I held love in my hands.
I heard its heart beating,
Felt its patient, warm breath upon my skin,
And clasped its hand in mine,
just firmly enough, just softly enough.
My heart danced a new rhythm,
My palms glistened with joy,
A void in my chest—
Its existence prior unknown to me—
disintegrated, exalted.
Then love looked me in the eye and said,
I have walked with you since the long days
Grew ever shorter and the green gave way
To a kaleidoscope of reds and browns,
but i can walk with you no more.
Truth poured out through its eyes
As it took leave of me,
Whispering to me gently in my ear,
Please know I will always be there,
and it was gone.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Friday, January 2, 2015
it is 2:11 am and the air is cold.
the world celebrates;
a new year has arrived.
the others clearly hear it marching in
with trumpeters and fanfare,
lumbering at them like
Joe DiMaggio or Neil Armstrong,
ticker tape parade style.
to me, it is the nose on my face.
has it changed since yesterday? surely.
i am at a loss to tell you how,
but change is inescapable,
so i trust it is true.
i suppose i simply
can't see the parade from where i sit.
can't see the parade from where i sit.
it was ok, maybe even a little cool,
to turn 10 and have a 2-digit age,
but how-does-it-feel-to-be-10??
always struck me as odd,
even that day, as
it didn't feel much different than
9 years and 364 days, really,
so i never knew what to say.
now i know what to say,
so i repeatedly tell people that
every day of my life is a New Year.
they sip and dance and hug and kiss
and i am left to wonder how they celebrate
the other 364 New Years Days of their lives
every calendar,
but of course they don't celebrate at all
except for one sad and awkward day,
yet I, somehow, am the strange one.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Happy New Year
happy new year,
they say to me.
but today feels just
like yesterday did—
another now
for me to embrace—
and again i fail
to understand the rules.
happy new year, i reply,
feeling guilty and diseased
because i know my lie
hangs in the air
like an acrid smoke
and stings their faces
like a slap.
i love you, i add,
which is true
because i do,
and because loving people
even when i can't understand them
has always been easy.
happy new year and
i love you, i pronounce,
happy to have sown the seeds
of a glorious truth in the
fertile ground of my lie.
thank yous echo back to me
and happy new years spill my way,
and my i love yous lay in shards,
broken, on the ground,
obstacles to navigate,
awkward and dangerous,
like me.
they say to me.
but today feels just
like yesterday did—
another now
for me to embrace—
and again i fail
to understand the rules.
happy new year, i reply,
feeling guilty and diseased
because i know my lie
hangs in the air
like an acrid smoke
and stings their faces
like a slap.
i love you, i add,
which is true
because i do,
and because loving people
even when i can't understand them
has always been easy.
happy new year and
i love you, i pronounce,
happy to have sown the seeds
of a glorious truth in the
fertile ground of my lie.
thank yous echo back to me
and happy new years spill my way,
and my i love yous lay in shards,
broken, on the ground,
obstacles to navigate,
awkward and dangerous,
like me.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
The Rains Are Impartial
It is December, and
The air in my sailboat is cool.
My breath curls ahead of me in the morning,
One-part advanced recon, and
One part trumpeter.
During rains I sit inside
And count the raindrops on the roof;
A billion here, a billion there,
Each one a note in a symphony
That tends to end without fanfare.
Carrying jugs of water to the boat
My breath walks slower than I do,
Lost behind me on the docks
Unwilling to change its pace,
As my hands burn a brilliant red
From pushing through the cold.
At night when the winds howl
The dock lines creak and groan,
In a tugging match with those winds,
Both crying out loud for the attention
That the other seems to get.
This is the world I inhabit:
Cold in the winter, surely hot in the summer,
And yet I do not suffer, ever,
For never did I hope my tiny space
Would somehow trump that of the world around it.
How perplexingly egotistical we must be,
To think ourselves important enough
In the grand scheme of things
(which does not exist, by the way)
That we deserve to bemoan that world
In which we make our way.
The rains are impartial, as are
The wind, the heat, and the cold,
And they find no resistance in me.
