Harvard Museum of Natural History

people hurt

Sometimes I wish people's ability to hurt me would finally outweigh my capacity for forgiveness. Then I realize how stupid that is.

The bravest thing I've ever done was make it through childhood. It is also the bravest thing I continue to do, when I do it. This is a blessing for me and not a little bit of a curse. But, after spending time working with a family I think embodies loving support, intelligent direction and total dedication, I think it's fair to say even in the best of circumstances, it is the same for everyone.

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.

evening news

At 10:30 this evening you could see the moon straight through my bedroom window sitting exactly where I am.

stop me if you've heard this one before

I met a comedian one night at this bar who tried to get my number. He wore a white shirt with a slit down the front and sandals. He said he'd found enlightenment, that he had traveled, that knowledge is power. I had to laugh at him. I asked what God was like. I've only experienced short bursts of love and light. It felt like compassion. The development of one's self is not a struggle for perfection (that wiped away his grin). It's not a search for esoteric knowledge and using it for power is a sin. It's not all the steps you may have taken round the world or some great moment of arrival. It's a moment to moment fight for life, for freedom, for survival.

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.

Tonight could be the night.

I've never broken any hearts - nor has mine been broken by any other.
We break our own hearts when we fail to see what is in front of us.

It's strange how the sound of insecurity, the bell of insecurity rings "Me. Me. Me."

attachment

Every human relationship we get into we also have to find our way out of.

atlanta visit

No longer the need for showy signs of affection, I've accepted that I am married to it, bodily. Like aged love, it was enough to sit for a while together. The familiarity of the trees, the coldness and the moisture. The absence and quiet of winter. A few more months and the cicadas will fill it again with their love song.

lovers

a short poem from one stranger to another. handwritten, it was there then it was gone. in some pant pocket. set accidentally free amongst the keys or digging for the phone some grow in depth, in dimension. some are just an apparition. they flash then disappear. some hang shamelessly in there. words of smoke, of an early morning mist that burns off slowly. it was the sun on our last tuesday.

christmas in venice

The holiday season has finally caught up with Venice. It's raining and cold outside. I'm sitting on a bar stool at Hinano's listening to live blues, waiting for the moment when I'll have to get up and dance. I've seen Satin Blue perform before. They're usually on fire by the end of the first set. Until then, I nurse my Guinness and take stock of my surroundings. Christmas lights dangle from the awning across the street. People coming in have wet hair, pause to brush off their shoulders and take in the warmth. In the corner a couple are locked in an open-mouthed kiss. They have a small, protective entourage of beautiful people with them. At the table beside them two regulars in dirty jeans and plaid flannel shirts play pool. One of them bobs his head approvingly to the music while the other, taking a shot, exposes his fuzzy plumber's crack. I appreciate the juxtaposition. At the end of the bar a woman with braided hair, grinning madly, looks up from her notebook as the white-haired musician to her close right bends a note plaintively on his guitar...

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.

Amendment to the Prostitution

What I mean to say is that, in my view, sex and the process which results in sex (whether it be for recreation, for love, or procreation) should never be dehumanizing. And if it is, something has gone not just a little, but terribly wrong - for everyone.

alpha FAIL

A guy who needs to make other guys look bad in order to impress a girl or who thinks trying to make a girl feel stupid is going to raise the likelihood of him getting laid is a common, over-inflated, blowhard who needs lessons in self-respect. A woman who beds this kind of man is either actually stupid, comprehensively naive, or desperately attached to the act of sex as a means for personal validation. I don't know which is worse.

venice 5

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.

This blog has, lately, become a place for notes. So, okay.

my apartment is a den of illness. my relationship to this singular room changes by the day. before it was quite rosy. a sanctuary in fact. now it is yellowed by its feverish occupant. this is like the difference between a stream which is flowing and one which is blocked.

today I long for atlanta. things don't seem so far away there. roads traversed many times become shortened by familiarity.

There is frequently something very real and worthwhile in that which I dismiss automatically. This is especially true when it comes to people. Today I saw how easily snobbery can turn into bigotry. How violent and inhumane sides are when taken. It was terrible. I haven't enough tears to shed for this poverty of perspective, for black and white, us and them. These days I feel I exist, more and more, in shades of grey.

Sitting at the window of Cow's End, coffee in hand, looking out the window. A man runs his fingers through his white/yellow hair seven times. He's not facing me, but I can tell he must be a few pounds overweight. Behind me a tupperware container holding loose tea scrapes against wood as it's removed then replaced on the top shelf. Outside a chubby toddler reaches out to touch a rainbow-colored macaw. He reaches with his right while holding a red plastic rake somewhat threateningly in his left. The owner of the bird, wearing khaki cargo pants, loafers with ankle socks, a Son of a Son of a Sailor Jimmy Buffet shirt and one large, gold-colored eagle buckle, rises from his chair and returns the bird, protectively, back to its perch on his shoulder.