19.
Tonight
Is not the night
Your life changes like you
So long dreamed under tree-shadow,
Dumb kid
20.
Promise
Is for the young.
How to see the future
As ascending blast of guts and
Talent
21.
In Ed's
Room, his finger
Jabbed into my soft chest,
He seems to think that I did this
To him
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
Cinquains
11.
Listen
Applicant, your
Resume must whisper
Profit, Ivy. Or admit you
Submit.
12.
When you
won't go the speed
limit, I say “Come on,
are you new to driving?” like I
hate you
13.
Master
I called for you
for hours until my throat
was raw and torn but you didn't
appear
14.
Master
I called for you;
you came and put the room
in order never asking why
I called
NOTES FROM THE PSYCH WARD
16.
The ward
stifles Edward
needs a cigarette and
fresh air all he needs, like any
person
17.
The meds
Flatten feeling
The me I know is gone
Wretched as I was before I know this
Is wrong
18.
Caitlyn
Is twenty one
Mixed lithium and booze
Called the help-line slumping into
Coma
Listen
Applicant, your
Resume must whisper
Profit, Ivy. Or admit you
Submit.
12.
When you
won't go the speed
limit, I say “Come on,
are you new to driving?” like I
hate you
13.
Master
I called for you
for hours until my throat
was raw and torn but you didn't
appear
14.
Master
I called for you;
you came and put the room
in order never asking why
I called
NOTES FROM THE PSYCH WARD
16.
The ward
stifles Edward
needs a cigarette and
fresh air all he needs, like any
person
17.
The meds
Flatten feeling
The me I know is gone
Wretched as I was before I know this
Is wrong
18.
Caitlyn
Is twenty one
Mixed lithium and booze
Called the help-line slumping into
Coma
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Poverty of Spirit
Over 15 percent of Americans live in poverty. That's over 46 million people. I fail to comprehend how people can claim with straight faces that deregulation and lowering taxes on the wealthy will raise people out of poverty. We've been following that tack as a country for decades now and even during boom times, the income gap has widened.
The more we deregulate, the more we relax the tax burden on the wealthy, the more wealth will concentrate in the 1%. It's not as if there's an unlimited amount of money. If we lower taxes on the wealthy, they will have more money. Natch. They are not likely to share it. George Bush doesn't care about black people. The Dick Cheneys and Kochs of the world do not care about poor people. They care about their friends. It's human nature. Explain to me how lowering taxes is going to bring jobs to cities with no industry? Will it bring the steel mills back to Bethlehem? Will Detroit's crumbling architecture be returned to its former glory. Or have tectonic shifts occurred in this country's demographic landscape, condemning certain areas to slow death.
Does anyone actually believe the tortured proposition that is the centerpiece of the loudest conservative argument on addressing poverty: that making the rich richer will also make the poor richer. Will we all get richer to infinity?
That's why we have progressive tax. Redistribution of wealth is not a socialist scheme to ruin America. Taxation is, by definition, redistribution of wealth. The rich person subsidizes the indigent's police protection, fire service, road maintenance.
You know what the poverty line for a single person is as of Sept 2011? $10,890. Is it supposed to be acceptable that 15 percent of the citizens of this great and powerful nation make less than $11,000 a year? I guess that's a bit of hyperbole: the line moves up depending on the size of your family. A family of four is below the poverty line if its income is below $22,350.
I have heard people argue that America's poor are wealthy compared to, say, African poor. Are you shitting me? A kid living in the slum has a cell phone and nice sneakers that a kid in the Congo could never afford, so the American kid is really well off. No matter that he's moved seven times in the last six months because his mom's minimum wage job can't pay the rent. In fact, it's his fault, it's his mom's fault for daring to spend money on sneakers and cell phones.
Aside: Where would some powerful American companies be without the money they reap from the poor community?
