i don't want to be here

That House

2010-11-06T22:48:00.000-07:00

was built by my father, stone upon stone.

Later wood was laid on, and new stories

and rooms for all the children. A back gate

and an alcove. We were happy there.

In that house, deep in the walls,

termites were given

in marriage and were fruitful

and ate of the fruit of those trees

which built that house.

We noticed, bit by bit. Shavings

fell from the corners

where the walls met. The floors gave

gently when we stepped.

But we didn't mind. It's old,

we said. Old houses bend,

and lose things.

Then my father

dropped his match and

the flicker caught the dust

crumbling from the door

and crawled lightly

up the wall while we held

our breath and hoped

it wouldn't grow.

The den went first,

where we gathered. The coffee table sighed

and turned over, charring

in strips. We all left for our rooms.

It's not a hungry fire. It burns slowly,

one wall at a time. Smoke sticks

in our lungs, and the dust

falls grey like ash. Outside,

my father's well laps cold

under the earth. Soon,

soon it will all give way

but the stones.

Chewing a lot of cud these days...

2010-01-03T18:59:00.000-08:00

...makes some rotten butter. Now there's a mixed metaphor.

These Distracted Prayers

Oh, my eyes
are on the carpet today. It's dirty,
full of worn threads and speckles of
spilled things and flattened by
my ragged feet, my ragged feet. Oh,

Oh, my feet
I'm ripping up today. They're filthy, worn
tough from walking over this floor and
walking over this floor and walking,
walking over this floor. Oh,

out you go, feet. Enough of you, little
ugly things, misshapen toes and dirt
in the nail-corners. Oh,

babies with hands like caterpillars curling up
when you touch them. Cats
curling up when you don't touch them, sleeping
for hours alone. Hands
in their listless mooning, searching
for lost keys.

I don't want tomorrow, I don't want tomorrow
to come now. I'm tired,

I'm tired. I don't want
tomorrow to come.

My nose slopes down from my eyes, always
in the way of anything, its tip. My mouth
I only see when I stick out my lip.

Recovering Lost Ground...

2009-07-22T10:18:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing much, and I've been thinking even less lately. One thing contributes to another, I'm sure. Wherefore it's time to take up the torch again, shake off this lazy feeling, and try to regain the ground I've lost while I've been lying down on the job. It won't be brilliant, but it will be something. These last few days I've been attempting to write something every morning. These somethings have turned out to be a series of personal psalms, most not worth sharing. But the most recent of these reminded me a little, while I was writing it, of the emotionally honest, impulsive, almost unconscious way I used to write before I knew what writing was. Which is to say, it wasn't great--but if I have to start over from the beginning, it's not bad. For a beginning.

So we're going back to the old song and dance, the old rhyme and rhythm.

Psalm the 21st of July. A Psalm at Morning.

In this softer dark we rise and look
with sleepened eyes and elbow crook.
Sheep-slow, but unabashing heads we rove
our morning-skins as curious as love.

We're dust to dust. Our particles of grey
array us end to end, and we arrest
a wrinkled forehead on an open chest,
and pressed dry lips into a smiled kiss.

O fingers to the bone we are transformed!
and love has drunk us deeper than good wine
kept cold in cellars. I am yours and mine
you are. An ocean. Fingers in the brine.

Alone, the sun becomes a rosy spot
behind the kitchen curtain, like a thought
that ripens unattended, it will grow.

Alone, this cup is empty,but the rim
is streaked and streaked with holy.

At Table

2008-11-27T09:19:00.000-08:00

My God, how long

has it been?

Drinking strong

liquor,

thinking wrong.

Let me cut you a

deal. You take

this hand, I'll pay

up.

But listen: next time,

warn me. I'll fold.

Do you know, how long

it has been?

I've been taking small

doses, getting rich

fat elbows.

Probably they're

imprinted

with this table's edge.

This wine's a good

vintage, have you seen

the grapes?

Bigger than life, been growing

in this hothouse

for--

My God. How long

has it been?

If you're going to dig up

this seed,

you might need

a thicker spade.

II.

Concubines. Ever thought

of those?

What is this, why do

you give me this—smell it, it's

fragrant.....Taste it,

it's good.

What did you expect--

gratitude?

Charity loaves. You rub it in

our faces, and what can we do

but eat?

III.

All right, I'll pay. But don't think

you own me;

nothing's free.

Oh, no. You're not unearthing

old wounds tonight,

I said I'll pay.

It doesn't matter how long.

I'll pay.

You know how

this will end,

don't you.

I'll go to bed with you,

next morning I'll

be back here.

What does it

take

to break a heart?

Think about it:

concubines.

Emily in sleek Shakespeare, intertwined with tufts of Blake

2008-10-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

O Emily
of fire

transcending
veriest haven

of contentment

To be
O Emily
that does not question

whether 'tis nobler in the mind
but sleeps--perchance, she dreams

and, unsupposing--ends them
aye, there's the rub
the consummation Emily, too, has wished

When we have shuffled off
she licks her paws. There's the respect--
that makes her portent Emily of life

when she herself might our quietus make
with a mere shifting

Now is the winter of our discontent made summer by
this Emily--a spark, a sprite
in the closets of the night

But Emily is shaped for sportive tricks
O Emily--a wanton ambling nymph,
O Emily, fur-tailed, of fair proportion

what,immortal Emily
thou framed in gleeful witchery

who spied
her shadow
in the sun

and made of it imaginary puissance
that did affright the air

admit me Chorus to this Emily

2008-07-16T15:30:00.000-07:00

We are blood and
................separated

Jesus, firstborn, loved

................and hated

You were first--tempted, untainted
Sorrow-filled--with grief acquainted

You were first...Innate
Desire
Lead....Protect
Create
Inspire

Save...us....all.....Persistent
Burden
Weighty call
..............................too distant
Pardon

Darkness threads our weave
my brother
Broken-tied to grief
my father
Soak it with your sleeve
my lover

Savior
Brother
Sister
Mother

Here we flee
..our revolutions
Cowardly
..circumlocutions
Of redemption....--all for nothing
Comfort
Pleasure
Sleep-sweet
soothing

(Cursed, I never tried
..to own it.)
Cursed and
..........................Crucified
Atone it--Firstborn, make your love
..................to pierce...We
crave your bloody,
................messy,
..................................mercy.

2008-06-09T22:42:00.000-07:00

Transcript/translate

It matters, here
On this crowded bus
where humanity touches
and is of necessity
neither--afraid
nor--ashamed--

It matters, these nights I
do sleep,
when I do not leap at slight
noises,
when I--breathe,
and softly.

It matters, in the dark
when you--forgive me
By day, when I
am not tormented

By this which matters,
and that matter which--
and matter, matter, madder---.

a sample

2008-05-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

And how sweet it is to subtly

fade

and from behind the scenes

scent the warmth

of the unaffected, undirected, unassuming

And how warm it is to forget

and blended with the wall

pen in hand

watch the kindling flames of my living kindred

And how many years to gently

break

and gentlier remake

paper ties

those first-born, pre-forged—into this bond of

(burdened, burnished)

death and life—how

full of burning glory and

sweet-brimming mercy

love, God; enough,

Enough! for

the world

and you pour

a sample into

my own, poor, withered, sullen,

heart. It beats. And what--

Did I say—did I say---O!

I told you it was worthless, this love

that it was wasted on worms

that you should take it

and bleed on another's grave

to make them clean

and thus, succinctly, effectively

spurned

my birthright

Did I say—did I step—O!
With my unholy shod feet

on your ravaged dead body

to pretend it never happened

that I was not responsible,

and therefore could not profit

like the rest

of the world

Because, naturally, you did it for love alone

There was no obligation. Did I sin?

Well, I can't help that. Don't love me, then.

Didn't I tell you they tortured me?

Aren't you to blame for that?

Or isn't that to blame for everything?

Didn't I tell you--

that I was not responsible,

and therefore could not profit

like the rest

of the world

Did I—Did I say—O.

You hold that foot of mine

Like Jacob, like Achilles

So that when I turn away (perpetually, invariably)

I twist and spin

Back to you at the zenith of tension

With a dislocated hip

and untold blessing

Relic of my Reclusive Friday Delvings into Postmodern Philosophy. Nature of Delvings: Flann O' Brien's At Swim-Two-Birds

2008-05-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

It's bloody difficult, I think

to think postmodernly,

with each translucent blink

of life-hypocrisy.

all intellect is only ache

preponderous with lies

so gentlemen, partake

my cake of sophistries.

Bemoaning Insufficiency

2008-05-07T18:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, on a whim,

Off the oft-beaten path,

I met a bohemian crew.

I had known them before—

no, not them, but their like—

in those days of the corner-hid you.

You were quiet, reserved,

Unobtrusive, resigned

That this transient, lucid array

Would never admit you

one sliver of gold

Would elude your perception alway

Sweet the laughter, rung clear

through that house once a year--

So you stretched a pretentious domain--

I had known them before

You had known them, and o

even since, we are awkwardly plain.

Tell the grand happenstance

Feverish Spain romance

of the boils of pestilent sleep

she is searching, and see,

it is piercing for me,

one whose plumbings are not very deep

I can see her espy

through one half of one eye

Every twist of the pencilate curl

I deny for the nonce

that she knew me at once,

she the faraway intimate girl.

Could we face her again

Face the crew of them, there

Having nothing so little as we

Track their fingers through dust

Of our mindless mistrust

In which lock we have broken the key...

And unsure, o unsure

how to ache and endure

the exposure of infinite lack

all my life all my song

is invalid and wrong

no such person as you, take it back--

take it back--

take it back.

Take it back.

I want somebody new.

Some thoughts should be thought more than once in a lifetime...

