random morning musings

there: a bird trapped in the sewer, wings beating against the cieling in that dark wet place, while the city rumbles along overhead

sewer grate like trap door, and we have fallen through. run my fingers over cracked, chapped lips to remember what has been lost

how is it that the earth could open up under you and swallow you whole, close above you as if you never were, like persephone snatched by god...blame it, as with all things mortal, on gravity. in the end- for better, for worse- it's nature. what goes up will come down

the nearest i'd come to feeling god was the plain blue cloudless sky and a certain silence

walk in harmony within the universe by being aware of you who you are 

i have crossed a frontier in my sleep and no one has awakened me up to stamp my passport

i followed him through the window stunned by the realization that i would have done so balcony or none

that is because i am not much of anything besides bored and boring punctuated by fits of scant self-amusement

perhaps i am an ambassador, a liaison between the past and the future

thrilled and terrified

she knew she would move on and on again because were she to die here they would cover her up with a stone, and in the mind of a woman for whom no place is home the thought of an end to all flight is unbearable

loves are like empires: when the idea they are founded upon crumbles, they too fade away

there is a brokenness 

out of which comes the unbroken

a shatteredness out of which 

blooms the unshatterable

there is a sorrow beyond all grief

that leads to joy and fragility

out of whose depths 

emerges strength

there is a hollow space 

too vast for words

through which we pass 

with each loss

out of whose darkness 

we are sanctioned into being

there is a cry deeper than all sound 

whose serrated edges 

cut the heart 

as we break open 

to the place inside 

which is unbreakable and whole

while learning to sing

to or not to

i don’t know what to tell you

other than the fact that a giraffe

heart weighs 22 pounds and that

somebody once told me when

flies fall in love, their entire brain

is rewired to only know loving each

other. when one of them dies, their

memory becomes blank. 

Albert Camus said that there is really only one philosophical question in life--the question of whether or not to commit suicide. 

Ego is a social institution with no physical reality. The ego is simply your symbol of yourself. Just as the word "water" is a noise that symbolizes a certain liquid without being it, so too the idea of ego symbolizes the role you play, who you are, but it is not the same as your living organism.

on an island

If once you have slept on an island

you will never be quite the same

you may look as you looked the day before

and go by the same old name

you may bustle about the street or shop 

you may sit at home and ponder

but you will see blue water and wheeling gulls

wherever you may wander

you may chat with neighbors of this and that 

and close to your fire keep

but you'll hear hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell 

and tides beat through your sleep

oh, you won't know why, and you can't say how

such change upon you came

but once you have slept on an island 

you will never be quite the same 

so, so, smug

i run the way i do most other things. which means that i used to run fast, eagerly, desperate almost.

i ran like i was racing an invisible enemy. myself but on wheels being pulled by a car.

i ran in short, passionate sprints and then slowed to a walk, panting and doubling over sometimes.

i lived and ran from one short finish line to another, passing each marker with equal fear and relief.

these days i run with more endurance and caution. i push myself harder than i ever have.

demand more of myself and am satisfied with myself less easily.

i slowly push my way up hills, over fallen tree limbs on trails, and down slippery rocks in the rain.

i have come to appreciate the sting at the base of my calf as i churn my body up a steep hill, panting so heavily that i see spots at the corners of my eyes.

my body has naturally adapted to awakening before dawn and my eyes have developed a more keen sense of perception in the darkness.

i have come to long for the cool breeze on my face as i stretch forward through the fog in early mornings.  

*i often sing this to myself while i am running.

the merc, repurposed

The artwork here feels alive. The fingers represented on the swirling canvas do not hold actual shape of bodies, but are somehow completely clear in their portrayal of dancing couples. The paint itself holds motion and change. It feels like a jungle here, particularly tonight. There is a thick steam pouring from the house locking the building in a haze. Everyone looks unfamiliar, which mocks the fact that I didn't want to do this tonight anyway, and I refuse to explain to myself why. I love the art and mural of untamed plant life, but for some reason i would really like to see that whole room painted white. What would the art do? Do these walls provide inspiration? Do the lights feed the poetry like translucent veins of warmth or do we simply like feeling like stars? artists? the higher selves? "Huzzah!" someone calls out. I disagree. We never seem to agree anymore, but it keeps my own solid entity. The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.

being alive--d.h. lawrence

The only reason for living is being fully alive;

and you can't be fully alive if you are crushed by secret fear,

and bullied with the threat: Get money, or eat dirt! -

and forced to do a thousand mean things meaner than your nature,

and forced to clutch on to possessions in the hope they'll make you feel safe,

and forced to watch everyone that comes near you, lest they've come to do you down.

 

 

Without a bit of common trust in one another, we can't live.

In the end, we go insane.

It is the penalty of fear and meanness, being meaner than our natures are.

 

 

To be alive, you've got to feel a generous flow,

and under a competitive system that is impossible, really.

The world is waiting for a new great movement of generosity,

or for a great wave of death.

We must change the system, and make living free to all men,

or we must see men die, and then die ourselves.