I'm not insensitive to the fact that bad regs can hurt businesses large and small alike. I also think there's some merit to the argument that the way that social welfare programs are administered can encourage dependence and teach helplessness. And I certainly would like the tax code to be simplified. But let's fix these problems. Let's not assume that, because our social service system is near broken, that an efficient social service system cannot exist. Have people who want to end public assistance considered what would happen? Many cities would essentially go up in flames as people with no money, no jobs, and no hope, drove out those with enough money to flee. People would starve to death in some areas. We should be putting more energy and more money into the shameful state of poverty in this country. So absolutely, let's rewrite the tax code. But let's make it fairer, not more oppressive to the lower classes (I'm looking at you flat taxers).
The more we deregulate, the more we relax the tax burden on the wealthy, the more wealth will concentrate in the 1%. It's not as if there's an unlimited amount of money. If we lower taxes on the wealthy, they will have more money. Natch. They are not likely to share it. George Bush doesn't care about black people. The Dick Cheneys and Kochs of the world do not care about poor people. They care about their friends. It's human nature. Explain to me how lowering taxes is going to bring jobs to cities with no industry? Will it bring the steel mills back to Bethlehem? Will Detroit's crumbling architecture be returned to its former glory. Or have tectonic shifts occurred in this country's demographic landscape, condemning certain areas to slow death.
Does anyone actually believe the tortured proposition that is the centerpiece of the loudest conservative argument on addressing poverty: that making the rich richer will also make the poor richer. Will we all get richer to infinity?
That's why we have progressive tax. Redistribution of wealth is not a socialist scheme to ruin America. Taxation is, by definition, redistribution of wealth. The rich person subsidizes the indigent's police protection, fire service, road maintenance.
You know what the poverty line for a single person is as of Sept 2011? $10,890. Is it supposed to be acceptable that 15 percent of the citizens of this great and powerful nation make less than $11,000 a year? I guess that's a bit of hyperbole: the line moves up depending on the size of your family. A family of four is below the poverty line if its income is below $22,350.
I have heard people argue that America's poor are wealthy compared to, say, African poor. Are you shitting me? A kid living in the slum has a cell phone and nice sneakers that a kid in the Congo could never afford, so the American kid is really well off. No matter that he's moved seven times in the last six months because his mom's minimum wage job can't pay the rent. In fact, it's his fault, it's his mom's fault for daring to spend money on sneakers and cell phones.
Aside: Where would some powerful American companies be without the money they reap from the poor community?
I'm not insensitive to the fact that bad regs can hurt businesses large and small alike. I also think there's some merit to the argument that the way that social welfare programs are administered can encourage dependence and teach helplessness. And I certainly would like the tax code to be simplified. But let's fix these problems. Let's not assume that, because our social service system is near broken, that an efficient social service system cannot exist. Have people who want to end public assistance considered what would happen? Many cities would essentially go up in flames as people with no money, no jobs, and no hope, drove out those with enough money to flee. People would starve to death in some areas. We should be putting more energy and more money into the shameful state of poverty in this country. So absolutely, let's rewrite the tax code. But let's make it fairer, not more oppressive to the lower classes (I'm looking at you flat taxers).
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Free Market Fantasy
I.
Can there be any such thing as a free stock market when corporations and stock exchanges are creations of law? The stock market is a rarefied OTB where gamblers/investors/speculators place bets on companies' success or failure. Because the shares are fungible and entitle the largest holders a say in the operation of the corporation, the quickest paydays will be made by artificially inflating the value of the the corporation at the expense of long-term planning. Success has become synonymous with apparent profitability. Investors expect an eternal rise in profits.
II.
Both corporations and markets are entirely legal creations. Thus, there is no such thing as a "free" or "unregulated" stock market. If the power of law is in the people and the authority for the corporation and stock market created by law, then we the people should ensure that corporations operate for the maximum benefit of the people as a whole. Acting as if a certain set of rules that protects the supremacy of the powerful represents a state of freedom is how this nation's elite have convinced a majority of the populace that we need to treat GE in the same way that we treat Pop's Grocery.