2008-03-19T08:15:00.000-07:00

I recently re-read this little thing I wrote back in the summer of 2003. I need that perspective again...

"I knew you to be a hard man..."

Is it possible
To be at once ambitious
And idle?
To dream of glory
And to do nothing?
What is a dream
But a longing for
Some tangible change for the better,
Some possible or impossible ideal?
What is ambition
But the energy of dreams?
How does this fit with idleness?
--Unless--
Somewhere beneath the dream
Is the knowledge
That the ideal is impossible,
That betterment is unlikely;
And this is
The object
That quells the force
Of ambition.
Thus am I doomed
To waste away
My precious breaths
And hours
And days
And years.
--Unless--
I encounter
An irresistible force
That shakes the foundations
Of the knowledge
And speaks anew truth:
That the ideal is accomplished,
That betterment is eternal;
And overthrows the object
And propels me
By its limitless energy
To high achievement--
But only if
I surrender the dream
And the glory.

2008-02-06T17:07:00.000-08:00

OoooOooo....

A mournful note
from the spirit i wrote
in the dark of the deep sunken mildewy boat
that's no longer afloat, no longer afloat
i knew it, i watched it, i sunk it with--ugh,
No--I pulled out the plug.
and blug
blug
blug.

Oooohh!
()I'm angry, regressing
()and burnt-soul depressing
()I feel like undressing
()unveiling my flaws
()But give me a minute
...just give me a minute...
one palpable minute!
One infinite pause--
To hell with the cause--!
I wanted applause.

oh.

Grapple, beloved,
to the pain
of dislocated
thoughts in brain
and dislodged selfish
longings ache
But grapple, love,
this life at stake
not flattery, pitying,
nor scorn. ()()()()-- I
need reason with love,
towards which we die.

On Processing Uncertainty

2008-01-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

Well, this is what my professor called a "stunningly good" paper, which categorization she loosely defined as a n"ineffable fusion of author and topic." Essentially, it was me writing through my own terrifying mental block when it comes to writing essays of any sort. Its hard for me to have to admit that I'm not an intellectual. I'm too darn emotional to think logically about anything. There is some standard of clear thought and expression, somewhere, I am convinced--and I am convinced I eternally,invariably fall short.

Thus prefaced, feel free to dive in...

Rough, Bitter Prelude to Thought: Far too Freely-Written Perceptions of Personal Motivation, Inhibition, and the Illusory Goal of Perfection

So this is me. An awkward way to start a paper, I agree, and wholly unprofessional. Still, it is a rough draft, so perhaps I can temporarily get away with an ounce or two of informality—or whatever is the equivalent weight of two pages. But I digress. I intended to lean this introduction in the direction of this complicated writing process we will be discussing throughout the quarter. This is my recent last resort to initiate thought, when I can no longer assemble a competent outline from my shadowy, elusive jumble of oddly-associated thoughts--free-writing. Getting out the jumbled ideas in my dysfunctional brain, throwing them onto the paper, and sorting them out, piece by piece. Somehow I always get caught, though, in the sorting stage. As the apt and thus too oft-applied metaphor describes, I can't see the forest for the trees. Or to take a different view of the matter, I find myself, anchorless and compassless, attempting to navigate an ocean of undeveloped ideas. The concepts of perfection and motivation we touched upon in our class discussion prompted me to write about this struggle in an attempt to explore and identify the inhibitions I face whenever I participate in the writing process, and—perhaps—begin to identify possible remedies.

I want to get at all of my thought. I want to touch the innermost recesses, scrape the last details out of mildewing cracks and crannies and bring it under the scrutiny of daylight—I want to know it, own it, understand and impart it.

I think my largest mental obstacle has ever been a paralyzing fear of failure. I learned to confront this once, using my fear as motivation for my best desperate effort—and I grew to love the process and invest myself personally in the resulting satisfaction that I had done my best, and that my best wasn't bad. After receiving my GED, I became initiated into public school for the first time in twenty years. Spokane Community College soon became my burdensome blessing, as I struggled through English 101 discovering the painful fact that excellence in writing takes more than an extensive vocabulary. Construction is but the frame for content, and I felt as though I was missing the picture. But before I could learn to smear in the basic watercolors of content, structuring an argument with strong thesis, supporting points, and sufficient evidence, I needed to have an argument to prove. I needed to know my own mind—and I didn't. I held my opinions but gingerly, ever ready to give them up if they encountered criticism. In addition, I was terrified of failure, and choked on every essay I was forced to write in class. I wanted perfection, and I knew it was beyond my ability to attain—yet the fear of failure motivated me to continue trying, seeking help, and growing in my ability to communicate thought on paper. And it happened. I remember the day of breakthrough, when a fellow student reported to me that my paper had interested him enough to want to read it, despite his usual passive indifference to peer essays. I had at last received the belated revelation of writing's communicative nature. It was not a mere product to be graded, analyzed for its adherence to composition criteria; it had a higher purpose, that of social interaction and the exchange of ideas. Somewhere between my discoveries at SCC and my drudgery at Eastern, however, my apprehension and panic at the thought of failure began to derail my confidence. My introduction to literary criticism in Binney's poetry class revealed to me the shallow depth of my understanding of literature. Rather than seeing this as an opportunity to learn and grow, unfortunately, I felt a desperate need to force myself to understand concepts that I found incomprehensible in my mental panic. I was comparing my performance to that of others, striving to force myself up to their level of comprehension and meet my own definition of their expectations. I judged every paper I wrote by the grade it received—adequate, average. I took every instructional comment as a personal assessment. “Avoid [this stylistic or logical error]” became, to my mind, “You are a pretentious fool; you fail to understand the basic concepts you treat in your papers and superimpose your own definition of another's work.” I still believe this to be true; rather than seeking to understand completely in order to write honestly and competently, I assume my own inability to understand and compose a weak definition that partially engages the topic but invariably fails to do it justice. Every work I complete is unsatisfactory—after I read the final instructional notation, taking in only the negative, I file it away as further proof of the garbage I compose when I am neither personally invested in nor completely committed to the process. I may receive adequate grades for these papers, but I am constantly discouraged by the knowledge that it was a hopeless, half-hearted effort.
A second mental inhibition I have recently identified may be a contributing factor to the initial fear, and can be summarized in the statement “the more I know, the more I discern how little I know” or similar words to that effect. I understand the writing process less now than I did when I began my exploration, and it intimidates me more. I cannot write, because I know I do not know what I mean. Even after study and research, I only have a general grasp of the concepts I learn—not the deep understanding I feel I need for a competent and confident discourse. There is too much that is unfamiliar and vague, too much that I question, and the sheer volume of information and possibilities of direction often overwhelm my weakening resolve. I have come to the conclusion that my every thought is insufficient, and I must learn to think clearly before I can learn again to clearly write. It is an uphill battle of lost confidence, and I am never entirely convinced that it is not a Sisyphean effort. Having only a vague understanding of the information I receive, I get lost in the information itself without a controlling concept. I flounder and flail through my composition, grasping for the least flotation device. If it is full of air, it is still better than drowning.
Or is it? One of my fears, in composing an argument or interpretation of any sort, is that I will embrace an incorrect opinion or position with which others might disagree. Strike that; “incorrect” is a misleading term and does not describe my actual fear. What I fear is offering an opinion that is worse than “wrong,” of presenting an argument that is not even worthy of argument.

I think I may have identified a diagnosis: My problem is that I focus on my limitations rather than my abilities. I should stop worrying about what I fear I cannot do and attempt to do what I can. As we discussed, perfection is subjective. I should focus on my own abilities, not the abilities and expectations of others, and work toward improving what I have. I ought to take responsibility to plan for each assignment rather than approaching it with timidity and hesitation, and refuse to define myself by the results of the process. Finally, as Professor Wichman wisely impresses on her 201 students, I need to learn to trust the writing process, and to trust myself.

Renovation. my prayer.

2007-12-11T22:41:00.000-08:00

Is it possible? Forgiveness?
Can bitterness sleep? Can--defeatism be defeated?
Will everything indeed be overturned and reconciled
Conquered--more than conquered--the worst of things,
even irreconcilable evil--madness

torturous wanderings, Jesus
Jesus, why is your name...sweetest
pain

because I have crucified you.

Jesus, you saw it, didn't you?
--and you suffered. you suffered, too.
you didn't make us to be whole without you.
you didn't come to show us what to do.
you came to be who
would bare our brokenness
and bear our brokenness
and your grace is sufficient
for such as we are
and your power is made perfect
in such as we are
and we are all hypocrites
we are all fools
riddled with darkness
sprinkled with holes
leprous, parched for a drink
somebody hurt us God what do you think
things like this break our minds, Jesus
things like this can terrify
if the almighty won't protect us who will
but you are in it all
you were there first
and when we see it
when will we see it
see your face
because you didn't make us to be whole without you
so we are all limping
and we are all broken
and sewing our fingers between every knuckle
and wondering why we can't ever be better
but you're only telling us, come and remember
eat this bread and drink this cup
of suffering
and I am with you
with you
you are not your own
not alone
come to me
and if you fall
fall on me

Throes of Precluded Glory (20th century rubbish)

2007-12-08T22:24:00.000-08:00

emotion crawled like a wormy caterpillar across the page.
sadly
insufficient
dead. dead. dead. dead. dead. beats. thrums. hums.
headache in my head
this is a thermal avenue of change, thermal avenue of change
which witch wish I wish it was Monday evening and free
go to bed and get up and get up and get up and it's really never free
mind it's bloody never free from chains in dark choking prisms
prisms too color-coded for light, too many-colored for guidance
too many-angled for sight
tonight it's express and then garbage, tomorrow little better than nothing
changes
tomorrow we will revolutionize, recycle our selves into what they were yesterday.
emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. em
ot
io
n
dripped like a sodden three-week-old wash rag, sour-grey, and dissipated
the page clock-stopped at 4:48 PM, Saturday, December 8.

