altering
in Adam, but our own Evaddicta
holds that genetic code, its unfortunate
demands for the tortuous middle way.
She carried a misplaced guanine perhaps
that doomed so many of us to soul-hole
awareness, to desire desperate salves for
wounds torn by isolate-cuddle parent
unconscience permeating generations
through cultural corridor cellular
memories holding empty vacuoles
emblematic of our abyss symptoms.
IV
Before the dawn of glazed-donut eyes, she
saw the permissive beauty of Gaian
creation. She may have a been creating
from holy visions herself, implanted
in her by Mother-Father of us all.
All great plans for, but the conduit
to her Goddess-God, the aliment snake
coiled for miles within her, became stopped up
with glutinous mayhem. The allergy
overtook her reason and before long,
Even never could get enough, of what she
need have none in the first place. Got off track
and thus abandoned her most sacred self.
We know how this part of the story goes.
Everywhere before had been plenty.
Now to her besotted eyse, she saw lack.
She saw others muscling in on her fair
share (which was everything granary, sweet,
millable into elegant powder
forms, could assemble cute cakes and pies)
to keep her hole's newest wounds from aching
after the earlier connections, simpler
ways, and she connived a new structure, where
she could have the control of the food stuffs.
Though we may not wish to own up to it,
yes: Ultimately, Eve was one of us.
V
Alone she could not accomplish her need
to keep the supply chain's constant assent.
She got the help she soughtfrom other slaves
to other substances, she talked up lords,
set vicious contests where necessary
and lapped up the food with potent power,
voracious serpents within settling not
for simple control, there was always more
territory, more sugar, dominion--
newer fixes to dirstract and enthrall!
Our pioneering Eve, cast us all forwards
an ever-expansive empire--Sumer,
Babylon, Rome, Spain, Holland, England,
Taxalaskafornia and onward!
If we survive the Dauphin du Crawford
years, China, India, Brazil. Then what?
This behemoth can not sustain itself.
Big Brother demands self-selection. Did
we not comprehend this? Can we learn now
this brutal lesson before the heat-death
overtakes the planet, rendering life
forms chitonous our earthly successors?
Only roaches, ants and beetles to eke
out a brand new reality on earth
unsuitable for hard-hearted soft-skinned
animals? Will the warm-bloods vanish then?
*****
That's it for now. More to come. To be revised, most probably.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Working on another Poem
This one's a bit longer, entitled "The 'Enemy'". Will be coming soon. I'm on Grand Jury Duty this MONTH--yes, for four fun-filled weeks, I get to do some civil service. Not only that but I'm the Foreman! Uffly-funzel-funz it is. But in my off-time I do try to write this poem. 13 line stanzas of iambic pentameter kinda. Interesting structure, sort of riffing oddly on the Mayan Calendar with its 260 sign-tone combinations. More to come.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Tangents from Silence
Perhaps it's a function of having turned 40, but I really appreciate quiet moments these days. As I (hand-)write these words at a nearby cafe, for the moment I wrinkle my nose at the non-stop sonic disturbance piping out of the PA system. Not only does this cafe play music, but they also have TV monitors with the dialogue-crawl streaming their visual noise at the clientele. Tonight, in the coffee-bar area they have on a baseball game, but in the lounge proper, it's a dreadful-looking reality program, evidently some sort of postmodern-gamey riff on Paris and the Golden Apple. (Paris as a blond girl with three Gods vying for her apples, as it were.)
It's not that I despise music per se. Sometimes I'm in the mood for it, but I do live in jangly Manhattan where silence feels comparatively rare. Even in my apartment, which sits behind the Nuyorican Poets' Cafe. Lots of nights there's a raucous crowd noisily hooting and hollering, not to mention the rather tony building next door to it with its barbecues and dinner parties in the courtyard below and the rooftop above, I'm sure. I'm sure that, were I to be living in a less hectic place, be it rural, suburban or just less urban, I would complain that there was not enough distraction around to keep the internal noise from drowning my focus on the now.
I'm frequently guilty for wanting what I don't have and not wanting what I do.
So. When I think about it from that perspective, I can remember a new tool I have at my disposal. It's not really new, it's just one I have to prod myself or be prodded to employ. Just waking up to the beauty of the current moment. At the moment I wrote these words (not to be confused with the joyous moments of typing them), I also remember that within the sounds I'm hearing there is silence. Without the silence I wouldn't be able to hear the sound, much like it's all the other colors in the spectrum that allow me to see red. Were red present, then I'm either seeing a monochrome or another color entirely. As to sound, there's a 1011010010 binary sort of vibration going to create sonic "language."
Even here I can remember a sonic silence or envision a cone of silence surrounding me if that will help. Just because there's sonic interference doesn't mean I have to acquiesce to unfocused haplessness. All of a sudden I feel a sadness and a compassion for, of all things, the Iraqis experiencing American occupation. Even though I don't personally wish to own what we are doing there, I have to acknowledge my complicity and own that I have some tiny impact in all this ugliness.
We-the-Americans are dominating these people in their own country due to our own petro-addiction. We are behaving like any old drug-addled kingpin who muscles in on the territories where his product can best be grown. We convince ourselves of some noble motive in it all, or rather we spin some noble motive to disguise what everyone else knows about our behaviors, but to which we pathetically have not collectively awakened. As we lock up the cab-drivers, the farmers, the clerks, as we shoot the doctors and lawyers and journalists, we desperately dance around looking at our thuggish, junky behavior and instead spill our contempt on these unfortunately weaker stooges who have the temerity to have what we feel we are entitled to. So of course we must rescue them from themselves for Xtianity, etc.
We convince ourselves of our own humanity as we sodomize children and rape mothers and daughters. It's their fault we're so awful to them. As our addict-logic speaketh: they need us, you see, because we are so much better than they are, and even though they deserve our contempt, we are here to set things right and share our glorious-Jesus-ness with them. And while we're here, let's help ourselves to their resources, because of course it's only fitting. (Wipe nose, excuse self, go to bathroom, snort/puke/get our fix however, return as if nothing ever happened.)
We are still in finger-pointing drunken mode, blatantly and extravagantly ignoring those three digits pointing us-ward in favor of that externally wagging index finger. Some factions in the country are working to cut us off from our addiction. They've achieved some success, and probably will win that war of wills if only because it's not our land. Not that's stopped us from trying before, or as I can see thus far, into the future. I feel still that enough people have understood that we are collectively "at-bottom" but we still haven't moved toward the acknowledgement that we need help. As I see the compassion for the victims, I start to become aware of compassion for the victimizers as well. I forget who it was who said that our civilization is as much a prison for the CEO as for the convict. The CEO may get to wear a more resplendent prison-uni and sleep in nicer cellblocks, but they are as much imprisoned as anyone in Sing Sing. From this perspective, the Iraq war was inevitable. And other wars may also be fought in the future, in Iran, some of the -stans of Asia, Venezuela, Africa and (gulp!) perhaps Russia and China too. Unsober, but there we are.
Writing these words I feel a bit brave and a bit ridiculous. A bit afraid, not so much of the consequences as much as that I'm letting others see into my soul. It was fun to write the contemptuous "Amerilemic" (American/bulemic zusammengefuckt) , but I feel I'm allowing anyone who reads these words to see what my thinking/feeling processes are. And this is somewhat scary because in 'Merka, this letting others see how I think and feel is perceived as femme, and we don't want that now, do we?
Yet the victimizers I feel compassion for are primarily white, het men, and anyone can see they are in desperate need of lovingkindness and a firm, but gentle hand offering structure. Focused attention. I recognize that fellows carry their prinsons with them, but they've gone ahead and decorated their cells without acknowledging the nature of their shackles. They've put up their posters of sportscars and nymphets, they've plastered their fantasies all over their circumscribed realities and proceed bravely and recklessly forward. I can empathize with the attempts at denying realities blind-sides that constantly loop backwards toward them like boomerangs each time they fling the dad-blasted varmints away from them. And they bring friends with them too! Sheesh!
I can empathize because I recognize my own struggle with food in the same terms. Reality kept trying to get my attention--the constant depression, the sugar-related headaches, the rickety bones underneath all that excess weight, the invisibility around the guys I wanted, the constant blather that I-am-an-unworthy-loser due to all that fat. And yet there was that part of me that felt I was drop-dead gorgeous and why didn't anyone see it? It wasn't until I had that really deep, dark binge in December 2002 when I imagined myself dead and at my own funeral with people filing by and saying "Oh, Richard, what a waste. I hope your suffering has ended anyway" when I finally acknowledged I needed help and that there was no shame in asking for the help I needed.
As I awakened to the true costs of my affliction, I got such a gift of clarity and the even more potent gift of surrender. And now I've awakened to even more costs that I find unacceptable.