Can there be any such thing as a free stock market when corporations and stock exchanges are creations of law? The stock market is a rarefied OTB where gamblers/investors/speculators place bets on companies' success or failure. Because the shares are fungible and entitle the largest holders a say in the operation of the corporation, the quickest paydays will be made by artificially inflating the value of the the corporation at the expense of long-term planning. Success has become synonymous with apparent profitability. Investors expect an eternal rise in profits.
II.
Both corporations and markets are entirely legal creations. Thus, there is no such thing as a "free" or "unregulated" stock market. If the power of law is in the people and the authority for the corporation and stock market created by law, then we the people should ensure that corporations operate for the maximum benefit of the people as a whole. Acting as if a certain set of rules that protects the supremacy of the powerful represents a state of freedom is how this nation's elite have convinced a majority of the populace that we need to treat GE in the same way that we treat Pop's Grocery.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Claiming Ignorance as Hard-Won Bounty
Surely every season sees days of grey that blot memory of life-giving light. Yet this grey feels more ominous, more complete, more awful, more intentional than a mere southern squall line or western front. This is no front, but the vanguard of the heavenly host riding to finish what so blithely we began.
From dead bat-choked cave, field of uranium, silo, from unmarked grave issue dark warriors obeying our every command. Deny it we must, but call them we did.
From dead bat-choked cave, field of uranium, silo, from unmarked grave issue dark warriors obeying our every command. Deny it we must, but call them we did.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
24-inch titanium alloy. Longer lasting mascara.
Keep your responsible investing schemes and your 501(c)(3)s, Priuses, compost, and grass-fed beef in your 401-k tax deferred superfund, fully vested in a halflife, dollar for dollar, up to 33% APR. Keep it.
Dial up your sleep number, program your coffeemaker, set the cruise control, keep it in the black, produce.
Get better ideas faster easier. Free time to sculpt yourself into tumescent Rococo twirls, twists, bulges.
Soak in the chemical bath, fight fibromyalgia, schizoaffective panic disorder, carpal tunnel vision, succumb to input addiction.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Guilt, Greed and Good Intentions
I am in the process of trying to find a new(er) home for my yellow lab puppy Eowyn. I have wanted a dog since I can remember. For years it was impossible because of my city digs and erratic schedule. Then, once I started working regular hours, my landlord wouldn't allow it. Now, with a place in the country and the passing of our ancient cat, I thought "this is the time."
I filled out an application with the local humane society. I was approved and they began to work with me to try to find a dog that would be a good match. The biggest obstacle was that I am away for 10 hours a day, which is a lot for a dog. Mrs. Beckett, a teacher, works longer hours than me, leaving earlier, returning later.
Then a coworker showed me a pic on her cell phone of a gorgeous little yellow lab pup. My coworker's friend's god daughter was trying to find someone to adopt her. I was all over it. Perfect! Labs are good-tempered, smart, good with children, good with animals, considered far and wide one of the best family dog breeds.
Mrs. Beckett was cool to the idea. She has never owned a dog and was worried about the effect on our cat. But I knew also that she loved dogs when she got a chance to be with them and that she would probably melt when she saw a pic. Indeed, she did give in to me. We picked up the puppy last saturday. She was scared and low key that day, not all that rambunctious.
My plan for the pup was to let her roam the lower level of the house while we were at work, leaving wee-wee pads for her until her bladder was developed enough to handle the day. It wasn't much of a plan, but I had faith I'd figure it out. That night, she fell asleep and I carried her up to her crate in our bedroom.
Sunday was the Eowyn show. I tried to give her as much attention as possible, knowing that I would be leaving her all day Monday.
Monday I woke up an hour earlier than I normally do to take her out and give her some play time. She went out for a pee and was back asleep in short order. When I got home all was well, she had used the pads and had destroyed nothing.