"what does that mean?"
"it doesn't."

Ruminating before English 331 : Five Questions

2007-11-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

How can I be everything to everyone I want to be?

How can I stop losing what I have before I know how to use it?

How can I stop fearing to do more than the menial?

How can I stop fearing to speak or touch anything deeper than the superficial surface?

How can I see to the heart of any matter, when I can't see past the matter of my heart?

A little thought, a little prayer these days.

2007-06-04T10:46:00.000-07:00

"He speaks, and the sound of His voice/ Is so sweet, the birds hush their singing..."

I have been thinking about evangelism lately...I've heard, through my life, various approaches to this command. "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father who is in Heaven" is a popular one, supported also by "Show me your faith without works, and I will show you my faith by what I do." I've heard it said that your life is a better witness than your words. I believe it. But to what is my life attesting?

I cannot speak the words of the gospel clearly if I do not believe them to the saving of my soul. Can my very soul be saturated with the very essence of God--can I die verily with Christ and live again only because He also lives--

God--

I'm getting married. and I am to be baptized next Sunday. How does this outward profession of faith and death and life and sanctification and covenantal symbolism affect my daily living?

to live is Christ. --but Christ and His gospel are often, to me, only intellectually accepted as truth, giving me no hope of holiness and no love for anyone. I don't understand the deep love of Jesus. I cannot believe that he would devote that sacred Head for such a worm as I.

but He did. humble me, Lord. humble me.

I think marriage will certainly be a learning experience about the sacrificial love of Christ for His church--not that I expect my husband to live it perfectly, but I know that I am already deeply grateful that my beloved chose me to love...chose me when I did not choose him, when I did not want anything to do with his love.

I hope I am beginning to see this a little more clearly. My life cannot reflect the gospel if my soul is not convinced of Christ's eternally enduring love. May I then abide in Christ...if He loves me, what or whom shall I fear?

neither death
nor marriage
nor procreation
nor student loans
nor childbirth
nor anything else in all creation

"...I am weak, but He is strong..."

amen.

2007-05-24T11:53:00.000-07:00

As
the boy in the attic
tunes his guitar to another aspect of his soul
it fills the space, vitality trembles, trebles

the girl in the kitchen
fits the end of a bagel between her teeth
And wishes that she wasn't so cold
or May wasn't so extensive
or purity of heart so elusive

the recluse is gone, in her place
the ghost of what was sorrowful,
grateful,
now complacent.

chamomile tea, solution
in which dissolve
thought
action
conscience
love

Jesus is an intellectual concession
Sin is an unfortunate obstacle
innocence is ambitious, an assumption foregone
love is the momentary dictation

speak o heart

lying under your heavy blanket
cry infant submission
cry bloody conception, the water
and the blood

hyssop
and i shall be clean

And again of rain...

2006-07-07T09:05:00.000-07:00

“I just want to hold you” --in the rain
, he spoke,
answering the hunger in her breast
for a tangible comfort.
She might have wept,
Was her ache a wound--
or emptiness, expectant to be filled?
a wound, and emptiness, for comfort
soothes and scathes.
She might have wept.

Tell her it will be for life.
Tell her life will be long.
Tell her she won’t die
, and you won’t die,
tomorrow.
Tell her she’ll see you again,
feel you again, someday
Tell her it is not
shameful
to be touched by love.
Tell her she will be made right.

She might
--she might--

“I just want to hold you...”
--she might have wept--
“...for a while.”
Tell her it will be for life.

Of rain...

2006-07-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

I care, I trust, I learn
To take a part, to act the play.
I dare, I must, I burn
To make a portrait of that day.

An oil leak on tainted ice
No purity to smear
Repeated once, repeated twice
In water and in tear
The sky is falling
And nothing cleansed
A life is draining
And no one gains
As tears, that, streaming,
Relieve no pains

Forgotten in a vale become
A landfill of my days
Is promised rest, is promised home
Is crucifixion grace
A hope is falling
O Savior save
A life is dying
Into a grave
And I am coming
To be Thy slave

My mouth is open as a tomb
I weep against the wall
Within the silence of my room
I wrestle with my fall
My breath is failing
I cannot speak
My heart is longing
My body weak
My mind splintering
And I will break

Go on. It’s finished. Chosen course.
Exist as you see fit.
Moveless--I’m moveless, cannot force
Nor stir my heart to it.
My arms are sweeping
The dust in piles
Mindless measuring
My life in miles
Of mindless pacing
The bleach-washed tiles.

I’m spared--a storm, a brink
To break the cylinder of pain
I wear, I store, I drink,
I paint a plethora of rain.

By Wisdom Saved

2006-07-07T08:53:00.000-07:00

Not silent. Silent, but heavy still
With weight of import and weight of will
And weight of sorrow and weight of care
And weight of nothing and of despair
And broken, broken, and now enough
Give me but courage and I shall love
So bleeds the fear through incision--slow,
Then leaves the heart in an overflow
Of grief that must find a language soon
Else it is buried alive, unknown
A worm corrupting, embittering
A blind farewell to a lovely thing
...Rain traces patterns in winding lanes
On hopeless faces and window panes
Pain traces patterns behind locked doors
Where music spins in her ears and pours
Finality, and a prayer is gone--
The tears walled in, and the mask put on...
A language, fingers and characters
A thought is his and a thought is hers
His, customary, to take the floor
Hers now to speak what she hid before
Trust. Should this step give beneath her feet
It is no less grave, but a grave more sweet.
Now finished, finished-- a peace revives
As scattered fragments of separate lives
Fall in together, a bridge between
A startled faith in the unforeseen
Bound and unblinded, or blind enslaved--
By pleasure threatened, by wisdom saved.

(Un-)Moved.

2006-05-01T12:58:00.000-07:00

I've been away. I almost see no purpose in coming back today. I'm still not here. I go away every day, to a place separate from everyone, where I view them through a veil. They don't touch me. Half asleep, I watch them falling...I look down and wonder why I don't feel my broken legs. If my blood is no longer pulsing, how can I call myself alive? My anger is my guilt...impotent and infinite. I think I have the power and the right to condemn myself, give myself justice. I think I am unhappy because I am not the "better person" that I ought to be. I think I must rid myself of my selfishness to rid myself of guilt. I must do well and love others. I must strive for excellence in all things. When did I give up that quest? and again defeated. defeated, defeated, defeated. weakness is my birthright.

but I have no rights. and a desire to be better is insufficient and motivated by pride.
When shall I be moved by love?

birthright.

my God,
i have sought
i have naught

i asked You to kill me
i want You to love me

i want everything
i am nothing

my birthright is death
guilt
weakness
sin
hell

what have You given me but grace?
I despise it and ask for Your justice.
Be not gentle with me, i say
and know not what i say
the Lord is too gentle with me
i will punish myself.

i teach myself nothing
i attempt nothing
i accomplish nothing
i am nothing.

the noun of my soul is a motive.
the motive of my soul is not love,
but greed.
not love,
but pride.
not love,
but discontent.

why is nothing so heavy? i cannot move it.

today...

i drink the cup of emptiness
for want of love of you
your words fall worthless through my heart
my false is ringing true

should I have been anathema
forsaken and displayed
i shiver in the holy place
worm-eaten and decayed

and taken by my impotence
i curse my birth and die
i love i hate i love i hate
my soul, eternity

a step, a brief discovery
and more to know of what
i cannot be and will not do
i have not love, am not.

Please.

2006-04-05T12:57:00.000-07:00

I don't know what else to say. I've lost all my words, all my thoughts, all my feelings. There's nothing left but motives, and nothing good in those. Please. I am wrong. I am sorry. I am dead.

why am i still hoping?

("Look, I am about to die; so what is this birthright to me?")

O God! This nightmare! Collapse of all restraining and sustaining
Forces and bounds. All that was clear and solid, whether malign
Or comforting, has been reduced to a mercurous consistency--
Charcoal-grey and impossible to separate or see through.
I am dead among the living, mute among the speaking, foolish
Among the understanding. How--when did I ever imagine
That I knew You, my God, that I loved You? Do You see me, broken
And floundering-- she who lives, o God, she who lives, o my God!
She who lives for herself is dead while she lives. And now I know this,
That I killed not only self, that every moment the knife was dug
And twisted in my breast, it meant a little death for them as well.
There it is, still there. Do You see it, o God, that it remains
And the blood is ever falling, staining, poisoning, corrupting?
I cannot remove it. I can foresee that its removal
Will bring me bitter pain and better cleansing. I could suffocate
On my obstinacy. How is it that this should grow stronger
As I weaken, and greater as I lessen? O God, let me die
In truth, and face Your judgment--why attempt to forestall that which
Is foreordained? Deliver me in Your mercy, or cut me down
In Your justice, but do not leave me to exact misery
And trouble on myself. O God my God my God! Have You or not
Forsaken me? This nightmare, this collapse--I cannot arise
Or awaken. Is it too late to be uncovered and undone?

please. ("Have you only one blessing, my father? Bless me--me also, O my father!")

Regret

2006-01-17T11:47:00.000-08:00

Curse it. CURSE IT! So much lost. So much missed. So much still unacknowledged. So much pain. So much--too much. So many ignored. So many assumptions. So many inhibitions. And now...I want to know. I don't want to be afraid to care. It's too late to be uncaring. I want to be of use, of help. I have long wanted to, have long feared answers, have long feared rejection or indifference. I fear above all things my own indifference. Many things I regret.