And I am bit in shock as to the scope of this statement. I can't force even one other person to recover from their various and sundry addictions, much less a nation in power-drunk freefall. It's part of my own addictive nature to say "See, I'm right and you just have to get with the program." But paradoxically, that would not be "working my own program." Like others I have to turn that index finger back toward myself and merely witness the misery the nation puts itself through and keep a detached perspective and a readiness to act. Perhaps other Americans (and British and French and Brazilians and others) will join me in starting a "Civilization Anonymous" sort of 12-Step-based fellowship where we all address the socialization wounds that created that hole inside us in the first place. Something like that where anyone can come in and through the gift of anonymity, gently expose their shadows for positive transformation. Only by my own experience of pointing all the fingers at myself and not so much finding "answers" as intuitions and insights into the current moment can I really be of service to others, and through the dialogue between the internal and the external. Because I do find my soul in relationship to others, and I know that the addict way is not for me.
All that happens is that I end up alone, which makes it hard to cuddle and be cuddled.
It's not that I despise music per se. Sometimes I'm in the mood for it, but I do live in jangly Manhattan where silence feels comparatively rare. Even in my apartment, which sits behind the Nuyorican Poets' Cafe. Lots of nights there's a raucous crowd noisily hooting and hollering, not to mention the rather tony building next door to it with its barbecues and dinner parties in the courtyard below and the rooftop above, I'm sure. I'm sure that, were I to be living in a less hectic place, be it rural, suburban or just less urban, I would complain that there was not enough distraction around to keep the internal noise from drowning my focus on the now.
I'm frequently guilty for wanting what I don't have and not wanting what I do.
So. When I think about it from that perspective, I can remember a new tool I have at my disposal. It's not really new, it's just one I have to prod myself or be prodded to employ. Just waking up to the beauty of the current moment. At the moment I wrote these words (not to be confused with the joyous moments of typing them), I also remember that within the sounds I'm hearing there is silence. Without the silence I wouldn't be able to hear the sound, much like it's all the other colors in the spectrum that allow me to see red. Were red present, then I'm either seeing a monochrome or another color entirely. As to sound, there's a 1011010010 binary sort of vibration going to create sonic "language."
Even here I can remember a sonic silence or envision a cone of silence surrounding me if that will help. Just because there's sonic interference doesn't mean I have to acquiesce to unfocused haplessness. All of a sudden I feel a sadness and a compassion for, of all things, the Iraqis experiencing American occupation. Even though I don't personally wish to own what we are doing there, I have to acknowledge my complicity and own that I have some tiny impact in all this ugliness.
We-the-Americans are dominating these people in their own country due to our own petro-addiction. We are behaving like any old drug-addled kingpin who muscles in on the territories where his product can best be grown. We convince ourselves of some noble motive in it all, or rather we spin some noble motive to disguise what everyone else knows about our behaviors, but to which we pathetically have not collectively awakened. As we lock up the cab-drivers, the farmers, the clerks, as we shoot the doctors and lawyers and journalists, we desperately dance around looking at our thuggish, junky behavior and instead spill our contempt on these unfortunately weaker stooges who have the temerity to have what we feel we are entitled to. So of course we must rescue them from themselves for Xtianity, etc.
We convince ourselves of our own humanity as we sodomize children and rape mothers and daughters. It's their fault we're so awful to them. As our addict-logic speaketh: they need us, you see, because we are so much better than they are, and even though they deserve our contempt, we are here to set things right and share our glorious-Jesus-ness with them. And while we're here, let's help ourselves to their resources, because of course it's only fitting. (Wipe nose, excuse self, go to bathroom, snort/puke/get our fix however, return as if nothing ever happened.)
We are still in finger-pointing drunken mode, blatantly and extravagantly ignoring those three digits pointing us-ward in favor of that externally wagging index finger. Some factions in the country are working to cut us off from our addiction. They've achieved some success, and probably will win that war of wills if only because it's not our land. Not that's stopped us from trying before, or as I can see thus far, into the future. I feel still that enough people have understood that we are collectively "at-bottom" but we still haven't moved toward the acknowledgement that we need help. As I see the compassion for the victims, I start to become aware of compassion for the victimizers as well. I forget who it was who said that our civilization is as much a prison for the CEO as for the convict. The CEO may get to wear a more resplendent prison-uni and sleep in nicer cellblocks, but they are as much imprisoned as anyone in Sing Sing. From this perspective, the Iraq war was inevitable. And other wars may also be fought in the future, in Iran, some of the -stans of Asia, Venezuela, Africa and (gulp!) perhaps Russia and China too. Unsober, but there we are.
Writing these words I feel a bit brave and a bit ridiculous. A bit afraid, not so much of the consequences as much as that I'm letting others see into my soul. It was fun to write the contemptuous "Amerilemic" (American/bulemic zusammengefuckt) , but I feel I'm allowing anyone who reads these words to see what my thinking/feeling processes are. And this is somewhat scary because in 'Merka, this letting others see how I think and feel is perceived as femme, and we don't want that now, do we?
Yet the victimizers I feel compassion for are primarily white, het men, and anyone can see they are in desperate need of lovingkindness and a firm, but gentle hand offering structure. Focused attention. I recognize that fellows carry their prinsons with them, but they've gone ahead and decorated their cells without acknowledging the nature of their shackles. They've put up their posters of sportscars and nymphets, they've plastered their fantasies all over their circumscribed realities and proceed bravely and recklessly forward. I can empathize with the attempts at denying realities blind-sides that constantly loop backwards toward them like boomerangs each time they fling the dad-blasted varmints away from them. And they bring friends with them too! Sheesh!
I can empathize because I recognize my own struggle with food in the same terms. Reality kept trying to get my attention--the constant depression, the sugar-related headaches, the rickety bones underneath all that excess weight, the invisibility around the guys I wanted, the constant blather that I-am-an-unworthy-loser due to all that fat. And yet there was that part of me that felt I was drop-dead gorgeous and why didn't anyone see it? It wasn't until I had that really deep, dark binge in December 2002 when I imagined myself dead and at my own funeral with people filing by and saying "Oh, Richard, what a waste. I hope your suffering has ended anyway" when I finally acknowledged I needed help and that there was no shame in asking for the help I needed.
As I awakened to the true costs of my affliction, I got such a gift of clarity and the even more potent gift of surrender. And now I've awakened to even more costs that I find unacceptable.
And I am bit in shock as to the scope of this statement. I can't force even one other person to recover from their various and sundry addictions, much less a nation in power-drunk freefall. It's part of my own addictive nature to say "See, I'm right and you just have to get with the program." But paradoxically, that would not be "working my own program." Like others I have to turn that index finger back toward myself and merely witness the misery the nation puts itself through and keep a detached perspective and a readiness to act. Perhaps other Americans (and British and French and Brazilians and others) will join me in starting a "Civilization Anonymous" sort of 12-Step-based fellowship where we all address the socialization wounds that created that hole inside us in the first place. Something like that where anyone can come in and through the gift of anonymity, gently expose their shadows for positive transformation. Only by my own experience of pointing all the fingers at myself and not so much finding "answers" as intuitions and insights into the current moment can I really be of service to others, and through the dialogue between the internal and the external. Because I do find my soul in relationship to others, and I know that the addict way is not for me.
All that happens is that I end up alone, which makes it hard to cuddle and be cuddled.
Monday, July 19, 2004
The Midwest
I have contemplated the possibility of moving to where my folks live in North Dakota. Right now I won't be doing so, for many reasons. Last year, when I started to put together that there were a bazillion "Richards" living alongside one another, that the five year-old Richard was very different from the 8-, the 15-, the 23-, the 35- and even the 39-year old Richards, I entertained the notion of moving to NoDak. Kathleen Norris has written a beautiful book called Dakota: A Spiritual Geography which I duly read. I got myself a CD by Philip Aaberg called "High Plains" (I'm listening to "Montana Half-Light" as I type this!) and I viewed and reviewed Big Eden, all of which don't directly reflect where my folks live.
The Dakotas really should be divided East and West, rather than North/South. The regions that are closer to the Mississippi have more in common with each other (Rapid City/Fargo/Grand Forks) than they do with the wasteland further west toward Montana. Norris's book is really more about that part of the state. My folks live in a town that splits the difference.
As a gay fellow, the Midwest doth scare me sehr. I want to believe that homophobia has little place there, but as I listened to the director's commentary about shooting Big Eden, when he talked about seeking out a church to shoot some of the church scenes and was repeatedly asked about his gay protag "Well, is he saved?", I recognized my fears as being legitimate. They were reconfirmed in reading Thomas Frank's What's the Matter with Kansas? as well. For all I know, Mr. Right cuts a mean two-step in Jamestown or Rolla, but it seems a bit extreme for me to ditch New York City for points centrally unknown. I'm contemplating a relocation to the Albany, New York area instead, but for the time being, I've also awakened to the beauty that exists in Manhattan.
Yet, there is something in the 'Dwest that does draw me. In reading about the history of Kansas, there were quite a few people who managed to combine their Xtianity with leftist politics. There really was a radical notion of what it meant to be a citizen and a member of a community. Wm. Jennings Bryan may have made a fool of himself over evolution, but he drove home quite a few points for the itinerant farmers and lowly workers at the turn of the century. I guess the big problem I have with people who wear their faith on their lapels is more that they don't seem to have a sense of things being "both-and," insisting that they are "either-or." It doesn't occur to them that being both secular and spiritual is perhaps the most satisfying and optimal way to go.