Tuesday (which state workers get off), I took her to the vet. He asked if I was crating her and I told him that I couldn't do it during the day because of the amount of time she was left alone. He didn't like this at all and asked why I would get a puppy and, ashamed, I said "I didn't think it through." He suggested I remove the partition in the crate that only allows her room to lie down to give her the ability to sleep on one end and mess on the other.
"Isn't that cruel?" I asked? "What's cruel?" he said, "you decided to get a puppy when you wouldn't be home."
So I started looking for someone to come in during the day. I contacted a pro who would cost 360 a month to come for an hour once a day. I put an ad on craigslist. Then I talked to a neighbor who agreed to come once a day for $150 a month.
Problem solved! Except Eowyn has been wearing me out. I cannot keep up with her needs. Part of the deal with Mrs. Beckett is that I am responsible for the dog, not her, and we've already had some friction with me needing her to watch her while I do something else. Yesterday, Eowyn was up and very active from when I got home at 5:20 to around 11:00. She rested for about an hour in the middle. This has got to be because she is getting too little stimulation during the day. She just does not have enough activity while I am gone, even with the efforts of my neighbor, who took her out twice yesterday.
I talked to a trainer who said the current arrangement will not meet Eowyn's needs. She said if I got someone to come 2x a day, say once at 11 and once at 2, for 45 minutes or an hour each, this would be doing right by the pup.
Indeed, she is already showing signs of separation anxiety. Yesterday, when I tried to put her in the crate for a few minutes so I could make dinner, she went ballistic, which is out of character for her. And she can't tolerate me being out of her sight. To make matters worse, I find myself unreasonably angry with her. Tire out already, will you! I want to spend some time with my wife! Why would you pee on the floor?!! Again?!! Of course, she's a puppy, and she's acting like one.
You might be thinking, "well what did you think having a puppy would be like?" and all I can say is that (1) my heart sometimes moves faster than my head, and (2) contemplated labor is never as difficult as actually doing the work. I am exhausted and both Mrs. B and I are emotionally worn out. I can't spend four or five hours a night with this dog.
And she is a lovely lady. She came to us knowing "sit," and it did not take her long to learn "down." I've also been working with her on "give it." She loves to fetch and shake the life out of her toys. She loves a good tummy rub. She likes best to sleep next to me on the couch, as she is right now. She sleeps through the night in her crate and will not come out until I get her, even though I leave the door open at night. When we first got her she hated the leash and collar and would not walk. Now she will happily walk far and wide.
I feel like a monster. I try to tell myself we've been good foster parents, that another situation will be better for her. She needs more attention than I can give her. I always looked on people who didn't train their pets properly or gave them up with condescension and disdain. "Don't get a dog if you can't handle one. Sure a puppy's cute, but that wears off once you have to take care of it. Morons. I would never get a dog unless I was prepared to take care of it properly." Maybe others aren't as inept and I am not as masterful as I like to whisper to myself.
Mrs. B burst into tears this morning at the thought of giving Eowyn up. I keep second guessing myself. Even now that the word has gone out and it's a matter of time before someone comes forward to care for this little lady, I think, this can work. It will get better. We can do this, right Eowyn? If I change my mind again, Mrs. B. might just(ifiably?) kill me for building this rollercoaster and strapping us all into it.
I filled out an application with the local humane society. I was approved and they began to work with me to try to find a dog that would be a good match. The biggest obstacle was that I am away for 10 hours a day, which is a lot for a dog. Mrs. Beckett, a teacher, works longer hours than me, leaving earlier, returning later.
Then a coworker showed me a pic on her cell phone of a gorgeous little yellow lab pup. My coworker's friend's god daughter was trying to find someone to adopt her. I was all over it. Perfect! Labs are good-tempered, smart, good with children, good with animals, considered far and wide one of the best family dog breeds.