The air in my sailboat is cool.
My breath curls ahead of me in the morning,
One-part advanced recon, and
One part trumpeter.
During rains I sit inside
And count the raindrops on the roof;
A billion here, a billion there,
Each one a note in a symphony
That tends to end without fanfare.
Carrying jugs of water to the boat
My breath walks slower than I do,
Lost behind me on the docks
Unwilling to change its pace,
As my hands burn a brilliant red
From pushing through the cold.
At night when the winds howl
The dock lines creak and groan,
In a tugging match with those winds,
Both crying out loud for the attention
That the other seems to get.
This is the world I inhabit:
Cold in the winter, surely hot in the summer,
And yet I do not suffer, ever,
For never did I hope my tiny space
Would somehow trump that of the world around it.
How perplexingly egotistical we must be,
To think ourselves important enough
In the grand scheme of things
(which does not exist, by the way)
That we deserve to bemoan that world
In which we make our way.
The rains are impartial, as are
The wind, the heat, and the cold,
And they find no resistance in me.
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
My Cat Knew Nothing of Politics
My cat knew nothing of politics.
It knew of sunshine and squirrels,
Of food bowls and litter boxes,
And it seemed oddly talented at staring,
mostly at me, as if I was absurd
(and perhaps I was).
The unrest in the outside world
Mattered to it only
If it impacted its other truths,
of squirrels, and food
(and staring).
How it is that I got the body of a human
And the heart of a cat
I will never know,
but its ways shine simply
through the fiber of my Self—
I have happiness and warmth,
The occasional tender touch from love's hand,
And an odd amalgamation of constant joy
and that odd staring
(mostly at you),
As if you are absurd.
It knew of sunshine and squirrels,
Of food bowls and litter boxes,
And it seemed oddly talented at staring,
mostly at me, as if I was absurd
(and perhaps I was).
The unrest in the outside world
Mattered to it only
If it impacted its other truths,
of squirrels, and food
(and staring).
How it is that I got the body of a human
And the heart of a cat
I will never know,
but its ways shine simply
through the fiber of my Self—
I have happiness and warmth,
The occasional tender touch from love's hand,
And an odd amalgamation of constant joy
and that odd staring
(mostly at you),
As if you are absurd.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Define Me
You attempt to define me,
as the sands attempt to define the sea.
Do the sands have no purpose without the sea?
You yearn to understand me
but it is for you that you do this,
not for me.
You label me for your use and
stash me on a high, dusty shelf,
convenient.
You analyze me, always, but
no better do you understand yourself in the end
and I wonder why, then, you do it.
For I cannot sit on your shelf.
The sea will go where it will
without ever asking the sands.
as the sands attempt to define the sea.
Do the sands have no purpose without the sea?
You yearn to understand me
but it is for you that you do this,
not for me.
You label me for your use and
stash me on a high, dusty shelf,
convenient.
You analyze me, always, but
no better do you understand yourself in the end
and I wonder why, then, you do it.
For I cannot sit on your shelf.
The sea will go where it will
without ever asking the sands.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
for Alex
Here among us,
unrivaled by gods and kings,
lies a beauty of purpose
so simple in style
that it lives virtually unknown to man,
hidden behind your pillars of stone,
under the pages of your scripture,
lost in the storm of your
manufactured conflicts,
begging to be known.
unrivaled by gods and kings,
lies a beauty of purpose
so simple in style
that it lives virtually unknown to man,
hidden behind your pillars of stone,
under the pages of your scripture,
lost in the storm of your
manufactured conflicts,
begging to be known.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
You Are the Strong Ones
You are the strong ones,
you, who refuse to sit idly by,
who refuse to learn without questioning
fact and teacher alike,
who refuse blind faith
and prescribed worship,
and yet are at peace with the fact
that some things
are not to be understood.
You are the strong ones,
you, who see beauty everywhere,
not because of words in a poem or a book
but because it is simply there
in the faces,
in the flowers,
in the love, and
in the suffering.
You are the burdened,
you, who see the sorrow
of the world
and feel it fully,
toll paid to be counted among
the truly alive.
