I wish I was as still as you
steady, peaceful, effortless
maybe I spend too much time running
or my cradle was rocked too hard
maybe nightmares keep me waking
or the dread of tomorrow’s alarm
yet I’m grateful for your simple slumber
soothing, calm, dependable
undeterred and undisturbed
by my fidgeting and sighing
letting me work through my aftershocks
more tranquil each night
waiting to breathe together again
patient, restful, warm
It’s hard being a cynic.
Optimists are just naïve.
Realists exist.
I need to change.
I cannot change.
People are good.
People are bad.
I cannot be happy alone.
I’m better off alone.
I can do it all.
I don’t have to choose.
Financial stability buys freedom.
The real world has no place for art and compassion.
Everyone can communicate.
Empathy is not a real skill.
Vulnerability is weakness.
Creativity is risk.
Risk should be avoided.
What I say and do don’t matter.
He must be a good guy
He goes to church
He must be a good guy
He made good grades
He must be a good guy
People like him
He must be a good guy
He played football
He must be a good guy
He studied law
He must be a good guy
He likes beer
He must be a good guy
He has a family
He must be a good guy
He has a long list of lady friends
He must be a good guy
He has a longer list of good deeds
He must be a good guy
He keeps a detailed calendar (and it says so)
He must be a good guy
Shaking rage, steamrolling, and dodging are clearly righteous indignation
He must be a good guy
And unquestionably entitled to lifelong trust, balanced and just
He must be a good guy
No need to hear from anyone else
He must be a good guy
No bad guys have ever looked like him before
He must be a good guy
Why would anyone say otherwise ever again?
I had a dream not long ago.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
In my dream, a tree had fallen on me.
I remember it slowly bearing down as I wriggled.
I remember the squeezing sensation of my skull approaching its cracking point.
But, most of all, I remember the horrible flight of hope.
The certainty that someone would rescue me melted.
My cries for help caught in my throat.
Then came the irreversible knowing: a freak accident death, a random unfinished end.
My life had no special purpose.
I was embarrassed to realize I’d always thought someday I would do something significant.
Whatever that means in a temporary, unfeeling universe.
I didn’t matter enough for any entity in the cosmos to intervene.
I breathed deeply, trying to glimpse the sky because I would miss it the most.
I woke up relieved, and in horror.
You want me to describe my god to you?
I’ll make an effort.
When I was a child, I was given many things.
One was a picture of god as a father and a ruler and a punisher.
He helped me, in those early days, to feel safe and behave appropriately.
But later, when I saw more of the world, I realized he was too small to answer my questions, or infuse my spirit, or quell my true fears – true, by virtue of being grounded in reality, in the horrors and injustices all around me.
When I was older, but not yet fully myself, I resented and gave him up, knowing I could never get him back.
I lived alone.
I tried to fill the emptiness of his loss with people and ideologies, wading through several pools but staying ever in shallow waters.
These pursuits led repeatedly back to a familiar place of disappointment and hopelessness.
Later still, I realized I had never grieved for god the father, god the tyrant, god the security blanket.
So I mourned.
And I wandered alone again.
On no particular day, during no particular crisis beyond prolonged fatigue and sadness, I encountered the god of now.
Only a flicker of a glimpse of the god of now can I hope to convey.
She is she to me and anything to you.
She is the best things in my mind, the essence of authenticity, small delights, enormous joy, gratitude, empathy, and kindness.
She is ineffable but articulate.
She is connection to more, to others and to the earth itself, to the stars beyond, to the memory of my ancestors, to the honor of heroes and the tragedy of lost souls.
She is whatever I need her to be, when I need strength or resolve or courage or compassion.
She allows me to pray but needs no worship.
She is a construct of my mind or an unfathomable external force.
She does not ask me to find out for sure.
She only asks me to live as my full self.
So I try.
I don’t know why people throw away pennies,
But I love finding them with you.
Since I met you, nothing feels insignificant:
not pennies,
not words,
not blinks,
not breaths.
During the past few years, my goals have simplified:
do my best,
be here now,
make you smile,
enjoy our time.
We continue collecting memories and pennies:
pretty penny, lucky penny,
penny dreadful,
shiny penny, honest penny,
penny wiser.
But we cannot pinch them.
Just like time, we can only spend them well.
Mary had an Instagram, Instagram, Instagram.
Mary had an Instagram that nobody followed.
But everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went,
Everywhere that Mary went, the camera sure did go.
–
Jack the symbol,
Jack the dick,
Jack dump and dismantle chicks.
–
Ice cap ridges melting down, melting down, melting down,
Ice cap ridges melting down,
Ignore daily.
–
Trickery, trickery, doc.
The mice work round the clock.
The clock strikes five, the rats race home.
Trickery, trickery, doc.
–
Grumpy Stumpy used to be tall.
Grumpy Stumpy’s friend went awol.
All the prescriptions and all of the gin
Couldn’t put Stumpy together again.
–
Jack and Bill left from the Hill
To find a future daughter.
Jack went down,
They broke Bill’s crown,
And Jill stayed with the orphans.
–
Who killed black bobbins?
I, said the police,
With my badge and this piece.
I killed black bobbins.
Who saw them die?
I, thought a guy,
Was just passing by,
So turned a blind eye.
All the thoughts and the prayers,
And the trying and sobbing,
Could not return to home
Little black bobbins.
–
There was a posh woman who needed more shoes.
She passed homeless children; she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some cloth without many threads.
Then whistled to herself and bought bags instead.
Value of Words
1.
Hate isn’t a strong word.
Think about how casually everyone uses it.
No words are strong anymore.
Phrases might be strong, sometimes.
If I say, “I hate you and I hope you die” and you know I’m not being sarcastic, then it might be considered strong phrasing.
Give me a word, any word, and I’ll show you how it has no strength on its own.
“Love.”
Said while staring at a new model of iPhone!
2.
Well, I think you’re going about this all wrong.
Words are strong
-not simply because they are the building blocks of phrases, just as individual breaths are what compose our lives, with few more significant than others, though some may be deeper-
But also because words are concepts made tangible: symbols and sounds that can create shared understanding between otherwise separate minds.
Put two strangers, who barely know one another or who barely speak one another’s language, in a tense situation and one word can become all that matters.
“Peace.”
A single word with the strength to convey between two unfamiliar psyches both “I intend no harm” and “please do no me harm”.
You say, “You must feel so old!”
You’re right. I suppose I must.
Certainly I cannot feel “young”.
I wear compression socks and like to drink hot water.
Besides, I did not navigate painstakingly through
infancy,
toddlerhood,
childhood,
adolescence,
and early adulthood
to be called “young” now.
It was hard work, aging.
Maturing was even harder.
My life has not been long – yet.
Still, I am old.
Too much has happened.
Ages have come and gone in my lifetime.
Identity crises, among other demons, have arisen and been slain.
A respectable career has been built up slowly and, later, traded back in for the gambler’s pursuit of true fulfillment.
People have died, physically and in worse ways.
Beliefs have shifted, like slices of glitter in a kaleidoscope, maintaining core components but morphing in perspective with each twist.
Irreplaceable pieces of the world (at large, and mine) have crumbled away.
And I have had to heave the dead weight of myself towards resurrection from the kind of nothingness from which many never return.
Twice.
If you’re seeking commiseration or embarrassment, you’ve come to the wrong old lady.
“Old” isn’t a synonym for tired, or unhealthy, or disappointed, or boring, or resigned.
Old simply means “I have lived”.
And I have lived well so far.
I love the story mom tells about when you refused to take a break. You were doing what you do best: building homes.
She had important news, so she yelled her words up. And my dad -my big, strong father- nearly toppled down.
I love how much I amazed you, just as an announcement. Barely a concept. Not even a name.
It took longer for me to return that sense of amazement. You were many other things to me first: familiar, funny, smart, supportive.
We have always been close. But I had to become myself before I could realize how much I got from you.
Thank you for patience. Thank you for a strong work ethic. Thank you for perseverance, friendliness, and silliness. Thank you for your wisdom and honor. Thank you for my life. It’s a good one, like you.
Happy birthday dad.
I went searching for meaning.
I looked under a rock and I found nothing. I looked behind a tree and I found nothing. I looked between flower petals and I found nothing. I looked inside a seashell and I found nothing.
I read books at school and I found nothing. I worked hard at an office and I found nothing. I spent money on things and I found nothing. I loved with all I have and I found nothing. I looked within myself and I found nothing.
I told the wisest man alive everything I’d tried and asked him where I should go to find meaning.
“It was under the rock,” he said and smiled.