Mrs. Beckett was cool to the idea. She has never owned a dog and was worried about the effect on our cat. But I knew also that she loved dogs when she got a chance to be with them and that she would probably melt when she saw a pic. Indeed, she did give in to me. We picked up the puppy last saturday. She was scared and low key that day, not all that rambunctious.
My plan for the pup was to let her roam the lower level of the house while we were at work, leaving wee-wee pads for her until her bladder was developed enough to handle the day. It wasn't much of a plan, but I had faith I'd figure it out. That night, she fell asleep and I carried her up to her crate in our bedroom.
Sunday was the Eowyn show. I tried to give her as much attention as possible, knowing that I would be leaving her all day Monday.
Monday I woke up an hour earlier than I normally do to take her out and give her some play time. She went out for a pee and was back asleep in short order. When I got home all was well, she had used the pads and had destroyed nothing.
Tuesday (which state workers get off), I took her to the vet. He asked if I was crating her and I told him that I couldn't do it during the day because of the amount of time she was left alone. He didn't like this at all and asked why I would get a puppy and, ashamed, I said "I didn't think it through." He suggested I remove the partition in the crate that only allows her room to lie down to give her the ability to sleep on one end and mess on the other.
"Isn't that cruel?" I asked? "What's cruel?" he said, "you decided to get a puppy when you wouldn't be home."
So I started looking for someone to come in during the day. I contacted a pro who would cost 360 a month to come for an hour once a day. I put an ad on craigslist. Then I talked to a neighbor who agreed to come once a day for $150 a month.
Problem solved! Except Eowyn has been wearing me out. I cannot keep up with her needs. Part of the deal with Mrs. Beckett is that I am responsible for the dog, not her, and we've already had some friction with me needing her to watch her while I do something else. Yesterday, Eowyn was up and very active from when I got home at 5:20 to around 11:00. She rested for about an hour in the middle. This has got to be because she is getting too little stimulation during the day. She just does not have enough activity while I am gone, even with the efforts of my neighbor, who took her out twice yesterday.
I talked to a trainer who said the current arrangement will not meet Eowyn's needs. She said if I got someone to come 2x a day, say once at 11 and once at 2, for 45 minutes or an hour each, this would be doing right by the pup.
Indeed, she is already showing signs of separation anxiety. Yesterday, when I tried to put her in the crate for a few minutes so I could make dinner, she went ballistic, which is out of character for her. And she can't tolerate me being out of her sight. To make matters worse, I find myself unreasonably angry with her. Tire out already, will you! I want to spend some time with my wife! Why would you pee on the floor?!! Again?!! Of course, she's a puppy, and she's acting like one.
You might be thinking, "well what did you think having a puppy would be like?" and all I can say is that (1) my heart sometimes moves faster than my head, and (2) contemplated labor is never as difficult as actually doing the work. I am exhausted and both Mrs. B and I are emotionally worn out. I can't spend four or five hours a night with this dog.
And she is a lovely lady. She came to us knowing "sit," and it did not take her long to learn "down." I've also been working with her on "give it." She loves to fetch and shake the life out of her toys. She loves a good tummy rub. She likes best to sleep next to me on the couch, as she is right now. She sleeps through the night in her crate and will not come out until I get her, even though I leave the door open at night. When we first got her she hated the leash and collar and would not walk. Now she will happily walk far and wide.
I feel like a monster. I try to tell myself we've been good foster parents, that another situation will be better for her. She needs more attention than I can give her. I always looked on people who didn't train their pets properly or gave them up with condescension and disdain. "Don't get a dog if you can't handle one. Sure a puppy's cute, but that wears off once you have to take care of it. Morons. I would never get a dog unless I was prepared to take care of it properly." Maybe others aren't as inept and I am not as masterful as I like to whisper to myself.
Mrs. B burst into tears this morning at the thought of giving Eowyn up. I keep second guessing myself. Even now that the word has gone out and it's a matter of time before someone comes forward to care for this little lady, I think, this can work. It will get better. We can do this, right Eowyn? If I change my mind again, Mrs. B. might just(ifiably?) kill me for building this rollercoaster and strapping us all into it.