In the end
your views will die with you,
your perspective irrelevant,
your spirit a hazy concept,
nothing with you
but the sum of your nows.
And if, in this end, you are fortunate,
you will have spent your time
among the also-alive,
among the also-engaged,
among the also-aware,
through joy and through pain,
knowing that you have consumed
all that there is.
you, who refuse to sit idly by,
who refuse to learn without questioning
fact and teacher alike,
who refuse blind faith
and prescribed worship,
and yet are at peace with the fact
that some things
are not to be understood.
You are the strong ones,
you, who see beauty everywhere,
not because of words in a poem or a book
but because it is simply there
in the faces,
in the flowers,
in the love, and
in the suffering.
You are the burdened,
you, who see the sorrow
of the world
and feel it fully,
toll paid to be counted among
the truly alive.
In the end
your views will die with you,
your perspective irrelevant,
your spirit a hazy concept,
nothing with you
but the sum of your nows.
And if, in this end, you are fortunate,
you will have spent your time
among the also-alive,
among the also-engaged,
among the also-aware,
through joy and through pain,
knowing that you have consumed
all that there is.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
who killed you?
who left your soul bleached
white from a bottle,
paraded you around
high atop your carriage,
and made a skin of lies
for you to wear?
who wrote the script,
choreographed your steps,
designed your costume,
gave you notes,
and showed you pictures
of beauty?
who drew the line,
held the tape,
charted the course
and made the map,
to that which has become
your finishing line?
who told you stories
of princes and princesses,
white knights,
and picket fences,
and did they tell you
that all fences are made,
as rows of swords
to defend?
who told you
you were at war?
who murdered you
with disposable cups,
tales of someday,
a vocabulary of hate,
masked, cracking, brittle,
like yourself?
do you know
when it was
that the last flakes
of your soul
fluttered away like
ash from a dying fire,
settling on the side of the road,
stirred into the air by passing cars,
and you died?
white from a bottle,
paraded you around
high atop your carriage,
and made a skin of lies
for you to wear?
who wrote the script,
choreographed your steps,
designed your costume,
gave you notes,
and showed you pictures
of beauty?
who drew the line,
held the tape,
charted the course
and made the map,
to that which has become
your finishing line?
who told you stories
of princes and princesses,
white knights,
and picket fences,
and did they tell you
that all fences are made,
as rows of swords
to defend?
who told you
you were at war?
who murdered you
with disposable cups,
tales of someday,
a vocabulary of hate,
masked, cracking, brittle,
like yourself?
do you know
when it was
that the last flakes
of your soul
fluttered away like
ash from a dying fire,
settling on the side of the road,
stirred into the air by passing cars,
and you died?
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
It started with never being warm
I never got Warm today. I wasn't Cold, but today never got Right. When the door opened at work, and evil, dark, clammy cold rolled in and engulfed me like a tear gas, threatening to kill me. I did not Like it, not at all, although I did not complain, because that's just not my thing so much.
Last night I slept well and I awoke at a decent O'clock this morning, enough so that there was time to eat, time to meditate, and time to leave The Boat in a lovely, cleaned-up state before I left for work. Coming home to such a lovely Cleaned-Up State at the end of the day makes me want to relax and be Happy, to bask in the accomplishments that surround me.
The dock lines are Just So, because I leave them Just So every day out of respect for The Boat, respect for the neighbors, respect for Doing the Right Thing because [boating], and I look at them every day when I return from work, satisfied that I am being responsible and mateeuurr and those kinds of things.
Inside The Boat we are all systems go and whatnot, Captain, with batteries charged, paraffin in the lamps, House Slippers at the ready, because that floor is cold, Propane full because we (Fernando & I) FILLED it the other day because that was fun and it felt like a REsponsible thing to do, what with me being all Captainy and whatnot and testing this accountability and REsponsibility thing out.
