Thursday, February 5, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
En Memoriam
Mortality is a disheveled hospital blanket.
Groaning beneath a thin film of unconsciousness, a fitful life battles tirelessly and without peace. For what peace is to be had from IV needles, catheterized genitals, prodding aids with cold fingers and sterile voices? And, that thick smell of packaged gauze, spilt urine covered in ammonia.
The soul is made tangible in the vision of a dying man neglected in a hospital bed. Wounded and defeated, he shrinks from touch, both foreign and familiar. He responds almost imperceptibly to the call of his name, issuing only a shift in position or a more booming and staccato grunt.
With the body's diseased surrender, the soul regains the helm, and, like a masterful puppeteer, rattles the flesh in wordless repose until each jerk, each moan, each writhing gesture mirrors its true state. No more can the masks of reason, fear and pride deny the internal ache. The loss of dignity is the birth of an unimpeded soulful existence.
Fresh air is an expectorant of the soul. A taunting vision of a vast horizon peppered with evergreens and silver clouds lures the final breath from its organic entrapments. Sunlight finds his face as though offering direction. The soul's compass reorients its axis. North becomes skyward. South retreats to the bowels of the earth. East and West are left to the mortals still fit and able to roam on land.
Mortality is an Ethiopian woman wiping feces from your testicles.
If life is fragile, death is a wafer thin teacup balanced precariously in the mouth of a lit canon.
Groaning beneath a thin film of unconsciousness, a fitful life battles tirelessly and without peace. For what peace is to be had from IV needles, catheterized genitals, prodding aids with cold fingers and sterile voices? And, that thick smell of packaged gauze, spilt urine covered in ammonia.
The soul is made tangible in the vision of a dying man neglected in a hospital bed. Wounded and defeated, he shrinks from touch, both foreign and familiar. He responds almost imperceptibly to the call of his name, issuing only a shift in position or a more booming and staccato grunt.
With the body's diseased surrender, the soul regains the helm, and, like a masterful puppeteer, rattles the flesh in wordless repose until each jerk, each moan, each writhing gesture mirrors its true state. No more can the masks of reason, fear and pride deny the internal ache. The loss of dignity is the birth of an unimpeded soulful existence.
Fresh air is an expectorant of the soul. A taunting vision of a vast horizon peppered with evergreens and silver clouds lures the final breath from its organic entrapments. Sunlight finds his face as though offering direction. The soul's compass reorients its axis. North becomes skyward. South retreats to the bowels of the earth. East and West are left to the mortals still fit and able to roam on land.
Mortality is an Ethiopian woman wiping feces from your testicles.
If life is fragile, death is a wafer thin teacup balanced precariously in the mouth of a lit canon.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
La Fleur et La Poesie
Aster
Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Contentment
Begonia
The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines-too subtly twisted to unroll -
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian Church-that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong;
While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Work and Contemplation
White Chrysanthemum
If heaven were to do again,
And on the pasture bars,
I leaned to line the figures in
Between the d otted starts,
I should be tempted to forget,
I fear, the Crown of Rule,
The Scales of Trade, the Cross of Faith,
As hardly worth renewal.
For these have governed in our lives,
And see how men have warred.
The Cross, the Crown, the Scales may all
As well have been the Sword.
Robert Frost, The Peaceful Shepherd
Geranium
Shall look on Helen's face in hell,
Whilst those who love is thin and wise
May view John Knox in paradise.
Dorothy Parker, Partial Comfort
Heather
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough on its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
the echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing car.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Solitude
Larkspur
quicksilvering
The whole tree in a single sweep.
What bright scale fell and left this needle quivering?
What loaded balances have come to grief?
Seamus Heaney, The Spirit Level
Lilac
My face turned pale, a deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away.
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
John Clare, First Love
Orange Blossom
The angels, whispering one to another,
Can find among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I have long called you,
You who are more than mother unto me,
And filled my heart of hearts, where death installed you,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother -- my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are the mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
But that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul that its soul-life.
Edgar Allan Poe, To My Mother
Passion Flower
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I'd hazard death to-morrow.
Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.
Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.
Charlotte Bronte, Passion
Star of Bethlehem
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --
And sweetest -- in the G ale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --
I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.
Emily Dickinson
Zinnia
When to the session of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death¹s dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish¹d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
William Shakespeare
Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Contentment
Begonia
The woman singeth at her spinning-wheelA pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines-too subtly twisted to unroll -
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian Church-that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong;
While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Work and Contemplation
White Chrysanthemum
seeker of truth
follow no path
all paths lead where
truth is here
e.e. cummings, seeker of truth
Cosmos
If heaven were to do again,And on the pasture bars,
I leaned to line the figures in
Between the d otted starts,
I should be tempted to forget,
I fear, the Crown of Rule,
The Scales of Trade, the Cross of Faith,
As hardly worth renewal.