I'll be all right someday. I just need to wake up and find the door of this tomb.

Who are you? I want to know.

I only know partially myself, and I don't seem important enough that I should bother to help you understand me.

Who I am doesn't matter. It's you I should want to know.

Why are we all so frightened? It can only get better only if we're willing to risk it. Yet to cast aside doubt and distrust and truly be honest with each other is a difficult undertaking. So easy it is for someone to pass judgment rather than to show compassion. To be trusted one must bear evidence of an open and gentle heart. One must say, in words or action or attitude or all above, I will listen. I will be here. I will care. I will love.

That takes courage, more than I have. So help me God.

I only want to be useful before I die.

2006-01-09T22:25:00.000-08:00

"...the deepest self is way down, and the conscious self is an obstinate monkey."

--DH Lawrence

Relief/Remorse.

2006-01-09T21:52:00.000-08:00

Recall it. It has slipped into the mere
Of memory, lost in the multitude
Of memories, as eyes open upon
The bare morning
And dreams forgot.

I never thought,
Dwelling in the myth of my survival,
That I could countenance the merest hope,
That it was requisite, that it was right
To love you or
By you be loved.

No stone unmoved.
I moved, a revolution. In its wake
Hesitancy, and grief unfathomed, fear,
Guilt--an armory against compassion.
Hungry despair
Sharpens its teeth.

Foulest of breath--
The naked bones of the present provide
Greedy incentive; the tireless demon
Swallows the future. Darkness closes in,
Shutting out all
But a vacuum.

There is no room
For thought, or breath, or anything but prayer
An open mouth, a tomb, testimony
To poverty, destitution, dearth. Groans
Only suffice
For want of blood.

The ear of God
Is metaphor; the ear of God, a Man
Of sorrows, was physical; into which,
Perhaps, trickled the embalming perfume
And the love-grief
Of whores and thieves.

Whom He receives
He scourges. This I did not understand,
Believed I was condemned. I felt nothing,
No punishment save my insanity,
Self-inflicted
And ponderous.

Not virtuous.
No love for God, no fruit from Heaven born,
No bending to surrender all my will,
No will to beg for grace or seek to find--
I threw myself
Against His door.

A metaphor.
The ear of God, our High Priest, exalted
Right Hand of God, acquainted with our grief;
Our Savior, God, Intercessor and Lover--
Not metaphor
But verity.

I think I see.
From silence, purgatory pain will burn
The remnants of a heart, or compression
Will force the shards together, forcing blood
And infection
From faulty seams.

My silent screams
Heard by the ear of God, and met with grace
To speak, an altogether unforeseen,
Undeserved mercy-- as I will, I love.
Wretchedness/wealth
A transaction.

Satisfaction.
This love, which drives me near to God and man,
which drives beyond fear/doubt/pride/shame/despair--
This love, most potent of all miracles,
Is not a farce.

"Darling--I seem to have this rabbit"

2005-11-01T06:20:00.000-08:00

I changed my mind. Everything needn't have a meaning or purpose....yet even this is thought-provoking, wouldn't you say?

grin
I do love Thurber.

The Why of the Written Word

2005-10-21T00:53:00.000-07:00

After reading this post on Jesse's blog, and the comments following, I was prompted to curiosity about the purpose of writing in general, and my own purpose for writing in particular. Of the latter, I have yet come to no conclusion...of the former, I have...well...only begun to think, and my thoughts in this direction are as yet small(ish).

Of literature....

"Viewed through this medium, our narrative--into which are woven some airy and unsubstantial threads, intermixed with others, twisted out of the commonest stuff of human existence--may seem not widely different from the texture of all our lives."

--Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun

I like that. I think literature ought to provoke thought...and yet also say something. Let us not create without any purpose but to think and to let others' thought progress in any direction from little things we may have said. There ought to be--oughtn't there?--a point, or points, to what we think...should we be aware of them? For once, I am thinking as I speak, rather than waiting to speak until I have thought. This is different, and not altogether pleasing. I have not yet concluded whether it is best to have a distinct purpose to a thought, or merely to let one's perspective infuse the thought so that it may have no specific purpose, but rather a subtle influence. Ought we to reflect life, or to project into it what we see as ultimate ends or certainties or principles? Are we presenting aspects of Truth, of what is essential? Or are we merely drifting in and reporting of and musing upon and analyzing what we presently feel and experience (or have in past felt and experienced)?

Hawthorne seems to say he is merely reflecting life. Yet his portrait-novels (those which I have read) always have a subtle (or not so much subtle) principle behind them. Painted with eloquent artistry, they brilliantly depict humanity and the consequences of sin, the downfall of souls...and redemption. Is this his point, or his viewpoint? Purpose, or perspective? I cannot say.

Neither do I yet know what is mine.

Well, then...

high-pressure thought breaks a vein
and escapes through the late-
night draining
lost/dead/gone
mental effort/exhaustion
Enough. spoken.
good-night-then

Curse this midnight oil. Why does she burn it? What does she want? What could she possibly gain that would profit her more than the sleep she has lost?

All good questions to ponder... and now goodnight.

In One Word

2005-10-13T10:45:00.000-07:00

I never thought I could describe myself in one word....but I found the right word today.

Conflicted.

Shall I elucidate?

Of the Essence

2005-08-17T22:17:00.000-07:00

Wondering out of words, I think the broom takes precedence in the wold of enlightenment. Dust to dust to damnable hatred. Red is scintillating, breathtaking in its violence. Bodies breaking on the wall, falling--catch them! Diamonds on the water, it's winter, the snow is falling, like suffocation on the frozen earth. Why am I making sense? Come the darkness, tunnel vision, I'm blind and not blind, I see only what is before me. Periphery is closed to me, perception limited by my will. Unveil the horizon! Tear the curtain down! I pause unwillingly, if I let my thoughts fly at will they would never stop and I could make no sense of them, gain nothing. And if I pause I lose them all and gain nothing. Every pause is another turn of the mind down another path. I'm lost, lost in thought--always vague, always metaphor, by me only half-understood. Why am I not making sense? What is the most essential thing? Who could answer that question? Is it the most essential question?
I will ask it...

Clarity. Take the broom, sweep the dust, enlighten me. This mind is a room, this room is covered with disuse. Uncultivated. I cough when I enter it. The broom must take precedence, then the activity. Use. Production for use. Use for productivity. Hatred burns against what is not done, comes violently, beating anger and guilt into my heart, breaking me against my fears, my hesitancy. I'm losing time-- slipping through my fingers, precious time flying eternally past-- a swift river, yet not eternal. Winter slows every movement; time seems irrelevant when everything sleeps-- but everything sleeps in a prison, dormant, kept until it breaks again free, and spring seems to rush the world again. Time never stops, but it seems to sleep in winter. It feels like a respite from constant falling behind. Winter is my season. I like the feeling of protection, security, peace, patience, constancy, rest, deep silence. Like a reverent reverie, and walking under the stars at night finds a thrice crystal reflection in the earth, in the eyes, and in the soul. On the other hand, clear days are more painful with nothing to absorb the brilliance but the eyes. Back to my room. There is a locked desk, and a key in the corner, hidden by a cobweb hung with dust. No windows here, only the backs of tapestries showing French windows leading out into gardens or the sun rising behind Roman columns. In the center of the floor is a small door with a rusted hinge. I know behind the door is brown darkness with a ladder that leads down, down into black darkness in another room with two windows that scarcely open without a thick multicolored filter to distort anything that might escape and shape it into a safer misrepresentation, for the protection of the deepest chamber. But other windows exist...what is generated in this room, coming up from the deepest chamber, is sent out through strange, dark passages between the walls, and words fall, squeezed through suffocation, from hesitant lips, and words fly, spurred by desperation, from eager fingers. It is fervor and fever. It is must and would. I am helpless and hungry. I am hollow. I am hopeful. I am Halle.

Time-counting

2005-08-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

For some odd reason, I am in eager anticipation of my return to school this fall quarter. I found a website that indulges the spirit of anticipation...counting down the time to the last second, if you wish it. Its obliging calculations are as follows:

"From and including: Thursday, August 11, 2005
To, but not including : Monday, September 19, 2005

It is 39 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date

Or 1 month, 8 days excluding the end date

Alternative time units
39 days can be converted to one of these units:
3,369,600 seconds
56,160 minutes
936 hours
5 weeks (rounded down)"

Only 5 weeks? "I feel a scream coming on right now--starting right down in my toes, sort of like a tingling sensation. Now it's creeping up around my knees, up my legs, traveling faster and faster and faster--it's in my stomach right now. I'm afraid it's got me...it's going up and up and up and up--here, it's right in my throat...it's fighting to get out; I don't--I can't hold it any longer--here it goes--" (Tony Kirby (Jimmy Stewart), You Can't Take it With You)

AAAAAAAAHHH!!!

It's near--I'm glad of that; but I don't feel prepared...

(Inter/Intra)personal Communication

2005-08-11T00:44:00.000-07:00

Hallo, where is everybody? I know I haven't been saying much, but I'd like to know someone's still there anyway...

If you want to know about my life today, it's here. I'm not opening my heart at present, but I'll give you glimpses of my subconscious from time to time...:)

Dreaming. Pretty boring, really. So how is my life? It's challenging, confusing, a constant warring struggle--not even for survival, but for the very will to survive. I get lazy, careless, numb. And then I am called back to my senses, back to order, by some sweet mercy--until I fail again, fall again, curse myself again. And then I hate it when people ask me how I am and mean it...because I have to tell them the truth. And I wish the truth wouldn't always be bleak. But it never does to wait upon movement; movement is not something that does, but something that is done. Move then, silly girl. Little steps...that's it...don't give up...don't rest now, you haven't earned it...just keep moving--

But I don't know where I'm going...

