Just beginning week three
of the new job
Was already looking for escape by the second day
Last week
I screamed in the car all the way home
and seriously considered checking into kidney donation
as a source of income
rather than this
I could not hate it more and still be there
What is rather funny to me though
is the bizarre macabre nearly
delirious
feeling
while I'm there
realizing the restraint it takes
to not actually start laughing maniacally
pointing and laughing
cackling at how seriously people take things
Dutiful, though
I am trying to not be reactive
wondering if I can make it long enough
to rack up the money to buy a couple months of freedom
though that might be insanity,
not restraint.
.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
tapes
Do you mind if I post these things? These little occurrences that happen? Mostly, I need them for me. Anyway -
So I am working on a project. It has come to the stage where I need to produce a demo recording, and I've been letting fear and procrastination masquerade as lack-of-technology to produce said demo. If I tell myself I'll figure out how to get my computer to record, this will never happen. I know I have a tape recorder somewhere. I found the external mic easily. Checked a few places already where the recorder is likely to be - no.
But this morning, walking with boris, I had a sudden flash, a memory of your voice, of something, and I realized right where the recorder is. In the box of your things from the last days. Just where I left it after recording your last voicemail to me, frantically trying to save your voice before it was erased by the cell phone system.
At home, I open the box. Carefully. There is your handwriting. A list you made that very morning in July. I see the things I saved. And right on top, the tape recorder. And a brand new blank tape. I would never have found it in my ordinary search. Whether this was my mind doing a stellar job of memory retrieval, or it was you, or something else - I am humbled, and I know I am helped.
Love is beside you, everywhere.
.
So I am working on a project. It has come to the stage where I need to produce a demo recording, and I've been letting fear and procrastination masquerade as lack-of-technology to produce said demo. If I tell myself I'll figure out how to get my computer to record, this will never happen. I know I have a tape recorder somewhere. I found the external mic easily. Checked a few places already where the recorder is likely to be - no.
But this morning, walking with boris, I had a sudden flash, a memory of your voice, of something, and I realized right where the recorder is. In the box of your things from the last days. Just where I left it after recording your last voicemail to me, frantically trying to save your voice before it was erased by the cell phone system.
At home, I open the box. Carefully. There is your handwriting. A list you made that very morning in July. I see the things I saved. And right on top, the tape recorder. And a brand new blank tape. I would never have found it in my ordinary search. Whether this was my mind doing a stellar job of memory retrieval, or it was you, or something else - I am humbled, and I know I am helped.
Love is beside you, everywhere.
.
Monday, April 23, 2012
exerpt
from donald hall's book of poetry, "Without," written about the death of his wife:
...when they prayed, "grace was evident / but not the comfort of mercy or reprieve /
The embodied figure / on the cross still twisted under the sun."
Just matching the thoughts in my mind today.
.
...when they prayed, "grace was evident / but not the comfort of mercy or reprieve /
The embodied figure / on the cross still twisted under the sun."
Just matching the thoughts in my mind today.
.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
rilke
.
I’m still the one who knelt before you
in monk’s robes, wanting to be of use.
You filled him as he called you into being–
a voice from a quiet cell
with the world blowing past.
And you are ever again the wave
sweeping through all things.
That’s all there is. Only an ocean
where now and again islands appear.
That’s all there is: no harps, no angels.
And the one before whom all things bow
is the one without a voice.
Are you, then, the All? and I the separated one
who tumbles and rages?
Am i not the whole? Am I not all things
when i weep, and you the single one, who hears it?
Listen–don’t you hear something?
Aren’t there voices other than mine?
Is that a storm? I am one also,
whipping the trees to call to you.
Are you distracted from hearing me
by some whining little tune?
That’s mine as well–hear mine as well;
it’s lonely and unheard.
I’m the one who’s been asking you–
it hurts to ask–Who are you?
I am orphaned
each time the sun goes down.
I can feel cast out from everything
and even churches look like prisons.
That’s when I want you–
you knower of my emptiness,
you unspeaking partner to my sorrow–
that’s when I need you, God, like food.
Maybe you don’t know what the nights are like
for people who can’t sleep.
They all feel guilty–
the old man, the young woman, the child,
They’re driven through darkness as though condemned,
their pale hands writhing; they’re twisted
like a pack of frenzied hounds.
What’s past lies still ahead,
and the future is finished.
God, every night is like that.
Always there are some awake,
who turn, turn, and do not find you.
Don't you hear them blindly treading the dark?
Don't you hear them crying out
as they go farther and farther down?
Surely you hear them weep; for they are weeping.
I seek you, because they are passing
right by my door.
