One quick and dirty way to assess whether a personal view or political belief has any validity is to ask if it is compassionate. If not, you're way off base. Period.

sleepwalking

I am like a dead thing. All the moments between noticing.

little lives 2

Somewhere a box was made (a cardboard clam shell to-go container) which traveled a great distance - from tree to factory to truck to a neatly stacked pile on the back shelf of the 17th street cafe - whose fate was to hold my piece of spinach quiche only once.

That everything bears us, holds us up, giving completely and without exception from what it is. How we take these little lives without thanks. And throw them away just as thoughtlessly.

little lives 1

I want to write an elegant poem about the seagull I picked up off the street, barehanded, and how I cried into its wet feathers like a little girl and wouldn't put it down. About his eyes, how they were quietly shut, his exact weight and proportion in my arms, head limp in my hand like a baby's. Larger, softer, warmer than I imagined. That he yielded his weight to me, this wild thing, even in death.

All which I might never in a lifetime have known had this bird not managed to die, perfectly, at the end of my street. How I secretly fear I caused it's death by wanting to touch it in the air. How my child mind even now grasps more fully the power of want, the world as a lamb.

the state of things

If non-doing were synonymous with laziness or sulkiness I'd be the champion right now. I can't pinpoint the exact moment I left the fight, but at some point I did. I believe there's a gravity attached to all things. When we work we reach toward the ceiling of our limitations, sometimes beyond. When we cease work we begin our slide downward, naturally, towards the mean. From whence we came. It's not enough what I'm doing - even though I see myself making progress. I'm embarrassed and embarrassed at my embarrassment. The sting of it would not be so great if my ego were not so large.

coins

I woke up feeling a little raw this morning. I've been trying to place myself within the scheme of things. I suppose there's some big picture I'm in. Sort of a Where's Waldo type scenario where I can't seem to locate my self. I walked down to my local Starbucks, where everything and nothing takes place all day every day. An opportunity for kindness presented itself. A clear moment in which to act. But kindness is not the right word. It is too big of a word. To give and receive simultaneously. So it was also his gift to me, both of us recipients.  

I've been reflecting these last few days on my motivations. Specifically the ones behind efforts I make to improve or better my self. It seems there are two wells from which this impulse springs. One is inwardly arising, a voice of compassion and command. The other a reactionary ripple from my childhood. A habit. A hole in the development of my world view I'm still trying to fill or give meaning.

I must have always believed in the existence of unconditional love because I've spent a lifetime torturing my self for not being "good" enough to receive it. My desire to become worthy of love is paralleled only by my distrust of it. At some point we're all told something we believed existed doesn't, like Santa Claus. Love can be like this.

Interesting how two impulses to do something at least outwardly similar completely threaten to unseat each other. If I learn to trust my self and my impulse towards compassionate self-acceptance and growth I necessarily have to let go of the one centered solely around my belief that I am undeserving of said love. If I keep holding on to my distrust and need to "become" worthy I will always have a vested interest in my own failure - proving to myself once and for all there is no such thing as god. I mean love. Interesting how these are two sides of the same coin.

Everything you touch touches you back.

blind spots

People seem quick to point out that others have not shared the same unique experiences as they... when trying to prove their own argument but tend to overlook the fact that, for this very reason, probably 95% of all their other opinions are completely baseless or taken on some authority other than their own direct experience, experimentation, or knowledge.

I am continuously surprised at how impressive other people find even the smallest acts of authenticity.

on want

Want has a voice and language all its own. It sounds like a capitalist, an auctioneer, a dealer. Want wants me to rationalize, to paint, to gloss-over. Want is irresponsibility. It tells me it is better to buy and sell (now!) than to know and be free. Want, you are a peddler, a carpetbagger, a taxman. Want, you are the ultimate salesman. There's nothing I bought from you I didn't already have. 

organ donor

Some people reject love like a body that rejects a new heart or liver, even though it could save them.

I'm interested in people with intelligent transparency - people who choose to be openly vulnerable not out of naivete or ego, but from an unshakable sense of inner security. 

mirrors

Most people, in one way or another, try to tell you something about yourself. If you don't know who you are to begin with, this information can be difficult to sort through. You can be taken advantage of. It helps to be able to see what others' motivations are, but this is also difficult unless you've spent some time tracking your own. A lot of time, actually. And, if you're looking for one, a true friend is an individual who has gained some measure of autonomy or freedom for themselves (usually hard-won); everyone else is looking to fill a gap.