The {work} clothes were shed and dropped into the Don Henley, such that I have named the Dirty Laundry bag in an homage to 1982, warm clothes on, and those Slippers, and a New Book which is so cool, about an author who can't get another author out of his head, chuckle, (which is a Weird Word), and FLUMPF I drop onto the port Settee, as the bench is so-called here, and the smell of the Liquid Paraffin from the lamp is filling the air and is comforting to me, and the tea light glows whimsically (not such a Weird Word) in the Lotus Flower candle holder, no music, not a sound but some creeaaaaaks from the Dock Lines--SEE ABOVE--and little splooshes of water (probably not A Word at all) against the hull and the occasional SMACKEREL of a wave slapping against said hull, which Ave notices about as much as a Rhinoceros would notice a Flea ****not of the Chili Pepper sort.
The lighting is good, because I installed it. No, nay, "Nay," the lighting is AWEsome, because I installed it, and it works Every Time and is great for reading, which is a sport I enjoy playing. I have a pillow, all my pillows are feather pillows, and I have this Fat One that I don't sleep on because then my head would stick up at a weird angle Like This [ image in your head ], and this pillow is also AWEsome for squishing behind oneself for reading, which I do. Light on, warm clothes, book, settee, all so good. Commence chewing bottom lip that way that I do when I am stressed and Idon'tknowwhy. Perhaps a Commencement Address would be in Order.
The Boat, "Ave," Ave del Mar, Bird of the Sea, looks like she's ready for a highly-popular-yet-soulless sailing periodical to pop through the door for a photo shoot. My little fragile plant is alive (yay), the Books are lined up (yay), queued up if you will, in a basket on a shelf above my feet, peeking out from the corner is my Buddha (~om), always looking happy, and a brass lamp which I have polished to a shiny shine. Yet this foreboding "meh" shall not abate.
Captain?
Yes?
We've checked all the vital signs, Captain, and everything looks Good. A-Ok.
Poppycock. To the brig, yeoman.
I cannot do that, Sir, as I am just a voice in your head.
You are?
Yes.
Shyte.
The book is right [THERE] because i stopped reading it so I could write, which is always cathartic, a really Good Word, and I'm not really mad at the yeoman, I was mad at <me> because although I don't have much stuff I do have Stuff To Do and I was Thinking too much and sometimes Listening too much to too many people and Analyzing too much, and you can really talk yourself into a Spiraling Shyte Storm pretty easily if you might be the type to be prone to Thinking Thoughts about Stuff.
But I think it started with never being warm.
Last night I slept well and I awoke at a decent O'clock this morning, enough so that there was time to eat, time to meditate, and time to leave The Boat in a lovely, cleaned-up state before I left for work. Coming home to such a lovely Cleaned-Up State at the end of the day makes me want to relax and be Happy, to bask in the accomplishments that surround me.
The dock lines are Just So, because I leave them Just So every day out of respect for The Boat, respect for the neighbors, respect for Doing the Right Thing because [boating], and I look at them every day when I return from work, satisfied that I am being responsible and mateeuurr and those kinds of things.
Inside The Boat we are all systems go and whatnot, Captain, with batteries charged, paraffin in the lamps, House Slippers at the ready, because that floor is cold, Propane full because we (Fernando & I) FILLED it the other day because that was fun and it felt like a REsponsible thing to do, what with me being all Captainy and whatnot and testing this accountability and REsponsibility thing out.
The {work} clothes were shed and dropped into the Don Henley, such that I have named the Dirty Laundry bag in an homage to 1982, warm clothes on, and those Slippers, and a New Book which is so cool, about an author who can't get another author out of his head, chuckle, (which is a Weird Word), and FLUMPF I drop onto the port Settee, as the bench is so-called here, and the smell of the Liquid Paraffin from the lamp is filling the air and is comforting to me, and the tea light glows whimsically (not such a Weird Word) in the Lotus Flower candle holder, no music, not a sound but some creeaaaaaks from the Dock Lines--SEE ABOVE--and little splooshes of water (probably not A Word at all) against the hull and the occasional SMACKEREL of a wave slapping against said hull, which Ave notices about as much as a Rhinoceros would notice a Flea ****not of the Chili Pepper sort.