For these have governed in our lives,
And see how men have warred.
The Cross, the Crown, the Scales may all
As well have been the Sword.
Robert Frost, The Peaceful Shepherd
Geranium
Shall look on Helen's face in hell,
Whilst those who love is thin and wise
May view John Knox in paradise.
Dorothy Parker, Partial Comfort
Heather
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough on its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
the echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing car.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Solitude
Larkspur
quicksilvering
The whole tree in a single sweep.
What bright scale fell and left this needle quivering?
What loaded balances have come to grief?
Seamus Heaney, The Spirit Level
Lilac
My face turned pale, a deadly pale.My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away.
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
John Clare, First Love
Orange Blossom
The angels, whispering one to another,
Can find among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I have long called you,
You who are more than mother unto me,
And filled my heart of hearts, where death installed you,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother -- my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are the mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
But that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul that its soul-life.
Edgar Allan Poe, To My Mother
Passion Flower
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I'd hazard death to-morrow.
Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.
Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.
Charlotte Bronte, Passion
Star of Bethlehem
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --
And sweetest -- in the G ale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --
I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.
Emily Dickinson
Zinnia
When to the session of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death¹s dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish¹d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
William Shakespeare
Friday, December 12, 2008
Cypress:Tree of Light
Even though I have the inclination to move onto some new imagery, namely the legendary phoenix bird, I choose to revisit this Cypress. In rereading my blog, I had only begun research and then abandoned the process of it. I find this is a tendency of mine: to pursue with passion and then walk away when the fire fades.
I'll none of that. The Cypress is far to important a locus for my identity to treat as a flippant fancy. Here are some words for my meditation from my readings met with the words you gave so generously:
tree of light in a desolate place of death
reviving tonic to women in labor
mythically ancient
bark: hard, fine, close in grain, durable, beautiful reddish-brown color
resinously fragrant
cypress twig secures free and safe passage across borders
the earth spirit of the East dwells in the cypress, and a portion of its immense life force can be absorbed if the resin is chewed
whispers in the wind and asks the birds of the air to deliver its messages
when harmed all the other trees will assemble at night to heal its wounds.
involves "bathing" in the fresh and healing air of a forest of cypress trees
I am inclined to first taste of the Cypress and enjoy its splendor. Instead of superficially identifying with these characteristics, I want to meditate on them for me, not through me.
The paradox of a powerful light, is that it is most brilliant in the darkest of places. Were I kneeling at the end of all things, I would trust the Cypress to guide my horizon and draw my eyes heavenward. I see a spiraling Cypress, evergreen and flaunting its life like a protuberant, proud chest, held high in the face of fear. I would rely on the Cypress to sway, carrying an odorous message to the falcon perched atop. "Guard her. Shelter her."
When my only comfort threatens to be cloak upon robe upon ragged garb over my flesh, the Cypress woos me from shame, from a mask of fear. Rather than hide from death and be weighed down in my claustrophobic attire, the elucidating presence of the Cypress inspires me to disrobe. I do desire to stand naked, bathing in her resinous, healing light. My body has too long been broken under these suffocating fears. My arthritic hands, my swollen knees, my fragile ankles, my clenched jaw, my organs burning, cramping, aching.
But, to be nude amidst so much death. To stand with nothing but peach flesh to separate you from the wintry cement of the grave. To open my arms to the starred sky and receive what the fates have long intended. To be comforted by the tree of my now. Disarmed, unimpeded, I proceed to her roots with tempered gate baring only the audacious hope of metamorphosis.
The pangs of a new life have doubled me over in a weary acclimation of daily pain. She rises, consuming my line of sight as I fall to her base. My eyes ask for her sacrifice and I am instantly reassured. "Partake." Drawn to the reddish brown bark of her trunk, my fingers delicately pry a shard of sturdy, dense meat. The smell is tantalizing, like the earth and sea mated in a bed of moonlight. I chew. The bittersweet flakes melt into a sticky sap, which sticks to my teeth like hard candy. Relief.
As I swallow, I feel a warm arm touch my ankle. As I look down in blissful comfort, I see a root, dark and foreboding against the white of my skin. Yet, there is no fear in me, even when I reach for it out of habit. The pockets of my doubt, self-abasement, and flagellation are spilled out on the rotting ground beyond my ken. As my hair is swept up in the wind, it snags onto the splintered edges of the base of the Cypress. I inhale the now overwhelmingly pungent aroma as my face is pressed against the tree. Freely, I wrap my arms around this sacred bush. I cannot see my legs, which have been carefully folded into the earth through a system of powerfully old roots.
