Residual | Part 4

residual | part 4

‘To ache is Human – not polite –’

mauisunrise

once there was a morning when
the sun dripped out of bed
infusing the air with the violet
drops of a blood orange, just
as citrus just as sweet, and
it was harsh and threatening. it made
the day action, abstraction
to concrete form, now. now. now.

what could i have done?
every brain was churning yet
in dream juices and acid trips.
what could i have done then?
i pushed open the doors
windows locks latches

and ah the reprieve! to drink
the atmosphere – clean and strong
as black coffee, and
what then?

an inhale – fear despair sadness cynicism
helpless hopelessness pain the dark
the shallow

yellowgreen bruises burnt edges
weeds dark deeds
doubt

cheeks drop numb, and
heat prickles behind my eyes,
and words escape:

my heart bleeds like a river                my heart bleeds like a river
my heart bleeds like a river from my soul
I’ve got peace like a river                   I’ve got peace like a river
so roll              Jordan             roll.

and the sky rippled with the stark dance
and the skyflash was brusque
with this exhale of it all.
its path was watercolored on the map of the sky
in red
bright red
blood apple cherry rose copper blood
then darker, darker: scarlet maroon crimson
color, color gushing from my lungs in an arc

a fountain

a river.

*

While I’d like to fancy myself someone who can be Strong Independent Woman (™) enough to not let certain things get to me, if I am being completely honest, a number of others’ comments both to and about me have stung enough that they stuck. Which is unfortunate, because many times they were not meant maliciously. And even more unfortunately,
(a) of course my reactions only reflected my own insecurity as well as
(b) a sort of existential belief that how others saw me was, in turn, how I was.

Anyway, this conversation in particular was great fun:

Other Person: “I love how you never get too excited or upset about anything.”
Me: “What? No, I’m not – stoic…
Other Person Again: “Yeah, stoic! That’s the word.”

Oh lord. Not that it’s a bad word: the Stoics were wise folk, being placid is crucial at times, who doesn’t need composure, etc. Just, for me, the word is not really that (typically anyway) true. In fact, I get excited about really microscopic and/or silly things. That SNL sketch about how much Ryan Gosling hates Papyrus? Totally me. Once I wrote a series of essay-length rants about the more egregious parts of commissioning and publishing poorly-written SEO content. (If it were well-written, no problem, but…) After seeing Mother, and the movie ended and the whole theatre started complaining, to my regret, I replied to those complaints rather loudly: “Haven’t you people ever heard of an allegory??”

It goes on. I won’t. Better to quit while I’m, what, behind, and being revealed to be a very obvious snob.

But. But. All that aside, stoic is a modus I once used in contexts where being otherwise was, shall we say, frowned upon. Not a great idea.

Getting to a place of being not-stoic most of the time means something like this: being okay with dealing pretty words like blades that never deemed they hurt.

(It’s from the poem this poem’s title is drawn from – please read it! Emily Dickinson deserves all of the appreciation.)

All this is to say, I suppose, that sometimes, to actually get free from whatever bullshit is dragging you down, you have to relinquish everything you’ve been holding completely. A bit like an elimination diet: flush out all that’s not right for you so you can know for sure what is.

And maybe it’s an exorcism to and for no one in particular, except for you. Because it could be there’s nobody to blame anymore. And/or, maybe there never was. Still, it is release of some kind that each of us needs. Because, as the Great One said (and I’ll say it over and over):to ache is Human – not Polite –’.

*

Residual | Part 3

residual | part 3

And how does one truly Stay True

(feat. slightly echoic audio right here)

 

and how does one truly Stay True?
as if it were something to simply Go Do—
or, were it not, perhaps it could relate
to that letting the presence of
Innermost You
radiate.

perhaps it is simple as
listening to
the whisper or trill of the pulse that is
something that’s
someone; that’s
You—
all of that which rises
like vapor, like steam,
approaches like a steady friend, saying

And If You Believe You Can
Then You Will Begin Again.

and again and again until
there’s some new bloom,
that you swear to keep alive within
that solemn room
that is your heart.