The lighting is good, because I installed it. No, nay, "Nay," the lighting is AWEsome, because I installed it, and it works Every Time and is great for reading, which is a sport I enjoy playing. I have a pillow, all my pillows are feather pillows, and I have this Fat One that I don't sleep on because then my head would stick up at a weird angle Like This [ image in your head ], and this pillow is also AWEsome for squishing behind oneself for reading, which I do. Light on, warm clothes, book, settee, all so good. Commence chewing bottom lip that way that I do when I am stressed and Idon'tknowwhy. Perhaps a Commencement Address would be in Order.
The Boat, "Ave," Ave del Mar, Bird of the Sea, looks like she's ready for a highly-popular-yet-soulless sailing periodical to pop through the door for a photo shoot. My little fragile plant is alive (yay), the Books are lined up (yay), queued up if you will, in a basket on a shelf above my feet, peeking out from the corner is my Buddha (~om), always looking happy, and a brass lamp which I have polished to a shiny shine. Yet this foreboding "meh" shall not abate.
Captain?
Yes?
We've checked all the vital signs, Captain, and everything looks Good. A-Ok.
Poppycock. To the brig, yeoman.
I cannot do that, Sir, as I am just a voice in your head.
You are?
Yes.
Shyte.
The book is right [THERE] because i stopped reading it so I could write, which is always cathartic, a really Good Word, and I'm not really mad at the yeoman, I was mad at <me> because although I don't have much stuff I do have Stuff To Do and I was Thinking too much and sometimes Listening too much to too many people and Analyzing too much, and you can really talk yourself into a Spiraling Shyte Storm pretty easily if you might be the type to be prone to Thinking Thoughts about Stuff.
But I think it started with never being warm.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Snowy Path
Suddenly I came upon it,
Curving just ahead of me:
A snowy, hilly lane unplowed,
Mine the only tracks to see.
Somewhere deep within myself
Where feelings start to gel,
I smiled a smile of the purest joy
And fought the urge to yell
At no one in particular—
My joy became vehicular—
And down the path we fell.
Curving just ahead of me:
A snowy, hilly lane unplowed,
Mine the only tracks to see.
Somewhere deep within myself
Where feelings start to gel,
I smiled a smile of the purest joy
And fought the urge to yell
At no one in particular—
My joy became vehicular—
And down the path we fell.
Monday, December 30, 2013
I am not distinguished—I am despicable.
I am not distinguished—I am despicable,
for I think the thoughts of tortured men.
I am not creative—I am burdened
by a voice, dead without me
but not me, in itself.
I am not at peace with the world—
my mind runs like a mad river
churning up, picking up,
later discarding with neither trial nor ceremony.
I am not happy in my thoughts—
they are poisoned by the very perception
of judgement and expectation.
I am not well adjusted in society—
your language is foreign to me
your rules an anathema
your protocol a mystery
with no last chapter to flip to
to see how it ends.
I am not wise in any regard—
too keenly aware of that knowledge which eludes me.
Nor am I stable, for the hand of humanity
one day pushes me away in contempt
the next day pulls me near,
shoulds and musts spitting against my ear
for I think the thoughts of tortured men.
I am not creative—I am burdened
by a voice, dead without me
but not me, in itself.
I am not at peace with the world—
my mind runs like a mad river
churning up, picking up,
later discarding with neither trial nor ceremony.
I am not happy in my thoughts—
they are poisoned by the very perception
of judgement and expectation.
I am not well adjusted in society—
your language is foreign to me
your rules an anathema
your protocol a mystery
with no last chapter to flip to
to see how it ends.
I am not wise in any regard—
too keenly aware of that knowledge which eludes me.
Nor am I stable, for the hand of humanity
one day pushes me away in contempt
the next day pulls me near,
shoulds and musts spitting against my ear
and falling away like water off a stone.
Yet can it be
that knowing I am not
makes me so?
For what is more distinguished
than knowing the curse of one's thoughts?
What peace exists
beyond the understanding that comes
with the awareness of the racing mind?
And what wisdom unknown
can defy the beauty
of that already won?
that knowing I am not
makes me so?
