And then there was...

rnh, 5-22-11

Once, somewhere, I thought of what it might be like to feel. Always, everywhere, I swim in the myriad confusion of existence (with others).

It’s late, again. I’m drunk on cheap beer. Smoke rolls and twists and fades.

There isn’t much of concern, though the walls seem more out of reach.

I think of that Japanese girl who lived with us once, and wonder if she ever thinks of me. She was so young, and so small. She gave me a kimono as a gift. It sits in a drawer now. 

Currently, I read: living from life, dying from death.

“I will record a story of love
in the heart of time,
and play it back softly
for the one who becomes mine.”

Isn’t it all so very lovely:

recollecting the depths of a winter’s chill,

sketching the promise

of a summer midday?

5 minute poem

If there's anything I've learned
from philosophy


it is to step
back.

Darwin exposed.

We are all just moths,

flapping appendages,

buzzing towards the light.


_

Day 2

Just bought my second Starbucks drink of the day:

Coffee frap with whip cream.

Whip cream because, when asked by the barista, I replied,

"Well I can't say no to whip."

Now I'm watching bodies move along
the pavement and gutters that
hold waste of those less fortunate.

I gather myself
for Danny
for a drive to Santa Rosa
over the Golden Gate

because life doesn't pause, wallow.

It continues, unencumbered.
Even after days of white walls
and empty corridors.

Traffic

I handed a homeless man
a five dollar bill
just to see what he would say

The homeless man took
the five dollar bill
and said something
I can't understand

Meditative practices. And eating.

This is one of my favorite poems of all time:

The Orange

by Benjamin Rosenbaum

An orange ruled the world.

It was an unexpected thing, the temporary abdication of Heavenly Providence, entrusting the whole matter to a simple orange.

The orange, in a grove in Florida, humbly accepted the honor. The other oranges, the birds, and the men in their tractors wept with joy; the tractors' motors rumbled hymns of praise.

Airplane pilots passing over would circle the grove and tell their passengers, "Below us is the grove where the orange who rules the world grows on a simple branch." And the passengers would be silent with awe.

The governor of Florida declared every day a holiday. On summer afternoons the Dalai Lama would come to the grove and sit with the orange, and talk about life.

When the time came for the orange to be picked, none of the migrant workers would do it: they went on strike. The foremen wept. The other oranges swore they would turn sour. But the orange who ruled the world said, "No, my friends; it is time."

Finally a man from Chicago, with a heart as windy and cold as Lake Michigan in wintertime, was brought in. He put down his briefcase, climbed up on a ladder, and picked the orange. The birds were silent and the clouds had gone away. The orange thanked the man from Chicago.

They say that when the orange went through the national produce processing and distribution system, certain machines turned to gold, truck drivers had epiphanies, aging rural store managers called their estranged lesbian daughters on Wall Street and all was forgiven.

I bought the orange who ruled the world for 39 cents at Safeway three days ago, and for three days he sat in my fruit basket and was my teacher. Today, he told me, "it is time," and I ate him.

Now we are on our own again.



.

Mal/Un/Non Titled

Some say this is a field of dreams. Well, baby, I'm a dreamer.

This road might carry you all the way through, splitting between the mountains and on past the trees. (And by you I mean you, all of you, not just you or you. Us. We. That is, if you choose to join.)

Or maybe you'll end up wandering, floundering astray. In the margins, peasant-like. Begging for a generous hand.

Well, to them I say that:

Not all who wander are aimless.

But I would also tell them that:

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.

Etc.

Cognitive flooding.

Studying Moral Epistemology can be mentally draining. That's why we invented day dreaming:

It is you
yes, very much you
and it is me.

Rock and roll, yes, roll
thick rock, raw, unending roll.
Oceans roll.

Slide up spines
where solace lies,
tumble in deepest pits

Tainted with mud, perhaps. Or salt. Sea salt.
The kind that flushes out wounds
and harbors jelly fish.
Oceans roll.

Lush
lush like cotton candy
or Victorian extravagance, suffocating
liberating.

Grooves of palms
carve ribs
sweet, raw.