That's because you're looking around at everything, my dear. Find a focal point.

Anything?

No! The best quality, the most excellent thing. Perfection.

I thought that was unattainable...

Ahem. Should that stop you?

"To reach the unreachable star,
Though you know it’s impossibly high,
To live with your heart striving upward
To a far, unattainable sky!”

“...And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!”

Ah, well, if you want to find your philosophy on Broadway...
why not

"...Same old story, what's the use of tears?
What's the use of praying if there's nobody who hears?
Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning
Through the years.

Turning, turning, turning through the years
Minutes into hours and the hours into years.
Nothing changes, nothing ever can
Round and round the roundabout and back where you began!
Round and round and back where you began!"

You just can't win, can you? You just don't want to.

Should I?

Of the Wisdom of Bats and Ostriches

2005-08-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

Another dream so logically random that I awoke laughing...

I was working, again. I was a courtesy clerk at what seemed like a factory, but I think was meant to be a grocery. The intercom was constantly blaring that assistance was needed in this or that area, and I was apparently the only person expected to give assistance. “We need help in aisle 2,” a voice shouted over the intercom. I hurried toward “aisle 2", which was more or less a conveyor belt on which an assembly line of bakers was kneading, rolling, and shaping dough–and flour abounded, in dust, in piles, in clouds. “No, wait–I’m wrong,” the intercom announced. “Aisle 2 is the bakery aisle. We need help in aisle 9.” I changed course and headed for aisle 9, another conveyor belt, this time loaded with raw red meat–large pieces of what was either beef or horseflesh, and attended by an assembly line of butchers with white aprons stained pinkish in places, wielding large cleavers. None of them appeared to acknowledge my presence, and I was wondering with what they could possibly need my help, until the intercom voice came again. “Hold on, that’s not right either. We need help in aisle 12.” I sighed and turned in another direction. “Aisle 12" appeared to be a classroom, in which a dozen or so scholarly-looking young men and women occupied small desks, on which were thick, navy-blue hardcover textbooks. One of the female students looked up and raised her hand. Dark hair, fashionable glasses, freckles, an attractive, studious look. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, inferior. What was I doing here? She began speaking what may as well have been another language: “Have you ever noticed the intricacies of sea-snails? As is generally known, the spiral of the sea-snail’s shell begins at the interior and widens as it winds outward, its sepia stripes growing larger in proportion with the widening coil.” I nodded sagely, not understanding a word, hoping she wasn’t intending to ask me to add anything to her observations... “Apart from sea-snails, there are other analogies such as staircases, feathers, and starfish, that would lend meaning to our existence if we would only look for it. Our question for you, is however, pertaining to another species. We were wondering–which is wiser–the bat, or the ostrich?”

I was at a loss. This is the biology aisle, I thought. I have never studied biology. But I remembered that I had been warned that I was never to tell a customer that I didn’t know the answer. When I do not know, I must find someone who does. I was just about to tell them that I would ask someone for them, when it occurred to me that I had some general knowledge about bats and ostriches that, if carefully applied, might satisfy their curiosity. So I began:

“Well. Ostriches, as many know, are of the species of birds- that- cannot- fly. Wherefore they must use all the resources at their command in order to exist and survive. They must find sustenance and shelter, and must be able to avoid and protect themselves from predators. Combine this with the knowledge that they must also be able to protect their offspring, when it is yet defenseless and immovable within the egg, and it is quite apparent that the ostrich must be very wise.

“Bats, on the other hand, are blind. They are also, I have heard, deaf. Yet they operate upon a highly-developed form of...” I paused. “...radar detection?” It was a question. Nds was passing behind me, and I turned and asked, “Is that right?” He nodded and disappeared. I turned back to my audience. “Yes, radar detection. They move within the perils of the night, and manage to exist, survive, and reproduce–yet they are totally deaf and blind. Considering this, I put it to you that bats are infinitely wiser than ostriches.”

This is when I awoke, and laughed. “Which is wiser,” I repeated, “The bat–or the ostrich?” I laughed again, wondering how something so perfectly ridiculous could have seemed so sensible while I was asleep.

To Whom it May Concern...

2005-08-04T07:52:00.000-07:00

G-.

I was looking through my archives today, and I found your second comment on my first post. I wasn't going to admit it, but...you're right.

Today I'm not thinking

2005-08-01T09:02:00.000-07:00

I'm not thinking about anything, today. I have some few household duties to perform, and lots to weigh upon/prey upon my mind...at the moment, however, I'm not thinking. I'm still tired from midnight vigils, staying up just to let out my craziest thoughts to keep myself semi-sane.

Stuff of Dreams...Strange Stuff

2005-07-21T09:04:00.000-07:00

I saw somebody on another blog post a dream she had, so I thought I'd follow her example--since I haven't had anything interesting to say for a while.
Dreams are strange and interesting. Last night, for the first time in a long time, I actually dreamed.
Or perhaps it is that this morning, for the first time in a long time, I actually remember what I dreamed.

So I'll type it all up before I forget it, that everyone may see what strange things go on in my head while I'm sleeping.

The first bit of dreaming I can remember was, in the manner of some dreams, a confusion of the real and the imagined that was almost logical.

I was working at some generic convenience store, although I honestly don't think I noticed throughout the dream whether there was anything on the shelves. I think I remember seeing a lot of empty cardboard boxes and a forklift. I dreamed that my friend antigraviton and his fiancee were also working there, but they had been away on vacation and had just returned. I learned from another employee that they were married, and I felt slightly hurt that I hadn't been informed of such glad news by antigraviton himself. At any rate, I went to find and congratulate them, and I found his wife waiting for him near the restrooms. I congratulated her, and she (not knowing who I was) asked if I was Courtney Trevallis. I said no. I didn't know who Courtney Trevallis was, but I supposed her to be one of his students. (Because somehow, despite what he was in the dream, I still knew his real profession.)
She asked if I had an appointment, and I said yes--although until that moment in the dream I didn't know that I did. We talked for a while about subjects I don't remember (and perhaps, since it was a dream, there really were no subjects)
until she said she had to leave--which I thought was odd, because she had been waiting for him, but I said goodbye and stayed.
Presently antigraviton appeared, but he seemed highly distracted. He began talking as soon as he saw me, in a manner at once tired, hurried, and business-like. "So I take it you have a few loose ends you need to wrap up?" He said. "That's generally the way
these things go, with people...let's go sit down somewhere and get everything taken care of and that'll be the end of it. You'll be good to go." I was startled, because even as he was saying this, he brushed past me and walked briskly on as though he didn't care whether I followed him or not...but I had an appointment, so I did. All the while I was struggling to keep up with him, he was talking
non-stop about what-I-don't-remember, except that it was advice for the present and future. My soul felt like the victim of a hit-and-run, as though he was trampling over it and walking on without looking back. I wanted to say, "Stop! Don't you care anymore? I thought you wanted to know how I have changed! For once I have something to say-- actually I have many things in my mind I wish to discuss, and you
won't give me a moment to speak..." Suddenly he did stop, but it was only because he had to go back to work. I knew he had forgotten about my appointment, but I didn't remind him. Apparently he was a cashier, because he went behind one of the counters--and suddenly he was his old self again, because I caught his eye and in it was the kindliest expression. At once everything was clear... (That's the
impression I got, the feeling I had at that moment in the dream. Everything was clear. I just don't know what was clear, or exactly what I thought
I understood...but that's a dream for you...)

Next I dreamed about murder.

I was in a large park, with brilliantly green grass as far as eye could see, except where it was darkened by the shadows of luxurious oaks and firs. Everywhere
people were walking in period dress (I'm not exactly sure what period, but I think roughly Jane Austen), and all seemed lovely and at peace--
but there was an evil presence. An unknown sniper was blowing poison darts at these lovely people (always while their backs were turned), and I could
see large, dark blots appearing on their backs (not always necessarily where the dart had hit), that would grow larger and trickle down in streams of blood
before the people would fall in an agony of contortions and die with foam on their lips. The scene changed to that of a man, a father, on his deathbed.
As his adult children (and I) watched, his eyes rolled up in his head, and the same white foam spilled out of them and from his open mouth. It was horrifying,
and a mystery, because we didn't know who had done it. Somehow the dream progressed, and we found that two of his younger children, who were twins, seemed
to be not as ignorant about the matter as the rest of us--but they weren't speaking. The next thing I remember is a dark room at night. I think I was there with some of the dead man's children, and I said to them, "Maybe we should talk to the twins. I think they know more than most people." (By this I don't think I meant
mere cognisance of the secret behind the mystery...rather I think I felt they were somewhat clairvoyant.) The next moment, the twins were mewing at the door, so I let
them in. The twins were now a pair of charcoal-grey tabby kittens, whose mother was under the bed. I held them for a while, but they wanted to get away to nurse with their brothers and sisters. While they were nursing and purring, I said: "Yes, these twins know more than the others; you see, their siblings think they're just nursing--but the twins know it's really pate de foie gras." I'm sorry, that's just weird. Afterwards, the kitten twins were singing in very cute gender-neutral child voices. Disturbing.