For what is more distinguished
than knowing the curse of one's thoughts?
What peace exists
beyond the understanding that comes
with the awareness of the racing mind?
And what wisdom unknown
can defy the beauty
of that already won?
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Chaos
There is a moment in my life every day
when the conflict of a world I do not understand melts away.
I walk down the weathered planks of the docks
past boats larger and smaller than mine,
boats loved, and boats lost and forgotten,
they are still and sleeping
amid the lights reflecting on the river.
Ave waits for me at the end of the row,
strong and silent between the current and the dock,
tugging at her reins one night,
napping in a moonbeam the next,
no need to prove herself to me,
like the unstated calm of a grandparent’s love.
We don’t use words often while at rest, Ave and I.
I check her lines, smiling—
how well she has kept herself while I was gone!
A hand on the boom gallows and I pull myself aboard,
a click of the combination lock and the hatch swings open.
I climb below into a place of perspective, of logic,
of purpose and engagement and discomfort and joy
that is so easy for me to understand,
a stage where I need play no role at all.
Her walls, so narrow to most, hug me close with the warmth
of wood that has seen worlds I cannot even imagine.
Her floors creak underfoot and cry squeaks of delight to
my ears,
happy that I am home to be alive on them.
Her motion in the water rocks me to sleep at night
and gently jostles me awake in the morning.
I know it will not always be like this,
will not always be like these nights so special,
but for now I pump water by hand
from the pump I rebuilt myself,
put the kettle on the stove for tea
and light her oil lamp
which sings soft songs of light against the walls.
At utter peace I sit, watching, listening,
the steam from my tea plays games in the air,
the steam from my tea plays games in the air,
and no longer do I remember why it was
that the outside world was in chaos
or why I felt burdened to notice.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Rolling Stone, in a Court of Public Opinion
Rolling Stone's August 1st cover with a photo of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev seeminly refuses to give up its seat on the bus of public discussion, and I find this discussion fascinating.
This is complicated in part because of those judged lines of journalistic capability (or perceived capability) or lack (or perceived lack) thereof. Rolling Stone has long wanted to be relevant in a scene set larger than a stage of music, and has accomplished this to wildly-varying degrees of success. Does that impact our assessment of their intent? And if so in what direction: positively, for a perceived improvement of their abilities and (therefore-) product, or negatively, for being presumably desperate and/or sensationalistic?
On how many layers is this discussion occupying space in our national dialogue?
For example, what if Dzhokhar "Jahar" Tsarnaev was black?
Well, that hardly seems glamorizing of OJ, does it? Because let's face it--he's not young and pretty. So is the impact of your journalistic intent judged solely on the looks and age of the subject?
Well sure--because Charles Manson looks like Charles Manson, damn it, a crazy mass-murdering cult leader. But what if on this cover, exactly this cover, he, in the exact same pose, was, simply put, good looking? What if what we saw here was not the distant gaze of a homicidal madman but the dreamy, far away gaze of a good looking kid? What role does the processing of that have to play in the impact and decisions behind such a cover?
Although putting this particular picture of Tsarnaev on the cover obviously opens the door to criticism based on an argument of glamorization, it also gets to what is for me the heart of it: this kid could be anyone. You don't have to look like a crazy turban-wearing jihadist to wield the power of hate. That he is a good looking kid pushes the discussion in a direction that we cannot go without experiencing discomfort: Kid Next Door, your daughter's prom date, fell victim to that voice of darkness, now you get to choose if you take that kindling and build a fire of constant suspicion and blind hate or if you fuel a fire of societal introspection. Why did he fall victim? What roles do we all play in that? What lessons can realistically be learned?
If putting an attractive photo of him on the cover is bad because it glamorizes hate and violence, could we instead post photos of him bloodied, laser-targeted, and submissive? That way we would only be glamorizing... violence and vengeance. Whoops. I meant to say "justice."