and never again let it depart.
because

you have an explosion in you, too.
i hope you know.
there are colors that flow,
and enervate,
and energize,
and procreate;
do realize
how palindromes and postulates and poetry
and, at times, pain,
all frolic and gambol and twirl and surge
from those quietest crevices in your
Beautiful Brain.

don’t be afraid—
because its light
circles          around        again.

the outside world is stillbeckoning
still hungry for you to Be There
even in the face of this reckoning
even when you are unaware.

so
take that pain from in your veins and
let it go from you.
take the story from your core and
let it free you all the more,
to speak its piece
and let it flow
and be your peace
until you know
that this is that realest fullest breath of
real              release.
*

morning

Who are you really?
Tend to her. Take him out to where he longs to be.
Or, be still and simply be with that truest you.

Isn’t that what the world needs?
Isn’t that what you need?

*

Residual | Part 2

residual | part 2

He could not fathom it:

gardenview

In his garden he spent each day
With the moon at his feet, and
There he sang to the wolves as they
Prowled and preened around the trees
And they howled. Echoed, empty. Lonely
He stood steady with the pines and
Howled –

As if to ask God for something
Heavy and whole as a
Brick in the belly.

In his eyes the flurries fell,
Little crystal daggers,
Inconsequential flecks.

Under heaven he stood still
And his hair turned slate.

*

sky blue sky

Sometimes you see a space and it tells a story. Gardens in particular do this for me: they prompt thoughts of growth, yes, but also of the cycle of death-life-renewal, and of melting into a more natural environment.

And sometimes that environment reflects you in ways that are more painful than productive. And sometimes you realize the seeds you planted didn’t sprout — or that you forgot to place them in the earth in the first place. And from that, sometimes you learn, but then, maybe you also yearn.

*

Residual | Part 1

residual | part 1

joy

sunrise sanctuary

joy: it’s a funny thing. you think at first
it’s meant to burst
like fireworks in the velvet sky

but it looks more like a mountain stretching high,
cracking the air we breathe –

and it’s we who choose to stay in its midst
or to leave.

it’s happiness that’s the hummingbird,
purring with its whizzing wings,
self-satisfied with the nectar it brings,
but never sits and never sings —
just flees, sans a word.

joy. it’s a path which must be chosen. it is steady, it is frozen
between all that the monkeymind desires.
those choices common man (you, I) admires.

how could a soul ever deviate?
we’ve got to look beyond
our past — our fate.

else we’ll die as potted plants do : staring at a wall.

because

while cognition oft wants to kill,
it’s love
that conquers
all.

*

joy_collage1

If one pattern of thinking has ever kept me from moving on, it’s that of how something was supposed to be or feel.  And never more so than when everlasting happiness was supposed to be the result.

I’m not trying to be a curmudgeon here. I like bliss. I like euphoria. They are not purposeless. Yet how sudden they are in their ebb and flow; it’s borderline cruel.

And I’ve found it to be particularly more so when it comes to putting the weight of expectation on how achievements should deliver those feelings. The ecstasy that’s supposed to be there — if success and recognition are the only end goals, and doing the thing that leads you there for its own sake is not enough — does not come.

Is ecstasy what any of us really wants most, though? What I mean is, the ‘buzz’ — the ‘rev’ — is fun. But maybe it’s not necessarily supposed to last.

I’ve decided, personally, it’s a gentle sense of well-being I actually crave: something slower in coming, and less dependent on circumstance. Yet somehow, maybe, it is more meaningful.

Maybe I’m not alone in that?

And I could call what makes it flow by its chemical name, sure, but sometimes I wonder if it — if joy — runs deeper than that.

*

Residual

residual | a brief introduction

residual2

phantom limbs, and echoes,
and shadows cast — these are the past.                       and can they last?

perhaps,
when left unseen.

but what if, instead,
yesterday’s a handprint?
not quite a palm, no, but
its same design.

would you understand then that
those ghosts were residual,

always meant to be acknowledged, then left behind?


The next poem set is called Residual. The heart of it being those awesomely convicting words of Carl Jung’s:

Until you make the unconscious conscious, you will continue to subscribe to it and call it fate.