Whom should I turn to,
if not the one whose darkness
is darker than night, the only one
who keeps vigil with no candle,
and is not afraid –
the deep one, whose being I trust,
for it breaks through the earth into trees,
and rises,
when I bow my head,
faint as fragrance
from the soil.
(Book of Hours, II, 3)
just found one of my old favorite books in a pile of things, as I look through our bee equipment, sorting and remembering and missing. Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, with this piece bookmarked, though I don't remember having read it.
.
I’m still the one who knelt before you
in monk’s robes, wanting to be of use.
You filled him as he called you into being–
a voice from a quiet cell
with the world blowing past.
And you are ever again the wave
sweeping through all things.
That’s all there is. Only an ocean
where now and again islands appear.
That’s all there is: no harps, no angels.
And the one before whom all things bow
is the one without a voice.
Are you, then, the All? and I the separated one
who tumbles and rages?
Am i not the whole? Am I not all things
when i weep, and you the single one, who hears it?
Listen–don’t you hear something?
Aren’t there voices other than mine?
Is that a storm? I am one also,
whipping the trees to call to you.
Are you distracted from hearing me
by some whining little tune?
That’s mine as well–hear mine as well;
it’s lonely and unheard.
I’m the one who’s been asking you–
it hurts to ask–Who are you?
I am orphaned
each time the sun goes down.
I can feel cast out from everything
and even churches look like prisons.
That’s when I want you–
you knower of my emptiness,
you unspeaking partner to my sorrow–
that’s when I need you, God, like food.
Maybe you don’t know what the nights are like
for people who can’t sleep.
They all feel guilty–
the old man, the young woman, the child,
They’re driven through darkness as though condemned,
their pale hands writhing; they’re twisted
like a pack of frenzied hounds.
What’s past lies still ahead,
and the future is finished.
God, every night is like that.
Always there are some awake,
who turn, turn, and do not find you.
Don't you hear them blindly treading the dark?
Don't you hear them crying out
as they go farther and farther down?
Surely you hear them weep; for they are weeping.
I seek you, because they are passing
right by my door.
Whom should I turn to,
if not the one whose darkness
is darker than night, the only one
who keeps vigil with no candle,
and is not afraid –
the deep one, whose being I trust,
for it breaks through the earth into trees,
and rises,
when I bow my head,
faint as fragrance
from the soil.
(Book of Hours, II, 3)
just found one of my old favorite books in a pile of things, as I look through our bee equipment, sorting and remembering and missing. Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, with this piece bookmarked, though I don't remember having read it.
.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
show up
(pre-emptively - I'm trying to figure out why some people aren't able to comment here. On your end, try logging out and see if you can post as anon. It may or may not work. I will keep poking around on this end and see what the dealio is.)
Last night was bad. Awful. In the vicinity of exit strategy. Fortunately, instead of sounding like a good idea, the idea of needing an exit strategy just annoyed me. I'm also aware that the physical pain I have going on lately is making things worse, so I try to just ignore me sometimes. Anyway.
So, I woke up this morning thinking - what good does it do to tell me that godd (in whatever form) is walking with me? It's not like it's tangible. It's not like it's anything practical or useful. You can't prove it. The day was not starting out well.
I took boris for our walk. Along the way, I found a folded up, slightly damaged, 5 dollar bill. Nice. I stretched the symbol and thought, okay well, a random five dollar gift is maybe a nudge that the financial stuff will be okay. It's probably just a regular old dropped five dollar bill that has been under the winter leaves, but maybe it is also just a little love. Breathe. Tiny bit of space.
Rounded a corner, walking just a few steps, and there on the slope was a book. The title:
Last night was bad. Awful. In the vicinity of exit strategy. Fortunately, instead of sounding like a good idea, the idea of needing an exit strategy just annoyed me. I'm also aware that the physical pain I have going on lately is making things worse, so I try to just ignore me sometimes. Anyway.
So, I woke up this morning thinking - what good does it do to tell me that godd (in whatever form) is walking with me? It's not like it's tangible. It's not like it's anything practical or useful. You can't prove it. The day was not starting out well.
I took boris for our walk. Along the way, I found a folded up, slightly damaged, 5 dollar bill. Nice. I stretched the symbol and thought, okay well, a random five dollar gift is maybe a nudge that the financial stuff will be okay. It's probably just a regular old dropped five dollar bill that has been under the winter leaves, but maybe it is also just a little love. Breathe. Tiny bit of space.
Rounded a corner, walking just a few steps, and there on the slope was a book. The title:
You'll Never Walk Alone: God is Always With You.
It's been over an hour now since I've been home. The book is sitting on the kitchen table. It's been a long time since something so concrete has arrived.
.
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