Thought for food – 13 – the perfectionist’s reminder

It is rarely as good as you think it must be, or as bad as you fear it will be.

Black crows

Black crows are silhouettes against a cotton sky.

There is light. And there is dark.

The dark cannot subsume the light. Shine a light, and the dark must give way.

Shadows are wholly dependent.

But light shines of its own accord.

Black crows are silhouettes against a cotton sky.

Thought for food – 12

If we insist on outdueling the other, we will eventually find there is nobody left to whom we relate.

A healthy relationship is not a duel of wit or will waged behind defensive walls; but a patient organic blooming of giving, understanding, and compassion.

Through giving we may receive; through understanding we may question; through compassion we may be saved.

Healthy relationships give us comfort for we are vulnerable, strength for we are weak.

The invulnerable and invincible among us are lost and lonely indeed. Not only do they not exist (for who among us are gods?), they are trapped in the illusion they do.

Step out from your defensive walls, and others will follow.

Thought for food – 11 – a moral imperative

To change and develop in a positive direction one needs honest information. This is a reason why lies and deception are so injurious to well-being: they prevent the development of one’s full potential. Honesty to oneself and others is often painful, but so is birth, for mother and baby alike.

Thought for food – 9 – a psychological axiom

There is no such thing as dishonesty. It doesn’t exist in any meaningful sense.

In our deepest selves fluctuating values constantly tug on the strings of our wills.

Behind any deceptive act is a value held to be true; a belief which, no matter how wrong might appear to another, completely informs the actions of the deceiver at that moment.

We may deceive ourselves, and therefore others, but we can’t help be but honest deceivers.

Here I choose to live

A new world opened before me. One overflowing with light and love. I am neither reluctant nor expectant to enter, for reluctance implies doubt, expectancy implies dependency; I neither fear what lies within, nor seek salvation.

I know this world is meant for me. I will take my time to explore and learn. I will live.

Let love reign

Please take these words, and cast them across a crimson sky. Let the whole world read what I have been led to see. There is no pain so great, nor fear too deep, that a breath of pure love cannot ease.

Allow love the day to seize. Let love reign, and be free.

Lyrics #10 – Nine by Sleeping at Last

Who am I
To say what any of this means?
I have been sleepwalking
Since I was fourteen.

Now as I write my song
I retrace my steps
Honestly, it’s easier
To let myself forget.

Still, I check my vital signs
Choked up, I realize
I’ve been less than half myself
For more than half my life.

Wake up
Fall in love again
Wage war on gravity
There’s so much
Worth fighting for
You’ll see.

Another domino falls
Either way.

It looks like empathy
To understand all sides
But I’m just trying to find myself
Through someone else’s eyes.

So show me what to do
To restart this heart of mine
How do I forgive myself
For losing so much time?

Wake up
Roll up your sleeves
There’s a chain reaction
In your heart
Muscle memory
Remembering who you are.

Stand up
And fall in love again and again and again
Wage war on gravity
There’s so much
Worth fighting for
You’ll see.

Another domino falls
And another domino falls.

A little at a time
I feel more alive
I let the scale tip and feel all of it
It’s uncomfortable but right.

We were born to try
To see each other through
To know and love ourselves and others well
Is the most difficult and meaningful
Work we’ll ever do.

Snapshot of meaning – 1

Plump gray bird on fallow field,

Beady brown eyes reflecting setting sun,

I bike past slower than an emotion,

Which fills the scene with infinite meaning.

Thought for food – 8

The hours, the days, they come, and they go. But the moment – it lasts forever.

I walk towards the dancing light

If there is no light, then there is no dark.

I have fallen into the dark; I have become despair, doubt, infinite dread.

The dark says, ‘Turn your back on the light, there is no hope there; the closer you are permitted to come to the light, the further you will inevitably fall. Stay here, on the bottom, for in the end, all is doubt, fear, death, nothingness.’

The dark says the light is but an ideal, one that you can never reach, and thus one that will always fail you.

And I answer: ‘If light is an ideal, then you must be as well. To turn my back on one demands I turn my back on the other. You say it is folly to choose the light for it is an ideal, but then surely it is also folly to choose you.’

And the dark shudders, and spits me from its maw.

In the distance a tiny light flickers.

Caught between two ideals; I walk towards the dancing light.

Thought for food – 7

Trust is the silent energy fuelling any healthy relationship; you truly appreciate it once it is broken, for the silence is replaced with the screeching deafening noise of its fragmented and metastatic parts, circulating like screaming cancerous tumours through the withering and dying relationship, illustrating with crystal moral clarity the following truth: trust is the relationship and the relationship is trust. You risk it all if you take trust for granted; nurture and cultivate it as dearly and attentively as you would a developing child, for in effect, you will be nurturing and cultivating not only your relationship, guiding its development from birth to maturity, but, as any dedicated and caring parent knows, developing yourself as well.

The divine ape

There’s a pain that only I may know.

If it is common why do I feel so alone?

‘There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.’

Has this wisdom failed me, or have I chosen not to see?

The love of two bound souls…the curves of hips and naked backs…mouths agape in mirrored arches of ecstasy.

We are apes, dammit! So how can we seem so divine?

We long desperately for what we cannot have-

and what we have we fail to see.

The divine is all around and deep within-

A fluttering butterfly tracing sinuous curves across the naked sky,

pulls a string in the poet’s heart making melodious melodies of the mundane.

The sun rises as it sets:

Pain and joy; loneliness and companionship; light and dark; ecstasy and agony.