After this, I dreamed about two fiber-optic chameleon spiders that were out to get me. Actually, they were neither fiber-optic nor chameleon--nor even spiders, except originally; but the combination of ideas is the best I can do to describe them. When I first saw them crawling in the bathroom sink, they looked like miniature tarantulas. One had yellowish fuzz on its head and abdomen,and the other red. I wanted to squish them immediately, but my feet were naked, and I couldn't find any weapon with which to squish them before they crawled out of the sink and onto the floor. This was an unwelcome development. Here they could get at my feet. I think one of them did, because I suddenly had a swollen growth on the smallest toe of
my right foot. As I watched, these spiders (which had now morphed into long, thin beetles--though they were still spiders, of course) changed color. One was a pale blue with a yellow head and a red wavy stripe down its back, the other yellow with a pale blue head and a black stripe...but the spiders changed color slowly, continually, as though they were fiber-optic. Their backs and heads would fade from yellow to blue to yellow, and the stripes changed color, too--although I never saw them change color, I knew they did. I made a move toward the spiders to frighten them, and one climbed onto some pipes and changed into a brown chameleon color (this one looked like a spider again). However, on the floor remained now two spiders, who were making runs at my bare feet. Placing one hand on the wall and the other on the bathroom counter, I lifted myself off the floor-- but I knew I couldn't
stay that way for long....Presently my mother happened by, and asked what I was doing. I told her about the spiders, and their fascinating way of changing color. She asked me why I didn't just squish them.

I think I woke up then, because I don't remember anything more.

I laughingly challenge anyone to interpret these.

Time

2005-07-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

Waking up
Fumble at the cup
Blind lips breathing steam
Breaking dream

Creaking stairs
Musical as chairs
Worry deepens dim
Thinking him

Brown and gold
Tangles catch and hold
Stare into my eyes
Dark as lies

Scratching thought
Earned and borne and bought
Silent flows the sand
Moves the hand

Rise again
Laying down the pen
Burying the face
To erase

Memory
Drawing close to me
Closer than I dared
Unprepared

Sweetest bliss
This and this and this
Never once again
Now and then

Fly the deep
Boundary of sleep
Dream is all I had
Bitter-sad

Leaving more
Passing out the door
Fearing now that I’m
Out of time

Cover up
Emptier than cup
Bittersweetest friend
Make an end

Newcome faith
Breaking on a wraith
Dips into a spin
Out and in

Somewhere near
Far away from here
It might be arranged
Something changed

Come again
I can’t tell you when
Hours, days, or years
Blessings, fears

Cast-down glove
I could face your love
And with greater grace
Love your face

Pounding head
Calls me from my bed
Spreading through my feet
Rhythm beat

Dim routine
Travel where I’ve been
Sun, moon, sun, moon, sun
Over, done

Give it sway
Let it have its way
Turning day to night
Gray to white

Flying fast
Try to make it last
Wishing it would dress
Measureless

Family

2005-07-09T07:08:00.000-07:00

I love them. Mine, that is. All of them. I just wanted them to know that. It's a feeling, it's a sense of safety and comfort and gratitude and just wanting them to be happy. It's a fact. Thanks to everyone. I love you all.

Prophecies Self-fulfilled

2005-07-07T22:34:00.000-07:00

Depression is a progressive disease with results that are more far-reaching and long-lasting than one would expect. When you hate yourself, you start thinking everyone must hate you. When you think that way, you react defensively, treating them as your enemies. Those who are treated as enemies for long enough will likely become what they are perceived to be. A self-fulfilling prophecy, a damaging disease. It wastes away love...even if the ties are strong enough to survive, they survive wounded and confused. They never meant to be the enemy. They can't understand why you're running away, why you're keeping them at a distance, why you're so angry at the smallest things. I don't know anymore who I was or am or how to be who I should be. I don't know if I ever knew. I'm the child who never grew up, only halfway grew up--and each half doesn't know what to do with the other.

She's lost, again and again.

Dear God, alone saving, give strength to the weakest, wisdom to the blindest of fools. I don't know where to go but You, and I'm forever fleeing my only refuge. I think I'm afraid I won't hear You if I listen, or I won't obey You if I hear. I think I'm just afraid, always. Of everything. Help me to be afraid of nothing, no one but You.

Reconcile me. To You, to everyone.

Do I believe You will? If that's what is meant by amen...

I know all Your prophecies are self-fulfilled. Amen.

Hurt and Worry

2005-07-06T22:18:00.000-07:00

Everyone is hurting. What can I do? It's been so long since I've seen any light of my own. Maybe it's because we remember that we are helpless--we remember all our wrong, and we forget from whence comes our help and healing...and forgiveness. It's perfectly true, there's no denying our evil. Sometimes it rests so heavily upon us, our hearts could break beneath the pressure. I know mine is bleeding at the seams. What can I do? Deny this darkness? I do not deny it, but I must deny it the power to define and destroy me. Do I have strength enough to face the future? Only with hope. Have I hope?
This war is endless. A thousand times I have fallen, beaten to the ground by my own hands. My own mind, my own soul despises me. All is contingent on which "me" has the upper hand. Which of us is sane? Is it the me that cries, "Enough! No more, no more poison! I will live!"--Or is it the me that cries, "Fool! Thou art the poison. Thou shalt die!"

Right now I'm worried about somebody more worried than myself. My little brother is having trouble with life. I think he sees all the challenges as insurmountable. I think he sees them all at once, and can't begin to face them. I think he's so afraid of failure, and failure looks so inevitable, that he doesn't want to try.
But that's just what it looks like to me--because it looks like me. I remember that. I remember how much it hurt, and how hopeless the world seemed. I remember feeling so far behind and so far away from everyone that I didn't think I'd ever learn to live. I didn't think it would ever get better.

But it does.

It does.

Failure is inevitable. No one goes through life without a single mistake. But failure is not final. One fall doesn't mean you'll never walk again. Someone told me something like that, and I can never thank him enough. By the mercy of God, someone stepped in to rescue me from me. I won't use his name unauthorized, since I think he's probably hanging around--but he found me falling in a confusion of challenges sudden and new, caught me in a moment of deepest doubt. Slowly, painstakingly, repeatedly he corrected me, reassured me, advised me. I said I was lost. He told me I would find my way. I said I was afraid of failure. He told me "mistakies" were the practice shots of life. I apologized for all my shortcomings. He said, "Stop." I thanked him for his correction. He said: "Ours is a dialog, not a lecture." I never said I was desperate for hope. He always said: "It gets better."

It does get better. But it isn't a simple step, or an immediate state of mind. It took a long while before I believed it was true--and that because it was becoming true. I was giving up. I thought I was giving up. Sometimes I think I'm still giving up, but I didn't. At the starkest moments, when it came to a challenge and a decision, and I didn't know if the strength was in me--this thought was there: "Why are you doing this? To prove that you can't, or to prove that you can? You stepped into this, don't get lazy now...unless failure is your goal." I reasoned that only a desperate effort would show the truth of whether or not I could accomplish it; so my resolution was set, the desperate effort was made, and I don't think I ever totally failed...though I believe I made many mistakes (and, of course, brooded over all of them).

I know life isn't something too hard to face. It ought to never look that way, but it often does--and always when I'm not trusting in God, always when I think I ought to have my life under control--and it's not. Ever. As long as it's under my control, it's only a fragile sanity.

SO when am I going to give this up? As I said to myself once: "If control is what you want, the only way to possess it is to give up—-not the struggle for order, but the struggle for authority. Give up what you see as your right to control, and allow Him who has perfect power and authority to be fully trusted to take control and call your soul—-your life—-to order."

God have mercy. We're so stupidly blind; why can't we see that You're leading us--why won't we follow where You lead?

Why is it that sometimes we'd rather not move at all?

Pray for my brother. I love him, I fear for him, I hurt for him, and I don't know what to do about it. I also hope he doesn't read this, but I can't help it if he does. I have to say what drives me broken, or I go crazy inside. Other things I want to say are less important, and will wait.

Pledge

2005-07-04T07:17:00.000-07:00

I pledge allegiance today...
To God above country,
Joy above sorrow,
Continence above indulgence,
Prudence above thoughtlessness,
Humility above arrogance,
Work above idleness,
Purpose above aimlessness,
Firmness above irresolution,
Courage above fear,
Freedom above slavery,
Law above freedom,
Duty above law,
Love above duty.

Allegiance

2005-07-04T06:47:00.000-07:00

Happy Independence Day! For love of and gratitude for our country-- or for a good excuse to make noise, throw parties, get drunk, and play with fire in the dark, we declare today a holiday. We'll sing America the Beautiful and pledge allegiance to the flag. Maybe. Or maybe we'll just make noise, get drunk, and watch the colored lights when the sun goes down. As for me, I'll probably do nothing. Other than watching the pyrotechnics tonight with some friends and family...maybe, I'll just be staying home today with my gratitude and allegiance. My brother doesn't agree with the pledge. He thinks it is an insidious implication of idolatry of one's country or flag above all other obligations--specifically, above God. I tend to agree with his fiancee, that it is merely a statement of loyalty to one's country as opposed to loyalty to other countries or to the enemies of one's country, or as opposed to professed hatred of one's country whilst living in it and enjoying its privileges. As far as allegiance goes, no one is assuming that it means to subject oneself to be obedient to one's country above all other things, mindlessly pledging oneself to follow come what may-- else who even among the patriots would whisper that pledge? We all have our allegiances. Some pledge allegiance to family, some to self and character, some to the service of suffering humanity, some to wealth and pleasure, some to God, some to something different every year. As for me, I don't think enough about where my loyalties lie...so I'll ask you. What's your allegiance?

2005-07-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

This morning: I read it, and down to my soul I was troubled. Every instance, everything I could not answer, weighed heavily upon me. Not a smile, this morning. I sought the comfort of work. Put my hands to a task. Try to keep my mind on my--

It's physical, this trouble. But it's something preventable, not like the last. Does it truly rest on my shoulders--will everything rest upon whether I make the right decision? Is it possible for me to make the right decision? Everywhere I turn I see nothing but trouble, trouble, and more trouble. Nothing I do is or can be the right thing. I feel somehow, though I'm sure I feel wrongly, that this is something I control. Something that is mine to answer, and no other can help me. Not like the last...