As I get older, I'm naturally drawn to things spiritual, but still needing to tease out the religious from that much larger stream. When I hear someone describe themselves as "a spiritual person" I brace myself. It's easy to talk spirituality, and I have been guilty of a just-talkin' poseur sort of faux-spirituality myself. I still do it, actually. Many of my interests in shamanism, divination practices, multi-dimensionality and the like right now feel like dilletantism for the time being.
Robert Sardello and others talk of "weekend shamanism" for example, with great disdain. I don't think of myself as a weekend-shaman sort of guy, but I do see that there is so much more to spirituality than meets the eye. Especially when I come across blogs such as http://gayspirituality.typepad.com/blog/. I log into this one every once in awhile, among others. I am awakening to the notion that I need to turn my life into a never-ending prayer. The problem is I feel like I'm asleep half the time, and furthermore that I'm encouraged to be a bystander in my own life by the somnolent people surrounding me. I hope I don't sound judgmental when I say that, but it's damn hard to wake up most of the time.
I feel like a new energy is burbling up to the surface, and it's about time. Still, I do work this overnight shift and on the weekends to boot. It's been mildly busy here at work, but I still have some time to muse about what I'm writing here, rather than taking something from my koobeton and typing from my sometimes legible penmanship. And posting these "diary entries" seems to help me to put things into perspective a bit. Yesterday's "dreaming" post will probably undergo some revisions as I refine my vision and perhaps go to some Debtors' Anonymous Visions Meetings to address my fears as I wake up even more to the life I have about me. Perhaps I will end up in NoDak, or Albany, or maybe I'll just find a way to bring a country-spiritual sensibility to this city-secular locale. There is gay square-dancing in NYC, not to mention the Manhattan Mustangs' country-western galas 4 times a year.
Many things are possible...
The Dakotas really should be divided East and West, rather than North/South. The regions that are closer to the Mississippi have more in common with each other (Rapid City/Fargo/Grand Forks) than they do with the wasteland further west toward Montana. Norris's book is really more about that part of the state. My folks live in a town that splits the difference.
As a gay fellow, the Midwest doth scare me sehr. I want to believe that homophobia has little place there, but as I listened to the director's commentary about shooting Big Eden, when he talked about seeking out a church to shoot some of the church scenes and was repeatedly asked about his gay protag "Well, is he saved?", I recognized my fears as being legitimate. They were reconfirmed in reading Thomas Frank's What's the Matter with Kansas? as well. For all I know, Mr. Right cuts a mean two-step in Jamestown or Rolla, but it seems a bit extreme for me to ditch New York City for points centrally unknown. I'm contemplating a relocation to the Albany, New York area instead, but for the time being, I've also awakened to the beauty that exists in Manhattan.
Yet, there is something in the 'Dwest that does draw me. In reading about the history of Kansas, there were quite a few people who managed to combine their Xtianity with leftist politics. There really was a radical notion of what it meant to be a citizen and a member of a community. Wm. Jennings Bryan may have made a fool of himself over evolution, but he drove home quite a few points for the itinerant farmers and lowly workers at the turn of the century. I guess the big problem I have with people who wear their faith on their lapels is more that they don't seem to have a sense of things being "both-and," insisting that they are "either-or." It doesn't occur to them that being both secular and spiritual is perhaps the most satisfying and optimal way to go.
As I get older, I'm naturally drawn to things spiritual, but still needing to tease out the religious from that much larger stream. When I hear someone describe themselves as "a spiritual person" I brace myself. It's easy to talk spirituality, and I have been guilty of a just-talkin' poseur sort of faux-spirituality myself. I still do it, actually. Many of my interests in shamanism, divination practices, multi-dimensionality and the like right now feel like dilletantism for the time being.
Robert Sardello and others talk of "weekend shamanism" for example, with great disdain. I don't think of myself as a weekend-shaman sort of guy, but I do see that there is so much more to spirituality than meets the eye. Especially when I come across blogs such as http://gayspirituality.typepad.com/blog/. I log into this one every once in awhile, among others. I am awakening to the notion that I need to turn my life into a never-ending prayer. The problem is I feel like I'm asleep half the time, and furthermore that I'm encouraged to be a bystander in my own life by the somnolent people surrounding me. I hope I don't sound judgmental when I say that, but it's damn hard to wake up most of the time.
I feel like a new energy is burbling up to the surface, and it's about time. Still, I do work this overnight shift and on the weekends to boot. It's been mildly busy here at work, but I still have some time to muse about what I'm writing here, rather than taking something from my koobeton and typing from my sometimes legible penmanship. And posting these "diary entries" seems to help me to put things into perspective a bit. Yesterday's "dreaming" post will probably undergo some revisions as I refine my vision and perhaps go to some Debtors' Anonymous Visions Meetings to address my fears as I wake up even more to the life I have about me. Perhaps I will end up in NoDak, or Albany, or maybe I'll just find a way to bring a country-spiritual sensibility to this city-secular locale. There is gay square-dancing in NYC, not to mention the Manhattan Mustangs' country-western galas 4 times a year.
Many things are possible...
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Let me dream a bit here...
Let me dream a bit here… (On UPDATE: I changed a word below--it used to read "I want a life". I changed it because in order for the intention to work, I need to make the tense as if it were already so. Accidentally, I created this during an "Opportunity Period"--a void of course Moon in a sign the moon likes to be in, that is also a New Moon before a Blue Moon. Convoluted, but let's see how this woiks! Also, I added one other element to this. I put it in a different color.
I live a life
where it is a joy to do my chores; where I can express my talents and find satisfaction, recognition, recompense; where creativity and artistic expression are expected; where I can be a part of a community and give deeply of myself without feeling easily spent; where I can fall in love with a fellow and see our union be celebrated; where I can create and maintain a spiritual family; where I can commune with nature more; where the smell of pine trees fills the air; where there is a lake and a river nearby, and mountains; where nature supplies for the community abundantly; where people are not afraid of anything, least of all being wrong or asking questions; where the people eat healthfully and addictions are treated with gentleness and kindness; where the children can teach and the adults can relearn their true lessons; where holidays are a communal affair and Gaia and the Sun are constantly invited and present, no matter what other deities are worshipped; where it feels like it’s Christmas every day because gratitude is plentiful; where forgiveness flows easy when mistakes weave their way into the social fabric; where the community creates a space for individual and collective shadows to be brought into the light where they may be heard and therefore healed; where I can learn Portuguese or Czech or Linear B if I want to and others will take an interest; where everyone takes what they can from civilization and leaves the rest; where nothing, not even business, interferes with the civic bottom line.
I live a life
So Be It, Blesséd Be
Fears
The other day I was saying my prayers after getting up. I was saying the Third Step Prayer and I got to the line "Relieve me of the bondage of self that I may better do thy will." I thought to myself about what one of my sponsors said to me the day before, that I sounded like I was in self-pity.
The interesting thing about these "self-" maladies is that they can pretty effectively mimic other feelings. I didn't realize this until I mused to myself about the "sadness" I was feeling. I asked myself the light-shining question, "Am I in self-pity right now?" And do you know that I felt the feeling of sadness evaporate? The so-called sadness relied on my keeping it in the dark, unreflected upon to maintain its obsessive nature. And when I asked that question, it disappeared like a boggart having been "Riddikulussed!"
What was remaining underneath the so-called sadness however was a legitimate feeling, that of undifferentiated fear. I am in a period where I see that in order to go forward toward whatever destiny Gaia-Sol wishes for me, I must delve into myself a little deeper and release some of these ancient grotesqueries that hang around feeding from bottom-falling dregs. It's not that it's a hard thing to do--just a bit painful and it takes my attention and it makes me tired. I guess it's a good thing that it does all this, because I don't know if I could handle becoming "golden" all-of-a-piece. But still, I wish it could energize rather than enervate. Perhaps it will someday.
So I have a new tool to use when I feel a listlessness coming on. In this case, I wrote yesterday about the Burner Periods, which I think have a relevance. They are timeframes around which I can plan. And it's during those periods in particular that the self-lighting tools will come most in handy.
My fears tell me I have to solve an "unsolvable" problem and I only have so much time to do it. But all of that is a lie. I am in a situation that could be improved, but I also choose to embrace where I'm at. I do wish for movement to take place in my life, and I open myself up to that on a day-to-day basis. And I have all the time in the world, for everything is all right right now.
The interesting thing about these "self-" maladies is that they can pretty effectively mimic other feelings. I didn't realize this until I mused to myself about the "sadness" I was feeling. I asked myself the light-shining question, "Am I in self-pity right now?" And do you know that I felt the feeling of sadness evaporate? The so-called sadness relied on my keeping it in the dark, unreflected upon to maintain its obsessive nature. And when I asked that question, it disappeared like a boggart having been "Riddikulussed!"
What was remaining underneath the so-called sadness however was a legitimate feeling, that of undifferentiated fear. I am in a period where I see that in order to go forward toward whatever destiny Gaia-Sol wishes for me, I must delve into myself a little deeper and release some of these ancient grotesqueries that hang around feeding from bottom-falling dregs. It's not that it's a hard thing to do--just a bit painful and it takes my attention and it makes me tired. I guess it's a good thing that it does all this, because I don't know if I could handle becoming "golden" all-of-a-piece. But still, I wish it could energize rather than enervate. Perhaps it will someday.