An ape so divine.

The victim’s prayer

Dear Lord. Almighty mighty Lord.

You have graver grievances to attend, I am sure.

But Lord, hear me out. Listen to my (self)-pitiful pleas. Please.

They say there is no rest for the wicked.

I say what a load of shit.

(HORSESHIT my Lord.

The wicked rest wonderfully. Deeply. Soundly. Undisturbed by haunting visions of moral transgressions.)

—but I digress—(cough cough)

As I was saying:

Dear Lord,

Grant me the strength to be wicked.

Afford me the confidence to knowingly disrupt the cosmic balance.

Entitle me to take what is not mine.

Endow me with the strength to cheat and lie and steal.

Let me have my cake and eat it too, and perhaps, someday, return for seconds.

Thirds and fourths.

Oh Lord may my self-awareness remain deception,

May the muscles and sinew flexed in the mirror remain awesome,

And may I roll over this world as one so divinely entitled.

If I am lost, let me hurt others in my grasping.

If I am in pain, let me be nurtured from others’ resources.

Let me feed off the world’s goodness and take no measure of responsibility.

Make my ego so strong, so emboldened, that I make victims of others to spare my own suffering.

Let me believe I am more important, the most important.

Let selfishness and egoism and self-deception reign in my heart, my soul.

Let all roads lead to me.

And let my worldly success depend on this attitude.

And whatever you do, do not allow moral questions of right and wrong creep into my self-righteous bastions.

Thank you Lord.

Amen

2.0

Then come on out. You step heavily on the narrow ledges of cartilage ringing my throat. My invitation was mailed months ago. Come on out. Let me see you.

I have a friend. I have a friend who says my writing is no good. I have a friend who says my writing is no good and yet he won’t say a thing at all. This friend’s silence angers me. I lack the confidence to take a stand either way. And the doubt washes through me. Coats my cells with dull energy. If only my friend could feel, could see me. Could step inside me. Could be me. If only my friend could write a word, a sentence to describe me.

I have mailed an invitation and I lack the confidence to confront my friend’s silence and the truths buried therein. And the doubt washes through me and something fearful sits on my throat.

The sky is blue but sometimes it is gray. Clouds float like silent hordes across the blinding clarity of not-empty space, blocking out the sun. There is no sense in sense when each narrative fails to deliver, breaks its promise of braiding the myriad threads into something strong, believable, dependable.

Day runs into night as ink spilled on white cotton. Spreading and spreading, the oily slick of slippery promise. Sleep comes at high noon. The devil, you see, is in the details. I comb through them, I see his face; it stares down at me as I look at the dimpled whiteness of an all-to-familiar ceiling as the mosquitoes and moths bang against the window, drawn to the single light burning in my room.

Let us be done with it. Come on out and let us be done with it. I have nothing to offer. There is nothing on offer. The silence of confident silence, silent friends have assured me my words are empty. Why try to build a narrative? Let the electric threads spark and crackle. Voltage running the length of headless hydra arms. Wriggling and gyrating in black empty space. No landmarks to pin them. No compass to orient. The flailing and failing lines of narrative in death throes. (I ask in all sincerity: can you picture this?)

I can’t write.

I can’t feel anymore in words.

Abstraction has failed me.

I have lost all direction.

The cold beating of my jelly heart. My veins are poor substitutes for meaning. I might lift a foot as I walk. But the story ends there.

And yet, compassion

Good out of weakness. Strict normative principles so as to control the world. A moral absolutist so as not to get hurt. Actions not adhering to, not possible to adhere to, such strict moral principles. Hurt inevitably following.

Afraid to live. Ashamed to love. Each breath self-reflective. Critical. Analytical. Simply not comfortable in my own skin.

Each cell of the body awash in nervous energy. Anxious vibrations. Always, always on guard. Even asleep. Especially, in my sleep.

For I do constant battle with my demons.

Guilty. That I am a sinner.

Dirty. That I am impure.

Unworthy. That I will be abandoned.

Envious. That I am lacking.

Anxious. That catastrophe strikes the unwary.

And yet, compassion. For myself. For others. Compassion for my demons. Thirty-six years and I have yet to win a battle. I am done battling.

In compassion there is hope.

In hope, salvation.

Thought for food – 6

Train the mind to dwell in the fraction of a moment after a conscious experience but before the naming of it. There the ego has yet to form; there salvation from the self can be found.

Blameless organic life

Life is organic; an unfolding web of cause and effect. Free will and the sense of self are illusory, and we all come laden with evolutionary, cultural, and familial baggage. Our neural networks are infinitely nuanced, such that no two people in a population of billions are exactly the same.

Life is staggeringly complex, seemingly irreducible, yet completely free of magic. We are simply blind to most causes. I am who I am, and where I am, right this instant due to an unfolding, organic dance of causal relationships, the majority of which I am ignorant. My ability to learn, to adapt (or not), are threads in the nuanced web of my life. Threads tugged upon, supporting, connecting the baggage of my birth, my personal inheritance and unique development.   

I did not create these threads: they created me.

The same goes for you.

Tell me: where in this picture could we, should we, insert blame?

Day is night

In my soul day is light and dark is night,

Blind are lies and truth is sight;

And in my soul the deepest spite,

For a world where right is wrong and wrong is right.

Thought for food – 5

Laurels are the sled at the mountain’s top. Rest too long your weary legs, and unawares you will find yourself at the bottom looking up.