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Schizophrenia and Nothingness
Earlier, I was listening to a Buddhist priest of a Japanese sect talk about the overlap of Shinto and Tendai Buddhism. He mentioned the practice of praying to one's ancestors (I think this is Shinto, but practiced by a fair number of Japanese Buddhists). A member of the audience asked whether the priest himself did this. The priest confirmed that he did, but in response to some incredulity by the questioner explained that it was a form of contemplation -- a way to address a problem by invoking the wisdom of elders. Or something like that.
Then he said, "It's not that you expect to hear a voice responding to you saying, 'Tell your son the exam answers are A, C, and 28.' If you hear voices in Japan or the United States, you're schizophrenic."
It made me squirm. His answer was a little bit defensive and a fairly natural. "Sure I pray, but that doesn't make me crazy." Crazy, as we all know, means hearing voices. First, point of information, some people hear voices and are not schizophrenic. Some people hear voices and are not mentally ill.
But what really needled me was that in the world of shamans that shinto and perhaps buddhism arose from (according to this same priest), there was no schizophrenia. The shamans communed with the supernatural. Some people could walk both this and the spirit world.
I had a client who told me he was schizophrenic in that he understood why he was diagnosed that way. He considered himself to be in communication with another realm of being and believed that this power of his made it very difficult for him to function in this world. He saw that he was crazy by objective measurement. So he accepted the antipsychotics. But he described himself as a creative schizophrenic and further conversation with him revealed that he did see things other people could not see. Beings in the room, lights, etc.
I wished for him that he could have been born in a time when his difference was not seen by society as a loathesome disease, but a gift. We treat him as if he is possessed by a demon that can only be exorcised by a cocktail of poisonous magical pills.
Once, while I was talking to him, he stopped talking mid-sentence and closed his eyes. I waited as he stood in front of me, a look of peace on his face. I waited for what seemed like minutes as the chaos of the psychiatric ward swirled around me. And then he opened his eyes and continued the conversation. I asked him "what happened there"? He smiled blissfully and said he couldn't really explain it and then said "I think I was levitating." He looked a little unsteady on his feet and explained that it took a lot out of him.
He was in fairly good shape. There are others whose personalities seem to have been shattered and mashed back together with malice. Incoherence, rage without apparent provocation ("Hello" "Fuck you. Get the fuck away from me."), uncontrollable weeping, hypersexuality / sexual preoccupation (Guess what? I'm pregnant. And it's yours!), debilitating delusions (the toilet is angry with me, so I can't use it). The person may have the constituent parts of a personality, but it is wildly out of whack. Sometimes they can tell you about who they once were. Sometimes they really were.
The severe mental illness I'm describing seems like a sort of mind death or at least mind crippling. It illustrates just how illusory the "self" really is. "I'm a nice person" or "I'm an executive" or "I am Joe Smith" might be true right now, but there is no guarantee that they will be true tomorrow.
Which brings me back to my shenpa when the priest made light of hearing voices. This hit me hard because I identify with my schizophrenic clients. They fight battles you cannot imagine. They face the perilous choice of a lifetime of debilitating drugs or a life battling both the voices and the medical establishment, with no clear path to healing. They stagger or fight through the worst slums of this world and the mind. They are often caked with suffering. I identify with the hopelessness, cynicism, outrage, and avoidance they demonstrate.
And I identify with them because I fear mind death. I fear I will lose my self.
So the priest's joke disturbed me because it reminded me of the inevitability of my death. It was as if someone failed to pay the proper respect to my ancestors.
Then he said, "It's not that you expect to hear a voice responding to you saying, 'Tell your son the exam answers are A, C, and 28.' If you hear voices in Japan or the United States, you're schizophrenic."