The last...there was nothing I could do. My heart was heavy, someone was dying, there was nothing I could do. I found my thoughts on this in an old notebook:

I try to keep my mind on my work. I must do this;it must be done now, or it may never be done. Something is coming that has been coming for a long time, something that will change many things, perhaps even me. I feel the weight of my heart, pulling me to my knees. Ah, but I cannot weep now; I must finish my work. Hands gripping the broom, my eyes follow the dust I sweep from every corner. Would that I could sweep the dust from my faith as easily! Comfort is found in exertion, in putting things in order. A grey veil settles on my mind, a shelter against the inevitable thoughts that would torment my waiting. Peace. Sorrow will come soon enough. The telephone rings--the expected clamor still an assault on my fragile calm. The words come; I hear and answer, surprised by my composure. Everything is quiet, my heart pulsing in a universe of its own. I hear nothing more clearly than my own blood. The thing has come; now I must go to face it. I place the telephone gently on the receiver. I make myself ready. Physically, all is in order. Eyes still open, I extract a prayer from my benumbed soul. It seems dead, a portent for the day's outcome...

I am home again. I did grieve, when the moment came. We all did. The room was rife with sorrow. What of this moment? I am dry and dead...

I pace into my chamber. The service is over; I had no tears. I lie down with my weighty grief, turn my face into my pillow. Now it comes--a prayer falls, with tears. Sobs twist me, crumble me. It's over--it lasted such a short time. This will, indeed, change many things. Will anything change me?

Now, I have forgotten all but this: I try to keep my mind on my work.

Something good to read...

2005-07-01T20:54:00.000-07:00

This I read today, and liked it well--especially the last line: "Because I am nothing/Have nothing to prove." It was beautiful. My personal philosophy, when my personal discomfort and/or emotional torment settles in with or without a logical reason, is this: "Shake it off, or swallow it down. The former is preferable, but not always as possible as the latter." The reason it is easier to swallow than to shake, unfortunately, is that my perspective is almost perpetually off. I don't look at things correctly, and see myself as more or as more important than I truly am. So it's good every once in a while--actually it's best always--to remember that I "am nothing/have nothing to prove." A thank you to my sister for that.

2005-07-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

There's glory in these fingertips
Not mine, not for my own
There's power in the fear that grips
My mind when I'm alone
There's wisdom in the soul that bares
Its horror to the cross
There's honor in the flesh that wears
Humility and loss
There's holiness in ordinate
Supremacy of God
To hate the insubordinate
Yet rescue them with blood
To love the insubordinate
And rescue them with blood

A Purpose for Everything

2005-07-01T06:50:00.000-07:00

What's yours? What's mine? If I told you what I think it is, would you believe me? If I told you that I felt if I actually told you what I believe it is, I would merely be reciting catechism--would you be horrified? It feels like hypocrisy, and yet I don't doubt its truth. Neither do I doubt the truth of what I believe--yet because of my hypocrisy, I doubt whether I truly believe it.

What does it mean to glorify God? I know what it certainly doesn't mean--to seek my own comfort and glory, to seek to put to rest all misgivings about the way I live my sorry life. It doesn't mean to be fearful of every change, to see danger even in the mundane. It means a risk and a security. A laying down of one's life for God's service, and a knowledge that even should one perish, that life is secure in His keeping, and no conceivable power can snatch it away.

It means a daily sacrifice of all that I want to all that He asks. It means a discipline of my entire self to be subject and devoted to the Lord of glory. It means perfect slavery and perfect freedom. It means glorious defeat and eternal victory. It means I am nothing and He is all.

It means...I'm choking on my pride. Defeated by my raging desires. Glory to me! I will rule!

...For what purpose? My flesh has no answer to that.

Emotional

2005-06-29T16:12:00.000-07:00

= despicable. Sometimes I think all I want to do is indulge in my emotions. I like extreme. It lets me feel alive. But my more prudent intellect won't let me do that. I don't want to be extreme. It makes me feel a fool. I want to be fervent, focused, and fenced in. So I pour my extremes into the medium of poetry and let it fly in the terrible deluge of my emotion. This is the only indulgence I will allow, my desperate creativity. Thank God for letters to spell my character.

Hiatus

2005-06-29T12:49:00.000-07:00

I was thinking today that maybe I should stop. I'm not really saying anything significant--what am I doing here? Possibly I'm simply mingling with the company I know here, and taking advantage of a means to keep from drifting away from everybody. In that case, I'd better stay. For one so inclined to seclusion, anything that slows her slipping is probably good. Unless y'all want me to leave...

Should I stop?

Secrecy

2005-06-27T12:27:00.000-07:00

I wonder...if everyone knew all our secrets, would we all be broken or relieved? Probably.

What if...?

2005-06-26T22:26:00.000-07:00

I worry too much. Why is it that I can't breathe, I feel almost guilty-- as though I am doing something on which society should frown? I can't face anyone until I'm 'safe'--and then I can meet their eyes--all but one person's. Perhaps because my soul knows that it is guilty--that it is doing something of which it disapproves.... It wonders whether it is following this path simply because it is temporarily and comparatively easy, because it delights in the moment, the occasional peace, the haven it finds--and yet it knows that it is disinclined to permanence. It wanders lonely and often, because it is safer that way. Or so it thinks. Nothing is ever safe. This may indeed be the greater danger, wavering on the brink--and then--- No! No! Abandon it! Oblivion awaits...drown it in dreams of nothing. Don't ask anyone to save you. Don't rely on words to dispel your fears. My mind is frenetic, constantly asking "What if...?" Wait--- Today is beautiful. Today is beautiful, but it hurts. Peace, peace....speak your thoughts. Don't hold your breath. It's just for today. Yes, but that's why the guilt. Because I do fear, a little--but not as much, because I know it's just for today. Because I don't have to think beyond that. Because I don't have to dare. Because I think if I did, I wouldn't. Because of this, my soul is saddened and guilty.

(Scarlet)

2005-06-23T06:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel my heart to ascertain if it is there
And has not vaporized with inattention or despair
And sometimes I can feel it, and I touch it to contain
The pulsing and convulsing and the frothing, aching pain
And often, like the minister, I find my fingers pressed
To cover the iniquity burned scarlet on my breast.

Undone, undone, undone! The minister has left his knees,
The closet of his chamber dark and heavy with his pleas
And bloody with the guilt transferred from depths of burdened soul
Upon a nightly scourge, a penance never paid in full
O minister! Give me thy scourge--lest I should longer brood
On guilt without a consequence, I heal myself with blood!

So tender is the flesh that bears the beating in the dark
So frightened is the mind that it forbears to disembark
From thinking of the horror that it fears may come at last
The moment that it dares to hope the horror may have passed
Insidious inner maelstrom drinks my soul with turgid greed--
Too recent last my scourging, touch my heart and it will bleed.

Always and that is life which breaks me open to their eyes
But death in me will cancel light and close me up with lies
When daily suffocation drives my bitterness too deep
And nightly meditation has been sacrificed to sleep
Then to my saddened soul what haunting vision should appear
But this: that fear is all I love, and love is all I fear.

But I Regress

2005-06-23T06:01:00.000-07:00

I found today that last quarter I lost my momentum. Did I truly stop caring? My lowest grades since I have begun this journey---3.1 in Precalculus II. That was a blow, but one I'm sure I fully deserved. 3.5 in Interpersonal Communications. I have never done so badly before in a class that required composition. The problem, as always, was that it also required speech. Another blow, equally deserved. I think I was giving up again. Sometimes I wonder if I've been giving up all along. I know people who stress the importance of belief in one's future--often my future seems a mere myth. It's strangle to relate, I suppose, but it's a fact. I can't remember a time in my entire life when I truly--I mean realistically--believed that I had a future. It's always been a blurry, far-off, unattainable thing. A place I'll never reach. A home I'll never find. A confidence I'll never fully know. Hope is arbitrary, coming and going at its will. O heaven! Not here again! Why should I be too weak to fight my own despair? Why ever should I despair? Simply because nothing ever seems to change? The simple answer to that is that I don't strive to change anything. One moment while I turn viciously on this fool. THOU FOOL! How do I hate thee? One moment, let me count the ways...STOP! Slink not away from me, thou pitiful pretentious soul. No farther! No. Thou wilt hear these words.

Wherefore dost thou flee the light, thou slinking worm, thou herald of blight?
Seest thou not that hope is fair? Pursue thou hope; fly foul despair!

I think I do not understand that it is necessary to chase after hope to keep myself from falling. Do I tire so easily that hope is forever just beyond my reach? Or is it simply that I prefer to avoid hope because despair is an easier road? Easier, and far more destructive.

It is time to stop falling and walk again. Have I the strength and courage? Have I the ambition to cast off these self-dealt blows and stand once again? It's been so long...

War Words

2005-06-22T13:37:00.000-07:00

To war, to war! I march upon the world
Master of nothing, directing the cast-off overflow of my soul
Forming their structure as I spit them, retch them, weep them
And almost from the womb, I thought before my death, someday--
These words will tell me who I am

To battle, blood! I fight against my flesh
That I might master it enough today to give it up tomorrow
Come slavery, servitude, obedience, welcome
The blood I carried with me from the womb is washed away
And scars fade in death and freedom

Today...

2005-06-22T13:28:00.000-07:00

My feet don't hurt. I played badminton and croquet and got turned down for another job. Opportunity for employment. Whatever it is you call that nonsense. I just have to stop telling people I'm going back to school in September, that's all. For one reason or another, they all want people who can work full-time indefinitely---or who have more experience than I have. It's highly unfortunate for me, however...but somewhere there must be something. It is a matter of must. It will be because it must be, and there's an end to it.