Hold me paralyzed
with your fingertips
like puppet strings
like fire.
like ice.

Melt into me
roll through me.
Oceans roll.

I am your jellyfish.

Etching smiles into tombstones

Exerpts from personal journal entries/ramblings


Oct. 1, 2009

I sat on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg to watch leaves fall. An old, crippled man shuffled towards the end of the gravel path and a mother helped her new baby with his first steps

A joy of life renewed

...


Do you paddle past an eddy,
Pull through a lull? Why not
Pull in the paddles, spin,
Stretch your arms wide
And touch the edges of this moment?
-Kay Satre



Oct. 26, 2009

Extreme tension
Surging through my wrists
Grinding behind my eyes
Clenching between my teeth
Carving out the insides
Of my mouth


But my heart is beating



Nov. 1, 2009


Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait

Lesson #12: Don’t waste your life waiting



Nov. 6, 2009

Tell me, baby
Are you still on the stoop
Watching the windows close?



I bought a train ticket to Marseille. I had no plans to take anyone with me, or to meet anyone there. I traveled to southern France alone to breath in the salty air of the sea and taste the colors of the sunset in blissful solitude. The strange place that welcomed me sat beside me by the harbor without asking any questions.

I made a friend with a gentleman named Paul, a native New Zealander, but who grew up in London. His accent was spectacular. His words lingered between us and I grabbed them with my fingertips. We laughed about how dirty Marseille was as we followed the boats at the dock.


“Did you know this is one of the oldest cities in France?” He offered.

“How exactly do you determine the age of a city?” I asked.

He shrugged. I didn’t press him. We continued walking.



Later we drank coffee and listened to rap and played poker.






Nov. 6-8, 2009

...And now, writing this, I’m on a train to Barcelona with an empty seat next to mine and a bag of trailmix and applesauce at my shoeless feet. The window reveals boundless miles of compacted red rooftops punctuating rolling, quiet hills. A disgruntled infant kicks my backrest, screaming for his mother. I’ve showed my passport more times than I should have, and I don’t entirely know how to get where I am going when I arrive. But I watched the seaside pass, finding nothing wrong with this moment.







Maybe we could forget everything and
You could come and steal me
And we could freeze time

Though you’re far away from me now
There’s something you should know:
My hands have not forgotten yours

Footnotes

We rolled around in a sleeping bag with our shoes on
Our friends drinking whiskey beneath us in a cloud of smoke
You were afraid to say the things you wanted to say
I knew what you wanted to say

We played our guessing game, my knees bumped into yours
but you didn’t move them
You bit my lips with your teeth
under a sea of stars on a cloudless night
and I wondered if we would get married one day

Over the phone
I told you, "You’re my shining sun"
Scratched the words right into the sky with my tongue
I wasn’t old enough to drive yet

You pressed your chest against mine
in the heat of endless summers
when you'd run your fingers through my veins
and smile the way you always did

I pealed my freckles when the trees lost their leaves
in another city
where the streets don't connect

You always loved my freckles

Rue Daguerre, 8:56am

A shop keeper rearranges his display of tomatoes.


Merci, and an exchange of brief kisses.


A fair-skinned lady in a dress far too snug for her backside fixes strands of hair in a store window reflection and the light turns from red to green.


Poor man, you sit patiently on your rug under your doorway in your rags and I have nothing that would satisfy you.


A butcher in a soiled apron stands behind a glass enclosure of slaughtered fish, exposing missing teeth with his head cocked back in a hearty chuckle.


Two small, elder Asian women wobble in stilettos and a boy races home with baguettes cradeled tightly in his arms.


A sturdy man of business holds his briefcase pacing quickly eyes turned up and doesn't notice the change of unforgiving pavement.


A deep voice barks LES CREVETTES, IMBECILE but the shrimp is already overcooked.


Free samples for early risers and lovers meet for cigarettes at the corner cafe.


In floral print and tassled bangs a wife helps her hunch-backed elder grandmother and she knows her time is near.


A careless hand flicks ash on my shoulder and aged cheese and fresh bread warm the crisp morning air.


8:57am