So I did it all again – and I found everything.
I am missing things.
I’m missing birthdays and showers and parties and fun.
I’m missing phone calls and messages and politely timed responses.
I’m missing regular exercise and time to properly assemble myself in the morning and an unchaotic routine.
I’m missing car keys, shoes, and that thing I just had 5 minutes ago.
I’m missing spending time outdoors and reading and dancing.
I’m missing quiet, unbusy moments.
I’m missing so many people.
But.
I am working round-the-clock on what I need.
I hope it’s worth what I’m missing.
I wish I could say I forgot
But I thought about it all week
I remember you said I couldn’t be gay
But I still am
I don’t remember much of the day
But I, of course, remember exactly what I was wearing
I don’t remember much about you either
But I remember what you did
I don’t know how I got through it or how anyone ever does
But I am still here
I don’t want to know about you
But I am doing quite well these days
I may never manage to forget
But I have healed
I try to help others now
And I can write about it.
I have always dreamed of storms.
For years, I’ve seen them approach. They were unbearably colossal; I feared their size more than their wrath. Sudden and dreadful, they closed off the sun. I was always alone, my insides full of defeat.
I dream of them still.
But they are different now, as am I. I dream of struggle; I dream of escape. There will be survivors and we will be two of them. You are always with me. And within me churns determination.
The perfect calm of early morning silence.
The symphony nature produces when uninterrupted by mundane talk.
The divinity of mundane talk when murmured by a good companion.
The jingle behind authentic laughter.
Capable, wise discussions between intuition and knowledge – and nobody else.
Unending echoes of the triumphant roar after defeating demons.
Confidence; she’s loud.
Perspectives, as overlapping melodies, clashing or harmonizing, but always real.
Right Now, over the clamor of Before and Later.
My own voice.
For the past month
I go back and forth
between
being proud of getting so much done
and
wanting to slack off.
When I manage the myriad of daily goals,
I want to shout about it to the world!
When I tire of plodding through the routine,
I want to whine about it too.
Slowly, I’m learning
to say less
and
just do it again tomorrow.
Don’t bitch, don’t boast, don’t quit.
I placed my dreams in the stars
Knowing I can walk only the earth
I’ll climb forever
Resting intermittently on cliffsides
Dangling by ropes and cords
-like any other comfort zone-
Always ready to reach again
I’m going to write today!
I’m going to write as soon as I wake up.
I’m going to write once I make the bed.
I’m going to write while coffee is brewing.
I’m going to write when the caffeine kicks in.
I’m going to write after a few chores.
I’m going to write after breakfast.
I’m going to write as soon as I’m caught up on emails.
I’m going to write during my lunch break.
I’m going to write after lunch.
I’m going to write at the end of the workday.
I’m going to write after dinner.
I’m going to write once I get a few errands out of the way.
I’m going to write before bed.
I’m going to write in bed after brushing my teeth.
I’m going to write tomorrow…
I begged Imagination to be something else.
Be not artistic, not vulnerable, not risky.
It refused to be anything else (because it wanted to be everything).
I tried to leave it behind.
Eventually, there was nothing else left.
And Imagination was still here waiting.
Outside near my office in the city, another tree just quit.
When I arrived years ago, there was one dead tree. I remember thinking it looked odd amongst the healthy, manicured ones that lined the sidewalks within perfect squares of dirt.
The landscaping surprised and delighted me at first. It just makes me sad now.
The trees, whose roots grow in cramped knots under cement ceilings, stare at me while they whither. Their shuddering, struggling leaves almost say, “I could’ve been more. I could’ve been wild. I could’ve stretched my arms to the heavens.”
There are a handful of dead ones now, with many others showing signs of an untimely and ill-favored faceoff with mortality.
First they all grow weird, with thirsty leaves thrusting out all over branch and trunk alike. Shamelessly, their appearance grows as shaggy as neighboring (and, actually, well-pruned) bushes in the futile attempt to sip more sun from behind buildings that scrape the sky.
“I’m so sorry you cannot grow here,” I think.
The dead tree was no outlier. One by one, they fail to conform to their restrictions. And one by one, they martyr themselves trying to do so.
I don’t want to witness the last of these trees putting down its fight. Or be around when property owners’ budgets allow for an aesthetic improvement project to euthanize the final public eyesore.
“I’m so sorry,” I think again.
We, the wilds, cannot survive here.