Having just found a title for this entry I realize I'm missing the other half of the story. The flip side is that those people who are themselves - who have moved steadily closer, over time, to their own unique destiny, are also mirrors. But in them you see yourself more clearly. Where other people's dirt distorts the truth, these have been polished clean. By love. By the work of love. When standing in front of this quality of person you are asked not to confirm or deny but to simply watch and be. How grateful I am to have had both experiences in my life rather than just the aforementioned. 

a question whose answer, given by me, always sounds wrong

I'm afraid of being judged. Someone might think I am playing the victim. Someone might think I think I've gone through some sort of hardship to get here - that I don't realize what others have suffered. That I'm not truly thankful.

I'm afraid of giving other women reasons to dislike me. They always seem to. Women tend to police other women. I learned early the worst thing you could do in a group of women is be unapologetically yourself. Women are supposed to be modest. 

God forbid you think yourself worthy of love or admiration. God forbid you admit, publicly, that you have ability or intelligence. God forbid you point out your struggles without preface. 

self-importance

I attended a concert the other night and found myself getting upset at the two drunk bitches behind me who wouldn't stop talking. I was afraid I might lose it and say something to them uncharacteristic of a lady so I started thinking up alternatives just in case.

If I could say anything and have them really hear me what would it be? This is what I asked my self. What began as an exercise in how to cut someone down in the most acerbic, poetic way possible ended strangely when I realized that what I really wanted to say to them was this:

"You are not nearly as important as you think you are. You're much more important than that."

darts

The hardest games, for me, are not the ones that require the greatest amount of attention, but the least.

very exciting news

For the first time in my life I can ask myself this question:

"Are you willing to live alone, without a husband or children of your own, for the rest of your life, if that guarantees your ability to continue to pursue what you value most - be that art, truth, or self-knowledge?"

and have the answer be "Yes."

blood from a stone

Something happened recently which caused some concern over whether I have the propensity for brutality. LJ assured me I'm not brutal in a malicious way, just that I'm not satisfied with veneers. I want to know what's really there, what's beneath, so I apply pressure; I give people a  little squeeze and watch what comes out. Like tubes of paint. Some are yellow on the inside, some green, others you could wring until you're blue in the face and still, nothing. 

The tube metaphor is over-simplified but, right or wrong, I've noticed I can be judgmental of the ones that seem to come up empty. The colorless ones. The holes. Perhaps there's nothing wrong with being empty. It may, in fact, be part of the natural order of things, of decay. But I've had a different experience of humanity and can tell you without hesitation that most people don't have a clue what or who they are - how valuable, how utterly irreplaceable, how color-full - and I can't help but feel this a terrible waste. It's a fucking tragedy. 

I suspect some readers might balk at my description of the empty ones and my assertion that a lot of folks (not you, of course) are ignorant of some very basic things. Who the hell am I? How can I tell? Holes are often obvious. The incredible lengths people go to to cover up what they view as their deficiencies make them so. These deficiencies, real and imagined, are like landfills where people dump all kinds of shit: their shit, other people's shit, but mostly bullshit. It can be smelled for miles away in any direction.

People who are full of shit can be annoying, but there are few things I have less patience for than people who pretend or presume to have experienced something pure or sacred when truly they have not. This is evident in those of us who label ourselves artists and poets when we have nothing to say (having been present so infrequently as to be unable to bear witness even to our own lives) and no craft with which to say it other than what we graft or imitate from others (which is no craft at all, but mimicry. And toddlers do this with more zeal and accuracy than most adults). 

I include myself in this category. I have, at various points in my life, considered myself a musician when I was and am not. I may not even be a poet. But I do aspire to poetry. And to music. And to honoring those whose contributions to these arts have been real - even if the only honorable contribution I can make is silence.

Free from envy.

For a couple days at least. I am enough.

little assholes

The holidays made me reflect on how easily influenced we are by the messages we receive from others - coming and going. I found my self wishing I could resist making cracks at Rush Limbaugh, was more enthusiastic about pictures of eagles and hadn't rejected my mother's invitation to submerge my hands in sugar. I love my parents. It continues to strike me how they too can be child-like. Children are sensitive, vulnerable, innocent, completely self-absorbed little assholes who deserve without reserve, my unconditional love.