So today... I'm thinking again. I'm thinking that life looks more hopeful now that the power is back on. Yesterday the world was shaken by a powerful wind, and the lights (not to mention everything else in the house not run by batteries) faded slowly out--with lots of dramatic flickering. We were told we might not have power until tonight, so my mother and two of my brothers left to take showers at the church....

Two minutes later....

The lights came on.

(grin) Life looks more hopeful today.

Confessions of a Full-fledged Mountain-raised Hick

2005-06-21T15:24:00.000-07:00

Today my feet are sore and blood-blistered. Yesterday they went through extensive, intensive "re-training" on a gravel road. I thought it was time I reinforced the leather-like quality of the underside of my feet. I like them to be impervious to pain, so that on certain days when the weather is too extreme to support the wearing of shoes, I can survive without them. Before yesterday's retraining session, my feet were only semi-sensitive to the gravel. They could handle it--walking. Unfortunately, I went a step too far. I was running, and more than once I misjudged my landing point and came down too hard on a few rocks of the not-entirely-or even-remotely-smooth persuasion. Thus my semi-invalid state today. Now I can't wear shoes. They hurt more than gravel. I had to drive barefoot today. Yes, I admit with pride: I AM a hick. My sister may refer to hicks, rednecks, hillbillies and the like with a tone of disapproval, as though they are lower life forms, but I say: (Aside from the fact that she is one herself--however much she tries, she can't get away from it--nyah-hah-hah!) Long live diversity! Hurrah for hicks and hillbillies! May they live forever!...and so there. Ouch. My feet hurt.

O

2005-06-21T08:07:00.000-07:00

As someone recently said to me, he enjoys using the word 'o' whenever possible. I agree, it is an enjoyable word...

O glorious day

O for a muse

O human-becoming

O darn it. (Sorry, couldn't help it--grinning gleefully).....

O heaven! O to be free! O for the wings to fly!

O. It's a jolly good word. Ripping, you might say.

That said...

2005-06-20T19:31:00.000-07:00

So if I meant
To write some words
To say some things
To make you smile
Or if my thought
Was to present
A picture of
A part of me
Or if I wished
To part my lips
And speak my mind
And found it void
Until, until
I found this page
This white and clear
Inviting void
Where I could spill
My slowest thoughts
Then here and thus
I would and do
Speak all I wish
To speak in prose
And poetry
And all I know
And do not know
To you

A promise

2005-06-20T19:29:00.000-07:00

I hereby swear that, if I can restrain myself, at least every other entry will be in prose.

On Becoming Human

2005-06-16T09:46:00.000-07:00

Inspired by a modern philosopher of English...and by my own state of mind.

O human-becoming, I wonder indeed
What is it that sets you in desperate need
Of someone to tell you that all that you do
Is coincidental, and therefore untrue?
O halfway-to-human, supposing you were
The product of God, if that’s what you prefer
Instead of good time..still, I think that your soul
Is partially empty, and therefore unwhole.
O helplessly human, yet suffering less
Than helpless humanity, would you possess
The key to your being? Much must be begun–
But you are obdurate, and therefore undone.

Another Entry Not in Prose

2005-06-16T09:43:00.000-07:00

My speech. Sometimes this is the only way I can fully explain what I'm thinking. I'm afraid many of these posts will find their expression in poetry rather than prose....I think I like its ambiguity. I can be obscure; I don't have to explain myself clearly and intelligibly.

Question

Once again I am constrained to think;
My mind retreats and cowers from the mention of exertion.
Should I begin to stumble on the brink
Of sanity, and overfed complacency – conversion
Of truth to idle fancy – , I should sink
Into the depth I once would not approach without coercion.

Once again I am obliged to move;
My members shift but little, and at this they voice objection
Should I remain unbroken, I should prove
The weakness of my will, and also that of my affection:
This travesty I sometimes call my love,
Between which and its Object there is little real connection.

Enough

2005-06-16T08:26:00.000-07:00

I've had enough. I probably haven't, really; but I think I have. It's good enough for me. I can't open a hole in this little brain wide enough to see through clearly. Is there time enough to discover truth enough by which to live? More. I want more. More than enough. Don't mind me; I'm just wishing... Three wishes. Fairy-tales. Never, never, never enough. I lived in fairy-tales. I wanted my life to be that simple, that beautiful. I hid from it. Life is but a dream. A dream! That's no life!--But that was mine. It's not enough.

Everyone thought I was odd. I knew I was. I admired them, but I knew I couldn't be that normal. They tried to help me; I kept running away from their kindness until they finally left me alone. Alone. Then I knew how hopeless that was. Always outside, wishing somehow to scratch the surface, to break through the mirror into reality. I could see love, but I couldn't touch it. I didn't know how to do anything real. Me, I was nothing. An actress. I still hate that child as much as I pity her, if not more. Heavens, this is too raw to be public. --Yet this is an experiment to see if I have thoughts, and if these are my only thoughts... maybe someday they'll be different. Maybe someday they'll be enough.

Dearth. That's all I feel. This person is too small to accomodate anything as large as life. So when am I going to stop trying? Isn't that why we surrender into obedience, submission? Isn't the realization of our evil and emptiness the impetus that drives us to our knees, to our faces in perfect weakness and repentance, broken before holiness? Why am I still raging to rule? I know all too well that is impossible for me; and still I am not broken-- only diseased, wounded, crazed. Is there no end to this all-consuming hatred? What in the name of heaven will break me, if nothing yet has done so? Bleed me dry. Destroy this flesh. Blessed are the meek. Oh, how blessed are they. Enough.

Immaturity

2005-06-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

I feel like being immature today. Once upon a time my soul was fifteen years too young. Now I know it must have been younger than that, to have thought so. I think right now I'm talking about love, life , law, and liberty all at once. But last winter I put a stop to all that--or maybe I didn't. At any rate, by the grace of God I'm free of that folly now. No longer abandoned to that form of self-torture. But sometimes, my past returns to haunt me...and I shake it off with a shudder of horror. I almost know who I am. I might know who I want to be. I'm terrified of who I've been and who I might become. Mostly I just want to be at peace with all of the aforementioned, and at peace with God.

Why is it I reopen wounds for pleasure from the pain?
Is misery my deepest joy, is loss my greatest gain?
But soft, my heart! Thou canst not know what love and life might be
While thou art spent in raging at thy self-taught misery--
Nay, law shall bind and break thee; liberty shall set thee free.

How dare I to suppose that I am great when I am small?
That I deserve to hope, that I deserve to live at all?
Lie still, thou coiled serpent-mind; breathe not thy breath on me--
Thy poison shall not be my wine, nor bread thy enmity.
O pity! Savior, pity! Heal my soul of leprosy!

2005-06-15T07:11:00.000-07:00

This will be me during my precalculus test at 9:30.

Poet-Kind

2005-06-14T06:44:00.000-07:00

It’s been a longish while since I last saw fortune smile
Or since last I met a truly happy muse
Most think invention trickles from the poison and the prickles,
Which means poets must perpetually bruise
I hate to think it’s true, some may believe my thoughts are gruesome
But the implication striking me with fear
Is that the muse of sorrow might be here and gone tomorrow
But for my eternal strife to keep it here
My soul is what my soul is, and it lowers the portcullis
Fast against the unfamiliar and unknown
The walls remain unbroken, but the smallest of a token
Of a bribe could well endanger any throne
My mind is stirred and muddied and my paper torn and bloodied
With the vehemence of thought and with the ink
That’s pulsing through my veining and methodically draining
From my heart into my penning as I think
It’s slow, convulsive dying and my fingers are implying
That the time has come to end the sorry farce
They tremble with the passion curving them to force and fashion
Alternating morbid hatred and remorse
The raven haunts me pertly, whether subtly or overtly
As a rigid shadow hopeless to defuse
It’s never my intention to usurp this fine invention
Though it lends its jawed projections to my muse
And, like the shadowed creature, I am bending ev’ry feature
Of the light into the darkness of my words
Unleashing temporary warbles from a weak canary
I am caged the blackest, bloodiest of birds
Come hear my singing, singing; see my soul come winging, bringing
Generosity upon the human race
Dig deeply to my nothing and return with utter loathing
Or with pity on my solitary face
I promised something better than a prison and a fetter
But the chains are worn in darkness out of sight
The sting is where the balm is--keep the fetter, break the promise
Sleep the day in dream, awaken to the night
Cry mercy to begin me, I can find no courage in me
And I’m wading through a formula of life
Disquiet overtakes me and defeat unduly breaks me
And I find that my philosophy is rife
With humanistic pleasure and with holes of ev’ry measure
And what truth remains is difficult to find
But mixed with blood and bruises and subjected to the muses,
Truth invents a paragon of poet-kind.

it's true

2005-06-13T10:44:00.000-07:00

i don't want to be here. I truly don't. I think I have nothing to say...yet I figure the only way I can find out whether or not I have anything to say is to begin saying some things. So I shall begin in this way, the only way I have spoken openly all my life.

I have what might be defined as the soul of a poet. Reclusive. Introverted. Extremely so. I strive toward excellence in my meager scribblings, but always find them to be no more than that--meager scribblings. I can fool myself for a while, but in the end I know it's only a lot of paper. Rubbish. And my soul is written on the pages--glimpses of it, pictures of it, representations and misrepresentations--that which I see or think I see, and most of all that which I cannot see and long to see. It's all here or there or nowhere. That--this--is my speech. For now. Someday I wonder, will I blink out of this cave into the sunlight? I don't want to be here, and for now I really don't want anyone to know I am here. My words, I think, count for nothing. What can they do? They serve only to explain what is, or to fabricate what is not. I know so little...of what can I speak?

No, i don't want to be here.