So I have a new tool to use when I feel a listlessness coming on. In this case, I wrote yesterday about the Burner Periods, which I think have a relevance. They are timeframes around which I can plan. And it's during those periods in particular that the self-lighting tools will come most in handy.
My fears tell me I have to solve an "unsolvable" problem and I only have so much time to do it. But all of that is a lie. I am in a situation that could be improved, but I also choose to embrace where I'm at. I do wish for movement to take place in my life, and I open myself up to that on a day-to-day basis. And I have all the time in the world, for everything is all right right now.
Fears
The other day I was saying my prayers after getting up. I was saying the Third Step Prayer and I got to the line "Relieve me of the bondage of self that I may better do thy will." I thought to myself about what one of my sponsors said to me the day before, that I sounded like I was in self-pity.
The interesting thing about these "self-" maladies is that they can pretty effectively mimic other feelings. I didn't realize this until I mused to myself about the "sadness" I was feeling. I asked myself the light-shining question, "Am I in self-pity right now?" And do you know that I felt the feeling of sadness evaporate? The so-called sadness relied on my keeping it in the dark, unreflected upon to maintain its obsessive nature. And when I asked that question, it disappeared like a boggart having been "Riddikulussed!"
What was remaining underneath the so-called sadness however was a legitimate feeling, that of undifferentiated fear. I am in a period where I see that in order to go forward toward whatever destiny Gaia-Sol wishes for me, I must delve into myself a little deeper and release some of these ancient grotesqueries that hang around feeding from bottom-falling dregs. It's not that it's a hard thing to do--just a bit painful and it takes my attention and it makes me tired. I guess it's a good thing that it does all this, because I don't know if I could handle becoming "golden" all-of-a-piece. But still, I wish it could energize rather than enervate. Perhaps it will someday.
So I have a new tool to use when I feel a listlessness coming on. In this case, I wrote yesterday about the Burner Periods, which I think have a relevance. They are timeframes around which I can plan. And it's during those periods in particular that the self-lighting tools will come most in handy.
My fears tell me I have to solve an "unsolvable" problem and I only have so much time to do it. But all of that is a lie. I am in a situation that could be improved, but I also choose to embrace where I'm at. I do wish for movement to take place in my life, and I open myself up to that on a day-to-day basis. And I have all the time in the world, for everything is all right right now.
The interesting thing about these "self-" maladies is that they can pretty effectively mimic other feelings. I didn't realize this until I mused to myself about the "sadness" I was feeling. I asked myself the light-shining question, "Am I in self-pity right now?" And do you know that I felt the feeling of sadness evaporate? The so-called sadness relied on my keeping it in the dark, unreflected upon to maintain its obsessive nature. And when I asked that question, it disappeared like a boggart having been "Riddikulussed!"
What was remaining underneath the so-called sadness however was a legitimate feeling, that of undifferentiated fear. I am in a period where I see that in order to go forward toward whatever destiny Gaia-Sol wishes for me, I must delve into myself a little deeper and release some of these ancient grotesqueries that hang around feeding from bottom-falling dregs. It's not that it's a hard thing to do--just a bit painful and it takes my attention and it makes me tired. I guess it's a good thing that it does all this, because I don't know if I could handle becoming "golden" all-of-a-piece. But still, I wish it could energize rather than enervate. Perhaps it will someday.
So I have a new tool to use when I feel a listlessness coming on. In this case, I wrote yesterday about the Burner Periods, which I think have a relevance. They are timeframes around which I can plan. And it's during those periods in particular that the self-lighting tools will come most in handy.
My fears tell me I have to solve an "unsolvable" problem and I only have so much time to do it. But all of that is a lie. I am in a situation that could be improved, but I also choose to embrace where I'm at. I do wish for movement to take place in my life, and I open myself up to that on a day-to-day basis. And I have all the time in the world, for everything is all right right now.
Saturday, July 17, 2004
6 Imix, a Burner Day
The Mayan civilization left behind a calendar that holds many remarkable oddities. One of these is the notion of a "Burner Day," which is a phenomenon that can affect cultures, businesses, organizations, relationships and people. There are 4 "galactic" burner days that apply to everyone--4 Chicchan, 4 Eb, 4 Oc and 4 Ahau. I don't remember when the last one was or when the next one will be, but I am experiencing my own personal burner-day today.
These Burner Days happen every 65 days--the Mayan tzol'kin calendar lasted 260 days--and so the last one took place 65 days ago. I vaguely remember that time--I had some potent dreams back then. I'm having potent dreams this go-around as well, and I've had a difficult time meditating. According to one Mesoamerican Astrology expert, the burner day's energy can be felt approximately 5 days before the actual burner, and I would imagine the after-effects last a day or two after. That's sort of how 6 Cib, the last one went with me. The next burner day will be my "Mayan birthday" 6 Cimi--6 Death, in other words.
It's good to know that this is part of what is going on. It only lasts five days or so, and it passes. I think there are things I can choose to do during this time. As I recall, this is a time for conforming with the cosmos. Asking what the cosmos needs, or what others around me would like from me, and conforming to their vision. Conforming to my own vision as well, but I'm in the hallway about that.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing if my energy-levels improve in the next two or three days. (Just in time for jury-duty! O yea!)
These Burner Days happen every 65 days--the Mayan tzol'kin calendar lasted 260 days--and so the last one took place 65 days ago. I vaguely remember that time--I had some potent dreams back then. I'm having potent dreams this go-around as well, and I've had a difficult time meditating. According to one Mesoamerican Astrology expert, the burner day's energy can be felt approximately 5 days before the actual burner, and I would imagine the after-effects last a day or two after. That's sort of how 6 Cib, the last one went with me. The next burner day will be my "Mayan birthday" 6 Cimi--6 Death, in other words.
It's good to know that this is part of what is going on. It only lasts five days or so, and it passes. I think there are things I can choose to do during this time. As I recall, this is a time for conforming with the cosmos. Asking what the cosmos needs, or what others around me would like from me, and conforming to their vision. Conforming to my own vision as well, but I'm in the hallway about that.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing if my energy-levels improve in the next two or three days. (Just in time for jury-duty! O yea!)
Friday, July 16, 2004
Sadness vs. Self-Pity
Made a startling realization today, that when I'm in a moment of "Oh, woe is me"--and lately, it doesn't take such an obvious form, but it has evolved into something much more sophisticated--I can dispel it by just asking myself "Am I pitying myself?" Just shining that pregunta lucida on the feeling makes it go away, or at least dwindle in its potency.
An image came into my head actually, but Spoiler Alert: In Spiderman 2, Doc Ock attaches those arms to himself and they get fused onto his body in a freak accident. But during that said accident, the chip that allows his "higher mind" to exert control over the arms bursts, and he's left at the mercy of the machinic logic. It isn't until the end of the film when he gets a chance to address this situation once Peter Parker confronts him. Well, it occurred to me as I was saying that wonderful antidote to self-anything--the Third Step prayer of AA--that the line "Relieve me of the bondage of self" is just like Doc Ock in that moment, receiving his moment of grace so that he can put his situation to rights. The reckless arms are that bondage to self, but we can be gently reminded that we have choices. And I can choose to shine the light on my self-pity. If it's really sadness, that will still be there. If it's not though, or if it's self-obsession or whininess ("The world is so unfair!") then that will disspate.
If I ask that question and the feeling largely vanishes, then whatever it is I'm really feeling lies underneath. Today I realize I'm feeling afraid, not so much sad. Sadness and fear have frequently masked each other, but both hide fear underneath as well. I've been taking some baby-step risks in letting others into my life, and it's plenty scary. I don't like to be vulnerable, and I've been feeling really embarrassed and fearful because of this change in behavior.
Part of my being of service to others however comes from this very vulnerability which I greatly fear. I like to think of myself "in control," which is pretty common all things considered. But still, the feelings of fear and discomfort do not make for a pleasant time right now.
I've been telling others about my financial fears, about my situation regarding what "my real work" is--that I'm sort of spiritually and psychically back to who I was when I was five years old, and I "don't know what I want to be when I grow up." When I was deep, deep into the sugar and flour and other addictions, I desperately wanted to be a writer. I so wanted to see my name on the spine of a book, sandwiched between Mordecai and Moritake or whatever. But since I gained a whole new life from changing my life around, from making the most fundamental change I could possibly make, I'm not so obsessed with being a writer now. I feel it's a part of whatever mix I'll create in the future, but I don't think it needs to be as central as it has been. Of course this could change, but for today I understand that the writing element in my life has only been there during the course of my addiction, and I don't know whether it's solid or ephemeral.
I wish for the life of me I could remember what I wanted, what I liked doing when I was five. What dreams I had. The intensity of the chocolate and sugary flavors I associate with my chubby childhood obliterated all that went before it, just by the sheer excess and "over-the-topness" of the taste-sensations I experienced, along with the emotional and physical roller-coasters I put myself through in those years. I don't know how relevant it is, knowing what I wanted to become and what I enjoyed doing before I was addicted. Still, I think it'd have some utility, if for no other reason than as a baseline. Of course, there might be other reasons why I can't remember from before age five. That's also possible. I still wonder who that boy was, and how different the 40-year-old man I am today is from him...