It made me squirm. His answer was a little bit defensive and a fairly natural. "Sure I pray, but that doesn't make me crazy." Crazy, as we all know, means hearing voices. First, point of information, some people hear voices and are not schizophrenic. Some people hear voices and are not mentally ill.
But what really needled me was that in the world of shamans that shinto and perhaps buddhism arose from (according to this same priest), there was no schizophrenia. The shamans communed with the supernatural. Some people could walk both this and the spirit world.
I had a client who told me he was schizophrenic in that he understood why he was diagnosed that way. He considered himself to be in communication with another realm of being and believed that this power of his made it very difficult for him to function in this world. He saw that he was crazy by objective measurement. So he accepted the antipsychotics. But he described himself as a creative schizophrenic and further conversation with him revealed that he did see things other people could not see. Beings in the room, lights, etc.
I wished for him that he could have been born in a time when his difference was not seen by society as a loathesome disease, but a gift. We treat him as if he is possessed by a demon that can only be exorcised by a cocktail of poisonous magical pills.
Once, while I was talking to him, he stopped talking mid-sentence and closed his eyes. I waited as he stood in front of me, a look of peace on his face. I waited for what seemed like minutes as the chaos of the psychiatric ward swirled around me. And then he opened his eyes and continued the conversation. I asked him "what happened there"? He smiled blissfully and said he couldn't really explain it and then said "I think I was levitating." He looked a little unsteady on his feet and explained that it took a lot out of him.
He was in fairly good shape. There are others whose personalities seem to have been shattered and mashed back together with malice. Incoherence, rage without apparent provocation ("Hello" "Fuck you. Get the fuck away from me."), uncontrollable weeping, hypersexuality / sexual preoccupation (Guess what? I'm pregnant. And it's yours!), debilitating delusions (the toilet is angry with me, so I can't use it). The person may have the constituent parts of a personality, but it is wildly out of whack. Sometimes they can tell you about who they once were. Sometimes they really were.
The severe mental illness I'm describing seems like a sort of mind death or at least mind crippling. It illustrates just how illusory the "self" really is. "I'm a nice person" or "I'm an executive" or "I am Joe Smith" might be true right now, but there is no guarantee that they will be true tomorrow.
Which brings me back to my shenpa when the priest made light of hearing voices. This hit me hard because I identify with my schizophrenic clients. They fight battles you cannot imagine. They face the perilous choice of a lifetime of debilitating drugs or a life battling both the voices and the medical establishment, with no clear path to healing. They stagger or fight through the worst slums of this world and the mind. They are often caked with suffering. I identify with the hopelessness, cynicism, outrage, and avoidance they demonstrate.
And I identify with them because I fear mind death. I fear I will lose my self.
So the priest's joke disturbed me because it reminded me of the inevitability of my death. It was as if someone failed to pay the proper respect to my ancestors.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Peace Alights Instantly
Cat cries.
Motorcycle roars.
Crow croaks on.
Jet tears sky,
Fathoms resound.
. . .
Even enforest from concrete and metal work, klaxons blurt emergency.
Once my heart grew strong with your love.
Now (is it heart, soul, mind?), it is ineffably stricken.
Its cry boundless, point snapped, object dissolved.
Not for your love I treasure.
Not for God I can't believe.
Not for control.
Not for control.
I ball my fist.
. . .
Even today, aimless in stifling Taconic mist,
I may mount a minor summit.
Peace alights instantly.
Motorcycle roars.
Crow croaks on.
Jet tears sky,
Fathoms resound.
. . .
Even enforest from concrete and metal work, klaxons blurt emergency.
Once my heart grew strong with your love.
Now (is it heart, soul, mind?), it is ineffably stricken.
Its cry boundless, point snapped, object dissolved.
Not for your love I treasure.
Not for God I can't believe.
Not for control.
Not for control.
I ball my fist.
. . .
Even today, aimless in stifling Taconic mist,
I may mount a minor summit.
Peace alights instantly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)