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, or mirrors all that strives to be so.
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 can be stupid. and banal.
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.”
I had embraced him as he was. Because. After having appealed to our greater existence, or the soul’s source of existence – as in, whatever that thing IS that creates 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
We may not have much reverence anymore, but if we did then we would have love.
ALL LOVE. Not only a fraction of it – not just accidental love –
Not just love we fell into – not only the best of it –
What we need is reverence.
I had so much to say, and now there is not much to say at all.
A quietness is the need of the moment.
I used to walk so quickly, everywhere, for any reason, for no reason.
And now it is SLOW. So… slow.
I think it’s learned.
The days of racing around, sweating, killing myself for a buck every night. It had become a habit that spilled over into everything. The pace of stress, of urgency.
A state of panic was normal.
But we can also trace that back to a sad childhood. A university education can teach you skills, but it can’t teach you that you deserve to use them.
Those days are another life. This life is different.
It’s a Friday night and I could be the one to go out. I used to envy those who had the luxury. I’m not going to but I feel so lucky.
This is my own kitchen table, by the window with the view of the hills, the neighbors’ yards and rooftops, a tall pine tree, fog rolling in over the evening. I can watch the sky go dark.
A flat of nectarines in front of me. A half-glass of wine.
Fish, rice, cauliflower – not much in the fridge right now but it’s enough for dinner.
I don’t need as much of everything as I used to. Too much, was routine. I don’t need to devour everything. I can just exist with it.
This didn’t happen overnight. It took two and a half years to begin to settle in.
Nothing is particularly urgent anymore, unless I want it to be. Emergency is no longer routine.
Emergency is no longer a lifestyle.
It’s so much more enjoyable. But mostly I am surprised by it.
I didn’t know it could be this way.
I never knew how anyone could be so calm.
I am grateful to be bored.
To create something of this time, speaks to the now. And may realize impact now. But with no guarantee of a future.
To create something ahead of its time, could only realize that level of impact later. And may not have significant influence now, nor enjoy full appreciation now. But its value may increase beyond expectation – later.
Nobody really knows exactly what later will look like. Nobody really knows the values of the future.
But the now has its flaws, and the future is more likely to admit it. The future’s success lies in the inevitable incompleteness of the now.
And the success in the now, is in that which is concerned with yesterday’s weaknesses.