An image came into my head actually, but Spoiler Alert: In Spiderman 2, Doc Ock attaches those arms to himself and they get fused onto his body in a freak accident. But during that said accident, the chip that allows his "higher mind" to exert control over the arms bursts, and he's left at the mercy of the machinic logic. It isn't until the end of the film when he gets a chance to address this situation once Peter Parker confronts him. Well, it occurred to me as I was saying that wonderful antidote to self-anything--the Third Step prayer of AA--that the line "Relieve me of the bondage of self" is just like Doc Ock in that moment, receiving his moment of grace so that he can put his situation to rights. The reckless arms are that bondage to self, but we can be gently reminded that we have choices. And I can choose to shine the light on my self-pity. If it's really sadness, that will still be there. If it's not though, or if it's self-obsession or whininess ("The world is so unfair!") then that will disspate.
If I ask that question and the feeling largely vanishes, then whatever it is I'm really feeling lies underneath. Today I realize I'm feeling afraid, not so much sad. Sadness and fear have frequently masked each other, but both hide fear underneath as well. I've been taking some baby-step risks in letting others into my life, and it's plenty scary. I don't like to be vulnerable, and I've been feeling really embarrassed and fearful because of this change in behavior.
Part of my being of service to others however comes from this very vulnerability which I greatly fear. I like to think of myself "in control," which is pretty common all things considered. But still, the feelings of fear and discomfort do not make for a pleasant time right now.
I've been telling others about my financial fears, about my situation regarding what "my real work" is--that I'm sort of spiritually and psychically back to who I was when I was five years old, and I "don't know what I want to be when I grow up." When I was deep, deep into the sugar and flour and other addictions, I desperately wanted to be a writer. I so wanted to see my name on the spine of a book, sandwiched between Mordecai and Moritake or whatever. But since I gained a whole new life from changing my life around, from making the most fundamental change I could possibly make, I'm not so obsessed with being a writer now. I feel it's a part of whatever mix I'll create in the future, but I don't think it needs to be as central as it has been. Of course this could change, but for today I understand that the writing element in my life has only been there during the course of my addiction, and I don't know whether it's solid or ephemeral.
I wish for the life of me I could remember what I wanted, what I liked doing when I was five. What dreams I had. The intensity of the chocolate and sugary flavors I associate with my chubby childhood obliterated all that went before it, just by the sheer excess and "over-the-topness" of the taste-sensations I experienced, along with the emotional and physical roller-coasters I put myself through in those years. I don't know how relevant it is, knowing what I wanted to become and what I enjoyed doing before I was addicted. Still, I think it'd have some utility, if for no other reason than as a baseline. Of course, there might be other reasons why I can't remember from before age five. That's also possible. I still wonder who that boy was, and how different the 40-year-old man I am today is from him...
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Addictive Thinking
Sometimes when I walk to work or when I'm by myself, I rehearse conversations with various sorts of belief-addicts. Lately, I fantasize being on a Politically-Incorrect-type talkshow where there are a couple of entertainers and an "addictainer"--someone whose beliefs are so loopy that it's tacitly understood there's some brain-chemistry change that's happened. I imagine myself being spindled by the addictainer in his or her projection of self-hatred, as the one who's "the problem." And because I'm gay, because I have a spirituality that's more earth-centered, because I find my soul with others instead of in some individualized and nationalized spot somewhere in the vicinity of my aorta, I'm the easiest target.
The thing I notice about addictive thinking is how nicely it dovetails with soundbite-sized pieces. An addictainer can spin a political ad-copy-writer into right-wing "enthusigasms" all right! (I'm sure the same thing happens with left-wingers as well, but we have to wait to see that develop in the corporatist (as defined by Mussolini) USA.) And I would actually see my goal in such a situation as to provide "bad television" because the medium itself is in the clutches of addictainment and I wish to continue on in my recovery.
(Sidebar: I wonder what Robert Downey Jr. is doing these days, and I hope that he's seeking a way out of the entertainment industry. It seems designed to continue the addictions in both its practitioners and the general populace, and if he's serious about his recovery, he'd find another line of work that agreed with him and his inner four-year-old.)
Television: Our best thinking got us here, didn't it? Pointless shouting matches with no redeeming value other than getting caught up in a political version of WWF-Smackdown? I can't bring myself to watch TV much anymore. I caught a bit of the Oscars and before that I caught a smattering when I took a vacation up in Albany, New York and stayed at the Ramada Inn. Even there I only watched it to catch what was going on locally. I caught snippets of Chicken-Noodle-News but it's so inane and sterile, it's like eating a box of twinkies.
I know it's an effective medium and all--for those people who don't or can't get their news from Internet sources, it provides a devastatingly all-encompassing blanket. I know there are a lot of lazy-ass people out there who have no desire to form their own opinions, who freely lease out their head-space to all manner of authority figures only too willing to speak in their favor even as they act only in their own self-interest. Part of me wonders though if television might not be rescued from the addictainers.
A couple of months ago I had this feeling that the nation had reached the tipping point, that enough people had finally developed an awareness about where we're headed. The major question is whether or not there are enough people to take action and lead us forward into a greener, more vibrant and abundant future, or whether too many people are still inside their fear as yet, to take any action on their own and others' behalf. In the lives of many addicts comes a moment of grace, where the opportunity of surrender presents itself. Please Gaia, let there be enough people who have hit their political/economic/spiritual bottom to understand they have to start with their own sense of powerlessness to get anywhere.
For that is the ultimate power of the addictainers, that they appeal to the addictainment-consumers' helplessness and fantasies of power-over-others. Ultimately it keeps people stuck, which is ostensibly where the addictainers and their corporatist allies are most comfortable keeping the rest of humanity. People are waking up, but the next question is this: Will you get out of bed now?
The thing I notice about addictive thinking is how nicely it dovetails with soundbite-sized pieces. An addictainer can spin a political ad-copy-writer into right-wing "enthusigasms" all right! (I'm sure the same thing happens with left-wingers as well, but we have to wait to see that develop in the corporatist (as defined by Mussolini) USA.) And I would actually see my goal in such a situation as to provide "bad television" because the medium itself is in the clutches of addictainment and I wish to continue on in my recovery.
(Sidebar: I wonder what Robert Downey Jr. is doing these days, and I hope that he's seeking a way out of the entertainment industry. It seems designed to continue the addictions in both its practitioners and the general populace, and if he's serious about his recovery, he'd find another line of work that agreed with him and his inner four-year-old.)
Television: Our best thinking got us here, didn't it? Pointless shouting matches with no redeeming value other than getting caught up in a political version of WWF-Smackdown? I can't bring myself to watch TV much anymore. I caught a bit of the Oscars and before that I caught a smattering when I took a vacation up in Albany, New York and stayed at the Ramada Inn. Even there I only watched it to catch what was going on locally. I caught snippets of Chicken-Noodle-News but it's so inane and sterile, it's like eating a box of twinkies.
I know it's an effective medium and all--for those people who don't or can't get their news from Internet sources, it provides a devastatingly all-encompassing blanket. I know there are a lot of lazy-ass people out there who have no desire to form their own opinions, who freely lease out their head-space to all manner of authority figures only too willing to speak in their favor even as they act only in their own self-interest. Part of me wonders though if television might not be rescued from the addictainers.
A couple of months ago I had this feeling that the nation had reached the tipping point, that enough people had finally developed an awareness about where we're headed. The major question is whether or not there are enough people to take action and lead us forward into a greener, more vibrant and abundant future, or whether too many people are still inside their fear as yet, to take any action on their own and others' behalf. In the lives of many addicts comes a moment of grace, where the opportunity of surrender presents itself. Please Gaia, let there be enough people who have hit their political/economic/spiritual bottom to understand they have to start with their own sense of powerlessness to get anywhere.
For that is the ultimate power of the addictainers, that they appeal to the addictainment-consumers' helplessness and fantasies of power-over-others. Ultimately it keeps people stuck, which is ostensibly where the addictainers and their corporatist allies are most comfortable keeping the rest of humanity. People are waking up, but the next question is this: Will you get out of bed now?
Monday, July 12, 2004
A couple of Poems
"Interior Glow-Smile, Ha!"
O fat boy exiting the all-night cafe:
You glanced my way and I flinched
inside, remembering. I too know the white
death paths of sculptpowder addiction.
Yesterday un tin de biscuits Anglais
hovered in peripheral awareness all night
at my 24-7 workplace, blinking
sugar-flour morsel codes of fraughtness.
A glance their way: Indeed, as sculpture
cada bizcocho, exquisite perfection, each
one a serpentine ribbon I followed back before
baking, to its pasty-powder origins not-yet ovened.
O fat boy, beguiled by the snakesome cords
you have yet to experience the glory
inside your aliment, your own conduit
to the galactic goddess of your own understanding.
We experience a poverty of soulfulness,
our ready-made, self-justified petri culture
of the dead and dying. We celebrate bleaching,
party to the sounds of vacuity and cancer poppage.
