We respect the known, the definable. But we also hold this too tightly.
A stable foundation prevents total chaos.
But all that gives life so much meaning – exceptional meaning – comes by
Part of the beauty of words is their definitions. But poetry understands definition to be a light thing. Lightness. An inexact art. Yet also a very precise art. But art requires flexibility, mutability, permeability, transformation. Art requires the flowering of unexpressed potentials.
Poetry is obviously the art of words. But because words are also useful, because they are also practical, because we associate them with a function, a very necessary and functional part of life, we want to understand them. We must understand them. We must, essentially, conquer them. Force ourselves upon them.
Poetry can not be forced upon. Poetry will always resist conquering. Not necessarily on purpose, but by nature. Meaning can be beautiful or it can be tyrannical. Poetry resists tyranny.
This is the problem with poetry. “America” does not like to think that there is anything that can not be conquered. Poetry is an unacceptable defeat.
Where we do not win, we reject.
There’s no real problem with words. Words are not the problem. It’s the meaning we assign to them. The values we assign to them. What we decide they’re worthy of. What we decide they’re used for. That’s the trouble.
Words are not inherently stupid. It’s opinions. Opinions can be so cheap.
Poetry isn’t cheap.
And we love cheap. We treasure the truly cheap. That’s the problem with poetry.
Poetry captures the invaluable. All that is invaluable.
All you could not hope to capture.
i find myself moving away from writing. but i will always write. but it’s not the grand central station of my imagination right now.
i am more interested in pictures. writing is too perfect.
so often i don’t know what to say anymore. because in an odd way i think all opinions, even the smartest ones, are stupid.
my world is full of words. communication is easy. but also i need to create in a world beyond words. i need to express without words. i know my words are stupid.
as all words can be. and this is why poetry exists. and one is not always equipped to write it.
words are to be respected more than they are.
i’m glad i no longer care
about things that only an asshole would care about.
Bad art isn’t low-quality.
Art itself is neutral. It assigns neither meaning nor value to itself. Art is just manifestations of consciousness that already exist anyway.
In truth, low-quality has nothing to do with art.
Low-quality is a state of mind. Low-quality is when you think you are better than other people — or, it’s when you let yourself think that other people are better than you.
A tea kettle whistling – someone else is up at 5:53 am too. A neighbor.
I’ve had a writer’s block and an artist’s block at the same time – I don’t remember the last time that happened.
Suffering gets boring.
I don’t regret recording it.
Paralysis, though – that’s an empty space – but something happens in it.
In the space of doing nothing.
A mystery to us. It doesn’t seem worth examining.
Consciousness needed to shift.
I prefer the hand just a little bit childlike sometimes.
Like what’s always come most naturally – a style mostly resisted.
What was wrong with that?
Why resist anything? Why resist anything?
It’s not always worth it to be so adult. What is beyond adult?
The struggle is too adult.
But artists aren’t childish, like they insinuate.
Art is ageless. Period.
TURNS OUT, NORMAL ACTUALLY IS OVERRATED
THE PAST IS DEAD
He told me that some woman he’d almost-dated or whatever walked up to him in public and said, “You’re a VILE person.”
After appealing to whatever seemed like the soul’s greater existence, as in, whatever that thing is that created us that is bigger than us, I thought, there is no good and there is no bad in the highest level of consciousness.
Later, after exposing all our fragments of psyche to the real, appealing to the soul again and again, having it blown apart, and piecing it back together, I thought,
Still. There is still no good and there is still no bad. Good and bad is a useful construct for civilization. But it is also an illusion. I am only aware enough to understand it. But I am not aware enough to feel something else. Something outside anguish.
Sometimes words are a sixth sense. And a message from a place beyond the conceived real. Even, a plea from this place. I thought, I don’t see it like her. But I know why she used that word.
“Vile” is a euphemism for “evil.”
“No you don’t.”
He really had to say I love you. It really couldn’t wait.
“I do, though,” he said.
“No. You don’t.” I tried not to laugh uneasily.
“I think that love is when you see someone’s shadow, and you don’t run” I said. “Maybe you’d even see something you never wanted to see. But you decide not to run.”
I can’t say if that’s how others have ever loved me. But that’s how I learned to love. A miracle of some kind. Because nobody in my lineage of relationship train wrecks ever taught me that. But it took too long to learn. My mind wandered to my true love. And what I knew made it true.
“Love is when you meet someone’s shadow, and forgive them for it. You distinguish it from yours, but you decide to embrace it too.”
Unless you don’t know how to do that. Then maybe you love and destroy. Maybe love gives rise to the very impulse to destroy. If you don’t know how to treat it. If you don’t know what you are doing.
Love is an action taken. Love is a decision. There’s no rushing it either. This is just an attraction, nothing more. It has no actual meaning. It is only the beginning of potential meaning. But potential is hollow.
I was looking for a different kind of embrace.
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“Really? You don’t?”
“Not yet.” I tried to put it more gently. But I didn’t. And I wasn’t sure I could.
“I don’t know your shadow,” I said. “And you don’t know mine.”
He got up to use the bathroom.
My eyes filled with tears as he exited the room.
Our spirits are bigger than the argument
Let them be afraid and reactive
Let that fear blind them
Let blindness make them stupid
Let them sell excuses
Let them have their stories
Let them bypass details
Let them dismiss insights
Let them trust their defects
Let them evade redress
Just let them be wrong
Let them be the asshole
Let them talk their shit
Let them act out
It is okay