And maybe also Cat Power‘s … that is,

the doctor said I was not my past / he said I was truly free

… so! let’s see!

*

Residual: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Split-Tale Sea | Part 4

(Three months later…)

This is the final poem of Split-Tale Sea. I started this project for a number of reasons, but the main one was the effect that water has on my (lacking a more universally received word) spirit. Water makes me feel more like a human. Quieted. Calmed. But also, buoyant. Alive. Here.

IMG_1359

And I’m not alone in this: both scientific study and anecdote alike reveal, over and over, that water has this soothing, renewing effect in general. (Disclaimer being, probably not for anyone who’s afraid of it, but then again, oh my, what if that fear were overcome?!)

Thus, much of the whys are documented.

The whats, perhaps less so.

By whats, I simply mean: what can be done with this feeling? What Source first summoned the water to arise, and how can we seek more of its settling energy? What can one possibly bring into this world with the live-giving and healing that water gives?

Just days ago, being on the water brought me back to myself once again. And maybe that could serve as one answer (of many possible answers) to those questions: that is, what the water can prompt in us is as simple as a reminder.

To learn to live and be, mostly,

but also, I suppose, to

Float

*

Split-Tale Sea: Part 1 | Part 2Part 3

Split-Tale Sea | Part 3

skylight

What do beached whales have to do with depth, and bridging gaps? Questions I attempt to answer in this next installment. Audio and text below. Enjoy + happy Friday!

The Whale

The whale was grey, not white; her stench filled the air,
An eyeblurring cocktail of fish bones
Dried sweat
Kelp
Baked together in midday sun.

The whale was grey, but dark,
Tinted with inky indigo.
What colors! cried the crowd that flocked
To see the beast beached on the shore,
Their eyes hungry for something new and lovely—
Here she was.
Enormous and abrupt, a miracle.
Or rather, how they always dreamt
A miracle would be.
A gift from God, one whispered. Marvelous.

The whale was grey, like a circus elephant.
She did not act like one.
She seemed to sleep: slow rhythmic breaths like steam,
Powerful stream
Like a truck stopped to let off exhaust.
Her spout pulsed, now-and-then, to send
Bulbous clouds of water choking through:

Three times in the first hour;
Once in the second.

A cluster of children clambered atop her brow
To feel the flow
But soon the sun sucked them dry, too,
Sending them back to their mothers and fathers
Begging ice cream
Water
Fresh air

Something better. Please?

Soon the sun did the same to their parents,
And the smell, oh well, they couldn’t bear it,
But as consolation, said,
Such a shame that such a lovely thing
Can’t do anything.
But the tide will come eventually,
Won’t it?
Take it home, of course it will. It’ll be fine.
It’s evolved enough for this.

The whale was grey, as she had been
For her last one hundred years;
As her ancestors had been
For several million more;
Evolved enough she was, indeed, to know
Abandonment.
Those animals, they don’t swim well,
And could not help her even if they tried.

And her clan was far away, because they
Were either wiser than she or,
Maybe, luckier.

The sun sank down, sky black as cavern innards;
No touch of light scattered throughout the waves.

The whale was grey, just like her song
She sang in spite of cracking lungs—
She shrieked, or so a passer-by might think—
She howled a sound like that of wolves, but heavier and round,
Like a full bunch of black grapes.

She sang it to the sky;
It was like a woman’s sigh,
But emptier than all that air somehow.
She sang it to the sky
As if the clouds might hear
And have mercy, perhaps feed a light rain,
Perhaps a heavy one to send her home again.

The rain heard not; the people did. They heard a
Delicate thick
Awful beautiful
Echo.

The whale was grey, the size of a
Single-family home,
With just as much life that was waning, and fast;
She poured it all into a nameless song.
It rang out like an echo in a canyon.
It cracked the windows that were closed
And drifted through the open panes
And every evolved person heard and could not catch her breath.
Each felt her face grow hot, indignant—felt his eyes alight with sudden tears.

Why oh why does she give so much life?
And we will never ever pay it back.

*

Split-Tale Sea: Part 1 | Part 2Part 4