I see in you the twilight fellow I held myself
to be, hostage to malevolence itself. Evil
finds expression in surprising and indifferent
modes, I'm afraid. 300 pounds, I thought myself fine.
O fat boy! I see in your saudade my own self.
I now inhabit the place of Mr. Unavailable-to-you,
a painful prick of recognition punctures
my consciousness for this poemful moment.
My own Gaia-conduit, the freeway to the Sun
and my geosolar liaison position knows
I have a lesson for you, although not a bedding
rompful activity, touching other whole-cocked.
No, my lesson could be one of leading the way
to your own Rosemary-Awareness Version.
Salads carry a new belonging place,
and I know walnuts seal up some cell wounds!
O fat boy! I want you to know the not-fat
self I see ensconced amid the lipid armor
porous only to anger, sorrow, rejection.
The glanced look I saw spoke of your clenching,
your tightly guarded, easily-wounded heart
only too ready for self-abandonment before
I sorry-punch you. I've stood in your flip-
flops, yearning after Chelsea bodies sin Chelsea tudes.
A life without refinement, orientation toward wholeness
earthsome animates my days. One wouldn't think it, I fit
into this efflorescence, where Monstrous-redundance
Modernism eclipses the effortless glory that are willows.
(At least to the untrained eye!) Psychic vampires
decunt our food, our environs, our interior spaces
of real nutrition, until we put our chosen drugs aside.
Discover the Interior Smile Glow, o fat boy!
Know that echoing unearned gladness a-ringing in your guts!
*****
"Summer Paradox" (StairStepStanza Poem)
Cock
Fire
Want
Wet
Ick
Sigh
Need
Sad
Drought
Jully
and I
scope men
in shorts
sandals
ankles
cute feet
stud legs
honest.
I hunger
think of sex
pheromone
all that sweat
liquid goo
stickiness
congealing
why bother?
I wonder
Look at the men
think of fucking
doesn't compute
some odd reason
I do desire
crave manly touch
but the damn heat
discourages me
from sharing skin.
I want a fellow
imagined passion
in my head autumn
fantasies playing
September idylls
not July hothouse
oppressive linens
strangling and stifling
burgeoning desire
Do I then put it off,
my lustiness, my need?
I mean, it's been five years!
(Another summer manmate
Last time I opened sheets
a winsome, willing guy.)
Attracted by odd jaws,
a torn pant-leg, showing
fleshy kneecap, startle...
Enter into the chaso
I must instead plunge right in
ride my desire, encounter
someone else's mapped passions
real congruence or in-,
discover an alignment
or more on to the the next guy
Perspiration no factor
in this business of getting laid.
*****
"Disposable Pen"
Hart do believe
the instrument in my hand
a toxic remnant for the future.
It's so pretty too,
this golden shaft, see-thru
the ink in the inside straw.
When I'm done with it,
I'll set it free to the trash
where it will sit,
neither decaying
nor sitting still really.
Eventually something will bust it.
Smaller half-lives
scheming their way through time,
a lifeless eternal present.
What it must be like
to contain isotopes.
Zombicus nuclearis.
Ethyly
deathel-death Bat man Bat Man
Now it means something...
*****
"On Reading Wallace Stevens #1"
Words mean a lot to me
Some people's pens envy inside
kindles, a verdant fire to eclipse
the messenger of compared despair.
This guy worked for THE MAN!
This guy wore a suit to work
and did THE MAN's soiled grease-bidding
abstracted at that aerie of course.
He could write poems, good ones.
God said Hitler went to heaven.
Others cut off their dicks to declaim
their worthiness. What a world.
*****
"Odessa 5:15 a.m., a day in June"
I walked past a gaggle of pain
on my way to brinner at the Ukrainian
diner. A congregation of goths draped
their wraithiness over a PT Cruiser.
Some bouncers and barkeeps
started their shopclosings as two young
men, high on blankfill guffawed
as one flung some flimxy car
part across four parkeds. The Arab
graveyard shift guy at Ben's spoke
nervously in Arabic on a cell as he
rang up my cashews, a dollar-nineteen.
On Avenue A, the sorrow continued.
Addled homeless guy asked me for "food."
(Maybe he was hungry, maybe it would
burnish my karma to hand him some munz,
but I could have rather gone into Key Food
and bought him some protein and a package
of carrots if I'd know he'd take it.
I don't trek down that pat 5a.m., however.)
One woman hovered over her unconscious
boyfriend sprawled in front of Opaline.
Various toughs and their boyfriends
powered their panties to more private sprees.
In the diner, another set of characters extend
a continuous drama. Nightfolks nourishing
themselves for wherever their days will take
them. A fourspot of johns, pros sitwith pancakes--
one loudly and proudly-in-pink proclaiming
"We were not arrested, only booked!"
Across the aisle from me, a guy I know
who struggles, sits with other inebriates
pondering salt versus sugar. Sense he won't
acknowledge me, that for now I'm a ghost
of his booze-moment. I don't mind this willful
disregard of my presence. Not here to judge.
Awake to the sadness permeating,
I wonder about my own isolate status.
Other than my meetings with other addicts,
sponsors and fellows, I've spent all my nights
singly. Tuesday morning, two gents crossed my
path and one amoured his hello in my colpid
direction. My skittery "hi" fled into false
headwinds, farted with vulnerability's fear.
I ponder my list of others harmed, teh Scorpio
Step before Sagittarius amends and my despair
over reinserting myself into relations with others,
transforming carnival glass phantasy thinking.
O fat boy exiting the all-night cafe:
You glanced my way and I flinched
inside, remembering. I too know the white
death paths of sculptpowder addiction.
Yesterday un tin de biscuits Anglais
hovered in peripheral awareness all night
at my 24-7 workplace, blinking
sugar-flour morsel codes of fraughtness.
A glance their way: Indeed, as sculpture
cada bizcocho, exquisite perfection, each
one a serpentine ribbon I followed back before
baking, to its pasty-powder origins not-yet ovened.
O fat boy, beguiled by the snakesome cords
you have yet to experience the glory
inside your aliment, your own conduit
to the galactic goddess of your own understanding.
We experience a poverty of soulfulness,
our ready-made, self-justified petri culture
of the dead and dying. We celebrate bleaching,
party to the sounds of vacuity and cancer poppage.
I see in you the twilight fellow I held myself
to be, hostage to malevolence itself. Evil
finds expression in surprising and indifferent
modes, I'm afraid. 300 pounds, I thought myself fine.
O fat boy! I see in your saudade my own self.
I now inhabit the place of Mr. Unavailable-to-you,
a painful prick of recognition punctures
my consciousness for this poemful moment.
My own Gaia-conduit, the freeway to the Sun
and my geosolar liaison position knows
I have a lesson for you, although not a bedding
rompful activity, touching other whole-cocked.
No, my lesson could be one of leading the way
to your own Rosemary-Awareness Version.
Salads carry a new belonging place,
and I know walnuts seal up some cell wounds!
O fat boy! I want you to know the not-fat
self I see ensconced amid the lipid armor
porous only to anger, sorrow, rejection.
The glanced look I saw spoke of your clenching,
your tightly guarded, easily-wounded heart
only too ready for self-abandonment before
I sorry-punch you. I've stood in your flip-
flops, yearning after Chelsea bodies sin Chelsea tudes.
A life without refinement, orientation toward wholeness
earthsome animates my days. One wouldn't think it, I fit
into this efflorescence, where Monstrous-redundance
Modernism eclipses the effortless glory that are willows.
(At least to the untrained eye!) Psychic vampires
decunt our food, our environs, our interior spaces
of real nutrition, until we put our chosen drugs aside.
Discover the Interior Smile Glow, o fat boy!
Know that echoing unearned gladness a-ringing in your guts!
*****
"Summer Paradox" (StairStepStanza Poem)
Cock
Fire
Want
Wet
Ick
Sigh
Need
Sad
Drought
Jully
and I
scope men
in shorts
sandals
ankles
cute feet
stud legs
honest.
I hunger
think of sex
pheromone
all that sweat
liquid goo
stickiness
congealing
why bother?
I wonder
Look at the men
think of fucking
doesn't compute
some odd reason
I do desire
crave manly touch
but the damn heat
discourages me
from sharing skin.
I want a fellow
imagined passion
in my head autumn
fantasies playing
September idylls
not July hothouse
oppressive linens
strangling and stifling
burgeoning desire
Do I then put it off,
my lustiness, my need?
I mean, it's been five years!
(Another summer manmate
Last time I opened sheets
a winsome, willing guy.)
Attracted by odd jaws,
a torn pant-leg, showing
fleshy kneecap, startle...
Enter into the chaso
I must instead plunge right in
ride my desire, encounter
someone else's mapped passions
real congruence or in-,
discover an alignment
or more on to the the next guy
Perspiration no factor
in this business of getting laid.
*****
"Disposable Pen"
Hart do believe
the instrument in my hand
a toxic remnant for the future.
It's so pretty too,
this golden shaft, see-thru
the ink in the inside straw.
When I'm done with it,
I'll set it free to the trash
where it will sit,
neither decaying
nor sitting still really.
Eventually something will bust it.