Earth bound. Though the stars would call me home, I linger. Held fast by my sister, the Cypress. My pink skin has become but a reflection on her limbs, which one would mistake for the glare of moonlight. Together, we whisper to the birds, comfort the mourning, offer sacred balm to the birthing, and linger to meet death's sting with the warmth of a tender light.
I'll none of that. The Cypress is far to important a locus for my identity to treat as a flippant fancy. Here are some words for my meditation from my readings met with the words you gave so generously:
tree of light in a desolate place of death
reviving tonic to women in labor
mythically ancient
bark: hard, fine, close in grain, durable, beautiful reddish-brown color
resinously fragrant
cypress twig secures free and safe passage across borders
the earth spirit of the East dwells in the cypress, and a portion of its immense life force can be absorbed if the resin is chewed
whispers in the wind and asks the birds of the air to deliver its messages
when harmed all the other trees will assemble at night to heal its wounds.
involves "bathing" in the fresh and healing air of a forest of cypress trees
I am inclined to first taste of the Cypress and enjoy its splendor. Instead of superficially identifying with these characteristics, I want to meditate on them for me, not through me.
The paradox of a powerful light, is that it is most brilliant in the darkest of places. Were I kneeling at the end of all things, I would trust the Cypress to guide my horizon and draw my eyes heavenward. I see a spiraling Cypress, evergreen and flaunting its life like a protuberant, proud chest, held high in the face of fear. I would rely on the Cypress to sway, carrying an odorous message to the falcon perched atop. "Guard her. Shelter her."
When my only comfort threatens to be cloak upon robe upon ragged garb over my flesh, the Cypress woos me from shame, from a mask of fear. Rather than hide from death and be weighed down in my claustrophobic attire, the elucidating presence of the Cypress inspires me to disrobe. I do desire to stand naked, bathing in her resinous, healing light. My body has too long been broken under these suffocating fears. My arthritic hands, my swollen knees, my fragile ankles, my clenched jaw, my organs burning, cramping, aching.
But, to be nude amidst so much death. To stand with nothing but peach flesh to separate you from the wintry cement of the grave. To open my arms to the starred sky and receive what the fates have long intended. To be comforted by the tree of my now. Disarmed, unimpeded, I proceed to her roots with tempered gate baring only the audacious hope of metamorphosis.
The pangs of a new life have doubled me over in a weary acclimation of daily pain. She rises, consuming my line of sight as I fall to her base. My eyes ask for her sacrifice and I am instantly reassured. "Partake." Drawn to the reddish brown bark of her trunk, my fingers delicately pry a shard of sturdy, dense meat. The smell is tantalizing, like the earth and sea mated in a bed of moonlight. I chew. The bittersweet flakes melt into a sticky sap, which sticks to my teeth like hard candy. Relief.
As I swallow, I feel a warm arm touch my ankle. As I look down in blissful comfort, I see a root, dark and foreboding against the white of my skin. Yet, there is no fear in me, even when I reach for it out of habit. The pockets of my doubt, self-abasement, and flagellation are spilled out on the rotting ground beyond my ken. As my hair is swept up in the wind, it snags onto the splintered edges of the base of the Cypress. I inhale the now overwhelmingly pungent aroma as my face is pressed against the tree. Freely, I wrap my arms around this sacred bush. I cannot see my legs, which have been carefully folded into the earth through a system of powerfully old roots.
Earth bound. Though the stars would call me home, I linger. Held fast by my sister, the Cypress. My pink skin has become but a reflection on her limbs, which one would mistake for the glare of moonlight. Together, we whisper to the birds, comfort the mourning, offer sacred balm to the birthing, and linger to meet death's sting with the warmth of a tender light.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
A Morning Sky
As I opened my car door to head to the U-district for a proctoring gig, I was lulled into slow motion, mesmerized by the sky. At first, I couldn't quite place the distinct brilliance of the blue, the close crystallized clouds shimmered in butter yellow. Whirling back to a normal speed, I realized that it was simply morning.
Even now, I cannot remember the last morning I greeted outdoors. The air seemed sweeter, less recycled by the day's breath and pollution. The colors sharper, a piercing glow that both held and stirred me. I felt I had a secret I could not wait to share.
As it so happens, my proctoring services were not needed. I willingly laid down my day of work to another, and in return received a gift from the gods, a spontaneous morning with my dear friend, Jenae.
