"The private world of instinctive interests is a small one, set in the midst of a great and powerful world which must, sooner or later, lay our private world in ruins. Unless we can so enlarge our interests as to include the whole outer world, we remain like a garrison in a beleaguered fortress, knowing that the enemy prevents escape and that ultimate surrender is inevitable. In such a life there is no peace, but a constant strife between the insistence of desire and the powerlessness of the will. In one way or another, if our life is to be great and free, we must escape this prison and this strife."

Bertrand Russell, "The Value Of Philosophy", The Problems Of Philosophy (Oxford, 1997), pp. 158.

There Are No Angels (Dance In The Cracks - Part 2 of 3)

There's been this thought

tumbling around my head for a while

Perhaps a truism

It's that all good things

are the result of patience and care

That relationships

if they're to be worth a damn

ought to be no different

With this in mind

A worry entered

months ago

as I drove home

for the first time

from Cotati

I worried that the stages of infatuation
of surface

had not run their cycle

that patience and care

the bloom of sharing

and nearness

would not take

in this sand of long distance

so soon

this thing

so young

It was a worry tied to others

perhaps inevitable

perhaps circumstantial

The fact is that each of us hid ourselves

our motives

our hurts

I fragmented my anxieties

and loneliness

made them look mature

balanced

more then they really are

You suspended the rawness

of your past

and both of us

shaking

felt for the other

for warmth

for release

It happens that

We get what we sow

Yet even though I've never known

the raw de-centering

of heartache

until now

I'm still glad that things were put on pause

that it was felt necessary

to step back

halt the momentum

I'm glad because I was thinking similarly:

a step back was necessary

if our gentle thing

was to be worth a damn

if it was to get past the stages of infatuation

and enter into the depths of patience and care

if we were to even seriously talk

about what we wanted
if we were to look each other in the eye

To do this requires that we reveal those cracks

in the street

which we have fallen

to see the deep darks

It requires that we see one another

and ourselves

no longer as drugs

taken to forget our bodies

but as dying pining creatures

trying to create and maneuver

trying to face up

and sometimes flee

those hurts

that have crystallized into scar

that back us into corners

cut off the oxygen

prevent deep breaths

deep movement

that strand us in space

When we paused

and then when you stepped back

in your small orange notebook

allowing me to see you

from where you came

to what path you now peruse -

and how far I had gotten attached -

I was forced to sit with both revelations

and suspicions

things I saw off in the periphery

One suspicion:

I tended to use you

in a hazy way

as a distraction

yet deny

was a distraction

Often I saw you as sexual attraction

as playful spontaneity

I saw you as a respite for loneliness

a loneliness I've carried around

for years

I saw you as easing my anxiety

lack of confidence

philosophic crisis

post-college malaise

I saw you through the longing and hope for communion

Yet here you were

standing in front of me

naked

cold to numb

using me

for warmth

like I was using you

Oh, the distractions we'll sow

Yes

I know you are not without blind spots

and hang-ups and faults

There are no angels

in this world

Only longing

and trial and error

But I want you

I want you even though

the will to love

precedes the appearance

on the scene

of the beloved

I want you even though

the world gives no clues

as to what we should be up to

and we stand alone with what we take seriously

I want patience and care

to enter this picture

this story

I want to look directly into your eyes

for a couple sacred minutes

and longer

to not have you turn away

I want to be sacred with you

Did you know that? 

"While reading books I write notes in the page margins and I circle and memorize certain lines and passages. The people in each book might be different, but the plotline is basically the same: Somebody is unhappy and they do dangerous and foolish things trying to become happy."

Sherman Alexie, "Scenes From A Life". Blasphemy (Grove Press, 2012), pp. 233.