Smaller half-lives
scheming their way through time,
a lifeless eternal present.
What it must be like
to contain isotopes.
Zombicus nuclearis.
Ethyly
deathel-death Bat man Bat Man
Now it means something...
*****
"On Reading Wallace Stevens #1"
Words mean a lot to me
Some people's pens envy inside
kindles, a verdant fire to eclipse
the messenger of compared despair.
This guy worked for THE MAN!
This guy wore a suit to work
and did THE MAN's soiled grease-bidding
abstracted at that aerie of course.
He could write poems, good ones.
God said Hitler went to heaven.
Others cut off their dicks to declaim
their worthiness. What a world.
*****
"Odessa 5:15 a.m., a day in June"
I walked past a gaggle of pain
on my way to brinner at the Ukrainian
diner. A congregation of goths draped
their wraithiness over a PT Cruiser.
Some bouncers and barkeeps
started their shopclosings as two young
men, high on blankfill guffawed
as one flung some flimxy car
part across four parkeds. The Arab
graveyard shift guy at Ben's spoke
nervously in Arabic on a cell as he
rang up my cashews, a dollar-nineteen.
On Avenue A, the sorrow continued.
Addled homeless guy asked me for "food."
(Maybe he was hungry, maybe it would
burnish my karma to hand him some munz,
but I could have rather gone into Key Food
and bought him some protein and a package
of carrots if I'd know he'd take it.
I don't trek down that pat 5a.m., however.)
One woman hovered over her unconscious
boyfriend sprawled in front of Opaline.
Various toughs and their boyfriends
powered their panties to more private sprees.
In the diner, another set of characters extend
a continuous drama. Nightfolks nourishing
themselves for wherever their days will take
them. A fourspot of johns, pros sitwith pancakes--
one loudly and proudly-in-pink proclaiming
"We were not arrested, only booked!"
Across the aisle from me, a guy I know
who struggles, sits with other inebriates
pondering salt versus sugar. Sense he won't
acknowledge me, that for now I'm a ghost
of his booze-moment. I don't mind this willful
disregard of my presence. Not here to judge.
Awake to the sadness permeating,
I wonder about my own isolate status.
Other than my meetings with other addicts,
sponsors and fellows, I've spent all my nights
singly. Tuesday morning, two gents crossed my
path and one amoured his hello in my colpid
direction. My skittery "hi" fled into false
headwinds, farted with vulnerability's fear.
I ponder my list of others harmed, teh Scorpio
Step before Sagittarius amends and my despair
over reinserting myself into relations with others,
transforming carnival glass phantasy thinking.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Tiredness
I don't think it's just me. I sense there are a lot of TIRED people out there, who know that this is merely the preparation for whatever is coming next. I for one don't believe that we are headed toward Armageddon. I saw on a couple of "woo-woo" websites that "Apocalypse" merely means "Lifting the veil." With all the news that comes down to us, both official and un-, we are daily witnessing new apocalypse.
I need to take the opportunity to dream a little here. I am no longer excited by a lot of the things I used to find thrilling. I don't think it's because I'm getting older that these former interests and "got-to's" are falling away. Watching my addictions fall away one by one, I wake up to my essential magnificence, the same essence that we all partake in. I see many suffering people, but I also see others who aren't suffering so much, who seem to have a certain serenity about them. Not only do I want what they have, but I feel I'm manifesting what they have. Right here, right now.
An energy of loving vibrance exists underneath the surface, but it's reconfiguring my brain and my body. Some argue that it's actually triggering the vast majority of my DNA that is unused, that scientists have labeled "junk," because they don't know why it's there. Frequently, when I log into Excite, my fortune says "You see beauty in others' trash," or something of the like!
In talking with someone else about this, and the infusion of feminine energy that permeates the air like the elephant in the room, I was surprised to discover that I'm perceived as being open. I have been able to surrender to the notion that I am a food addict. I have surrendered to the notion of being addicted to just about anything and everything. Perhaps that's because I really am crazy about this world, this plane for I have been feeling "in-love-with-everything." But I sense that for all of my supposed openness, I can be more open. I can be more honest, be more willing too.
I have a lot of hope for the future, because my right-now-present feels rather exquisite. Through meditation practice, I've come to feel a deep well of well-being available to all of us whenever we want. It's not so much a well as it is an endless ocean of ephemerality that I visualize. I become one with it, osmotically distributed throughout it, and it distributed through me. We are all one, after all.
Still, the tiredness continues, and I haven't posted as much over the last few days. I don't know if anyone's checking on this blog or not. Suppose I could find out if there's a way to, but that's really not the point. "I'm building it--they will come" to paraphrase Field of Dreams. Anyway, I hope I find others in my immediate "soul family" with whom I can share in the awesome and lovely feelings Gaia and the sun Ahau provide us all.
I need to take the opportunity to dream a little here. I am no longer excited by a lot of the things I used to find thrilling. I don't think it's because I'm getting older that these former interests and "got-to's" are falling away. Watching my addictions fall away one by one, I wake up to my essential magnificence, the same essence that we all partake in. I see many suffering people, but I also see others who aren't suffering so much, who seem to have a certain serenity about them. Not only do I want what they have, but I feel I'm manifesting what they have. Right here, right now.
An energy of loving vibrance exists underneath the surface, but it's reconfiguring my brain and my body. Some argue that it's actually triggering the vast majority of my DNA that is unused, that scientists have labeled "junk," because they don't know why it's there. Frequently, when I log into Excite, my fortune says "You see beauty in others' trash," or something of the like!
In talking with someone else about this, and the infusion of feminine energy that permeates the air like the elephant in the room, I was surprised to discover that I'm perceived as being open. I have been able to surrender to the notion that I am a food addict. I have surrendered to the notion of being addicted to just about anything and everything. Perhaps that's because I really am crazy about this world, this plane for I have been feeling "in-love-with-everything." But I sense that for all of my supposed openness, I can be more open. I can be more honest, be more willing too.
I have a lot of hope for the future, because my right-now-present feels rather exquisite. Through meditation practice, I've come to feel a deep well of well-being available to all of us whenever we want. It's not so much a well as it is an endless ocean of ephemerality that I visualize. I become one with it, osmotically distributed throughout it, and it distributed through me. We are all one, after all.
Still, the tiredness continues, and I haven't posted as much over the last few days. I don't know if anyone's checking on this blog or not. Suppose I could find out if there's a way to, but that's really not the point. "I'm building it--they will come" to paraphrase Field of Dreams. Anyway, I hope I find others in my immediate "soul family" with whom I can share in the awesome and lovely feelings Gaia and the sun Ahau provide us all.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Blog-surfing
I've taken to reading a lot of blogs. (Wish there was a different word for these wonderful on-line diaries than "blog"--sounds like it could be a synonym for "to vomit".) I read quite a few of the more progressive political ones and gayspirituality.typepad.com. I'm open to reading other blogs as I find them, or as others pass them on to me.
Right now, it's only been a little over a week since I started this blog, and as far as I know no one's checked into it yet. I've emailed a few friends about it. Thus far there have been no comments on any of my posts. Oh, well. It's early yet.
I see the potential for dialogue and for co-evolving points-of-view. I see the potential to foster cross-pollination across various fields of information and understanding--how the political might meet the educational, the culinary, the spiritual, the artistic, etc.
It's all connected in some odd way, all of-a-piece.
Right now, it's only been a little over a week since I started this blog, and as far as I know no one's checked into it yet. I've emailed a few friends about it. Thus far there have been no comments on any of my posts. Oh, well. It's early yet.
I see the potential for dialogue and for co-evolving points-of-view. I see the potential to foster cross-pollination across various fields of information and understanding--how the political might meet the educational, the culinary, the spiritual, the artistic, etc.
It's all connected in some odd way, all of-a-piece.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Excellence vs. Greatness
I haven't really felt like doing much these past few days, to tell the truth. There have been some things I could post on--for example, the Times' Book Review had a passel of books about obesity and eating disorders this week. I picked up a haughty ignorance in the reviewer of the "can't people just stop eating or stop worrying about it" variety. Made me wonder what Ms. Heffernan's addiction-o'-choice is. American=Addict as far as I'm concerned. Haven't met anyone without some sort of addiction problem, this in the greatest country in the world.
I don't have a problem saying it's the greatest country in the world. I would have a problem calling the Unraveling States of Addiction an "excellent" country, however. Very few books or plays or artworks or policies are both excellent and great. Shakespeare's The Tempest comes to mind as one, as does Chekhov's Three Sisters and the Social Security system. Greatness is something that is socially determined, whereas excellence is about staying true to a vision of something. For me the classic distinction between Excellence and Greatness can be short-handed to James Jones vs. Ernest Hemingway. Jones is the humbly excellent writer whereas Hemingway is (merely) great. While Jones' books were respectable sellers with some critical acclaim, Hemingway was lifted by the cultural moment into a certain sphere only occupied by individuals such as Victor Hugo and Fyodor Dostoevsky.
I can think of one writer--F. Scott Fitzgerald--who was capable of penning both great works (The Great Gatsby) and Excellent ones (The Crack-Up). Hemingway for all I know did write excellent pieces. There are a b'zillion stories I have not read. I have read a couple of his novels--his stories are much better IMHO. "A Clean Well-Lighted Place" haunts me.