I think that people who scream that the RS cover is glamorizing Jahar are themselves discomforted that they find him attractive and are incapable of channeling that into an internal dialogue about that dichotomy. How could he be both attractive and a ruthless killer? And the fact that these people may be incapable of initiating that conversation within themselves does not render the exercise moot; it is an off-putting, awkward, necessary path for the national conversation to follow if we desire a realistic engagement on the issue of domestic terrorism.
That this young man wasn't born a terrorist but became one while living here strikes at the heart of the discussion that needs to be happening. We perch ourselves high on a limb of political and ideological purity: we are fighting for right, our violence is perpetuated for right, against a clear evil who has brought meaningless violence against us and murdered our brothers and sisters. They must be stopped and their message must be exposed; words you could attribute to a soldier fighting the War on Terror and yet words one could also imagine coming from one of the Tsarnaev brothers. I am not mocking your position, I am simply making a point of perception.
Therein, to me, lies the dialogue that we cannot start without examining him as a human being, and crossing that line of comfort by plastering his pretty face on the cover of Rolling Stone is a step in that direction.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
TIME
by Kunjabihari Adhikari
~~This piece was written by my cousin Kirin (as I call him) who lives in India~~
Time is like an accordion
You can shove it tight together—compact
Or open it up wide and let it extend itself to wherever it wants to go
Because, the part of me that wants to make it dense does so out of a sense of being—‘the doer’
Thus shoves time into so many different receptacles, parcels, filing cabinets, folders:
The body, family, friends, schooling, home, country, creed, custom, language, culture, means of livelihood, job, religion, hobbies...
Constantly going through this inventory and comparing it with others’ inventories—FACEBOOK
Me—a miniature Mother Earth surrounded by a humongous, heavy, metal, iron junkyard
In the form of satellites revolving around, bouncing signals back and forth
Like a bunch of spherical 3D Facebooks, soft, round balls all warm and fluffy
rolling around, on top of and underneath one another.
If time gets too compact, too dense, it becomes like a SivaLinga, with scratches all over it
From where I have (only) scratched the surface, since the hard stone is too hard to penetrate
Hard, cold, dense objects thinking themselves to be all warm, soft and fluffy
So they can get touchy feely with one another,
merging their edges together
These edges are our own personal junkyards that we carry with us, our periphery, our crust, our peel
Others are surrounded by gossamer filaments full of light and love, pure awareness
Nurturing
Sending the light and love on its way
Not trying to hoard for one’s own, in a possessive sort of way – thus retarding the flow
A conductor, a messenger, facilitator, via medium, nimitta matram bhava savyasachin—
An instrument in the hands of another The only superfluous receptacle / folder
Above and beyond the irremovable ones: food, clothing, shelter...
Of interest and worth its maintenance, is: Lila, Drama, Stories
Translating Vaisnava literature into English
Or, films downloaded from the internet
Or—dramas downloaded through other channels, conduits, threads, filaments
Onto the screen of the mind
This being the only folder of any importance it becomes the proprietor of time
The other receptacles having been minimized to the smallest size possible
So that the glue, the glow that holds everything together is this dramatic unfolding
Invest your time where you get the best returns So the question is: what films do you like? are you attracted to? What books do you like?
What kind of people do you like? horror stories? tragedies? romantics?
Amazement, humour, chivalry, compassion, fury, fear or dread?
Who are you rooting for? Which characters do you relate to?
Sadistic, vengeful maniacs?
Or, innocent, wide-eyed, sweetness, sometimes a little spicy, feisty
In flirting with knowledge
As if one could acquire it, simply by trying to do so—by study, by supplication, by saturation...