Letting In (Dance In The Cracks - Part 1 of 3)

Yesterday after work

I found a small orange notebook in the mail

Feel shaky as I read

and after

as the sun's setting

I take a walk

to feel my way

to think about you

It happens to be Halloween

and the sky is getting darker

more meaningful

and the kids in costume

fashioned or bought

are all about

Have you ever noticed

how our culture never seems so healthy

red cheeked

life affirming

as on Halloween?

With everyone in on the exciting ritual

with the homes of the streets open

When I long for a utopia

or some ideal at least

perhaps I ought to console myself

with the fact of suburban Halloween

Is this not a good sign?

A fine ideal?

My thoughts and feels as I walk

are much the same as they have been

a month

two months

more

But they're taut

teething

And so I attend to them

over and over

as they come upon me

It's like this:

I feel so much tenderness for you

don't want to see you go

Parts of me pitch fits

clench up

with all their force

turn into desperate White Dwarves

But I still have some energy

some light

And I want to make a play

to pursue you

Exhaust it, as a possibility

because I will always wonder

because I never fully have

Like a psychology student

or a mountain top fire spotter

I wish to sell myself some silence

Sell some to you too

If I can manage

I've said that I didn't have any regrets

out on the beach

some warm bellied resilience

but I'm thinking now that that conclusion was premature

Truth be told I wish I would have born my neck to you

more than I did at least

Let you in

Stopped showing off

And above all

Indicated where the gravity pulled

choked

Pointed out where the cracks lay

In your small orange notebook

you showed the gravity

spoke in your own voice

through the cracks

and I hear it

And even though

it was likely not intended

I listen like I'm sitting beside you

like you're Wittgenstein

holding my hand

letting me in

to your newest, vital meditations

to the R behind playful coolness

cultivating freedom

independence

solitude

searching for a way out

through

And I want to speak too

directly

More in my own voice

the warmth rushing out

something I rarely did

wished I did more of

and I want to say why

why I rarely did

wish I did more of

Maybe this takes time, care

Will you follow me

follow me just a bit?

Will you sit beside me here

take my hand?

mindfulness

all the run on sentences in my head

inevitably turn back to you

and those simple sacred insights

which i've labored so hard to steal

will not hold

taking care of the self

seems the most unambitious task

from a certain standpoint

we should rather be getting on

with colossal social tasks

orgiastic pleasures

but taking care?

that seems some trifling exercise

to be fit in

between a brisk jog

and piano scales
if the time is free

yet, the effort will be made

it will happen at sunrise

it will happen throughout the day 

and it will happen on into the night

it will happen

this is what i say

to the delicate eyes

of the bathroom mirror

at lunch break

for if i'm going to be of use

i need some clues

hints

more than what I've got at least

more than silence

and crippling

This Head That Droops

These gusts and swift shifts

when we are away

and this thing so young

makes me weary of every next move

Yet some sage whispers

'You can be lonely, very lonely,

and not swept away.'

And I nod

feel nostrils

and breath and body

Remembering practices and words

and those things beyond words

things I suspect all warm bellies affirm

things I'm trying with all my energy

to take in

just a little more

just a little more

each previous take

the soil

for more mature and more present breaths

Yes,

this head that droops

that sometimes droops

is not quite me

Head Cold

Here's George

in the lumpy bed

with sick man

day dream haze

Wildly sentimental

with heroic visions

and apocalyptic regret

Now he's hopeful

now he's doubtful

but with the fruits of

the scientific generations

at least he can sleep

at least he can breath

He showers four or five times a day

stretches and reads

eats bowls and bowls of greens

But what of those whirling trajectories

of thought stew

of raw longing pangs

What have the quantifiers

to say about them?

George has this caffeine idea

he says to himself

"Okay okay, the weak

long for strength and courage

and the poor for wealth and stability

So do those who long to have no longings

- to be content with whatever -

do they escape the game?"

In the morning

afternoon and evening

rising wills of utopian overcoming

with warm sepia lover caress

as he walks away from hectic collapse

Gentle wind touching long field grass

George watches himself take a path to the sea