[Sidebar: Hemingway is a distant relation of mine. I don't know if by blood or what, but I have a great-great-grandmother whose last name was "Hemenway" which other branches took to spelling the Ernest way.]
I think all writers are capable of writing excellent pieces. They can strive for mere greatness if they choose to, but I don't feel it would be as satisfying. When I talk of greatness, commercial success is an aspect of it, but it shouldn't be confused with being the same thing. As much as I love J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, I can't say that it is excellent or great particularly. Entertaining, addictive--I've just finished reading Book 4 for the seventh time(!) and am on to HP and the Order of the Phoenix for the fourth (only because I'd read the whole series 5 times before I'd gotten book 5). Would Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections qualify as a great book? I wonder. Time will have to tell on that. I'm pretty sure Michael Cunningham's The Hours should qualify.
While I'm obviously partial to the excellent book, I have an occasional affinity for a great one. I enjoyed the Cunningham, and tolerated well the Franzen. I've read quite a bit of Louise Erdrich's novels, and thoroughly enjoyed the great Beet Queen, and slogged through her excellent Love Medicine. I could go on about these things, but suffice it to say, this is something best continued with others pitching in their insights... (Feel free.)
I don't have a problem saying it's the greatest country in the world. I would have a problem calling the Unraveling States of Addiction an "excellent" country, however. Very few books or plays or artworks or policies are both excellent and great. Shakespeare's The Tempest comes to mind as one, as does Chekhov's Three Sisters and the Social Security system. Greatness is something that is socially determined, whereas excellence is about staying true to a vision of something. For me the classic distinction between Excellence and Greatness can be short-handed to James Jones vs. Ernest Hemingway. Jones is the humbly excellent writer whereas Hemingway is (merely) great. While Jones' books were respectable sellers with some critical acclaim, Hemingway was lifted by the cultural moment into a certain sphere only occupied by individuals such as Victor Hugo and Fyodor Dostoevsky.
I can think of one writer--F. Scott Fitzgerald--who was capable of penning both great works (The Great Gatsby) and Excellent ones (The Crack-Up). Hemingway for all I know did write excellent pieces. There are a b'zillion stories I have not read. I have read a couple of his novels--his stories are much better IMHO. "A Clean Well-Lighted Place" haunts me.
[Sidebar: Hemingway is a distant relation of mine. I don't know if by blood or what, but I have a great-great-grandmother whose last name was "Hemenway" which other branches took to spelling the Ernest way.]
I think all writers are capable of writing excellent pieces. They can strive for mere greatness if they choose to, but I don't feel it would be as satisfying. When I talk of greatness, commercial success is an aspect of it, but it shouldn't be confused with being the same thing. As much as I love J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, I can't say that it is excellent or great particularly. Entertaining, addictive--I've just finished reading Book 4 for the seventh time(!) and am on to HP and the Order of the Phoenix for the fourth (only because I'd read the whole series 5 times before I'd gotten book 5). Would Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections qualify as a great book? I wonder. Time will have to tell on that. I'm pretty sure Michael Cunningham's The Hours should qualify.
While I'm obviously partial to the excellent book, I have an occasional affinity for a great one. I enjoyed the Cunningham, and tolerated well the Franzen. I've read quite a bit of Louise Erdrich's novels, and thoroughly enjoyed the great Beet Queen, and slogged through her excellent Love Medicine. I could go on about these things, but suffice it to say, this is something best continued with others pitching in their insights... (Feel free.)
Friday, July 02, 2004
Breakfast Hash
(I eat this every other day. On the days I don't eat this, I either eat a variation on this replacing the ricotta with 2 eggs and the s.f. vanilla syrup with s.f. maple or Oat Bran pancakes. Such a creature of habit I am.)
3 tablespoons rice or oat bran
1/4 cup Bob's Red Mill 4-Grain Gluten-Free Cereal, uncooked
1 cup of mixed fruit
4 ounces ricotta cheese
1 teaspoon Atkins sugar-free vanilla syrup
Pumpkin Pie Spice
1 packet of Splenda or Stevia
2 tablespoons nuts or sunflower seeds or tahini
Pour hot water into bran and make a paste. In stockpot, boil 2/3 cup water and add spice and sweetener. When boiling, add cereal and cook until desired thickness. Add cereal to rice bran. Add ricotta to grains with the teaspoon of vanilla syrup. Add mixed fruit and nuts, and stir. Serve. (In summertime, also delicious when refrigerated.)
3 tablespoons rice or oat bran
1/4 cup Bob's Red Mill 4-Grain Gluten-Free Cereal, uncooked
1 cup of mixed fruit
4 ounces ricotta cheese
1 teaspoon Atkins sugar-free vanilla syrup
Pumpkin Pie Spice
1 packet of Splenda or Stevia
2 tablespoons nuts or sunflower seeds or tahini
Pour hot water into bran and make a paste. In stockpot, boil 2/3 cup water and add spice and sweetener. When boiling, add cereal and cook until desired thickness. Add cereal to rice bran. Add ricotta to grains with the teaspoon of vanilla syrup. Add mixed fruit and nuts, and stir. Serve. (In summertime, also delicious when refrigerated.)
More on the Fat Boy In My Head
I weighed myself today. 183. Been this weight now for 8-9 weeks. It amazes me that I can put on a shirt that's a Small, and that it mostly fits--Smalls typically are too short for "long-waisted" people like myself, which means I need a "Tall Small"--and still "feel fat."
Really it's not fat that I feel, but "round", or rather "flabby" I guess is the better word therefor. I need to work out and exercise more ultimately. It would be a good thing for me in more ways than one, actually. I've been feeling low-energy of late.
Still, I go immediately to "fat" instead of "flabby," and I need to self-talk myself to a place where the fat voice mutes down to a dull roar. 183, size 31 jeans that aren't tight on me? That's pretty strong, tangible evidence I'm A-OK in the weight area. I eat very well today, in not having had sugar or flour for almost 16 months now. Of course there's more to do now, with needing to exercise and pursue ways of being in the world.
I'm adding a new request for help in my prayers these days, that of helping me to reach out to others for help, and to give help as well. Am open to all sorts of possibilities there...
Really it's not fat that I feel, but "round", or rather "flabby" I guess is the better word therefor. I need to work out and exercise more ultimately. It would be a good thing for me in more ways than one, actually. I've been feeling low-energy of late.
Still, I go immediately to "fat" instead of "flabby," and I need to self-talk myself to a place where the fat voice mutes down to a dull roar. 183, size 31 jeans that aren't tight on me? That's pretty strong, tangible evidence I'm A-OK in the weight area. I eat very well today, in not having had sugar or flour for almost 16 months now. Of course there's more to do now, with needing to exercise and pursue ways of being in the world.
I'm adding a new request for help in my prayers these days, that of helping me to reach out to others for help, and to give help as well. Am open to all sorts of possibilities there...
Thursday, July 01, 2004
More on my Unusual Schedule
This is actually my weekend. My "Sunday" as it were. So try and imagine that tomorrow night at 7:30 p.m. will be my Monday morning. But I won't go into work until 12:30 a.m. (I have "deakfast", meditate, write my "Wake-Up pages" (as opposed to Morning Pages), do some other stuff and have "nunch" before I go off to urk'lly-workel-work.) I like to walk from the Lower East Side to my office on 53rd/Lex, but sometimes with all that time, I end up taking the bus instead. I work some hours, then go to a couple of post-work appointments I have, then home to take/make phone calls, then off to the park or "Tar beach" for some sun. Then home. Friday-Monday, the time before work is truncated as I generally get to work between 10:30 and 11 p.m. those nights. I work every other Thursday--next week I'll take a 3 day weekend. Generally speaking this adds up to 84 hours over two weeks' time.
Believe it or not, I think this is sane, given what field I work in. Not to take the inventory of people on other shifts, but if one is to work around as many micromanagers as big ol' NYC Law Factories hire, doesn't it make sense to be working on shifts where as few as possible of them abound? Of course, it would be even better if I could work in a different field entirely. But I have those verdammten G-School Loans back to pay. With a $440 monthly payment, my options are a bit limited. Still, I dream of a day when I'll be able to live comfortably and reasonably well, teach playwriting and directing to students, teach healthful and delicious cooking to needful persons, facilitate critical thinking workshops and participate in building a Big Eden-type community some place wonderfully rural and cosmopolitan at the same time. My American Dream for today...
Believe it or not, I think this is sane, given what field I work in. Not to take the inventory of people on other shifts, but if one is to work around as many micromanagers as big ol' NYC Law Factories hire, doesn't it make sense to be working on shifts where as few as possible of them abound? Of course, it would be even better if I could work in a different field entirely. But I have those verdammten G-School Loans back to pay. With a $440 monthly payment, my options are a bit limited. Still, I dream of a day when I'll be able to live comfortably and reasonably well, teach playwriting and directing to students, teach healthful and delicious cooking to needful persons, facilitate critical thinking workshops and participate in building a Big Eden-type community some place wonderfully rural and cosmopolitan at the same time. My American Dream for today...
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