If the one and only receptacle has its junkyard smashed and removed, the outer husk torn off
Only the gossamer filaments remain, converging at the assemblage point—individual consciousness
Awareness
These fibres of light remember how to communicate, how to recognize compatible colours,
Sounds, sights and tastes
Before the days of the heavy, crusty junkyards, impeding any real connectivity
To bare one’s soul
Thus, life (the prana) is comfortable when surrounded by vibrations of the same frequency
Natural attraction
The less awareness is processed by so many calculative, contingent factors, all based on personal gain
This intuitive attraction
Symbiotic nurture becomes the norm
Two sources of illumination, illuminating one another
Knowledge expands in the same way that drops of mercury,
fallen on the floor from a broken thermometer
Bond together by their mutual attraction and contiguity
When the ocean is churned so many products come out, poison amongst them
But the taste of the amrit (ambrosia) makes one forget everything else Set it free, let time fly
Out of its containers, less, smaller containers
Break the levees, the boundaries, what separates what is inside from what is outside
Break your own cocoon and fly, like a butterfly
~~This piece was written by my cousin Kirin (as I call him) who lives in India~~
Time is like an accordion
You can shove it tight together—compact
Or open it up wide and let it extend itself to wherever it wants to go
Because, the part of me that wants to make it dense does so out of a sense of being—‘the doer’
Thus shoves time into so many different receptacles, parcels, filing cabinets, folders:
The body, family, friends, schooling, home, country, creed, custom, language, culture, means of livelihood, job, religion, hobbies...
Constantly going through this inventory and comparing it with others’ inventories—FACEBOOK
Me—a miniature Mother Earth surrounded by a humongous, heavy, metal, iron junkyard
In the form of satellites revolving around, bouncing signals back and forth
Like a bunch of spherical 3D Facebooks, soft, round balls all warm and fluffy
rolling around, on top of and underneath one another.
If time gets too compact, too dense, it becomes like a SivaLinga, with scratches all over it
From where I have (only) scratched the surface, since the hard stone is too hard to penetrate
Hard, cold, dense objects thinking themselves to be all warm, soft and fluffy
So they can get touchy feely with one another,
merging their edges together
These edges are our own personal junkyards that we carry with us, our periphery, our crust, our peel
Others are surrounded by gossamer filaments full of light and love, pure awareness
Nurturing
Sending the light and love on its way
Not trying to hoard for one’s own, in a possessive sort of way – thus retarding the flow
A conductor, a messenger, facilitator, via medium, nimitta matram bhava savyasachin—
An instrument in the hands of another The only superfluous receptacle / folder
Above and beyond the irremovable ones: food, clothing, shelter...
Of interest and worth its maintenance, is: Lila, Drama, Stories
Translating Vaisnava literature into English
Or, films downloaded from the internet
Or—dramas downloaded through other channels, conduits, threads, filaments
Onto the screen of the mind
This being the only folder of any importance it becomes the proprietor of time
The other receptacles having been minimized to the smallest size possible
So that the glue, the glow that holds everything together is this dramatic unfolding
Invest your time where you get the best returns So the question is: what films do you like? are you attracted to? What books do you like?
What kind of people do you like? horror stories? tragedies? romantics?
Amazement, humour, chivalry, compassion, fury, fear or dread?
Who are you rooting for? Which characters do you relate to?
Sadistic, vengeful maniacs?
Or, innocent, wide-eyed, sweetness, sometimes a little spicy, feisty
In flirting with knowledge
As if one could acquire it, simply by trying to do so—by study, by supplication, by saturation...
If the one and only receptacle has its junkyard smashed and removed, the outer husk torn off
Only the gossamer filaments remain, converging at the assemblage point—individual consciousness
Awareness
These fibres of light remember how to communicate, how to recognize compatible colours,
Sounds, sights and tastes
Before the days of the heavy, crusty junkyards, impeding any real connectivity
To bare one’s soul
Thus, life (the prana) is comfortable when surrounded by vibrations of the same frequency
Natural attraction
The less awareness is processed by so many calculative, contingent factors, all based on personal gain
This intuitive attraction
Symbiotic nurture becomes the norm
Two sources of illumination, illuminating one another
Knowledge expands in the same way that drops of mercury,
fallen on the floor from a broken thermometer
Bond together by their mutual attraction and contiguity
When the ocean is churned so many products come out, poison amongst them
But the taste of the amrit (ambrosia) makes one forget everything else Set it free, let time fly
Out of its containers, less, smaller containers
Break the levees, the boundaries, what separates what is inside from what is outside
Break your own cocoon and fly, like a butterfly
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)