We ventured to Vi
vace's new location for an incomparable cappuccino and latte. We mused about being 30: settling into self, trusting our passions to surface in their own time, choosing wellness in our work, feeling hopeful.
All in all, a delicious morning. Mornings. Hmmm... I must sample more of them - from time to time.
Even now, I cannot remember the last morning I greeted outdoors. The air seemed sweeter, less recycled by the day's breath and pollution. The colors sharper, a piercing glow that both held and stirred me. I felt I had a secret I could not wait to share.
Shhh... Let me whisper it in your ear.
As it so happens, my proctoring services were not needed. I willingly laid down my day of work to another, and in return received a gift from the gods, a spontaneous morning with my dear friend, Jenae.We ventured to Vi
vace's new location for an incomparable cappuccino and latte. We mused about being 30: settling into self, trusting our passions to surface in their own time, choosing wellness in our work, feeling hopeful.All in all, a delicious morning. Mornings. Hmmm... I must sample more of them - from time to time.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
I Can French Inhale
"The guys really go for it. And that's how I got my nickname, Frenchy. "
"Sure it is!"
~ Grease
It's immerse myself in French time. Here is a list of to read, to watch, and to learn French by:
Books:
L'Etranger, Albert Camus
Le Petit Prince, Antoine du Saint-Exupery
Le Malade Imaginaire, Moliere
Boule de Suif, Guy de Maupassante
Les fiançailles de Monsieur Hire, Georges Simenon
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo
Movies:
La Haine - Hate
Le Pacte de Loup - Brotherhood of the Wolf
Les Amants du Pont-Neuf - Lovers on a Bridge
Les Diner de Cons - The Dinner Game
Trois Couleurs: Bleu, Bialy, & Rouge - Three Colors Series: Blue, Red & White
Poetry:
Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire
Une saison en enfer, Arthur Rimbaud
Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes, Honore de Balzac
Le Moyen Court Et Autres Écrits Spirituels, Jeanne-Marie Bouvier de la Motte-Guyon
La Mort en perse, Anne-Marie Schwarzenbach
La Vie dan las plis, Henri Michaux
Shall we inhale together?
"Sure it is!"
~ Grease
It's immerse myself in French time. Here is a list of to read, to watch, and to learn French by:
Books:
L'Etranger, Albert Camus
Le Petit Prince, Antoine du Saint-Exupery
Le Malade Imaginaire, Moliere
Boule de Suif, Guy de Maupassante
Les fiançailles de Monsieur Hire, Georges Simenon
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo
Movies:
La Haine - Hate
Le Pacte de Loup - Brotherhood of the Wolf
Les Amants du Pont-Neuf - Lovers on a Bridge
Les Diner de Cons - The Dinner Game
Trois Couleurs: Bleu, Bialy, & Rouge - Three Colors Series: Blue, Red & White
Poetry:
Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire
Une saison en enfer, Arthur Rimbaud
Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes, Honore de Balzac
Le Moyen Court Et Autres Écrits Spirituels, Jeanne-Marie Bouvier de la Motte-Guyon
La Mort en perse, Anne-Marie Schwarzenbach
La Vie dan las plis, Henri Michaux
Shall we inhale together?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Dream Gum
My dreams, as many of you know, are insatiably visceral. A recurrent character of late has been chewing gum. I don't often chew gum, so dreaming consistently about it is curious as it is. But, this seemingly harmless gum overtakes my mouth the moment the dream reaches its climax (think literary).
I struggle to pry it from my teeth and gums as it is lodged on the roof of my mouth and down my throat, gagging me. I then have to pull it from my throat without it breaking off, which it always does. I am forced to swallow the large lump of gum. Finding some relief at having come through this ordeal, I return to face my dream, only...
... I wake up.
Here is what dreammoods.com has to say:
To dream that you are unable to get rid of your gum, suggests that you are experiencing some indecision, powerlessness or frustration. You may lack understanding in a situation or find that a current problem is overwhelming.
I struggle to pry it from my teeth and gums as it is lodged on the roof of my mouth and down my throat, gagging me. I then have to pull it from my throat without it breaking off, which it always does. I am forced to swallow the large lump of gum. Finding some relief at having come through this ordeal, I return to face my dream, only...
... I wake up.
Here is what dreammoods.com has to say:
To dream that you are unable to get rid of your gum, suggests that you are experiencing some indecision, powerlessness or frustration. You may lack understanding in a situation or find that a current problem is overwhelming.
Hail Joseph! This is precisely my perplexing condition. The word of my undoing - overwhelming.
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